Chapter Text
Wednesday isn’t the best at social cues.
Enid knew this, which was why she’d warned Wednesday ahead of time that she would need the room whenever her cycle ended up cresting into a heat, but apparently locking the door and shoving the bookcase against it still wasn’t enough of a deterrent. Enid only had enough time to strip down to her underwear and tank top before the bookcase was scraping against the floor, and there was Wednesday, eyeing her with a strange expression as she stepped into the room and shut the door.
“Wednesday,” Enid tries, her voice breaking. “Wednesday, I need the room. Please don’t do this.”
Wednesday frowns. “The afternoon is my writing time. You know that.”
Enid sighs. “Yes, but—”
“Deviating from my schedule would be a detriment to my creative process,” Wednesday continues, “And you’re usually in class this time of day. What’s going on?”
Enid’s breath catches in her throat. “I’m in heat.”
Wednesday’s expression doesn’t change, though she does seem to finally notice that Enid is standing next to her nest half-naked, hackles partially raised and mouth open in anticipation of Wednesday’s agitated scent. She’s always smelled so good.
Enid suddenly wonders if her eyes have changed color, if perhaps that’s why Wednesday is looking at her with a lot more interest than usual. It can happen to some wolves while in heat, though Enid doesn’t know many who have heat cycles; ruts are much more common. Wolves by nature aren’t submissive creatures, so even among her kin, she’s considered an anomaly.
“Why does your heat necessitate that I miss my writing time?”
Enid can’t believe her ears. “Wednesday, are you kidding? Do you know what it means that I’m in heat?”
Wednesday doesn’t move. “...No.”
Enid nearly pulls a fistful of hair out of her head. “I left pamphlets, Wednesday. I left them right there for you on your desk!”
Wednesday’s gaze shifts to the side. “I didn’t have time to read them.”
“I need to—I need to relieve the urge," Enid admits with a groan, hiding her face in her hands. “You don’t want to be here for this.”
“Relief is overrated.”
Enid, for the first time in their entire experience as roommates, snarls at her.
To her credit, Wednesday doesn’t flinch, but her eyes widen, which for her is an emotional declaration akin to screaming and crying and throwing up. Enid slaps a hand over her mouth, immediately horrified at herself.
“Fuck, I’m…I’m so sorry, Wednesday,” she weakly says. “You should leave. Write somewhere else.”
Wednesday crosses her arms. “No.”
Enid tries to remain calm. “I have to masturbate, Wednesday. Right now,” she says through gritted teeth.
Wednesday doesn’t move.
Enid turns, climbing onto her bed and into her nest and with the same motion, gives up. If Wednesday won’t leave, then she has no choice but to handle the heat first and the ramifications of her roommate witnessing her cycle afterward. It will probably ruin their… whatever there is between them, but Enid’s past the point of caring about little things like what her dearest friend thinks of her. Heat consumes rationality, as she very well knows.
“Then…” Enid steels herself. “Then can I touch myself, or not?”
Wednesday exhales, uncrossing her arms. “You may.”
This fucking girl.
“Fine,” Enid says in a small voice, scooting back on the bed.
She feels cowed and decidedly not turned on, shoved as far away from her as possible against the unforgiving headboard. This was not how she saw her Thursday afternoon going when she escaped to find some privacy.
Wednesday just continues to watch her, no doubt finding pleasure in her discomfort. When Enid's panic has racketed up to the point of her skin prickling with the need to flee, Wednesday makes a small noise.
“Wait,” she says, leaning down and retrieving a pillow off the floor with her thumb and index finger. “Well? Take it, please. I don't enjoy touching pink fabric.”
Enid looks at it with confusion. “You want me to…with this?”
Wednesday blinks. “It’s to put behind your back, Enid."
“...Oh," she mumbles.
Enid's cheeks begin to heat as she realizes Wednesday had been paying close enough attention to even notice such a thing. What alternate plane has she stumbled into where Wednesday would willingly touch hot pink polyester for the sake of her comfort?
She busies herself arranging the pillow behind her, arching her back to remain in place. “Like this?”
Wednesday's eyes flick over her. "It will do."
Enid abruptly can't stand the distance between them. It's too much. Without thinking, she extends a hand towards Wednesday, then freezes when she realizes what she's done. Wednesday eyes her shaking hand with that same glint of interest.
“Wednesday—” Enid says softly, biting her lip. “Will you tell, if I take off my gloves when I’m not supposed to?”
The gloves in question had been given to her by the Headmaster when it became obvious Enid’s cycle was cresting. Presumably, one of the other wolves made some sort of complaint, which is just—too humiliating to think about. Either way, it got Enid an unlimited get-out-of-class-free card until her heat ends, so all in all, not the worst deal she’s ever made. She could do without school officials knowing intimate details of her sex life, but you can’t have everything.
Wednesday's gaze returns to her face. "No," she solemnly says. "I don't believe in sharing secrets when it doesn't benefit me."
Enid raises an eyebrow at the implications of that statement, but Wednesday doesn't elaborate and she knows better than to ask. Wednesday means every word that comes out of her mouth; that much Enid knows for certain.
“Kay,” she agrees, sliding off her gloves and looking down at them uncertainly. “Will you hold them for me?”
The gloves are white, void of color and utterly boring, which is perhaps the only reason why Wednesday agrees.
“Yes,” she says, reaching out for the gloves.
Enid tries to ignore the warmth on the back of her neck when their bare hands accidentally brush during the pass-off. It's dangerous, this close to her heat. If it weren't for the fact that Wednesday is staring at her with a single-minded intensity, dark eyes missing nothing, Enid would be face-down in the blankets already, hand pressed against her mouth. She already knows what Wednesday smells like: funeral lilies and honeycomb. Heady and sweet, the sort of scent that lingers on the back of your tongue long after she’s left the vicinity.
On a totally unrelated note, Enid prays that Wednesday hasn't noticed the dirty laundry missing from her hamper, yet.
“Small,” Enid murmurs, attention caught on Wednesday’s thin wrists as her hand retracts back to her person.
Wednesday doesn’t give her a weird look like others might have. Honestly, the likelihood of Enid managing to do something that results in Wednesday calling her weird is zero to none, heat and all.
Speaking of her cycle—and being weird—Enid has seen Wednesday's hands before, but never this close up, and never with her common sense clouded by heat. She decides that they’re really sort of beautiful, all delicate bones crowned by painted black nails, and she hurriedly turns her head away from her roommate as the image of those fingers gripping her hips comes to her mind unbidden. That is not a path she should be traveling down with Wednesday still in the same room. Although, once the thought of Wednesday leaving the room takes root, Enid can’t think of anything else. It’s a horrifying possibility.
“Sit?” she blurts, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You can…come in my nest. If you want."
Wednesday considers that for a moment, then nods. "I suppose I haven't been invited into a werewolf's nest before. I have an academic interest in how you arranged this…thing."
Enid can't find it in herself to be offended. Normally, insulting a wolf’s nest in heat is just not done and would probably mean the end of their friendship, but she’s too far too gone to care—especially not after she inadvertently gets a glimpse up Wednesday’s skirt as her legs bend. Oh, this is bad. Really fucking bad. A stronger wolf than her would ask Wednesday to leave right now.
The good and bad news: Enid is weak, and Wednesday is willing. Into the nest she goes.
Enid manages to pass off her choke as an aborted cough, ignoring the look Wednesday sends her while gingerly arranging herself atop the tangle of yellow blankets. Her black skirt and sweater look absurd next to the riot of color that is Enid’s nest. Enid herself is still wearing what she'd been caught in, a thin tank top and underwear, but even that is starting to feel like too much. She’s already sweating as she tries not to stare at her roommate for too long and fails, over and over. She probably looks like a lunatic.
But Wednesday is short enough that even with her legs fully extended across the bed, her feet barely reach where Enid's calves would normally be resting, and fuck. It almost hurts to come to terms with that realization.
Wednesday still holds the small pile of white silk in her hands, though the dreaded gloves ultimately end up abandoned in her lap. Take that, headmaster. Enid's nails aren't so much of a risk factor that she should have to keep her hands covered, anyways.
Meanwhile, a strip of pale skin peeks out from beneath the hem of Wednesday's skirt, just enough to have Enid’s mouth filling with saliva. The black thigh-highs she’s become accustomed to seeing Wednesday skulk around in have suddenly become the enemy. This hiding of her pretty skin will not stand.
“No,” Enid mutters, sitting up. "Nuh-uh, I hate it."
She clamors over Wednesday’s lap, ignoring the small noise Wednesday makes as Enid straddles her thighs and leans down toward her feet.
Enid takes her time pulling off each of Wednesday’s stockings. She’s never been into feet, because it’s gross, but she’s starting to spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about Wednesday’s skin and her feet look just as soft as the rest of her. She doesn’t have a single callous.
Comparatively, Enid’s own palms have been crusted over with scrapes for long enough that they’re nearly impenetrable by now. Wednesday’s toes are just as manicured as her fingernails, shiny and sharp and neat, and Enid imagines her shins getting stabbed by those little black weapons in the middle of the night with an undeniable sense of longing.
Worst of all, Enid notes that just like the rest of her, Wednesday’s feet are incredibly small. Enid can fit practically her whole foot in the palm of her hand. Wednesday fits perfectly in her grasp like…like something. Something that tugs at the deepest part of her stomach, forcing some stupid emotion that Wednesday would never approve of closer to the surface.
All that, from her feet.
Deciding a distraction is in order, Enid gives in to her baser instincts and drags a finger along the top of Wednesday’s foot, eliciting a gasp. When Enid looks back at her, expecting a fight, she finds Wednesday looking at her with…fuck, those eyes. The eyes that haunt her every waking moment, the eyes that paralyze her common sense. This isn’t the heat’s fault; she’s been humiliatingly obsessed with Wednesday since the moment she walked in here and gave the ick look at her chosen color scheme. Enid’s been masking her heart eyes for her ever since.
Wednesday unexpectedly reaches out and rests her palm against the base of Enid’s spine, and Enid’s back bows like a disintegrating floorboard. Her breasts brush against Wednesday’s knees, a whimper bubbling up in the back of her throat. Every inch of her is sensitive, but none more so than the spot where Wednesday’s nails scrape over the ridges of her spine. Enid shivers, wishing she could see Wednesday’s face. Wishing Wednesday knew what she was doing to her, touching her like this.
Just as quickly, Wednesday’s hand disappears, and Enid nearly brains herself on the nightstand as she clamors to retake her old spot against the headboard, shuffling as close as she dares. She’s terrified that Wednesday might be about to admonish her right up until she actually meets her gaze, and all worries drain away. She doesn’t have the capacity to think about anything but what Wednesday’s stare means and whether she can find a way to ensure that those eyes remain on her for the rest of this encounter. Maybe even the rest of her life, if she could be so fortunate.
Enid swallows hard as the silence continues. Praise isn’t a part of Wednesday’s vocabulary, she knows, but surely there would be immediate criticism (if not outright degradation) if she’d done something Wednesday didn’t like. This silence doesn’t inherently mean Enid’s being a bad roommate; after all, Wednesday is quiet in just about everything she does.
Enid abruptly wonders if that truth applies to all things without exception, and her throat goes dry.
“Have you ever watched someone do this before, Wednesday?” she suddenly asks, hoping her face doesn’t betray the heat roiling in her lower stomach.
Wednesday crosses her ankles, drawing Enid’s attention back to her bare thighs. “No, I haven’t. Have you?” she unexpectedly asks.
It’s a moment before Enid realizes she’s willingly engaging in conversation with her. What a way to find out Wednesday has social skills, she thinks.
“Yes,” Enid admits aloud, dropping her eyes to the blankets. “Um…I had a heat partner last year.”
It hadn’t ended well. Enid was looking for a mate, and Camie just wanted to fuck her through a heat. Most submissive wolves don’t attend mixed schools for obvious reasons.
“Was she good?” Wednesday asks in that unattached sort of way that tells Enid she actually wants an answer. Most unfairly, Wednesday begins playing with the hem of her skirt, which has now ridden up to nearly expose the apex of her inner thighs. Enid can’t think straight with the scent of honeycomb so strong in her mouth.
She can already see Wednesday’s legs in their entirety. Enid swallows with some difficulty. This is the worst possible time to have a lifelong fetish for fit girls.
“Not that I remember,” Enid breathlessly answers, forcing herself to focus on the conversation. “She was so demanding. Made me feel used,” she ends up musing out loud.
Wednesday’s face darkens. “I see.”
Enid instantly backtracks, “No, not like that! It was…I wanted it. I just didn’t like the casual part, or the part where she left afterward.”
Wednesday tips her head back against the headboard. “Understandable.”
Enid really tries to focus, but—well. Wednesday’s neck is exposed, a position she’s never seen her adopt before, and her collarbones are peeking out from the neckline of her sweater. Enid wonders how that particular spot would taste on her tongue.
“S’fine,” Enid grumbles, finally meeting her gaze. “She was annoying anyway. You’re much better.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow.
“I—holy shit, did I say it like that? I didn’t mean to say it like that!” Enid protests, cheeks burning. “I know you’re not my heat partner. I’m just…glad you’re here, is all.”
Wednesday doesn’t answer immediately, but she doesn’t reject her either so Enid counts it as a win. She’s still basking in the warmth of the Not Rejection when Wednesday opens her mouth.
“Huh?” Enid tunes back in. “Sorry, what was that?”
Wednesday’s expression remains neutral. “You said I’m better than she was. In what way, exactly?”
Every way conceivable, and probably a few more that she hasn’t had the opportunity to think up yet, Enid thinks. “Oh, you know. You’re my…we’re roommates.”
Nice save.
Wednesday nods. “I suppose I keep my side of the room in order. I despise mess,” she says under her breath, lips curled back in disgust at the very thought.
Enid licks her own lips. Mess would look good on Wednesday, she thinks. Oh, what she would pay to see that. She’d give her left arm to catch even a glimpse of Wednesday with sweaty hair and flushed cheeks. She would kill to see her roommate lose control.
“Why?” Enid asks, digging her nails into her palms to keep from scooting closer.
Wednesday chews on the inside of her cheek, something she only does when she’s trying to find a way to put words to something that inherently bothers her. “A lack of control, I suppose.”
That shocks Enid exactly zero percent. Wednesday is the biggest control freak she has ever seen, and that’s saying something considering she grew up in a traditional pack with a strength-based hierarchy. She wonders idly if Wednesday would ever hand the reins over to someone else for a change. It seems impossible, but then again, so did the likelihood of Wednesday ever lounging bare-thighed on Enid’s bed. Stranger things have happened. As a submissive wolf, Enid knows the value of giving control over to another person for temporary safe-keeping. Wednesday could probably benefit from that sort of relief.
“Felt,” Enid says under her breath. “I…it’s hard to control myself when I'm in heat. I want…I want things so badly, I think I’ll die if I don’t get it.”
Wednesday’s eyes are bright. “That sounds excellent.”
Enid groans, pressing the heel of her hand to her eye. “Wednesday, I…I think you need to—I didn’t really explain what heat means for us. For me, I mean!” she corrects with a wince. “Christ, sorry. I have, like, no filter during my cycle.”
Wednesday hums. “I’ve noticed.”
Enid can’t help but snort because if there were any truth at all to those words, she would’ve been murdered in some convoluted Addams-approved way long ago.
Wednesday clears her throat. “Is something funny?”
“You,” Enid answers. “You’re so irritating, Wednesday.”
For the first time, Wednesday’s lips quirk up. “In what way do I irritate you?”
Enid glances down at where their thighs nearly touch. “You fucking know the answer to that,” she says without thinking.
Wednesday follows her gaze, and if Enid didn’t see it with her own two eyes, she would have thought she hallucinated the way Wednesday’s pupils dilate.
“You irritate me too,” Wednesday whispers. “You exist very oddly in my space.”
Enid figures she’ll take what she can get. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
A moment of silence, long enough that Wednesday’s finger resumes tracing the ridges of her skirt and Enid nearly bursts with the need to say something, and then her stomach cramps and puts a pin in that plan.
She curls over her knees, back aching with the urge to get on her hands and knees in the only position that will feel comfortable to her this far into her heat, and Wednesday’s brow furrows.
“You’re in pain,” Wednesday states. “It’s quite attractive on you.”
Enid wishes she were stronger, but that sentence has her whimpering out loud. Her hand flies down to her pussy, rubbing the soaked cotton where she most needs relief before she recalls she still has an audience and Wednesday might not be totally on board with the speed this spiral into madness is happening at.
“Sorry,” Enid gasps, but she can’t pull her hand away. “Hurts.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “I can tell. You look positively miserable.”
Enid whines again, kneading her chin into her chest. “Want…Wednesday, do you—do you do this to yourself? Ever?”
“...I haven’t,” Wednesday slowly says, and Enid wonders if she should do a running jump off the roof to escape the paralyzing onset of embarrassment, “But I would be willing to try it. For science.”
Enid’s eyes shoot open, her head jerking up. “What? You would—you’d touch yourself? Um, you’d try? For science and stuff?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Wednesday asks a bit dryly.
Enid exhales with her entire chest. “Yes,” she fervently agrees. “You did. So, how about you start now?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows as she glances down at her lap. She purses her lips ever so slightly, and Enid has to swallow a whine.
“I’m not sure how,” Wednesday states. “Why don’t you show me, Enid?”
“Yes,” Enid says before her brain’s caught up with her mouth. “God, yes. Please.”
Wednesday cocks her head. “Why bother begging when I’ve already said yes?”
Enid’s eyes feel wet at the corners. “Can’t help it, Wednesday. Sorry.”
Wednesday hums again. “You’re a strange thing when you’re like this, Enid. I’m surprised.”
Enid’s heart clenches. “Bad?” she asks, voice racketing up into distress territory.
Wednesday reaches out, touching the soft place beneath Enid’s chin to tilt her face back up. Enid feels like her heartbeat is in her throat as she meets her gaze. Just as quick as she initiated contact with her, the touch disappears. Enid immediately mourns the loss.
“You’re not bad,” Wednesday slowly says, “But I can’t say you’re good, either. How would I know what you are? You haven’t done anything yet.”
Notes:
let me know what you think!
EDIT AUGUST 2025: i began writing this in december 2022, so it is not at all canon-compliant with season 2 of the show and is only loosely canon compliant with season 1. enjoy!
Chapter Text
Enid leans as close as she dares, trying not to be too obvious about how she’s inhaling the scent that always seems to linger on Wednesday’s skin. She would love to press her face to her neck, but that would be a step too far. Apparently, her desperation shows on her face because Wednesday’s eyes narrow.
“The distance is bothering you, isn’t it?” Wednesday easily deduces. “You seek skin-to-skin contact.”
“The heat wants it,” Enid lies. “I’d settle down if I could touch you.”
Wednesday hums as she considers that. “I suppose a hug will suffice?”
Wednesday voluntarily offering a hug is the last thing Enid expected to come out of her mouth, but since it’s opposite day, Enid figures to hell with it and takes full advantage. She clamors into Wednesday’s lap again, facing her this time. Direct eye contact should be—would be—intimidating, if not for the fact that Wednesday's hands automatically jump to steady her hips, knees parting to accommodate Enid's weight in her lap. When Wednesday braces, it isn't against the feel of an unwanted person so much as to better keep Enid in place.
Wednesday's thumbs press into her hipbones, stilling any movement besides the tightening of Enid's stomach muscles.
“You should start with, um, putting your hand in your underwear,” Enid breathlessly says.
Wednesday peers up at her. “What?”
“Didn’t you—didn’t you want to learn to touch yourself?” Enid asks, voice coming out too high.
Wednesday blinks. “Oh. Yes, I did say that.”
Enid nods. “Yeah, so, hand in your underwear is a good place to start.”
Wednesday’s touch doesn’t leave her hips. “Your hand isn’t in your underwear,” she points out.
Enid frets over how far she's considering taking this for a split second—then realizes that the glint in Wednesday's eye is amusement. She finds it funny how desperate Enid's become, how badly she wants this.
So Enid meets the challenge head-on and slips her hand beneath the elastic band of her panties, hissing at the feeling of her fingers making direct contact. She tips her head back but then snaps back into the realm of the living when she remembers that Wednesday is expecting a lesson, not a show. Enid would much rather watch Wednesday in any case. Wednesday could be counting grains of rice, and she would find something to like about it.
“Now, it is,” Enid says, and her mouth waters as she clocks Wednesday’s expression. Her hands are still heavy on her hips.
“And what is the purpose of this?” Wednesday asks, one of her palms straying to Enid's thigh.
Enid rests her weight on her heels, watching with rapt attention. That hand on her thigh might as well be tethering her to earth. “You’re just looking for what feels the best. It might feel better for you to touch yourself a different way than, um, how I do, though.”
“There are other ways?” Wednesday repeats. “How intriguing. The human body in its various states has always been a personal interest of mine, but I’ve not…experimented with my own."
Enid shrugs. "That's—ah—o-okay."
Wednesday's palm shifts to grip her thigh rather than rest upon it. "Will you come so quickly, Enid?"
Enid's eyelids flutter. "How is it you've never masturbated, but you know about come?" she asks a bit miserably.
“Isn’t the point of sex to come?”
“Not necessarily,” Enid mumbles. “But still confused where you’re getting this info from.”
Wednesday frowns. "Of course, I studied the act of fucking, Enid. Don't be ridiculous. I just had no interest in fucking myself."
Enid groans, leaning in again as her shoulders drop. Her face ends up against Wednesday’s shoulder, and she can’t help but nuzzle into the soft wool of her sweater. "Well, why not?"
Wednesday hums, squeezing her thigh. "I find it rather boring.”
Enid snorts a bit hysterically. “You and boring in the same sentence is laughable. And why wouldn’t you want to be satisfied? Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Enid frowns, and the rush of concern she feels for Wednesday is enough to give her a second to breathe without feeling the threat of heat around her throat. She manages to draw back both her body and her fingers. “What does that mean?”
Wednesday frowns right back. “Why did you stop?”
Enid’s nose twitches. “You’re upset.”
“And why does that constitute that you go without?” Wednesday replies, eyes on Enid’s unmoving hand. “Keep going.”
Enid’s hand involuntarily jerks back toward her underwear, and her eyes widen as the truth visibly dawns on her roommate’s face. Fuck. This is not good at all.
“Oh,” Wednesday says to herself. “You like to follow orders.”
“I’m sorry!” Enid bleats. “I’m—submissive wolves are built to defer to the will of our mates—”
“You don’t have a choice?” Wednesday’s voice is sharp. “I do not like that.”
Enid huffs, “It’s not that I don’t have a choice, it’s that I want to please you!”
Wednesday blinks, and Enid realizes a beat too late what she said.
“Want to please my mate!” she all but shrieks in correction. “Fuck, I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” Wednesday asks, squeezing her thigh again—harder this time, enough to have Enid whimpering out loud.
“Didn’t—didn’t mean—ugh—what?” Enid’s having trouble stringing together a coherent thought, let alone carrying a conversation. Her heat has risen into a full-blown fever, coalescing into fire where Wednesday’s touching her. She’s panting with the effort not to whine.
Wednesday cocks her head. “You look desperate, Enid.”
Enid quickly nods. “Am desperate, I am desperate, Wednesday. Need it.”
“Do you?” Wednesday’s voice becomes a little bit cruel. “How badly do you need it?”
“Bad, need it bad, need you…need it, Wednesday.” Enid tries not to sob, her hips involuntarily jerking forward.
Wednesday hums. “Tell me.”
Enid might start crying. “Please, Wednesday, please let me—please let me come, need to come, need to come or I’ll…I’ll—!”
“Shh,” Wednesday soothes her, reaching up to thread her fingers in her hair. “Enid, look at me.”
Enid shakes her head, eyes tightly shut as her cheeks grow wet. She doesn’t have the words.
Wednesday’s grip tightens in her hair almost to the point of pain, and it calms Enid enough that she can bear to open her eyes.
Wednesday stares up at her with a serious expression. “Don’t shut me out.”
Enid quickly nods. “Okay,” she whispers.
Wednesday peers into her eyes, looking for something, but doesn't push it. “Okay. Now, tell me what you need. Be specific.”
Enid’s hips jerk again. “N-Need to touch.”
Wednesday’s eyes zero in on her twitching hand. “Show me.”
Enid cannot kick her underwear off fast enough. She has no shame about climbing right back into her spot on Wednesday’s lap, knees spread and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination under Wednesday’s knowing gaze. Her fingers go right back to work, sliding through the mess slowly migrating onto her skin. The whole room will reek of Enid before the day is done, she knows. And Wednesday…for all her disgust at the thought of mess, she sure isn’t shying away from the slick leaking down Enid’s thighs.
“Is this okay?” Enid asks, hand slowing. She’s suddenly desperate for reassurance. What if Wednesday doesn’t like this?
Wednesday meets her eyes. “You look like you need it.”
“Well, yeah,” Enid sighs. “But I don’t want you to do this because you p-pity me.”
Wednesday looks confused. “Pity? No. I don’t subscribe to that. Suffering should be witnessed, Enid.”
“That sounds about right,” Enid mutters. She wants to lean back in, wants to smell Wednesday through her sweater, needs to feel her warmth even more than she wants to come.
As if she can sense it, Wednesday reaches up to cup the back of her neck. She doesn’t exactly pull her in, but Enid takes it as permission and dives in anyways. This time, she lands on Wednesday’s neck against the very same stretch of skin she’d dreamed of tasting. Her tongue meets soft skin before she can talk herself out of it.
Wednesday makes a noise, a sort of strained gasp, and Enid belatedly realizes she’s begun scenting Wednesday in earnest. Her mouth is open against Wednesday’s jaw, inhaling the smell of Wednesday’s lilies and her own sugary vanilla mixing on her roommate’s skin. Enid’s lips drag down Wednesday’s throat, canines catching against her, and she can hear Wednesday’s pulse hammering away. Is Wednesday afraid of her? Does she worry Enid might be a danger to her?
Wednesday suddenly laughs. It’s so unexpected, Enid pulls back, lips wet where she’d been mouthing along Wednesday’s throat. She feels out of control. She feels weak.
Wednesday watches her with a calmness that leaves Enid with a terrible sense of foreboding.
“How interesting,” she muses. “You do look pretty all wet and desperate.”
And Enid is gone. Her tank top is sticking to her chest and she’s been in heat for almost a full hour and she still hasn’t come, and at this point, she is out of patience and willing to throw caution to the wind if it means finding relief. Wednesday is in her bed, taunting her with the sort of lines that ruin a girl like it’s nothing but semantics, and Enid has never been so in love with anything as she is with this moment.
Wednesday’s face becomes determined as her eyes track the tears staining Enid’s cheeks. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
Enid tries and fails to speak several times before she manages to gasp, “Too hot.”
Wednesday nods, nimble fingers slipping under her tank top. “Take it off. Come on, Enid, good girl.”
Enid sobs aloud as the tank top leaves her damp chest and the cool air of their room meets her prickling skin. She’s now straddling her roommate naked while Wednesday toys with her fully clothed. She wishes she didn’t love it so much. Is it normal to feel like this?
Wednesday reaches up to trace the shape of her ribs, painted nails mapping her bones. In some ways, she’s existed within Enid since the day they met. It would be too offhand to say she’s in her heart when Wednesday is in her marrow, in the very blood of her being. She’s not the kind of girl who changes your life; she’s the person who changes you for knowing her.
One thing is for certain: Enid is so, so fucked.
Notes:
you guys the feedback on last chapter was so good i FLEW to update again for you today, yall are the best!
Chapter 3: Sear
Notes:
Check out some amazing art of this chapter from Darlene!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Her heat has reached inferno.
Enid struggles to breathe, her pulse pounding in her ears as she wiggles on Wednesday’s lap. Heats have always been a hardship to her, something to be endured rather than enjoyed, which she knows is possible for submissive wolves with mates. She’s seen the posts online recounting the rapture of a heat spent with a loved and trusted partner, how good it can be. Camie was a bit of a disaster, seeing her as a warm body to have her fun with, but it doesn’t always have to be like that. Someday, Enid might spend a cycle with someone who cares for her more than how she sounds when she comes.
“Enid,” Wednesday’s voice breaks through her delirium. “Enid, I need to know you can hear me.”
Enid swallows, nodding her head. Wednesday’s fingertips catch the tears on her cheeks, startling Enid into freezing. Wednesday stills, too, eyes wide as she remains in place with her hand still outstretched.
“Is this alright?” she whispers.
Enid holds her gaze as she nods.
Wednesday’s hand returns to her cheek, but this time cups her face in a way that if Enid were a weaker wolf, she’d almost describe as possessive. Wednesday notices it too, but unlike Enid with all her hesitance and insecurity, she meets it head-on. Whatever Wednesday does, she does wholeheartedly; Enid supposes she should stop feeling shocked by now.
“Do you want me to fuck you through your heat?”
Spoke too soon. Enid’s mouth drops open as she splutters, “Do I—want you to what?” She then blinks and adds, “To me?”
Wednesday doesn’t waver. “Yes. You.”
Enid flounders for a second, and while she’d love to remain calm and collected and respond like the rational adult she is with let’s talk about that some more, her actual reply sounds a lot more like, “Why would you want to fuck me?”
Wednesday’s eyebrow raises. “Seriously, Enid?”
Enid fidgets, painfully aware of the fact that she is ass naked. “Uh, yes?”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, hands dropping to curl around Enid's hips and dig her nails into her skin. Enid relishes the bite of pain, hoping the pleasure doesn’t show on her face.
“So irritating,” Wednesday mutters.
Enid can’t help but smile at the knowledge that she's being touched again, which means she can't be behaving too badly. “Pot to the kettle,” she replies.
Wednesday hums, hands shifting to grasp Enid by the waist as she sits up, bringing them face-to-face. Enid’s arms automatically twine around Wednesday’s neck, breasts squishing against her sweater with how tightly Wednesday holds her. Wednesday's palm slides down to press against Enid's lower back, urging her to arch even closer.
“Who am I?” Wednesday quietly asks, warm exhale sending Enid’s head spinning. “The pot or the kettle?”
Once again, Enid tries for a response that actually makes sense in the wake of such a question, but what comes out of her mouth is, “Mine.”
Silence. Enid tenses, suddenly fearful that she’s ruined the whole thing, but Wednesday doesn’t look like she’s about to up and bolt.
In fact, if she had to describe the look on Wednesday’s face, gun to her head, her answer would be hunger.
Something shifts between them. An intangible change passes from dark eyes to blue and, somewhere in that weightless place, solidifies into existence. Enid knows that she is in safe hands—literally—no matter the consequences of sharing this heat with her roommate, and it gives her the courage to speak.
“Want you, Wednesday,” she manages to force out. “Take care of me?”
Wednesday’s face hardens into determination. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Enid has precisely one second to relish in her victory before she's being hauled under her thighs, a shriek leaving her as she flops onto her back. She always manages to forget that human though she may be, Wednesday is an athlete with physical strength probably on par with a submissive wolf like her. Enid blinks up at her, obediently parting her knees when Wednesday taps the inside of her thigh.
Wednesday gives a tiny smile of approval and Enid feels a shiver travel down her back, pooling into warmth at the base of her spine. She would do anything to have Wednesday look at her like that all the time. No exaggeration.
Wednesday positions herself mostly on top of Enid, propping herself up on her elbow. One of her braids slips over her shoulder, long enough to curl into a coil that tickles Enid’s throat, and she wonders how Wednesday would look with her hair undone. She can’t envision such a thing. Will she ever get the privilege of seeing Wednesday without her metaphorical armor? It's an unrealistic wish, sure, but a girl can dream.
Wednesday's gaze is unreadable as she peers down at her. Enid's legs ache with the need to wrap around Wednesday's waist, but she manages to keep her feet on the bed.
"Now," Wednesday says, eyes bright. "How would you like to be fucked?"
Enid bites her lip, a little thrill shooting through her at how Wednesday's eyes immediately zero in on the movement. If she didn't know better, she'd think her roommate has something of an oral fixation—though it is pretty reasonable of Wednesday to be perturbed by Enid's canines. Her teeth certainly can be the stuff of nightmares.
"How are you willing to f-fuck me?" Enid stutters.
Wednesday hums. "What do you want?"
Enid swallows a moan, her nails getting caught in the blankets beneath them as she fists the poor fabric. It's so unfair to have Wednesday this close and not be able to taste her.
Which perhaps is why Enid ends up asking, "Kiss me?"
Wednesday's eyes widen for just a second, so quickly that Enid wonders if she ever saw that glimmer of surprise at all before Wednesday's leaning down to meet her.
Soft, Enid thinks, and so warm. So wet. Enid's lips part with a moan when she feels Wednesday's tongue against her lower lip, and Wednesday doesn't hesitate to push in. Within seconds, their tongues are sliding together and Enid is bucking her hips up into Wednesday's skirt, half-crying in her desperation to come. Wednesday snickers into her mouth, amused and cruel and gluttonous like there will never be a point where she’ll have had her fill of Enid’s agony. Wednesday drinks her in, swallows her whole, and murders any chance of Enid ever wanting someone else.
Kissing Wednesday isn't fireworks or angels singing or seeing the light or any of that, really; kissing her doesn't grant Enid some sudden epiphany or secret to happiness. It doesn’t solve world hunger. There is no peace. Kissing her doesn't change anything, and that is the problem—kissing her doesn't change anything. Enid has always been in love with her, she now realizes with the certainty that only a person who loves someone they will never have can know.
Kissing Wednesday isn't what the movies promised it would be. To Enid, it just feels like coming home.
“Wednesday,” she gasps. “Wednesday, touch me?”
Wednesday pulls back, lips swollen and cheeks flushed with color. Still, she manages to look composed as only Wednesday can when she asks, “Where do you want me to touch you?"
Enid’s thighs tighten around her waist to the point of pain, and Wednesday makes a noise of protest.
“Let go,” she orders, reaching down to squeeze Enid’s thigh in warning.
Enid gasps, her head spinning, and her legs tense even harder. The thought of Wednesday abandoning her sends a strike of dread through her bones. She won’t survive it.
Wednesday frowns. “Let go, Enid. Now.”
Enid shakes her head. “No, no, don’t leave—”
Wednesday’s palm cracks right below her ass in a slap that rings across the room, and Enid’s legs fall open in tandem with her mouth. Heat sears across where she was struck, blooming beneath her skin in a rush of stinging warmth.
She shudders once, twice, then chokes out a whimper as she comes. Her limbs feel like attachments on a plastic doll, separate from her and beyond her scope of control. She’s shaking. She’s floating.
It’s at least a full minute before Enid can stand to open her eyes. Her head feels full of stuffing, thoughts swimming through syrup, and for one bewildering second, she thinks she’s lying in a field of lilies and honeycomb. If it weren’t for the familiar blankets chafing against the sensitive skin of her back, she might have even believed it. Although, if lilies are cloying in her throat, honeycomb dripping down the back of her tongue…that means she isn’t alone. She would have to be dead not to recognize that particular scent. Enid struggles to focus, straining to see through the haze. It’s another moment before she can make sense of what she’s looking at.
Wednesday stares down at her with an exhilarated expression.
“Beautiful,” she whispers. “So pretty, Baby.”
Enid sobs.
Now, no one who has met Wednesday Addams would ever dare to accuse her of being affectionate. Affection and Wednesday do not exist together, not in this world or the next. Enid knows this like she knows her own name.
But what else can she call it when Wednesday lays on top of her, cradling Enid’s face to her neck and inadvertently encouraging her to scent? Either Wednesday has uncanny instincts, or Enid got extremely lucky. Nothing else on earth would calm her the way Wednesday’s scent could. She quiets quickly, sobs turning to sniffles as she wraps everything she can around Wednesday’s body. Arms around her neck. Legs around her waist. Lips pressed to her pulse, teeth scraping against her throat as she tries to bring herself back down.
Enid chooses to ignore the fact that teething is traditionally an act reserved for bonded mates, figuring tradition doesn't mean jack shit in a situation as improbable as this one. Wednesday tilts her head in a rare show of indulgence, giving her all the time she needs to thread the fraying pieces of herself back together.
That’s what Wednesday does, Enid thinks; she takes you apart, piece by piece, and brings you back to life when it pleases her. Enid would consider her a short, particularly vindictive shade of mad scientist if it weren’t for the firmness of Wednesday’s arms, for the unyielding grip she maintains on the back of Enid’s neck. Not very scientific of her to bother comforting her test subject, Enid thinks.
“Are you with me?” Wednesday asks, voice softer than Enid even knew she was capable of.
Enid nods. She doesn’t speak, knowing that if she opens her mouth, she’ll blurt something along the lines of however you’ll have me, or worse, always and forever, and she’s endured more than enough humiliation for one day.
Notes:
yall fed the BEAST with your comments last chapter i stg have another update!
if you noticed the chapter count went up from 3 to 5, then 5 to 15, that's because i talked to my beta last night and he managed to laugh in my face over the phone when i said i could fit everything i have planned for this story in five chapters so here we are, and can i just say, let's fucking GOOOOO
Chapter Text
Although Enid just came, the relief doesn't linger long enough to matter. In no time at all, she's squirming again, licking Wednesday's neck like she might die if she doesn't find a way to swallow down her scent.
Wednesday pushes her back with a firm hand. Enid pouts up at her, turning away from the unimpressed look Wednesday gives her in return.
"I thought you wanted me to touch you," Wednesday states.
Enid exhales on a huff. "I do."
She feels a soft grip on her chin, then her face is being led back to Wednesday, who looks down at her with amusement.
"Are you always such a brat?" she asks.
Enid gasps. "You take that back."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow in challenge. "Why should I? It's what you are. A little brat."
Enid sucks in a sharp breath.
Wednesday's eyes miss nothing. "You like that."
Enid shrugs a bit miserably. "So?"
Wednesday hums under her breath. "It's important for me to know these things, Enid."
Enid frowns, opening her mouth to question what that's supposed to mean, but Wednesday ducks down to kiss her and all interest in arguing disappears to wherever her common sense fucked off to, most likely.
Enid melts into her, arching her back complacently as Wednesday's arm winds around her waist. The fact that Wednesday can drag her around like a rag doll isn't lost on Enid; in fact, it's made a real mess of her inner thighs (and Wednesday's skirt).
Who knew she had such an intense strength kink? She certainly didn't. Enid considers herself to be a strong, independent wolf, but she would be lying if she said she didn't like how Wednesday makes her feel small. Though, anyone would feel small in the same vicinity as Wednesday Addams, so it's not like she's special.
Wednesday pulls away, eyes bright as she examines Enid's face. Whatever she finds there must be truly inspiring because she sits back on her heels, taking her sweet time cataloging every inch of Enid's body. By the time that awful gaze reaches her chipped toenails, Enid is a heaving, stuttering mess. Her legs shake as she tries and fails to get a grip.
"You're blushing," Wednesday muses. "Are you always this sensitive? I haven't even touched you yet."
Enid's eyes squeeze shut. "It's just the heat," she insists.
Wednesday looks like she believes that about as much as she believed her when Enid said she could eat two dozen pancakes in one sitting. And guess what? Wednesday had been right that time too, having the pleasure of watching Enid hang over their shared toilet about an hour after that disastrous attempt at proving her wrong. Enid still has nightmares where Thing wipes the sick from her face under Wednesday's smug supervision. Good thing Wednesday isn't easily skeeved out. If she were, she wouldn't be offering to fuck the slick-soaked disaster that is Enid in heat.
"You want to be touched," Wednesday states, ignoring her weak protest. "Tell me where, Enid."
Enid covers her eyes, groaning into her hands. "You know."
"Use your words."
Enid can’t help but whimper as she admits, "Everywhere, okay? For fuck's sake, Wednesday, it's as if you like making me say that stuff…"
Wednesday blinks back at her like she's missing something very obvious.
Enid's face heats all over again, blood rushing to her ears. "O-Oh. You like—um, embarrassing me?" she asks, voice higher than normal.
"You're very pretty whilst being humiliated," Wednesday replies.
She reaches out, pulling Enid's lower lip away from the danger of her teeth. Enid hadn't even realized she'd bitten it.
Without another word, Wednesday smoothes her hands over Enid's shoulders. Her fingertips trail along Enid's collarbones, eventually following the line of her neck, and for one exhilarating second, Enid thinks she may wrap her hand around her throat. That would end her. She would never recover from such a thing. But Wednesday, whether fortunately or unfortunately, keeps her touch light and unobtrusive as she maps the shape of her body.
Her hands shift down to her chest, ghosting over her nipples, and Enid fails to swallow her moan completely. Wednesday tests the strength of her grip on Enid's breasts, watching closely to gauge at what point pleasure becomes pain. Regrettably for her, as long as Enid remains in heat, her threshold for pain is far beyond that of a normal human. Wednesday will have to find another way to satisfy her sadistic tendencies, Enid smugly thinks.
Once Wednesday's bored of trying to mold Enid's breasts into the shape of her palms, her hands slip down to her stomach and hips, tracing the taut muscle beneath her skin. Enid holds her breath as Wednesday's touch nears where she most wants it, but to her utter outrage, Wednesday skips her pussy entirely and jumps straight to her sticky thighs.
"Why?" Enid bursts out, resisting the urge to thump her fists against the bed like a child. "What the hell, Wednesday?"
Wednesday doesn't even look at her, apparently enthralled with tracing patterns through Enid's glimmering slick. "Be patient."
"I'm not patient," Enid cries.
"No," Wednesday calmly agrees. "But you are capable of learning to be good for me, aren't you?"
Enid loses her breath, but nods.
"I know you are, good girl," Wednesday murmurs, gaze warm as she squeezes Enid's knee. "Turn over."
Enid scrambles to get onto her hands and knees. She drops her face onto her arms, letting her ass wave through the air like a lurid flag. Finally, she thinks, tension bleeding from her body as she presents herself.
Wednesday doesn't move for a long, long moment, but eventually shakes herself out of whatever trance she was in and returns to her task of learning every inch of Enid's body. She starts with the backs of her thighs, paying particular attention to the spot where she'd spanked her.
Enid knows they're both remembering it as Wednesday rubs the sensitive skin beneath her ass. She can practically still feel the sting. Enid is suddenly beyond grateful to have the opportunity to hide her face in her arms and away from Wednesday's piercing gaze. She's not sure she would survive another round under Wednesday's hand, or God forbid, over her knee.
Wednesday follows the curve of her ass upwards, then pulls her cheeks apart and exposes her to cool air where previously there was none. Enid shrieks into the blanket, tensing, but Wednesday soothes her with a—what the fuck? Did she just kiss Enid's asscheek?
Enid twists around to look at her, and Wednesday raises an eyebrow.
"What?" she challenges. "You have something to say? Say it."
Enid fervently shakes her head.
"That's what I thought," Wednesday mutters. She taps Enid's ass once in warning. "Back into position."
Enid can't move fast enough. She's so busy reeling from the ease with which Wednesday's taken control of the situation to notice immediately when her fingers begin moving unusually. Wednesday's nails prick at her hips, fingertips pressing into her back as they flutter along her spine. It continues with a rhythm Enid can't quite parcel out, but that she knows she recognizes from somewhere.
"On your back," Wednesday orders, and Enid obediently rolls over.
She's shocked by the intensity on Wednesday's face as her fingertips continue skittering up and down Enid's ribs, nimble hands moving with the grace of a dancer as she—as she—
Enid can't breathe.
Shs recognizes it now, after the thought of dancing entered her head; Paint It Black. Wednesday is playing her body like her cello, following the dips and curves of Enid's bones as she makes music out of her submission.
Enid has never been so turned on in her entire fucking life.
"Wednesday," she gasps, and the threat of tears presses heavy and real in the back of her throat. "Please?"
Wednesday's fingers don't slow. "Are you begging already? Cute."
Enid swallows a sob. "Yes, b-begging, I'm—how do you want me to beg?" she gives in, pleading for mercy.
Wednesday smiles, small and terrible, and Enid knows she will not be receiving it. "You may give me your best attempt, and I'll decide if you deserve it."
Notes:
don't think i didn't see yall simping for dommy mommy wednesday in the comments last chapter, have some more
Chapter Text
Enid isn’t sure what to do.
Begging can mean a lot of things. Is she supposed to whine and plead like wolves are wont to do in such a situation? Is she expected to present a rational, coherent argument as to why Wednesday should fuck her? How exactly does one beg when commanded to do so by Wednesday Addams?
The thing is, Enid doesn’t know this version of Wednesday well enough to be able to tell offhand what she wants. This version of Wednesday, as a matter of fact, didn’t even exist for Enid until today. There are a lot of shades of Wednesday that Enid knows intimately; Irritated Wednesday, Tired Wednesday, the particularly Vindictive Wednesday that appears after she speaks to her mother. These are all Wednesdays that she knows and loves. But Dominant Wednesday? The Wednesday that finds great enjoyment in how Enid looks crying under her hands, the version that wants to see her come with a hand around her throat? Not a fucking chance.
So, as with most things, Enid defers to her instincts. Most wolves would have already understood her presenting as the highest form of begging, but Wednesday isn’t a wolf. She probably doesn’t know what it means for a wolf in heat to bow on her hands and knees, facedown to show off the back of her neck. Enid’s going to have to play her hand a bit more literally here.
Wednesday’s voice ordering back into position rings in her head as Enid presents and spreads her knees as far as she can, back arching to the point that she knows she looks obscene. This is beyond the realm of things that can potentially be excused by heat. She’s only ever seen this sort of thing in heat porn, which is—ugh. So fucking embarrassing. All she needs to round out this complete and total abandonment of her self-respect would be adding a splash of purring, just to top it off. It’s one thing to present. It’s a whole other beast to paint a target on your ass and hand your opponent ammo to fire with.
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath, and Enid knows her ploy has at least somewhat succeeded. How must she look, waving her ass and slick-soaked thighs in front of Wednesday’s face? Is it tempting, or weird? Was there ever a time when Enid wasn’t weird?
“Your argument is compelling,” Wednesday says in a low voice.
Then again, Wednesday’s not exactly a stranger to weird.
“Please?” Enid breathes, barely catching the vibration in her throat before it escapes and coalesces into something unexplainable. Purring only happens when a submissive wolf feels utterly safe with their partner. Even amongst mated pairs, it's rare. Enid would quite simply perish if Wednesday knew just how down bad she is—and not even physically down bad, which is whatever, but emotionally. Dare she say it, romantically, the horror. She can practically see Wednesday’s ick face now.
"What do you want?" Wednesday’s voice snaps her back to the present.
The fact that she keeps asking tells Enid she hasn't given the answer that Wednesday's hoping for yet. There's something she's missing, some factor beyond her capability to understand right now that's driving Wednesday to keep pressing for a different response. Maybe Enid's looking at this the wrong way—what is it that Wednesday wants? She hasn't taken off her skirt or sweater or made any move to receive any pleasure herself, so perhaps it isn't physical relief that she's seeking. Perhaps, she wants something more...something only Enid can give.
Which is why she ultimately responds, "What you think I deserve."
She peeks over her shoulder at Wednesday’s expression.
Wednesday's lips are parted with surprise, perhaps the most emotion she's shown this entire time, and then she's meeting Enid’s eyes with the sort of look that ends a life. This is it, Enid thinks. This is what Wednesday has been after all along; not her body, not her come. Not even the pleasure of fucking her through heat.
What she wanted, Enid realizes, was her submission.
"My good girl," Wednesday says slowly, intention sown into every word, "Aren't you?"
Enid can only nod. "Yours," she whispers, and though Wednesday doesn’t know it, she means it with everything she has.
Wednesday's eyes flutter shut, a look of utter peace overtaking her. Enid can barely breathe to witness it. Wednesday's expression in that moment is a wonder to behold.
Then her attention returns to Enid, burning and complete, and Enid nearly startles at the intensity. Wednesday's gaze feels like a physical sensation, like chains snaking around her nerves and pulling her taut. She feels restrained and exposed. Captive. Enid is well and truly caught without the slightest intention of escaping, and what a ridiculous fucking idea that is. Why would she ever want to leave?
Fuck that, Enid thinks, a sentiment she feels with her whole chest. She's Wednesday's good girl—at least for right now—and though she doesn't know much about model behavior in the throes of heat, she does know this cardinal truth:
Good girls get what they deserve.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” Wednesday says very seriously, and Enid quickly nods. “On your back. I want to see your face.”
Enid’s nod is a bit slower this time, dazed by the rush of arousal she experiences upon hearing those words come out of Wednesday's mouth. Unbelievable. Who gave her the right to talk like that? Enid may have to sue for emotional damages if this keeps up.
The first touch, just a brush of Wednesday’s fingertips up the inside of her thigh to collect her slick, nearly sends Enid into convulsions. For someone who despises mess, Wednesday sure has no problem using Enid's slick to wet her fingers with. It's unexpectedly considerate of her to think of Enid's comfort in a moment like this, but she needn't worry; Enid can feel how disgustingly turned on she is from the wet spot beneath her on the blankets alone. Wednesday's fingers will end up soaked regardless if she strays too close to Enid's bottom half.
Wednesday hesitates before moving in, her eyes flicking to Enid's face. "Are you going to be good for me?"
Enid exhales in a rush. "Yes."
"And you're going to tell me what feels good?"
Enid's face heats. "Yes, Wednesday," she whispers in response.
"And you'll tell me if there's any pain?" Wednesday persists.
Enid groans. "Of course there's fucking pain, I'm in heat and you won't touch me!" she huffs, practically at the point of tears.
The corner of Wednesday's lips turns up in what can only be described as a smirk. Enid stares up at her, gobsmacked.
"But you're so lovely like this," Wednesday replies. "Aren't you, pretty girl?"
Enid can't even bring herself to nod this time. She just stares, unbalanced and shaking and wondering if she actually did wander into some alternate dimension on accident as Wednesday's hand descends from chest height to slide, finally, between her legs.
Notes:
yall thought that was teasing? i'll show you teasing
Chapter Text
For someone who's never even touched herself, Wednesday sure knows what she's doing when it comes to fingering. Enid would very much like to know what research her roommate had done to become proficient in such a skill without any hands-on experience. She should teach an online course.
Either way, Wednesday reaches down and a moment later, there’s pressure as she slides a finger inside her.
They both pause as they come to terms with the fact that Wednesday is inside of her. Wednesday's expression is piercing as she watches Enid's face for any sign of discomfort, eyes missing nothing. Certainly not missing how Enid’s mouth drops open, how her hands spasm and automatically latch onto Wednesday’s sweater as she clenches around her. You’d think she’d be at ease, finally being filled—even thankful.
It isn't enough.
"More," Enid begs, breathing fast. She tugs on her sweater. "Please, Wednesday. Need more."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, then her finger moves, and Enid’s lost all awareness of her surroundings. Vision? Gone. Poof. All she can do is try to survive the onslaught of pleasure and hope she comes out in one piece on the other side. How Wednesday managed to find the spot Enid so feared she would on the first try is anyone's guess, but whatever. As usual, Wednesday's natural propensity to excel at all things physical wins out.
Her finger curls in a way that can only be described as cruel, stroking Enid while her free hand clamps down on her thigh, preventing her from escaping, and Enid is lost. She doesn't come quietly this time; she comes with Wednesday's name leaving her lips like a mantra, like a prayer, like a promise.
And most unfortunately, due to how she comes, the blankets beneath her become soaked in a way that is horrifyingly obvious to everyone involved. Enid didn’t even know her body could do that. What a goddamn disaster to confront such a discovery while still impaled on Wednesday’s hand.
Once Enid is at least somewhat coherent again, Wednesday slips out of her—ignoring her wordless protest—and holds her hand up into the weak light filtering in through the windows. Her hand is sopping wet with shimmering vanilla slick, sweater sleeve dark and heavy and ruined. The fabric will always smell a bit like her, Enid knows. She dazedly thinks she'll have to knit Wednesday a new one.
"Messy thing, aren't you?" Wednesday hums.
Her free hand finds the back of Enid’s neck, settling there as the hand still dripping with slick hovers in front of Enid’s face.
"It's your mess," Wednesday says, gaze intent. "Clean it up."
There isn't a moment to lose. Enid is past the point of caring and therefore, she does not hesitate before getting to work, starting with Wednesday's palm. Wednesday's eyes widen, perhaps not expecting Enid to just dive in and lick her like a starving dog, but dignity has no place in these quarters. By the time Enid's tongue is sliding between Wednesday's fingers, eyes lidded as she cleans her to the best of her ability, Wednesday has graduated from surprised to curious and a dangerous look plays on her face. There was never a chance in hell Enid could do something with this much enthusiasm without attracting her attention.
Enid takes two of Wednesday's fingers into her mouth, moaning as she sucks the sugary slick from her skin, and Wednesday raises both eyebrows.
"You like it that much, good girl?" she murmurs, cocking her head.
Enid moans around her fingers, sucking harder. Wednesday's free hand shifts to grip her chin, just a hair off her throat, and she forces Enid to meet her gaze.
"You like the act?" Wednesday guesses, eyes cataloging every minute change in her expression as if she's expecting to find some clue that will uncover the truth. "Need something in your mouth, Baby?"
Enid moans again, voice vibrating around the fingers in her mouth as Wednesday begins sliding in and out, mimicking fucking her throat. Wednesday’s fingers drag against her tongue, and Enid’s mouth falls open as she pants and whines.
"Or is it the taste?" Wednesday continues, brow furrowing. "What do you taste like, Enid? I confess myself anxious to know."
It takes a moment for Enid to process the implications of that statement, and by the time she chokes, eyes widening, it's too late.
Wednesday's fingers have already left her mouth and returned to her pussy, sliding through Enid's slick until they're covered again. Wednesday considers her sticky hand for approximately two seconds before popping a finger into her mouth. Enid chokes out a feeble attempt to warn her, a strangled noise leaving her throat as she sits up, but Wednesday ignores her completely.
Her dark eyes widen.
That's all the warning Enid gets before she lands on her back, legs flailing as Wednesday crawls on top of her. Wednesday snatches her wrists, pinning them above her head, and Enid can barely tell up from down from sideways. She might as well be in a tilt-a-whirl for how unbalanced she feels getting tossed around like this.
"What is that?" Wednesday demands. "What is that taste?"
Enid swallows, a whimper clawing out of her throat. "S-Slick,” she manages.
"Tastes like sugar," Wednesday hisses. "Like candy. I don't understand."
"Vanilla," Enid gasps. "My slick is vanilla."
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath. "You taste sweet like vanilla."
Enid’s cheeks burn at her tone. "Not me. The slick," she weakly protests.
It's as if Wednesday doesn't hear her. "You taste so sweet, don't you? Doesn’t my good girl taste delectable? Answer me.”
Wednesday doesn’t wait for a response, bringing her slick-soaked hand back up to her mouth right in front of Enid’s face. Her teeth glint in the light of the setting sun as Wednesday licks her own wrist, chasing stray droplets before they can fall to the blankets beneath them. Her pupils visibly dilate as the taste spreads over her tongue. Her chest is heaving beneath her sweater. Enid can smell the sweat dampening her temples.
“Fuck,” Wednesday breathes, low and guttural and most definitely not meant for Enid’s ears.
Enid cries out in a wordless plea, head tipping back as she tries and fails to find something to rut against. Wednesday's bare thigh remains cruelly—and perhaps intentionally—out of reach.
Wednesday grips her by the chin again, this time with the hand wet with slick. It smears into Enid’s skin, nails biting against her jaw. “Didn’t I ask you a question? Answer me, Puppy.”
Enid can’t breathe. “I-I don’t—don’t know, Wednesday, don’t…just want you…” she sobs.
“You have me,” Wednesday whispers, though Enid very well could have imagined it; her focus was shot the moment the word Puppy left Wednesday’s mouth.
Wednesday's hand disappears from her chin, cropping back up on her ankle as she drags Enid further down the bed. Enid only has a second to come to terms with the fact that Wednesday may have an agenda of her own before her knees are being shoved apart by unyielding hands. Wednesday’s eyes don’t stray from Enid’s face as she kneels between her thighs, tongue darting out to lick her own lips.
Notes:
remember those comments i was making last chapter when i said this chapter would be the end of enid's suffering? i lied. still teasing.
your consolation prize is the total chapter increase to twenty
Chapter Text
At first, Enid doesn't know what's going on. She hangs in suspension, so to speak, on her back with Wednesday's nails digging into her thighs. Then she feels soft touches on the inside of her knee, up her thigh, dipping into the crease between her leg and hip, and she realizes that Wednesday is licking her.
While she's heard the rumors of how potent slick can taste to non-wolves, especially while in heat, she never expected to deal with what's looking more and more like an addiction on Wednesday's part. No drop is left unswallowed as Wednesday licks her clean. Of course, slick continues dripping from her pussy, glimmering in the weak moonlight as darkness falls. It tastes like sugary icing and looks like nothing else on earth. Thick and glittering, the consistency of sweet syrup. Great for lubricant. Not great for self-control.
It was one of the things that made Camie so enthusiastic about being her heat partner; slick compatibility is essential in such an arrangement. Enid supposes she should consider herself lucky vanilla seems to be a taste Wednesday can tolerate.
Wednesday's tongue finally reaches her pussy, and Enid settles, tipping her head back. At last, relief is imminent.
She then shrieks as Wednesday shoves her tongue in her, fucking into her as she spreads Enid's thighs apart as far as they can go, pinning her straining hips to the bed. Enid feels speared and trapped, stuck like a butterfly pinned to the wall display of a serial killer, and she couldn't be happier. This is heaven, she thinks, as Wednesday drinks her slick directly from the source.
She didn't know Wednesday had such impressive lung capacity, but here they are. Funny the things you learn about your roommate while fucking them. Wednesday manages to stay latched to her pussy for almost two full minutes before she has to come up for air, at which point she apparently notices Enid has been crying for her for at least half that time.
"Please, please, please…."
"What?" Wednesday replies, licking her lips. Her sweater is utterly soaked, and she seems to realize it too since she reaches up to pull it off. "What is it, Puppy? You need something?"
She's left in a bra and skirt, her skin glowing in the moonlight. Although Enid has been walked in on mid-change by her roommate a handful of times before, she's never actually seen Wednesday in her underwear. Today, she wears an old-fashioned black bra with boning and lace panels stretched over her ribcage that obviously comes from France or some other such place. It's much more structured than the flimsy pink bralette Wednesday had caught Enid in last month (which coincidentally was also the day Wednesday skipped writing in favor of watching her do laundry, so odd).
Either way, Wednesday looks stunning, a far cry from the sweaty, teary disaster that Enid has become. As night falls, Wednesday becomes more beautiful, and Enid exposes herself as more and more of a mess. It feels appropriate, considering Enid will never be able to match up to the caliber that Wednesday Addams regularly resides in. There’s just no way. She made her peace with that long ago.
"Let me present for you," Enid whispers, breath coming unsteady.
Wednesday's eyes widen, but she drops her hand onto Enid's thigh hard enough to have a moan tearing out of Enid's throat. "Get on your hands and knees, then. Show me."
Enid rolls onto her stomach, whining for nothing and everything as she arches her back and waits for approval.
She doesn't get it. Not in the way she expects, at least. She receives no good girl, Baby, or anything at all, really. Wednesday just dives back in, lapping at her slick, and Enid figures that's the best she's going to get. It's not like she's complaining. After only a minute, the tension rises inside her to a fever pitch, and she comes again on Wednesday's tongue. It is glorious.
It doesn't stop.
Wednesday keeps licking and sucking her, spreading her apart with those sharp nails as she exposes Enid to the chill of the air. She then licks up her ass, sucking the slick that had escaped between her cheeks, too. Enid's eyes roll back in her head. She's nearly inconsolable as Wednesday greedily consumes her. She comes again like that, slick wetting her thighs as Wednesday's tongue drags up her ass over and over.
"Tastes so good," Wednesday whispers. "No, stay there," she says at full volume. "I'm not finished."
Enid sobs into the blanket. "I'm going to die."
"Don't move," Wednesday insists, returning to her pussy. "You can take more. I know you can, Baby."
Enid tries to take that to heart. If Wednesday thinks she can do it, that must be the truth. She nods. "Wanna come, Wednesday."
Wednesday's hand smoothes over her ass. "I know you do, good girl. I'm going to give you what you need."
Her fingers, two this time, slip inside Enid, stuffing her full as her tongue returns to work on her holes. Wednesday must be fucking flexible with how she's contorting herself to reach all the places Enid most wants her mouth, she dazedly thinks. Her head is spinning, awareness cartwheeling off into the abyss as she begins to sink into the floating place, taking each and every fragmented piece of herself down with her. She comes again unexpectedly, clenching around Wednesday as tears threaten at the corners of her eyes. Her ears are ringing.
All that anchors her to earth is Wednesday, Wednesday's fingers and Wednesday's tongue, and Enid knows if she isn't careful, she might actually be at risk of dropping completely. Wouldn't that be a sight, Enid in subspace while Wednesday wonders why her roommate's such a freak? She would never live it down.
"What did I just say? Be a good girl, Enid."
Enid can barely think, hips wiggling as she tries and fails to move closer. Her ass bumps against something, hard—Wednesday’s nose?—earning a hiss of pain before a palm comes down with a crack across her asscheek. Enid yelps, ducking her face into her arms as she shivers, still on her hands and knees.
"Did I say you could move?"
Enid shakes her head.
Wednesday's hand squeezes where she'd been spanked, simultaneously alleviating the sting while worsening the ache. "Answer me, Puppy."
"No," Enid gasps, lifting her head. "N-No, Wednesday."
"Look at me."
Enid turns over, shifting onto her back as she tries to silence her sniffling. Her emotions boil over anyway, painting her cheeks with tear tracks as she looks up at Wednesday through her lashes.
In direct contrast to earlier, Wednesday now looks calm and collected, entirely in control. It soothes Enid enough that she manages to stop crying. Wednesday cups her face anyway, brushing away her tears as Enid squeezes her eyes shut.
"You're still my good girl, Enid."
Enid shakes her head. "Not, I'm not," she sobs, taking deep breaths in an effort to regain some control over herself.
Wednesday traces the shape of her lower lip, slipping her thumb into Enid's mouth, which she gladly accepts. This forces Enid to breathe through her nose, coincidentally compelling her to either stop heaving for breath or suffocate. It's a surprisingly effective method of calming her down. Who knew the threat of murder could be so versatile?
Wednesday's other hand ghosts over her forehead. "I think you can give me one more."
Enid shakes her head. "Can't, too much. I'll disappear."
Which doesn't make any fucking sense, not even to someone as fluent in Enid as Wednesday, but Wednesday shakes her head and says, "Never. I would never allow it."
And Enid is helpless not to nod, not to spread her legs one last time as Wednesday fills her until the point of no return and Enid shatters around her, wondering if she will ever be able to rebuild in the wake of such a catastrophe.
Notes:
they were horny your honor
Chapter Text
Ultimately, Enid doesn't drop into a headspace where Wednesday would instantly notice something amiss. Small mercies. That would’ve been a fun conversation to navigate in the wake of her heat. Luckily, she just flirts with the edge, toeing the line as she teeters between the floating place and stark awareness while lying next to Wednesday, whose eyes never leave her face.
Eventually, Wednesday breaks the silence. "What is it?"
Enid finds herself unexpectedly disappointed that Wednesday hadn't reached out and personally rescued her lower lip from her teeth again. Although they lie close enough to share breath, Wednesday hasn't touched her since the heat broke. That era may be over, Enid grimly admits.
“Huh?” she replies.
Wednesday frowns. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”
Enid can feel her cheeks beginning to heat. “It’s just…what about you?” she asks.
Wednesday's brow furrows. “What about me?”
Enid fidgets where she lays. “Don’t you want to…you know—”
“No,” Wednesday states, eyes widening as she finally understands what Enid’s getting at. “I don’t care if I come or not. Rest, Enid.”
Enid doesn't like that answer much at all, but she's far too emotionally battered to argue with Wednesday. She shuts her eyes, figuring she'll take just a moment to collect herself, but when they reopen, sunlight is filtering through the window. Bright sunlight. Like, the sort of light that only manages to penetrate their room in the late morning when Thing forgets to shut the blackout curtains. Still, Enid doesn’t think the circumstances odd enough to warrant concern. Everything is warm and soft and perfect, honeycomb and lilies. Her nest still reeks of sugary vanilla, but she’s wearing a clean Hex Girls t-shirt that definitely doesn't belong to her, and now that she's coming to her senses, why does her pillow have a heartbeat?
Enid tenses, and the hand that had been trailing through her hair immediately freezes too.
"Enid?" Wednesday speaks up, tone unreadable.
Enid realizes she must have fallen asleep, and worse, fallen asleep on Wednesday's chest, which is just so utterly unacceptable, Enid can't help but demand, "Why didn't you wake me?"
Wednesday peers down at her with a neutral expression. "You needed the rest. I could handle it."
Enid flushes as she sits up. They both shiver from the sudden loss of contact, Wednesday pressing a hand down over the exact spot Enid had been sleeping on with a displeased expression. It probably aches, Enid thinks, from cushioning her bony fucking head for hours. God, could she be any more embarrassing? Wednesday doesn't even like to hug, and Enid spent a whole night cuddling into her chest. Nosing into her t-shirt, probably whining for the touches Wednesday had so graciously been providing to her hair and neck. Enid's always been a sleep talker, particularly when she dreams. Had she said anything she can't come back from?
Looking at Wednesday's unrepentant expression, Enid knows that even if she had gone on a subconscious blabbing spree, her roommate wouldn't be sharing it with her.
Enid tries to scoot off the bed, to put some distance between them, then abandons that idea with a wince as she puts weight on her aching legs. Within a second, Wednesday is there, hands tight on her elbows as she eases Enid back into her nest.
"You shouldn't move," Wednesday states, stepping in front of her to block her escape. Enid can’t help but feel small and protected as Wednesday, all five-foot-one of her, towers over her. "What do you need? Thing will fetch it for you."
Something about that strikes Enid as off, and once it occurs to her, she can't help but ask, "Why not you?"
Wednesday blinks at her. "I'm not leaving you," she states, like it should be obvious.
Enid's heart soars, dawn breaking right there in her chest as she fills with wonder and disbelief, with hope, with—
"That was what we agreed," Wednesday finishes.
—Reality. Cold, hard reality that reminds Enid this is her roommate, not her mate, not her girlfriend, and most certainly not her Dom, and she cannot allow herself to think otherwise. That way lies madness.
"A bath," Enid rasps, avoiding her gaze. "And some water. Please," she tacks on as an afterthought.
Wednesday nods, eyes bright, and turns to murmur to Thing, who taps his agreement and scurries off to their shared bathroom. Enid hears the creaking of the faucet and splattering against the hollow bathtub a second later.
"Here," Wednesday states, a bottle of water in her hands. "Open up."
Enid doesn't move for a long moment as she contemplates whether Wednesday actually intends to hold the water bottle while she slurps from it like some pathetic dog or not, but then she recalls this encounter has an expiration date and she’d better enjoy being Wednesday’s tragic little pet while she still can. Enid parts her lips, tipping back her head, and Wednesday's fingertips rest on Enid's jaw as she controls the stream of water pouring into Enid's mouth. When a droplet escapes from the corner of her lips, Wednesday brushes it away, eyes intent on her face.
Enid flushes and drops her gaze, fisting the blankets as Wednesday returns the bottle to the nightstand.
There's a tapping on the ground, then Wednesday makes a noise of assent.
"Come," she speaks aloud. "Your bath is ready."
Enid wishes she was stronger, both physically and emotionally, as she lets Wednesday wrap an arm around her waist and hold her up as they journey into the bathroom together. If Enid exaggerates her weakness a little bit in order to extend the time that Wednesday spends touching her, it's nobody's business but her own. Wednesday firmly shuts the door on Thing, who seems genuinely concerned for Enid's well-being. It warms Enid's chest to know she's being cared for, even if it is by a disembodied limb with unclear motivations.
The water is steaming hot, the whole room smelling like Enid's favorite cherry bubble bath, and she can't help but moan in approval, ignoring how Wednesday's nails dig into her ribs for a split second before easing off.
Hands tug at the hem of her borrowed t-shirt, which Enid has realized by now must belong to her roommate, and she obediently lifts her arms as Wednesday pulls the shirt up over her head. Enid probably should feel embarrassed now that she's naked again, but she doesn't. Wednesday has quite literally seen her in the throes of passion; witnessing Enid weak and shivering on the cold tile is nothing.
Wednesday helps her climb into the bathtub, hands tight around Enid's waist until she's sure Enid can manage to sit without accidentally killing herself. Enid slides down in the water, ready for some good old-fashioned escapism as she relaxes in the familiar scent of cherries and tries to ignore her audience. Cycles can be so draining, even with a heat partner to see her through the worst of it. Wednesday had done suspiciously well considering she’s not a wolf, has never been with a wolf as far as Enid’s aware, and has no reason to ever be with a wolf again.
True to word, Wednesday's attention doesn't waver from her for a second. Those dark eyes remain firmly on Enid for the entire time she's in the tub, watching her avoid reality for a little longer. Even after, when Enid’s been toweled dry and is cuddled up in her nest hugging a pillow instead of her roommate, she imagines she can still feel the comforting weight of Wednesday's gaze on her back.
Notes:
thus begins the oblivious enid and jealous wednesday arc
Chapter Text
The days following the heat are weird.
Enid knows she's acting squirrely, but she can't help herself. How is she supposed to behave normally knowing that Wednesday is well and truly capable of not only fucking her brains out, but also singlehandedly satiating her heat? Not to mention, the scenting she gave Wednesday was underlined, italicized, capitalized and bolded, judging by how intensely her roommate still smells like vanilla. It's completely obvious to every wolf they come across, a reality Enid experiences firsthand as soon as they return to their normal schedules.
They're walking across the courtyard to Enid's usual lunch table, Wednesday only a step behind her, when they pass a table of wolves that are most certainly not Enid's friends. In fact, one of them, a pushy boy with dyed red hair she can't even recall the name of, had offered to be her heat partner this cycle. Enid rejected him, of course, and he and his friends chose to respond by making mocking whining sounds whenever she walked past since.
Today, however, they fall silent as she approaches. Enid has no idea why, but it's glorious. If she's not mistaken, they even look a little bit scared. She barely resists the urge to stick out her tongue. Enid almost forgets that Wednesday's walking behind her, that the boys can undoubtedly smell the fact that they spent Enid’s heat together.
Ah, so that's why they look like they might piss their pants—it frightens them to know Enid could find herself another partner so easily. If their leader couldn't even secure a partner who was already in need, what hope do the rest of them have for finding someone to spend their ruts with? The boy she'd rejected definitely doesn’t look happy, and while that pleases the vindictive side of her, Enid hopes he doesn't take it out on his annoying friends. She was never going to be swayed that easily, not as long as Wednesday exists. Why settle for fingerpainting when you have fine art to enjoy (albeit from a healthy distance)?
Speaking of distance, while Wednesday still hasn't touched her directly, she hasn't strayed far from Enid's side. Of course she's exceptionally good at being a heat partner, Enid sighs to herself. She's still grumbling internally as she takes her seat across from Yoko. Wednesday claims the seat beside her, nodding at Yoko's wave of greeting. While Wednesday doesn't join them every day, she's been known to show up occasionally. Since this is their first day back to class, Enid supposes it's not a complete shock Wednesday took a break from whatever nefarious deeds she's up to these days to get a good meal in.
Today's lunch is clam chowder (which Enid can't stand the smell of with her still-sensitive nose), garlic noodles, and grilled cheese sandwiches. None of those items hold any appeal for her—especially not the noodles, considering Yoko's allergy—but there was a reason why Enid made sure to attend lunch today of all days.
Today is Monday, otherwise known as the day the school chefs serve cupcakes for dessert. Now, Enid has always loved herself a good cupcake, but for whatever reason, she's been craving them so badly since her heat that she was nearly salivating over the display in the lunch line. Perhaps that's why Wednesday stuck to her side; she must've looked like she was one wrong move away from a killing spree.
The four cupcakes on Enid's plate consist of Red Velvet, Strawberry, Vanilla Bean, and Pink Sugar respectively. She's represented every aspect of her craving, hoping the urge to sink her teeth into something sweet will dissipate soon. Either way, she adores cupcakes, and it makes her happy to indulge in her favorite dessert. Is it normal to feel safe and comforted by a baked good? Enid isn’t sure, but she's smiling as she plows through the Strawberry and Red Velvet. Saving the best two for last, she thinks, licking her lips as she picks up the Vanilla Bean.
"So, Enid—how was your heat?" Yoko asks.
Enid blinks, frozen with her canines extended over the cupcake. When she glances up, her friends are looking at her expectantly.
"It was fine," Enid says, taking care not to let her tone swoop up into something euphoric or drop down into misery.
It was what it was, she reminds herself. Pining for something impossible won't change the truth of the matter, which is that Wednesday did her a humongous favor the likes of which she's never seen from a friend. Wednesday truly is a stellar roommate, going above and beyond like that.
"Oh?" Yoko smiles. "I'm glad to hear it. You look much better than last year."
Wednesday twitches beside her, an aborted little movement, then clears her throat and asks, "What happened last year?"
Yoko and Enid share a wince, but considering Enid immediately stuffs her mouth full of Vanilla Bean to avoid the question, it is ultimately Yoko who answers, "Enid had a heat partner who didn't do a good job."
If it's possible, Wednesday's presence becomes even harder to ignore. "I see," she replies. "And this time was more satisfactory, Enid?"
Enid's cheeks heat as she stares at the table, struggling to swallow. "I guess," she mumbles.
Wednesday definitely sounds amused as she presses, "And are you pleased with the result?"
Enid looks up, finally meeting Wednesday's eyes as she whispers, "Yes."
A long moment passes between them, the sort of gaze that's nearly blistering in its intensity, and then Wednesday's sharp fingernails are plucking the final cupcake off her plate. Enid watches with her heart in her throat as Wednesday takes her sweet time dragging off the paper wrapper before holding it out for her to eat.
Enid feels a bit like she's in a trance as she leans forward, open-mouthed, to receive Wednesday's blessing. Her eyes flutter shut as she bites into Pink Sugar, a pleased little sound escaping her throat, and it isn't until the entire cupcake's disappeared that she realizes Yoko is watching them in silent disbelief.
In fact, the entire courtyard has gone silent, all eyes glued to the two of them as Enid swallows the last of the pink dessert. She’s pretty sure she hears Bianca Barclay ask aloud, “What the fuck?”
Enid freezes, uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but Wednesday behaves like nothing is out of place. She even smirks while lifting her hand to her mouth to suck the excess frosting from her fingertips. Her gaze doesn’t leave Enid's face, enjoying every last second of Enid watching her incredulously while waiting for a punchline that never comes.
Even as the noise level in the courtyard slowly returns to normal, Wednesday eyes her with that infuriating, ruinous little smile. Enid's cheeks don't stop burning until lunch has long since ended.
Notes:
wednesday hand-feeding enid in front of the entire school, that is all
Chapter 10: Melting
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That afternoon finds Enid pacing around her room, wondering why she feels like she might crawl out of her skin. Yes, her nesting materials are in the wash—a chore that had her fighting tears, though she'd rather die than admit that to anyone—and she has a pile of missed classwork waiting on her desk, but that doesn't explain why she feels like this. It has been hours since she last laid eyes on Wednesday, true, but this level of separation anxiety isn't normal or sustainable. She has to learn how to survive on her own.
Maybe the furniture is wrong, Enid considers, shoving her backpack under her desk to better examine the space. Now that she's looking at it, nothing is where it should be. She’ll never be able to sleep with her dresser positioned so far from the corner, and why is her bedframe angled unevenly compared to the wall? She'll need to rearrange the whole thing.
It is while she's relocating all of her possessions (and then some) that she comes across a box that previously lived under her bed. Enid takes a seat on the mattress, her entire body deflating like a sad balloon. Her heart pounds in her chest as she removes the box's lid with shaking hands, even knowing what she'll find inside.
A small collection of silicone items looks back at her. Taunting her. These are things she's collected over multiple cycles, items that had been hard-won and, in many cases, saved up for over months of working part-time. Some, like the discreet cuffs meant to stimulate the pressure points on her wrists when worn, were more of a necessity than a luxury. After all, Enid's always been more of a girl for sensation over size. She couldn't care less about what goes in her; just that it fills her up and gets the job done.
Besides the various comfort items, there's the frankly immoral gargantuan pink dildo she'd received as a gag gift, a trio of more reasonably-sized turquoise dildos (all with varying shapes for the utmost satisfaction of their user), and her trusty purple vibrator. A rainbow of embarrassment, but one she wouldn’t trade for anything. These are all the things she relies on—the things she needs.
Enid stares at the box and wonders how the hell she got through heat without any toys.
“What is that?”
Enid jumps, nearly falling off the bed as she scrambles to right herself and simultaneously shield the box from Wednesday’s sharp eyes. She ends up landing on the ground, the box spilling around her like the world’s worst pinata. The humongous pink dildo bounces across the floor, coming to a stop at her roommate's feet.
Wednesday muffles a snort. Enid buries her face in her hands, feeling very much like she'd enjoy slamming her head into the wall over and over until she can forget the humiliation of this moment. At least Thing isn't here to witness it.
In fact, Thing has been suspiciously absent since the day of her heat. He hadn't been in the room during The Incident—thank God—but he hasn't been around much afterward, either. Enid wonders what he's been up to the past few days.
Wednesday clears her throat. "Enid."
"I know," she groans, crawling across the floor to collect all of her toys. "I'm picking it up."
She’s managed to reach as far as Wednesday's shiny black shoes when she hears, "I brought something for you."
Enid glances up, eyes following the line of Wednesday's thigh highs to her black dress and impeccable braids, all the way to her strange expression. Wednesday looks…unsettled? Displeased? Enid can't parcel it out. She's never seen whatever Wednesday expression this is.
Meanwhile, Wednesday's eyes glint with something unidentifiable that arouses Enid’s suspicions. Something weird as shit is going on here, but whatever it is, it isn’t what's bothering Wednesday. Her shoulders actually relax the longer they remain in position, Enid on the floor and Wednesday standing over her.
"Something for me?" Enid repeats, voice coming out a bit breathless. "From you?"
Wednesday peers at her like she's said something particularly amusing. "Yes. For you."
Enid swallows, trying to keep her voice level as she asks, "Can I have it, then?"
Wednesday hums. "Say please."
Enid tries to ignore the warmth in her cheeks as she clasps her hands together over her chest and says, "Please, Wednesday. Can I have my gift?"
Wednesday inhales sharply, but her tone is neutral as she replies, "You may.”
Wednesday then produces a plain box from behind her back. Enid, still happy in her place at Wednesday's feet, accepts the box with raised eyebrows. It's made of thin cardboard, from the feel of it, like the sort of containers people use for takeout…or that the local cafe uses for pastries. Did Wednesday go to town?
Sure enough, when Enid raises the box to eye level and inhales, she's met with the scent of freshly baked batter and sugary icing. Vanilla, if she's not mistaken. It has saliva pooling in her mouth, her craving for cupcakes roaring back to the surface. This is just cruel, Enid thinks, stomach rumbling with anticipation.
“Well?” Wednesday interrupts her reverie. “Open it.”
Enid doesn’t need to be told twice. She nearly tears the box apart in her hurry to uncover its contents, but as soon as she catches a glimpse of what's inside, she freezes.
Anyone who knows her could guess Enid has tried every single offering at the local cafe at least a dozen times. Unfortunately, while their cupcakes are good, they aren't anything special. They're a bit messy, actually, and heavy-handed on the execution, often crowned by melting icing that any professional knows not to apply until the cake has completely cooled. On top of all that, the flavor profile isn't her favorite.
But these cupcakes? All six of them, arranged in perfect rows with shimmering pink piping? Not a ribbon out of place? Immaculate. Pure poetry, a triumph for any culinary artist. They look like they belong on a professional baking show and are most assuredly beyond the capability of anyone who works at the cafe—or anybody else in town, for that matter.
Which can only mean….
"Did you make these yourself?" Enid asks, feeling a bit like she's having an out-of-body experience.
"Yes," Wednesday answers without hesitation.
Enid blinks up at her. "You made a half-dozen pink cupcakes? By hand?"
"Actually, I made seventy of them. The ideal frosting-to-cake ratio took some trial and error," Wednesday considers, brow furrowing as she thinks back to some perceived slight the recipe made against her.
Enid wants to demand why, to protest that Wednesday's already her best friend in the world, she doesn't have to do all this—but, as always, her mouth doesn't cooperate.
"Wednesday," she breathes. Her hands shake around the box.
Wednesday refocuses on her at the sound of her voice, and her eyes are bright as she states, "You're pleased."
All Enid can do is nod.
Wednesday's face becomes unbearably smug. "Good. Eat, Enid."
The word good and her name in the same sentence are too much for Enid to take. She eats, luxuriating in the immense attention to detail Wednesday paid to every aspect of her cupcakes. It is magical. So magical, in fact, that she feels like she's dancing on a cloud or something equally as stupid. Enid just has to pray it doesn't show on her face.
Notes:
enid: look at her! such a good friend of mine!
wednesday: i crave death
Chapter 11: Charred
Notes:
shoutout to weltschmerztic for their comment about antihistamines, got the muse goin good
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid eats too many cupcakes. All six of them, down the drain to her detriment.
She knows she fucked up because she goes to sleep with a full stomach, which is never a smart move. That stuffed feeling only encourages her to dream—a particularly risky business for one Enid Sinclair. Unlike normal people, when Enid dreams, she chatters aloud like her life fucking depends on it. She’s talking full sentences, outdoor voice. It’s just awful.
In childhood, her parents had to soundproof the nursery pretty much the moment she left the womb. Having raised four kids before Enid came along, they'd learned to ignore a wailing baby, but her nonsensical babbling coming through the wall at unholy hours? Unacceptable. As long as Enid’s dreaming, no one around her will be getting a moment of rest.
While court-ordered therapy may be more of Wednesday's area of expertise, talking in her sleep has always been Enid's preferred method for working through whatever's on her mind. She’d been pretty nervous about the whole thing when the headmaster assigned her a roommate; after all, there was a reason why she was the only Nevermore student with an entire room to herself. But Wednesday, ironically enough, either doesn't notice or doesn't care that Enid spends half the night talking to imaginary friends. She never complained. Not once.
It had seemed like a dream come true right up until Enid’s heat when suddenly, her regular nighttime sermons became a much more exciting spectator sport. The age of dreaming about cupcakes and sun-soaked walks through the woods is over; now, it’s a constant rotation of x-rated montages that leave her gasping when she wakes, throat aching with the imagined taste of honey and need and heat.
On this particular night, Enid's dream revolves around Wednesday—more specifically, her hands. Enid's a little bit obsessed. It's just that Wednesday's hands are so beautiful, and now that she knows what those hands are capable of…now that she knows how it feels for those pretty fingers to fill her up, her dreams are less distant fantasy and a lot more immediate problem demanding her attention.
Of course, the strange half-memory, half-wish of a dream doesn't have the same bite as real life would have, but it sure is real enough to soak her underwear as she floats in the space between asleep and awake. Is she disrespecting herself by pleading for Dream-Wednesday to fuck her again? Does it matter, when it's only a dream?
Regrettably, her ruined underwear isn't the only product of Dream-Enid's depravity. As soon as Enid registers that the rumble in her chest is actually, legitimately vibrating out of her throat into their otherwise silent dorm room, she catapults straight from sleepy to fight-or-flight mode. Fuck. Fuck. She hopes she didn’t just do that. She prays she didn’t just fucking do that, because Wednesday might not know what it means, but Enid is a wolf and most certainly does understand the implications of what she’s done.
Purring out loud to the mere dream version of Wednesday is so beyond the pale, so utterly unexplainable, that she would simply up and go. Poof, gone. Straight to her fucking grave if she’s lucky. She doesn't even have heat as an excuse.
Unfortunately, reality is a cruel mistress, and Wednesday possesses both excellent hearing and an incredibly light sleeping temperament. Now, Enid’s only hope is that she didn’t manage to wake her.
Enid sits straight up in bed, heart pounding in her ears. From this far away, she can't determine whether Wednesday’s genuinely asleep or just pretending. Her only tell is the deepness of her breathing. When Wednesday's faking, she usually forgets to mimic the regular movement of a sleeping person's chest, probably due to spending too much time emulating a corpse. Enid stares through the darkness, alternating between fervent pleas to the universe and attempting to bargain with the powers that be for a break in this one, tiny instance. She’ll never ask for anything again if she could just avoid losing Wednesday as a friend.
How else could it end when everyone knows submissive wolves only purr in the presence of their chosen mate?
She would never be able to repair the damage such a revelation would deal to their friendship. It’s already enough knowing her feelings are unrequited; Enid can think of nothing worse than Wednesday feeling compelled to reject her to her face.
Across the room, Wednesday lies incredibly still. A few terrifying moments pass before her chest rises and falls, and Enid sags with a rush of relief. Crisis averted.
While Wednesday overhearing Enid moaning and begging for her would have been tragic, the rest of it would have been unsurvivable. Her horny monologue makes her look desperate, something Wednesday already knows, but heartfelt purring? That makes her pathetic.
Probably due to the trauma of her own actions, Enid ends up sleeping through her alarm the next morning, which means Wednesday is already fully dressed by the time she stumbles out of bed. Despite how guilty Enid still feels about purring for her friend like a fucking creep, Wednesday's eyes on her back might as well be a warm, sleepy embrace. It’s familiar. Comforting, even, as she strips out of her soiled pajamas and tugs on a lilac bralette.
That was another significant change in their dynamic following the heat that perhaps, in light of last night’s misstep, she should rethink: Enid had stopped caring about being naked in front of Wednesday. How could she, with what Wednesday's seen? There's just no coming back from that. The sky is blue, grass is green, and roommates who fucked her through heat don't care if Enid's naked or not—these are facts.
Enid typically doesn't wear bras under her school uniform, finding it unnecessary, but she's feeling unbalanced and figures some restraint might do her good. She pads around the room in just her bra while searching for the matching bottoms. She's going to be late for class, but it feels incredibly important that she track down this particular pair of panties. Enid's squatting down to rifle through the bottom drawer of her dresser when she hears a floorboard creak behind her and realizes Wednesday hasn't left yet.
Enid peeks over her shoulder. "Don't you have class in like," she searches for a clock, then recalls they don't have one and gives up, "Ten minutes?"
"Seven," Wednesday corrects her.
Enid blinks, shifting her weight. "So…gonna go to that, or are we skipping today?"
Wednesday releases an audible breath. "I'm still deciding."
For some reason, Enid gulps. The back of her neck begins to prickle, heat licking up her spine as she clamps her knees shut, almost toppling over in the process. She has to brace against the open dresser drawer to keep from tumbling to the floor. With a rising sense of horror, Enid recalls that she is still naked from the waist down, and by squatting like that, she has inadvertently been putting herself in an obscene position. God, what is wrong with her today? The way she's behaving, subconsciously or not, is practically unhinged.
Apathy towards her nakedness aside, Wednesday does not need to see her bouncing with knees spread like a—like a—well, would she even still be considered a slut when Wednesday's already sampled all she has to offer? And the offerings weren't very sophisticated, for that matter. Just sweaty, sugary slick served up on a submissive disaster. Enid should really be embarrassed that Wednesday knows her like that, knows how she looks when she's begging to be fucked.
"Sorry," Enid bleats, face burning as she hugs her knees to her chest.
Wednesday looks down at her with an expression that Enid imagines a person might don while watching their pet do something amusing. Those black nails tap an uneven rhythm against the straps of her bag, and for Enid, the tension that erupts between them makes it impossible to breathe.
Then Enid's phone beeps—probably Yoko, wondering where she is—and the moment is lost. Wednesday leaves without another word while Enid unearths her missing lilac panties and wonders what the hell she’s supposed to do now.
***
The Hive is bustling with life when Wednesday shows up.
Eugene startles as the door slams open, announcing her arrival, but his surprise turns to grim understanding once he catches a glimpse of her expression.
"Cupcakes were a bust?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Wednesday grits out, dropping her bag on the floor.
She leans against the table, ignoring the clink of glass as the empty jars behind her are jostled, and the fact that the unbowing force of nature that is Wednesday Addams needs physical support in any capacity is enough to have Eugene seriously concerned.
He bites his lip, absentmindedly stirring the raspberry-infused honey that was this morning's attempt at creating the perfect toast topper. "Sorry, Wednesday. You know, Enid's a tough nut to crack, but I really thought my moms' recipe would do it. Everybody loved them at my cousin's wedding."
"I don't subscribe to the commercialized marriage racket otherwise known as the wedding industry," Wednesday replies. Another beat before she begrudgingly admits, "She loved them."
Eugene's brow furrows. "Who, my cousin?"
Wednesday's eyes flutter shut as she gives a small sigh. "Enid," she says, sounding a bit strangled. "She loved the cupcakes. I've never seen someone so delirious with joy."
Eugene grins at her. "See? Told you that would work! Food is the first step to formally courting a wolf. Everyone knows that."
"Does Enid?" Wednesday mutters, hands twitching. "At least your antihistamine did its job."
"Well, of course it did," Eugene muses, accidentally splattering honey on the floor as he gestures toward her with his stirring rod. "My moms take allergies very seriously. We don't muck around when it comes to health and safety."
Wednesday gives a short nod. "In that case, please relay my compliments. I barely had any hives at all."
Eugene tries not to look as confused as he feels. "Wait, Wednesday—not to be rude or anything, but if you get hives from touching color, how did you—on Enid's bed—?"
"I have an EpiPen, Eugene," she hisses, straightening up. "And more importantly, how do you know what Enid's bed looks like?"
Eugene feels a bit like his stomach has dropped out of him as he stammers, "D-Don't girls like to decorate their rooms? Enid's day clothes are so colorful, I just—figured…"
Wednesday's eyes remain narrowed, but after few seconds, she nods. Eugene breathes a sigh of relief that she apparently decided to spare him.
"I suppose that makes sense," she sniffs. "And anyway, if I were to get taken out, it certainly wouldn't be by yellow blankets."
"So her nest is yellow? Cute," Eugene comments out loud. Upon seeing Wednesday's face, he squeaks, "For you! Since you're the one who sees it, not me! Definitely not me—!"
"You're behaving strangely today, Eugene," Wednesday interrupts him like she didn't just look like she was considering how best to tear his limbs from his body. "Are you feeling alright?"
Eugene pushes back his bangs, mopping the sweat from his forehead. "Jeez, I could say the same to you. Have you always been this scary? Wait, why did I even ask that? Of course, you have."
Wednesday huffs, eyes flitting to the shelves as she crosses her arms. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
Eugene snorts. "Yeah, I guess not. But—and please don't look at me like you're imagining eating me for saying this—you should probably keep taking antihistamines if you plan on frequenting her bed, though. Just as a precaution."
Wednesday's lips quirk up. "I'm glad you offered, because I intend to."
Eugene shakes his head, his heartbeat finally slowing. "No problem. I'll just ask my mom to order more. This is way more important."
Wednesday gives a firm nod. "I'm glad we're in agreement. Now, tell me about the next step of the traditional courting process."
"You didn't check out the books I mentioned?" Eugene asks. "Or look online?"
"Technology isn't my strong suit, and someone else had already checked out every book in the library even tangentially related to courting rituals," Wednesday states, voice laced with irritation.
Eugene hums. "Tough break. Well, we'll figure something out, won't we? Hive code."
Wednesday sounds utterly determined as she repeats, "Hive code."
Notes:
enid, in position for the moneyshot: do i look s-slutty like this?
wednesday: just fucking kill me
Chapter 12: Smoke Signals
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When it comes to formal courting, werewolves have a lot of traditions.
In the past, courting might have been initiated by the dominant wolf dragging home some particularly impressive carcass from the woods to make their intended submissive pretty furs and juicy cuts of meat. Today, things have modernized, but the spirit remains the same: the dominant wolf must prove they can protect and provide.
There's a saying all wolves know, one practically intoned from birth, concerning courting:
Food from the hand,
A gift of adoration,
A promise made in service
From the heart.
Food from the hand—something homemade. It doesn't have to be fancy as long as it comes from whoever's initiating the courting (which is traditionally the dominant wolf). Enid's mom made a small treat for her father to eat with lunch every day for six months before he realized she had feelings for him. Only then had he allowed her to present her gift, a wood carving that now sits on their dining room table in a place of pride. The second step takes much more thought and consideration than the first; there's a lot of variation in gifts, just like there's a lot of variation between courtings. It all depends on the couple.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum from her parents, Enid's next-door neighbors growing up had become mated within three days of meeting each other. As the story goes, the more dominant wolf had offered a lone traveler some homemade beef jerky during a long train ride, and they got to talking. He then made her a crown of wildflowers once they reached their destination, and, as the final step—the act of service from his heart—he'd taken her up the mountain to a picnic arranged just for her, where she accepted his feelings. They were mated within hours.
The final step of the courting process should always feel the most personal. In Enid's favorite werewolf drama, the fictional King of the land had courted his intended by hunting and cooking her a wild boar, building her a castle, and ultimately planning a kingdom-wide festival of lights in her honor to show her he meant business. Three steps that boil down to protect and provide. Provide something (hopefully) edible from your own hand, offer a gift as a manifestation of your feelings—whether it's a castle or a flower crown—and commit a final act of service in some way to express your intention to mate. Sounds simple enough, right?
Wrong. Courting among wolves is so nuanced, varying so widely from region to region depending on their local culture, that it's almost impossible to get it right without help on the inside. That's why Nevermore library has so many books on the topic; that's why forums exist online specifically to assist hapless lovers in courting their intended wolf.
Enid trolls the threads pretty frequently, offering advice where she can and encouragement whenever possible. It's a big leap of faith to formally court a wolf. If her cheering in the comments section eases the anxiety of it all even a little bit, then she feels it's well worth the effort.
Only a few hours after the missing underwear incident, Enid strips out of her school uniform and climbs back into bed, burrowing under the covers for warmth. Her makeup work remains ignored and untouched on her desk, and that’s exactly where it will stay if she has anything to say about it. Most of her teachers haven't mentioned it at all. Unsurprisingly, neither of the two villains who did ask after her missing assignments have a creature inheritance of their own to deal with, and even they know better than to push a submissive wolf so close after heat. It's a status-discrimination case just waiting to happen.
Enid's sole werewolf professor had waived the assignments entirely, wishing her an easy recovery. Dominant wolves may not experience the same thing, but nobody likes to suffer—even if her professor could tell (and he definitely could since he isn't an idiot and he has a working nose) that Enid hadn't suffered heat alone.
Once she's safely ensconced in her clean yellow blankets, recently rescued from the clutches of the laundry machine, Enid pulls up her favorite discussion app and refreshes for new posts. There's the usual whining about some wolf they've never spoken to before not noticing them, some updates on previous posts the community had been helping with, and—there, at the top. A new post from a user that Enid doesn't recognize, which is saying something since she wastes at least an hour or two a day on here.
B4AllElseBeArmed: Seeking Advice re: Second Courting Step
>Greetings. I am in the process of courting a wolf and, much as it pains me to admit, need assistance. My first step was positively received, but I understand the second step can be a treacherous undertaking, and I have no intention of failing at this task.
>My intended is very tactile and social, so I figure a bespoke weapon will make the ideal gift. Initial reactions?
mangobango: my initial reaction is your wolf needs a restraining order
Enid laughs out loud, curling on her side. Her nails clack against her phone screen as she chimes in and joins the thread, replying,
princessbean: i think it's kinda cute ! being so protective over your wolf. they're the sub right??
Surprisingly, a reply comes almost instantly from the original poster. Enid raises an eyebrow.
B4AllElseBeArmed: princessbean, if by 'sub', you mean the submissive wolf, then yes. That is correct.
The original poster is definitely a non-wolf, then. Enid commends them for their bravery.
princessbean: well does your sub like weapons?
B4AllElseBeArmed: Is it a genuine possibility that she might not?
Enid snorts again, shaking her head.
princessbean: what about giving her something that you know she would like? does she have any hobbies/interests/stuff like that? maybe something you guys do together?
B4AllElseBeArmed: She has many hobbies, none of which pertain to the type of gift I seek to offer her. It must be as unique and unparalleled as she is to suffice.
Enid thinks, biting her lip. While she can appreciate this person's obvious devotion to their wolf, everyone thinks their sub is the most special little submissive on earth. That reply, while sweet, doesn't give her much to go off in terms of offering helpful advice.
princessbean: what's the best gift you've ever been given? or the most meaningful ig
B4AllElseBeArmed: This has been very helpful. Thank you.
Enid feels a bit bemused by the sudden end of the conversation, but shrugs and exits the thread in search of more entertainment.
On the other side of campus, Wednesday spins around fast enough to send her braids whipping past Eugene's head. He yelps, stumbling back as she advances with his cell phone still in hand.
"I know what to do for the second step," Wednesday declares. "Eugene, how familiar are you with the Mining Club?"
He sighs. "About to become a lot more familiar, I expect. What could you possibly want with the mines?”
Wednesday’s already out the door.
Notes:
the children yearn for the mines
Chapter 13: Flickers
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday doesn't visit the Hive for long enough that Eugene assumes she's gotten herself sorted on her own—which, in hindsight, was a mistake.
On Friday, right around the time that classes are supposed to end, Wednesday comes barreling into the Hive dressed in full miner's gear, headlamp and all. Her cheeks are smudged with dirt or soot or something else unseemly, and her braids are tied up behind her head like she just ran a marathon. Eugene tries to ignore the intense feeling of foreboding that washes over him.
"The Mining Club is useless," Wednesday opens with, dropping her hard hat onto the countertop with a clatter. "The state of Vermont has over two hundred and fifty mines. I searched far and wide and found nothing but common gems and boring minerals. Even Bennington Mine was a dead end." Her face darkens. "Those fools misled me."
"Who, the Mining Club?" Eugene raises an eyebrow. "Don’t they only mine for quartz and stuff like—wait, did you just say you went to Bennington?"
Wednesday frowns. "Of course I did. Keep up."
Eugene’s mouth opens and closes. "That’s a three-hour drive! How did you even get there?"
"The bus."
"You took a bus to Bennington? On a school day?" Eugene demands. "Dressed like that?"
Wednesday straightens up to her full height. "Public transportation is a lawless hell with no hierarchy beyond every man for themselves. I wasn't given a second look," she states, followed up immediately by, "Do you have a passport?"
"....You need a passport to go to Bennington?" Eugene asks, utterly confused.
Wednesday blinks. "No, but you do to enter Australia legally."
"Aus–Australia?" he repeats, voice racketing up at least two octaves. "Why the heck would we need to go to Australia? Wait, Wednesday! Don't just walk away after saying something like that!"
"I need to pack," she replies, pausing by the door. "You should, too. Wheels up in sixty."
Eugene hops from foot to foot for a second, waffling between staying and going, before he gives in with a groan. He could swear Wednesday even looked pleased as she turned to lead the charge out into the cold.
"I do have a passport," he admits, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. "We went to Cancun last summer."
"Excellent. It would've taken longer to forge something decent enough to pass through Customs, and we don't have a moment to waste. I intend to return before anyone notices we're missing," Wednesday informs him.
Eugene wisely chooses to keep his thoughts on the likelihood of that happening to himself.
***
Enough days pass without issue that by the end of the week, Enid starts to feel okay again. Not great, since things cannot and will not be great as long as she tries to bury the knowledge that she's hopelessly heart-eyed for her unavailable roommate, but okay. Bearable. The current climate of their friendship feels almost survivable, if she squints at it from the exact right angle.
"Enid," a voice interrupts her typing.
Enid glances up from her laptop, confused as to what Bianca Barclay and her group are doing in the library on a Friday afternoon and why they've decided to intrude on her table.
"...Yes?" Enid replies a beat too late. "What’s up? Is everything okay?"
Bianca offers Enid her practically-patented warm smile, one that has most of the student body whimpering at her feet. Coincidentally, the same expression causes Wednesday to bristle whenever she sees it. Enid's hackles immediately go up at the sight, and her trepidation only increases when Bianca and her friends sit down at her table like they intend to stick around. Bianca hasn't personally sought out Enid in months—what could she want now?
"A little birdie told me you and our resident future-serial killer had a fun weekend," Bianca chirps. "Seems things got a little heated, wouldn't you say?"
Enid has to draw on every iota of willpower she has to keep from bursting into tears.
It's not like it's some state secret; every wolf on campus could tell what had happened during Enid's heat. But hearing it from Bianca's mouth, knowing she's being made fun of? It's unbearable. She wants to leave, right now.
"Aw, she looks so sad," one of the other girls laughs.
"Give her a break, Mackenzie. Can't you see she's crying?" Bianca mock-chastises her friend.
Enid flees to the sound of their laughter, ducking her head as she escapes outdoors. She hopes anyone who passes her on her trek back to the dorms assumes her tears are due to the wind rather than the sad state of her life.
Wednesday is a whirlwind around their room when Enid opens the door. Her first thought is that Wednesday appears to be dressed in what looks like rubber coveralls—which honestly isn't the biggest fashion tragedy she's witnessed in the time they've lived together—but then she notices Wednesday seems to be throwing clean clothes into one of her Blending In bags, a realization that has Enid's heart sinking in her chest. She's planning to sneak off campus.
"I'm heading to Australia for the weekend," Wednesday says without preamble. "We will be back Sunday night. Don't wait up."
For some reason, Enid feels that sentence impact her like a blow to the chest. "Oh," she manages, the word we still ringing in her ears.
Wednesday pauses, turning around. "Is something wrong?"
Enid meets her eyes, and for a long moment, she considers telling Wednesday the truth. Maybe not the I'm completely in love with you and considering torpedoing our friendship by confessing part, but definitely the Bianca Barclay made me cry in public and I had to reapply my eye makeup in a bathroom stall before coming here so you wouldn't know aspect. Except that would mean once again disturbing the fragile peace between them with her drama, and the very last thing Enid wants is for Wednesday to be upset with her, too.
"Nothing," Enid replies, sitting on her bed.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, abandoning what she was doing to give Enid her full attention.
"I'm so tired," Enid bursts. "Heat recovery's still, um, getting me, I think. I'm gonna take a nap."
Wednesday continues to silently watch her to the point of Enid's discomfort practically becoming palpable, but she ultimately backs down with a nod, accepting her answer. Enid tries not to feel disappointed that she bought the lie.
"Alright. I'll see you Sunday night, if all goes to plan," Wednesday repeats, shouldering her bag.
Enid tries to take comfort in the fact that Wednesday bothered to tell her at all.
Notes:
so fellow goblins and shiny rock enthusiasts, what's in australia?? hmmm i wonder
Chapter 14: Lightning
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Twenty-one hours, two airport bathroom breaks, and one uncomfortable conversation with customs agents later finds Wednesday and Eugene climbing into a rental car with tinted windows.
"Oh. You're a driver, too?" Eugene asks from the backseat.
"Lurch is many things," Wednesday answers for him. "A pilot is among the least interesting."
Lurch, now in the driver's seat, grunts his agreement.
"I still can't believe your family has a private jet," Eugene marvels, buckling his seatbelt as Lurch pulls out onto the road. "How many Nevermore students can say that?"
Wednesday sighs. "Does it matter? We're here for business, Eugene, not pleasure."
At his resulting snort, her eyes narrow. "What?" she demands.
"Isn't pleasure the whole reason we're here?" he points out.
Wednesday hums, her expression contemplative. "Amongst other things," she quietly says. Then, at full volume, "Lurch—take us to Lightning Ridge."
Lurch grunts again, this time with a raised eyebrow in the rearview mirror, and almost simultaneously, what sounds like silver bells begin to chime inside Wednesday's backpack.
Wednesday's eyes widen, her head whipping around toward the front. "You told them?" she accuses him.
Lurch doesn't respond, but apparently, his silence is answer enough. Wednesday pinches her nose, exhaling with anger so substantial that Eugene would genuinely be considering flinging himself from the vehicle if it didn't mean certain death. Getting stuck in a speeding car with a furious Addams wasn't on his bucket list, that's for sure.
Wednesday lifts a glass orb out of her bag—a crystal ball?—and settles back in her seat with a sour expression. The ball alights in her hands with a soft glow.
"What?" she snaps.
"Wednesday, my child, care to inform us why you are approximately ten thousand miles from where we left you?" a pleasant, feminine voice rings out.
Eugene can't see the face of the crystal ball from this angle, but he's been in trouble enough times to recognize that tone.
"I thought we talked about this, my little storm cloud," a man's voice says.
With the sort of innate synergy only born from years of co-parenting, the woman seamlessly continues, "It is very rude to go off on a bender across the world with no prior notice—"
"—No invitation to join—" the man complains.
"—And no consideration for your poor parents," she finishes. "What if something awful had happened to you without our knowledge?"
"We would celebrate," Wednesday dryly replies. "I am not committing any crimes or putting myself at imminent risk of serious injury. Is that all?"
"You commandeered our plane and butler and still haven't given us a reason why," the woman protests. "Are you in trouble, my darling?"
Wednesday's eyes flutter shut. "The worst kind. I am….in love," she admits, speaking like a condemned person headed to the gallows. She even looks paler than usual.
There's a moment of silence, then a thump and the light within the ball winks out. Wednesday rolls her eyes. She doesn't look surprised that it starts ringing again almost immediately.
"Darling, we must have misheard you—"
"—In love, Tish! Our little hatchet has given her heart to someone—"
"—But it sounded as though you said you were in love," the woman speaks over him, clearly expecting a vehement denial.
Wednesday hisses through gritted teeth, "Must I truly say it again?"
"It's Enid, isn't it?" a new voice filters in from the background.
Wednesday's eyebrows raise, murderous intent giving way to reluctant surprise. "Did you bug my dorm room, Pugsley? Your audacity is impressive."
"No," Pugsley says, "I left beetles to breed in your laundry basket."
Wednesday nods like this is to be expected.
"But you never look as miserable as you do around her, so I figured you had to be in love," Pugsley states.
"You managed to glean that from the occasional family weekend visit?" Wednesday asks. "Well. Forget becoming a coroner, Pugsley. Why not put your skills to use at an intelligence agency? Think of all the opportunities you'd have to ruin someone's day."
"Yeah, I was thinking the same—so I figured I should become a casino pit boss or TSA officer. But a spy works too," Pugsley responds.
Wednesday gives a firm nod. "Those are miserable options. Well done."
"Thanks. And hey, Wednesday—congratulations on you and Enid. She's really pretty."
Wednesday looks bemused. "Obviously," she states. "....Was that ever in question? Be logical, Pugsley. Anyone with eyes can see how beautiful she is."
Pugsley sounds completely serious as he says, "She's so blonde and colorful, Wednesday. Isn't Enid too cute for you?"
"Absolutely," Wednesday agrees without hesitation. "No one will ever measure up to her, but I intend to at least try to prove myself a worthy mate."
"It brings a tear to my eye hearing you say that, my little harbinger," the man from earlier croons. "That's what all this is about, then? You intend to court your Enid?"
"She's already begun, I daresay," the woman interjects. "Australia…do you intend to forge her gift from the earth yourself, Wednesday? How ambitious of you."
Wednesday's face creases with irritation. "You speak as if there's another option, mother."
"You just could buy her something nice," Pugsley suggests.
"No," Wednesday and presumably both of her parents say in tandem.
Her mother explains, "Werewolf tradition is very precise. The second gift should be the adoration you feel for your intended made corporeal—"
"—And no amount of money could encapsulate the love shared between your mother and I," the man declares with much gusto. "If Wednesday's feelings for her Enid are even half as strong—"
"—This is something she must do herself," her mother finishes.
"You insult me by speaking as though I strive for anything less than forever with Enid," Wednesday snaps. "I will not cater to such slander. Goodbye, don't call again."
She shoves the ball back into her bag, cutting off her father's protests.
"So…that was your family, huh?" Eugene speaks up.
The look Wednesday sends him is so venomous, he doesn't dare try initiating conversation again. They spend the rest of the ride to Lightning Ridge in silence.
Notes:
sorry about the delay guys i had my chihiro moment and ended up in a random casino and lost all sense of time, anyway here's the chapter!
smut incoming next update
Chapter 15: Glimmer
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday's holding her by the throat.
Enid's eyes flutter shut, all anxiety draining away in the wake of Wednesday's hands on her body. Her touch feels like ice against the heat of Enid's bare skin, leaving goosebumps wherever she wanders. Wednesday abandons her throat to explore her neck, dropping down to her ribs, tracing her bones. Tight around her hips, keeping her still—keeping her.
Beneath Wednesday, Enid is reduced to her basest instincts. It's beginning to feel like she's made of paper outside of this room; only here is she a real person. Only with Wednesday is she herself.
"What do you want, Enid?"
The question haunts her every waking moment. How is she supposed to answer that? Better yet, how is she supposed to just continue on like it's nothing, like what she carries for Wednesday is nothing? Was there ever a time when she didn't feel this way? It seems impossible. It's hard to know Wednesday Addams and remain unmoved.
"Don't want you to leave again." Enid's voice breaks. "Wanna stay with you."
Wednesday's near-silent laugh ghosts over her cheek as her fingers find the line of Enid's elbows, following the roadmap of her veins up to her wrists. Her heart already beats for Wednesday; Enid's body might as well belong to her, too.
"Was that ever in question?" Wednesday replies. "You're not going anywhere, Enid."
Relief fills her chest. The sense of dread she's managed to cultivate throughout the week finally drains from her lungs, and she feels like she can breathe. For a split second, Enid experiences a moment of absolute clarity and knows she should be afraid. When they're like this, torn open so that every wicked thing between them spills out where it can be felt and seen and smelled, Wednesday's word is her truth, beginning to end. The power she holds over Enid feels absolute.
But of all the things Enid fears, giving herself to Wednesday doesn’t rank very highly. And anyway, words can only do so much.
"I'm not?" Enid repeats, looking up through her lashes. "Why, Wednesday? What's stopping me?" she asks, her challenge nearly a whisper by the end.
There is no moment of suspension, no hesitation, no thought. One second, Enid is relishing the glint in Wednesday's eyes, congratulating herself for managing to surprise her at all, and the next, her hands are bound to the bedframe above her head.
Enid cranes her neck, struggling to see. Leather cuffs, she dazedly realizes. Black, of course. Can she expect anything else from Wednesday? Who else would keep restraints on hand should the need arise to tie up a misbehaving roommate? Only an Addams.
Enid's skin begins to pinken, heat rushing to her neck and cheeks as she tugs against the restraints to no avail. There's no give to the unfamiliar leather. Even with what little inhuman strength is afforded to submissive wolves, Enid is stuck, as she knew she would be. Her neck prickles under the weight of the realization that she cannot escape.
Wednesday takes her time enjoying the show, eyes warm with amusement as Enid fruitlessly twists and kicks and makes a mess of her nest.
"Oh, you think so?" Wednesday hums, voice light and gaze unyielding. "And now?"
Enid barely manages to cut off the whine aching to escape her throat. "Please?"
"Please, what?" Wednesday responds, leaning in.
Enid blinks away tears. "Please, Wednesday. Touch me?"
Wednesday's hands smooth over her shaking thighs. "I am touching you."
"Not—" Enid sucks in a sharp breath. "Not there."
Wednesday makes a little noise of mock confusion. "I'm not sure I understand."
Enid groans, wishing she could hide her face in her hands, abruptly reminded why she cannot when the cuffs pull tight.
"Inside me?" Enid asks, voice coming out unevenly. "Please, Wednesday. Missed you so bad."
"Did you?" Wednesday repeats. "My Puppy missed me while I was away?"
Enid whines through her teeth. "Missed you so fucking much."
Wednesday leans back, her expression calculating. "I suppose you're in need after such a separation. Would you agree, Enid?"
Enid nods like her life depends on it. "Yes! Need it bad," she pleads.
Wednesday hums. "Then you may have it."
Her finger slides inside Enid, curling at just the right angle to have Enid's bones creaking as she strains against the cuffs. She aches to touch Wednesday. She needs to be held.
Wednesday continues pressing into her, raising an eyebrow at the expression on Enid's face.
"Have I not done all you asked?" she asks, voice dipping into cruel territory as she adds another finger.
Enid sobs, bedframe rattling as she pulls and fights and fails to reach for Wednesday like she so desperately wants to. Tears paint her cheeks, and Wednesday, if it's possible, only looks more pleased.
"Aw, Puppy. Always crying for me," she murmurs. "It's alright. Cry all you want. You're still mine."
Enid wakes with a gasp, the vestiges of her dream causing her toes to curl. She stares at the ceiling, holding her breath in the ringing silence.
After an untold length of time spent frozen with her heart beating out of her chest, Enid rolls over to check her phone. The familiar screen, empty of notifications, feels like a knife between her ribs. It’s still Friday night—Saturday morning now, technically. She’s still a lost cause, dreaming of her roommate.
Wednesday still hasn't returned.
***
"So," Eugene says, readjusting the brim of his sunhat. "Which mine are we visiting?"
"None of them," Wednesday replies, picking her way through the vegetation as they venture off the beaten path. The black umbrella she's holding does a much better job shielding her from the sun than Eugene's flimsy hat ever could. He tries not to sigh too loudly.
"Do you even know where you're going?" Eugene asks, stumbling over a cleft in the earth.
Wednesday's hand lashes out to grip his shoulder, keeping him from falling. "No, but I don't need to. They'll find us."
They continue walking until the road (and Lurch and the air-conditioned car) has long since disappeared behind them. Eugene's already made his way through one of the water pouches hanging off his backpack, and he's about to give in and open another when Wednesday comes to a sudden halt.
Eugene freezes the moment he sees it. His mouth hangs half-opened in question, words stolen from his throat.
Just ahead of them floats a bloom of light. Something within Eugene intrinsically recognizes that this isn't a what, but a who—someone beautiful, someone more than he will ever be. He watches little bursts of electricity explode into the air around them with his heart in his throat, thinking that is the exact color of what he imagines ultraviolet light might look like to the human eye. The crackling through the air sounds like a song.
"Who is that?" he asks, breathless.
"A Seelie," Wednesday answers. Even she has quieted in respect. "They lead travelers through these lands. Not much is known about them, unfortunately.”
Eugene eyes the horizon and appreciates Lightning Ridge as more than just a place where pretty rocks are found. Fellowship with honeybees aside, he isn't the sort of woodwitch who can stand in a forest and hear its song outright. That has never been one of his talents.
But this, Eugene thinks, is the sort of place where a song is more than heard. He can feel it. Sense it. Beyond the native saltbush and unforgiving sun, there is something magical here.
A thought occurs to Eugene. “Lead us where?” he asks, turning to his friend. “Where are they leading us, Wednesday?”
Wednesday’s eyes are bright as she watches the Seelie swim through the morning light. “To wherever they think we need to go.”
Notes:
never said it wouldn't be dream smut now did I?
actual smut incoming next chapter…maybe
Chapter 16: Sparks
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Following the Seelie seems to alter their perception of time. Eugene has no idea how long they've been walking, but it feels like it’s been hours when the vegetation becomes thicker, the terrain difficult to navigate to the point that Wednesday clips her umbrella back onto her belt to leave her hands free to catch herself. Eugene isn't faring much better; his palms ache with shallow scrapes from all the times he's tripped and the one memorable instance he made friends with a splintered black box tree on his way down.
He's just about reached the limit of his tolerance for following blindly with no explanation when they finally emerge into a clearing of sorts, a place with no ambient noise where the Seelie's crackles sound like lightning and it's nearly impossible to breathe.
"Are we allowed to be here?" he asks in a hushed voice.
Wednesday slants him a look. “This land doesn’t belong to any man.”
"That didn't really answer my question," Eugene points out.
Wednesday audibly exhales through her nose. "We were invited, Eugene. Now, hand over the honey."
Eugene blinks at her, startled, but Wednesday looks utterly serious. He fumbles to pull out his emergency jar, passing it over with a bemused expression.
"What, are we having a snack?" he asks.
"We're leaving an offering," Wednesday replies. "If it is accepted, we may receive something in return."
“But why honey?” Eugene asks.
“It was made out of love."
Eugene's brow furrows. “Well…love for honey, yeah, but—”
“Love for the bees, Eugene," Wednesday sighs. "We care for the bees, so the honey makes a suitable offering. A hand-knit sweater or piece of artwork would have worked as well."
"Oh." A thought occurs to him, and he adds, "Why didn't we bring Enid's snood?"
Wednesday shoots him a glare. "We're not leaving my snood."
"But you said—"
"It's my snood. It was made just for me," Wednesday retorts.
Eugene raises his hands in surrender. "Jeez, alright. We can leave the honey."
Wednesday gives a short nod but doesn’t reply. Her expression remains stormy at the thought of sacrificing the snood Enid knit her for her first-ever birthday at Nevermore. Eugene shudders to think of the harm that would befall anyone stupid enough to attempt such a thing.
Wednesday steps forward with the jar, lifting it before their guide for inspection. The Seelie's light shines through the honey, coloring it a shade of vivid violet gold that Eugene's never seen before and never expects to see again. The Seelie considers the offering, sparks stinging Wednesday's fingertips, then floats off in an apparent rejection towards a squat stone column bearing an empty basin.
For a second, Eugene panics, thinking the Seelie didn't like their honey after all—but then the Seelie fills the basin and a strange rumbling begins beneath their feet. The ground splits, a copse of rocks rising from the earth in front of them. Wednesday and Eugene both tumble onto hands and knees. They can barely make out the new addition to the clearing with such low light, but like with all shiny things, their eyes are inevitably drawn to the same point.
It's a long moment before Eugene realizes what he's looking at.
Gems—specifically, glittering black opals ranging from the size of coat buttons to ostrich eggs, the colorful veins of each stone catching the light of the Seelie still shining overhead. An immense pile like this would be worth millions upon millions of dollars.
Belongs to no man indeed, Eugene thinks.
Wednesday climbs to her feet, cradling the honey to her chest as she approaches the pile, but the Seelie makes no protest as she reaches the bounty of treasure. Wednesday considers the selection for a long moment before making her choice, plucking a black opal from the pile and leaving the honey jar in its place. She returns to Eugene, showing him the gem in her palm.
It's beautiful, he thinks, and right on brand for Wednesday Addams. Leave it to her to track down a black rock threaded with rainbow colors. He has to admire her creativity—it will make a perfect gift for Enid.
"Come," Wednesday states, hand closing around the opal. "We can leave now."
She picks a direction and sets out in it. Inexplicably, the moment they exit the clearing, Eugene spots Lurch and the car a short distance away. He imagines the Seelie crackling a goodbye as they depart.
***
Sunday afternoon finds Enid underneath the covers of her bed, pretending to be asleep in hopes of actually getting there at some point. Wednesday has fucked off to who knows where; Thing is mysteriously absent once again; and Enid had spent the weekend alone for the first time in too long to remember how she ever survived before Wednesday Addams showed up. She's so very miserable that she's considering doing something unbelievably stupid—even for her. Enid crawls out from under her covers, squinting across the room.
Wednesday's bed is right there.
She really shouldn't. It's a huge invasion of privacy, for one, and Wednesday will be home at some point late tonight if she sticks to her original plan. If Enid had any common sense at all, she wouldn't risk it.
Less than ten seconds later, she's gleefully crossing the floorboards like a greedy little rat (which isn't that far from the truth), diving on top of Wednesday's blankets with a moan of relief. The whole bed smells of funeral lilies and honeycomb, a scent that has rapidly become Enid's favorite fragrance in the whole wide world. She rolls around, shucking off her t-shirt to better cover herself in it. In fact, as long as she's here, she'd really better avoid wearing any clothes at all. It would only get in the way.
Once naked, it takes no time at all to adjust Wednesday's blankets and sole pillow into a more comforting arrangement. Enid makes a happy noise as she curls up in the tangle of soft fabric. It's all black and grey, of course, nothing like what Enid's nest would normally look like, but somehow, it's the best nest she's ever built. It's so comforting, in fact, that Enid finds herself dozing a little bit. She would never dare fall asleep, though. That would be way too dangerous a gamble. She absolutely, positively, cannot fall asleep naked in her roommate’s bed. It's not an option.
Enid is reminded why an untold number of hours later when she blinks awake to a dark room filled with a perfect scent and realizes Wednesday—the real, living, breathing Wednesday—is standing over her.
Notes:
and that's when enid knew that she had Fucked up
if you noticed the chapter count increase, that would be because hey i'm a mess and can't wrap up a story in a reasonable amount of time
Chapter 17: Strike
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid has never been so afraid in her life, which is saying something considering some of the shit they've faced as Nevermore students.
She lays frozen in bed, staring up at Wednesday with a horrified expression. There's no way she could possibly talk her way out of this one. How can she explain away the fact that she nested in a bed that does not belong to her? She must be out of her fucking mind. Why did she do this?
There's no defense for this kind of behavior. None. All Enid can do is silently hope and pray that Wednesday doesn't remove her head from her shoulders. She waits with bated breath for the verdict.
Perhaps it's something in her face, the wetness in her eyes, but Wednesday's gaze becomes heavier—heated.
"What have you gotten yourself into now, Puppy?" she murmurs.
Enid instantly flips from terrified to desperate, her breath coming fast as she props herself up on shaking elbows. She spreads her knees, allowing Wednesday to get a good look at the mess on the inside of her thighs, at the mess slowly but surely making its way onto Wednesday's grey sheets.
The whole bed reeks of vanilla. She might even need to replace the mattress, since Enid assumes Wednesday doesn't use a plastic undersheet like she does. Oh God, how will they ever explain that to the dorm mom?
Wednesday makes a noise. "Well? I'm waiting."
It takes a moment for Enid to recall what she'd originally been asked, but she eventually manages to answer, "Missed you, Wednesday. I'm sorry."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Are you? I'm not sure I believe you."
Enid swallows a snort at the realization that Wednesday isn't questioning whether or not Enid missed her—that much is a fact immediately evident to anyone who sees her in this state, spread and wanting. She's only questioning whether or not Enid's as apologetic as she claims.
Enid climbs onto her knees under Wednesday's close supervision, then sits back on her heels, placing her hands in her lap.
"I'm sorry, Wednesday. I'm sorry for being bad," she quietly says.
Enid feels a soft touch beneath her chin. It's hard for her to meet Wednesday's eyes.
The corners of Wednesday's lips quirk up. "Would you like to be good?" she asks.
Enid nods.
Wednesday hums, "I knew you would. You're my good girl, aren't you, Enid?"
"Yes," Enid breathes. And then, because she has no self-control, "Yours."
Wednesday’s expression only changes in increments—a tightening around her eyes, an amused twitch of her lips. As always, she’s nearly impossible to read. Wednesday isn’t someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, or even her emotions on her face, really. She mostly just looks some level of perturbed.
At this moment, however, she looks calm. Wednesday is utterly serene as she takes a seat on the bed and points to her knee. Enid almost can’t believe what she’s seeing, but the meaning is clear; Wednesday doesn’t need to say a single word for Enid to know what she wants from her.
For a non-wolf, Wednesday sure knows a lot about submission.
Enid all but throws herself forward, hips digging into Wednesday's thigh as she lays herself out and buries her head in her arms. It should be humiliating, but it isn't—not until Wednesday slips a flat palm beneath her stomach, shifting Enid until she's comfortably braced over her knee.
Regardless of how embarrassing it is to be bent over like a needy slut, this is a somewhat-familiar position for any submissive wolf, and she's being handled by a touch that she trusts with everything she has. Enid doesn't give a damn what it looks like.
"Do you have a safeword, Enid?"
How can Wednesday sound so casual, knowing she's about to spank Enid? This is way beyond Enid's regular circuit of sex acts. Is it even a sex act to begin with? Is Wednesday punishing her supposed to be making her wet, or is she just particularly fucked up? These are important questions.
"Enid?"
"Um, no. Should I have a safe word?" Enid asks, suddenly worried she looks stupid for not already having one.
Wednesday hums, her hand smoothing over Enid's ass, and the motion inevitably settles her. "No. It's just a matter of whether or not you want to."
Enid takes a moment to evaluate herself, body and mind, then nods. "I want to so much. Will you teach me?"
"How to choose a safeword?" Wednesday sounds amused. "Pick something you'll remember in the heat of the moment."
Enid swallows the hysterical giggle that threatens to burst out of her throat. "Vanilla?" she proposes.
Wednesday makes a noise of disagreement. "It shouldn't be something you might say in regular conversation."
If Enid could see her face, she would've raised an eyebrow at whatever that's implying, but she's horny and desperate so she just sighs and relents. "How about bean?"
Wednesday freezes. Enid nearly turns around, but then Wednesday's hand resumes its petting and her voice sounds normal as she says, "That will work. What's your safeword, Enid?"
Enid fidgets a little bit, cheeks heating as she repeats, "Bean."
"Bean," Wednesday tests it out, the word curling in her mouth. "My safeword is hatchet."
"Hatchet?" Enid snorts. She aches with the effort not to laugh. "Figures."
"Something funny?" Wednesday asks her.
"Oh no, sorry," Enid tries to keep her voice level. "Of course it would be hatchet, silly me."
Wednesday gives her a pat on the ass just firmly enough to have all laughter ceasing, Enid's blood rushing to her cheeks as she recalls, oh yeah, she's ass naked over Wednesday's knee. She might even get spanked if the fates line up in her favor. A lot of ifs, but possibilities nonetheless.
At this point, Enid would take Wednesday staring at her with the ick look for hours if it meant having even a modicum of her attention at all.
"Are you ready?" Wednesday asks her.
Enid exhales into the bedcover, nodding her head. "Yes," she gives a muffled reply.
Wednesday's fingers thread into her hair, pulling Enid's face away from the bedspread with a small jerk. "Again."
"Yes," Enid gasps, tearing up. The situation between her legs has become truly dire. "Ready."
Wednesday releases her hair. Enid sinks back down, but her moment of relief is short-lived. A second later, Wednesday's hand comes down in a long-awaited reckoning on her ass, and Enid can't hold back her noises any longer.
Notes:
please check out this INCREDIBLE art by Darlene !!!
sorry about the delay in posting guys! ao3 was down yesterday at my usual hour and it was like that episode of spongebob where all the mini spongebobs run around frantic
for now, here's your actual smut…almost
Chapter 18: Consume
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday's hand meets her ass, and Enid moans. The smack isn't hard enough to hurt, not even close—it's just enough to draw warmth up from under her skin, to have slick leaking down her thighs. It's perfect.
What else could she expect? Wednesday has a natural proclivity to excel at every physical feat she so much as attempts. Why should spanking Enid be any different? If it weren't for Wednesday's psychic visions, Enid might believe her talent for all things physical is what makes her an outcast. It's practically supernatural.
The second smack clips that sensitive spot where her ass meets thigh, and Enid's jerked out of her reverie about Wednesday's many talents and forced back into the present. She can't help but whine out loud, and though her plea is wordless, she knows Wednesday can hear how she's begging for more.
"What did you do while I was away?" Wednesday asks conversationally, even as she brings her hand down again.
Enid squirms in her lap as warmth spreads over her ass. "F-Fuck, Wednesday," she gasps.
"You fucked this weekend?" Wednesday demands, and this time she doesn't sound anywhere near calm and collected. "Who?"
"What? Fucking—no, never!" Enid insists, struggling to find a vehement enough denial. "That's not even—I wouldn't. Never ever."
"No?" Wednesday repeats. "You fucked me," she points out, somehow managing to sound both smug and nettled.
"Nobody but you," Enid insists, and it's not even a lie. The idea of fucking someone else is laughable.
Wednesday cocks her head. "Why?"
Enid gulps. "Because it's—I'm yours," she catches herself just in time.
Whew, that was almost extremely unfortunate. Enid can't imagine what the reception would've been to what she'd actually been headed towards saying, which was along the lines of this pussy is yours or something equally ridiculous. This isn't a low-budget porn video. She would've been laughed out of the room.
Wednesday physically relaxes. "I know. Should I apologize? I'm aware this isn't an attractive look. I just can't seem to help myself when it comes to you,” she ends in a mutter, clearly irritated with herself.
Enid blinks back at her. "Huh? No, don't apologize. Keep going."
A look of understanding dawns on Wednesday’s face. "I see. You find it entertaining," she decides.
Enid has no idea what she's talking about. "Find what entertaining?" she protests, working to keep her attention on the subject at hand and not on the palm gripping her ass in a way that's almost proprietary.
"My reaction to the thought of you with someone else," Wednesday states. "Obviously. I suppose it must be amusing to you."
Seeing as Enid barely knows up from down, she decides to just agree with her in hopes it'll please Wednesday enough to spank her again. "Yeah," she breathes. "So—amusing. Very funny. Hilarious, really. Again?"
When Wednesday snorts under her breath, it sounds a lot like, "Wicked little thing."
This time, after her hand comes down, it lingers on her cheek, rubbing out the redness no doubt erupting beneath Enid's skin. Wednesday's fingers trail dangerously close to where Enid most wants them, and she can't help but arch her back.
Wednesday makes a noise of amusement. "What is it?" she asks, voice high and mocking.
"Want it," Enid slurs, struggling to speak. "Want your fingers."
"Oh? You want my fingers?" Wednesday asks lightly.
Her grip tightens, and Enid can't help but cry out, throwing her hips backward in a bid to receive more of her touch.
"I asked you a question, Enid."
"Yes, want your fingers!" Enid pleads.
Wednesday hums. "Ask properly."
Her sharp nails trace the line of Enid's ass, dipping into the slick that's glimmering on her thighs. She doesn't try to taste it; Enid wonders if there's a particular reason why. Wednesday had been so hungry for her slick last time…has something changed? Does she not like the taste anymore?
As if she can read her mind, Wednesday stops moving and asks, "What's wrong?"
Enid swallows as she looks over her shoulder. "Don't you like my slick?" she asks, voice breaking.
Wednesday's eyes widen. "Is that even a question? Enid—don't be absurd."
Enid’s stomach floods with relief. "You mean it?" she presses, biting her lip.
Wednesday looks as though she's trying very hard not to roll her eyes. "Your slick is the most delicious substance I have ever encountered. Culinary gods would weep to taste it. It's perfect."
Enid feels like her heart could burst right out of her chest. "Yeah?"
"Yes," Wednesday insists, still looking a bit appalled at the very notion of not liking her slick. "Now, do you want my fingers or not?"
Enid nods. "Yes, please. Please can I have them, Wednesday?"
Wednesday peers at her, evaluating, but nods. "If that's what my Puppy wants."
Enid has to bite back a groan. It apparently shows in her expression because Wednesday smirks, eyes intent on Enid's face as her fingers wander back into slick territory. She spends an eternity just drawing little patterns over Enid's ass and thighs, long enough that a note of whining has begun to escape with Enid's every exhale.
When Enid's eyes have become wet, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks as the hope of ever getting any relief starts to feel like a distant dream, Wednesday slips a finger inside her.
Enid gasps, knees spreading as she arches her back once again. She wonders how she must look right now, being fingered in such a position. How did it even get to this? One moment, she was praying Wednesday wouldn't murder her, and the next, she was over her knee.
Wednesday adds a second finger. Of course, now that she isn't in heat, Enid can't progress through the steps of foreplay quite as quickly, and pain actually feels like pain instead of a pleasure multiplier, but Wednesday is careful. She watches Enid’s every reaction in the hitching of her breath and tightening of her shoulders and Enid adjusts to the feeling soon enough.
Only when she's rocking back on Wednesday's fingers, trying to find an angle where she can grind against Wednesday's thigh in the same motion, does Wednesday begin to speak.
"Do you like this, Enid?"
It's Enid's turn to roll her eyes. "Yes," she huffs. "Fuck, it's—yes. Please."
"It's what?" Wednesday persists. "What is it, Enid?"
Enid shuts her eyes. "All I can think about."
"Being punished by me?" Wednesday sounds surprised.
"Having you inside me," Enid admits in a whisper. "Think about it all the time, Wednesday. You fill me up so good."
Wednesday curls her fingers, and Enid has to bury her face in her arms to keep from sobbing.
"Why do you think that is?" Wednesday unexpectedly asks.
Enid blinks as she raises her head. "Huh?"
"Why do you think I fill you up so well, Enid?" Wednesday enunciates every syllable.
"B-Because you're good at everything you try?" Enid tries.
"Wrong. Because I take care of my things," Wednesday states. "Are you mine, Puppy?"
Enid nearly chokes as she gasps out, "Yes, yes. Yours."
Wednesday curls her fingers again. "Then who do you belong to?"
Enid finally gets it. Her eyes squeeze shut as she admits, "You, Wednesday."
Wednesday hums. "And who does this belong to?"
Enid's entire face flushes red, her blush spreading over her neck and shoulders.
"What, you thought I didn't hear you earlier?" Wednesday asks, voice coming out a little cruel. "Go on, Puppy. Say it. Who does this," her fingers curl, eliciting a sob, "Belong to?"
"You!" Enid cries. "It's yours, it's yours, I'm yours, only you—"
Wednesday gathers her up in her arms, pulling Enid into her lap so that she can bury her face in Wednesday's neck. Enid inhales her scent like it's oxygen, like she'll expire on the spot if she doesn't gulp down lilies and honeycomb from the source. She's still crying, though she isn't sure why. Everything feels a bit…distant. Like she's looking through a magnifying glass and anything outside her direct line of sight is beyond her comprehension. All she knows is Wednesday, her scent, her touch. It's Enid's whole hierarchy of needs manifesting in a single person.
"What do you need, Puppy?" Wednesday asks her, soft and intent. Determined to fulfill her every want. Unflinching.
Enid rocks forward, grinding against her thigh. "Wanna come."
Wednesday threads her fingers through Enid's hair. "How do you want to come?"
"Your mouth?" Enid asks, and the rational part of her watching from the sidelines is horrified at her audacity.
"Mhm." Wednesday considers that for a moment. "Would you like to ride my face?"
It takes everything she has not to come on the spot.
Notes:
wednesday really earning that possessive tag today huh
Chapter 19: Slip
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid didn't realize she was a submissive wolf until well after puberty.
There had been signs, of course—her tendency from a young age to kick around her covers until they crumpled the right way in bed, for one, and her constant need for physical affection. And then, perhaps most damning, there were her many issues surrounding wolfing out. Despite the therapy she'd begun, ironically, at Wednesday's insistence—which had been one hell of a roommate conversation—she still has trouble with it. Most moons, she feels like an imposter in her own body. The only time she's felt completely in the zone and connected to her wolf, mind, body, and spirit, was during the heat she spent with Wednesday. How embarrassing is that?
Still, these problems are not uncommon amongst submissive wolves. There's a lot of highbrow psychology behind it, but in the end, submissive wolves have needs that ostracize them from their home pack. That's why most mate young, finding a dominant partner to take care of them.
Luckily, Enid was a late bloomer in every sense of the word, which is the only reason she's a Nevermore student. If her parents had known what she was beforehand, they would have never let her go to school here. Submissive wolves don't need an education to take mates and get started on the next generation of babies.
Enid shudders to think what would become of her if she hadn't had the chance to work out her issues three thousand miles away from her family. Unfortunately, her mother had been right about one thing: submissive wolves get themselves into trouble in mixed company. Enid would say the situation she's found herself in definitely counts.
After all, she's about two seconds away from climbing on top of Wednesday Addams, who is not only her dearest friend but also her long-time roommate, and riding her tongue to orgasm. Troubling situations, indeed. Her mother would be horrified.
The good news: her mother isn't here, and Enid doesn't give a fuck. The bad news: Enid not giving a fuck about consequences is what led to her falling for an utterly unavailable person in the first place. All things come full circle, she figures.
***
"Well?" Wednesday speaks up. "Would you like to ride my face, or not?"
Sometimes, Enid wishes she had more self-control. Wishes she could be around Wednesday without ending up completely heart-eyed. Wishes she was capable of fucking Wednesday without aching to leave a mark on her neck, which is just—Jesus. Enid has fantasized about a lot of messed up things in her day (Wednesday in corsets being a particularly mortifying feature of her internal catalogue), but wanting to mark her roommate? Her roommate who doesn't even like her generally, let alone romantically, most days? She needs to get a fucking grip.
"What are you thinking about?" Wednesday quietly asks her. "You have that look on your face."
Enid's eyes snap up. "What look?"
"Like you're suffering," Wednesday whispers, reaching out to cup Enid's cheek in her palm. "So pretty, Puppy."
Enid's face flushes. "Stop."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "You have a safeword," she points out.
Enid's mouth drops open. "That's not what I meant and you know it!" she protests, a whining note leaking into her tone.
"Do I?" Wednesday retorts, lips quirking up. "Hm. If you want to stop me so badly, fine."
Enid feels like she's one tiptoe away from stepping on an industrial-grade mousetrap. "...Fine?" she squeaks.
Wednesday smiles wide enough to show her teeth. "Go on then, Enid. Shut me up."
Enid remains frozen as Wednesday leans in, her lips brushing against Enid's ear as she murmurs, "I dare you."
A snarl catches in Enid's throat, the sort of depraved noise that signifies her evolution from desperate to unhinged. Wednesday doesn't seem afraid this time. She's wearing the kind of grin that gives children nightmares, overflowing with the confidence of a woman who regularly brings others to their knees.
Enid knows she's about to walk into a trap, so she draws on that special brand of stupidity she's known for and commits to going all in. She leaps forward in a flailing dive at Wednesday and slams into—nothing? Enid somehow misses her entirely, slapping face-down on the bed. She ends up horizontal on her stomach in what's rapidly becoming a familiar position, mouth full of cotton and utterly bewildered as to what just happened when she feels a hand on the back of her neck.
Oh, she thinks; Wednesday didn't disappear at all. She just twisted quickly enough to dodge Enid's attack, slipping around her so that Enid is unintentionally presenting herself again. Wednesday, as per usual, remains in a position of power above her—more accurately, behind her. The sort of position reserved for acts committed between people looking to ruin one another. Wednesday’s lack of a cock doesn’t bother her a jot; Enid will still get right into doggy style anytime Wednesday asks with a smile on her face. This may be her favorite position she’s ever been in, if she’s being honest. She loves the warmth of Wednesday pressed to her ass, loves how easily Wednesday could jerk her by the hair if she wanted to. It’s baffling how secure Enid feels with her ass snuggled up against Wednesday’s groin and face shoved into a blanket.
On a different note, Enid always suspected it, but now she is sure: Wednesday Addams has a creature inheritance. Enid has no idea what, but even a submissive wolf should be able to beat a regular human being in a test of speed. Her reaction time is quite plainly supernatural. There's no other plausible explanation for Enid smacking air and flopping like a wet noodle.
"Aw, Puppy—I thought you were going to shut me up," Wednesday plays at mocking her even as she nudges her knee between Enid's thighs.
Enid welcomes the intrusion, utterly uncaring of the fact that her slick is soaking through Wednesday's pants as she rolls her hips back to meet her. Wednesday's thighs are perfect in general, but especially for this. There's no better place to rub herself—except perhaps Wednesday's mouth if Enid hasn't already lost that privilege (which is a big if). Wednesday's in rare form tonight; it truly just depends on how generous she's feeling whether she'll indulge Enid or not.
Enid, meanwhile, has become incapable of higher thinking. She’s nearly panting as she tries to pick up the pace and Wednesday catches her hip with her free hand, effortlessly controlling the speed at which Enid can rock back on her. She won't be able to come like this. Why won't Wednesday let her come, she thinks, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. It’s practically inhumane.
"Look at you," Wednesday murmurs, her braids tickling Enid's bare shoulders. Her hand remains an iron grip on the back of Enid's neck. "So desperate. You can't wait a moment longer, can you?"
"No," Enid cries. "Not fair."
"What's not fair, Enid?" Wednesday asks, obviously enjoying herself. She has no right to sound so enthralled.
"W-Wanna come," Enid begs, falling back on what she knows in a time of crisis.
Her rationality is slipping. The edge of unknowing looms ever closer, threatening to condemn Enid to the floating place where nothing matters besides Wednesday's approval and how many times she's allowed to come. It's a dangerous thing, slipping into subspace with another person present. It requires her to trust that person with everything she is and ever will be. Not exactly the usual fare one would expect when approaching casual sex with a friend.
Is Wednesday her friend? Is she friend enough for this, for Enid to split apart into a million pieces in her hands, never to be the same again?
That sort of leap isn't one taken lightly. It will change things, invariably, forever.
"Then give in to me," Wednesday's voice cuts through the haze. "I have you."
Enid falls.
Notes:
enid: we all make mistakes in the heat of passion jimbo
also enid: wednesday addams is a cryptid confirmed
Chapter 20: Captured
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday Addams is a lot of things, but lazy isn't one of them. She doesn't shy away from a challenging research project, not even one as potentially uncomfortable as the many nuances of sexual intercourse.
After enduring her parents' weekly sex education class for two miserable months worth of family dinners, Wednesday had gone further, pursuing the touched-upon topics that seemed far more interesting than slotting that into this hole, and found a whole new world opening up before her. For someone who never felt a part of any particular group, it was staggering to discover thousands of people with similar interests to hers.
BDSM. Though specific meanings remain, the acronym has also come to serve as something of an umbrella term for the kink community. Wednesday had delved deep—perhaps too deep—and come out the other side unrecognizable. Just because no one else noticed the shift within her does not mean it didn't occur.
Wednesday, who once sneered at the thought of sex and, God forbid, romance, had finally found her calling. She'd studied kink voraciously, almost obsessively, consuming every article and testimonial she could find. She wanted to know everything, even going so far as purchasing a tablet for her pet project (a tablet that remains locked away at home during the school year to prevent Enid—or Thing—from accidentally stumbling upon it).
Many things were learned in that era of enlightenment. The only reason Wednesday hadn't already known the ins and outs of werewolf cycles when she’d found Enid half-naked was she'd made the mistake of starting alphabetically with gorgons, shifters, sirens, and vampires; wolves were on the agenda for next break. Wednesday wasn't present for Enid's previous heat, having been pulled away on a dubious recon trip with her Uncle Fester in Montana that weekend, but she does recall the aftermath in vivid detail. Those were some of her worst days at Nevermore, second only to that awful fight they'd had during their first year as roommates when Enid briefly left to bunk with Yoko.
Perhaps Wednesday went a little overboard while caring for Enid this past week, but her caution feels reasonable, considering Enid went radio-silent last year. For almost a month after the heat spent with that other bitch, Enid interacted with Wednesday as little as possible. It had been painful. Wednesday should have known then that her feelings for Enid had changed; anyone else avoiding her wouldn't have bothered her at all, let alone enough to keep her up at night.
Of course Wednesday wanted to solve whatever problem was causing her roommate distress, but Yoko had advised her not to push Enid too hard. She needs support, Yoko had said, Not another confrontation. Wednesday listened.
If she had known then what she knows now, there would have been blood. Camie should consider herself fortunate that she graduated before Wednesday learned what she did to Enid.
Unfortunately, Wednesday hadn't known the full extent of the situation—or even that Enid had experienced a heat if she's being honest—so Camie remains alive and well. For now.
Since expressions of emotion are not her forte, Wednesday had instead tried to offer gestures of support to Enid during that period of silence. She'd noted how Enid liked to comfort herself with hot baths and bought out the stock of her preferred bubble soap to ensure she wouldn't run out. Thirty-two new bottles still live underneath her bed, just waiting for their opportunity to serve. After observing that Enid found a new taste for honey drizzled over her morning oatmeal, Wednesday worked through the night to farm her bees' efforts. The mass-manufactured crap offered in the dining hall was not an acceptable substitute (a sentiment Eugene wholeheartedly agreed with).
When those attempts still failed to ease Enid's sadness, Wednesday bribed the school chefs into serving cupcakes for a week straight. Then, finally, after so many days spent moping for Enid and enduring what felt like torture for Wednesday, Enid's smile made a reappearance. It was like stepping out into direct sunlight after a decade spent underground.
Wednesday had excused herself to the hallway and spent ten minutes just controlling her breathing, overwhelmed by the intensity of her relief. She knew then there were very few felonies she wouldn't commit to keep Enid happy.
Over a year later, Wednesday's commitment to this initiative hasn't lessened. Whether by focus, skill, or sheer fucking will, she'll make sure Enid is taken care of.
***
Wednesday can tell the moment Enid drops into subspace.
For someone as conscious as she is of Enid's every reaction, it's completely obvious. Wednesday reads it in the relaxing of her shoulders, how Enid's pretty lips part when the hitching in her throat settles into little mewls that pull at something deep in Wednesday's stomach. For one wild moment, Wednesday feels a spark of grief at the fact that she cannot remain entombed here in this moment forever.
She can tell when Enid drops into subspace and so immediately releases her hold on her neck. Despite her extensive research on the subject, Wednesday's never been around a submissive in this headspace before, and she's wary of pushing Enid's limits.
Still, Enid whimpers a little protest, waving her ass through the air in some ludicrous attempt to regain her attention, and Wednesday can't help but scoff. As if such a thing is even possible. What a ridiculous notion.
Enid doesn't protest as she's helped up into a sitting position, which Wednesday interprets as a good sign. Her limbs remain loose and pliant, arms draping around Wednesday's neck like she's done this countless times before. It feels as easy as breathing, with no trace of the uncertainty that had handicapped Enid's every attempt to initiate contact before she dropped. Wednesday had noticed the anxiety, the involuntary tense like Enid had constantly expected to be pushed off, and she's deeply moved by Enid reaching for her now without hesitation.
Enid curls as close as possible, ducking her head to rub her cheek against Wednesday's chest. Wednesday threads her fingers through Enid's hair, feeling completely and utterly at peace. She nearly hisses at the thought of Enid ever leaving her sight again. Though she isn't the one in subspace, all of Wednesday's rationality has fled, it seems, upon being entrusted with Enid in such a state.
She feels like she could raise armies in Enid's name, topple entire cities to the ground should anyone threaten the girl in her arms. No one will harm Enid as long as she's breathing, Wednesday thinks, her grip tightening involuntarily as her chest swells with emotion.
She isn't the one in subspace, but Wednesday cannot remain unaffected by the gravity of having Enid like this.
Enid looks up at her through her lashes as if she can somehow sense Wednesday's silent contemplation of becoming a warlord on her behalf, and her tongue slips out to lap at the sweat beading on Wednesday's collarbones. Wednesday takes a moment to salute her past self for making the right choice in what shirt she chose to put on that morning; another option might not have left enough skin visible for Enid to become inspired to lick her.
If Wednesday were a painter, she'd spend the rest of her life trying and failing to capture the look in Enid's eyes at this moment on canvas. She'd give every cent in her trust fund to be able to memorialize the sight using some other medium than mere memory.
"My Puppy," Wednesday whispers, feeling absurdly like she might cry.
Enid takes a deep breath and purrs.
Notes:
be welcomed, all ye who enter here, to the smut arc in wednesday's pov
Chapter 21: Crave
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid likes to think of subspace as being a lot like that semi-conscious state between asleep and awake. Things come to her in sensations rather than cognizant thoughts, she doesn’t always remember everything afterward, and it’s all tinged with that warm, golden glow of absolute safety. She doesn’t have any responsibilities. Like dozing on a cold winter morning beneath a heap of cozy blankets, subspace allows her to just float.
That being said, she does have moments of lucidity. One of those moments is called forth when she realizes she’s begun to purr—genuine, uninhibited, outdoor voice purring—and something tugs at her through the haze, reminding her she isn’t supposed to be doing that. Enid blinks her eyes open, peering up at Wednesday to gauge her reaction.
Wednesday looks like she's just seen a miracle.
Satisfied that she can’t possibly be behaving too badly, Enid blissfully sinks back down.
***
Wednesday can’t pinpoint the moment she realized she was in love with Enid, but she certainly can pinpoint the moment she realized she was attracted to her—and the answer is immediately. Wednesday walked into her new dorm room for the first time, wondered what kind of sick person would live in such a rainbow kaleidoscope of hellish conditions, and then laid eyes on the culprit in question. She was blonde, Wednesday had thought, and so colorful. The antithesis of her own self. Enid was a manifestation made corporeal of the princesses Wednesday used to hear about in the beloved horror stories—apologies, fairytales—from her childhood. The Grimm brothers may have been lauded outcast historians, but Walt Disney was a sadist of the highest order for shilling tales of anguish to the public as something to be admired.
Still, Enid had been so excited to meet her, eyes sparkling as she bounced forward to introduce herself. She was bright, shiny, and new, all the things Wednesday would rather forgo in a roommate now that it had become necessary to have one. She was used to an entire suite in the family home; how would she share a single room with another person?
But although their introduction could have gone better, Enid hadn’t faltered, and Wednesday found herself reluctantly impressed by Enid's determination to become friends—which was one thing Wednesday had been woefully short of before coming to Nevermore. Though her side of the room was truly awful to look at for too long, Enid herself was quite the interesting subject.
One of the first habits she'd noticed was how Enid's nose would twitch whenever Wednesday brewed tea, her head twisting around to peek at Wednesday in interest. Enid was too polite to ask for a cup of her own, but Wednesday began making twice as much anyway, hoping to tempt her. Enid’s smile whenever she walked in the room and smelled the tea made the hassle of subterfuge worth it. Of course, while Wednesday had been distantly aware of how pretty Enid was long before they had sex, sharing her heat threw the lens of grey apathy that Wednesday used to view Enid through into brilliant color.
Suddenly, there were new Enid-isms to obsess over, like the way her sharp little teeth pull at her lip when she's trying not to whine or how her skin flushes pink at the slightest provocation. How her pupils dilate when Wednesday calls her good or pretty. How badly Enid seems to want to please her, and how wet she becomes when she does.
Then Wednesday had made the fatal mistake of tasting her slick and felt instincts that never existed before roaring to the surface. In all likelihood, Wednesday would have eventually found her way to formally courting Enid even without the heat, but tasting her slick made it a much more pressing matter. Suddenly, there was an itch in the back of her head urging her to move faster, to bake cupcakes until they were perfect, to trek halfway across the world in search of a pretty rock. Nothing less than the best would suffice—the need inside her demanded it.
That hasn’t changed now that she’s got Enid in her lap, rubbing herself against Wednesday’s thigh. Enid’s still purring, throat vibrating as she noses her way down Wednesday’s neck, and Wednesday’s arms are so tight around her, she worries she might be cutting off Enid’s circulation. The possessiveness she feels is beyond her capacity to understand. It is madness, plain and simple, and will consume her for the rest of her life. This she knows to be true.
Abruptly, it makes a lot more sense why Gomez and Morticia are the way they are; no wonder they behave so sickeningly at all hours of the night and day if, for an Addams, being in love feels like this.
“Mhm,” Enid makes a little noise, still rocking her hips in an unsteady rhythm.
Wednesday pulls her knees up and stops her for two reasons: one, to better cradle Enid in her lap, and two, because she can do better than letting Enid rut against her leg to orgasm. Much better.
Of course, Wednesday ends up petting her hair to calm her when Enid whines in complaint at being denied the chance to keep going. It pains Wednesday to do so because Enid’s whines of agony are the sweetest music she's ever heard, but she would rather commit ritualistic suicide than allow Enid to feel unsettled when it is within her power to soothe it. No, when Enid’s in subspace, every need must be satisfied. Every whim must be taken care of. Every desire must be met.
Anything less, and she wouldn’t be an Addams.
“Do you still want my mouth, Enid?” Wednesday asks, squeezing Enid’s hips when she gives a small murmur of agreement. “Hm? Do you?”
For a moment, long enough that Wednesday manages to convince herself that Enid is nonverbal in this headspace, there is no answer, then, “Mhm-hm, Wednesday. Mouth,” Enid sighs.
Wednesday thinks it lucky she doesn’t possess the ability to snarl like wolves can. Hearing Enid moan such things in this slurred, whining way arouses something positively primitive within her.
Wednesday adjusts her position so that she can lay back on the bed, taking Enid with her as she goes. It’s an experience belonging to the divine to have Enid naked on top of her, but Wednesday has more pressing things to attend to besides attempting to memorize the exact weight of Enid’s body and the cadence of her heartbeat seeping through Wednesday’s shirt.
“Come on, Puppy,” Wednesday urges, supporting her weight as Enid scoots up her body.
Enid seems disoriented for a second, her ass coming down to perch on Wednesday’s chest while she looks around as if wondering where Wednesday's gone. That only lasts until she feels a tongue lapping at her pussy, and then Enid's shooting back up onto her knees and gripping the headboard out of necessity. A long, broken noise erupts from her throat, and Wednesday takes the opportunity to lick her lips clean of Enid's mess. She can’t imagine a more enthralling view than this.
“More,” Enid gasps above her.
Wednesday makes a valiant attempt not to snicker too loudly as she wraps her arms around Enid’s thighs and drags her back down onto her mouth. Judging by the way Enid’s claws pierce the headboard with a splintering crack, she does not succeed.
Notes:
place your bets on whether the dorm room will still be standing after this is over
also chapter count went up again because of course it did
Chapter 22: Haze
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It comes in flashes, like shots taken with a polaroid camera. Fading in and out.
Enid swims through the moment, a slave to sensation as she rocks her hips. It's hard enough to remember that this isn't supposed to involve emotions with Wednesday's tongue inside of her, let alone while still being in subspace. All Enid can do is feel and want—always, always want.
She knows that she's in her room, in Wednesday's bed. She obviously knows that there's a tongue pushing into her considering the tension in her stomach threatening to burst apart into something unbearable. And she knows it can only be Wednesday gripping her this hard, holding her in place while Enid sways like a ship in choppy waters. Her hips will be covered in bruises the shape of Wednesday's hands by morning; she idly wonders if she should get them tattooed.
Worst of all, although Enid has no idea how long she's been purring and whining and begging for Wednesday, she knows it's been going on long enough for Wednesday to notice. There isn't an excuse on earth for this besides my insides are splitting apart over how badly I want you to be my mate—which in this case is a complete impossibility. No one would ever believe Wednesday Addams was interested in anything beyond playing with her to kill time. She's just another temporary cure for boredom.
Enid knows this, and yet she stays put, as ordered. She would rather die than get off Wednesday's tongue if she's being completely honest, so it's just one more foot in the fire to buy in and take whatever Wednesday's willing to give her. Riding Wednesday's face is a bit like being burned at the stake, Enid imagines. She can feel the shock of Wednesday's tongue on every nerve ending and it's becoming harder and harder to breathe.
Wednesday slips a finger inside her, and the sudden pressure has a frisson of heat shooting up Enid's spine. She comes without warning, entire body shuddering, and unintentionally breaks off a piece of the headboard.
For a moment, Enid comes back to herself, blinking down at the scrap of mangled wood in her hands.
Wednesday blindly reaches up to take it from her, tossing it somewhere out of sight with a clatter. Her tongue doesn't stop for a second. Wednesday swallows as much of her slick as she can, and the rest spills over her chin, soaking her neck and shirt. The mattress is definitely ruined.
"W-Wednesday," Enid gasps, digging her chin into her chest. Her eyes are shut tight in an effort not to cry. "Wednesday, I came."
She's not sure why she feels the need to say it; they were both present and accounted for during the event in question.
"So?" Wednesday replies, voice rasping as she comes up for air. "I didn't tell you to stop. Keep going."
Enid is helpless not to obey. Her thighs are beginning to ache, and she's relieved at the thought. She hopes it hurts so that with every step she takes tomorrow, she's reminded of who owns her.
And Wednesday does own her, all of her, even if she doesn't know it.
***
The longer Wednesday goes without breath, the less she thinks. It's instinct to devote her whole, entire attention to the taste of Enid's pussy. No sugar could ever taste as sweet as Enid; the very thought offends her.
Every drop of slick that Wednesday consumes catapults her further and further from the logic that demands she slow down and enjoy the gift she's been given. After all, this is likely outside the realm of acceptable conduct for a couple in their early stage of courtship, and it may not happen again until they've met each others' parents and declared their intentions to mate.
Wednesday wouldn't pick celibacy given the choice, but it goes without saying that she'll respect Enid's wishes—though a greedy and admittedly large part of her hopes Enid isn't that traditional. It would be a crime against humanity for her sweet slick to go unappreciated for any substantial length of time. Even a small stretch hurts to contemplate.
It perhaps isn't normal to feel as though having to survive without slick for a few weeks is a gargantuan cross to bear, but Wednesday never put much stock in what's considered normal, and certainly not when it comes to Enid. In no world would she care that it's weird for her to salivate at the thought of licking Enid's pussy. It's her reality, and she is very enthused to be living in it.
Still, Wednesday knows she should savor every second of this just in case a drought does loom on the horizon, but her self-control seems to have taken a dive into the abyss, hanging her out to dry—or, more accurately, soak. She's wet with slick all the way to her breasts and is also beginning to have difficulty recalling why that's not a splendid state to be in.
Why shouldn't she spend hours licking Enid open? And while she's at it, why not soil all of her clothes with Enid's slick? That's the best-case scenario, Wednesday thinks. Though she isn't a werewolf, she deeply understands their collective obsession with scenting. The idea of anyone else walking around smelling like Enid's slick is grounds for her villain origin story. And on that note—
"I hope when I die, I go asphyxiating on your slick,” Wednesday murmurs.
Above her, Enid makes a choked noise, and her hips snap forward. The headboard slams against the wall, leaving a substantial crack in the plaster and a flurry of dust raining down on them. Enid seems to have been reeling too hard at Wednesday's sudden admission to notice just how loud they're being, but the second time the headboard smacks the wall with a splintering crack, she instinctively flinches.
Wednesday feels fury bloom in her chest. How dare some cheap farce of a headboard frighten her submissive. If she had the brute strength to do so, Wednesday would tear that ugly fucking thing right off of its bolts and punt it over the balcony, and drop a lit matchbox down onto it for good measure.
Luckily for her, Enid either doesn't know or doesn't care that she's off to a fantastic start at destroying their room, and whatever fear she'd shown at the unexpected noise melts away when Wednesday reaches up to take her hand. Enid sighs, long and wanting, and Wednesday squeezes her hand in response.
"Good girl," Wednesday whispers into her skin, still licking and sucking and drawing every piece of Enid out into the open that she possibly can. "Good fucking girl. My sweet Puppy, aren't you?"
Enid tightens around her tongue, thighs shaking.
"You want to come," Wednesday hums, lips pressing into her skin.
She inhales the scent of sweet vanilla and intimately understands why Eve would risk getting cast from Eden to sink her teeth into that perfect red apple. Enid's slick may very well ruin her ever enjoying dessert again.
"Wanna come," Enid manages. "P-Please, gonna come, Wednesday."
"Before I say so?" Wednesday asks, pulling away.
Enid's hand, still trapped in her own, tightens hard enough to hurt. She's still grinding herself on Wednesday's lips, though her rhythm ultimately falters.
"No, gonna—gonna be good," Enid stutters. "Your good girl, gonna be good, Puppy'll be good for you, promise."
Wednesday feels like she could decimate an entire army armed with nothing but a wooden spoon. Come one, come all, she thinks a bit hysterically. Enid's whining, louder and louder with each passing second that she's denied, leaves Wednesday aching with a feeling she once thought to be bloodlust but knows now to be something wholly different.
It isn't the desire for violence that makes her thighs squeeze together; it's Enid.
Wednesday never wanted anyone, had never even experienced arousal before Enid. But this feeling of dominance, the rush of holding Enid's submission in her palms and knowing she's been entrusted with something more precious than any stone—it’s ruinous. The feeling Enid gives her is beyond her capacity to control. It is as real as any mythic power or strange magic. Realer, even. Wednesday knows magic, but this—it overtakes her, casts her from safety, and drags her to the ground harder than gravity ever could. Nothing exists besides Enid, and the wild revelation that Wednesday might experience an orgasm of her own if Enid keeps coming on her tongue.
"Don't you want to come?" Wednesday asks her, voice slightly off with unaccustomed desperation.
Enid silently shakes her head.
"Thought you said you were going to," Wednesday presses, regaining her stride. "Well? Are you?"
"Not til Wednesday says so," Enid mumbles.
Wednesday takes that as a challenge and jerks her back down onto her mouth. Enid trembles, tears rolling down her cheeks, but doesn't break. Wednesday doesn’t think she’s ever felt more impressed as she slides a finger into Enid, an action met with tearful relief.
"Puppy's being a good girl tonight," Wednesday decides, not bothering to cover the warmth in her tone. "You can, Baby. Go ahead."
Enid shakes her head again. "No.”
"No?" Wednesday repeats.
"Not—not til Wednesday says so," Enid insists, her breath hitching with a whine. "P-Please," she adds in a whisper. "Need to come. Puppy wants to come."
Wednesday would happily stay in this moment forever, but no matter how beautiful Enid may look when she's suffering, she's even more intoxicating whilst falling apart. In the end, it only takes one more murmur to send her over. "Come for me, Puppy. Now."
Enid comes, and Wednesday takes. She takes everything given to her and still hungers for more.
Notes:
wednesday's villain arc begins the day someone else starts wearing vanilla perfume
also: now that it's confirmed wednesday’s into the idea of getting her own shit wrecked, really opens up some new possibilities huh
Chapter 23: Dripping
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid is, to put it politely, motherfucking losing it.
It's becoming harder and harder for her to resurface the longer she remains under. She can feel her nails lengthening into claws, her canines pricking at her lower lip, but she can't control it. She doesn't even feel like a person anymore.
She is just sweat, and want, and the overwhelming urge to claim Wednesday for her own.
And isn't that a frightening thought, that Enid's fallen far enough to even contemplate such a thing? She's always been prone to outbursts in moments of intense emotion, and now, with Wednesday—it was a foregone conclusion that her wolf would take over.
Whether it's the inherent dread that this will be the last time Wednesday fucks her before losing interest or the ever-present fear of losing Wednesday altogether, Enid's possessiveness has reached a level that’s honestly concerning. Her wolf wants Wednesday and she doesn’t know how to fight against herself.
"What is it, Puppy?" Wednesday quietly asks.
Enid realizes she's growling. Her entire chest vibrates with the force of it. She needs to get a hold of herself, somehow, needs to—leave, before—
"Big bad wolf," Wednesday whispers, shifting her backward so she can see Enid’s face. "What large teeth you have...." she murmurs, reaching up to trace her lips.
Enid straddles Wednesday’s ribs. Even as Wednesday tests the sharpness of Enid’s canine against her fingertip and Enid tries not to moan, she can hear the rest of the familiar line ringing in her head. What large teeth you have, the better to…better to…
She can’t even bring herself to think it. These taunts are torn from children’s storybooks and weaponized against young wolves as playground insults, but the words taste different from Wednesday’s mouth. It doesn’t feel like an insult at all. More like a promise, Enid thinks, or a threat.
Her breathing hitches, but the broken whine aching to slip out of her devolves right back into a snarl. Words just won’t be possible until she fully comes back to herself.
Wednesday doesn’t seem to mind much that she’s got a dripping mess of a roommate on top of her. Once she’s grown bored of playing with Enid’s teeth, her hand travels down to Enid’s neck.
Enid’s growling doesn’t falter for a second. She trembles at the feeling of Wednesday holding her by the throat, and Wednesday, experiencing the song of Enid's loss of control for herself, smirks.
“...The better to eat you with,” she finishes, voice lowering into something cruel.
Enid drops—literally.
She ducks down faster than the human eye could feasibly track, ignoring the gouges her nails make in the mattress as she snarls against Wednesday’s neck. Wednesday doesn’t freeze like someone fearing for her life; she shivers, tilting her head back to offer better access. Enid licks the glimmering slick from Wednesday's throat, preening at the choked noise Wednesday makes at the scrape of her teeth, and then continues nosing her way down Wednesday's soaked chest until she can shove her face between Wednesday's thighs.
It's better than anything Enid could have dreamt up on her own. For a moment, she just pauses there, having something like a religious experience as she inhales. Even through jeans, Enid can smell her. Wednesday's scent is so fucking strong, so unbearably sweet between her legs that Enid's dumb lizard brain demands she secure a tasting sample. Just to make sure she's actually smelling what she thinks she is, Enid tells herself.
After all, she's not used to Wednesday's scent when she's wet.
Before Enid can rip through Wednesday's jeans with her teeth like she intends to, her chin is caught in an iron grip. Enid whines as she reluctantly looks up. Even lying on her back, Wednesday appears utterly in control. On the other hand, Enid feels like a seal trapped on a rock eyeing the circling orca beneath her rather than the predator she is. She could overpower Wednesday if she really wanted to—probably. Maybe.
But that would displease Wednesday, and Enid would sooner throw herself off a cliff than intentionally do something to sabotage her chance of being Wednesday's pet for one more night.
"Why would you deny me that pretty face you're making?" Wednesday asks her.
Enid's whine catches on a frustrated hiss as she tries and fails to speak.
"What?" Wednesday mocks her. "If you want something, use your words."
It's not going to happen—not when Enid's one wrong move from going feral, which shouldn't even be possible outside of a heat or mortal peril—but she wants to be good. So, so badly does she want to be good. Wednesday's lips turn up like she knows it.
"Listen to me," she orders, and Enid's eyes snap up.
"Good girl," she whispers, hand slipping down to rest on Enid's throat. "I want to see your face."
Wednesday shifts her so that Enid's straddling her thigh and crooks her knee, ferrying Enid back up her body until they're face to face again. Enid whines her displeasure as that sweet scent becomes fainter with distance, but a large part of her calms. There’s no place on earth she’d rather be than Wednesday’s arms.
"What's wrong?" Wednesday asks her, pushing Enid’s sweaty hair off her forehead. Her other arm remains locked around Enid's waist.
Enid ignores the tears spilling down her cheeks and whimpers again. Wednesday makes a small, affirming noise, and Enid's hips automatically jerk forward. Even the uncomfortable drag of Wednesday’s jeans against her pussy is a welcome relief.
Wednesday, unfortunately, doesn't seem to agree since she hauls them both up into a sitting position. For one terrible moment, Enid thinks she's going to be evicted from Wednesday's lap, but Wednesday either reads the look on her face as terror or has uncharacteristically decided not to care about limiting their skin-to-skin contact outside of fucking because she doesn't displace Enid at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.
She draws Enid close, close enough that Enid can drop her face to Wednesday's neck and lap at her skin while Wednesday reaches around her to undo her jeans. Enid doesn't watch, too busy chasing the faint remains of the lily and honey on Wednesday's jaw to pay attention. Enid's vanilla slick smells perfect mixed with Wednesday's scent. Relishing in that realization is more than enough to keep Enid occupied.
Luckily, Wednesday is agile enough to kick her jeans off using only her feet, which leaves her hands free to reposition Enid at her leisure. Enid’s extremely grateful that Wednesday's fluent enough in her body to know what she needs even when she’s incapable of speech. Perhaps because she trusts Wednesday completely, Enid doesn't realize what she’s after until it’s staring her in the face.
While Enid’s still distracted by her neck, Wednesday shifts her weight and pulls one of her legs out from under Enid. It ends up draped over Enid’s thigh, and the air sweetens with something—cloying. Familiar, now. The same scent Enid initially caught between Wednesday’s thighs. It has saliva filling her mouth, an old hunger stirring in the deepest part of her stomach.
Before she can investigate, Enid feels a hand in her hair, and then she no longer has the mental capacity to wonder why that sweet smell of wet has resurged with a vengeance because she’s being dragged away from Wednesday’s neck, which is just fucking mean. Though, her pouting only lasts until Wednesday kisses her. Then Enid bows onto her like a sinking ship, moaning as Wednesday's tongue traces her teeth.
Wednesday makes a noise of approval, her free hand pressing into Enid's lower back and urging her to drop her weight fully. It isn't until Enid gives in and feels her pussy make contact—hot, so fucking hot and slick, smells so good—that she realizes what she's pressed against.
Enid's eyes fly open, a half-cry escaping into Wednesday's mouth. Wednesday looks up at her through lidded eyes as Enid sits back, gasping for breath. The motion causes a fissure of heat to drag up her spine as her pussy inadvertently rubs against Wednesday’s. Enid can’t think. Wednesday's expression is hazy, warm, her lips parted as she watches Enid come to terms with a whole new world in real-time. This is uncharted territory for both of them. Something just for them, Enid thinks. As if she can hear her thoughts, Wednesday's nails dig into Enid's hips nearly hard enough to break the skin.
Enid, meanwhile, stares down at where their bodies connect in utter disbelief. She's never felt as bare as she does right now, nestled tight up against Wednesday in a way she never, ever thought she'd have the privilege of experiencing. Wednesday's scent overwhelms her to the point of having to breathe through her mouth and she's so fucking flabbergasted by the fact that Wednesday’s pussy is touching hers that she doesn't hear her the first two times.
"Enid," Wednesday repeats, waiting until Enid meets her gaze. "Okay?"
Enid gives a helpless nod.
Wednesday's eyes flutter shut, her jaw tightening as she exhales on a deep, shuddering breath.
"Fuck," she whispers, eyes flicking up to Enid. "Go on, Puppy. Move," she commands, words coming out level and strong.
Enid experimentally rolls her hips, her pussy sliding against Wednesday's, and Wednesday's voice breaks around the moan ripped from her throat.
Notes:
i would like to wish you all a HAPPY ONE motherfucking MONTH since this story started!!!!
Chapter 24: Yellow
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid stares down at her with a bewildered expression, lips parted over sharp little teeth.
Wednesday feels almost as surprised as Enid looks. She swallows, focusing all her efforts on slowing her breathing, knowing it is essential that she maintain control of the scene. Enid's more wolf than human right now and she's counting on Wednesday to keep them both safe.
Of course, she would never fear Enid—not when her life was at risk, not when Enid was fully transformed, not ever—but it would certainly be a workout for Wednesday to have to re-establish dominance over this unfamiliar version of her. This Enid that's unnaturally still, completely devoid of the fidgeting she's prone to whenever she's been motionless for too long; this Enid whose nostrils flare as she sizes Wednesday up.
She’ll do it, if necessary. No matter what Enid's state, Wednesday is fully confident in her ability to take her. It’s not like Wednesday doesn’t know what buttons to push. She's carefully cataloged each and every one of them, obsessively noting the things that provoke a reaction from Enid like she's a scientist studying a particularly intriguing alien. A bratty Enid trying to mouth off and push her around wouldn't pose much of a challenge.
But truthfully, Wednesday's grown enamored with the soft Enid who so desperately wants to be her good girl. Having to go head-to-head with Enid's wolf to determine the natural hierarchy in this bed doesn't appeal to her like it once might have. She's too eager for blushy Enid, warm Enid, begging Enid, to want to play the psychological games wolves are known for.
Wednesday is fully aware of how ingrained the notions of dominance and submission are in wolf culture, and how her own strength might not measure up against that of a dominant wolf. It rankles her to admit it, but she doesn't have the natural abilities that those soft-palmed posers always sniffing after Enid love to puff up their chests about. She can't release scent pheromones at will to calm Enid down. She doesn't tower over everyone else (or anyone else, usually) when she enters a room.
What Wednesday does have is the hard-earned grit in every Addams that survives to adulthood, an unlimited line of credit, and the mettle to do whatever it takes, law be damned, to make Enid happy. Those boys, wet-nosed little shits that they are, don't stand a chance against such conviction. Dominant wolves or not.
Still, Wednesday can't help wanting to slaughter them all for eyeing Enid like she's nothing more than a hole to fuck into. Another valued trait of the Addams family is the undeniable urge to spill blood when the happiness of your beloved is threatened. There’s not much she can do about her inclinations besides managing them, and part of that self-regulation process is channeling her appetite for violence into the desire to see Enid smile. Gutting every person who tries to flirt with Enid probably wouldn't bring her much joy in the end.
But Wednesday keeps her knives sharpened and armory stocked just in case they give her the excuse.
Perhaps there's some aura around Wednesday as she contemplates murdering the rival suitors for her lover, some scent or signal because if Enid had canine ears, they'd be flicking back in submission. Wednesday watches the tightness in her shoulders disappear and wishes she could commission Enid to record a few alarm clock soundbites as a pretty trill rings around them. Ever impatient, Enid rocks her hips, her slick dripping down Wednesday’s ass. The whole room reeks of vanilla.
Unfortunately, Enid rutting against her sparks something hot in Wednesday’s stomach, and she has to clamp down on the hiss that threatens to escape her. She’s quite irritated with the heat she can feel pooling in her cheeks. Her family would never let it go if they knew she was blushing like some doe-eyed, love-stricken fool.
Though this was her idea, she's starting to wonder if it was a misstep to include herself in the equation when she's so obviously inexperienced. How is Wednesday supposed to devote the sort of attention to Enid that she deserves when she’s busy trying not to fall apart herself?
Enid tentatively moves her hips again, grinning when she draws another choked noise from Wednesday. She looks proud of herself, smug little thing that she is.
Wednesday wonders if she looks as vindictive as she feels as she grabs Enid by the hips. Whatever her expression, it's enough to have Enid wide-eyed and panting, all amusement falling away as she bends to brace against Wednesday's shoulders. Her breath is hitching on that little whimper that tells Wednesday how badly she wants to be fucked. Luckily for Enid, Wednesday is more than happy to oblige.
She jerks Enid forward, tugging her much harder than those tentative half-attempts at eliciting a reaction from before, and it's Enid's turn to burst out in a whine. Wednesday swallows it with a kiss, sliding her tongue against Enid’s teeth. It would certainly concern Wednesday’s therapist to know how carnal her reaction is to Enid’s canines. Pity they only show in extreme circumstances.
"Still funny, Puppy?" Wednesday asks her, ignoring how breathless she sounds. It's enough of a struggle to keep herself in line without worrying about optics on top of everything else.
Enid shakes her head, a broken moan pushing out of her with every rock of her hips. Her eyes have nearly rolled back in her head, but Wednesday is relentless, even as sweat gathers at her temples. She doesn’t slow. She refuses to let her pace falter.
She’s going to make Enid come all over her, or die trying.
That achievement might be met sooner than she expected, judging by the obscene noises between their legs. Their skin has become so wet with slick, it's becoming difficult to maintain a regular rhythm. Enid's skin is covered in goosebumps, chest heaving as she writhes on top of her. She looks completely out of control.
Beautiful, Wednesday thinks, and the tension in her lower stomach rackets up another notch.
Still, she persists, ignoring the building heat until it demands her attention. She gasps, biting down on her lower lip to keep from moaning out loud, but it doesn’t matter. Like all wolves, Enid can smell her arousal; she knows how close Wednesday is to the edge. In fact, Enid senses what's about to happen before even Wednesday does as she seems afraid to so much as blink lest she miss it.
Wednesday holds out as long as she can, drawing on every ounce of willpower in her possession, but ultimately buries her face into Enid's neck as she comes. Her orgasm is a quick, fleeting thing, a lightning strike of pleasure, but it has every muscle tensing as she tries to muffle her groan against Enid's skin. While she wishes she’d remained silent, Wednesday supposes her first time could have been much more of an ordeal.
Then she catches sight of Enid's face.
Enid's eyes, her pretty blue eyes that normally evoke a sense of nostalgia in Wednesday for ice over dark water, the eyes that she loves, are glowing a dangerous yellow.
Finally, Wednesday thinks. She meets the wolf at last.
And because being afraid of Enid isn't even within the realm of possibilities, Wednesday ignores every instinct screaming at her to remain still and lifts her hand to cup Enid's cheek.
Notes:
wednesday addams: queen of not giving a fuck
Chapter 25: Tear
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday's always had something of a penchant for dangerous beasts. Where other people see monsters, danger, do not engage, she sees potential for a new pet.
That attitude hasn't evolved from her days of yore raising a scorpion to more recently fucking Enid through her heat with an appalling lack of knowledge at her disposal. Wednesday has never feared for her own life when facing a wild animal. Beasts are something she knows; hunger is something she understands.
Enid's wolf, though—might be pushing it. If Wednesday wasn't so hellbent on uncovering everything about Enid that she can, she might have reason to be concerned.
Enid doesn't have toxic scales or venom. She doesn't excrete poison or have the ability to turn people to stone. What she does have is Wednesday's heart in her pretty, manicured hands. If Enid's wolf outright rejected her… Wednesday's not sure she would recover from such a blow. It would tear gruesomely inside her, the sort of wound that couldn't be stitched.
Enid stares down at her with muscles taut like she's expecting a fight.
While Wednesday loves Enid's regular blue, something about the strange yellow of the wolf's eyes pricks at her awareness, the primitive instinct roaring to life within her a leftover fear response from another time. She quite enjoys the feeling of adrenaline surging through her bones (though she could do without the quickening heartbeat that Enid no doubt can hear).
As Wednesday's open palm nears her face, Enid does nothing to dispel the illusion of a deadly predator. She just watches, silent and suspicious and tense like Wednesday's some stranger getting too close to her.
The thought of Enid's wolf not even recognizing her irritates Wednesday like nothing else. She could have seen the wolf's eyes through a darkened window from a hundred yards away and still would have known without question that it was Enid. It's disheartening to think Enid's wolf may not view her the same way.
Of course, Wednesday isn't one to quit prematurely. She makes a soothing noise in the back of her throat, the same click she uses to calm the horses when thunderstorms roll over her family's Hell Mountain estate in hopes of provoking a response, but Enid doesn't react. She's fallen silent, all growling ceasing as her eyes track Wednesday's hand.
With her heart pounding a steady rhythm, Wednesday cups Enid's cheek with her palm. If she dies, she dies, Wednesday figures.
Enid blinks, realizes Wednesday's holding her like she's made of something fragile and precious beyond measure, and melts.
She mewls—there's no other way to describe it—and turns her head to lick Wednesday's wrist. Wednesday allows it, ignoring the bloom of heat in her stomach as Enid begins sucking on her fingers. Wednesday has to muffle a gasp, silently warning herself to keep her shit together. Her utmost and sole priority now is to satisfy Enid; everything else, including her own arousal, can go hang.
Wednesday pulls her hand away, swallowing down the urge to groan at how Enid's cheeks puff out in disappointment. How cruel that a sight so threatening, yellow eyes and sharp teeth, can inspire such an intense feeling of adoration. She would burn if a single hair on Enid's head were harmed.
If it weren't for the fact that Enid's emotions are so plain on her face while in this state, Wednesday would suspect she's doing it on purpose just to fuck with her. And oh, how it would amuse Enid to know she managed to get under Wednesday's skin with a mere expression, the little brat. Enid's style of flirting is evidently faking obliviousness to the many things she does to test Wednesday's rapidly decaying self-control. How is Wednesday supposed to abide by the rules when Enid does things like nest naked in her bed while she's away? Who could possibly withstand such an onslaught?
"Do you still want to come?" Wednesday asks, wondering if the wolf is entirely non-verbal. From a scientific standpoint, it's fascinating to note such tremendous personality differences between two sides of the same person.
Enid doesn't seem to hear her. She trembles, her back tensed hard enough to strain her stomach muscles, but doesn't move. It's another moment before Wednesday realizes she's waiting silently for a signal.
Something warm unfolds deep in Wednesday's stomach. Her Enid, her pretty girl, always trying to be good. Hers.
Wednesday releases a shuddering breath and wraps her hands around Enid's hips. It's the most comfortable weight she's ever felt in her palms. She shifts Enid forward, slow and careful in case the wolf objects, but is met with no protest. Emboldened, Wednesday increases the pressure, tilting her hips to give Enid a better angle. She can feel the ghost of her own orgasm with every press against her, but it doesn't matter. She's too focused on Enid to even consider coming again.
Enid moans, the sound sticking in her throat, and Wednesday knows she's close. Enid's movements are uneven now, rougher, and the sounds escaping her mouth come from somewhere deeper than her voice ever has. Her skin dampens with sweat under Wednesday's hands as her rocking becomes erratic.
The only warning Wednesday gets that things are about to take an abrupt turn is a flash of yellow above her—Enid's eyes as she bends down with her gaze locked onto Wednesday's neck. Because hunger is something Wednesday understands, her heart thunders in her chest as she watches Enid lick her lips in anticipation.
Enid's mouth opens wide over her exposed throat, and for one wild moment, Wednesday thinks this is how she dies.
Enid turns and buries her face in the pillow beside her, narrowly avoiding Wednesday's neck. Her teeth rip through the fragile fabric, spilling feathers onto the soaked mattress as she comes. Enid makes a choked little noise of disappointment but doesn't unlatch her jaw from the pillow until she's stopped shaking.
Wednesday disregards her instincts warning her to remain still and reaches up to trail her fingers through Enid's sweaty hair. While physical affection doesn't come naturally to her, observing certainly does and Wednesday has spent too many years watching her parents' sickening behavior not to pick up a few things. Wolves are tactile by nature, and Wednesday has grown to enjoy the feeling of Enid's skin against her own. Crave it, even, because it means Enid is close and safe.
It will take hours to pick the wayward feathers out of her braids, but perhaps she can work on that while Enid recovers in the bath. At this point, Wednesday doesn't care much about leaving her hair unbound as long as only Enid sees her.
Her own kind's traditions instruct unmarried women to bind their hair in public. Though her mother hadn't followed the old ways at her age, it would technically be considered improper for Wednesday to leave her hair loose in front of non-kin. After so many years, she might as well be naked without her braids, but Enid's her intended and there is nothing Wednesday would bar her from.
Wednesday ignores the pinch of hurt that Enid wouldn't necessarily say the same about her.
She tells herself it isn't logical to feel disappointed that Enid didn't claim her when it isn't even marginally the right time in the courting process. If they remain on schedule, Wednesday estimates that they might form a bond within the next two months, depending on how long it takes her to plan and execute the third step. It has to be something truly spectacular to be worthy of Enid, after all.
There is always the chance that Enid doesn't accept her in the end, to which Wednesday would probably respond by absconding to that monastery governed by vampires in Romania to live out her days of pining in isolation lest she be reminded of Enid every time she catches a glimpse of sunlight hair or blue skies, but it feels unlikely—especially after this latest tryst.
The last time Wednesday fucked her could have been explained away by necessity since Enid was in heat, but this occasion doesn't carry the same connotations. This time was about want rather than need, and Wednesday is, secretly and silently, thrilled. It bodes well for her chances of proving her capability as a mate that Enid trusted her enough to nest in her bed, let alone permit the sex that came after.
Wednesday hasn't ever experienced such good fortune in her life. Perhaps her ancestors actually approve, for once; it would certainly make for a nice change of pace.
Notes:
first spin on the update roulette wheel let's GOOOOO
if you didn't see my update in last chapter's author's note, this week is a motherfucker so chapters will be random as hell until the weekend
just a forewarning before chapter 26: that tag up there says happy ending and so it shall be. let's all remember that
Chapter 26: Maybe
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid comes down much quicker this time.
After her heat, she'd been in a haze for hours and mostly slept off the drop, but this tumble in the sheets doesn't come with the same ready-made excuse. She doesn't have hormones wreaking havoc on her. There isn't an inherent understanding between her and Wednesday that she's exiting a potentially distressing biological function. She's just….there.
Laying in a puddle of her own slick in Wednesday's bed, still hiding her face in the pillow to avoid having to square up with Wednesday about the fact that she almost just bit her for as long as physically possible.
Wednesday's hand continues to trace Enid's spine, petting her skin like she isn't some feral beast that tried to eat her. No matter how generous Wednesday decides to be—which is still very much up in the air—Enid doesn't see a way out of this that doesn't mean the end of their friendship. As soon as Wednesday knows she's lucid again, she'll want to address what Enid almost did to her.
Enid shivers at the thought. She would never be able to live with herself if she bonded Wednesday by force. That would be the end—no more Wednesday, no more Nevermore, nothing. Enid would flee to Romania and roam the woods packless until she eventually starves or trips over something and dies, most likely. It's a pretty bleak picture.
Wednesday's hand travels up her neck, a heavy weight settling just below her hairline. Enid shivers again, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Enid," Wednesday speaks up, her voice neutral. "Look at me, please."
Enid flinches like she's been shot. She lifts her head, shuffling back on the mattress so that Wednesday can meet her mostly avoidant gaze. The fact that Enid wishes she was anywhere else while curled up in a nest she made in Wednesday's bed is so unfathomable it verges on ridiculous.
Wednesday peers into her face, and whatever she sees there seems to convince her that their time in bed is over.
"Let's get you into the bath. Come," Wednesday orders, sitting up with Enid still gathered in her arms.
Enid leans into her, keeping her chin to her chest. The corners of her eyes are wet, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks, but Wednesday either doesn't notice or doesn't think it worth mentioning because she just helps Enid off the bed. Enid trembles as her bare feet touch the floor and Wednesday grips her a little tighter to help her remain balanced. Even in the face of imminent disaster, Wednesday's a good friend to her.
It's moments like these that will haunt her the most, Enid knows.
She wonders if this is how people feel marching to the gallows as she allows Wednesday to bear most of her weight and ferry her into the bathroom. They probably make a ridiculous picture, Wednesday walking bottomless in her sticky shirt and Enid stumbling along completely naked. They both reek of slick. Wednesday's even gotten it in her hair—oh God, her hair.
Enid is immediately horrified with herself.
While she doesn't quite understand the meaning behind Wednesday's braids, she knows it's something deeply personal and important to her. She's never even seen Wednesday with her hair undone despite years of living with her. Every time Wednesday bathes, she remains sequestered in the bathroom until her hair has been rebraided and she's fully dressed. It's a far departure from Enid's usual post-shower getup of a towel with a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth.
And now her pretty braids are full of misshapen feathers and drying slick. What Enid's done should be considered a war crime, or biological terrorism at the very least. She's a monster.
"Wednesday," Enid weakly says.
Wednesday doesn't startle, but her grip does tighten. "...Yes?" she asks, sounding a little bit uncertain.
It's so out of character for her, Enid almost forgets her original train of thought. What could possibly have Wednesday feeling unsure of herself? She essentially just fucked Enid's humanity out of her; if anyone should be riding the high of a confidence boost, it's Wednesday.
"Your hair," Enid whispers, reaching up to touch the damp end of one of her braids.
Wednesday stills halfway through the door to the bathroom, allowing Enid to manhandle her hair without protest. Enid's cheeks begin to feel hot.
"Come," Wednesday repeats, tugging her closer. "You don't need to worry about that. I will handle it."
Enid purses her lips, but reluctantly nods. It makes sense that Wednesday doesn't want her touching her hair to that extent. Even the brush of Enid's fingertips along the end of her ruined braid felt like a gift.
"Is this too hot?"
Enid tunes back in, blinking away her sluggishness as she eyes the rapidly filling tub. Cherry bubble bath is already overwhelming the lingering scent of vanilla. Her stomach twists again.
Enid steps into the water and plops down.
"Yeah, it's fine," she mumbles.
Wednesday frowns at her, but turns to the mirror without another word. Enid slides under the water until only her nose and eyes are uncovered. The warmth mostly chases away the weight in her stomach, but it's just a temporary balm on a much greater wound. Enid knows she'll be feeling this one for days, even if she doesn't let it show on her face.
Wednesday pauses in front of the mirror, examining herself with a shrewd eye. Enid cringes at what Wednesday must be thinking, seeing the mess Enid made of them both.
Wednesday's hands flick up to her braid, remove her hair tie, and deftly start working through the snarls. Enid wonders if she's passed out and begun hallucinating, but even she lacks the creativity to conjure up an image of Wednesday half-naked, plucking feathers out of her hair. This has already become one of the weirdest days of her life and it's not even one in the morning yet.
Enid watches with bated breath as Wednesday finishes pulling apart her first braid and moves on to the next. Her hair is so long like this, nearly past her waist, and even full of slick and broken feathers, it's beautiful. Wednesday is beautiful.
It's not like Enid didn't already know that, but still. Seeing her in such an intimate moment really drives the point home.
Enid slips under the surface, releasing her breath underwater. For a second, she just floats, pretending that this is something they regularly do. In another world, maybe Wednesday does her hair each night while Enid lounges in the bath. Perhaps they talk about their days or just exist quietly alongside each other. Maybe Wednesday teaches Enid how to braid her hair, and Enid practices over and over until she's up to Wednesday's standards. Enid could do her hair every morning for her, kneeling behind her and stealing little breaths of Wednesday's scent. Maybe Wednesday pats her head and tells her how good she is.
Maybe, in another world, she actually means it.
***
Enid spends the rest of the night feeling like she's teetering on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for Wednesday to bring up the pillow incident, and when it still doesn't come after her bath, she's so exhausted that she falls asleep.
When she wakes in the morning, her bed smells faintly of lilies and honeycomb, but the other side is cold. She reminds herself that it's foolish to imagine Wednesday would voluntarily sleep in her bed, and even if she had, it would have been out of necessity.
Wednesday's bed is in ruins. The broken headboard is leaning against the wall, and all of Wednesday's bedding has disappeared, leaving her mattress bereft of the nest Enid once built. Enid tries not to take that personally, but the hurt still echoes in her stomach like a phantom pain. Her nest must not have been good enough.
It doesn't come as a surprise or anything; she was never masochistic enough to think that having sex with Wednesday meant a relationship might be possible. Even the idea is absurd.
But Enid still can't help but feel paralyzed by the confirmation that what they did last night meant nothing more than an extra trip to the laundry room. She swallows hard in a valiant effort not to cry.
Wednesday chooses that moment to waltz out of the bathroom, and Enid's chest constricts as she realizes they're going to have to address this. They're going to have to talk about what happened, what it means for their friendship, and it's going to be painful. Enid just knows it.
Then she sees Wednesday's outfit, which includes criminally tight pants and boots nearly up to her knees. Enid has no idea what kind of activity she's dressed for because that is certainly not their school uniform. Would Wednesday gear up just to have a conversation? Is it going to be that bad, that she needs battle armor to withstand it?
Enid wishes she wasn't naked.
"How are you feeling?" Wednesday asks, eyes intent on Enid as she approaches.
Enid swallows, mustering up a smile. She doesn't have to act as she lets the exhaustion in her bones show on her face and answers, "Tired. M'fine, just…sleepy."
Maybe Wednesday will be gentle with her if she thinks Enid's still fuzzy with sleep. Either way, this talk will probably ruin her life, but better to receive the blow with a cushion of empathy than take it head-on, Enid thinks.
Then Wednesday's hand moves toward her head, and something horrible happens: for just a second, Enid thinks that maybe this conversation won't be that conversation. Maybe Wednesday could grow to care for her. Perhaps she's willing to forgive all of Enid's flaws, and she could—maybe she could love her. Someday, at least. For one awful moment, Enid allows herself to hope.
Wednesday's hand pauses half-lifted above her head. It's just a breath, the space between two heartbeats, but it's enough. Though her hand ultimately lands on Enid's head, that split second of hesitation feels like a blade stuck between Enid's ribs. She closes her eyes as Wednesday pets her, remaining frozen a beat too long once Wednesday's hand disappears.
"Let me know if you need anything," Wednesday says, taking a step back. Her eyes flick toward the door. "I have a busy day, but I'll return immediately if you need me to."
Enid doesn't reply. She can't bring herself to speak when her chest is this tight.
Wednesday's gaze briefly returns to her, and when Enid doesn't say anything, Wednesday apparently takes that as acceptance and continues out the door. Enid thought the conversation would be bad; she hadn't expected silence.
She hadn't thought that Wednesday would leave.
Her only saving grace is that Wednesday's far enough down the hall not to hear Enid releasing the breath she was holding and allowing herself to cry.
Notes:
had to cut this chapter in half due to length, but i'll say this: communication is an essential part of bdsm because a dom needs to be able to trust their sub to communicate to them that something is wrong. that's the whole point of safewords.
despite wednesday thinking she's the foremost expert on all things enid, this is only the second time she's dommed her (or anyone) and she's never seen enid drop like this before. she provided aftercare to the best of her knowledge with the bath, presumably stayed the rest of the night with her, and confirmed with enid how she was feeling in the morning. enid answered fine. despite wednesday's many talents, she's not a mind reader. :')
i don't consider enid not speaking up as miscommunication in the traditional sense, but tagging it anyways just in case and once again there will be NO misheard/overheard & misunderstood/etc
just enid being enid, oblivious to the fact that wednesday adores her, and wednesday not grasping that she might be making a poor choice dropping everything to go toil at the forge over enid's special rock
Chapter 27: Swan Song
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next few days are challenging.
Enid feels as though the cracks in her resolve to get it together and carry on have become mortal wounds. Another piece of her erodes when Wednesday comes home late Tuesday night, and then again Wednesday night, and then so late on Thursday night that it's already Friday morning. Friday night, she doesn't come home at all.
Enid waits up the whole time, from dusk to dawn, tears wetting her cheeks as she comes to terms with the fact that for the first time since she's known her, Wednesday stayed out all night without a word of warning. She didn't even think to tell Enid, which is understandable but still fucking brutal.
Enid sniffles, rubbing her eyes hard enough to see stars. It's not like Wednesday had ever cleared her schedule with her before; she has no right to be this upset.
Nausea curls around Enid's stomach as she realizes that even though Wednesday technically didn't end their friendship over the pillow incident, the threat still looms on the horizon. At some point, Enid's involuntary clinginess and unbearable loneliness will translate into fear and anger, and then Wednesday will shut her out, thinking she’s either being unfair or acting like a complete lunatic (both of which being at least somewhat true).
The reality of the situation is the longer Enid remains trapped in this sunken place of silent agony, the harder it will be for her to become a solid person again once she resurfaces. She feels like a ghost, a mere shade of her former self. It’s not sustainable.
For most of the week, her wolf was twisting on the edge of her subconscious, uncomfortable and raw. By Friday morning, there's silence. Enid presses her hand over her chest, rubbing in an effort to rouse her wolf, but feels nothing. That side of her is quiet, unwilling to unravel anymore. As far as her wolf is concerned, the situation has concluded. Now is the time for rest and solitude.
Mourning, she thinks, her chest giving a dull throb in sympathy. Her wolf is mourning for the mate it thought she should have had. If only her wolf could comprehend more complicated signals than scent and slick; human dynamics are quite beyond it. Her wolf operates based on information Enid herself doesn't understand. Instinct is great, but it doesn't account for how fucking absurd the idea of Wednesday agreeing to become her mate sounds.
And Enid knows, in a rare moment of clarity, two solemn truths: she will never fall out of love with Wednesday, and a day will come when Wednesday loses interest in fucking her. A day will come when she loses Wednesday.
It is with a sinking feeling that Enid realizes she cannot stay here.
***
Wednesday completely loses track of time. It's been known to happen when she obsesses over a new project and considering Enid's gift is the most important challenge she's ever undertaken, a little obsession seems par for the course.
After pulling a very productive all-nighter Friday, Wednesday decides to ignore her rumbling stomach and remain at the forge until she's completed all finishing touches. Enid's gift is nearly ready. The only break Wednesday takes is a quick stop by the residential director's office around dawn to inform Lin that their room needs repairs and not to, under any circumstances, allow contractors into their room while Wednesday isn't there to supervise. She doesn't trust a stranger to be left with Enid's nesting materials unattended.
"I will pay the damages out of pocket," Wednesday states. What use is having a black card if not to settle the bill her intended has wrought whilst fucking her?
The residential director, a middle-aged lady with a buzzcut and shifter shrine maiden tattoos—which is wildly interesting in and of itself—shrugs in agreement. Lin isn't bothered by much, which is probably why she was hired for the job after the disaster the last dorm mom left in her wake.
Enid and the vast majority of the dorm think it's bad luck to say her name out loud, and Wednesday eventually picked up the habit. Everyone in Ophelia is grateful to have Lin.
***
When Lin had first accepted this job, she'd been warned about Wednesday Addams.
"She's a problem."
"She incites the other students."
"Her roommate is a saint, poor girl."
Lin had immediately seen through the bullshit, at least that which was spun about Wednesday and her werewolf 'friend' Enid. Even before Wednesday served Enid through her heat, Lin had a good idea of what was transpiring between those two. The temple she'd been raised in houses a shifter of some renown—which means he's thousands of years old and spends most of his days pining after his own object of affection silently and despondently from random clifftops—so Lin had recognized the signs.
When Wednesday came to her stinking of vanilla and asking to use her personal kitchen, Lin had gladly acquiesced. She has great respect for those choosing to observe formal tradition. She's not supposed to have favorites among her student charges, but Wednesday's hellbent persistence to impress Enid struck a chord in her. Lin's going to submit the noise complaints she received Sunday night. Eventually.
"What kind of repairman are we talking?" Lin asks, pulling out a blank incident report. She's filled out so many of these over the years that she has Wednesday's student ID number memorized.
"Whoever is qualified to fix a damaged wall," Wednesday replies.
Lin nods, keeping her eyes on her writing. Walls, huh? Must have been Enid.
"I'll send out a contractor summons today," Lin promises. "May take a bit since it's the weekend, but we'll see it fixed."
Wednesday nods. Lin watches her take four steps into the hallway and out of sight, then returns her attention to the report. She pauses in her writing when she hears Wednesday come to a sudden stop and is unsurprised to see her reappear in the doorway a moment later.
"You should also order a new headboard."
Lin raises an eyebrow, her reading glasses perched precariously on her nose. "Alright."
Wednesday gives a firm nod and turns on her heel, only to complete a full circle and reopen her mouth.
"Let me guess—a fumigator to cleanse the room of scents?" Lin interrupts, only half joking. The strength of werewolf slick is nothing to sneeze at.
Wednesday's face spasms. "No. I would consider that a personal attack on myself and my intended," she retorts.
Lin doesn't visibly react to the venom in her tone. "Noted."
Wednesday doesn't move. Finally, Lin pushes up her glasses and sits back in her seat with a sigh.
"Floor damage?" she guesses.
"I need a new mattress," Wednesday informs her.
Lin doesn't smile because she's meeting with Wednesday in a professional capacity, and she's seen more than her fair share of ridiculous pining in her lifetime serving a dragon, but it's a close thing.
"I'll text Enid when I have an estimate," Lin promises. Generally, the most reliable way to communicate with that dorm room and its inhabitants is through Enid, who's never without her phone.
It therefore surprises her when Wednesday replies, "You may text me. Enid doesn't need to worry about this. I will take care of it myself."
Lin shrugs.
Half an hour later, she's actually in the midst of fielding an unexpected call from Morticia Addams, who had inexplicably known about the room damages and is insisting on handling the bill herself, when another student slinks through her door.
It's Enid, and even this frankly unholy hour for a Saturday morning doesn't explain how awful she looks. Lin immediately asks Morticia to call back in an hour, shuts the door, and retakes her seat. Enid watches her with a bloodless face, fingers twitching like she's a breath away from spooking and taking off.
Lin clears her throat, then opens with, "Enid, if this is about the room damages, the Addams have already settled the bill—"
"I need a new room," Enid blurts.
Lin blinks. "Didn't you hear me? The repairs should be done within the week."
"No, I," Enid gulps, and Lin is highly alarmed that tears appear to be welling up in her eyes as she forces out, "I want a new roommate. Please."
Lin's glasses slip right off her nose.
Notes:
aaaaaand back to our regularly scheduled programming!
was very impressed with the insights being made in the comments last chapter. you guys must either moonlight as psychologists on the sly or hold doctorates in wednesday and enid's characterization. either way, consider me impressed as hell.
Chapter 28: Choices
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday contemplates stopping by the room for a shower but ultimately finds her way back to the forge. First and foremost, Wednesday knows she smells like a sweat-drenched fire pit, and Enid's been unusually sensitive to smell since her heat; it would be cruel to inflict her stench on Enid before she’s at least had a chance to tidy up in a communal bathroom.
Secondly, and rather more importantly, Enid usually sleeps in on the weekend and Wednesday wouldn't be doing herself any favors by rudely interrupting her sleep. A large part of her also wants to have Enid's gift in hand the next time she lays eyes on her. It's time, Wednesday thinks, ignoring the twisting in her stomach. Nerves are for those lacking in self-control.
Wednesday can only hope Enid will react favorably to the project she's spent the last week engrossed in while subsisting on nightmarish sleeping hours and random meals provided by Eugene when he thought she was at risk of starving to death. There's no point in dwelling on what-ifs. She has done her damndest to please Enid with this creation, and even if it isn't good enough, it was an effort made with her whole heart.
As Wednesday holds her finished work up to the light, she can't help but smile.
The other students present in the forge, who lately have taken to watching her like an uninvited studio audience, react with varying levels of shock. Some gasp, others cringe; one boy even tips right out of his chair, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the edge of a stone tabletop. Wednesday isn't one to smile on a regular basis—or ever—but surely, it doesn't warrant this behavior.
"Oh God, why does she look like that? What does that mean?"
"Shut up!"
"Guys—I think she's leaving."
"What? Why?"
"Is she done already? That was fast."
"What d'you expect? She's been haunting the forge day and night like a high-performing poltergeist…"
"Shh!"
Wednesday ignores the whispers, diligently packing up her workstation and focusing only on her internal debate of whether she should wait for Enid to wake naturally or give in and disrupt her sleep schedule like a selfish prick. Would it be weird for Enid if she woke and discovered Wednesday, poised and ready at her bedside, presenting her with a gift? Ambiance is key. It's something to consider.
After all, Wednesday is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure this step of the courting process goes off without a hitch.
***
Lin blinks at Enid, ignoring how her glasses have clinked onto the desktop.
"....Are you hurt, Enid?" Lin asks suddenly, voice hard as her eyes narrow. "You can tell me if something's happened that made you feel unsafe."
Enid's brow furrows as she wonders what the fuck she's talking about, then her eyes nearly bulge out of her head as she understands.
"No! Oh my God, no, Wednesday didn't—Wednesday wouldn't hurt me!" Enid all but shouts, feeling anger spark in her stomach despite herself.
No matter how sad she may feel over the fact that Wednesday doesn't want to date her, it's insulting to listen to someone insinuate that Wednesday would ever physically do something to her that would inspire her to switch rooms. Enid has to swallow back a growl.
Lin looks utterly relieved. "Alright. Good. Jesus, Enid, you scared me."
Enid crosses her arms. "Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. Wednesday wouldn't do that," she insists. "You don't know her."
Lin's expression ends up caught somewhere between surprised and amused. "I see that now. Sorry to worry you—I just had to make sure you didn't feel like your safety was at risk."
Not my safety, Enid thinks. Just her heart.
"No," she repeats. "But I—I still need a new room. Um, today. Please,” she adds, softening at the end.
Lin frowns, leaning back in her seat. "Want to say some more about that?"
"Not really," Enid admits.
Lin sighs. "There aren't any unmatched roommates in Ophelia. You'd have to switch dorms."
Internally, Enid is screaming, but she manages to say, "That's fine," in a mostly even tone of voice.
"There's an open spot across the way with, hm—" Lin flips through a stack of papers, "—Mackenzie Jones. You know her?"
Bianca's shitty friend? The one who'd gleefully joined in on taunting Enid in the library?
"Yes," Enid chokes out. "I know her."
"Great," Lin replies, holding out a pen and clipboard. "Fill this out."
Enid writes in silence for a minute or two before Lin clears her throat.
"You sure you know what you're doing, Enid?" she asks a bit hesitantly. "Not that it's any of my business, because it's not, but I'm…confused. And concerned. Is this your choice?"
Enid bites her lip. A little cruel of Lin to bring up how it's her fault that their roommate arrangement isn't working out, that Wednesday doesn't want her. Her choice…as opposed to—what? Waiting until Wednesday gets fed up enough to ice Enid out and force her to leave anyway? No, this is better. And anyway, hasn't Lin ever heard of self-preservation?
"Yes. I'm not staying here," Enid replies, voice tinged with a faint edge of hysteria.
Lin's brow remains furrowed, but she doesn't press any further. She just exchanges the completed form with a small slip of paper, briefly clasping Enid's hand in her own.
"Give this to Moira. She'll have your new room key,” Lin instructs. “Make sure to drop yours off with me as soon as you're done moving out."
Enid nods and pulls away.
"Hey—doesn't matter what dorm you're in, Enid,” Lin calls after her. “My door's always open."
Enid manages a short nod before hauling ass down the hall. She nearly skids across the lobby and hits the stairs in four-wheel drive. She has no idea when Wednesday will be back, but the last thing she wants is to be caught with her metaphorical pants down while in the midst of shoving her belongings into shopping bags. She's struggling under the onset of a terrible case of deju vu.
The good news is this time, Enid isn't shaking with fear and anger and a sense of betrayal while trying to gather her belongings. As an added bonus, Wednesday also isn't distracted by Tyler (which inspires a vindictive glee in Enid that frightens even her).
This time, she's leaving because it's what she needs rather than some half-cocked attempt at punishing Wednesday with her absence—which was a stupid idea even then.
The bad news is she doesn't take nearly as long to pack this time around, which is particularly sad considering a part of her genuinely dreads leaving. This is the room she endured her heats in; this was where she felt most comfortable and safe, where she was happy, where she fell in love.
It's just a room, a place where hundreds of Nevermore students have studied and slept, but Enid will remember the groves in the floor and how sunlight paints the dreary walls for as long as she lives.
She zips up her suitcase. Unfortunately, Enid inadvertently developed a system for packing her essentials during her first attempt at leaving the dorm, back when the answer to all of her problems was to stomp off and bunk with Yoko. Funny how things change, Enid thinks, and how miserable that some things—the most important thing—stayed the same. Not a single woman who's drawn breath on this earth has loved her; why would Wednesday be any different?
It's time to get a grip, Enid tells herself, suitcase dragging behind her as she approaches the stairs and begins her descent. At least this time, she isn't splitting at the seams with the urge to cry. That's something, Enid figures.
She's done enough crying over the past few days to last her a lifetime.
***
She's only made it as far as the courtyard when everything goes to hell.
Right in her path, cluttering up the walkway and flooding the immediate area with artificial perfume, is Bianca and her cronies. They look like a puffed-up pack of rodents, beady little eyes constantly searching for the next source of entertainment. Enid knows better than to hope that they don't spot her, and sure enough, Bianca turns almost instantly to meet her gaze.
Enid sighs but keeps walking, figuring she'll just have to speed past them and ignore whatever bait they're fishing with this morning.
"Look who it is!" Bianca exclaims, drawing all of their attention toward Enid like a many-headed, gossipy monster. "Hey, Enid—we were just talking about how long a werewolf scenting can last, but you know, I'm not sure your heat explains how much Addams still stinks of vanilla—"
One of the girls laughs and shifts her weight, unknowingly invading Enid's personal bubble and inspiring an automatic warning growl that has the little bitch yelping and leaping away.
Enid tries not to snarl as she snaps, "You and your evil minions can back right the hell up."
Bianca raises an elegant hand in signal, and her friends disperse, shooting interested glances at Enid as they go. Bianca, on the other hand, doesn’t surrender a single inch.
"What's your problem?" she asks, voice grating on Enid’s ears. "And why are you carrying a suitcase?"
Enid can't bring herself to meet her gaze as she replies, "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm moving."
Bianca looks genuinely surprised. "You're leaving Nevermore?"
"What? No," Enid retorts. "I'm switching rooms."
Bianca's expression cycles through a series of emotions so fast, it's impossible to identify a single one.
"Why would you do that?" she demands. "Oh my God—you actually rejected her? Legitimately?"
Enid frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"Wednesday Addams, obviously," Bianca replies like she's speaking to a toddler.
Enid tries to control her face at the sound of Wednesday's name, but judging by the lilt of Bianca's sharp eyes, she fails miserably.
"What does she have to do with anything?" Enid ends up responding, hating how weak her voice sounds.
Bianca's eyebrows raise. She looks astonished as she asks, "How do you keep shocking me with how fucking stupid you are?"
Enid bristles, clutching her suitcase tighter. "Shut up, Barclay. I'm not in the mood."
Figuring that's as good of a clincher as any, Enid goes to leave, starting back down the path and internally groaning when Bianca hurries to catch up.
"Um, no, I will not," Bianca argues, matching her pace. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm just going to let this go. So what, was it really that awful? What could she possibly have given you that would have you fleeing the building?" Bianca then blanches and says, "Actually, don't answer that—I don't want to be implicated in whatever crime she's committed this time."
Enid's mouth opens several times. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Bianca rolls her eyes. "Cute, but your little performance is wasted on me. We both know it would be just like Addams to offer you the bloody hearts of your enemies or some other disgusting gift thinking it's the height of romance. You can't deny that's right up her alley."
"I literally have no idea what you're talking about," Enid replies. "My birthday isn't for—you know what? It doesn't matter. I need to get my new room key, and you need to fuck off."
Enid relishes the shocked look on Bianca's face for as long as it takes her to round the corner and disappear out of sight.
Bianca, on the other hand, reaches up to place her palm on her forehead, mumbles, "Shit," and takes off in a brisk walk towards the forge. She doesn't run, because running in public is for the ill-prepared and tasteless, but if anyone would later claim to have seen her moving at such speed, she would deny it.
Notes:
this honestly could've been two chapters but your comments last chapter inspired me to be merciful and thus, i leave you with a ray of hope:
bianca….to the rescue? the fuck?
Chapter 29: House of Cards
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bianca’s flats slap the pavement as she hurries to the forge. She spares a second to mass-text her friends, instructing them to get their asses to Shylock Hall right now and keep track of Enid’s current location like their lives depend on it. Even lacking context, her group knows how to follow orders.
Enid was only carrying one suitcase, which means she either lives like a monk (which is not fucking likely judging by the sheer number of colorful outfits that girl owns) or she’s making multiple trips. Bianca just has to hope she gets there in time.
The last thing she wants is to have to navigate the smoldering ruins of Wednesday and Enid should they split up. Bianca would honestly rather shave off her eyebrows or go for round two with Crackstone than deal with that mess, especially since it’s looking like an issue of idiocy rather than incompatibility. Unlike her breakdown with Xavier, this is the sort of problem which can be fixed.
In a stroke of fortuitous luck, Bianca comes upon Wednesday just as she’s leaving the forge. Wednesday eyes her with a pinched look like she smells something despicable but doesn’t speak a word until Bianca’s directly in front of her.
“Well?” Wednesday asks. “To what do I owe the honor of inhaling your horrendous perfume?”
“Oh, you can still smell over the stench of your sex with Enid? Color me surprised,” Bianca automatically responds, then mentally chastises herself and grits her teeth. “Actually, I’m here because you’ve got a problem.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow. “To which problem are you referring, exactly?”
“Enid,” Bianca starts, then instinctively flinches back at the expression on Wednesday’s face.
“And what, precisely, do you have to say about Enid?” Wednesday asks in a deceptively calm voice.
Bianca manages to scowl at her. “Relax, Leatherface. No one’s threatening your wolf.”
"My intended," Wednesday corrects her.
Bianca rolls her eyes. “Fine. Are you aware that your intended is currently moving out of your room?”
Wednesday stops exuding serial killer vibes, her face creasing with confusion. “No, she isn't. Enid's asleep. She sleeps in late on the weekends.”
“Oh my God, you two were seriously meant to be.” Bianca pinches her nose. “Addams. Your intended is leaving your dorm and moving into mine as we speak. This is bad because she, apparently, has no idea you’re courting her.”
If it’s possible, Wednesday becomes even paler. “You’re lying.”
“You wish,” Bianca retorts, infected with renewed urgency. “We have to go, Addams. If we hurry, you can still catch her outside.”
The rules about entering another dorm without the express permission of its keeper are unforgiving. Moira, their dorm mom, doesn’t take any shit. She keeps Shylock Hall locked down like Fort Knox.
If Enid manages to fully move in, Wednesday’s options dwindle to waiting for Enid to emerge for class, risking expulsion by trespassing, or convincing Mackenzie to list her as a guest (good fucking luck). Wednesday has a better chance of sprouting wings than persuading Mackenzie to give her unfettered access to where she sleeps.
Bianca still can’t believe she risked so much to sneak into a boy’s room herself once upon a time. Someone should’ve had the stones to stop her.
“Well?” Bianca demands.
Wednesday snaps out of whatever daze she was in and scowls. “Move.”
Bianca sidesteps her in time to avoid getting barreled into, breathing a sigh of relief as Wednesday takes off at a clip towards the dorms. She’s not one to believe in fairytale endings; the eight-year-old who’d fantasized about making a gallant prince fall in love with her song no longer exists. Her mother made damn sure of that.
Anyway, if Enid and Wednesday were fairytale characters, Enid would be the doe-eyed princess and Wednesday would be the murderous dragon that guards the tower, which isn't exactly a little girl’s dream. Still, Bianca crosses her fingers for them. Under her sleeve, where no one can see it. She thinks eight-year-old Bianca would find the whole ordeal very romantic.
“Barclay?” A boy steps out of the forge, leaning against the wall with a jerk-off expression. “Hey, you uh...need something?” he asks with what's probably meant to be a smirk.
Bianca wipes the smile off her face. “Are you talking to me?”
The boy’s eyes widen, and he straightens up out of his ridiculous pose. “N-No. Sorry, I’ll just—”
He flees back inside, and Bianca rolls her eyes as she heads for the dorms at a much more reasonable pace.
***
Something weird is going on.
First, when Enid tried to cross the courtyard with her second round of bags, Bianca’s friends delayed her by asking completely nonsensical questions about some homework assignment she hadn’t even done. When Enid relayed that to the herd of mini Biancas, they honest to God tried to drag her to the library with promises to help her complete it. It took five minutes just to extricate herself from the group, and things didn’t improve once she escaped to her new room.
Enid knows that she’s not the first person Mackenzie Jones would name on her list of preferred roommates, but this is becoming disturbing.
“How about we, um, start unpacking, yeah?” Mackenzie asks in an unnaturally high voice, tugging the bag right out of Enid’s hands and kneeling to unzip it. “There’s a lot of free hangers in the closet, and you know, we wouldn’t want your clothes to get wrinkled—”
“Thanks, but I think I’m going to finish moving my things before I unpack,” Enid says with a weak smile.
Mackenzie’s practiced expression slips, leaving a frazzled look. “B-But your clothes! They’ll wrinkle!”
“I have a steamer,” Enid assures her, taking another step toward the hallway. “It’ll be fine. I should probably do some laundry, anyways.”
Mackenzie scrambles to her feet and throws herself in the way, plastering her back against the door. “No. You can’t leave yet!” she insists.
Enid’s lips part with surprise. “What? Why not?”
“Because you can’t!” Mackenzie all but shrieks. “Go unpack your things!”
Whatever bewildered response that was about to come out of Enid’s mouth is cut off by Mackenzie’s phone buzzing. Once she checks it, her face droops with relief, and she twirls around to start shoving Enid out the door.
“Oh, you know what, Enid—this really isn’t the best time to unpack,” Mackenzie declares. “Why don’t you finish bringing everything over here first? Yeah, that would be best. Go ahead, back outside!”
Enid stumbles into the hall, turning just in time to get the door slammed in her face.
“What the hell?” she mumbles to herself. Has everyone lost their minds today? Maybe the whole school is in on some awful prank that involves hunting her like capture the flag.
Enid sighs and makes her way down the stairs, moving on autopilot to the courtyard. Even if it is some stupid game, Mackenzie Jones is officially weird as shit. Who knew the popular kids were so awkward?
Enid’s so busy mulling over the strange interactions she’s endured over the last twenty minutes that she doesn’t realize something’s amiss until the whole courtyard falls silent. With a stabbing feeling of deja vu, Enid looks up. She's confused as to why Bianca’s group, still loitering, are all suddenly ignoring her in favor of watching the gate right up until she sees what drew their attention:
Wednesday Addams, looming in the courtyard entrance like a dire apparition, sweaty and breathless and staring at her.
Notes:
bianca’s dorm doesn’t have a name in the show but her poe cup team was called the gold bugs
-> which brought me to the merchant of venice (origin of “all that glitters is not gold” saying)
-> which brought me to shylock, the character who originated the “pound of flesh” saying
-> which feels wildly appropriate for nevermore. so, her dorm is shylock hall!alright NEXT chapter is the one where it all goes down! im sorry i literally have no self-control writing this and it keeps getting longer and longer i know it’s a problem and i am bringing no honor to my ancestors
Chapter 30: Folie à Deux
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid exits the quad with her heart in her throat, ignoring the soft groans of disappointment echoing behind her. Despite what Bianca seems to think, Enid doesn’t exist solely for her entertainment.
One look at her face, and Enid had known what Wednesday wanted. Even now, after all that's happened, a large part of Enid wants nothing more than to please her.
It’s better this way, Enid thinks, better to do this privately in the comfort of their room rather than hashing things out in front of a live audience. No words are exchanged as they leave the courtyard behind and climb the stairs together.
Enid’s mouth is dry as she steps through the doorway and looks around. This won't be her room for much longer, but a part of her is grateful she'll be able to give it a proper goodbye; both the room and Wednesday deserve a proper goodbye.
She risks a glance up, hoping to gauge Wednesday's mood, and discovers Wednesday already eyeing her with the intensity of a warrior in combat. Enid freezes, well and truly caught.
"You purred for me," Wednesday says without preamble.
Enid flinches like she's been struck. "W-Wednesday—"
"You purred for me," Wednesday repeats, stepping closer. "And I suppose I became arrogant. I should not have assumed that meant you would accept me," she mutters. "But, Enid, know this—I'm not a wolf, and there are some things I will never fully understand, but I will do everything in my power to provide. There's nothing I would not do for you."
Though her expression remains fixed as ever, Wednesday’s gaze is warm. It’s almost too much to bear, like trying to stare at the sun for too long—or attempting to squint through total darkness. The mind plays tricks in the dark. When she looks at her like this, Enid can almost pretend Wednesday’s talking about more than friendship.
Enid sniffles. "Wednesday."
She's now less than a foot away. "If it's a matter of my choices—if you would have preferred something else for the first step, I can do more," Wednesday vows, swallowing hard. "I can—will do better. Clearly, cupcakes were immature, but I am classically trained in French and Mexican cooking, and if there's a recipe in existence, I am certain I can figure it out—"
"Hold on," Enid interrupts her, ears ringing. "Hold on, Wednesday. Did you just—did you just say the first step?"
Wednesday looks nonplussed. "Yes."
Enid's voice comes out strange as she asks, "First step of what?"
Wednesday blinks. "Courting you, of course."
Enid doesn't breathe.
"Formally," Wednesday adds, brow furrowing with concern. "With the intent of becoming your mate, in case that wasn't clear. Are you alright?"
All the blood has drained from Enid's face.
"I think I'm dead," Enid whispers, eyes scrunching shut. "Oh God, I'm in such deep shit. Wednesday's never gonna forgive me."
How could she just die without ever getting any closure? And Enid surely must be dead for this imagined version of Wednesday to be discussing becoming her mate. There’s no other explanation.
How did it even happen? Did she trip and slam her head into the rail while climbing the stairs? Did she suffer a massive heart attack from the stress of having to say goodbye to Wednesday face-to-face? Is it normal that Enid doesn't actually recall anything happening that would lead to her being here, standing before an imagined version of Wednesday that claims to have been courting her this entire time?
Maybe she's being punished. Maybe everyone has their greatest wish granted in death and that's why it's called heaven.
Still, Enid never imagined the afterlife would look so…normal. Even her room is a perfect replica of the way she left it. The Wednesday standing before her has a scent so rich and accurate, Enid never would've realized she was hallucinating if the subject of mates hadn't been brought up. The real Wednesday simply wouldn't consider such a thing. No, it has to be a hallucination.
Delusion-Wednesday's expression settles somewhere between bewildered and amused. "Forgive you for what?"
"Dying," Enid replies. "Fuck, she's gonna be so mad at me."
And that, above all else, is the truth. Even if they're no longer friends, the real Wednesday would lambast her for fleeing the mortal coil without so much as a by your leave.
The corner of Wednesday's mouth twitches up. "Why would she be mad at you for dying?"
Enid's brow furrows. "Well…I don't know, but she would."
"I don't disagree," Wednesday placates her, holding up a hand. "But I want to hear you say it. Why would I be mad at you for dying?"
The fact that Dream-Wednesday just referred to herself as the real Wednesday doesn't really register. Death is confusing, Enid thinks.
"You don't want me to die," she whispers. "Right?"
"You are correct, but why?" Wednesday presses.
"Because…you care about me as your best friend?" Enid responds, voice raising in question.
Even her supposed security as the best friend seems to be in question these days. Enid wouldn't be shocked to learn she's been relegated back down to roommate while her attention was concentrated on throwing a marvelous pity party for herself.
Meanwhile, Wednesday looks as though she just aged five years, her eyes fluttering shut. "It pains me to say this, but Bianca may have been right," she mutters. "I can't believe….you really didn't know I was courting you?"
Enid throws up her hands. "Wednesday, I didn't even know you and Bianca were friends. Why would I ever assume you wanted to…?"
"Court you," Wednesday states. "And mate you. Just so we're being transparent."
Enid can feel her cheeks heating. "Yeah, I heard that part." Though the very idea is completely absurd.
And anyway, since when do Bianca and Wednesday talk? Something sharp and ugly blooms in Enid's stomach. Fucking Bianca. Fucking Mackenzie. If Enid weren’t already dead, she would be lucky to finish out the term without catching a murder charge.
"You don't believe me," Wednesday quietly says.
Enid shakes her head, and Wednesday sighs.
"My God, Enid.”
“What?” Enid demands, inordinately embarrassed. “What’s your problem now?”
“You,” Wednesday retorts. “You are my problem, Enid.”
Enid’s mouth drops open. She’s literally moving out; what more does Wednesday possibly want from her? A handshake? One of her kidneys? Her blood and tears to sacrifice in some outlandish ritual?
Out loud, she splutters, “How am I—?”
“You, for some inexplicable reason, seem to have entirely missed the fact that I love you," Wednesday speaks over her. “And it is really pissing me off.”
Enid's shoulders lower out of their defensive tense, her voice coming out small. "...Oh."
For a moment, there's silence. Enid gulps under the weight of the distance between them, the chasm opening up under their feet. Her hair stands on end.
Then Wednesday reaches for her, and every nerve in Enid's body settles in a collective rush of relief. It's more than just a sign of affection; for a wolf, especially a submissive wolf, physical contact is reassurance.
In some cases, it's even a promise.
Wednesday's hands find a home around Enid's waist, drawing her in so they stand toe-to-toe. Enid's eyes nearly roll back into her head once she gets a good whiff of Wednesday's scent. Sweat, and metal, and dust—and distantly, beneath it all, the mouthwatering sweetness of lilies and honey. Her underwear quickly falls victim to Wednesday's general presence.
If freshly-showered Wednesday could inspire Enid to pant, she didn't have a hope in hell of resisting post-manual-labor Wednesday. God, what was she doing out there? Building a fucking house? Extracting stone from the earth? Is this some convoluted attempt at punishing her, teasing her with the scent of Wednesday and iron and flame?
"Oh?" Wednesday repeats, only slightly mocking. She’s calmed considerably since making contact with Enid’s skin. Even her heartbeat has slowed.
Not a punishment, Enid thinks, leaning into this odd version of Wednesday that actually enjoys physical affection. Not a punishment, but a gift.
"I get it," Enid murmurs. "I get it, now. This must be heaven."
Wednesday cups Enid’s face in her hands. Enid noses into her palm, wondering if she should risk attempting to lick Wednesday's exposed wrist. She's not sure how to handle—ghost? Imposter? Angel? Other-Wednesday. This is new territory.
"While I applaud your commitment to the unending tides of death, you should know by now that I would never allow it," Wednesday informs her. "You aren't dead, Enid."
Enid inhales the scent of lily and honeycomb. "No? Then how do you explain this?" she retorts.
Wednesday's brow furrows. "Explain…what, exactly?"
"This," Enid insists, hand waving in a haphazard circle over them. "What you said."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, catching her hand and bringing it back down to Enid's side. "And what did I say, Puppy?"
Enid swallows. "You said that you loved me."
"I did," Wednesday agrees. "And I do. You don't trust my word?"
"No," Enid snorts. "That's not even—what? No way in hell. Heaven. Wherever we are."
Wednesday makes a noise of understanding. "I am not an easy person to love. That's…I understand your hesitance," she admits.
"What?" Enid gasps, "Are you kidding me? Wednesday—I'm in love with you," she insists. "Or—you know, the alive you."
This Wednesday, too, if she's being honest. How have things become so dire than Enid's swooning over a hallucination?
Wednesday's eyes become bright with an emotion Enid has never seen. "Our condition must be mutual, then," she murmurs with the fervor of a true scientist. All she's missing is a white lab coat.
"My Enid," Wednesday's lips curl around her name, "Does it upset you to know that I am grateful we share the same madness?"
"No. I don't know. Don't care," Enid mumbles, leaning forward to tuck her face in Wednesday's neck. Hearing the words my Enid coming out of Wednesday's mouth has shivers traveling up her spine. If this is her afterlife—her eternity—then death really isn’t so bad.
Wednesday's fingers slip beneath her shirt, drawing circles on Enid's bare back. Another shiver. Another swallowed moan. Enid sags in her arms, powerless against her touch, but Wednesday readily accepts her weight and Enid dazedly wonders how someone so small can be so unyielding.
"I've never been so afflicted by another person," Wednesday murmurs to her. "My good girl. Is it the same for you?"
"Worse," Enid whispers. All she has left is the truth. "Want you all the fucking time. Can't sleep without you anymore. I'd be pissed that you left me alone for so long if this were real." She sucks in an unsteady breath. "God, I wish this was real."
Wednesday's hand slides up into Enid's hair, holding firm on the back of her neck. "Forgive me, Puppy. I fell down a rabbit hole while trying to impress you. I....I should have remained in the real world instead of chasing after creatures in strange lands. The thought of you hurting because of something I did is unbearable."
And Enid can tell from the look on her face that Wednesday means every word.
"No matter what it costs, I will make this up to you," Wednesday vows. "You have my word—for whatever that's worth—that it will never happen again."
Enid sighs. "How does trying to impress me even lead to ignoring me for a week? Cause it was horrible. Just—so fucking bad. And also, why bother in the first place?" she huffs, hating that her very valid complaint has evolved into a petulant whine.
Wednesday sounds confused as she responds, "Are you asking why I would bother trying to impress you?"
"Obviously," Enid answers. "You expect me to believe that? Please. The real Wednesday would never say something that cheesy. And by the way, Real Wednesday wouldn't make a reference to a children's book either."
Wednesday's hand tightens. "Alice in Wonderland was my favorite story as a child."
"Why? Because the Jabberwocky gets beheaded at the end?" Enid snorts.
"Because Alice nearly becomes an overlord at the tender age of seven, yes. She was quite the role model," Wednesday replies.
Enid frowns. "...I think we read different stories."
"My version is much more interesting," Wednesday says. "Haven't you studied the Grimm Brothers? The famous outcast historians? It’s part of the required curriculum, Enid.”
"Well, sure, but I don't think Alice in Wonderland was covered by the Grimms—"
"Their version of the tale was in their personal notes," Wednesday states. "We have a collection of original journals at the house on Hell Mountain. Would you like to read them?"
Enid feels a bit hysterical as she agrees, "Sure, Fake Wednesday, I'd love to read the original journals kept at your fake house on the fake mountain. Gosh, what a treat!"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Hell Mountain is a very real place in the northern part of—"
"Other-Wednesday gives geography lessons, too? Who would've thought," Enid laughs to herself.
"'—And if you'd ever bothered to look at a map, you would know—what was that?" Wednesday suddenly demands.
Enid blinks back at her with wide eyes. "What was what?" she innocently asks.
Wednesday's eyes remain narrowed. "Enid."
"Yes?" Enid hums.
Wednesday cocks her head. "Do you think I'm dumb?"
"No," Enid immediately replies, eyes wide. "No version of you could ever be dumb."
Wednesday relaxes just in time for Enid to add, "Stupid, yes, but not dumb."
Wednesday stares back at her. "I'd forgotten," she murmurs.
Enid shifts her weight, trying not to grin. "Forgotten what?"
"What a mouth you have on you," Wednesday replies. "Shall I deal with you now, or later? Hm. It is the duty of the owner to ensure their Puppy comes to heel, but I confess—I want you to know it's me who handles you. I despise having to compete with a delusion."
Enid loses her breath. "Only Real Wednesday can punish me," she quickly says. "Sorry. Delusions don't have rights."
"No?" Wednesday goads her, leaning in so that her lips brush against Enid's cheek. "Then, if I were the real Wednesday, would it be my privilege to fix your attitude?"
"Y-Yes," Enid breathlessly agrees, her nails digging into her palms. "But you're not the real Wednesday, and anyway, I'm dead. Like, fully dead. Bones and all. Ashes to ashes, dust to—"
"What if you weren't?"
Enid frowns. "But…I am?"
"But what if you weren't dead?" Wednesday persists. "Then, would you believe me? Would you know that you are my heart?"
Enid's face involuntarily heats. "Oh God, I am in hell, aren't I? Rats. What did I do to deserve this? I mean, besides falling in love with my best friend and manipulating her into sleeping with me and all? Wait—I just answered my own question."
Wednesday looks distinctly unimpressed as she leans back. "Surely, you don't really think that."
Enid tries not to fidget. "Think what?"
Wednesday grasps her by the chin, forcing Enid to maintain eye contact. Enid can't help but make a small, pitiful noise of longing, her tongue slipping out to wet her lips. Wednesday releases a shuddering breath of her own.
"Enid," she says slowly and clearly, "You did not manipulate me into anything. I wanted to fuck you. I still want to fuck you. I don't want anyone else besides me to fuck you, in fact, for the rest of our lives and even thereafter. The thought of someone so much as walking over your grave makes me feel…" Wednesday seems to struggle for words, her grip tightening around Enid's jaw.
"Helpless?" Enid offers.
Wednesday blinks at her. "Homicidal."
Enid doesn't manage to fully muffle her giggle. "I don't think ghosts can have sex, Wednesday.”
Wednesday looks at her with the special brand of exasperation reserved for a misbehaving pet.
“But then again, we're here, aren't we?” Enid muses out loud, tilting her chin into Wednesday's very solid and un-ghostlike hand. “Huh. I guess anything's possible if you get into enough metaphysical trouble."
Wednesday chooses to ignore her ramblings. "Would you believe me, Enid?" she asks again. "I want to hear you say it. If I could prove we're alive, would you believe that this version of me—living, breathing, aching for you, version of me—could love you so irrevocably?"
Enid bites her lip, ignoring how Wednesday's gaze immediately locks onto her teeth.
"I could be persuaded," Enid breathes. "But—Wednesday, wait, we're—goddamn it, why are we in such a rush if we're already dead—!" she protests, nearly tripping over her own feet as she’s dragged across the room.
Wednesday glances over her shoulder, and Enid falls silent at the sight of her face split into a terrifying grin.
"Come," Wednesday insists, tugging Enid towards her desk. "I know how to prove it to you."
Notes:
imagine being so oblivious that you think it's more likely you're in hell conversing with the horny ghost of your lover than your crush is saying she likes you back
there are a lot of spinoffs/parodies/versions of alice in wonderland out there, so let's assume enid's recalling the 2014 movie and wednesday read the little-girl-almost-starts-an-underland-mafia rewrite from the grimm private collection (that only exists in the ithotm universe)
it's definitely my headcanon that historians were the first fanfiction writers. imagine the (immortal?) grimm brothers picking up alice in wonderland circa 1895 and being like "yeah, definitely, we should spruce this bad boy up. add some violence, maybe some crime. that's the ticket"
Chapter 31: Revelation
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Once they’ve crossed the lion’s share of the room, Wednesday releases Enid to kneel at her desk and drag out a box that normally serves as a footrest while she types. Enid tries very hard not to glance in her direction, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but goddamn—no one should look that good in leggings.
Today, Wednesday wears an entirely black ensemble with a thin jacket that barely reaches her hips. Enid wonders what Wednesday could have been doing at seven in the morning that necessitated forgoing loose clothing or open-toed shoes. And are those goggle marks around her eyes? Was Wednesday taking a sunrise swim?
It doesn't really matter, Enid decides. This is her hallucination, and she will be the one to determine how she receives it.
Wednesday's voice shocks her out of her reverie. "Have I ever explained to you how my powers differ from my mother's?"
Enid inches toward Wednesday's bed, unable to help herself. If it's her hallucination, surely she gets to push the boundaries of what the real Wednesday would normally tolerate. Enid takes a hesitant seat when no protest comes, knowing she probably looks like a stray dog waiting to be chased off with a broomstick and deciding she doesn't care.
"No," she admits, settling into her spot. Like most submissive wolves, her territory instinct doesn't ever truly fade. She came on this mattress, so now it's hers.
Wednesday turns and dumps an armful of candles onto the bed beside her. "There are different breeds of psychics."
Enid tenses at the word breed, but shakes herself out of it. This is not the time.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at whatever expression's on her face, but continues, "While my mother is a Dove, I am what's known as a Raven."
Enid frowns. "How many Ravens are there compared to Doves?"
Wednesday pauses for a moment. "I'm not sure. Both are rare, even amongst outcasts. The ancestor who originally guided me, Goody Addams, happened to share my sunny disposition," she dryly says, "As she was also a Raven. Only an ancestor of the same type can teach you to navigate your visions."
Enid bites her lip. "I guess that makes sense."
"It does," Wednesday agrees, "Because, as a Raven, my visions are guaranteed to be dark in nature and are often fraught with danger or omens of death."
Enid nods like she already knew this, picking up the jar that rolled against her thigh to give her hands something to do. She takes a good whiff of the candle and instantly fights the urge to gag.
What the fuck kind of scent is this? Eternal suffering?
Of course, Enid thinks, it would be her own personal hell to be surrounded by sickening scented candles.
Wednesday obviously catches her reaction because that vaguely amused expression that makes Enid's toes curl appears on her face. "It’s difficult for me to contact ancestors who don’t share my abilities, so that limits our options considerably. They tend to be…picky. My usual aspen and sandalwood candles won’t cut it.”
“So we’re lighting up the devil’s asshole instead?” Enid mutters under her breath.
Wednesday’s lips twitch. “Teakwood and petrichor, actually. But close.”
Enid sighs. “Who are we even trying to contact?” she asks, rolling the purple candle between her palms.
Teakwood and petrichor is revolting. Who would even think to make a candle with such a wretched scent? She hasn't smelled something this awful since—
"Wait," Enid breathes, head snapping up. "Wednesday, aren’t these your—"
"Séance supplies? That would be correct," Wednesday answers. She then points to the floor at her feet. "Come. You have to be in place before I begin drawing the runes."
Enid stares at her with wide eyes. "Um. What's a rune?"
Wednesday looks caught between exasperation and something warm and heavy that has Enid's heart leaping into her throat.
"I suppose we could do this the hard way," Wednesday considers. Her eyes abruptly narrow. "You truly have no prior experience with runework? None at all?"
Enid shakes her head.
"....Alright," Wednesday exhales, brow furrowing as she thinks. "I suppose…to be safe."
She glances at Enid, who remains wide-eyed and confused on the bed, and her face hardens with determination.
"Yes. Better to be safe," Wednesday says with a firm nod. "I was going to use ink, but since you've had no exposure to runes at all, wax would be the safer choice."
Before Enid can formulate a response, Wednesday is already disappearing into the closet and returning with the portable hotplate. Enid watches her plug in the burner and crank it up to high without comment.
She's curious as to why, exactly, they need to boil water for a séance, but figures it might be considered rude to ask. This isn't her area of expertise; it's Wednesday's. She is just along for the ride.
It could just be some sort of relaxation technique that Wednesday employs to get into the right headspace to deal with her ancestors. If there's one thing Enid does understand, it's the need for coping mechanisms when certain family members are involved.
Interestingly, Wednesday doesn't reach for the kettle stashed above her bookshelf as Enid expects. Instead, she unearths a pair of pots perfectly sized for a single portion of instant noodles, which is certainly not something Wednesday would ever consume by choice. She doesn't believe in food that requires hot water in order to be edible.
Enid, something of a connoisseur of instant noodles herself, is certain she's never even seen those pots before today. She can't imagine why Wednesday wastes her very limited storage space on such random, useless objects.
While Wednesday troops off to the bathroom to fill one of the pots with water, Enid capitalizes on the few seconds she has alone to take a series of deep, centering breaths. Paying too close of attention to Wednesday’s hands is starting to affect her scent in a way that’s wildly obvious to anyone within a ten-foot radius of her.
As soon as the water pot is set on the burner, it begins sizzling, the smell of heating glass causing Enid's nose to wrinkle. Wednesday glances in her direction again and suddenly seems to be having significant trouble tearing her eyes away. There's a new hesitance in her movements as she arranges a brown paper package and what looks like an antique music box on top of her desk.
At first, Enid thinks Wednesday's just embarrassed about the fact that the package turns out to be a block of baby-pink wax. Enid peers down at the disgusting scented candle, colored a light purple, and smirks to herself. She wouldn't have pegged Wednesday Addams for having such a penchant for pastels. Then again, this is her hallucination, so she may be influencing things subconsciously.
Either way, Enid's still basking in the hilarity of it all right up until Wednesday produces a small key to unlock the music box and carefully unwraps the cloth bundle hidden inside; then, her amusement turns to paralyzing fear.
It makes sense now why Wednesday had given her that look, had watched her so closely for the slightest sign of panic. In her hand is an unremarkable, unobtrusive, and largely unattractive silver knife.
"I have to use neutral tools on anything involved in the ritual," Wednesday quietly says. Then, as if she can't help herself, "Please don't move until I'm finished."
Enid can't bring herself to nod, but they both know she wouldn't dare venture an inch closer, regardless.
She had no idea Wednesday was keeping silver in the room. Enid certainly would have panicked and run for the hills if she'd known such an item was hidden amongst Wednesday’s belongings when she first moved in.
Whenever a wolf comes into physical contact with silver, the affected area will swell, often breaking out in a painful rash that can burn for weeks. If they're unfortunate enough to suffer direct exposure—like, say, accidentally pricking their finger on a silver needle—the resulting infection poisons the bloodstream, ultimately leading to a slow and painful death.
There is no treatment for silver poisoning. No cure, no hope. Wednesday would have garnered a less severe reaction if she had held a loaded gun to Enid's head.
It is purely her faith in Wednesday, even in hallucination form, that keeps Enid frozen in place while the block of wax is unceremoniously cut into. Chunks of wax begin to accumulate in a haphazard pile on the desk as Wednesday quickly works. The moment she’s finished, the blade is rewrapped, locked up, and condemned back to the depths of her lowest desk drawer. Only when it's out of sight does Enid's chest finally loosen enough to breathe.
"I apologize," Wednesday abruptly says.
She's turned away, facing the now-simmering water, but Enid spots the tension in her spine. It’s obvious in the set of her shoulders and the strain in her neck as she balances the empty pot on top of its bubbling mate. Enid keeps her eyes on Wednesday’s hands, each motion jerky and sharp as she scoops up the wax pieces and begins dropping them into the empty pot to melt. What did that wax ever do to be treated with such vicious contempt?
More than anything, Enid is surprised by the unexpected note in Wednesday’s tone.
While Wednesday's face typically remains some shade of neutral no matter the situation, her voice often fluctuates with the tide of her emotions. An untrained ear might not catch it, but Enid’s had enough experience translating Wednesday Inflections into actual feelings to be able to hear the difference. She’s heard Wednesday sneering with derision, snapping in irritation, drawling with infuriating arrogance; she’s heard amusement, interest, and on very rare occasions, a warmth that could even be mistaken for fondness.
Enid has never, not for any reason, heard her voice tinged with guilt.
Why would she? Wednesday never gave a shit about what made Enid uncomfortable. She once went as far as keeping gruesome crime scene photos tacked up on a presentation board in the middle of the dorm room for an entire day, even knowing Enid couldn’t look at it without feeling faint. Once upon a time, it had been easier for Wednesday to have Thing continually rouse Enid with smelling salts than to turn the board around and interrupt her investigative process.
What’s changed to have her unraveling just from the thought of Enid being in the same room as a silver blade?
This hallucination is starting to go off-script. The real Wednesday would never waste energy worrying about such a thing. She would trust her own ability to keep the silver away from Enid even if some slight possibility of an accident occurring remained because the real Wednesday simply wouldn’t care to think about that one percent chance. She needs a silver blade for her séances? Done. Keep it away from Enid, nothing to worry about, and no need to ruminate on the topic any longer—that is the exact thought process that the Wednesday who first arrived at Nevermore would go through.
This Wednesday, on the other hand, is starting to look a little bit unhinged.
“It’s okay,” Enid ventures, willing her voice not to shake. “Don’t…don’t worry about it, Wednesday, I’m fine.”
She’s not. Even the sight of silver would be enough to send a dominant wolf into a full-blown panic attack. A submissive wolf like her? Forget it. Still, Enid doesn’t realize she’s made a critical error until Wednesday wheels around to face her with all the temperance of a horseman of the apocalypse, her lips parting in sheer disbelief.
Enid falls silent and still immediately, instinctually. The wolf in her recognizes a predator and warns her not to make any sudden movements lest she incur the wrath of a stronger beast. Something has clearly gone wrong in her head, some wires not only crossed but knotted into complete mayhem because her body doesn’t know whether to be terrified or frenzied at the onset of Wednesday’s fury. Her heart pounds and her jaw aches. Her nails dig into her palms when her tongue tastes blood. Her canines puncture the inside of her cheeks, her skin flushing with a slow and devastating heat that blooms in her stomach and rushes to her face, and something is wrong with her that will never be right again.
Enid clearly needs more therapy, or a fucking kick to the head, or something, because there shouldn’t be a whine building in her throat. The room shouldn’t be filling with the overwhelming scent of vanilla, a sugary sweetness she could never hope to pass off as anything but utter desperation.
Wednesday stalks toward her with all the grace of a killer, footsteps light enough to be nearly soundless and purposeful enough to shake the foundation of Enid’s faith that this is a mere hallucination, a dream, a nightmare that has no bearing on real life.
The Wednesday that looms over her isn’t a vision she could have conjured up herself.
“Enid.” Wednesday’s voice curls around her name, this time with the sharpness of a precipice and the promise of a merciless fall should she stick one more toe out of line and over the edge.
What’s that saying about ruling out every impossibility until all that remains is the truth, however improbable?
“Look at me.”
Enid trembles. She should have paid better attention in Victorian Literature.
Maybe then, she wouldn’t have deluded herself into believing a lie so absolutely that she couldn’t even contemplate the alternative.
Enid shudders at the feeling of Wednesday’s touch beneath her chin, coaxing her gaze off the floor. Wednesday meets her eyes with an unreadable expression.
“Did you just lie to me, Puppy?” she asks, voice soft and stinging and sure.
If only Enid had paid a bit more attention in that stupid fucking class, maybe she would’ve realized long before this moment that the Wednesday standing before her, no matter how improbable, is real.
Notes:
in the spirit of valentine's day, have some completely fucking unhinged wednesday and enid
and next chapter: rune sex *jazz hands*
UPDATE: so work blew up again :) but this time i will be back in about 24hrs with the next chapter! also im sorry but this mf about to get even longer
Chapter 32: Devotion
Notes:
im gonna assume everyone has seen the entirety of season one but IN CASE YOU HAVENT: this chapter contains spoilers
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid has experienced a paradigm shift on three separate occasions throughout her life. All of them, ironically enough, revolved around Wednesday Addams.
The first shift occurred when she transformed under the blood moon and nearly lost her head fighting the Hyde. Before that night, Enid had been unfinished, all the pieces of herself hanging loose and vulnerable like an amateur knitting project. Her yarn never sat quite right, and she was soft and malleable as a result.
Then Wednesday walked in, each thread perfect and even and pulled so tight, there wasn't a chance in hell of anyone influencing her. Enid had faced a choice of either making peace with being a doormat or learning to stand her ground.
Even then, Wednesday had given no quarter, a modern-day pirate in black designer boots. Those who didn't know her personally would say she was a cold, unfeeling girl; those who did know her would more accurately call her ruthless.
For Tyler, Wednesday Addams had been a worthy adversary and then a disappointment. For Enid—and Eugene—she was a nightmare, using people like it was her job and refusing any genuine attempts at friendship. That first term living together was an exercise in restraint for all parties involved.
Wednesday's apathetic behavior ultimately led to Enid packing her bags and fucking off to Yoko's room once she reached her limit of being just another utensil in Wednesday's toolbox. But, if nothing else, Wednesday did force Enid to stand up for herself, and Enid's certain she earned a little bit of Wednesday's respect by refusing to roll over and take it.
Then there was the matter of the hug.
Enid hadn't been trying to stomp on Wednesday's boundaries, she really hadn't, but her blood was still up from finally connecting to her wolf and all the reasons why she shouldn't care about Wednesday's well-being meant nothing in the face of potentially losing her for good. Her wolf had ardently agreed.
It had felt like Enid was the only fucking person on Earth concerned with where Wednesday had gone while the rest of the school milled around in the dark, waiting for news. Enid doesn't remember much of her thought process in those long, awful minutes besides do something, find, need, Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday.
Maybe her wolf knew something she didn't, even all the way back then. It hadn't just been Enid's biological drive pushing her in Wednesday's direction.
It was how she felt when Wednesday deigned to bestow her full attention on her. It was the awkward hostility Wednesday reacted with when Enid made the mistake of gushing about her behind-the-shed fumblings with Ajax, a misstep she never repeated due to the look on Wednesday's face alone. It was the fact that they have always, from the moment they locked eyes for the first time, shared an uncanny ability to find each other in a crowd.
Even before Enid knew that she loved her, she might as well have been a tuning fork set to the frequency of one Wednesday Addams. Enid was always aware of her, forever instinctively seeking her out, and the night of the blood moon had been no different.
Wednesday had reappeared after her duel with Crackstone, battered and bloodied but alive, and Enid moved before her brain could issue a single conscious command. Wearing nothing but a coat, she sprinted to the gate and threw herself at Wednesday in front of the entire student body with zero thought to the fact that they weren't even speaking at the moment—or, and perhaps more pressingly, that Wednesday did not appreciate nor tolerate any physical affection, least of all from her.
It probably would have ended up being the most humiliating moment of Enid's short life if Wednesday hadn't returned the embrace twofold, clutching Enid to her chest like she was the last lifejacket onboard the Titanic. When they eventually pulled apart, Wednesday’s face had been smeared with the blood and tears from Enid’s cheeks.
That moon changed everything.
No longer was Wednesday a cold, unwelcoming source of anxiety on the peripherals of Enid's life. She was a friend, an ally, and the closest thing to stability that Enid had ever known. It turned out Wednesday was a bit like a barnacle in that once she latched onto something, she'd sooner die than let it go. The shift in their friendship was immediate and startling.
Enid, for her part, barely recognized herself in the aftermath. All the little things that had been so unattractive about her before were suddenly seen as boons—blessings, even. Her preference for only wearing light, pretty pastels and ruffles and skirts was no longer a sign of immaturity, but desirable femininity. Her constant need for affection and praise wasn’t ever considered annoying. In fact, she was encouraged, every irritating or toxic behavior excused as a quirk of well-adjusted submissive wolves. Even her sensitivity to smell and certain irritating fabrics was met with fondness and warmth.
Older wolves began to dote on her, petting her hair at every opportunity and remarking how good of a mate she would make, calling her all manner of cute things; Honey and Sweetie were particularly popular choices. Enid had honestly thought herself desensitized to pet names of any kind before Wednesday came along and set her straight.
With the turning of the blood moon, Enid lost the anonymous face she'd worn before and awoke as a rare commodity, even amongst her own kind. She was recognized on the streets and spoken about behind closed doors. People she had never even met before contacted her parents and asked about her, seeking to know if that little Sinclair wolf would meet their son, their nephew, themselves.
Somehow, in defeating her fate as the perpetual family embarrassment, Enid became something much worse: a bargaining chip.
Her mother had always wanted status. Her father refused to defy his beloved dominant wolf. And Enid, the smallest, least valuable Sinclair, was their shiny golden ticket to accessing the most powerful packs in the country. Every break from Nevermore was crammed full of parties and dinners and sporting events where she was expected to keep smiling, sit silently, and allow strangers close enough to get a good whiff of her scent.
The second time Enid's world imploded was in the wake of her heat with Wednesday when she realized that one, she was full-on fucking in love with her best friend, two, she wanted said best friend for her mate, and three—it was never going to happen. Experiencing all of that in quick succession felt like being put through a spin cycle on apocalypse mode. Enid emerged intact, but at great personal cost.
The third time her life resettled with all the pieces in different places than before would be this moment, sitting on a bed that does not belong to her, struggling to accept the fact that Wednesday—the living, breathing, real Wednesday Addams—actually believes herself to be in love. With Enid.
Which makes no fucking sense at all, if she thinks about it for longer than ten seconds, because Enid isn't someone who is meant to be loved. She knows her role in life. She knows how things are supposed to go. The moment she presented as submissive, Enid knew she would serve as a glorified broodmare for the most powerful dominant wolf her mother could get her hands on. That is her lot in life. No one, not even Wednesday, can change the tides of fate.
The idea of taking a mate who actually loves her, someone her mother would never consider for her, just hadn't been a sincere possibility. It was a daydream. A wish for whenever things became too much. In reality, her mother would slaughter her if she had even a hint of a clue of how close Enid is to ruining the plan.
Since the night of the blood moon—no, since the moment she met Wednesday Addams—Enid has been toeing the edge of a metaphorical cliff. Her wolf can certainly be blamed for some of it, but in truth, this choice is Enid's to make and ultimately suffer the consequences of alone.
If she goes along with this bout of insanity on Wednesday's part and agrees to be courted, she may lose her home pack for good. It would mean the end of whatever ties she'd maintained in hopes of one day earning her parents' acceptance. Love was too much to ask, but she'd hoped that they'd at least be content with her someday.
If Enid jumps, she would have nobody to catch her besides Wednesday, who very well could decide at some point in the future that lifelong monogamy isn't sustainable. Wednesday isn't a wolf like she is; even after they bonded, she could move on from Enid if she so chose. Really, Enid would be the one taking on all the risk here.
She could still do it anyway.
Enid comes to terms with all of these realizations at once in a rare moment of clarity, and for some reason, the thought that pushes through the spinning frenzy of her awareness is shit, but what courting traditions do the Addams follow?
Enid knows then that she's just delaying the inevitable. This may hurt her—will probably ruin her, when the rose-colored goggles crack and Wednesday realizes she's being an idiot—but life isn't inherently kind. Not to Enid, not to anyone. Even if she goes along with her parents' wishes, plays the part of a darling daughter to the point of fooling even herself, she's still going to hurt.
It's just a matter of deciding what pain she's willing to endure and then committing to the leap into whatever end awaits her.
Something must show on her face, some sign that she's experienced a shift of the soul because Wednesday's eyes widen, and suddenly, Enid cannot bear to meet her gaze.
She loves her. Enid loves her so completely, even Wednesday's displeasure sounds like a song.
She presses a hand to her aching chest. Learning that Wednesday cared all along may have healed the flood of devastation inside her, but the landscape still bears the evidence that disaster had struck. Everything from before feels washed away, and Enid is left staring at an unfamiliar future. Where do they go from here?
It occurs to Enid that she's shaking, possibly on the edge of a complete meltdown, and that Wednesday has been talking to her for at least the last minute.
"Puppy." Wednesday's voice finally reaches her. "Eyes on me."
Enid's gaze snaps up.
"Good girl," Wednesday breathes. She looks unsettled, but in the way that a thief is unsettled breaking into a poor person's house. Worried, Enid thinks. She's worried. "Listen to me, Enid. I need you to hear what I am about to say."
Enid nods, attention fully and entirely devoted to whatever is about to come out of her mouth. Wednesday seems to know it, too, since her face briefly softens before falling back into solemnity.
"You never need to lie to me," Wednesday tells her. "There is nothing on earth you should fear to the point of not giving me your truth."
She reaches up, delicate fingertips tracing the shape of Enid's jaw. "You do not need to protect me. I will protect us," she vows.
Her touch migrates to Enid's temples, fingers tucking Enid's hair behind her ear. "You do not need to spare my feelings. My heart already belongs to you, and it is your prerogative to do with it what you will."
Enid's eyes flutter open, and she feels warm and dazed and seen as Wednesday continues, "But Enid—do not lie to me. Never you," she insists, voice wavering ever so slightly as to be nearly unnoticeable. "I could not bear it."
Enid, being who she is, reacts to this statement by immediately bursting into tears.
"M'sorry, Wednesday," she warbles. "Won't lie to you again."
Wednesday grants her a small, fragile smile as she brushes the tears from Enid's cheeks. "I know you won't. You're my good girl, aren't you, Puppy?"
Since words won’t ever suffice, all Enid can do is nod her agreement.
***
Wednesday finds herself obsessing about a variety of things on a regular basis, but none moreso than Enid Sinclair.
She often catches herself observing how Enid writes, which shoes she chooses to wear, what nesting materials make her eyes sparkle when she smiles. At least once a week, like clockwork, Wednesday is consumed with uncovering the origin of whatever song Enid happens to be humming under her breath.
Most of all, she dedicates time each day to worrying if Enid is happy, if she'd be better off with someone who could give her what Wednesday cannot. No matter how much she studies, Wednesday will never be able to replicate the feeling of being with a true dominant wolf. In some ways, she's already failed.
Dominant wolves don't concern themselves with every detail of their submissive's day like she does. They don't become paralyzed with fear at the thought of Enid returning home alone to be thrown to the wolves, so to speak, without a shield. They aren't haunted by memories of hearing Enid cry herself to sleep every full moon prior to her first transformation.
Even before Wednesday understood what her feelings meant, she'd been twisted with rage knowing that Enid was hurting and there was nothing she could do to correct it. She'd lie awake at night plotting ways to whisk Enid far away from the influence of her parents—if those people even deserve to be referred to as such—and allowing the Addams to show Enid what a family should be.
Realizing that she is in love with Enid hadn't suffocated the fire, not even a little bit. Not even at all.
Now, Wednesday lies awake cycling through different schemes which all end with Enid coming into mysterious money that most certainly did not originate from her trust fund. She wants to spoil Enid like she wants to continue breathing, but most of all, Wednesday desires for Enid to know that she will always have an ally in her. No matter the circumstances, no matter the cost, Wednesday will be behind her, feet planted and ready for war.
Given all of that, the runes she's chosen and will soon adorn Enid's body with make an astonishing amount of sense. Gomez, clown that he is, chose Longing, Passion, and a rune most closely translated as Tenderness that Wednesday can't look at without wanting to crawl out of her skin when he performed this same ritual with Morticia years ago.
While wolves may court with offerings and displays of devotion, Wednesday's kin do things differently. Her kind prove their devotion, mark their skin with the inner workings of their hearts. Now more than ever, as she catches the tears painting her pet's pretty face while Enid stares up at her with an expression so honest it aches, Wednesday is secure in her choices:
Illumination, the reversed form of Inhibition, and Satisfaction.
Notes:
i totally fucking lied. what's new.
so rune sex is still incoming but as you already know my personal brand is the inability to ever stay on task without exponentially increasing the chapter count :')
Chapter 33: Inhibition
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid can feel Wednesday's eyes on her.
She normally adores being in Wednesday's bed, but between the pot of melting wax on the desk and the strange, intense look on Wednesday's face, Enid can't help but feel a little bit of trepidation. She's never actually witnessed Wednesday performing a ritual before.
"The room needs to be dark," Wednesday speaks up. "Will you shut the curtains? I have to take care of other things before we begin."
Enid nods, scooting off the bed and hurrying across the room. She has to stretch to grab the curtain cord above their bay window, her shirt riding up and exposing her lower back, but she manages. The repurposed marquee curtain comes down with little reluctance.
When she turns around, Wednesday is staring at her. Enid pulls her shirt back down with heat in her cheeks while Wednesday raises an eyebrow and continues placing candles on the floor. The order of the arrangement seems random, though Enid gets the sense every detail is predetermined and exact.
The room is dark enough now to have even Enid struggling to see, but she could never miss how Wednesday folds down onto her knees with a grace that would stop cars on the street. As a wolf, Enid is used to inhuman physical advantages in the balance, strength, and stamina departments, but Wednesday makes it look like a dance. The strike of her match is a ballerina's saute, each motion sweeping and perfect. Beautiful. Enid loses her breath watching Wednesday perform with the ease of a professional with full confidence in her execution.
In one fluid movement, Wednesday rises to her feet and sets a lit candle on the desk. The pink wax has completely melted. Enid's heart leaps into her throat at the thought of what comes next, but Wednesday ignores the wax entirely and instead retrieves a pot of ink and a small, thin paintbrush.
Enid is disappointed right up until Wednesday begins rolling up her sleeves.
"What are you doing?" Enid asks, biting her lip as she shuffles closer.
Wednesday takes a seat on the bed, patting the spot beside her in invitation. The command is silent but clear.
Enid all but dives forward, scrambling up onto the bed as ordered. She peers over Wednesday's shoulder and watches Wednesday unscrew the lid of the inkwell.
"Enid—you should know that there is a cost to using runes," Wednesday explains. "Runes are like blessings, affording us some skill or talent we wouldn't otherwise have, but they require a sacrifice."
Enid gulps. "Does that mean we'll be slaughtering chickens or-or other defenseless woodland creatures?" Please don't say cats or rabbits.
"No," Wednesday retorts, amusement clear in her tone. "The sacrifice must be your own. Each rune has a nulling factor that automatically neutralizes the intended effect. This factor is often the action you would take to rescind the sacrifice you made for the rune's power."
Enid frowns. "I'm not sure I understand, but go on."
"We must be careful not to activate the nulling factor while the rune is in use, or it becomes worthless," Wednesday says. "As long as your sacrifice—your payment, so to speak—endures, so shall the rune. I've heard of a group of witches in Europe who offered their voices as a sacrifice for the Wisdom rune. They've maintained their vow of silence for decades, and the rune never faded."
"But—what use is wisdom if you can't tell anyone the right thing to do?" Enid asks.
Wednesday hums. "If it was easily given, it wouldn't be a proper sacrifice. Speech for wisdom, fulfillment for pleasure...this sort of magic has a cost and we, as bearers, must pay it."
Enid nods, ignoring the foreboding feeling that blooms to life at those words. "What do I need to do?"
Wednesday dips her brush into the inkwell, allowing it to drip for a moment before beginning to paint the back of her left hand with deft, sure movements. Surprisingly enough, the ink doesn't bleed; it arcs across her skin in such a cooperative fashion that Enid almost suspects it's somehow doing Wednesday's bidding.
"The nulling factor changes depending on the rune and the bearer. If I had drawn this rune—Inhibition—in its original form, it would have increased my inhibitions and influenced me to act with modesty and caution.”
“Oh,” Enid whispers. “Wow. It's like virginity magic.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth twitches up. “That is a common sacrifice, but not one that you or I could make at this point, wouldn't you agree?"
Enid's face begins to heat again.
"As I was saying," Wednesday continues, "If I had drawn the original form of Inhibition, the nulling factor likely would have been the act of uncovering my skin.”
Enid frowns. “So, taking off your clothes—”
“—and behaving immodestly," Wednesday interjects.
“...And behaving immodestly,” Enid agrees, “Would make the Inhibition rune cancel out?”
“Correct.” Wednesday finishes her stroke, peering at her hand in the candlelight. Her eyes dart up to meet Enid’s gaze. “Can you guess the effects of Inhibition in its mirrored form?”
Enid stares at her, highly aware of the burning in her cheeks.
Wednesday is definitely smirking as she wets her brush again. "Pity. Since I am applying Inhibition in reverse, it will have the opposite effect on me."
Enid tenses. Part of her doesn't believe it. "Then…then you'll—"
"Lose my inhibitions?" Wednesday dryly asks, painting another line over her skin. "Yes. I will."
Enid bites her lip, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her gut. The idea of Wednesday losing her inhibitions to any extent has Enid's heart leaping into her throat. This is every fantasy she's ever had multiplied to the extreme.
Enid has been a slave to her instincts and utterly out of control, sure, but Wednesday? The legend herself, Addams family eldest and resident terror of Nevermore? Enid cannot imagine what it would look like for Wednesday to give in to whatever temptations lurk in the deepest part of herself.
Wednesday wets her brush a third time, and she sucks in a sharp breath the moment her final stroke peters off. Her head tips back as she exhales.
The candles seem to burn brighter, the curtains fluttering with a breeze that Enid cannot feel. She can't stop looking at Wednesday's throat, at the spot that would bear her mark if she took Wednesday for her mate. It's a dangerous line of thought in a room of flame and draining inhibitions. Enid doesn't speak, but the hair on the back of her neck raises, and Wednesday’s head snaps toward her in tandem. Every instinct in Enid screams to life at once. She’s almost too afraid to look but ultimately is glad she found the courage.
Wednesday’s pupils dilate the moment Enid meets her gaze.
Enid swallows hard. "Wednesday?" she tries, voice high and desperate.
Wednesday's eyes widen at the sound, her lips parting with a shuddering breath. Enid's not sure what she was expecting to come out of Wednesday’s mouth, but it certainly wasn't,
"Why are you still wearing clothes?"
Enid blinks at her. "W-What?"
Wednesday shifts her entire body to face her, crawling forward on hand and knee to plant her palms on either side of Enid's waist. Her eyes remain locked on her target. Enid, for her part, instinctively lays back on the mattress, leaving herself open and vulnerable with her legs dangling over the side as Wednesday hovers over her.
For a moment, Enid holds her breath, unsure and unsteady but always, always willing to trust Wednesday with everything she has.
Then Wednesday ducks down another inch, Enid automatically bares her neck, and sharp teeth latch onto her throat.
Enid whimpers out loud, her nails tearing through the blankets she's gripping as Wednesday's bite tightens. Any harder, and she'll draw blood.
Any harder, and they will both reach the point of no return.
If Enid is bitten, then she will be, for all intents and purposes, permanently bound to Wednesday. Of course, the bond won't feel the same as it would with a dominant wolf because fate is a cruel mistress and nothing about Enid's life has ever been fair, but any wolf would still view her as damaged goods for having been marked.
Enid shuts her eyes, figuring that whatever happens, happens, and at least she'll be Wednesday's problem from now on. There are worse things in life than a mate who just happens not to originate from your same species. Enid would take a mate who loves her over the strongest dominant wolf on the planet every time without hesitation.
Dominant wolf or not, nobody else could hope to compare to the might of Wednesday Addams.
Wednesday inhales again, clamping down harder, but the pressure on Enid’s neck disappears right before her skin can split in the shape of Wednesday’s teeth. Enid has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from sobbing out loud. So close, she was so close, and what does uninhibited Wednesday do?
Stop herself from claiming Enid.
It isn't a rejection, not truly, but Enid still feels like her heart is hemorrhaging in her chest.
"Why are you crying?" Wednesday demands, straight to point without mercy.
Enid struggles to get herself back under control. For someone who hasn't been affected by a single rune, she's sure acting like a lunatic.
"It's because I didn't mark you," Wednesday deduces. "Don't misunderstand—I want to. I dream about how your body would look covered in bite marks. It incenses me to know that your ass, at the very least, doesn’t already bear my mark. It’s mine. It should have my name on it.”
All tears forgotten, Enid’s internal monologue begins to sound like one long scream.
“I think of claiming you at least once a day,” Wednesday continues, ignorant to the fact that Enid is clinging to her composure by a thread. “When I lose focus in class, I’m often wondering if your blood will taste as sweet as your cunt."
Enid gasps, her heart pounding in her ears as she arches beneath her. "W-Wednesday—"
"Don't ask me to come," Wednesday interrupts her. "I won't let you. Understood?"
Enid can barely bring herself to nod.
Wednesday hums, cocking her head as her attention returns to Enid's throat. "You smell like you're going to disobey. Do I need to tie you down, Enid?"
Enid hesitates because honestly, it's not a bad idea. She can't be trusted to retain control over anything right now, not her pussy or her head or her heart. She's a mess. A melted puddle of longing and slick that belongs to Wednesday Addams.
"The fact that you're considering it tells me the situation is dire," Wednesday notes, pulling away. "Fine. I know you want my tongue, but you'll have to settle for having it in your mouth."
Wednesday hikes Enid further up the bed by her thighs, ignoring her wordless pleas and needy, outstretched hands. Wednesday sits back on her heels and contemplates Enid with an unrepentant expression. She looks fearsome in shadow, harsh and unforgiving, and the ink on her hand appears to be eating the light. Each swirl looks like a tear in the fabric of reality or a diminishing vein of stars, a roadmap to ruin on Wednesday's skin.
The rune's magic confuses Enid's eye, making it hard for her to perceive precisely how the ink contrasts with Wednesday. With each passing second, the black lines undulate, shameless and wet and alive.
Wednesday's touch begins to wander, her palms sliding down Enid's sides to her legs. She jerks Enid's knees apart, hitching Enid's thighs up around her hips in a clear invitation for Enid to wrap her legs around her waist.
Enid complies, relieved to be able to snake her arms around Wednesday's neck and attempt to drag her down. Wednesday doesn't give in, as such a thing would be ludicrous if not outright impossible, but she indulges Enid's blatant attempts to reach her mouth and voluntarily leans down to kiss her.
Enid groans, the note catching in her throat as Wednesday's tongue finds her canines. She doesn't realize she's been thrusting upward in search of something to rub against until Wednesday's lips curl into a smirk. Enid would be horrified if she wasn't so turned on.
"No riches could tempt me from the flowers of your mouth," Wednesday murmurs.
Enid whimpers, arching her back again. Her veins feel like she's been suffused with molten gold. Arousal crests over her like a wave, blotting out her surroundings until there is Wednesday and everything else. She feels worlds apart from what mattered only moments before.
"Please," she gasps, thighs locked around Wednesday's hips. "P-Please, Wednesday, n-need you to fuck me. Need you, need you,” she begs.
Wednesday remains silent for less than ten seconds before surrendering.
"You can rut, but don't come," she acquiesces.
Enid hardly hears her.
Notes:
work will be a nightmare this week so updates will be sporadic, but i am so grateful for the comments you guys have been leaving. it’s like a friggin lifeline to be able to take a second and just focus on our girls when i’m scrambling to put out fires so in conclusion THANK YOU
the flowers from your mouth line is inspired by Nikephoros Ouranos, doux of Antioch, Epistle 38: "I am absolutely possessed by the thought of the many pleasures….and indeed the greatest of all—my gold-pourer, which is to say, your mouth and its flowers."
Chapter 34: Truth
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid, admittedly, has a lot of suspect kinks.
It's pretty common amongst wolves to have a thing for scents, but most don't feel the urge to scent everything in arm's reach like a dog pissing in the yard. Territory-marking to the extreme is a compulsion exclusive to Enid and one with which she has long made her peace.
On that note, Enid is incredibly lucky that Wednesday never complained about their living space constantly stinking of vanilla. Moving in with Enid is practically a death sentence. She scents her things so much, it doesn't matter where Wednesday hides her own belongings—they'll all still smell like Enid. It's not exactly conducive for someone looking to date (which Wednesday never expressed interest in, but still) to constantly smell like another wolf. If Wednesday spent any time around wolves who weren't Enid, she would certainly get some comments.
Enid makes a point of clamping down on her more obvious urges in public, but she can't control her dreams, which paint another picture of problems starting with her repressed desire to be tied down like an animal and ending with her fervent wish to have Wednesday's hand around her throat. Bondage is one thing, but choking? Letting a human grab her by the neck like a misbehaving pet? She should be embarrassed out of principle.
Then, of course, there are the more alarming kinks she won't admit aloud. Enid isn't one to kinkshame, but even she can recognize it’s concerning how badly she wants Wednesday to rip into her with her teeth.
Even for a submissive wolf, Enid's obsession with Wednesday marking her is uncomfortable at best and disturbing at worst. How is she supposed to explain to Wednesday that she needs to keep her mouth closed lest Enid break the rules and come all over herself anyway just from catching a glimpse of those teeth?
For fuck's sake, Wednesday doesn't even have canines. She shouldn't affect Enid like this, shouldn't inspire her to go limp like a doll, shouldn't have saliva filling Enid's mouth in a physical reaction so natural, it's barely worth noting.
Enid shivers, wishing very much that she could have these epiphanies without the added discomfort of clothing. Grinding on Wednesday is a gift and a privilege, but as ever, Enid's greed wins out and she wants closer, harder, more.
"What's wrong, Puppy?" Wednesday asks, leaning down until their lips nearly touch. Enid doesn't startle, but she does audibly swallow.
"Well?" Wednesday presses. "Tell me. I want to know every thought that goes through your head while—while—"
Wednesday suddenly grimaces, gritting her teeth against the words fighting to escape her, and Enid wonders if she imagines the way the Inhibition rune constricts with warning. Either way, Wednesday appears to have given in to the urge because all at once, her shoulders loosen and she blurts out,
"—while you rub that tight little cunt of yours on my thigh."
Enid makes a strangled noise in response.
Wednesday obviously was hesitant to say such a thing out loud, recognizing even through the haze of Inhibition that she doesn’t speak to her like this, but Enid feels like she's living out her wildest dreams. Wednesday doesn’t have heats; she doesn’t ever experience the special hell of knowing she’s behaving in a socially unacceptable way but still being too out of control to stop herself.
Enid isn't one to bet, but if she was, she'd put every dollar she has down on this being the closest Wednesday will ever come to being in heat.
It’s the sort of realization that leaves the ground shaking beneath you. Enid is starting to grasp that Wednesday Addams without her filter—without the composure that ensures every word out of her mouth is intentional, strategic, and stinging—is a whole other beast. A monster, even. A terror of the night that coaxes little girls from their beds and draws them deep into the woods beyond all shades of safety. This Wednesday is treacherous.
This Wednesday is hers.
"Want clothes off," Enid pleads, tilting her head back to shamelessly show off her unmarked neck. "Hurts, Wednesday. Hurts so much.”
It doesn't—not really, but Wednesday reacts to her little ploy like she's been shot. She jerks back, an expression of horror dawning on her face as she takes in Enid's simple shirt and leggings. She has no right to look like Enid’s outfit just killed her dog in cold blood.
"Are you attached to these?" Wednesday asks, fingers already slipping under the waistband of Enid's leggings in anticipation of pulling them off.
Enid already knows her answer won’t matter, but she dutifully says, "No, why?"
Wednesday tears right through the fabric, ripping a hole that eventually splits her leggings into a fucked-up pair of thigh highs. Enid has never been shut up so effectively. She’s not only speechless, she’s mindless, all rational thought fleeing in favor of looking up at Wednesday with her heart in her throat. When Wednesday deigns to meet her gaze, Enid’s cheeks burn.
“Something to say?” Wednesday asks with the sort of tone that promises retribution.
Enid fails to hide her shiver. “N-No.”
Wednesday cocks her head. “Pity. I love hearing you beg.”
Enid gasps, all whims of playing games forgotten as, without further ado, her shoes and ruined leggings are dragged off of her feet. Next to fall to Wednesday's wrath is Enid's shirt, another casualty to be mourned once Enid has the capacity to care about something besides the fact that Wednesday’s hands are wedged between her thighs. Wednesday clearly means for her to spread her legs and show off that werewolf flexibility.
Enid may be comfortable presenting on her hands and knees, but this—lying on her back, with Wednesday looming over her—is very different from what she’s used to. This isn’t wolf in nature, which means it is all Wednesday.
Enid makes the mistake of tensing against the pressure urging her knees apart, her face burning hotter. It is clear from her expression that Wednesday means to expose her, to drag her out into the light and prove to her that she is meant to be torn open and seen. If Wednesday cannot hide, then Enid can’t either. A part of Enid relishes the humiliation of being pinned; the wolf in her undeniably likes a fight.
But Enid isn’t under the influence of her wolf, a rune, or heat, and a part of her internally shrieks at the idea of Wednesday witnessing how wet and messy she’s become. Wednesday tries again, the pressure increasing, but Enid doesn’t give in. She hasn’t even been touched. How slutty will she look, soaked with slick just from being in Wednesday’s general proximity?
This time, Wednesday doesn’t hesitate to shove her knees apart and hold her open.
Enid's worst fears are realized when Wednesday does a slight double-take, gaze locking on her poor choice in underwear, and Enid can tell she’s in trouble from Wednesday’s expression alone. How did she manage, today of all days, to choose the one pair of panties that would show her desperation so visibly? Light grey cotton? She’d look less debauched naked than in underwear that darkens to black at the slightest hint of moisture.
“Look at you,” Wednesday breathes. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
One of her hands leaves Enid’s thigh, and though her touch is faint, Enid still mewls like she’s in heat when she feels Wednesday’s nails ghost over her pussy.
Enid knows she must be a sight to see to have Wednesday absentmindedly licking her lips. It does something to her, witnessing the unapologetic hunger on Wednesday’s face, and Enid’s complacently spreading her knees further apart before she knows it. No matter how humiliating it is, the largest part of her will always want to please Wednesday first and foremost—and please her, she has.
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening as her nostrils flare with the scent of Enid’s slick. She looks drunk, eyes lidded and unfocused as she starts breathing through her mouth. She’s never looked so feral. And if Enid arches her back a little, stretches her arms above her head to draw attention to her bare chest, it's nobody's business but her own.
Wednesday sits back on her heels and watches her like she's something enthralling to behold. Enid feels more powerful in that moment than she ever has in her life.
“Pretty,” Wednesday says under her breath. She catches Enid’s eye and continues, at full volume, “I love you like this. So pretty when you're wet, Puppy."
Enid, absurdly, feels a little like she wants to cry. It still bowls her over to hear Wednesday say those words in that order even if she does only mean them in reference to Enid's current state and not her general existence.
Enid stops, shaking her head like she can physically remove herself from that train of thought. This is no time to be ruminating on the veracity of Wednesday's feelings. She needs her wits about her.
As if Wednesday can sense the downturn Enid's mood has taken, she frowns. "What's wrong?"
Enid shakes her head again and unthinkingly answers, "Nothing."
Wednesday leans in, causing Enid's lashes to flutter with anticipation as she replies, "What did I just say about lying to me?"
Enid freezes, her eyes going wide.
Uh-oh, she thinks, risking a glance up at Wednesday and immediately regretting it.
Wednesday's eyes are bright with the exact vindictive gleam that Enid pictures when she’s trying to make herself come silently in the shower. It's enough to steal the breath from her lungs.
Wednesday, for her part, doesn't relent. “What did you promise me, Puppy?"
Enid has to swallow twice before she can speak. "T-That I wouldn't lie to you again."
"And what did you do?" Wednesday's voice snaps through the room, and Enid can almost feel the force of it cracking against her skin. She can't help but start panting even though she knows she shouldn't be getting off to this. It's fucked, it's so fucked, but part of her aches for Wednesday to take her in hand and bring her to heel.
Enid knows then that even if circumstances were different, even if Wednesday was the wolf and she was the psychic—they would still end up here. There's not a world that could exist where Enid wouldn't yearn to be on the end of Wednesday's admittedly short leash.
Dominant wolf though she may not be, Wednesday is more than capable of handling her.
"I lied," Enid admits, careless in the sudden rush of honesty spilling from her mouth. "I didn't mean to, promise, but I still did it. I was….I'm sorry I was bad, Wednesday. Can I still…can I be…?" She struggles to finish the sentence, ultimately giving up with a sniffle.
Wednesday's hard expression falters. The corners of her lips turn up as she hums.
"You're so sweet when you're trying to worm your way out of a punishment."
Enid sucks in a shocked breath. "Wha–no, I'm not!" she protests, voice going high as she squirms beneath Wednesday. "I'm not trying to worm my way out of a punishment!"
Something stirs in Enid as she begins fighting against Wednesday's grip on her. The part of her that's beyond her control, the Enid that resides squarely in the wolf's domain, revels in the chance to test her dominant's strength. Her wolf wants to be pinned. Her wolf wants to be owned.
And Wednesday, as always, is more than willing to accommodate her.
She releases Enid's thighs and straddles her waist, pinning Enid's wrists above her head. Enid has either lost her mind or has given the wolf more power over her facilities than she thought because she's already snarled and playfully snapped at Wednesday before she realizes what she's done.
Enid freezes, a pulse of fear blooming in her stomach right up until she sees Wednesday's pupils dilate.
"I wish I could fuck that right out of you," Wednesday says in a low voice.
Enid's breath is coming too fast. "Why don't you?" she manages.
Wednesday's eyes lazily travel down her neck to her chest and stomach. "It will interfere with the runes. Believe me, Puppy—if I could, I would fix your attitude here and now."
Enid nearly whimpers, her teeth biting into her lower lip. "P-Please? Wednesday, need—need—"
Wednesday shushes her by leaning down and taking Enid's bitten lip between her own teeth. Somehow, despite the fact that Wednesday's tongue has literally been in her ass, this feels exponentially more dirty.
Enid moans, bucking her hips in hopes that Wednesday will take pity on her and once again give her something to rut against. Instead, Wednesday kisses her, swallowing her protests as she opens her mouth and slides her tongue against Enid's. It's wet—disgusting, even, and downright obscene—but Enid's already shaking with anticipation. She might actually come from this.
"Oh, Puppy," Wednesday exhales, pulling back to see her expression. "What I would give to see my collar around your neck."
Enid's mouth falls open. Heat rushes to her face, the situation between her legs becoming truly dire because never, not in her worst nightmares, did she imagine Wednesday would know about collars.
It's an old werewolf tradition, a custom from a different age now only followed by the most devoted practitioners of the old ways. At one time, every submissive wolf could expect a collar as their courting gift. The collar, always hand-crafted of the finest raw materials a dominant wolf could afford, acted as a placeholder where the bonding mark would eventually sit.
The practice fell out of fashion as fewer wolves chose to observe formal courting, but every wolf on the planet knows about it. Nowadays, only the oldest, most prominent, and typically wealthiest bloodlines still use collars as their gift of adoration.
Wednesday could not possibly have said anything more ruinous. For Enid, who grew up considering a collar akin to a princess's tiara, Wednesday might as well have said she'd like to marry Enid into the royal family and breed her full of little princes.
If Enid didn't belong to her before, she certainly would have after that.
Perhaps sensing how close Enid's flying to the edge, Wednesday pulls back, visibly restraining herself as she takes a series of deep breaths. Enid tries to copy her, attempts to pull herself back into some semblance of a functioning human being. No matter how much she wants to take a flying leap into the abyss, she can't fall apart right now.
Wednesday has plans for her, and those plans require that Enid remain in control of most of her faculties.
So Enid gathers all of the pieces of herself and tries for an expression that's slightly less desperate than whatever she looked like before. Wednesday waits for her, eyes never leaving her face.
Wednesday doesn't offer an apology for making such a loaded statement, and Enid doesn't expect one. Even without the Inhibition rune, Wednesday is purposeful in everything she says.
"Are you ready for the rune?" Wednesday asks, voice quiet.
Enid nods. She may not have Wednesday's mark on her neck but she will bear Wednesday's runes on her skin, and considering how heartbroken she'd felt mere hours ago, this is a considerable upgrade.
"Ready," Enid softly answers, and she means it.
Wednesday nods. Enid can tell that any deception which may have lingered between them no longer exists. It suddenly occurs to her what Wednesday's cost must be, what she is paying to bear the Inhibition rune, and Enid has to work not to let her shock show on her face.
She doesn't fool Wednesday for a second.
"What is it?" Wednesday asks.
Enid bites her lip, then releases it once she notices the look in Wednesday's eyes.
"What did it cost you?" Enid blurts, swallowing hard. "What—what did Inhibition cost you, Wednesday?"
Wednesday relaxes, the corner of her lips quirking up into a half-smile. "Isn't it obvious? As long as the rune is active, I cannot tell lies."
Notes:
would wednesday get along with dolores umbridge? food for thought
aight i'll be back to edit this later but i will leave you with this:
my personal headcanon is that wednesday would run slytherin like a mob family and would step on draco malfoy like a doormat if he so much as looked in enid's direction
Chapter 35: Deny
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Can't–can't tell lies?" Enid repeats. "What—like at all?"
Wednesday hums. "It's a little more complicated than that. In essence, I must tell the full and total truth as I believe it. I may not hold my tongue. I cannot deceive you. Whatever you ask me, I will answer."
Enid gulps. "Oh God, I won't have to do that, right?" She's fucked.
Wednesday smirks. "No. Since you aren't a regular rune user, your cost will be much less. Most likely, you won't be permitted to wear any clothes."
Enid frowns, her lips pressing into a pout. "How is that the lesser evil?"
"Would you prefer to spill every thought that crosses your mind out into the open for my perusal?" Wednesday asks her.
Enid quickly shakes her head. "No! No, thank you. I'll have the naked option, please."
"Excellent." Wednesday slides off the bed, depositing her boots onto the shoe rack and her socks into the hamper. It’s a far cry from Enid’s usual modus operandi, which is generally leaving her side a complete disaster with clothes strewn over the bed and textbooks littering the floor.
For some reason, seeing Wednesday walk around barefoot makes Enid’s throat feel tight. A new layer of intimacy overlays habits they've held for years. How can it be that Enid’s lying on the bed in nothing but soaked underwear, and Wednesday’s lack of socks is what’s making her blush? She must be losing it.
Wednesday climbs back onto the mattress, settling in the space between Enid’s knees. The candlelight frames her head like a halo, shadowing her face with gold. Enid’s skin prickles with goosebumps at the sight of her.
“Up,” Wednesday instructs, lifting Enid’s legs until she can slide Enid’s underwear down and off.
Without another word, Wednesday vacates the bed and heads for the wax pot, pocketing Enid’s underwear as she goes. Enid watches with confusion, propping herself up into a sitting position.
“Um,” she calls out, “Are my panties part of the ritual? Because I kind of like that pair. Could you at least go for one of the ones with holes in them?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows as she begins stirring the wax. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
And that’s apparently all she plans to say about it. Enid waits for the punchline, but when it still doesn’t come, she chimes back in with, “Then why didn’t you put them in the hamper?”
Wednesday sends her a look. “Why would I do that?”
“...Because that’s where we put dirty clothes?” Enid replies, now wondering if she’s somehow lost the thread and forgotten that they actually keep dirty underwear in a special bin beneath the floorboards or something equally ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly have overlooked something like that for two whole years, right? Oh, God—what if Wednesday’s thought her an asshole and a slob this entire time for not properly handling the laundry? Enid wonders if she’s going to faint.
“That would be a complete waste,” Wednesday interrupts her mounting panic, continuing, “I don’t want to have to resort to digging through the hamper like a common scavenger to smell your slick, Enid.”
Enid’s mouth falls open as, simultaneously, Wednesday stiffens and spins around with wide eyes. Wax drips from the stirrer in her hand onto the floor, collecting in a small splat by her right foot. They’re going to get another bill from residential housing, Enid distantly thinks. She’s pretty sure wax isn’t safe for hardwood.
“I don’t dig through your laundry,” Wednesday blurts, words coming fast as she insists, “I have never stolen your clothes, dirty or clean. I would, if necessary, but I haven’t had to stoop that low yet.”
She then winces at herself, looking distinctly ruffled and uncomfortable, and it’s so uncharacteristic of the unflappable Wednesday Addams that Enid can’t help but giggle. Wednesday’s face immediately relaxes, even as she rolls her eyes.
“Yes, hilarious,” she mutters, frowning at the puddle of wax by her foot.
Enid’s still snickering as she protests, “No, it’s—it’s not that bad, promise! I just—I love uninhibited Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s eyes snap to hers, her face open with an emotion so raw, Enid instantly falls silent. For a moment, the tension churns thick and perilous between them.
“...I see,” Wednesday breathes, expression turning calculating as she says, “I suppose you’re in luck since it won’t wear off until after the ritual. On your back.”
Enid’s brain fires blanks for a few seconds before it registers that she’s been given a direct order, and she scrambles to do as told. She would feel horribly embarrassed about the prospect of meeting her first deceased Addams family-member while naked if not for the fact that Wednesday obviously thinks this is a reasonable dress code for such an occasion. Who is she to question proper séance etiquette?
Across the room, Wednesday stirs the wax with a focused expression.
Enid bites her lip and sighs. "You know, I don't recall you being naked when I interrupted that séance way back when," she points out, squirming on the bed.
"During my first term here?" Wednesday's brow furrows, and she places the stirring stick aside. Her dark eyes find Enid as she shifts to lean against the desk. "That was the night you left to meet that boy in the woods."
Enid blinks, then gives a startled laugh. "What? That's what you remember about that night?"
Wednesday scowls, her knuckles turning white where she grips the desk. Enid watches one of her manicured fingers start tapping a frantic beat.
"I'll never forget it,” Wednesday replies, drawing Enid’s attention back to her face. “I couldn't focus after you left. I gave up on the prospect of reaching Goody entirely." Her lips twist into what can only be described as a pout.
Enid can't help the laughter bubbling up her throat. "Oh my God, Wednesday!” she gleefully exclaims, shooting up into a sitting position. “You were—you…"
She trails off, all bravado forgotten. Wednesday stares at her with a challenging look in her eye.
"Go on, Puppy," Wednesday says in a deceptively light tone. "Say it. What was I?"
Enid sucks in a sharp breath and whispers, "You were jealous."
Wednesday bares her teeth, crossing the room to snarl, "Yes, I was fucking jealous, Enid. You were my roommate. You belonged here, with me."
Enid's heart beats in her throat as Wednesday looms over her. Whatever expression is on her face, it's enough to have Wednesday promising, "If you come right now, you're going over my knee."
Enid gasps for breath, her nails digging into her palms as she fights for some semblance of control. Her thighs are already wet with slick. She hopes that Wednesday can’t smell it.
Maybe, Enid thinks a bit wildly, she’s just not cut out for runes. It makes sense that she doesn’t have the inner constitution to handle this sort of thing. After all, if just being around Wednesday is enough to turn her into a helpless puddle, she can’t imagine what monster she’d become if her admittedly weak inhibitions disappeared.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
Even without the influence of runes, Enid can’t bring herself to lie.
"You're scary when you're mad," Enid informs her, wishing her arousal wasn't so painfully obvious in the cadence of her voice.
Wednesday shuts her eyes for a second, then releases a slow breath. "It's the runes. The reverse form of Inhibition can be troublesome. Am I scaring you?"
The very idea is laughable. "I hope you're kidding," Enid replies, eyes drawn to the ink still shining on the back of Wednesday's hand.
It seems incredibly unfair that Wednesday applied her own runes with a brush, completely denying Enid the chance to touch her bare skin under the guise of ‘helping’. Enid reaches out for her, tracing the stark lines like a roadmap. She's still halfway surprised that Wednesday allows it.
"I don’t like that you get to keep your clothes on," Enid quietly says.
Wednesday watches her, eyes missing nothing. “I am used to bearing runes,” she responds. “Clothing or lack thereof wouldn’t make a difference for me.”
Enid tries not to let her dissatisfaction with that answer show on her face as she pulls away.
"My sacrifice isn't clothing," Wednesday reminds her, lifting her inked hand to tuck Enid’s hair behind her ear.
Enid allows her eyes to fall shut. “I know that,” she admits. “And I know that’s, like, significantly worse than what I have to do.”
She'd take being bare-assed over having to explain in great detail all the ways she's pathetically into Wednesday any day, no question.
Wednesday makes a noise of agreement. “The more runes you use, the greater the cost,” she murmurs.
Enid gathers what remains of her courage and meets Wednesday’s gaze. “That doesn’t change what I want,” she replies.
A flicker of shock crests across Wednesday's face. "You….want to see me naked?" She speaks slowly as if the very words are foreign to her. "That would please you?"
Without thinking, Enid licks her lips.
Wednesday's eyes widen, her shock quickly settling into the familiar fervor of some fresh scheme she's undoubtedly hatching to ruin Enid in some new and convoluted way. Her plotting face is so unsubtle, it's frightening. Enid can barely breathe.
"Fine," Wednesday suddenly says, cocking her head. "If that’s what Puppy wants, who am I to deny you?”
Enid didn’t have a hope in hell of containing the whimper that escapes her then.
Notes:
the wax has been on the hotplate for four chapters someone take that shit off !
enjoy the first little ~taste~ of jealous wednesday, plenty more where that came from
Chapter 36: Reckless
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as the noise leaves Enid’s throat, she knows she’s made a fatal error.
Wednesday’s gaze sharpens, her fingers twitching at her side before her hands ball into fists. Her scent, usually a bouquet of autumn lilies laced with enough honey for Enid’s mouth to start watering, deepens into something heady that leaves Enid’s jaw aching instead. The smell of honeycomb quickly becomes overwhelming.
“What was that?” Wednesday asks, voice flat, to the point, and completely at odds with the wild look in her eye.
Enid gulps. For a second, she’s afraid she won’t be able to find her voice at all. If she wasn’t already used to the special brand of venom that infects Wednesday’s tone when she demands answers not easily given, Enid would probably crack under the pressure. Instead, she manages, “W-What?”
Wednesday inches closer, and Enid goes very still.
“You heard me. What was that?” Wednesday repeats.
Enid shakes her head. “I don’t—don’t know, Wednesday.”
“You don’t know?” Wednesday repeats, voice rife with the sort of amusement only borne on the edge of a knife. “You were the one who did it. How could you not know?”
Enid, lost as to how to handle this new version of Wednesday that refuses to back down and allow her to retreat, ends up giving in to instinct and whining high and clear in her throat. It’s the sort of sound only submissive wolves are capable of, the kind of whimper that would have every dominant wolf in hearing distance coming to her aid if she ever made it in public.
Her cheeks heat as she mumbles, “Sorry, Wednesday, m’sorry.”
“Oh, Enid,” Wednesday sighs. Her lips curl up into a mockery of a smile. “Always whining for me, aren’t you? Poor Puppy, begging for attention.”
Enid’s blush spreads to her chest. Humiliation burns hot in her throat, but she can’t bring herself to protest when Wednesday’s looking at her with those eyes. And anyway, how is Enid supposed to deny something that’s objectively true? She is always begging for Wednesday’s attention. She is always, as a general rule, some level of desperate for her.
Enid just hadn’t realized that Wednesday noticed exactly how much.
“Yeah,” Enid shakily admits, eyes squeezing shut. “Always want my Wednesday.”
For a moment, there’s silence, like the instant before a match is struck into flame. Then Wednesday exhales, Enid opens her eyes, and there’s a flash of luminous skin and wild eyes before teeth scrape the skin of her throat.
“Fuck,” Wednesday hisses into her neck. “Enid, you little minx,” she spits it like a curse. “I am not marking you on my unmade bed in our dorm room.”
Enid’s rationality cartwheeled off into the unknown the moment the word ‘marking’ left Wednesday’s mouth, which perhaps could explain why “I w-wouldn’t mind,” is her immediate, unthinking response.
Wednesday’s hand slides down to Enid’s hip, presumably to hold her still, but her palm twitches and Enid feels a sudden hand between her legs. Wednesday smacks the inside of Enid’s thigh, urging her to spread her legs, and Enid nearly strains something in her hurry to do as told. Her skin is hot where Wednesday slapped her, the burn only exacerbated by the slick splattered across her thighs.
Wednesday makes a low, involuntary noise against her neck as she pushes a finger inside of Enid. It’s so unexpected, so reckless compared to the unerring control Wednesday had displayed even through her heat, that Enid throws her head back and blows way past whining to begging in a drawn-out, wordless moan. Wednesday curls her finger, inciting a shiver of heat up Enid’s spine. Her stomach muscles flex as she rucks her hips up, and Wednesday gasps against Enid’s throat like she intends to inhale her very essence.
“Please,” Enid cries, feeling the tension tighten inside her. “Please, Wednesday. Make me come, need to come, please say it, tell P-Puppy to come.”
Some clarity returns to her eyes at the sound of Enid’s voice. Wednesday shifts her arm like she’s going to pull out, but Enid’s hand darts between them with a mind of its own and grabs ahold of Wednesday’s wrist, preventing her from withdrawing. Wednesday’s skin will bruise if she’s not careful, but Enid is beyond pulling her punches. She’s too close to relief, still babbling like an idiot, and Wednesday’s fingers curl harder, dragging her nearer and nearer to the edge.
“Puppy,” Wednesday says, the word breaking halfway out. “Puppy, you—how close are you?”
Enid can barely think, can barely breathe, but she has enough presence of mind left to whine, "Gonna come."
"Fuck," Wednesday mutters. "Enid, stop," she commands.
Enid freezes, every movement coming to an immediate halt besides her heaving chest and hammering heart.
Wednesday’s fingers twitch inside of her, some aborted movement that she ultimately resists enough to slide out. Enid whimpers at the loss, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She's on the brink of sobbing right up until she notices Wednesday sucking the slick from her fingers. Enid's mouth pops open, her impending meltdown dissipating like a gust of hot air as Wednesday returns to her original position on top of her. Whether Wednesday can sense how frayed she feels or not, this is precisely what Enid needs to keep from falling apart. Wednesday’s weight grounds her, her scent holds Enid steady and sure in the present. She won’t drop as long as Wednesday does not let go of her.
"I'm sorry," Enid eventually whispers, legs still shaking. "S-Sorry, Wednesday."
Wednesday sighs, smoothing Enid’s hair back from her face. "Don't apologize," she murmurs. "You did nothing wrong, good girl. I just couldn't let you come. It's a necessary part of the ritual that you're clean."
Enid frowns. "But…I don't have anything,” she ventures. “You—Wednesday, you know I'm clean. I just got tested before my heat—"
"Not that kind of clean," Wednesday states.
Enid pouts. "Then what kind?"
She's still throbbing, each pulse like a heartbeat between her legs. It's honestly cruel of Wednesday to get her so close and prevent her from going over. If she wasn't still dizzy with warmth, she might even complain.
Then again, Wednesday has very generously let her off the hook for her earlier transgression with just one single instance of edging; she could do a lot worse, probably, and Enid isn't too keen on riding the punishment train just for the hell of it. Not yet, at least. Not when there are runes and…whatever the wax is for to be had.
Wednesday has absolutely no qualms about meeting Enid's gaze as she clarifies, "'Clean' as in free of contaminants caused by satisfaction. You'll understand soon, but either of our ejaculates would interfere with the runes."
"Oh my G-God, Wednesday, just say come," Enid pleads, her hands plastered over her pinkening face.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Fine. Our come would interfere with the runes, so you may not come until after our conversation with Lucía."
Enid cracks an eye open. "...Lucía?"
"My ancestor," Wednesday replies, a note of irritation in her voice. "She’s a twisted woman. You'll love her."
Enid brightens considerably.
Notes:
okay NEXT chapter we are getting to the wax play i promise i just got so caught up in the reckless wednesday we simply had to have some orgasm denial as a lil appetizer first
Chapter 37: Again
Notes:
content warning: brief mention of wolves hunting animals for food consistent with real-life behavior
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid wonders what kind of witch could so readily earn Wednesday’s ire.
Wednesday whirls around their room like an ill-tempered tornado, collecting a small pile of seemingly random items with irritation in the set of her spine. Clearly, this Lucía isn’t someone Wednesday interacts with by choice. Maybe Lucía’s the only ancestor available on cloudy days or on the thirteenth of the month or when Wednesday’s got an especially ornery attitude, Enid thinks. Anything is possible when Addams family magic is involved.
Enid's still lost as to why they need to hold a séance right this second or what this has to do with her meltdown from earlier, but she can't bring herself to question it when Wednesday's moving with such purpose. She would rather be waterboarded with hot wax than accidentally discourage Wednesday from sharing something that genuinely matters to her with Enid.
Wednesday deposits her bounty just outside the candles, close enough to be handy at a moment's notice but far enough not to interfere with the circle. Enid counts four washcloths, one bowl of water, and the single ice pack liberated from their tiny, hand-me-down fridge (which usually houses Enid's pink yogurt drinks and Wednesday's research specimens).
Enid's pretty sure that ice pack was originally hers considering it is both bright yellow and shaped like a duck, but honestly, it looks so comical amongst Wednesday's séance supplies that Enid has to work to control her expression. That little duck probably never guessed it would one day be holding court between an ancient mortar and pestle and a sack of rough-hewn coal.
Enid doesn’t quite manage to pass her giggle off as a convincing cough. Though Wednesday softens at the sight of her, she is visibly confused and intrigued—a dangerous combination for an Addams. Enid immediately shuts up, but either Wednesday’s rune gives her mind-reading powers or Enid is an exceptionally bad liar because Wednesday’s gaze flicks toward the ice pack, and she cocks her head in challenge.
“What a vicious little wolf you are,” Wednesday murmurs, stepping closer to Enid. “You know, I never said anything, but it’s rather sadistic of you to nest with stuffed versions of your natural prey. You even take comfort in their helpless bodies. Truly, Enid, I applaud your cruelty.”
Enid’s mouth drops open. “I don’t see ducks as prey!” she splutters. "We don't even target ducks on a hunt! That's not a thing!"
"No?" Wednesday needles, now standing less than a foot away. "You have something to add? Spit it out."
Enid narrowly avoids a scowl. "I only have one duck stuffie," she fumes, fully aware of how petulant she sounds. "One, Wednesday. That shouldn't even count."
Wednesday reaches out and rescues Enid's lower lip from her teeth. Enid almost goes limp, feeling as though all of her strings were cut the moment Wednesday started touching her. Wednesday seems to know it, too, judging by the smug set of her mouth. She momentarily cups Enid's cheek before her hand drifts downwards and settles on Enid's neck. Wednesday isn't choking her—not even close—but the threat is enough to thoroughly unbalance Enid.
“And your menagerie of stuffed cows?" Wednesday murmurs, voice as gentle as it is mocking. "What's the official statement there?"
Enid’s gaze automatically finds the cluster of cow stuffies still awaiting transport across the room. She hadn't had time to pack up her nesting items before Wednesday interrupted her unplanned exodus from Ophelia Hall.
"I count six," Wednesday says, following her gaze. "Six cows, three deer, a pair of lambs, and, if my count is correct, no less than eight bunny rabbits."
Enid swallows, feeling Wednesday's hand briefly tighten on her throat. "You're so mean, Wednesday," she rasps, knowing how immature she must look with watery eyes and her lips pressed into a pout and still powerless to stop it.
"Am I?" Wednesday sounds positively gleeful. "But you're such a sweet Puppy, aren't you?"
Enid's pulse quickens under Wednesday's fingertips.
"Unfortunately, your praise will not sway me," Wednesday informs her. "But please, try again."
Enid wonders how she can feel like she's losing a game she hadn't even known they were playing. "Can't you just let me have my stuffed animals in peace?" she pleads.
Wednesday hums. "I'll let you have a lot more than that, Puppy."
Her brow then furrows as if she forgot which rune is currently riding rampant over her conversation skills, which is so undeniably Wednesday that Enid nearly bursts out with a whine. Leave it to an Addams to shrug off uncontrollable candor like it's just another annoyance. If Enid was in her position, she'd have already fled to the bathroom or crawled under the bed by now. Yet here stands Wednesday, unapologetic and confident enough to hold Enid by the throat.
"Why are you embarrassed?" Wednesday asks, voice sharp with amusement. "Look at my pretty Puppy, blushing like that. What are you thinking about that has you so red, Enid? Tell me."
Enid bites her lip again, admitting in a whisper, "You said you'd—let me have more." Her voice shakes by the end.
Wednesday's lips quirk up. "Anything in my possession is yours, Puppy. You need only ask for it."
Enid squirms where she sits, unable to move more than an inch without displacing Wednesday's grip on her neck and unwilling to risk such a tragedy. She is well and truly caught, forced to consider her options and make a decision right here under the weight of Wednesday's full attention.
On one hand, she can ask for anything—anything—and Wednesday very well may indulge her. On the other hand, that possibility requires her to actually voice her desires aloud, which may cause Enid to spontaneously combust. Even the thought of whining for the depraved things she wants Wednesday to do to her has Enid overcome with the urge to scream into a pillow. Wednesday has always had an uncanny instinct for how best to utterly humiliate her.
Then again, if there was ever a time to go for it, it would be the limited timeframe when Wednesday is incapable of hiding the truth.
"Well?" Wednesday presses. "Go on. Use your words."
Enid steels herself and expels in one long rush, "Will you take your clothes off?"
Wednesday raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "You can do better than that."
Enid gulps, feeling Wednesday's derisive tone settle like a chokehold around her neck more effectively than hands ever could. "Please. Please take your clothes off?" she tries.
Wednesday's palm twitches on Enid's throat. "Again."
"Please, Wednesday," Enid begs, doing her best to ignore the heat in her cheeks. "Will you—will you take your clothes off for me?"
Wednesday leans in close enough that Enid struggles to breathe through the sudden rush of her honeycomb scent. Their lips barely touch.
"Why should I?" Wednesday asks, voice quiet and careful but brimming with the promise of bloodshed.
Enid swallows hard, imagining all of her dignity going down with it as she answers, "Cause Puppy wants it, Wednesday."
Anyone else would think that Wednesday doesn't react to her words, but Enid is a wolf and she hears the tiny inhale Wednesday sucks in through her teeth. That little intake of breath, so inconsequential in any other situation, feels like a stake being driven between Enid's ribs. Her heart pounds in her ears as Wednesday releases her and grabs ahold of the hem of her shirt.
Suddenly, Wednesday pauses, eyes bright and expression merciless and gaze locked squarely on Enid's face. "Again," she orders.
Enid struggles to recall how to speak English as Wednesday's shirt goes up over her head and experiences a short flight to the floor. Her bra is black again, but accented with delicate ribbons rather than lace.
"Puppy wants it," Enid whimpers, voice cracking on the way out.
Wednesday's hand freezes on the button of her jeans. "Again."
Enid is on the very precipice of hyperventilating as she leans forward in an effort to inhale more of the sweet scent coming from between Wednesday's thighs. When Wednesday's pants are shucked down to her ankles, Enid can't help but moan. She'd forgotten what Wednesday smells like when she's wet. "P-Puppy wants it."
Wednesday reaches behind herself and catches the clasp of her bra. "Again."
"Puppy wants it!" Enid cries, her breath now hitching with a whine on every exhale, her chest vibrating with the urge to call for her dominant as only submissive wolves can.
Wednesday's bra lands by her feet. She approaches Enid with a look on her face that promises suffering to come, and Enid automatically throws her head back to bare her neck. Wednesday wears nothing but underwear now. Her skin practically glows in the candlelight.
Wednesday's hand trails up Enid's thigh, tracing the shape of her hip and ribs, ghosting over Enid's chest before once again finding a home on her throat. "Again."
Enid opens her mouth, heedless of what she knows is about to come out.
Notes:
fucking lied again. i feel like the pied piper constantly hoeing you guys but believe me, i am just as much at the mercy of whatever wednesday fucking addams decides to do as you are
TO EVERYONE CONCERNED FOR THE WAX'S WELLBEING: wax can in fact simmer on a warmer for hours so let's assume the temperature is controlled and the pot wednesday's using is the official Wax Play Pot which does exactly that and keeps things going safely while wednesday tests the theory of whether one small wolf can die of untreated arousal
assuming next chapter doesn't go off the rails: you've all heard the myth surrounding persephone, right?
UPDATE 3/3: i unexpectedly have to fly in a few hours instead of twelve hours from now as originally planned, so chapter 38 will be delayed for 24hrs. i'm sorry guys! fucking weather
another update: i am sat at an airport bar for the foreseeable future so i'm going to start answering comments i'm sorry if this comes across as tricksy since there isn't a new chapter :/
ANOTHER update: i have arrived at my destination and will be back online posting for you guys in the next twenty four hours!!!! thank you for your patience while i braved the storm
Chapter 38: Remain
Notes:
i know this is a shortie but i want to assure you all i am alive and the horny train for wenclair hasn't slowed
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday’s eyes go wide.
They’d danced around it, of course, and in Wednesday’s case, addressed it directly with formal citations and references. Enid doesn’t particularly enjoy having her most problematic behavior called out, but even she knows that purring for someone that isn’t her mate is unacceptable.
That doesn’t stop her from allowing the vibrating in her chest to escape her throat.
Three times, Enid has broken the rules and purred for Wednesday. The first, she was half-asleep, so that can mostly be excused. The second was in the heat of the moment while she'd been sinking into subspace and could also probably be written off as a spectacular lack of judgment. This third, final time, her recklessness is cutting. Enid reconciles herself with the reality that she has ventured beyond the point of no return as the room fills with proof of her desperation.
Wednesday stares at her like she’s found absolution. It’s an expression that, on her, appears utterly catastrophic. Enid feels like a pat of melted butter just being the recipient of such a devastating look.
“Don’t,” Wednesday orders, when it seems like Enid might succeed in cutting off her trill. “Don’t, Enid. I mean it.”
Enid freezes, lowering her hand away from her mouth. Her purr only increases in volume, and Wednesday shuts her eyes, letting the sound wash over her. When her eyes reopen, it's with a fervor that would politely be described as unhinged.
“Sorry,” Enid gasps.
Wednesday shakes her head. “I am uninterested in whatever excuse or apology you’ve come up with.”
Enid shuts up. No excuse could explain her behavior, anyway. What she’s done is the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, because now Wednesday knows what Enid feels for her and hopes for them both. Purring is an act reserved for the closest of mates, the most all-consuming of bonds. Enid's parents never experienced such a phenomenon. In truth, she can't think of a single couple she personally knows who has.
This particular descent into madness seems to be specific to Wednesday and Enid.
Still, no help comes from Wednesday's quarter; mercy isn't and never has been a part of her vocabulary. Enid is metaphorically and physically laid bare before her, and Wednesday, as always, is ready and willing to bear witness.
Enid's purring finally trails off into soft noises of embarrassment, her cheeks heating as Wednesday leans in to better catch every dip and swell, and finally, there is silence.
"There," Wednesday breathes. "Much better, isn't it? Knowing what you are?"
"A slut?" Enid automatically replies, miserable in her own plight.
Wednesday frowns, her hand catching Enid on the back of the neck and urging her up to eye-level. "Mine," she corrects her, low and threatening in her conviction.
Enid is momentarily dragged back to the moment that word had left her own lips, back in the very onset of her heat.
“Who am I?” Wednesday had asked, warm exhale sending Enid's head spinning. “The pot or the kettle?”
At the time, Enid hadn't even meant to expose herself and was just as shocked as Wednesday when the answer out of her mouth was, “Mine.”
It was a terrible realization to experience with a live audience. Now, having endured all that she has, Enid spares a moment of amusement for her past self. Preheat-Enid had no idea what was coming. Worse, preheat-Enid had no idea that, even then, her wolf had been trying to show her the truth.
There isn't a world that exists where Enid doesn't belong to Wednesday. No past or present could have prevailed without this love, delusional though she might have been for thinking Wednesday would never catch wind of her feelings. Now, once again, Enid looks out at an uncertain future.
The difference is this time, she knows—more than breath, blood, or bone—that Wednesday will remain beside her.
Notes:
yall this week was a TRIP first the storm then getting marooned at the airport in the middle of the night and now i'm going to look at engagement rings on thursday??? crazy
i'll be taking a brief pause from posting until monday 3/13 but all jokeses in my A/Ns aside, believe me when i say i'll be back serving up content for you guys asap <3 writing this story is the highlight of my day
Chapter 39: Behave
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air is heavy with tension in the wake of Enid's folly. At this point, she should really be used to it; their room was never a place of indifference, not from the moment Wednesday Addams first stepped through the door. Enid had felt it then, had forced herself to be friendly and welcoming and to behave despite how unsteady she'd felt under the weight of Wednesday's gaze.
She doesn't remember seeing Wednesday's parents though she knows they were there. It's frankly absurd to imagine missing Morticia Addams' entrance into any room, but Enid truly has no recollection of anyone but Wednesday.
Sharp eyes. Displeased expression. A scent that had Enid nearly losing her balance when she made the mistake of venturing close enough to inhale it.
Luckily for them both, Wednesday had dodged her attempted hug and continued to refuse physical affection as if her very life depended on it for years thereafter. Enid can understand why considering she now knows for herself that contact with Wednesday's bare skin feels like touching live wire and that the enforced distance between them was honestly an act of self-preservation. Maybe Wednesday had always sensed that one way or another, they would ruin each other. It doesn't take a psychic to work out the painfully obvious truth.
For better or for worse, something violent has always simmered beneath the surface in this room.
Enid finds it nearly impossible to meet Wednesday's eyes, which she can feel honing in on her reddened cheeks with stinging precision. Wednesday's the most attentive audience member Enid has ever seen. How can someone who's mostly naked look like a patron of the fine arts, watching Enid humiliate herself?
She's too powerful, Enid internally admits. No one should be able to look this calm and collected while under the thrall of Inhibition. Nevertheless, Enid feeds off of her energy like always, instinctively curtailing herself to match. If Wednesday can control herself, so can she.
Only when the room falls silent does Wednesday release the breath she'd been holding.
"I need to undo my braids," she announces, her expression neutral as she continues, "We must both approach this ritual as our most authentic selves. I suppose we could wait until after your runes have been drawn, but I confess, I don't want to. Will you help me, Puppy?"
Enid's mouth opens and closes at least twice before she manages to warble, "You would let me touch your hair?"
Wednesday's eyes soften. "I would," she says, and it sounds like a promise. She then frowns and adds, "Assuming you're comfortable—"
"Yes!" Enid nearly shouts. "P-Please, yes. I will."
Wednesday's lips quirk up with amusement. Evidently, watching Enid make a fool of herself is a wonderful balm for any uncertainties Wednesday may have been harboring. Enid would find it hard to feel embarrassed if she were constantly around herself, too.
"Good girl," Wednesday murmurs, beckoning Enid forward with a single manicured finger. "Come."
Enid obeys. She scampers across the bed with little grace and even less decorum, her breath coming fast with anticipation. Enid can't help but preen a little bit, arching her back as she sits on her heels and awaits Wednesday's approval. Something heady and heated licks up her spine.
Wednesday cocks her head, taking her sweet time studying Enid's chest before her attention drifts downwards. If there's any sliver of Enid left that's capable of shame, that scrap of her would be screaming in horror as her knees automatically spread apart. Wednesday's gaze sharpens, her tongue peeking out almost absentmindedly from between her teeth.
The tangled knot in Enid's stomach throbs at the knowledge of what Wednesday can undoubtedly see. She's shameless. Having regular sex with Wednesday—if twice in as many weeks could be considered regular—has made Enid a monster.
Though her expression says plenty, Wednesday doesn’t speak a word, perhaps too distracted by the sight of Enid’s teeth digging into her lower lip to do much besides watch as she steps back and slips her fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear. Wednesday's panties hit the floor at the exact same moment that Enid whimpers aloud.
It could be a trick of the light, but Enid could swear she catches a glimpse of Wednesday's lips curled into a smirk as she climbs onto the mattress. Wednesday sits back, resting her weight on her hands, then taps the inside of her bare thigh in command.
Enid doesn’t hesitate. Her first instinct is to dive down face-first in hopes of getting her mouth on Wednesday's pussy, but Wednesday's too quick. Her nails flash in the light as she snatches Enid by the hair and drags her upright, ignoring Enid's whine of protest.
"Go ahead," Wednesday tells her, eyes tracking Enid's throat as she gulps. "Try it. See what misbehaving will get you."
Enid would be crying if she weren't so turned on. "W-Wednesday," she weakly protests.
"What?" Wednesday asks, as sweet as she is mocking. "What is it, Puppy? Tell me."
Enid stares up at her with wide eyes, gasping when Wednesday's grip on her hair tightens to the point of pain.
"I'll be good," Enid whispers, breath hitching with something that might be a sob. It hurts, but it feels like Wednesday's hand in her hair is the only thing tethering her to earth, and if Wednesday lets go, Enid might actually fucking lose it.
Wednesday's expression clears like the coming dawn, her grip immediately loosening. Her hand remains in contact with Enid as she smoothes back Enid's sweaty hair, which is the only reason why Enid doesn't spin her way right into a meltdown. She'll drop if she's not careful. Who knew merely being in the same presence as uninhibited Wednesday would inspire Enid to devolve into a need-driven beast?
As if she can sense Enid's inner turmoil, Wednesday now cradles her head like Enid's made of something precious. It's a far cry from bringing her to heel like an unruly animal as she had been only moments ago. The many sides of Wednesday Addams, Enid thinks a bit hysterically.
"You look so pretty like this, Puppy," Wednesday murmurs, catching one of Enid's tears with the tip of her thumb. "So pretty when you cry."
Enid bites her lip to keep from sobbing, preemptively turning into Wednesday's palm before she can rescue Enid's swollen lip from her canines. For Enid, the bite of pain is grounding. Necessary.
Wednesday seems to know this, shifting her arm to expose her inner wrist. Enid gulps her scent like oxygen, like it's the first fucking breath she's taken after a life spent underwater, and knows she will die if she has to spend a single night away from Wednesday ever again. There's no way she'd survive it.
Fortunately, Wednesday's scent calms her like nothing else ever could, and with only a slight struggle, Enid manages to tune back into the present. She can wallow over the miserable prospect of being parted even temporarily from Wednesday later; for now, she has a job to do. There are runes to be borne, braids to undo, and the most heavily-anticipated and long-awaited ritual known to man (or at least to Enid) to complete.
Though she knows barely any time has passed since the revelation that her feelings aren't actually unrequited, it's begun to wear on her like a physical ache the longer Enid goes without bearing Wednesday's mark, rune or otherwise. She wants to be branded with proof of Wednesday's intentions more than she wants to survive to see another morning. Nothing else can possibly matter as much as this.
In some ways, being Wednesday's good girl is both as easy as breathing and the hardest thing Enid has ever done.
Wednesday draws back until she can see Enid's face. "Are you with me?"
Enid's eyes squeeze shut. "Yes," she pleads.
"Look at me, Puppy."
Enid glances up through tears, abruptly feeling like her chest might cave in if Wednesday doesn't mark her right this second.
"I know you won't mark me," Enid blurts.
When Wednesday makes to argue, her countenance flickering between disbelief and ire, Enid quickly adds,
"I know you won't mark me right now because it's not the right, um, time or—p-place, but if I promise to be…" Enid trails off, her courage failing. Oh God, shut up, what is she saying? Who's the one with the rune right now? Not Enid.
Wednesday's eyes remain locked on her face. "If you promise to be what, Puppy?"
Enid sucks in a sharp breath as she meets Wednesday's gaze. "If I promise to be a good girl, can I still wear your runes?"
She will never tire of seeing Wednesday's expression eclipsed by surprise. So rarely does Enid manage to genuinely shock her, when it does happen, it feels like witnessing a miracle.
"Oh, Enid," Wednesday sighs, cupping Enid's cheek in her palm. "You make the perfect pet, don't you? Is that what you want, Puppy? To be my pretty pet?"
It takes everything Enid has to open her mouth and respond with mostly coherent words, "Want to—wanna be your pet, Wednesday."
Wednesday tilts her head. "Shall I put you on a leash? Will that make you behave?"
Enid's already nodding before she realizes what she's done.
"Hm," Wednesday hums, leaning back with a calculating expression. "Let's see how you do with the wax, first."
Notes:
WE ARE BACK IN BUSINESS!
so did anyone else see scream six this weekend? first off as a horror movie enthusiast with scream (1996) as my favorite classic horror film: i loved it
second off i feel like jenna ortega has been in ten thousand projects over the last two years and she is truly dominating the industry it's excellent three cheers for wednesday killing the game!
third off, thank you for the well wishes! per my last A/N last week we looked at rings and i discovered that while i have a thing for pear-shaped center stones, which is probably just the dramatic in me wanting to walk around bearing a jewel shaped like a teardrop, there's something haunting about a round center bracketed by side stones. my eyes went wide like a greedy little thief when the broker brought the sparklies out. perfectly splendid
Chapter 40: Pet
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid wonders how, exactly, she ended up in Wednesday's lap. One second, Wednesday's talking about hot wax and leashes, and the next—poof. Enid is perched in her lap, eyeing Wednesday's throat with what she assumes is an expression that would look at home on a ravenous dog.
Regardless of how she ended up here, Enid sure isn't complaining. Wednesday's words prickle over her skin even more so than the feeling of hands on her hips. Something about how Wednesday talks to Enid after she's assumed responsibility for all executive decision-making feels a lot like a punch to the solar plexus. In any other voice, those words would be degrading. Sit. Come. Eyes on me. Good girl, Puppy, and best of all—or worst, depending on your perspective—pet. It's a downright demeaning thing to call a wolf, almost unfathomably rude.
Enid only wishes Wednesday would use it more.
Of course, she does briefly wonder if she should be concerned. It's probably not normal to find Wednesday's propensity for treating her like a prized pony so hot. That says something unflattering about her, doesn't it? That Enid likes being made to submit? That she really would love getting to crawl around on the end of Wednesday's leash, licking her all sloppy and wet in hopes of getting a treat? She may be a submissive wolf, but that doesn't mean she needs to act like a slut. That part is all Enid.
Still, Enid can't bring herself to worry about it now, with Wednesday's fingertips dancing on her ribs. It doesn't matter whether she's exposing herself as an irredeemable harlot or not; as long as Wednesday is willing and able to take care of her, Enid doesn't have to do anything but exist, and that relief is the greatest gift anyone could give her.
Enid sinks into her embrace, inadvertently causing Wednesday's chest to brush against her own. Like touching live wire, Enid thinks. Like catching lightning with her bare hands.
"I thought you were going to be good?" Wednesday murmurs.
"Sorry," Enid mumbles back, tensing her stomach to keep herself from rutting forward. She swallows and whispers, "Promise m’gonna be a good girl for you, Wednesday."
Wednesday's hand trails up Enid's back, pressing into every ridge of her spine. "Excellent," she replies, and Enid is helpless not to shiver. "My braids?"
Enid bites her lip. The idea of intentionally touching Wednesday's hair is as paralyzing as it is exhilarating, but Enid isn't going to miss out on such a rare opportunity from fear alone. If Wednesday is offering this piece of herself, Enid will gladly fall upon her altar, hand and knee, to accept it.
Wednesday reaches up, but instead of rescuing Enid's lip from her canines, this time her palm slips around the nape of Enid's neck and urges her to bend down to meet her. Before Enid can so much as relax into the kiss, Wednesday takes Enid's lip between her own teeth.
Enid groans into her mouth, shuddering as Wednesday's teeth bear down on her, and doesn't realize she's been rocking her hips until the smell of vanilla is suffocating.
Wednesday's breathing harder than usual as she pulls back. "Messy," she rasps, and Enid flushes all the way to her chest once she notices the smear of slick shimmering on Wednesday's skin.
Her stomach and thighs are drenched. Whoever's idea it was for Enid to straddle Wednesday, that was clearly a poor choice. How is Enid supposed to keep from soaking herself when she's wrapped up tight and surrounded by Wednesday on all sides?
"I suppose it's only to be expected," Wednesday sighs, her hand finding a home on Enid's throat. "Can I trust you to behave long enough to assist with my braids?"
Enid nods, not trusting herself to speak. Wednesday's delicate touch might as well be a chain of steel, so effectively does it keep her locked in place.
Wednesday's lips quirk up. "Afraid?"
"Never," Enid instantly replies, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. "Not of you," she says in a much smaller voice. "Never you, Wednesday."
Wednesday takes a deep, uneven breath, her fingers flexing around Enid's throat. Though her touch is light, barely even there, Enid feels it with every beat of her pulse.
"Well?" Wednesday prompts her.
Enid shakes her head, mumbling under her breath.
"What was that?" Wednesday presses, leaning closer.
Enid's eyelids flutter shut when she feels Wednesday's lips ghost over her jaw. Despite the distraction, she manages to shake her head. "No," Enid chokes out.
"No?" Wednesday repeats, pulling back.
"N-Not gonna do anything til—til Wednesday says so," Enid insists, swallowing a whimper when Wednesday freezes in place. She's fucked up. She has so totally fucked this whole thing up—
"You unravel me, Enid," Wednesday says in a low voice. "I have never known such torture as this."
Enid's head snaps up, and she gulps before pleading, "Wednesday, can I—please can I touch your hair?"
Wednesday looks at her through lidded eyes. "You may," she replies.
Her tone, so warm and fucking sure, is what ultimately convinces Enid to do it. She thinks back to the moment when she first realized Wednesday cared about her, remembers how it felt for the very ground beneath her to upheave and shift, and wonders if this experience might inspire another gravitational reset.
She knows that Wednesday cares deeply about the sanctity of her braids. For her to share this with Enid—if there were any doubts left in her mind of the validity of Wednesday's feelings, this moment has drawn them, quartered them, and disposed of the remains. She cannot doubt the truth, not with Wednesday watching without objection as Enid cautiously takes one of her braids in hand.
Enid releases a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders relaxing as she carefully removes the tie from Wednesday's braid. With no obvious place to put it, Enid slips the hairband onto her wrist, keeping her attention on her task to ensure she doesn't so much as snag a single hair on Wednesday's head.
It's the work of mere seconds to pull apart even a braid as long as Wednesday's, and then Enid's shifting to work on the other side, achingly aware of how pretty Wednesday's hair looks in the flickering candlelight. It nearly reaches her lap. Wednesday's loose hair is so thick, so much softer than Enid ever imagined hair could be, and she nearly forgets what she's doing when Wednesday tilts her head, unknowingly exposing her throat as dark hair tumbles over her shoulder.
Enid forces herself to keep going, absently sliding the second hairband onto her other wrist and undoing Wednesday's braid with more care than she's shown pretty much anything. Enid isn't known for grace—not in step, fingertips, or otherwise—but she'll be damned if she isn't the most considerate undoer of braids that Wednesday has ever seen.
Finally, it is done. Enid tries to sit back, only to find Wednesday's hands tight around her waist, preventing her from moving more than a few inches. Apparently, she will not be permitted to leave Wednesday's lap anytime soon, which might be the best news that Enid has ever received.
Wednesday sighs, her nails digging ever so slightly into Enid's waist. "Such a good girl, aren't you?" she hums.
Enid makes the mistake of looking up and meeting her gaze.
Now, it's true that she has seen Wednesday with her hair down before; no one, least of all her, could have forgotten that memorable post-romp trip to the bathroom. But catching a glimpse one time while she was still spinning from subdrop is far from this ferocity. Enid never dreamed she would have the opportunity to unravel Wednesday's braids herself. She couldn't have pictured what Wednesday would look like naked, uninhibited, and undone.
"Do you need a bridle?"
Enid's startled out of her reverie. "Do I need a—what?" she splutters.
"A bridle," Wednesday repeats. "For your mouth. You seem to be incapable of not biting your lip, and I will not have you injured, Enid. I won't allow it."
Enid certainly is incapable of responding to that, and she ends up panicking and blurting out, "But you said I'd get the wax first!"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at the horrified look Enid adopts immediately afterward.
"I did," Wednesday agrees. "And you will. Do you have a scent preference for which oil I use?"
Enid wonders if this is how whiplash feels. "Which—which scents do you have?"
Because even while being punted from one verbal extreme to another, Enid would have to be dead not to care about what scent she ends up potentially covered in.
Wednesday squeezes Enid's hips one last time before releasing her with a disgruntled expression. "I apologize, but I seem to have erred in my preparations. The oils are still packed away in my desk."
Enid can't help but pout at the prospect of leaving Wednesday's lap so soon, but she nods. "Okay. I'll move," she miserably agrees.
Neither of them moves a muscle.
Somehow, Wednesday looks more pleased than Enid has ever seen her. "Waiting for my permission?" she croons, pushing back Enid's hair. "My Puppy. Already such a good pet."
Wednesday says it plainly, shamelessly, like she's pointing out the color of the bedspread. Like what she's saying is a universal truth.
Enid's inner thighs feel uncomfortably wet.
"Up," Wednesday commands, hard hands helping Enid maintain her balance. "I'll be back shortly," she adds, waiting until she's received Enid's small nod of agreement before shifting her entirely off.
They're only separated for a short time—minutes, at most—but Enid feels it like the loss of a limb. Luckily, Wednesday is quick about unearthing her collection of oils and returning to bed.
"Rosehip, ylang-ylang, and pomegranate," Wednesday announces, pointing at each bottle in turn. "Which does my Puppy want?"
Enid swallows a whine. "Pomegranate," she whispers. "Like the myth."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow as she plucks Enid's choice from the spread. "Persephone had to remain in the underworld one month for every seed she ate," she points out, each word weighted with meaning.
Something about that old story strikes Enid, pooling in her stomach with a sudden gush of warmth. “I didn’t know you liked Greek mythology,” she comments aloud.
Wednesday's lips turn up. “Ancient Studies was one of my favorite courses.”
It's Enid's turn to raise an eyebrow. “Why, because myths pretty much never have happy endings?” she asks, only half-joking.
“Happiness is subjective,” Wednesday replies. “Suffering, on the other hand, is a universal experience.”
Enid can’t argue with that. “I guess so,” she mumbles.
"Indeed." Wednesday rests her hand on Enid's thigh. "Lay back, Puppy. I need unencumbered access to your stomach and chest."
Enid does as told, though she feels a little like the final girl in a horror movie, making a choice that everyone knows will lead to her destruction. If she had an audience watching her right now, they'd probably be screaming at her not to lie back like an idiot in the presence of the killer. Like this, utterly uncovered and exposed to Wednesday's sharp gaze and whatever she plans to do with the oil, Enid is as good as gone.
Wednesday smirks as she uncaps the bottle and pours a generous measure of oil into her palm. Surprisingly, she starts at Enid's feet, unhurried as she works her fingers into every dip and curve of Enid's soles. Enid only lasts about thirty seconds before she breaks and moans aloud, toes curling at the ache Wednesday's so talented at inspiring deep in her bones. Massaging Enid's feet makes zero fucking sense if Wednesday truly only plans to draw runes over her chest and stomach, but Enid certainly won't be the one to point that out.
"Uh, what's the oil for again?" Enid asks, already dazed.
Wednesday's hands slide up her thighs, nudging Enid's knees far enough apart that she can comfortably kneel between Enid's legs. "It makes wax removal much easier."
Enid frowns at that, uncomfortable with the idea of losing her runes so soon after receiving them, but it's impossible to be upset with Wednesday's hands on her hips.
"Um, d-do you usually use so much oil?" Enid gasps, squirming as Wednesday's palms reach her breasts.
Wednesday pauses, ignoring Enid's automatic whine of complaint that she stopped. "No. I just wanted to cover every inch of you that I could."
Enid inhales sharply. For a non-wolf, Wednesday's sure got the spirit behind scenting down pat.
"I adore you smelling like this," Wednesday murmurs, proving once again that she has an uncanny ability to guess what Enid is thinking. "It may not be my scent, but you're covered in me. My touch. My slick…" she trails off, pupils blown wide. Enid can barely breathe.
"...My slick oil," Wednesday finishes, sitting back on her heels. She folds her hands in her lap. "Your comfort is paramount to me, Enid, and I know you aren't experienced with wax. The oil will help."
Enid nods, wondering if she’s somehow acquired a contact high. "O-Okay."
Wednesday’s eyes are bright. "It's time. Are you ready, Puppy?" she asks, clasping her hands together.
"Yes," Enid huffs, hoping she's not being too obvious with the covert arching of her back and spreading of her knees under the guise of shifting into a more comfortable position. "Please, Wednesday? Want it."
Wednesday exhales on a long breath of her own. "Alright, Pet. Let's begin."
Notes:
the hour of wax is at hand
let’s assume for the sake of this story that the myth of Persephone and Hades taught at Nevermore (and potentially was real? makes sense that outcasts still existed in ancient times) was not the version with non-con elements. in this fictional re-written version, Persephone pounded those seeds like shots at the pub in hopes it would give her an excuse to return to her lover despite the upper world’s disapproval
UPDATE 3/16: totally forgot to put this but i'm traveling again next week so i'm adjusting my update schedule by one day, which means i'll be updating on this upcoming saturday, monday, wednesday, friday, etc! still every other day, but i can't upload tomorrow night regardless due to an emergency ballgown acquisition so it iz what it iz
Chapter 41: Illumination
Notes:
lads and lasses and shirefolk, i give you: the wax
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A few weeks ago, Enid might have been embarrassed to find herself naked and oiled up like a marinated steak on Wednesday’s bed. But now? The earth could split down the middle and as long as Wednesday remains on the same side that she does, Enid wouldn’t even blink.
Wednesday moves to the desk, looking more self-satisfied than even the most sophisticated purveyor of wax has any right to be. She’s clearly pleased with whatever she finds in the pot. Her hair, so dark that it seems to eat the candlelight, keeps drawing Enid’s eye as Wednesday turns off the burner and removes the pot from heat.
She's so beautiful like this, unbound and unbothered, that it’s almost unfathomable for Enid to reconcile this Wednesday with the Wednesday who would rather stick needles in her eyes than reveal her bare shoulders in public. Enid feels breathless, just bearing witness to it.
“The pot is enchanted,” Wednesday explains unprompted. “My mother gave it to me when I was thirteen. It’s a traditional gift in my family after a member has experienced their first menstrual cycle.”
Wednesday looks up then, her brow furrowing, and sighs. “I apologize. That was unneeded information."
Enid blinks. “....Wednesday, you literally fucked me through a heat cycle. I don’t think there’s anything you could say or do that would gross me out.”
Biological functions being everybody’s business is just par for the course for a wolf. Everyone in Enid’s immediate family and the extended pack had known when she’d gone into her first pre-heat, having smelled it the moment her glands started leaking vanilla. They’d even held a party to celebrate her presentation as a submissive wolf, mostly remembered for the forty-five minutes Enid spent crying in the bathroom after overhearing an unkind remark from her aunt. She would have been much happier just receiving a pot and calling it a day.
Wednesday snorts under her breath. “I could say the same for you. Everything your body does is….intriguing, if not outright enthralling. It’s quite a challenge to study in this room knowing your scent as intimately as I do.”
Enid’s face flushes. “Sorry, I know it’s disgustingly sweet—”
Wednesday’s elbow knocks into a small jar, forcing her to stretch over the desk to catch it before it rolls right off. “Blasphemy,” she retorts, her knuckles white around the container. “I won’t listen to you speak ill of the most precious scent on earth. Enough, Enid.”
Enid’s jaw shuts with a clack, her heart surging into her mouth as her throat constricts with an ache that feels a lot like a precursor to tears. What was it that her Aunt Evelyn had said?
Enid will just have to accentuate her other submissive qualities, with a bland scent like that.
“T-Thanks, Wednesday,” she manages in a small voice.
Wednesday’s grip on the jar eases. “You’re welcome,” she responds.
There’s an unhurried silence born from comfort and control as Wednesday continues her preparations. Enid devotes her full attention to Wednesday’s hands, hoping that will keep her from devolving into sobs. She adores Wednesday’s hands. Of course, Enid would like them even better on her thighs or hips or throat, but seeing them flit between the tools and the wax with the inert artistry of a conductor is undoubtedly compelling.
Wednesday unscrews the rogue jar and removes a pinch of something that winks in the light. Watching her do even the most mundane tasks is borderline cathartic for Enid. It’s impossible to feel anxious in the safety net of Wednesday’s ritual. Enid never imagined watching Wednesday stir a pot could be so fascinating, but every motion brims with the confidence only bred by experience in her craft, and Enid can’t tear her eyes away. Even Wednesday’s slender wrists are the picture of grace.
“What’s that you just added?” Enid speaks up, hesitant to be disruptive in a place like this. No longer are they squirreled away in their musty dorm room that never gets enough air conditioning; this is Wednesday’s turf, and she’s just a visitor.
Enid abruptly understands why runes aren’t for everyone.
“Extremely fine shavings of twenty-four karat gold. It will help bind the runes to you,” Wednesday replies. She suddenly pauses. “Enid, I was under the impression you do not have any allergies besides silver—was that incorrect?”
“Nope, just silver,” Enid reports, noting how Wednesday’s entire body relaxes. “Gold should be okay. Are you sure you want to waste something like that in wax, though? Isn’t gold, like…extremely expensive?”
Wednesday looks up with an unimpressed face. “The best binding agents are precious metals, rare minerals, and bodily fluids. I figured gold would be easier for you to swallow than being painted with my blood.”
“O-Oh,” Enid stutters, swallowing hard. “That’s, um—yeah, p-probably for the best since I’m not allowed to come.”
Wednesday’s head snaps up, her eyes boring into Enid’s face as her lips part to speak.
“Let’s not talk about that, please, thanks!” Enid shrilly interrupts, scrambling for something to distract her. “W-Why gold?” she blurts. “Why not platinum, or copper, or—?”
“As if I would ever put copper on your body,” Wednesday scoffs, clearly appalled by the very idea (much to Enid’s paralyzing relief). Her lips curl into a scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous, Enid. If you are that concerned about my ingredients stock, know that I can always contact my parents for more if we truly need it. I would never resort to copper, of all things. We’re not savages.”
“That’s good,” Enid chokes out, painfully aware of how narrowly she just evaded disaster.
She must avoid any discussion of Wednesday’s blood and her own feelings on the subject at all costs. Wednesday might claim to be okay with all of the weird shit Enid’s creature lineage drags her into, but hearing in detail how badly Enid wants to rip into her throat with her teeth likely wouldn’t go over well. Non-wolves just aren’t socialized the same way on such topics; these things need to be handled delicately, which already isn’t a point of strength for Enid. Her aunt once told her she has all the subtlety of a pitchfork.
“Indeed,” Wednesday agrees, resuming her stirring. “I generally replenish my supply over the breaks, but in a pinch, we’d still have options. Don’t waste your energy worrying about such a thing. I would take care of it, Puppy.”
“Okay,” Enid weakly replies. Her heart still beats a little fast for someone who’s done nothing besides lounge on a bed for most of the conversation.
“There,” Wednesday announces, stepping away from the desk. “We’re ready.”
Enid lays back, resting her weight on her elbows as Wednesday pours the wax into a glass beaker of sorts. Without further ado, Wednesday approaches the bed with the beaker in hand, the candlelight creating a halo around her silhouette. The image she makes is so absorbing, Enid almost forgets what they’re doing. She might have spent hours gaping at Wednesday like an idiot if Wednesday didn’t choose that moment to readjust her grip to the bottom of the beaker, exposing her soft inner wrist. Faced with the chance of potentially accessing one of Wednesday’s scenting spots, Enid’s focus sharpens to a laser point.
Unexpectedly, Wednesday doesn’t reach for Enid—or draw any closer to the mattress. Instead, she dips the fingers of her free hand into the wax and draws a line down her exposed forearm. Enid would protest the use of her wax on anything but her skin if not for how Wednesday’s tendons flex in a particularly distracting way as the wax cools and hardens.
A solid line of baby pink glints on Wednesday’s skin within seconds. It shines in the candlelight, flecks of gold catching the twisting flames around them. This isn't a ritual meant for just anyone, Enid realizes. There is meaning in this moment, something beyond the world they know, that shivers down her back like a touch she can’t quite feel.
Apparently pleased with the temperature and consistency of the wax, Wednesday retrieves a long, delicate object from the nightstand that Enid recognizes as some sort of old-fashioned paintbrush. It's a gorgeous instrument, really: lacquered black wood crowned by dark, neat hair sewn with glinting golden thread. It is precisely the sort of item an Addams would keep in their dorm room on the off-chance an opportunity arises to use hot wax on someone.
“You’re not going to use your fingers?” Enid asks, hoping Wednesday doesn’t notice how petulant she sounds.
Wednesday’s eyebrow raises. “You would prefer that over the brush?”
“Yes,” Enid replies without hesitation. She means it, too—no matter the other option, she will always prefer Wednesday to touch her directly.
Wednesday places the brush back on the nightstand, setting the wax beaker down beside it. “Alright. In that case, I’ll need the ice,” she decides, turning on her heel and walking away.
“Ice?” Enid calls after her, craning her neck to watch as Wednesday plucks the yellow ice pack from the ritual circle. “What for?”
Wednesday’s lips quirk up as she returns. “Safety measures,” she answers, gently pushing Enid onto her back before climbing astride her.
Enid’s hands automatically jump to Wednesday’s hips, squeezing harder than what’s altogether acceptable as she tries to act like Wednesday straddling her is an everyday occurrence and not cause for freaking the fuck out.
“I always keep ice on standby in case some accident or adverse reaction occurs, but if I’m inserting my fingers directly into hot wax, I’ll need this on hand,” Wednesday informs her, ever unruffled even as she tosses the ice pack somewhere by Enid’s head.
Enid probably intended to reply and continue the conversation, but all possibility of communicating with words disappears when Wednesday’s freezing fingers land on Enid’s stomach.
“Fuck!” Enid squeaks, squirming hard enough to nearly unseat her.
Wednesday’s thighs clamp around her waist as a result. “Don’t move, Enid. I mean it.”
The seriousness of her tone convinces Enid not to argue. She manages to keep it to a wordless whimper that Wednesday soothes by petting her hair.
“Tell me if it’s too hot,” Wednesday warns, dipping her right hand into the beaker.
Despite knowing this was coming, despite having ample time to wrap her head around the prospect of having her skin painted with hot wax, Enid still feels like she’s approaching the edge of a cliff as Wednesday’s dripping fingers near her clavicle. She has time for exactly one rushed inhale, one moment of reveling in the sensation of balancing at the top of a rollercoaster right before it tips over the edge, and then there is heat.
The only coherent word Enid manages to parse out from her internal monologue, which sounds a lot like a giant waterfall rushing in her ears, is hot. It’s so much hotter than she’d anticipated, hot enough to sting. A blistering warmth spreads over her chest, her skin throbbing where Wednesday made her first stroke. It’s almost too much. Almost.
What’s wild is Enid probably would have survived the whole session with her dignity intact if hot wax had been all that Wednesday planned to inflict on her. The wax is unfamiliar and right on the very cusp of painful without being unbearable for the few seconds it takes to cool, but the hand Wednesday apparently had been resting atop her ice pack? The palm that presses down on Enid’s half-finished rune, the fingers cold enough to burn? She never stood a chance.
Withstanding Wednesday’s cold touch so soon after the heat has tears forming in Enid’s eyes, has her voice wavering with another wordless plea for more that Wednesday, panting, swallows with a kiss. Wednesday’s speaking something Enid doesn’t understand, murmuring in another language into Enid’s mouth as her cold fingers trace the shape of her rune. When Wednesday finishes her recitation, she leans back, and Enid instinctively falls quiet.
Wednesday’s eyes are wider than Enid has ever seen, her skin damp with sweat as she looks down upon Enid, who waits for her verdict in unbearable silence.
Almost frantic, Wednesday speaks again, her words coming faster, tumbling over Enid without comprehension. Enid begins to float, probably would have dropped entirely if not for the return of English prompting her to refocus on whatever’s coming out of Wednesday’s mouth. She tunes back in just in time to catch the end of it.
“—Mine, this body and blood, your child of light,” Wednesday's chest heaves as she chants, her nails digging into Enid’s skin around her rune, directly over her heart, “May she see.”
And once again, when Enid reopens her eyes, she greets a world bearing no resemblance to what she’d known to be true before.
Notes:
RUNE ONE: COMPLETED
WAX: UTILIZED
ENID'S OVERALL STATE: TO BE DETERMINEDany guesses as what effect the illumination rune has on a recipient? hint: it has to do with truth
(also pls do not worry about wednesday’s allergy to color she took hella meds today to be able to safely handle the pink wax)
per my last A/N, i unexpectedly had to acquire a gown to attend a ball in the very near future and while i did purchase a dress last night, today was where the magic happened. the first gown i bought was dark blue silk with silver embroidery emanating up from the skirt that darkens into sapphire by the time it hits the waist, but it wasn’t The Dress. so today, i go out shopping for the proper undergarments and lo and behold: i see it. The Dress. a work of black mesh and boning visible through a see-through corset, a multi-tiered skirt that softens an otherwise sharp cut. it is edgy. it is risky. it is perfect. wednesday would most definitely approve.
Chapter 42: Reversed Inhibition
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Are you okay?" Wednesday asks, and her words are silver, soft-edged, heavy. Enid's brain skips a few beats before she realizes this is what worry would look like if words had shapes and colors. If such a thing were possible, Wednesday's concern would feel like upset gravel beneath bare feet, like sea-salt drying on her skin. It would sink into Enid's chest, a bone-deep sunburn.
On another, less-dizzying note, Wednesday is worried about her.
"M'okay," Enid whispers, and her words come out flushed as pink as her skin.
It's the truth, she recognizes with a thrill of childlike wonder. Her truth is pink—almost the exact same shade as the wax glittering over her heart. Enid wishes she could catch it in her hands like fireflies, wishes she could capture something so pretty, soft, and sweet to keep. The beauty of such a little thing, barely even a sentence, nearly stuns her.
What color is Wednesday's truth, she wonders? Is it the same fragile consistency, like spun sugar or spider silk? Or would Wednesday's truth weigh on Enid as her trepidation had?
"Good," Wednesday replies, the set of her shoulders loosening.
Silver gives way to something dewy and invigorating like a brush of falling snow—knowledge, Enid thinks. Wednesday's knowledge is grass before sunlight, the sky before dawn. It curls around Enid with every word she speaks.
"Illumination will be the hardest rune you take," Wednesday tells her. "The other two shouldn't be nearly as difficult to acclimate to. Do you feel it will be too much?"
Silver again, slipping beneath her ribs, squeezing around her throat. Wednesday's worry is upsetting, sure, but it also grounds Enid in a way that mere words never could; she cannot drop as long as Wednesday's so unsure. It would be cruel.
And Enid can't just flip off into the abyss knowing Wednesday cares this much for her personal comfort, of all ridiculous things.
She shakes her head, and all thoughts come to a shrieking halt because her colors—her beautiful pink truth—are gone. No color erupts, even though Enid knows she wasn't lying when she shook her head in denial. She can take two more runes. She can take whatever Wednesday throws at her.
So where the fuck are her colors?
"What happened?" Enid demands, blinking rapidly in hopes she'll open her eyes to a new bloom of yellow or violet or something.
Wednesday frowns. "What do you mean?"
Fuzzy grey fog—confusion—emanates from Wednesday, but Enid can barely make her out. It's another unnerving second before she realizes what she's looking at.
“Colors,” Enid says, her voice sounding distant and removed. “Our words have colors.”
There is no blushing pink, no sharp evergreen, but there is something brewing between them in the shape of Enid's speech. She squints at Wednesday like an idiot for almost ten full seconds before she gets it.
Apparently, rather than an actual color, Enid's anxiety just looks like the absence of light, which is way too philosophical for her horny brain to handle. She'll have to loop back to this when she's in a more contemplative state of mind. For now, there is wax, color, and Wednesday. Always Wednesday. Nothing else can matter in the bounds of their circle.
“Illumination shows the truth,” Wednesday replies. “Inhibition—for myself, at least—demands it.”
The only positive aspect of her colorless realization is that Enid answers her own question: the Illumination rune must only affect spoken words, rather than expose her every emotion. It's not the best news she's ever heard, but it could definitely be worse. At least she isn't forced to say whatever comes to mind. That would be—
Enid's eyes go very wide.
"Oh, no," she whispers, darkness curling around her. "....I'm getting Inhibition, too, aren't I?"
Wednesday’s lips twitch with amusement.
"I promise it will be easier, Puppy," she says. "All Inhibition will require from you is your nakedness, and the sacrifice for Satisfaction is merely that you not come until the ritual has concluded."
Enid should be relieved by the assurance that she won't have to spout her every thought aloud like an unruly firehose, but her mouth still falls open as an entirely new understanding dawns on her. Funny how almost as soon as she had thought it, the answer was presented before her:
Wednesday's truth is beautiful, almost damning, because her words shine in the candlelight in a suffocating shade of gold.
"Still okay?" Wednesday asks, drawing her out of her reverie.
Cutting silver. Worry.
"Yes," Enid breathes, "I am."
And she means it. If Enid could have captured a single moment in time to keep forever and forever, it would be the sight of Wednesday gilded with gold as she offers Enid the truth.
Of course, Wednesday's words would exist in jewel tones and metallics, Enid internally scoffs. She's like a particularly ornery dragon, refusing to say anything beyond the bare minimum, even guarding her words like a dragon would their hoard.
If it weren't for the fact that she knows Wednesday isn't a shifter, Enid might adjust her running conspiracy theory of Wednesday being some unnamed creature to Wednesday being an extremely rare creature with the capability of becoming a dragon as the mood suits. It suddenly makes perfect sense why Wednesday thought it necessary to draw the Inhibition rune on herself; she's not exactly a paragon of honesty and emotional transparency. Even with the assistance of Illumination, Enid wouldn't know shit as long as Wednesday remained silent.
She is only just beginning to comprehend the lengths Wednesday will go to for this ritual’s sake. Even thinking about this is difficult, but Enid refuses to lie—not even to herself. Inhibition rune or not, she won't do Wednesday the disservice of faking her feelings. To commit such an act in this room, at this hour, would be unforgivable.
"I need to remove your hair ties," Wednesday breaks the silence.
Gold, warm and precious. Enid obediently holds out her wrists.
Wednesday carefully removes both hairbands, setting the elastics to the side. "No covering yourself," she repeats.
Enid manages a smile. "Not even a hairband?"
"Not even that," Wednesday agrees, the picture of sincerity. "Are you ready for Inhibition?"
Enid nods, and her words come out lovely and pink. "I am."
Wednesday dips her fingers into the wax, giving Enid just enough time to feel her heart stutter in her chest, to feel her muscles tense in frantic anticipation before her stomach sears with heat.
Enid still moans aloud like a desperate little slut when Wednesday follows up with her cold grip immediately afterward, but this time, she manages to pant, "You didn't chant over this one."
Wednesday looks up, nostrils flaring. "I didn't need to."
Enid tries not to pout. "Why not?"
Her petulance is powder blue, wispy and waning like it never existed at all.
Wednesday's lips quirk up. "You took the first rune so well, Puppy, I didn't need to declare my intentions for this. The magic understood."
Wednesday then sighs, and her words come out burnished bronze, a dying sun. "You're a natural, Enid."
Enid's entire face flushes with heat, her heart singing in her chest, because never, not in her wildest dreams, did she imagine Wednesday could ever be genuinely impressed. Her words trickle over Enid's skin in a manner that leaves her squirming.
"Didn't do anything," she mumbles, and though she's telling the pretty pink truth, Wednesday's brow raises in challenge.
"No?" Wednesday asks. "The magic disagrees. Of course my pet takes to runes like a duck to water," she scoffs. "I should've known better. It was thoughtless to assume my magic wouldn't love you just as much as I do."
And her golden words, too bright for Enid to face directly, feel like a tendril escaped from the sun.
Notes:
ONLY 1-2 MF CHAPTERS OF THE RITUAL LEFT
next up: auntie Lucía is ready to rumble
Chapter 43: Axiom
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
While Enid isn’t a connoisseur of fine art—not even close—she can appreciate a good painting. In the past, she has quite enthusiastically allowed herself to be dragged off to Bennington in the dead of night to break into some art installation that Wednesday can’t bear to miss. Almost a year ago, there had been one memorable occasion when she and Wednesday found an artist exhibiting a reimagining of Dante’s Inferno. Each piece was entrancing, but the final mural, a shock of color stretched from floor to ceiling, brought both girls to a halt.
There had just been so much to look at, so many strokes and billows and blooms of living experience, from the blinding light of heaven to the deepest perils of hell. It was rapturous. Enid will never forget sitting on a concrete floor next to Wednesday in silence, trying to reconcile what she was looking at with what she felt until the sun came up. That night was the closest they ever came to being caught outside on an illicit excursion (and, coincidentally, the closest Enid came to being arrested).
The painting haunted her for months thereafter. Anyone who has been in their room for longer than two seconds can tell how much she loves color, how bright the world would be if Enid were the one to decide how to shade it, but something about that mural had settled deep beneath her ribs and refused to budge. She still thinks of it sometimes when she has trouble falling asleep.
While Enid’s favorite part of any painting is obviously the color scheme, she would bet her entire Nevermore tuition bill that Wednesday is a purveyor of faces, painted or otherwise.
Whether glimpsed from afar or aimed squarely in her direction, Wednesday catalogues every shift in expression like she’s studying for an exam. No person is exempt from her sharp eyes. No emotion is sacred, no reaction is ignored; Wednesday’s stare is, to put it politely, merciless.
Enid has no idea what her face looks like right now, but Wednesday radiates enough pleasure that it practically burns her skin.
“Oh, Puppy,” Wednesday whispers, folding over her like a wave, dark hair shielding them both as she pauses above Enid’s lips.
Enid doesn’t need to be an expert in faces to recognize the question in Wednesday’s expression. For one awful moment that feels a lot like hurtling back to earth after getting slingshotted around the sun, Enid thinks that Wednesday’s hesitating, or at the very least rethinking whether Enid is actually the person she wants to deal with for the rest of her life. It’s a heady thing, looking at someone and seeing decades stretch out before you.
Then Enid realizes that Wednesday is giving her the choice. Wednesday is leaving it up to her to decide if this is something she can accept, if this love, burnished and gold, will be Enid’s truth as much as her own. A lifetime is comprised of moments; it is a huge responsibility to choose who she spends them with. Enid has never been trusted to act with such autonomy in her life.
Her mother would scream bloody murder if she could see Enid now.
That thought gives her the strength to lean up, to meet Wednesday’s kiss with a better answer than words could’ve ever composed. Wednesday sighs into her, and for Enid, that one, small sound of relief might as well be carved into her bones.
“You are all I have ever loved,” Wednesday breathes.
Enid shudders, silent and stunned, flushing everywhere she can feel the slide of Wednesday’s skin. Wednesday shifts further down and her hair parts like stage curtains, candlelight flooding back into focus. Enid gasps when she feels Wednesday’s tongue dragging up her neck.
"What color was that?" Wednesday murmurs into her skin, teeth catching directly over Enid’s pulse.
Enid swallows, clutching her tighter. She prays Wednesday never leaves, never stops lying on top of her. Her slight weight is all that keeps Enid from splintering into pieces.
"Gold,” she whispers in response.
Wednesday huffs out a laugh. "I have never heard irony sound so sweet.” She leans back, gaze warmer than Enid has ever seen. “Just one more rune to go.”
After a startled moment spent wondering why Wednesday just pulled away from her like a monster, Enid chases her kiss with a whine. “Don’t go,” she begs, voice breaking. “Please.”
Wednesday’s lashes flutter, the corner of her mouth pulling up in Enid’s favorite half-smile. She lowers her head just enough that Enid can nose along her throat and be soothed by her scent. “Don't you know by now that I would not?” Wednesday dryly asks. “Thunderstorms of hail and fire could not part me from you, Enid. I would not permit it—not ever,” she speaks, and her words shimmer around Enid like a cloak of sunlight. “Not even to defeat death.”
Enid frowns, drawn from her wonder by this unacceptable talk of Wednesday dying. “Don’t you dare, Wednesday. I would never forgive you.”
It’s probably a sign of how far Enid has fallen that even Wednesday’s snort sounds like a song.
“You should brace yourself,” Wednesday warns her, a note of seriousness in her tone that has Enid paying rapt attention. “It won’t be as disquieting as Illumination was, but you should still feel the effects of Satisfaction immediately.”
Enid frowns as a sudden thought occurs to her. “Hey, Wednesday—how did Inhibition affect me? I don’t have to say everything I think like you do. What’s changed?”
There’s something soft in Wednesday’s expression as she peers down at her. “I cannot know that for you," she replies. "Whatever restrained you before is gone, Enid. That which held you back has been eased.”
Oh, Enid thinks. That only leaves one possibility. It’s kind of embarrassing that she needed a rune—one that demanded a sacrifice of her wearing any clothing, no less—to be able to brave Wednesday’s feelings without hiding behind her typical veil of denial, but it makes a frightening amount of sense. Was she truly so obstinate that she needed spiritual intervention to face the truth? Was the possibility of Wednesday loving her so unconscionable before? Enid can’t remember.
In fact, Enid can’t bring herself to care.
Because the truth of the matter, blistering and gold, is that Wednesday was always going to find a way to reach her. From an Addams, she shouldn’t have expected anything less.
Notes:
your comments KILLED me last chapter i wrote that bitch in thirty-five minutes between meetings give me a break TT yall are the best
UPDATE 3/24: next chapter will go up sunday after my ball weekend is over! thank you for your patience and pls pray for my feet doing exactly what you should NOT do wearing new heels to an event :')
UPDATE 3/26: make that monday once i'm back from traveling
another update: delayed again, sorry guys :( will be back online either tuesday night or wednesday after i'm home
Chapter 44: Satisfaction
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Of all the things Enid could have become infatuated with, hot wax wouldn’t have been her first guess. Truthfully, it wouldn’t even have made the list.
But stranger things have happened when Wednesday Addams is involved, and surely, it’s understandable that Enid feels a little mournful as Wednesday dips her fingers into the wax one last time. There's something catastrophic about Wednesday painting her body with secrets known only to her. Enid wonders if her skin will bear the marks of this moment forever.
"Satisfaction," Wednesday breaks the silence, apparently feeling the need to commemorate this final offering. "As soon as you come, it is null."
Enid shudders under the sting of heat, her skin throbbing as the wax cools enough to solidify into shape. It feels oddly appropriate that Wednesday chose the lowest part of her stomach for this particular rune, though Enid wonders how Wednesday had known such a sensitivity existed.
The extent of Wednesday’s awareness never ceases to amaze her.
"It's active," Wednesday murmurs, drawing away.
Her warning is unnecessary. Enid would know something is different purely from how drunk she suddenly feels. From one heartbeat to the next, she becomes dazed, like she's somehow fallen into subspace while managing to keep her mind awake. If this is Wednesday's magic, it’s no wonder that she doesn't play well with others; Enid wouldn't either if she constantly fed from such a heady source of power. She feels perfectly at ease, no fear to be found.
"It's the trance," Wednesday whispers to her. "Just the rune at play. You won't drop from this, I promise."
Enid's face grows warm. "Okay."
Wednesday hums. "Does this embarrass you?" she asks, thumb brushing Enid's cheek.
"Feels good, Wednesday," she replies, swallowing hard at the look that inspires as Wednesday considers her words.
Her honesty is appreciated, judging by the scent of honey beginning to seep from Wednesday's parted legs.
Before Enid can so much as take a proper breath, Wednesday has snapped back up with a frown.
"You remember each sacrifice, right?" she asks.
Enid nods.
"Say it," Wednesday orders.
"N-No light, no clothes, no come," Enid squeaks.
Wednesday's lips quirk up. "No artificial light or Illumination is lost. No fabric or Inhibition is broken. No come or Satisfaction disappears," she agrees. "Know your limits, Enid."
"But I have you for that," Enid mumbles.
Wednesday pauses, her eyebrows raising almost in spite of herself. Enid can't help but smile.
***
Wednesday wonders when, exactly, she acquired such a bratty submissive. After that last declaration, Enid actually smirks, the disrespectful thing.
Enid without insecurity is proving a formidable adversary for Wednesday's self-control.
"Wednesday?" Enid asks, her voice coming out unsure.
Wednesday braces herself before meeting Enid's gaze. It astonishes her what most people consider the warmest colors, that the vast majority of the world would respond with some variation of red or orange; as if such unimportant colors could compete. No one who has seen Enid's eyes would offer an answer other than blue.
Wednesday's chest gives a dull throb with the aching need to be close to her, a need she will thankfully be able to sate without much humiliation thanks to the necessary aspects of this ritual. Physical contact will be essential, and while she could just have them hold hands, why shoot so low when the big game is still in sight?
"Come,” Wednesday says, slipping off of the bed and holding out a hand.
Enid takes it without hesitation.
***
When Wednesday leads her into the circle, Enid feels as though a blanket has fallen over them. She hears nothing outside the candlelit boundary, not the rustling of the curtains, not the creak of an old building. The silence is deafening.
"We'll sit together," Wednesday insists, taking a seat on the floor and dragging Enid into her lap.
Enid curls into herself, grateful for the warmth of Wednesday's chest against her back but still embarrassed to meet an Addams ancestor while naked and in highly inappropriate physical contact with an unmarried descendant. It's honestly a stroke of good fortune for Enid that Wednesday begins the ritual before she can devolve into a puddle of panic (or as much panic as one can muster up while under the influence of Inhibition). Enid desperately wants to make a good impression on this ghost, which is quite possibly the strangest desire she's ever harbored.
"I come to treat with Lucía," Wednesday announces, chest vibrating behind Enid. "Witness my heart, who bears Illumination, Inhibition, and Satisfaction."
For some reason, the skin where Enid's been marked with wax begins to feel unnaturally warm. Perhaps, it's just the heat within the circle rising by degrees, but the hair on the back of Enid’s neck says otherwise.
"These are the blessings I've chosen for my intended," Wednesday continues. "Illumination to show her the truth of my feelings. Inhibition so that she may offer her truest self as she greets you. And Satisfaction," her voice falters almost imperceptibly, "As a final wish for our courtship. I want Enid to be satisfied in every conceivable way. I want to satisfy her heart, her self, and her spirit. I want her to belong to me as I belong to her." Wednesday quiets for only a short moment. "This is my ask, sister. Come, meet my intended."
Enid is so shell-shocked at what just came out of Wednesday's mouth that she almost misses the reply emanating from the candles around them.
"Sister, have you really brought me a girl?" a warm, lilting voice destined for mischief asks, seemingly out of thin air. "And not just a girl—your heart."
"Yes," Wednesday answers, solid and succinct. "She is mine. My heart."
Enid would never have guessed that a conversation with a ghost could soak her metaphorical underwear so thoroughly. She must have made some sort of noise or movement because Wednesday looks down at her sharply, insistent, and frowns when Enid refuses to meet her gaze.
What she's not about to do is look at Wednesday in utter desperation while in the presence of her deceased family member. Enid has the morals to wait until Lucía ends the call.
Still, tempering herself while the Inhibition rune remains active takes a herculean effort. Her instinct to be good and not interrupt the ritual wars with the truth in her bones, with the love she feels aching to spill forth from her lips. She doesn't need to blurt out every thought in her head; instead, Enid has developed a rather heinous desire that, more than anything, Wednesday knows how loved she is. Knows how much this little performance means to Enid, that Wednesday would take the time to introduce her to her family (dead though Lucía may be).
"My, my, sister…you've chosen well." Lucía's voice comes soft and amused, curling around Enid like a welcoming embrace. Somehow, she can imagine just what it would feel like to be held in Lucía's arms.
"Butterscotch," Enid blurts, and she just knows this is Lucía's scent.
Lucía's warm, ringing laugh answers her. "Very good. Such a smart little wolf you've found, sister."
"I know," Wednesday states, an edge to her voice like she's daring Lucía to disagree. "Enid is intelligent and talented and disquietingly beautiful, so I fail to understand why you feel the need to point out only one of her many positive attributes."
Enid's sure her expression lands somewhere around appalled.
Another peal of gleeful laughter. "And I thought our Wednesday wouldn't ever deign to give her love to another! Never have I been so delighted to be wrong."
Wednesday's lips press together. "Now, you've met her. Do we have your blessing to proceed with our courtship?"
The tone in her voice promises retribution should Lucía give any answer other than the affirmative. Enid’s not sure what can be done to punish a ghost, but if anyone could find a way, it would be Wednesday.
Then Enid feels, for just one breath, a kiss of warmth against her cheek. There can be no mistake; that was a gesture a mother might give their child, the kind of comfort Enid learned never to expect from her own family. How is she supposed to respond? Is there a code of etiquette when a ghost shows you unplanned affection? These are important things to know.
"You have my blessing," Lucía replies, taking the answer out of her hands. "Accept my well wishes. Let them bolster your own. I will watch over you during your courtship, my sisters."
Wednesday inclines her head. It isn't a sign of submissiveness so much as deference, a gesture of respect that Enid never expected to witness from Wednesday Addams. The small, aching part of Enid that resides somewhere behind her ribs throbs at the knowledge that Wednesday comes from a family that freely offers their love beyond the bounds of a transaction. Lucía came from the depths of the afterlife or spirit world or whatever simply to meet her and—and to hear Wednesday's wishes for them. To listen as Wednesday spoke aloud the dreams she drew on Enid's skin.
If she weren't so comforted by Lucía's presence, invisible though the spirit may be, Enid might have broken down in tears.
"Until the sun sets and the moon rises," Wednesday says.
Lucía's sweet laughter again. "May your flight be clear as dawn."
All of the candles wink out at once. Only the memory of butterscotch remains. For a moment, they are plunged into darkness, and then there's a glow from Wednesday's hand.
"Enchanted moonstone," Wednesday answers her unspoken question.
Enid nods, gaze locked on the rock in her palm. "Pretty."
"I'll have a necklace made for you out of them, if you’d like," Wednesday murmurs, her lips dropping onto Enid's shoulder with something like relief. "Then, I'll be able to find you anywhere."
"Do enchanted moonstones include a tracking spell?" Enid idly asks, her grin making it clear she's joking.
Wednesday huffs in amusement. "Do you feel the need for a tracking spell?” she retorts. “Hm. I suppose the idea has merit. After all, I wouldn't want you wandering off into the woods, Little Red. You could stumble across a monster."
"I doubt there is any monster in these woods that's worse than me," Enid mutters.
Wednesday looks down at her with soft eyes.
"Why did you want me to meet her, Wednesday?" Enid asks, holding her breath.
Wednesday tilts her head. "It is our oldest tradition. We cannot bring our heart before the living family until we introduce our intention to the bloodline."
Even in the dark, her eyes are haunting.
"That's not the only reason," Enid whispers.
"No," Wednesday agrees, holding her gaze. "I wanted you to hear me and know what I said was the truth."
"...And?" Enid persists, almost unable to help herself.
Wednesday's eyes become bright and challenging. "Don't you remember our previous conversation, Puppy? How impossible it was to convince you that you were still alive?" Her lips curl up in a victorious little smile. "If we were already dead, we'd have been chatting with Lucía in person. Case closed.”
Notes:
alright the class i'm flying has wifi and outlets so i'm updating now to try to get this to you guys as fast as possible but i'm playing connection roulette here and i' won't be able to answer your comments until tomorrow i'm sorry posting this is such a mess lmao i hope it reaches you
UPDATE: i found the stolen version on wattpad and reported them, thank you guys for letting me know :(
Chapter 45: Feed
Notes:
the version of this story posted without permission on wattpad has been taken down but please holler at me if you come across any more instances of people scrapping ITHOTM—i really appreciate you guys for letting me know what was happening!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For a long moment, there is silence. As expected, Wednesday appears completely unbothered by her declaration—and by the shock playing out on Enid's face.
"So…" Enid struggles to formulate a coherent sentence, still nestled in Wednesday's lap. "So, you're saying you conducted an entire séance to win an argument? Just making sure I have this down."
Wednesday blinks at her. Her cheekbones look ghoulish in the weak light of the moonstone. "Yes."
"You conducted a séance," Enid stresses, "Dragged a relative out of the afterlife, opened a ritual circle in our dorm room, and showed me the inner workings of your magic just to prove you were right?"
"That is correct," Wednesday agrees.
Enid opens and closes her mouth at least twice. "Wednesday."
Wednesday rolls her eyes. "What about this isn't clicking for you? Of course, I would hold a séance to prove myself to you. Was that really in question, Enid?"
"But it's a whole séance!" Enid protests, biting her lip. "We disturbed Lucia's—rest, or whatever."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "I would do far worse than that for you."
And that appears to be all she has to say about it.
Enid loses her breath. “How could you be real?” she huffs to herself.
"It was imperative that I convinced you of the truth of my feelings," Wednesday explains at full volume, unfazed. "Holding a séance appeared to be the most efficient way of persuading you that we are both still alive while also illustrating my intentions are serious."
"Two birds, one stone," Enid mutters.
Wednesday nods. "Exactly."
"And you…planned to do that?" Enid persists, ignoring how her voice shakes. "You planned to present me to your family as a potential mate? Even before the argument about whether we were dead or not? You're saying we—we eventually would have done this ritual anyways?"
Wednesday's brow furrows. "Obviously. I wouldn't have conducted the ritual if I wasn't serious about our courtship," she points out. "If I wasn't secure in my intentions, I would have just held the séance and been done with it. This way, you know I intend to see this through to the end."
Enid reflects on that for several harrowing seconds.
"I always intended to court you in our ways," Wednesday suddenly says, and her words, which have become tinged with silver anxiety, increase in speed. "It may not seem like it since I elected to start with werewolf courting, but that was always my intention. This séance provided the perfect opportunity to initiate the courting traditions my family follows."
End says in a very small voice, “I don’t understand why you’d want to.”
Wednesday frowns. "Want to what?"
Her confusion is blue, placid and pretty, soft as the sky.
"Why you'd want to court me," Enid clarifies, and the pink truth of her words might as well have dealt Wednesday a physical blow, so clearly does she grasp that Enid genuinely believes what she's said. For a moment, Wednesday almost looks wounded.
Though her expression flickers, it ultimately settles on determined. "I love you," she says, like that is enough of an explanation to justify every action she's taken and will ever take when it comes to Enid. Those particular words come out golden, no trace of silver to be found.
"You already said that," Enid mumbles under her breath.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "It bears repeating."
Enid risks looking up at her, suddenly grateful for the awkward position they're twisted in. She would deflate like a punctured balloon if forced to look Wednesday head-on while talking about this. Even knowing the truth, even with the sun-soaked reality of Wednesday's words lingering before her, Enid struggles to reconcile what she believed of the world as recently as this morning with what she now understands in the present.
She is nearly brought to tears by the realization that this ritual, this plan concocted by Wednesday to definitively prove her devotion to Enid, had demanded something from her as well. Wednesday would never have agreed to such an invasive condition as Inhibition, not in any other situation—not for anyone else.
Enid feels it ringing in her chest, glory in her bones, and her own rune warms with something like approval. Is magic emotionally autonomous? She'll have to ask Wednesday when she has the capacity to care about something besides the feeling of Wednesday's bare skin against her own.
The thing is, Enid understands she has issues—her colorless despair made that abundantly clear—but Wednesday has always inspired her to take a leap of faith. It had been that way when they were teenagers, fighting off a beast together in the woods, and remained a fact of life through the riptide of Enid's heat. The same still holds true today: for Wednesday, she's willing to be brave.
"Will you teach me to use your runes?" Enid blurts, her voice cracking the contemplative peace they'd both found shelter in. "On you, I mean."
Wednesday's expression doesn't change, but her eyes become bright. "I'm afraid this is a magic that takes years to learn," she replies, the color of her words confirming what she says is the unfortunate truth. "Imbuing a medium with spiritual intention is—"
"I don't care," Enid insists, talking over her. "Even if the runes don't work the way they would if you drew them, I still want it." Riding the high of the moment, she throws caution to the wind and demands, "Wednesday, do you love me?"
Wednesday replies without hesitation, "With all that I have."
Golden. Undeniable.
Enid nods, swallowing hard, and reminds herself to be brave as she says, "Let me mark you."
Wednesday's eyebrows climb up into her hair. If Enid weren't certain of Wednesday's love, she would be crumbling into pieces at the appalled look on Wednesday's face; because she does know the truth, Enid feels her inner thighs become wet instead. No matter how many truths she learns, Enid will always consider shocking Wednesday an achievement of the highest order.
"Teach me," Enid begs, picking up steam the longer she speaks. "Wanna—wanna paint you too, wanna paint Wednesday with my wishes, please—"
"You want that?" Wednesday interrupts her. If Enid's voice is desperate, then Wednesday's is a warning. Don't stray so far from the path, Little Red. Beware; here there be monsters.
"Y-Yeah," Enid manages. "Yes," she insists, forcing herself to speak in the tenor of a functioning human being rather than an over-boiled tea kettle.
Wednesday's eyes widen, and there's a clatter on the ground beside Enid's calf as the room plunges into sudden darkness. The moonstone, she realizes somewhat dazedly. Wednesday must have dropped it.
Wednesday, who never takes an uncertain step, who never loses her grip on anything, physical or otherwise, dropped the moonstone onto the floor. Then she speaks, and the room fills with gold.
"I had no idea my Puppy wanted to mark me so badly," she breathes. "I won't make the same mistake again. Come."
Enid is dragged to her feet, the iron grip around her wrist encouraging her to stumble in what she hopes is the direction of the bed. Is night vision another characteristic of practicing psychics? Even with Enid's heightened senses, she ends up kicking over lonely candles and splattering wax all over the floorboards as she goes.
There's a clink as what smells like the vial of pomegranate oil joins the icepack on the bed, then Enid's ass meets the bedspread as Wednesday pushes her down and retakes her place of honor. Knees lock around Enid's waist, keeping her pinned as Wednesday straddles her. Doing this blindly—getting tossed around by Wednesday blindly—has Enid's heart thundering in her chest. If she didn't trust Wednesday before, she certainly would now, placing her physical safety as well as emotional well-being in Wednesday's manicured hands.
Enid's palms automatically jump to Wednesday's hips, nails digging into skin that she cannot see so much as feel prickling beneath her fingertips. The idea of Wednesday being sensitive to her touch is almost too much for Enid to take.
Her mouth becomes suspiciously dry, saliva pooling under her tongue. This thirst for Wednesday is maddening. Enid aches for honeycomb, would give anything to taste her at the source, but Wednesday appears to have other plans. Enid feels her rooting around somewhere to the side, her hair brushing Enid's chest as Wednesday leans over her, and then there is light.
One solitary candle on the nightstand; just enough to make out Wednesday upending the entire bottle of oil onto her own chest. It streams down her stomach, cutting shining lines on Wednesday's skin as the excess pools on Enid's lower stomach. Enid nearly loses her grip on Wednesday's waist in the chaos.
"Wax," Wednesday orders, and her words are tinged with violet. It's so beautiful, so startling that Enid virtually misses her instructions.
"Now, Puppy," Wednesday says, voice low.
Her words are cotton sheets stained with ruined makeup, leaves crushed under an unwary step, snowfall bleeding away with the dawn. To call this mere purple would be an insult.
It's lust, Enid realizes, and want. If Wednesday's violet desire had its own scent, it would be holly berries and mint, and beneath that, fir and pine and ozone. It would smell like winter, the coldest night, like everything that could conceivably raise goosebumps on Enid's skin.
The sweetness of Wednesday's honeycomb is Enid's favorite scent in the entire world, but her words are treacherous. Violet is the most brutal color Enid has ever seen.
"Are you going to make me repeat myself?"
Enid is shocked out of her reverie. "N-No."
Wednesday picks up Enid's hand, maneuvering her like a doll as she holds them both over the pot of wax.
"It will be hot," Wednesday warns, violet giving way to silver. "But there shouldn't be any pain."
Enid releases her breath. "It's okay,” she quietly replies. “Trust you, Wednesday."
Wednesday tilts her head. "I know, Puppy."
Violet. Dark and all-encompassing.
Enid tugs downward, trusting Wednesday to guide her. She gasps when her fingers sink into heat, but Wednesday was right—it doesn't hurt. Wednesday keeps ahold of her until Enid has safely cleared the pot, releasing her hand only when she's a significant distance away from anything that might cause her harm.
Enid glances at the wax on her fingers, then up at Wednesday, who watches her with an unreadable expression.
"Are you sure?" Enid whispers.
In that strange heartbeat between silence and sunlight when Wednesday opens her mouth, Enid recalls a warning she'd received as a child. While traveling to visit a neighboring pack, the Sinclairs had trekked through woods that belonged to no man, a place where dirt has never yielded to the tracks of human beings. Those woods harbored beasts with magical qualities, the sort of dangers normies refuse to allow too close to civilization. Hell's creatures, her mother had called them, just before issuing a warning Enid remembers to this day:
"Why ask what you already know?" Wednesday responds.
She had been told not to feed the monsters.
Notes:
feed the monster enid
UPDATE: SO long story short i've realized the easiest days for me to post are monday/ wednesday/ saturdays, so instead of posting every other day like i have been, i'm going to make these my established posting days! expect a new chapter monday/ wednesday/ saturdays unless otherwise specified here, as i always always always try to let you guys know what's up if the schedule changes
Chapter 46: The Gift
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Tell me your wish, Enid."
Enid struggles to remain composed. "What can I wish for?"
Wednesday immediately replies, "Whatever you want."
Gold though they may be, her words are lackluster compared to the look on her face.
"I want you to be mine," Enid whispers.
Wednesday's eyes alight with new fervor. "There's a rune for that. Watch carefully."
She traces a symbol over her sternum, her dark nails gleaming in the light. The displacement of the oil gives Enid a convenient outline to follow. Though she’s nervous about potentially damaging Wednesday’s skin, Enid has the oddest feeling that the wax is working with her rather than in spite of her. As if in agreement, her fingertips warm.
“How does this normally work?” Enid asks. “I don’t know the chants—”
Wednesday grips her wrist. “Don’t worry about that. All magic is derived from intent. It will know yours.”
Enid gives a small nod. As a wolf, her magic is inherent; she didn't have to learn how to access that side of herself. Her magic is the heat in her chest on the night of a full moon, the feeling of the ground splitting beneath her as she runs. She's never considered the possibility that magic can be more than circumstances of birth.
And yet, the Addams have relied upon lessons learned in blood for generations to produce accomplished daughters. Even knowing as little as she does, Enid can tell this is a tradition that should not be taken lightly. The fact that Wednesday is willing to share this with her makes Enid's throat feel suspiciously tight.
Wednesday waits, silent and unhurried, a devout observer as Enid’s fingers near her skin. Her face betrays nothing, which Enid thinks is generous of her. Wednesday at least has experience with this sort of thing. Enid doesn’t know this magic, but she knows drawing upon desire to become more than she is for the sake of somebody else. She'll bear the scars of that blood moon for the rest of her life.
Surely, the magic must know what burns in her blood as well.
“You have my permission,” Wednesday says, aware as ever of what simmers under Enid’s skin. “Trust yourself as I do."
Enid swallows. "Promise it's okay?"
Wednesday rewards her with that cruel half-smile. "Go ahead, Puppy," she replies. "Mark me.”
Enid’s touch meets Wednesday's skin. The wax slides off her fingertips with such efficiency that Enid wonders if it has a mind of its own, watching it bleed and fill the lines Wednesday had traced for her. As soon as the rune is complete, Enid feels an invisible pressure around her hand, a tension that only strengthens when she tries to pull away.
Wednesday makes a startled noise, involuntarily jerking forward in the very same direction, and Enid's eyes go wide. For a long moment, they stare at each other, something like disbelief swelling between them.
Then Enid tugs her hand towards herself, causing Wednesday to unbalance and topple right over. Wednesday catches herself with a hiss, hands planted on either side of Enid's shoulders, and looks up with a challenging expression. Her hair slips off her shoulder, blanketing her arms and all but trapping Enid inside of her own makeshift bubble.
"Careful," Wednesday tells her, voice like sandpaper against every nerve that Enid possesses, leaving a flush of warmth surging beneath her skin. "It's strong."
Enid croaks, “That was me?”
Wednesday swallows a noise of her own, turning her face away. "Yes," she mutters. "Your intent was stronger than I anticipated."
Enid gasps as it clicks. "Oh my God, the rune worked?" she all but shrieks. “It—you’re on a—a magical leash because I wanted you to be mine? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Wednesday releases a slow, unsteady breath. "Like I said," she shifts forward, meeting Enid's eyes with a glint that promises trouble, "My pet is a natural."
For all the power Enid holds with an Addams on her invisible leash, she moans like a slut at those violet words leaving Wednesday's mouth. No rune can do the impossible, she thinks; some part of her will always be ready and willing to submit to Wednesday's authority.
"Go on, then," Wednesday orders, leaning in with teeth bared. Enid can feel her thighs shaking even as Wednesday's lips ghost over her canines. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Your hand around my throat?"
About two octaves too high, Enid manages to whimper, "Is that what it feels like?"
Wednesday smirks at her and, in a move not even Enid could have anticipated, leans in to lick a stray tear from Enid's cheek. Enid has to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying, or—screaming, from begging for the release she knows Wednesday will not provide. Not as long as Enid's rune is active. Not as long as Wednesday relishes the act of taking Enid apart, piece by piece.
The rune might as well have made her Wednesday's bitch rather than the other way around, so effectively it garners Wednesday's wrath and Enid’s submission.
Wednesday kisses her, and Enid is lost. Her bare chest, still drenched with oil, slides against Wednesday’s, and their embrace is so slick and wet and warm that Enid is helpless not to take it too far. Almost automatically, when Wednesday draws back, Enid chases after her with a snap of her teeth.
Wednesday's hand clamps around her jaw. "Oh? Does my Puppy need to be disciplined?" she asks.
Enid whines in response. "Please?" she begs. “Please, Wednesday?”
The corner of Wednesday's lips pull up as she leans back, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. Enid's hand moves with her, attached to some invisible tether that seems to have originated from her rune. She’s never felt so restrained.
"What does it mean?" Enid blurts, aching and restless. "Your rune. The one I—the one I drew for you. What does it mean, Wednesday?"
For the first time, Wednesday looks vaguely embarrassed. Still, she answers truthfully, "The closest translation would be Ownership."
Enid maintains shocked eye contact for exactly two seconds before her canines sink into her lower lip and she has to turn away or risk letting Wednesday see what she's done.
"Don't," Wednesday insists, gripping her chin and turning her face forward. "Be a good girl and show me those teeth."
Enid shudders but obeys. Opening her mouth wide for Wednesday’s inspection is inexplicably more humiliating than opening her legs. At least then, Enid maintains some semblance of dignity. With her mouth wide open, Wednesday's thumb brushes the corner of Enid's mouth for a single heartbeat before she bends down and licks the same spot.
When she is upright once again, her lips are much darker.
"Aw, Puppy. You hurt yourself," Wednesday says, tone mocking. "You need to take better care of my things."
She licks her lips again, removing any trace of Enid's blood, and Enid nearly comes right then and there. In fact, if not for the pressure around her hand reminding her of the Ownership rune, Enid would have blasted off into nothingness, never to return again.
"Didn't mean to," she warbles, trying and failing to catch her breath.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Trying to evade another punishment, I see."
"N-No, Wednesday," Enid protests. "Promise, wouldn't—don't wanna—wanna be good for Wednesday, wanna be your good girl—"
"Do you?" Wednesday retorts, knees tightening to stop Enid from rubbing her legs together. Her eyes glint with amusement. "I'm not sure I believe you."
Enid nearly screams out of frustration, thighs clenching as she trembles beneath her. The heat in her lower stomach only intensifies as she continues fighting and Wednesday watches her with obvious pleasure. Enid's definitely crossed the threshold of indignation into arousal, so it sounds a lot more like a whine than a protest when she demands,
"Why would I try to get out of something I want?"
It's Wednesday's turn to look shocked. "Oh, Puppy," she murmurs. "Poor thing. You need to be fucked, don't you?"
Enid nods with a sniffle, relieved beyond words. "Yes, Wednesday. Need to be fucked, Puppy needs it,” she insists.
Whether intentional or not, it's uncanny how much Wednesday sounds like a dominant wolf as she croons to her, "Puppy gets what Puppy wants."
It is only then that Enid wonders if she'll survive Wednesday fucking her while under the thrall of Inhibition.
Even if Wednesday’s fingers weren’t soaked, she’d have no problem sliding inside of Enid. There’s a wet spot beneath her on the sheets that has nothing to do with spilled oil.
“Is this what you wanted?” Wednesday asks, voice tight as she presses Enid’s thigh to her chest, spreading her open. “Answer me.”
Enid parts her lips, tries to respond, and comes all over herself. Her stomach becomes drenched with the splatter of her slick. A few droplets even land on Wednesday, painting her skin with vanilla-scented collateral. In the throes of her orgasm, Enid feels Satisfaction ebb away, the rune broken. She misses the confidence it afforded her, the dizzy notion of belonging, but it’s almost better to experience this moment in sharp clarity. Satisfaction is subjective, Enid thinks, but relief is undeniable.
Wednesday stares down at her with an incredulous expression. “Did I say you could come?”
Enid’s heartbeat surges with adrenaline at the sound of her tone. She bites her lip, now certain something is wrong with her as she wavers between petrified and aroused.
Wednesday's eyes narrow ever so slightly. "Mhm. Maybe you do want to be punished,” she muses.
"Please?" Enid whispers, nails digging into the bedspread. “Please, Wednesday?”
Wednesday wipes her hand on Enid’s skin, smearing her chest with slick. Escalating the mess. “I think it’s time we have a conversation. A real one, about our expectations for this relationship,” she replies. “It was irresponsible of me to fuck you without communicating our needs. I promised to do better by you, Enid.” Wednesday looks up with a plaintive expression. “Will you accept that?”
"But—wait!” Enid protests, spluttering as Wednesday stands up from the bed. “What about my punishment?"
Wednesday looks utterly serious as she replies over her shoulder, "I won't forget it."
Enid gulps. She pulls her legs to her chest, allowing her head to thunk onto her knees. “I can’t believe you only let me come once,” she groans. "So mean, Wednesday."
Wednesday returns to the bed, thankfully still unclothed, and coaxes Enid’s face back up with a finger beneath her chin. “It’s difficult to balance satisfying your desires and meeting your needs. This conversation is needed, Enid. Perhaps it will be easier, unclouded by misunderstanding.”
Her eyes flick down to Enid’s torso, and she experiences a moment of clarity.
“It’s because of Illumination, isn’t it?” Enid sighs, making to rub her eyes before dropping her hand when she realizes she’s still covered in oil. “Fuck.”
Wednesday snorts under her breath, reaching out with a towel to begin cleaning Enid’s neck. “You’ve already come once. Can you survive twenty minutes without coming again?”
Enid’s lips part. “This conversation’s going to take twenty minutes? What are we, negotiating a prenup?”
She was joking, but Wednesday frowns at her like she’s said something outrageous. “Absolutely not. You’d need representation of your own for that. I wouldn’t ask you to sign a legal agreement until you’ve had time to consult a lawyer, Enid. You know that, right?”
Enid feels a little bit like she’s been shoved out of an airplane without a parachute, but the knowledge that Wednesday has legitimately considered their prenuptial agreement is no worse than any other realization she’s suffered today. If she can come to terms with Wednesday loving her, a far-off wedding is easy to swallow.
“Okay,” Enid mumbles. “Okay, so—what? Do we need to talk about…um, what happens next?” She shifts her weight. “Are we going to date?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “I’m courting you, Enid. I consider you my intended.”
Enid fights against the absurd urge to laugh. “So, no girlfriend dates?”
“Of course, we can go on dates,” Wednesday replies, brow now furrowed with concern. “Enid, are you alright?”
There is nothing more sobering for Enid than Wednesday’s silver words.
“Yes,” Enid tells her. “This is just a lot, you know? I didn’t…this is really not how I saw my day going when I woke up this morning.”
Wednesday maintains eye contact, but her knuckles grow white around the towel as she asks, “Are you disappointed?”
Enid wonders if this is how it feels to have a stroke. “What the fuck? No, I don’t—how could you even think that?” she demands. “Wednesday, be serious.”
Wednesday scowls. “Enid, be realistic. It is perfectly plausible that you wouldn’t want to pursue this courtship to mating.” Her irritation wavers as she adds, “I wouldn’t begrudge you that, if that was your decision.”
Enid shakes her head, reaching out to Wednesday to take her hand. Whatever expression is on her face, it’s enough to have the tension leaving Wednesday’s shoulders. Even through the confusion of her heat, whenever it really counted, they have always shared the ability to tell when the other is in need.
For all the times that Wednesday has been there for her, Enid can certainly grant her this. If Wednesday needs a conversation, a conversation is what she’ll get.
Enid straightens up and holds tight to her hand. “I’m here, okay? For real. For good. So, whatever you want to talk about, let’s do it.”
Wednesday grants her a genuine smile. Enid cannot breathe, but for Wednesday, she’ll persevere.
“Do you know anything about BDSM?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid bites her lip. “Well…I’ve read fifty shades.”
“So no, then,” Wednesday mutters. She looks up with a sigh. “I suppose it boils down to finding pleasure in the trust you afford me when you allow me to take control. That, to me, is the appeal of being your Dominant.”
Enid considers that for a second, but nods. “Okay.”
"It pleases me to know that your pleasure belongs to me,” Wednesday continues. “And I relish the opportunities you give me to witness you in such a ruined state.”
Something about that strikes Enid as odd. “...Ruined?” she repeats, her chest constricting. “Does it make you think less of me when I’m—?”
“No,” Wednesday snaps, holding up a hand. “I apologize, but no. You are misunderstanding—or I am misrepresenting myself. Either way, I will not let it stand.” She stands up, takes two steps from the bed, then pauses. “Don’t move,” she orders, waiting until Enid nods before continuing to the desk.
Enid forces herself to remain calm while she waits for Wednesday to return.
“I planned to offer this after our conversation, but I fear we won’t make any progress without this assurance,” Wednesday states. “Enid. Come here, please.”
Enid crosses the room with her heart in her throat, wondering what could possibly have Wednesday sounding like that, what could make her words so stricken with silver anxiety—
“I bring this to you, Enid,” Wednesday states, holding out her hands. “As an offering. As a wish. My hope is that you will accept me as I’ve already accepted you—as a part of myself.”
—And she understands why Wednesday thought this was necessary.
Enid sits down. She just sits right down on the floor.
"Are you alright?" Wednesday asks, a note of unease in her tone. “...Enid?”
Enid can't hear her. She's too busy looking at the gift, at a gift she would recognize anywhere, at an object she's dreamt of her whole life. This is the stuff of little wolves’ dreams, the sort of magic that only exists for children who haven't known disappointment. Wednesday stands there, looking down at Enid with color in her cheeks and a resolute set to her mouth and bright, eager attention in her gaze.
In her hands is a collar.
Notes:
looooong ass chapter but the ritual arc, folks, is finally complete
Chapter 47: War
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For all her inability to keep quiet while Inhibition is active, Wednesday does not speak another word. She keeps holding out the collar with an expectant expression, apparently content with letting Enid work through her reaction in silence. Enid distantly wonders if Wednesday's internal monologue also sounds like mass mechanical failure or if that's just her.
She has seen beautiful things. Enid has stood in the light of the winter solstice moon, caught a pup's first smile as they caught snowflakes in their mittened hand. She's witnessed fine art reflected in Wednesday's dark eyes. Over the course of her short life, Enid has known beauty.
She has never laid eyes upon anything like this.
A black gem struck with lightning, veins of color throwing rainbow fractals over Wednesday's skin. Enid wonders how anything can shine so brightly in a room this dark. Something about it strikes her as unnatural, breathtaking though it may be.
Once she can bear to drag her eyes away from the crowning gem, Enid’s able to appreciate the work of art that Wednesday has created. The platinum casket cradling the opal is a spider web of delicate wires twisting over the face of the stone. Now that she’s looking at it, the design looks a lot like an abstract E—though from another angle, it might be mistaken for a hidden W instead. Both of their initials, represented on a single necklace.
Opal and platinum. Wednesday and Enid.
Even the metal charm connecting the stone to the collar is fashioned like a bird with outstretched wings. Enid reaches up without thinking, wondering why this particular feature was labored over in such great detail. Every feather and vein is discernable to the naked eye.
"My family crest," Wednesday answers her unspoken question. "All Addams know this mark. Anyone who bears it is considered one of our own."
Enid's wandering fingers migrate to the choker that will sit around her neck. She's not sure she's ever felt material so soft, like sunlight on her skin. It's almost warm—alive.
"Are there very many Addams?" Enid asks, putting the mystery material aside for now in order to devote her full attention to marveling at the collar's craftsmanship. The thought of Wednesday toiling at the forge is too much.
"Quite a few across the world." Wednesday waits until Enid meets her gaze to continue, "We breed like rabbits. It might shock you to know that my brother and I have no less than seventeen first cousins on my father's side alone."
If Enid were any other type of creature, she'd be overwhelmed at the thought of so many Addams to potentially win over—or at the fact that Wednesday just said the word breed to her face—but wolves aren't exactly known for small families. One only has to look as far as Enid's parents to know that. Esther and Murray Sinclair had enough sons to roster a peewee hockey team before Enid was conceived.
"I have thirty-four first cousins," Enid admits. "But most of them have joined other packs. I'd say only half are still in California, let alone the Bay."
Wednesday watches her intently. "It's typical, then, for your kin to mate outside their childhood packs?" she asks with a veneer of false indifference.
"Oh yeah, of course. We have to," Enid snorts. "God, imagine what a disaster it'd turn into if wolves began marrying their cousins. No, we just keep to ourselves until the spring, when all the regional packs join up for mating season. That's how most wolves find their mates."
Wednesday makes a noise of understanding. "While we do not have an official season for courtship, we function similarly whenever an engagement is announced," she explains, eyeing the collar still clasped in her hands. "My extended family will all converge on Hell Mountain for our courtship celebration, assuming you accept me."
She says it without inflection, so casually that Enid wonders if she misheard. "Sorry, what?" she asks.
Wednesday's brow furrows. "...I said, we do not have an official season—"
"No, I got that," Enid interrupts her, holding up a hand. "I'm talking about the 'assuming you accept me' thing. The acting like you don't know I'm going to say yes, thing. That part."
Wednesday's gaze softens. "You will always have the choice with me, Enid," she quietly responds.
"Well, thanks, but no fucking way am I saying no," Enid retorts, drawing up to her full and less-than-formidable height while still down on her knees. "I want you as my mate, and that is my final decision. The end."
Wednesday stares at her as if waiting for a punchline that never arrives. Enid has had plenty of practice out-foxing Wednesday at this point (with varying degrees of success), so she manages to hold her tongue.
Ultimately, Wednesday's lips split into a small smile. "I fear I must apologize in advance for how horrendously excited my family will be to meet you," she says. "It will be awful. I look forward to the carnage."
"Same," Enid winces, sitting back. "But like, not in a good way. My family's going to be a nightmare about this. I hope you're ready for war," she huffs a bit morosely.
What if her mother pulls her out of school? Can she do that, only a few weeks from finals? It seems plausible. The wolf community couldn’t care less if Enid fails to finish the semester, but she’s worked hard for her education. Leaving so close to the end would kill her.
Wednesday coaxes her face back up with a fingertip beneath Enid's chin. Her lips curl with amusement as she murmurs, "Oh, Puppy. What do you know of war?"
"You don't know my family," Enid mutters. "I'm not sure how easy it'll be to celebrate our courtship with my mother being violently opposed to us."
"War isn't violence. It's survival," Wednesday replies. "And if it's not survival, it's business. You'll have to trust that I can protect us both in that arena."
Enid bites her lip. "Okay, but you shouldn't have to protect us," she argues with a sigh that betrays age-old exhaustion. "It shouldn't have to be a fight."
Wednesday's expression doesn't change. "Regardless, Enid, I will protect your interests as if they were my own. Rest assured that if anyone hurts your feelings, I will skewer them like a wild boar."
She shifts the collar to one hand so she can offer the other to Enid. "Come. We should discuss this somewhere other than the floor." Then, as if she can't help herself, "Your knees are going to bruise."
Enid is helpless to curb the elated grin she knows must be on her face. "Aren't you going to collar me, first?" she teases without thinking.
Wednesday goes still. Her knuckles become white around the leather in her grasp as she carefully says, "I do not expect you to be subservient, Enid. Even if you were my submissive, I wouldn’t expect you to kneel to receive your collar."
From the floor, Enid pouts, "I thought we were going to talk about it?"
She has two full seconds to bask in the stunned look on Wednesday's face before stunned makes way for calculating, and Enid's mouth snaps shut as she recognizes that she has tread right into the realm of danger for bratty submissives. Suddenly, it feels like a mistake to have remained in such a vulnerable position on the ground.
Wednesday takes a step toward her, and Enid tips her head back, exposing her throat.
Wednesday doesn’t rush to drag her eyes from Enid's heaving chest to her face.
"Careful," Wednesday states. "We haven't yet discussed the parameters of appropriate punishment, Enid. I wouldn't want you to end up resenting this room after you're made to sit in the corner and reflect on your behavior."
Enid scoffs, "You are not putting me in time-out—" and then claps a hand over her mouth, shooting to her feet fast enough that Wednesday's head whips up to follow her movement.
Before Wednesday can utter a single word, Enid is shrieking, "Oh my God, we forgot Lin!"
Wednesday blinks at her.
"We have to stop her from switching my room!" Enid all but screams.
To Wednesday's credit, she doesn't hesitate for a moment.
Notes:
yall i'm SICK sick rn please send your best home remedies i want the stuff your aunties swear by for colds cause this is miserable lmao
UPDATE: sorry guys im still sick as a dog hoping to update friday thank you for your patience
Chapter 48: Ink
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If anyone happened to be in the stairwell of Ophelia Hall at one in the afternoon, they would have caught sight of Enid Sinclair catapulting herself down the staircase like the hounds of hell were snapping behind her.
Yuuri Dobrev, one such unfortunate soul, had to flatten himself against the wall as she passed to keep from getting clipped. Her ratty grey bathrobe is only slightly more shocking than the ritual wax he's certain he saw peeking out on her chest. Enid Sinclair, who generally has a friendly smile to offer everyone and wears frilly clothes like she's on a mission to out-cringe Hot Topic, looks like she means business today. Yuuri can think of at least twelve other ways he'd prefer to die before being mowed down by a natural blonde that smells like an overpriced latte.
The ink on his arms undulates like an upset puddle, surging with his own anxiety. She didn't even touch him, but Yuuri still has to pat the turtles that usually chill on his wrist to get the tattoos to calm down and stop skittering over his hands.
Of course, all his efforts end up being for naught when Wednesday Addams comes whipping by twenty seconds later. Yuuri barely registers her inside-out dress, too busy blinking at the unruly knot of hair piled on top of her head. He's pretty sure he's never seen Addams sans her braids.
Glimpsing an unmarried runewitch without her modesty braids is like meeting a siren from the continental midwest—it doesn't happen. The footprints inked on his neck seem to agree, pattering with interest from shoulder to shoulder in order to get a better view of her mad descent.
As the only child of two threadwitches, Yuuri knows his runes. Hell, he's covered the walls of his dorm room in swashes of white paint and lined sharpies up along his bedside to prevent him from forgetting so much as a half-remembered rune from a dream. He's devoured all that Nevermore has to offer on any tangentially-related subject, including courting. He recently robbed the library of its entire stock of formal courting texts after happening across a reference to courting runes in a personal research project. Runes are his reason for breathing.
Yuuri, as a general rule, doesn't interact with his classmates for any reason barring immediate threat of death, but he might make an exception for a girl with the Inhibition rune inked on the back of her hand.
***
Lin is typing on her phone when her office door slams open. She blinks at her half-formed text to Moira, places her phone on her desk, and folds her hands together.
Having received much of her education at the foot of a six-thousand-year-old shifter who summarily refused to respond to any question with a straight answer, she has plenty of experience exercising patience. Lin would've been just fine biding her time for another few hours before making any moves to investigate what happened between Enid Sinclair and Wednesday Addams. If there's one principle her teacher imparted on her, it's that nothing worth doing is done in haste.
That is precisely why Lin refuses to act until she's had at least three cups of tea to ruminate over a decision. Her job is to act in the best interests of her charges, and teenagers aren't known for making well-thought-out decisions in the best of circumstances. If she trusted her kids to unilaterally decide things for themselves, consequences be damned, at least half would be dead or otherwise injured and the other half would be making regular field trips to the county jail.
Lin is used to carefully guiding her students' inner turmoil in more productive directions. She'd cheerfully suggested that Yuuri Dobrev paint his own walls to give himself space to work the third time he was caught 'tagging school property'. Why give an unnecessary suspension for an impulse he may never be able to fully resist? Lin wouldn't claim to be overly familiar with Yuuri's magic, but even she could tell from the way his tattoos trembled while he stood awaiting punishment in the headmaster's office that he desperately needed an outlet. A wall is just a wall.
Most Nevermore professors would say Wednesday Addams is more trouble than she's worth. While others see only the inevitable chaos left churning in her wake, Lin sees how deeply Wednesday cares for her friends, how the girl refuses to let sleeping dogs lie, even when something doesn't personally affect her. Those qualities in a person make for a valuable addition to any dorm.
If Wednesday's given the space to exist in whatever way she chooses, she doesn't turn her problems into everyone else's; easy enough to accommodate. Lin was glad to assist Wednesday in her quest to court Enid and had even been willing to put Wednesday in touch with her teacher in Shanghai. Lin isn't sure what Wednesday wanted with a shifter, but it couldn't be anything too damaging or he would've contacted her to complain.
Though Lin hadn't been here when they first arrived at Nevermore, she likes to think students like Wednesday Addams and Yuuri Dobrev would still have been assigned to her. She takes pride in anticipating her kids' needs before they understand it themselves. She’s prepared to work with the difficult cases other educators avoid.
So when, completely out of breath, Enid Sinclair gasps, "Lin, you need to stop the transfer—"
"I never sent it through," is Lin's immediate response.
Wednesday's eyebrows raise in an expression Lin never expected would be aimed in her direction, but Enid still lurches with panic.
"You—you didn't?" Enid blusters, rocking back on her heels. Her hands drop limply at her sides. "Well, why not?"
As if worried Enid's question might cast doubt on the veracity of their decision to remain roommates, Wednesday grabs Enid by the hand and shoots Lin a warning look.
Lin remains placid. "I figured it'd be best to speak with you both before I submitted the official request," she replies.
Wednesday and Enid both deflate with relief.
"Can I assume you no longer want to switch rooms?" Lin asks, eyes flicking to their joined hands.
As if unable to help herself, Wednesday tugs on Enid's hand to draw her closer. Enid stumbles, but smiles wider than Lin has seen in weeks.
"Yeah," Enid laughs, almost breathless as she glances at Wednesday. "I'm staying."
The look they share is so tender, Lin wonders if she should take a picture for posterity. Surely, this is the exact sort of development Morticia Addams had been delicately asking after between promises to pay damages and polite questions about Lin's upbringing at the temple. How that woman knew so much about her without ever meeting in person, Lin isn't sure, but it certainly explained a few things about her daughter.
Then again, it isn't prudent to be snapping candids of a couple of nineteen-year-olds who are disheveled at best and underdressed at worst. Morticia Addams will just have to subsist on Lin's word that her daughter is happy with her intended.
"Can I offer you both a blanket?" Lin asks, nudging a box of school merchandise across the floor with her foot. "It's chilly this time of day."
Enid's face flushes pink, her arms making to cross over her chest, but Wednesday appears unwilling to let go of her, and Enid's free arm curls around her stomach instead.
"Um, no," Enid squeaks. "We'll be going now. Thanks, Lin, bye!"
Wednesday lingers only a second longer, ignoring Enid's tugging on her hand as she meets Lin's gaze.
"Thank you," she states, voice grave.
What's left unsaid drifts around Lin, warm and heartening, long after the girls have disappeared from her office.
"I wonder what Enid's collar will look like," Lin muses to herself, deleting her half-written text. Moira will be thrilled at the news that she will not have to fend Wednesday Addams off of Shylock Hall with a stick in the foreseeable future.
In the corridor, Wednesday slows to readjust Enid's robe until both her shoulders are covered. Enid leans into her touch, grateful that Wednesday easily takes on her weight. Though she has at least three inches on Wednesday in terms of height, something about the way Wednesday handles her makes Enid feel very small.
"Back to our room?" she asks, bottom lip catching in her teeth.
Wednesday squeezes her hand. "Our room," she confirms. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten our discussion, Puppy.”
Enid hums, crowding Wednesday as much as she dares in public. “Fine with me. We can talk about anything,” she tells the back of Wednesday’s head.
Wednesday snorts under her breath as she pulls Enid by the hand. “Really? In that case, we should start with whether or not I can continue fucking you whilst our courtship progresses. I understand some wolves adhere to celibacy until the mating ceremony.”
A lanky boy in a hoodie rolls his eyes, looking positively nauseated as he edges past them down the stairs. He passes Wednesday first, and when he reaches Enid, she’s met with a scowl that has her automatically shrinking back.
Wednesday’s head snaps towards her, following Enid’s gaze to the cause of her flinch. Her eyes narrow, bare feet coming to a halt as she turns to face the boy’s retreating back. Enid scrambles for something to say to distract her from a possible confrontation as Wednesday’s lips part to retaliate.
“Wednesday, I’m cold!” Enid blurts from the step below her, gripping the front of Wednesday’s dress.
Wednesday’s eyes refocus on her, abandoning the rude boy with the strange tattoos. She eases Enid’s grip from her flimsy dress, settling Enid’s hands on her waist before cradling Enid’s face in her palms. Enid hadn't realized how much taller Wednesday would loom in this position. This may not have been her best idea.
Wednesday’s eyes tighten at the corners, and she asks, “Shall I carry you the rest of the way?”
Something desperate churns in the back of Enid’s throat. “N-No, I’m good,” she manages.
Wednesday tilts her head. “You’re cold.”
“Not—not anymore,” Enid breathes, tipping back her face in hopes Wednesday will appreciate the unobstructed view of her neck.
Wednesday hums under her breath, her fingers twitching ever so slightly in Enid’s hair. It draws a startled noise from Enid, something high and desperate, and Wednesday’s pupils bloom like spilled ink.
“Come,” she says, and though Enid still mourns the loss of her colors with the earlier dissolution of Illumination, she knows from the look on Wednesday’s face that every word from her mouth would be violet.
Notes:
i lived!!! thank you guys for your remedies, i appreciate all the aunties chiming in from around the globe! please accept this humble offering while i breathe through my nose for the first time in a week
RUNE ROLE CALL:
inhibition: no longer active for enid since her sacrifice was being naked and unfortunately wearing a robe counts as clothing; still active for wednesday because she hasn't lied or purposefully omitted the truth yet
illumination: no longer active for enid since she left the room and came into contact with artificial lighting
satisfaction: no longer active for enid since she came lmao
ownership: no longer active for wednesday since whatever condition she'd bartered to make it work was no longer being met
since only the receiver (rune bearer) experiences the effects of runes, only they know whether or not the runes are still active. as an example, only enid knew when illumination broke and only wednesday could feel the moment ownership became inactive.
sad to see the runes go. it is appalling to me that runes aren't canon and we will probably never see wednesday inked up in the show. tragic.
next up: what the hell is enid’s collar made of and what does it have to do with shanghai
Chapter 49: Grey
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For all of her flaws, of which there are admittedly many, Wednesday is nothing if not efficient.
The moment the door shuts behind them, she's at her desk, carefully retrieving the collar from where she left it in their mass exodus. Enid remains by the door as Wednesday throws open the curtains, the opal in her grip throwing rainbows across the room.
Even Wednesday can admit that the collar is a thing of beauty. With every shift of her hand, the leather changes color, iridescent in the weak sunlight. Wednesday is no slouch when it comes to experience with magical creatures, but this material is like nothing she's ever encountered. Grey, she would classify it as, if an object could be considered grey for containing every color visible to the naked eye. It is interesting. Unsettling.
Not half as beautiful as the woman it was made in the image of.
Glancing at Enid, with her pale hair and eyes like deep water under splintering ice, Wednesday can't help but think how much prettier the collar will look around her neck. A rock is just a rock, but on Enid, even a stone can become something worth seeing.
***
Enid tugs at her borrowed robe, feeling heat blooming in her cheeks. Just the sight of the collar in Wednesday's hands is enough to unbalance her, but the expression on Wednesday's face? She might as well get down on her hands and knees and hope Wednesday’s feeling merciful.
"I didn't have time to make a proper jewelry box," Wednesday admits. "We'll have to designate a place in the room for storage whenever you're not wearing it."
That statement punts Enid right out of her lizard-brain reverie. "What? No. Why wouldn't I be wearing it?" she argues. "It's my collar."
Wednesday frowns. "You're not used to wearing a collar at all hours of the night and day. In any case, I don't expect you to sleep or bathe in—"
"It's my collar," Enid repeats. "You can take it off my cold, dead body, Wednesday. Not a minute before."
Wednesday's eyes brighten to an almost unholy degree. "Shall we get down to business, then?" she asks, stalking toward her. "Discuss our plans? Hopes for the future? Review our last wills and testaments, which will need adjustment as soon as we can gather the appropriate parties?"
Enid finds herself nearly plastered against the door, so quickly has Wednesday advanced on her. She trembles at the feel of Wednesday's breath against her neck.
"W-Why would we need to change our wills?" Enid squeaks. A moment later, she adds, "Wait, you have a will?"
"I have a trust fund," Wednesday replies, “And an increasing sense of discomfort the longer it goes unspent.”
Enid hopes she doesn’t look as confused as she feels.
Eventually, Wednesday leans back with a contemplative expression. "Hm. No matter. We can leave the finer details for the lawyers to chew over,” she decides.
Enid blinks. "I don't have a will, I don't think. Or a lawyer," she informs her.
"We will fix that," Wednesday vows. "For now, all you need know is that I promise to take care of you with all that I have.”
Enid feels the words settle deep in her bones.
Wednesday is honest and unforgiving as ever as she continues, "Your happiness is my utmost priority, second only to your safety and general well-being."
Enid swallows hard. "I know that," she rasps. "Knew you'd take care of me, Wednesday. Think a part of me knew that since my heat," she admits.
Wednesday briefly shuts her eyes. "I apologize, Enid, for leaving," she unexpectedly responds, voice grave. "After your heat and this week, both."
"...You already apologized," Enid points out, disappointed that she seems to have single-handedly torpedoed the mood. Earning another orgasm is starting to look like a distant dream.
"An apology means nothing in the face of harming someone you love," Wednesday states. "There is no excuse for hurting you. I will not excuse it."
Enid quite plainly cannot stand the tone of her voice, so in an effort to distract her, she asks, "What were you busy doing, anyway? Slaughtering a wild animal?"
"Absolutely not," Wednesday replies, snorting despite herself. "The leather came from a very ornery benefactor in Shanghai. It took some time to arrive and even longer to craft.”
Enid’s smile freezes. “...You didn’t just say Shanghai, right?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “I did.”
“You—Wednesday, you don’t mean to imply you got this from Lin’s shifter, right?” Enid asks, voice now edging into the realm of hysteria. “Surely, that isn’t what you mean.”
“It is,” Wednesday replies, unrepentant.
Enid's eyes bulge out of her head. "You seriously convinced a dragon to gift you their sheddings?" she splutters. "You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding. That's not fucking funny, Wednesday."
"I wouldn't call it a gift," Wednesday says. "That implies it didn't cost something in return."
Enid stares at her, blankly, until it sets in that Wednesday isn't playing a spectacularly unfunny joke and all of the blood drains from her face. After a moment of frozen terror, she lurches forward like a sinking ship and latches onto the front of Wednesday's battered dress. For once, Wednesday looks genuinely taken aback.
"What did you agree to give them in return, Wednesday?" Enid demands, words coming too fast and too high to translate as anything but panic. "If you bartered away a lifetime of servitude to an immortal being for the sake of aesthetics, I swear to God—"
"One summer of helping them tend to their land," Wednesday interrupts her, placing a hand atop her wrist in a barely-there warning. "By the way, do you have a passport?"
If Enid's hands were free, she would've pulled out her hair. Instead, she releases her grip on Wednesday and falls back against the door, sliding down in a vague state of horrified silence until her butt hits the ground and reality sets in with it. Whatever nightmare she's stumbled into this time is made even worse by the fact that Wednesday looks so pleased with herself.
Pleased with herself, for making a deal with a dragon. Enid wonders if this is how it feels to have a stroke.
There are creatures in the woods that feast on fear. Eaters, the elder wolves had called them. Enid had been taught not to think about them, to put them out of her mind entirely lest she empower them with her attention. Like a child's monster in the closet, they fester and worsen with every moment devoted to dreading their coming. The idea of Wednesday doing something this reckless feels a lot like an Eater; as long as Enid doesn't think about it, doesn't believe it, nothing will come to take them.
Then again, if anyone were to do something so inherently reckless, it would be Wednesday Addams.
"Wednesday," Enid asks plainly, clasping her hands together in her lap. "Are we going to Shanghai?"
"Immediately? No," Wednesday assures her, and Enid could cry with relief. "After the semester ends? Yes, unless you'd enjoy being on the run from a vengeful dragon. Your call."
Enid's stomach nearly falls out of her ass. She feels light-headed. Eaters may have been the more fortunate option, after all.
"I've never even been to Asia," Enid faintly says. "Wednesday, I don't speak Chinese. Or would it be Mandarin? Oh my God, I don't even know."
"Our host speaks all languages of man," Wednesday replies, her lips quirking up. "And coincidentally, he has whims of being an educator so if you'd like to learn, I'm sure we could arrange it. Are you alright?"
Enid can't imagine what her face must look like. "No," she bleats. "I am not alright, Wednesday! I can't believe you made a deal with a dragon for a collar. You made a deal with a beast that won't ever die. What the fuck were you thinking? What if he asked for something you couldn't give?" she implores, peering up at Wednesday with wide eyes.
Wednesday's expression doesn't change. "There is very little I wouldn't give for your happiness," she responds. "A summer learning at the foot of a master is nothing compared to your satisfaction.”
Enid shivers, viscerally reminded of the rune that had adorned her skin, and can tell by the look on her face that Wednesday is thinking of it too.
"Am I even authorized to wear something of his?" Enid asks, down to her last protest. "Won't he come screaming out of the sky once he catches wind of what you did with his shedding? This can't be allowed. Collars mean something amongst creatures, Wednesday. Not just wolves.”
"He knew perfectly well what my intentions were when bartering for it," Wednesday replies, straightening up. "I daresay he chose a fine sample for that very reason."
Even in shadow, the collar glimmers like it's made of sky. A dragon, Enid thinks. Wednesday tracked down a living, breathing, motherfucking dragon for the sake of her collar. Next she'll say she traipsed off to the underworld for the opal, Enid thinks a bit hysterically. At this point, she wouldn't put anything past Wednesday—not when it comes to them.
Not when it comes to her.
Like dawn breaking, Enid understands. Everything Wednesday does is ruthless, violent in its sincerity, the sort of act that ruins a person. Perhaps she isn't capable of striking without going for the throat.
Why does Wednesday barter with a dragon? Because she knows no other way.
This is what Enid fell in love with. This is the upheaval she'll be courting for the rest of her life. Deals with dragons. Uprooting their lives because Wednesday, for all her strengths, doesn't comprehend fear.
Enid finds herself biting her lip as she looks up, her decision made. "May I have my collar, Wednesday?" she asks. "Have I been good?"
Wednesday exhales through her nose, a tension Enid hadn't even noticed bleeding away. "Yes, you have. And you may."
It is the work of a moment to fasten the collar on Enid's neck. It is the work of a lifetime to accept the significance that has been thrusted upon her with this gift.
As long as Enid lives, she will be known if only for having the favor of the monster whose skin is snug around her throat. Being Wednesday's intended means she will not ever, not for a second, be overlooked or go unnoticed again.
Her mother is going to slaughter her.
"How does Puppy like her collar?" Wednesday asks, pushing Enid's hair back with a cool hand.
"It's so soft," Enid gasps, tugging on the leather to test its tensity. "And warm."
Wednesday looks unbearably smug. "Dragon hide is amongst the strongest materials on earth."
"It's beautiful," Enid agrees, voice thick. There she sits on the floor, still covered with flaking wax, wearing a collar worth more than the school she calls home. "Perfect, Wednesday."
Wednesday offers a rare smile. "It will also protect you should someone be foolish enough to try slitting your throat," she says.
Enid stares up at her, the heat in her throat forgotten. "Is that something you worry about?"
"Extensively."
Enid shakes her head. "You're unbelievable."
"I love you," Wednesday says, and between the two of them, it serves as explanation enough.
Enid holds onto her collar with both hands as Wednesday pulls her to her feet, as she’s ferried into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. She’s still clutching it, ducking her head to rub her chin into the leather, pressing the inside of the collar against her scent glands as the room fills with the smell of her favorite bubble bath and Enid’s sugary vanilla. Once Wednesday deems the water a suitable temperature, she unwraps Enid from her robe. Their clothing is left in a haphazard pile by the door.
Enid may be preoccupied with her collar, but she would never miss a chance to see Wednesday naked. She’s easily coerced into the hot water, curling up happily in Wednesday’s lap. There’s an innate scent on the collar akin to Wednesday’s lilies with an added thread of crystal and something sweeter, but it’s so rich, so warm, that she welcomes it.
Enid would never have guessed she'd one day be happy to bear an unfamiliar scent on her skin. Wonders never cease, she thinks.
Notes:
now i've heard some rumors about season two of the show taking place in london BUT after playing through liyue, there wasn't a chance in hell we weren't following the girls to china so off to shanghai we (eventually will) go
Chapter 50: Choke
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nevermore is rarely quiet, especially not on a weekend night.
With only a few weeks of classes left to endure before school lets out for the summer, most students are outside, looking for ways to blow off steam. For some, this summer marks the end of their educational journey. The vast majority of graduating students will return to wherever they hail from, ready to take on roles in their various communities, while the rest rip each other apart in an attempt to claim the rare opportunity to continue learning at the foot of a master. The competition for outcast-specific apprenticeships is always fierce.
Though every student seeking higher education has spent the last year applying for positions all over the world, a fortunate few will be invited to return to Nevermore to study under one of its esteemed faculty members. Wednesday knows for a fact that Bianca accepted an apprenticeship under the woodwitch hired after Professor Thornhill's untimely exit. Hyesol, she's called, refusing to be addressed by anything besides her given name or "Sister" during botany class. Woodwitches are irritating like that; Wednesday would know, considering her mother is one.
No one had been less surprised than Morticia when Wednesday officially declared she had no interest in the magic of the woods. Morticia had known since her daughter was one year old, tracing the wishes carved into her crib with chubby fingers, that Gomez's runes would always captivate her. The woods never called for Wednesday the way they did Morticia.
Having ultimately elected not to take on a new apprentice, Morticia will only be fostering two woodwitches this summer: her third-year student, Soledad, and second-year, June. Soledad already spends her days away from the manor, content with her place in the forest, but June will be disappointed not to have a little sister of her own to mentor.
Wednesday finds it particularly amusing that Bianca hadn't dared to appeal to Morticia for a place at Hell Mountain. What a siren wants with magic centered around growing things, Wednesday has no idea, but she can appreciate the pursuit of learning—even if it is Bianca Barclay pursuing it.
In short, the senior application cycle is draining. Though most apprenticeships are sewn up at this late stage, the whole school feels fatigued. It is therefore reasonably predictable that the majority of students choose to venture outside and enjoy the sun as day surrenders to late afternoon.
***
"Um," Enid speaks up, watching yet another kid too busy staring at her neck to watch where he's going stumble, "Did you purposefully decide we should go visit Eugene knowing pretty much the entire student body would be outside right now?"
Wednesday immediately answers, "No," then frowns at her hand, which still bears the ink of Inhibition.
Enid's mouth pops open with a gasp as she plants her feet in the middle of the walkway. "You just lied!" she exclaims. "The rune just broke, didn't it?"
Wednesday dragged her out here under false pretenses, in front of the whole school, to—what? Prove to Nevermore once and for all that no one has a network like Wednesday Addams, who inexplicably acquired a dragon's sheddings? To show off her incredible crafting skills and dash the dreams of any amateur forgers who thought they might soon rise out of obscurity? Enid's mind races as she tries to figure out her angle.
Wednesday turns to meet her gaze head-on. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she replies. "Come. Eugene will be anxious to hear my gift-giving was successful."
Wednesday offers her hand, and Enid, ever a glutton for affection, gladly takes it. She's much less enthusiastic about prying into whatever fresh hell her intended has cooked up this time as long as Wednesday continues to touch her. In fact, Enid could not care less.
No matter what Wednesday aims to get out of this little song and dance, this turn they're taking around campus like Enid's a debutante offering pointed smiles from the arm of her strategically-chosen suitor in a regency drama, Enid is thrilled to play along. She'll perform as many times as needed if it means holding Wednesday's hand in front of everyone they know.
Maybe, Enid thinks, Wednesday's jonesing for an apprenticeship with the Forgemaster. That would make a startling amount of sense. While Enid never bothered making plans for the future, understanding from the outset her fate would lie with her home pack, Wednesday hasn't yet announced where she'll be in the fall. Perhaps that’s why Wednesday is so hellbent on parading Enid around like her prized blue-ribbon pony.
"You actually expect Eugene to still be surprised?" Enid snorts under her breath. "We took the long way, Wednesday. Like, the scenic route of the scenic route. Anyone within a five-mile radius must have heard the gossip by now."
For a split second, Wednesday's lips curl up in a truly unsettling smile. Enid trips over her own shoes, wondering if she imagined it as Wednesday hauls her back to her feet.
"Careful," Wednesday warns her, peering down at the stone pathway like it just did her a personal wrong. "The ground is uneven. You could fall."
"I'll survive a scraped knee," Enid promises, ignoring the pleased flush of her skin as she leans into Wednesday's grip. "I've tripped on this path so many times, they might as well name it after me," she cheerfully says.
Wednesday blinks down at her, then shakes her head with a sigh that Enid would've missed if she weren't sharing her breath.
"Must you always tempt me, Puppy?" Wednesday murmurs, reaching out under the guise of tucking Enid's hair behind her ear.
Her fingertips drift down the line of Enid's throat, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Enid only has time to swallow before Wednesday's index finger has slipped under her collar, tugging her forwards so that Enid has no choice but to fall into her or choke.
Enid gasps, an uneven little sound that has no business escaping on a crowded, public sidewalk, and Wednesday's arm around her waist might as well be steel. She drags Enid to herself, heedless of the fact that Enid's hands are braced against her chest and that every person in the near vicinity has gone abruptly, eerily silent.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at Enid's burning cheeks. "Problem?"
Enid frantically shakes her head. "Never," she whispers.
Wednesday's hand curls around the back of Enid's neck. Even if it weren't for the unholy glint in her eye, Enid would still know what was coming from the position alone. Wednesday prefers her like this, willing and desperate. Whether it was Enid's influence or some hidden desire coaxed to the surface during the heat, Wednesday has come to enjoy putting her hands on Enid's throat almost as much as Enid.
Enid's eyes flutter shut as Wednesday pulls her into a kiss right there in the middle of the pathway, crowd be damned.
Less than fifteen feet away, Bianca lets out a derisive scoff. "Unbelievable. I just cleaned up that fucking mess, and what do I get in return? Put off my dinner," she complains at full volume. "This is the thanks I get."
"Some people still aren’t house-trained," Mackenzie simpers, alternating between making sympathetic eyes at Bianca and shooting frigid glares toward Wednesday and Enid.
Enid doesn't see precisely what Wednesday does with the hand that leaves the back of her neck and extends in Bianca's direction, but judging by the ripple of laughter from the surrounding audience and the truly disgusted sneer Bianca wears as she and her ducklings swan past them, it was a response to be remembered.
Notes:
wednesday: have you met my intended? this is enid. she's wearing my collar.
Chapter 51: Drums
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Wednesday and Enid finally reach the hive, they discover Eugene smack in the middle of relocating honey into jars. Wednesday is first through the door, deftly avoiding the divot in the floor that trips Enid every time she visits.
"That you, Wednesday?" Eugene calls through his face mask. "Sorry, but your order's not ready yet. Still pouring. Hey, didn't you say you'd be busy with Enid's gift all weekend?"
Wednesday's hand lashes out to snatch the back of Enid's shirt, preventing her from falling as she trips.
"Enid!" Eugene crows, pushing his mask up onto his forehead. "I didn't expect to see—wait, what is that?"
Wednesday, now assured that Enid won't find a way to accidentally kill herself if set loose, releases Enid's shirt.
"Enid accepted my gift," Wednesday announces. "We are now both aware that we're courting," she continues, heedless of how Enid cringes at the reminder.
Eugene's lips twitch up like he's trying not to laugh. "Yeah, I can see that. That's a really pretty collar, Enid."
Though Enid's cheeks feel suspiciously warm, she grins. "I know, right?"
"Was that the opal we got in Australia?" Eugene asks, squinting as he shuffles closer. "Sheesh. I don't remember it being that big."
"A-Australia?" Enid splutters, tilting like a spinning top until her eyes find Wednesday. "When the hell was this?"
"Quite recently," Wednesday informs her. "And it's all about the presentation, Eugene—although, I suppose anything would look grander on Enid."
"Probably true," Eugene good-naturedly agrees.
Enid, meanwhile, fidgets where she stands. "I thought the Inhibition rune broke," she complains under her breath.
Wednesday offers her a faint smirk. "Yes. And?"
Enid gulps, wondering if it's possible to catch Wednesday's scent through the overwhelming smell of honey already seeping from Eugene's vat or if she's just imagining things.
Eugene breaks the tension with a snicker. "Gosh, Enid, what'd you do to her? You created a monster."
Enid barely hears him, reminding herself there are safer places to look than Wednesday’s eyes. The very last thing she wants is to be reduced to a sloppy mess in the presence of their close friend. Nobody needs to be subjected to that, least of all Eugene, who apparently provided emotional support for Wednesday's quest across the Australian outback. Why did they go in the first place? Is there some shortage of suitable rocks on domestic soil that Enid isn’t aware of?
"I have an errand to run," Wednesday states, snapping Enid right back to attention. "Will you remain with Eugene until I return?"
Anyone else would say Wednesday looks calm and collected, but Enid sees the tension in her jaw. "Um, yes?"
Wednesday's eyes remain locked on her face. "Promise me."
Enid has to swallow twice through the sudden thickness in her throat, but eventually manages, "Promise, Wednesday. Won't leave without you."
Enid doesn't realize she's biting her lip until Wednesday reaches up to rescue it from her teeth. Her nails glint in the weak sunlight, perfect and polished as ever, the ink of Inhibition still vivid though no longer alive. Enid's not sure who starts it, but somehow, Wednesday's thumb ends up slipping into her mouth and then there's pressure bearing down on Enid's tongue. Though Wednesday's expression remains neutral, her gaze becomes feverish.
Enid opens at once, aware she is definitely not hallucinating the surge of vanilla spilling into the air around them. Honey can be excused, but the sudden influx of sugary slick? That's all Enid.
Worst of all, Wednesday's watching her with those eyes again. This is the look capable of shifting tectonic plates beneath Enid's feet. These eyes witnessed her shattering into miserable, sopping pieces on more than one occasion. She cannot hide from this gaze; like the whispering in the trees outside that raises the hair on the back of her neck, it leaves Enid with the unsettling feeling of being cornered, caught, and pinned.
"Uh, guys?" Eugene calls out. "Still here."
Wednesday startles. It's a slight thing, a passing instant, but it's real and unmistakable. If Enid weren't so busy trying not to let the saliva in her mouth spill over her lips onto her chin, Wednesday's fingers, and the poor floorboards besides, she might even have pointed it out. Not often does something catch Wednesday Addams unawares; Eugene would probably appreciate the dubious honor of knowing he was the source.
"Eugene," Wednesday speaks up, taking a step towards the door despite the whine hitching in the back of Enid's throat that she knows Wednesday can hear. "Can I trust you to entertain Enid in the meantime?"
Eugene is quick to offer an easy smile. "Sure thing. We've got plenty of honey to pot. Any idea when you'll be back, Wednesday?"
"No," she replies. And in classic Wednesday fashion, she turns on her heel and exits the building.
Eugene nudges one of the rickety stools that never sits level in Enid's direction. "Better take a seat. She had her business face on."
"Don't I know it," Enid huffs, plopping down and enjoying the tilt of the stool's uneven legs. She places her hands on the seat in front of her to balance herself. "So, Australia, huh? You guys went to Australia, did you say? Recently?" she asks in her best nonchalant voice.
"Yeah," Eugene answers, frowning at his little kitchen scale. "Like, last weekend."
Enid immediately scoots forward, creating a hellish racket as she goes. When Eugene shifts his furrowed brow to her direction, she scoots again, stool scraping against the floorboards like trumpets of war.
"Eugene," Enid says, the picture of seriousness, "Tell me everything."
The effect is rather ruined when Eugene laughs in her face. "How can you both be the exact same shade of crazy?" he asks, shaking his head. "Do you ever think about that?"
Enid frowns. "No. So what if we are? We're in love, Eugene!" She then pauses, her hand automatically jerking up to her collar. "At least, it feels like we are," she says much more quietly.
Hearing the change in her voice, Eugene sets down everything he was holding and takes a seat on the stool opposite her. "Want to talk about it?" he asks.
Enid shrugs with one shoulder. "Not really."
"You should," Eugene says, struggling to find the straw poking out of his soda can with his mouth while keeping his eyes on her. "Even if it's just to the bees. Someone should hear what you're thinking, Enid, and if that someone happens to be you, all the better. Talking to yourself is good."
Enid, still stuck on the first leg of his spiel, cocks her head. "You talk to the bees?"
Eugene almost looks offended as he sets his soda aside and climbs to his feet. "Of course, I do," he replies. "How rude would it be to come visit without at least saying hello?"
"Fair," Enid thoughtfully hums, rocking absently on her stool. "Hm. Do bees make good therapists?"
Eugene raises an eyebrow in her direction, and the expression is so startlingly Wednesday in nature, Enid has to swallow a bleat of hysterical laughter.
"Do pretty princesses make good girlfriends?" Eugene retorts, then frowns. "Woof—don't answer that. Wednesday will make a necklace out of my teeth if she thinks I called you princess, even by accident," he winces.
Enid can't help but giggle. "Probably. Though, Wednesday doesn't call me princess, so you're most likely safe," she muses.
For the first time, Eugene appears genuinely bewildered. "What?" he laughs. When she doesn't join in, his smile falls flat. "Wait, she doesn't? You're not kidding?"
"Nope." Enid pops her lips. "Not even once."
Enid feels laughter bubbling up all over again at how insulted Eugene looks on her behalf.
"But you're so bright and shiny!" he protests. "And kind! You're kind to everything, Enid. Are you aware that every time we come across an animal in the forest, Wednesday tells the story of the time she caught you singing to that fat squirrel that keeps hauling itself up to your balcony?" he asks, pointing at her with a mixing stick that promptly drips onto his shoes. "Any animal, Enid. I've heard that story at least once a week for the last two years. Heck, you have pink hair most of the time. How could she not call you princess?"
Her eyes nearly bug out of her head.
"She told you that?" Enid squeaks, horrified. "I don't sing to him every time! Just when he's sad, or cold, or his little paws get scratched on the way up!" she insists. "He doesn't have any gloves in the winter, Eugene! It's inhumane."
Eugene gives her a dry look. "I can practically recite the whole thing from memory by now." He takes on a monotone voice eerily similar to Wednesday's as he drawls, "'Speaking of rabbits, Eugene, did you know that I once walked in on Enid serenading a rodent while feeding him a banana? Now I can't get it to leave. Not to mention, our snacks keep depleting so that she can contribute to the damn thing's obesity.'"
"He looked hungry!" Enid protests. "And he had big, sad eyes, what was I supposed to do?"
"Not feed the wildlife, probably," Eugene snorts. "Especially wildlife at risk of health complications. It's our responsibility to care for the woods, Enid. Maybe you should try to get him to do some exercise?" he thoughtfully suggests. "Encourage him to do something besides waiting at your door for scraps until Wednesday chases him off with a hammer."
Enid pouts at the floor. "It wasn't even her banana. She wasn't going to eat it," she huffs.
Eugene grins again. "Sure, but my point stands. You sing to woodland creatures, you have mom-related trauma, and you've fallen in love with a budding serial killer. Those are all the elements of a proper princess," he insists, exchanging his mixing stick for a thermometer. "Haven't you ever seen the one about the beast who lives in a haunted castle? Tell me that's not Wednesday."
"I think you missed a significant chunk of the movie," Enid mutters. "And anyways, wouldn't I be the beast? I'm the one with claws, Eugene," she argues, wiggling her hand in his direction.
He gives her a commiserating pat on the shoulder as he passes. "You're the mouthy princess who melts the heart of the brooding monster by accident, Enid. Sorry, but haunting castles is more Wednesday's wheelhouse than yours."
Enid wishes she could muster up appropriate annoyance for the fact that Eugene just left a sticky handprint on her sleeve, but she's too busy laughing to care.
***
Wednesday halts on the threshold of her destination, peering around with a strange sense of foreboding. Though gardens are achingly familiar to her, they will never be a place of comfort.
Across the garden, Mackenzie scowls, setting down her watering can with force. "And what do you want?" she sneers in a poor imitation of Bianca's effortless ire. "I already said your little wolf can come by anytime to get her stuff from my room. What else do you want from me, Addams?"
"Flowers," Wednesday answers, venturing deeper into the gardens.
She comes to a stop next to a collapsible plastic table that looks somewhat suited for a negotiation. Mackenzie Jones has never liked her, which matters to Wednesday about as much as whether or not a publishing house thinks her writing too scary for children—which is to say, not at all.
Still, the table is rather conveniently placed, holding all manner of gardening tools and what looks to be Mackenzie's bag, a tasteless beige monstrosity with glittering charms affixed to the straps. Wednesday has to work to keep her nose from wrinkling in disgust.
Mackenzie crosses her arms to hide the trembling in her hands. "What kind of flowers?" she bites out.
Wednesday waits until Mackenzie reluctantly meets her eye to answer, "Courting blooms. Enough to give Enid a bouquet at least once a day between now and semester's end."
"Once a day?" Mackenzie repeats, already shaking her head. "No way. We don't have the reserve for that. You can order once every three days at most, but even that's going to cost you. I don't like breaking the rules," she scowls.
Wednesday considers her for a long moment. "Do you tend to this place all by yourself, Jones?" she asks.
Mackenzie's scowl deepens. She whirls around in what Wednesday imagines is meant to be an intimidating display and starts rummaging through her bag. "Yes," she all but spits. "What about it, Addams?"
Wednesday begins to feel faintly amused. "It's quite a large undertaking for just one keeper," she notes. "I count seventeen different flowers in my line of sight, alone. Night blossoms, morning blooms—"
Mackenzie slaps a blank order form on the table in front of her. "Put a checkmark next to your selection and write down the date you need them. You can pick them up day-of or the night before, I don't care which," she states, gritting her teeth as she turns back to her task. Her knuckles are white where she grips the watering can.
Much to the mounting fury of Mackenzie, Wednesday takes her sweet time perusing the flowers on offer. She's on her third lap around the gardens and still pondering what to choose for Enid when she realizes the sky is growing dark. The urge to return to her intended is strong, but this isn't a task to be rushed. Woodwitch though she may not be, Wednesday puts significant stock in her mother's traditions.
How could she not after a childhood spent in the company of Morticia's students, who all use the subtle language of flowers to speak volumes? The night before her sixth May Day, Auntie Ophelia taught Wednesday how to threaten her lower school classmates with ill-fated gifts of basil and rhododendron. She was leaving coltsfoot under the pillows of those most deserving by the time she was ten.
Wednesday learned to bang the war drums with wreaths of belvedere before she ever heard the word fuck.
Most of her father's traditions will have to wait until Hell Mountain, but her mother's way—the old way—does not require anything but fresh blooms and Wednesday's personal dedication. She is glad to have thought of another avenue by which she can continue proving herself to Enid.
As with all important conversations, woodwitches initiate formal courting by writing love letters via carefully-crafted bouquets. Nauseating though Morticia and Gomez’s often-recounted courtship may be, it's somewhat impressive that Morticia managed to coax a patch of crimson amaranth to life for him in these very same gardens all those years ago.
"What can you do for me tonight?" Wednesday speaks up. She meets Mackenzie's glare without flinching. "I need a bouquet this evening."
"Not possible," Mackenzie retorts. She looks like she believes it.
But Wednesday, as always, does not yield. "Name your price."
Notes:
the return of the king, eugene
FLOWER SOUND OFF:
basil: hatred
rhododendron: danger, beware
coltsfoot: justice shall be done
belvedere: i declare against you
crimson amaranth (globe): immortality, unfading love
Chapter 52: Fight
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
To her credit, Mackenzie doesn’t go down without a fight.
It takes ten minutes of cajoling and the promise of enough money to fund a two-week trip to Europe before Mackenzie finally agrees to provide enough flowers for bouquets to be distributed every three days. Despite her windfall, and though Mackenzie produces an old wicker basket and begins to grudgingly follow Wednesday as they meander through the gardens, she does it with an ugly look on her face. Wednesday doesn’t pay her much mind, too busy internally debating the flowers for Enid’s bouquet.
She could go straight for hemp and hemlock—meaning fate and you will be my death, respectively—but there will always be opportunities for dramatics in the future. For now, Wednesday wants nothing more than to reassure Enid of where she belongs. The flowers she selects tonight should communicate exactly that.
There’s a twisted sort of irony in including nightshade in her first courting bouquet, knowing what it almost did to her parents. She could have used white chrysanthemums to convey the same meaning, but Wednesday has never been one to shy away from painful truths.
“You still have peach blossoms?” Wednesday eventually asks, surprised. She leans in to examine them. “At this late date? I’m impressed.”
Mackenzie straightens up. “It’s courting season. Peach blossoms are a popular choice.”
“'I am your captive,'” Wednesday intones, considering the blooms. “Hm. Seems a little theatrical for such a small flower. To think, something so tiny and pink could represent emotional bondage,” she muses.
“Your Enid would like them,” Mackenzie mutters behind her.
Wednesday feels a lick of irritation at that—how on earth would this random person know what her intended likes—but Mackenzie isn’t wrong, so into the basket, they go. The pale pink does look rather fetching against the white and magenta of her other selections.
“Peach blossoms for emotional bondage, moss rosebud for confession of love, Indian jasmine for attachment…” Mackenzie lists off. “What else? Three is an unlucky number. You’ll want four or eight kinds of flowers for a first bouquet.”
“I will be offering five different blooms,” Wednesday refutes.
Mackenzie’s face twists. “Five? That’s for funerals, Addams. You can’t give five as a courting gift.”
“I can, and I will,” Wednesday replies. “For me, five signifies the death of life before Enid.”
Mackenzie looks a little like she wants to throw up, but she gamely collects herself and nods. “Fine. Whatever. Peach blossoms, moss rosebuds, Indian jasmine, and what else?”
Wednesday unflinchingly meets her gaze. “Nightshade and honeysuckle.”
Initially, Mackenzie’s expression doesn’t change. When it becomes clear that Wednesday isn’t joking, her mouth drops open and she declares, “You cannot be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
“Nightshade?” Mackenzie repeats, blinking frantically. “You shouldn’t even handle it without gloves!” she splutters. “Nightshade has no business in a courting gift, Addams, my God.”
“Enid will be properly warned. Where do you keep the controlled substances?” Wednesday asks, eyeing their surroundings.
“In the—" Mackenzie abruptly cuts herself off, then scowls. "No. You don't get to watch. Just stay where you are."
She makes it about two steps towards the northwest corner of the gardens, the area contained by an iron fence locking out potential trespassers—Wednesday checked—before spinning back around.
Mackenzie stomps back over and thrusts out her finger. "Don't snoop, don't move, don't do anything that will get me charged or expelled,” she orders.
Wednesday merely stares at her, expression as complacent as she can physically manage.
Appeased, Mackenzie slips into the darkness and leaves Wednesday to admire the nearby collection of rose bushes. Soon, they will all bloom, though few students will be here to admire them. It’s a shame, Wednesday thinks; crushed roses make a beautiful additive to rune wax.
Mackenzie eventually returns with a wrapped clipping of purple, bell-shaped flowers. The nausea on her face is obvious.
"Excellent," Wednesday says, clasping her hands together. "After we’ve located the honeysuckle, we’ll be ready to proceed.”
Mackenzie only shakes her head, apparently beyond words capable of expressing her discomfort.
Despite the current season, which would land somewhere between the tail-end of spring and early summer, the honeysuckle is in full bloom. Mackenzie is quick and efficient about taking her clippings, wielding tiny silver shears with ease not unlike Enid with her knitting needles.
As soon as the dirty work is done, Mackenzie unloads their spoils onto the table under Wednesday’s watchful eye, plucking flowers out of the pile and laying them out on a plastic sheet. Graceful arcs of honeysuckle are tucked between star-shaped petals of Indian jasmine, rounded peach blossoms offering the perfect counter to the rugged head of moss rosebuds. With the careful addition of purple nightshade, the arrangement begins to take shape. It looks splendid, rolled up into a proper bouquet; Wednesday would pay handsomely if this were a traditional vendor.
“Wouldn’t you rather use gillyflower?” Mackenzie blurts, wincing at herself immediately afterward.
Wednesday blinks. “Do you mean in place of honeysuckle?” she clarifies.
Mackenzie grits out, “Honeysuckle means ‘generous and devoted affections,’ but gillyflower means ‘bonds of affection.’ It has an overtone of forever. Time connotations are an important factor of any serious courting bouquet.”
Wednesday frowns at the implication that any aspect of her courting isn’t serious, but she’s able to set the slight aside for now. "You're fluent in flowers?" she asks, for once genuinely interested rather than seeking to enrage.
Unfortunately, Mackenzie rears back like she’s been slapped. "I'm not a woodwitch, okay?" she spits. "I can't keep up with Bianca. But I can take care of these stupid fucking plants, and that's what I'm going to do, so either shut up or get the hell out!"
She’s screaming by the end of it, so Wednesday elects to silently wait for her to run out of steam before responding. Half a minute later, the red in Mackenzie’s face seeps away to make room for pale terror, then cold acceptance.
“I see,” Wednesday delicately replies. “To answer your question, while I acknowledge the favorable implication of using gillyflower, I chose honeysuckle because it has personal meaning for my intended and I. Enid will appreciate the instant reminder that honeysuckle will bring her over slight differences in the semantics of definitions she doesn’t yet recognize.”
Mackenzie scowls. “Whatever. This is done unless you want to add asphodel or some other grave marker.”
“Perhaps on a later date,” Wednesday muses. “For now, this will suffice. Check your account for proof of payment in the morning unless you’d prefer cash, which I’ll gladly settle now.”
“Cash is fine,” Mackenzie absently says, her brow furrowing as Wednesday picks up the bouquet. “You—you don’t actually have my banking information, right?”
Wednesday places three crisp bills on the table. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Jones. Expect my return on the morrow to plan our next flower arrangement.”
Mackenzie still hasn’t moved to take the money when Wednesday rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.
Wednesday delivers the bouquet to their dorm room, arranging the flowers in a clean vase on Enid’s desk. Once satisfied with the overall effect, she sets out for the hive to retrieve her intended and bring Enid home.
***
It’s their first day back in class since Enid was collared, and Wednesday is acting suspicious. Suspicious is the name of the game for the general conduct of any Addams, but on this day especially, Wednesday is being weird. Off. More hairpin-trigger than usual.
Enid thought nothing could temper the high she’s been riding since discovering the bouquet of fresh flowers in their dorm room. She had never been given a bouquet in her life, not for any reason, so there had been a few tears amidst the exaltation of receiving such a precious gift. She’d spent the entirety of the next day researching each flower’s meaning in the library, tearing up all over again once she’d painted the full picture.
For someone who vehemently despises commercialized romance, Wednesday sure knows her way around a flower arrangement.
Still, that doesn’t explain the thunderclouds that unfurl over Wednesday as Monday morning wears on. By third period, Wednesday’s snapped two pens in half, and her hands and shirt look like she’s spent the morning elbow-deep in a literary crime scene. Most of the splattered ink comes off in the bathroom, but that does nothing to assuage the stormy look on her face.
With every wolf who comes up to Enid to express their congratulations, to wish her well in her courtship, Wednesday’s disposition seems to worsen. What began as a displeased set to her mouth becomes a scowl whenever someone comments how well vanilla pairs with lilies and honeycomb. Maybe Enid could have done a better job of neutralizing her scent, but she’d been excited to show off to the wolf population at Nevermore. They do smell fantastic together; even Yoko said it.
Verbally acknowledging a couple’s scent combination is a formal gesture that not every wolf partakes in, but enough do that Enid repeats the same thanks over and over until she’s all but delivering lines from a script. By the sixth wolf who leans in to get a hearty inhale of their combined scent from Enid’s neck, Wednesday’s eyelid is twitching.
Enid’s graduated from worried to concerned when she’s approached by Jimmy Williamson, younger brother to Camie Williamson, who Enid can only be grateful no longer attends Nevermore. She hopes Wednesday doesn’t spot the obvious resemblance between the two. Did Camie and Wednesday ever cross paths? She can’t recall.
“Hey, Enid,” Jimmy opens with, leaning against the wall and conveniently blocking her route into botany class.
Enid’s forced back a step, cringing from the sudden proximity, but Wednesday doesn’t move an inch. Hyesol will descend on them with the might of a biblical plague if they’re late to her class today. They’re pruning the rose bushes, Enid recalls. Dangerous business.
“Um—hi,” Enid bleats a second too late, glancing at Wednesday. “What’s up?”
Jimmy shrugs. “Just wanted to congratulate you on your courtship. Big news, huh? That you found yourself a mate?”
He says it with a lilt that’s vaguely unsettling. Enid shifts her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip as she continues shooting apprehensive looks in Wednesday’s direction. “Yeah, thanks. We’re really excited,” she answers out loud.
Jimmy brushes that off with the indifference of a man who isn’t interested in knowing the details, continuing, “Sorry it didn’t work out with my sister. I would’ve loved having you in the pack,” he says with a touch too much guile to be genuine. “Camie could’ve used a good girl like you to keep her honest.”
Enid gives up on all pretense of being polite. “...Okay?” she retorts, hoping she doesn’t smell as angry and embarrassed as she feels.
Of all people, he has to bring this up in front of Wednesday? Her intended, who Enid would very much like to have the respect of? It is unfathomably rude, but she would expect nothing less from a San Francisco wolf. Disrespect is in their blood.
“Yeah, too bad,” Jimmy hums, leaning forward and ignoring how Wednesday stiffens. “Guess this is goodbye for now. Good luck with things, yeah?”
He then reaches up to pat her head, a completely acceptable gesture of familiarity between packmembers, but not one Enid has ever shared with him before. His palm comes within a foot of her hair before something lashes out between them and halts his progression—Wednesday’s hand, Enid realizes through the ringing in her ears, which seems to be squeezing Jimmy’s wrist hard enough to disrupt the blood flow to his fingers.
“I think you know what will happen if you touch her,” Wednesday’s voice penetrates Enid’s daze.
Jimmy’s lips twist into a snarl but, like all cowards, he steps back and shakes her off. “What’s your problem? I was congratulating her, psycho,” he huffs, planting his sneakers like he didn’t just retreat from someone at least two feet shorter than him.
“Congratulating her?” Wednesday repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Jimmy’s face turns an unattractive puce color. “This is a matter between wolves, lady.”
“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” Wednesday replies. “Heed my warning, boy. Leave my intended alone or you’ll know me well enough to address me by name.”
Jimmy opens his mouth to retort, but one look at Wednesday's face puts a pin in that plan. Instead, he sneers, shouldering past Wednesday—but notably not making any physical contact with Enid—as he hitches his bag higher up on his shoulder and pretends he has somewhere else to be.
“Wow,” Enid mumbles, shaking her head. “He’s not usually that forward.”
Wednesday’s face flickers between emotions too fast for Enid to read any of them, ultimately settling on cataclysmic. It is the armageddon of Wednesday expressions—which perhaps explains why Enid doesn't protest when Wednesday snatches her by the wrist and begins dragging her down the hall.
Notes:
i know we’ve been missing the smut, so let me rectify that right now with the next two-three chapters
if anyone else has seen and obsessed over The Glory, i imagine mackenzie as having precisely the same personality as hyejeong—just, you know, without having been yeonjin's soulless lackey for two decades
wednesday's line came from Troilus and Cressida act 3 scene 3: "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."
FLOWER SOUND OFF:
honeysuckle: generous and devoted affection
Indian jasmine: i attach myself to you
nightshade: truth
peach blossom: i am your captive
moss rosebuds: confession of love
UPDATE: well they're working on the internet or something where i live and i along with thousands of others are having mega problems connecting, so unfortunately going to have to delay chapter 53 to friday. sorry guys :/ hoping this update actually posts instead of eternally churning in the online nethers of the loading spins
Chapter 53: Kneel
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That morning had found Enid distracted and rushed. Knowing how much attention she was likely to receive throughout the day, she’d devoted more time than usual to perfecting her makeup, resulting in a mad dash to collect her school uniform and put all of her clothing items on the right limb. Bra, then panties, her cleanest button-down and tights. She’d been searching for her skirt when she took a step too close to the doorframe and nearly smashed her pinky toe right into the wood. Although she avoided the collision, Enid might as well have been axe-kicked in the stomach with how hard she flinched backward. The lack of contact hadn’t mattered; she knew exactly how breaking her toe on that door frame would've felt. Somehow, someway, her brain manufactured the ghost of a sensation to taunt her.
This moment, being shoved into a storage closet somewhere in the west wing by an irate Wednesday Addams, feels a lot like that. Enid's never actually experienced Wednesday fucking her while furious, but like a dire premonition of what’s to come, she knows how it would feel. She can sense Wednesday's hands around her neck, can almost taste the sweat that would dampen her temples and befoul the air with flowers and honey and rage.
Since she knows that anger isn't aimed at her, instead of panicking, Enid is quick to respond in kind. Her body readies for war with an influx of slick that threatens to overwhelm her flimsy underwear and a surge of damning pheromones.
Wolf or not, Wednesday is attuned enough to Enid’s basic biological functions to notice when she’s aching to be fucked. Even in the dark of the dingy closet where they've sequestered themselves, Enid notices her pupils dilate.
Unexpectedly, Wednesday gives a derisive laugh. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” she sneers.
Enid can’t bring herself to speak. Whatever answer lurks in her face is enough.
Wednesday shakes her head like she can throw off the heinous combination of sugary slick and bloodlust so thick in the air it's practically dripping down Enid's throat. She ends up placing her hands firmly on Enid's shoulders, keeping her frozen in place—though who she's trying to restrain, Enid isn't sure.
Finally, Wednesday breaks the ringing silence. "Are you alright?"
Mentally, Enid has already skipped ahead to the part where Wednesday's fingers end up in her mouth, but she manages to respond, "Yeah, are you?" in a mostly normal tone of voice.
Wednesday's jaw tightens. Her eye looks like it might start twitching again. "It doesn't matter,” she replies. Then, almost like an accusation, “Does that rat of a boy harass you often?"
Enid can't help but snort. "No. I mean, every once in a while, sure, but nothing like today," she says.
When Wednesday's expression doesn't soften, Enid adds in a much gentler tone, "Promise. You'd know if someone was bothering me."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "That's not the same as you telling me if someone was," she replies, voice grim.
Enid thought she knew every Wednesday expression, but this one is beyond her capacity to read. There’s a slant to her mouth that could be mistaken for the shadow of a snarl. Her eyes raise the hair on the back of Enid’s neck. While Wednesday’s anger is indeed staggering, Enid of all people knows frenzied behavior when she sees it.
This version of Wednesday teeters more on the side of threatening Enid’s potential date with a nail gun than expressing her devotion through carefully-chosen flowers. This Wednesday can be vicious. If it weren’t for the fact that Enid smells her arousal, she would be alarmed and afraid for whoever caused Wednesday to look like that. The line between fear and excitement is one hell of an edge.
"I guess it doesn't bother me as much as it did you?" Enid eventually ventures. At the spasm of disbelief that crests across Wednesday's face, she quickly adds, "Don't get me wrong—I absolutely do not want him touching me, at all, ever—but he's just like that,” she shrugs a bit helplessly. “Jimmy's always been an asshole.”
"Seems to run in the family," Wednesday dryly responds.
Enid blinks at her for a second, stunned, before bursting into laughter. She folds over, dropping her forehead with a clunk on Wednesday’s shoulder. The sound of Wednesday sighing under her breath only fuels Enid’s hysteria. All else aside, she would never accuse life with Wednesday of being boring.
Though Wednesday is a lot of things, boring isn’t one of them. Enid had known that from the moment they met. She’d envied it, coveted it, wished that she could be as interesting as Wednesday Addams. That eventually morphed into a wish that Wednesday would find her interesting too, and then a prayer that Wednesday would never stop seeing Enid as somebody worth her attention. Enid likes the way Wednesday looks at her, like she can see beneath her skin to the viscera and bone.
Enid even likes the way Wednesday regularly forces her from her comfort zone and splits her apart, dragging every wicked thing better left hidden inside out into the open. Nothing is too vile for Wednesday Addams. No part of Enid has ever proven to be too much. Almost absentmindedly, she begins rubbing her cheek against Wednesday’s sleeve.
"You can't call the whole Williamson family assholes just because their kids and I don't get along," Enid says into the fabric of Wednesday’s jacket.
Wednesday releases her shoulder and grips her chin, compelling Enid to meet her gaze. "Am I wrong?" she challenges.
Enid can’t help but smile. "Nope. They’re all assholes," she agrees. "But last I checked, being a generally shitty person isn't a death sentence."
"Unfortunately," Wednesday mutters. Then, loud enough to make Enid jump, "He didn't touch you, right? He didn't make physical contact?"
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. "...You saw that he didn't," she points out, shifting her weight.
Wednesday audibly exhales. "All the same, I want to hear you say it."
Something about the tense of her lips, the way her fingers flex on Enid's jaw like she's struggling to remain still, tugs at the instincts Enid usually ignores. While her brain understands what happened with Jimmy bothered Wednesday because he’s a dick with zero impulse control or respect for personal boundaries, Enid’s wolf isn’t satisfied with that explanation. Her wolf is too stuck on the arousal still churning thick in Wednesday’s scent, on how she’s gripping Enid tight enough to hurt…on the fury in the very cadence of her breath. Fury, not irritation; a rage that isn’t rational. A want that can’t be written off or ignored.
With all the subtlety of a neon pink bullhorn, Enid sucks in a sharp breath and blurts, "Oh my God, are you jealous?"
Wednesday's face doesn't change. "He tried to touch your hair," she replies.
Enid almost goes cross-eyed straining to peer at her own hair, glances at Wednesday's immaculate braids—then gasps again as she understands. "Oh. You…you don't want anyone else to touch my hair.”
Wednesday does not speak, but Enid can see the answer in her expression.
"Okay," she agrees, reaching up to rest her palm over Wednesday's heart. Enid imagines that the petting she enjoys when she's upset won't be received as positively here, but her touch might still bring Wednesday some comfort. "Okay. I won't let anyone touch my hair."
Wednesday gives a tight, jerky nod, and the seething tension ruffling her so effectively begins to drain away.
“Okay?” Enid repeats, shuffling closer. She leans in and noses up Wednesday’s neck, luxuriating in her burning scent. “Okay, Wednesday?” she breathes, licking up to her jaw. Wednesday’s neck tastes like sweat and violence and warmth. Enid wishes she could taste her everywhere, is just considering getting on her knees and making a go of asking nicely for it when Wednesday’s hand clamps down on the back of her neck.
"Stop," Wednesday orders.
Whoops. Somewhere between kissing Wednesday’s neck and scheming to eat her out, Enid evidently had strayed from licking to sucking and from there, to scraping her teeth against Wednesday’s delicate skin. It takes Wednesday dragging her off by the hair for Enid to release her bruising throat.
Enid feigns innocence. "Stop what?"
Wednesday reaches up to assess the damage to her neck, fingertips probing at the worst of it. Her eyes remain narrowed as she decides what to do with Enid. “Accosting me in public.”
“Why not?” Enid pouts, and she must have lost her head right alongside Wednesday because the next words out of her mouth are, “Because it makes you wet?”
Wednesday’s nostrils flare as her fingers go still. Almost comically delayed, Enid claps a hand over her mouth.
"Fine," Wednesday says in a voice that promises retribution, neck forgotten with her newfound purpose of backing Enid into the nearest wall. She doesn’t even have to raise her hands to have Enid baring her throat. "I think now is an exceptional time to discuss the matter of punishments. Don’t you agree?”
Enid isn’t sure which answer is safest, so she goes with a neutral shrug that probably comes off as more of a twitch.
“We should start with boundaries,” Wednesday declares, ignoring how wide Enid’s eyes have become. “Did I ask you to stop, Enid?”
“Are you going to spank me?” Enid blurts, voice cracking on the way out. She’s nearly shaking with anticipation.
Wednesday sneers, “Do you think you deserve it?”
Enid doesn’t have an answer. Unsurprised, Wednesday murmurs, “That’s what I thought. Answer my question, Enid. Did I ask you to stop, yes or no?”
“Y-Yes,” Enid chokes out, breathing fast.
Wednesday looks very much like she’s enjoying herself. “And did you stop when I told you to?” she presses.
“No,” Enid mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut. “Didn’t. I—um, no. I didn’t.”
Wednesday hums under her breath. “If you could have anything from me, Enid—anything at all that you wish to do to me or have done to you—what would you ask for?”
Enid’s head snaps up, mind racing with the vast expanse of possibilities that question brought screaming to life, but there was only ever one real answer. “Your mark,” she admits.
Whatever Wednesday had been expecting, it wasn’t that. Her lips part with surprise before pulling up into Enid’s favorite half-smile. “That much is assured. What else?” she persists, eyes deliberately dropping from Enid’s chest to her thighs. Her gaze might as well be a physical touch.
Enid tries and fails to swallow at least twice before summoning the courage to admit, “Wanna eat you out, Wednesday.” She can’t help but eye the bruises marring Wednesday’s throat. “Wanna lick you there, too.”
Wednesday does not look surprised to hear such a confession, no matter how her pulse jumps. “Excellent,” she replies, voice pleasant and even and wholly unforgiving. Her eyes are bright as she commands, “Then kneel.”
Notes:
there goes enid, onto her knees
Chapter 54: Heart
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Over the course of her flower language research session, Enid had stumbled across a variety of interesting meanings. Swallowwort translates to cure for heartache. European sweetbrier means I wound to heal. And Peppermint, ironically enough, stands for warmth of feeling, which Enid found particularly absurd.
Of all the plants in that book, only one had struck Enid and settled under her skin with the sting of random knowledge that refuses to be disregarded. Of course it would be the existence of a plant that haunts her. Forget ghosts; Enid has the black mulberry tree to torment her, a tree whose translation loosely comes out to I shall not survive you.
Since Enid has a disappointing lack of plants on hand to communicate her feelings, she instead must rely upon her words and actions like a common plebeian. Her knees, therefore, hit the ground before the order to kneel has fully left Wednesday's mouth.
Wednesday watches her with bright eyes. "Eager, aren't you?" she comments.
Enid responds with a short nod.
"Words," Wednesday barks, expression curious.
Enid exhales on an uneven breath, sighing, "Please, Wednesday. Wanna eat you out."
Wednesday spreads her feet further apart, shoes scraping the floor with a clamour that has goosebumps prickling on Enid's skin. Wednesday plays with the hem of her skirt for one long, torturous moment before raising it above her knees, then over the tops of her thigh-highs, and finally, all the way to her ribs. She tucks it beneath the boning of her bra, simultaneously freeing her hands and exposing herself.
Enid, composed as usual, whimpers aloud like a needy slut. Wednesday is wearing black satin panties, the kind shipped from overseas that arrive without a price tag attached. These panties will never see the inside of a washing machine, Enid thinks. These are dry-clean only; exposure to water would cause a permanent stain.
Enid knows this because she can see from how those awful black panties are clinging to Wednesday, sopping and ruined, that they will watch the sun set tonight from inside a garbage can. Unthinkingly, she leans in to get a better breath of Wednesday's scent and finds herself jerked back by the hair.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her outraged expression. "Problem?"
Enid huffs, her cheeks filling as she tries not to whine. "No," she snaps.
Wednesday doesn't respond. Her face gives nothing away.
Unwilling to give up, Enid tries again, arching her back as she strains against the hand in her hair. She’s so close to Wednesday’s underwear she can see the minute stitches in the satin lining with her naked eye. Honey saturates the air. It shoves Enid's common sense right out of the driver's seat, leaving room only for instinct and need.
Enid sticks out her tongue in a desperate bid to make contact, and something changes in Wednesday's expression. Before Enid can blink, Wednesday is kneeling in front of her, pulling Enid closer by the hair so that she can lick the saliva off of her chin.
Enid's conscious thought is sent spinning by the fact that Wednesday just licked her like a dog, like a wolf in heat, like a slut, but her wolf won't be distracted by such trivial matters as shock. Enid’s wolf cares only for satisfying the tension roiling in her stomach and ensuring that Wednesday doesn't leave this closet before coming at least once in Enid's mouth.
Whether it's the fault of her wolf or entirely her own, Enid doesn't hesitate to act while Wednesday is unbalanced and defenseless for the split second it takes her to return to her feet. She tears out of Wednesday's loosened grip, rightly predicting Wednesday would rather let go of her hair than risk scalping her, and shoves her nose between Wednesday's legs.
Enid's hands latch around the back of Wednesday's thighs, gripping her right beneath the ass as she inhales. The smell of her arousal is debilitating. So, without further ado, Enid latches onto the front of Wednesday's underwear and sucks.
If she hadn’t heard it with her own two ears, Enid never would have believed such a noise could emanate from Wednesday Addams. Wide-eyed, Enid does it again and witnesses Wednesday slapping a hand over her own mouth. She would be content to chase these choked little moans all night, but Wednesday soon comes to her senses and reaches down to hunt for something which will successfully detach Enid. Since pulling on her hair has proved to be an unreliable deterrent, Wednesday eventually latches on to the collar of her uniform shirt and tugs.
Enid manages to get exactly one lick up the gusset of Wednesday's panties, one meager taste of her, before realizing she needs oxygen more than she needs to lick Wednesday’s pussy and she allows herself to be hauled backward.
"Did I give you permission to do that, Enid?" Wednesday asks, cocking her head.
Enid struggles not to snap. "No," she spits, irritated and overheated and always, always desperate for more.
"And did I give you permission to cover my neck in bruises?" Wednesday continues with that false veneer of politeness that gets under Enid’s skin like nothing else. "Did you stop when I told you to then, either?"
Enid jerks her head to the side, refusing to meet her gaze. The knowledge that she's behaving like a total brat doesn't stop her from wholeheartedly committing to the role.
"Look at me, Enid."
Enid remains right where she is, unwilling to give in—until she recognizes the honey scent in the air has racketed up at least ten degrees, and she nearly breaks her neck whipping around to determine what could've caused such a change.
She's met with the sight of Wednesday staring down at her like others might eye a misbehaving pet, eyebrow raised in challenge as she pulls her underwear to the side and exposes her pussy.
Enid jolts forward so hard she ends up squeaking when her shirt collar catches against her throat. This time, Enid whines for real, scrambling to grab Wednesday's thighs and pull her closer. Wednesday doesn't surrender an inch.
"You wanted to eat me out," Wednesday says, shifting to spread her legs further, bending her knees to hover closer to Enid's face. "Isn't that right?"
"Please!" Enid begs, licking her lips. "Please, Wednesday, just wanna taste—"
"But you couldn't behave," Wednesday retorts, sliding her underwear back into place and ignoring Enid's wordless protests as her pussy is once again hidden from sight. "It's a shame. If you had been a good girl, I would've let you."
Enid stares up at her, mouth open, for ten unbearable seconds before straining hard enough that fabric tears right out from under Wednesday's fingers. Enid's shirt falls as the first casualty of war, buttons bouncing all over the ground in a rattling twenty-one-gun salute.
Enid ignores her gaping shirt and dives forward, desperate to remove the barrier over Wednesday's pussy once and for all. To her credit, Wednesday is lightning quick when she wants to be, and she's already grappling at Enid's shoulders by the time Enid's lips meet her underwear.
Because she knows Wednesday would never risk damaging her collar, Enid isn't as vigilant as she ought to be. The shirt couldn't belay her, and her collar is off limits; surely, victory must be on the horizon.
Unfortunately, Enid had forgotten what else a proper Nevermore student uniform entails. Closed-toed shoes, tights or socks, standard skirt and sweater, button-down shirt, fitted blazer, and…one other item. One crucial, critical element of any school uniform that Enid should've rightly anticipated could be used against her to devastating effect.
Wednesday grabs the tail of Enid's necktie and yanks. Enid yelps as her throat constricts, nails leaving angry red marks on Wednesday's thighs as she's dragged away, kicking and clawing, courtesy of her stupid, unfashionable, treasonous uniform tie.
Stupid because they attend a boarding school in Vermont, not Hogwarts, and there's really no reason to dress teenagers like twentieth-century noblemen. Unfashionable because the damn thing doesn't go with a single pair of Enid's earrings. Treasonous because when the tie tightens around her neck, Enid moans loudly enough that she's certain Wednesday can feel vibrations in her palm.
The only upside of the whole mess is that Wednesday looks genuinely bewildered, alternating between staring at her hand and Enid's burning face. It's a rare thing for Wednesday Addams to be caught off guard, Enid knows. She should be savoring this.
For a single heartbeat, they watch each other, eyes wide with disbelief.
Then Wednesday jerks on the tie again, yanking her forward so that Enid's cheek bumps into her thigh, and Wednesday's face twists with an expression Enid would politely describe as unhinged.
"Oh," Wednesday says under her breath. "You like it." Then, at full volume, "Is that true, Enid? Do you like being on my leash?"
Meanwhile, Enid is panting, her breath hitching with the tail-end of a snarl as she fights to maintain some semblance of control over herself. "P-Please, Wednesday. Please let me," she says through gritted teeth. "Let me eat you out."
"You didn't answer my question," replies Wednesday, amused.
Enid releases a frustrated little scream. "Yes, Wednesday! Fuck, yes, I want it, I like it, love your leash, love—let me fucking eat you out," she breaks down and begs, whining into Wednesday's thigh. "Please, Wednesday. I'll be good, Puppy'll be good."
Wednesday actually snorts. "Oh, now you will? After ignoring my orders twice? Now is the moment when you'll decide to behave?"
"I will!" Enid protests.
Wednesday hums. "Are you lying intentionally, or just by consequence of believing what we both know to be untrue?"
Enid looks up at her and snarls, baring her teeth.
Wednesday raises her eyebrow in a way that has Enid shutting up immediately, taking her time to wrap Enid's tie around her palm with practiced motions. Enid’s stomach clenches as she realizes Wednesday’s adjusting her grip to gain better leverage over her throat. She offers a wet, broken sound in apology, but Enid can tell by the glint in her eyes that Wednesday won't be deterred from her chosen course of action.
"I prefer for you to use your words," Wednesday says, voice lowering. "Enid. Look at me."
Enid shakes her head, tears spilling onto her cheeks.
"Enid," Wednesday repeats, kneeling down to her level. "Puppy. Please look at me."
Enid opens her eyes with a gasp, entire body shuddering as she tries and fails to catch her breath. "M'Sorry, Wednesday."
Wednesday reaches up with her free hand to cradle her cheek. "I know. Why are you crying?"
Enid warbles, "I don't know."
Wednesday hums, fingertips dropping down to trace the tie around her neck. "Do you want this off?"
"No!" Enid gasps, hands shooting up to shield it from Wednesday's eyes. "No, I—I like being…um, on your leash," she stammers, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. “Please don’t take it away.”
Wednesday makes a contemplative sound, sitting back on her heels. "Alright, Puppy," she murmurs. "Listen well."
Enid bites her tongue, remaining silent to show that she's listening.
"I am not experienced in sexual pleasure," Wednesday states. "Much as it pains me to admit, I know relatively little about how to physically satisfy you. I cannot offer a practiced hand. I am not well-versed in the acts that make you come. I know human anatomy and the social subtext of dynamics, but I lack personal experience with sex. That means the few things I do know well were borne of research and practice," she stresses, watching Enid closely. "Do you understand?"
Enid nods. "Think so," she whispers, digging her chin into her collarbones.
Wednesday audibly exhales. "This," she punctuates her words with a slight shake of her hand, observing how Enid twitches with the motion, "Is what I know. I know how to tie you up in ribbons so that I may unwrap you at my personal pleasure. I know how to care for you when you're crying and overwhelmed."
Though her voice softens, Enid tenses like she's anticipating a blow.
"I know how you act when you want to be punished," Wednesday quietly says, and it is both better and worse than Enid imagined. "I can’t claim to know what’s made you feel as though you need this, but I recognize the look. I know what you want.”
Enid’s nails bite into her palms. “I don’t know why, either," she whispers. "I just…got scared. I guess.”
“Scared of what?” Wednesday asks, and the tenor of her voice is so calm and sure that Enid feels like a thousand pounds will be lifted off her back if she does as asked and tells the truth.
“Scared you were mad at me,” Enid mumbles. “Scared what Jimmy said made you…I don’t know.”
Wednesday’s face darkens with a rage that takes Enid aback, but just as quickly as it dawns, her anger disappears. “I understand,” she says, voice grave. “Embarrassment can drive us to desperate heights. You want reassurance.”
Enid shrugs uncomfortably. “I guess," she tells her lap.
“Because you feel like you need to test me,” Wednesday continues. “So you misbehave and push me to my limits to see how I’ll respond. You wish to know if I’ll still accept you when you aren’t on your best behavior. You’d rather know it now, from the start, if there’s some button you could push that would make me leave.”
Enid wouldn’t be able to speak at that moment to save her life.
“I see,” Wednesday murmurs. “This isn’t an uncommon behavior amongst submissives, Enid. I suppose I should’ve anticipated that you might start acting out.” She doesn’t hesitate to meet Enid’s eyes, even knowing what her next words will do to her. “This is the first time you feel as though you have something to lose.”
Enid just sits quietly. She continues to cry, but doesn’t sob; she’s used to being torn open. “Why do you know all this?” she asks in a whisper.
Wednesday cradles her cheek again, admitting, “Your existence is what drove me to learn. I wasn't entirely aware of it then, but you were always who I thought of while acquiring this knowledge. Do you understand, Enid?"
Enid can't bring herself to nod this time, but her attention is unabashedly fixated on Wednesday and she knows it.
"So trust me when I say this won't change my desire to become your mate or to continue courting you as I have been, no matter what answer you give me," Wednesday declares. "I only hope you answer this question truthfully."
Wednesday straightens up, shoulders tensing as she holds Enid's gaze. "You are already my heart. Would you like to be my pet, Enid?"
Enid loses her breath.
Notes:
Wednesday: what i do have are a very particular set of skills.
Chapter 55: Tablet
Notes:
NOTE: ‘fourth-form’ is a colloquial term used by wolves to describe being in their transformed state (four feet on the ground instead of two, get it? fourth-form? anyway)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid has never put much stock in words. As a wolf, she tends to gravitate towards nonverbal signals to guide her intuition. The true meaning of words often lies in their delivery rather than their nature, but a scent wrought with anger cannot be faked.
Though it rankles her like a pinched nerve to admit it even privately, Enid knows in some ways, wolves are the least manipulative creatures of all. Their hatred isn't expressed through backhanded compliments from sharp tongues belonging to pretty faces but in snarled challenges in a forest of hands and teeth.
Wolves can harbor ill will with the best of them, but at least her mother doesn't have a critical word to offer her when Enid's running in fourth-form under a full moon. There's no room for any language but snarl and scent when they all give in and wolf out.
At any rate, Enid's never known words to be a source of comfort. She's known words that fluttered around her like rose petals, and words that healed, but also words that took years off her life from the sheer trauma of hearing them.
As of yet, she's still not sure which category Wednesday's pet proposal falls into.
Evidently, too much time has passed spent in silence because Wednesday breaks it with a sudden, "You don't have to answer immediately. You obviously should take your time considering whether or not a new dynamic in our relationship is something you would want," she states. "Do your research. I can recommend a variety of useful texts on the subject—"
"Yes," interrupts Enid.
Wednesday nods. "Excellent, I'll have my research tablet shipped here overnight. You can take the rest of week to read—"
"No, I—I don't need that," Enid announces.
Wednesday frowns. "I would organize the materials for you to make the undertaking easier. You can even change the font and color settings to that vile purple script you format your blog in."
"Don't need it," Enid repeats. Upon further reflection, she hurriedly adds, "I mean, yes, I want to read your fuck textbooks, but I don't need the week."
Wednesday doesn't look any less confused. "...You may be a fast reader, Enid, but these are pretty lengthy texts, and on top of exams—"
Over her, Enid insists, "I don't need to do the homework because my answer is yes.”
Wednesday stops speaking mid-word, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The uncharacteristically startled image she makes would be comical if Enid's heart weren't beating out of her chest.
"To—to being your pet, or whatever," Enid lamely finishes, voice trailing off into nothing as her face begins to heat. "Fuck, was that weird? Am I being weird? Fuck me, why am I still talking?"
Wednesday's eyebrows nearly disappear into her bangs.
"Okay, I would really appreciate it one fucking hell of a lot if you could ignore the last thirty seconds," Enid rambles, praying she won't start crying again, "Because that was the most embarrassing performance I think I've ever given in my life, no exaggeration, which is like, saying something 'cause I'm me and you're—" Cue wild gestures in Wednesday's general direction, "—You, and I'd just love to get a do-over on that—"
"You'd decide so quickly?" Wednesday interrupts, and Enid gratefully lapses into silence. "Without conducting research of your own?” Her brow furrows. “Without asking a single question? A definition? A point of clarification?"
Enid hopes she doesn't look like she's pouting as she mumbles, "Well, now you sound like you wanted me to say no."
Wednesday's face twists with the specific expression she only dons when Enid's being spectacularly obtuse. "I wouldn't have broached the subject in the first place if it wasn't something I wanted, Enid. Don't be ridiculous."
"Then what's the problem?" Enid wheedles, tugging on the ends of her hair.
Wednesday spends a long moment just staring at her. "...I'm concerned you haven’t considered all of the implications of my proposition," she eventually says. "I want this to be a decision you make while armed with all the necessary resources to make an informed choice."
Enid shrugs with one shoulder. "I love you," she replies.
Though Wednesday's frown deepens, her eyes warm significantly. "As I love you. Nevertheless, I would prefer for you to investigate this idea on your own time and return once you've made an educated decision."
The conversation apparently concluded, Wednesday rises elegantly to her feet and offers Enid her hand. Simultaneously, Enid's tie falls loose, wrinkled and crooked and worst of all, no longer prisoner to Wednesday's grip.
"Wait," Enid protests from down on her knees. "What about eating you out?"
Wednesday gives her a dry look. "You misbehaved," she replies. "I understand why, but you still misbehaved, Enid. You're not eating me out today."
"Goddamn it," Enid mutters, reluctantly allowing herself to be pulled off the ground. "Tonight?" she questions, perking up.
Wednesday's expression remains neutral. "Cute. No."
Enid can't even summon up proper indignation for the way Wednesday just torpedoed her plans for the evening, all aspirations of finally getting her mouth on Wednesday bursting like the world's most disappointing fireworks because somewhere between her knees and standing, Enid found her way back into Wednesday's arms. It is frankly impossible to maintain a healthy dose of displeasure while being held with the reverence that Wednesday reserves just for her.
So Enid allows herself to be herded back to Botany class (where Hyesol gives them a stern glare but does not protest their joining the lesson almost half an hour late) and files away her disgruntlement for a future occasion. In fact, Enid just floats along through the rest of her day, bright and shiny and carefree like the very princesses Eugene had accused her of being, right up until after dinner when Wednesday deposits a black tablet onto her bed. The glass comes to rest against Enid's socked feet.
Enid blinks, glancing up from her phone, but Wednesday has already traipsed across the room to sit at her writing desk.
"You dropped something," Enid calls out.
Unbothered, Wednesday rolls up her sleeves, exposing bare wrists and delicate bones that, to Enid, suddenly seem eons more explicit to look at without permission than a snapshot of somebody’s breasts would. Wednesday does not respond.
With a swoop in her stomach that feels a lot like teetering at the top of a rollercoaster, Enid sits up. “What’s this?” she asks, though she fears she already knows the answer.
Wednesday, distracted, replies, “All of the research I have compiled over the years about BDSM. Amongst other things.”
Enid nearly drops the tablet right onto the floor, diving to catch it as Wednesday’s response sinks in. Is she going to unlock this tablet and discover Wednesday's porn collection? It seems like a distinct possibility. Enid bites her lip, staring down at the darkened screen while Wednesday pointedly does not look in her direction. Will it be methodically organized into folders with labels, Enid wonders? Will she find a folder dedicated to Blondes tucked away between Sloppy Oral and Questionable Inclusion of Tentacles? Oh, God—what if none of the stuff Wednesday watches resembles Enid at all?
"I thought you were having it shipped overnight," Enid complains under her breath, attempting to buy time.
Wednesday looks up from her typewriter, proving she was not, in truth, as engrossed in her work as she seemed. "I had it delivered by air courier so that you could begin your research tonight.”
“What? Why?” Enid bleats from across the room. “Wait, how much did that cost?”
“Once you’ve read the materials, I’ll give you a list of kinks to rate with your current level of interest,” Wednesday continues. “We’ll discuss then whether or not we wish to proceed. In the meantime, please make note of anything you find to be of particular interest.” Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and Enid goes still.
She knows that look. Enid sure as hell recognizes hunger when she sees it, which is why it comes as less of a shock and more of a sentencing when Wednesday says, “I look forward to hearing the results.”
Wednesday then starts typing away like she didn't just hand Enid the equivalent of a deadly weapon and tell her to fire at will. Enid waits for the punchline, but after two whole minutes of Wednesday electing not to acknowledge her, she’s resigned to her fate. She is actually meant to get going on this assignment like she’s not holding the key to every filthy interest of Wednesday Addams’ in her vastly unprepared hands. If nothing else, this proves once and for all that Enid is not a princess; she’s pretty sure a princess would be spared the horror of explaining just how enthusiastic she is about every sexual act Wednesday deems worthy of inclusion on such a list. Eugene will be devastated.
If this is truly supposed to be private research time for Enid, she’s not sure why Wednesday decided to plant herself here with no intention of leaving. This is going to be a nightmare. How is she supposed to watch porn with Wednesday in the same room? Enid can’t possibly be expected to study in these conditions.
After waffling for a while longer, finding excuses to delay including adjusting her position from lying on her stomach to sitting up against the headboard like a civilized human being and changing her outfit—twice—Enid steels herself and unlocks the tablet.
There's no password, which would be an unconscionably risky choice for Enid but seems right on the money for Wednesday Addams, and no folders either. Instead, there's simply a library of downloaded PDFs crowned by a single app that appears to exist solely for note-taking purposes. The thought of peeking at Wednesday's sex notes is enticing, but Enid manages to refrain from any snooping. This is Wednesday's tablet and she doesn't want to be a bad guest.
Instead of scrounging for performance reviews in Wednesday's private notes as she would like, Enid clicks on the first PDF.
Almost immediately, she regrets it.
Notes:
so uhhh what kinda kinks do you think wednesday would have on her list? hmmm i wonder
Chapter 56: Learn
Notes:
i am running tf out of tags so i might have to start putting kink warnings at the start of chapters. this is what i get for getting greedy with the kink menu i guess
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s laughable how quickly Enid deflates with disappointment. Whatever she’d been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.
The first PDF loads to life, revealing a lengthy text document set on a solid white background. There are no pictures, no videos—certainly no pornography of the caliber Enid had been anticipating. Just boring black font organized into two vertical columns. Seen from a distance, it could easily pass for a page taken out of a virtual textbook.
Enid is so flummoxed by the whole ordeal that another beat passes before she realizes the rightmost column is filled not with text like she assumed, but with perfect penmanship attributable only to Wednesday Addams. Ironically, Enid finds herself smiling. Had Wednesday purchased a stylus solely to take her notes on BDSM in real time? Is a stylus even capable of producing the sharp, elegant script Wednesday’s left for her to stumble across?
Wednesday’s handwriting is one swirl short of true calligraphy, the sort of longhand that inspires involuntary mental images of writing quills and ravens squawking from the windowsill about someone’s dead girlfriend. Enid’s no expert on Victorian literature, but she’s pretty sure that’s how the famous poem goes. At any rate, she wouldn’t put it past Wednesday to have somehow acquired a tablet-compatible feather or something similar just for the drama of it all.
The idea of Wednesday dressed in a Victorian ball gown complete with stays and stockings is compelling, but Enid’s curiosity soon takes over, and she settles in to read. The notes are all but indecipherable at first; though Wednesday’s penmanship is impeccable, what she’s written doesn’t make any sense. It might as well be recorded using Japanese characters for how well Enid comprehends it.
The rightmost column begins with a bullet point list headed by three sections, neatly titled ‘Sting’, ‘Slap’, and ‘Thud’, with seemingly random words sorted into each. Sting includes hand, taws, and whip, while slap boasts paddle and flogger. Thud has only one word: crop, which provokes a dizzying vision of Wednesday plodding through a cornfield in black overalls and nothing else. It shouldn’t be so hot to imagine her in an outfit that admittedly wouldn’t look out of place paired with a mask and bloodied chainsaw. Enid’s still parsing over that as she scrolls back to the top of the page and picks a place to begin.
The entire first page of text appears to be a basic recap of consent, which she idly reads through, but the second dives into a technical description of the very words Wednesday had so purposefully sorted in her notes. Enid learns that a ‘taws’ refers to a leather tool with multiple tongues—whatever that means—originating from Scotland, historically utilized for corporal punishment on misbehaving school children…hold on.
Enid glances back at the notes, confirms the taws’ inclusion under the ‘Slap’ section, then scrolls a second time to the top of her PDF. There’s no author or introductory note. In fact, the whole document seems to have started without rhyme or reason mid-sentence. Nothing Wednesday ever does could be considered typical, but this situation is proving more and more baffling the longer it lasts. Enid doesn’t understand what she’s supposed to be looking at.
Then she realizes the document title, which she had so thoughtlessly glossed over, is An Introduction to Impact Play.
Enid scrolls until she finds the paragraph dedicated to ‘hand’, her eyes growing wider and wider as she learns the hand is a common choice for beginners due to familiarity and the sense of intimacy, both essential aspects of any scene’s foundation.
Finally, much too late, Enid understands she is holding what ultimately amounts to a treatise on spanking a submissive’s ass, helped along by unrepentant notations in Wednesday’s beautiful handwriting. This document is dedicated to precisely the sort of act that Enid had received as punishment after getting caught trespassing in Wednesday’s bed.
And now Enid is expected to relay her willingness to go back over Wednesday’s knee a second time.
Noticing that her face has become uncomfortably hot, Enid backs out of Impact Play and randomly selects another PDF. Unfortunately, that call proves to be a massive error in judgment because the next document does have pictures, and they show a faceless submissive positioned to display the striking red ropes binding her wrists behind her back. Enid abandons that, too, figuring she can circle back around to Shibari once she’s gotten the clawing heat in her stomach under control, but her efforts are futile. Edging describes the torturous process of bringing a submissive to the edge of orgasm and denying them relief over and over again with a stark accuracy that drags Enid right back to the room that had smelled of wax and slick and suffering. Though her runes have long since been washed away, Enid almost imagines she can still feel their heat.
Sensory Deprivation has her struggling to swallow, willing herself not to envision how it would feel to be blindfolded and left at Wednesday's mercy. She's never considered being so vulnerable with a partner, but the thought of it doesn't make Enid quake with fear. The crux of the matter is if she can trust Wednesday to have her through falling into and returning from subspace, everything else might as well just be the cream cheese icing on top. The red velvet foundation is already there.
Of course, Wednesday wouldn’t go for the sound-canceling headphones the PDF recommends—not when she can instead play a recording of the same melody that her fingers once played on Enid’s feverish skin. It would feel like floating to have her eyes and ears taken away, Enid knows. She would be weightless, lost in the dark and Wednesday's song, endlessly waiting for salvation. For some reason, Enid’s chest begins to feel tight exactly like it does right before she starts crying, so she clicks out of that too.
Food Play opens with an image of vanilla ice cream melting over someone’s breasts and stomach, eradicating whatever emotion was crawling up Enid’s throat and replacing it with a seeping heat that curls in her stomach. Enid is a submissive wolf; she’s biologically designed and driven to be bred, to bear young, and the visualization of melting ice cream hits a little too close to home. Wednesday’s only note on the picture in question is Experiment with flavors; artificial vanilla? Test effectiveness.
Though Enid deserts that PDF, desperate not to think too deeply on the subject of breeding or Wednesday’s particular interest in the taste of vanilla, she can tell the damage is done. Her slick is soaking through her underwear and shorts into the bedspread beneath her, sticking uncomfortably to her legs. Without realizing it, she’d started squeezing her thighs together, feet sliding against the bedspread with a rustle that sounds like cannon fire in the silence of their room. Her cheeks are burning as she risks a glance in Wednesday’s direction.
Almost uncannily, Wednesday raises her head to look at her, but Enid tears her eyes away and pretends to be engrossed in the tablet before she can be noticed outright. In her panic, she opens another document—this one titled Gagging—which greets her with a picture of a muzzle fastened over a kneeling submissive’s mouth.
Enid must make some noise, some desperate little whine that escapes her before she can regain control over herself because Wednesday, as if on cue, promptly stands up from her desk.
***
Contrary to popular belief, Wednesday isn’t one to dive headfirst into battle without a viable strategy. She’s a spectacular Go player for that very reason; in a game of emotional endurance, of building her strongholds while laying the kindling intended to raze her opponents' houses ten turns before the first match is struck, Wednesday is in her element. She enjoys the turmoil of a drawn-out conflict. She hungers for a round that forces her to get creative.
The moment Enid had confirmed she had little to no experience with BDSM, Wednesday started plotting.
Every stroke of her stylus became a shift of her weight in the ring, each carefully-selected excerpt the final inhale before her strike. She had mere hours to formulate and execute her chosen strategy, so classes were pushed to the wayside in favor of indexing the tablet Lurch had so helpfully delivered to Vermont. Why she needed him to fly the family jet to Nevermore without warning at noon on a school day to deliver a package, Wednesday doesn’t feel inclined to share with her parents. This undertaking is hers alone.
Enid puts up a decent fight, but Wednesday can tell that she’s deteriorating. It starts with her breath, audibly hitching with each foray into what Wednesday assumes must be a new document and graduates to a slight tremble in her fingers where she grips the tablet. Wednesday had chosen the order of the PDFs with care, but either Enid goes off script or she’s more enthusiastic than anticipated because, even though by Wednesday’s calculations, she should only be halfway through Impact Play, the room starts to sweeten with the smell of her slick.
Wednesday works to control her expression, to maintain the guise that she is busy reading a blank notebook so as to not alert Enid. Her mouth waters as she sits silently, biding her time. When Enid’s toes are curling, when she’s pressing a hand between her legs to relieve the ache, Wednesday will go to her. Not a moment before. Not until her Puppy has called for her to come take responsibility for what she’s done.
Wednesday had prepared this in hopes Enid might take enough interest in BDSM to one day explore a new dynamic, but the longer she waits, the less she cares about planting the seed. While Wednesday will always want to be the source of Enid’s relief, it is impossible to stick to strategy when the memory of Enid’s sweet slick lies thick on her tongue. If Wednesday must abandon her own strongholds, light her own matches, and torch all of her carefully-laid plans, she will do so.
In truth, she will pay any price to have Enid spread open before her again.
***
No matter how low Enid hangs her head, curling into herself as she stares unseeing at the screen, she’s painfully aware of each and every creak in the floorboards that Wednesday’s feet make as she crosses the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Enid sees Wednesday’s socks come to a halt next to the bed. A hand enters her field of vision, palm up and waiting, and Enid meekly surrenders the tablet to it without being asked.
“Now,” Wednesday says, and the sound of her voice licks up Enid’s spine. “What did you learn?”
Notes:
yall should've seen me trying to narrow down my big bad list of kinks to the few displayed here there's just so MANY wednesday could conceivably want to try with enid that it was an impossible task
Chapter 57: Peripeteia
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid was never what anyone would consider a talented student.
She can study well enough with the proper incentives, but her parents never cared much for how she performed in school. To them, Nevermore was just a reasonably safe place to put Enid until they secured the right mate and decided it was time to drag her back to San Francisco. She’s never had the perfect grade point average that Wednesday judiciously maintains or the impressive research projects Yoko and her ilk spend years dissecting. Enid is an average student with average grades.
It occurs to Enid that if she’d had the incentive of Wednesday standing over her bed with a pointed expression to motivate her, she might have done a lot better in her classes.
Words tumbling over themselves, Enid quickly says, “I read Impact Play, Shibari, Food Play, Edging, and, um—”
“Gagging,” Wednesday answers for her. “And Sensory Deprivation.”
Enid nods, ducking her head.
“Hm. Well, I suppose you’re about a third of the way through,” Wednesday muses. “But seeing as you’re incapable of reading the full text without becoming,” her eyes flick down to Enid’s lap, “distracted, I’ll have to reassess the curriculum. We can resume your study tomorrow,” she decides.
Wednesday turns as if to make for her side of the room, ignoring how Enid’s mouth drops open in outrage.
“That’s it?” Enid blurts, voicing raising with indignation.
Her ass is stuck to the bedspread and Wednesday’s just going to leave her in this state? Untouched and unsatisfied? It’s practically inhumane. Even a dog would be treated with more compassion than this. Enid wracks her brain, but she doesn’t recall a treatise on sadism in the list—though, after giving it some thought, perhaps a document on what ultimately amounts to a personality trait is unneeded. Anyone who’s met Wednesday in person knows it's in her genetic makeup.
Wednesday halts. “Do you need something, Puppy?”
Her voice says she knows exactly what Enid needs, but that she will insist upon verbal confirmation before offering it. Sadism, indeed.
“I thought you’d make me come,” Enid mumbles, cheeks burning.
Wednesday pivots to face her. “If you want to come, you may,” she replies, taking a seat on the edge of Enid’s bed and laying the tablet to the side. “Go on. Show me.”
Enid wonders if she heard incorrectly. “Excuse me?”
Wednesday clasps her hands neatly in her lap. She looks as though she could be attending a mildly interesting academic lecture. “I said, if you want to come, you have my permission. Feel free to begin at any time.”
Enid’s face might as well be on fire. Her fingers twitch with the urge to snatch the tablet back and thumb through the documents like a lunatic, because while she thinks she could have conceivably passed over Sadism, there is no way in hell she missed Humiliation.
“You want to watch me come?” she asks, and instead of outraged, she sounds breathless. “I can come?”
Wednesday tilts her head, eyes sliding down to where Enid’s squeezing her thighs together. “I suspect you would do so with or without my permission, and wouldn’t you prefer to be my good girl?” she replies.
Enid dazedly nods. “Yes," she whispers.
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth curls up. “Yes, you are, aren’t you? Such a good girl for me, Enid.”
They might as well be inhaling her slick, so saturated is the air with the smell of sugary vanilla.
“To answer your first question,” Wednesday continues, unruffled as ever, even as she shifts onto her knees in order to face Enid fully. “I do want to watch you come. I’ve been robbed of the opportunity to see your face too many times for my comfort.”
The fact that she can say these things without the assistance of runes makes the situation all the more precarious for Enid. She’s barely recognizable compared to the girl who had refused to leave during Enid’s heat, claiming a ‘scientific interest’ in witnessing the proceedings. This Wednesday doesn’t make such excuses. Wednesday post-confession is a whole different beast.
“What kink would this be?” Enid asks, her voice coming out too high. Her thumbs slip beneath the waistband of her shorts, and when Wednesday doesn’t protest, she begins to ease them down to her ankles. She kicks them off with some finesse, though at the wet plop her shorts make hitting the floor, Enid’s face flushes red all over again.
Her underwear, a boring pink cotton normally reserved for her pre-heat, visibly clings to her. Wednesday appears incapable of removing her gaze from between Enid’s knees.
Enid is startled when Wednesday unexpectedly answers, "This would be considered voyeurism."
Enid blanches. "Like, a peeping tom?" she says without thinking.
She can tell by the pinched look on Wednesday’s face that it was the wrong question to ask.
"No," Wednesday retorts, "Kink without consent is not kink, it's assault. Enid, I am only interested in watching you perform with your full and unbridled enthusiasm. If you don't desire an audience, we can cross voyeurism off our list of potential mutual kinks. Does that sound good?"
"No! Not good!" Enid blusters, scrambling to course-correct even as her legs tremble at the use of the word perform. "I didn't mean we should go scorched earth and blast it off the map! I just didn't….I don't know, I've never heard that word used positively,” she huffs.
Wednesday releases a deep breath. “I see. Please forgive my untoward response. I’ll endeavor not to react defensively over genuine questions,” she replies with an irritated little frown only donned on the rare occasion when Wednesday is disappointed in herself.
“No, it’s—that was rude of me,” Enid admits. “I of all people should know better than to talk shit about this kind of thing. I mean, who was the one legitimately crying cause you wouldn't bite me?" she points out with a nervous little laugh. "So…yeah. I never want to hurt your feelings, Wednesday. I'm sorry if I did."
"You didn't," Wednesday informs her, and Enid can tell it is the truth.
"Still," Enid maintains. "I know this is really, really important to you, and I want you to keep being honest with me, so I’ll try to…to be better.”
Wednesday’s face softens. She reaches out and lays her hand on Enid’s knee, ignorant of how Enid’s leg prickles with goosebumps wherever Wednesday’s sharp nails make contact with her skin.
“You do not need to be better,” Wednesday tells her. “In fact, I would prefer you not to adjust your behavior at all. I wish to know your genuine reaction to these topics, Enid. A kink is merely an interest of mine. You are my priority.”
Enid shudders under her touch, fidgeting as Wednesday raises a pointed eyebrow in her direction.
“Would you like to know something, Enid?”
Enid nods. When Wednesday remains silent and waiting, unmoved by the sheen in her eyes, Enid manages an unsteady, “Yes.”
“You react so viscerally to my praise,” Wednesday murmurs, raising up onto her knees to lean closer. Her nails dig into Enid’s skin. “I can’t help but think you would identify with having a praise kink.”
Enid struggles not to whine. “I don’t know what that—doesn’t everyone?” she asks a bit desperately, tipping her head back as Wednesday looms over her. Enid must have slid downwards at some point in their conversation, as she’s lying nearly flat on her back.
Wednesday’s mouth pulls up into that awful smirk that says she’s enjoying herself. “No. I have no particular desire for you to praise me. I’d just as soon relish in your praise as in your tears.”
Enid sucks in a shocked breath, not altogether put off by the idea as she whispers, “Thought you didn’t like to see me cry.”
Wednesday looks nonplussed. “Wherever did you get that idea, Puppy?” After noting the way Enid’s lips part, she adds, “Of course, I would end the bloodline of anyone who harmed you, emotionally or elsewise. But your tears?” Her hand hovers over Enid’s cheek, pulling away when Enid strains upward in an effort to make contact. “Your tears are mine. I gratefully receive them.”
Enid breaks down and whines, chest heaving in the wake of such an admission, as Wednesday draws back and sits on her heels once more. How dare she look so composed when Enid’s one wrong word away from ruining yet another school-issued mattress?
“What kink would that be?” Enid tries, desperate not to lose her attention.
Wednesday hums under her breath. “Technically, it’s called dacryphilia, but I don’t consider it one of my kinks as I don’t take pleasure in seeing you emotionally distressed. My enjoyment stems from the erosion of your public face to reveal the beast within, a process often accompanied by tears,” she answers.
Enid’s brow furrows. “W-What?”
Wednesday reaches out to soothe her, rubbing her ankle. Enid quiets with her touch.
“There is a moment when you stop thinking about how you look,” Wednesday says, voice lowering. “It’s a loss of control. I crave that moment, and as you’re usually crying by then, I’ve come to associate your tears with the peripeteia I so love to witness. Does that make sense?”
Though Enid’s too embarrassed to meet her eyes, she manages to mumble, “What's peripeteia?”
“It means ‘turning point,’” Wednesday quietly responds. “It's Greek. The original definition translated to ‘sudden change,’ or, literally, ‘falling round.’”
Enid's throat feels suspiciously tight.
Wednesday squeezes her ankle. “Rather than an individual kink, I consider my appreciation for how pretty you look when you cry to be an indirect consequence of edging. I do take pleasure in controlling your relief.”
Emboldened by her touch, Enid glances up at her. “Is that what it is to you? Control?” she asks.
Wednesday holds her gaze. “I would sacrifice all else before your trust. Edging is you trusting me to know when you’ve had enough.”
Enid takes a deep, centering breath, then nods. “Okay. I get it.”
Wednesday hums again. “Good. I am pleased we could—”
“—so you should be able to understand that I don’t want to decide for myself when I’m ready to come,” Enid says, barreling forward while her courage remains. “I want you to decide, Wednesday. Want…want you to tell me when I deserve it,” she admits, mouth dry.
Wednesday looks genuinely caught off guard for the first time since the conversation began. She remains silent for long enough that Enid starts to doubt herself, regret beginning to prickle in her fingers and toes when suddenly, her voice rings out,
“Take off your underwear, Enid.”
Enid hurries to obey, her panties quickly joining her shorts on the floor.
Wednesday retracts her hand from Enid’s ankle, ignoring the resulting sound of protest in the back of Enid’s throat. “Good girl. Now spread yourself.”
Enid's whine cuts off so fast, she might as well have been punched in the neck.
Notes:
wednesday: say less
Chapter 58: Doll
Notes:
kink warnings: exhibitionism i suppose? and voyeurism, but neither occur in a public setting. honestly lost as to how to tag this, kinky readers please advise.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Spread?" Enid repeats, her voice climbing at least two octaves. "Spread what?"
Wednesday does not falter in expression or countenance. "You heard me. Must I repeat myself?"
Enid shakes her head. Under Wednesday's watchful eye, she parts her knees and instantly cringes at the result. The sodden dark spot beneath her spreads until she's sitting in a puddle of her own slick.
Though it takes her five times as long as it should to plant her feet at a further distance than shoulder-width apart, Wednesday doesn't seem inclined to rush. She does not offer so much as a helpful hand on the knee or word of encouragement. Clearly, she's content to watch Enid struggle with bright eyes and obvious amusement in the set of her mouth.
"Good?" Enid whispers when she's unable to take the silence any longer.
Wednesday's attention remains firmly below the waistline. "Look at the mess you've made," she quietly responds.
Enid's radiating enough heat off her cheeks to roast marshmallows. Though she's been living with a body that regularly produces slick for years, it's somehow made all the worse when Wednesday points it out.
"Sorry," she mumbles, unsure of what to say.
Wednesday sends her a sharp look. "Sorry? What are you apologizing for, Puppy?"
Enid bites her lip, but eventually manages, "Made a mess, Wednesday."
Wednesday hums in agreement. "You're one messy pet, Enid. Every place we call home for the rest of our lives will undoubtedly reek of vanilla once you're through with it."
She sounds as though she relishes the thought. Enid's skin prickles under her gaze.
"Sorry you have to live in these conditions," Enid mutters.
"On the contrary," Wednesday replies in a voice altogether too wicked to be teasing, "It is a privilege. Where are your hands, Puppy?"
Enid snatches her hands away from her stomach, though she hadn't been doing anything with them besides fidgeting. Her arms hover awkwardly in the air as she responds, "Uh, up?"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Where should they be?"
After a moment of confusion, Enid slaps her hands down on the bedspread. "Not up," she answers.
Wednesday's next exhale is just a hair off a sigh. "What did I ask you to do, Enid?"
Enid's face flushes again. "To spread myself," she mumbles.
Wednesday stares at her like she's missing something very obvious.
"O-Oh," Enid squeaks. "You want me to—with my fingers?"
Wednesday's mouth pulls up into a smile that is not at all sympathetic.
Enid pats the bedspread twice before finding the inner constitution to bite the bullet and do as told. Her eyes squeeze shut as she reaches down between her thighs, unable to bear meeting Wednesday’s gaze as she spreads herself open with unsteady fingers. The sudden rush of cool air where previously there was none might as well be the room laughing at poor, soaked Enid. Look how wet she is for no real reason at all. It’s pathetic.
"What are you thinking?"
Enid opens her eyes with a gasp, lost as to why she's shaking when Wednesday hasn't even touched her yet. "That I look stupid," she blurts with the peculiar brand of unmitigated honesty only possible while drunk with arousal.
Wednesday looks nonplussed. "Is that…supposed to be funny?" she asks.
Enid can feel her eyes going wide. “...No?”
Wednesday unfurls with an innate grace that has Enid sliding an inch further down the bed. Wednesday’s nails gleam in the light of Enid’s bedside lamp as she nears, looking for all the world like she’s headed straight for Enid’s throat—then unexpectedly drops onto her elbows. Enid’s brain requires an extra moment to compute why she’s now staring at the crown of Wednesday’s head instead of her face, but the rest of Enid has become a seasoned hand at taking what Wednesday deigns to give her and adjusts accordingly. Her thighs automatically flex further apart to give Wednesday's shoulders more room, her hips jerking up with an incomplete motion like she’s anxious to close the distance between her pussy and Wednesday’s mouth but unwilling to voice it aloud.
Wednesday’s hand clamps down on Enid’s hip, pinning her in place.
At first, Enid squirms with anticipation. Wednesday’s going to fuck her, she thinks. Wednesday is going to bury her face between her thighs and feast like swallowing Enid's slick is her most important need on Maslow’s hierarchy.
Then Wednesday, lips still positioned a whole six unforgivable inches away from Enid’s pussy, begins to speak.
"Look at you," she murmurs. "My God, Enid. You have the prettiest cunt I've ever seen."
Enid, who’d been winding up with an arsenal of complaints over Wednesday's decision to start chatting when she’s actively destroying the linens, loses her breath. "You think I'm pretty?" she asks instead.
"I think you’re splendid," Wednesday corrects her, resting her chin on her free hand. Her thumb traces the shape of Enid’s hip. "Your little cunt looks lovely drenched in your slick."
"Wednesday," Enid squeaks. "Oh my God."
Wednesday finally glances up at her. “You have something to say? Go on. Say it.”
Enid shakes her head, wishing her hands weren’t otherwise occupied so that she could put them to better use hiding her face.
“That’s what I thought,” Wednesday mutters, attention returning to its original station. “Hm. Would you ever consider painting your nails a color I chose for you?”
Enid’s teeth nearly cut into her lip. “What color?” she ventures, though her stomach drops like she’s about to suffer a freefall or a sudden loss of gravity.
Wednesday rolls her eyes up to meet her gaze. “Pink, of course. We’d have to color-match to find the correct shade, but it shouldn’t prove much of a challenge.”
“Sorry, color-match what?” chokes Enid.
“I wouldn’t presume to tell an artist what to paint,” Wednesday continues, ignoring her, “but there’s something so pleasing about complementary accents. You make such a vision already, Puppy. I shudder to think of how you’d look with matching nails and stockings.”
Enid stares at her with an open mouth.
“Are you not interested in wearing lingerie for me?” Wednesday asks. “Pity. What a pleasure it would have been to dress my pet in laces and silks,” she speaks a bit wistfully.
“That’s—Wednesday,” Enid weakly says. “Wednesday, please. Don’t do this.”
Wednesday’s eyes snap up, her guise of nonchalance falling away. “Do what?”
Enid grits her teeth but manages to force out, “I get it, okay? I don’t need the practical demonstration,” she huffs. “You made your point. This is edging, I know.”
Wednesday looks at her with an expression that can only be described as fond. “No, Puppy. This technically falls within the realm of exhibitionism—and perhaps voyeurism at most. Edging would be if I gave your sweet little cunt the attention it deserves.”
Enid whines out loud, releasing her hold on her pussy as she reaches out for Wednesday, but Wednesday barks, “Hands,” and Enid’s fingers shoot right back down into position.
“Good girl,” Wednesday says. “Does it hurt?”
Enid frantically shakes her head.
“You can let go of yourself.”
Still, Enid doesn’t move.
Wednesday’s lip quirks up with genuine approval. “You may let go of yourself, Enid. You have my permission,” she amends.
Enid hesitates another second before complying. She feels weird, aching and tight without the slight pressure of holding herself open to anchor her. She curls her wet hands into fists at her sides, unsure what to do with herself.
“Take off your shirt,” Wednesday orders, neatly removing the choice for her.
Enid gratefully obeys. As soon as her shirt has been abandoned off to the side, leaving Enid entirely bare, Wednesday lays her palm out exactly as she had whilst reclaiming the tablet. After a moment of confusion, Enid cautiously places her hand in Wednesday’s.
Enid supposes she shouldn’t be shocked. She knew what was coming as soon Wednesday yanked Enid’s hand up to her mouth, but still—nothing could have fully prepared Enid for the moment when Wednesday’s tongue curls around her slick-soaked fingers. Wednesday hums as she licks the sugary mess from her skin, eyes half-lidded and glazed in a manner that is frankly irreconcilable with the apathetic mask she usually adopts in the presence of others.
Enid intimately understands what her slick tastes like and can recall its maddening sweetness in perfect detail, but the look on Wednesday’s face still has her wondering if she’s been missing something all these years.
Wednesday glances up at her through her lashes before she releases Enid’s fingers with the kind of lewd sound capable of sending a person into a full-blown spiritual crisis. She smirks as she drags Enid’s sopping hand down her bare chest, smearing spit over Enid’s breasts and stomach, a puppeteer intent on getting the utmost out of her shiny toy. It's cruel of Wednesday to remain dressed in her school uniform when Enid has nothing besides her undeniable audacity for armor, but some part of Enid relishes the inequity. She likes how Wednesday’s looking at her. She likes that Wednesday’s playing with her like a favorite doll.
Still, Enid doesn’t grasp what Wednesday has in mind until she feels her own hand being guided to her pussy. Wednesday, controlling grip tight around Enid’s wrist, ignores how she startles at the unexpected contact.
“Does this kitty still have claws?” Wednesday asks, voice light and mocking.
Enid makes a noise of disbelief.
This is your final warning, Wednesday had said to her, stalking towards her side of the room with enough intent to have Enid panicking and throwing out the first defensive maneuver she could think of to hold the line.
Don’t mess with me, Enid had blurted, thrusting out her hands in some half-cocked effort at intimidation. This kitty’s got claws and I’m not afraid to use them.
Enid’s pretty sure she blocked that entire conversation from memory out of sheer embarrassment. The first semester they roomed together was a treacherous time.
“You remember that?" she croaks. "That was—Wednesday, that was years ago—”
“I remember everything you say," Wednesday states. "Answer me, Enid."
Enid swallows hard. "No," she whispers. "I don't—won't hurt you, Wednesday. I can control it outside of heat. Promise my claws won't hurt you.”
Wednesday hums. "It isn’t me I'm concerned about, but I appreciate the sentiment. What's your safeword, Enid?"
Enid takes a deep breath, urging herself to respond with coherent words like a functioning human being. "Bean."
"And mine?"
"Hatchet," Enid answers, voice cracking.
Wednesday gives a firm nod. "Good girl, Puppy. Tell me if it hurts."
Her middle finger slides down to mirror Enid's, palm cupping the back of Enid's hand as she guides Enid's finger inside of herself. Warmth spreads through Enid's veins, a throbbing, aching mess that starts and ends where Enid fingers herself under Wednesday's direction.
Enid quickly adjusts to the intrusion, her toes curling against the bedspread as she does her damnedest to behave. To Wednesday's credit, she seems to sense the moment Enid is unsatisfied because she urges another of Enid's fingers to join the first in stuffing her full. Meanwhile, Wednesday's hand remains tight around her wrist, painstakingly controlling the depth and speed that Enid fucks herself.
When Enid's clenching around her fingers and wondering how soon is too soon to ask for permission to come, Wednesday tugs her hand away. Enid's hips buck uselessly against air, chasing the loss of what had been filling her so well.
"Come here, Kitty," Wednesday orders, positioning Enid's hand over her face. Enid squints up at her dripping fingers. "Suck."
Enid does so eagerly, desperate to please even as she laps up her own slick like a salivating dog. It would be humiliating if not for the look on Wednesday's face.
"Look how good you are," Wednesday breathes. "That's my good girl. Pretty, sloppy Puppy. Cleaning up your mess so well."
Enid moans around her own fingers, teeth catching on her nails as they too are taken away from her. She whines for as long as it takes Wednesday to push Enid's greedy fingers back inside of herself, and then Enid's too busy trying to come to care about much of anything at all.
"You look lovely like this," Wednesday murmurs. "So sweet and pink. Almost as pretty as you look stretched around my fingers."
"Wednesday," Enid begs, back arching as she tries and fails to shove her fingers deeper despite Wednesday's iron hold on her wrist. "Please, need to come.”
Wednesday glances across the room at the door. "Lower your voice," she replies, warning clear in her tone.
"I need to come!" Enid insists, kicking out at nothing with all the righteousness of a tantrum-throwing child.
Though Wednesday isn't struck by her flailing knees and feet, Enid can tell from the expression on her face that she has most certainly fucked up.
Wednesday’s voice is unyielding. "Where is your tie?"
Enid whimpers and clenches around the fingers still stuffed inside of her. "C-Closet," she manages. A second later, "No, it's—hamper. I don't—don't remember—"
"That's fine," Wednesday answers, releasing her wrist. Enid's arm drops limply against her lower stomach, no longer daring to move her fingers one way or the other as Wednesday reaches up to loosen the tie around her neck. "We'll use mine."
Notes:
deleted scene:
“Please,” she whispers at the floor. “Please, Wednesday.”
Wednesday exhales, her breath washing over her. “You’re one messy bitch, Enid.”
the amount of content i behead from each chapter before my beta gets ahold of it is outrageous. i keep a document we lovingly refer to as the graveyard for all the excerpts that didn't make it home from war
Chapter 59: Tie
Chapter Text
For all the shit that she gave Wednesday for liking the idea of watching Enid touch herself, Enid sure has an indisputable kink for Wednesday's hands. Wednesday could be typing homework or folding laundry and Enid would happily watch her, enthralled. Her hands are so beautiful, delicate like a dancer's with the calluses of a manual laborer, sharp nails somehow remaining perfect and pristine though Enid has never once seen her at the sole nail salon in town. At this point, Enid isn't sure if she could handle being in the same room as Wednesday while she's playing her cello without leaking through her shorts. It would certainly be a challenge.
Not as much of a challenge as keeping her cool while Wednesday unravels her tie, but difficult nonetheless.
"What are you going to do with that?" Enid asks, voice hushed like she's sharing a secret.
Wednesday's lips pull up into that terrible half-smirk, expression clearly communicating too little, too late. "Ensuring we don’t end up on the streets. It wouldn’t do to be kicked out of the dorm a mere two weeks before graduation. Imagine the headache buying a house in this town would cause.”
Enid's mouth drops open to protest because she is most definitely not going to be loud enough to get them thrown out of the building, finals week be damned. So what if this technically falls within quiet hours? The other students will survive a few muffled whimpers.
Before she can manage a single word, Wednesday loops her tie around her hand with practiced motions and Enid forgets what she was complaining about in the first place. In a moment of sudden clarity, it makes complete sense to Enid why Wednesday had such enthusiasm for the idea of paint-to-sample manicures. Though the idea of color-matching her nail polish to her pussy makes Enid want to hide under a rock in the deepest part of the nearest creek, she cannot deny that Wednesday makes a striking picture holding black silk with nails painted to match.
"I can be quiet," Enid pleads in a whisper, words slurring into a whine as Wednesday leans over her. "I'll be good, Wednesday."
"I know you will,” Wednesday agrees. “Listen well, Enid. I need you to hear what I’m saying.”
“I’m listening,” Enid whispers back, then blushes. “Sorry.”
Wednesday’s lips twitch with amusement. “Have you ever been gagged before?”
“Not, um—” Enid bites her lip, painfully aware of how the motion draws Wednesday’s eyes. “Not by someone else.”
Wednesday’s face flickers with emotion so fast, Enid can’t read her reaction. “You gag yourself?”
“I bite pillows to be quiet during my heat,” Enid admits, finding it impossible to duck her head and escape Wednesday’s gaze while lying on her back. “I like to bite,” she quietly adds.
Wednesday’s eyes become lidded, her fingers tightening around the silk in her hands to the point of endangering the structural integrity of her poor tie. “I’m aware.”
They’ve always shared a strange sort of innate telepathy; usually, it only extends as far as having an uncanny ability to locate each other in a crowd. Yet in this moment, bare-assed on her bed with Wednesday looming over her and her dignity as thoroughly abandoned as a middle child left alone in a grocery store, Enid feels as though she might as well be having an honest-to-God psychic vision, so clearly does she see the immediate future unfolding.
Enid is of the opinion that while terrible things happen in life to people who don’t deserve it, the consequences of her own actions are often exactly what she deserves. She could always choose to behave, of course—no one’s forcing her to keep pushing and pushing until she finds a boundary Wednesday won’t let her cross. She doesn’t have to push, yet here she is, faced with a choice, and what she wants most is for Wednesday to deliver the hell that will come down upon her if Enid follows through with her plan. Wednesday has seen too much. There’s no way on earth she doesn’t know what cliff Enid’s currently toeing the edge of.
Sensing her opportunity, Enid readies to jump.
She bites down on her lower lip again, this time hard enough that blood wells up beneath her canines just as Wednesday intercepts her in a punishing kiss.
“I told you not to hurt yourself,” Wednesday hisses, grabbing her chin with an unyielding grip. “You little brat. Always making a mess, aren’t you?”
Enid wonders if her teeth are bloody as her lips split into a smug smile. Wednesday’s eyes widen, and then she’s kissing Enid again, tongue slipping into her mouth, ignoring how Enid’s hands struggle to find purchase against her button-down as she licks and sucks and takes.
"Such a picture of obedience, my pet. Always content to follow orders," Wednesday sarcastically mutters between the kisses she leaves on Enid’s neck.
"Need to bite," Enid pleads in a high voice that even she’s aware is far too loud for these circumstances. They live in a dorm room, not a castle; it’s a wonder the neighbors haven’t already come knocking to complain.
Wednesday drags herself away, licking her lips as she goes. For a moment, she remains still, head lowered as she takes a deep, centering breath. Then her eyes reopen, her resolve solidifies, and Enid makes her peace with whatever punishment Wednesday deems appropriate to give her.
“Safewording works differently when gagging is involved,” Wednesday launches into her spiel, eyes locked on Enid’s. “Since you obviously cannot speak, you’ll have to use hand signals to communicate to me that you want to stop the scene.”
Enid tries not to look as though she’s contemplating risking it all. “Makes sense,” she rasps, taking a deep breath of her own.
Wednesday’s attention slides down to Enid’s bare chest and then, with what looks like some effort, returns to her face. “You’ll snap twice in place of giving your safeword. Understood?”
Enid wordlessly nods.
“Say it,” Wednesday insists. “Repeat it back to me.”
“Snap twice in place of giving your safeword,” Enid parrots. After a moment of reflection, she amends, “My safeword. Snap twice in place of giving my safeword.”
Wednesday gives a firm nod. “Now snap. Both hands.”
Enid feels a little like an idiot and a lot like a beloved dog performing a trick as she raises her shaking hands and manages at least one passable snap with each. Wednesday’s resulting look of approval has heat pooling in Enid’s stomach.
“Good girl,” Wednesday quietly says. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Enid huffs, breath coming fast as she struggles to remain unmoving. Is Wednesday going to shove her tie inside of her mouth, make Enid tear up and choke as she gets filled up that way too? “Two snaps instead of safeword, two snaps instead of—instead of—”
Enid falls silent, staring at the taut tie held aloft in Wednesday’s hands.
“What do you want me to do with that?” Enid asks plainly when it becomes clear that Wednesday isn’t moving to shove anything inside of any hole, period.
Wednesday’s face remains neutral. “Open up,” she responds.
Feeling a bit disappointed by the lack of stuffing, Enid dutifully parts her lips. This is starting to feel like a very explicit dentist-patient roleplay that wouldn’t have been out of place in one of Wednesday’s PDFs. Just to ham it up and commit to her assigned role with authenticity, Enid sticks out her tongue as she opens wide with an exaggerated ah.
Wednesday positions the tie so that it lies flush with Enid’s lower teeth. “Bite down.”
Enid bites, her canines tearing through the silk as she holds the tie in her mouth like a dog carrying their own leash.
“Do not let go until I say so,” Wednesday tells her. “I expect it to remain in your mouth no matter what. Nod to show you understand.”
Enid’s nod comes a beat too late. It’s all fun and games until Wednesday makes it her responsibility not to lose her grip on the tie, she thinks a bit petulantly. She honestly would have preferred just getting her mouth stuffed full to shut her up and be done with it. Now, it’ll be taken out on her ass when she fails.
And fail she most certainly will, considering Wednesday chooses that moment to slide her hand between Enid’s legs. Her pretty fingers press their way through Enid’s slick, heedless of how it soaks the cuff of her shirtsleeve. As soon as Wednesday’s inside her, Enid’s arching her back, hips kicking up in an effort to draw her deeper. Wednesday raises an eyebrow when Enid doesn’t cut off her whimpering fast enough.
“Are you my good girl, Enid?” Wednesday asks her, fingers curling up until Enid’s nearly levitating off the bed, so eagerly does she raise her hips.
Unwilling to risk sounding like an idiot or inadvertently being too loud, again, Enid nods without speaking.
Wednesday does not come to her rescue. “Use your words.”
Enid groans around the tie, managing a half-coherent, “Pe-eas?”
“Was that supposed to be ‘please’?” Wednesday asks in the tone that makes Bianca Barclay see red and makes Enid wish she could spend forever on her knees. “Hm. I admire your effort.”
Enid would normally stick out her tongue, but as it stands, keeping Wednesday’s tie in her mouth ranks much higher on her list of priorities than being a brat. She remains quiet.
Wednesday reaches up with her free hand to catch a tear Enid hadn’t known was dripping down her cheek. Enid gratefully leans into her touch.
“You look so pretty with your mouth full,” Wednesday hums. “Do you want to come, good girl? I can tell you’re going to. If you want to come, Enid, go right ahead. Show me.”
Enid nods, eyes squeezing shut as she grips the bedspread with both hands. Wednesday was right—she’s going to come. She can feel it already, skating up her fingers and toes like the biting half-second burn of a sparkler held too close to the skin. It distantly occurs to Enid that she’s going to ruin another mattress, but she would genuinely rather perish than suggest they stop now. All that matters is keeping her tie in her mouth where it belongs and managing to come around Wednesday’s fingers.
It takes Wednesday’s hand on her chin for Enid to risk opening her eyes and blearily look up.
"Look at me," Wednesday breathes, "When I'm fucking you."
And that’s enough to end her. Enid keens high and loud in her throat, wondering if this is what it feels like to physically split apart, as between blinks, Wednesday’s shirt inexplicably becomes dark and wet. In the minutes it takes for Enid to find her way back to higher brain function, she realizes with a burgeoning sense of horror what must have occurred to have Wednesday in such a ruined state.
Wednesday’s shirt is plastered to her arm and stomach, but only her arm and stomach—only the parts of her that had been positioned closest to Enid’s body when she came. She looks like she just stumbled out of a crime scene. Hell, if that had been residual blood splatter all over her instead of come, Wednesday’s entire outfit would be taken as evidence. Enid didn’t even know she was capable of creating such a mess.
If it weren’t for the fact that Wednesday’s currently licking clean the hand she’d used to bring Enid to orgasm, Enid probably would have dissolved into a sopping puddle of tears.
Wednesday opens her mouth to speak, her fingers now occupied with popping open the buttons of her shirt one by one—which demands the overwhelming majority of Enid’s attention—but before she can compose a single word of promise or damnation, there’s a knock from outside the room.
Wednesday shoots a glare at the door that would have made Enid piss herself had it been aimed in her direction.
“We’re not accepting guests during quiet hours,” Wednesday snaps, voice sharp enough to have Enid instinctively flinching. Wednesday’s attention immediately returns to her, and she smoothes her hands over Enid’s shoulders in silent apology.
The knock comes again, louder, and Wednesday freezes. Her face flickers with something ugly and unforgiving.
“Forgive me, Puppy,” she mutters, pressing a kiss to Enid’s collarbone. With an expression promising retribution, she untangles herself from Enid’s wayward limbs and slides off the bed to the floor.
Enid curls on her side, hunkering down in the mess of blankets. She does not let go of the tie. Whoever is daring to complain about the noise will soon regret darkening their doorstep, judging by the fury in Wednesday’s shoulders as she whips the door open.
When instead of unleashing the full force of her displeasure on the poor soul waiting on the other side, Wednesday falls silent, Enid forces herself to sit up. From this angle, she can’t make out anything besides the back of Wednesday’s head. Their visitor doesn't have a strong enough scent for Enid to be able to identify them at a distance. Could a mere student garner such a reaction? It seems unlikely.
Her chest tightens with anxiety, made only worse when she hears Wednesday stiffly say, “I’m afraid I am indisposed. I will address your complaints tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” comes Lin’s voice, reaching Enid from all the way across the room despite her subdued volume. “An emissary from Shanghai has just arrived. They’re here to see you.”
Notes:
first of all how DARE they interrupt wednesday stripping, this is cruel and unusual, an extremely wicked and vile act to say the least
Chapter 60: Threat
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
For a moment, there is silence.
Then Wednesday exits into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind her with stiff shoulders and feet hitting the ground so hard, Enid's surprised she isn't shattering floorboards. Enid nearly tumbles out of bed in her hurry to find a big enough t-shirt to cover herself. Luckily, she unearths a Black Swan shirt from her nest that's reasonably clean, though she wonders whether this is more of a shroud on Wednesday than a t-shirt since it hangs as low as Enid's knees.
She has just pulled on underwear and socks when Wednesday re-enters the room.
"I apologize," Wednesday announces, beelining straight for Enid. Her hands land on Enid's shoulders, unrolling one of her rucked-up sleeves. "Are you content to remain here by yourself for a short time?"
"Of course," Enid assures her, shoulders loosening. "Sorry that they interrupted. You didn't even get to come," she frets.
Though Wednesday's face is stormy, her eyes are soft. "That doesn't matter. Are you certain you'll be alright?"
She says it like she's willing to reject the summons entirely and stay here with Enid, as if that's even a remote possibility.
"You—Wednesday, you can't just ignore a request from a dragon temple emissary or whoever that is downstairs," Enid snorts.
Wednesday's face doesn't change.
"You can't," Enid insists, a flicker of worry churning in her gut. "I mean it, Wednesday. Go deal with the scary dragon envoy. I'll be right here waiting, okay?"
Wednesday exhales on a near-soundless sigh. "You won't leave this room?"
"Not a single toe over the line," Enid confirms, mustering up her most serious expression. "Go. Then come back to me," she adds.
For the first time since the interruption, Wednesday's face smoothes out into the Addams equivalent of a smile. "Alright. I'll return as soon as possible. Will you start the bath?"
"The bath?" Enid repeats. "Sure, but why?"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "We always run you a bath," she states. "It's part of your aftercare, Enid. Aftercare is an essential aspect of any scene."
With that, Wednesday pivots for the door, pulling on an oversized sweater and slipping her feet into shoes as she goes.
"So, you're not gonna come?" Enid calls after her, huffing when the door closing is all she receives in response.
Enid frowns at her socked feet, balancing on one foot to itch the back of her calf. She's inordinately put off by the fact that Wednesday still won't let her return the favor. When will she get the chance to make Wednesday feel good? It's starting to seem like an impossible dream. Perhaps, Enid just hasn’t been approaching this creatively enough. Wednesday had given her a list of kinks, hadn’t she? Enid should submit a list of her own kinks for consideration, a list that would begin and end with fucking Wednesday with her tongue. If that isn’t enough to start a healthy dialogue, she doesn’t know what will.
Before Enid has the chance to really lean into her plotting, her concentration is broken by a prickling awareness that something is amiss. She lays down the half-chewed pen she’d been using to scribble on the back of a receipt, cocking her head as she listens. Wolves rely on scent and sound more than any other sense; since her room appears unsullied by any foreign scents, a sound must have subconsciously registered as a threat. There’s the usual rumble of the ancient air conditioning overhead, struggling to meet the demands of the early summer heat, the familiar scraping of tree branches outside her window…and another, this noise unfamiliar. A voice, Enid realizes with a shock of fear.
Someone is hiding just out of sight on their balcony.
Enid nervously eyes the door to the hall, but can tell that Wednesday has long since left the floor. A wolf should be able to protect their own territory, Enid reminds herself. Though submissive wolves may not boast as much natural physical prowess as their dominant counterparts, her kind possesses a different set of strengths. All submissive wolves are born with a viciousness developed over a thousand years of brutal evolution, from the age of giants and shifting lands that once cracked beneath their feet.
Unlike dominant wolves, submissive wolves have what is politely referred to as the ability to go feral. They may not be the ones sent out to broker peace in times of war, but submissive wolves are considered the last line of defense when the pack falls under attack. Violence is written in the marrow of Enid’s bones.
She takes a step towards the balcony, socks tearing as her claws poke through the material and dig into the floorboards.
She promised Wednesday not to set so much as a single toe over the line, but Enid never agreed to roll over and take it in the unlikely event of an invasion. Submissive wolves are bred for carnage and, pups to protect or not, this shitty dorm room belongs to her and Wednesday. It’s the closest thing Enid has to a fortress. How had the old nursery rhyme gone? She along with all the other pack children, soft and unfamiliar with the rule of violence, used to jump rope to it every day.
"Papa Wolf went off to war," she sings under her breath. "Mama Wolf fell to the horde. Baby Wolf, where is she, where is she?"
Enid kicks off her ruined socks as she continues, "Off picking flowers ‘neath the willow tree."
A wolf defends their home, Enid thinks, sliding into a stance that comes as easily to her as breathing. "They took all the pups, stole our sons and our daughters," she breathes, hand frozen on the doorknob leading out to the moonlit balcony.
Focusing her attention on audibly pinpointing which corner of the terrace her assailant lies in wait, Enid lapses into silence. The stranger quiets too. In the stillness, Enid worries. She prays Wednesday isn’t facing a similar attack downstairs, but if she is, Enid has to trust that her intended can defend herself. Wednesday might not be armed with claws and teeth, but she knows the preludes to bloodshed as well as anyone. Enid has to believe Wednesday will be able to surmise this unforeseen threat and hold her own until they can find each other once more.
In the heartbeat before she twists the handle and surges out into the night, the final line of the song comes to Enid unbidden like a monster rising up from the depths between peals of thunder:
Here comes Baby Wolf, home for the slaughter.
***
Wednesday Addams, as a rule, does not raise her voice without provocation.
She learned early on that shouting only meant she'd lost the argument. Still, she feels an increase in volume might be justified, considering she's been torn from her intended's side in a moment of extreme vulnerability for the sake of sating the ego of a stranger who didn't even have the courtesy to call ahead.
Wednesday enters Lin's office with an attitude that does not improve once she lays eyes on her unexpected visitor.
His robes immediately capture her attention. The attention to detail in the embroidery is astonishing, the sort of work she'd normally only attribute to the craft of a master threadwitch. Deep violet silk bears veins of azure and silver not unlike a lightning strike, hem darkening into black where it trails on the ground. The cut of the robe makes the man appear graceful to an almost inhuman degree.
If it weren't for the fact that the pattern contains no visible runes as far as she can see, Wednesday would suspect some magical treachery is afoot. Robes like these belong only to the highest of authorities; what reason would a temple emissary have to wear clothing of this caliber?
"Ah, finally. Our Honored Guest," the stranger breaks the silence, voice as musical as it is unsettling. He grins as Wednesday finally tears her eyes from his robe and meets his gaze, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth. "She smells like coupling, Lin. What do your charges get up to under your roof?"
"Her courtship is new," Lin interjects, frowning at the stranger. "Enid only just accepted her offered gift. They're still establishing the bond."
"That they are," he says in a laughing voice that automatically raises Wednesday's hackles. "Shall we make our official introductions?"
Though it’s unclear whether or not the question was aimed at her, Wednesday replies, "If we must.”
His smile widens. "I am Shēnyuè," he says, offering an elegant bow too exaggerated to be sincere. "I am one of the twelve moons of the Shanghai Temple. As you might have ascertained from the flashy title, I oversee the temple’s proceedings in the seventh lunar month."
Wednesday does not return his smile. "It's May."
"Which is why I am here, and Sìyuè is not," Shēnyuè replies, choosing one of the folding chairs helpfully arranged in front of Lin's desk. "Come, sit, Honored Wednesday. Tell me of your intended. She smells delightful,” he comments, ignoring how Wednesday stiffens. “Lin, would you care to join us for a spell?"
"Yes, Keeper,” Lin agrees with palpable relief.
Most peculiarly, Lin has changed into sleeveless robes that expose her shrine maiden tattoos in full. She doesn’t look upset as she takes her seat behind the desk; harangued, yes, and weighed down by a bone-deep weariness that Wednesday has seen on Enid’s face a time or two, but not at all like any typical person would in the face of a serious threat. Still, Wednesday takes her cue from Lin’s caution and does not move to join them.
Apparently indifferent to her lack of table manners, Shēnyuè proceeds to serve them all a pungent tea that has Wednesday fighting the urge to start breathing through her mouth. By the time three teacups sit untouched on the desk, steaming and malignant, Wednesday is pondering whether it would be a worthwhile trade to anger the almighty shifter by abandoning his envoy if it means sooner escaping this poorly-ventilated office.
“Are you familiar with this blend, Honored Wednesday?” Shēnyuè asks her, balancing his teacup with deft fingers that Wednesday notes are marked with ink in the same striking blue as Lin’s tattoos. “It contains, amongst other ingredients, coral honeysuckle.”
Wednesday does not take a step back, but it is a very close thing. “Coral honeysuckle isn’t safe for human consumption,” she points out.
“Indeed, it is not,” Shēnyuè muses, maintaining challenging eye contact with her as he takes a deep, unconcerned swallow. “Mhm. You’re learned in flower tongue, are you not?”
Wednesday, uncomfortably aware that she is stepping right into whatever trap Shēnyuè is laying, answers, “That would be correct.”
Shēnyuè’s eyes are the only part of his face that remains honest and cold in its assessment of her. “And what does coral honeysuckle represent?” he questions. “Feel free to use your native translation. I’ll still understand it,” he assures her with a genial smile.
Wednesday speaks through gritted teeth. “‘The color of my fate.’”
“So it is,” Shēnyuè hums, taking another sip.
“So it shall be,” Lin whispers.
Wednesday shoots a look in her direction, but Lin does not return her gaze.
“Have you seen the color of your fate, Wednesday Addams?” Shēnyuè asks her, shifting forward in his seat.
His elaborate robes and friendly countenance do nothing to cloak the intensity of his words. Wednesday cannot tell whether he is here out of animosity or interest, but she knows with a sudden certainty that he is gracing Nevermore with his unwelcome presence on an inauspicious Monday night without the express permission of his superior. She’s seen that gaze often enough while looking in the mirror to recognize the fervor of a person operating under the presumption of forgiveness rather than permission.
Wednesday does not hesitate to meet his eyes. “That remains to be seen,” she responds.
Shēnyuè’s mouth splits into a smile that lacks all warmth. “Perhaps the waters will clear by the time we’re finished with you, Honored Guest. In the meantime, I wish you a bounteous fifth month. I so look forward to meeting your intended in the sixth.”
On his way out the door, he pauses, taking a moment to murmur, “Enid, isn’t it?” low enough that only Wednesday can hear it.
Before she can react, he sweeps into the hallway, disappearing in the dark as Wednesday struggles to remain still. Her blood feels like it's pounding in her ears. The way his lips had curled around Enid’s name will undoubtedly loom over her head like a guillotine through their upcoming visits to San Francisco and Hell Mountain. Wednesday wishes she could disregard the other trips and spirit Enid straight off to Shanghai if only to spare herself the promised weeks of dread.
“Bastard monkey,” Lin hisses, along with a string of sharp words in a language Wednesday isn’t fluent in.
Wednesday composes herself enough to clear her throat. “I assume that means I’m excused? Great. Enjoy your evening,” she snaps.
And, with a much less dramatic sweep of her uniform skirt, Wednesday turns and follows his footsteps out.
Notes:
enid: i'm gonna fucking kill whoever that is
wednesday: i'm gonna fucking kill whoever that wastruly the definition of soulmates
Chapter 61: Seed
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Of all the monsters Enid imagined might feel inclined to lurk on her balcony in the middle of the night, a dainty girl with magnificent velvet antlers certainly did not top the list. Enid registers faint impressions of lilac robes and wind-torn hair in the split second it takes her to find the girl's wide-eyed gaze.
Thick lashes crown eyes that Enid thinks must be deep violet in sunlight but, against the night sky, make the stranger seem like she's wearing a mask—a false face. If she didn't look so petrified at the prospect of being caught, pale skin losing what little color she had, Enid would probably have lunged on instinct.
As it stands, Enid is biologically programmed not to view a creature with antlers as a threat, so she remains rooted in place with her back to the door. The stranger is equally still, mouth opening and closing without sound as the contents of her hands begin to squeak.
The girl jumps as if startled, hair whipping in a breeze that Enid cannot feel as her cupped hands spread to reveal a familiar shape cradled in her palms.
"That's my squirrel," Enid gasps, stomach alighting with rage. "Put him down," she thunders.
"I was just speaking with him!" the girl blusters, hands shaking even as she releases him back onto the balcony with care.
The squirrel spares a moment to offer an indignant squeak before waddling in Enid's direction, no doubt in hopes of sniffing out the food she usually brings him.
"What kind of sick person tries to kidnap forest creatures?" Enid demands. "He's helpless! He can't even run!"
The squirrel pauses in his ferreting about her feet, staring up at her with what Enid would consider a wounded expression.
"What are you even doing up here?" Enid snaps, scooping up the squirrel and cradling him to her chest. "I could've killed you, you know that? Fuck, lady. Who are you? And what the hell do you want with my squirrel?"
The girl startles again, offering a wobbly curtsy and nearly careening over the balcony rail when her foot—hoof?—catches on the hem of her delicate robes. Though she saves herself from a gruesome death by hooking an arm around the railing, her legs get tangled in the fabric and she plows forward face-first, landing with a thump on her free hand with her ass stuck up high in the air.
Enid and the squirrel share an unimpressed look.
"I'm—I'm Mei," the girl tells the floor, struggling back to her feet so that she might look Enid in the face, a task that appears to require more and more inner constitution the longer she quails under the force of Enid's glare. "I serve in the Shanghai Temple," she says with much emphasis, offering a little bow.
"So?" Enid retorts. "You're trespassing. And you tried to kidnap my squirrel."
"I didn't try to kidnap him!" Mei protests, wringing her hands. Her eyes, so strange in color, seem to eat the light spilling out from the open door. "I only wished to ask the tenants about the keepers who live here. He willfully volunteered the information, Miss."
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. "Tenants? Tenants of what, the shrubbery?" she sarcastically asks.
Mei nods with enthusiasm. "Yes!" she exclaims, relieved.
Enid blinks at her. "This is a squirrel," she says slowly and clearly, holding him out so that Mei cannot ignore the truth of her words. "A regular woodland creature. He lives on landscaped grounds with professional gardeners and survives off fruit snacks and those little animal crackers with the pink frosting."
Mei offers a broad, unflinching smile that brightens her whole face. "The tenants of these woods know you, Enid Sinclair. That woodland creature you hold had much to say about his girl," she remarks, gaze soft as she peers at the squirrel.
Enid shifts to remove him from her direct line of sight. "His girl?" she repeats.
"Oh, yes," Mei confirms, eyes wide. "His girl is kind as well as sweet-smelling, bringing him food from the larder so that he never goes without. He says you even sing to him, a true daughter of the forest."
Though the squirrel does not deny it, because he is a squirrel and that would be absurd, he does seem to look at Mei with much less mirth than before. Enid is relieved to have her familiar grumpy visitor back as opposed to whatever skinchanger that would call her kind and sweet-smelling like a fabled knight of old just because she sneaks him the snacks Wednesday abhors keeping in the room.
Even so, Mei referred to her as a daughter of the forest like it held particular meaning, and something about those words does prickle at Enid's awareness. Since Wednesday isn't here to assist and Enid still has to deal with the intruder trespassing on her balcony and scheming with her forest friends, she ignores the feeling of foreboding and weakly protests, "It was one time. You sing a song one time, and no one ever lets you forget it," Enid complains, only half-joking.
"He remembers," Mei says very seriously. "The woods have heard your song. You will be dearly missed."
The squirrel in her arms stiffens, releasing a displeased chirp. When Mei makes a high-pitched little noise in response, he wilts, no longer content to squirm in Enid's hold and generally be an all-around nuisance. The idea of Enid's intruder actually being able to converse with squirrels doesn't feel as pressing a matter as the fact that her squirrel abruptly looks like he's entered an emotional tailspin. Even more concerning, when Enid pokes his stomach, he gives her a quiet mumble but otherwise does not react.
Mei, meanwhile, is looking at Enid with the kind of starry-eyed expression that would normally bring heat to her cheeks if she weren't so pissed off.
"I understand," Mei murmurs, cocking her head. "His girl is a true maiden of the wood. We have not hosted a daughter in many cycles. The Master will be…"
Without warning, her eyes go wide.
"Oh, no!" she gasps. "Not good! The hour!"
And, without another word, she takes a running jump off the balcony and plummets into the dark.
After a moment of incomprehension, Enid lurches across the balcony after her. She'll be far too late to do anything of value, but like an accident or a particularly juicy blog post, exiting without witnessing the harrowing conclusion was never an option.
Enid lands hard on her knee when she trips, busy fumbling to shield her squirrel's eyes because she doesn't want to be responsible for him seeing the mess Mei undoubtedly left on the stone path five stories below. Yet, the night remains quiet in the time it takes her to miraculously reach the railing. No cries of shock or shrieks of terror greet her even though she can hear the thrumming of nearby voices where a cluster of vampires lounge on the grass. Surely they would have noticed a girl with hooves and antlers smacking the pavement like a grisly piñata.
Even as Enid leans over the balcony far enough to have her squirrel's tiny claws biting through her shirt as he scrabbles not to follow Mei down in a plunge of his own, she sees nothing. No carnage. Not even a shadow of the girl who'd disappeared into the night.
"Wednesday is never going to fucking believe this," Enid notes with a sigh. How often do suicidal trespassers grace their doorstep? Not often enough to make this story even remotely plausible.
Her squirrel offers a noise of commiseration, finally escaping her grasp and clambering out onto the railing. As he extracts himself, something dislodges and falls with a hollow clatter by Enid's foot.
She kneels down to investigate, straightening up with what looks like a seed in her palm. The squirrel ignores her, waddling back towards his usual egress of a sturdy branch that hangs over the railing without so much as a sniff of interest, but the seed is like nothing that Enid has ever seen.
What strikes her first is the warmth, the inescapable heat radiating off the unblemished pit. It might remind her of an acorn if it wasn't sunlit butterscotch in hue. What tree produces golden seeds? None that Enid has ever encountered.
Still distracted by the conundrum of the mystery seed, Enid doesn't register that the hall door has opened and closed until she's already stepped back into the room—where she now has company.
Wednesday looks no worse for wear, a little tense and harried but none more so than she usually does after a verbal bout with Bianca Barclay. Enid, on the other hand, is uncomfortably aware of the fact that her knee is stinging and she's just wandered in from the outdoors after promising to set neither hide nor hair over the threshold while Wednesday was absent.
She watches Wednesday clock her bloodied knee, the unlatched balcony door still left wide open behind her, and the golden seed clutched in Enid's hand. Wednesday's face smoothes out into a calculated expression that sets off every alarm bell that Enid possesses and simultaneously puts her newly-acquired underwear at risk. She's going to have no clean clothes left if this keeps up, Enid absently thinks, wide-eyed and frozen like Wednesday might not notice her if she doesn't make any sudden movements.
Unfortunately, Wednesday isn't a T-Rex, and wayward droplets of blood have found their way to the floorboards at Enid's feet, leaving an undeniable mess that even the best excuse in the world could not explain away.
"What happened?" Wednesday flatly asks.
Notes:
mei and enid in perfect harmony: i am in so much fucking trouble
Chapter 62: Pinned
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As a wolf, Enid is well-equipped to adapt to new information and select a course of action accordingly. Agility is in her nature. She’s built to turn on a dime, physically or otherwise, when the situation demands it.
Thus, it makes perfect sense in the moment for her to thrust out her hand and announce, “A stranger left this seed. Do you think we could plant it? I’ve never seen a golden one before. Weird, huh?”
Wednesday stares at her long enough that Enid starts to fidget where she stands.
“Did you start the bath?” Wednesday finally asks, removing her sweater and shoes.
At Enid’s guilty silence, Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her, lips twitching at the corners. Enid wonders if she should feel embarrassed that Wednesday doesn’t look even a little bit surprised. Is this her brand? Flagrantly ignoring orders in favor of arguing semantics with well-dressed trespassers? It’s safe to say Enid’s first foray into being a Pet isn’t off to a stellar start. She can certainly do better than this.
“Let’s start the bath,” Wednesday decides, unearthing a black leather case Enid recognizes with a sinking feeling as the first-aid kit. “I need to clean your knee before we bandage it.”
"But my knee is fine," Enid insists, even as she allows herself to be steered into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub. The mystery seed is plucked from her hand and relocated onto a nearby shelf. “Promise. It barely hurts,” Enid pleads.
Wednesday shoots her a look before moving toward the sink. “I find your complete dismissal of a walking wound disturbing.”
Enid gapes at her. “It’s a scraped knee.”
“You’re bleeding,” Wednesday retorts, washing her hands with the vigor of a surgeon about to dive elbow-deep into somebody’s guts. “That is no small matter to me. Start the water, please.”
Pouting, Enid does as told. When Wednesday’s had enough of scrubbing in for her very complicated procedure of cleaning and bandaging Enid’s minor scrape, she resolutely pulls on a set of latex gloves. All she’s missing is a surgical gown and a scrub cap covered in scarecrows and scythes to complete the picture, Enid thinks. She’s on the verge of laughter right up until Wednesday dons a black medical mask that leaves naught but her eyes visible, and it no longer seems funny. How will Enid read her expression without the tiny clues she usually relies on? Wednesday with a mask is too powerful, she decides.
Enid abruptly wishes she was wearing more clothing.
Wednesday tests the water against her gloved hand, then nods. “Come here, Puppy. Carefully.”
Wednesday holds tight to her upper arms as Enid lifts her legs into the tub, eliminating the chance of Enid so much as sneezing and potentially toppling over and killing herself in the process of changing positions. Though Enid can feel how close Wednesday’s standing, practically breathing lilies and honeycomb, she keeps her eyes firmly locked on the water draining between her toes. As long as she doesn’t look up, she’s safe from the debilitating influence of Wednesday’s gaze.
It takes some maneuvering, but Enid manages to adjust so that she can stick her knee beneath the faucet without dropping her whole body into the splash zone. Wednesday does not let go of her arms. As soon as the hot water hits her injury, Enid hisses—which causes Wednesday’s grip on her to spasm for an instance that Enid’s almost convinced she hallucinated—but it’s more at the unexpected sting of the water temperature than any real discomfort. The drain blushes pink for a mere second before running clear.
“See?” Enid tells her feet. “Barely bled at all.”
“You bled,” Wednesday replies, releasing her. “That’s enough. Use a clean towel to dry yourself. Try not to aggravate the wound.”
Though Enid scoots back and mops up the splattered water on her bare legs as best she can, her knee still throbs and bleeds. Wednesday supervises Enid carefully swinging her legs back over the edge, and then, assured Enid won’t lose her balance and accidentally keel over, she kneels at Enid’s feet.
“What are you doing?” blurts Enid, painfully aware of the fact that she’s wearing nothing but soaked panties beneath her purloined t-shirt.
Wednesday centers Enid’s foot in her lap, anchoring her leg where she wants it. “Assessing the damage.”
Wednesday’s fingertips probe at the fringes of the injury, turning her leg from side to side while Enid clutches the bathtub's edge and tries to hold on for dear life. Do not get wet, Enid silently warns herself. Do not.
Down on her knees, Wednesday makes a noise of contemplation that viscerally reminds Enid of the storage closet. Meeting Wednesday’s eyes proves to be a fatal mistake since Enid can feel her underwear faltering at the intensity of her gaze, and Enid’s legs automatically jerk in an effort to snap closed. Wednesday’s iron grasp does not permit Enid to rip her injured knee out of her hands, but Wednesday does raise an eyebrow at the look of impending doom that crests across Enid’s face immediately afterward.
Meanwhile, Enid wonders if it’s too late to feign a fainting spell and hopefully crack her head on the side of the porcelain tub. Even that would be preferable to the conversation undoubtedly awaiting her once Wednesday realizes how wet she’s become. Honestly, it’s Wednesday’s fault in the first place for Pavlov-ing Enid into slicking up whenever she goes down on her knees. Enid thinks she really isn’t to blame for her body’s traitorous inclinations when Wednesday was the one who cultivated them.
“I suppose it can’t be helped,” Wednesday says, magnanimously ignoring whatever fit Enid just experienced. “You may need stitches. Apply pressure, and we’ll see if the bleeding stops on its own.”
Wednesday hands her a clean washcloth, which Enid clumsily holds to her knee. She’s fixated on why Wednesday chooses to don yet another pair of gloves after spreading a clean towel over the tile on her left side. As much as Enid loves Wednesday's hands, she's decidedly not as enthused about the prospect of being poked and prodded with latex. Wednesday readjusts Enid's foot in her lap until it's positioned to her liking.
For a moment, Enid relaxes, thinking Wednesday’s just going to give her a bandaid and a kiss after all. Those hopes are dashed when Wednesday proceeds to pull out a bottle of alcohol, a pair of tweezers, and no less than six other steel instruments that Enid doesn’t even recognize enough to name. Enid briefly wonders if this is how Hannibal Lector’s victims feel, watching a master tune their instrument—or, in Wednesday’s case, neatly arranging the slew of torture devices on her towel.
“Oh, God,” Enid mumbles, cringing as Wednesday douses the tweezers in alcohol. “Am I seriously going to need stitches? I mean, you’re generally great at most things, Wednesday, but you’re not a threadwitch,” she rambles. “Or, you know, a licensed medical practitioner.”
“You have debris in the wound,” Wednesday replies. Her eyes flick up to Enid’s. “You’ll only feel minor discomfort. I’ll be brief, but the foreign bodies need to come out.”
Enid releases a deep breath. “Okay. I…I trust you, Wednesday,” she declares. “Even if you’re not a real doctor, though I really hope you already know how to sew,” she adds.
Masked or not, Enid can tell the corner of Wednesday’s mouth has pulled up in amusement. “If I had a wind singer on retainer, Enid, I absolutely would summon them for your scraped knee,” Wednesday gravely responds, retrieving the bloodied washcloth from her limp hand.
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds expensive,” Enid remarks, voice climbing unnaturally high as she reiterates to herself she cannot, under any circumstances, spread her knees an inch further than necessary lest Wednesday smell her slick. “So let’s keep the summoning to a minimum. Thanks, though.”
Wednesday snorts. “At least then we’d be working in a sterile environment,” she muses.
“You’re wearing two pairs of gloves,” Enid points out. “And it’s a scraped knee, not an amputated limb. I’m fine. Even if I didn’t have Doctor Addams on call to clean me up, I would be fine.”
Wednesday appraises her with an entirely different kind of gaze, hands pausing. “You do need cleaning up, don’t you?” she hums. “Messy thing.”
Enid gulps, ignoring the heat in her cheeks as Wednesday’s focus returns to her knee.
“Try not to move,” Wednesday instructs. Her right hand clamps down on Enid’s thigh, pinning Enid in place as the left approaches armed with sterilized tweezers. “It will be over soon.”
“Yeah, I’m—” Enid pauses, jaw snapping shut to keep her from moaning out loud as Wednesday inadvertently squeezes her thigh. “I’m, um, good.”
Too good, in fact. Enid’s eyes go wide with alarm as she realizes her slick has begun to drip down the inside of her thigh. Wednesday’s hands on her or not, there is no reason on earth for Enid to be this turned on while getting rocks tweezed out of her mangled skin. She needs to regain control over herself before Wednesday experiences a similar revelation that Enid is apparently the sort of lunatic who gets off on playing doctor.
“I know it’s uncomfortable, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs in commiseration, tapping her tweezers over the edge of the tub. Her attention remains utterly devoted to her task, which is a boon of gargantuan proportions since Enid has graduated from clenching her teeth to panting aloud with her head tipped back. “Almost finished, good girl. I’ll give you a salve for the pain as soon as we’re done,” she promises.
Enid wonders if she’s going to break the tub with how hard she’s clutching it. “G-Good,” she gasps. “M’Good. Just—ah, a lot of—” her eyes dart around the room, “—blood.”
Wednesday snorts under her breath, her brow furrowing as she attempts to find a good angle to remove a particularly stubborn bit of rock. Her grip on Enid’s thigh is going to leave bruises in the shape of her handprint. Enid nearly whimpers at the thought.
“I had no idea you were so squeamish, Enid,” Wednesday muses. “To think, you’d be shaking this much over a little bit of blood…ah, it can’t be helped.” She sighs, straightening up and releasing Enid's thigh.
Enid nearly collapses with relief, overjoyed that she made it through the fire unscathed.
Then Wednesday says, “I need you to bend your knee. Flexing the joint will dislodge the remaining pieces, or at least make them more accessible. I know this is distressing, but can you maintain your balance for me, Puppy? I’ll be fast.”
“How—what?” bleats Enid, one foot still resting in Wednesday’s lap and the other trembling against the tile. “How am I supposed to bend my knee?”
Wednesday, who has not looked away from Enid’s injury once, taps her thigh. “Lift your foot up onto the edge of the bathtub. Carefully.”
“I’ll—I’ll fall!” Enid protests, grasping at straws. “I can’t bend my knee that far.”
Wednesday doesn’t appear to be listening to her, or at least can hear the blatant lie as obviously as Enid can, because she begins lifting Enid’s leg, heedless of the disaster she’s about to uncover as Enid’s shirt rucks up to her hips. “I know you’re nervous, Puppy. It’s an understandable reaction, but I will not allow you to fall. Please don’t be—”
Wednesday freezes, lapsing into a silence that, to Enid, sounds like mass mechanical failure. Enid would have given all of her worldly possessions and few things besides to avoid the trauma of having to witness the moment Wednesday finally realizes how fucked up she is.
Enid is helpless not to yelp in surprise when Wednesday shoves her thighs apart with none of the tenderness she’d been displaying while under the impression that Enid was making those noises out of pain and not because she gets off on being a freak. Enid can tell without looking that her underwear is clinging to her obscenely, so she feels no qualms about watching Wednesday’s widening eyes instead.
Wednesday ultimately looks up at her, noting her bitten lip and the heat in her cheeks and the glazed look in her eyes with something caught between disbelief and amusement.
“Is it the pain, or the idea of getting caught?”
Enid struggles to find her voice. “W-What?” she croaks.
Slowly and succinctly, Wednesday asks, “Is it the pain of the procedure that arouses you, Enid? Or the thrill of knowing I would eventually notice what your messy little cunt decided to prioritize while I was busy taking care of your injury?”
Enid swallows hard.
“Think it’s—um, the second one?" she ventures. "And you being…on, on your knees,” Enid stammers, quickly continuing, “But definitely the second one. I…um, think I do have an exhibitionism kink, Wednesday.”
Wednesday stares back at her. “Shocking,” she dryly responds.
Enid ducks her head, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Why would you be?” Wednesday asks, nonplussed. “Are you embarrassed? I confess myself lost as to why you would be.”
“Isn’t this bad?” Enid says in a small voice. “I shouldn’t—good girls don’t get wet at the doctor’s office,” she attempts to joke, hoping Wednesday doesn’t hear the threat of tears in her voice.
Wednesday places her hand, palm-up, on Enid’s lap. She waits until Enid’s taken it before replying, “I suspect you’re not used to being cared for. The feeling of emotional and physical security can have extreme influence over what we find arousing at any given point.”
Enid sniffles, “I don’t think it’s normal to get wet from this.”
“On whose authority?” Wednesday asks her. “The Grand Council of Acceptable Kinks? It doesn’t exist. You should not ever feel inclined to hide yourself from me, Enid. I love you,” she says like that’s an entire argument in itself.
Enid shakily exhales. “I'm sorry. I don’t know why…I don’t know why I like this so much.” She shrugs a bit miserably.
Wednesday hums. “Like what? Being touched by me?”
Enid thinks for a moment, but nods. “Yeah.”
“You like marks,” Wednesday considers, her hand still holding tight to Enid’s even as she uses the other to press a fresh washcloth to her knee. “Bruises, perhaps?”
Enid nods again, slower this time.
“That’s common,” Wednesday tells her. “As are less permanent avenues like the use of body paint to achieve a similar effect.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “Like your runes,” she whispers. "I really, really liked when I got to wear your runes."
Wednesday gives a solemn nod. “We can experiment with marking and with runes. What else?”
Though Enid still feels a bit unsteady and unsure, she can tell from how Wednesday lowers her surgical mask to give Enid her full attention that she’s genuinely invested in hearing her thoughts. The knowledge that Wednesday cares about this—about her—lends Enid the strength she needs to respond.
Notes:
don’t you just love a good post-scene debrief? three cheers for sweet communication! more on that next update along with some much-needed aftercare.
poor enid is experiencing that post-nut—or, in this case, post-pre-nut—clarity of “what the hell is we doing? why am i wet over this? am i lowkey a villain for finding this hot? do i need professional help? uhhh please advise?” (for reference, this spiral of shame and confusion can also occur when you realize what the fuck you’re actually searching up on ye old ao3. we’ve all been there lmao)
i’m traveling again next week so unsure of when updates will happen, but thank you in advance for bearing with me! i’m lowkey having a fucking ball with this kink exploration arc. so much to explore
UPDATE 5/22: i've had way unreliable internet where i'm at but i'm traveling again on wednesday so should be able to update then assuming nothing goes wrong! regardless, we will be back to regular updates on friday
Chapter 63: Teacher's Pet
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid places her pen on the desk, dazed at the thought of having finished her last exam. Truthfully, she hadn't done much studying of maths and science since Wednesday formally introduced her to the wide world of BDSM, but Enid's a prospective senior graduate, not an apprentice. At this point, all she needs to accomplish is correctly spelling her name and proving she can read and write.
"Well?" Wednesday appears at her side, having spent the time Enid sat in a post-exam puddle meticulously packing up her belongings.
Wednesday looks particularly attractive today in a black silk shirt and grey sweater set. Although technically long enough to meet uniform guidelines, her skirt should be illegal on principle alone. It’s uncouth to look so polished during exams.
Enid sometimes forgets that Wednesday is a paragon of physical fitness and has thighs that could stop a funeral procession, but not today—not in that skirt. Enid suspects even the slim bag at Wednesday’s side might cost more than a semester’s tuition. What a time to be alive, she thinks, thanking Nevermore school policy for relaxing the uniform requirement during finals.
In her current ensemble, Wednesday could just as easily be a wealthy widow tending to her prized rose garden and dubious finances as an esteemed student sitting for exams. Enid, on the other hand, looks like a basement kid that slipped the noose of her harried babysitter; she's wearing a purloined t-shirt of Wednesday’s that refuses to stay up on both shoulders and neon green pajama shorts. Even her socks are mismatched.
Next to Wednesday, Enid feels a bit like orphan Annie. Wednesday would make a spectacular Daddy Warbucks, Enid privately admits to herself. Her throat dries at the involuntary mental image of Wednesday in a pinstripe suit.
Enid drags her eyes up to Wednesday’s face and smiles. "We're graduating tomorrow,” she answers, hoping the images playing out in her brain aren't reflective in her eyes.
Wednesday would unbutton her pants, but she wouldn't pull them down herself; that would be Enid's job, possibly one she'd carry out with her teeth. Beneath the suit, Wednesday would be wearing the old-fashioned lingerie she's so enamored with, as opposed to the frothy lace numbers Enid prefers. Her underwear would be black, probably, though Enid wouldn't mind seeing Wednesday in grey or, dare she say it, white. White lace wouldn't hide any aspect of Wednesday's body. It would cling to her, in fact, wet with the scent of honeycomb and funeral lilies.
Though there's no way she could possibly guess what's inspired the sudden influx of Enid's vanilla scent, the corner of Wednesday’s mouth pulls up like she knows. “Indeed.”
Wednesday always looks pristine, as a rule. She never is less than immaculate, the state of her clothes be damned. Enid has personally seen her covered in blood and wet leaves and still shuddered under Wednesday's frankly commanding presence. That said, a weight seems to have disappeared from Wednesday's shoulders at some point during the trek from her desk to Enid's side. Her stance remains loose and welcoming, so unlike how Wednesday had held herself when Enid was just an unwanted roommate. The difference is staggering.
"You look pleased," Wednesday quietly says.
Enid's grin only widens. "I mostly just feel greasy, if I'm being honest," she admits. She can't remember the last time she actually washed her hair.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, and the hair on the back of Enid's neck follows suit. "Does Puppy need a bath?" she asks, voice lower than altogether appropriate for their very public surroundings.
Perhaps the true difference is in how Wednesday watches her nowadays. What once was a gratifying sensation of knowing that Wednesday noticed her has graduated to a seeping heat that thrums in Enid's stomach whenever she senses Wednesday's gaze on her skin. Those eyes refuse to give her any rest.
Enid can feel her cheeks coloring, but she straightens up. "Not in the classroom, I don't," she responds, maintaining a valiant effort at nonchalance as she adds, "I'm open to negotiation back at the room."
Wednesday hums an acknowledgment. "And does my Puppy want anything else, while we're on the subject?"
The wicked glint in her eyes offsets her unabashed, clinical tone. Enid, for all her faults, knows when she's being played with, and the high of finishing exams has her risk avoidance dwindling down to zero.
Enid makes a show of leaning forward in contemplation, tilting her head as she thinks. Her collar is a snug and solid reminder around her neck of who she'll be answering to if she pushes too far. Though such a precious artifact undoubtedly looks ridiculous paired with Enid's exam panic outfit, Wednesday's knuckles tighten around the strap of her bag like Enid's done something particularly salacious by exposing her collar and neck to the light.
“My, my. Are those riding boots, Addams?” Bianca’s voice punctures their little bubble.
Bianca sidles up next to them, casting a pointed glance at Wednesday’s footwear that Mackenzie, hovering in Bianca’s shadow, hurriedly mimics. They look like a badly-paired double act in their trendy athleisure and matching tote bags. The rest of Bianca's retinue isn’t far behind, traveling in a pack like one giant, gossipy monster. Bianca’s words seem to have served as some sort of cue; they simultaneously slow to a stop, eager to watch the show.
“Well, we know what your plans are for post-exam celebrations," Bianca comments. She turns her snide smile on Enid. "How about you, Enid? Plan to break out the old bit and bridle?” she simpers.
A group of boys hovering over the trash bin shifts around to better spectate, all conversation in the room dwindling as the wider audience becomes aware of a new entertainment prospect.
“You were a horse girl?” Enid incredulously asks, interrupting whatever well-timed retort Wednesday was about to make on her behalf.
Wednesday closes her mouth, and Bianca’s expression twists with a split-second of displeasure before her mask of congeniality slams back into place. “...Excuse me?” she replies in a tone insinuating that Enid might be the dumbest person to ever walk the earth.
“You said bit and bridle, right?” Enid persists. “What even are those? Seriously. I couldn’t tell you what either of those things actually looks like, gun to my head. Clearly, you must have been a horse girl,” she reasons.
Mackenzie snorts out loud, then claps a hand over her mouth, horrified. She shrinks under the glare Bianca aims over her shoulder.
"Bianca's a horse girl?" Yoko murmurs from her seat behind Enid. "Mhm. Figures."
Enid can’t help but sigh. For all that Yoko pretends not to care for idle whisperings and rumors, she sure has a propensity for spreading them. Yoko shrugs back at her, unapologetic, when Enid twists around to roll her eyes.
One of the trash bin boys repeats much louder, "Dude, Barclay's a horse girl?"
"That almost makes too much sense," a girl in the front row whispers to her friend.
“I see you’ve finally grown a spine,” Bianca proclaims over the general murmuring, narrowed eyes completely at odds with her amused smile. “Leave it to Enid Sinclair to lose her baby teeth the day before she graduates. Pity we couldn’t know more of her.”
“In hindsight, Barclay's extracurriculars make a startling amount of sense,” Wednesday interjects. Her eyes, for some reason, have locked onto Mackenzie. “She always did have a talent for attracting those pets most desperate for attention."
Mackenzie pales, and Enid knows her own eyes must have grown wide as saucers.
"Holy shit," another boy snickers.
His friend frantically nods. "Dude."
Bianca's expression settles somewhere around disbelief. "Girl, what the fuck are you doing?" she half-laughs, falling back on her usual persona in her uncertainty over where Wednesday's going with this. "You are so weird for this, for real."
Wednesday's face remains cold. "I could say the same for you. Why the sudden interest in my plans with Enid?" she presses, voice light and mocking. "Ah—are you feeling left out?"
Bianca raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, all amusement falling away. “Bold of you to ask, considering who's waiting there so patiently for her turn at having your attention.” Her gaze lands on Enid, who jolts in her seat.
“Aw, aren’t you a good girl?” Bianca coos at Enid in a voice one might use while speaking to a toddler. She straightens back up and flashes Wednesday a taunting smile. “Pretty collar there, Addams, but something's missing, isn't it?” Bianca purses her lips in a mock-pout. “Pets shouldn't be off-leash in public spaces.”
A month ago, being likened to Wednesday’s dog in a public forum would have driven Enid to tears. At this moment, she's too busy eyeing Wednesday and worrying she's about to become an accomplice to a violent crime to care about the resulting laughter. Enid supposes that’s some progress in her personal development, though her therapist might disagree; Wednesday certainly doesn’t look inclined to take the high road here.
In truth, Enid only finds the submissive wolves are oversized lap dogs schtick to be tired and unoriginal because she’s been enduring derivatives of this same punchline for years. The classroom, on the other hand, is full of people who have not been weathering leash jokes all their lives. The trash bin boys only stop shrieking with laughter after being on the receiving end of a pointed look from Wednesday. Enid can’t quite see her face from this angle, but whatever Wednesday’s expression, it has them falling silent mid-breath.
Bianca beams like she just solved world hunger, soaking up the approval of her twittering horde with a careless shrug of her shoulder. Wednesday, alternatively, seems to be calculating how many years in prison she's willing to risk to teach her a lesson. When Wednesday's expression clears, her eyes narrowing with determination, Enid feels her stomach drop down to her toes. It’s been over a year since Bianca and Wednesday had it out like this, but Enid’s under no illusions; that just means they were long overdue. What will Wednesday go for this time, she wonders? A quip about Bianca’s relegation to second in the class rankings after Wednesday’s arrival at Nevermore? That’s always guaranteed to incite fury. What if they just start beating the shit out of each other? Oh God, is Wednesday armed?
The room remains packed full of people, each and every student riveted by the impending altercation between Bianca Barclay and Wednesday Addams, a veritable clash of titans—except for a lone hoodie-wearing boy who appears to be anxious to leave. He tries and fails to edge around Wednesday and Bianca's position, inadvertently blocking the only exit.
Enid catches a flash of blond hair beneath the ratty sweatshirt and, with a swoop in her stomach, recognizes the scowling boy from their dorm, the one with the pulsating tattoos and the expression promising murder. He'd been a nightmare to encounter on an empty stairwell. Enid vividly recalls how unsettled she'd felt to bear the brunt of his irritation, if only for a brief moment.
In these wildly differing circumstances, he seems a lot less threatening and more pained to be trapped within five feet of the source of all the commotion. Enid notices how he shrinks back from the perceived attention, gritting his teeth and hunching his shoulders.
"You always did love an audience, Barclay," Wednesday drawls, either unaware or uncaring of the boy growing more and more upset in her peripherals.
Mackenzie leans forward as if to interject on Bianca's behalf but retreats without speaking after a sharp look from Bianca.
Like a hound scenting blood, Wednesday tilts her head in a manner that has Enid tensing in anticipation, knowing what comes next.
"Of course, the sheer upkeep of maintaining your litter of bitches sounds exhausting," Wednesday muses, "But I suppose I can't comment on another person's interests." Her eyes flick back to Bianca. "It isn't my business."
A girl in the front gasps like she just witnessed a killing blow. Enid’s heart leaps into her throat when Bianca locks her knees like she's planning to go right for the jugular.
"You—"
"As I see it, Barclay, it is your business how many ponytails you like to have wagging in your wake, begging for a treat," Wednesday barrels right over her, "But my business is Enid, and you will not speak another word about her."
Her tone leaves no room for argument. If anyone had doubts about who exactly Wednesday was insinuating trails after Bianca like a whimpering dog, that mystery is solved when Mackenzie’s face splotches with humiliated color. She stumbles back and nearly trips over one of the other girls, who squawks at Mackenzie for stepping on her white sneakers. It’s quite the eye-drawing fumble.
The moment Bianca notices Mackenzie's distress for herself, that ever-present hunger for conflict that Enid has come to expect from her morphs into genuine anger. Enid is shocked to see Bianca metaphorically miss a step in a dance she and Wednesday have been performing for years.
Enid reaches out to catch Wednesday's hand in warning as Bianca bristles and, no longer enjoying herself, snaps, “That's rich, coming from the girl who waited until her roommate was heat-drunk to try and fuck her because she was too chicken shit to—”
"You're in my way!" the boy bursts out.
Wednesday and Bianca are the only two members of the class who manage not to jump. One boy even loses his balance, tumbling right out of his seat onto the floor. The tattooed boy shouted so loudly that a flock of birds abandoned their roost by the classroom window and took off in fright. Enid wouldn't be surprised if Eugene heard that from the Hive.
Bianca, first to recover, crosses her arms. "You're in mine," she sneers at him, turning back to Wednesday and opening her mouth.
"I want to fucking leave," the boy insists at much too loud a volume. "Move," he spits when both girls stare at him. "Go be jealous somewhere else."
"Jeal—jealous?" Bianca splutters, voice climbing at least two octaves as she reels around and refocuses her ire on him, original target forgotten. “Who the fuck are you?" Bianca demands, thumping the boy in his chest.
He slaps her hand away, and from the way the entire class gasps with shock, one would think he just socked her in the face and emptied a clip in her stomach for good measure. Bianca looks appalled, gaping at him without words.
“Shall we?” Wednesday breaks the strained silence. She's not even watching the confrontation, eyes focused on Enid’s face. “I'm bored of this. And Eugene's expecting us."
“Oh, um—uh-huh, sure,” Enid breathes, struggling to stand while not missing a single second of the spectacle.
Bianca rears up to rail at the boy, but Mackenzie chooses that moment to burst into tears, thoroughly halting Bianca's tirade. Enid couldn’t care less that her mouth is hanging open like an idiot as Wednesday drags her to her feet. She has to crane her neck to keep the unfolding drama in sight while Wednesday bends to collect her belongings.
Bianca freezes for only a second, a heartbeat that Enid endures with bated breath, before making her choice.
“Stop making a scene, what the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps at Mackenzie, turning away from the boy in a clear dismissal. He takes the opportunity to slink out the door, though Enid notices him trembling as he goes.
Mackenzie only wails louder. Her bag lands with a thump at her side as she rubs her eyes with manicured hands, smearing mascara all over her cheeks. The whole display, in Enid’s humble opinion, is a marvel to behold.
“What the hell is your problem, Mackenzie?” Bianca demands.
Serves them right, Enid thinks with no small thrill of vindication as Wednesday gently tows her to the door. It wasn't that long ago that she was the one making a fool of herself, crying in public over something cruel and somewhat accurate that Bianca had said to her due to nothing but her association with Wednesday. Bianca should have known it would eventually come back around.
“You—you don’t even defend me to her!” Mackenzie sobs. “You don’t give a shit about me! Why the hell am I still hanging around you like—like some pathetic bitch! Even Wednesday Addams sees it!”
“You’re not a pathetic bitch,” Bianca refutes, “Though this right here, what you’re doing now, isn’t exactly a point in your favor.”
“Damn, Barclay,” a nearby boy whispers.
“See!” Mackenzie shrieks, oblivious of the fact that Bianca's other girls are edging away from her like she's contagious. “I’m wasting my fucking time with you! You’ll never actually make an offer for me! It’s honestly so rude that you made me jealous of Enid fucking Sinclair, Bianca!”
Bianca’s head whips from side to side as she determines that they very much have maintained their monopoly on entertainment inside the classroom. “Mackenzie, seriously, stop talking—” she hisses.
“You don’t even care!” Mackenzie wails. “Goddamnit, I’m such an idiot! What the fuck, Bianca!”
“Mackenzie, shut the fuck up!” Bianca hollers right back. “I can’t talk to you with you screaming in my face!”
In a last peek at the wreckage, Enid notes that Bianca has abandoned all efforts at composure and now grips Mackenzie by the shoulders. It's more physical contact than Enid has ever witnessed between the two girls firsthand.
"I don't think Bianca will ever forgive you for this," Enid whispers.
Wednesday scoffs under her breath. "Good. I hope it haunts her for years."
Enid muffles her laughter into her free palm, brightening when Wednesday reaches across her to pull Enid's sagging shirt sleeve back up over her shoulder. They step out into the sunlight, and Enid closes her eyes in the sudden rush of fresh air.
"What a privilege it'll be to no longer have to cohabitate with that trainwreck," Wednesday says.
"Who, Mackenzie or Bianca?" Enid asks, avoiding a crack in the sidewalk.
"Both," Wednesday answers without hesitation. "Do you think it's possible to have a stroke from secondhand embarrassment? I suspect if that had gone on any longer, we would have found out."
"Don't sound so enthusiastic," Enid snickers. "I honestly thought Bianca would kill her once she started yelling. Although, I would cry too if I were wasting thirty-dollar mascara," she admits.
"The horror," Wednesday dryly says. "Let's hope Barclay remembers this moment in the dead of night when she’s trying to sleep.”
“Please. You’re going to miss her!” Enid laughs. "Only besties go so far to try to humiliate each other in public."
"Who needs enemies when you have friends like her?" Wednesday replies.
Enid grins, bumping Wednesday with her hip and thoroughly invading her personal space under the guise of teasing. "Guess we finally found Bianca’s weak spot. Who knew it would be Mackenzie Jones?”
Wednesday doesn’t respond, but her face says enough.
Enid gasps, planting her feet in the middle of the sidewalk. “You can’t be serious!”
“About what?” Wednesday asks, expression smug as she neatly steps around her.
“What the hell!” Enid protests, trying and failing to block Wednesday’s access to the path, earning a raised eyebrow in return. “How’d you know?” she persists.
“That Mackenzie would throw a tantrum like a screaming child when Bianca didn’t deny what I said?” Wednesday clarifies. “I didn’t. Mackenzie was collateral damage.”
“Hm, no, collateral means unintended,” Enid chirps, spinning around to walk backward and keep Wednesday in her sights. She can't help but beam. “Torpedoing Mackenzie’s glass castle was fully intentional. Where I’m from, we call that an act of war.”
Wednesday appraises her with an interested look. “Does the credit fall to me that you’ve become such a vindictive little thing?” she asks.
Enid giggles again, practically skipping down the sidewalk. “Nope. Maybe. Who cares? We just took the last exam of our Nevermore careers, Bianca probably got herself a girlfriend, and I got to watch Mackenzie Jones have a nuclear meltdown! This is the best day of my fucking life.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, but Enid commits the very small smile she wears to memory as something precious she’ll want to revisit in the future.
“What'd you get her for a graduation gift, huh?” Enid presses. “Some rare, venomous plant that'll unhinge its jaw like a snake and try to swallow Mackenzie as soon as she falls asleep?"
Wednesday retakes her hand. “Your creativity is inspiring, Puppy, but absolutely not," she replies. "I'd never waste such a boon on Bianca and Mackenzie."
Enid grins. She and Wednesday won’t be exchanging graduation gifts, but Yoko had gotten her a gorgeous pair of mugs, and Eugene, a set of bejeweled hair clips shaped like bumblebees. Since Nevermore students come in all shades of creature-type and their expected curriculum often varies from person to person, there is no formal graduation ceremony. What would be the point, when Eugene doesn't expect to graduate for at least another year, Yoko for another five, and Mackenzie whenever she and Bianca decide to figure their shit out?
Only Enid, Wednesday, and Bianca plan to graduate this week amongst their regular circle of acquaintances and enemies. The day will pass with little fanfare, and then Wednesday and Enid will be off to San Francisco.
Enid leans into her side, almost absentmindedly nosing Wednesday's throat to find her scent. "Heard anything about Mei?" she asks.
Wednesday sighs, stepping back. Enid tries not to pout at the loss.
"No word yet," Wednesday answers, expression serious. "I suspect you were right that the dragon shifter wasn't entirely aware of his underling's travel itinerary, if at all. I've not received a single missive from the temple since."
"Maybe they're going back on our deal," Enid enthuses, swinging their hands as they walk. "You never know. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to just spend the summer at your house, right?"
Wednesday fixes Enid's shirt again, her nails trailing along Enid’s collarbone. "I admire your optimism, but shifters aren't known for reneging on an agreement. Our shifter specifically is a man of contracts, so I think it highly unlikely.”
A boring, accounting-esque word like contracts shouldn’t have Enid sweating, but Wednesday Addams can make anything sound obscene.
“Regardless of our plans for late summer, we’re due in San Francisco tomorrow," Wednesday points out, ignorant of how dire the situation in Enid’s shorts is becoming.
Enid wilts. "Can't we just pretend for a little longer?" she wheedles. "Why are you in such a rush to get your feelings hurt?"
"It will be a cold day in hell before one of your family members," Wednesday's lips curl around the words like she's said something foul, "Hurts my feelings. I hope the same can be said for you."
"I admire your optimism," Enid mutters in response.
Wednesday snorts under her breath. "Eugene said he would pack us a summer's worth of honey," she offers. “We'll have plenty for consumption and ritual work.”
Enid's mouth is already filling with saliva at the prospect of additional chances to have messy rune sex under the guise of practicing rituals. "Did he? How much is a summer's worth?" she wonders aloud.
Would it be greedy to ask to perform a ritual every other day? Wednesday will think she's lost her mind—or that Enid has spontaneously decided to become a runewitch, which is ridiculous. She’s never had the chops to excel at anything, let alone a highly sought-after branch of magic. Wednesday would laugh her out of the room.
Besides, Enid has bigger fish to fry. Today was not only a day of note, circled on her calendar twice with no less than three sparkly stickers for emphasis, because it signifies the end of finals; Wednesday had promised another conversation once the summer began in earnest. Enid thinks back to the illicit tablet and all its dubious contents, then to the list she’d carefully compiled over the last few days, and finds herself unable to swallow.
Though she hadn’t spent much time studying for exams, Enid certainly had devoted herself to the homework assigned by Professor Addams. Her dedication to deciding how she’d most like Wednesday to fuck her would put other teacher's pets to shame.
Wednesday smirks as she holds the door open, and Enid feels it settle deep in her stomach, curling up her spine and aching in her jaw.
"Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Wednesday says, and Enid struggles to remember what they’d been talking about, can’t seem to conjure up any response besides—
“I’m ready to show you my list,” she blurts.
Wednesday’s eyes widen, her hand tightening around Enid’s as the words register. Enid is painfully aware of how hot her cheeks feel, but she refuses to drop their gaze. She will not hide from Wednesday. Not again, not ever.
Just as Wednesday’s lips part to reply, Eugene appears in the doorway and says, “Hey, guys! How was the—wait, what’s wrong?”
Enid and Wednesday’s heads snap towards him like they’ve been caught red-handed. Just as quickly, their eyes find each other again. Enid wonders if anyone else can hear her heart pounding in her ears.
“Tonight,” Wednesday promises, ignoring Eugene’s confusion. Enid can do nothing but nod.
Notes:
wednesday: KEEP MY WIFE'S NAME OUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH !
we are back in business!!! as of today, it has been approximately five (5) months since this story started, give or take twelve hours, so let me be the first to say: HAPPY MF ANNIVERSARY! missed you guys sm these last two weeks i swear.
next up: the torments of san francisco. and Kink Negotiation.
next update 5/31! off for the holiday and prepping for my travel next week. happy memorial day for those who celebrate!
Chapter 64: Edge
Notes:
kink warning: wet dream recounted where there is knifeplay, no actual knifeplay occurs (and obviously no blood)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday continues to hold Enid’s hand, supporting her elbow as Enid hops up onto the nearest counter. She then deposits their bags on a stool and moves to peer down into the open decanter Eugene was monitoring, her skirt inching up as she bends. No wonder she caught Bianca’s eye; those boots really are something, sleek and dark, the sort of supple leather that reeks of wealth. Enid’s mouth feels a little dry just imagining one of those boots propped on her shoulder, exposing whatever Wednesday’s hiding beneath that awful skirt and thigh-highs.
If Enid were smart, she would’ve taken advantage of all the packing they’d been doing and found an opportunity to snoop through Wednesday’s lingerie collection. If her day clothing is this nice, Enid can’t imagine what lies in wait for her in Wednesday’s private stores. Enid’s pretty sure she would die on the spot if she ever saw Wednesday in crotchless panties.
Everything that Wednesday wears is high quality, but never once has Enid seen her sporting a designer brand. Unlike Bianca’s minions, Wednesday seems utterly apathetic to the notion of purposefully flaunting a recognizable name on her belongings. Most of her clothing doesn’t even have tags.
Enid can’t help but watch her, wondering where Wednesday got that heartless outfit in the first place and whether there might be more of them to be modeled for Enid’s personal enjoyment. One of Wednesday’s braids tumbles over her shoulder, and it is the work of a moment to relocate the plait behind her back, exposing her throat. The motion is absentminded, a mere flick and toss of her head, but Enid feels as though all the oxygen in the room has dissipated.
From this angle, she has an unobstructed view of Wednesday’s pale, unmarked neck. Even at a distance, Enid imagines she can hear the steady fluttering of Wednesday’s pulse. If Enid didn’t know she’s at least a year out from her next heat, she’d be deeply concerned with her behavior over the last few days. It isn’t normal to spend so much time thinking about sinking her teeth into someone’s throat.
Ever since Wednesday collared her, Enid’s constantly caught herself digging her nails into her palms, gritting her teeth, and wishing Wednesday hadn’t stopped her from shoving her tongue inside her in that dusty storage closet. The smell of Wednesday’s arousal haunts her even now. As a wolf, she has certain evolutionary advantages bred from hundreds of years of natural selection—including a longer, hotter tongue than that of a human. Enid personally feels it was an immense missed opportunity that Wednesday didn't let her put it to work.
Eugene, still stationed by the door, shifts his weight. His apron is splattered with a golden, sticky mess that tells Enid it must be jarring day. “Are we just going to ignore whatever that was, then?” he asks the room at large.
“If I were you, I would let sleeping dogs lie,” Wednesday replies, ignoring Enid's audible choke. “What have you infused this with, Eugene? It smells delicious.”
Eugene squawks his displeasure when Wednesday dips her fingertip into one of the open jars, dishcloth snapping as he descends upon her like a biblical plague. “Don’t just contaminate it! Jesus, Wednesday, that was supposed to be for Enid!” he complains.
Wednesday’s finger pops out of her mouth, tongue wetting her lips, and she responds, “What on earth makes you think Enid won’t still eat it?”
Eugene and Wednesday both glance at Enid, who does her damndest not to look like she was panting with her mouth hanging open a mere second ago. Her fingers hurt where she grips the edge of the countertop.
Tonight, Enid thinks. The negotiation happens tonight. Only a little bit longer, and she'll know if Wednesday will have her the way she wants to be had.
"Point taken," Eugene mutters, trying and failing to hide his smile. "It has floral notes and some of the vanilla my moms brought back from their trip to Mexico. Good, right? I'm still experimenting with the infusion balance, but I think this will be ready in time for your flight tomorrow. Hey, how's it feel to be done with school?"
"Excellent," Wednesday answers him. "We were just discussing it. Still no word from the temple."
Eugene frowns as he lowers himself onto a stool. "That's too bad. I would've liked to see your balcony hopper for myself. From the way Enid tells it, you'd think an ancient keeper of the woods came to treat with her,” he prods with a teasing grin.
Enid readily returns it. “What are you saying, huh?” she demands, leaning forward. “Surely, you’re not accusing me of only being able to attract monsters.”
Eugene’s eyes flick to Wednesday. “Well, from a certain perspective—”
"Hardly a monster," Wednesday interjects. "I would never let a true threat go unchecked. From Enid’s description, I suspect a simple acolyte with fuzhu ancestry.”
“Or a spirit of fertility, what with all those horns,” Eugene muses in complete ignorance of the sharp look Wednesday sends him.
“What’s a fuzhu?” Enid asks.
Wednesday firmly turns away from Eugene. “Have you ever heard of the Shanhai Jing?”
“Uh—no, can’t say I have,” Enid admits.
Eugene makes a noise of understanding. “I always forget you didn’t take Ancient Texts.”
“Nope, can’t say I did,” Enid agrees, kicking out her feet.
Wednesday moves to catch one of her legs, hand clamping around Enid’s ankle. “The romanized title is Classic of Mountains and Seas. Though its authorship has been debated for over two thousand years, the text serves as a rich collection of Chinese mythology and geography. Fuzhu are described as horned beasts lacking in aggression.”
“That would fit Mei,” Enid notes. “Is that really all it says in the book about fuzhu? What a letdown.”
“The legend also includes a line concerning a white deer whose sighting serves as an omen of a great flood, but I doubt we can expect the same trouble from our unwanted visitor,” Wednesday replies.
Enid hums as she considers that. “Yeah, Mei didn’t really give me the omen of mass destruction vibe. Her robes were pretty, though,” she adds as an afterthought.
Wednesday stares at her. “I commend any burglar with the gall to trespass on our territory, but purple was a poor choice of attire," she states. “Light colors have a regrettable habit of glowing in the dark. Any burgeoning criminal would know that.”
“It actually was more of a periwinkle, but I see your point,” Enid says, smiling. “Mei wouldn’t have hurt us. Hell, she nearly killed herself by accident.”
“I trust your judgment on the matter,” Wednesday solemnly replies, “Which is why we didn’t move that very night.”
Enid blinks. “Wait, what? We would’ve moved?” she calls after Wednesday, who releases her ankle and meanders back toward Eugene’s workstation.
“I knew you seemed suspiciously unconcerned about the fact that you had a break-in," Eugene snorts.
Wednesday shoots him a look. "Of course, I'm concerned. The idea of a stranger scaling five stories to access our unlocked balcony is maddening. If we weren't permanently leaving the premises tomorrow, I would have made other plans for our living arrangements."
"Where would we have even moved to?" Enid asks, catching Wednesday's eye. "It's not like there's a lot of flexibility in the dorms, and I'm pretty sure we'd see a resurgence of witch burnings in the square if we tried to move into an off-campus apartment.”
“Apartments?" Eugene repeats. "Jericho subsists exclusively on pre-planned neighborhoods with enforced HOAs. I’m not sure how much luck you'd have had in that quarter, Enid."
"True," Enid concedes, swinging her feet. "The townies would've never let us rent somewhere. Pretty sure we'd be guillotined like the outcasts of old if we tried to get a hotel room outside of Family Day."
Wednesday purses her lips. "That was France. Here, we'd more likely be executed by stoning," she informs her.
"Ugh. I'd rather bake in the fire," Enid says with a grimace. "Where would we have gone if we had to move out, Wednesday? Besides a tent in the woods, I mean."
As much as Albert the Squirrel probably would have enjoyed their company and provisions, Enid isn’t too keen on venturing into these woods after dark. Nevermore boasts more than just a diverse student population.
Wednesday offers a small smile. "Ideally, a dwelling with central air conditioning, but we’ve endured worse. As long as we could easily defend the structure from attack, we would've made do."
Enid has to rethink those words twice before she grasps Wednesday’s meaning. "What? You would not have bought us a house," she scoffs.
"Oh, she absolutely would have," Eugene speaks up. When Enid looks at him, he shrugs. "You haven't seen the private jet."
"Acquiring real estate overnight in this charming town would have been an ordeal, to say the least. I'm pleased we're making for safer pastures, instead," Wednesday states, like it isn’t appalling to call Enid’s hometown safe in any capacity.
Enid’s not sure what Wednesday expects from the Sinclairs, but she hopes it isn’t a warm welcome or Wednesday will be severely disappointed. Enid suspects that she won’t be welcome home at all as long as she wears a non-wolf’s collar around her neck. She was supposed to match with a dominant wolf from an influential pack, not an outsider on the other side of the country. In her parents’ eyes, Enid has done something unbelievably selfish. She hasn’t heard from a single relative since breaking the news about her courting in the family group message.
Enid can't decide whether she wants to laugh or flee. "I still think it's a bad idea to go," she ultimately responds.
Wednesday is undeterred. "It's tradition, Enid."
"Who cares about tradition?" Enid huffs. "Forget getting deep-fried or pelted with rocks—you know what wolves do to trespassers, Wednesday? What my kin does when someone unwelcome steps onto our land?"
"Something horrendous, undoubtedly," Wednesday says, eyes bright. "I look forward to learning more."
Enid drops her face into her hands.
"You two are brave," Eugene offers. "I'd be scared witless if I were you. Either of you. Remember The Apple Pie Incident?"
Wednesday's smile shifts from decidedly pleased to bordering on cruelty. "How could I forget?" she murmurs.
"You swore not to bring it up ever again, Eugene!" Enid gasps. "For shame!"
Eugene holds up his hands. "Alright, alright. Just—leave the baking tools at home this time, huh, Wednesday?”
Wednesday straightens up. "I will not. Greedy little wolves should know better than to sniff after things that do not belong to them,” she retorts.
"Oh my God, my parents are going to kill us," Enid groans into her hands. "They still haven't forgiven you for that, you know."
"Likewise,” sneers Wednesday.
Enid rolls her head back up to squint in her direction. "What did they ever do to you?” she earnestly asks. “Besides letting my brothers eat your pie, I mean. That was pretty rude."
"If I were to name every transgression done to me and my own, we'd be here all night," Wednesday replies. "And as much as I would like to explore this topic further, I believe we have other plans for the evening."
Wednesday’s eyes inevitably find hers, alight with unholy intent.
"Revenge is never the answer," Eugene says in the background.
Enid ignores him. "Was making my brothers shit their pants the entire ride home not enough of a punishment for you?"
"Not even close," Wednesday answers her. "That was a mere reminder to keep their hands to themselves. I hope, for their sake, the lesson stuck."
"Christ, Wednesday. That was one hell of a teachable moment," Enid mumbles.
Wednesday hums her agreement. "Lessons learned in blood are sure to stick. Come now, Enid—we must be getting back,” she says like it isn’t early afternoon at best and painfully obvious to Eugene why the sudden rush. “Can we expect you at dinner, Eugene?"
He grins. "As if I'd miss your going away party! Still meeting in the quad at six?"
"That is correct."
“Then yeah, I’ll see you there.” Eugene waves them off. “Have a good afternoon, guys! Enjoy your last day on campus.”
Wednesday effectively herds Enid out the door, retrieving both their bags while Enid plods on ahead. No matter the season, there always seems to be something crunchy underfoot on Nevermore's winding pathways. Today, it's wilted flowers and whirlybirds raining down from the maple trees sheltering the cobblestones from the sun.
"What Eugene said before," Wednesday suddenly speaks up, eyea facing forward. "I know it is not easy for you to return home. You are brave for doing this."
"More like a glutton for punishment," Enid mutters, kicking a broken stick out of her path. "I just don't understand why, Wednesday. Who cares if we don't follow every rule to the letter?"
Wednesday seems to seriously consider her question, her brow furrowing. "Formal courting depends on adherence to the rules," she eventually replies.
"Yeah, but when have we ever followed the rules?" Enid demands, coming to a stop.
Wednesday's eyes narrow as her shiny nails begin drumming a frantic beat on the strap of her bag. "I will not have your blood relations claiming we bonded illegitimately, Enid," she retorts. "I won't allow it. They'll sooner raise an army of the dead than try to force us apart on a mere technicality."
Wednesday's expression is cold enough to tug Enid right out of her spiral of perceived injustice and plant her feet in reality. Wednesday doesn't want to do this either, Enid realizes. For that matter, presenting yourself to your submissive's pack before the actual mating takes place is a tradition from the formal courting of wolves, not Addamses; Wednesday is doing this purely for her sake.
Enid forces herself to smile. "...They would do that, wouldn't they?" she attempts to joke.
Wednesday's silence speaks volumes. "We'll visit, announce our intentions, and depart," she states. "I am not a fan of lingering. In and out will do."
Enid shuffles closer, now worried she managed to legitimately upset Wednesday. "I'm sorry I'm being a brat," she quietly says.
Wednesday releases her breath and sighs, reaching out to wrap her hand around the back of Enid's neck. Enid curls into her, seeking the spot between her neck and shoulder where the strongest of Wednesday's scent emanates. Enid inhales her, listening to Wednesday's heartbeat and the skittering of life in the trees overhead as Wednesday's grip on her tightens.
"You're always a brat," Wednesday dryly responds. "Forgive me. I don't ever intend to scare you, Puppy."
Enid sighs into her neck. "You don't scare me," she replies. "Don't think you could ever truly scare me, Wednesday. Not in the way you’re thinking."
Wednesday gently drags her back by the hair. Her eyes glint with something unfamiliar. "What makes you say that?" she asks, entirely serious.
Enid tries not to laugh. "Well, I'm a wolf," she points out, "So I'm stronger than you. You could hurt my feelings, sure, but I'm never worried you're going to, like, hit me or something.”
Wednesday raises both eyebrows at Enid’s unintentional scoff. "No," she agrees. "The prospect of me striking you doesn't seem to worry you much at all.”
Enid only becomes aware at that moment of how strongly her vanilla scent blooms between them. "You spanked me once," she blurts, maintaining eye contact through sheer force of will.
Wednesday cocks her head, nails digging ever so slightly into the delicate skin on the back of Enid's neck. "And what was your assessment of the experience?"
Enid pretends to have to think about it, though the way she naturally sways towards Wednesday says otherwise. "I could stand to try it again," she breathes.
"Because you like to be scared?" Wednesday asks, grip preventing Enid from closing the distance between them. "Or because you like to feel pinned and helpless?"
Enid swallows. "Both, a little. I think."
Wednesday’s finger twitches on her neck. "Interesting,” she hums, eyes boring into Enid’s burning face. “Perhaps we should consider investigating other types of impact play. You enjoyed my hand, Puppy, but would you like the sear of my belt just as much?” she murmurs, ignoring the moan that Enid can’t quite swallow down. “Hm. It’s a fascinating prospect.”
Wednesday then releases her and resumes walking like they were having a normal conversation rather than what Enid believed to be the precursor to a heated fuck behind the treeline.
"W-Wait, what else?" Enid protests, hurrying to catch up. "Come back! I'm not afraid of your belt."
Wednesday shoots her a surprised look, though her pace does slow as requested. "You weren’t meant to be afraid of it. If what you'd really like to feel is fear, Enid, I can do much better than a belt."
Enid struggles to catch her breath. "Like what?"
"There are a variety of kinks that deal in exploring what truly separates fear from arousal," Wednesday says. "Suspension—hanging bondage, that is—often delves into those waters. The same could be said for kinks concerning the use of electricity as physical stimulation.”
Enid blinks, wide-eyed at the mental image of Wednesday shocking her bare stomach with a cattle prod while she struggles against her restraints, powerless to stop it.
“Of course, there are a plethora of pre-scripted roleplay scenarios where one partner adopts the role of a helpless victim," Wednesday adds. “In a controlled setting, fear can be exhilarating.”
Enid makes an involuntary noise that she tries to cover up with a cough. "Do you—are you into that?" she asks, voice edged with something high and unsteady.
Wednesday considers her with cool eyes. "Feeling helpless? No. But I can understand the appeal of wanting to be fucked under duress," she admits. "It's quite the adrenaline rush to fear for your life. I don't find it unusual that some fantasize of a hand around their throat and a pistol held to their chin when people regularly jump out of planes for sport."
Enid's stomach feels as though she suddenly plummeted several stories. Wednesday may have psychic visions, but there is no way she could know about the dream that's been bearing down on Enid like a rabid dog. Wednesday couldn't possibly have guessed what scenario Enid's subconscious saw fit to throw her into a mere few nights ago.
Like most things capable of uprooting Enid's sense of stability, the dream in question had begun with a fevered need to taste Wednesday's sweat and come.
Ever since that first night investigating the BDSM tablet, Enid had been suffering dreams that left her sheets soaked and blankets kicked onto the floor. Most nights, Enid would strip her wet bottoms off and make for Wednesday's bed rather than bother cleaning her own.
Wednesday insisted it was important to her that they maintained boundaries while Enid completed her research. She seemed to think Enid wouldn't be able to make an informed decision with Wednesday licking up her neck in the dead of night and asking her for things Enid never dreamed would be an option.
She’s probably right, but that doesn't make sleeping separately any easier. Enid pouts every night as she lays in her empty bed, even knowing she'll likely wake curled up against Wednesday's side. The one night Enid hadn't suffered a wet dream and made for Wednesday's bed under the cloak of darkness like a greedy little rat, Wednesday spent the rest of the day with a thundercloud over her head.
Wednesday is an exceedingly light sleeper, but on that particular morning, when she'd stretched out her arm and felt nothing but cool sheets instead of overheated limbs and unruly hair, she'd whipped up into a sitting position so fast, Enid startled from all the way across the room. Bottles of nail polish clattered to the ground as Wednesday opened her mouth, rethought her words, then closed it with a frown.
The next night, Enid didn't bother waiting for her inevitable lack of self-control to push them together; as soon as Wednesday's breathing evened out, Enid crossed the room and climbed into her bed. Wednesday's arms had snaked around her like a vise, gripping her so tightly that Enid had been forced to sleep with her head on Wednesday's chest.
Four nights ago, while tossing and turning in her own bed, Enid had been met with a dream that most certainly did not originate from the contents of Wednesday's tablet. Nothing in Wednesday's research, not even the admittedly enthralling treatise on Pet Play, could have inspired Enid to dream of being fucked like that.
The dream materialized like most of the others, with Enid getting caught committing some imagined infraction and Wednesday taking it upon herself to bring her pet to heel. This time, Dream Enid had been caught rifling through Wednesday's drawers—which probably says something unflattering about her inner desires—and Wednesday had only let her flee as far as the bed.
There Dream Enid lay, whining and begging for mercy as Wednesday approached her. By the time she reached the bed, Dream Enid was panting, hand already plastered between her thighs, fingers slipping through the slick dripping down to her ass.
"Was this what you were looking for?" Dream Wednesday had asked, voice low and wanting, and in her hands, she'd held a knife.
Dream Enid had spread her legs further, shaking her head, no, never, I’m your good girl, good Puppy, but Dream Wednesday could not be swayed by feeble protests.
"If you want it so badly," Wednesday had sneered, "Then who am I to deny you? Hands and knees."
Enid woke from the dream with a cry halfway out of her mouth, cheeks wet with tears, and sticky thighs that signaled a receding orgasm. She'd been beyond lucky that Wednesday had already left the room to acquire breakfast; there was no way Enid could have acted normally when she could still feel the press of cool metal against her throat and Wednesday’s voice thundering in her ears. You’re not going to come, Dream Wednesday commanded. Stay still, Enid. Don’t move.
Even after giving it significant thought, Enid can’t remember what Dream Wednesday had been pressing inside of her, though she’s certain it was bigger than her fingers. It could just as easily have been one of Enid’s heat toys as a stolen vegetable or the mythical longsword Excalibur. Wednesday could have been fucking her with a hot pink pool noodle for all it mattered. Such is the nature of dreams that the only detail she could recall in perfect, harrowing detail was the bite of the blade pressed to her neck. Days later, Enid can only liken the experience to being high. The threat of death, even in a dream, had been enough to send her over the edge untouched.
Enid would never desire such a thing in her right mind, but the space between sleep and true wakefulness is grey and full of teeth. For a single instance, Enid had wanted nothing more than to return to the Wednesday who'd fucked her with a knife to her throat. Though she’d sooner be put to the sword than admit it out loud, some part of Enid had mourned the loss of her dream in that flickering moment, knowing she would never see that same expression on Wednesday's face with waking eyes.
Then Enid's head cleared, she realized what exactly she was pining for in Wednesday's bed like a little psycho killer in the making, and promptly fled to have a mini-crisis under her favorite tree in the woods. Albert sat in her lap for almost two hours though she hadn't thought to bring a single treat for him.
As distressing as it was to realize she might have more than just a passing interest in power exchanges, that dream had given Enid the courage to begin recording her list of kinks—the ones safe enough to share, that is. If she could find the inner constitution to admit to herself that deep, deep down, she might find it thrilling to be in danger for once rather than posing a threat to others by courtesy of existing like usual, then Enid could certainly muster up the courage to write down eating Wednesday out.
Funny how the little concessions no longer seemed to matter when faced with a prospective future of attempting to hide her burgeoning desire for bloodshed from Wednesday's unflinching gaze.
Notes:
enid: did i seriously just dream of wednesday fucking me at knifepoint? oh my god she's going to think i'm twisted! and call off the courting!
wednesday: first of all, the correct term is knifeplay. second of all: no
Chapter 65: Brat
Notes:
HAPPY PRIDE MONTH! never forget that the babadook is a gay icon
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday sits next to Enid at dinner and spends the entire hour plotting.
She's not an idiot. She knows what Enid has been up to over the last week, highly aware of all the ways Enid has prodded and tested the strength of her self-control.
At first, Wednesday thought it was unintentional; Enid might not have known what it would do to her to constantly wake up to a bare thigh slung over her hips. Enid might not have realized exactly how much it taxed Wednesday's composure to see those pretty pink clothes encroaching on her side of the room, thoroughly invading Wednesday's space and eliciting lewd fantasies of what it would be like for Enid to build a nest meant for both of them to share.
Then, Enid emerged from the bathroom for dinner dressed in a criminally short skirt and what essentially amounted to a paper-thin caricature of a shirt, eyes wide and hungry for Wednesday's reaction, and it occurred to Wednesday that Enid might have been acting with purpose all along. If Wednesday wasn't so on edge, she would applaud her pretty pet for being so inventive with her chosen method of psychological torture. Testing whether or not Wednesday will live up to her mandate of no fucking during the research period by prancing around in next to no clothing certainly counts as below the belt.
Wednesday is ecstatic that Enid’s become comfortable enough with her to begin pushing back. What dominant doesn’t love an unruly submissive? But she has also spent the entire meal glaring at anyone who slows to look at Enid's chest whenever she becomes aroused or cold, so Wednesday is plotting. Though Enid’s blossoming attitude is a wonder to behold, she will have to learn that actions have consequences, and Wednesday has never been opposed to biding her time in order to teach a lesson.
***
The last supper with all of their friends is enjoyable, if a little tainted by Enid's bubbling desperation to get back to the room as soon as possible. The outfit had been a risk. Enid knew it was a risk, but after enduring days of Wednesday embodying the tenets of celibacy with gusto while she was neck-deep in BDSM research, Enid reached the end of her rope.
The hour her friends spend together in the quad passes as slowly as molasses and as quickly as the space between two heartbeats. Maybe Enid's just eager to reap the fruit of the seeds she’s been sowing on the sly since that first research night. She tries to focus on her friends, knowing she won't see them again for a long while, but as always, Wednesday commands her full attention. Enid relishes the tension mounting between them the longer they sit so close, thighs nearly brushing, without physically touching each other.
By the time the dinner winds to a close, Enid is nearly vibrating with anticipation, and Wednesday’s adopted a weird air that sets Enid’s teeth on edge. Her unsettling body language could simply be nerves over their upcoming negotiations, but that seems unlikely considering this is the same girl who once asked her ‘How would you like to be fucked?’ with a straight face. It isn't unbridled arousal that Wednesday's just waiting to unload on her either; Enid would know if Wednesday were turned on.
Unfortunately, Wednesday’s conduct this week would put a monk to shame. Whatever's going on here is different.
At a loss, Enid ultimately chalks up Wednesday's strange demeanor to pre-travel jitters. She's honestly not sure what else could cause Wednesday to wrap an arm around her waist in public when Wednesday usually considers hand-holding an intimate act.
"What time is your flight?" Yoko speaks up. "I might still be awake, depending on when you leave. We could do a breakfast send-off."
Wednesday nods, slipping her pinky finger inside the waistband of Enid's skirt. Enid almost misses a step, eyes wide as she tries not to startle and give them away. Wednesday hasn't touched her like this since before the tablet. Out of sight of Eugene and Yoko, a sharp little nail drags over Enid's skin.
"We're due to the airfield before noon," Wednesday calmly responds, which is fortunate considering Enid's ability to speak dried up the moment Wednesday started stroking her. "As we're the only flight scheduled to take off tomorrow, punctuality isn't a matter of life or death. We could delay if you'd prefer."
Wednesday aims those last words at Enid, face perfectly neutral even as Enid struggles to keep her breathing regular.
A group of boys passes them on the sidewalk, and Enid feels Wednesday's fingertips snake under the hem of her top and jerk it back down over her ribs.
"Sure," Enid agrees a bit breathlessly, shifting her weight so that the skirt she's wearing swishes against her bare legs. "The later, the better. Means less time with my family," she muses.
Wednesday's eyes flick down to Enid’s skirt, drag up her exposed stomach to the cropped shirt Enid strategically chose for this evening, and finally land on her face. She has that odd look about her again. Enid knows arousal, but this expression has her feeling faintly like she should run while she still has the chance.
A breeze shifts the hair off Enid's shoulders, and though Enid automatically moves to hold down her skirt before it can balloon out and expose anything essential, she discovers Wednesday's hand already clamped in place, pulling the fabric taut. Wednesday's face doesn't so much as twitch, immune to the flush pinkening Enid’s cheeks.
Enid realizes she's showing more skin than strictly necessary for early summer in New England, but if the sirens can walk around in matching sports bras and bike shorts on a weekly basis, surely she can wear a short skirt and flimsy crop top to one meal. If it makes Wednesday hunger for her the way Enid has hungered during this terrible era of enforced celibacy, all the more reason to keep it up.
Yoko cocks her head at them. "You're not flying out of Burlington?" she asks, voice lilted with amusement.
"They're flying private," Eugene replies, smirking at his feet. "Just wait, Enid. The jet even has those pink animal cracker abominations you love so much," he informs her, raising a pointed eyebrow at Yoko.
Before Enid can respond, Wednesday abruptly jerks her sideways, dragging Enid in so they're nearly nose to nose. Caught off guard by the sudden motion, Enid reacts with a little squeak that has at least two groups of nearby wolves glancing around in search of its source.
Yoko covers up her snort with a delicate cough while Eugene attempts to hide his grin. Enid hunches her shoulders, her entire face heating when she recognizes that one of the clusters of wolves has figured her out. She catches the faint sound of her name being spoken while one of the wolves points at his neck.
The others in his group mutter amongst themselves, eyeing her curiously. Enid doesn't recognize a single one of them, which means they likely all hail from an east coast pack. The one-sided anonymity doesn't make it any better. She must look like an idiot, a fully grown wolf getting ragdolled by a human whose height barely eclipses that of the average middle schooler.
Wednesday narrows her eyes over Enid's shoulder. When Enid twists around to follow her gaze, she catches sight of some kid in headphones striding in the opposite direction, completely unaware of them. Enid must have been able to walk into him or something; she can't think of another reason why Wednesday would react so intensely to what would have been a minor sidewalk collision at most.
Yoko seems to be exerting a herculean effort not to smirk. "Pink frosted animal crackers? How specific," she comments. "What else was stocked on board, Eugene?"
Eugene adopts a troublesome grin of his own, shoving his hands into his pockets as he rocks forward. "Hey, Enid—what's your favorite drink?" he asks.
"Eugene," Wednesday barks.
"Those little yogurt drinks with the shiny wrappers," Enid replies, glancing between them. "Why? What's going on?"
Eugene airily says, "Oh, nothing, except—"
"Well, that was an experience. I'm pleased to have known you both," Wednesday speaks over him, punctuating her statement with a little nod. "Alas, this is goodbye."
She then pivots and hauls Enid into the dorm, leaving Enid to call out, "I'll text you about breakfast!" while trying not to trip over her own feet.
"Jesus, Wednesday, slow down!" Enid splutters, scrambling to follow her up the stairs without breaking any bones in the process. "Why are we running?"
Wednesday shoots a look over her shoulder. "We have plans," she retorts.
Enid huffs out a laugh, completely lost as to why Wednesday's behaving the way she is but relishing in the attention regardless. Her blood sings. Enid will be dead before she complains about Wednesday touching her unprompted, even if it is an unyielding hand around her wrist.
When they reach the door to their room, Wednesday comes to an unexpected halt, hand shooting out to steady Enid when she predictably pitches forward.
Wednesday's grip shifts to Enid's upper arms. "Go inside and prepare," she orders, eyes intent on Enid’s face. "I will wait for you here."
Enid remains where she is, struck with the same flutter of anxiety that blooms whenever she realizes she forgot to complete a homework assignment. "Um…sorry, prepare what, exactly?" she hedges.
Wednesday drops her arms to her sides. "This is your meeting, Enid,” she says. “Arrange things how you want them. Then you’ll invite me inside.”
Enid gulps, but nods and does as ordered. Once inside the room, she pauses, her chest twinging at the sight of stacked cardboard boxes and mostly bare furniture. Only Wednesday's bed is still made, Enid having already stripped her nest down and packed it up this morning in hopes that Wednesday would at least entertain the possibility of fucking her tonight. Even if they weren't doomed to share a bed, Enid is fully aware of what state she'll be in the moment they begin discussing her kinks. Maybe, if she plays her cards right, Wednesday might feel generous enough to let her come.
On cue, Enid's cheeks raise a new hell, the surge of heat spreading over her chest and stomach and burning under her slutty clothes. Wednesday might not know that Enid's refrained from touching herself since that first night with the tablet, but Enid sure does. She can practically track down to the minute how long she's been resisting the urge.
The only orgasms Enid has had in recent weeks have been those delivered courtesy of wet dreams, which was enough of a chore to try and hide from Wednesday. Enid's not sure what explanation Wednesday thought of as to why she kept finding Enid pantsless in her bed, but since no orders to cease and desist came down from on high, Enid continued to push her luck and cause trouble however she could.
After all, Wednesday had a treatise on Brat Taming in her trusty tablet, and what better way to test Enid’s own interest in the practice than to give it a test run?
Inspired by the antics of professional Brats on the online forum she finally found the courage to seek out, Enid started leaving dirty clothes strewn across both sides of the room instead of just hers. Make it impossible for your dom not to think of you, the commenters had advised. Get as close to breaking the rules as you can without tipping them off.
Keeping their belongings separate hadn’t been a rule since the first year they lived together, but Enid thought it might still work. Wednesday had dutifully relocated Enid's day clothes to their proper hamper, proving she’d at least noticed them—though all of the underwear Enid left as bait was missing, which was admittedly weird.
In truth, the longer Wednesday refrained from fucking her, the more reckless Enid became.
She's spent days floating in a perpetual state of arousal. At this point, if it hadn't been for the distraction of exams, Enid probably would have ended up doing something brash in hopes of reclaiming Wednesday's attention. Perhaps it was the littlest bit cruel to wear such a thin shirt to dinner when Enid knew a mere glance from Wednesday would have her nipples pressing through the fabric for anyone to see, but she was out of ideas. The whole experience of edging herself was like living on top of a skyscraper while dreaming of falling every night and confirmed what Enid had already suspected: she's a huge slut for suffering, even her own.
Wednesday would probably be proud.
Notes:
enid: i'm gonna leave my clothes everywhere to piss wednesday off!
wednesday: she's clearly teasing me with the thought of a nest made just for us. how cruel.
Chapter 66: Boot
Notes:
this is a very Physical negotiation taking place in enid and wednesday's dorm room so it should come to no one's surprise: improper use of riding boots
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Enid has yet to learn how to stage a room for a BDSM-related discussion, she drags her desk into the center of the floor, creating a makeshift meeting table with rickety chairs at either end. Much as Enid hates the thought of direct eye contact, this conversation will best be held face-to-face.
She briefly considers pulling out some refreshments—a yogurt drink for Enid, cold tea for Wednesday—then discards the thought. Offering drinks in a crop top will just serve to make Enid feel like a desperately lost Hooters waitress.
They really would have been better off renting a conference room or something similar for such an engagement, but Wednesday had been correct when she insinuated Enid would be most comfortable in familiar territory. This is their room, their shared space, and making such significant decisions anywhere else wouldn't feel right.
The desk creates an almighty ruckus against the floorboards, and Enid spares a moment to pray their neighbors aren’t around to listen in. She can’t imagine what the other inhabitants of Ophelia must think is going on in here.
Once the room is set and Enid has run out of excuses to delay the inevitable, she steels herself and returns to the hall.
Wednesday doesn’t appear to have moved an inch. “Are you ready for me?” she asks.
No, Enid thinks. “Yes,” she answers aloud, voice surprisingly composed.
Wednesday nods. “Invite me inside.”
Enid tries not to fidget as she steps aside. “Please, come in.”
Wednesday waltzes past her, unbothered as ever, even as she raises an eyebrow at Enid’s pseudo-conference table. Her face is unreadable.
“Invite me to sit,” Wednesday orders.
Enid releases a shaky breath. “Please sit, Wednesday.”
Wednesday takes her seat, unfolding with a grace Enid could never hope to emulate. Though they both wear skirts, Wednesday looks a lot more business professional rather than in danger of being charged with soliciting, which is the look Enid’s pretty sure she’s serving.
Wednesday watches her claim the other seat, eyes lingering on Enid's bare thighs in the moment before they sink out of sight. “You said you created a list," she speaks up.
Enid startles, but manages to steady herself. “Yes,” she agrees. “I did.”
Wednesday doesn't react. “May I see it?”
“No,” Enid replies, relishing in the thrill of the look of genuine surprise that flits across Wednesday’s face. “First, I’d like to review the kinks you gave me. The ones from your tablet, I mean.”
Wednesday nods. “A list that is by no means exhaustive,” she comments, accepting the handwritten list and ballpoint pen Enid slides to her. The click of her pen might as well be the cocking of a gun, so distinctly does it ring through the otherwise silent room. “Where shall we begin?”
“At the top,” Enid states, congratulating herself on behaving professionally in spite of the warmth curling in her stomach. “Impact play. I have questions.”
"Please." Wednesday invites her to continue.
Enid straightens up, schooling her expression. “Do you have experience with the more, um, advanced versions? Have you…” She struggles to find the right words.
Wednesday puts her out of her misery. “Have I practiced?” she asks, voice lilting with amusement.
Enid refuses to acknowledge the heat in her cheeks. “Yes. It can be dangerous, can’t it?” she poses.
“All kink involves some level of risk,” Wednesday responds, “But I would ensure I had adequate skill before attempting to use any item on your body. A cane, for example, wouldn’t even be a consideration until we both had more experience.”
Enid swallows. “How would you practice?”
Wednesday considers her with a sharp look that has Enid unconsciously straightening in her seat.
“I would practice on a pillow to ensure my aim is up to par,” Wednesday answers, cocking her head. “Spot accuracy is an essential aspect of impact play. Then, once I have grown proficient in wielding the apparatus, I would test it on myself to understand its pain application.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “On—on yourself?” she repeats, half-disbelieving.
Wednesday does not break their gaze. “Always. I would never strike you with something I had not first experienced on my own skin. How else would I gauge your pain threshold with any degree of accuracy?” she asks, as if any other possibility would be ludicrous.
Enid fervently wishes she’d thought to provide refreshments if only to give her something to do with her hands. “I see,” she rasps. “Then, impact play would be limited to just your hands at the start?”
Wednesday shifts back in her seat, inadvertently calling attention to the fact that they’d both been leaning over the table.
“At this stage, I would only spank you with my hand or a solid object like a hairbrush,” she says. “Would you like to include impact play on our list of potentials, Enid?”
“That—that’s fine,” Enid agrees.
Wednesday’s hand doesn’t move, despite the fact that she’s clutching her pen hard enough that her knuckles have turned white. “I’m afraid impact play doesn’t leave room for indifference," she replies. "You’re either interested in exploring it, or you're not.”
Enid presses her lips together. “I’m interested,” she admits in a rush, ignoring how her face flushes at the pleased look Wednesday adopts.
Wednesday marks the first item on her list. “Excellent." Her pen taps the tabletop. "Shall we move on to Shibari?”
“Also interested,” Enid announces, pressing her thighs together beneath the table. “Do you have any experience in that?”
Wednesday looks up from her sheet. “Yes,” she states. “I do.”
Enid doesn’t realize she’s glancing around in search of the telltale red ropes until Wednesday smirks in her direction.
“I’m afraid my Shibari supplies are already packed away,” Wednesday informs her, “But I often practiced self-tying while studying.”
Enid looks at her with wide eyes. “While studying?” she repeats, voice coming out too high.
Wednesday hums. “I enjoy the act of repetition," she admits. "Using my hands helps me focus.”
Enid’s eyes shoot right to Wednesday’s visible hand, which has taken to balancing her pen between two manicured fingertips.
“Would you like to include Shibari on your list?” Wednesday asks her.
“Yes,” Enid breathes. Then, unable to help herself, “Did you use red ropes on yourself?”
“Black,” Wednesday corrects, lips curling around the word. “There’s a very obscure branch of rune magic related to temporary knots. I was curious.”
Enid's entire body tenses at the use of the word knot. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she whispers, mouth dry.
“Satisfaction brought it back,” Wednesday retorts. Her gaze bores into Enid’s face.
Enid, with immense effort, manages to clear her throat. “We should—we should move on,” she insists.
Wednesday somehow maintains an air of triumph, even as she concedes with a nod and sits back. “Let’s.”
“Um—” Enid scrambles to find another, safer topic. “Food play,” she blurts.
Wednesday stares at her. “...Did you have a question for me?”
“No,” Enid admits, cheeks heating. She has to get a hold of herself before Wednesday senses the catastrophe occurring beneath her skirt. “I’d like to keep it on the list, though."
“Splendid,” Wednesday mutters, marking the item. Her eyes flick back up. “Sensory deprivation?” she proposes.
“I like the idea of it, but I’m nervous about the actual execution,” Enid says, slowly regaining her stride. “What kind of sensory deprivation would we be doing?”
Wednesday's gaze does not leave her face. “Eventually, I would like to bind your wrists and ankles and leave you sightless and unable to hear anything but a recording of my voice. I’m interested to learn whether you can slip into subspace due to circumstance alone or if it must always be a conscious choice. Depriving you of all other stimuli seems like a promising experiment.”
Enid makes a small, involuntary noise at that, and both of Wednesday’s hands disappear beneath the table.
“Of course, that would be far in the future,” Wednesday states. “I would start with short bouts of blindfolding as an initial test. If you don’t enjoy that, we obviously wouldn’t proceed any further.”
“No, we can definitely add that,” Enid asserts, voice heady and thick. “What would you record for me to listen to? How, um, do you plan to try and drop me into subspace?”
Wednesday’s eyes alight with the fervor of scientific interest. “I have a variety of ideas,” she hums, “But considering how you tend to react to my praise, I would likely begin there.”
Enid can’t help but whimper at the thought of listening to a recording consisting of nothing but Wednesday praising her. “You’re so fucking mean.”
“I know, good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, eyes bright. “I can smell how much you hate the idea.”
Enid clenches her knees together again, unable to stop herself from rubbing. She doesn’t realize she’s reached down to press the heel of her hand into her pussy to relieve the ache until Wednesday’s attention snaps to her arm.
“What are you doing?” Wednesday demands.
Enid releases a shaky breath. “Just—um, need a minute,” she pleads.
Wednesday stands up from her seat, rounds the desk, and approaches Enid with intention sewn into her every step. She raises one of those awful boots and plants it on the edge of Enid’s seat, forcing Enid’s knees apart. Before Enid can so much as yelp, Wednesday has kicked her chair, pushing Enid far enough back from the table that Wednesday can stand directly in front of her.
“What are you—”
“Hands up,” Wednesday barks. “Now, Enid.”
Enid’s palms jump to the armrests.
Wednesday relaxes, leaning back against the desk. Her fingers tap an uneven beat on the table’s edge. “Good girl.”
She stands close enough that Enid tastes her scent in the air. Honeycomb lingers on the back of her tongue, dripping down into her throat. Another few inches, and Wednesday would be standing between Enid’s knees. The desk that had once stood between them admittedly hadn’t been doing much, but without it, Enid feels trapped and isolated in her solitary chair.
“W-We’re supposed to be marking my list, Wednesday,” Enid protests, voice coming out high and uncertain. Her nails dig into the wooden armrests. If she's not careful, they'll end up with another charge for room damage.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her. “Was mutual masturbation included on that list?" she asks. "Because otherwise, I do believe you were distracted from our agreed-upon purpose."
Enid’s mouth pops open. “Wait. Wait, did you just say mutual masturbation?” she demands, blinking frantically. “As in, both of us?”
Wednesday’s face does not change. “You heard me.”
“But—but you don’t masturbate!” Enid splutters. “You said you hadn’t tried it before, during my heat—”
“That was then,” Wednesday replies. “This is now.”
Enid stares at her, aghast. “You touch yourself?” she gasps, voice breaking. “Have you touched yourself, Wednesday?”
Wednesday is unmoved. “I became rather inspired after watching you fall apart on my fingers. I admit, these last few weeks have been quite the era of discovery,” she muses.
Enid grips the armrests so hard, she thinks she might shatter them. “Show me,” she begs, breath coming fast. “Wednesday, you—please, you can't—”
"I can't?" Wednesday repeats, straightening up. "Are you giving me orders, after your little display just now?”
When Enid reacts with a wordless whine, Wednesday rolls her eyes.
“Why should I let you watch me come?" she maintains, eyes glinting with amusement as she watches Enid struggle. "We’re having a discussion.”
“We can talk after,” Enid weakly protests, her ass barely touching the seat as she strains to scoot closer.
Almost too fast for Enid to see, Wednesday’s boot finds her shoulder and shoves Enid back into her chair. Enid gasps, legs splayed out and hands still gripping the armrests as she tips her head to look up at Wednesday in shock.
Wednesday looms over her, harsh and unforgiving even as she smiles. “You haven’t so much as broached the topic of edging or pet play yet,” she taunts. “Those are two of my biggest interests, Enid. Surely, you don't intend to overlook them.”
“N-No, never, I like them,” Enid breathes. Her skin prickles at the involuntary mental image of how she’d look rutting against Wednesday's boot. Would Wednesday ever allow such a thing?
"You like them?" Wednesday persists, clearly enjoying herself.
“I like the idea," Enid rambles, mind still stuck on the boot. "We can—we can try both. Anything you want."
“Anything?” Wednesday repeats, voice a hair away from mocking. “I see. And yet, you still have yet to propose a single kink of your own.”
“Mutual masturbation,” Enid quickly offers. “I wanna watch you come, Wednesday.”
“I want you to be honest with me,” Wednesday retorts. “Do you know what it means to be edged, Enid?’
Enid’s stomach drops down to her toes. “But—but I haven’t come in days,” she protests. “Not since the first tablet night, Wednesday, please.”
Wednesday goes still. Her face is unreadable as she speaks. “Are you insinuating you haven’t masturbated at all since then?”
“Not once,” Enid pleads, shaking her head. “Not—not without Wednesday’s permission.”
Wednesday’s eyes glint with something alarming. “I see,” she murmurs. “Well-behaved Puppy, are you?”
Enid nods, breath hitching with a whine she can’t quite swallow.
“Fine,” Wednesday says. “Whenever your mouth is open and actively engaged in discussing your kinks or related topics, you may touch yourself.”
Enid whimpers with relief as she moves to slide her hand between her legs. Before she can reach her pussy, Wednesday’s boot lands on the seat between her knees, thoroughly halting her progress. Enid’s bare thighs meet leather when she automatically attempts to close them.
“When your mouth is shut, you stop,” Wednesday commands. “Can you adhere to these terms?”
“Yes,” Enid whispers. “Promise I’ll be good.”
Wednesday’s fingers twitch at her sides. “I know you will, Puppy.”
Though the boot between her thighs is resting mere inches from where she'd most like it, Enid manages to hold Wednesday's gaze as she asks, “What about you?”
Wednesday looks down at her, uncomprehending.
“When will you touch yourself?” Enid asks, voice splintering with the force of her desperation.
Wednesday’s eyes widen for a split second before she schools herself. “While I’m speaking, I will touch myself for you,” she decides, withdrawing her foot from Enid’s chair. It lands with a resounding thud on the floor. “Do we have an agreement, Puppy?”
Enid bites down on her lip hard enough to split the skin.
Notes:
fun fact i accidentally deleted my entire draft for the rest of this story today. no idea how. cue me panic sobbing while frantically googling how to retrieve an earlier version on ye old google docs
edit: I DID RETRIEVE THE DRAFT sorry should've started with that lol
EDIT 6/7: i'm flying out again tonight so chapter sixty seven will probably go up thursday or friday! depends on how much sleep i get on the plane lmao
Chapter 67: Expose
Notes:
kinks: voyeurism, exhibitionism (masturbating with an audience)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday's thumb drags Enid's lower lip from her teeth, preventing her from doing more damage.
"Always making a mess, aren't you?" Wednesday says under her breath.
When she draws back, the pad of her thumb is bloody. Wednesday ignores Enid's wide-eyed expression as she sucks it clean, then bends down and kisses her.
Enid tastes blood as Wednesday's tongue slides against her own. Her savaged lip is burning, hot with a lick of pain that pools in her chest and slithers down her spine. Wednesday's grip on Enid's hair only re-enforces the ache.
"How sickening," Wednesday breathes, "That even your blood should taste this sweet."
Enid whimpers into her mouth, volume surprising even her. It's a noise unmated wolves know better than to make in the presence of others. This is a song that incites violence, the sort of misstep that would require a public apology to correct if anyone overheard her behaving this way. It’s uncouth to beg as only submissive wolves can to be pinned and fucked and filled.
When Wednesday breaks their kiss, Enid mindlessly follows after her. She practically leaves her seat in an effort to find Wednesday's mouth again.
"A most impressive attempt," Wednesday says, breathless despite her endeavor to maintain composure, "But we had a deal."
"Maybe—maybe we can kiss a little more first," Enid mumbles into Wednesday's neck, throwing caution to the wind and licking up Wednesday's jaw.
Her skin smells like expensive skincare and sweat, but beneath that, dripping honeycomb and funeral lilies. It boggles Enid to think that most wolves prefer a mate with a more conventional scent, like lavender or orange blossom. Of course Wednesday should smell like an overgrown graveyard in late summer; anything less would be ill-fitting and unacceptable.
Wednesday jerks her back by the hair, firmly returning Enid to her assigned seat. She then rolls her eyes at Enid’s pout.
"We are having this conversation, Enid. If you are at all interested in coming tonight, I suggest you fix your attitude," Wednesday informs her.
Enid huffs, crossing her arms. "Fine. Who starts?" she retorts, mustering all the dignity she can considering she's sitting in a puddle of her own slick. This chair is definitely ruined.
Wednesday leans back. Those awful fingernails resume their beat on the table's edge, and though at least a foot of space remains between them, Enid can taste her in the air.
"Judging by the smell of your slick, I'm not sure you'd survive if I volunteered to go first, so please—start us off," Wednesday invites her.
Enid laughs once, high and hysterical, then asks sincerely, "Can I touch myself?"
The corner of Wednesday's mouth quirks up. "You may."
Enid shakily exhales as she parts her knees, but Wednesday snatches her wrist before she can reach beneath her skirt.
"No. You're going to show me," Wednesday states.
Enid makes a wounded noise as Wednesday releases her arm.
“You wanted my attention,” Wednesday reminds her. “Go on, then. Show me.”
All the bravado Enid had been drawing upon for strength disappears at once. She watches Wednesday's reaction as she raises her skirt, tucking the hem into her waistband. It starts with a glaze of incomprehension that becomes shock, a parting of her lips as the reality of what’s under Enid’s skirt dawns on her, and ends with a near-soundless exhale that Enid feels like a mortal wound. Wednesday’s expression only changes in increments, but Enid knows her well enough to tell that this is Wednesday Addams, struck speechless.
Managing to elicit such a reaction with so little effort gives Enid the confidence to commit to the performance. Under Wednesday’s incredulous stare, she draws her knees up to her chest, planting her heels on the seat. She hopes Wednesday enjoys the view because the angle is so thoroughly humiliating that Enid wonders if she might be at risk of spontaneous combustion. Here she sits in the same chair used for studying and homework, legs spread for Wednesday's enjoyment.
For her part, Wednesday looks like she can't decide whether she's furious or impressed. "You wore that skirt to dinner without underwear?" she asks, voice clipped. “You sat through dinner in—in that skirt, you decided not to—”
Wednesday cuts herself off, apparently beyond words. It is the first time Enid has ever heard her fumble a sentence that normally would have been wielded like a sword.
Enid smiles wide enough to show her teeth. "Yes?"
Wednesday shakes her head, knuckles turning white. "I ought to put you over my knee.”
Enid chews on her lip, relishing the bite of discomfort as she simpers, "But we're having a conversation," in a tone of voice that would get anyone else killed on the spot.
Wednesday's eyebrows disappear into her bangs. "You're unbelievable,” she breathes. “Wake not a sleeping wolf, indeed.”
"Pot to the kettle," Enid laughs. When her tongue passes over her teeth, she tastes blood. "Where should I start, Wednesday? What do you want to know?"
Wednesday's fingers cease their tapping, nails digging into the cheap woodgrain. "Everything," she replies.
"O-Oh,” squeaks Enid, movements stilling.
When a beat passes, and neither speaks, Wednesday takes it upon herself to resume control of the conversation. Enid is grateful, considering she’s still got her entire pussy out and the silence is daunting.
"Begin wherever you wish," Wednesday tells her. Her tone veers on challenging as she adds, "Surprise me."
Enid throws a quick glance toward her own written list, still tucked out of sight, but ultimately decides she doesn't need it. Using a ripped piece of notebook paper as an emotional crutch when Wednesday's already collared her is bullshit worthy of Past Enid. Present Enid is nineteen years old, has done her research, and is ready to discuss her kinks like a champ.
"Okay," Enid exhales, fingers sliding through the mess between her thighs. Her head automatically tips back, displaying her throat.
Since Wednesday's attention appears to be glued to her hand, Enid has no qualms about lifting her fingers to her mouth. Spit and slick spill onto her chin, dripping down to her chest. Enid’s little top, so cute and trendy, does absolutely nothing to hide her as the fabric darkens.
“Messy thing,” Wednesday murmurs, gaze intent on Enid’s face.
Enid doesn't find it particularly exciting to taste her own slick any more than she enjoys pulling her own hair or slapping herself on the ass, but the frenzied look in Wednesday's eyes has her wondering if she's ever tasted anything so sweet. Her smugness must show because Wednesday pivots from being unwillingly entertained to dissatisfied in a single heartbeat.
"Enjoying yourself?" Wednesday sneers. “I can tell. Is that truly all it takes, Enid? Just touching your little cunt leaves you incapable of speech? Cute.”
Enid's voice catches in her throat, coming a little too close to a purr for comfort, so she swallows before attempting to speak.
"Yes," she whimpers, stomach muscles clenching. "I, um—do you promise you won't think it's weird? What I say?"
Wednesday looks distinctly unimpressed for someone gripping the table hard enough to strain the wood. "Must I dignify that with an answer, Enid? After handing you a dissertation on food play which included personal notes ranking which flavor syrups I’d most like to lick off your skin?”
Enid slides down an inch further. "That’s fair," she mutters, tucking her chin to her chest. She shudders as she spreads herself open. "H-How much do you know about wolves, Wednesday? Like, sexually, I mean."
Wednesday's eyes flick back to her face. "I've gleaned the basics of your biology from available research, but I'm afraid there are nuances to your status that are still beyond me. Why? Do you intend to educate me?"
"Yeah," Enid agrees. "Course, I would—will. But Wednesday, there's some things…some things are pretty much universal."
"To all submissive wolves?" Wednesday clarifies, cocking her head. "Like what?"
"Come," Enid blurts, lip catching on her canines. "We like come."
Wednesday makes a noise in the back of her throat. "Whose come?"
"Yours. I always wanna taste your come,” Enid rambles. “And mine, I guess, if—if it's all over you." She sucks a breath in through her teeth. "Submissive wolves love getting filled with come cause of the breeding thing, but I really, really like it when you smell like my slick, Wednesday. I like it on you. It’s more than just wanting you to—wanting to be bred,” she quickly corrects herself.
Even without meeting her eyes, Enid can feel Wednesday’s gaze on her face.
“Is that a kink, Wednesday?" she asks in a high, unsteady voice.
"That you'd like to see me splattered with your come?" Wednesday responds. “Hm. If there’s an official term, I am unaware of it, but I'm not surprised you find the concept attractive. From what I understand, scents are an integral aspect of all social relationships for wolves."
"Scent-marking, yeah," Enid mutters. "But it's more than wanting you to smell like me."
Wednesday's fingernails rap once against the tabletop. "Tell me more."
"It—it's something I think about," Enid whispers. "When I’m touching myself."
Wednesday's stare is piercing. "What do you imagine, Puppy? Tell me. Don’t leave out any details."
Enid slows her fingers, panting as she looks up. “Wait, you’re serious?” she bleats. “You want me to tell you what I think about when I masturbate?”
The question feels reasonable because that would be one hell of a request to misinterpret, to say the least, but Wednesday reacts like Enid just issued a direct challenge. Her face hardens with determination as she pushes off the table. For one harrowing moment, Enid thinks Wednesday’s going to straight up kick her ass, but Wednesday’s hand finds the zipper of her classy skirt, and any words that Enid might have employed in protest instead die a soundless death.
Wednesday removes her skirt and underwear in a single, fluid motion, leaving herself naked from the waist down aside from thigh-highs and boots. The discarded pile of clothing, which is probably equivalent to two summers' worth of birthday money for Enid, gets kicked out of the way as Wednesday hoists herself onto the desk. Wednesday’s thighs spill over the tops of her stockings as her legs meet unforgiving wood.
All Enid can think is that she’s so short, her boots don’t even touch the floor—right up until Wednesday parts her knees to expose herself. Right there on the desk.
Right in Enid’s line of sight.
“Does this sweeten the pot?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid’s too busy trying to swallow her snarl to answer.
Notes:
for all those interested to know when wednesday would get her shit rocked by enid's unnaturally long tongue: welcome to chapter 68, aka The One Where Wednesday Gets Rooked By Enid's Mad Oral Skills
Chapter 68: Deserve
Chapter Text
"How does it start?" Wednesday asks.
It takes several attempts for Enid to successfully speak. "When I touch myself?"
"When you imagine me while touching yourself," Wednesday corrects with a sudden bite that takes Enid aback. Her voice has returned to normal by the time she questions, "How does it begin?"
"Um, honestly?" Enid gives a short, unsteady laugh. "Usually with you being pissed off."
Whatever Wednesday had expected, it wasn't that. "You masturbate to the thought of me being angry with you?" she slowly asks.
"Not angry," Enid protests. "Just…irritated, yeah. That was how it always was between us in the beginning."
Which, whoops, slip of the tongue, but Wednesday doesn't seem surprised by the revelation that Enid's been a mess over her for that long. Perhaps Enid wasn't the only one who sensed a certain tension between them from the very first night as roommates.
"Interesting," Wednesday murmurs. "What happens to you when I'm pissed off?"
Enid's fingers may be moving, but her eyes are glued between Wednesday's legs. "You're irritated with me. I've done something that pissed you off, and you come back here ready to fuck me up."
"That irritated?" Wednesday asks, amused.
Enid nods. "Yeah, like—you're not going to end my bloodline or anything, but you're definitely going to make me pay. You're going to make it hurt. I know you're coming, so I get undressed. I get into position, waiting. You come in all pissed off, practically kicking the door down, and you're just on me. Immediately. Before I can get a single word out in my defense, you're grabbing me by the back of the neck and shoving me down to the floor."
"On your stomach?" Wednesday inquires.
Enid swallows. "On my knees," she answers, voice thick. "You shove down your p-pants—"
"I was wearing a skirt," says Wednesday.
Enid slides down another inch in her chair. "I know that," she rasps. "I always imagine you in pants. Um, you pull down your pants—and your nails are digging into my throat, and I'm whining already because it's just so totally cruel of you to look at me like you want to r-rend my head from my shoulders, or something—"
"Or something," Wednesday repeats.
Wednesday’s pretty, manicured hand has lowered to grip her own thigh. Enid feels like she's watching an accident happen in slow-motion, a devastating wreck careening right off the tracks in front of her, and she's helpless to stop it. Wednesday will do as she wishes; whatever effect it has on Enid, for better or worse, is inevitable.
"Or something," Enid agrees, gritting her teeth. She won't push a single finger inside until Wednesday starts touching herself in earnest, but the anticipation is untenable. Either they come together or not at all.
Enid's voice comes out heady, fraught with tension as she continues, "You look at me like you're going to ruin me, and I'm instantly soaked. It's so obvious how much I want you. Pathetic, even. Anyone who saw me could tell that I'm yours."
Wednesday's thighs shift an inch further apart. "Pathetic?" she intones, voice quiet. "Bold of you."
Enid's hand slows. "W-What?"
"Bold of you to assume that you decide whether my pet is pathetic or not," Wednesday states.
"But I am," Enid breathes, voice high and desperate. "I am pathetic, because you look like you're going to strangle me with those goddamn stockings and when you shove my face between your legs, I'm so grateful, I cry. I want you to fuck my face that badly."
"You'd cry for me to fuck your face?" Wednesday asks, leaning back on her free hand.
"I'd commit crimes," Enid reveals, all restraint disappearing with her self-respect. "Like, a lot of crimes. Just for the pleasure of having you in my mouth, yeah. Just to taste you for myself."
"And you think that makes you pathetic," Wednesday notes, lips curling over her teeth in what could be a smile or a sneer. "How absurd."
"It is absurd. It's totally fucked, but I don't care cause you're there, and you want me, and that's—that's enough for me," Enid whispers. "You drag me up by the hair and bend me over the table. I think you're going to spank me, but you don't. You slap the inside of my thighs so that I'll spread my feet wider apart. The first three fingers go in so easily, but you tell me I have to ask nicely before you'll fuck me the way I deserve."
"Deserve," Wednesday echoes. "That's a loaded term."
After a moment of indecision, Enid figures nothing can top the humiliation of describing her fantasy in detail to the subject of said fantasy's face, and she gives in, hiking one of her legs up over the armrest. The angle leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"Why?" Enid wonders aloud.
Wednesday presses the heel of her hand between her thighs, apparently unaware of her actions. Enid chokes on a moan, scrambling to put both feet on the ground, but Wednesday's boot lands on her shoulder and shoves Enid back into her seat.
"Stay where I put you," Wednesday orders, fingers sliding against herself. Her boot remains heavy on Enid's skin as she says, "And how does it end, Puppy? Do you get what you deserve?"
"Sometimes you fuck me full. Sometimes, you don't let me have anything but your tongue," Enid admits, shuddering. "But you always, always let me come. You let me come on your mouth, on your chest, on your throat. You hold me down until I come and then you let me spread it on you, all over you, until other wolves would gag in your presence."
Wednesday's hand has gone still between her legs. Her gaze is blistering wherever it touches Enid's face.
Despite her best efforts, Enid's voice cracks on the way out. "That's what really gets me, I think. Imagining that you belong to me. That I'm yours. You make me lose my mind," she whispers. "And—and that's how I come to the thought of you. Just like that."
Wednesday's boot settles on Enid's armrest with a thud. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Enid agrees. "I want you, Wednesday. Want you—want it just like that."
Wednesday looks like she doesn't know what the hell to do with her.
"How close are you to coming?" she suddenly asks, voice sharp.
Enid nearly smacks herself in her hurry to jerk her hand away from her pussy lest she be considered a bad girl for not moving fast enough. "Um, k-kind of close?"
Wednesday hooks her boot under the arm of Enid's chair, dragging her right up to the table with a scrape that rings in her ears. Enid, unsure of what's allowed, remains frozen in her seat.
"You wanted to eat me out," Wednesday states, lifting both boots onto Enid's armrests, caging her in. "You wanted it badly enough to imagine me angry with you."
"Yes," Enid breathes. Then, unable to help herself, "I'll make it good, Wednesday. Promise."
Wednesday leans back on her palms. "Confident," she muses. "I hope for your sake you aren't wasting my time."
Enid digs her nails into her skin as she clenches her fists. "Does—Does that mean I can make you come?" she ventures, almost unable to believe it. "For real?"
Wednesday hums, tilting her head. "You may give it your best attempt."
"I can make you come," Enid intelligently repeats. "I'm allowed?"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "You can try. Whether you'll succeed is open to—"
Enid doesn't let her finish the sentence.
Notes:
i know, i know–what happened to chapter sixty eight being The Chapter? well, it was brought to my attention that next chapter will be SIXTY NINE, so you know that means
Chapter 69: Blush
Notes:
kinks: oral sex, biting (no injury), ass eating, veritable existential crisis from good head
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On one memorable occasion when Enid was small, she'd strayed too far from the pack territory and got lost in the surrounding woods. She hadn't known to be afraid at first. Even at just eight years old, those woods were her stomping grounds, and she relished the chance to play away from her shitty older brothers and annoying neighbors. Her woods were ripe with fruit that perfumed the air with a sweetness and underlying smell of decay that welcomed Enid like a friend. Under the cover of the trees, Enid was a princess and a hero. She was important. She was loved. Those woods ensnared little Enid, keeping her occupied with bubbling brooks full of flashing silver fish and fields of fawn lilies begging to be picked. There was always something new and beautiful capturing her attention.
It was already sunset before Enid realized she was in trouble. She trampled through the underbrush in just a t-shirt and shorts, shivering her way into dusk and darkness. It had rained the night before, so catching a recognizable scent was tough. Every inhale burned her throat with the cold. Though no one besides Enid seemed to be subjecting the woods to their unwanted presence that night, she imagined she could still feel eyes on her back.
What once was a familiar soundtrack of rustles and chittering life now became a symphony of her own paranoia, each crumbling of dry leaves and shifting of a branch another monster come to hang Enid from the trees. Shadows turned to threats, gusts of wind to whispers, and her chances of making it home seemed to dwindle with each passing minute. An eight-year-old isn't particularly practiced at philosophical reasoning, but even she could recognize that what saved her was also capable of killing. A place Enid once loved became a forest of hands and teeth.
She nearly cried with relief when she caught sight of a thatched roof and recognized the run-down cottage of their pack healer, an old woman living on the very fringes of the territory. Healer Nima only came out for big events like births and deaths, but she was never unkind to the children of the pack. She even handed out homemade candies made with herbs from her garden.
Legs scratched and hair plastered to her neck, little Enid had knocked on the door and politely asked to call her parents and maybe also have a glass of water, please. Nima, smelling of crushed seashells and sagebrush, sat her down at a rickety table and served Enid honey on toast while she called the Sinclairs.
Enid can still remember every detail of that first mouthful in vivid clarity. That initial bite of toast, honey bursting over her tongue after a day of suffering hunger pangs—nothing has ever compared to the pleasure of that moment. No other meal could measure up to honey on Nima’s fresh bread.
Until this moment, tasting Wednesday in earnest, Enid had been certain nothing ever would.
She's distantly aware that her hands are digging into Wednesday's skin, pressing marks into her hips in the shape of Enid's grasp. She hopes Wednesday won't mind the bruises. Judging by how wide her pupils have blown, Wednesday isn't too bothered by it, but she’s been known to pivot from one heartbeat to the next. Her abdominals tighten as Enid licks her lips, tongue stretching low enough to catch the drool dripping from her chin.
Wednesday's next breath hitches in her throat.
Enid generally makes an effort not to resemble a panting dog, always cognizant of not opening her mouth too wide in the presence of non-kin, but she can't be bothered to spare Wednesday the reality of having sex with a wolf. Surely, if Wednesday can accept all of the other qualities that make Enid an unattractive partner to humans, her canines and unnaturally long tongue can be forgiven too.
Wednesday's eyes don't leave her face as Enid curls back over her. At some point, Wednesday must have shifted further up the desk because her knees no longer hang over the edge, so Enid comes to the obvious conclusion that she must go after her and make chase at all costs. Enid barely notices how the wooden table digs into her hands and knees, a sharp reminder that she’s climbing on furniture like an unruly animal in pursuit of Wednesday. In truth, Enid moves so quickly that her chair clatters to the ground somewhere behind her, forgotten before the clamor has finished echoing through the room.
If Wednesday is surprised to find Enid looming over her, she doesn’t show it. Her face is the picture of professionalism as Enid holds her thighs apart, interested to see what Enid will do.
Unable to help herself, Enid bites down on the softness spilling over the tops of Wednesday's thigh-highs as hard as she can without piercing the skin. That earns her a bone-shuddering breath that has Wednesday's jaw clenching hard enough to squeak.
In her distraction, Enid’s canines accidentally catch on the hem of Wednesday's stocking, tearing the delicate fabric wide open. While she’ll mourn the loss of such a lovely accessory, Enid can’t be bothered to feel too guilty when the end result is access to more of Wednesday’s skin. The rip widens with every ripple of her thigh. By the time Enid latches onto her pussy, licking and sucking, Wednesday's pulse is throbbing under her hands and the tear in her stocking has extended as low as her knee. Wednesday's lips are nearly white where she bites down to silence herself.
Wednesday's not speaking, not a single word, but Enid hears poetry in the trembling of her fingertips against the tabletop. She swims in the song of Wednesday's uneven breathing, the ode to honeycomb seeping from her skin into the air. She would do anything to remain here for the rest of her miserable life.
Enid’s claws make quick work of Wednesday's top, leaving Wednesday’s chest bare and skin prickling as the ruined garments go slack around her upper arms. Enid wordlessly urges her to lay back, and much to her surprise, Wednesday acquiesces without complaint. She probably thinks she’s doing Enid a kindness by playing along. She might even consider it charity, allowing Enid to pretend to be in control.
How fortunate that Enid’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She takes advantage of Wednesday’s generosity by hiking one of her legs up into the air, pressing Wednesday’s knee to her shoulder. Though her eyes widen, Wednesday doesn’t raise any objections. If Enid were put in that position, she’d be red as a tomato and probably on the verge of a panic attack from the knowledge that Wednesday was getting an unobstructed view of her asshole, but Wednesday manages to take it with a grace that pisses Enid off as much as it enthralls her.
Wednesday's lower back leaves the table as her other knee joins the first, thoroughly testing the bounds of her flexibility. It can’t be comfortable. Enid knows it isn’t comfortable, that no one likes to be folded in half and pinned like this, but Wednesday’s expression doesn’t falter. She almost looks amused.
Enid, of course, takes that as a challenge.
She chases the wetness that had leaked down Wednesday’s ass, tongue dragging over both of her holes. For such an unyielding person, Wednesday’s skin is soft and sweet. Easily bitten. Easily bruised. It isn’t until Enid registers that Wednesday’s legs are shaking that she lowers her back to the desk and takes stock of the situation, absently licking her lips.
Wednesday’s perfect skin, normally so pretty and pale, has turned red. Color blooms over her torso, painting her breasts and stomach with a warmth that has saliva flooding Enid’s mouth. Even her pussy is hot to the touch. Who knew having a tongue in her ass is all it would take to have Wednesday Addams blushing like a fair maiden? Wednesday looks as shocked as Enid feels, raising her hand to inspect her glowing skin with a flicker of disgust.
Enid's grip tightens on her hips to the point of what must be pain, but Wednesday doesn't protest the rough treatment. She seems to relish it, in fact, seeing as her eyes finally flutter shut and her face relaxes into some shade of acceptance. The same hand she’d been eyeing with disapproval seeks out Enid's head, petting her sweaty hair. The touch is as soft and unobtrusive as it is possessive. It stirs something deep in Enid's chest.
Enid spares a moment to drop her face onto Wednesday's stomach, inhaling the smell of her burning skin, then returns to her task with enthusiasm.
***
Wednesday is violently aware that somewhere along the line, she gravely miscalculated. If she had known Enid's mouth and teeth and god-forsaken tongue were capable of this treachery, she would've at least taken the time to prepare herself or perhaps sought out some meditation techniques beforehand. As it stands, her normally exemplary mental fortitude won't survive much more of this intact.
Enid's tongue unfurls, hot and slick, and laps up everything she has to offer. Even though Wednesday knows it's coming, the moment of revelation when Enid's tongue finally pushes inside her still comes as a shock.
Wednesday doesn't realize she's moaned aloud until sudden silence rings in her ears. Enid stares up at her, wide-eyed—then does it again. Wednesday chokes on another moan, slapping a hand over her mouth. She's so busy being irritated with herself for behaving like this that she almost misses Enid's expression, which would have been tragic.
Enid's eyes are always piercing, blue as winter, unforgiving as ice, but they’re merciless looking up from between her legs. It is a punishment to meet her gaze because it's not the golden pitch of her wolf that greets Wednesday, but vicious blue, which means Enid is looking at her like this—like Wednesday might kill her. Like somewhere along the line, Wednesday's sloppy mess became her communion, and she is saved for taking it.
Enid's tongue curls inside of her, filling her completely, and Wednesday can't be bothered to care what comes out of her mouth. Filling and fucking, biting and burning, killing and saving; it’s Wednesday’s burden to bear.
She knows neither Enid nor her wolf will be satisfied until they’ve consumed her, bones and all.
Notes:
wednesday, upon having her pussy eaten for the first time: guess i'll just die
UPDATE 6/16: traveling again today so next post incoming monday!
Chapter 70: Deep
Notes:
kinks: oral sex, kink negotiation, mentions of primal play
WARNING: extremely brief mention of drugs, alcohol, and gambling in this chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday has spent an unsettling amount of time thinking about Enid’s face.
She’s devoted hours to contemplating how Enid’s eye color changes in the light, how her lips purse according to her mood, how her nose twitches when she catches an unexpected scent. For Wednesday, it’s like watching the world’s most talented ballet company perform their greatest show. Each lilt of Enid’s eyes and flash of her teeth might as well be a fouetté on a grand stage, a twist of crystal and tulle under the spotlights. It wouldn’t matter if she were in a stately opera house or tucked in some forgotten alleyway. No matter the venue, Enid’s smile is blistering, blood and snow soaking through satin pointe shoes.
The internet—and Wednesday’s therapist—classify her proclivities as an oral fixation. Wednesday calls it common sense. Her obsession with Enid’s sharp little teeth is glowingly obvious to anyone who cares to look, though if she had known what else that mouth was capable of, perhaps she would have given more thought to the wonders of Enid’s tongue.
Wednesday chokes on another moan, a broken noise in the back of her throat she can’t quite silence, and Enid’s next exhale vibrates over her skin with a ferocity that rattles her bones, only a hair off a snarl.
“Good?” Enid rasps.
It’s incredible, Wednesday thinks, that Enid could have her entire tongue in her cunt and still seek her validation.
Wednesday eases her grip on Enid’s hair, patting down the curls she’d been holding hard enough to sting. “How do I taste, Puppy?” she asks in response.
Enid’s teeth catch against her inner thigh. “So good, Wednesday,” she moans, and the cadence of her voice settles deep in Wednesday’s stomach. “Tastes so sweet. Love fucking you like this.”
Her chin is wet with Wednesday, a mess of saliva and slick. It’s the sight of her tongue darting out to lick herself clean that jolts Wednesday back into the present.
“I cannot possibly taste as good as you feel,” Wednesday replies, noting how Enid’s cheeks flush with pleasure. “But I believe we struck an agreement, Puppy. Won’t you tell me what you want?”
In a blink of an eye, Enid’s expression turns shifty. She’s clearly considering feigning ignorance and just going back down on her, but Wednesday refuses to break their gaze. If Enid’s going to misbehave, she’ll do it with eyes wide open and full awareness of the consequences.
“Okay,” Enid breathes, and something sharp and pleased blooms to life in Wednesday’s chest. “Okay. I, um, I made a list of things I liked—that I researched, I mean. If I give you that list…can I make you come, Wednesday? Please?”
Wednesday ponders the ramifications of allowing Enid off easy in a moment when she could stand her ground but figures her pet has made a valiant effort thus far. Mere months ago, it would be unthinkable for Enid to describe her fantasy aloud. The legend of Bloody Mary wasn’t immortalized in a day.
“Alright,” Wednesday concedes. “Where is your list?”
Before she can finish her sentence, Enid’s already scampered off to fetch it, leaving Wednesday feeling suddenly bereft. Wednesday sits up, ignoring the discomfort of the slick drying between her legs. Though Enid’s absence irks her, the new angle does allow her a stunning view of how that little skirt rucks up as Enid bends over, exposing the curve of her ass and a glimpse of the shimmering mess between her thighs.
If Wednesday were a lesser woman, she’d be growling and pawing at the ground like a starving dog. She’d be baying at the sky with the might of her hunger. She’d look like a fool of the highest order, but surely, no one who knows Enid as she does could blame her for losing all civility in the face of such debauchery. The taste of Enid’s slick isn’t an experience readily forgotten.
When Enid returns, wrinkled paper in hand, Wednesday holds up a palm to stop her.
“Take off your clothing,” she states, watching carefully for Enid’s reaction. She must tread softly as she goes, this far into negotiations; though Enid appears lucid, any step could be a push too far.
Enid’s face flushes again. “O-Oh. Okay,” she agrees.
Wednesday plucks the paper away to absolve Enid of any possible distractions. She can appreciate the effectiveness of a weaponized outfit with the best of them, but Wednesday doesn’t think props or costumes are necessary for their dynamic. As long as Enid’s comfortable, she thinks it best that they both remain unimpeded by pageantry.
Enid seems to agree, considering her scent intensifies with every inch of skin she uncovers. The skirt that had vexed Wednesday throughout dinner pools around Enid’s ankles easily enough, but whether due to nerves or by virtue of poor design, her flimsy top gets stuck around her elbows. It’s adorable how quickly Enid’s savagery turns to submission when she stumbles.
Before she can start panicking, Wednesday reaches out to help her, dragging the fabric up and over Enid’s head. The tattered remains of Wednesday’s outfit slip off her arms as she reclines on the table to observe.
Then Enid stands in front of her, entirely bare, with the sole exception being her collar. Wednesday feels irrationally proud that Enid doesn’t cower. Her pretty pet has come so far in a comparatively short time. In Wednesday's opinion, Enid Sinclair is a true marvel.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday comments, and she can tell from the color in Enid’s cheeks that her words are being believed. “Are you ready, Puppy?”
Enid steels herself, but nods. “Yes.”
Wednesday stretches back on the desk, giving Enid more than enough room to join her. Enid looks grateful to be touching again as she reclaims her original spot and sinks out of sight. Her claws dig into the softness at the tops of Wednesday's thighs.
Wednesday tries to focus on her assignment, she genuinely does, but it is impossible to read with any level of comprehension while Enid’s tongue is filling her cunt.
“Ah—primal play?” Wednesday questions aloud, hoping a conversation will distract her from the heat pulsing under her skin.
Enid hums into her, tongue sliding down between her cheeks. “I like getting caught,” she mumbles.
Wednesday files that away for further contemplation. If Enid enjoys the chase, Wednesday can certainly deliver. The woods surrounding Hell Mountain would make a splendid setting for such a game as running down her pretty wolf. Would Enid ever feel comfortable enough to transform in Wednesday’s presence? Wednesday can’t provide a pack to run with on a full moon, but she can certainly organize a hunt.
She’ll have to discern whether Enid would be comfortable introducing non-lethal weaponry into their play. Wednesday would never harm her, not for the sake of a scene’s realism or otherwise, but it is an enticing thought. The Addams family armory houses bows carved with runes that protect all players from injury; any arrow that leaves the string dissipates on impact, painting a splotch of color not unlike a paintball on the unlucky loser’s skin. The stain lasts for days.
Wednesday’s family commissioned the bows for summertime war games, particularly for whenever the cousins visit. Deciding who commands each paint color is a bloodbath amongst the other players, but Wednesday always plays black.
“I see,” Wednesday breathes. “Mhm—orgasm denial and pet play? I should have known.”
Enid makes a noise like a sob. “I like when you decide, Wednesday. Want you to decide when I come, when I—when I—”
“Look at me,” Wednesday orders.
Enid’s head snaps up at once, tears spilling over her cheeks as she meets Wednesday’s gaze.
It was the glint in Enid’s eye, the sinewy strength in her jaw that captivated Wednesday in the first place. Enid likes putting things into her mouth, likes chewing on her pens and nails and lower lip, and Wednesday enjoys watching her. Why should it be any different when that mouth of hers is occupied with licking Wednesday’s cunt?
“Thank you for showing me this,” Wednesday states, holding the list aloft. “I am pleased to announce that all of your interests are feasible. You simply must decide where you would like to begin.”
Enid sniffles, not bothering to wipe her tears. “I want you to decide, Wednesday,” she whispers. “It feels better when you decide.”
The paper crinkles in Wednesday’s hand as her grip automatically tightens, and she has to force herself to be gentle as she tucks the list in with the pile of rags cushioning her back. Enid watches her with wide eyes, but no fear—not even trepidation.
Trust, Wednesday realizes. Enid is looking at her with trust, and that, above all else, alleviates Wednesday’s concerns over not holding strictly to tradition. The most important aspect of this conversation is establishing limits and drawing the line on where they wish to venture. That criteria has been met, by Wednesday’s estimation. She has in her possession a written map of Enid’s boundaries. There will be time to delve into the intricacies of her hard limits on another occasion; for now, she will return the favor and trust in Enid’s word.
“I understand,” Wednesday answers, and she revels in how Enid fairly crumbles with relief.
It is a heady thing, being entrusted with Enid’s entire self. Wednesday can’t imagine how another sensation could possibly compare. Drugs, alcohol, gambling—it means nothing in the face of such euphoria as holding Enid’s submission in her palms. Wednesday is painfully aware she will be chasing this high for the rest of her life and probably a good portion of her death thereafter. Does the afterlife allow for pining? Perhaps she can interrogate Lucía on the subject the next time they speak.
“Can I have your come?” Enid asks, nearly begging. “Please, Wednesday. Need your come, Puppy needs it.”
And Wednesday, who considers Enid’s wants and whims chief among her own priorities, is helpless not to cede to such a request.
“You can have it,” Wednesday tells her, catching one of Enid’s tears with her thumb.
Wednesday brings her fingers to her mouth, tasting Enid’s tears for herself as Enid licks the sweat from Wednesday’s stomach, swallows the mess on her thighs, and drags her deeper, down to the lowest deep.
Notes:
aight yall...probably one more chapter for aftercare, and then we really are going to san francisco, I MEAN IT THIS TIME
Chapter 71: Limits
Chapter Text
Days passed before Wednesday realized it was perhaps atypical that she found it impossible to orgasm by herself.
It made sense, Wednesday had thought, that she would field some initial difficulties while exploring masturbation; two decades of disinterest in sexual pleasure didn't exactly prepare her for managing a newfound libido. If Wednesday hadn't had the exceptional fortune of sharing Enid's heat, there is a genuine possibility she wouldn’t have pursued sexual companionship at all.
Wednesday frankly had no desire for intimacy, emotional or otherwise, with anyone she already knew—besides Enid, who she considered thoroughly off-limits for the vast majority of their friendship—and the idea of sexual intercourse with a stranger bored her. BDSM is as much psychological as it is physical, and very few people aroused her interest.
Not since that tumultuous blood moon had anyone captured her interest like Enid Sinclair, with her bloodied teeth and tear-stained face and unapologetic audacity in embracing Wednesday before the entire student body. The very idea of someone holding a candle to Enid after that was laughable, and if Wednesday had wanted to fuck herself, she’d have done so long before Enid planted the seed.
All in all, Wednesday wasn't overly concerned when her first few attempts at masturbating ended without orgasm. No one goes from wholly inexperienced to master of their own pleasure without some trial and error. In any case, it would be ludicrous to assume Wednesday could easily orgasm to pornography after experiencing Enid Sinclair in the flesh. Tasting the finer things in life has an unfortunate side effect of souring cheap thrills, as she very well knows.
It had occurred to Wednesday that she might have trouble orgasming in general, but not enough to seek medical attention. Not enough to ask the opinions of her closest confidantes—though Eugene undoubtedly would have had a good laugh at her expense before suggesting a range of treatment options, most likely beginning and ending with ramped-up psychotherapy. Admitting to Enid that something may be missing in her, wrong with her, had been out of the question.
Wednesday's ultimately glad she didn't create a fuss because the reality is that she is one wrong move away from coming all over Enid's face atop a repurposed desk in the middle of a dusty dorm room—like a fiend.
While her thighs shake around Enid's head, Wednesday's mind whirls equally fast, cataloging the ease with which she’s hurtling towards orgasm. The scientist in her is appalled at the difference between touching herself and enduring a veritable massacre of restraint at Enid's hands. There's simply no comparison. Wednesday's skin stings with heat, blood rushing to her temples as she does her damndest not to cry out.
Any worry she'd harbored over developing an orgasm complex is naught more than bones buried deep. Clearly, Wednesday can orgasm just fine as long as Enid's the one fucking her.
Enid's teeth drag over her inner thigh, and when she pulls back, Wednesday almost riots. How fitting that her pet could be so cruel in a moment of weakness. How apt that Wednesday's first ever orgasm occurred in her bed, and now, she's about to experience another round laid out on a rickety desk. No one would ever accuse her of lacking variety.
When that doesn't garner the reaction she'd obviously been hoping for, Enid snarls into her thigh, lips vibrating against Wednesday's overheated skin. Her pet wants attention, does she? Wednesday has to swallow back a hiss of her own. This close to an orgasm that's alluded her for so long, Wednesday would have burned a new hell if not for the fullness of Enid's finger sinking inside of her.
Suddenly, Wednesday doesn't have the capacity for speech, let alone formulating arguments, and she's scrambling backward over the desk in a futile effort to escape what Enid has chosen to inflict on her. This is the end, Wednesday recognizes with a sense of impending doom. Any more of this, and she will come.
It irks her that she wasted so many hours masturbating when Enid can unravel her to ruin with a snap—quite literally—of her pretty pink fingers.
Enid's free hand clamps down on Wednesday's hip, holding her in place as she licks and sucks and snarls, and when her finger curls inside of Wednesday, all hope of withstanding this onslaught with dignity dies a humiliatingly noisy death. She does not go quietly. She does not go in peace.
When orgasm finds Wednesday, it takes her with a scream.
***
Enid can sense that Wednesday is close.
Though being a submissive wolf saddles her with a smorgasbord of disadvantages, it does afford her some handy instincts when tasked with pleasing her chosen mate. It isn’t experience so much as intuition guiding her when Enid slips her finger inside of Wednesday, achingly familiar with the need to be full. If Wednesday thinks masturbating can replace what Enid’s willing to do to her, she’s out of her fucking mind. Enid will eat Wednesday’s pussy from sunup to sundown, with gratitude, as many times as it takes to drive the point home.
Of all the things Enid had expected to feel during the course of this conversation, jealousy at the thought of Wednesday touching herself was not one of them. Her possessiveness over a human fundamentally incapable of understanding the way of wolves could become a problem, Enid internally admits, but not right now. Not while Wednesday’s clenching around her, eyes going wide as it dawns on her what's about to happen.
The flicker of fear that alights in Wednesday’s face the moment before she shatters has Enid's chest twinging with sympathy. Above all else, Enid understands the need for self-preservation. Wednesday’s probably not aware that for all her hands try to scoot backward and carry her to safety, her thighs lock around Enid’s neck, refusing to release Enid as she rides her face to the finish.
The ballad of Wednesday’s involuntary whimpers guides Enid home, but it's the cry ripped from Wednesday’s throat as she comes that has Enid following right after her. Without any pressure on her pussy, without so much as a hand wrapped around her neck—with nothing but Wednesday’s voice and scent curling around her, a combination so heady it suffocates, Enid comes. A splatter of slick paints her inner thighs as the table grows wet beneath her.
Wednesday goes still the moment she registers the choked noise that Enid had made. It's eerie, how quickly she transitions from shuddering to sharp awareness.
"Did you just come?" she asks in disbelief.
Enid ignores her, licking Wednesday until a hand on the back of her head forces her away. It's right in line with the rest of her appalling behavior that she'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming from Wednesday's pussy. Enid protests the separation with a whine, but although Wednesday’s body still trembles, her grip on Enid's hair is firm.
“Come here,” Wednesday instructs.
Enid allows herself to be guided, settling atop Wednesday in complete disregard of the stickiness trapped between their skin. Wednesday smells so good soaked in their sweat and slick, Enid dazedly thinks. Plus, no wolf could possibly mistake Wednesday for being single as long as she reeks like this, which to Enid is a considerable boon.
"Did you come?" Wednesday repeats.
Enid nods, unable to conjure up a single word in her defense.
Wednesday's face spasms with something devastating, some flash of heart-rending emotion that steals Enid's breath. Before she can ask what's wrong, Wednesday's pulling Enid down on top of her. Enid could theoretically resist, could utilize the strength her kind is known for and demand an explanation for the calamitous look on Wednesday's face—but Wednesday wants her down, so down Enid goes.
Wednesday's lips find her mouth, her cheeks, the tears that had dripped down Enid's neck. She licks the taste of herself off Enid's chin, kissing her nose and teeth as she cups Enid's face in her hands. That look hasn't vanished so much as lessened, sinking deep beneath the surface of Wednesday's control. Enid knows that once it's vanished, it's gone.
So Enid melts into her, nosing at Wednesday’s neck as she fills every crevice of Wednesday’s body with her warmth. Wednesday's unyielding grip softens to petting, her fingers tangling in Enid’s sweaty hair as she soothes them both. Enid feels a little like she chugged a bottle of shaken-up soda and jumped into a hot tub immediately afterward. It’s buzzing over her skin, a fizzy feeling not unlike subspace but without the haze that always poses a danger to her lucidity in these moments.
If eating Wednesday out is going to make her feel like this, Enid will have to make a priority of lobbying for more time between her legs. This limited access bullshit is just not going to fly. Maybe they could work out a custody agreement, Enid contemplates. She’d take excellent care of Wednesday’s pussy if given the chance.
“My God, Enid,” Wednesday mutters. “You’d convince a king to abdicate his throne."
Enid flushes with embarrassment, but she hums her assent into Wednesday’s neck.
Wednesday’s arm tightens around her waist. “Poor thing,” she murmurs, only slightly mocking. “I must have been neglectful to have you so desperate to come that you'd make such a mess of yourself.”
“S’okay,” Enid mumbles. Then, realizing she's not entirely off the hook, “Are you gonna punish me?”
“Punish you?” Wednesday repeats, voice edged with surprise. “For coming untouched? Absolutely not."
"No?" Enid persists, glad her face is hidden from sight.
Wednesday's hand settles over the back of Enid's neck. "I am far too impressed to even consider punishment," she replies. "Talented little thing, aren’t you? Coming untouched. Coming with me."
As if she can sense how jumbled Enid's thoughts have become, Wednesday continues without mercy.
"My pretty pet," she croons. "Puppy just wants to be good, is that it?"
Enid wishes she could say she doesn’t whimper upon hearing that, but worse burdens have been borne than suffering a little humiliation in the presence of Wednesday Addams. Enid's become something of a pro at fielding the inevitable indignity, at this point.
“Enid," Wednesday murmurs, fingertips trailing up her spine. "My good girl. We should discuss terms."
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Are you about to whip out a contract drawn up by the league of kink lawyers?” she asks, only half-joking.
Wednesday makes a noise caught between a laugh and a scoff, then says, “Excuse me? Did you just say contract?”
Enid’s already chastising herself for her stupidity in losing such a rare cuddling opportunity as Wednesday maneuvers them into a sitting position. Her hand finds Enid's chin, ensuring eye contact cannot be avoided.
“This isn't a contractual arrangement,” Wednesday states, looking very much like she’s gearing up for a lecture of a caliber even Esther Sinclair would appreciate. “It's a conversation, Enid. I shudder to imagine where you got the idea of contracts from."
Enid pouts back at her. "What's wrong with a contract?"
"The implication infuriates me. I am not buying you," Wednesday retorts. She slides off the table and onto the floor, offering Enid both hands to help her down. "Our potential new dynamic will not be legally binding. You will not be penalized for exiting the arrangement at any point, and you need not ever feel obligated to provide a product or service."
Wednesday's nose scrunches with disgust at the very thought. The moment Enid’s upright, Wednesday's hand finds hers.
As she's towed across the room, Enid idly wonders whether Wednesday knows she has a habit of squeezing Enid’s hand. Though they hadn’t done much hand-holding in the years prior to the start of their courtship, Enid can recall a time or two that Wednesday behaved similarly in the past. Every time her hand met Enid’s, no matter the reason, Enid would feel two squeezes in quick succession. It’s such a familiar action, she hardly notices it anymore.
"So…no contracts?" Enid clarifies, trailing after her.
Wednesday shoots a glare over her shoulder that’s softened by the way she tugs Enid to join her on the bed. "No contracts."
Enid curls beside her, ecstatic to relocate to a soft mattress after having spent the last half-hour crawling on a wooden table. Even with her heightened durability, Enid’s knees will be a horror show of bruises tomorrow. She can't truthfully claim to be upset by the prospect of bearing some kind of mark caused by Wednesday, even indirectly.
“I don’t have many hard limits,” Wednesday says without warning, her voice carefully neutral even as she shifts to look Enid in the eye. “In essence, I do not want to be hit.”
Enid quickly nods. “O-Okay. I can do that.”
"Growl and posture and snap all you want,” Wednesday adds, reaching out to grasp the stone hanging from Enid’s collar.
Enid tips back her head to give her more room, exposing her throat.
Wednesday's eyes are dark as she looks up and says, “I can handle your wolf, Enid. I adore the sight of those teeth. But I am not, for any reason, willing to be struck."
Enid swallows hard, trying and failing not to notice how Wednesday eyes her throat in interest.
"I don't want to be left alone after we’re done," Enid offers, shifting closer until their legs tangle together. "Not ever. Is that a hard limit?"
Wednesday's face softens. "It can be."
“Cool,” Enid blurts, and then, because she's incapable of curtailing herself in the rush of post-orgasm abandon, “Sorry I immediately jumped straight to talking about wanting to cover you in come. In hindsight, that was—that was a lot.”
Wednesday smirks at her. “You’re referring to the beginning of our conversation?”
Enid releases a slow breath. “Yeah.”
Wednesday hums, eyes bright with amusement. "You shouldn’t be embarrassed. Fluids of the body have great importance in rune ritual work.”
“They—they do?” Enid asks, voice coming out too high.
Wednesday’s fingertips abandon the stone and drop to Enid’s collarbones, mapping the shape of her neck. "I've seen a fertility ritual where one must bring their partner to orgasm with oral sex, and then spit the collected ejaculate into the wax mixture. It’s a necessary additive for the runes to activate."
Enid’s heart climbs up into her throat. "Y-Yeah, that's—disgusting," she breathes. "Spit is so gross, who would like that?"
Wednesday gives her a very dry look. "I've seen rituals involving all kinds of binding agents. Saliva, ejaculate….I even came across a bondage rune writ in blood."
Enid's dream comes back to her unbidden. She forces any images of Wednesday and knives away, curling closer to her side.
"I like your runes," Enid says in a very, very small voice.
Wednesday's hand pauses for only a second before resuming her petting. "I'm pleased to hear it."
Enid should really get up and shower—or at least make an effort to preserve the condition of Wednesday's bedding and not keep leaking slick onto her sheets—but there will be time for that later, she decides. There will be plenty of time for attending to her obligations tomorrow. In fact, Enid will have all the opportunity in the world to be a responsible adult then, having to field her family's opinion of Wednesday and the pack's reception of a mate for their prized submissive wolf who isn't even their same species.
For now, there's Wednesday's touch, and Wednesday's scent, and the promise of one last night without conflict.
Notes:
for me, wednesday: NO CONTRACTS! had the same energy as edna mode: NO. CAPES!
UPDATE 6/23: work blew up again so delaying to monday :') good news: next chapter will feature a new kink that i have NEVER written before! which is nuts! but very sorry for the delay
Chapter 72: Bruises
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The room is dark when Enid wakes. She can tell without opening her eyes that she is alone.
Enid rolls onto her back, blinking blearily at the ceiling. Last night, Wednesday coaxed her out of bed for a bath mainly consisting of Enid dozing on Wednesday’s shoulder while enjoying the feeling of cool hands on her skin. Wednesday is meticulous in all things, and that includes cleaning the slick from between Enid’s legs. Her pretty nails glinted in the light as she spread Enid’s thighs and rubbed her down with a soft black washcloth, ignoring how Enid whined when she pulled away without fucking her full.
Enid hopes it was her imagination and not a legitimate memory that she begged Wednesday not to wash herself, anxious at the thought of arriving in San Francisco without Wednesday being thoroughly scented, but she doesn’t exactly have a good track record of behaving with decorum. Enid can only hope that Wednesday respects their unspoken agreement to never speak of it again.
Abruptly uncomfortable, Enid shifts onto her stomach, curling into Wednesday’s pillow. It smells like honeycomb and lilies, but also of cherry bubble bath and expensive detergent, and beneath that, like Enid’s sugary slick. It’s quite the calming agent for a submissive wolf lacking a nest, which is Enid’s current situation.
A dull ache blooms in Enid's chest. Most submissive wolves would sooner kill themselves than voluntarily take down their nest a minute earlier than necessary, but Enid dutifully packed up her belongings yesterday. After going years without a proper nest, she isn't pressed by the prospect of enduring a few days without a safe place to land.
Enid probably won’t even unpack her nest when they get to her parents’ house. What would be the point when she and Wednesday will be leaving for Hell Mountain the moment it’s socially acceptable to flee the state?
On that note, Enid’s not too keen on her parents smelling what they’ve done to her nesting materials. It’ll be enough of a headache to navigate the conversational landmines her mother is sure to set without providing details of her sex life for ammunition.
The blankets bunch around Enid's hips as she sits up in bed, sighing to herself. She'll miss this musty room. These four walls and uneven floorboards have always meant something to Enid, and she knows she will never be able to look at it through any other lens than her own shade of safety. This is the nexus of them, this dusty room on the highest floor of a hall that most other students only enter under duress. It's where she met Wednesday. It's where she found home.
It's a miracle Wednesday isn't here to witness her sniffling over a shitty dorm room.
It's not unusual for Wednesday to abscond to some remote corner of campus in the early morning hours—something about the light as the sun rises being ideal for rune writing—so Enid’s concern for her whereabouts lasts only as long as it takes to register a blot of color on the desk that certainly hadn't been there last night.
Enid blushes even as she climbs out of bed, ignoring how cold the floorboards feel against her feet. Wednesday's flower arrangements are always accompanied by a square of thick stationary—Enid's kept them all in the weeks since the bouquets started arriving. She has a nice little collection of handwritten notes covered in shining black ink and Wednesday's loping script.
Today's blooms are beautiful, white petals wreathed by clusters of ripe red berries. Despite being surrounded by fresh-cut flowers, the notecard smells like Wednesday.
Enid holds the square of stationary to her chest. If she rubs Wednesday's lingering scent into her neck, it's nobody's business but her own.
Before she can smear the message beyond repair, Enid heads to the window and throws open the blackout curtains. Weak light illuminates Wednesday's flawless cursive, which lists the flowers she'd chosen and a message:
I will return shortly. Breakfast is at ten.
Be good.
Enid nearly drops the card onto the floor. Apparently, she's not the only one who felt the paradigm shift in the wake of last night's conversation. She must not have imagined Wednesday's hand resting on the back of her neck, heavy even in sleep.
Enid's cheeks burn as she unearths her flower dictionary, which was liberated from Nevermore library permanently on account of being taken without the librarian's knowledge. Be good. Wednesday must be in rare form today. It's a harrowing prospect considering they're about to enter the vipers' nest.
Wednesday always chooses flowers with meaning, but today's selection paints a very specific picture. Cranberries translate to cure for heartache…garden daisies for I share your sentiments…and milkvetch, which has Enid on the verge of tears all over again: your presence softens my pains.
Suddenly, the prospect of San Francisco doesn’t seem quite so paralyzing.
At that moment, as if on cue, Wednesday deigns to make her grand entrance. The door opens to reveal chic black pants and a grey blouse that leaves Enid fairly unbalanced. It was a mistake not to dress while Wednesday was gone. Wasn't she supposed to be good?
Wednesday's face smoothes out into neutrality, but her eyes are bright as she regards her.
"Do you expect to attend breakfast like that?" Wednesday asks, gaze flicking down to Enid's bare thighs. "I'd like to institute another hard limit—others may not see you undressed."
"Why, are you jealous?" Enid asks without thinking.
Wednesday's eyebrows raise as she steps closer to Enid, and Enid ends up backed against the wall.
"Yes," Wednesday tells her. "I am. The thought of others seeing you like this, flushed and sleepy, would drive a monk to murder."
Enid swallows. "Then I guess I'd better get dressed," she weakly replies.
Wednesday hums her agreement, reaching up to tuck Enid's hair behind her ear. "Bed, Enid."
Enid scrambles to obey, climbing back onto the mattress and eagerly watching Wednesday rifle through their bags. Wednesday eventually returns with a Hex Girls t-shirt that does not belong to Enid and a pair of loose shorts. It's somewhat of a letdown, considering Wednesday looks like a deposed Russian oligarch's ex-wife.
"No underwear?" Enid asks.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her. "Why? So you can ruin it?"
Enid makes an involuntary noise, listing towards Wednesday like a ship in rough waters. Wednesday steadies her with a hand on her shoulder before helping Enid into the t-shirt, ignoring how Enid noses at her wrist in hopes of catching more of her scent. Wednesday's fingertips brush over the notecard, which Enid still holds in her lap.
"Thank you for the flowers," Enid says in a small voice.
Wednesday watches her. “I know returning home is not ideal," she replies.
Enid can't help but laugh. “It’s fucking awful,” she plainly says. “But I get it. I know how important this is to you.”
Wednesday’s frown tells Enid that wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but since Wednesday doesn’t comment further, Enid’s happy to let it go. She’s about to change the subject to more pleasant prospects—like spending the absolute bare minimum of time in San Francisco before leaving for Hell Mountain—when she realizes Wednesday’s eyes have gone wide with alarm.
Wednesday inhales sharply, and that’s all the warning Enid gets before Wednesday’s dropped to her knees beside the bed.
“W-What—Wednesday, what are you—?”
“What happened?” Wednesday speaks over her, shifting Enid’s leg towards the light.
The shorts lay abandoned on the floor as they both appraise the wicked bruising on Enid's knees.
Enid gulps. "Um, nothing serious?"
Wednesday shoots her a sharp look. "Try that again."
"It's just…" Enid squirms, painfully aware that she is still naked from the waist down and Wednesday is currently at eye-level with her bare pussy. "It's just a bruise, Wednesday."
Wednesday's fingers probe at the marks. "It looks painful," she murmurs.
"Yeah," Enid breathes. "But I like it."
Wednesday stares up at her. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't that. “You like it?” she repeats.
“I like the reminder,” Enid blurts in a rush, gripping the hem of her shirt. “I like knowing that you—that I’m—yours,” she says a bit helplessly. “Every time I see the marks, I know.”
Wednesday’s brow furrows in the way it only does when she’s concocting a scheme. “It’s…a comfort, to you? The marks?” she slowly asks.
Enid has no idea what she's condemning herself to as she nods, but Wednesday seems to take it as an admission.
"Stand up," Wednesday orders, dragging the shorts up over Enid's hips. Her eyes glint with an unsettling fervor as she maneuvers Enid into shoes. "Breakfast time."
"W-Wait, my card—" Enid protests.
Wednesday pauses by the door. "Well? Go ahead, Puppy. Secure your card."
It's all Enid can do not to run as she returns to her backpack and tucks today's notecard away with the others. The second she's ready, Wednesday's towing her out of the room and down the stairs, hand hard around her wrist. Enid feels a little despondent knowing it's one of the last times she'll ever set foot in Ophelia Hall, but that is entirely overshadowed by the tightening in her stomach at the determined expression on Wednesday's face.
"What's going on?" Enid asks, nearly stumbling over a fallen branch.
Wednesday comes to a complete stop in the middle of the path, heedless of the other students meandering around them. The early morning light catches on her braids, framing her face, and Enid loses her breath.
"Do you know why a dominant-submissive dynamic appeals to me?" Wednesday asks her point-blank.
Enid shifts her weight. "Because you're a control freak?"
"Cute," Wednesday replies. "But no. I feel unbalanced when you're not taken care of, Enid. It hounds me like an itch I cannot scratch if you're so much as bored, let alone displeased or unwell."
Enid gapes at her, and for one wild moment, she wonders if Wednesday used some truth-telling rune she doesn't know about. Surely, if Wednesday had decided to perform some early-morning ritual, she would've invited Enid to join.
Wednesday notices her searching what little skin is showing beneath that polished outfit. "No runes," she informs Enid. "But I have made a promise to be honest with you. I will always endeavor to improve our communication. It's important, Enid, if you are to be my pet."
Enid makes another pained noise. "We're in public," she weakly protests.
"So don't get wet," Wednesday retorts, moving closer. "Greedy, aren't you? I suppose you wanted to get fucked last night, is that it?"
"Wanna get fucked every day," Enid breathes in response, tensing as Wednesday's hand nears her throat.
"Morning, guys—whoa, am I interrupting something?"
Enid could have screamed with exasperation, but Wednesday's face flickers with an expression that's vaguely unhinged and entirely pleased as she turns to Eugene.
"Good morning," Wednesday responds, her face a masterclass in composure considering she was just taunting Enid not to get wet in public. "Breakfast?"
Enid tries not to pout as she shuffles towards the cafeteria, unaware of the brief exchange happening behind her.
Under her breath, Wednesday orders, “Keep her occupied. I need an hour uninterrupted.”
Eugene's eyes widen, but before he can ask what's going on, Wednesday has disappeared in the direction of the forge.
Notes:
JUST KIDDING LMAO HAVE A SURPRISE SATURDAY UPDATE
hmmmm wonder what wednesday's up to in the forge...curious
Chapter 73: Paint
Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, Enid isn't an idiot. She doesn't boast perfect grades like Wednesday or a flawless attendance record like Yoko, or even leadership of a school-sponsored club like Eugene, but she's not completely hopeless. Among her scattered talents is Enid’s uncanny ability to be the first to notice when Wednesday disappears from a group.
As she tucks into pancakes slathered in a healthy serving of butterscotch syrup, Enid wonders what Wednesday's up to this time. It could be something to do with their travel plans—after all, Enid isn’t familiar with the usual protocol for flying private. Does Wednesday have to attend to day-of duties reserved for those wealthy enough to own an aircraft? Do such duties even exist? Enid doesn't have a clue.
After sharing a warm goodbye with Yoko and Eugene, Enid troops back to Ophelia Hall with a box of leftover pancakes in hand. Wednesday will probably be hungry once she's finished spreading one last bout of chaos through campus or whatever it was she'd been up to that prevented her from joining them. Enid wouldn't be mad per se if their flight ended up delayed by some trouble Wednesday's caused in the interim, but she refuses to actively hope for an outcome that lands Wednesday in the headmaster's office. Enid would personally ask Wednesday for a punishment if she ever sunk as low as wishing misfortune on her intended for her own selfish means.
When she reaches the fifth floor, Enid’s surprised to find the door to their room unlocked; Wednesday's usually a stickler for locking it behind herself. Something about 'operations security,' a phrase often accompanied by a displeased expression and a lecture on why their room must always remain sealed.
"Good," Wednesday's voice emanates from the shadows as soon as she’s crossed the threshold. "You're back."
Why Wednesday enjoys lying in wait for her in dim rooms, Enid has no idea, but she thought she’d gotten used to unexpected voices sprouting up from the darkness. Jump scares eventually just became a standard precursor to Wednesday’s arrival. Still, Enid must be a little on edge because her claws extend right through the box of leftovers the moment Wednesday begins to speak.
The limp remains of her pancakes squish between her fingers and drop onto the floor at Enid’s feet. That’ll be another charge for damage by residential housing, she thinks. It can't be easy to get syrup out of hardwood.
Enid looks up with her mouth already open to complain, but her jaw snaps shut as the scene inside the room finally registers.
Before the empty desk stands Wednesday, still impeccably dressed, now with a layer of sweat dampening her skin that fills the room with her scent. In her gloved hands is a wooden rod the same golden hue as Enid's beloved syrup.
Wednesday grasps the rod like a world-class conductor wields a baton or a mother embraces her child: with aching familiarity and adoration that Enid can sense from a distance. This is an object that is known to her, Enid realizes. Wednesday holds it like an experienced rider takes the reins of a wild horse.
Maybe she does deserve punishment, Enid privately admits. It can’t be normal to be jealous of inanimate objects.
“What—is that why you missed breakfast?” Enid demands, dropping her ruined leftovers in the empty trash can. Her hands remain sticky with spoiled syrup in the absence of a hand towel. “For a stick?”
“It’s not a stick,” Wednesday maintains. “This—” her gloved fingertips slide down the gleaming wood, “—Is a cane.”
Enid's suddenly a whole lot less concerned about the violence done to her pancakes and a lot more interested in what exactly Wednesday plans to do with that.
“Oh,” Enid intelligently replies.
Of all the matters Enid thought she might have to handle today, Wednesday making good on her promise of punishment hadn't been one of them.
Apparently reading her thoughts in her expression, Wednesday states, "You're not being punished."
Enid hopes it isn't too obvious how she wilts in response. "Oh," she repeats. "...I'm not?"
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "You would know if I planned to punish you, Enid."
Enid tries not to pout as she persists, "Then where were you during breakfast? I just killed all those pancakes because of you."
"Pancakes don't have lives and therefore cannot be killed," Wednesday refutes. "Though I suppose they can be eviscerated, as we just learned."
Enid scowls down at her syrupy fingers. "Whatever. Where'd you even go?"
Wednesday's eyes become bright with anticipation. “Fate was on my side,” she says. “No one was making use of the whittling tools this early in the morning. I am pleased to announce my efforts were met with complete success.”
Enid can only imagine how her face looks. “You—shut up, you did not whittle an entire cane in the fifty minutes we were separated.”
Wednesday stares at her. “Of course, not. That would be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous,” Enid faintly repeats, leaning back against the door. She begins rubbing her eyes, then pulls back in disgust at the feeling of syrup smearing onto her cheeks. “Obviously.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth pulls up into Enid’s favorite half-smile. “I already was in possession of the cane. The whittling tools were necessary for rune carving,” she reveals, stepping closer.
Enid blinks at her. “What runes were you carving? Did we have a rune-related emergency while I was at breakfast?” she asks, swallowing a laugh.
“Of a sort,” Wednesday agrees, now standing within a foot of Enid. Her black gloves create a stark dichotomy with the gold of the wooden cane. “You see, it occurred to me that I was naive to assume there was nothing I could do to ease your ills in San Francisco. I merely lacked creativity.”
“...So, you're planning to fuck me in San Francisco?” Enid asks, piecing it together. “Not that I’m against the idea, but I think my parents would shoot us both if we had intercourse under their roof.”
“Not that kind of comfort,” Wednesday delicately says, cocking her head. “But close.”
Enid bites her lip. “What does any of this have to do with the cane?" she asks, unable to hold back any longer.
Wednesday’s expression remains neutral. “I confess, Enid, that I have been remiss in your education. I should have acquired a book on runes for you the moment I introduced them into our play."
She falls silent, apparently awaiting Enid's response.
"That—that's okay," Enid pipes up. "Think I'll live."
Wednesday makes a noise of agreement. "Nevertheless, it is my duty to keep you informed.” The cane rolls in her hands, capturing Enid’s attention. “Have you heard of the rune Coloration?”
Enid, back plastered to the door and only remaining on her feet through sheer force of will, mutely shakes her head.
“Threadwitches utilize this rune and others like it to add a visual effect to fabrics,” Wednesday explains. “One of my cousins is in possession of a cloak that renders its wearer invisible in the nighttime, and my mother owns a gown imbued to mimic the ebb and flow of a roiling ocean. This is the might of a seasoned threadwitch.”
Being on the receiving end of an academic lecture in these conditions was a doomed endeavor from the start, but Enid does her best to absorb the knowledge. Wednesday might test her afterward, and Enid’s not sure whether she should be so keen on a pop quiz while Wednesday's in possession of a cane.
“A runescrafter, on the other hand, uses runes to imbue objects with certain abilities,” Wednesday continues. “My family owns several bows carved with runes that change the physical composition of arrows from ammunition to paint. The same rune that makes fabric sparkle in sunlight can cause an arrow to explode into paint upon contact with a human being’s skin, depending on its utilization.” She looks up with a shrewd intensity. “You and I discussed this phenomenon briefly after the courting ritual, if you recall.”
The memory comes to Enid unbidden. “All magic is derived from intent,” she echoes.
“Correct,” Wednesday says, oblivious to the flicker of pride that blooms in Enid’s stomach at her pleased expression. “Runes are versatile by nature, and a single rune can have wildly different results in the hands of a threadwitch or crafter, or even between different witches. The same is therefore true of Coloration.”
Enid shifts her weight. “I guess that makes sense,” she ventures. “So, what did you use Coloration for?”
Again, Wednesday glances at the cane. “I am not a crafter, Enid,” she says with grim sincerity. “I am lucky to have already seen a similar application of runes on my family’s weapons. I understood the theory well enough to devise a temporary solution to your problem.”
Enid frowns. “You…think I can solve my problems with my parents with a cane?" she questions. “Again, I like the direction, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea in practice.” Even armed with a cane, Esther Sinclair could whip Enid’s ass.
Wednesday snorts under her breath. "Don't be absurd. I used Coloration to imbue an ability into the wood, Puppy.” Her eyes are dark as she meets Enid’s gaze.
Enid can feel the skin of her lower back prickling. “That’s—interesting,” she settles on as a suitable response.
Wednesday nods. “It was the work of only an hour to ensure that any bare skin will change color upon coming into contact with this,” she reveals, turning the rod to show a crudely-carved symbol that, to Enid, looks vaguely like a collection of teardrops.
Much more pressingly, it occurs to Enid that she shouldn't find it hot to be in the presence of Wednesday Addams while she's armed. Surely, that says something unflattering about her that the sight of Wednesday with a stick in her hands has Enid threatening the integrity of her shorts.
Enid shifts her weight again, covertly squeezing her thighs together. “Cool. What color?” she asks under the guise of indifference.
Wednesday eyes her like she’s unsure if Enid’s fucking with her or not. “...Violet. The color of a fresh bruise,” she slowly replies.
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “That sounds kind of counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Now you can’t hold the cane without getting a bruise on your hand,” she points out.
The gloves that Wednesday’s wearing abruptly make a lot more sense, though Enid can’t imagine why anyone would want a cane that bruises to the touch.
Wednesday looks at her with obvious confusion before stating, unprompted, “Marking was on your list. It's a comfort for you.”
Enid blinks at the sudden change of subject. “It is,” she agrees. “I like it when you mark me, Wednesday.”
“Caning leaves the most beautiful marks on a submissive’s skin,” Wednesday tells her, eyes intent on her face. “The bruises can last weeks.”
Another second of bewilderment, then Enid’s mouth falls open as it dawns on her what Wednesday has done. Her eyes drop to the cane, then to Wednesday’s gloves, and finally, to the hunger lurking beneath the surface of Wednesday’s expression.
“Oh, holy shit,” Enid breathes. "Did—did you actually?"
Wednesday cocks her head. "Did I what?"
“You used the Coloration rune on that cane so—so it could leave marks on me,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s gloved hand lifts to cup Enid’s cheek. The silk is cool against her skin.
“Make no mistake—I would never legitimately cane you without proper preparation and practice,” Wednesday assures her. “This is not a punishment. But I wondered if the bruises a traditional caning leaves might offer you some comfort while we’re in San Francisco, so I sought a way to mark you without harming you."
Enid licks her lips. "And you immediately thought of a magical caning."
Wednesday's eyes flick down to Enid's thighs. "The visual reminder would carry you over, so to speak, until I can give you what you need," she replies, voice low.
Enid does her damndest not to moan. “So, that cane—that cane you’re holding—it’ll leave bruises on me?” she asks in a high voice. “Without you hitting me hard enough to actually bruise me, I mean?”
“Even the slightest contact will have the desired effect,” Wednesday agrees. "Merely touching your skin will paint you with violent color. You'll be reminded of me every time you disrobe.”
Enid inhales sharply. “Where would you do it?” she asks.
Wednesday stares at her. “...Have you grown tired of playing in this room?”
Cheeks burning, Enid clarifies, “I meant on me.”
“Your ass and thighs,” Wednesday answers, frowning. “Where else did you imagine I might cane you, Enid?”
Enid shrugs. “The teachers in my elementary school used to cane the hands of pups who acted up," she says unthinkingly.
Wednesday’s shoulders hike up to her ears in the split second it takes for her to school her expression. “That is incredibly dangerous,” she states. “Not to mention barbaric. Did you attend school during the Spanish Inquisition?”
Enid cracks a smile. “Wouldn’t that normally impress you?” she wonders aloud. “You love punishment.”
“It does not impress me to hear you were introduced to caning through the abuse of your underaged classmates,” Wednesday refutes.
Enid tips her head back against the door, aware of how the movement draws Wednesday’s eyes to her neck. “But you like suffering," she muses, fully aware of how bratty she sounds.
“Your suffering is my own,” Wednesday replies. “Just as your pleasure belongs to me. I will decide how much suffering you will take.”
The room remains silent, in suspension, while Wednesday watches Enid's reaction to those words play out across her face.
"Come," Wednesday orders, holding out a hand. "With me, Puppy."
Enid stumbles after her, knees weak in the wake of such a declaration. She hopes she's not getting syrup all over Wednesday's pretty gloves.
"Are you ready?” Wednesday asks her.
“Yes,” Enid responds just a little too quickly.
Wednesday cocks her head again. “Do you want to be caned, Enid?” she asks, the glint in her eye telling Enid she is enjoying herself immensely.
A desperate noise scratches the back of Enid’s throat. “Want your bruises, Wednesday. Please—please mark me,” she breathes, on the precipice of begging even as she stands in a ratty t-shirt and slick-soaked shorts on a weekday morning. Wednesday has made a mess of her, truly and completely.
Wednesday considers her for only a second longer before stepping back with a nod. “Hands on the desk.”
Enid wishes her stomach wouldn’t swoop like that, like she’s primed and ready to watch the world’s sexiest pornography just from hearing Wednesday speak to her in that tone of voice. It certainly shouldn’t have her shorts sticking to the inside of her thighs.
Regardless, when Wednesday says jump, Enid moves her ass, so she’s facing the desk with her palms down in about three seconds flat.
“What’s your safeword, Enid?”
“Bean,” Enid answers, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
A sudden hand presses on Enid’s lower back, pushing her down so she slides forward onto the desk. Enid drops onto her elbows without protest when her hips meet the edge of the table, wood digging into the skin between her loose t-shirt and waistband.
“And mine?”
“Hatchet,” Enid rasps.
Without warning, Wednesday’s hands slip around her waist, tugging Enid back several steps. Enid’s shoes squeak against the floorboards as she tries to stay level. Almost as soon as she feels Wednesday's touch, it vanishes.
Enid locks her knees, spreading her legs in an effort to ground herself and hopefully keep from passing out. Why is this desk so tall, anyway? Why is it almost the exact same height as Enid when she’s bent over? Does that actually make it short? Is she awake right now?
Wednesday’s voice drags her out of her musings. “You should not feel any pain,” she states. “This is not a punishment, understood?”
Wednesday’s hand trails from the nape of Enid’s neck down to her tailbone, stopping just before her ass. Enid’s back arches involuntarily, a whimper building in her throat despite her best efforts to shut the fuck up. She drops her forehead onto her arms as Wednesday pulls her shorts down to her knees, exposing Enid to the cool air of the room.
“I asked you a question, Puppy.”
Enid groans into the desk. “Isn’t it a little bit of a punishment to have me bent over like a naughty schoolgirl?” she weakly asks.
There’s a thwap of wood meeting skin that has Enid jumping, but no pain, and she realizes Wednesday must have tested the cane on herself. Sure enough, Wednesday’s right hand, now bare of any protective covering, enters her line of sight. Enid watches a line of purple spread over her skin, a perfect track across Wednesday’s palm.
“Mhm. Perhaps,” Wednesday muses from behind her. “But this is meant to be a comfort to you. Do you want to wear my marks, Enid?”
Enid nods without turning around. “Please,” she whispers, vision already hazy at the thought.
“Do you want to know that even if everyone else cannot see it, your skin is painted in my signature?” Wednesday asks, voice venturing into the realm of cruel. “I can only imagine how beautiful you’ll look. To think of all your admirers sniffing around you while my cane still bruises your ass. Do you want to be marked for me, Enid?”
Enid makes a noise like a sob. “Want it, Wednesday. Please—please mark me,” she gasps, legs shaking beneath her.
Wednesday’s palm drops onto the back of Enid’s neck, squeezing twice just as she would while holding Enid’s hand. “Such a pretty pet,” she murmurs. “How I love to hear you sing.”
Then the cane meets Enid’s thighs, and all cognizant thought disappates with the line of heat that blooms beneath her skin.
Notes:
HAPPY SIX MONTHS SINCE THE START OF THIS FIC! 380k hits?? utter fuckin insanity you guys
Chapter 74: Symphony
Notes:
kinks: caning (no injury), domspace, mentions of subspace
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday was eight when she won her first fencing tournament. The medal was heavy around her neck as she stood for pictures and pretended not to be uncomfortable onstage, pointedly ignoring her family cheering on the sidelines. She remembers her mother intercepting the flower bouquet before she could touch it, sparing Wednesday the inevitable allergic reaction to the purple plastic wrappings and supplying Morticia with dead flowers to use in her rituals. Gomez was so proud, he cried. Morticia collected his tears too, but for the sake of her blubbering husband rather than herself.
A woodwitch doesn’t have much use for bodily fluids, being a purveyor of all that’s living and green. A runewitch, on the other hand, hoards human offerings like precious gems. Tears can affect a ritual medium differently depending on which emotion the person felt. Tears of sorrow are used in traditional mourning rituals, while the Addamses tend to incorporate tears of joy into their wedding cake recipes. Runes are among the oldest branches of magic and the least understood. Wednesday still has aspirations of inventing a wholly new rune before she turns twenty, but the process of cultivating a desire so intense it bleeds magic is a challenging endeavor, to say the least.
Though it took years of study for Wednesday to become even partially proficient at runework, athletics always came effortlessly to her and swordplay was no exception. While her father can still outwrite her in runes with both hands tied behind his back and a life-threatening injury to boot, Wednesday outstripped him in fencing by her tenth birthday. She was a natural from the start.
A cane isn’t quite the same as a sabre, but the motions are familiar enough to lend her the ease she’s come to expect from wielding melee weapons.
The wood quickly heats in her hand, warmth bleeding through her silk glove. Wednesday can’t take her eyes off Enid. The mess between her thighs is mostly hidden by shadow, but she paints a pretty picture bent over the desk.
“You should not feel any pain,” Wednesday says. “This is not a punishment, understood?”
Wednesday deliberately pushes Enid’s T-shirt up to her ribs, guaranteeing Enid’s breasts will brush against the table when she jumps, and then drags Enid’s shorts down to her knees. Enid shivers at the feeling of Wednesday’s hands on her sides, but otherwise remains still.
Wednesday steps back to admire her. “I asked you a question, Puppy.”
Enid makes a noise high enough to have any soprano green with envy, and Wednesday has to pause a moment to ensure she maintains control of herself. This scene is solely for Enid; her own pleasure has no place in it beyond that of an observing witness.
“Isn’t it a little bit of a punishment to have me bent over like a naughty schoolgirl?” Enid asks, voice teetering on the cusp of a whine.
Wednesday pulls off one of her gloves with her teeth, allowing it to drop by her shoe. She slaps the cane into her bare hand, testing both the strength of the hit and the effectiveness of the rune. The area of impact pulses with heat, but no pain; it should be appropriate for Enid’s first encounter with caning as long as Wednesday doesn’t strike her with the intention to bruise. A light tap should do it.
In Wednesday’s opinion, only a fool would consider pain a necessary aspect of a successful caning. Half the appeal of impact play is the lead-up to the first strike. Fear and excitement are two sides of the same coin, and nothing breeds fear quite like the threat of the unknown. By letting Enid languish like this, prone and uncertain of when the hammer—or, in this case, the cane—will fall, Wednesday is ensuring that the moment of reckoning lives up to expectation.
Once Enid has seen the neat bruise on Wednesday’s palm for herself, Wednesday retracts her hand and readies to begin. Seeing proof of the rune’s effects seems to have calmed Enid down instead of the alternative; her back bows as tension bleeds from her shoulders.
“Perhaps,” Wednesday murmurs, mind suddenly occupied by visions of Enid in a schoolgirl outfit. “But this is meant to be a comfort to you.”
There may be a reason Nevermore school uniforms are so modest. Enid already has legs that demand attention; how would Wednesday get anything done with her prancing around in little plaid skirts? No, it’s best that they leave costumes for another occasion.
Much as Wednesday would love to mark up Enid’s skin knowing the bruises will inevitably show beneath a too-short skirt, she is planning to greet her future in-laws this afternoon. It wouldn’t be prudent to show up with their daughter covered in caning lines. On that note, Wednesday will have to acquire a longer pair of shorts for Enid to wear before they touch down in San Francisco.
“Do you want to wear my marks, Enid?” Wednesday asks aloud.
Enid nods without turning, her hair shifting to expose the back of her neck. The clasp of her collar glints in the light, leather catching what little sun reaches her this deep in the room. “Please.”
Wednesday can tell from the cadence of Enid’s voice that she’s sunken into the scene.
“Do you want to know that even if everyone else cannot see it, your skin is painted in my signature?” Wednesday asks, possessiveness welling in her chest. “I can only imagine how beautiful you’ll look.”
A part of Wednesday hopes the insolent wolves of Enid’s pack get a glimpse of Enid’s marks and realize they are flirting with certain destruction by daring to look at her ass and thighs. The larger part of her burns at the thought of someone seeing Enid’s bare skin for any reason.
“To think of all your admirers sniffing around you while my cane still bruises your ass,” Wednesday muses. “Do you want to be marked for me, Enid?”
Enid makes a noise that could be mistaken for a sob if not for how quickly the smell of sugary vanilla blooms around them. Wednesday tips her head back, breathing through her mouth as the scent of Enid’s slick threatens to suffocate her. What a fitting death, to asphyxiate on the slick of her beloved. Wednesday would gladly accept such a fate.
“Want it, Wednesday,” Enid pleads, knees trembling beneath her. “Please—please mark me.”
Wednesday’s hand finds its way to the back of Enid’s neck. This girl was meant to be adored, she thinks. How fortuitous that Wednesday is more than up to the task.
“Such a pretty pet,” she says under her breath. “How I love to hear you sing.”
Wednesday shifts into a proper stance, levels the cane with her intended target, then draws her arm back and swings.
The sound is more jarring than the bite, Wednesday knows. This cane is thin enough to land a slap rather than a thud when used with force, which Wednesday most certainly had not. As always, her aim was impeccable. A line immediately darkens over the crease of Enid’s thighs and ass. Her skin marks up beautifully, Wednesday is pleased to note. Caning Enid feels as if Wednesday were an artist and was just handed the perfect canvas and brush; it comes to her as effortlessly as fencing, as easily as breathing.
If impact play ends up being a particular interest of Enid’s, Wednesday will have to broaden her own horizons. Perhaps she should look into taking a few art courses at the local university after they’ve returned from Shanghai.
All of this occurs to Wednesday at once, a series of logical deductions that bear further investigation, in the split second before the first blow registers with Enid. Then Wednesday’s mind is wiped clean, all rational thought screeching to a sudden halt as Enid cries out.
Wednesday has found that she is beyond the reach of logic when Enid’s facilities deteriorate. She will never be able to truly understand what it’s like for Enid to drop into subspace, but she imagines it must feel something like this. Wednesday can only liken the sensation to ripping a line of cocaine before bailing out of a moving aircraft. She only has the capacity for singular, heart-pounding focus. As long as she remains in this headspace, her understanding of the world is very simple: she exists on this earth for Enid.
“Did that hurt you?” Wednesday asks, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
Enid violently shakes her head.
“Do you want another?” Wednesday persists.
Enid’s answer arrives on a whimper. “Please?”
The cane draws back, Wednesday’s tendons flex as blood rushes to her hands, and the wood sails through the air with a whistle.
Enid’s claws extend as soon as it lands, nails digging into the desk with a crack that tells Wednesday she’ll be receiving another bill for room damages in the near future. Wednesday is glad for it. In fact, she relishes it. She’d happily build a house by hand solely for Enid to destroy if it meant another chance of witnessing her in this state. As Wednesday cannot see her face in full from this angle, she can only imagine Enid’s expression.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday whispers, tracing the bruises with her bare hand. Enid’s skin pinkens beneath her touch, blush spreading over her ass. “I’ll give you two more, if you can take it. Can my Puppy take two?”
In lieu of a response, Enid spreads her legs wider, arching her back to present herself. A steady stream of whines fills the room, high and sweet and desperate. Calling for her. Begging as only a submissive wolf can. In truth, Wednesday’s never heard a melody so exquisite as the pleas torn from Enid’s throat.
Still, she is not easily moved. “Use your words,” Wednesday insists. “Can you take two or not?”
“More,” Enid gasps. “More, two, whatever, just—just want more, Puppy wants more, Wednesday. Puppy wants the cane.”
Wednesday’s pulse throbs in her fingertips.
For Wednesday, arousal pools heavy and deep. She simmers in it for hours, sometimes days, and apparently is incapable of finding relief until Enid’s spread beneath her. Orgasming matters very little compared to this, to the high of having Enid at her mercy.
“You’ll take two,” Wednesday decides, surprised her voice comes out even. “Two, and you’re done.”
Enid lifts herself onto her toes as she waves her ass in Wednesday’s face, wordlessly protesting Wednesday’s reservations. Wednesday isn’t superstitious, but she does subscribe to the power of numbers. Four is Enid’s birth month in the astrological calendar; the next most significant number would be Wednesday’s birth month, twelfth in line, and she’s not sure leaving their daughter resembling a pale and purple striped tiger would endear her to Enid’s parents. Four will be enough.
“Sweet Enid,” Wednesday murmurs, gripping Enid’s ass. “Daughters born to July are always reckless in their affections. You already love the cane after only two strikes?”
Enid moans into the table, “Love you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday swallows a noise of her own. How can she deny her pet when she behaves so beautifully? Enid tests every modicum of self-control that Wednesday possesses and then some. Though she would love to draw a second symphony from Enid’s throat, four bouts with the cane will be more than enough to mark Enid as her own. This is a comfort, Wednesday reminds herself. She is doing this to comfort Enid—not to satisfy her own whims of turning Enid into artwork.
“Such a good girl for me,” Wednesday murmurs. “Two more.”
She doesn’t tarry this time, drawing down the cane in two quick slaps. Enid takes them both with aplomb, riding out the heat of Wednesday’s strikes.
“Thank you,” Enid sighs, sagging into the desk.
For a moment, Wednesday is speechless.
“You’re thanking me for caning you?” she asks, aware that the collar of her shirt is sticking to her neck and blood still thrums around her temples.
“‘Course,” Enid mumbles, not even stirring at the sound of the cane clattering on the floor.
“Why?” Wednesday demands, heart thundering in her ears.
“Mhm,” Enid sighs again as she draws her hands beneath her chin, curling up as best she can on a hard surface. “‘Cause Wednesday always takes care of me.”
Wednesday has never been so grateful to have Enid facing away from her. It would have been utterly humiliating for Enid to witness Wednesday pressing her fists into her eyes, silently willing herself not to cry.
Notes:
wednesday addams is a pisces and i refuse to believe otherwise
enid, of course, is a cancerUPDATE 6/30: surprise! i'm off to the airport again so unfortunately will not be able to post until monday. until then, pls feel free to continue debating the possible astrological signs of wednesday and enid. let me start off the controversy by saying this: i genuinely believe bianca is a virgo
UPDATE 7/3: this trip is taking longer than anticipated so will be updating friday by the latest! sorry for the delay yall
Chapter 75: Drop
Chapter Text
Enid lies on the table for less than a minute before gentle hands are helping her up, smoothing her hair back, and half-carrying her to the bed. She allows herself to be hauled across the floor, slumping onto the mattress with a sigh. Enid never imagined having a bare mattress chafe her cheek could be so romantic, but stranger things have happened. Who needs sheets when Wednesday Addams exists?
"Look at you," Wednesday murmurs, fingertips trailing over Enid's ass. Her voice comes out tighter than usual, going sharp in places it normally wouldn't, but she doesn't sound like she's in pain, so Enid sinks into the floating feeling that washes over her. "Would you like to see yourself, Puppy?"
As comfortable as Enid is, they'd performed this song and dance for a reason; no submissive wolf worth their salt would ever give up an opportunity to admire a mark left by their dominant partner, even if it was just a magical bruise. Enid's stomach swoops as she shifts to peer over her shoulder. In hindsight, she'd expected Wednesday to be holding up a hand mirror, or perhaps a weapon with an unusually reflective surface.
Enid did not anticipate a stellar view of Wednesday's back as she disappears into the bathroom.
Enid stares after her in confusion, lost as to what Wednesday could possibly be doing right up until she hears the sound of labored breathing and a frankly concerning creak of wood splintering. Enid's feet hit the floorboards just in time to catch a glimpse of Wednesday prying the bathroom mirror off the wall with her bare hands.
When Wednesday turns to face her, Enid's mouth snaps shut.
Even if there wasn't a trail of debris and dust marking Wednesday's return trip like a bastardized version of breadcrumbs, alarm bells would be going off in Enid's head. Wednesday typically isn't this destructive with school property, and she certainly does not leave potentially dangerous splinters all over the floor. For all that Wednesday claims to thrive in chaos, she's a stickler for cleanliness. If Wednesday Addams were to bring about the apocalypse, she'd be the dreaded fifth horseman of disorganization.
Either oblivious or uncaring of the expression on Enid's face, Wednesday kicks aside a fragment of wood and hefts the mirror up in front of her.
Enid's immediately struck by how brutalized her reflection appears. Surely, she can't look like that after being lightly tapped with Wednesday's cane a grand total of four times. She didn't even come—how could she be this fucked out?
"Pretty," Wednesday whispers, eyes boring into Enid's face. She cocks her head. "On your stomach."
Enid obeys, but it strikes her that Wednesday also looks like she just stepped out of a warzone—which is somewhat disquieting, considering she wasn’t the one getting familiar with the business end of a cane. Wednesday's outfit may be immaculate, braids still shiny and neat, but her eyes betray her.
As soon as Enid's rolled onto her stomach, Wednesday's attention shifts to Enid's ass. Enid would be desperate to see whatever it is that could have Wednesday so unbalanced even if Wednesday's pupils weren't blooming with unnatural speed at the sight of her.
Enid tears her eyes from Wednesday's face and glances at her reflection in the mirror, then gasps out loud.
Her ass is striped with four perfect lines. Leave it to Wednesday to ensure equidistant bruises when she takes the cane to her, Enid thinks. Of course Wednesday Addams would turn a fake punishment into her personal art project.
"Holy shit," Enid blurts, voice coming out too high. "Does it hurt?"
Wednesday regains enough control of herself to offer a wry expression. Still, her eyes sing a song of violence as she meets Enid's gaze. "Why are you asking me?" she murmurs.
Enid reaches back and pokes one of the lines, distantly embarrassed by how lewd her reflection looks touching her bruises in the mirror. Wednesday's eyes track her every movement with unsettling accuracy.
"Doesn't hurt," Enid reports.
Wednesday lowers the mirror to waist-level. "I'm glad," she quietly says.
Something tugs in Enid's chest. Uncaring of how pathetic she probably seems, begging for affection with her shorts still tangled around her knees and entire ass out for observation, Enid sits up and holds out her arms. Her heart pounds like something is genuinely, sincerely wrong, which is just ridiculous because Wednesday, by all accounts, looks fine.
Wednesday moves so quickly, Enid doesn't actually witness the interim between Wednesday letting go of the mirror and gathering Enid up in a hug that threatens her ability to breathe. One moment, she's standing a foot away—the next, Enid's inhaling her scent and whining into the sweaty skin of Wednesday's neck. If it weren't for the telltale sound of shattering glass, Enid would think the mirror poofed right out of existence rather than plunged to the floor.
"That—that's seven years of bad luck," Enid whimpers.
Maybe Wednesday is not fine, she privately admits. Enid only grips her tighter.
Wednesday scoffs into her neck, fingers twisting in Enid's hair. "Children's myths of magic," she mutters. "You said it yourself—all magic is derived from intent. I don't intend to have bad luck, so I will not."
Enid's eyes squeeze shut. "I don't think it works that way," she mumbles.
Within seconds, Wednesday seems to remember herself. Enid feels the instant Wednesday tenses beneath her before gently extricating herself under the guise of tucking Enid's hair behind her ear. Though her gaze has Enid swallowing a frantic noise, Wednesday's hands do not falter as they catch Enid's wrists.
"As soon as we reach Hell Mountain, I'll arrange for history lessons. You deserve a proper education in magic, Enid." Wednesday's eyes tighten. "In fact, it would behoove you to be prepared before my cousins descend on you with thinly-veiled inquiries of when we'll marry."
Enid startles, wondering if she misheard. Wednesday stares at her with an intensity that has heat rising in Enid's cheeks.
"Didn't you say you didn't want to get married?" Enid asks without thinking.
Wednesday's expression instantly shutters, and Enid's stomach sinks as she understands it was the wrong thing to say. Wednesday's hands releasing her only drive the sense of regret home.
"I assumed you wouldn't want to marry in the traditional sense," Wednesday states, eyes already becoming distant as she creates metaphorical distance between them. "I was under the impression most wolves did not."
Enid eyes the short length between them with something like panic churning in her gut. "Well, yeah, but you're not a wolf," she reasons, forcing an unconvincing laugh. "We can still do things your way, Wednesday. I—I know that not everything is about me."
Enid aimed to deliver that line in a joking tone, but Wednesday's head snaps up like what Enid just said insulted her core beliefs. Though Enid's inner monologue still sounds like one long, unending scream, she takes heart in the fact that at least some of Wednesday's reactions can be predicted, even in this strange state where Enid has no idea what’s going on.
Admittedly, retreating behind emotional boundaries in times of uncertainty is par for the course for Wednesday, but there's a reckless energy about her that tugs at Enid's instincts. Something is wrong, she thinks. Even her wolf can sense her unease.
Enid's not sure how to handle a version of Wednesday that readily shatters mirrors and springs the topic of marriage on unsuspecting wolves like a firing squad while said wolf is just trying to string coherent words together. Enid couldn't hope to verbally out-maneuver Wednesday on a good day, let alone in the wake of getting caned for the first time. Her brain might as well be a bowl of soggy oatmeal.
No—soggy off-brand oatmeal, the kind that doesn't even come with flavor packets, Enid corrects herself. She wonders if all oatmeal feels dazed and confused or if that's specific to her current, sloppy state.
"We'll discuss it another time," Wednesday decides. Her hand lands on Enid's thigh. "Are you ready to dress and depart?"
Considering she's become a soggy breakfast item of a person, Enid can't be expected to read social cues with any degree of accuracy, but she's pretty sure Wednesday's not mad at her. She wouldn't be initiating physical contact if she were mad, Enid tells herself.
"Will we ever come back?" Enid asks, gaze straying towards the window.
Mei was right when she insinuated that these woods had meant something to Enid. The idea of leaving has her feeling a little bit sick.
"Of course," Wednesday assures her, eyes dark and contemplative. She squeezes Enid's thigh. "Pugsley may not have chosen to attend here, but surely Eugene will expect our presence on Family Day."
Enid can't help but smile despite the anxiety prickling in her fingertips.
***
Once Wednesday has Enid situated with a basket of her favorite snacks in a seat she can still keep in sight from most viewpoints, she absconds to the back of the plane. For almost five whole minutes, Wednesday stands very still, tries not to think, and breathes.
Her crystal ball warms in her hands when her parents answer her call.
"Before you speak," Wednesday interjects, relieved her voice comes out normal, "I am uninterested in empty platitudes about graduating. Save your fawning for Enid."
Morticia's tinkling laugh drowns out whatever Gomez grumbles to himself, and Wednesday instinctively calms at the familiar soundtrack of her parents behaving like fools.
"What can we help you with, my darling?" Morticia asks.
Wednesday shoots another glance in Enid's direction. If receiving a contact high is possible, could Enid be experiencing contact anxiety by being subjected to Wednesday’s mental state? She typically doesn’t blow through a bulk-size pallet of yogurt drinks this quickly. Any minute now, Enid will need the restroom, which means this covert conversation has a deadline.
"How do I handle Enid's parents?" Wednesday asks point-blank. "Obviously, I can't permanently remove them, but they're bound to conspire in some futile attempt to keep us apart."
On any other day, Wednesday would rather eat glass than ask her parents for guidance. As it stands, Wednesday can't focus for long enough to listen to Enid speak, let alone plan their combined strategy. Perhaps her parents can step out of character and offer some shred of wisdom to calm the roiling in Wednesday's stomach every time she pictures Esther Sinclair forbidding them from becoming mates and Enid evaporating on the spot, never to be seen again. What a nonsensical nightmare to experience firsthand. Enid wouldn't just disappear, Wednesday reminds herself for the umpteenth time. All else aside, Enid has never left her without offering an explanation.
Nevertheless, her eyes continue to stray in Enid's direction like Wednesday's afraid she'll somehow go missing from a plane hurtling through the air at six hundred miles per hour.
"If Enid is your heart, you will weather the storm," Morticia sagely replies, voice filtering through the bedlam of Wednesday's thoughts. "Should the storm prove too difficult to withstand, a misplaced nest of spiders wouldn't go awry."
“Spiders?” Gomez repeats, voice delving into the realm of sickening. “My dear. How inspired.”
“Hush,” Morticia croons in response. “Our daughter needs assistance.”
“I do not,” Wednesday snaps.
Her parents fall silent.
“I do not need assistance,” Wednesday repeats unnecessarily, aware she has revealed too much.
Another moment passes before Morticia takes pity on her and asks, “What do you have on hand, darling? I confess, it’s been quite a while since I was granted a tour of your toolbox.”
A huff of air leaves his mouth by force as if an elbow just sunk into his gut, then Gomez hurriedly adds, “Yes, my little hatchet! You must give us a tour of your collection when you come home.”
Wednesday’s shoulders lose some of their tension, though a dull ache blooms at the base of her neck. “I will only have access to my knives and specimen tools. The rest has been shipped.”
“Keep your knives close, my sweet,” Morticia advises. “If conflict is imminent, it pays to be armed. But darling—perhaps they will surprise you, hm? The Sinclairs did create your Enid, after all.”
The thought has been weighing on Wednesday for weeks. On this day, it feels like a noose around her neck. If she harms Enid’s family members, it will undoubtedly hurt Enid; the damage that would do to their bond is unthinkable.
Unfortunately, Wednesday’s upbringing hardly equipped her for a war of attrition. Addams aren’t known for negotiating when there’s a fight to be won, and being a diplomat requires a set of skills that she does not possess. Even if Wednesday didn’t feel like an unmoored ship in rogue waves, this would not be an endeavor she was naturally suited for.
Wednesday straightens up. "I will report back if we need immediate extraction,” she states. “Otherwise, do not contact me for any reason. Goodbye."
"Do try to enjoy the trip, my little stormcloud," Gomez calls out to her. "And make sure to remind Enid how anxiously we await her arrival—”
Wednesday rolls her eyes as she stows the crystal ball in her bag. Useless though her parents may be, they have a knack for landing on the right words at the right emotional intensity to effect change in others. Wednesday only hopes it will be enough.
Notes:
*on the bullhorn* domdrop is just as valid as subdrop and i'm tired of pretending it's not !
in all seriousness though, it’s so wednesday to go to the ends of the earth researching submissive behaviors and completely neglect researching what can happen to doms like herself after a scene. classic rookie mistake cause we all know enid would HAPPILY provide whatever cooldown wednesday needed to feel secure again if she had the faintest clue what turmoil was afoot in her beloved
allow me to express my sincerest apologies for the delay on this chapter guys. i got reamed at work this week, and will probably be reamed again next week—so TBD on when the next update will be. still hoping for our regular schedule, but if not, i'll do everything i can to feed yall in the meantime! thank you as always for bearing with me and my whack ass job
Chapter 76: Masquerade
Notes:
A spoiler-ridden chapter summary has been added to end notes. Read at your own peril.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As it turns out, the territory Enid’s family resides on is over two hours from the nearest airstrip. Wednesday passes the subsequent car ride speculating whether the distance from possible supply chain inroads influenced where this pack decided to settle. She supposes the wolves could have rightfully been paranoid of having to defend their borders from gunpowder and steel, considering they reportedly claimed this land in the early nineteen-hundreds with industrial warfare already widespread.
Granted, the wolves’ political relations with other factions have been tenuous at best over the last hundred years, but it seems strange that they would claim land so far from modern comforts. What if there’s an accident and one of their pack members needs emergency surgery? They cannot possibly have every type of surgeon on retainer all the way out here, and no medevac could safely land with this concentration of trees. Unless the wolves happened to clear an acre of undergrowth solely for emergency personnel, it seems anyone with the misfortune of acquiring a life-threatening injury is on their own. Wednesday hopes they at least have a family doctor in the pack for less pressing injuries. While she can understand the sense of distrust that follows a conflict inherited by innocent sons and daughters, isolationism tends to breed a whole new set of problems.
Younger wolves have made great strides to re-integrate into the wider outcast society, but it’s only been a handful of generations since open warfare with the vampires, and old animosities run deep. Even a century of peace cannot erase that level of hostility, and wolves had more reason than most to be aggrieved by the vampires’ transgressions.
The wolves undoubtedly still share stories of the bloodshed that followed the deterioration of the Masquerade. The vampires consider that infamous massacre as the herald of an age of blood and reckoning; the rest of the world recognizes the Masquerade’s end as when vampires’ existence was first revealed.
Prior to that occasion, it was thought vampires were creatures of myth, and the widespread disappearances of the human beings serving as their food source were attributed to the illegal actions of other groups—primarily wolves. Rumors of wolves enslaving human beings as pack animals and worse were encouraged by the vampires, who’d been eager to shift suspicion from themselves, often placing their clansmen into positions of power amongst the humans. Wolf packs would regularly war with each other whenever human authorities demanded justice for their lost people, wrongfully believing neighboring packs were to blame.
The violent and unexpected end of the Masquerade led to a bloodied conflict that lasted twenty years. The vampires, who butchered their own kind as frequently as they did humans, eventually struck a truce with the rest of the outcast community, which banded together out of necessity to fight on a single unified front. That alliance between the differing factions formed the beginnings of the council that still governs outcasts today.
The exact terms of the vampires’ surrender were never made public in hopes that memories of the slaughter would soften with time, but the wolves had been vocally opposed to the accords and had retreated into their own communities out of protest once they were signed. A hundred years of intentionally breeding with humans to dilute vampire bloodlines did much to heal existing animosities with other groups, but the wolves have long memories. Wednesday’s not sure the damage done to their societies by the vampires’ deception will ever be forgiven, truce or not.
Frankly, it is a wonder that Enid developed such a close relationship with Yoko, who reputedly hails from a line of distinguished progenitors. Even the lesser vampires at Nevermore tend not to be included in social groups outside their own making; a vampire from nobility would normally have a better chance of growing fins than forming a friendship with a prized submissive wolf.
“Do you plan on visiting Yoko over the summer?” Wednesday asks aloud.
Enid shoots her a confused look. “...Sure, if I have time. Why?”
“No reason,” Wednesday replies, shifting her attention to the car window.
Her awareness of Enid’s discomfort has clearly been magnified by the protective measures she’d decided to employ while sequestered in the plane restroom. With her current active runes, Wednesday can practically taste Enid’s unease in her scent. Since the topic of vampires—even a friend—seems to be worsening Enid’s anxiety at present, Wednesday allows the conversation to wither into silence.
Though the rental car is stocked with any number of comforts including snacks curated to Enid’s tastes and an assortment of heated blankets, Enid slumps in her seat. Her scent grows increasingly despondent as the trees outside the windows begin to tower overhead to an almost unnatural degree. Meanwhile, Wednesday curses herself for her earlier behavior. It cannot be easy for Enid to return to this place, and Wednesday’s conduct had been less than reassuring. Her timing could not have been worse.
Without warning, Enid straightens up. Her eyes glaze over as she winces, “We’re here.”
Sure enough, the desolate road they’d been traveling ends with a suddenness that has Wednesday lurching in her seat. Before them looms a veritable wall of evergreens. Wednesday had instinctively flung out an arm to stop Enid from pitching forward as the car swerved to a stop, and though they are no longer in any danger of crashing, Enid still grips her wrist like a lifeline.
“We have to walk the rest of the way,” Enid says, eyes dropping to her feet.
She seems reluctant to release Wednesday, which inspires an ache in Wednesday’s chest that she can only imagine will do wonders for her intimidation factor. It is essential that she projects the right image to these wolves. For all Wednesday knows, they may end up shortly revealing themselves as adversaries, and it's likely she and Enid are being watched at this very moment. How often do outsiders approach these borders? Wednesday would wager the answer is close to never.
Enid takes a deep breath that Wednesday feels against her skin. She tries not to focus too much on the sense of loss as Enid detaches herself and opens the car door, knowing it veers dangerously close to the disquiet she experienced after their caning scene ended. Wednesday needs to be ready for whatever may come, and a display of unfettered emotions won’t lend itself to her current objective of inspiring hesitation and sowing discord into the wolves. Just because the elders are beyond help doesn’t mean the younger set cannot be reasoned with. These are Enid’s playmates, the children she’d known since birth; they could prove receptive to an outsider if one arrives on the arm of their friend.
The soles of Enid's shoes have barely touched the ground before she's shooting around the back of the car, skidding to a stop just outside of Wednesday's window. Her head whips from side to side, ponytail wagging as she takes it upon herself to open Wednesday's door.
While Wednesday appreciates the show of protectiveness, it is entirely unnecessary. Unbeknownst to Enid, Wednesday goes nowhere without at least two blades on her person as a rule, and she currently has two active runes hidden beneath her clothes to upgrade her situational awareness. Temporarily sacrificing her ability to see color and taste food on her tongue was nothing compared to the benefits of gaining thermal vision and a sense of smell on par with a bloodhound. Short of a sniper rifle, there isn't much someone could use to ambush them on the journey into pack territory.
Enid twitches to their left, nostrils flaring, and at the same time, Wednesday’s enhanced sight reveals the presence of three large males just beyond the trees. A platoon of transformed wolves waits less than twenty yards behind them, scents ripe with displeasure at the sight of her.
Wednesday narrows her eyes in their direction, slipping her hand over the back of Enid's neck. The males respond by stepping into view, though Wednesday notes they do not venture any closer than the shade of the trees. There seems to be some sort of invisible boundary they collectively refuse to breach.
While the trio of males remains in place, unmoved by Enid's nauseated expression, a line of wolves slinks out behind them in the ensuing tide of raised hackles and bared teeth that Wednesday had expected upon her arrival. It is an impressive show of strength, but if Wednesday were in charge of this operation, she'd have left the battle-ready wolves hidden from sight on the off chance they'd gone unnoticed. Perhaps wolves simply aren't familiar with the concept of sandbagging to keep an opponent blissfully unaware of your true capabilities.
After all, it was the modus operandi of the vampires to operate under a cloak of secrecy. Culturally, wolves appear to have leaned too hard into fighting head-on to distinguish themselves from the enemy.
"Sinclair," the male at the forefront of the trio calls out. "You’re not to roam the territory without an escort, understood?”
Enid opens her mouth to argue, but Wednesday catches her hand and gives a slight shake of her head.
“Understood,” Wednesday replies in her stead, adopting a casual stance. “Who might I be speaking to, Sir?”
The male offers a convincing scowl. “Jordan,” he reluctantly answers.
“Leader Jordan,” Wednesday repeats, fully aware of the implications of using such a title on a boy who looks no older than twenty. Let them assume she’s ignorant of their society rather than intentionally manipulative, inflating his ego with a title he has not earned. “My name is Wednesday Addams. With your permission, I request passage into your territory on behalf of my intended.”
Jordan, who quite clearly is not the head of his family as Wednesday had insinuated, straightens up like a child just promoted to line-leader by their schoolteacher. Behind him, the other wolves twitter, shifting their weight. It is no small thing to afford a young wolf respect beyond what he is entitled to by virtue of his dominant designation, but if respect and honor are what this pack values, Wednesday will gladly play ball.
“You have my permission to enter,” Jordan says, expression less severe than before despite his best efforts at maintaining a convincing guise of distrust. “Come over the line. Your passenger—he stays behind,” he quickly adds. “No men.”
Wednesday nods to the driver, who moves to retrieve their belongings without a word of protest. Though his face is unfamiliar to her, the cost of his suit alone reveals that he belongs to her parents in some form or fashion. The entire ensemble must be upwards of five grand—hardly within the means of your average hired gun. After this business concludes, Wednesday might have to negotiate for his terms of re-employment under her own banner. As she very well knows, a driver who acts with haste and doesn’t ask questions is worth more than his weight in gold. Wednesday could use someone like that on her own payroll.
As soon as he’s delivered each backpack to its respective owner, the driver returns to the car, face void of emotion. Both Wednesday and Enid intently watch his departure, though with very different expressions. Enid looks as though she’s been handed a death sentence as he backs into the overgrowth, but Wednesday feels the familiar stirrings of an approaching fight. The promise of violence does more to cure her heartache than any medicinal remedy ever could. She’s nearing the point of elation as the shiny black vehicle disappears from sight, swallowed up by the darkness and the trees. Now that they are alone, without recourse or the means for a quick exit, the real match can begin.
Enid miserably tugs on the straps of her backpack. Wednesday packed light to fabricate an excuse for limiting the length of this visit, but she made the right call if they genuinely must travel on foot from this point forward. The lack of paved roads was unexpected.
“Would you like to transform with them?” Wednesday asks Enid, turning her back on the wolves. She wagers they will perceive her as unafraid rather than foolish. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d prefer to run.”
Enid pales like she just said something horrifying. “N-No, I wouldn’t—I’d never leave you alone to—”
Her eyes widen, suspicion flickering across her features, and Wednesday knows she’s been caught.
“I’m not leaving you alone with them,” Enid hisses, leaning close enough that her scent demands Wednesday’s immediate attention. Bearing a scent-related rune is proving to be an unforeseen exertion. “Not happening, Wednesday.”
Wednesday tries not to smirk. “It was worth a shot. May I?”
Enid passes over her bag as requested, and Wednesday happily shoulders both. Maybe Enid will change her mind about running with the pack if she's divested of any luggage that could get in her way. After all, Wednesday thinks to herself, idle hands are the devil's workshop.
Without a bag to clutch, Enid's hands are predictably twitching with the need to run. She hopes that Enid gives in; Wednesday would treasure a chance to speak to Jordan and the others without a referee present, but regardless, she hardly feels the strain of carrying both bags. Two backpacks filled with clothing are still less than half the weight of her bow and sheath, which Wednesday is well used to hauling over rough terrain.
“Shall we?” Wednesday asks.
Enid all but glues herself to Wednesday’s side as they step under the cover of the trees.
Notes:
the fact that yall managed to get this to 400k hits while ao3 was down confirms you are all witches and i'm telling the church
work is still a madhouse but i'm posting anyways cause we're celebrating the return of ao3. next update will prob be friday but TBD. okay love u bye
click here for the chapter summary WITH SPOILERS
Wednesday and Enid are greeted by a welcoming party of over thirty wolves. Three boys remain untransformed; one of whom, Jordan, appears to be in charge of this operation. Wednesday purposefully shows him respect beyond what he’s entitled to in order to earn goodwill. At the end of the chapter, Enid and Wednesday step over the border together and enter pack territory.
Chapter 77: Honor
Notes:
A spoiler-ridden chapter summary has been added to end notes. Read at your own peril.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The air changes the moment Wednesday sets foot onto pack territory.
Until it becomes clear that the tallest boy has no intention of moving, the shortest boy does not even bother to glance in Wednesday’s direction, too busy watching his compatriot with raw anticipation. It’s bizarre, considering Jordan’s still eyeing her like she's an axe-wielding psychopath set loose in a children’s summer camp.
The tallest boy’s expression volleys between anger and resentment before he notices her attention and forces himself to appear neutral. Though his scent gives nothing away, Wednesday recognizes his trepidation as that of a cornered animal. Wolves boast a great many fine qualities, but subtlety isn't one of them.
The boys aren’t friends with each other, she realizes, but they aren’t enemies—yet. For now, they appear to be focused on a singular goal that involves cataloging her every move.
It has been quite a while since Wednesday endured this level of scrutiny. She isn’t green enough to risk touching her thigh to reassure herself that her sheath hasn’t magically disappeared, but she does take comfort in knowing the blade is there, ready for use. It wouldn't do her any good to bother concealing weapons if she’s going to reach for her knives like a trigger-happy moron at the first sign of trouble.
Not to mention, revealing herself as armed might escalate the situation, which thus far has remained stagnant. None of the boys have moved an inch since she stepped over the line. If the situation is going to explode into violence, it won’t be from her doing. Wednesday figures the thirty or so wolves watching from the sidelines will appreciate her show of restraint.
Since the trio of agitated boys does not appear inclined to close the distance between them, Wednesday plants her feet just over the border and evaluates her surroundings.
The forests of Hell Mountain had hosted any number of strange happenings and twisted creatures, rumored or otherwise, to the point that the Addams were forced to ward the borders to keep normies from accidentally stumbling across something with an appetite. Any non-outcast who approached the property would be struck with such immense dread that they instantly turned around. It was considered a protective measure—or, as Morticia calls it, a necessary evil.
Wednesday doesn’t get the impression the borders surrounding the pack territory were erected for quite the same reasons.
For one, the wards around Hell Mountain were placed to preserve the local wildlife; the scent markings around this territory, on the other hand, actively drive away birds and rodents with the stench of a large predator. Even Wednesday cannot help but wrinkle her nose.
“Okay?” Enid whispers to her.
Wednesday absently nods. She supposes these borders serve as a decently effective warning to rival packs and enemies alike, but it seems rather tasteless compared to warding. How often must these wolves refresh their borders for the scent to remain this strong? Once an hour? Surely, erecting wards would be much less taxing on the workforce and the wallet. Paying dozens of wolves salaries and benefits to essentially walk in circles isn’t conducive to running a profitable business. Not to mention, using magic in lieu of regular patrols would erase the need to trample the undergrowth into these unsightly dirt paths.
“Leader Jordan,” Wednesday speaks up, ignoring his surprised twitch. “How far do your borders extend?”
Jordan’s face tightens with suspicion, and Enid shoots her a warning glance that Wednesday chooses to ignore.
“What does it matter?” he replies.
Wednesday hums. “Call it professional curiosity."
Enid begins to look genuinely apprehensive, reaching out to tug on Wednesday's sleeve as a chorus of snarls erupts around them. Wednesday raises an eyebrow—had she said something offensive?
"Organizing a shift schedule is a logistical nightmare,” Wednesday offers in explanation. “As you very well know, Leader, people get sick and take holidays and have to skip work to attend their kids’ birthday parties that they neglected to inform their boss about."
After a moment of hesitation, Jordan gives a short, jerky nod.
"I suppose I'm curious as to how you managed to reassign your regular patrols to spare the—what, thirty fighters here?" Wednesday prompts. "That is, assuming your other borders are still protected.”
She phrases it like a question, knowing what kind of reaction that insinuation will draw from a boy as prideful as Jordan.
“Of course they are,” Jordan snaps. “We’re not stupid.”
“No,” Wednesday agrees. “Which is precisely my point. Taking this many skilled employees off the line for a single event without leaving holes in your coverage is impressive. Is it possible due to sheer numbers? Perhaps you train more fighters than other professions to pad the workforce with additional bodies?”
“Every wolf can fight,” the tall boy interjects.
Wednesday pauses, shifting to face him. He already looks to be regretting getting involved, judging by the pinched set of his mouth, but he does not cower under her gaze. Wednesday considers that a point in his favor.
He looks smart—too smart. Observant, Wednesday notes, and a little mean. His hair is cut shorter than Jordan’s, cheeks thinner with something besides age, but his expression reveals what his calculated appearance tries so desperately to cloak: be it some latent psychic ability swimming to the surface or pure intuition, Wednesday knows with sudden certainty this boy was not supposed to speak to her.
How peculiar that Jordan had managed to keep his scent tightly controlled for the entirety of dealing with Wednesday, but a word from this boy has his scent racketing with distress. He'd get taken for all he was worth on the tables in Vegas. Wednesday would never have placed such an emotionally volatile boy at the forefront of her team, but perhaps Jordan has qualities she's overlooking. He must have been appointed head of her welcoming committee for a reason.
Still, Wednesday seems to have stumbled on quite the situation—whatever it is—and she does not intend to squander it.
Enid, meanwhile, appears to have sped through all five stages of grief and settled on resigned acceptance. Her shoulders hike up to her ears, nails already lengthening in anticipation of things going sideways as they always seem to when Wednesday's involved.
“And you are?” Wednesday asks the strange boy with the hard eyes, politely extending her hand in his direction.
The entire procession grinds to a halt—all thirty-sum wolves, three teenage boys, and one visibly horrified intended mate. In all her years, Wednesday has never heard a living forest fall into such unnatural silence.
“Holy shit,” the shortest boy whispers. His gaze moves to Enid. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sinclair. Guess it runs in the family.”
Enid bristles. “Shut up, Hugo.”
About half the wolves present react with some measure of shock at her words, shifting their weight with what Wednesday could swear is unease—which makes very little sense given the context. Hugo, on the other hand, smirks in Enid’s direction. He seems like the type to enjoy the discomfort of others, though he categorically refuses to meet Wednesday’s eyes.
Are handshakes akin to a declaration of war among wolves? Considering the poor reception to a seemingly innocuous courtesy, it seems possible, but surely some leeway can be afforded to an outsider. Wednesday spots wolves nudging each other in her peripherals, ears flicking as they watch from the sidelines. No interference seems likely to come from those quarters. Wolves value honor, Wednesday reminds herself. A society that values strength would spit on surrender.
Though the intricacies of this situation are admittedly above Wednesday's pay grade, even she can sense there will be consequences for the strange boy if he retreats from her offered hand. Jordan looks to Wednesday with an expression rapidly approaching dread, clearly hoping she’ll back down as the tension mounts.
Wednesday's smile widens to show her teeth.
If she’d thought that would repulse the wolves, she is sorely mistaken. There’s a thrumming sort of energy in the air around them that would have had Wednesday’s skin prickling even without Enid standing close enough to share her shadow.
Hugo finally deigns to return Wednesday’s gaze with a vicious grin. “Like I said,” he murmurs, voice on the cusp of laughter. “Runs in the family.”
Enid doesn’t even glance in his direction. Like the others, her attention remains fixed on the strange boy eyeing Wednesday’s hand like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. All this over a handshake, Wednesday muses to herself.
Eventually, the tall boy grits his teeth and reaches for her hand. “Toby,” he reluctantly answers.
They only shake once, but it is enough.
“You’re fucked,” Hugo says with relish. "Damn, Toby. I've never seen someone tank their own prospects so quickly. That was poetry."
Toby glares at him. “Say it again.”
His threats appear to be taken more seriously than Enid’s, as Hugo chooses to raise his hands in mock surrender rather than goad him further. Jordan alternates his glower between both of them.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Toby,” Wednesday says.
Toby’s scent reveals his anger, but he offers her a nod that mostly falls on the side of genuine. Evidently, not all dominant wolves are incapable of self-restraint.
Beside her, Enid audibly gulps. “Wednesday—"
"You can escort her, Toby, since she's your guest," Jordan snaps. "Come on, Hugo."
Jordan takes two running steps off the path before exploding into wolf form, his clothes flying in tatters around him. Hugo offers a salute and smirk that Wednesday returns, unexpectedly entertained by his antics. If Jordan’s a hothead and Toby’s an unknown quantity, Hugo is a malice that Wednesday can appreciate.
Without warning, Enid tugs on her hand. Her lips are pursed in an unhappy pout.
“What is it?” Wednesday asks, turning her back on Hugo and cradling Enid’s face in her palms. “Are you alright?”
Enid relaxes at her touch. “Yeah, m’good,” she sighs, lashes fluttering. Enid’s hand slides up Wednesday’s stomach to grip the fabric over her ribs.
Wednesday frowns. “Are you sure?”
For just a second there, Enid’s scent had sharpened into something biting and possessive that burned down Wednesday’s throat. It was a stark difference from her lovely vanilla. Wednesday wonders if her scent rune might be malfunctioning because Enid smells of nothing but sugary sweetness now.
Enid hums into her hand, dropping a kiss on Wednesday’s palm. She looks up through her lashes, eyes glittering in the setting sun. Wednesday feels a pang of regret that she can't tell what shade of blue they are at this moment.
“I’m still good, Wednesday,” Enid whispers. “Aren’t I?”
Wednesday forces herself not to react. “Why ask what you already know?” she replies.
Enid grins wide enough to reveal her canines.
Wednesday swallows hard, ignoring the shuffling of the wolves in the trees as her scent inevitably reaches them. She would be embarrassed by what has evolved into an automatic response at the sight of Enid’s teeth if not for the glint in Enid’s eyes as honeycomb spills into the air around them. In truth, Wednesday hadn’t imagined a face as sweet as Enid’s could look so vindictive.
“Maybe I just like hearing you say it,” Enid muses.
Distantly, Wednesday notes Hugo’s scent leaving the vicinity. He must have just transformed, though he did so with decidedly less theatrics than Jordan since she didn’t hear the telltale signs of ripping fabric. Two-thirds of the watching wolves spring into motion, paws thundering against the dirt as they tear after him in some unspoken agreement. Less than ten of their original number remain behind to stare at Toby with disapproving eyes.
Toby scowls, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Come on,” he barks. “I’ll show you the way.”
Enid makes to follow, but Wednesday stops her, refusing to move a single step.
“Won’t you introduce yourself to my intended?” Wednesday asks. “It seems you haven’t met.”
Toby shoots her an accusing glare. Wednesday doesn’t understand the source of his discomfort, but uncomfortable, he undoubtedly is. Toby’s eyes flick to Enid’s face for less than a second before relocating to safer pastures—Wednesday’s face, of all places.
“Toby Montgomery,” he mutters. “Welcome home, Sinclair.”
Beside her, Enid swallows a shriek, her scent rocketing up in sheer terror as she claps both hands over her mouth.
Toby’s eyes widen. “No, I—Sinclair—”
Wednesday tears through the false panel of her pants, exposing the hilt of her knife as she pivots to plant herself in front of Enid. The wolves in the trees snarl, crouching at the sight of her blade, but Toby intervenes before a single adversary can pounce.
“Don’t move!” he orders. “Peace, all of you!”
“Wednesday!” Enid gasps, wrapping both arms around Wednesday’s waist in an effort to haul her back. “Wednesday, no, I'm sorry—don’t—”
Wednesday doesn’t surrender an inch. “Let go of me, Enid. I need my hands.”
“No, you don’t,” Toby insists. He scowls at the treeline. “What did I just say? Down!”
The wolves obediently lower onto their haunches, but not a single eye wavers from the knife in Wednesday’s hand.
In truth, she cannot blame them; this blade was the work of an esteemed runescrafter from the forests of rural Japan. It is a stunning piece unlike anything these wolves would have seen, pretty enough to have even the staunchest bystander’s stomach curdling with envy. The runes of these knives, considered a traditional gift in the Addams family, have the oddest effect of changing the color of the steel depending on who wields it. Both of Wednesday’s cousins’ blades had turned red at first touch, but Wednesday’s knife, in the presence of her fifty closest family members, had unexpectedly darkened to black in her hand.
She readjusts her grip on the hilt so that the blade points downwards, and Toby visibly pales.
“Peace,” he reiterates, raising his hands. “I mean you no harm, Addams. You’re my guest, right? You’re safe.”
“What does that mean?” Wednesday retorts.
Despite his trepidation, Toby’s brow furrows. “I gave you guest rights,” he states.
At her silence, he adds, “When I shook your hand. Sharing physical contact means you’re under my protection for as long as you stay here. Didn’t Sinclair warn you about this?”
Enid groans into Wednesday’s neck.
“That’s a no, then,” Toby mutters.
Wednesday rises out of her defensive stance, though she does not lower her weapon. “A handshake equates to unlimited protection from harm?” she slowly asks. “That seems absurd.”
“It’s supposed to be within reason,” Toby huffs, hands dropping to his sides. “I can’t control whether you eat poison berries or take a running jump off a cliff, but I can keep Hugo from starting shit over your claim.”
Wednesday frowns. “My claim?”
“On your intended,” Toby replies. His eyes flick to the trees. “Addams, I get you’re pissed off, but will you stand down? My guys are getting antsy watching you swing that knife around.”
Straightening up, Wednesday twirls the blade before replacing it in its sheath. Even Enid winces.
Sometimes, it pays to be performative.
“Fine,” Wednesday states. “I’m unarmed. Care to explain why you have my intended in tears, Montgomery?”
"I'm not in tears," Enid protests, voice wet.
Toby scowls. “Will you stop calling me that? My name is Toby.”
“You call me Addams,” Wednesday accuses.
“Because you’re my fucking guest!” he snaps. “And you haven’t given me permission to call you by your first name.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to believe you value manners?”
Toby’s expression hardens. “Hugo doesn’t represent our entire designation,” he grits out.
“No, but his behavior reeks a little too close to the dominant wolves of Nevermore,” Wednesday sneers. “And they did not do your designation any favors.”
Behind her, Enid flinches.
“I don’t know who you met at school,” Toby concedes, “But those weren’t my packmates. Right, Sinclair? Tell her.”
After a moment of stilted silence, Enid exhales. “No,” she agrees in an unsteady voice. “It was…my pack is the problem.”
Toby nods, crossing his arms. “My pack respects the legitimacy of every claim, kin or not. We don’t do this,” he insists. “I never would have agreed to this if I knew you’d collared her, Addams. That’s the truth.”
Wednesday considers him for a long moment. “And what, exactly, is this?” she asks in a soft voice.
Enid tenses against her. Toby seems to have received the same message as he takes a deliberate step backward and exhales.
“I am not your enemy, Addams,” he states. “You too, Sinclair.”
“But there are enemies,” Wednesday interjects. “Are there not?”
Toby doesn’t speak, but his gaze is answer enough.
Notes:
i had to cut this chapter in half cause it was THAT damn long, no exaggeration
edit: lmaooo obviously the wordcount on any/all of my chapters isn't high, but sending sixteen pages to my beta for instantaneous editing aint cool. beta said so. so i cut it off after the first eight <3
edit again: for comparison, on my mega longfic each chapter averaged 6.4k words and that MF took days to write and hours to edit. beta and i both are having a ball doing these lil chapters at high frequency instead
click here for the chapter summary WITH SPOILERS
The tallest boy is noted to be visibly upset once he sees Enid up close. Jordan and the other wolves are suspicious of Wednesday’s questions about the border patrols, wondering if she’s up to something nefarious. The tallest boy injects himself into the conversation, opening himself up for being addressed by Wednesday directly. Wednesday offers him a friendly handshake, a move the other wolves react to with shock and horror.
Hugo insults Enid’s family, though she doesn’t understand what he’s alluding to. Wednesday refuses to retract her offered handshake, and the tallest boy—who reveals his first name to be Toby—reluctantly shakes her hand. Jordan becomes upset and takes off in a huff. Hugo and Wednesday share a smirk, which Enid reacts to with jealousy. Wednesday insists that Toby introduce himself to Enid, since he’s been avoiding her thus far, and Toby does so, revealing his last name to be Montgomery.
Enid panics at the revelation of his last name, and Wednesday immediately draws her concealed knife in her defense. Toby calms the situation by ordering the other wolves to stand down. Toby assures Wednesday that she is his guest and he will not harm her, as she has garnered something called “guest rights” through their handshake. He explains that as long as she remains on the territory, Wednesday is under his protection. Toby is hurt by the fact that his guest (a title that denotes a much more personal relationship than mere acquaintances or friends since Wednesday has become, for all intents and purposes, a temporary member of his family pack) continues to call him impersonally by his last name. Toby insinuates that his extended community pack is much more reasonable than Enid’s, and assures Wednesday that he is not her enemy.
Chapter 78: Entertain
Notes:
A spoiler-ridden chapter summary has been added to end notes. Read at your own peril.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Enid first sets foot outside the car, she is bowled over by the familiar smell of her woods. It's too early in the season for the crab apple trees to be flowering, but she remembers the tartness of their fruit exploding over her tongue, and can picture exactly how her skin used to pinken in the late summer sun as she trampled around barefoot in the forest. Scent has the strongest correlation with memory, Enid recalls. It’s certainly doing a number on her now.
This place was her home, once upon a time, even if it never welcomed her presence. As soon as Enid presented as a rare submissive, her parents leapt into action and shoved her in front of the Pack Leader’s son. Hugo had been the type of kid to rip the wings off of butterflies for his own personal enjoyment, so it’s safe to say it wasn’t love at first sight.
On one memorable occasion, Hugo made a point of telling eight-year-old Enid in graphic detail what the older kids were planning to do with the frogs they’d raised for biology class at the local school. The very next night, Enid was caught attempting to release the frogs from captivity and summarily punished in front of all her peers. It hadn’t occurred to Enid until much later than Hugo had set her up to be caught, knowing she’d have her knuckles caned by the school headmaster for stealing. Enid never forgave him for that.
Thankfully, Hugo decided to attend a higher school for outcasts approximately two thousand miles away from Nevermore, so Enid was only subjected to him during breaks. In truth, he mostly left her alone; there were much more entertaining targets than her to play with.
The Sinclairs’ ploy to elevate Enid's mating prospects by thrusting her at Hugo worked wonders. She’s pretty sure Hugo only entertained her parents’ hopes of a match because he knew how much it bothered Enid to have anyone assume they would eventually court. The sad reality is that Hugo’s perceived interest in her as a mate, however artificial, helped keep the dominant wolves of Nevermore at a distance. Enid can’t stomach being grateful to him, but she can live with the fact that his blatant manipulation inadvertently did her a favor. Due to her association with Hugo, most Nevermore wolves believed a regular warrior wouldn't stand a chance with a submissive wolf of her caliber.
As a result, Enid was largely safe from all but those rare dominant wolves on par with Hugo’s status, which were few and far between. East Coast packs have entirely different social structures, so those wolves weren’t interested in her, and northern California boasts only two other packs besides her own: the group run by Pack Leader Davis to the west and the northernmost settlement headed by Pack Leader Montgomery.
Mercifully, Pack Leader Davis is still too young to have seeded any sons. There had been talk of Enid meeting Pack Leader Montgomery’s son, but that was before Wednesday. Pack Leader Montgomery will undoubtedly have heard about Enid’s collaring from her parents and called off any plans to match her with his son.
After all, the act of collaring is akin to proposing marriage. Not even the most liberal, new-age wolves would deny such a widely acknowledged display of commitment. According to their traditions, the only way to sever such a bond would be for a rival dominant wolf to slaughter her intended and claim Enid for himself. Fortunately for her, Hugo is the last person on earth to lift a finger for Enid. He’d set up a video camera to live stream the carnage if she caught on fire.
Even as adults, Enid and Hugo had gotten along about as well as Bianca and Wednesday during that first semester at Nevermore—which is to say, not at all. It was mutual dislike at first reconnection when their parents shoved them together. Hugo had spent that entire date trying to convince Enid to run away, knowing perfectly well that a wolf who voluntarily abandons the pack becomes free rein for rival packs to punish as they please.
Enid would have been happy never to lay eyes on his face again, neither him nor his twitchy best friend, Jordan Clifford, but fate seems to have conspired against her yet again. She spots both boys lurking beyond the boundary.
Enid narrows her eyes in their direction as she helps Wednesday from the car, registering that both Hugo and Jordan chose not to transform. Even more unusual, a stranger stands between them, a tall boy with sharp eyes that Enid doesn’t recognize at all. It’s close enough to festival season that a relative from a different pack could have come to visit Hugo for the summer, but the whole thing still strikes Enid as weird. Receiving Enid back onto the territory is technically an official event, but she’d expected her parents to be waiting for them—not Hugo, Jordan, and a whole platoon of warrior trainees. A simple homecoming seems to have blossomed into an ordeal that Hugo and Jordan were entrusted with overseeing.
Maybe Enid wouldn’t be so on edge if Hugo didn’t have that awful look on his face. He looks excited—no, gleeful as he stares at the strange boy in raw anticipation, eager for a reaction. Does the stranger somehow know Wednesday? Does Hugo expect the stranger to fly into a rage at the sight of her?
Whatever response Hugo was hoping for doesn’t materialize. The stranger’s face spasms with shock upon seeing them for only a second before he recovers, face hardening into forced neutrality, and Hugo is left visibly disappointed.
“Sinclair,” Jordan calls out. “You’re not to roam the territory without an escort, understood?”
Whatever Enid had planned to say in response undoubtedly would have landed her in hot water with the Pack Leader, but Wednesday stops her with a squeeze of her hand.
“Understood,” Wednesday replies. Her expression remains unchanged. “Who might I be speaking to, Sir?”
Jordan’s cheeks flush ever so slightly, even as he makes a valiant attempt at a proper, disparaging scowl. “Jordan.”
“Leader Jordan,” Wednesday repeats, and Enid nearly snaps her neck with how quickly she turns to look at her. Leader Jordan? Is she crazy? Jordan hasn’t led a run to the local grocery store, let alone governed a family.
“My name is Wednesday Addams,” she continues. “With your permission, I request passage into your territory on behalf of my intended.”
Enid would have rolled her eyes if not for the fact that she’s wary of drawing Hugo’s attention away from the stranger. He tends to latch on to the slightest sign of annoyance like a leech, pushing and pulling until his target unravels into an unbridled rage. More than one wolf has ended up whipped in the square for the crime of attacking him unwarranted.
Jordan puffs out his chest. “You have my permission to enter,” he magnanimously replies. “Come over the line.”
Wednesday’s hired driver shifts his weight behind them, and Jordan’s stance changes. Whatever goodwill Wednesday had garnered with her show of respect ebbs away.
“Your passenger—he stays behind,” Jordan orders. “No men.”
Enid is surprised they allowed a man this close to the territory in the first place. As the chosen intended of one of their packmembers, Wednesday Addams’ presence at the border is one thing, but an adult male of unknown origins? Allowing him to cross is a non-possibility—though the presence of a man would explain why Jordan and Hugo are rolling thirty wolves deep just to receive Enid and her intended. This is starting to resemble a particularly tense custody transfer.
The driver leaves, and Wednesday turns her back on the other wolves. Enid spots them exchanging pointed glances with each other; only a reckless human would expose the back of her neck to a squad of warriors. Little do they know that Wednesday fears no man or wolf, Enid thinks to herself. Wednesday would sooner dye her hair blonde and change her name to Wendy than tremble in the presence of a boy, four-legged or not.
On the subject of boys, Enid’s pack is admittedly quite large, but it’s weird she doesn’t recognize over a third of the wolves gathered here. At that moment, it registers that their scents are completely foreign to her, and a foreboding feeling begins to churn in her gut. Why would wolves from another pack be here to witness their arrival? This must be Hugo’s doing.
“Would you like to transform with them?” Wednesday asks her. “I wouldn’t mind if you’d prefer to run.”
For one wild second, Enid wonders if she misheard her. Transform now, and leave Wednesday to the tender mercies of Hugo and Jordan and whoever the third boy is with no backup? Does Wednesday think Enid cares so little for her safety?
“N–No,” Enid splutters. “I wouldn’t—I’d never leave you alone to—”
Then she recognizes the glint in Wednesday’s eye, and it occurs to Enid that this is Wednesday Addams she’s dealing with. Really, she should have known better.
“I’m not leaving you alone with them,” Enid hisses, leaning closer to keep the other wolves from overhearing her. “Not happening, Wednesday.”
If Wednesday harms a single one of her packmates, accidental or not, Hugo’s father will have them both drop-kicked off the premises. If she has the misfortune of harming Hugo, his father will demand Wednesday’s blood in retribution, which cannot be allowed to happen.
“It was worth a shot,” Wednesday answers. “May I?”
Enid passes over her bag, but the uneasy feeling in her stomach doesn’t abate. Something is off about this situation, and it seems to emanate from whatever pissing contest Hugo’s holding with the unfamiliar boy sequestered between him and Jordan. Disappointed though he may look to have his initial scheme thwarted, Hugo’s face still has that sheen of anticipation that always precedes violence. Enid’s witnessed it enough over the years to recognize the signs.
“Shall we?” Wednesday asks.
Enid makes a point of staying close as they step over the boundary.
The unfamiliar boy does not look pleased with their presence, to say the least. His nostrils flare, fists clenching like he’s fighting the urge to transform out of sheer anger, and yet Enid could swear that Hugo is dissatisfied with his reaction. Meanwhile, Jordan eyes them both with a disapproval that would do his father proud. Leader Clifford is second in command of their pack. If Hugo’s father should fall before his son takes control of the community, Jordan’s father would be next in line to lead. Enid sometimes wonders if Jordan feels any resentment for the fact that he’s forced to hang around the very same boy whose existence prevents him from advancing in rank.
Wednesday’s eyes flick around them with the same fervor as when she expects to field an attack, and Enid can’t help but tense with anxiety. It’s supposed to be safe here for her and her intended. Theoretically, Wednesday should have nothing to fear—but Enid feels it too.
“Okay?” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s nod is so faint, it’s nearly invisible. “Leader Jordan,” she speaks up. “How far do your borders extend?”
Enid stiffens. That could definitely be perceived as a threat, or at least as an information-gathering tactic that would not be welcomed from an outsider.
“What does it matter?” Jordan retorts, unnerved.
Wednesday hums. “Call it professional curiosity,” she drawls, lips curling with amusement.
Oh, shit. Jordan is not going to like the implications of that. As if on cue, the surrounding wolves snarl, scents growing sharp with apprehension. Enid had known from the start that outsiders are rarely seen in these parts, and Wednesday’s presence would make some waves. Still, she’d somehow neglected to recall one unassailable truth: as a person with a talent for spotting and locking onto weakness, assumed or otherwise, Wednesday Addams isn’t just any outsider. The other wolves will have recognized that, just as Enid had all those years ago upon meeting her.
“Organizing a shift schedule is a logistical nightmare,” Wednesday continues, unbothered.
Enid misses the rest of Wednesday’s spiel, too busy watching the unfamiliar boy grow progressively more and more frustrated to pay close attention. Finally, he cracks and interjects, “Every wolf can fight.”
Enid senses before she smells the spike of anticipation in the air, and she instinctively rears up, heat rippling under her skin. The wolves in the trees react similarly. Whoever this boy is, whatever the surrounding wolves expect to happen—it will come to a fight. That much is undeniable.
Why everyone seems to expect the stranger to lunge at Wednesday’s throat, Enid has no idea, but their disquiet is centered around him. His actions will determine how the rest of this plays out.
Blood thunders in her ears as Enid readies herself to fight. In theory, this should feel no different from ripping through Wednesday’s pseudo-boyfriend turned enemy—an undertaking Enid had no qualms about accepting at the time. She’d handed Tyler’s ass to him hard. In practice, Enid’s not sure she’ll ever be prepared to harm people she cares about, even distantly. Most of these wolves were her playmates, her neighbors, her friends.
Enid will still do it, of course, but she won’t enjoy murdering them all in Wednesday's defense.
Before a single person can act, Wednesday cocks her head and replies with obvious intent to cause a problem, “And you are?”
Enid wonders why she bothers being shocked anymore as Wednesday extends her hand in the stranger’s direction.
If Enid weren’t so pumped full of adrenaline, she would probably have fallen right over. Passing out still feels like a distinct possibility. The wolves she doesn’t recognize, all those who’d been so eager to come to the stranger’s defense, falter as a group by physically cringing backward. Their fear the stranger’s crisis could similarly infect them if they venture too close would be hilarious if the situation wasn't so grave. Enid has the advantage of knowing that Wednesday wouldn’t have done such a thing without cause, though how Wednesday learned about such an old tradition as guest rights remains a mystery.
Enid certainly never mentioned that voluntary physical contact with a wolf not of your pack—which includes everybody present, in Wednesday’s case—would grant Wednesday that wolf’s protection as long as she remains on the territory. Why would she? It’s not like Wednesday would ever need to broker a formal alliance for her safety while on Enid’s home turf. She already has Enid's pack to protect her.
But if the stranger had any illusions of attacking Wednesday, that ship has not only sailed but sunk into a watery grave, never to be seen again. Even Enid knows that refusing an offer of guest rights is akin to declaring yourself an enemy. Blood feuds have begun over less.
“Holy shit,” Hugo whispers. He looks delighted to an almost unhinged degree, enthusiasm returning with a vengeance as he meets Enid’s eyes. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sinclair. Guess it runs in the family.”
Enid doesn’t have a clue of what he’s talking about, but she still bristles like he just insulted her collar and spit in her face. “Shut up, Hugo.”
Predictably, the wolves from her pack do not take kindly to her attitude. As the Pack Leader’s son, Hugo can expect a certain amount of respect from all who dwell here—including Enid. Their failed match denotes some measure of familiarity, but she’s still a submissive wolf of lower rank. Enid has no business speaking to him like that.
All the while, Jordan continues staring at Wednesday like he’s hoping she’ll back down and save them the headache of having to explain this to Hugo’s father. Best of luck on that, Enid privately thinks. Wednesday Addams does not surrender. Enid’s not even sure she knows the meaning of the word.
True to form, Wednesday’s smile widens into something gruesome.
“Like I said,” Hugo sneers, clearly fighting laughter. “Runs in the family.”
Notes:
we had wednesday's view of the situation, and now, allow me to present to you: ENID'S POV!
EDIT 7/20:i am unexpectedly without power so will not be able to update tomorrow, sorry guys :(
click here for the chapter summary WITH SPOILERS
Enid recounts a tumultuous childhood alongside Hugo and Jordan. Due to her association with Hugo, the Pack Leader’s son, as a potential match, lower-ranked wolves largely left Enid alone throughout her adolescence. The only true threat to Enid’s freedom would be if another pack leader’s kid—like rival Pack Leader Montgomery’s son, who Enid doesn’t know the name of—decided to pursue her. Thankfully, a collaring for wolves is akin to a marriage proposal for normies, so Enid assumes any potential matchmaking efforts would have been called off with the news that she accepted Wednesday’s offer. Her parents were responsible for spreading the news of her collaring to all necessary parties, including Pack Leader Montgomery and his son.
Hugo seems to be waiting for the unfamiliar boy standing beside him to lose his shit and is disappointed when the boy (Toby) keeps his cool instead. Enid realizes at least a third of the wolves witnessing her arrival are unfamiliar to her and that all of the wolves seemed to have also expected Toby to attack Wednesday. Enid readies herself to defend her intended, but Wednesday coerces Toby into offering guest rights before violence can erupt.
Chapter 79: Reveal
Notes:
NOTE: ‘fourth-form’ is a colloquial term used by wolves to describe being in their transformed state (four feet on the ground instead of two, get it? fourth-form? anyway)
A spoiler-ridden chapter summary has been added to end notes. Read at your own peril.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid wonders if she’s having an out-of-body experience watching Toby and Wednesday shake hands.
No matter what happens now, Toby cannot harm Wednesday without breaking the covenant of pack law—a possibility no werewolf in their right mind would risk. Their society hasn't evolved much since retreating from the wider outcast community in the wake of the Masquerade; even in the modern age of cell phones and unrestricted internet access, pack law remains as barbaric as ever. That lack of cultural advancement is probably also to blame for why some children end up with old-fashioned names like Enid and Hugo while others escape with Jordan.
As Toby’s impromptu alliance with Wednesday solidifies, his irritation gives way to a dogged resignation that Enid feels in her bones.
“You’re fucked,” Hugo says, eager to draw attention back to himself. “Damn, Toby. I’ve never seen someone tank their own prospects so quickly. That was poetry,” he chortles, which has Enid shifting uncomfortably because what prospects was Toby tanking by forming a temporary alliance with Wednesday, exactly?
Toby glares at Hugo with a fury that would have had Enid flinching backward if it had been aimed in her direction. “Say it again,” he replies, voice ripe with promise.
And Hugo, strangest of all, actually backs off. He raises his hands in a manner that’s disrespectful to the point of inappropriate, but he does not speak again.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Toby,” Wednesday interjects.
She seems to have been trying to calm Toby down, or at least calm the situation, but Enid’s nose is already two steps ahead of her, and she can tell that Toby is furious. His scent, oakwood and ozone and the haze of a forest in a summer storm, roils like he’s just barely managing to keep a handle on himself. Anger is one of the hardest scent markers to control, right up there with fear and arousal.
Toby offers Wednesday a somewhat polite nod of acknowledgment, but Enid knows better than to trust a dominant wolf that smells like he wants to fling them face-first into the nearest body of water. Hugo, meanwhile, seems to be having the ride of his life. Evidently, figuring out how to wind Toby up with words alone is a decent consolation prize.
Enid bites her lip. “Wednesday—”
“You can escort her, Toby, since she’s your guest,” Jordan accuses, full-throated and loud.
Leave it to Jordan to find offense in having his escort duties usurped on accident. There’s a reason why Jordan and Hugo are friends, Enid reminds herself.
Even as children, Jordan had refused to let anyone else captain kickball, soccer, or any other playground game that required the semi-formal election of a leader. Hugo only egged him on, undoubtedly hoping that each schoolyard squabble would devolve into violence. Half of Jordan’s conduct violations were a direct result of Hugo’s influence.
Though Enid endured her fair share of punishments in the headmaster’s office, Jordan practically owned a timeshare on the wooden chair reserved for misbehaving students. Enid wonders if Leader Clifford giving Jordan a leadership role over the other warrior trainees might have curbed some of his son’s wilder tendencies. In that case, Leader Clifford should be commended for finding a practical way of bringing his son to heel.
“Come on, Hugo," Jordan snaps.
Maybe not all the way to heel, Enid privately admits. Not wholly unexpectedly, Jordan chooses the path of greatest theatrics and transforms right then and there on the trail. What is he, twelve? Even pups in the fiercest throes of puberty know better than to explode into fourth-form in public. It's the height of rudeness for a wolf of any age, let alone a fully-grown adult.
Then again, Jordan has spent years trailing around in Hugo’s shadow, and that’s bound to do significant damage to the morality of any person. As if he’s goading Enid in particular, Hugo offers a jaunty salute to Wednesday, setting Enid's teeth on edge. The sharp displeasure that had erupted in her stomach at the show of familiarity spreads from Enid’s insides to her fingertips when Wednesday smirks at him in response. It’s lucky that Wednesday cannot smell Enid the way another wolf would be able to.
Of all the emotions Enid expected to field today, jealousy hadn't been one of them.
Perhaps jealous and its fellows, irrational and deranged, can be blamed for Enid’s actions immediately following Wednesday’s interaction with Hugo. Enid finds herself grabbing Wednesday’s hand with a little too much gusto for a mere squeeze of reassurance, drawing Wednesday’s attention to whatever ugly look is on her face.
“What is it?” Wednesday asks her, and Enid is only slightly appeased by the fact that Wednesday turns her back on Hugo in a clear dismissal. Her palms are cool on Enid’s cheeks. “Are you alright?”
Enid’s shoulders begin the slow descent out of their defensive hike. “Yeah, m’good,” she exhales.
Wednesday’s fingertips trace the shape of Enid’s jaw. Without thinking about the consequences beyond a second of consideration that culminates in an internal shrug, Enid allows her hand to slide up Wednesday’s abdominals. She relishes how Wednesday’s breath hitches at her touch, twisting her fist in the fabric stretched over Wednesday’s ribs. Part of Enid hopes her nails tear right through the pretty top and reveal Wednesday’s skin to everyone present. Part of her wants to draw blood.
“Are you sure?” Wednesday asks, voice lowering.
Enid thanks her lucky stars and every deity she can think of besides that Wednesday isn’t able to read her emotions in her scent. Jealousy isn’t a good look on anyone, Enid reminds herself. She should know better than to play into Hugo’s games.
And yet.
Enid might as well be a backseat passenger to her wolf as she huffs a wretched little noise into Wednesday’s hand, something sharp and undeniably needy that she attempts to cover by pressing her lips to Wednesday’s palm. It takes everything Enid has not to open her mouth and lick, not to drag her tongue all over Wednesday’s hand and wrist like a starving dog. Enid wants to taste the sweat collecting at Wednesday’s temples. She wants to wear Wednesday’s come on her face and neck like a medal of honor.
Enid’s skin feels two sizes too small as she glances up at Wednesday. The glint in Wednesday’s eye that greets her has alarm bells ringing in Enid’s head. “I’m still good, Wednesday,” she whispers. “Aren’t I?”
It’s an outrageous question. If Enid were a good girl, she wouldn’t be curb-stomping the line that public decency dictates she not cross.
Wednesday does an admirable job of controlling her expression, but secrets tend not to remain so for long in the presence of wolves, and the spike in her scent is unmistakable. Enid can hardly wait for how much trouble she will inevitably find herself in after this latest stunt.
“Why ask what you already know?” Wednesday replies. Last warning, Enid thinks.
A good girl would behave, but Enid never claimed to be something she’s not. She does not hesitate in smiling wide enough to expose her canines.
Enid might not be the most observant person on the planet, but she would have to be blind not to notice how Wednesday’s gaze lingers on her teeth. Fair’s fair, Enid thinks, even as the damning scent of honeycomb rises between them. If Hugo’s going to be shamelessly drawing smiles from her intended, Enid has no qualms about reminding him who Wednesday belongs to. After all, Wolves tend to respond best to the direct approach. Enid’s not sure how much more direct she could get than filling the immediate vicinity with the scent of Wednesday’s arousal.
“Maybe I just like hearing you say it,” Enid simpers.
Wednesday’s scent blooms heady and wet as her thumbs dig into Enid’s jaw.
With that, Hugo finally grows bored and takes off after Jordan. All the wolves that Enid recognized by sight or scent dutifully trot after him, abandoning Enid and Wednesday to Toby’s dubious care. Enid’s euphoria over staking such an overt claim on Wednesday ebbs away at the sobering reminder that another pack, for a thus far undisclosed reason, chose to make the trek out to the border to receive her.
Toby’s expression is less than reassuring. “Come on,” he orders. “I’ll show you the way.”
In truth, an escort is downright unnecessary, considering Enid knows this land better than any other place on earth, but tradition supersedes all. Now that Toby and Wednesday have struck an unlikely alliance, he’ll be expected to ensure she makes it to Enid’s house safely.
Enid nearly trips over her feet when she starts to follow Toby and discovers Wednesday’s iron grip keeping her in place.
“Won’t you introduce yourself to my intended?” Wednesday asks, voice as unyielding as her hand. “It seems you haven’t met.”
To his credit, Toby only glances at Enid for a split second before his attention returns to Wednesday. Enid’s pack is pretty old-fashioned as far as packs go—the East Coast packs refer to them as ancient artifacts when they think they’re out of earshot—but she’d forgotten the social etiquettes surrounding a formal courtship. As long as Enid remains in that in-between stage of being collared but not mated, it isn’t appropriate for her to make direct eye contact with single dominant wolves. Toby seems to be doing his utmost to toe that line, Wednesday’s obliviousness notwithstanding.
Her East Coast classmates might have been satisfied with simply commenting on Enid and Wednesday’s shared scent and offering congratulations, but that isn’t the way of Enid’s kin. Her pack clings to the old ways to an almost nonsensical degree. If there’s a tradition to be followed, Enid’s pack can be trusted to embrace it with near-religious fervor. Even Hugo wouldn’t have escaped punishment if his father had witnessed his flagrant disregard for Enid’s new status as a collared wolf.
Wednesday’s opinion might not hold water with Enid’s packmembers, but God forbid a member of Toby’s pack witnesses conduct unbecoming of a Pack Leader’s son.
Toby’s wariness of insulting Wednesday, even without her knowledge, serves to have Enid softening towards him despite her better judgment. It would be a cold day in hell before Hugo deigned to show a modicum of respect toward an outsider like Wednesday. Stranger though he may be, if more dominant wolves were like Toby, Enid might not have avoided coming home at all costs in her years as a Nevermore student. Jordan and Hugo could stand to learn a thing or two from him.
If Toby doesn’t turn out to be a raging serial killer, Enid muses, they might actually end up becoming friends.
“Toby Montgomery,” he reveals, face paling at the sound of his own last name. Then, with all the effectiveness of placing a bandaid over a bullet wound, Toby adds, “Welcome home, Sinclair.”
It is all Enid can do not to scream.
Notes:
enid: wow maybe toby will end up being our friend! who knew!
toby: my last name is montgomery
enid: never FUCKING mindclick here for the chapter summary WITH SPOILERS
Enid is relieved that Toby and Wednesday have become temporary allies. Hugo implies that Toby just fucked himself by accepting Wednesday under his protection. Enid becomes jealous enough by Hugo and Wednesday’s interaction that she purposefully incites Wednesday’s arousal by showing her teeth, knowing that the other wolves will be able to smell it. Enid gives Wednesday a run for her money on the possessiveness front, briefly allowing her wolf to call the shots.
Wednesday refuses to continue on until Toby shows Enid the courtesy of introducing himself. Enid knows that it’s just polite for dominant wolves to avoid making eye contact with a submissive wolf who’s been collared but not mated. Toby seems to be attempting a balancing act of not offending his new ally, Wednesday, while still showing Enid and Wednesday the respect he believes they deserve as a newly bonded couple.
Toby finally, reluctantly reveals his last name to be Montgomery, rightfully predicting that Enid will incorrectly assume he’s traveled there to usurp Wednesday’s claim and take Enid for himself. Enid panics at the realization that another dominant wolf has (presumably) come for her.
Chapter 80: Terror
Notes:
A spoiler-ridden chapter summary has been added to end notes. Read at your own peril.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid doesn’t remember every detail of her fight with Tyler, but the points she does recall remain as vivid and gruesome as they were in real time.
Enid’s not sure she will ever forget the smell, rotting wood and ashes and blood, or the sting of pine needles beneath her paws as she fought through the lens of a beast rather than a human being who understands justice beyond kill or be killed. Enid knows, in theory, she delivered a beating of biblical proportions onto Tyler that night; she mostly just remembers how it reeked and blistered and how she might as well have been boiling alive during those few minutes when Enid wasn’t sure if Wednesday had survived.
The moment of revelation that Toby is a Montgomery—the Montgomery—largely feels the same. All she can taste is terror, because with just that one word, it becomes glaringly obvious to Enid what Hugo had hoped would happen here.
“No, I—Sinclair—” Toby protests, wide-eyed and more distressed than any dominant wolf Enid has ever seen.
Did he know? Enid wonders, pulse pounding in her ears. Did Toby know that she’d already been collared, that all he’d find here would be a fight? Did he come prepared to murder Wednesday to free Enid’s hand for a new offer?
There’s no other reasonable explanation for why Toby would make the trip out here to visit, and with a platoon of warriors, no less. When Enid’s parents shared the news of her collaring with the Montgomeries, Toby must have decided he’d rather fight than give up on claiming a submissive wolf. Hugo knew this, had clearly hoped to be able to witness the proceedings—so why didn’t Toby follow the script? It would have been easy to overwhelm them the moment they stepped over the boundary. She and Wednesday aren’t even armed, Enid realizes with a thrill of horror. It would have been a slaughter if they’d been taken unawares.
Why doesn’t it make sense? Enid desperately asks herself, logic sent spinning in the face of outright terror. Why would Toby come all this way, hoping for bloodshed, and falter at the moment of truth? A dominant wolf—a Pack Leader’s son—would never show such weakness in front of his warriors.
Unless they weren’t prepared for this, Enid suddenly thinks. It almost feels blasphemous to consider the possibility—unnatural, the little voice that sounds remarkably like her mother insists—but Enid cannot ignore what she saw. Wolves operate on what they taste, hear, touch. They are a species driven by their perception of the world around them. It wasn’t fabricated for entertainment that while the wolves from her pack visibly expected violence from the outset, Toby had undeniably been upset at the sight of her.
He’d look betrayed, like he’d been tricked, like this wasn’t unfolding how he expected at all. Even more damning, his warriors had eyed him with disapproval once the others departed, hadn’t they? Almost like they disagreed with what was happening. Like they didn’t want anything to do with this, Enid considers, not any more than Toby had.
She’d assumed his displeasure was due to frustration over giving Wednesday guest rights, but it has to be more than that; dominant wolves aren’t in the business of denying themselves anything. If Toby had come here for a fight, he would have gotten it.
On the other hand, if he came here for an introduction and found his potential match wearing someone else’s collar with no warning whatsoever—he’d be infuriated, and understandably so. Hell, any wolf would feel personally wronged by the Sinclair family’s deceit if they were put in his position, maybe even outraged enough to attack Wednesday and inadvertently fulfill all of Hugo’s wildest dreams of cutting down Enid’s hopes for the future.
Before Enid can open her mouth and rectify her mistake, before she can beg Toby not to punish Wednesday for her parents’ actions or Enid’s olympic-gymnast level jump to conclusions, Wednesday employs the speed that Enid’s always suspected of being supernatural in nature and places herself in the line of fire. When Enid registers the shining black blade that has inexplicably appeared in Wednesday’s hand, her heart surges into her throat. Ally or not, Toby Montgomery is a Pack Leader’s son; to draw a weapon against him is to invite the ire of all of his warriors, and that is a fight she and Wednesday would not win.
Right on cue, the remaining wolves slide into position. Between splintering breaths, Enid remembers the stench of Tyler’s defeat and wonders if this place will smell of her once she and Wednesday lay broken on the ground.
“Don’t move!” Toby barks. “Peace, all of you!”
In a last-ditch effort, he meets Enid’s eyes, and she knows in the way that a wolf mother can pick her pup out of a lineup and a submissive knows the will of their bonded dominant that he will not harm her. Not her or Wednesday, not any of them. Not for this.
Enid can’t imagine the hurt Toby must feel from coming here expecting—hoping for—a courtship and finding her collared instead. The level of integrity it must take to stand in her defense against his people anyways is inconceivable.
Nevertheless, as miraculous as it is to have Toby on their side, Wednesday still needs to put down the knife before an accident leads to war.
“Wednesday!” Enid gasps, all but leaping onto Wednesday’s back and curling around her with her whole body. “Wednesday, no, I’m sorry—don’t—”
Wednesday categorically refuses to move. “Let go of me, Enid. I need my hands.”
“No, you don’t,” Toby insists, glaring at the trees. “What did I just say? Down!”
The wolves lower onto their haunches at once, displaying the backs of their necks without prompting. Enid’s never seen a platoon of warriors follow the orders of an untested twenty-year-old so readily. Jordan would cream himself in envy.
Unfortunately, Wednesday does not receive the same signal that Enid did because she flips the knife with a practiced ease that would put any assassin to shame. Toby glances at Enid again, pale with shock, and Enid can’t help but feel the tiniest surge of pride. Her intended is vicious, she thinks. All wolves would do well to accept this unassailable truth.
“Peace,” Toby reiterates, raising his hands in a universal sign of surrender. “I mean you no harm, Addams. You’re my guest, right? You’re safe.”
“What does that mean?” Wednesday retorts.
Toby’s mouth spasms with confusion. “I gave you guest rights,” he states. “When I shook your hand. Sharing physical contact means you’re under my protection for as long as you stay here. Didn’t Sinclair warn you about this?”
About sacred laws of old that most East Coast wolves wouldn’t even recognize? Funnily enough, Enid somehow neglected to take care of that essential task between researching kinks and agonizing over her family's radio silence.
“That’s a no, then,” Toby mumbles.
Wednesday finally relaxes, though the knife remains shining and obvious, a slash of suffering glinting in the summer sun. “A handshake equates to unlimited protection from harm?” she pieces out. “That seems absurd.”
“It’s supposed to be within reason,” Toby replies, arms lowering. “I can’t control whether you eat poison berries or take a running jump off a cliff, but I can keep Hugo from starting shit over your claim.”
Wednesday shifts her weight. “My claim?”
“On your intended,” Toby answers. His face tightens as his eyes flick to the trees. “Addams, I get you’re pissed off, but will you stand down? My guys are getting antsy watching you swing that knife around.”
Enid is briefly mesmerized by the curve of Wednesday’s wrist as she makes a show of re-sheathing her blade. Only the bite of Toby’s scent snaps her out of it.
“Fine,” Wednesday states. “I’m unarmed. Care to explain why you have my intended in tears, Montgomery?”
Enid cringes on Toby’s behalf. Wednesday couldn’t have known it, but referring to Toby so impersonally after striking an alliance must feel like adding insult to injury on top of today’s already trying ordeal.
“I’m not in tears,” Enid denies.
Toby’s jaw clenches. “Will you stop calling me that?” he snaps. “My name is Toby.”
“You call me Addams,” Wednesday retorts.
Enid can tell from Toby’s scent alone how well that’s going to go over.
“Because you’re my fucking guest!” Toby explodes. Then, with a touch of vulnerability that has Enid’s stomach twisting for him, he adds, “And you haven’t given me permission to call you by your first name.”
Enid can’t quite see Wednesday’s expression, but her face must not be very reassuring to have Toby bracing like he expects to weather a blow.
“Am I supposed to believe you value manners?” Wednesday drawls.
Vulnerability gives way to an artificial indifference that resonates with Enid the same way wounded wolves can sense each other from a distance. Poor Toby, she thinks with a surprising spark of hurt. It’s just hit after hit.
First, he’s met with utter disappointment about Enid, then he realizes his supposed friend—though Enid thinks it generous to call Hugo a friend to anyone—set him up for disaster, and now his own guest is rejecting his attempts at including her. As long as guest rights hold, Wednesday will matter to Toby. That’s just the way it works.
Her dismissal of him in front of his packmembers cannot feel pleasant, to say the least.
“Hugo doesn’t represent our entire designation,” Toby manages, looking remarkably unbothered. Enid realizes with a sinking feeling that he must have practice at not letting internal injuries show on his face.
“No, but his behavior reeks a little too close to the dominant wolves of Nevermore,” Wednesday replies, voice on the edge of cruel. Enid hopes she’s the only one who notices Toby’s miniscule flinch at her tone. “And they did not do your designation any favors.”
It’s probably a mark of her idiocy that Enid can’t help but feel sympathy for the boy who very well could have chosen to ruin her life.
“I don’t know who you met at school,” Toby allows, “But those weren’t my packmates. Right, Sinclair? Tell her.”
Enid forces herself to breathe evenly. “No,” she agrees. “It was…” Seriously, fuck them for this, Enid thinks, throwing caution to the wind. “My pack is the problem,” she admits out loud for what is quite possibly the first time in her entire life.
Toby gives her a nod of solidarity. Enid appreciates it more than she could ever put into words.
“My pack respects the legitimacy of every claim, kin or not,” Toby asserts. Enid wonders if a neighboring community could really be so dissimilar from her pack, or if he’s just having them on to keep blades from flying. She wouldn’t blame him if it’s the second—Wednesday Addams is a terror even in a good mood. “We don’t do this. I never would have agreed to this if I knew you’d collared her, Addams. That’s the truth.”
Enid holds her breath while Wednesday contemplates her response.
“And what, exactly, is this?” Wednesday asks in a marginally less combative tone.
Internally, Enid withers. How will she ever explain that her own family—her parents—set Wednesday up to be attacked by a scorned dominant wolf who happens to have an entire squad of warriors at his back? It’s almost comical in its wickedness. Enid can’t even fully fault Hugo for wanting to watch the fireworks. Though she would love nothing more than to remove his head from his shoulders on principle alone, Enid knows in her heart this deceit was her parents’ doing.
“I am not your enemy, Addams,” Toby says. “You too, Sinclair.”
Enid’s throat unexpectedly swells with a bizarre urge to cry.
“But there are enemies,” Wednesday insists. “Are there not?”
Toby’s expression answers that.
Notes:
andddd WE ARE CAUGHT UP! i went back and added spoilery chapter summaries to the end of each update (starting with chapter seventy-six), so consider checking that out if you want to re-read the split POV chapters with additional context.
click here for the chapter summary WITH SPOILERS
Toby is revealed to be Pack Leader Montgomery’s son and Enid’s original arranged match. She had never met him before, so did not recognize his face or him by first name alone.
Enid’s initial assumption is that Toby is here to kill Wednesday, which is why she panics somewhat irrationally upon realizing who he is. According to pack law, if Toby were to kill Wednesday, that would give him the legal right to pursue Enid himself. In that moment, it doesn’t even occur to Enid that guest rights would prevent Toby from harming Wednesday—she cannot think of another reason why Toby would make the trip out here with backup besides intending to claim her through violent means.
Upon realizing that Toby’s packmates’ behavior and his own despair at laying eyes on her—and noticing she’s wearing a collar—are not consistent with that conclusion, Enid rethinks the situation. She eventually determines that Toby must not have been informed of her collaring beforehand and that he traveled here in hopes of starting a courtship with her. She rightfully deduces that her parents intentionally withheld the fact that she was collared from the Montgomery pack in hopes that Toby would fly into a rage and attack Wednesday out of spite for being denied what he was “owed.” Hugo contributed to this plot by inviting Toby along to pick Enid up; he is happy to get involved in anything that might lead to Enid’s misery.
Toby’s pack does not treat submissive wolves as something to be possessed, so while he is disappointed that she’s no longer single, he’s understandably more upset to have been manipulated. When Wednesday draws her knife, Toby does his level best to calm everyone down, knowing it’s a misunderstanding and this outcome is exactly what their enemies had hoped for. He is hurt by Wednesday’s dismissiveness of their alliance but puts on a brave face. Enid feels badly for him, knowing exactly how it feels to be a wolf and have your own people turn their back on you (even unintentionally, as in Wednesday’s case).
Chapter 81: Belonging
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“We shouldn’t speak here,” Toby insists. “This isn’t a conversation that should be had on pack grounds. We should—if you’ll allow it, we can take my car. Move further out,” he proposes, thrusting out his chin like he expects them to argue.
Wednesday eyes him with indecision churning in her gut. On the one hand, a mere mention of Toby’s family had Enid panicking to the point of endangering Wednesday’s personal commitment to peace unless absolutely necessary, which is somewhat concerning and not at all endearing. Nevertheless, Wednesday should know better than to resort to violence as quickly as she had when drawing her blade; she cannot shift blame onto Toby for merely existing.
If Toby means what he says—which Wednesday does, ironically enough, believe to be true—she has at least one ally to help shore up her defenses. It would be the height of stupidity to disregard the benefits Toby could engineer for her. A dominant is supposed to act with their submissive’s best interests at heart, a sentiment that Wednesday, realistically, failed to live up to when she pulled a knife on their only ally. She has to do better if she hopes to be successful during their time here.
In truth, part of the reason that Wednesday insisted on visiting is to determine whether there’s a pre-existing pack that Enid would want to call herself a member of, or alternatively, if Wednesday needs to create a pack for Enid. Gomez once took control of an entire mountain so Morticia could build her hearth on the land that most spoke to her magic; finding a pack that accepts and supports Enid seems the least that Wednesday can do.
Whether that ultimately will prove to be Enid’s original pack—after a few severe adjustments to their membership, of course—or another pack entirely remains to be seen. Still, Wednesday has a greater purpose in being here. She cannot afford to forget that again.
Toby is an unknown variable, but Wednesday has managed with worse.
“Won’t our hosts raise the alarm when we fail to appear?” Wednesday asks, though her hesitance is mostly for show. She’s already made her decision.
Toby’s mouth twists. “Not fucking likely,” he mutters. “I have my driver’s license if that’s what you’re worried about. The guys will follow behind 'til we get to the highway.”
Wednesday’s eyes flick toward the trees. After a moment of consideration, she gives a sharp nod. “Lay on, Macduff.”
Toby shoots her a look as he starts trekking through the undergrowth. He still seems a little awkward in his skin, though his every step is steadfast and sure. “Shakespeare?” he comments.
At Enid and Wednesday’s dubious expressions, he scowls. “What? I graduated, too.”
“From SOLLS,” Enid mumbles. “Not exactly Nevermore.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her tone. “Souls?” she repeats, turning to Toby.
“What, seriously? They’re sister schools, Sinclair,” Toby protests. “We got the exact same education.”
“Well, excuse me for doubting that a school that set Hugo Flint loose on the world is up to my ethical standards,” Enid snips in response, stomping particularly hard through a rotting log in their path.
Wednesday reaches out to slow her, pleased when Enid softens at her touch.
“What do you mean by souls?” Wednesday asks, speaking over Toby’s indignant reply. “And did I hear correctly that you attended school with Hugo? That must have been an experience.”
Toby sighs, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “That’s one way to put it,” he says, holding a branch out of the way so Wednesday and Enid can pass unmolested by the local wildlife. “And it’s SOLLS, not souls. Stands for School Of Lady Lenore’s Sorrows, where we just graduated from.”
“You’re referring to Hugo and yourself?” Wednesday asks, cocking her head. At his prickly expression, she smiles. “Just to be clear.”
Toby scowls as he steps off a low ridge and lands cleanly on his feet. “Yes, Addams,” he answers from below, voice clipped. “Me and Hugo. Hugo and I. We both, together, just graduated from SOLLS.”
Wednesday copies him and jumps, offering a hand to Enid as she attempts to clamor down the rocks without slipping or soaking herself in mud. Despite his attitude, Toby patiently waits for Enid to set both feet on the ground before continuing to lead the charge.
“No need to get nasty,” Wednesday says, amused. Toby seems much less twitchy now that her knife is out of sight and her tone is no longer writ with the promise of violence. Enid, for her part, offers Wednesday a grateful smile.
“I was unaware of any sister school to Nevermore,” Wednesday idly comments.
Toby gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s the West Coast equivalent. Most wolves from our packs go to SOLLS.”
“Christ, here we go,” Enid mutters.
Wednesday shoots her a look. “What was that, Enid? A little louder, please.”
Enid wraps her arms around herself. “I am not in the mood to get dumped on about choosing to go to Nevermore,” she snaps. “I hear enough of it from my parents.”
“Can you blame them?” Toby snorts. “Most Nevermore wolves are East Coast. You didn’t want to be with your pack?”
Enid raises an eyebrow in lieu of answering.
“Oh,” he mumbles, undoubtedly recalling years of being forced to study alongside Hugo. “Yeah—that’s fair. If I were you, I’d probably have gone to school in Alaska before sharing a class with them.”
“Hugo’s a menace to society,” Enid hisses, voice lowered to the point that only Toby and Wednesday catch it. The wolves escorting them to the car plod on, unaware.
Toby nods. “Jordan’s not that bad. Dude’s a drama queen, but at least he’s not a complete sociopath.”
“Aren’t these your friends we’re talking about?” Enid sneers.
Toby shoots her a bemused look. “What? No. Who told you that?”
Enid’s brow furrows. “Wasn’t Hugo the one who invited you here?”
“No, what? I only—” Toby cuts himself off, reconsidering his words. “I only came here for you,” he carefully replies. “To meet you, I mean. I didn’t think anything of it when Hugo invited me to come pick you up.”
Enid’s scent sours with such potent despair that Wednesday’s eyes begin to water.
“Is there another outcast school in Alaska?” Wednesday interjects, desperate to distract Enid from whatever’s causing her to feel so wretched.
Toby and Enid momentarily stare at her in confusion before answering in tandem, “Night’s Plutonian Shore Prep.”
“School in Utqiagvik, Alaska,” Toby explains. He glances over his shoulder. “It’s the northernmost town in the States. Doesn’t see the sun rise for two months each winter.”
“Not many wolves go there,” Enid adds, biting her lip. She casts a nervous look at the wolves trailing behind them. “There’s—a lot of vampires choose to go there because of the polar night.”
Wednesday nods. “I can see how that would be discouraging,” she says, careful to maintain a neutral tone. “It is truly two full months of darkness?”
“Sometimes longer,” Toby confirms. “They get some light during the polar night, but not much. It’s more like a weak twilight than sun-bathing conditions.”
“Wait, have you been there?” Enid asks, voice high with disbelief.
“Yeah. My mom was a student,” Toby admits, hands slipping into his pockets. “We all went up for alumni weekend just last year.”
Enid blinks. “Your—your mom went to NPSP? Is she not a wolf?”
The wolves in the trees, who had thus far observed in silence, share a growl that ripples through their ranks.
“Sorry,” Enid winces. “Sorry, that—that was, like, incredibly rude of me to ask, shit.”
“Nah, it’s alright,” Toby mumbles. Wednesday wonders why his shoulders are tensing right up until he reveals, “My mom’s not a wolf. She’s a woodwitch.”
That would explain it, Wednesday thinks, automatically straightening up. “How interesting,” she muses. “My mother is as well.”
Toby’s head whips up to meet her gaze. “Y-Yeah?” he asks, stumbling over his words for the first time. “Would my mom know her? Maybe they—know each other?” he asks.
“It’s possible,” Wednesday allows. “Perhaps I’ll have a chance to ask your mother myself.”
Toby quickly nods. “Yeah, I could set that up. My mom pretty much considers every woodwitch to be her sister.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “Think she gets lonely sometimes.”
Wednesday frowns. “You didn’t inherit her skill?”
“Are you kidding?” Toby snorts, shaking his head. “I’m my dad’s only son.”
“He wouldn’t have been allowed to study magic,” Enid whispers. “Heirs have to focus on the pack.”
“How primitive,” Wednesday replies. “Am I correct in assuming you have sisters?”
Toby nods. “Five of them. They’re not woodwitches either, though.”
Wednesday wonders if she looks as surprised as she feels. “That is statistically improbable,” she states. “Five daughters, and not one chose to pursue their mother’s magic?”
“We’re not exactly encouraged to study magic,” Enid interjects. “If we present as a wolf, that’s it. We’re wolves.”
“Unless I am wildly off base, wolves can still learn magic,” Wednesday points out. “Enid, you’re—”
Enid’s frantic shake of her head has Wednesday switching gears mid-sentence.
“—Going to meet a variety of people with both a creature inheritance and an education in magic when we visit my family,” Wednesday finishes. “I hope you’re prepared.”
Enid offers a relieved smile. “I’ll try not to keel over in shock,” she teases.
Wednesday hums in agreement. “Montgomery,” she speaks up, aware of the eyes on her back. The wolves have kept her in their sights this entire time.
Toby’s fists clench at his sides. “Yes?” he replies, voice guarded.
“How shall I address you?” Wednesday calmly asks. “I understand you were unhappy with my choice to refer to you by your family name. I’d like to rectify that, seeing as I am your guest.”
Toby’s face brightens, and even Wednesday feels a little regretful over how sharply she’d spoken to him before. “Toby’s fine,” he answers. “My car’s just up ahead if you’re still good to go for a ride.”
“Won’t we be missed by your family?” Wednesday asks, following Toby out of the trees. A line of well-maintained cars looms on the opposite side of the road. “Surely, at least one of your sisters will notice your absence.”
Normally, Wednesday wouldn’t be taking such a familiar tone with someone she’s known for a grand total of thirty minutes, but the incident at the border seems to have had an unexpected side effect of ferrying them through any first-meeting awkwardness. Instead, Wednesday feels they were deposited into the realm of comrades, if not friends.
The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, Wednesday recalls. She may not know Toby well, but she knows how he responds to a threat on their lives, and that is more than enough to gauge his character.
Toby offers a weak, tentative grin. “I already sent a couple of my guys to bring in your bags and let my mom know where we are. We’re good.”
Wednesday nods. “Enid?” she asks, turning to face her.
Enid flinches like she’s been struck. “Yeah, we should—guess we should talk,” she agrees, lip quivering. “I’m sorry,” she adds in a whisper, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m so sorry about this, Wednesday. About all of it.”
Wednesday takes her hand, refusing to move until Enid meets her gaze.
“Let’s talk,” Wednesday repeats. She reaches up with her free hand to tap the stone on Enid’s collar, and Enid’s scent blooms with a kaleidoscope of emotion that coalesces into debilitating relief.
Toby hastens to unlock the driver’s side door, sliding out of sight. “You guys can take the back,” he calls over his shoulder. “Maybe you should—sit together,” he suggests, grimacing at himself a second later.
Wednesday can feel her lips curling up in amusement. “You heard him,” she says to Enid, opening the rear door. “After you.”
From the look on Enid’s face, you would think she’s stepping onto a minefield. The first twenty minutes of the ride pass in a stilted silence that only eases once they’ve put at least ten miles between the pack territory and Toby’s car. Though nobody who’s spent longer than five minutes with Wednesday would ever accuse her of having exemplary social skills, she takes it upon herself to reopen the conversation now that Enid and Toby seem to have relaxed.
“Tell me about your sisters,” Wednesday speaks up.
Toby meets her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Um, yeah. I’m the youngest, so most of my sisters are mated already.”
“Are they all wolves like you?” Wednesday asks, finding herself genuinely interested.
It’s not often you hear of an interspecies match, especially not one involving a wolf as presumably high-ranked as Pack Leader Montgomery. Wednesday would know—she extensively researched how often wolves mate outside their species when she decided to court Enid. There had not been much to find.
“All of my sisters are wolves, yeah,” Toby answers. His hands tighten on the steering wheel right before he says, “My dad’s had other kids, though, and I’m not sure about them.”
A sharp look from Enid has Wednesday falling silent. Something to investigate at a later date, Wednesday thinks. She’s curious to learn how a woodwitch educated at a school north of the arctic circle found herself mated to a werewolf Pack Leader in California. As far as dominant wolves go, Toby is full of surprises.
“I’m still astounded none of your sisters chose to pursue magic,” Wednesday muses aloud.
Toby shifts a bit uncomfortably. “We’re liberal, but not that liberal.”
Enid makes a noise halfway between a cough and a snort. “Since when is your pack liberal?” she questions. “You’re like, a hundred miles from us. It’s not like it’s a different planet.”
“Just a different Pack Leader,” Toby retorts. His mouth twists. “Shit. Sorry, Sinclair.”
“No, you’re right,” Enid begrudgingly admits. “I just—how are you guys so different? I don’t get it.”
“My mom made some changes when she mated my dad,” Toby quietly admits. “There were some—some tough years.”
“I’ll bet.” Enid sighs to herself. “Is it wrong to be jealous? I feel like that’s super shitty of me—uh, considering.”
“To be jealous of my pack?” Toby repeats, eyes finding Wednesday’s in the mirror.
Though she doesn’t quite know why, Wednesday nods her permission. Toby’s grip immediately loosens on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know,” he dutifully answers. “We’re not perfect, but Jesus. You guys have some serious issues if you’re pulling shit like what happened today.”
“Speaking of, would either of you care to shed some light on the subject?” Wednesday asks, keeping her tone cordial. “Not that I don’t enjoy driving in silence or discussing our siblings, but I’d appreciate some context now that we’re alone.”
Toby’s hand spasms towards the radio, then freezes and drops back into his lap. “Yeah, that was a friggin’ circus,” he replies, managing a laugh. “Probably seemed weird as shit to you, huh, Addams?”
“More bewildering, I’d say,” Wednesday idly responds. “You may call me Wednesday if you’d like, Toby.”
Toby’s eyes snap to hers. “Seriously? You—yeah?” he asks, voice faltering a little.
Wednesday is confused by the intensity of the scents filling the cab, but she nods. Perhaps the propensity to react emotionally to such little concessions is a trait that all wolves share. “Yes. We’re allies, aren’t we? Or some equivalent?”
“Allies is probably the best word for it,” Enid speaks up, her gaze warm.
She’s pleased, Wednesday realizes, which would be excellent if only she knew what Enid was pleased about.
“Guest rights means you’re part of Toby’s pack, pretty much,” Enid tells her. “It’s not a small thing, you know? If Toby had rejected you, you would’ve been considered enemies.”
“I wasn’t going to reject you,” Toby quickly says. “My father would’ve beat my ass,” he adds under his breath. “Actually, he still might.”
Wednesday frowns. “Ah. Then—” She falls silent again, unsure of how to phrase such a sensitive question.
Toby’s eyes find her in the mirror. “It’s okay. You can ask me anything,” he offers, and Wednesday can tell he means it.
Wednesday straightens up in her seat. “Did I coerce you into a friendship you didn’t want by pressuring you to accept my handshake?” she demands. “Was our alliance forged non-consensually?”
Toby briefly swerves into the opposite lane, sending Enid flying into the car door and Wednesday into Enid’s side. His cheeks color as Enid bursts into laughter, the kind of wheezing that has her kicking out her feet and struggling to catch her breath.
“Was that funny?” Wednesday asks, taking the opportunity to lean over and buckle Enid’s seatbelt.
“Jesus, Wednesday,” Toby hisses. “No. I’m—I didn’t expect it or anything, but if I wanted to reject you, I would’ve,” he insists.
Wednesday reaches out to place a calming hand on Enid’s shoulder. “Be that as it may, I still don’t understand.”
“It’s just—” Enid hiccups. “Only you would think that friendship can be non-consensual. Christ, I think I’m crying.”
“Go ahead, yuck it up,” Toby grouses, though Wednesday sees his lips quirk in the mirror. “See if I drive you back to the territory.”
“I’m Wednesday’s intended!” Enid protests, wiping her cheeks. “You have to tolerate me.”
It is abundantly clear to Wednesday that Enid was joking, but Toby’s smile instantly disappears.
“It’s not tolerating,” he says. “Wednesday’s part of my pack. That means you are, too.”
Enid certainly isn’t laughing now. “You mean that?”
Wednesday feels like she’s watching a high-stakes tennis match as she alternates her gaze between them.
Toby’s lips press together, then he says, “Wednesday knows about the eye contact thing, right?”
Enid cringes. “That would be a negative,” she admits.
Toby's face cycles through a variety of expressions and lands on disbelief. "Did you tell her anything, Sinclair?”
"Okay, one, we were busy, and two, I didn't think I had to," Enid retorts. She bites her lip when Wednesday glances in her direction. "I didn't…my parents knew I was bringing home my intended.”
Toby’s hands tighten on the wheel. “That bad, huh?”
Judging from the look on his face, Wednesday imagines Toby has experience with inadequate parents.
“I don’t understand why they would do this when they knew I was collared,” Enid says in a small voice.
In the rearview mirror, Toby’s expression darkens alarmingly fast. "Then it really was all on purpose.”
“Are you sure they didn’t tell you?” Enid asks a bit desperately. “Maybe, if it was a mistake—”
Toby scoffs to himself, and Enid’s teeth click together as she ducks her head. Wednesday barely has the chance to frown before Toby relents with a roll of his eyes.
"We were told that you'd been given an offer," he admits. "Not that you'd accepted. Was Hugo right? Do all of your packmembers spit on our traditions, or is this just a habit of your family?"
"Not to interrupt,” Wednesday states, doing precisely that, “But are you insinuating there’s a legitimate reason why you refuse to look at my intended?"
Toby's face spasms with something like hurt. "I—what?" he replies.
"Oh God," Enid squeaks. "Wednesday—"
"Are you so rude to all your guests, or shall I mark it down as a Montgomery family trait?" Wednesday speaks over her.
Toby's expression shifts from bewilderment to outrage, but what comes out of his mouth is, "You want me looking at your intended?"
Wednesday frowns. "Excuse me?"
"Oh my God," Toby mutters. "Tell me this isn't happening."
"It's not her fault!" Enid bursts out in protest. "Don't look at her like that, how is Wednesday supposed to know? Nobody's taught her!"
Toby’s knuckles grow white around the steering wheel, but he chooses to scowl at the windshield rather than glare at Enid directly. Wednesday privately thinks it a smart choice. "Sinclair, what the hell?" he demands. “You seriously just let her waltz in here with no information at all?”
"Well, fuck, Toby, I didn't think I'd have to warn my intended about my parents completely disregarding what I told them and inviting you here anyway!" Enid protests, voice high and thin. “Who even does that?”
Toby scowls. “They’re your parents. You’d let your intended be treated like that? Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to Wednesday?”
Wednesday has to internally repeat that statement twice before she realizes that Toby, for some unfathomable reason, appears to be angry on her behalf.
"I’m—I am so fucking sorry,” Enid expels with a full-body shudder. “To both of you. Wednesday, I never would’ve risked—I never, ever would’ve brought you here if I’d known—"
Wednesday holds up a hand, and Enid’s jaw snaps shut.
"This is clearly some machination of your parents," Wednesday proclaims, "So it is useless to apologize to me on their behalf. I won’t have you shouldering their responsibilities, Enid. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Toby sighs. “Sorry, Sinclair. I don’t—it's not your fault. I shouldn’t get on you like that about it.”
“No, you—please do,” Enid begs, leaving Wednesday staring at her in surprise. “If it means you’re on her side, that I can count on you to protect Wednesday, I can take it, okay? Just promise you are.”
“Fucking course I am,” Toby retorts. “Wednesday’s one of mine now, alright? I’ve got you both. Never was in question, Sinclair.”
“You will not be ‘taking’ anything, Enid,” Wednesday says. “And while I appreciate the sentiment, I am in fact capable of taking care of myself.”
“No, you really aren’t,” Toby replies. Wednesday is all set to argue until she notices Enid nodding her agreement.
Instead of snapping like she would prefer, Wednesday leans back in her seat. “Alright,” she declares. “Fine. Explain to me, then.”
Toby swallows. “Guess I should start from the beginning? With the packs?”
“I think that would be wise,” Wednesday responds.
"Three packs claim land in this part of the country," Toby explains, launching right into the meat of it. "My pack lives north of here. We're led by my father."
When he pauses expectantly, Wednesday nods to indicate she’s listening. Enid seems just as invested in the story because while she clutches Wednesday’s hand with a force that belays her anxiety, she appears to be hanging on to every word.
"Pack Leader Davis leads the community west of here," Toby reveals. "Hugo's father, Pack Leader Flint, leads Sinclair’s people."
Wednesday immediately spots the connection. "Hugo is your equivalent in rank," she surmises.
"Unfortunately for all of us," Enid huffs. "But yeah, Hugo's next to lead in my pack. Toby is next to lead in his."
Wednesday nods. "So, your parents invited the Montgomery heir to meet you in hopes of stealing your affections?" she guesses.
Enid squeezes her hand tighter. "Not—not quite," she manages.
"Wednesday," Toby speaks up, voice hard. He waits until Wednesday turns away from Enid before announcing, "Sinclair and I were supposed to be a match. They sent me to collect you both in hopes I would attack you once I found out she’d been collared behind my back."
The warm feeling of camaraderie Wednesday had been basking in twists into rage, heat roiling in her stomach and climbing up her throat. Both Enid and Toby flinch at her scent.
Wednesday had already inferred that Enid’s parents intended to manufacture some sort of altercation at the border, but a murder attempt seems a bit beyond the pale of even the most disapproving in-laws.
"Thirty-on-one doesn't seem like fair odds," Wednesday ultimately says. "Though I admire the cruelty."
Toby's eyebrows have disappeared under his bangs. "Jesus," he mumbles.
“She’s just like that,” Enid snaps defensively. “It doesn’t make her a bad match.”
Wednesday glances between them. "Something to add, Toby?" she prompts.
“Not really,” he says. “You’re right, Sinclair. It’s not bad.”
His eyes find Wednesday’s in the mirror. Though Wednesday remains bereft of colors as payment for her active runes, she can tell his eyes are light, perhaps grey or green. Her first impression of him, of a hardness forged only through strife, wasn’t wrong; she simply missed the desire for belonging that lurked beneath it. Wednesday wonders if all wolves suffer from a sense of estrangement or if Enid and Toby are two unlikely peas in the same unfortunate pod.
“Hold onto that energy, Wednesday,” Toby advises. “You’re gonna need it if you hope to get through the Sinclairs with all your limbs still attached.”
Enid slumps in her seat, fiddling with the hem of her shorts. She smells almost as bleak as Toby.
“They can try,” Wednesday replies, cheered at the thought. “I welcome their very best attempt.”
Enid groans. Toby, for his part, sighs like he’s peering up from the bottom of an insurmountable peak, but his scent sweetens right alongside Enid’s.
Wednesday marvels at how easy it was to turn the tide of their collective mood. Has no one bothered to introduce these wolves to the concept of hope? Internally, she seethes at the implications. A childhood in these packs must have been horrific if Wednesday’s teaching a lesson in optimism.
“On second thought, my guys are gonna revolt once they realize we’re rallying behind a girl who sews swords into her clothing,” Toby complains. The air thickens with the smell of sugar and sunlight as Enid snorts from the backseat.
“It was more of a knife,” Wednesday says. “And I’m not so certain I want your people at my back. You may be reasonable, but only an hour ago, those wolves were part of the mob assembled to murder us.”
"What? No. Everyone in fourth-form was just serving as witnesses," Toby refutes. “If I’d actually lost my shit and made a play for Sinclair's hand, it would have been witnessed as our laws demand.”
“Wolves fight one-on-one or not at all,” Enid mumbles.
Toby nods. “Yeah. Look, not to stir up this shit again, but I want to be clear about the eye contact thing.”
Enid sighs, tipping back her head. “Jesus Christ, Toby.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t tell her anything,” Toby argues.
Wednesday frowns between them. “You mean, how you refuse to look at Enid?” she replies.
"Dominant wolves don't look at submissive wolves being courted by others," Toby informs her. “It’s a respect thing. I’m showing you respect.”
Wednesday can feel her brow furrowing. “...I see.”
Toby shoots her a strange look, and Enid apparently feels the need to intervene.
“Wednesday, he really wasn’t trying to offend you,” she insists. “He was actually acknowledging our courtship as legitimate by not looking at me without permission."
Wednesday cocks her head. "Unlike the others," she concludes. "Are Jordan and Hugo so quick to undermine the legitimacy of our bond?"
"Hugo's different," Toby contends, fingers tapping on the wheel as he merges onto a major roadway. Wednesday never thought she’d be so enthused to lay eyes on a fast-food restaurant. "He's next to lead in Sinclair's home pack. They probably have a different level of familiarity having grown up together."
"And Jordan?" Wednesday persists.
Toby's lips flatten out. "He's just an asshole."
“You have permission to look at my intended, but perhaps you should rethink the company you keep,” Wednesday suggests. “I shudder to think of who your friends are if you’d follow Jordan and Hugo into the woods at the drop of a hat.”
Toby shoots her an injured look. “I’m a grown adult.”
“Serial killers must love you,” Wednesday solemnly replies.
Toby scowls. “Yeah, well, the next time Hugo invites me to something, I'll kick his head in," he mutters.
Satisfied, Wednesday turns to Enid, who pales.
"This was a more nuanced play than I expected from your parents," Wednesday opens with. "By my understanding—best-case scenario for us, Toby would have decided not to fight for your hand, but the Montgomeries blame me for the wasted trip. I would have earned an entire pack of enemies."
"You wouldn't have," Toby dismisses. "My parents are going to have kittens once they find out I was set up to meet a submissive who was already collared. That shit’s just not on."
"What would have been the worst-case scenario?" Enid asks, voice wavering.
Wednesday cocks her head as she thinks. "Toby would have decided to fight for your hand and forced me to slaughter him," she answers. "And his pack demands my blood as retribution."
Wednesday cannot help but be amused that Toby doesn’t try to refute her claim that she would best him in a fight. Perhaps not all dominant wolves are a burden on society.
"I'm not sure the Sinclairs ever pictured a scenario where you managed to wheedle guest rights out of me," Toby comments. "That's probably the worst-case scenario for them, so, gold star on that."
"It truly was the best-case scenario for us," Wednesday agrees. "We were lucky. Or, I was lucky. You were coerced."
“Christ, not this again,” Toby says under his breath.
Meanwhile, Enid squints at her, scent suddenly ripe with suspicion. “Are you wearing a luck rune?” she demands.
Wednesday realizes she’s smiling. It’s an odd thing to come to terms with in the backseat of a car belonging to the boy who could have ended up with Enid in another life. The thought still rankles, but not nearly as painfully as before. Toby isn’t a threat to them; of that much, Wednesday is certain.
“I appreciate the sense of irony, but no. I am not wearing a luck rune,” she answers truthfully. “The cost of changing your fate is often too high a price for a single afternoon of good fortune. Most runewitches, myself included, will not risk it.”
“Wait, who’s using runes?” Toby pipes up. “Isn’t that—like, really rare magic?”
Enid snickers. “Allow me to introduce your temporary packmate, Wednesday Addams, widely-acknowledged terror and trained runewitch.”
Toby brakes right there in the middle of the road, heedless of the barrage of honking that erupts as cars are forced to swerve around them. He spins around in his seat.
It’s quite a busy road, Wednesday realizes, casting her gaze at the window and thoroughly ignoring his incredulous stare. They are now passing mega stores, pilates studios, and crunchy quick-service restaurants, and for all that Enid's packmembers had chosen to greet them with a disapproval dredged up from the dark ages, Toby just looks like a normal kid cruising around with his friends.
The duality of Californian packs, Wednesday muses to herself. She can only imagine what Pack Leader Davis’s community looks like.
“You’re fucking with me,” Toby states. “You can’t be serious. Wednesday, you use runes? Like, actually?”
“As opposed to theoretically?” Wednesday dryly responds. “Yes, Toby. I am a practitioner of rune magic.”
“I could have killed a runewitch,” Toby whispers, hand in his hair. He shoots Wednesday a panicked look. “Oh, fuck me. My head’s gonna end up on a pike once mom hears about this. You’re really a runewitch?”
“What? No, it won't. You’re Wednesday’s ally,” Enid verbally barrels right over Wednesday’s reply. “You did a good job as her Leader, Toby. We’ll tell them.”
Until now, upon finding herself eager to relocate her gaze to somewhere else besides Toby’s suspiciously shiny eyes, Wednesday’s never quite understood the concept of secondhand embarrassment.
Notes:
extra long chapter for you all and, by popular demand, it's a whole chapter dedicated to TOBY! yall were right that he got hoed to the highest degree, but at least now toby has a couple buddies in enid and wednesday. new creed is no traumatized wolf left behind
Chapter 82: Human
Chapter Text
“Hey, will it be okay that we left your squad behind?” Enid asks. “I thought you were supposed to have warriors hovering around you like a force field at all times.”
Enid’s hair hangs long and tangled around her neck, her ponytail lost in the fervor of narrowly avoiding a brawl. Wednesday idly reaches out to slip her hand between Enid’s curls and her near-feverish skin, pressing down on any knot of tension that she happens across. Wolves run hot, Wednesday reminds herself. If she hadn’t already experienced Enid’s skin burning in heat, Wednesday would be concerned over what Enid considers to be her average temperature. The material of Enid's collar is several degrees cooler in comparison.
“They’ll survive,” Toby answers, rubbing a hand over his face. “You guys want Starbucks?”
Wednesday frowns. “Forgive me, but why on earth would a future Pack Leader hide behind a meat shield?” she wonders aloud.
“Hah, meat shield,” Enid murmurs. She looks like an overindulged housecat, eyes lidded as she strains her neck to provide a better angle while Wednesday digs her nails into her pressure points. Wednesday can tell she's just a hair away from purring out loud.
“Surely, the ability to protect oneself is a necessary pre-requisite for any future Pack Leader,” Wednesday contends. “A meat shield doesn't serve to inspire confidence.”
Toby nods. “Pack approval is important, or they won’t follow me when it’s my turn,” he intones.
“Precisely,” Wednesday states, retracting her hand. Enid whines at the loss. “You are the future leader of a strength-based community. Enlighten me as to one good reason why, knowing that, you would assign yourself bodyguards.”
“Wait, there’s a Starbucks?” Enid asks, straightening up.
Toby manages a half-smile. “Keeping my warriors around me is supposed to help with team bonding. It’s important that the new recruits view me as their commander instead of my father.”
Wednesday hums her understanding. “Then the benefits of enhancing social relations and defining roles within the ‘in group’ outweigh the costs of the wider pack’s perception of your strength. Do your packs intentionally structure their society like that of a military installation?”
Toby shrugs. “You’d have the ask the elders.”
“You did say there’s a Starbucks, right?” Enid interjects.
“Yeah, just up ahead,” Toby answers her, pulling into a crowded car park. “I got the impression that Jordan leads the juniors over here, but in my pack, that’s my responsibility. I look after the guys myself,” he explains to Wednesday, catching her eyes in the mirror.
“How very interesting,” Wednesday murmurs, mind whirring with the implications of Jordan leading the trainees instead of Hugo.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Enid says under her breath. “I haven’t had Starbucks in months.”
“Toby, will you face punishment for bringing us off-territory?” Wednesday questions, reaching over to unlatch Enid's seatbelt. “In hindsight, I can’t imagine the elders would have approved of such a move.”
Toby shrugs again as he shifts into park. “My parents are going to blow up no matter what. Might as well hydrate before we face the music.”
Enid winces as she clambers out of the car. “Any chance we can stay with your family tonight?” she weakly asks, seeking out Wednesday’s hand with her own.
Toby shoots her a concerned look as he locks the car behind them. “Yeah, ‘course, but don’t you think you should at least see your parents? Even my elders would pitch a fit if one of our newly bonded wolves snubbed their home pack like that. Yours would probably consider it a capital offense.”
“Okay, but they literally tried to kill Wednesday less than an hour ago,” Enid points out.
“In-laws are despicable by nature,” Toby says right as Wednesday comments, “I’ve dealt with worse.”
They share a nod as Toby holds open the door to the shop.
“Either way, the whole pack will turn against you if you don’t greet them as expected,” he maintains. “Besides, I’m not sure we’ll actually be able to prove anything. They kind of set it up so that they have plausible deniability, unless I’m missing something.”
“I thought the same,” Wednesday speaks up, voice grave.
Enid shoots her a betrayed look. “Wait, what? You can’t seriously think they’ll just—sweep this under the rug,” she splutters.
“I seriously think we underestimated your parents,” Wednesday responds. “And that you should consider what you’d like to order.”
Enid maintains a frightening expression as she snaps out her request for a grande caramel cream frappucino, caramel inside and out, extra whip. Wednesday ignores Toby’s smirk, at peace with whatever undoubtedly mortifying expression is on her face while she admires her intended. Enid’s ferocity has always been one of her most endearing qualities, in Wednesday’s opinion.
Toby has to elbow her in the side—gently, because he doesn’t actually want to experience having all thirty-two teeth launched into his brain at her earliest convenience—before Wednesday recalls that she also must order for herself. Enid snickers beside her, scent sweetening with amusement, and Toby intelligently removes himself from striking distance of Wednesday's elbows.
The girl at the register pops her gum, unfazed. “What else can I get for you?” she asks.
Humans must lead such uncomplicated lives, Wednesday thinks. “Grande quad over ice,” she answers. “With no less than three shots of vanilla. Unsweetened.”
Enid promptly chokes on her spit. Before Toby can say a single word, Wednesday is in motion, grasping Enid’s shoulder for leverage and slapping her on the back.
Toby's expression shifts from concerned to comical in less than a second, but it’s a moment before Wednesday realizes Enid’s cheeks are blooming with embarrassed heat wholly unrelated to her coughing fit. The smell of her sugary slick rising between them provides ample explanation for why Toby suddenly looks like he's struggling to keep a straight face.
Does Enid truly enjoy being struck that much? Wednesday wouldn't have believed it, if not for the undeniable smell of Enid's slick. Toby's face is nearly purple with the effort not to laugh.
Wednesday does not laugh at Enid's predicament, but Enid sends her a venomous look anyways. Et tu, Brute?
“Jenna!” the Starbucks girl calls out, leaning back from the counter. “Did you spill another syrup back there?”
While the unseen Jenna yells back an impassioned denial, Wednesday watches Enid’s flush steadily deepen. She will need to revisit impact play post-haste if a mere attempt at clearing Enid’s lungs can elicit this type of reaction.
“I’m fine,” Enid squeaks. “Toby, shut up.”
“I didn’t say—” Toby tries and fails to protest, immediately devolving into a fit of laughter. He manages to gasp out an order for a grande cold brew with oatmilk, fuck, which the human girl dutifully inputs into her register.
“Twenty-oh-two,” she announces. Then, over her shoulder, “Jenna, seriously, it reeks like vanilla. What are you doing back there?”
“Shut up,” Enid hisses.
Toby hands over his credit card, almost as red-faced as Enid, and forces out a wobbly request for the counter girl to scan his app for reward points. Once they have their drinks in hand, Toby leads them to a somewhat secluded table, shoulders still shaking with laughter. Wednesday takes care to pull out Enid’s chair for her.
“Thank you, Toby, for the drinks,” Wednesday says. Her eyes flick to Enid, the corner of her mouth curling up. “I daresay the detour was worthwhile.”
Enid's forehead drops onto her arms with a thunk. “I’m never going anywhere with you two ever again,” she moans.
Toby hides his smile behind his drink. “Hey, look, it’s fine. Everyone knows new bonds are—um, sensitive,” he assures her, making a valiant effort at affecting an air of nonchalance. Enid picks up her head and narrows her eyes in his direction.
“It could be worse,” he offers.
“Than soaking myself in a Starbucks? Worse than that, Toby?” asks Enid.
Toby disguises his snort as a cough. “If you think this is bad, you should’ve seen my sister Cassie,” he answers. “She and her mate have been banned from every In-N-Out in the state. Pretty sure they’re on a watchlist somewhere.”
Enid gasps around her straw, looking marginally less homicidal. “Not in a fast-food restaurant!”
“Oh, yes they did. Couldn’t take them anywhere for months after they bonded,” Toby snickers. “It didn’t help that neither of their scents were very good camouflage. At least yours can be somewhat explained away in a Starbucks.”
“Is this a common phenomenon?” Wednesday asks him, ignoring Enid’s scowl. “I am admittedly no expert on wolves, but I find it surprising you’re treating this like an everyday occurrence.”
Perhaps Enid’s little game at the border was less of a wild card move than Wednesday had assumed. Evidently, one or both members of a werewolf courtship getting wet in public doesn’t warrant a passing glance in these parts.
“Well, yeah. Newly bonded wolves—er, partners—can’t exactly be expected to embrace celibacy while the bond’s still new,” Toby snorts. “We’re not monsters.”
“We’re in a Starbucks,” Enid repeats, voice miserable. “In public.”
“That sucks and all, but maybe stick to Starbucks for the immediate future?” Toby suggests. “Or, like, ice cream shops? Vanilla would still blend in there, right? You should do ice cream for your next trip into the city, just in case.”
Wednesday, for her part, wouldn’t reject an ice cream shop date. She hasn’t broached the topic of hand-feeding with Enid yet, but ice cream would give her quite the mess-making opportunity. The mere thought of pushing fingers dripping with melted vanilla between Enid's teeth has Wednesday’s mouth filling with saliva.
“I had no idea wolves were so permissive with their unwedded children,” Wednesday comments.
Toby’s brow furrows. “Oh. Is it different for witches? My mom never said.”
“My family could stand to learn a few things,” Wednesday muses, stirring her drink. “I have no doubt my mother will insist that we sleep separately once we arrive at Hell Mountain.”
In the sudden silence, Wednesday looks up and discovers both Enid and Toby staring at her, horrified.
“What?” Enid bleats at the same time as Toby says, “Damn, and I thought we were messed up.”
Wednesday lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug. “At least we’ll have the privilege of comparing the two extremes.”
“Yeah—not even comparable,” Enid replies. “As if I wouldn’t take public humiliation in a heartbeat if it meant I still got to sleep in your bed.”
Wednesday finds herself struggling for words, her heart constricting in her chest. She lifts and lowers her empty cup twice, plastic sticking to the tabletop. Wednesday had found it unbearable to sleep apart from Enid in recent weeks, but she’d had no idea that Enid felt similarly.
Toby audibly slurps the dregs of his drink. “Yikes. You guys ready to head out?” he asks.
“First my parents try to kill us, and now you’re telling me we won’t get to share a bed at your parents’ place?” Enid repeats. She slumps in her seat, fiddling with a stray wrapper. “I honestly don’t know which is worse.”
“I’d say the imminent threat of murder is slightly more pressing,” Wednesday responds. “With my parents, we’ll simply have to get creative.”
Enid visibly brightens at that.
“Speaking of parents—you guys will probably have to meet mine at some point,” Toby winces, tossing his cup in the trash. “And by some point, I mean tonight. Probably as soon as we get back to town.”
Enid frowns. “Won’t we be seeing them at the tribunal?”
“Tribunal?” Toby shifts his weight. “What tribunal?”
Enid’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “Did we or did we not almost get murdered this morning?” she demands.
Toby frowns. “We got shafted, sure, but I’m not sure what you think you’re gonna be able to prove in front of the elders,” he replies. “It’s not like we have any evidence a crime was committed.”
“We don’t need evidence,” Enid protests. “We all know what happened back there! Ask anyone!”
“Yeah? Can we bring your parents before the elders for forgetting to pass the news of your collaring along?” Toby retorts. “They’ll claim it slipped their minds in the whirlwind of celebrating their daughter’s courtship. We’ll be laughed out of the room, and then punished for wasting their time.”
“Is a tribunal akin to a court of a law in your pack?” Wednesday asks, interested.
Toby shrugs. “Kind of, but the elders are judge, jury, and executioner. We never really bought in to the whole due process deal.”
“How archaic,” Wednesday murmurs. Enid’s pack is proving inhospitable to the point of endangerment, but she always did enjoy a challenge. “Shall we depart, then?”
“Oh my God, my parents are evil,” Enid says, voice faint.
Wednesday hums. “I, for one, look forward to meeting them.”
Enid’s head whips up to stare at her, aghast. “They tried to kill you,” she repeats. “And now they’re probably going to get away with it. Scot-free.”
“Truly, that was inspired,” Wednesday says. “I wish I thought of it first.”
Enid slumps in her seat the entire drive home.
Notes:
hooo BOY am i excited about this arc
UPDATE 8/2: sorry guys work dragged my ass up and down the block twice today, gonna have to delay to friday
Chapter 83: Woodwitch
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time Toby parks his car between a modest sedan and a modded-out Escalade, Wednesday is nearly vibrating out of her skin. The return trip to pack territory had felt unbearably long, long enough that Wednesday began envisioning more and more outrageous possibilities for how her re-introduction to the Sinclairs would unfold. Enid’s brothers might very well decide it is high time for retribution over The Apple Pie Incident. Perhaps the lady Sinclair will ignore all legal formalities and attempt to bash Wednesday’s head in on the spot.
As soon as she opens her car door, Enid makes a face like she’s been sucking on a lemon. Wednesday doesn’t have to search very hard for the source; Hugo can be spotted loitering across the makeshift road, leaning against a nearby tree with a bemused expression.
“You didn’t kill each other, then,” Hugo sighs, pushing off the tree with his foot. “Dull of you.”
“Flint,” Wednesday calls out to him in greeting. “I would say it’s a pleasure,” she hedges.
Hugo raises an eyebrow. “But…?”
"Wednesday, don't," Enid protests in a low voice. She edges around the car, skirting the gravel until she's close enough to wrap a cautionary hand around Wednesday's wrist. Her fingers are sticky with the ghost of her caramel-flavored monstrosity.
Wednesday ignores her, eyes still locked on Hugo. "But I would be lying," she plainly responds.
His mouth splits into a grin.
Warmth then appears at Wednesday’s left shoulder, and even if she couldn’t track him to a supernatural degree on account of her runes, Wednesday would still have recognized Toby’s presence as he places himself directly behind her. Wolves aren’t much for subtlety, Wednesday privately thinks. Any closer, and she’d be wearing Toby’s chin as a hat.
Though Hugo smirks at them, Wednesday notes that his eyes are calculating as he re-evaluates their proximity. Enid doesn’t react, apparently well used to denying Hugo the attention he so readily seeks, but Toby’s scent spikes with a crackle of burning ozone. Hugo’s lips quirk up at his anger.
"Don't," Enid pleads, eyes flicking between Wednesday and Toby. "It’ll only encourage him."
Wednesday twists her arm until she can catch Enid’s hand, offering her a squeeze of reassurance that Enid receives with a noise of complaint. She smells like burnt sugar, a sickly sweet displeasure that stings Wednesday’s throat.
"Do you trust me?" Wednesday asks her.
Enid softens. "Yes. Always, yes."
"Then let me go," Wednesday replies, turning to face Hugo’s direction. "I just want to talk,” she adds.
Hugo raises his eyebrows at her, crossing his arms in anticipation, and both Enid and Toby snarl at him.
“Easy,” Wednesday warns them both. “Trust me to handle it. Toby?”
He scowls, but relents under the force of her stare. “Fine.”
Wednesday nods. “Enid?”
Enid clenches her jaw so hard, her teeth squeak. Her nails bite into Wednesday’s palm as she jerks their clasped hands between them. “No.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her, but Enid refuses to fold. Her scent is nearly strangling.
“Puppy,” Wednesday breathes.
Enid’s face spasms, anger shattering into unease, worry, fear—and she ducks her head.
“M’sorry,” Enid mumbles at the ground. “I just—he ruins everything, Wednesday. Nothing is beyond him.”
No wonder Hugo acts with such profane arrogance. If every person in his sphere of influence constantly treats him with this level of deference, he must think himself a king among men. Hugo Flint is not an evil mastermind of the likes of Shakespeare’s most elegant offenders; even if he was, Wednesday is more than capable of responding in kind.
What was the point of her upbringing, she wonders, if not to learn the value of fear?
“O powerful love,” Wednesday quietly says, focusing all her attention on Enid.
Enid glances up in surprise. “...Are you quoting Shakespeare at me?” she asks, her voice high with disbelief.
Behind them, Toby makes a choked noise like hastily cut-off laughter.
Wednesday feels her lips curling up. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“Of course, I remember,” Enid scoffs. “You used that quote in your senior thesis.”
“I do so enjoy the Merry Wives of Windsor,” Wednesday agrees. “It is a sordid tale of deceit.”
Enid’s mouth falls open. “It’s literally a comedy,” she protests.
“Then surely, you remember the quote that hardlined my senior thesis,” Wednesday replies.
Enid presses her lips together, but dutifully intones, “O powerful Love, that in some respects makes a beast a man…” her voice falters, eyes widening, as she breathes, “....In some other, a man a beast.”
Wednesday cannot take her eyes off her, not when Enid’s scent is seeping with emotion so heady, it sears. They’d written their senior projects half a year before the fated heat; had Wednesday loved her even then? That she’d construct an entire thesis, months of devotion, around a quote relaying the probability of love turning men into beasts? Enid swallows a noise that has every hair on Wednesday’s body rising in tandem. She looks just as desolate as Wednesday suddenly feels. The urge to drag Enid into her chest is nearly unbearable.
In all likelihood, Wednesday is the only person within a five-mile radius who isn’t capable of transforming into an apex predator, and yet, she feels as close to feral as bloodlust has ever taken her. When Enid looks at her like this, Wednesday envisions her humanity being stricken from her very spine, inch by inch, piece by piece. Men turn to beasts because of slick sweeter than sugar and eyes that reflect the watery grave of a thousand lost ships. Enid Sinclair would inspire any man to madness.
Wednesday’s hand tightens around hers. “Trust in me, Enid,” she says, “As I trust in you.”
After a fraught moment of indecision, Enid gives a jerky nod.
Wednesday’s hand throbs as Enid finally releases her and takes an unsteady step backward. Enid wraps her arms around herself, breath coming fast. Whatever they just shared was clearly just as unbalancing for Enid as it felt for Wednesday. Are wolves capable of sending other living creatures into a thrall? It’s something to investigate when Hugo Flint isn’t watching with shameless interest from the sidelines.
Wednesday flexes her palm, welcoming the shock of pain as blood returns to her fingertips. The sensation offers a unique clarity that Wednesday latches onto, vividly aware she is venturing too close to the edge.
"Jesus," Toby mumbles, startling them both.
Enid begins breathing through her mouth, nearly panting as her cheeks darken, and Toby’s scent becomes frigid upon glimpsing Wednesday’s face.
“Do you always keep Shakespeare quotes on retainer, Wednesday? Or is this just a special occasion?” Toby blurts, voice shaky.
Wednesday forces herself to calm down. “A day like this deserves a quote,” she replies.
Toby and Enid share a frenetic look.
“Allow me to handle this,” Wednesday entreats.
Neither protests as she turns on her heel and makes directly for Hugo Flint.
Gravel crunches under Wednesday’s boots as she strides across the road with a purpose that would shatter weaker ground. Adrenaline surges under her nails, singing in her teeth, and Wednesday feels her runes pulse with warmth. How did she survive without this glorious sense of smell before today? Wednesday feels as though she’d been colorblind her whole life, devoid of all but the barest blacks and whites, and only now, wearing this scent rune, can she see.
Once she enters his orbit, Hugo’s scent reveals every fleeting emotion he feels like a neon sign hanging over his head. Nevertheless, he wears an expression of stark amusement as she approaches.
“So mean,” Hugo complains, lips pressed into a mockery of a pout. “I had no idea Sinclair was such a masochist.”
Wednesday comes to a halt less than five feet away from him. “Well, of course not,” she replies. “If you had even the slightest grasp of her excellence, you wouldn’t have made the grave miscalculation of becoming her enemy.”
Hugo rolls his eyes. “Surprise, surprise—the normie doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about,” he sneers. “In case you missed it, Addams, I’m your intended’s future Pack Leader. You know what that means?”
“Nepotism is still a pressing issue in the modern age?” Wednesday quips.
Hugo smiles in a flash of teeth and corrects her: “Someday, you’re going to have to answer to me.”
“Funny,” Wednesday muses, voice carrying on the breeze. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
Hugo’s brow creases with confusion and a slight, barely-there trepidation, which is readily quashed down by his arrogance. As far as he knows, she’s just a normie—a powerless, magicless, non-threat to his little kingdom. His patronizing smile therefore does not come as a surprise.
“You do realize I’m just trying to help you, right?” he taunts her.
A gust of wind shifts Wednesday’s braids off her shoulders, disrupting her train of thought. Wednesday knows this magic; she’s heard her mother’s song in the wind enough times at Hell Mountain to recognize the feeling.
These woods belong to a woodwitch.
“Nature teaches beasts to know their friends,” Wednesday absentmindedly murmurs.
Hugo frowns at her, either unaware or uncaring of how the leaves flutter in the trees overhead. Wednesday hears and feels it all and struggles to comprehend what’s happening because this place cannot possibly have bent to the will of Toby’s mother. No forest would accept a stranger. What are the odds of a homegrown woodwitch hidden amongst Enid’s pack?
Almost zero, Wednesday rationalizes with a grim sort of acceptance. The strength of this windsong is humbling; only an exceptionally talented witch could weave such music. Whose magic is singing? Wednesday wonders. Whose emotions are bleeding into the wind?
“Nature teaches—what?” Hugo repeats.
That answers the question of whether SOLLS or Nevermore provided the superior education, Wednesday thinks to herself. Clearly, Shakespeare isn't a priority at their lauded sister school.
Her eyes narrow as she states, “Perhaps you’ll understand this one—wake not a sleeping wolf.”
Hugo stares at her for a long moment. “You’re boring,” he eventually decides. “And weird.”
“And you are spectacularly naive if you think I’ll allow you to so much as inconvenience my intended,” Wednesday hisses, stepping closer. They’re standing on the dirt now, and Wednesday feels the forest thrumming through the soles of her boots. Woodwitch or not, she is still her mother’s daughter.
“You’re crazy, Addams,” Hugo says, lips splitting in a smile. “Are you seriously threatening me? You?”
“Perhaps if you were better read, you might have a firmer grasp of where you walk,” Wednesday replies. “I don’t believe anyone bothered to teach you to tread softly where you go, little leader.”
“Little—what the hell—” Hugo splutters around a laugh. “You’re insane.”
Wednesday doesn’t deny it. “Your kind may permit this type of treachery, but you’ll soon come to find that my kin are less civilized,” she informs him.
Hugo looks at her like she's lost her mind.
Wednesday then pauses, cocking her head. “I hope it was worth it.”
Point made, she turns to leave, but Hugo lashes out and snatches her arm. The bones of Wednesday’s wrist grind together as he squeezes her. Enid and Toby lunged forward the moment Hugo touched her, but their advance stutters when Wednesday holds out a placating hand in their direction, wordlessly shaking her head.
Wednesday flexes her fingers in Hugo's grip. It’s just painful enough to center her.
“Not scared of me?” Hugo laughs, gripping her harder. “I could change that,” he says in a low voice meant for her ears alone.
Wednesday slowly rolls her head up to meet his gaze. Though his hand spasms around her wrist, he doesn’t release her after seeing the expression on her face. Witnessing such unwavering resolve from anyone else would be impressive, but as it stands, Hugo’s refusal to surrender only serves to egg Wednesday on. The wind spills around her, striking her mouth and cheek and neck.
Hugo is blind to the forest, she realizes. He’s not capable of hearing its song.
Enid, frozen across the way, shivers and shifts, exhaling in time with the wind, and something inside of Wednesday clicks into place. Understanding floods her chest, the undeniable truth tightening around her ribs until she can hardly breathe.
The wind breathes with Enid, she realizes. If Wednesday had chosen to bear a rune that enhanced her hearing rather than sight or smell, she has no doubt the thrumming beneath her feet would match the pounding of Enid’s heart.
Her beloved has more than just a penchant for runes, as it turns out; Wednesday should have known the moment she set foot in this place. She's appalled that she didn't recognize this magic at once.
The forest had felt welcoming to Wednesday because it already belongs to Enid, already sings her song—and oh, how this land has ached to welcome its daughter home.
Her mother will never let her live this down. Of course Wednesday would fall in love with a woodwitch—and there is no denying this is the magic of a woodwitch—of Enid's caliber.
Wednesday exhales in sync with Enid, relishing Hugo’s flinch as her breath washes over his skin.
“The world is bigger than these woods, Hugo Flint,” she whispers.
The wind eagerly carries her words to Enid, who tilts her head in confusion, and Toby, who flinches like he’s been shot. Enid must not know, Wednesday thinks, her mind reeling. She must not know.
But Toby is the child of a woodwitch, the same as Wednesday, and he’s clearly heard windsong before. Had he also grown up knowing that he could hear his mother’s magic? Did he hear Wednesday’s paltry attempt at forest magic just now?
Almost comically delayed compared to the mach speed that Wednesday, Enid, and Toby are functioning at, Hugo’s eyes widen at Wednesday’s words, and he nearly smacks himself in his haste to shove her away.
Enid’s magic rushes towards her as Wednesday is pushed backward. In any other circumstance, the impact would have forced Wednesday to the ground.
Not in Enid's woods.
Though Wednesday nearly folds into a backbend, braids brushing the dirt, her boots do not shift a single inch along the forest floor. This song is Enid’s, and the wind will not allow Wednesday to fall.
Sure enough, Enid’s magic cradles Wednesday’s back, accepting her weight for a split second before she snaps upright like a rubber doll.
“What the fuck?” Hugo spits, face draining of all blood. Evidently, his education at SOLLS failed to inform him that magic operates beyond the bounds of physics. Wednesday must have looked like an unholy apparition seemingly moving against gravity.
Woodwitch though Wednesday may not be, these woods are her beloved’s. Whether or not Enid is aware of her capabilities, her magic knows Wednesday almost as well as Wednesday’s own. No wonder her runes accepted Enid so readily, Wednesday thinks. A witch is a witch, woods or runes or otherwise.
Wednesday punctuates the moment with a nod. “Enjoy your evening, Flint,” she says, voice clipped.
She pivots on her heel and returns to Enid at a near run.
Notes:
dun dun dun - makes sense now why mei called enid a daughter of the forest, huh?
UPDATE 8/7: i'm getting railed at work this week so we're playing update roulette again, but i will do my damndest to get you guys something by friday!!! sorry for the delay yall
Chapter 84: Wounds
Notes:
my beta back in like, march: wait why did enid do that?
me: because she's a woodwitch
beta: she's a Whatmy beta, reading chapter eighty three: so it's time, huh?
me: fuck yeah. send it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday moves at a clip, braids swinging behind her, and thus reaches Enid in under ten seconds.
Her face is paler than usual, eyes pinched and hunted, but it’s her expression that worries Enid most. Wednesday wore a look of stone-cold condemnation when she marched off to verbally hamstring Hugo, but now? If Enid had to guess, gun to her head, she’d say this is what Wednesday’s face looks like when she’s trying to clamp down on genuine panic.
That's the thing about Wednesday Addams: she functions by degrees, cauterizes little injuries before they can become life-threatening wounds, and holds herself to a higher standard in all matters. She does not ever freak out in public.
Only the sound of Hugo transforming is enough to tear Enid’s attention from Wednesday's face. She glances over Wednesday’s shoulder just in time to catch him fleeing in the opposite direction, off to lick his wounds in private. Enid can't help but smile.
Leave it to Wednesday to scare a future Pack Leader shitless using Shakespeare quotes, of all things. It is, quite literally, poetry. Still—Enid is never, ever going to repeat this story aloud lest Nevermore's illustrious Professor Jang overhears that his required reading actually came in clutch like he always threatened it would. That would just be cruel to all the students still stuck taking his classes.
A pained noise unexpectedly leaves Wednesday's throat. Her eyes are locked on Enid’s smile, which instantly disappears.
“What?” Enid asks her, hands jumping to twist in Wednesday's shirt. “What’s wrong?”
“When the fuck were you planning to say something, huh?” Toby snarls.
He smells almost as pissed off as when facing down Hugo, but worse than that, he smells hurt. His scent cools to the point of stinging Enid’s nose, as jarring as the top of a dissipating cloud. Wednesday’s expression is almost as thunderous.
“What are you talking about?” Wednesday replies, voice sharp with warning.
Her tone has Enid flinching with surprise. Since when do they sound like that around Toby? He’s the only person in a fifty-mile radius they can trust to take their side in a conflict. What's Wednesday playing at?
Toby’s eyes are blistering as he spits, “I told you about my mother. Why would you lie to me?”
“Lie about what?” Enid asks as Wednesday retorts, “I did not lie to you.”
“Oh, yeah? Then how do you explain what was clearly the magic of a woodwitch filling the fucking forest just now?” Toby hisses. “I heard your windsong, Wednesday. Don’t bullshit me.”
Wednesday's face spasms with anger. “I am not bullshitting you.”
“You are if you think I’m just going to forget windsong strong enough to bear the weight of a fully fuckin' grown adult,” Toby snaps. “That’s the stuff of—Christ, Wednesday! That's the shit you hear about in legends. Those stupid campfire stories are why normies think witches fly around on broomsticks!"
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath that, for her, is a reaction akin to screaming at the top of her lungs. "Lower your voice, right now," she commands.
Toby ignores her, continuing, "And then you go and use forest magic like you're Eve the fucking First, legitimately defying gravity, and you expect me to pretend not to see it?" He gives a somewhat hysterical laugh. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Wednesday’s face shifts from furious to panicked. “Toby, stop talking,” she insists. For some reason, her harried gaze keeps flicking to Enid.
“Unless you already knew you were that strong?” Toby guesses, hands in his hair. “Holy shit—you did. Are you seriously just walking around with mythical fucking powers pretending to be a runewitch?” he demands, voice climbing higher with every word.
“She’s not pretending,” Enid protests, stung on her behalf. “Wednesday is a runewitch.”
“Yeah, sure,” Toby scoffs. “Cause I’m expected to believe there just so happens to be another woodwitch hanging around, ready and able to go all Keanu Reeves on Hugo's ass after he hit her hard enough to crack ribs? Pull the other one, Enid.”
“Wait, what?” Enid bleats, heart shooting into her throat.
Enid’s nails threaten the structural integrity of Wednesday's blouse as she barrels into her chest, suddenly desperate to catch even the slightest inkling of pain in Wednesday’s scent. Wednesday makes a noise of surprise, but she accepts Enid into her arms without protest. Hugo couldn’t have hurt her, Enid thinks a bit nonsensically, inhaling against Wednesday's collarbone. She would have felt it—she would have known if he’d managed to break a single one of Wednesday’s bones. She would have killed him.
Meanwhile, Wednesday frowns. “Did you just reference The Matrix?”
Toby reels back and all but bellows, “That’s not the fucking point!”
“Wednesday, are you okay?” Enid demands, breath hitching on a growl. “He hit you that hard? Where—where does it hurt, where did he hurt you?”
Wednesday places a reassuring hand on her wrist, easing Enid’s grip off her clothing. Her other hand remains steady on the back of Enid's neck.
“I’m fine,” she states, voice even. “That boy did not harm me. But we need to table this conversation. This is neither the time nor place,” Wednesday maintains.
The intensity of her expression would have Enid turning tail and running à la Hugo Flint, but Toby seems to be made of sterner stuff because he, predictably, refuses to back down.
“Why, because you’ve been lying to both of us?” Toby retorts. His scent blisters with betrayal. “Fine. I guess I understand if you don’t—don't trust me, but seriously? You won’t even be honest with Enid?”
That appears to be the last straw because Wednesday draws up to her full height and bites out, “It wasn’t me.”
Silence. The temperature in the forest seems to drop twenty degrees as Enid alternates her gaze between the two of them, but no explanation spills forth beyond a strange rustling through the trees. These woods have always been a place of comfort for Enid—the place of comfort, the only shade of safety she ever encountered before Nevermore—but she abruptly finds herself wishing she was anywhere else. While Wednesday’s face remains drawn and furious, Toby has gone still, his eyes narrowing as he ruminates on her words. Enid feels like she's in danger of losing her breakfast all over Wednesday's designer shoes.
Finally, Toby throws his shoulders back, and Enid’s stomach twists as she realizes he’s decided to double down.
“What are you talking about? Of course, it was you,” Toby refutes. “Who the hell else could it be?”
Wednesday glares at him with a might Enid hasn’t seen since the night of Crackstone’s resurrection. She’s apparently communicating something with her eyes that goes right over Enid’s head but, judging by Toby’s rapidly paling face, seems to be dire, indeed. By the time Toby's gaze lands on Enid, he looks far more horrified than a twenty-year-old buzzing on overpriced coffee has any right to be. Though she doesn’t understand, Enid’s stomach feels like it’s climbing into her chest.
“You’re shitting me,” Toby breathes. “That—no fucking way, Wednesday." His eyes grow wide and unfocused, words punching out of him as he gasps, "You cannot be serious.”
“I did not lie to you,” Wednesday repeats, and her expression tightens with something akin to despair. “I am not proficient enough in this magic to practice windsong alone.”
Toby’s gaze whips back to Enid, his lips nearly white.
When the silence becomes unbearable, Enid pipes up, “So, that was windsong? The voice-throwing thing you did, Wednesday?”
It was a ham-fisted attempt at breaking the tension, and even Enid knows she sounds paralyzed.
Wednesday looks like a man headed to the gallows as she meets her eyes. "My mother taught me the bare minimum of windsong until it became clear I felt a greater affinity for my father's magic,” she gravely responds.
"That was more than just the bare minimum, Wednesday," Toby says, voice gutted.
Wednesday shifts to glare at him again, and Toby presses his hand to his forehead and turns away from them both. His shoulders are shaking as he faces the trees.
“Am I missing something?” Enid tentatively ventures, stomach churning.
“Fuck,” Toby mutters under his breath. His fists clench and unclench at his sides as he makes a pained noise. “Shit—I’m gonna lose it.”
Wednesday’s head snaps towards him. “You will not,” she retorts. “Not while we’re alone in the woods.”
“In these woods, Wednesday?” Toby responds without turning around, chin tipped up towards the sky. His voice edges on genuine hysteria. “In her woods?”
“Um, who are we talking about, again?” Enid asks.
Enid jumps when Toby spins around and stalks towards her with purpose sown into his every step. Wednesday's hand immediately wraps around Enid’s upper arm, equally hard and reassuring, but she doesn’t make a move to stop him.
“Did anyone ever tell you the old stories when you were a kid?” Toby implores, inadvertently towering over Enid. “About woodwitches that used their windsong to fly?”
“The what?” Enid replies, more bewildered than frightened despite the fact that Toby has ninety pounds of muscle and a foot and a half of height on her and could probably shatter her spine with a single punch.
Wednesday’s tolerance must be less forgiving because she jerks Enid backward by the arm, forcing space between them.
“Stop panicking,” Wednesday hisses at him. Enid doesn’t miss the way she places herself in the line of fire. “Before you panic her.”
“Panic me how?” Enid questions, bemused. She had wondered what trick Wednesday was using to throw her voice around the clearing, but runes seem to be capable of pretty much any unearthly feat. Surely, it’s not worth this kind of reaction. “That—the voice thing was cool and all, but I’m used to your runes, Wednesday.”
Wednesday and Toby share a long, burning look before she turns to face Enid head-on.
“It wasn’t my runes,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid opens her mouth to ask for further explanation, or perhaps inquire why Wednesday's wearing an expression like they're under siege, but Toby interrupts before she can.
"Didn't you feel it?" he entreats, leaning closer. "Enid, it was like—all this magic rose up at once and rushed towards Wednesday—"
"Toby!" Wednesday thunders. “I said, enough.”
Toby wilts for a split second, then squares his shoulders for a fight. "What?" he demands, whirling on her. "Are you just going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
“No,” Wednesday coldly replies. “But you are letting emotion cloud your judgment. This situation is delicate, and we are in the middle of hostile territory.”
“Delicate,” Toby repeats in disbelief. “How can you just brush this off? That was—that was the strongest windsong I’ve ever felt," he says, voice breaking.
Wednesday briefly shuts her eyes. “For me as well,” she admits, and it clearly costs her something to do so.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Enid interjects, ignoring the swell of unease in her stomach. “Seriously, what are you guys talking about? What's making you both smell like that?"
“Wednesday,” Toby says, verging on a plea. “Wednesday, be reasonable. She has to know the truth.”
Wednesday exhales on an unsteady breath.
Her expression isn’t wholly unfamiliar, Enid realizes with a splintering sense of foreboding. There had been another time, on the night they broke into the Bennington art gallery to see the exhibit based on Dante’s Inferno. Enid primarily remembers that occasion for the roiling in her gut as she stood before a floor-to-ceiling mural of hell and wondered what color her own death would be, but there had been a moment near dawn when Wednesday’s careful countenance cracked and her expression flooded with calamitous understanding. Enid had thought it a matter of fate that she happened to be present to witness it.
“I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire,” Wednesday had breathed, eyes focused somewhere far away from a little art gallery in rural Vermont.
It was a miracle Wednesday’s attention had been chained to the painting and not Enid’s face, because every word that left her mouth bruised Enid to the bone. She’d felt the ache for weeks afterward.
Premonitions are much more Wednesday’s area of expertise than her own, but Enid thinks back to every moment of revelation she’s experienced in the past and wonders how she’d always inherently known what was about to occur. On the night of the blood moon, Enid had sensed she wouldn’t emerge from those woods unchanged. On the day she realized Wednesday had ruined her for loving anyone else, Enid knew she would never completely recover from the blow. When Wednesday revealed she loved her in return, Enid felt the world shift beneath her feet, imagined soil and ions and a thousand years of unknowing coalescing in a single instant, like the whole thread of her existence was burning in the wake of Wednesday’s words.
Enid recalls each of those moments, recognizes the precipice looming before her, and imagines herself lingering in a single heartbeat’s worth of stasis before the inevitable collision. I think the devil will not have me damned, Wednesday had said, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire. Enid never understood why Wednesday condemned those words to the darkness of the art gallery until now.
Perhaps, Enid thinks, she should consider herself lucky. Blessed she must be for fate to continually grant her the opportunity to brace herself before Wednesday Addams opens her mouth and upends her entire life.
“Do you know the story of Eve the First?” Wednesday asks her, and the sun sinks below the treeline, casting them all in shadow.
Notes:
yeah so per my last a/n, work is still brutalizing me, but after last chapter’s reception?? yall KNOW i had to get this out for you as-soon-as-motherfucking-possible. like damn, twist my arm with your top tier fuckin Grade-A Wagyu beef comments ( /affectionate) anyway have a surprise update!!!
next chapter will go up monday at the latest—maybe earlier, TBD. thank u as always for your patience
UPDATE 8/14: so i fucking lied about posting tonight :( this time, it's because i'm trying to speed the plot along instead of letting it roll a la the runesex arc, so i'm going to post one mega chapter that gets us all the way from the present to meeting enid's parents ---which i hope to have up on wednesday. so sorry guys!!! just trying to avoid letting it drag on too long and today it became apparent that eve's story is a phatty
Chapter 85: Made
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid didn’t have the sort of childhood conducive to storytelling. Her earliest years are only notable in that her brothers seemed to spend every day outside roughhousing while little Enid was learning the importance of keeping her footfalls soft inside the house.
Starting school had offered a brief reprieve from her mother and potential new friends in her classmates, but Enid wasn’t altogether successful in either. The other kids in her lower school had little interest in collecting leaves or unearthing rocks from nearby waterbeds like she was wont to do; many were feeling the pull of the sparring yard, eight years old and already anxious to prove themselves. By the time Enid reached middle school, even jump rope had lost its appeal, and almost every kid dedicated their recess to playing war. Enid’s tendency to shy away from contact sports hadn’t made her a popular person to hang out with, to say the least.
Even when she tried, she was always too small, too skinny, or too whiny to play a convincing warrior. Worse still, pre-pubescent wolves didn’t pull their punches; on the rare occasion that she did join in on their slipshod contests of strength, Enid’s team was practically guaranteed to lose. Her classmates’ furious complaints about her hindering them eventually convinced Enid to stay out of it. She became very adept at spending time by herself.
Summers, of course, were harder. Enid was constantly scheming to disappear to the woods before her mother could come stomping down the porch wielding a dish towel like a horsewhip amid threats of teaching Enid those necessary skills all submissive wolves must hone to be valuable. She can still hear her brothers’ laughter whenever she was caught and summarily dragged back indoors.
"No," Enid answers, mouth dry. "I've never heard it."
Wednesday nods like this is to be expected, but Toby puffs up, incensed on her behalf.
“What kind of a family doesn’t tell their kid—”
"It's unclear where the legend originated,” Wednesday speaks over him, throwing Enid a conversational rope. “But the story of Eve the First is widely known amongst outcasts. To my knowledge, at least one version has been published as a children’s storybook.”
Enid follows her lead, grateful to be settling in for what’s shaping up to be an extensive academic lecture instead of fielding the usual rigmarole of having to explain her family’s shortcomings and see that rotten look of pity sprout to life on the faces of new friends. Toby doesn’t miss her pointed refusal to answer, judging by the sharp set of his mouth.
"Was Eve the First a real person?" Enid wonders aloud.
That terrible, prescient feeling that’s been hounding her since Hugo fled still twists in Enid’s stomach, alive and well. Speaking the words aloud and giving fuel to whatever insanity that struck both Wednesday and Toby in the last twenty minutes does nothing to dampen it.
"It's possible. Not much is known of her, but she was said to be as beautiful as she was bereft in blessings—though that may be romanticism sinking its teeth into legend,” Wednesday admits, tilting her head with a removed sort of curiosity that Enid doesn’t trust for a second.
Wednesday may be an accomplished actor, but if she’s aiming for unaffected, she’s failing in spectacular form. No one who is genuinely unbothered would look so intent while regaling them with children’s stories that don’t seem to have much to do with anything.
“Being young, unmarried, and without living relatives to chain her to the village with burdens of expectation, the girl awoke one day and wandered into the woods,” Wednesday says. “She was so distracted by the flowers and trees and the sweetness of the wind that she eventually lost the path, causing—”
“You’re not telling it right,” Toby argues, startling Enid from the reverie she’d begun to slip into while listening to the rhythmic cadence of Wednesday’s voice. “The sparknotes version isn’t going to make any sense to her if she’s never heard the original story.”
Wednesday’s face twitches with annoyance before she schools herself. “Fine. Let us begin again, shall we? Enid?”
Enid struggles to swallow under the full weight of Wednesday’s gaze. “Okay,” she whispers.
Wednesday visibly settles into her skin, at ease with the familiarity of telling a story she knows well, and Enid’s chest warms just watching her. Wednesday the runewitch is a sight to behold, but there’s something less guarded about Wednesday in storytelling mode—something a little less human. A little more barbed and wretched at the edges.
“Many moons ago, a maiden of the earth woke to find herself alone,” Wednesday says, and her voice seems right at home amidst the rustling of the trees. “She was as lovely as the dawn, but no family warmed her hearth, and no blessings came unto her. Thus the maiden sought more and ventured unclothed into the wood, and she was not ashamed, for the forest welcomed her just as the earth welcomes rain.”
“Wait, she was naked?” Enid blurts.
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth curls up. Toby sucks in a breath that turns into a cough, then a snort.
“Yes,” Wednesday replies, raising an eyebrow. “Problem?”
Enid can already feel her cheeks burning. “Well, no, but this seems like a lot of nudity for a children’s story,” she mumbles, scuffing the sole of her shoe against the ground. She can see Wednesday’s smirk widening in her peripherals.
“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?” Wednesday asks, tone a hair’s breadth from mocking. “Permit me to beg your forgiveness, fair maiden.”
"Oh, fuck off," Enid huffs, smiling despite herself.
Toby muffles a snort. "Aw, Enid. Look at you, breaking the mold."
Wednesday's brow furrows. "What mold?" she asks.
Enid's eyes go wide once she realizes what Toby's insinuating. His lips, on the other hand, split into a gleeful smirk.
"No, nothing, there's no mold—" Enid protests, raising her hands like she can ward off Toby's chirping with sheer force of will.
"Well, you know the whole cliche about newly bonded wolves,” he replies, eyebrows waggling. “Honestly, I was in the camp of 'every wolf is doomed to go apeshit trying to mount their intended constantly'—"
Wednesday's eyebrows raise as she turns to look at him.
"—But you're keeping it clean, Enid. Nice," Toby says appreciatively.
Enid would have flipped him off if not for Wednesday clearing her throat.
"I can assure you," Wednesday states, eyes glinting, "No mold has been broken."
Mouth already open to respond to Toby, Enid promptly chokes on her spit.
"What—Jesus, Wednesday!" she squeaks. "That's not even what happened—"
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Toby slyly says.
Enid straightens up to her full height. "I did not go apeshit," she insists. "Not once."
"What do you call attending a group dinner sans underwear wearing a skirt short enough to be a belt?" Wednesday asks her.
Toby gives a great, honking laugh that leaves Enid helpless not to laugh with him. Even Wednesday's eyes are bright with amusement.
"She did what?" Toby wheezes. "That's dirty, Enid. I take it all back. You're just as bad as everybody else."
"You are both such assholes," Enid retorts, unable to stop giggling. "Goddamn it, Wednesday. That's dirty pool, telling Toby what I did in a moment of—of desperation! We both know you could drive anyone to those lengths, let alone someone as weak as I am. You should go to the penalty box for that one.”
“What’s she going in for? Major or minor?” Toby teases.
Enid’s brought up short. “Wait, you’re into hockey?” she demands.
“Uh…are you not?” Toby asks, eyebrows raising.
“Of course I am, what the hell?” Enid scoffs. “You support the Sharks, right?”
Toby makes a face, but before Enid can berate him for having shitty taste in teams and betraying the homeland—or, more accurately, home region—he says, “So, Wednesday’s in the box for a major penalty. Sorry, champ, but that means you’re in time out for five whole minutes, no exceptions.”
“Okay, yeah,” Enid says, puffing back up as she turns on Wednesday and points at her chest. “Major penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct, to the box with you!”
Even as Wednesday catches her accusatory finger and drags Enid in, she raises one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I am merely reporting the facts."
"Well, I'd have to do a lot worse than optional underwear to reach apeshit territory," Enid declares, sticking her nose into the air more for the form of it than anything else.
The corner of Wednesday's mouth pulls up. "Give it time," she promises, and then she leans up and kisses Enid’s nose. Just kisses it, in front of God and the forest and Toby fucking Montgomery. Enid can’t bring herself to speak for almost a minute afterward.
“Dude,” Toby snickers. “That deserves at least another penalty.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Enid complains, trying to ignore the heat in her face.
Wednesday hums. “I’m not convinced I’m the one who should be in time out. Enid doesn’t know how to play fair.”
“Oh?” Toby crows, scenting new blood in the water. “What else has Enid done in her wild journey of bad behavior?”
“Let’s just say my patience has been tested by the might of gods,” Wednesday responds.
Enid’s mouth falls open. “Assholes, both of you!" she splutters.
“Case in point,” Wednesday says with an overwhelming air of approval. “My beloved isn’t easily cowed.”
Toby has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. “Hell no. Enid is not a wolf who goes down without a fight,” he agrees, easy as anything.
Enid’s chest sings with a hot, thrilling sense of satisfaction. She’d always assumed it would be a cold day in hell before a dominant wolf gave her props for anything, let alone for her stubbornness—a trait generally not valued in a submissive wolf. “Whatever. You’re still assholes, violating the sanctity of our story circle like that,” she accuses. “And you suck for not supporting the Sharks.”
“Okay, but the Penguins are primed for a deep run this year,” Toby argues. “They could really do it.”
Wednesday shrugs, unrepentant. “I take no chances when defending the honor of my beloved.”
“Yeah, right,” Toby snorts under his breath. “I don’t think Eve the First would approve of this message.”
“Thanks, but we don’t want to hear the opinion of a Penguins fan,” Enid sneers.
“Really?” Wednesday asks Toby directly. “You don’t think the virgin who decided to go on a naked jaunt in the woods would approve?”
Toby bursts out laughing all over again.
“Oh my God, Eve the First is spinning in her grave,” Enid moans, rubbing her eyes. “Just—please continue the story. Before I combust, preferably.”
Toby's mouth flies open, snapping shut again almost as quickly upon glimpsing the challenging look on Wednesday's face.
Instead, he grins. “Sorry, but you one hundred percent walked into that one,” he tells Enid. “Bringing up your heat? At least give me a hardball, Shark.”
Enid gasps. “I did not—I wasn’t bringing up my heat, shut up! Penguin!”
“You say that like it’s an insult,” Toby taunts her.
“Cause it is!” Enid shouts, one wrong word away from stomping her foot like a child.
“Anyway, back to Eve, the naked hiker,” Toby prompts, still grinning.
While Wednesday’s busy rolling her eyes skyward, Enid sticks her tongue out at him. The face Toby makes at her in return has Enid clapping a hand over her mouth to silence her own giggle.
Wednesday's expression is warm as she glances between the two of them.
“As I was saying,” she drawls. “The maiden grew hungry, so she came upon a thicket of elderberries and supped until her lips were red as flesh.”
Saliva floods Enid’s mouth as she’s reminded of the wild berries she’d eaten as a child, all thoughts of hockey and shitty taste in teams forgotten. Her mother once took a wooden spoon to her palms after Enid came home with carelessly stained fingers. She was six years old and never made that mistake again.
The threat of laughter immediately drains away, and even Toby’s smile seems to lose its luster.
“And she continued on,” Wednesday intones, effortlessly regaining her stride. “The maiden grew thirsty, so she drank from the stream, and her eyes became clear as dew. And she continued on.”
For a brief moment, Enid closes her eyes and imagines she can feel water trickling down her throat. Summer slips away as she recalls her annual pilgrimage through frost-covered woods as a friendless little kid.
It was the strangest thing, how Enid managed to wake before dawn the first day the snow stuck to the ground every year. Moving silently so as to not wake her family, Enid would dress in her warmest furs and boots and slip out into the forest. Her boots would sink through the snow as she made her way in the dark to the northernmost stream on the territory. There, Enid would fold onto her knees and offer her own little prayer for midwinter. The pack always holds a festival to celebrate, but that early morning ritual belonged solely to Enid.
By the time she reached the stream, Enid always dripped with sweat. It was a relief to crack the thin layer of ice and scoop out a freezing handful of water to sate herself. The memory of her last pilgrimage before leaving for Nevermore is so vivid Enid wonders if she’s hallucinating thinking of it.
“The maiden grew lonely, so she met a companion, a watcher of the woods who came down from his perch to walk at her side. And she continued on," Wednesday murmurs.
Enid hopes she doesn’t smell as despondent as she feels when she’s reminded of Albert, her poor squirrel left behind at Nevermore. Now that Enid isn’t there to feed him, whose dorm room will he visit? Maybe Eugene can be persuaded into sneaking him snacks in her place.
“The maiden walked so far and wandered so wide, the path was lost, and she knew not where she was as the sun fell below the horizon,” Wednesday continues. “She sought the moon to light her way, but the forest was thick and the ground cut the soles of her feet."
Her eyes inevitably find Enid's.
"The maiden despaired," Wednesday quietly says. "Her sorrow woke the creatures of the wood, and her song moved the world, for here was a voice of all the living, a sorrow that every winged bird and creeping thing could hear and know. And she continued on.”
Enid feels the familiar stirrings of unease rise in her throat. Wednesday’s story begins to spill faster, her face now cast in shadow as the forest darkens around them. Even Toby seems entranced by her words, silent and still.
“In the darkest hour, the maiden knelt beneath an Eldwood tree and prayed to the forest, begging for her safe return. The forest heard her and took her for its own, adopting the maiden as the first of its daughters. And she was called Eve, for her arrival changed the forest just as the first night stole the sun.”
Wednesday’s words land like a physical blow, sinking deep beneath Enid’s skin with a soreness that licks up her spine. Enid wraps her arms around herself and nurses the ache, welcoming the sting it leaves behind.
“Years passed,” Wednesday says. “With spring came new life, and budding blues and whites. With summer came fire, and ash o’er the night.”
“Autumn brought the harvest, and death of all green,” Toby dutifully recites.
“Winter, the new birth, and ice melted to stream,” Wednesday finishes. Her gaze is unreadable. “The maiden learned the miracle until she was made anew, no longer a child of earth but a keeper of life. When Eve returned to her people, her hair was made of sunlight—”
“Moonlight,” Toby interjects.
Wednesday and Enid both stare at him uncomprehendingly. Enid feels a little like she's kicking up from the deep end of a swimming pool, her mind working syrupy slow as she struggles for the surface.
Though he shifts uneasily, Toby persists, “My grandma always says moonlight, hair made of moonlight, you know? Although, my mom likes to say that Eve's hair was made of darkness,” he admits. “So there's that."
"Darkness?" Wednesday repeats. "Hm. That's a new one."
Toby shrugs. "Drives my aunts bonkers at our family reunions."
Wednesday makes a noise of consideration. “I see. The most popular version told at Nevermore included hair of flame and eyes of the deepest waters," she reveals. "Nevertheless, in the version my mother favors, Eve emerged from the wood with hair of sunlight and eyes like sky.”
“I like the version where her eyes are as dark as the wood,” Toby mutters.
Undaunted, Wednesday continues, “And her hair was made of sunlight and her eyes fair as the sky, and the people fell upon their knees at the sight of her, for here is the lost maiden, they cried—”
“—The first daughter of the forest,” Toby joins in with a whisper of his own, voice a mere echo of Wednesday's unceasing conviction.
Wednesday’s face tightens. “The one who rides the wind.”
Something about Wednesday’s expression makes Enid want to bury her face in her hands and never resurface. Neither logic nor rationale is guiding her when Enid makes the executive decision to forestall whatever point Wednesday’s trying to get at for as long as humanly possible. That eerie gut feeling has yet to abate, still churning away in her stomach like a harbinger of high blood pressure and future ulcers, and Enid can tell the end of her willful ignorance is nigh; her lungs seize with a sudden shot of fear.
“Wow,” Enid says, voice bright and distinctly out of place in the darkening forest. “So, you guys got that instead of Goldilocks and the Three Bears?”
Tension broken—or at least lessened—Enid internally relaxes as Wednesday and Toby share a nonplussed look.
“...Sort of,” Toby answers her. “There’s different versions out there, but they all agree Eve was the first woodwitch." He shifts his weight, then quickly adds, "And they all say she rode the wind.”
Wednesday shoots him a warning look before turning back to Enid. “Historian explorers have searched far and wide for the forest of Eve, but none have prevailed," she explains. "It's become something of a wild goose chase in the modern age."
Toby nods along. “It's like how King Arthur enthusiasts spend decades trying to track down whatever lake the sword of Excalibur was jerked out of. There are a lot of damn ponds to sift through and not that many years in a lifetime.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Enid agrees, thoughtful. “But—it’s just a story, right?”
Wednesday and Toby exchange another look, and if Enid weren’t so anxious to supersede this whole drama and get to the drama already awaiting them with her parents, she might be a little bit miffed to be excluded from whatever they’re making eyebrows at each other about.
“Every story holds a kernel of truth,” Wednesday eventually says. “Windsong is an ability unique to particularly accomplished woodwitches. As you may have inferred, it involves drawing upon emotion to manipulate air currents. This talent, when honed to peak effectiveness, allows woodwitches to send spoken messages over short distances."
"Yeah, that's useful," Enid says. A beat of silence, then, "It doesn't really make sense, though, does it? Strange choice of words for what ultimately amounts to having a supernatural cup phone."
Wednesday frowns. "To what line are you referring?"
"You said Eve rode the wind," Enid points out. “That’s a strange way to say some woodwitches can send a text message on a breeze if they study hard and do their homework and shit.”
Wednesday’s eyes never leave her face, even as Toby leans closer with a frantic sort of anticipation simmering behind his otherwise controlled expression.
“Eve the First is known for having such strong command of windsong that she was capable of physical flight," Wednesday reveals. “That is why the story includes the words ‘rode the wind.’ Eve the First was said to be powerful enough to defy gravity itself.”
Enid looks at her, then looks at Toby, then abruptly feels as though a gallon of cold water has landed on her head, bucket and all.
“Oh,” Enid says. “You think—before, when you didn’t fall over…that was windsong?”
Wednesday nods.
“Your windsong?” Enid presses, though even she can tell it’s futile. Her fingertips have gone numb, feet no longer solid against the ground. The whole world seems to be tilting beneath her shoes, roiling up and down like a rogue wave.
Wednesday hesitates for only a moment before shaking her head.
There’s a ringing in Enid’s ears, almost like the roar of a fighter jet burning overhead, and then Enid’s blinking up at the night sky.
“Crap,” she rasps. There’s a rock digging into the back of her neck. “Why am I laying on the ground?”
Wednesday’s scent is so strong, so sticky and sour in her lungs, Enid knows they must be within a foot of each other. Sure enough, Wednesday's face enters her line of sight the moment she begins speaking, braids dropping down to coil against Enid’s collarbone.
“You fainted,” Wednesday says, face pale.
There's a prodding at Enid's ankle that has her hissing with discomfort, then Toby's scent filters through the sick taste of Wednesday's fear.
"She's okay," he announces. "Nothing broken, just a sprain."
"What?" Enid bleats. Now that she's aware of it, her ankle throbs painfully.
When Toby looks up, his face is almost as distressed as Wednesday's. "You twisted your ankle as you fell back. Or you tripped and fell back, and passed out in the process. Something like that."
Enid tries to sit up and discovers her arms are too weak to support her weight. She's shaking like a newborn fawn.
Without a word, Wednesday winds an arm around Enid's back, effectively propping her into a sitting position. Enid notes that Toby is still kneeling at her feet, expression grave. His hand is tight and reassuring around her ankle.
"Ouch," Enid blurts, and Wednesday gives an almighty shudder before dropping her face into Enid's neck.
Wednesday's arm is almost painful where it wraps around her, just on the cusp of squeezing too hard, but Enid welcomes the distraction from the throbbing in her ankle. Wednesday inhales against her throat for a full thirty seconds before pulling away, and even that small concession seems to cost her dearly.
"Enid," Wednesday breathes. Her fingers probe at Enid's hairline, searching for injury. "Can you hear me? Are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?"
Enid shakes her head. "No, I'm—I didn't hit my head, I don't think. Did it look like I hit my head?"
"It looked like you hit the ground hard enough to hurt," Toby mutters. His face is drawn with worry. "She shouldn't walk on this. It'll only exacerbate the sprain."
"I don't think it's actually sprained," Enid pipes up. She flexes her foot and has to bite down on the gasp that threatens to escape her.
"Can we drive her to the village?" Wednesday asks, voice clipped.
Toby hesitantly shakes his head. "There's no trail wide enough to fit a car. I could carry her, maybe—"
"How many miles?" Wednesday interrupts him.
"Five," Enid answers her.
Wednesday's lips flatten out. "You can't carry her for five miles on foot through rough terrain, Toby. You'll only injure yourself."
Toby rears up like she just dealt his ego a physical blow, but he deflates a second later. "Fine. Plan B?" he offers.
Wednesday watches him warily. "Plan B?"
Toby releases Enid's ankle and climbs to his feet. "We're allies, aren't we?"
Enid isn't certain whether he's trying to reassure them or himself. "Hold on," she interjects, raising an unsteady hand. "Just—hold on. Don't do anything drastic, okay? I can walk myself if you give me a few minutes."
Toby meets her gaze unflinchingly. "I think it's about time we get out of here," he replies.
"Not—no, not until you tell me one thing," Enid insists, pushing forward despite the haunted look that dawns on Wednesday's face. "Earlier, before I fainted—
"Enid," Wednesday cautions, voice low. "This can wait."
"No, it really, really can't," Enid responds. "Because call me crazy, but earlier, it seemed like you were insinuating…"
Wednesday's eyes bore into her and Enid abruptly feels as though words are impossible, like her breath was stolen right out of her throat. She has to force herself to continue.
"Were you insinuating I somehow used a woodwitch ability?" Enid asks, voice wavering.
Wednesday opens her mouth, but Enid barrels forward, "Because that doesn't make any sense, you know, since I'm not a woodwitch. You know I'm not a woodwitch."
Wednesday's expression twists into something genuinely remorseful, and Enid feels an inexplicable anger strike hot in her chest.
"I'm not," Enid insists, sitting all the way up. Wednesday seems reluctant to release her, arm lingering for a second against her back before she retreats onto her heels. "You said that—Wednesday, you said any outcast can learn magic with time and training. Well, I've never been trained in anything. I can't be a woodwitch."
"Have you heard of wood wraiths?" Wednesday quietly asks in response.
From the sidelines, Toby mumbles, "We call them Eaters."
Enid bites back a scream. "Yes," she snaps. "I know what Eaters are. Seriously, what does that have to do with anything?"
Wednesday nods. "It's said that Eaters only appear in forests that have chosen a daughter. They are believed to be living manifestations of the daughter's anger and fear."
"So?" Enid retorts, but her stomach is sinking.
To her credit, Wednesday maintains a neutral tone, something careful and succinct that she has never, not once, directed at Enid before today. "Eaters do not appear as a result of education or training. Some magic is simply the will of the fates."
"What—what does that mean?" Enid begs, though she already knows.
Wednesday's face remains solemn. "It means some witches are chosen rather than trained. All daughters are woodwitches, but not all woodwitches become daughters of the forest. There are some...some believe true daughters are born as such."
A moment of harried silence, then Enid starts laughing.
"That wasn't—what are you even—why aren't you laughing?" she demands, sobering at the identical look on both Wednesday and Toby's faces.
"Enid," Wednesday whispers.
"No, it's not me," Enid replies with all the stalwart conviction of a person desperate to deny, deny, deny. "That wasn't me."
"Who else would come to my defense when Hugo attempted to harm me?" Wednesday questions, voice more gentle than Enid even knew she was capable of.
"That wasn't me," she repeats.
"Well, it sure wasn't us," Toby speaks up. "Unless Wednesday's playing the long con, and she isn't a runewitch after all."
"Wednesday is a runewitch," Enid distantly replies, her nails sinking into the dirt as she hunches over her knees. "Oh. Wednesday is a runewitch."
Wednesday's palm slides up Enid's spine and settles over the back of her neck, anchoring her in place.
"So, Wednesday is a runewitch," Toby mildly says. "And I'm just a wolf. Who does that leave?"
Enid looks to Wednesday for guidance, for protest, because that moment couldn't possibly have been her doing. That instant of anger and fear and the forest singing around her, rushing to Wednesday's aid—the very idea is ludicrous. Enid's nails sink deeper, pulling up dirt and sprinkling her knees with soil. She isn't even a witch.
"Enid," Wednesday repeats, and Enid feels it settle deep beneath her ribs, sinking all the way down to her toes. "You have to breathe."
“Easy, Shark,” Toby murmurs, edging closer like he’s prepared to catch her if she decides to fling herself backwards and brain herself on the ground or something equally ridiculous.
"I don't get it," Enid manages, eyes squeezing shut. “I don’t understand.”
That—that moment. Hugo had shoved her intended, and Enid felt tension snap in her chest like air busting out of an overfilled balloon. In that single instant, it was as if every emotion she'd ever experienced was spilling out on Wednesday's behalf—but that was just Enid experiencing crippling anxiety, as per usual. It wasn't magic.
What it does feel like is the other shoe, which Enid suspects will be the size of San Francisco, will fall at any moment.
"Enid—"
"Tell me the truth," Enid pleads. "I don't get it. Make me—make me understand, Wednesday."
In an ideal world, Wednesday will deny it. She will offer up some other, equally convoluted explanation for why both she and Toby seem to think the miracle Enid believed to be the universe finally giving her a break by sparing Wednesday from Hugo's wrath was actually Enid whipping out some secret magical powers nobody, including her, had any idea were in her possession.
Wednesday’s silence is just as damning as her speech.
"That's impossible," Enid whispers.
Years of education at Nevermore surrounded by a veritable cartel of woodwitches, and not a single fucking one of them could tell what she was? Not even Wednesday could tell what she was?
"Breathe, Puppy," Wednesday orders, hand tight on her neck. "Enid. I need you to breathe."
Enid hunches over her knees, closes her eyes, and tries to make herself inhale.
"Good girl," Wednesday murmurs to her, apparently uncaring that Toby's still solidly within earshot. "There’s my good girl. Keep going, Puppy. In and out. Just like that."
"How can this happen? Does this happen?" Enid wheezes. "How is this even possible?"
“Breathe,” Wednesday commands.
Enid takes a deep breath out of spite.
Once she’s no longer in danger of hyperventilating, Wednesday asks her, "Do you remember what I told you during the ritual?"
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. "All magic is derived from intent," she whispers, hugging her knees.
"All magic is derived from intent," Wednesday agrees. "You wanted a place to belong. The woods recognized that in you, Enid.” She exhales unsteadily, breath shifting Enid’s hair from her neck. “The forest recognized you."
Enid risks a glance up. Wednesday's expression is soft, cognizant of the impact of her words on Enid’s fragile emotional state, but it must sound like cold comfort to her, too, because she shifts to grip Enid's shoulders with both hands. Wednesday’s touch is centering, just enough pressure to anchor Enid to the ground.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Enid voices, though her argument has withered with the undeniable certainty that Wednesday wouldn't lie to her. “I don’t—I don’t understand how I could…how you…”
"We will find answers," Wednesday tells her, pushing Enid's sweaty bangs back from her forehead. "I will not rest until you’re satisfied, Enid. Know this—there is no cost I would not pay to ease your ills. You will have the truth.”
Enid feels tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. “Where do we even start?” she warbles. “You think the library’s gonna have So You Realized You’re A Woodwitch in paperback? This is fucking insane.”
Wednesday sighs. “I daresay my mother may prove an invaluable resource to us, much as it pains me to admit.”
Toby instantly perks up. "Maybe my mom can help," he offers, biting the inside of his cheek. "She's a fully-trained woodwitch, right? That’s something. If we tell her the truth, maybe she can do something to help."
"We may not have a choice," Wednesday agrees, voice grim. "Come. We cannot stay here."
Enid carefully rises to her feet, aware that Wednesday is cataloging her every move in search of so much as a single wince. She does an admirable job of keeping a straight face, in her humble opinion.
"Your ankle still hurts," Wednesday surmises.
"What? No, it doesn't," Enid protests.
Wednesday gives her a flat look. "You're standing like a flamingo."
Enid feels her face grow hot, but before she can argue, Toby toes off his sneakers.
"Guess that's my cue," he mumbles, shucking off his shirt.
Wednesday swiftly moves to stand in front of Enid, blocking her view of his bare chest. "What on earth are you doing?" she demands.
Toby ignores her question, giving Wednesday a dubious once-over. “Can you ride a horse?”
Wednesday straightens up. "I'm insulted you felt the need to ask," she retorts.
"Great. Then you should have no problem with this," Toby says, folding over and landing with his hands on the dirt.
He shakes his body like a wet dog, and fur explodes through the remnants of his clothing. Within seconds, an imperious wolf with a dark grey coat looks back at Wednesday with doleful eyes.
"Fuck," Enid mutters, swallowing a wince. "At this rate, we're all gonna end up exiled."
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. "Ye of little faith," she responds, automatically reaching out to steady Enid when she wobbles.
Enid huffs to herself as she hitches her injured ankle back up off the ground.
"Would you prefer to ride in front of me or behind?" Wednesday very courteously asks her.
Enid swallows a groan. "Behind, please."
No amount of money would be worth weathering the inevitable reactions to their appearance firsthand. No, Enid will be perfectly happy hiding behind Wednesday as they ride into the village and incite yet another inter-pack crisis.
Exile for all of them, she gloomily predicts. Maybe Toby can lead their little rogue pack after they get tossed off the land and outlawed from ever returning. Suppose Hugo's perceived injustices, no doubt tattled to the powers that be, or Toby's degradation in allowing not one but two girls to ride him like a farm animal aren't enough to turn the elders against them; Enid's newfound secret most certainly will be.
Notes:
allow me to remind you that enid canonically loves pro ice hockey, because she has great taste, so she most certainly would know how to talk shop. we’ll even forgive her for supporting the sharks <3
UPDATE 8/18: fuck me guys i have to fly out again tonight so next chapter will go up monday!
UPDATE 8/21: SORRY YALL WORKED HOED ME AGAIN next chapter delayed to wednesday
UPDATE 8/23: im so fucking sorry i've been flakey this week guys but i finally flew home so next chapter is tentatively going up friday! thank you for your patience in these trying times
Chapter 86: Vision
Notes:
kink warning: very ambiguous depiction of bloodplay
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Though she rides through the woods on Toby’s back, Enid finds herself floating.
Something about the hum of the forest has her sinking beneath the surface, dream and reality slipping together like she just ducked her head underwater. She can still feel Wednesday's weight in front of her, warm and steady, and the softness of Toby's fur between her knees, but her surroundings flicker between forest and elsewhere.
The dream Enid sinks into is vivid enough to taste. It's sticky in her mouth, lilies and crystal and ozone, and a seeping warmth familiar enough to prickle at her awareness. She's smelled this before, this sweet sunken place, though Enid cannot recall when. Sometime in the past, she thinks, though her dream doesn't feel like the past. It feels other. Different. A place she’s never been yet inherently knows.
The chittering forest melts around her, and Enid dreams of water.
Her skin is sopping wet—submerged, she realizes, all the way down to her hips. The water is just on the cusp of painfully hot, but it feels spectacular against her aching muscles. Her thighs burn like she did a thousand squats upside down while clinging to the side of a tilt-a-whirl.
It is also abundantly clear that Enid isn’t wearing any clothing, and she should be embarrassed by that, but she isn't. No one wears clothes in the bath, she rationalizes, though the room she dreams of is grander than any bathhouse Enid has ever seen. The historical dramas she used to go feral for during her earliest heats would weep at the sight of this place. Their painstakingly-crafted film sets look like dollhouses glued together by a blindfolded toddler in comparison.
Dark stone walls covered in murals lend an eerie, unnatural silence to her surroundings, but what hooks Enid’s attention is the ceiling. Whoever designed this bath clearly nursed a vendetta against roofs because even calling it a ceiling is generous. Above her, a fine-boned trellis bears the weight of hundreds of flowering vines, allowing moonlight to come spilling down over Enid’s skin and hair. In that impossible way of dreams, Enid can simultaneously see from her eyes and from the perspective of a bystander, and she marvels at how the strange light leeches her of any color as she wades through the water.
The moonlight has such a softening effect on her visage, smoothing all her scars and transforming her into painted perfection, that Enid would consider herself the most beautiful she’s ever looked, if not for the fact that her collarbones are splattered with blood.
Something whisper-soft brushes against her hip. A flower, Enid wonders, though one unlike any she’s encountered in waking life. She had no idea flowers could even be translucent, but the vines overhead appear to be full of them. What breed of water lily blooms clear as glass? Each petal glitters as though it was spun from a star.
When Enid attempts to cradle the flower in her palm, to lift it higher for a closer look at such magnificence, the lily melts away between her fingers. Still, Enid can’t feel too sorry for herself; there are flowers just like it floating all around her, fresh blossoms spinning like ballerinas across the milky surface of the bath as they fall from the sky.
Enid trails her fingertips through the water, melting reams of golden lotuses and glass lilies and chrysanthemums as flushed as heat-stricken skin. If she ventures close enough to them, the flowers send rainbow fractals dancing across her skin.
Enid does a double-take once she grasps that the shimmering she’d been attributing to the impossible flowers is, in actuality, a side effect of the runes covering her breasts and stomach. How did she miss such a display? Had the sight of blood on her neck, nearly black in the moonlight, been so shocking that she overlooked the magic on her skin? Enid only has a moment to berate herself before the water ripples behind her, and every hair on the back of her neck raises in tandem.
Hands crowned by pointed black nails curl around her hips, guiding Enid backward against a chest that reeks of vanilla and honeycomb. Enid instinctively tips her head, exposing her neck and throat. She feels the hiss of warning that move grants her was well-earned.
"Careful," comes the order, and even in a dream, Enid relaxes at the sound of Wednesday's voice. Dream-Wednesday’s lips find her neck, and Enid feels a thrill of shock that numbs her fingers and toes once she recognizes that she isn’t wearing her collar. She should be panicking. Why isn’t she panicking?
“Careful,” Dream-Wednesday repeats. “Or you’ll tear your stitches. Much as I adore you like this,” her fingertips drag through the blood on Enid’s chest, causing her to tremble, “I don’t relish the thought of you losing consciousness in a body of water. Be cautious when moving your neck, Puppy.”
The word stitches might as well be a neon sign flaring over and over in her head. As if in answer, the side of Enid’s neck throbs with a deep-seated heat that curls around her throat and lies heavy on her tongue. There is some pain, but it’s the kind that Enid relishes, the sort of ache she hopes never, ever leaves her.
Enid’s surprised her hand isn’t shaking as she raises it from the water, sending a spray of flowers dissolving in her wake, and her fingertips meet something hard and hot and distinctly un-skinlike on her throat. Thread, Enid thinks, though it feels unyielding to the touch—metallic, almost. Wednesday’s lips unexpectedly brush over the mark, eliciting a shiver of pain and noise from Enid that would have her burning with humiliation in any other situation. Circumstances being what they are, Enid revels in the half-moon marks Wednesday’s nails dig into her hips at the sound of her moan.
Enid isn’t blind to the fact that she has apparently received stitches over the very place a wolf would traditionally bear a mating mark. Was it some sort of accident? How could she have accidentally injured herself there, in her most vulnerable place? Was she attacked by a wild animal that tore into her neck with the intent to kill, forcing Wednesday to sew her back together again like some promiscuous version of Humpty Dumpty? Then again, Wednesday would never produce less than perfect stitches—especially not on Enid’s body—and Enid’s fingertips keep finding irregular patterns in the line. The whole mark is more of a ring, Enid corrects herself, though a glaringly uneven one. Two half circles, one on top of the other, with space left between. A pair of pretty crescent marks in the shape of—in the shape of—
“Your teeth,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday murmurs a noise of agreement, but to Enid, it’s devastated, catastrophic, the sort of sound that heralds the end. Enid spends at least ten seconds attempting to sear it into her memory before she gives in and presses down on the mark. There—the feeling like her stomach just dropped out of her toes, the dizzying teeter at the edge that mated wolves always describe in some iteration when discussing their bond marks. Enid's knees nearly buckle as it finally dawns on her:
She's dreaming of a world where she bears Wednesday’s mark.
Wednesday continues to kiss the back of her neck, carefully avoiding the wound like she knows too much direct pressure will leave Enid’s inner thighs in just as messy of a state as her collarbones, and Enid can be accused of a lot of faults, but selflessness isn’t one of them. This is unquestionably the greatest dream she will ever have, and Enid Sinclair will milk it for all she can or die trying.
She’s so busy scheming how to convince Wednesday to ignore her injury and let Enid shove her face between her thighs unhampered by protests of tearing the stitches and similar ilk that Enid’s mapped the whole wound at least three times before something occurs to her. Her stomach consequently climbs into her throat.
The thing is, this mark—her mark—isn’t just irregular in shape because not even Wednesday Addams can boast a perfectly symmetrical bite. It’s fragmentary and asymmetrical and completely outside of Wednesday’s usual standards because Enid’s mark, she’s realizing, was stitched closed with runes.
“Oh,” she gasps. Then, for some reason, “Is it beautiful?”
Wednesday makes a quieter, wounded sound against her neck. “Agonizing.”
“Me?” Enid asks. “Or the mark?”
Wednesday releases a shaky breath. “That I should love a bright, particular star,” she quotes, lips pressing promises into Enid’s skin. “And think to wed it, he is so above me,” she whispers.
Enid feels tears well up in her eyes, both in the dream and in the forest.
The vision swims in and out, heady and distant, the familiar trees of her pack territory interspersed with flashes of the moon bath where Dream-Wednesday has marked her, taken her, chosen to keep her until death. The trickling of a creek that Toby leaps over gives way to Dream-Wednesday's voice echoing in a steam-filled room. The rustle of leaves in Enid's favorite maple tree, waving as if in celebration as they pass, melts into an image of Dream-Wednesday’s face, her cheeks and forehead covered with inked runes of her own, unbound hair sticking to her chest.
The feeling of Toby's legs pumping beneath her ebbs away, and all Enid can process is the feeling of Dream-Wednesday's tongue dragging over her stomach, licking up the sugary symbols littering Enid's torso. It’s unclear whether Wednesday’s intention is to clean her of the magic or suck bruises into every inch of Enid’s skin. My runes, Enid mourns, looking down at her dream-self. Wednesday's saliva, welcome though it may be, is actively destroying them.
But why on earth would she be dreaming of runes in the first place? The marking makes sense since being marked by Wednesday is Enid's greatest, deepest wish—but not even her imagination could conjure up a spectacle in the realm of Wednesday tearing into Enid with her teeth like a wolf and stitching her up like a runewitch. Better yet, how is Enid dreaming of runes she's never seen? She's not that creative.
Enid knows with the certainty of that peculiar omniscience specific to dreams that her imagination did not fabricate these runes. They exist, just as somehow—someday?—this bath and these markings and this Wednesday who licks the sugar from her neck, who tears Enid’s throat open with her teeth, will exist.
It has to exist, Enid thinks a bit hysterically, panic swelling in her chest. If she doesn’t ever get marked by Wednesday—if Wednesday doesn’t want to claim her in this way, savage as any wolf, Enid will have to weather the loss of the imagined moon bath and her perfect, bloodstained runes for the rest of her life.
"My good girl," Dream-Wednesday murmurs to her. "Mhm. My suspicions were correct, Enid. It does taste as sweet as your cunt.”
And Enid's eyes snap open, awake all at once.
“Enid?” Wednesday asks. Her voice is tight with concern, and something higher, more jagged—fearful, Enid thinks, or enthralled. The sounds of the forest rush in like a wave, striking all three of them with skittering adulation as the tree branches creak overhead. Toby nearly misses a step.
“I was doing it again,” Enid croaks, dropping her forehead onto Wednesday’s back. “Wasn’t I?”
Wednesday doesn’t outwardly react, but from this close proximity, Enid can hear how her heart pounds. “Your song is calamitous,” Wednesday quietly replies. “Every creature in the wood falls silent to listen.”
“But what was the rest of that?” Enid presses, wishing she could curl closer than feasibly or physically possible while riding on the back of a fully grown wolf. If she could crawl inside of Wednesday’s clothing and hide, she would. Speaking of—Wednesday’s knife holster is showing on her thigh, unrepentant and obvious against the fine fabric of her pants. That’s sure not going to enthuse the elders, Enid privately thinks. “Was I dreaming?” she asks aloud.
“Were you?” Wednesday asks in return, then hums in contemplation. “We should speak to someone more qualified than I. Magic is unpredictable even in the best of circumstances, and I am no expert on windsong." Then, as if she cannot help herself, "What did you see, Puppy?”
Enid shakes her head, her chin knocking into Wednesday’s jaw. She doesn’t have the heart to tell her.
“Are you alright?” Wednesday prods, gentler, and Toby rumbles with equal concern, his body vibrating between her knees.
“I’m okay,” Enid tells them both. “Just…we should find a woodwitch,” she admits. “Or someone who’s educated on visions, I guess,” Enid adds as an afterthought.
Wednesday jerks in front of her, elbows nailing Enid in her sides, and Toby skids to a stop as if his strings were just pulled, spraying them both with a wave of soil and underbrush.
“Visions?” Wednesday repeats, voice sharp. “You experienced a vision, Enid?”
Enid spits out the taste of dirt. “I don’t know,” she huffs. “I don’t think so. It wasn’t—I don’t think it was mine,” she says a bit helplessly, even knowing that doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Nevertheless, when Wednesday twists around to look at her, her expression is stunned.
“You don't think it was—?"
Toby barks at them, his reprimand echoing in the trees, and Wednesday’s face slams back into practiced neutrality.
“Wednesday?” Enid asks, voice breaking. “Are you okay?” Am I okay?
Wednesday reaches back and grips Enid’s knee hard enough to hurt. Thankfully, she waits until Enid’s breathing has lowered from risk of hyperventilation to mostly regular before tugging Toby’s fur with the reflexes of a person used to handling reins.
“Come,” Wednesday replies. Her obvious reluctance to turn away has warmth pooling in Enid’s stomach. “No time to waste. We need to take care of your injury,” she insists.
Enid’s hand shoots up to her neck, feeling for stitches that do not exist, and Wednesday raises both eyebrows at her, shifting as if she’s considering hopping off Toby entirely.
“What?” Enid blurts.
Wednesday stares at her. “I was referring to your ankle,” she clarifies. “Are you experiencing any neck pain?”
“No,” Enid protests. “I’m fine.”
She’s not even lying. The only pain Enid’s experiencing is the emotional trauma of having Wednesday’s mark snatched away from her so ruthlessly. The devil works hard to incite misery, but her own subconscious works harder, Enid grimly admits to herself.
Wednesday’s scent remains displeased as she nudges Toby’s flank with her heeled boot, urging him forward, but then they’re off, careening through the undergrowth once again at speed, and Enid is thoroughly distracted from her anxieties over Wednesday’s scent because it smells like they’re close to the village, which is the last place she wants to be. Enid buries her face in Wednesday’s neck. Even unbalanced and overwhelming, Wednesday’s scent is a balm over the stinging in her chest.
Obviously, a gargantuan misunderstanding has just occurred—maybe more than one—but there is no time to correct Wednesday’s misconception about the vision and any other bullshit Enid shoveled out in the wake of a truly disconcerting dream because the village rises through the trees, unchanged and daunting, and Enid begins to hear whispers.
She mistakenly thinks it’s the stirring of leaves at first because the murmurs are unintelligible, almost muted. If Enid hadn’t risked peeking and happened to catch sight of bystanders’ lips moving as they neared the square, of fingers pointing in her direction and blatant bewilderment if not outright hostility aimed in Wednesday’s direction, she might even have believed it was just the woods rustling around her. Their arrival in the village quickly attracts a crowd, teenagers springing into fourth-form to fall in line behind Toby while the adults too old to shift comfortably hurry to follow on foot.
Unfortunately, whatever mercy of the universe granting Enid respite from having to hear the vitriol of her kin for herself fades the moment they step onto the town square. Enid immediately spots her Pack Leader, Hugo’s lumbering father, holding court by the fountain with his son. Hugo looks pale and sick, but he manages a sneer for her when he catches Enid's eye. Hugo’s mother, on the other hand, remains silent and still, tucked away as always in her mate’s shadow.
Enid recognizes most of the wolves in Pack Leader Flint’s entourage, but not all. Hugo must have been spreading his tales beyond the usual suspects. The man positioned farthest from Pack Leader Flint straightens up to his full, intimidating height at the sight of them, and his ire is so familiar, so palpable in its violence, Enid instantly knows that this is Toby’s father.
To her credit, Wednesday doesn’t cower the way Enid wants to.
“What is the meaning of this, Tobias?” Pack Leader Montgomery demands before they’ve so much as crossed the square.
Beside him is a woman with long, dark hair who eyes both Enid and Wednesday with a level of scrutiny that feels a little beyond the pale, even in these dire circumstances. Pack Leader Montgomery may be a threat, but Enid doesn’t want to cross this woman, not for any reason. Even the thought leaves her a little bit nauseous.
Toby keeps his head high as he approaches, coming to a careful stop before his parents. Whether intentional or not, Wednesday dismounts in a way that draws attention to the knife swinging at her hip, and Enid internally cringes. Her mother is going to murder her if Hugo and his family fail to finish the job.
In a blatant display of rudeness, Wednesday turns her back on the Montgomeries to help Enid down. Unfortunately, Enid didn’t get the memo in time and jumped to the ground herself. She only realizes she's done something wrong when Wednesday hisses with alarm, and Toby's head whips toward her. Wednesday's hand clamps down on her wrist, but Enid isn't in danger of collapsing—her ankle doesn't even hurt anymore. She tests her weight on it, stomping her shoe on the stone, and there isn’t so much as a twinge.
“You healed?” Wednesday breathes, and behind her, the dark-haired woman’s eyebrows climb up her forehead.
Enid manages a nod.
Mostly satisfied, Wednesday shifts her grip until she’s holding Enid’s hand and finally turns to Toby’s family.
“Pack Leader Montgomery, I presume,” she opens with.
The man doesn’t reply. He may be too furious to speak, Enid notes. Behind him, Hugo brightens significantly at the prospect of more trouble.
Undeterred, Wednesday shifts her attention to his mate. “Are you Toby’s mother?” Wednesday asks, and her tone is so wildly different from how she’d spoken to Pack Leader Montgomery that Enid stares at her in sheer alarm.
The woman nods. “I am,” she replies. “You look familiar to me, child. I am sure I know your face.”
"Perhaps,” Wednesday allows, unflinching. “How shall I address you, Madame? I'm afraid I do not know your elder sister's name."
The woman's face creases with genuine shock, then what Enid thinks must be a particularly heartbreaking variant of hope before she schools herself.
"My elder sister is called Seanna," the woman answers, voice warm and welcoming. “I am Aminder.”
Wednesday gives a firm nod. "Aminder, sister of Seanna. I am Wednesday, daughter of Morticia, sister of Momoko,” she introduces herself, formal to a fault. Then, with enough emotion to have Enid’s cheeks burning, Wednesday announces, “This is my intended, Enid.”
Even as a wolf, Toby finds a way to snort.
“I can see that,” Aminder replies, amused. She steps forward, thoroughly excluding her husband from the conversation, and Enid blinks at her in shock. “When did you accept her offer, Enid?”
Enid has to swallow twice before she can speak. “It’s been weeks,” she admits.
She doesn’t bother glancing back at her husband, but the dark look he sends at Pack Leader Flint is child’s play compared to the wrath in Aminder’s expression. Enid flinches at the sight.
“Then there has been a severe miscarriage of honor on this day,” Aminder states, voice grave. “What has happened to your intended, Wednesday, that you asked about healing?”
Enid’s glad the question wasn’t aimed at her because she’s not sure she could have answered in the face of such unapologetic intensity. This is the sort of woman who makes you feel seen whether you like it or not, Enid privately thinks.
For the first time, Wednesday hesitates.
“It was a minor injury, but I would see my intended settled, regardless,” Wednesday eventually lands on. "Allow me to see Enid to safety, and I will return to you of my own volition as soon as possible. You have my word."
“What? No," Enid protests, tugging on her hand. “You’re not going anywhere without me, Wednesday. Forget it.”
“I wouldn’t leave her unprotected,” Toby vows from Enid’s left, now human and still determined to uphold his alliance to Wednesday. Enid would be soothed by the conviction in his voice and the resolute expression he wears if not for the fact that Toby also happens to be completely nude.
She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, hysteria bubbling in her throat. No naked man on earth has ever looked so devoted to his ideals, Enid thinks. She has to hand it to him—it takes guts to choose full-frontal nudity in front of hundreds of onlookers just to say your piece.
“Your confidence is appreciated,” Wednesday dryly responds. She raises a pointed eyebrow. “Though I wonder if your outfit choice somewhat diminishes the effect.”
Toby laughs, snagging an offered pair of shorts from one of his packmembers. “Thanks for that, Wednesday.”
“You’re welcome,” she magnanimously replies.
Aminder watches them with a strange expression. “Then the Flint boy’s story is true,” she surmises. “Do you deny it, my son?”
Toby straightens up, all amusement disappearing. “I do not,” he replies, solemn. “I will not deny her. Wednesday is my guest.”
Aminder’s eyes are distressingly bright as she responds, “Then you will escort Wednesday and Enid to our lodgings, where we may speak in private.” It isn’t a suggestion.
Enid gulps, but musters up the courage to warble, “What about my parents?”
Pack Leader Flint glares at her for speaking out of turn, as to be expected, but Toby squares his shoulders and snarls right back at him, which is not, on any planet, expected.
“Toby,” Aminder snaps, and he cuts off mid-breath. To Pack Leader Flint, who looks nearly incandescent with rage, she offers a sympathetic smile. “Forgive my son, Pack Leader. The boy is close to his rut.”
Toby’s face reddens, but the other dominant wolves in the vicinity begin rolling their eyes, trading exasperated glances with each other that speak to how often this happens. Enid frowns at the ground, not daring to look up again.
Somehow, someway, she can tell that Aminder is lying.
"We would not part a newly bonded wolf from her intended," Aminder assures Enid and Wednesday. "Such a slight would not occur on my watch. Come, and let’s see about that injury. Pack Leader Flint and my husband will iron out how this cruel deception could have occurred, and all will know who is to blame,” she declares.
Enid wishes she could have gotten a picture of Hugo’s face as Aminder ferries them away, Toby a solid presence at their backs. She’s not sure memory will suffice.
Notes:
I'M BACK AGAIN AND READY TO HOE DOWN! so fuckin relieved to be getting this show on the road guys. missed yall while work was goosing me <3
two things on today's docket: one, i absolutely headcanon that part of wednesday's love language is expressing herself with obscure quotes. two, that whole thing with wednesday declaring 'my assumptions were correct, it does taste as sweet' refers to something she said waaaaay back in ole chapter 33 >:)
UPDATE 8/28: aight so for the sake of maintaining a regular post schedule around my increased work schedule, i think i'm gonna try posting longer chapters every friday instead of my usual M/W/F shorties. i'll be giving this new schedule a trial run over the next two or so weeks to see how it flies, but hopefully that way i won't be disappointing yall constantly delaying the chapters. we'll see if this works better!!! at the very least, my beta will thank me lmao
Chapter 87: Turmoil
Chapter Text
For a species that relies almost entirely on maintaining an oral history, wolves sure know the value of silence.
Enid's never heard the village square so absent of sound. Even during the witching hour, warriors can be counted on to disturb the night with their chatter as they clock in and out of their shifts at full, unapologetic volume. Most wolves build their houses away from the village square for this very reason.
Though scores of wolves are clustered along the northern exit, anticipating a show, not a single packmember opens their mouth as Enid passes them on her way out. Perhaps it's due to Aminder’s admittedly paralyzing presence, her heels clicking against the stone path as she leads the charge with all the amiability of a decorated military general. Maybe they simply catch sight of Wednesday's face, which tends to be off-putting even when she's in a good mood, and make the wise decision to not draw undue attention to themselves.
Only one wolf offers a twitchy gesture of familiarity, a half-aborted wave that peters out before his hand reaches eye level.
"Hi, Enid," he ventures, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Enid startles, then smiles. "Hey, Henry," she replies.
That opens the floodgates as more wolves feel comfortable enough to smile in her direction or offer a nod of recognition. Enid may not have stuck to the program with her courtship, but she was still a wolf that most could recognize on sight, if only for her association with the Pack Leader's son. Shortcomings as a submissive wolf aside, Enid is a member of their pack and a member who’s been recently collared, to boot; that normally would inspire a lot more warmth and welcome than she’s currently experiencing.
"Who was that?" Toby asks, looming over her shoulder as their little procession leaves the square. It’s darker out here under the cover of the trees, a little colder, but the main walkways are kept well-lit by oil lamps in the summer months. Enid has no trouble seeing her feet.
She shrugs and answers truthfully, "One of my brother's friends."
Enid swerves around a rock in the path, and Wednesday reaches out to catch her hand and tow her back in without looking. She appears too focused on staring at Aminder’s back with a troubled expression to contribute to Toby’s burgeoning interrogation. Small mercies, Enid thinks.
Toby doesn't sound reassured as he presses, "Which brother?"
Enid glances back at him, raising an eyebrow in question. "Chase. His friend—that boy—was only a year above me in school. He’s not bad."
It’s somewhat of an understatement. Henry was one of the few wolves associated with one of Enid’s brothers who always was friendly towards her without exception when they stumbled upon each other on the route between the kitchen and Enid and Chase’s respective bedrooms. Henry occasionally even spent time with her and Chase together before Enid presented as submissive, and her summer breaks henceforth were reserved for being paraded around the tri-state area to all and sundry.
Though Chase isn’t as close in age to Enid as Devon, her youngest older brother, he had always been her favorite, and his friends were pretty tolerable across the board. Henry Nilson’s awkward politeness is a far cry from how some of Devon’s friends had behaved in the years leading up to her dubious escape to Nevermore. Unfortunately for Enid, at least half of Devon’s friends were in her grade in middle school, and they were diligent about making sure she never forgot it. Devon thought their antics towards her were a riot.
"Chase's group isn't bad," Toby admits. "I've seen worse. Your brother Devon sucks."
"You've met Chase?" Enid asks, surprised enough to spin around and walk backward in order to peer at his face. "Wait, you've met Devon? I thought he was sitting his trials this summer."
“Careful,” Wednesday murmurs to her. “You’ll trip.”
“No, I won’t,” Enid absently replies, still reeling internally. What the hell is Devon thinking, wasting time meeting his little sister's prospective matches so close to the hunt? The next full moon is only days away.
Her eldest brother Alex was content with finding a mate and starting a family, Brody had been more concerned with chasing tails in the neighboring packs than advancing his career, and Chase privately admitted to her that he was looking at attending university, but all Devon ever cared about was asserting his strength and making a name for himself here. It was a given that he would join the Warrior Corps the moment he graduated from SOLLS. Enid found it barely of note when her mother shared the news that Devon had been selected to sit his trials this summer.
Most wolves as close to promotion as Devon is—or was, last she heard—choose to spend their limited free time sequestered in the barracks with their fellow prospects or fighting on the circuits in hopes of inflating their reputation. Everything else tends to fall by the wayside in the days leading up to the hunt. Enid's seen more than one possible courtship fizzle out because a wolf chose to devote themselves to the trials, and a rival suitor seized their chance and swooped in on their potential match.
Toby wears a funny expression as he glances up and meets her eyes. "I met your whole family, Shark."
Enid's cheeks color at the implication because, right, Toby didn't travel here with his parents and half of his pack to visit Hugo Flint. As if he can sense her guilt, Toby offers her an equally beleaguered grimace that softens the sting enough for Enid to manage a smile. For having what’s quite possibly the most bizarre and disappointing day of his life, Toby sure has been taking everything in stride—the minor freakout in the clearing notwithstanding. Nobody could be blamed for that.
Hell, Enid allegedly passed right out when she finally understood the gravity of the situation. Historically, Enid has always been a menace, one way or another, but this feels significantly more dire of a misstep than simply attending Nevermore against her parents' wishes or refusing to mate with Hugo Flint. Everyone knows that wolves renounce all magic; it's been this way since the war. The idea of Enid being—of her being a—
The mere thought of revisiting what Wednesday told her in the woods has Enid swallowing down bile. She can’t even bring herself to think the word, shoving all fragments of magic and mythical witchery out of her mind in favor of focusing on the mystery that is Aminder Montgomery. At least things can’t get any worse, Enid rationalizes.
As if on cue, Aminder announces, “We’re here,” and Wednesday has to catch Enid by the elbow when she turns to face forward and promptly trips over her own feet.
Ahead lies the old church.
"This is where you're staying?" Enid demands, voice climbing at least two octaves.
Though Aminder's face remains placid, her gaze is telling. "Yes. Toby, please light the fire for tea,” she orders.
Toby shuffles from foot to foot, clearly unsure of why he's being dismissed and whether or not it's a good idea to leave them with his mother unsupervised, but he seems to have faith in her not to break guest rights because he eventually just nods. He must not have heard Enid’s attempt to telepathically transmit her internal screaming. Did Wednesday not just say that Enid presumably can send messages on the wind or something along those lines?
Magic is a fucking farce, Enid gripes to herself.
"Okay,” Toby agrees, oblivious to her inner turmoil.
Enid doesn’t miss that Toby waits until Wednesday lowers her chin in a minute nod of her own before he turns and bounds up the steps, disappearing inside the nightmarish double doors that probably were once a warm, attractive shade of red. At present, the stain has faded to a rust-colored brown that inevitably reminds Enid of blood. She deeply appreciates that Toby makes a point of nudging a nearby potted plant with his foot until it props open one of the doors, leaving just enough of a crack that he’ll hear if someone screams.
Aminder sighs. "Time and time again, I've asked him not to use my projects as furniture. Perhaps you could impress upon him the importance of respecting our surroundings," she says to Enid directly.
"Me?" Enid squeaks. "I'm not—I'm pants at botany. Wednesday's the expert on flowers," she hedges, eager to relocate Aminder's attention anywhere besides herself.
Aminder doesn't look any more impressed by her ham-fisted attempt to dodge scrutiny than Wednesday, who rolls her eyes, but she chooses to spare Enid and dips her head in a graceful nod.
"I'd be curious to hear more of the curriculum at Nevermore,” Aminder says, expression thoughtful. “I attended Night’s Plutonian Shore, myself."
"We heard," Wednesday answers for them.
Aminder's eyebrows raise a fraction. "Was Toby truly that forthcoming?” she asks. “Goodness. I've never seen my son so loyal to a stranger. He usually avoids the topic of my magic at all costs."
Though it doesn't seem to pain Aminder any to voice that grim truth aloud, Enid cannot help but wince on her behalf. The idea of her own children not accepting who she is hits a little too close to home for Enid, even if she knows Toby had good reason for it. Less traditional or not, it can't have been easy to shoulder the burden of being the Pack Leader's son while also fielding prejudice against a non-wolf mother who practices magic in the Montgomery Pack. Enid doesn’t envy his childhood at all.
"We aren't strangers," Wednesday refutes, her lips flattering out with irritation. "We’re pack. Or whatever approximates to pack on a basis that's temporary and includes non-kin," she amends.
Enid shakes her head. "Still pack,” she mumbles mostly to herself.
Aminder and Wednesday both look at her, so Enid reluctantly adds, "Not all wolves mate with kin, but we all have bonds."
"Bonds?" Wednesday repeats, cocking her head. Her irritation subsides to make room for a manic gleam of interest that brightens her whole face. "As in mating bonds?"
"That's one kind," Enid agrees, biting her lip. "But there are others, too. Friendship bonds, courting bonds…even family bonds.” She gives an uncomfortable shrug. “Pack is pack."
Wednesday purses her lips. "If only there was a book on social hierarchies within packs that I might read. It seems a grievous oversight, in terms of academic understanding.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Um, sorry, but who exactly do you think would be qualified to write a book on packs?” she asks aloud.
Wednesday blinks in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“It’d have to be an outsider, right?” Enid replies. “A wolf wouldn’t know what to write. All of this is normal to us.”
“An astute insight, Enid,” Aminder observes. “As an outsider myself, I share your grievances, Wednesday. But believe me, if such a book had existed, I would have found it,” she says with a bite of humor that only Wednesday seems to fully appreciate.
Visibly appeased, Wednesday straightens up, her hand automatically finding Enid’s.
"Much as I would like to continue this conversation, I suspect Toby’s getting antsy watching from the windows. Shall we?" Wednesday proposes.
Aminder's answering smile is genuine, but Enid tenses regardless. She has that feeling again, that telltale sinking in her stomach that almost always precedes something going horribly wrong.
"Of course. After you," Aminder invites them, loftily waving a hand towards the church steps.
Wednesday and Enid take the first stair together.
Starvation and disease were far from the greatest threats to pack survival when settlers first claimed this territory. In those early years, vampires were still committed to hunting down wolf packs and systematically slaughtering entire settlements, one by one. In exchange for sending warriors to fight on the front in the war raging to the south, the Outcast Alliance had offered runescrafting services as an additional measure of protection for qualifying packs. Enid's pack had selected this building as their chosen safehouse, perhaps taking comfort and a vindictive satisfaction in the idea of vampires being barred from entering a church.
Even now, though the eggshell paint of its outer walls is peeling and the underlying wood weathers and weakens with each passing year, the runes carved into the oak doorframe remain vibrant as ever. Maybe the magic has some sort of time-nullifying perk. What does Enid know about runescrafting? About as much as she knows about forest magic, which is to say next to nothing. Knowing what she does about runes, courtesy of Wednesday’s crash course during the séance ritual, Enid can’t help but wonder what her ancestors sacrificed to successfully ward a whole church against vampires.
"Who drew these?" Wednesday asks, halting before the threshold.
If Enid didn’t know better, she’d say Wednesday’s expression resembles hunger. She has to press her legs together and deliver a fast and dirty internal pep talk to her wolf not to humiliate her in the presence of a woman they’re about to beg for help in order to ward off the threat of arousal. Fortunately, the thought of slicking up in the presence of Aminder Montgomery has any possibility of desire withering like a second-generation vampire outside at high noon.
"I'm afraid the name of the crafter was lost to time," Aminder replies from behind them. "Perhaps the pack elders will know."
Wednesday gives a tight nod, but Enid's too busy staring into the church with a feeling of foreboding to focus much on the runes around the door. She wouldn’t be able to read them, anyway.
There is a hindbrain that all wolves and, to a lesser degree, all humans share. It's the prickling on the back of your scalp, the sudden realization that something is wrong when the forest falls silent around you. It's the danger sense, the gift of fear, that works beyond what the active mind can process to warn us of trouble before it occurs.
For as long as she can remember, whenever Enid set foot in this church, her hindbrain went off like a popped balloon. It's not fireworks or blaring sirens or thousand-foot skywriting, but an roiling ocean gone flat as a mirror between one heartbeat and the next. It is an absence, an emptiness that billows out from her chest and leaves her entire body numb. For Enid, entering this church is like taking a step forward expecting to find solid ground and plunging into a swimming pool instead.
Wednesday doesn't move, and Aminder doesn't look like the sort of woman capable of relenting once her mind is decided, so Enid takes it upon herself to pull Wednesday over the threshold. She expects the ringing in her ears like she just changed altitude. Enid even anticipates the swirling nausea, the immediate headache, and the phantom pains that spring to life like she just lost an invisible limb for daring to inflict her presence on hallowed grounds.
She did not expect Wednesday to gasp, a noise that cracks through the narthex like a gunshot, instantly summoning Toby, and clap her hand over her inner elbow like she's just suffered a mortal wound.
"What?" Enid squeaks. "Are you okay? Wednesday, what's wrong?"
“Guys?” Toby asks, scanning them both for some imagined injury.
Wednesday’s lips have already parted to reply when a snick of the old doors alerts them to the reality that Aminder has effectively trapped them inside the church, and Wednesday seems to rethink it, lapsing into an ear-splitting silence. She’s trembling, Enid realizes, heart climbing into her throat.
Worse than that, Wednesday smells pissed. Her scent has sharpened to the point of nearly burning over whatever just happened as they crossed the threshold. Did she suffer the same sick feeling that Enid always has? Leave it to her pack to fuck up warding a building so badly that even non-vampires hate the place, Enid grouses to herself.
“Wednesday?” she asks, squeezing her hand. “It’s—it’s just the wards against vampires. This used to be a safehouse during the war,” Enid quickly explains.
Wednesday shoots her an incredulous look. “What are you talking about? Those weren’t wards against vampires,” she retorts.
Enid jerks back, allowing Wednesday’s hand to fall between them. “Wait, what? You—did the runes not say—?”
“I do not know these runes,” Wednesday spits, and Enid’s mouth falls open.
Wednesday seems to grasp at that moment that she is no longer in physical contact with Enid, eyes snapping down to her now-empty hand, and her entire face alights with something akin to panic. Before Enid can apologize for letting go of her so abruptly, Wednesday’s face is pressed to Enid’s neck, her arms winding around Enid’s waist tightly enough that Enid wheezes for breath. This breed of embrace would probably result in cracked ribs for a human, but Enid was biologically designed to be held down and claimed. She’s hardier than most.
Not to mention, hell will freeze over before Enid ever intentionally rejects an offer of physical affection from Wednesday, her ribs be damned. Wednesday doesn’t seem inclined to listen to reason at present, so Enid decides this isn’t a hill she’s willing to die on, not for any reason. Not even to prevent Aminder from regaling them both with a calculating gleam that spells trouble for the future.
Enid, of all people, knows what it’s like to ache for the person you love to the point of needing touch in order to keeping breathing. Even if she wasn’t wholeheartedly committed to providing whatever Wednesday needs to feel secure, no matter the cadence, shape, or form, it would take a crowbar to pry Wednesday off of her in this state. Enid isn’t going anywhere.
“Hey,” Toby says, quiet and cautious. “Wednesday.”
Wednesday shakes her head, arms tightening around Enid. She can’t help but let out a little gasp as her ribs protest, and Wednesday flinches back from her like she was struck.
“N-No, it’s—don’t, it’s okay—” Enid blusters, reaching for her as Wednesday clambers backward with a look of horror.
“Enid,” she whispers, and it is the closest Enid has ever heard her come to helpless. “Did I hurt you?”
Talk about a question so ludicrous it borders on nonsensical. Wednesday would have to beat her with a tire iron to cause Enid lasting injury. Wolves are built to shake off what would cripple the average human being. To Enid, who once accidentally shattered her brother Chase’s collarbone with a well-timed punch, a uncomfortably tight hug barely qualifies as normal wear and tear.
Which perhaps explains but does not excuse why Enid panics and blurts out, “Don’t—of course you didn’t, don’t be fucking stupid!” at the top of her voice.
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. Enid, meanwhile, claps both hands over her mouth, but the damage is done.
Strangely, Wednesday’s lips curl up at the corners. “Excuse me?” she responds, and Enid would have fallen to her knees if the thought of touching more of the church than she has to didn’t set her hair on end.
Enid’s already pressing both hands over her mouth, so it comes out more muffled than intended when she squeaks, “I didn’t mean that.”
Wednesday cocks her head. “I know what you meant.”
The heat in Enid’s cheeks seeps down to her chest, even her ears burning as Wednesday continues to watch her with that strange, gratified expression.
Oh, Enid thinks. She’s seen this look before—in the storage closet, when she first mouthed off and Wednesday introduced her to punishments.
“Jesus,” Toby comments from the sidelines. “Should we leave?”
The look that Enid sends in his direction is as betrayed as Wednesday’s resulting smirk is amused.
“Be on my side for once,” Enid whines into her hands. “You’re such a shitty friend, you know that?”
Toby looks genuinely touched. “Aw, Shark,” he croons.
“Shut up,” Enid grouses, ducking her head. Her ears are still hot.
“You wouldn’t know these runes, of course,” Aminder abruptly speaks up, causing Enid and Toby to jump and Wednesday to freeze as they’re simultaneously reminded of her presence. How the hell does she do that? Enid wonders. She’s a little bit in awe.
“Some magics are reserved for war,” Aminder continues. Her gaze shifts to Wednesday, and the foreboding feeling in Enid’s stomach intensifies. “Don’t fret, my dear. No runewitch your age, no matter how accomplished, would know these runes by sight,” she says, warm and assuring.
Enid feels lightheaded by the speed with which she graduates from embarrassment to unadulterated fear. In the meantime, Wednesday must have drawn on that uncanny ability of hers to somehow reduce the distance between them in an instant because suddenly, she’s standing at Enid’s side, hand squeezing hers. Enid grips her back just as tightly.
“Mom?” Toby bleats, eyes wide.
Wednesday’s gaze is frigid as she appraises Aminder from an entirely new perspective. “I suppose I should have known,” she mutters. “Why bother with pleasantries if you knew who I was from the start?”
Aminder’s expression remains unchanged. “Oh, no, dear. I didn't know any more than what you shared. Not for certain. But I can draw an obvious conclusion," she answers, voice lilting with amusement. “If it comforts you, I wasn't sure you were a runewitch until you so kindly confirmed it.”
Something in the same realm as near-homicidal rage flickers across Wednesday’s face, and Enid wonders if she should be preparing to place herself between them. Would it calm Wednesday’s ire if her line of sight was interrupted or spur her to greater heights? Enid’s not sure she’s ever seen Wednesday this angry, and Aminder’s just a middle-aged woodwitch. What chance does she have against a rampaging Addams? Wednesday would brutalize her with both arms tied behind her back and a blindfold besides.
Can she count on Toby to intervene if a fight breaks out? Enid’s honestly not sure she’ll be able to stop Wednesday alone.
“Why have you brought us here? What do you want?” Wednesday demands in quick succession.
“You were correct, you know,” Aminder says, neatly disregarding both questions as she crosses the room and turns her back on all three of them. Enid can hardly believe her gall. “The wards erected here were not drawn against vampires.”
“But—the war—” Enid protests, her nails digging into the palm of her free hand.
Wednesday’s head whips towards her. Before Enid can so much as blink, both of her hands are caught in Wednesday’s own, those sharp black nails glinting as Wednesday urges her fingers to unfurl before she can break the skin.
“Careful,” Wednesday murmurs, squeezing her hands. Compared to Enid’s regular internal temperature, Wednesday’s hands are freezing, but her touch still has Enid’s skin flushing with heat. The back of Enid's neck prickles with the certainty that Aminder is watching them even while she’s turned away.
It occurs to Enid that she may not have a completely accurate picture of forest magic if a master woodwitch can operate on Aminder’s level. At this rate, Enid might keel over and die the next time she comes face-to-face with Morticia Addams in the flesh.
“The war against vampires was long and costly, and it wasn’t known then whether vampires were creatures born or outcasts turned by some curse against humanity,” Aminder explains over the sound of china clinking together as she does whatever she’s doing on the upturned church pew doubling as a sideboard. “For a protective measure as extravagant as warding a structure of this size, your ancestors wouldn’t have left any room for creative interpretation.”
The same revelation seems to dawn on both Wednesday and Toby simultaneously, as the former looks grim and resigned while the latter adopts an expression of horror.
“What does that mean?” Enid pools her courage and asks, fingers twitching in Wednesday’s grip.
In response, Aminder gestures to the small, rickety table arranged in the center of the room. She carries over a tray laden with an elegant tea set that rivals even Wednesday’s, chooses her seat, and proceeds to stare down Enid in challenge.
Wednesday and Toby don’t appear inclined to move before she does, seemingly aware that whatever’s happening concerns Aminder and Enid alone.
When she’s put it off to the point of awkwardness overtaking her anxiety, Enid reluctantly lowers herself into the seat opposite Aminder. Wednesday claims the chair on her left a beat later. Toby chooses to remain standing. She can’t help but feel reassured by his presence; even if Aminder has her swimming in dark water with this little game of dodge and duck across a verbal minefield, Enid knows she isn’t alone.
Once Aminder has poured for everyone sans Toby, she unceremoniously reveals, “The wards on this church were drawn to be magic-inhibiting. In addition to preventing outcasts from summoning magic on the premises, all active magic is made null by entering this place. A rune drawn on oneself, as an example, would not survive exposure.”
Aminder drops a sugar cube into her tea cup, stirs twice, then meets Enid’s gaze head-on and says, “We witches are effectively crippled for as long as we remain here.”
Enid reels backward, her knee slamming into wood and nearly upsetting the whole table. Only Aminder’s firm grip on the teapot prevents disaster from spilling out over all three of them.
Any remaining doubt—or hope—that Enid may have held onto is unequivocally squashed, spit on, and buried six feet under the ground. No person speaking with the level of confidence that Aminder has displayed is postulating; she believes every word to be the truth. One look at Wednesday’s face confirms it.
She knows, Enid thinks. She knows about Wednesday, and she knows about me.
“Shit,” Enid whispers, cringing immediately afterward when she realizes what she’s said. Enemy or not, Aminder is still an older adult and the mate of a Pack Leader, no less. Using that kind of language in front of Pack Leader Flint’s mate would earn Enid a session with the pillory in the village square.
Aminder, on the other hand, hides a smirk behind her tea cup.
“I’m sorry,” Enid says, biting her lip.
Aminder’s smile may be small, but it’s the most genuine response that Enid has witnessed from her thus far. “My children were, quite literally, raised by wolves. I can assure you, I’ve heard worse,” she replies.
Enid still sinks in her seat.
"Sugar?" Aminder offers, nudging a china bowl across the table. "Please, dear. Help yourself."
Only then does Enid notice Aminder’s fingers are covered in an abnormal amount of rings. Rough-hewn stones and precious metals and tiny, glittering gems catch what little light the oil lamps have managed to fill the room with. Enid has never felt more like a crow, her attention stolen by Aminder's strange jewelry. Something about it looks—wrong, to her. Off. False.
"I'm good," Enid distractedly answers, recalling a second too late that Wednesday has a near-supernatural knack for sniffing out her lies, sometimes even before they're fully formed, and this lie, in particular, had no chance of flying over her head.
Sure enough, Wednesday levels her with a look of disapproval. She's like an exceptionally well-dressed bloodhound, Enid thinks to herself. Who needs werewolf senses when you have the innate talents of an Addams? Enid would much rather have lie-detecting powers than the ability to tell that some little wolf pup has soiled his pants from afar.
The truth is that Enid categorically refuses to drink black tea. She hasn't touched undoctored tea since the first time she tried Wednesday's favorite imported blend and threw up all over herself in their dorm room.
From the first night that Wednesday slept in Ophelia, she'd made a ritual of brewing and drinking a cup of her nasty-ass tea before bed. It should have been disgusting, an inhumane onslaught of sour malt and grass on Enid's sensitive nose, but she grew to find the smell of Wednesday's revolting tea leaves comforting. Eventually, Enid struggled to fall asleep without it.
There had been one night in the spring of last year when Enid returned to the dorm feeling like she was crawling out of her skin, and as soon as the God-awful smell of Wednesday's tea hit her nose, she unreservedly lost her shit. Wednesday looked bemused to find Enid in her face, practically in her lap, all but breathing her air as she begged Wednesday to make her a cup with the intensity of a man possessed. To be fair, Wednesday did warn her that it was strong, but Enid couldn't be dissuaded while she was in that state. Not when her stomach was cramping so hard she wondered if she might be suffering a burst appendix and developing a fist-sized ulcer in one fell swoop, and only Wednesday's shitty tea would suffice to relieve her.
Enid threw up the moment it touched her lips, slept for twelve straight hours, and then awoke to an empty dorm room. She later learned that Wednesday had left for her uncle's place on some family emergency out of state, which was just as well considering Enid went into heat that afternoon and Camie wouldn't have survived the encounter if Wednesday had been present to witness what happened between them. Enid's still grateful that Wednesday looked at her like she was stupid when Enid later tried to apologize for gagging at the taste of her favorite drink. Anyone else would have been offended by Enid’s actions, maybe even hurt, but not Wednesday; she took Enid's revulsion towards her choice of tea as a personal challenge.
A mere few weeks later, Wednesday presented Enid with a painted teacup covered in delicate, pale pink flowers with an air of throwing down the gauntlet. Enid knew for a fact that the bone china set Wednesday had brought with her to school was unbelievably fragile, fancy, and stark white in color, but either Wednesday paid someone to paint the cup or pulled out the acrylics herself because there had been four perfect white cups in her set originally, and now there were three—Enid checked. The mysterious pink cup was reserved solely for Enid's use, which was unfortunate since the tea Wednesday adamantly insisted on serving her went untouched for months.
As much as Enid loved the smell of it, she just couldn’t stomach the taste. Every night, Wednesday would pour her a cup, and Enid would fall asleep to the smell of her tea cooling on the nightstand. Then there was the matter of The Teacup Mystery, which dogged Enid for the rest of the year. Logically, it could have been Thing intervening on Wednesday’s behalf to throw Enid off the scent, but Enid suspected they had a ghost on the premises when her teacup started appearing around the room at random hours, always filled to the top and steaming hot, even when Wednesday was nowhere to be found.
After months of letting Wednesday's tea go to waste, Enid finally figured out that it was the bitterness of the flavor causing her to hurl. A generous helping of sugar put that issue to bed, and Enid now goes through so many sugar cubes that Wednesday buys them in bulk.
Aminder's tea doesn't smell as bitter as Wednesday's brand of poison, but there's still a real risk of Enid embarrassing herself in front of everyone present if her gag reflex decides to make a surprise appearance. Before Enid can decide whether she'd prefer to look like an idiot by changing her mind about the sugar after she’s already answered or risk getting herself banned from Aminder's home by way of throwing up on her belongings, Wednesday reaches out to retrieve the sugar bowl for her.
It's sweet, really, that Wednesday notices such small details about her. Nobody on earth could realistically give as much of a shit about Enid's tea preferences as Wednesday Addams does.
Ironically, it is precisely because Enid’s so busy ruminating on that tender truth that she almost misses Aminder's hand, rings flashing as she lashes out with malignant intent. One moment, Wednesday is grasping the delicate china with a steady palm; the next, the sugar bowl is rolling off the table and shattering at their feet, and Wednesday's wrist is caught in Aminder's unrelenting grip. Before Enid can so much as shriek, Aminder has already shoved Wednesday's sleeve up to her elbow and exposed the runes inked on her inner arm.
"My, my, Wednesday. What need have you to cross Inhalation with—hm, Flavor?" Aminder questions.
"Taste," Wednesday corrects through gritted teeth. "Juxtaposed with Interpretation."
Aminder offers a smile that's frankly terrifying. "Forgive me. It's been a great many years since I attempted to read runes," she admits, voice wistful.
"You're forgiven. Now unhand me," Wednesday orders, unmoving and unfazed, and Enid realizes she must have jumped to her feet at some point because her chair is lying toppled over behind her and Toby’s hands are hard and restraining on her shoulders.
"It's okay, Enid, it's okay—" Toby chants to her.
Enid tries and fails to shake him off. "Let go of her!" she demands, pulse thundering in her ears. Something smells like blood—her blood.
Wednesday's face pales as she looks over her shoulder. "Puppy," she breathes. "Your hands."
Enid's chest vibrates around a snarl. "Let go of her, Aminder."
Aminder releases Wednesday at once.
For a moment, Wednesday doesn’t move, her expression verging on stunned. Then she launches out of her seat, appearing at Enid's side and seizing her hands in a single, fluid movement. Enid's nails must have sunk right through her palms in the fervor. She hadn't even felt it.
Assured that Enid's not about to fly off the handle and embark on a killing spree starting with his mother, Toby lets go of Enid's shoulders and promptly rounds on Aminder.
"Seriously, Mom? You couldn't have saved that for another time?" he barks. "Enid's my guest's intended, literally my responsibility, and she got hurt because you had to play at sisterhood or whatever the fuck that was supposed—"
The look Aminder sends him is sharp enough to quell his protests mid-breath. Even Wednesday goes still, fingertips pausing over the gashes in Enid's palms.
Aminder's voice comes out cold. "Not all sisters are born as such, my son. There are no strangers among woodwitches. We are all of us kin of the forest. It's not easily understood from the outside looking in."
The feeling of foreboding in her stomach may eventually become a familiar friend, Enid absently acknowledges.
"You need not fear for Wednesday or Enid's safety in my house," Aminder declares like she didn’t nearly drag Wednesday over the table and Enid's blood isn't dripping on the floorboards.
Toby squares his shoulders. "Yeah, that's not what it looked like from over here."
"Don't be ridiculous, Tobias," Aminder replies. "I would sooner take these girls in as my own than harm the daughter of this wood.”
Enid wonders if she might just throw up all over Aminder's pretty tea set after all.
Notes:
aminder is two monkeys short of a circus, true, but a baddie nonetheless. can't WAIT for enid to learn that wolves are not actually the baddest bitches in the forest.
any forest.
Chapter 88: Fear
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
While Enid tries not to lose her breakfast, both hands pressed to her stomach like she can physically ward off the noxious fear surging in her throat, Wednesday straightens up with intention seared into her very stance. This is where Wednesday excels, Enid knows. She’s always at her most effective when there’s a problem to be solved.
Unfortunately, Enid’s pretty sure setting her fallen chair back to rights won’t fix the minor issue of Aminder unraveling every fucking secret they’d been keeping from her in a single conversation. The three of them had made some tentative noise about telling Aminder the truth, yes, but on their terms—not whatever that was. Not Aminder flaying them open with a few pointed comments, her own son included, while sipping her tea like it was nothing. Just casual, tea-time gossip.
And she thought her mom was a conversational warlord.
Enid volleys between swooping fear and numb disbelief as Wednesday’s hands find her shoulders and she’s planted back into her seat, face-to-face with Aminder. Uh-oh, Enid thinks, still queasy with uncertainty. Since direct eye contact seems like a poor choice under the circumstances, she instead turns in search of Wednesday.
She looks just in time to catch Wednesday folding onto her knees with a grace so unlike most human beings, a strange, inherent balance unique to Addams family members that Enid has always envied. No wonder Wednesday's so good at sports; she probably has yet to meet a physical feat she couldn't successfully execute.
Wednesday doesn’t return her gaze, but Enid counts herself lucky that she’s so thoroughly distracted by the wounds on Enid’s hands. Her face looks pinched and unhappy, something simmering beneath the surface of her icy composure that does not bode well for Enid’s ass and thighs. The damage to her palms honestly looks worse than it feels. Nevertheless, Wednesday’s scent sharpens with displeasure, a sigh escaping between gritted teeth, and Enid’s pulse quickens like a little wood rabbit scenting a fox.
Who the hell is supposed to be the wolf here? Enid miserably asks herself. At least Wednesday doesn't seem bothered by the sight of blood.
Her brother Chase once cracked his head open right in front of her in the process of passing out after witnessing another wolf get his teeth kicked in during a scuffle. By the time Enid managed to haul Chase home, their clothes were ruined. She still cringes at remembering how long their mother had screamed at them for that one.
As Enid’s palms continue to bleed, she considers that Wednesday seems more pissed that she hurt herself than skeeved out by the mess, which is maybe grim but mostly just practical. Runewitches probably have no choice but to make their peace with bodily fluids. It’s just part and parcel of the magic, Enid thinks.
"We need bandages to stop the bleeding," Wednesday mutters, carefully laying both of Enid’s hands in her lap.
Enid shrinks back in her chair when she makes the mistake of catching Wednesday's eyes and recognizes that she is in major, ass-threatening trouble. Bothered by blood, Wednesday may not be, but emotionally traumatized by Enid injuring herself, it seems, is still solidly on the table. Wednesday’s gaze is nothing short of blistering.
Enid winces and stutters out, "Sorry, it—” she gulps, unable to keep eye contact, “Was an accident, Wednesday. M'Sorry.”
Wednesday squeezes her wrist and remains silent. Once Enid has gathered enough courage to meet her eyes, Wednesday, with much gravity, says, "I need you to take care of this, Puppy.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. Wednesday once produced an entire surgical kit to tend to a scraped knee, and now she wants Enid to deal with her own battlewounds? If she's serious, it's a pretty significant departure from the norm.
"This?" Enid hedges, hoping she misunderstood. "Like, the bleeding?"
Wednesday’s eyes tighten at the corners. "No," she replies, still gripping her wrist tightly enough that Enid sways a little in her seat. "This,” Wednesday insists.
It takes Aminder lifting her teacup to hide her smirk for Enid to finally grasp what Wednesday’s getting at. Oh, she thinks, flushing from her forehead to her chest. Leave it to Wednesday to find a way to make asking Enid to take care of herself sound utterly degrading. What was it that Wednesday had said while she spanked her?
Why do you think I fill you up so well, Enid? Wednesday asked her, and weeks later, Enid can still hear Wednesday's answer burning in her ears: Because I take care of my things.
Rationally, Enid knows she shouldn't be slicking up over being equated to a thing that needs taking care of, but whatever. Worse things have happened than being attracted to her own intended in a moderately private setting. Hell, it was only an hour ago that Enid was subjecting an entire Starbucks to her incredible lack of self-control. That was a lot worse than this.
Whether it's written in her DNA as a submissive wolf to find it hot when Wednesday objectifies her or this just so happens to slam home on one of Enid's more suspect kinks, the result is the same. Wednesday shouldn’t be allowed to keep doing this to her in public, Enid grouses.
"Again, Shark?" Toby teases her.
Enid’s glare is summarily ignored, but she could swear that Aminder winks at her over the rim of her teacup, and that draws her up short.
"This body belongs to my beloved," Wednesday continues unhampered, cradling Enid’s wrist like some precious relic. Toby gives a great, honking shout of laughter.
"Okay, I get it," Enid begs. "Totally understood. I won't do it again, promise."
"Much as it pains me to admit it," Wednesday continues, ignoring her, "I cannot heal all wounds through sheer force of will."
"Enid can," Toby gleefully comments. "Well—maybe. Can you?" he asks her directly.
"Heal myself?" Enid repeats in disbelief.
Has everyone lost their mind today? Such a thing should be impossible. Yes, there was the business with the moon bath vision and her miraculously healed ankle, but that’s starting to feel less and less grounded in reality the further she moves from the moment. Maybe, Enid thinks, she just imagined the whole thing.
Maybe they are wrong about her.
Aware that Aminder is hanging on to her every word, Enid tucks her chin to her chest, curling in on herself. She's used to disappointing the adults around her, but there's an extra layer of dread wrapped around the thought of disappointing Aminder.
"Not by choice," Enid admits to her lap. "I don't know what happened before. I wasn't trying to heal my ankle or anything, I just…it felt like falling asleep," she says a bit helplessly.
"That's uncommon," Aminder speaks up.
Enid winces, but Aminder raises a hand before she can fumble out an inept apology.
"That is uncommon," Aminder repeats, eyes bright, "And thus is special. Even a master may never progress to the level of healing ills with windsong, and certainly not at your age."
Enid shrugs, abruptly miserable. "Maybe it wasn't me," she says. Her stomach drops once the words leave her mouth, and it dawns on her that very well could be the truth.
"You would be wrong to think so," Aminder tells her. "But if you're that unsure, we should settle the matter once and for all."
Enid bites the inside of her cheek. The idea of attempting to call upon magic in front of everyone and failing, of having to hear no, sorry, our mistake, you're not one of us, leaves her vaguely light-headed. Just because Wednesday and Toby have convinced themselves—and by proxy, Aminder—that she's suddenly a witch doesn't make it true.
Something is wrong with Enid, clearly, but it doesn't seem likely that it's a secretly exceptional and gifted at a rare form of magic thing. More like a you managed to fool all of us into thinking you're more than you are type of deal. The dread pooling in her stomach is quickly becoming unbearable.
"So—bandages," Toby interjects. "Think we have a first aid kit somewhere. Mom?"
"In my bag," Aminder answers, tilting her chin in the right direction. Her eyes remain fixed on Enid. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to heal it yourself, sister?" she asks, voice coming out unexpectedly gentle.
Whether it be by advantage of their shared woodwitch commonality, a thought that still gives Enid the willies, or by virtue of plain old mom instincts, Aminder has a knack for sensing Enid's burgeoning panic and adjusting her strategy accordingly. It reminds Enid of Wednesday. Some witches just have an extra sense for these things, she privately admits.
Still, even if by some miracle Enid is capable of magic—which is a big if—there's no way she can whip it out on command. Either they think she's a fraud when she inevitably fails, or they confirm she's a fraud when it becomes apparent she's not a real witch. Enid has never, not once, proven gifted at anything. Why should windsong be any different?
"I thought magic wasn't possible in here," Enid weakly protests.
Aminder smiles wide enough to reveal her teeth. "Shall we step outside?" she proposes, already rising out of her chair. “This isn’t my usual hour, but no matter. The forest will delight in our song regardless,” she says with relish.
"No," Wednesday states, and Enid could kiss her, she really could. "We’re still on pack territory. This place is not welcoming to witches."
“This place?” Aminder retorts, professionally-manicured eyebrows raising. “The pack, you mean?”
Wednesday tenses ever so slightly. “Yes. The pack.”
Aminder doesn’t look like the kind of woman who can scoff, but the noise that leaves her throat is decidedly unladylike. “Mere parasites benefiting from a larger, greater body,” she dismisses. “This place is the wood, and Enid, its daughter. There is not a leaf or limpet inaccessible to her.”
Enid doesn't think she imagines the fissure of tension that crackles between them when Aminder finally pins her, dark eyes narrowed with resolve. Her stomach sinks as she realizes there will not be a way out of this one. Enid has seen that same expression on Wednesday enough times to know that Aminder would sooner die than let this go untested.
If his mom is always this intense, it's a wonder Toby didn't grow up to be a puddle of anxiety-flavored soup. Enid would never have survived a childhood at this woman's feet. Forget her husband—what man or wolf could stand up to Aminder Montgomery?
"I, too, wondered if I might have been imagining it earlier," Aminder unexpectedly says to her. Her eyes take on a slightly manic gleam as she murmurs, "For your windsong to be so powerful, even miles away…I knew there was a daughter of the forest on the territory. How lucky am I, I thought, to meet such a talented sister."
Enid mashes her lips together, incapable of response. Undeterred, Aminder’s attention moves to Toby, who startles at the sudden shift.
“....Mom?” he tentatively asks.
Aminder leaves the table, approaching him with respect. "You are a credit to me, my son," she declares.
Toby’s face spasms as Aminder reaches up for him with both hands, her many rings glittering in the light. Enid would laugh at how he has to hunch over to accommodate his mother’s much shorter height if the moment didn’t feel so poignant. Aminder kisses each of his eyelids, resting her forehead against his own in a gesture that Enid has never personally witnessed but inherently knows.
"Thank you for protecting my sister and her intended,” Aminder quietly says.
Enid cannot bear to look at Aminder any longer, so she watches Toby instead. His cheeks have darkened, bandages hanging loosely at his side as his eyes squeeze shut. He manages a nod.
"I didn't—I didn't, uh, know Enid was a woodwitch," Toby admits to his shoes. "I didn't know about either of them, mom. We just got lucky."
Aminder reaches up to push Toby's hair back from his forehead, uncovering his face. Though he towers over her, Toby has never looked so small.
"You were kind, my son," Aminder tells him, and Enid looks away. "I will always be proud of you for that."
For some reason, Enid's eyes begin to burn as she stares down at her hands. Wednesday squeezes her knee, urging Enid to meet her eyes, and Enid can tell that Wednesday understands without her having to say a word.
"Forgive my impudence, but the bandages?" Wednesday ruthlessly interrupts.
Aminder plucks the bandages out of Toby's hand, pivoting on her heel. "I appreciate the need for discretion, but I can assure you both—no other persons on this territory will recognize windsong." Her eyes inevitably find Enid’s. "Shall we?"
Wednesday opens her mouth to protest, but even she isn’t fast enough to counter Enid’s idiocy. Before she can formulate a single argument, Enid blurts out, "I can't control it,” and the room falls silent and still.
Since every eye has turned to her, Enid forces herself to continue, ignoring the panic vibrating in her chest.
“I don't think it's—even if I was—even if we go outside, I can't just…" She grits her teeth on a helpless shrug. Because Enid doesn't know how to say it's not me, I'm nothing in a way that's socially acceptable, she eventually settles on, "I don't know how, Aminder."
Two steps closer to the table. A heartbeat of untenable apprehension. Then Enid nearly jumps out of her seat when Aminder’s rings enter her field of vision, and she realizes that Aminder has extended her hand, palm-up, in silent offering. Wednesday doesn’t speak a single word.
When Enid manages to look up, she finds Aminder’s face is drawn with sorrow.
"No matter, Enid. I do," Aminder replies. "I can show you if you would like."
Enid bites down on her lower lip. "Are you sure?" she asks.
Aminder's answering expression is joyful in the sense that a person can still smile whilst crying. "You believe I would voluntarily forego the chance to share my song with a sister of my own?" she asks. "What do you fear, Enid? That your magic won't behave as you'd like?"
Enid sucks in a breath, then admits in a small voice, "I'm going fuck all of this up."
Wednesday lowers her forehead to Enid's shoulder, breath raising the invisible hairs on Enid's chest and neck. "Puppy," she whispers, and Enid flushes.
Even Toby looks grieved on her behalf, staring at her with wide eyes like he’s never seen her before, but Enid’s inadequacy does not sway Aminder. She stands tall, palm still patiently extended in Enid's direction, and says, "Magic cares not for our desires, but know this—I would like nothing more than to share my song with you."
For a single moment, Enid is struck with the petrichor smell of the woods, is distracted by the feel of Wednesday’s ribs expanding against her bare arm, and wonders if she’s imagining the pitter-patter of rabbit feet on the forest floor some hundred yards away. She may not know magic, but she knows these woods. This place is her home.
Home isn’t supposed to hurt, Enid thinks to herself, and even the thought feels like an admission.
“Come with me, Enid," Aminder urges. "Come and see."
Enid takes her hand.
***
Wednesday was falling asleep to the sound of her mother's magic long before she was old enough to understand what she was hearing. All magic is ambiguous at its core, but even the primary principles of windsong left Wednesday feeling baffled. What sort of magic can't be seen, touched, felt? The forest is real, and the ground is solid, but windsong exists separately from the physical plane. It is Other, and young Wednesday simply could not reconcile that with her understanding of the world.
Frankly, the idea of connecting with a forest by drawing upon her emotions and leaving herself open and vulnerable to hear the woods in turn made her skin crawl. Runes were at least tangible, a concrete give and take of a sacrifice made in payment for a desired effect. Wednesday knew what to expect with runes.
Morticia realized that her daughter would never follow in her footsteps once it became clear that Wednesday had an easier time learning Japanese than grasping the basic tenets of windsong. Wednesday was, to put it lightly, relieved. Other woodwitches might perceive that as a slight, having a witch daughter with no interest in their magic, but not Morticia; she was always an odd duck amongst her kind.
Contrary to popular mythos, Morticia Frump didn’t arrive at Nevermore already a legend in her own right. She showed up to campus with little fanfare, just another student, only interesting because she was an identical twin and her sister chose to pursue a different type of magic. Morticia Frump was an afterthought then, but fourteen years old and full of fire, she quickly rose through the ranks of her fellow classmates. Within a year, the Frump twins had evolved to become Morticia the woodwitch and her sister.
Morticia’s reputation in the magical community soon eclipsed any popularity earned by captaining the fencing team or leading her dorm to victory in the race for the Poe Cup. Whispers of the strange young witch who sang to the moon spread to the farthest corners of the world. By then, Morticia had drawn Gomez’s eye, an attention that hasn't wavered from her for a single second since. He was just as enthralled as the rest of the student body by the rarity of a woodwitch who avoided the sun.
All active woodwitches make a point of regular meditation, but the choice of when is highly personal. Considering the most common hour to practice windsong is when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, it was no wonder Morticia drew international attention with her decision to sing at midnight. The little sisters Morticia eventually began taking on as apprentices have followed a similar trend, all attracted to the later hours of the day and night.
Soledad, Morticia's third-year apprentice, practices her windsong daily in the hour after sunset. She's seldom spotted at family dinners for that reason. Alternatively, Hell Mountain's second-year apprentice, June, prefers to meditate two to three hours before dawn on odd-numbered dates when the moon is waxing.
Wednesday had pondered whether June was upset that Morticia didn't take on a first-year apprentice this cycle, denying June the chance to be a mentor herself, but now she wonders if Morticia knew something they didn't. Coincidences are just the fates eschewing subtlety, Auntie Gloria once told her. What are the odds that Morticia uncharacteristically choosing not to take on a new little sister and Enid revealing herself as a woodwitch of near-mythical proportions in the very same year are unrelated?
Not likely, Wednesday admits to herself. Pugsley would probably take that bet, which tends to be a surefire measure of a wager doomed to fail. Unlike Wednesday, Morticia's visions bring her heralds of good tidings and blessed fortune; even if she didn't see Enid coming, she clearly foresaw something. June may get her wish, after all.
For all that Nevermore claims to produce legions of trained woodwitches, not all graduates are capable of windsong. Some, like Mackenzie, never reach the proficiency level needed to advance their craft beyond general classes that any outcast could take.
Wednesday knows for certain that Bianca had to rely on her academic prowess to make up for the weaknesses in her magical skill. It's rather fortunate that Bianca went blissfully unaware that Enid could have surpassed her and taken first chair on natural talent alone; Wednesday cannot imagine how irritating school would have become if the student body had discovered a true daughter was in their midst.
Not even Morticia Frump could claim that honor, and she was considered the prodigy of an entire generation of witches. Enid would have been eaten alive.
Less than half of Nevermore's graduates are skilled enough to land an apprenticeship under a renowned master. Such was Morticia's conviction to her craft that news of her graduation was met not only with an invitation to join a master woodwitch, but one who had traveled all the way from Japan to meet Morticia for herself. Momoko, on average, accepts only one little sister every seven years. Morticia is one of three who made the cut over the last two decades.
Convincing a witch from a notoriously secretive part of the magical world to take her on was impressive enough, but the location of her apprenticeship wasn't indeed to thank for Morticia’s ascendence to genuine stardom—that would be Momoko's pedigree. Satou Momoko is the sole little sister of one of the few living daughters of the wood, Sayuri of the Aokigahara Forest.
It wasn't a question of whether or not Morticia would accept Momoko's offer to join her in Japan. Gomez packed his bags and moved to Honshu less than a month later, and a mere thirteen days after Morticia's apprenticeship concluded, they were married in a ceremony under the stars. Rumor has it that Sayuri presided over their vows. However, Wednesday has reasonable doubt as to the likelihood that a witch she's never laid eyes on would descend from her mountain just to marry her little sister's student. All those family trips to Japan over the years, and Wednesday still has not caught so much as a glimpse of Sayuri's face. Not once.
Due to Morticia's exceptional reputation, only exceptionally talented students apply to become her apprentices. Soledad's arrival at Hell Mountain marked her first time leaving her home convent in Spain. June, on summer break from Night’s Plutonian Shore Prep, claims she was traveling on a nearby trail when she heard Morticia's windsong and turned to follow it without a second thought. By the time June found her way to the outer gates, Morticia was waiting to greet her. June refused to return to school come fall and successfully negotiated for remote learning, ultimately graduating by mail.
Aminder hadn't been exaggerating when she said the bond between woodwitches is difficult for outsiders to understand. Rather than watching Enid and Aminder, who leave the church hand in hand, Wednesday keeps her eyes on the forest. Under the cloak of night, the trees overhead look like the bones of cathedral walls, arching towards the vault of the sky.
Wednesday feels a sudden stab of anguish over the loss of her runes. She should have paid better attention to the smell of Enid’s forest while she was still capable of catching colors in the wind. To her untrained nose, the woods just smell like those abhorrent autumn-scented candles that Enid insists are nice, but Wednesday believes must have been a con devised by people who have never left the bounds of civilization.
Wednesday could smell wild nutmeg while her scent rune was active, needle-like and sharp in her throat, and the wretched sap specific to Box Elders. Those candle-shilling criminals have no idea that natural woods smell sickening, wet and heavy, sweet with the scent of decomposition. No forest that Wednesday had ever set foot in smelled like artificial cloves and fresh apples. A true forest reeks of death.
“You know, I honestly never thought a wolf could be a woodwitch,” Toby comments to her, trailing a step behind. He offers a weak smile. “It just never occurred to me. Seems pretty stupid, now.”
“Stupid isn’t the word I would use,” Wednesday responds. “Strategic, maybe. Cautious. Rightfully so, if your father was cut from the same cloth as Hugo’s progenitor.”
Toby frowns. “Give me a break. My dad’s got his issues, sure, but he’s not a monster.”
“I supposed he is mated to a woodwitch,” Wednesday dryly says.
Wednesday imagines the branches parting in welcome as Aminder leads Enid through the overgrowth with confident, unhurried steps. Does this forest know its daughter has returned? Wednesday thinks so.
Interestingly, Toby remains near her, similarly choosing to watch from the safety of the back porch. The pseudo-backyard that Aminder is evaluating may have been an informal gathering place many years ago, but it's since become overrun with disuse. How ironic, Wednesday thinks, that the grounds of the one spot on the entire territory absent of magic would be full to bursting with growing things.
Aminder is in her element, choosing a spot where the soil is mostly visible and kneeling without a care for her clothing. Enid goes right down with her, dropping onto her knees, and Wednesday winces at the prospect of the wounds on her palms becoming infected. The bandages Toby unearthed had disappeared from Aminder's hand somewhere between the nave and the outdoors. Wednesday knows better than to think it unintentional.
After all, runes aren't the only magic that deals in sacrifice.
Enid's fears that she’s somehow duped them all are absurd and nigh-unfathomable, but Wednesday imagines that this moment will be often revisited, and she desperately wants Enid to find some sense of stability lest she panics and her magic perceives them as a threat, eviscerating everyone in the wood. Such strength would be inconceivable from any other witch, but Enid isn’t just anyone. Wednesday has always known that.
Even if she had heard naught but a single note, a mere flitter through the treetops rather than the fully-formed melody she’d weathered with a burning chest astride Toby’s back, Wednesday would have known what Enid was. If Aminder's professional opinion is that an offering to the woods will help, no protest will be coming from her quarter. Wednesday knows better than to argue the finer details of a magic not her own with a master. In matters pertaining to Enid’s magic, Aminder's opinion as a fellow woodwitch carries far more weight than her own. Wednesday tries not to let that irk her.
“What do we do now?” Enid asks, both of her hands clasped in Aminder’s.
Aminder exhales on a deep, centering breath. “We hear.”
Enid’s mouth twists on a frown, and Wednesday is immediately transported to a memory of one of the last lessons she’d sat through before the calling of runes consumed her.
Imagine with each breath that you’re drinking from the sky, Morticia had said to her. They’d sat deep within the forest in the same position as Enid and Aminder. Imagine sipping the dark, each star a welcome face you’ve longed to see. When you’re ready, the forest will welcome you, my darling.
Six-year-old Wednesday hadn’t understood. Do you actually hear the forest welcome you? she’d asked.
Morticia had smiled. I like to think so, my darling. Sometimes, I imagine the forest is asking me, ‘how do you do?’ And I answer.
Wednesday had pondered that for a while. What does it sound like, mother?
It sounds like ‘I love you.’
Morticia had sounded so certain, so sure of the world and her place within it. Wednesday was already jaded and withdrawn at that young age, irked by the nagging sensation that she would never belong anywhere the way her mother described, but she’d absorbed every word Morticia said.
Does the forest love you? Wednesday had eventually inquired, dubious as to how a collection of plants could come to love a person the way Morticia claimed.
Morticia’s smile never faltered. I love the forest, my child, she’d whispered. For me, that is enough.
This wood is different from the forests of Hell Mountain. Her home is blanketed by a sea of silver and red Maples, sweet with the smell of flowering Black Tartarians, a forest still flexible with the mettle of youth. This place smells older. Wednesday’s almost certain she spotted Black Walnuts on the way into the village, and she’d marveled at a glimpse into a copse of gnarled Cottonwoods, white trunks fissured and cracked with age. She loves the smell of her home and a small part of her will always yearn for the familiarity of her mother’s many acres of personal gardens, but there is something to be said for Enid’s forest. All that is strange grows here, Wednesday thinks.
She only snaps back to the present when Enid gasps and demands, “What is that?”
Wednesday lifts her chin, catching the faint trill of windsong on the breeze. Aminder’s song is a yawning, mournful thing, a dirge more so than a lullaby. It’s a skittering of dry leaves that curl at the edges, a rattling polyphony of mountain air too thin to breathe. It is nothing at all like Enid’s.
“What is that?” Enid asks again. “Aminder, what is it?”
Aminder’s lips turn up at the corners. Her mouth moves then, lips forming the words but making no sound, and though Wednesday knows to expect it, she’s still caught unawares when the wind shifts and delivers a whispered answer of, “My song.”
Enid whimpers, trembling through a single, full-bodied shudder.
“Join me,” Aminder urges, voice echoing in the trees.
Enid is already shaking her head. "I don't feel it," she admits, voice breaking. “I can hear it, I can hear the voices in the wind, but it’s not me.”
For a split second, Aminder looks as startled as Wednesday feels, but she’s experienced enough to school her expression before Enid sees it. Her face slides back into the smooth mask of meditation.
Voices? Wednesday thinks, her heart pounding. Enid’s use of voices plural must have been a slip of the tongue because only Aminder’s voice can carry on this breeze. Her windsong is profound and echoing, just on this side of unsettling, but it does not speak a language they can understand.
“What do you hear, sister?” Aminder presses. “Tell me.”
Enid tips her head back, eyes squeezing shut. “I hear bells,” she answers, and though she whispers, Wednesday catches every word. “Silver ones, outside of a church. Like—ice cracking on a lake. It smells like where Toby was born.”
Aminder’s face goes rigid with shock. She breaks her meditation then, eyes seeking out Wednesday’s through the dark, and no amount of warning that Wednesday could feasibly infuse into her expression would have been enough to stop Aminder from slamming her hands, still wrapped around Enid’s, onto the soil.
Human blood is one of the only known universal magical conduits. A blood sacrifice will bolster the strength of any magic to a nearly incomprehensible degree; its use in rune magic is typically reserved for rituals like the declaration of intentions, marriage vows, and seeding for that very reason. No witch in their right mind would take a blood sacrifice lightly.
Enid’s mouth falls open, and Wednesday’s ears pop as the weight of a gravity she hadn’t even known existed disappears from her shoulders. Her head throbs as she looks around, as she glimpses the same hunted expression on Toby’s face, as the forest rings with shadows and pressure swells in her throat. A sacrifice was how they warded this church, Wednesday realizes. The wards were drawn in blood.
When Enid’s eyelids finally wrench apart, Wednesday notes that her pupils have swallowed up the rest of her eyes. It’s beautiful in the same way that a storm at sea is ataractic to watch as long as you aren’t looking up from the bow of a ship.
Even if Wednesday wasn’t overcome by the sight, she doesn’t have time to brace herself before the wind comes for her.
It’s a slip between seconds, a lapse known only to the glinting eyes in the trees how Wednesday goes from standing upright to crashing onto her knees, head bowed under the pressure on the back of her neck. Her bones ring with the impact of being forced to kneel. The wind slides through her braids, reads the knots Wednesday braided for Enid as recently as this morning and curls around her jaw to press insistently at her mouth. There’s a sound on the breeze that Wednesday has never heard before, but it isn’t a voice.
These aren’t words, Wednesday thinks, willingly parting her lips.
Notes:
DOUBLE UPDATE INCOMING i had to split this chapter in half due to length so coming to you tomorrow - part two
my beta: do you realize that this entire story is basically a smutty retelling of the lorax?
me: haha what? oh my god wait. what the Fuck
UPDATE 9/11: IM SO SORRY GUYS I HAD A SURPRISE MEDICAL PROCEDURE LMAO part two is going up tomorrow!!!
Chapter 89: Home
Chapter Text
As Wednesday opens her mouth, something wet and viscous spills out over her chin, soaking the collar of her shirt.
Toby makes a wounded noise like an animal. His head, still ducked in deference to the wind, whips towards her with nostrils flaring. Whatever he sees must be gruesome because his pupils dilate with terror and Wednesday has to fight to maintain her balance as his nails sink through the floorboards, moldered wood splintering beneath them. It’s a miracle they both didn’t fall straight through the floorboards when the wind forced them to their knees.
The moment the air makes contact with her tongue, a sting unrelated to the lashing of the wind on her face eases like she just swallowed a mouthful of ice. Wednesday's cheeks burn as the wind brushes her navel, slides between her legs, and shivers up her chest to her throat. She hadn’t realized her tongue was throbbing until the pain disappeared.
Wednesday wonders if the wind tastes metallic or if she’s imagining the smell of blood, of weeping Firs, of sugary sweet sap bleeding from the trees. For one wild moment, she even hallucinates the warmth of Enid’s palms on her cheeks.
Then the wind withdraws, and Wednesday finds herself wracked with an emptiness not unlike what she’d experienced walking into the church. She hunches over her knees, struggling to see through the rotting wooden spindles blocking her line of sight into the clearing. No part of her body hurts, but Wednesday’s muscles feel like over-chewed gum. The warmth that had spread like euphoria dissolved with the wind.
“Hey,” Toby’s voice finally penetrates the ringing in her ears, “Wednesday.”
His fingers nudge against her chin, and Wednesday jerks away with him with enough force that she destroys one of the spindles with her shoulder. It lands with a soft plop in the grass.
“Don’t touch me,” she insists.
Toby’s face is pale. “You’re bleeding,” he replies, gesturing at his own chin. "Sorry."
Wednesday is nonplussed to discover her fingers come back bloody when she feels for an injury. Nothing is broken, no skin is split—but her chin is soaked with blood.
“What happened?” she demands. “Is this my blood?"
Toby grimaces. "Ugh. Smells like it," he replies.
She frowns. "Why am I bleeding?”
In lieu of an answer, Toby’s eyes flick in Enid’s direction.
Wednesday freezes for less than a second before clambering to her feet and leaping over the rail, ignoring how her legs threaten to collapse when she lands hard on the ground. Wednesday reaches Enid just in time to witness the black of her eyes receding, to watch Enid return to herself and the terrible thing that she was slink back under the surface.
“Puppy,” Wednesday exhales, dropping to her knees beside her. “Enid. Are you alright?”
Enid looks at her, shrieks, and then her fingers are shoving their way inside Wednesday’s mouth without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Your tongue, your mouth, oh, God, Wednesday—”
Wednesday draws away from her, nose wrinkling at the dirt Enid inadvertently spirited into her mouth. “What are you doing?”
“You’re—covered in blood—” Enid splutters. “You bit through your tongue.”
Wednesday briefly runs her tongue along the inside of her teeth. “No, I did not.”
“Yes, you did,” Enid argues. She looks slightly confused, but ultimately doubles down and insists, “Yes, you did.”
“I did not. I’m unharmed,” Wednesday reports.
Enid eyes her with an expression like she suspects Wednesday is lying, so Wednesday opens her mouth as wide as she can to allow Enid to inspect her for herself.
Enid wobbles where she still kneels, breath coming fast and weak, and Wednesday has to steady her so she doesn’t slump into the dirt.
“Oh,” Enid gives a little groan. “Aminder. Is she alive? Did I kill her? Tell me I didn't just kill Toby's mom."
Wednesday glances over her shoulder in search of Aminder, troubled that she doesn’t instantly spot a person who had been kneeling a foot away a mere few minutes ago. Aminder could be dead, Wednesday admits to herself, but she hopes not; what a waste of magical talent. It takes almost half a minute for Wednesday to determine that Aminder is not dead but has somehow ended up lying flat on her back in the brush, hair hopelessly tangled.
“Mom,” Toby grits out, stumbling toward her on unsteady legs. “Mom.”
He drops to his knees and tries to heave her into a sitting position, but Aminder reaches up with surprising speed and bats his hand away.
“You will wait until I’m ready,” she snaps, and Toby sits on his ass, clutching his hands in his lap like a chastised little kid.
Enid, meanwhile, has both hands pressed over her mouth like she might vomit or cry or a combination of both. It’s more endearing than it has any right to be. When Wednesday reaches out to squeeze the back of Enid’s neck, hoping to reassure her, and Enid drops her head onto Wednesday’s chest, her heart feels like it’s swelled to twice its usual size.
Enid looked like a monster, Wednesday thinks to herself, hoping she doesn't look as exhilarated as she feels. Enid makes a noise of distress into her neck.
Wednesday idly pats her back, but her attention strays towards Aminder. The woman looks as though she’s having something of a spiritual experience from her spot on the ground, peering upwards like the secrets of magic are woven in the fabric of the sky.
Toby hasn’t moved from his guard post beside her. He keeps flexing his left wrist, shooting little frowns down at his arm with the same expression Enid gets while poking a bruise. Wednesday can’t imagine he’s feeling any pain, not after Enid’s windsong pistol-whipped the both of them with a shot of healing magic that apparently had the wherewithal to suture up Wednesday’s bitten tongue.
Eventually, Aminder pushes herself into a sitting position, heedless of the twigs and various other forest paraphernalia littering her hair and clothing. Her eyes are bright, almost luminous in the dark.
“It appears I am unequipped to help you after all,” Aminder announces. “Being able to shatter ancient wards on a whim is above my pay grade. But Enid—there will be a sister to guide you,” she contends.
Enid just shakes her head, face still hidden in Wednesday’s shirt.
Aminder ignores Toby’s offered hand and climbs to her feet of her own volition. “Come,” she urges, holding out a muddied palm. “On your feet, sister. Someone is coming for you.”
Wednesday tenses, hand lowering to find her knife holster, and a snarl involuntarily rips out of Toby’s throat as he springs to his feet.
“Enid,” he barks, and Enid jumps up fast enough that Wednesday’s dragged onto her feet beside her.
Aminder raises an eyebrow. “A visitor,” she clarifies. “Someone sent to bring Enid to her parents.”
Enid and Toby twitch in the same direction, nostrils flaring, and simultaneously announce: “Devon.”
“Your brother?” Wednesday asks under her breath, painfully aware that she is outclassed in terms of senses by everybody here. It rankles her to be at such a disadvantage. “The one you disapprove of?” she directs at Toby, who gives a short, jerky nod.
Of all the brothers to send in search of Enid, Wednesday thinks with no small amount of derision. It seems Esther Sinclair’s cruelty knows no bounds.
“He’s an idiot,” Enid whispers, as unsteady on her feet as a newborn fawn. Wednesday notes that the wounds on her palms have disappeared entirely. “He’s—he’ll tell my mom if he sees anything weird.”
“What will he see?” Aminder quips, like they don’t all look like they just went a round with the forest and lost.
Toby drops his face into his hands. “Christ, mom,” he mutters.
Enid bites her lip, still clutching Wednesday’s hand like a lifeline. She looks terrified, Wednesday thinks, anger alighting in her stomach. Her nails tap an errant beat on the sheath strapped to her thigh.
Wednesday is the first to admit that she was not an affectionate older sister, not by any stretch of the imagination, but this kind of reaction would never occur with Pugsley. He would never hark her arrival with this degree of dread.
Toby straightens up then, shifting to step in front of Wednesday as he faces the treeline. “Sinclair,” he calls out, and then there’s a boy at the treeline.
Wednesday’s first thought is that she expected more from someone who could inspire that kind of response from Enid. Besides being slightly more tanned, Devon Sinclair is indistinguishable from any other douchebag wolf at Nevermore. He also happens not to be wearing a shirt, despite lacking a valid excuse to be walking around bare-chested. That alone would have soured Wednesday’s opinion of him.
Devon gives an unenthusiastic nod. “Montgomery,” he replies. “My parents sent me for my sister.”
Wednesday struggles not to scowl. This boy presumably hasn’t seen his only sister in months, and he won’t even greet her? It’s inexcusable.
“Devon,” Wednesday interjects, moving out from behind Toby. Enid clutches at her hand, attempting to keep her from advancing on him, but Wednesday’s limbs have been infused with the ardor of righteous indignation on her intended’s behalf, and Enid is simply no match for her tenacity.
Devon adopts a bored expression as she enters his field of vision. “Yeah?” he reluctantly says.
Once she’s within striking range, Wednesday comes to a halt, leaning forward on her toes. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met,” she states.
Devon rolls his eyes in a valiant effort to cover how he stiffens at her proximity. “I know who you are. Don’t try that handshake shit with me, Addams,” he warns. “Not happening.”
Though she hears Toby bristle behind her, Wednesday doesn’t outwardly react. “Apologies if I gave the impression of wanting to ally myself with you,” she replies. “Rest assured, that will never transpire.”
Devon’s mouth twitches in the exact same way that Enid’s does whenever something genuinely irritates her. Wednesday works to keep her expression blank.
“Whatever,” Devon mutters, pivoting on his heel. “C’mon, Enid. We’re leaving.”
Enid doesn’t take a single step, forcing Devon to come to an awkward stop once he realizes no one is following him. He does scowl then, mouth splitting around his teeth.
“Come on,” Devon snaps. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
If Wednesday was at all inclined toward emotional outbursts, she would have whooped aloud when Enid pointedly turned her back on Devon in favor of speaking to Aminder. Wednesday doesn’t hear what is said, not from this distance without any runes to aid her, but she can infer from Enid’s expression alone that Aminder was offering some kind of reassurance.
Even Toby looks surprised when Aminder briefly leans down and touches her forehead to Enid’s, lips moving quickly as she whispers to her. Enid gives a small nod in response, and then she’s hurrying to Wednesday, hand automatically finding hers in the dark. Wednesday appreciates that Enid chooses to latch onto her other arm, leaving her dominant hand free in the event she feels compelled to draw her knife.
“Will we see you later, Toby?” Enid asks, voice wavering.
Wednesday frowns at her, displeased; she hadn’t considered the possibility that Toby would be separated from them for any real stretch of time.
Toby looks about as enthused as she feels, his shoulders hiking up as he fights for a casual expression. “Yeah, I’ll be there tonight.” Then, to no one in particular, “Wednesday sits with me.”
Devon scoffs out loud, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’ll sit wherever my parents put her,” he retorts, and for the first time, Wednesday glimpses the cruelty lurking beneath his unaffected appearance. The more infuriated Toby becomes, the more Devon appears to enjoy himself. “It's tradition,” he adds with the kind of smile intended to aggravate on sight.
Toby snarls under his breath, stymied only by the hand Aminder places on his shoulder in warning.
“We will see you tonight,” Aminder declares, and not even Devon seems inclined to tangle with a woodwitch because he turns without a word and begins walking.
“What happens tonight?” Wednesday whispers to Enid.
“The feast,” Devon answers her at normal volume, allowing the tree branch he’d shoved aside to spring back into place less than a foot from Wednesday’s chin. She narrows her eyes at his back. “Day after tomorrow’s the full moon.”
Enid seems to steel herself, then tentatively asks, “Are you, um, still planning to take your trials?”
Devon shoots a nasty look over his shoulder. “Yes, Enid. I’m still taking my trials,” he snaps.
She ducks her head in apology. Devon smirks at the resulting look on Wednesday’s face.
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes, and Enid flinches.
“Hurry up. Mom’s been waiting,” Devon presses, and Wednesday can tell from his tone that he knows exactly how that threat will land on Enid.
Wednesday has to reach out and rescue Enid’s lower lip from her teeth. Disturbed by the look on Enid’s face, she risks pressing down hard on Enid's lip until Enid looks up and meets her eyes.
Wednesday can’t quite picture what her expression must look like, but Enid begins to look much less sorry for herself and a lot more concerned for her brother’s safety, so it’s likely concerning. To be fair, Wednesday is actively fighting the urge to remove Devon’s head from his shoulders. How dare they make Enid feel small, Wednesday keeps thinking. How dare they, how dare they, how dare they.
Like all other occupied buildings, the Sinclair home isn’t far from the village square. Within minutes, they step onto a lantern-lit path flooded with eerie orange light, and Wednesday begins to spot houses beyond the treeline. Other wolves, she thinks with some disgust, all of whom eagerly watched Enid suffer. All of whom played audience to her mistreatment for years.
They follow a street lined with boxy houses boasting identical floor plans and over-pruned gardens that would have Morticia Addams wrinkling her nose in aversion, and Wednesday genuinely doesn’t know what to expect from the Sinclair family home. A dungeon, maybe, the sort of lightless chamber that would undoubtedly send Enid into a fit, or one of those ultra-modern houses with fishbowl windows and plastic people wandering around aimlessly inside. She cannot fathom what hellish place would make her beloved react this way, dragging her feet and hunching her shoulders, and then Enid stops dead in the middle of the street, and there it is.
Ahead of them lies a plain white house. The last little house on the left.
“Here?” Wednesday asks, watching Devon bound up the steps and disappear inside.
Enid barely manages a nod.
***
Enid's conflict resolution style would best be described as run, hide, and avoid at all costs. She'd learned early on that there was no point in fighting back—why bother when that only encouraged her mother to pick at her more, to continue digging into existing wounds until Enid bled away into nothing? It was an exercise in futility to try to change her mom’s opinion once her mind was set.
Enid had learned her place in the pack long ago, and her opinion wasn't wanted nor needed. Her job is to sit down, shut up, and agree with whatever her mother decides.
Sometimes, in particularly awful moments, Enid wonders if a day will ever come when she doesn’t feel sick looking at her childhood home.
***
Wednesday's first impression of the Sinclair family home is gauche and tasteless, which even she can admit is ironic considering her own house boasts twelve-foot-tall doors and no less than fifty-four flying buttresses on the exterior alone. This is the sort of monotonous, humdrum place that Morticia would describe as quaint and Wednesday would sneer at on the street.
Maybe a housewife from the fifties could appreciate the immaculate flowerbeds and unimaginative paint selection, but Wednesday would have expected a little more life from a house that allegedly withstood the rearing of five werewolf children. It seems cruel to paint a house full of family this untouched shade of eggshell white.
Then again, if this is the source of Enid’s nightmares, the nexus between painful past and present, Wednesday was always destined to abhor it.
“Puppy,” she murmurs, wary of startling Enid, who blinks like she just awoke from a deep sleep.
"Are you ready for my mother?" Enid asks, looking distinctly pale. Her hand trembles in Wednesday’s grip.
Wednesday would rather eat shattered glass than greet Esther Sinclair with any semblance of respect, but for Enid, she will do whatever's necessary—including playing nice with such a wretched woman.
“Yes,” Wednesday promises. “Are you?”
Enid’s face softens in a weak smile. “Yeah,” she quietly says. “Let’s—let’s just get this over with.”
Wednesday refuses to stray farther than a hand’s width from Enid’s side as they climb onto a porch devoid of any chairs. The wood creaks under their combined weight as they near the door, left ajar by Devon’s inconsiderate treatment, and the ambient noise inside the house dissipates all at once. The moment before every jumpscare is the same, Wednesday muses to herself. She is the one who takes the initiative to guide them inside.
Enid’s face is nearly colorless as they enter a warm, floral-patterned living room that reeks of scented candles. Wednesday struggles not to grimace, aware that at least five pairs of eyes are trained on her face.
One of the brothers is missing, Wednesday notes. Chase, if she's not mistaken. Alex and Brody are sitting on the couch, a sallow-faced girl with pale hair tucked between them, and Devon has sprawled across the only armchair like a king at court. The quiet man she knows to be Enid’s father is perched on the loveseat alone. Wednesday’s neck prickles, a warning that she's being watched, and she shifts toward the dining room and finally, finally locks eyes with Esther Sinclair.
The woman is imposing as ever, this time parked at the head of the table to peer over her children like the eye of fucking Sauron, cheap French manicure posed around a knitting project that clearly hasn’t been worked on in weeks. Wednesday plants her feet, the latter half of her brain idly wondering where the next attack will emanate from while the majority worries that Enid has been holding her breath since they spotted her mother. Wednesday’s not convinced she’ll be able to keep a grip on her self-control if she has to watch Enid pass out yet again.
The elder Sinclair brothers exchange looks in the living room, the girl between them sitting up in interest, and Devon muffles a snort. Enid’s father’s gaze does not stray from the floor, not even to glance at his only daughter.
“Wednesday,” Esther says, thankfully abandoning the knitting needles as she rises from the table. Wednesday, in turn, eases her hand off her knife, bracing herself for the inevitable.
Esther’s lips split into a wide, beaming smile. “Welcome, dear. Welcome to our home! Would you like something to drink? Eat? You girls must be hungry with all that traveling. We have the feast, but no matter. What can I get you?” she asks, rounding the table with surprising speed.
Beside her, Enid twitches like she wants to turn and bolt, then splutters, “What?”
Esther shoots a private little smile at Wednesday like they’re two halves of an inside joke, eyes gleaming with excitement once she locks onto their clasped hands. Even her scent warms and thickens with anticipation. “Oh, sweetie,” she laughs. “Oh, Enid. I’m so glad you’re both here.”
Wednesday hopes she doesn’t look as bewildered as Enid.
Notes:
:)
SPOILERS:
The forest is a separate magical entity with some degree of autonomy. When Enid inadvertently offered a blood sacrifice to the forest, the forest's magic and her magic went wild, culminating in the forest deciding all who bore witness to its daughter's homecoming should kneel to her. Wednesday unknowingly bit through her tongue as she was forced to her knees. Enid's magic could sense the injury and healed Wednesday—though her windsong, unfortunately, did nothing for the blood all over Wednesday's chin and clothes. Toby also had an old injury in his wrist healed by proxy of being in the area while Enid's windsong popped off.
UPDATE 9/15: tentative plan is to post chapter 90 sunday***!
Chapter 90: Blood
Notes:
kink warnings: very ambiguous references to bloodplay
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
One cold autumn morning in the sixth grade, Enid trekked into the forest before school and slipped off a hidden ridge, knocking herself unconscious. When she woke up, her hair was matted with blood, her head felt full of cotton, and she’d hallucinated that a pack of birds had settled into the trees overhead to spectate while she was laid out on the forest floor. Opening her eyes to the sight of a half dozen woodland animals left Enid feeling like she’d swanned off a cliff instead of stumbling down from a three-foot drop.
This moment, watching her mother stare down Wednesday with a wide, beaming smile that sets Enid's hair on end, feels a little bit like that tumble.
Enid would like nothing more than to be sharp and present in these circumstances, ready to defend her intended at a moment's notice, but she’s starting to feel the telltale signs of light-headedness that always precede a fainting spell and Wednesday's beginning to eye her with concern.
“Enid?” Wednesday asks, ignoring Esther entirely. “What’s wrong?"
Even covered in dried blood, Wednesday still looks regal and imposing, lips flat as she repeats, "What's wrong? Tell me." The words are an order, but her tone makes it a request.
“Nothing,” Enid automatically answers, then blanches.
Wednesday's face morphs from concern to disbelief. “Try again,” she says in an even voice.
Enid’s gaze involuntarily flicks to her mother.
Wednesday straightens up, squares her shoulders, then announces, “I would like to freshen up. Enid, would you please show me to the closest powder room?”
Alyssa's gaze bounces between Alex and Esther like a tennis match, eager to watch the impending fireworks, though she does spare a second to narrow her eyes at Enid. By the looks of it, she still hasn't gotten over the black eye Enid gave her in eighth grade after Alyssa called her a waste of oxygen for failing to wolf out with the rest of the class.
“Well, now. Alyssa can show you, dear,” Esther injects, lips still split in a smile. “Enid. Come help me in the kitchen.”
Alyssa waits for Alex's nod of approval like a good little submitting wolf before climbing to her feet and taking an awkward step toward Wednesday. She may have been a vicious bitch in middle school, but Alyssa was still raised California Traditional, just like the rest of them; she knows what the deal is. Alyssa has always known what would be expected of her once she began a courtship with another, stronger dominant wolf.
Without so much as a glance in Alyssa's direction, Wednesday says, “That is entirely unnecessary. Enid will show me herself."
Enid stares back at her with wide eyes.
Since the vast majority of wolves present as dominant, most partners share the same designation. Two dominants can't function in a fruitful relationship without compromise, so one partner must submit to the other once a courtship is agreed upon. Wolves raised California Trad are taught about the submission courting custom from birth. If the courting gift is accepted, the weaker of the two wolves begins a campaign of public submission that usually lasts until the final step.
As Alex's intended, Alyssa has to bite her tongue and take it, deferring to his every wish while attempting to sell herself as a suitable match to the Sinclairs and the entire pack besides. The only positive of this stupid trip is getting to watch Alyssa struggle through her attempt to woo Alex into giving her a mating bite.
None of this comes naturally to a dominant wolf. The submission courting period is quite a lifestyle adjustment for most.
Enid has yet to see Alyssa kneel for Alex or take food from his hand, but she certainly will at the feast. All courting wolves will be expected to be on their best behavior, especially in the presence of guests. What will Aminder think, watching hundreds of wolves behave similarly? From what Enid has gathered, Toby's pack is closer to California Reform than California Trad; the kneeling might look like overkill. What will Wednesday think of all this?
On that note, maybe Enid should have warned Wednesday beforehand of what to expect. That dizzying feeling comes back in full force at the thought of trying to explain any of this to an outsider.
Miraculously, Wednesday took a shot in the dark and hit a bullseye with her complete disregard for Esther's wishes. It's common for dominants to test the limits of their intended's obedience during this stage by defying the word of former guardians. After all, a good submitting wolf will follow her dominant's orders above all others—even those issued by her parents.
As one of the few natural-born submissive wolves, Enid doesn't need a practice period to teach herself how to kneel for her intended, but she knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. It is a godsend of epic proportions that the rules of courtship submission still apply to her and Wednesday.
"This way," Enid answers, voice coming out breathless. "Upstairs. You can use my bathroom, if that’s okay?" she asks, aiming her question at Wednesday instead of her mother.
Wednesday nods her approval, scent heady with warmth. "Good. Take me."
Enid all but runs to the stairs, Wednesday only a step behind. Her hand is hot and solid in Enid’s.
“Enid,” Esther barks out. “The feast.”
Enid refuses to make eye contact with her mother. It isn’t much of a rebellion, but it’s enough to have Esther's scent souring with displeasure and Wednesday's eyes glinting with amusement.
"Up here," Enid says, taking the stairs together two at a time. She can smell Alyssa's annoyance rolling off her in waves, but the thought is almost immediately driven from her head, dislodged by more pressing matters.
That was the most shocking exchange that Enid has ever been party to in her life, which is really saying something considering she's being courted by Wednesday Addams.
"How did you know?" Enid hisses once they hit the hallway outside her bedroom. "What books have you been reading, Wednesday?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Wednesday replies. "Is that a rhetorical question? You've seen my bookshelf."
Enid shoots her an incredulous look. "Shut up, you know what I meant. Is this—are you having visions? Or just getting preternaturally lucky?" She narrows her eyes. "Wait, you didn't draw another rune, right?"
"'Shut up'?" Wednesday repeats, eyebrows raising. "How are your thighs, Enid?"
Enid immediately flushes from head to toe, coming to a halt outside her door. Her hand becomes sweaty in Wednesday's.
"Still bruised," she admits. Her teeth dig into her lower lip. "Why?"
Leave it to Wednesday to look as though she’s having a blast while fielding at least one assassination attempt. "Excellent. Shall we have a look?" Wednesday proposes.
Enid nearly trips and brains herself on the door handle. "What?" she bleats. “Seriously, you—you want to see my thighs?"
Wednesday's expression doesn't change. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"
In lieu of answering, Enid fumbles with the knob, trying and failing to turn it at least twice before Wednesday's slim fingers wrap around hers and the door to Enid's bedroom clicks open.
It’s exactly as Enid remembers: pale purple curtains and white walls that glow yellow in the unflattering overhead lights. Nothing special. That could explain why Enid nearly jumps out of her skin when Wednesday makes a punched out noise and drops her hand, eyes shining like she's just stepped into a Basilica. She looks like she's just witnessed a holy event.
"Enid," Wednesday breathes. "Your nest."
Enid bites her lip hard enough to hurt. "Yeah," she mumbles, unsure of what to say.
It looks—maybe not as impressive as Wednesday was probably expecting. Enid hasn't spent a heat here since she was about sixteen years old, so there's a distinct lack of comfort items, but the nesting structure is admittedly much larger than her setup at Nevermore. She supposes that's something.
Wednesday pauses before the bed, fingers twitching at her sides.
"Where are your stuffed animals?" Wednesday asks without preamble.
Enid gulps. "Um, in storage? Or being sent to—wait, where did we send all our stuff again?"
Wednesday snorts under her breath. "Hell Mountain. I can arrange to transport any of these materials as well, if need be, but know that I would—I would be happy to purchase additional nesting materials for you," she says, voice quiet.
Enid's throat feels tight. "I don't—I don't need any more stuff, Wednesday. Promise."
Wednesday finally turns her back on the nest, eyes intent on Enid's face as she approaches. Without a word, she leans against Enid's front, lips curling up at the corners as Enid sucks in a sharp breath and instinctively bares her throat. It takes the snick of the door latching shut under Wednesday's hand for Enid to grasp that Wednesday didn't actually intend to crowd her.
"Mean," Enid whimpers, letting her head thunk against the wall behind her. "Mean, Wednesday."
Wednesday's palm slips between Enid's head and the door, cradling her hair. "Will you not build a nest this size in Hell Mountain?" she asks, and her voice comes out strange. Enid’s not sure what could have her scent fluttering with this level of uncertainty.
It would be too far-fetched to identify this as nervousness, considering it’s Wednesday Addams they're talking about, but all traces of the immovable Wednesday from downstairs seem to have vanished in the face of Enid's nest.
"I understand it will take time for Hell Mountain to feel like home to you, but I hope you'll feel comfortable enough to nest to your heart's content. Your nest is your safe place," Wednesday says, lips twitching as her words come faster. "I want you to have that in my house. I want you to feel welcome there. Do you understand?"
Enid feels herself relaxing the longer Wednesday speaks, bones going warm and loose as she sags against the door. "Okay, Wednesday. I'll build us a nest at Hell Mountain," she promises. “Good?”
Wednesday's face spasms with relief. "Thank you, Enid," she quietly says. Her other hand comes up to settle on the back of Enid's neck. "Will you show me your thighs, Puppy? I want to check your bruises.”
Enid tries not to smirk. "You can already see my thighs," she flippantly replies.
Wednesday's hand briefly tightens around her nape, just enough pressure to have Enid's lips parting, and she hums, "I thought you wanted to be good for me."
Enid swallows. "I'll be good, Wednesday,” she agrees, on the verge of panting.
At this rate, Wednesday will have to peel her shorts off of her. A new change of clothes is definitely in order.
"I know you will, good girl," Wednesday murmurs. Her hand slips around to Enid's face, patting her cheek. "On the bed."
Enid stumbles over to the bed on shaky legs, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of her nest. Her family knows better than to mess with her things while she's at school, so the bed hasn't been scented in months.
Wednesday follows behind, hand solid on the middle of Enid's back, and it's only natural for Enid to allow herself to be bent over the edge. Wednesday's hands slip beneath her waistband and underwear, ignoring her wiggle of confusion as her bare ass meets the chilly air of the bedroom.
"Underwear, too?" Enid questions, head popping up.
Wednesday strokes her tailbone before gently easing her back down onto her elbows. "I need to check your bruises," she innocently replies, and somehow, it isn't innocent at all.
Enid feels no qualms about spreading her thighs under the guise of shifting her weight, exposing herself as Wednesday kneels behind her.
Without warning, fingers are brushing over her pussy, slipping and sliding through the mess, and Enid has to muffle a groan.
"Is that what you wanted?" Wednesday rasps. Her hand lands on Enid's ass just hard enough to ring around the room, heat rushing to the point of impact as Wednesday grips her cheek. "What about the feast, Puppy? You want to show up smelling like this?"
Enid drops her head onto her arms, fighting to keep her hips still. When she reaches back to push her shorts down further over her knees, she finds her wrist caught in Wednesday's grip.
"No, you don't," Wednesday states. "Hands on the bed."
Enid all but slaps her palms onto the bedspread, stomach brushing the blankets as her knees weaken. She wants to present so badly, her back is aching, jaw clenching against the whine threatening in the back of her throat.
"Your bruises look exceptional," Wednesday comments, fingers prodding her ass and thighs. "They're coloring nicely. I suspect you'll be marked up for weeks, pretty girl."
Even while inspecting Enid's ass, Wednesday’s manners are impeccable. Enid rambles as much aloud.
“Manners hold madness at bay,” Wednesday tells her, hand ghosting down her spine and eliciting a shiver. She pats the top of Enid's ass as she draws back, ignoring Enid's whine of protest. “I can behave myself when necessary."
"Not sure I can say the same," Enid groans into the blankets. "That shit downstairs was a living nightmare."
Wednesday snorts, hands slipping under Enid's elbows to help her back to her feet. "Believe me, I am more than equipped to handle a shrike like your mother," she replies.
“Yeah, she’s a complete witch,” Enid mumbles, reluctantly straightening and pulling her shorts back up.
On second thought, she should find a clean pair. Enid kicks off her shorts and ruined underwear and meanders over to the dresser. The pickings are pretty slim, but there is a black skirt from before her pastel phase that probably still fits her. The only underwear she has in here that wasn't purchased in middle school is a pair of white cotton panties with bows on the hips, so Enid reluctantly slides those on, too. She knows better than to attend a social gathering with Wednesday present without at least one protective measure against slicking herself up in public.
Wednesday is giving her a strange look when she turns back around.
“Is that meant to be an insult?” Wednesday asks, and Enid has to replay her words twice before she recalls what she’d said.
“Oh—shit," Enid warbles, mouth falling open. "Sorry, Wednesday. I didn’t…I’ve never thought about how that, um, sounds. I didn't mean you."
Wednesday’s lips pull up in a smirk. “I suppose being referred to as a witch is an insult around here," she muses.
"But not you!" Enid insists, tripping over her words. "You're not that kind of witch."
Wednesday hums again, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, "We'll work on that."
Enid tugs on the bottom of her skirt, abruptly wishing she had pants like Wednesday. "I'm sorry,” she repeats.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her. "Don't apologize. Though I actually do need the restroom,” she adds.
Enid quickly nods. "Um, through here."
She leads Wednesday into the small ensuite, lingering in the doorway when Wednesday makes no move to shut the door behind herself. Wednesday ignores the toilet, stepping in front of the mirror and appraising herself with a critical eye.
Her chin and neck are still covered in dried blood. Even her pretty grey shirt is stained, Enid mourns.
"Do you have a washcloth I could borrow, Puppy?"
"Leave the blood," Enid blurts. At Wednesday's surprised look, she adds, "It'll impress the other wolves."
Wednesday abandons the mirror, facing Enid directly. "Well, this is a first,” she replies. “I can't recall the last time I attended an event where 'bloodied' was included in the dress code."
"You think you're the only one walking around covered in blood?" Enid gives a short, bitter laugh. "Please. The hunt is in less than forty-eight hours. I'm sure all of Devon's friends are walking around wearing bruises like badges of honor."
Wednesday makes a thoughtful noise. "I suppose your mother didn't seem overly concerned by my appearance," she considers.
Enid scoffs, "You'd have to show up missing a limb to start a panic. And even then…" She trails off, unwilling to speak aloud the reality that her mother would probably see Wednesday suffering a life-threatening wound as cause for celebration.
"Puppy," Wednesday murmurs, brow furrowing.
Enid releases an unsteady breath. "I'm sorry," she mutters. "I wish I could say she's normally not this bad, but…"
Enid gives the sort of helpless shrug that has Wednesday's eyes narrowing in disapproval.
"This is actually an improvement over the usual, if you'll believe it,” Enid tells her. “I'm still shocked that she's playing so nice."
"Ah, yes. Clearly a great mother. World-class," Wednesday dryly responds. At Enid's wince, she rolls her eyes. "There is no need to apologize on that woman's behalf, Puppy. A poorly socialized person cannot be reasoned with."
Caught off guard, Enid gives a great, honking snort that very nearly veers into the realm of hysterical, and Wednesday's lips curl up with amusement.
"Sorry," Enid squeaks, hand over her mouth. "Shit, sorry. It's really not funny."
"Apologizing for laughing, now, are we?" Wednesday muses. "This house is a dismal place."
"Not as long as you're in it," Enid says without thinking.
The look that Wednesday sends her has Enid stepping into the bathroom without thinking, then drawing back with cheeks burning once she realizes what she's done.
"I swear I'm not normally this clingy," Enid insists. "This house is—I'm not, like, the most well-behaved wolf on earth, obviously, but this fucking house, Wednesday. I hate it here. It's turning me into a complete lunatic."
Wednesday frowns, lips twisting into a scowl. "It pains me to hear you speak of any aspect of your forest in such a manner, but I suppose this house is an exception,” she sneers, holding out a hand that Enid eagerly seizes. "Come. Before your mother comes barreling up after us with threats of snacks and kitchen chores."
Perhaps it's something in Enid's scent, a twitch in her expression, but before they can reach the hallway, Wednesday pauses mid-step and whips around to stare at her.
“What?” Enid croaks.
"The blood bothers you, doesn't it?" Wednesday quietly asks. "It disgusts you?"
The spike in Enid's scent is more than enough of an answer.
"Ah." Wednesday clears her throat. "I should have known. My sweet puppy has no shame, does she?"
"No," Enid says, voice breaking. "I really, really don't."
Wednesday's scent blooms with something sticky that pools on the back of Enid's throat.
"Do you want to taste it, Puppy?" Wednesday asks.
Enid bites her lip, shifting her weight even as she sways closer. "I shouldn't," she exhales, though it sounds more like a moan. "Wednesday, we—the feast, they'll be able to smell—"
"Who you belong to?" Wednesday finishes. She adopts a flat look. "Is that supposed to discourage me, Puppy? Really?"
Enid tries and fails to swallow a groan.
"Why shouldn’t we?" Wednesday asks. "Why shouldn’t I take care of you? Didn't Toby say it was only expected that we'd behave this way?"
"Are you actually trying to get me to fuck you right now?" Enid demands, stomach swimming with warmth. "We have the feast, Wednesday. In, like, twenty minutes."
Wednesday's tongue slips between her teeth. "Forgive me. I tend to lose my head when I smell how wet you are."
Enid leans in, lips nearly touching Wednesday's, but she jerks back before Wednesday can meet her in a kiss.
"I can't," Enid insists. "Fuck. If I taste your blood, we're not leaving this room."
Wednesday's face flickers with surprise.
"I think about it," Enid admits, voice dropping low. "Think about how you taste, Wednesday. Shouldn't—you shouldn't let me taste you like this,” she pleads.
Wednesday's eyes narrow. "Why not?"
"I'm—m'Greedy," Enid mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "I think you know that, Wednesday."
The corner of Wednesday's mouth pulls up. "I do," she agrees, voice steady. "It's one of many reasons why I adore you. My sweet Puppy girl."
Enid ducks her head. "Jesus, Wednesday. I just changed my underwear," she huffs.
Wednesday's lips curl up into Enid's favorite half-smile. "My greedy girl, always wanting to be filled. Always wanting to taste. You like it, don't you?"
Enid nods, her eyes on the floor.
"Do you touch yourself while thinking up ways to make me bleed?" Wednesday asks her. "My, my, Enid. I'm impressed."
"No, I—I wouldn't," Enid blusters, eyes wide. "Not if you don't say that I—not without—no. I don't touch without permission."
For a split second, Wednesday looks taken aback. "We didn't establish orgasm control as a permanent rule," she slowly says.
Enid digs her nails into her palms. "Maybe we can," she rasps.
Wednesday maneuvers her back to the bed, sits her down, and then places herself directly in front of Enid.
"You want my permission?" Wednesday surmises. "To come, or to draw blood?"
Enid gives a broken moan in response.
"Do you want to be good for me, Enid?" Wednesday asks her.
Enid manages a frantic nod. "Yes,” she breathes.
"Of course you do," Wednesday murmurs. "You're always my good girl. Always mine, Enid."
Enid wonders if she’s imagining the aching pressure in her teeth. "I love you," she breathes.
Wednesday's eyes briefly fall shut as she releases a slow, shuddering breath. "As I love you," she replies. "Listen to me, Puppy. Eyes up."
Enid waits with rapt attention.
"You may touch yourself whenever you please," Wednesday states, "But you will not come without permission. Understood?"
"Yes," Enid quickly agrees. "Yes, Wednesday. Won't come."
Wednesday offers her a rare, tiny smile. "I know, Sweetheart," she hums. "Such a good girl for me, aren't you? Always my perfect pet."
Enid's eyelids flutter as she leans into Wednesday's palm, nerves pulled raw at the feeling of Wednesday's hand on her cheek.
"Are you going to drop?" Wednesday asks her, voice serious. "Look at me, Puppy. Do you feel close?"
Enid shakes her head. "No," she answers, and it's mostly the truth. There will always be a chance for that later, and minutes before a feast with the entire pack isn't the time nor place. Speaking of, "Wednesday, we should—we should talk about the feast," Enid states.
Wednesday takes a seat beside her, finding her hand. "Tell me," she implores.
Enid has to swallow twice before she finds the words to speak. "You'll have to treat me like the other dominants."
"In what sense?" Wednesday asks, cocking her head.
"There will be—um, tables that are low to the ground," Enid tries to explain. "Dominants sit on low stools because their submitting partners kneel at their side while we eat."
Wednesday's eyebrows disappear into her bangs. "At every meal?" she asks.
Enid nods. "At formal ones, yeah."
Wednesday watches her without speaking for an unbearably long minute.
"Are you comfortable being treated the way the other submissive guests will be treated?" Wednesday finally asks her. "I am all for upholding tradition, but I will not participate in anything that displeases you, Puppy.”
Enid can't bring herself to unravel the twisting in her stomach aloud, so she trusts Wednesday to know what she means when she says, "Ask me to kneel, Wednesday." Enid drops her chin to her chest. "Submitting wolves kneel,” she mumbles.
"You're already submissive," Wednesday slowly says. "Is there a difference between submissive and submitting?"
"Well…most wolves aren't like me," Enid admits. "It's tradition for one wolf to submit to the other, even if both are dominant. That's how our courtships work."
Wednesday adopts a thoughtful expression. "I see. When is it determined which wolf will be the dominant party?"
"From the outset, I guess?" Enid answers. "I think it's supposedly based on physical strength, but really, it's to do with rank. The higher ranked wolf is almost always dominant."
Wednesday makes a noise of understanding. "What does it mean that you were naturally inclined towards submissiveness?"
"It means I don't struggle to kneel," Enid whispers. "I want to kneel for you, Wednesday. This is—this is a way that I can be good for you."
To her credit, Wednesday takes it in stride. "Then I will ask you to kneel for me at the feast,” she vows. “Does that sound like a plan, Puppy?"
Enid breathes a full-bodied sigh of relief. "Yes. Thank you, Wednesday," she responds, pulse quickening in anticipation. Finally, after all this time, she's going to kneel for Wednesday in public. She's going to be a good wolf.
Wednesday offers her another rare smile. "You thank me as if I'm not the one benefitting," she murmurs. "You may be greedy, Puppy, but you aren't selfish. Generous, giving girl, aren't you?"
Enid nods, risking another glance up at Wednesday's face. "Always for you, Wednesday," she replies, voice coming out barely more than a whisper.
Wednesday's scent thickens with heady approval. "Come," she orders, climbing to her feet. Her eyes glint with impatience. "We have a feast to attend."
Notes:
HOOOOOOOO just me flirting with a bloodplay smut arc, yet again
UPDATE 9/22: chapter 91 will go up this weekend!!!
Chapter 91: Feast
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Semi-regular jaunts across the hemisphere aside, Wednesday has never made a habit of straying far from home. She was born on a cold March morning atop Hell Mountain, delivered per her mother's oldest customs, and she's never felt a real desire to leave.
Much as Morticia and Gomez might seem like two parts of a whole after decades of marriage, they’d faced a cultural divide never before seen in all the days of Nevermore when their courtship began. The difference between Gomez's unrepentant and heavy-handed adoration, a consequence of bearing magic centered around sacrifice, and Morticia's sharp-toothed flirting was practically inconceivable. Some of the more distant branches of Addams had allegedly thought it a prank when Gomez invited them to celebrate his marriage to a woodwitch.
Their doubt in Morticia persisted well into Wednesday’s childhood, infecting every family function that the more outspoken cousins bothered to attend. Morticia handling it with unrelenting aplomb, year after year, only fueled their vitriol and encouraged the dissenters to become bolder in their criticism.
Wednesday once overheard a pair of Gomez’s cousins muttering in Morticia’s wake that woodwitches are as beautiful as a sunset and just as temporary. When she ensured those whispers made it to her father’s ears, Gomez responded with such violence that Wednesday discovered a new appreciation for her mother’s magic just from observing the fallout. That instance has long remained among her favorite memories of family reunions.
Ironically, now faced with the prospect of confronting the spectre of Enid’s nightmares, Wednesday thinks she understands why Gomez reacted in that manner. It would figure she takes after her father in this way as well.
Gomez and Morticia ultimately decided to share their courtship traditions rather than choosing to follow one or the other. Gomez was the first to introduce Morticia to the old ways of runewitches, showing her the ropes of handfeeding, body marking, and the long tradition of courtship braids. Morticia, alternatively, chose to court Gomez through a veritable parade of hand-selected flower bouquets and the orchestrating of disgustingly frequent rendezvous around the Aokigahara Forest. Momoko still looks pained whenever the Addams family visits her in Japan, reminding her of what Morticia and Gomez undoubtedly got up to in the woods all those years ago.
To Wednesday's knowledge, the only times Momoko willingly left the forest was to assist in delivering each of Morticia's children. Coincidentally, the only occasions Morticia ever held fast to her kin's customs, unyielding to the extreme, was while giving birth to Wednesday and Pugsley.
Both were delivered in the woods of Hell Mountain, Wednesday in the weakest hour of the morning, and Pugsley just after nightfall. Both were born from rituals, conceived with long-guarded fertility runes that Gomez still refuses to allow Wednesday and her runewitch cousins to study.
On a cold March morning in the Year of the Dog, a girl was born surrounded by song. Woodwitch custom demands only sisters are present for the birth, so Gomez had waited impatiently at the bottom of the mountain while Morticia labored, only allowed to ascend after Wednesday had been formally named.
The sun rises for Wednesday, the woodwitches surrounding Morticia had murmured when all was done and a brand new baby lay wrapped in her mother's arms. Blessed be the daughter of the morning.
Their blessing so moved Gomez that he carved those words into Wednesday’s crib alongside the many Well Wishes given by her extended family. Auntie Gloria, the Addams family matriarch and Gomez's oldest living great aunt, imbued Wednesday's crib with an uncommon version of the Dedication rune that Wednesday at least partially attributes as the cause for why she is the way she is today.
The north will always be her birthplace, Hell Mountain her castle and kingdom besides, but Enid's woods speak to a part of Wednesday seldom acknowledged. That fact cannot, will not, ever be ignored.
Wednesday can’t remember the last time she felt such torrid, deep-rooted fear. The thought of one day settling in these woods and building a home is frankly exhilarating. What monsters lurk in these mountains? Wednesday wonders. She can’t imagine what would have compelled Enid’s ancestors to erect their homestead here. Any outcast with the slightest sense of magic would know a wood like this is not entered lightly.
It's a wonder Esther's still alive, Wednesday muses. This bitter house helmed by a hateful woman has no business besmirching Enid's woods. Even now, Wednesday can feel a cold draft threatening at the bottom of the stairs, aching to be invited in. Devon was foolish to leave the door open to the elements; a woodwitch’s magic only strengthens with access to her land.
If Wednesday's magic were even half as volatile as Enid's—better yet, if Enid were half as cruel as Wednesday in heart—this entire building would have been leveled years ago. No one would have been spared.
The moment Wednesday and Enid reenter the living room, hand in hand, Esther’s gaze sharpens. “Is that what you’re wearing, Enid?” she calls out.
Wednesday stiffens. Enid’s skirt isn’t quite as long as would be strictly appropriate for a formal event in the Addams household, but if Devon can go waltzing around sans a shirt, a few inches of bare thigh can be forgiven. Wednesday bites her tongue to keep from snapping when Enid’s shoulders sag.
“Yes,” Enid replies, tone resentful enough to have Wednesday shooting her a look of stark approval.
Esther smiles. “Well. If you’re sure. How about a cup of cider before we go? I make it myself, you know,” she boasts, smile widening at Wednesday’s unfortunately obvious trepidation.
Enid makes a noise of concern, listing closer to press herself against Wednesday’s side, but Wednesday cannot think of a way to explain the danger to her without alerting Esther to the neat corner she’d managed to trap Wednesday in with the offering of homemade cider.
Wednesday exhales through her nose. "Are the apples from your own harvest?" she inquires, taking care to keep her voice distant and uninterested. Enid shifts beside her, shooting her an anxious look. Oh, Puppy, Wednesday thinks to herself. Confusion has its cost.
Esther's eyebrow quirks. "Of course not," she replies. “It's nearly June, dear. What time of year do apples grow wherever you come from?" she asks with a dismissive little laugh, and Wednesday doesn’t need to smell the acrid spike in Enid’s scent to know she’s being insulted.
"I hail from rural northern New Jersey," Wednesday answers, "And considering my mother is a woodwitch, our harvest is always plentiful. My mistake for assuming you’d see similar success in your garden, Madame."
Esther's smile slips, but hitches right back up into that same smarmy veneer of warmth. It's almost impressive, Wednesday internally admits, that a woman who despises her this much can maintain such a convincing facade for her family.
“Well,” Esther says, then turns and bustles into the kitchen.
Brody clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. He then slouches, expression making clear he isn’t keen to share whatever he’d intended to say to Wednesday in front of an attentive audience. Wednesday hopes he finds a chance to spit his venom at her later; at this point, she’d welcome some honest adversity.
All too soon, Esther reappears. Wednesday watches her pick her way across the room with hands full of yellow mugs that are plainly offensive to the eye and wonders how on earth this woman birthed and raised Enid.
"Well," Esther repeats. "Well now, why don't you sit down with the boys, Wednesday? I'm sure you remember Alex and Brody, Enid's older brothers?" She smiles broadly, ignoring the vaguely disturbed look her sons exchange as she orders in a much different tone, "Enid, come help in the kitchen."
Wednesday’s grip on Enid’s hand tightens enough to prevent her from moving a single step. The homemade cider is a problem, but at the moment, Wednesday is more concerned with keeping Enid in her direct line of sight.
Beside her, Enid’s expression volleys between relief and confusion, and always, always that lick of fear that undermines her soft features. “Wednesday?” she quietly asks. She tugs a little on Wednesday’s hand, then gives up. “My hand?”
“Stay where you are,” Wednesday tells her, and Enid nods without protest.
Enid’s obedience is so freely given, in fact, that Wednesday finds herself struck with sudden inspiration, and she decides to try a new tactic.
To Esther, Wednesday says, “How awkward. Are you not educated in our customs, Madame Sinclair? Any witch knows it would be unforgivably crass for introductions to be made between future family members without Enid present as the connection between our lines.”
It is, in truth, a bald-faced lie, but Wednesday is banking on the fact that a woman as bigoted as Esther Sinclair probably doesn’t know any better. She would bet a significant portion of her trust fund that Esther paid little attention to her Anthropology classes at school—a woman like that would have been uninterested in any culture besides her own.
Prejudice is a personal failing, but it is one that can be capitalized upon if Wednesday is strategic. Assuming her hunch is correct, Esther Sinclair won’t have the slightest clue what customs a runewitch actually upholds during the courting period and therefore should not be able to contradict Wednesday with any real substance. This is a woman who cares deeply for status and other people’s perceptions of her; will she contradict Wednesday outright, revealing herself as an adversarial bitch, or play it by ear and neatly avoid the potential embarrassment of committing a social gaffe if and when she’s proven wrong? Wednesday suspects she knows what Esther will choose. Social climbers always pick the path of least resistance.
Wednesday may not be a wolf, but she can read a room. In an absurdly hierarchical community like this, her word as Enid’s dominant partner will likely carry some weight.
The unfamiliar girl on the couch is gaping at them. Wednesday glances in her direction just in time to watch the girl’s chewing gum make a mad dash for freedom out of her mouth and into her lap. The girl’s cheeks blotch an unflattering red, hands fumbling to find the fallen wad before Alex notices. Luckily for her, he’s too fixated on the standoff unfolding between Wednesday and his mother to pay any real attention to her. It’s evident from the girl’s reaction that Esther Sinclair isn’t a woman people make a habit of challenging.
Esther shifts to face Wednesday, mugs sloshing precariously in her hands as she plants her feet. "And what customs would those be, Wednesday?" she asks, tone deceptively light. "We're not familiar with your kind, I'm afraid. Only wolf customs are observed here. I'm sure you understand."
"So you sent the son of a woodwitch to challenge me in ignorance, not knowing the ill fortune you’d wrought by making Aminder an enemy?” Wednesday asks. “Or are you insinuating the attempt on my life was, in fact, deliberate?”
Enid nearly seizes, scent alighting with terror, but Esther’s expression remains placid.
"What on earth do you mean?" she responds, voice high and innocent. Her face flutters with mock surprise as she gasps, "Why—Wednesday. Oh, surely you wouldn't blame a boy for having a crush on our Enid," she demures with a titter of laughter. "Who could blame the Montgomery boy for getting overexcited to meet her in person?"
Wednesday's back draws tight, shoulders locking at the words our Enid leaving that woman's mouth, and Esther's lips quirk up, victorious at last.
"They're just kids," Esther continues, stepping closer, eager to press in on the flash of weakness. "Just boys being boys. Toby shouldn't be punished for that," she simpers. "Why, it was unkind of you to insinuate he did something wrong, with those complaints you made to Leader Flint. If I were you, I would apologize for the misunderstanding," Esther kindly suggests.
Wednesday bites down hard on her tongue, takes heart in the painful reminder of what Enid had sounded like in the safety of her forest, then licks her bloody lips and smiles.
"A misunderstanding," Wednesday echoes. "Understood, Madame Sinclair."
Enid’s face loses what little color she’d had.
Esther, on the other hand, beams in response. Her hands are steady as she extends a mug of cider in Wednesday’s direction.
"I'm so glad we cleared this up, dear. Cider?" she offers, eyes narrowing in challenge.
Despite her earlier misdirection, Wednesday is not the sort of person to uphold tradition only when it is most convenient. For her, the old ways aren’t a buffet table to pick and choose from at will. If the mother of her intended offers her homemade food, Wednesday has the choice between accepting a potentially poisoned cup, or insinuating that she does not intend to see her courtship through—which will never occur as long as she’s breathing.
Just as runes are drawn by hand, for runewitches, homemade food is an expression of communion, a cementing of friendship between her kind. Wednesday hadn’t thought guest rights between wolves an odd concept because her kin observes a similar custom with food: an offering of food or drink by the host’s own hand is as good as cardinal law. No blood may be spilled as long as Wednesday remains a guest in Esther’s home.
That said, something about the cant of Esther’s smile has Wednesday deciding desperate measures are in order.
Wednesday cannot recall the last time she felt cornered enough to blindly draw runes on the fly, but she’s glad she came prepared. Under her sleeve, outside the purview of Esther Sinclair’s keen gaze, Wednesday exhumes the pat of solid ink she’d slid into her shirt cuff on the plane and draws a quick rune using the pointed end of her thumbnail. It isn't the strongest application that magic has ever seen, but intent matters more than execution.
Wednesday feels the rune take effect, robbing her of her ability to absorb nutritional value from food and drink in exchange for protecting her from most poisons. Uncle Fester taught her this one after Wednesday, eight years old and arrogant, fell victim to food poisoning after misidentifying a wild berry bush. The berries wouldn't have killed her, but the experience did teach her a useful lesson about not eating the strange things that grow on Hell Mountain.
Fester stuck around just long enough for Wednesday to learn to draw this rune backwards and forwards with both her thumbnails and all of her fingers. For a time, she wore gloves to hide the failed runes smeared all over her fingers and palms. Once the magic was successful more times than not and Wednesday’s finger dexterity reached inhuman proportions, Fester tipped his hat, mounted his horse, and insisted she never tell her father that he taught her Deprivation before taking off into the night. Wednesday has kept her fingernails at length and shaped for rune-drawing ever since.
Buoyed by the knowledge that nothing Esther Sinclair has access to will be able to kill her outright, Wednesday maintains direct eye contact as she accepts the mug and takes a deep, satisfying gulp. The cider is bright on her tongue, fizzy and sharp, with just enough sweetness that Wednesday can tell it was store-bought rather than homemade as claimed. Figures that Esther would stumble upon a legitimate burden of Wednesday’s that could be twisted to hurt her, and the foolish woman fails to follow through. As long as the cider isn’t homemade, the laws of bread-breaking don’t apply.
That means murder is still on the table, Wednesday muses to herself.
She doesn’t detect any sour note that might indicate some nefarious additive reserved for her cup alone, but that doesn’t mean much; Wednesday knows very well that some poisons are subtle in flavor. Esther's eyes narrow ever so slightly as Wednesday licks her lips with perhaps too much emphasis to pass as sincere and Enid makes a tiny, pained noise beside her.
When Wednesday raises an eyebrow in her direction, Enid’s face flushes with heat.
"Gross," Devon complains from the living room. No longer amused by the proceedings, he climbs off the couch and levels a look of disgust in Enid’s direction. "I'm going back to the barracks."
Esther frowns, pretending not to see Wednesday's offered empty mug as she sweeps off into the living room to hand-deliver the other mugs to her sons and the girl on the couch. Wednesday idly wonders what the unfamiliar girl did with her liberated gum. "You'll be sitting with the boys at the feast, then?" Esther demands.
Devon shifts, eyeing the door. "Probably. Why, you want me somewhere else?" he reluctantly answers.
Esther's lips spread into a smile that sets Wednesday's teeth on edge.
"No," Esther assures him, straightening up. "Go on, then! We'll see you soon."
Devon leaves without shutting the door behind him, leaving it swinging open into the night. If Wednesday or Pugsley treated their home like that, Morticia would have had them mucking out stalls for weeks.
"Would you like to clean up some before we leave?" Esther kindly asks, and Wednesday almost does a double take before she realizes Esther's speaking solely to the girl on the couch.
The girl shrugs. "Sure, I guess. Alex?” she asks.
He raises his shoulder in a half-shrug, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “You know where the bathroom is.”
The girl nods, keeping her head lowered as she slips past Wednesday and Enid and disappears down the hall.
“What is that girl’s name?” Wednesday asks aloud.
Enid’s lips twist with dislike. “Alyssa.”
“Such a nice girl, isn’t she?” Esther interjects. “Alyssa and Alex make the sweetest couple. You should see her kneel, Enid. You’d think she was a submissive wolf with how well she does in front of the elders.”
Enid’s face spasms with embarrassment. Wednesday can tell she's thinking back to their arrival on Toby's back in the middle of the village square with a fair amount of mortification.
“I’m afraid I cannot agree,” Wednesday states. She squeezes Enid’s hand. “No mere performance can compare to genuine submission.”
Unexpectedly, Brody snorts. Alex doesn’t verbally agree or disagree, but he eyes Wednesday with slightly more interest than before.
Esther’s smile, on the other hand, becomes rather fixed. “Well. That is your opinion, dear.”
“An opinion shared by thousands of wolves the world over,” Wednesday muses. “Elsewise submissive wolves like my Enid wouldn’t be so favored as partners, would they?”
Esther’s eyes narrow. “How lucky for you.”
Wednesday doesn’t bother to curtail her expression as she meets Enid’s eyes. “Undeniably so,” she says, voice coming softer than intended.
Enid’s scent sings with warmth, lips quirking up into the first genuine smile Wednesday has seen in the presence of her family.
“Alyssa,” Esther calls out, and if Wednesday’s not mistaken, her voice sounds a little bit stilted. “Come, dear. It’s about time to leave for the feast.”
Alyssa hurries down the hallway, taking her place by Alex as he climbs to his feet. Brody stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up to expose his stomach, and Wednesday resists the urge to roll her eyes.
Esther herds them all to the door, ordering them to leave their empty mugs on whatever empty surface they can find as they make their way out of the house. Esther leads the charge with her silent husband, prancing down the street to join the stream of wolves heading towards the village center like an overproud peacock. Wednesday can feel curious eyes on her back as she falls in step beside Enid.
“Is it intentional that Alyssa’s walking behind your brother?” Wednesday whispers, curious.
Enid scoffs under her breath. “Yeah, she’s way over-compensating. Alyssa wasn’t exactly the softest in personality in school, and my family—my mother is pretty traditional, as I’m sure you can tell.”
“Just wait until you meet my Auntie Gloria,” Wednesday murmurs, squeezing her hand. “She puts new meaning in traditional.”
Enid blanches. “Oh, fuck. I forgot about your family.”
“‘Oh, fuck’ is right,” Wednesday mutters, luxuriating in the bark of laughter that earns from Enid.
The distraction does wonders to keep Enid calm as they meander towards a larger structure on the square's southern edge. The buildings on the pack territory seem to have been heavily influenced by the Art Deco craze of the early twentieth century, creating a strange phenomenon where the entire village appears frozen in time over a century ago. Any architect worth their salt would be bowled over to witness such a thing firsthand. Even the village square, softened by well-maintained cobblestone, is all sharp lines and metal fences, a study in cubism for the defensively-minded.
If this settlement was erected at the height of the vampire conflict, it makes sense that the wolves chose substance over style. Wednesday can only imagine how being a wolf in wartime must have felt.
Regardless if the debacle over the cider had been an ill-advised attempt to poison her or not, it had the unexpected effect of causing all five Sinclairs and two intendeds to walk into the great hall fashionably late. This, of course, provides them with a dedicated audience for their arrival. The room falls quiet in a hush that ripples through the hall, gazes whipping around to land on them for themselves.
Wednesday stands tall, refusing to falter under the attention. She hopes Enid is right and being caked in dried blood offers her an extra layer of protection. While the older, mated wolves remain passive, eyes sharp but expressions carefully controlled, the younger set prowls the edge of the hall like sharks scenting blood.
“Wednesday!” someone calls out, and Enid physically relaxes beside her, swaying in place. “Wednesday, hey!”
Toby skids to a stop in front of them, face open with relief. He’s managed to find a button-down shirt that has the added bonus of making Enid look a little more in dress code with her cute skirt. The Montgomery pack is dressed similar to Wednesday, ranging from smart casual to informal, but the Flint pack seems to have gone in the opposite direction. Many of the wolves their age are dressed in athleisure with enough bare skin showing to have earned them detention at Nevermore.
“Hey, guys," Toby says, breathless. "Long time no see, eh?"
“Toby,” Wednesday greets him, extending her hand. “A pleasure, as always.”
In the presence of the whole pack, Toby grips her hand and gives it a firm shake. “For sure.”
“Thank God,” Enid hisses, leaning in to exclude the rest of the room from their conversation. “Toby, listen, you cannot let my mother isolate Wednesday. Promise you won’t.”
“Why do you think I sprinted the whole length of the hall like an idiot?” Toby replies, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “I got it, Enid. Promise. No matter where she sits, I won't let her out of my sight.”
Wednesday frowns. “Perhaps I’m misunderstanding, but it sounds like you anticipate we’ll be separated. Which would be ludicrous, right?”
Enid and Toby share a harried look.
“Right, Toby?” Wednesday persists.
Enid winces. “It's, um, tradition that my parents choose where you sit. And submissive and submitting wolves are supposed to serve the food."
Wednesday has to clamp down her lower lip to keep from spewing something impolite. “You are not a pack mule, Enid, nor are you a servant. Will you not eat beside me?”
“Oh, no, I will,” Enid assures her. “After the dominants have been served, we—that’s when we kneel.”
Wednesday can feel her eyebrows climbing up her forehead.
“Just saying, we don’t do this in my pack,” Toby mutters. “So, when you guys visit, feel free to just sit at the table.”
Enid looks rather touched. “You’d invite us to come visit, Toby?”
“What—was that not already implied?” Toby retorts. “Give me a break, Enid. You’ve met my mom.”
“Rest assured, dinners will unfold quite differently at my house,” Wednesday says under her breath. She forces herself not to sigh despite how aggrieved she feels at the prospect of losing sight of Enid for even a few short minutes.
Enid doesn’t seem any more enthused. “Small mercies,” she gloomily says.
“Enid Sinclair!” an unfamiliar woman calls out. “There you are. You’re expected with Donna in the kitchen.”
Enid remains where she is. It takes Toby tugging Wednesday's sleeve with a snort to have their hands finally separating, both girls frowning all the while. Wednesday's palm feels cold and bereft with the loss of Enid's warmth.
Enid waits for Wednesday's reluctant nod of approval before making eye contact with the impatient woman, who has graduated to tapping her foot like a cartoon character.
“I’ll see you soon,” Enid promises Wednesday, chewing on her lower lip as she turns and follows the woman into the thrum of people.
Wednesday scowls to herself, earning a short laugh from Toby.
“Have I thanked you yet for the entertainment value you provide?” Toby asks. “Imagine how boring this dinner would be if you weren’t here.”
Wednesday shoots him a look. “Do you not have friends in your pack, Toby?” she asks.
He laughs again. “Sure, I do. But not the kind of friends that cause shit to hit the fan everywhere they go.”
Wednesday figures that a fair enough assessment. Toby continues to grin as he leads her through a labyrinth of knee-high tables towards the front of the room, dodging curious faces as they go. A great roaring fire has already been coaxed to life, the flames tall enough to eclipse Wednesday’s height. At least the wolves have adequate taste in dinner menus, she thinks, nose twitching at the scent of roasting meat.
“Oh, no,” Esther laughs, appearing on Wednesday’s right in true jumpscare fashion. “You’ll be sitting at Devon’s table, Wednesday.”
Toby comes to an immediate stop, lips twisting in protest, but Wednesday shakes her head.
“With Devon’s group?” Wednesday asks, hoping she’s using the correct terminology.
Esther’s face gives nothing away. “Yes, dear,” she agrees, taking Wednesday by the wrist under the guise of linking their arms and pulling her in the opposite direction of Toby and his visibly confused friends. Last she saw, Toby was still scowling, but as long as Esther doesn't plan to take her out back and shoot her, Wednesday imagines she'll be fine. She turns to face forward, ignoring the stench of Esther's scent as they draw closer to a group of teenagers who look far less inviting dinner companions.
"I think you'll get along great with Devon's group, dear," Esther says. "They're taking their trials this week, you know. Just one hunt off from becoming warriors."
Ah, so that's her game—sequestering Wednesday with the group of wolves least enthused by her presence in hopes the animosity drives her off. Clever, Wednesday admits, but hardly inspired. She grew up amongst cousins who became her enemies either by disparaging her mother's magic or through sheer irreconcilable differences of personality; these wolves don't have a hope of succeeding where her own family failed.
On that note, if Esther Sinclair knew her daughter at all, she'd recognize that her chances of success in breaking up their courtship would be much higher if Enid held any hope that she might eventually earn her mother's approval. As it stands, Enid behaves like she has nothing to lose because in her mind, concerning her family, she doesn't.
Wednesday detests the woman with a violence that surprises even her, but she has to applaud Esther for isolating her daughter so efficiently. The best revenge is when the mark does the heavy lifting for you, Wednesday reminds herself.
"Here we are," Esther announces, stopping before a group of sour-faced young adults wearing red paint on their noses and cheeks. "Devon, you'll look after Wednesday, won't you?"
Devon makes a face, but nods. "Sure," he agrees.
Esther's smile widens. "Perfect. Enjoy it, dear."
Then she is off, and Wednesday is left staring down a cluster of wolves who look at her like an unshorn little sheep, naively wandering into their midst.
Notes:
enid in her little black skirt, ready to kneel in front of the whole pack, knowing she has fresh cane stripes under her clothes: :)
UPDATE 9/29: chapter 92 planning to go up sunday!
UPDATE 10/1: i'm so sorry guys i had to finish up a project for work, chapter 92 is on standby to go up sometime this week! will get my shit together as soon as possible <3 HAPPY OCTOBER!
Chapter 92: Gauntlet
Notes:
kink warnings: kneeling, extremely brief mention of belts around necks, overall dom/sub social dynamics
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Though Wednesday’s preferred fashion could be considered Edwardian at best, she does not actually adhere to the old rules whilst choosing her outfits. She’d never gone as far as wearing a corset and gloves for everyday appearances in the classroom or family home. Part of that had been her mother’s influence, as while Morticia had gladly agreed to cover her wrists in the presence of non-kin as any spouse of a runewitch is wont to do, she’d categorically refused to don a hat while outdoors. A woodwitch does not cover their hair, Morticia had claimed, not even an Addams.
That was not a pleasant conversation for Wednesday’s conservative Aunties, who collectively refuse to leave the house without full umbrellas, let alone hats and nets for their hair. Watching the Addams women go anywhere in a group is like witnessing a mass exodus of funeral cake toppers.
In Wednesday’s culture, skin marking is a near sacred practice shared only amongst kin. Most runewitches place their permanent marriage vows on the inner wrist, necessitating that the area for both runewitch and spouse always remain covered in public. Wednesday has seen Morticia’s marriage vows, a delicate line of runes that extend nearly up to her forearm, but never Gomez’s.
These days, Wednesday tends to find herself debating how to broach the topic of runic vows with Enid. Tradition states that wedding vows should remain covered to prying eyes, but Wednesday’s love for Enid often feels as though it could up and spill out of her, infecting everything she touches; the idea of not allowing the world to see their vows is sickening. It would be a crime to cover the promise she’ll make to treasure Enid for as long as they both shall live and thereafter as though it’s something shameful.
Suffice it to say, a nineteen-year-old runewitch who regularly frets over the idea of exposing her inner wrists was not prepared to enter a formal dinner and spot Enid’s packmates walking around bare-chested with ritualistic red lines painted over their stomachs and cheeks. In the Addams household, no less than dark-colored evening gowns and three-piece suits would have sufficed for this sort of occasion—and body paint is reserved solely for use in the bedroom or to adorn skin for war.
The wolves cloistered around Devon’s table are dressed in a similar vein. Wednesday counts four bare chests and a single thin sports bra that leaves little to the imagination beneath all the body paint. Wednesday tries not to look disparaging, opting for a neutral expression; after all, this may be perfectly acceptable behavior for a wolf.
“Good eve,” Wednesday breaks the silence. “I am Wednesday Addams.”
The wolves exchange loaded glances, and Wednesday recognizes it as the exact sort of silent communication that Toby and his packmates had displayed in the clearing. Is that common amongst all wolves, or only certain groups? Wednesday would be curious to know if these little packs within the larger Flint pack gain some special advantage for teaming up.
“We know,” the sole female wolf replies, and even her tone is blatantly hostile. Her body paint is particularly stark against her much paler skin compared to the others. In fact, if she weren’t at least a foot taller and seventy pounds heavier than Wednesday, their similar coloring might have others mistaking them for being relatives.
Devon smirks at Wednesday, causing the paint on his nose and cheeks to stretch rather gruesomely. He appears to be in his element at the helm of his little pack of horrors.
Perhaps these markings are a declaration of war, Wednesday muses to herself. She wouldn't put it past Esther Sinclair to sic the hounds on her, so to speak.
Wednesday steadily returns his gaze. "Sinclair. Won't you introduce me to your followers?" she prompts.
Every wolf in hearing distance scowls, even those clustered around other nearby tables. Wednesday dearly wishes she still had an active scent rune; without it, she’s incapable of tasting emotion in the air. She’d be interested to know what shade of resentment these particular wolves feel at the sight of her.
Do they hate her for corrupting one of their own and stealing Enid away, or merely being an outsider? Wednesday never would have guessed that any of the Flint wolves would feel betrayed by Enid’s choice to distance herself from the pack. Even if Wednesday hadn’t collared her, Enid would likely have found her way out of the Flint pack as Toby’s intended.
Those doomed to share a meal with her aim their ire at Devon like her behavior is somehow his fault and then turn their glares on Wednesday in sync like a single, many-headed monster.
"Sit down," Devon snaps.
Wednesday, true to form, plants her feet where she stands. Her show of obstinance has Devon's lips curling as he drops himself on a stool across the table with the air of a toddler gearing up for an epic tantrum. The Devon who'd so readily dismissed his sister with malice seems to have fled in the face of potentially being embarrassed in front of his friends. A child of a man glares back at her, entitled to the end.
Wednesday waits until all four of the other wolves have chosen a seat before lowering herself alongside them, secure in the knowledge that she is protected from poisons, armed to the teeth, and ready to take whatever Devon Sinclair sees fit to unleash upon her.
Addams know how to wage war, Wednesday reminds herself. If it's a fight Devon wants, she will gladly grant his wish.
There once was a time when Addams of every branch would fight for the honor of leading the family, and Wednesday and her cousins, perhaps unsurprisingly, had been raised in the old way under their parents’ tutelage. No person who survived sparring lessons with Gomez Addams would see Devon Sinclair as a credible threat.
Wednesday finds herself seated between a lean boy with sandy hair cut short around his temples and the female wolf, who eyes her with poorly disguised contempt. Considering Devon chose to sit on the opposite side of the table, flanked by the two largest boys besides himself, Wednesday's seating assignment between the smallest male and the sole female wolf was likely intended as an insult. Wednesday could scoff at the thought; if these wolves think she would underestimate an enemy for having female genitalia, they are sorely mistaken.
The unusual knee-high height of the tables means all hands remain visible to the room even while seated, so Wednesday makes a show of snapping her dinner napkin out over her lap, conveniently hiding her sheath and knife from view. Devon doesn't seem intelligent enough to keep track of her arsenal without direct line of sight to remind him.
In truth, Wednesday could have done without the hostility for her first-ever meal with Enid's family and pack, but if this is the price she has to pay to be with Enid, so be it. Any Addams is well-equipped to withstand a bit of familial violence.
"Wednesday Addams," the girl speaks up again. Her tone is not flattering. "What kind of a name is Wednesday?"
"You'd have to ask my mother," Wednesday replies. "And you are, Madame?"
The girl’s lips twist with derision. “Madame? What is this, the prohibition? Who even says shit like that?”
Wednesday stares back without expression. “Apologies. Where I come from, it is customary to ask for a name when addressing a person unknown to you. Forgive the presumption that you would operate similarly here.”
“Don’t expect us to be like your witch kin,” the girl retorts.
Hugo was bound to mouth off to anyone who would listen about Wednesday's display in the woods, but the level of contempt coming from this girl suggests something beyond a bit of rumored windsong. It's possible that whispers of Wednesday’s reputation at Nevermore have already begun spinning through the pack. A witch is one thing, but an Addams is a whole other beast.
Even at a school for outcasts, Wednesday hadn’t flown under the radar. Neither had Enid, come to think of it.
Wednesday cocks her head, meeting the female wolf’s glare with calculated apathy. “No,” she agrees. “Though I did expect you to have been socialized enough to know how to converse with adults. My mistake.”
The other wolves stiffen in a shocked silence broken only by the sandy-haired boy scoffing under his breath.
“She got you there, Maggie,” he sneers. “You’re barely house-trained.”
“You’re such a prick, Sebastian, shut up,” Maggie hisses. “And you,” she turns her glare on Wednesday, who raises an eyebrow in response. “I don’t want to hear shit from you about what makes a wolf uncivilized. You think it’s right that Devon’s sister trails after you like a bitch in heat? Huh? Do you?”
“I’m confused as to why you think Enid shouldn’t be beside me,” Wednesday replies, leaning forward. “I want her near. I loathe the thought of not always having her within arm’s reach. Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the concept of a submitting wolf desiring to be close to you?”
“Fuck you,” Maggie growls, picking up her dinner fork like she can drive off Wednesday’s unwanted presence through sheer intimidation alone. Wednesday can tell from her grip that she has little to no experience with throwing knives, which is disappointing. “You’re a fucking witch just like Montgomery’s mother.”
“Shit,” Sebastian mutters.
“Maggie,” Devon barks, expression turning harried. “Shut up. You don’t say that shit in the middle of the hall, nutjob.”
"Where did your sister even find this girl, Devon?" Maggie demands. “It’s pissing me off to have to look at her.”
Visibly annoyed, Devon sneers, "Where do you think? Nevermore's full of east coast wolves."
His tone would insinuate that hailing from the east coast is a fate worse than death. Wednesday tries to recall whether Enid ever mentioned a disparity between wolves from the west coast and those closer to home.
"She's not a wolf, though," Sebastian argues. "Obviously. Where’d you come from, Addams? East coast?"
Wednesday is somewhat surprised to have been addressed directly without a hint of disdain. "Northern New Jersey. A place called Hell Mountain," she answers. “And you are?”
The boy ignores her, announcing to the table, "She'd be Jersey Trad if she were one of us.”
"Sure, Bash," Devon scoffs, leaning back on his stool. “Except that she's not.”
“No shit, but there's still something wrong with her," the largest boy, a redhead, interjects. His nose wrinkles like he’s smelled something horrid. "Maggie’s right—she reeks of magic."
Wednesday can feel her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "You can smell magic?" she interrupts Devon’s canned and undoubtedly insulting response. The other wolves’ eyes whip to Devon like they expect him to blow up, but he remains silent.
"How strange,” Wednesday muses. “My Enid has the strongest sensitivity to smell that I've ever encountered, wolf or otherwise, and she's mentioned no such thing as being able to smell magic."
The other wolves begin to look vaguely uncomfortable. Wednesday imagines she's voiced something aloud that they all regularly allude to but none actually wants to stake their word against. Perhaps it's a common non-sequitur to insinuate that all magic users stink, Wednesday considers. She’s previously encountered insults with no factual basis, and wolves as a whole are a biased bunch.
“Is that a trait of your bloodline?” Wednesday presses, cocking her head. “My, my. You must come from a powerful witch lineage to inherit such a gift.”
“Fuck you,” the boy snarls, hunching over the table so as to make himself look larger. “I’m no witch.”
Wednesday refuses to lean back despite the disgusting smell of his breath. “Pity,” she drawls. “I admit I’m rather disappointed with the lack of educational prowess in this pack. I thought SOLLS was supposed to rival Nevermore in prestige?”
The five wolves scoff in tandem.
“No self-respecting wolf would go to Nevermore,” the redheaded boy states. His eyes widen as he realizes what that implies, and he quickly adds, “Uh, except your sister, Devon.”
Devon could not look less offended. “Whatever,” he mumbles.
“Shut up, Bernard,” Maggie retorts at full volume, apparently offended enough on Devon’s behalf to instigate a full-scale argument. Across the hall, Wednesday catches sight of Toby’s dark head turning around to crane in her direction. “You don’t even know her!”
“She did bring home a witch,” Sebastian comments.
Bernard smirks. “Yeah, poor judgment all around. At least if she went to SOLLS with the rest of us, she’d be nicely leashed by Montgomery by now.”
Maggie drops the butter knife and grips the edge of the table like she’s considering leaping right over it, a position that Bernard mimics. Sebastian grins and leans forward, eager to watch the show, but Devon bites out a warning growl that has all three of them flinching and ducking their heads.
On Devon’s other side, a large boy with a wispy, juvenile beard frowns down at his silverware in a valiant effort to pretend to be elsewhere. The tension bleeds away as Devon reestablishes his position at the top of the pyramid, and Wednesday idly wishes she had a pad of paper on hand to take notes.
“How do you know?” Maggie suddenly sneers. Then, with surprising venom, "It's not like Devon’s sister spends any real time on the territory."
“I wonder why,” Wednesday muses. The looks that Sebastian and Bernard shoot at her are loaded with something more malignant than mere interest.
The insinuation that Toby and Enid would have mated in another life should rankle, but it doesn’t—perhaps because Wednesday knows both wolves personally and can say with certainty that the fairytale ending Esther Sinclair seems so eager to hold on to wouldn’t have unfolded the way she’d have liked, even with Wednesday out of the picture.
Devon suddenly looks cagey, his eyes flicking over Wednesday’s head. "Yeah, well, forget it,” he barks. “Food’s coming out.”
The other wolves dutifully lean back on their stools, argument forgotten. Wednesday eyes the person-sized space at her feet.
The absurdly low tables and strange layout of the hall had seemed nonsensical to Wednesday at first glance, but with the appearance of dozens of serving wolves carrying trays laden down with steaming food, it occurs to her that any wolves who kneeled would have trouble reaching a table of regular height. The hall fills with the smell of sizzling meat and fresh loaves of bread—all food that doesn’t require silverware to manage, Wednesday notes.
The serving wolves remain standing at the foot of each table, balancing trays against hips and shoulders with vaguely beleaguered expressions as if waiting for a cue to unload their goods. Wednesday twists around, belatedly catching sight of a waiflike woman struggling to haul her tray to the table placed at dead-center. Pack Leader Flint’s mate has an ailing look about her that leaves Wednesday feeling uncomfortable watching her sweat.
How a woman that frail gave birth to a monster like Hugo, Wednesday will never understand, but her interest in Pack Leader Flint’s mate is fleeting once it registers who else is sitting at his table. She'd expected to find Pack Leader Montgomery seated with Pack Leader Flint, is unsurprised to spot Aminder perched on the stool at Pack Leader Montgomery’s side—but there is no mistaking the unruly hair belonging to the other occupant of Pack Leader Flint’s table, and that does send a bristle of disquiet burning through Wednesday’s stomach.
Across the room sits Esther Sinclair, her mate already knelt at her side.
Wednesday must have been too distracted by the fireworks at Devon’s table to notice, but upon further study, dozens of wolves are kneeling at the foot of their mates, a sea of heads bowed before their dominant partners. The division between the Flint pack and Toby's people is clear; none of the visiting Montgomery packmembers kneel. An entire side of the room wears uncomfortable expressions from stools of equal height.
Considering Wednesday has it on good authority that Aminder would sooner stage a massacre than kneel at her husband's feet in public, she's unsurprised that Aminder has eschewed this custom, though perhaps it is a little surprising that the rest of her pack has so readily followed her lead. From the way Toby tells it, the Montgomery pack is one wrong, witchy word away from full revolt.
In other news, Esther must really be banking on prolonged exposure to her son being enough to drive Wednesday away because the bedamned woman isn't even looking in their direction. She’s too busy exchanging sharp smiles with Aminder from across their table to bother gauging the success of her plot with Devon. Wednesday would pay a pretty penny to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, especially with how visibly concerned Pack Leader Montgomery appears to be growing with each new word out of his wife.
Distasteful as it was, Wednesday can’t fault Esther's execution; sticking her with the group most hostile to Wednesday's presence unaccompanied and unsupervised was masterful, if short-sighted. It is a creative construction by any account for Esther to think Wednesday the one at risk of losing her head.
Devon’s wolves can try all they want to rattle her cage, but even their harshest words would still pale in comparison to Enid's mere presence.
As soon as Hugo's mother reaches her husband’s table, Pack Leader Flint barks out, "What have you brought me, submissive?"
The woman's arms shake as she quietly responds. Whatever answer she gave must have been satisfactory because Pack Leader Flint gives a curt nod, and the woman makes a face of unsullied relief. The heaping tray of food bounces on the table as Hugo's mother loses her grip on it, upending all of the wine glasses with a clatter. Aminder doesn’t flinch at the shrill of shattering glass.
Pack Leader Flint’s mouth flattens out into a line. "Kneel," he commands, and his mate lowers herself to the ground.
As if on cue, the other serving wolves unload their wares onto each table, wood rattling as they hastily deliver trays before scurrying off to find their own mates. Devon's table appears to be one of only a handful still bereft of food; Alex’s table, less than twenty feet away, looks the same.
Alyssa must be bringing their food, Wednesday thinks, and then, struck in the same thought, Enid.
Wednesday had thought she was prepared, seeing all the other serving wolves carrying their trays, but nothing could have prepared her for Enid. The kitchen doors swing and Alyssa swans out into the open, beaming the sort of Mall Santa smile that routinely brings small children to tears as she flounces to Alex's table. She makes a production of placing her tray down with care, then turns to Alex with that same manic expression.
"Kneel," Alex says, almost bored, and Alyssa drops onto her knees like a man shot. Wednesday suffers through half a dozen similar performances until finally, finally, her intended appears.
Enid's pale hair catches the light as she emerges from the kitchens, tray clasped in what Wednesday can tell from here are shaking hands. Enid does a commendable job of appearing unbothered by the weight of hundreds of eyes on her as she goes, steps rhythmic and sure, but her expression wavers with anxiety as her eyes search the crowd. Wednesday hardly registers the foul look on Esther's face as Enid passes by her or the contempt that Devon wears like a second skin at the sight of his sister.
What a fool she'd been to think she could prepare for the sight of Enid, come to serve.
As soon as Enid’s eyes find her, that pretty mouth parts, tongue slipping out to wet her lips, and her expression would be enough to send a weaker woman to her knees. Wednesday can hear the wolves tittering around her at the sheer want on Enid’s face and knows that Enid’s expression must mirror her own.
Enid reaches their table, refusing to break their gaze, and it feels as though the entire hall collectively holds its breath. Wednesday hasn’t felt such caustic tension since her last family reunion, which, by her recollection, ended in two honor duels and a broken engagement.
When Enid remains unmoving, tray still held aloft in a white-knuckled grip, Wednesday pointedly glances down at the table. Enid’s entire face flushes as she sets the food down just a beat too late to look natural. Wednesday isn’t bothered; the rest of the hall’s opinion of Enid’s performance could not matter less to her.
Nothing could possibly matter besides the look on Enid's face. This is the moment that Enid warned her about, Wednesday realizes. The rush of power she feels is so heady that she might as well be drunk with it.
"Kneel," Wednesday says, and Enid does.
She kneels with a grace that Wednesday has never seen, limbs unfolding in a faultless descent like the soft turn of a dancer, or the landing of a swan atop a still lake. It's beautiful, Wednesday thinks. Enid is beautiful, and this could have been brutal, some tainted and vicious and awful thing instead of how it actually feels to have Enid kneel before her.
This moment could have damaged them in differing circumstances. If Enid didn't have that awe-inspiring iron resilience that Wednesday has always so deeply admired or if Wednesday had been a better person, this could have been a fatal blow.
Fortunately, Wednesday isn’t a better person—not a good person at all, she suspects, because no person with morals or ethics would feel such an immense, throat-swelling high from watching their intended kneel at their feet like a dog. Like a pet, Wednesday thinks, heart pounding in her ears. Like an animal, like Wednesday's own personal angel, heaven sent, like something otherworldly and distant that will never be hers, will never be human. Enid has never looked so much like a witch, eyes alight with something sharp that splinters and aches to be owned. Daughter of the forest, indeed.
Enid's display of submission in front of two hundred of the Sinclair family's closest friends and associates leaves Wednesday feeling as though she's sunken neck-deep in filth. That's the cruel business of adoring Enid's willingness to serve while hating what shaped her this way; neither emotion can ever feel honest again.
Wednesday doesn't understand, at first, why every wolf sitting at their table and a fair portion of the wider hall reacts with poorly muffled gasps before Enid’s finished kneeling. Sebastian even goes as far as to whisper, "Holy shit,” a sentiment that rings around the room like a wrestling match bell.
The stark contrast between their merry surroundings and the ugly look on Esther Sinclair’s face is almost surreal. Only seeing her rage with naked eyes brings Wednesday to the realization that Esther must have caught a glimpse of the cane marks littering Enid's thighs as she bent over and knelt. The whole hall must have spotted the bruises that prove moreso than any word she could have uttered what Wednesday has done to their precious submissive wolf.
Wednesday knows then that she's a true villain, irredeemable to her very core, because that revelation arrows straight up her spine and coalesces at the base of her skull, filling her lungs until her chest burns.
Enid looks up at Wednesday through her lashes, and Wednesday is sick with want. She has never desired anything so much as wanting to paint Enid in blood and make her a wife in the middle of this God-forsaken hall, audience be damned.
"What a wicked thing you are," Wednesday breathes, and Enid grins back at her, all teeth.
This is the same expression Enid would wear with a belt around her neck, Wednesday realizes. It's terror, but beyond that, it's desire in its basest form. Something primal that lingers low in your stomach until a moment like this, when it crawls back up your throat. Arousal and fear are two sides of the same coin, as Wednesday very well knows.
The sight of Enid kneeling is a blessing in one eye and a punishment in the other because Wednesday would freely give her whole trust fund to be able to leave this hall right this second rather than suffer through the torment of a formal meal while Enid peers up at her with violence in the lilt of her eyes.
“Will you behave?” Wednesday asks, reaching down to tip Enid’s chin up towards the light, conveniently showcasing her collar to all those curious enough to look. “Or must I take you in hand, Puppy?”
Enid makes a somewhat agreeable noise, quickly nodding her head. She doesn’t have to say a single word for Wednesday to recognize how close she’s hurtling towards the edge; the haze in Enid’s eyes is a clear enough indicator that they need to tread carefully. Wednesday will not be responsible for her actions if one of these rancid wolves dares to look upon her submissive while Enid is in subspace.
“Look at me,” Wednesday breathes, and Enid sways forward, hands landing on Wednesday’s knees as she arches her back and lifts her chin as high as it will go. Purposefully baring her throat wouldn’t garner much attention from humans, but from Devon’s wolves’ reactions, one would think Enid had just done something obscene.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, teeth digging into her lower lip. Wednesday is practically inhaling sugar, her every breath saturated with vanilla. She can only imagine the mess beneath Enid’s skirt.
“Be good,” Wednesday orders, voice coming out sharper than intended, and Enid visibly relaxes, collecting herself enough to settle back onto her heels like the world’s most well-behaved show dog. Wednesday watches closely, searching for any sign of unease—looking for an excuse to leave this hall and this territory and the state, while they’re at it—but Enid seems to be in control of herself. Wednesday wishes she could say the same.
They might as well have been in a bubble, in their own personal little hell of arousal and anguish, because it occurs to Wednesday that minutes have passed without a single word being spoken at their table. The rest of the hall is thrumming with background conversation, dominant wolves all tucking into their meals while submitting wolves wait patiently for their turn to eat, but Devon's table remains silent. Wednesday's neck prickles with the weight of their eyes, and she looks up to try to gauge from which direction the wolves will attack her next.
To her surprise, Devon’s wolves don’t look to be formulating their next plan of attack. The wolves look, dare she say it, impressed.
“A feast implies eating,” Wednesday barks, as much in warning to the eyes still feasting on the sight of Enid kneeling so sweetly as to kick Devon, their dubious leader, into action. “Must I also tell you how to cut and chew your food?”
“Eat,” Devon orders, and the others rush to serve themselves. Chicken goes flying as Bernard lurches too hard and upsets the tray with his meaty, clumsy hand.
“Fucking idiots,” Devon grumbles, shoulders hiked nearly up to his ears. His expression could never be mistaken for welcoming, but still appears more genuine than any look he’s given her so far as he warns Wednesday, “You should watch yourself.”
“Why?” Wednesday asks, absently reaching down to brush Enid’s hair off her sweaty forehead. Enid presses her cheek into Wednesday’s palm. “Because you hope to drive me away from my intended with these childish pissing contests you’re so fond of?”
“Because my mother is watching,” Devon says through gritted teeth, and the other wolves find somewhere else to look beside his face.
Wednesday shifts in her seat, covertly glancing in Esther’s direction. She can’t quite glimpse Esther’s face from this angle, but she can certainly see Enid’s father, who looks positively ashen. It is his expression that convinces Wednesday to act.
“Why does your mother disapprove of our courtship?” she asks Devon directly, throwing caution to the wind. “Is it a question of wealth? Access? Because I assure you, Enid will want for nothing in my care. I do not intend to isolate her from her own people.”
“You’re a witch,” Devon answers, as if that’s answer enough.
“A witch can’t fight,” Maggie interjects, bitter as ever. “A submissive wolf—Enid Sinclair deserves better than dead weight.”
Wednesday frowns. “What, pray tell, gave you the impression that I would be dead weight in battle?”
At her feet, Enid makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh my God, you guys can’t be serious,” she wheezes. “Wednesday—Wednesday Addams? Can’t fight? What world are you living in?”
The other wolves stiffen at the sound of Enid’s voice, but Wednesday smirks, equally amused by the idea of a group of people interacting with her firsthand and concluding that she’s too passive to do what’s necessary. This must be a first, Wednesday thinks. Her mother would be impressed.
“Well,” Wednesday says, “If it’s a question of ability, let us settle it here and now. I’ll gladly face any of you in combat. Name the time and place.”
The rest of the table stares back at her in disbelief, but Enid gives a honk of laughter bordering on hysteria.
“Wednesday, if you murder my brother, I think my parents will be seriously pissed,” Enid wheezes, hands pressed over her mouth. “Oh, Jesus. We’d have to flee the territory.”
“Toby would give us asylum,” Wednesday considers aloud. “His forest may not be yours, my darling, but we’d have plenty of time and opportunity to assemble our forces under Aminder’s protection. I believe I could give you this land back within a year if we chose to siege.”
“I don’t want war,” Enid says, giggles diminishing into honesty. “I don’t.”
Wednesday reaches down to cup her chin. “Leave the warmongering to me, Puppy.” Then, aimed at Devon, she adds, “I would sooner annihilate every warm body on this territory than do something to displease you. Don’t you know what I would do for your happiness?”
Enid hums, dropping her gaze. “I know, Wednesday,” she whispers. “But I still don’t want you to kill everyone.”
“Pity,” Wednesday murmurs. “I think we’d rather enjoy it.”
“Enough of this shit,” Devon interrupts. “You don’t joke about shit like that around here. It’s not fucking funny, Addams.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Wednesday replies, voice cold. “If you have a problem with me, then face me in combat, Sinclair. I had to prove my worth to Enid, so why don’t you prove your worth to me?”
Devon’s eyes flick around the table, neck heating as he realizes the others are already looking at him. He gives a stilted laugh. “You aren’t serious.”
“I assure you, I most certainly am,” Wednesday states. “Unless you’re too afraid to face me?”
Devon scowls. “Do you think I’m an idiot? That reverse psychology shit won’t work on me, lady.”
“If you’re afraid of me, you can just say it,” Wednesday replies. “Trust me when I say you would not be the first.”
Maggie makes an aborted move towards her silverware, then blurts, “You seriously think you could take Devon? You’re joking, right? We’ve been training for our trials for months. What’s a witch going to do against a warrior?”
“I suppose we shall see,” Wednesday responds.
In the wake of that ominous declaration, Wednesday reaches out to serve herself, arranging a selection of meat and bread on her plate. Her silverware glints in the candlelight as she divides the portions into bite-sized pieces and firmly shifts her attention to Enid.
Wednesday knows she's likely sent Esther into a near-apoplectic rage, and relations with Devon have probably irreparably soured with her throwing down the gauntlet, so what better time to introduce one of her own courting traditions than this very meal? After all, every runewitch knows that handfeeding is essential to the formal courting process.
“Shall we give your mother something to really screech about?” Wednesday murmurs.
Enid nods, eyes alight with something cruel. “Yes, Wednesday.”
Notes:
HELL YEAH WE'RE BACK THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE i enjoyed every single comment wondering when this story would return from war and/or if i was still alive
UPDATE 10/13: 500K HITS ON OCTOBER FRIDAY THE 13TH?? WHAT THE FUCK
UPDATE 10/15: sorry guys i'm running behind this chapter, next update will go up sometime this week!
UPDATE 10/21: chapter 93 is done and going up in the next few hours, just waiting on edits to come back! i just sent twenty two pages to my beta so pls keep him in your thoughts and prayers, and me in your thoughts and prayers that my beta doesn't kill me :D
Chapter 93: Eat
Notes:
kink warnings: handfeeding, oral fixation, ungodly amounts of saliva
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as Enid enters the kitchens, she knows she's made a grievous mistake.
"Ugh," someone complains. "What's that smell?"
A girl Enid vaguely recognizes from middle school shifts around and scrunches her nose. "Probably that," she hedges with a pinched expression. Her gaze isn't kind.
“Jesus Christ, it’s Sinclair,” another wolf whispers, elbowing her friend.
Enid feels heat rush towards her ears as all the other courting wolves turn towards her. Some, like Debbie Hall, only eye Enid with the removed sort of interest unique to bearing witness to someone else’s drama. Alyssa and her friends, on the other hand, make a point of sneering in her direction. There are not many courting wolves this season—less than twenty by her count—but many were bystanders if not outright tormentors in Enid’s middle school years. It figures that the very same girls and boys who’d ground Enid down to paste as children would evolve into submitting wolves angling to secure themselves a dominant mate as adults.
Competition is inevitable in every interaction between wolves, even the most casual conversation becoming a veritable battle of wills, and Enid’s packmates are no exception. Somehow, in her eminent wisdom of letting Wednesday egg her on to the point of walking around smelling of slick, Enid had forgotten how the submitting wolves would react to her presence. Only submissive wolves can produce slick; submitting wolves, like Alyssa and her friends, rely on the use of artificial slick to create a similar experience for their partners.
The idea of any of these people shoving what ultimately amounts to supernatural lube inside themselves in hopes of enticing a dominant wolf has Enid fighting back laughter. All the suffering she'd endured throughout childhood for the many ways she was other may have been worth it for this rare opportunity to witness Alyssa and her cronies stricken with performance anxiety.
Submissive wolves do not struggle to kneel. Enid has nothing to prove to the pack in the traditional sense—not in the way these other wolves do. Courting wolves are always bid to wait in the kitchen until the crowd has settled and then sent out one by one in front of the entire pack. Their kneeling is a performance, a test set by the dominant wolf in the courtship to ensure their prospective mate knows how to behave.
“Don’t be rude, Katie,” Alyssa admonishes her friend, cocking her head with a condescending little smile that reeks of Esther’s influence. “They can’t help themselves. Right, Enid?”
Enid grits her teeth against the urge to duck her head. Alyssa may be actively submitting to Alex, but she’s still a dominant wolf. It takes effort not to back down from her challenge. Alyssa always did have something of a talent for knowing exactly what to say to cut someone best, Enid reminds herself. Even when they were all still children, just beginning to test the bounds of their cruelty, Alyssa was queen of the courtyard. It's a wonder a girl like that could stomach becoming someone's submitting wolf.
The one and only fight that involved Enid in middle school was, in her opinion, firmly the fault of Alyssa. Eighth grade was a difficult year for Enid, her inability to wolf out no longer excusable, and Alyssa had pushed her just a little too far. Enid doesn't quite recall the finer details, but she remembers Alyssa insinuating for what felt like the hundredth time that she was a worthless, miserable excuse for a wolf, and it was as though a red mist descended over her, coloring everything with rage. When Enid finally resurfaced, her head felt full of jello and Alyssa had been spitting up teeth.
Come to think of it, that bloody day on the playground was the last time Enid saw Henry Nilson, the first wolf who greeted her in the village square; he and another of her brother Chase’s friends had been the only wolves willing to jump into the fray to drag her off of Alyssa. Enid suspects that she has Henry to thank for keeping her from committing murder at the tender age of fourteen.
Most wolf children are encouraged to settle disagreements amongst themselves, but what Enid did to Alyssa was grounds to suspend her for the last two weeks of eighth grade and forbid her from walking in graduation. Alyssa, alternatively, got a shiny new set of teeth and a nose job.
"When did you even meet my brother?” Enid asks, genuinely curious. “Wasn't he, like, five grades ahead of you?"
Alyssa's lip curls. "What's your point? Alex is a strong dominant with a stellar lineage. The odds of us having a submissive wolf are—" she falters, recognizing what she's said and who exactly she's said it to before gamely continuing on, "Are better than with just any wolf."
"Because of me," Enid dryly says, malevolence alighting in her gut. Perhaps spending all of her waking hours with Wednesday is having a greater impact on her than she thought. "Because of his sister, the submissive wolf. Which would be me." She struggles not to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. "Got it."
Alyssa's calculated condescension shatters as her cheeks flush with anger, but either the impromptu entertainment is starting to veer off into troubling territory or Donna's had enough because the miserable old bitch shouts, "Quiet! It’s time to serve," and even Alyssa knows better than to keep going.
She backs down with a sneer, tossing her hair as she turns back to her friends.
"Courting wolves, stay out of the way," Donna orders. When none of them move, she scowls hard enough to have Enid taking an automatic step backward. "Go, all of you!"
Enid rushes to plaster herself against the wall as those chosen to serve the tables stream out of the prep rooms with their bounty. She even catches sight of Marissa, Pack Leader Flint's mate, as the poor woman struggles to take her tray from the helpful wolf behind her.
Donna maintains a staunch look of professionalism while they watch Marissa Flint leave the kitchens on unsteady legs, but Enid can't help but cringe in sympathy. Her sickness must be getting worse. What little color there had been in her countenance since Enid last saw Marissa seems to have seeped away, leaving a sallow, shaky woman in her place.
The other wolves with trays march behind her, anxious to find their assigned tables and divest themself of the food as quickly as possible. Soon, only the courting wolves and Donna remain in the kitchen, which rings in the sudden silence.
“Get your trays,” Donna orders. “Line up by rank.”
Enid pauses, clutching the tray Debbie passes her in sweaty hands as she reluctantly turns towards Donna. Before she can so much as open her mouth, Donna barks, “Back of the line, Sinclair. You go last, useless girl.”
Enid nods and hurries to take her place behind Debbie, overwhelmingly grateful that the other girl doesn’t try to initiate any small talk. Debbie Hall had always been quiet, eager to avoid conflict—which is ironic, considering her father is second only to Jordan Clifford’s in the Warrior Corps. Enid’s just grateful to be as far as possible from Alyssa’s group, who have formed a little cluster at the front of the line and are ensconced in what sounds like a heated debate over who should leave in what order.
For all that they’d banded together to disparage the other kids in middle school, Alyssa and her cronies aren’t actually ranked very highly within the pack. Debbie, the only daughter of Leader Hall, and Enid, whose rank skyrocketed by virtue of her rare designation as a submissive wolf, are much more impressive prospects for the courting market than unremarkable wolves from average families.
Suddenly, Katie gives an unbecoming squeak. "Alyssa! Your intended's mom is sitting with the Pack Leader!"
"No fucking way!"
"What, seriously?"
Alyssa nearly bodies her friend out of the way as she surges forward to peer through the crack in the kitchen doors for herself, then straightens up with a smug expression.
"Well, of course, she is," Alyssa snipes. "Would you expect any less from a family forging matches with Pack Leader Montgomery?"
That's not strictly true, considering Enid and Toby will not be getting mated, but Enid doesn't begrudge her the misconception. Esther has done her damnedest to position their family to look more elite than they are.
The Sinclairs aren’t ranked as highly as the Halls and would never have warranted an invitation at Pack Leader Flint’s table if not, most likely, for the brewing conflict with the Montgomeries, but they are a family once removed from legitimate wealth and status. Esther’s paternal grandparents had been the Elders of her birth pack, and even though the wealth of her maiden name had long run dry by the time she reached courting age, Esther Sinclair was diligent in securing a good match for herself.
Her choice of taking a mate in Murray Hughes, a hulking giant of a submitting wolf that the other dominants wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, hadn’t seemed to make much sense at the time. It wasn’t until Esther's league of young sons began to sprout up like their father, tall and strong, that others caught on to her strategy.
If she couldn’t have rank, Esther would produce such impressive children that the pack would have no choice but to acknowledge her lineage’s superiority. The Sinclairs aren’t a wealthy family, but they have heritage and physical prowess; for most wolves, that is enough.
Enid's brothers are indeed quite large compared to their classmates, all healthy and hale with a dominant streak matched only by their mother and the warriors that Devon so desperately wants to join. Hugo Flint might have years of superior combat training to lord over the boys of lower rank, but he still looks like a stick figure standing next to the likes of Alex or Brody Sinclair.
No wonder Alyssa’s acting like a lunatic, Enid admits to herself. Alex is her shiny golden ticket out of mediocrity.
"Go, Alyssa," Donna orders. "Alex Sinclair's table, northwest corner."
Alyssa pastes a ridiculous expression on her face that Enid imagines is supposed to fall somewhere in the realm of demure excitement but comes across a lot more like chainsaw massacre before coasting out into the hall. Alex must have lost his mind, she thinks.
"Next!" Donna barks, and Katie hurries to the door.
Right before Debbie leaves the kitchen, she mutters, “Good luck,” under her breath, and Enid’s left wondering if that little sentiment was meant for her. Who’s courting Debbie Hall, anyway? There aren’t many wolves their age with rank akin to or superior to hers. The daughters of men as powerful as Leader Hall tend to match quickly to other wolves with equal standing. Debbie could have had a real shot at Toby if he hadn't come here expecting a true submissive wolf.
The mystery of Debbie's intended is enough to distract Enid right up until it’s her turn to walk, and then her anxiety comes roaring back with a vengeance. She hasn't attended many formal dinners hosted by her own pack, especially not in recent years, but Enid has seen enough to know the general choreography.
Mothers are always the first to kneel. Only those who have had pups are universally spared from having to fetch food for the tables. Next to walk are those chosen to serve, an array of wolves ranging from young pups to old spinsters with one thing in common: impatience to deliver their food and find their seats before the real show begins.
“Go,” Donna tells her, hand tight on the kitchen door. “Devon Sinclair’s table, northwest corner.”
Having assumed Wednesday would be sitting at Toby’s table in the southeast corner, Enid instead nearly twists her ankle as she pivots to lurch in her brother’s direction. It is by the grace of God that she manages to stay on her feet without spilling the entire tray of food down her front.
What the hell is Wednesday doing with Devon?
Enid hardly remembers the walk through the silent hall. One moment, she’s stumbling over the threshold of the kitchen and trying not to panic at the sound of her brother’s name; the next, she’s standing at Devon’s table, eyes glued to Wednesday’s face.
Whatever fear she’d been harboring in her stomach drains away at once. This is a Wednesday Expression that Enid has only seen in the dark of her heat, in storage closets with silk pulled tight around her neck, in the midst of the lunch hour fervor as Wednesday lifted a cupcake to her mouth, heedless of the hundreds of eyes intent on her person.
Enid is so busy marveling at the look on Wednesday's face that she completely misses her cue to deliver the food, which is the cherry on top of a truly unbearable day. It takes Wednesday glancing at the table for Enid to recall her role and act accordingly.
Once Enid's duty is discharged and there’s nothing left to do but look up and take her penance, she steels herself to meet Wednesday’s gaze.
A person who doesn’t know Wednesday well would assume her expression is neutral—Enid, of course, knows better. She wouldn’t mistake a storm on the horizon for the darkening of nightfall, either.
The thought elicits a memory that Enid had long thought buried, a startling recollection of a song sung by a little girl before the first crack of a thunderstorm. In the way memories do, it comes back fuzzy and fragmented, incomplete in meaning, but Enid’s mouth still knows the words, so she thinks it must be true.
Whenever the woods grew dark and the summer air sat heavy on her shoulders, little Enid would venture out into the woods and sing up to the tallest oak tree:
I hailed her in English, she answered me clear,
"I'm from the Black Arrow bound to the Shakespeare."
So I tailed her my flipper and took her in tow
And yardarm to yardarm away we did go.
“Kneel,” Wednesday commands, and down Enid goes.
Enid drops like her strings were cut, entire body singing as her knees hit the floorboards with a force that reverberates through muscle and sinew and bone. She may not be in heat, but this is what she was built for; kneeling costs her nothing but courage.
All the while, Wednesday stares down at her like Enid is something precious, like she would sooner cut herself on Enid's edges than weather a single moment apart from her. The way she looks at Enid is disaster striking, a phantasmagoria of taking and scorching, killing and saving, a museum of haunted mirrors reflecting every instance that Wednesday has known dread.
It is all Enid can do to hold her head up against the onslaught. The sheer want rips through her, climbing up over her aching ribs and ballooning in her chest until her mouth tastes of honeycomb and blood.
Enid probably wouldn’t have noticed the displacement of fabric on her thighs as her skirt caught the air if not for the reactions unfolding behind her. Her bruises, she realizes too late. Everybody must have seen them when she knelt, must have known what Wednesday did—does—to bring her submissive to heel.
When Sebastian Connors mutters, "Holy shit," his voice catches on the curse like a pre-teen wolf on the cusp of presenting.
The rest of the table reacts in a similar vein, eyes wide with shock, but none more so than Devon, who looks like he's just become unmoored. Enid has never seen her brother so unbalanced.
"What a wicked thing you are," Wednesday murmurs.
Enid smiles back at her, heart sputtering in her chest.
***
Devon Sinclair isn't a wolf who concerns himself with the whims of witches.
He doesn't give much thought to witches at all unless it's to match some joke his friends made with an even worse quip of his own about those witch bitches flouncing around SOLLS. Any wolf as close to taking their trials as he is could think of a thousand better ways to waste his time before sitting down to contemplate how witches fit into their society—the answer, of course, being that they don't. Outcast Alliance from forever the fuck ago or not, Devon would never call a witch his comrade. War could break out tomorrow and it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Devon would sooner kill himself than take up arms beside one of them.
That said, his little sister has balls of steel, daring to bring one of those freaks onto the territory. All Sinclairs are fearless, but Enid's threshold for making intelligent decisions must be through the floor because bringing the Addams girl here was just plain dumb.
Chase and his grand stroke of idiocy was bad enough for the family, and now Enid of all people thinks she can pull the same shit? No wonder mom didn't want her so far from home. Enid clearly lost her damn mind up there in shitty New England with those ashmakers she calls friends. Witches and vampires…Enid’s circle of friends couldn’t be worse.
In true moronic fashion, his little sister seems to have completely ignored the fact that non-wolves can never know true friendship. Those freak friends of Enid’s will never run as a pack and fight and fuck and kill the way Devon's group can—the way his group will. Once they pass their trials and become warriors, Devon’s group will be indomitable. Everyone knows it.
In all honesty, Chase's betrayal hadn't hit him that hard. Devon was already well into training by the time Chasey came home and decided to blow up their family, and his brother was—Chase was just a third son anyway. Third sons are nobodies in the grand scheme of things. Devon won’t waste his breath on a person he no longer considers pack.
Enid’s actions, on the other hand, are a serious fucking problem for him because his sister was supposed to mate with a future Pack Leader. That little asshole Montgomery kid was supposed to mate with his sister and elevate their whole family to standings that a shit-out-of-luck fourth son like Devon could normally never dream of.
Devon would have had a place in the world after his sister mated with Toby Montgomery. Instead, he now has responsibility for a group of trainees on the edge of fucking meltdown the closer the full moon comes, and a good-for-nothing witch with brutality in the set of her teeth sat at his table. A witch that leashed his stupid, brainless sister, as if polluting their territory with her presence wasn’t enough.
Chasey and Enid must share the same illness, Devon thinks, tearing his chicken apart in place of taking the Addams girl up on her pathetic challenge, which he absolutely will do if he has to look at her smug face for one more miserable second.
The stupid bitch didn't even thank him for bothering to warn her about his mother. No, he got a challenge for his troubles. A fucking demand that he fight, which he had to turn down in front of all of his friends like a pussy. She did that to him, Wednesday Fucking Addams.
Maybe Devon's the real idiot to expect any better from a witch.
***
Enid can feel eyes on her back.
She doesn't particularly like the looks she knows she's getting, doesn't know whether she should feel guilty or proud over bruises that she knows most California Trad wolves would see as a badge of honor, but it's difficult to care about anything at all besides the look on Wednesday’s face. Enid can hardly string together coherent thoughts as long as that ragged, bonesaw gaze continues cutting into her face and neck.
Corporal punishment is common enough amongst wolves that seeing a submitting wolf with bruises happens with frightening regularity. Even on a cultural level, wolves are a physical people, and California Traditional wolves tend to take that sentiment to the extreme.
Over time, bruises came to be seen as proof of a submitting wolf's willingness to obey. Enid has witnessed the preferential treatment sown deep into their community for those willing to take a lashing to please their dominant.
If a wolf wearing her caning stripes was spotted in the street, dominants would rush to open doors, offer friendly smiles, and nod their heads in a tiny gesture of acceptance that all submitting wolves, on some level, crave. After all, submitting wolves who take punishments with dignity are strong—not like those weaker, less willing wolves who struggle to obey. Not like Enid, who hasn't been struck by a dominant wolf since she was a child getting whacked by her teachers.
A submitting wolf with bruises is worthy of respect.
It's no small thing for a wolf to strike another, especially not in the tumultuous waters of a new courtship. A dominant wolf often has to overpower their intended at least a few times before the submitting wolf learns to kneel, Enid knows. Most courting wolves struggle to accept their new place.
The wolves from the Montgomery pack will assume they got a glimpse into some kinky shit going on behind closed doors, having seen under her skirt, but the Trad wolves will interpret it as they always interpret bruises on a submitting wolf. By painting Enid's ass and thighs with such obvious violence, Wednesday has inadvertently broadcasted to everyone present that she is willing and able to bring Enid to heel—which is, at its basest level, the crux of being a dominant wolf.
So, when Wednesday leans in and asks, "Shall we give your mother something to really screech about?" Enid nods and breathlessly agrees, "Yes, Wednesday."
The corner of Wednesday's mouth curls up in triumph as the other wolves scowl and shift in their seats.
"Excellent," Wednesday says. "I fear I’ve neglected to explain in significant detail which courting traditions my kin follow. Wolves have a common saying that describes your courting process, correct?”
Enid nods somewhat enthusiastically, pleased to have the right answer on hand. “Food from the hand, a gift of adoration, a promise made in service from the heart.”
Wednesday hums. “Indeed. ‘Food from the hand’ could just as well apply to one of my own traditions—handfeeding.”
Wednesday’s hand flashes out over the table, returning with a mouthful of food pinched between shining black nails. Enid’s nose twitches at the smell of roasted meat.
Devon’s friends follow the track of her hand like they expect her to draw a weapon, but Enid’s too busy fretting over Wednesday’s skin becoming soiled with grease to pay much attention to her surroundings. That explains if not excuses why Enid neglects to notice Wednesday’s other hand curling under her collar until she’s already been hauled up off her ass.
Enid settles on her knees with a punched-out noise, manhandled into the position Wednesday that wants her. Enid’s fingers curl over Wednesday’s thighs, neck craning as she tries to hold Wednesday’s gaze while close enough to share her breath.
Wednesday quirks an eyebrow down at her from the safety of her stool. Her fingers may feel cooler than a fellow wolf's, but the rhythmic stroke of her thumb against Enid’s throat is much more comforting than any touch from her kin could be. At this point, if another wolf tries to touch her, Enid will probably respond with violence.
Whilst there is an expectation that Enid remains on her knees for the entirety of the meal, nobody else is feeding their submitting wolves by hand. Most submitting wolves wait until after the feast ends to grab a quick meal in the kitchens before joining the crowd at the pits.
Wednesday lifts the meat until it dangles directly over Enid’s lips. Admittedly, Enid has never owned a pet, but she’s seen enough videos of people teasing their dogs on social media to recognize the look on Wednesday’s face. As she waits patiently on her knees for permission to eat, fingers twitching on Wednesday’s thighs, Enid tries to embody the spirit of the world’s most well-behaved golden retriever.
“Look at you,” Wednesday whispers, eyes bright. “You’re a natural.”
Enid’s entire body flushes with heat, a fissure of pleasure racketing down her spine. At their core, submitting wolves are animals like any other. How can she blame Alyssa when she’s just as desperate for acceptance, just as clawing in her hunger for praise?
Wednesday sucks in a slow, shuddering breath. “Go on, Puppy. Eat.”
Enid opens her mouth, tongue slipping between Wednesday’s fingers as she takes the food between her teeth. Her eyes flutter shut as she chews and swallows, and though her canines accidentally catch against Wednesday’s skin, Wednesday doesn’t seem to mind the threat of injury. If anything, she presses her fingers deeper, unrelenting even as Enid’s mouth fills with saliva.
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, grip tightening on her collar.
Enid’s ribs end up pressed to Wednesday’s knees, the sensitive back of her scalp brushing against her t-shirt as she lifts her chin and bares her throat. It’s quite the stroke of luck that Enid’s flexible enough to maintain this kind of position without choking. Suddenly asphyxiating and dying at the table would probably put a damper on the feast.
“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” Wednesday murmurs. “You want to be good for me, Enid?”
Enid nods as best as one can around a mouth full of fingers.
“Good girl. Suck,” Wednesday commands, pressing down on the flat of Enid’s tongue.
Even as she parts her lips and saliva spills out over her chin, making a mess of her face, Enid doesn’t slow for a second. She just continues licking and swallowing around Wednesday’s fingers, sucking as if her life depends on it.
For the first time, Enid wonders just how closely Lucía meant when she said she’d be watching over them. If the spirits didn’t want her to make a fool of herself at a formal dinner, they should have sent a representative with more tact than Enid to possess her and stop this desecration of proper dining behavior in its tracks.
Since Enid feels nothing but euphoria at the thought of acting the consummate table pet in front of her mother and living to tell the tale, she figures the spirits are either on her side or adept at turning a blind eye to the shenanigans of the living. Ghosts are probably incapable of secondhand embarrassment, anyway.
Wednesday’s gaze flicks around once the table, gauging Devon’s friends’ reactions, and her lips curl up at the corners at whatever she sees. Maggie Walters, at the very least, probably isn’t pleased to see Enid so happy. That girl has had it out for Enid since lower school, long before the rest of Devon’s friends joined in on the fun of antagonizing her.
Satisfied, Wednesday makes to pull her fingers out of Enid’s mouth.
Compared to most nineteen-year-olds, Wednesday Addams would rank among master strategists, but even she can’t account for every eventuality. Somewhere between being introduced to handfeeding and deciding to perform an explicit act on Wednesday’s fingers in the middle of the dining hall, Enid seems to have lost all sense and decided to go all-in on behaving like a lunatic before her rational brain could catch up and stop her.
A sound of vicious disagreement rips out of Enid’s throat as Wednesday makes to pull away, and Enid’s hand shoots up to catch Wednesday’s wrist and drag those fingers right back to her mouth.
Wednesday's eyes flash with a warning that Enid summarily ignores. Instead of jerking away like she very well could have done, Wednesday twists her wrist in Enid’s grip and manages to grip Enid by the chin. Enid can feel her pulse through Wednesday’s fingertips.
“Hands,” Wednesday barks, and Enid releases her wrist and slaps both palms down on Wednesday’s lap in a single, fervent motion.
Wednesday holds her jaw tighter, urging Enid to look up, and she peers down into her face with something like interest alighting in her features. Her gaze is too sharp for her expression to be forgiving. Her lips would be classically beautiful, if they weren’t drawn back in the beginnings of a cruel smile.
“I thought you wanted to behave,” Wednesday says.
Her words come out quietly enough that Enid knows it’s meant just for her, just to be shared between them, and not one iota of what’s happening feels like it’s for the benefit of anyone else—not anymore. Wednesday isn’t even looking at the other wolves, uncaring of what they think about Enid’s little play at rebellion and how she chose to muzzle it.
Enid, therefore, does not feel guilty at all for lifting her chin and baring her throat again, this time tilting her head to the side to show off the very spot a mating mark would normally sit. There is no position a wolf could take to show more sincere submission besides presenting her ass on her hands and knees, which Enid wagers isn’t a legitimate option in the middle of an occupied hall. Someone sitting at the table gasps out loud.
Either Wednesday understands the gesture or she reads Enid’s intent in her face because her expression warms and she exhales on a sigh. Her thumb drags over the mess of saliva on Enid’s chin, eventually pressing between her lips and sliding into her mouth.
“Messy thing,” Wednesday murmurs. “But you’re trying, aren’t you, Puppy?”
Enid nods, desperation seeping through the cracks of the whine building in her throat.
“I know you are,” Wednesday hums. “Doing so well, good girl. I’m proud of you.”
In hindsight, Enid is a little bit shocked she made it that far into the meal before dissolving into tears. Her chest feels like it’s been cleaved in half, like it might just cave into itself at the sound of those words coming out of Wednesday’s mouth, and worst of all, Wednesday’s gaze softens like she knows.
Wednesday makes a gentle, soothing noise under her breath that Enid knows would never have come out of the girl who once adamantly refused to remove her serial killer decor from a shared dorm room. It’s the sort of reassurance a seasoned rider would use to soothe a restless horse, a completely natural reaction from the woman that even Enid’s wolf recognizes as her dominant at the sight of such obvious distress.
Wednesday knows how to handle submissive wolves. For the very first time, Enid realizes that she had been wrong to think Wednesday being a non-wolf would make a lick of difference. She could be a witch or a normie or a vampire for all it would matter in the end.
Unlearning the biases Enid has swallowed since birth is a difficult mountain to crest, but she now knows Wednesday well enough to recognize the pretty golden truth when she sees it, rune or not.
Before either of them can speak, there’s a sudden shattering of glass, and the other wolves yelp as the ice water that previously sat contained in a jug near Maggie’s elbow splashes out over the table. Someone tipped it over, Enid realizes, watching Sebastian and Bernard jump to their feet with voices raised in complaint. They seem to think Maggie is responsible, though her denials are vehement enough to have even the surrounding tables wincing at her volume.
“Sit down!” Devon barks, and though the other wolves continue snarling at each other, they reluctantly obey.
Wednesday rolls her eyes, reaching out and laying her palm in the water with the air of a put-upon parent forced to intervene before the children cause real damage. As soon as she makes contact, the whole puddle goes up in a puff of steam as if it was never there.
Enid’s mouth, which had been open in half-formed question, claps shut once she spots the covert rune drawn on the palm of Wednesday’s hand. Where did Wednesday even find ink?
Devon’s friends are still frozen in something between disbelief and abject terror, eyes bugging out where they all stare down at the missing puddle, but the commotion of the water jug wasn’t for naught; the surrounding tables, who had been watching Enid and Wednesday with some intensity up to this point, seemed to have lost just enough interest to go back to socializing amongst themselves.
Enid recognizes the brief respite for what it is, clinging to the frayed edges of herself in an attempt to get it together before the spotlight returns.
Devon seems to be devoting his energy to sending Wednesday a hard, disapproving look, but Enid can see him hiding his wet hand beneath the cover of the table.
“Shit,” Sebastian mutters, shoving his plate away from himself. “Such a damn clutz, Magdalena.”
Maggie sends him a truly vicious look. “Call me that again and see if you walk out of here.”
Sebastian sneers at her, but it’s clearly just for the form of it because his eyes, like all of them, keep straying back to Wednesday.
No matter which way you slice it, what just occurred between Enid and Wednesday was clear as dawn to the other wolves present. All of Devon’s friends are learned enough to recognize a power play between courting wolves—even one conducted for reasons other than what they automatically assume.
Enid knows that Wednesday merely wanted to infuriate Esther, perhaps even had hoped to share a little of her own culture with her intended, but wolves are inherently unconcerned with outsiders. Wolves, as a rule, think only of themselves and the world as they see it, and a dominant wolf would only degrade their intended in public to demonstrate the breadth of their control.
The other wolves frankly have no other choice but to accept that Wednesday is among the strictest of taskmistresses, as hard and heavy-handed as any one of them would act with their own submitting wolf, perhaps even more so considering Enid is a submissive and shouldn't need to be taught. None of them would dream of going as far as feeding a submissive like a dog from the dinner table.
"Have I been good, Wednesday?” Enid quietly asks, unable to help herself.
Though Wednesday’s face remains unchanged, her gaze is so heated and intense that Enid's pussy feels like it has a heartbeat of its own. “You have.”
The whole table flinches, hands slapping over noses and choked sounds hastily being muffled under palms as the smell of Enid’s slick bleeds into the air.
“Cut that shit out,” Devon hisses at Enid, and she jolts at being directly addressed with such venom.
Wednesday reacts like she was the one threatened, rearing up and sneering, “Or what? Do you plan to teach me a lesson, Sinclair? I already invited you to try.”
The other wolves exchange wide-eyed looks.
“I mean, she did challenge you,” Sebastian pipes up.
Devon scowls. “Shut up. And don’t fucking push me, Addams.”
“Why?” Wednesday persists. “Ah—of course. You’ve never fought with anything worth risking on the line,” she sneers. “Well, I suppose ensuring you’re well-rested for your trials ranks higher than honor in these parts. Pity.”
Devon’s expression turns ugly. “Don’t you tell me about honor,” he says in a low voice. “You witches know nothing about it.”
“Then what? Do you fear I’ll kill you?” Wednesday’s nose scrunches up with distaste, but she nods and concedes. “Fine. To first blood, then.”
“For the last time, I never fucking accepted your challenge!” Devon explodes. “What do you think happens to me when I hamstring you in the pits, huh? You think Montgomery’s just going to call it even and fuck off? I don’t want his shitty warriors coming after me, Addams! I’m not letting some whore witch screw up my life.”
“It seems to me that you’d have nothing to lose and everything to gain from beating me publicly,” Wednesday replies, firmly in her element now that Devon has lost his temper. “Unless you believe you might lose?”
Devon's face relaxes out of its scowl as if the very idea is ludicrous enough to ground him. “Fuck you."
Wednesday shakes her head in dismissal. “Words of the weak,” she replies.
Devon's face twists with old humiliation. Enid had heard about it when he lost to Jordan Clifford in the ring last year, but Devon must be at least adequate to have made it this far in the trainee program. Not everyone can be Hugo Flint, who allegedly hasn’t lost a bout in the pits since middle school.
There was never a time when Enid found any aspect of Hugo attractive, but she didn't realize his average height and stature were deceiving until after she saw him fight. Superior height and weight mean nothing against brutality and a willingness to go further than most wolves would in order to win. Much as it vexes her, Hugo isn't dumb. His particular brand of cruelty translates well to fighting in the pits.
“Another, Puppy?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid opens wide. She’s already covered in sweat and saliva; there’s no harm in batting for a triple and showing off her teeth, too. Wednesday sends her a dry look, but she certainly isn’t complaining when Enid starts sucking on her fingers. Miraculously, Wednesday seems to forget all about her quarrel with Devon with the prospect of shoving things inside of Enid’s wet mouth to distract her.
"I don't get it," Bernard whispers. "She's not even a wolf."
"Witches have power, too," Sebastian hesitantly admits, though he says the word witches like a slur. "What? Don't give me that face, we all just saw—whatever the hell that was. Where’d the water go, Devon?”
Devon grinds his teeth. “Fuck off.”
Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Their magic is disgusting, but it's still powerful.”
“I don’t remember any of the witches at SOLLS vanishing water with their bare hands,” Bernard mutters.
Wednesday frowns, finally drawing her eyes away from Enid’s face. Enid tries not to mourn the loss as Wednesday aims her discontent at Sebastian.
"I pity the fool who believes magic can replace experience," she states. "Though I would expect nothing less from a table of dominants without submissives of their own."
The other wolves bristle in their seats.
“The fuck do you know about us, anyways?” Maggie snaps, but Wednesday has already lost interest.
She reaches down to cradle Enid’s cheek in her palm, dark eyes intent on Enid’s face.
"I marked your thighs just this morning," Wednesday murmurs. "It was only hours ago, but I already miss it. You make such a pretty pet, Enid."
"You did that to her this morning and she's still walking?" Bernard interjects, aghast. "What the fuck, Addams? How is that even possible?"
“I don’t think experience explains her sub waltzing around on two feet after a caning,” Sebastian snorts.
Wednesday purses her lips. “Of course not,” she replies. “Magic is an essential aspect of our dynamic. Do you separate yourself from your wolf whenever you have sex?”
“The hell are you talking about? We are wolves,” Bernard replies. “What you just said doesn’t make sense.”
Enid prays no one noticed her flinch. She quickly lowers her cheek to Wednesday’s knee, looking up through her lashes with her best impression of innocence.
Wednesday’s eyes narrow down at her like she senses the mutiny, but she lets it go and responds to Bernard, “Precisely my point. I cannot remove myself from my magic any more successfully than you could keep from operating purely on emotion due to your upbringing as a wolf. Magic inherently affects every part of our relationship, doesn’t it, Puppy?”
Enid nods, though her answer comes a bit more sluggishly with Wednesday’s clean hand carding through her hair. “Yes, Wednesday.”
“What does magic have to do with a caning?” Maggie demands. “Do you even know what you’re doing with Devon’s sister? You could seriously scare her or—or hurt her if you’re not careful.”
Wednesday looks like it costs her dearly not to roll her eyes, but Enid knows better than anyone how seriously she takes discussions of Enid’s safety. "The fact that you administer punishment without magic is what’s frightening. I would never cane my submissive without active runes in place,” Wednesday replies.
Maggie scowls. "Runes? You think that—that coloring book shit makes up for the fact that you can’t read your own sub, Addams?”
“‘Read my own sub’?” Wednesday repeats. “Whatever do you mean, Magdalena?”
“Don’t call me that!”
Bernard's face scrunches up. "Wait, what are runes?"
Wednesday opens her mouth to answer, but Enid blurts, “There were runewitches at SOLLS?”
Maggie glances at her, looks away with something like nervousness, then snaps, “Aren’t you going to answer your sub, Addams?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to keep from leering at my submissive like a starving dog? I don’t believe I gave you permission to look at her.”
Maggie’s lips curl as she snarls across the table, but Devon shoots her a look, and she grips the table and forces herself to lean back.
“You talking about the tattoo kid, Maggie?” Sebastian speaks up. “He transferred out two years in, but he was a…runewitch, or whatever. Fuck, what was his name?”
“Ask Montgomery,” Owen mutters from beside Devon.
Wednesday’s brow furrows as she turns on him. “Why would I ask Toby?”
“Well, the kid was his fucking friend,” Bernard scoffs on Devon’s other side. “It’s not like we were fraternizing with witches.”
“Not a chance,” Maggie sneers, back to gripping her butter knife. “There were probably others of your kind lurking around our school, but that kid was obvious.”
For some reason, Wednesday looks thoroughly displeased by that revelation. Her hand tightens in Enid’s hair almost possessively as she exhales through her nostrils.
“Shit, his skin lit up like a fireworks show whenever he got upset,” Bernard snorts, nudging Devon. “Remember that time he cried in the locker room after PE?”
Devon makes a noise that’s decidedly unkind. “Kid was a pussy,” he dismisses. “They always are.”
Wednesday does not look amused. “You clearly are not familiar with runewitches,” she says, voice cold. “Else you would know there are runes that melt steel like butter, that cause the touch of a loved one to turn skin to ash. I’ve seen a fully conscious person convinced by runes that their night terrors spilled into waking life.”
Sebastian, Owen, and Maggie look suitably disturbed by this, but Bernard sucks in a hard breath.
"Wait, so—you can do anything to your sub using those runes and all that shit?" he asks, aghast. "You can make it hurt more?"
"Of course," Wednesday agrees, voice coming out a bit more cruel than she probably intended, "But that would be a waste."
Enid swallows back a surge of laughter, hiding her face in Wednesday's knee a second time. The other wolves are beginning to look at Wednesday like she's a dark lord sitting in their midst, which is saying something considering the upbringing her packmates undoubtedly had. As far as misunderstandings go, Enid has never seen one so comical in proportion—besides, perhaps, the confusion that led to Wednesday holding a séance to convince Enid that she loved her.
Even though Enid knows it wasn't her intent, there is nothing Wednesday could have said to greater effect on these wolves than increasing the hurt is a waste of my time.
"There are runes that prevent welts, that keep skin from splitting, that forestall bleeding," Wednesday lists, oblivious. "These are obvious advantages in any high-risk scene with a submissive partner, as I’m sure you can imagine. Runes can, in essence, alter any physical sensation. There's no limit besides the bounds of your own creativity, is there, Puppy?"
"No, Wednesday," Enid agrees, shaking her head. Then, because she apparently lacks any sense of self-preservation, "Miss my colors, Wednesday."
Wednesday’s eyes darken with remembrance, but she doesn’t have long to luxuriate in the thought.
"Colors?" Sebastian repeats. “What does she mean, Addams?”
Wednesday reluctantly pulls her gaze away from Enid. "Certain runes color words with the emotion or intent of the speaker," she answers. "Lying, thus, becomes impossible."
Wednesday clearly hadn’t expected the level of reaction that revelation would garner, but Enid knows how valuable a wolf would find the ability to detect deceit. Most wolves figure out how to rein in their scent by adulthood. Unless a wolf loses their temper, it can be difficult to discern the true intent behind their words.
"Can anyone learn runes?" Sebastian asks.
"Bash," Devon snaps. "Cut that shit out."
The other wolves avert their gazes.
Sebastian actually cringes, face paling. "Shit, Devon, I didn’t mean it like that. I would never—I’m not a fucking witch,” he says, somewhat needlessly.
Wednesday sighs. "I understand magic isn't encouraged here, but frankly, I wouldn't trust a person who cannot so much as recognize windsong to hold open a door, let alone cane a submissive wolf,” she states.
Maggie frowns. “What does that mean?”
“Why would anyone trust that you had the grit to educate yourself on punishment if you couldn't muster the motivation to learn about your magic?" Wednesday replies.
The air around the table instantly sours. "We aren't witches," Maggie spits. "The fuck is wrong with you, Addams?"
"You're an outcast," Wednesday dismisses. "You have the ability to be a witch, you just lack the talent and drive."
Of all the things she could have said, insulting this particular group of wolves' ambition tops the list of potential grievances. Enid only has time to wince before Devon’s friends overcome their outrage enough to begin shouting over each other.
"We've spent months preparing for our trials!”
“Who the fuck are you, some Jersey Trad bitch? Give me a break, the hell do you know!”
“No wolf with honor would degrade themselves with that tree-hugging shit! We won’t do it!”
“She’s not Jersey Trad!”
Enid notices Toby’s dark head twisting around from across the room, craning in their direction, and she offers him a beleaguered look. Toby grins at her in response.
“How dare you,” Maggie hisses, nearly shaking. “You’re insane.”
"I'm going to let some Jersey Trad bitch tell me about hunting," Bernard scoffs.
"She's not a wolf, Bernard, Christ," Devon bursts out with. "She isn't Jersey Trad! Will you stop saying that crap?"
"I could hunt by the time I was eight years old," Wednesday coldly replies, ignoring the others as she zeros in on Bernard. "Which left eleven years to devote purely to my education in magic. Perhaps you aren't as accomplished of a student? A pity, but understandable given the circumstances."
Enid aims her raised eyebrows at the floor. That’s not going to go over well, she thinks.
“The bitch thinks she can hunt,” Bernard laughs. “You can’t make this shit up.”
"How the hell did you even get with Devon's sister?" Maggie demands, rearing up like she’s been sitting on this exact inquiry all night. The other wolves fall quiet, distrustful eyes focused on Wednesday as they await her response.
Wednesday's gaze becomes unexpectedly soft. "We shared a heat."
She lowers her hand to Enid's lips, and Enid only hesitates for a split second before accepting the mouthful of bread. Wednesday’s fingers end up smeared with her saliva.
Enid halfway expects to be chastised for the mess—they are, after all, supposed to be projecting a certain image to this audience—but Wednesday lifts her hand with all the grace of an aristocrat and licks up Enid’s spit, sucking her fingers clean. She even goes as far as smacking her lips. Maggie’s knife, in an unrelated incident, drops with a dull thump onto the floor.
“One heat?” Maggie repeats. “Just one?”
This kind of behavior is so unlike Wednesday, self-proclaimed subduer of dorm room messes, but it’s exactly in line with a runewitch who regularly deals in bodily fluids. It should be disgusting, and on some level, it is disgusting, but Enid still feels her cheeks begin to burn.
Wednesday hides her smirk behind another piece of bread.
"Can't blame her for that,” Bernard snorts. “A bitch in heat is a bitch that needs breeding.”
Wednesday finishes chewing her mouthful and swallows. There's a glint as the candles reflect off her silverware, then Bernard is screaming and Wednesday's dinner knife has somehow wound up embedded in the table, right through the top of his hand.
"Get it off!" he screeches. His knee slams into the table as he leaps to his feet, upsetting all of the glassware. "Fuck, I wasn't saying it about your sub! Pull it out, Addams, shit!"
"Won't one of your friends help you?" Wednesday mildly asks, offering another chunk of meat to Enid.
Enid’s too busy gaping up at her to even think about food, so Wednesday lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug and eats it herself.
“Devon,” Sebastian says, and Devon clenches his jaw hard enough to squeak.
Enid realizes what’s about to happen a second before it does. Before she can do something to forestall certain disaster, Devon preempts her by jerking the knife out of Bernard, who cradles his hand to his chest and valiantly tries to fight back tears.
For all that Devon was an asshole to her, Enid should have known that he, on some level, genuinely cared about his friends—and would rather die than look weak this close to his trials, she privately admits. It was bad enough that Wednesday issued a challenge directly to Devon’s face, but now that his friend’s been attacked? If Devon doesn’t meet her in the pits, he’ll look incapable of protecting his own. The sort of insolence that leads to an outsider wielding a knife against a wolf cannot be allowed to go unchecked.
If Devon doesn't handle it, someone else will.
Enid realizes this at the same time that she notices Hugo approaching fast on the left with an expression that does not bode well for any of them. Anyone who's been subjected to his presence for longer than ten minutes knows that Hugo Flint will find a way to exploit any situation to his personal advantage, and the altercation unfolding at their table seems to have caught his eye. Enid reaches up to tug Wednesday’s sleeve in warning, but Wednesday’s already spotted him.
Sebastian, unfortunately, has not.
“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “Guess we’ll see you in the pits after all, eh, Addams?”
Devon shoots him a warning look, but the damage is done.
“And why would Addams be fighting in the pits?” Hugo asks, grinning as the table falls silent upon his arrival.
“Well?” Hugo asks, resting his hands on the backs of Devon and Bernard’s chairs. Devon’s face becomes hard as stone. “Care to share with the class, Devon?”
Devon’s lips twitch, then he says through gritted teeth, “Addams made a mistake.”
“Oh, I’m sure she did,” Hugo laughs. “A mistake she’ll pay for with blood. Who's going against Addams, then? You, Bernard?”
If Bernard had appraised Wednesday with fear, that’s nothing on the intensity of the look he gives Hugo. “N-No, I didn’t—I don’t—”
“No?” Hugo pushes, leaning down. “Not you? What, not you who was stabbed by a little girl? Not you who wanted to be a warrior? Too bad it’s not you, Bernard.”
“Me,” Devon spits. “I’m facing Addams in the pits. Her act was a slight against me, Hugo. Leave him out of it."
Hugo’s grin widens to an almost gruesome degree. “Fantastic. I’ll make sure you’re first on the docket for tonight.” Somewhere along the line, his eyes find Enid. “You know, we were light on matchups this close to the hunt. Lucky thing Addams showed up when she did,” he says.
Enid struggles to inhale as Hugo turns on his heel and walks away, probably off to ruin at least a few more lives before the night is out.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Maggie blurts. “Devon—”
“Shut up,” Owen, Sebastian, and Devon say in tandem.
Enid can’t quite believe it, either. The pits were originally established during the war to give aggrieved wolves a place to work out their aggression, but they now serve as something of a combined courtroom and executioner's block. For a society based on strength, fighting in the pits is a law unto itself.
Since official fights need to be approved and overseen by the Elders, it isn’t often that a demand for retribution by blood is granted. Enid has only seen one fight to the death, a response to a terrible crime committed against someone’s mate when she was just six years old, but she still remembers the stench of it all. The entire pack had come out to see justice done that night. It’s one of Enid’s earliest memories.
Warrior trainees unofficially frequent the pits to determine the hierarchy within their ranks, but it isn’t for the faint of heart. Any accidents or injuries this close to the hunt could be detrimental to a hopeful trainee's success in the hunt—and the points Devon originally made against accepting Wednesday's challenge were sound.
If by some stroke of luck, he actually manages to beat her, he'd still have to answer to Toby, who remains responsible for Wednesday's safety. Intelligent wolves don't endanger their standing in the pack by risking honor brawls with heirs. While matches in the pits are largely unofficial, the outcome of the fight either raises or lowers a trainee's rank. Losing to Jordan Clifford had done more than enough damage to Devon's standing amongst the warriors; losing to Toby Montgomery would be catastrophic.
Of course, if Wednesday beats him, Devon can kiss his dream of becoming a warrior goodbye.
Enid had intended to avoid the pits at all costs, fearful of the damage Wednesday could do if left unchecked, but that plan seems to have well and truly flown with Hugo’s intervention. In these parts, among these wolves, the highest-ranked trainee’s word is as good as law.
When Devon glares at Enid like it’s her fault, she shrinks back in agreement.
Notes:
extra long chapter as a thank you for bearing with me! it's bust-your-ass season in my line of work, so this time of year is always treacherous for my posting schedule. just know that even if it's taking longer, i am not abandoning this story. we are in this bitch. thank you for your patience <3
also, allow me to be the first to say: HAPPY HALF A MILLION HITS!
song referenced by enid in this chapter is called "Blow the Man Down," an old sea shanty from the Roud Folk Song Index. this song's Roud number is 2624 if you wanna check it out!
UPDATE 10/31: i'm traveling again this week so hoping to get chapter 94 out on sunday! also wishing you all a HAPPY HALLOWEEN
UPDATE 11/5: i'm finally home but in an almost mirror parallel to this exact same time last year, i am sick as a dog. currently scooting back to reread all of your home remedies from last time i took ill! chapter 94 will go up as soon as possible, sorry for the delay guys
UPDATE 11/14: i'm still sick as a MF but i am struggling through writing this chapter line by line, i'm like sponebob begging for water in sandy's underwater habitarium thing
Chapter 94: Blessing
Notes:
warnings: remarks reeking of codependency and a slight existential crisis whilst contemplating the likelihood of death. also some bloodplay
PLEASE CHECK OUT THIS INCREDIBLE ART OF THE CHAPTER DONE BY ATLAS!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid has always had something of a talent for catastrophizing. Even as a child, moments of joy felt doubled-sided, ripe with a fine print warning that there must be a catch somewhere, but misfortunes? She can balloon a minor inconvenience into a devastating blow with hardly any effort. Her brother Chase calls it a gift.
Whether he’s correct or not, Enid doesn't think it qualifies as catastrophizing to feel nauseous as she accompanies Wednesday to the pits.
“You are un-fucking-believable,” Toby mutters from Enid's other side, voicing her thoughts aloud with the unerring accuracy of someone sharing in the same shade of terror. “Un-fucking-believable, Wednesday.”
Wednesday's expression doesn't change. “Yes, you said that.”
“It bears repeating,” Toby seethes, “Considering you've gone and decided to do this insanely goddamn dumb fucking thing instead of just—!”
“Backing out?” Wednesday poses, cocking her head. “Rescinding my challenge like some bloodless cad whose mouth is bigger than his stomach?” Her answering smile lacks all warmth. “We both know that was never an option, Toby.”
Toby's face spasms. “It could've been an option if you gave me the slightest fucking inkling of what you were planning to do before—before gambling with your life like a moron!” he bellows.
Up ahead, Sebastian glances over his shoulder. “This again?” he calls out, shifting to walk backward to keep them in sight. “Give it a rest, Montgomery. What's done is done.”
“Was I talking to you?” Toby retorts.
“Hey, man. Calm down, yeah?” one of the Montgomery wolves interjects, bumping Toby's shoulder. “You're scaring Addams’ intended.”
Enid pulls a face as Wednesday snorts, “No, he most certainly is not,” and squeezes Enid's hand. It does little to comfort her, though the prospect of Toby scaring Enid—Enid, who readily fought a Hyde on legs as wobbly and untested as a newborn fawn—is admittedly funny.
Toby scowls. “Shut up, Jason.”
Meanwhile, Bernard elbows Sebastian in the side. “Dude, Devon's gonna kill you,” he warns.
Devon doesn't turn, but Enid can smell his anger from here. Her brother seems about as happy about the prospect of facing Wednesday in the pits as Toby, judging by the set of his shoulders and the hard line of his back. Sebastian rolls his eyes as he spins around and hurries to catch up with his friends.
Devon hasn't said much of anything since Wednesday issued her challenge, hasn't even looked at Enid since Toby found out what happened two minutes into the dessert course and promptly lit into Wednesday with such ferocity that both of their groups had to vacate the hall lest they attracted unwanted attention from the Pack Leaders’ table, but Enid can guess where blame is being assigned for this latest unmitigated disaster. Her intended, her fault. It's practically the golden rule, Enid miserably thinks.
If Maggie's glare is this hateful from twenty paces away and with multiple Montgomery packmembers walking between them as a precautionary measure, Enid can only imagine how awful it would be if the other wolves hadn't unanimously agreed to keep Devon and Toby separated.
“I already fought in the pits once,” Toby bursts out with. “You're gonna make me do that again, Wednesday? Seriously?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow as Enid misses a step.
“That's assuming I lose,” Wednesday replies. “If I win, you need not bother.”
“You've already fought in the pits?” Enid demands, aghast. “Toby! When did that happen?”
Toby pushes his bangs back with a harried expression. “Before you came home,” he admits. “Jordan Clifford challenged me my first night here. Think he was looking for an easy win before the hunt.”
Enid automatically cringes, seeking out the back of Devon's head while praying he didn't overhear mention of his arch-nemesis, but Devon's group seems to be firmly embroiled in some argument about last year's hunt. It feels like the first stroke of good fortune Enid's experienced all day.
“I suppose that explains why Clifford reacted with such vitriol to our alliance,” Wednesday muses. “He doesn't strike me as a graceful loser.”
“How the hell did you beat Jordan Clifford?” Enid asks, lowering her voice. “You do know that the only trainee he hasn't beaten is—”
“Hugo Flint,” Toby answers. “I know.”
Wednesday frowns. “Hugo Flint is the highest-ranked warrior trainee?”
“He hasn't lost in the pits since middle school,” Enid reveals, doing her damndest not to scowl at the reminder. It rankles to think that Hugo might be accomplished at anything besides being a huge prick.
“And I lead the trainees in my pack,” Toby reminds her. “What, you think I couldn't take him? I'm hurt, Shark.”
“Please. You're California Reform—you probably don't even have pits,” Enid retorts.
Toby concedes with a shrug. “Not since before I was born. My father did away with the pits after his best friend died in the ring.”
In the wake of that sobering declaration, they turn the final corner, and the trail is suddenly awash with a hellish orange light that Enid will only ever associate with the pits. The fighting ring is a deep-set cradle dug into the ground by the wolves of old, walls packed with hardened mud and something darker that Enid doesn’t like to contemplate too closely. Only two sets of rickety stairs lead down into the dirt. There is no audience stage built low into the ring; friends of the fighters may only accompany them as far as the steps. The rest of the pack always watches from high overhead, peering down from the safety of the trees. Enid supposes the sight of such an imposing structure must be intimidating to an outsider. Even Wednesday looks a little bit surprised by the production of it all.
“We're here,” Toby announces. “Here I am again. Back at the pits,” he adds a bit petulantly.
“Relax, man. If you could take Clifford, you can certainly wreck the Sinclair kid,” Jason assures him, clapping Toby on the shoulder.
Enid's paltry luck appears to have run out because Devon chooses that moment to approach them and his face goes red with anger when he overhears.
“I'll see you in the pits, Addams,” he bites out. “Montgomery—you’re on deck.”
Toby nods, and the Montgomery wolves disperse as Devon stalks off to find a place to warm up.
“So little faith,” Wednesday muses. “Are you all so certain Devon will beat me?”
Enid winces. “They don't know better, Wednesday,” she mutters, ignoring the weird look Toby shoots her.
“It's not personal,” Toby assures Wednesday. “I know that sounds shitty, but it's not. All that matters here is rank.”
“And I have none,” Wednesday echoes a bit ominously. “So my challenge means nothing besides a headache for you and potential ruin for Devon. Even when I win, I've only beaten a third-rank trainee.”
“It could be worse,” Enid pipes up. “You could be fighting a Hyde or an undead pilgrim instead. This is, like, decidedly an upgrade from that.”
Wednesday's eyes alight with the unsettling glint that always precludes some act of madness, which tends to lead to them ending up in mortal peril or jail. Enid's hair stands on end at the sight.
“Not sure what that means, but I'll be right there with you, okay?” Toby asks, oblivious to the trouble Enid can sense brewing behind Wednesday's placid expression. “I'll be waiting on the steps. Don't let him crack your skull open to prove a point, Wednesday. If Sinclair beats you, I'll step in and take care of it. We won't leave here defeated.”
Wednesday's eyes are bright. “We most certainly will not.”
“Wednesday,” Enid interjects, biting her lip. “Listen, Wednesday—you shouldn’t—”
Wednesday turns her gaze on her, and Enid's teeth snap shut with a clack.
“I understand,” Wednesday states. “I will handle this, Enid.”
Toby seems to have finally caught on that something beyond the obvious is amiss, his gaze whipping back and forth between them. “Wait, what?”
“W-Wednesday—” Enid weakly protests, wringing her hands.
Wednesday catches her wrist and squeezes tight. “Before the fight begins, can I ask a favor of you, Puppy?”
***
In truth, Wednesday doesn't have much experience administering blessings like the runewitches of old, but she’s seen her Aunties performing the ritual enough times to get the gist. She’s witnessed enough to illustrate exactly which rune Enid should paint on her face to bless her for battle.
“Are you sure it should be my blood?” Enid asks for the third time, teeth digging into her lower lip.
Wednesday feels a bizarre urge to smile. “Yes. Your blood blesses me with your approval for this act,” she explains. “With your blood, I am bound to win.”
Enid nods, cheeks pinkening as she steps into Wednesday’s orbit. The smell of her blood is suffocating in these woods.
Despite knowing what medium must be used for a combat blessing like the one Enid is about to bestow on her, Wednesday had been reluctant to ask for Enid’s blood. She’d loathed the mere idea of causing even the slightest harm to Enid, but Enid had no qualms about slitting her finger open on one of her canines before Wednesday had even finished explaining the point of all this. Then they were awkwardly stood there, Enid allowing precious droplets of her blood to go to waste as it dripped into the dirt and Wednesday feeling somewhat strangled by her intended’s willingness to follow her without question.
Blood is one of the only known universal magical conduits. A blood sacrifice will bolster the strength of any magic to a nearly incomprehensible degree; its use in rune magic is typically reserved for rituals like the declaration of intentions, marriage vows, and seeding for that very reason. No witch in their right mind would take a blood sacrifice lightly, but in this case, with Wednesday’s life on the line, she feels it’s a worthwhile risk to ask for Enid’s offering in the heart of her forest.
Wednesday’s face feels tacky and damp once Enid starts tracing lines on her skin, the magic in the air around them thick enough to bite as the rune writ in blood begins to take shape over the bridge of her nose and curve of her cheeks. If Enid develops a genuine interest in rune magic, Wednesday could teach her all types of blessings. There are runes for fertility, for funeral rites, for war—which, incidentally, is the precise sort of blessing Enid is currently painting over Wednesday’s mouth and chin. Wednesday only had to trace the bones of the Vengeance rune once in the dirt for Enid to master its shape. She has a natural talent, Wednesday thinks, if this ends up being a magic Enid might like to pursue. Perhaps Gomez can speak with her about it when they have the time.
“Finished,” Enid reports, voice lowering.
Wednesday would have known without her confirmation. Her face throbs under the errant energy of the rune, unbridled and reckless without a binding intention to seal it under her skin. The Montgomery wolves wisely chose to give them space once Wednesday began tracing runes in the dirt. Even Toby had disappeared with Jason under the pretense of evaluating the condition of the ring before the match starts in earnest.
“How does it look, Puppy?” Wednesday asks, voice coming out sharper than she’d intended.
Enid shudders. “It’s—Wednesday,” she breathes, pupils dilating in the flickering light. If Wednesday were inclined towards such displays of unrestraint, she might have blushed at Enid’s expression.
“Now say the words,” Wednesday tells her. “Like you would while casting a wish on the stars. You have my blessing for these actions taken.”
Almost absently, Enid lifts her hands to cup Wednesday’s jaw, fingers ghosting over her neck. “You have my blessing for these actions taken,” she echoes, voice as dry and unsettling as the rattling in the trees.
“Let my shield be raised in your defense, so the world might never overtake us,” Wednesday vows.
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “Let my shield be raised in your defense, so the world might never overtake us,” she repeats.
Her scent burns with a sudden influx of wild berries and rotting wood that tugs at the filmiest corner of Wednesday's recollection. She imagines this must be how it would feel to watch a video of a memory, if such a thing were possible. Every impression Enid's magic shares with her is vivid and extant through a lens that Wednesday knows well. Morticia's magic may follow a different melody, but she sings the same song of steel.
It is evident that Enid knows vengeance as well as anyone. If this memory of dampness and decay is real, it's a place those whom Enid doesn't love should fear.
“By my blood, I extend this offering of peace,” Wednesday finishes through gritted teeth.
Enid’s gaze is piercing. “By my blood, I extend this offering of peace,” she whispers, and for a split second, Wednesday imagines that her eyes are a perfect mirror image of the night sky. Endless and haunting. Swallowing, grasping, deeper than the lowest deep.
The air goes still on Enid’s final word, as placid and unchanged as if it had never roiled at all. Wednesday and Enid relax in tandem, equally aware that whatever magic had surrounded them has settled, bound to good intentions and a future neither of them can rightly anticipate. The path is set, Wednesday thinks. Sebastian was right; what’s done is done.
“Addams,” one of the Montgomery wolves calls out, edging as close as he dares. “The elders are here. It’s time.”
Enid makes a choked little noise of horror. “Did you just say the—the elders are here?” she demands. “Who would have—?”
“You really have to ask?” the Montgomery wolf interrupts. “That shithead Hugo Flint is one hell of a future Pack Leader, Sinclair. That's all I'm saying.”
Enid practically snarls in response.
Now that Wednesday’s paying attention to their surroundings, she’s aware that hundreds of wolves have begun to spill into the spectating area set high above the ring. The Montgomery wolves look grave and unaccustomed to such a wanton display of violence, but the Flint wolves hunger for the fight. Hugo can be spotted across the ring with his father, leaning against the rail with a self-satisfied grin.
"Why are they looking at you like you committed a capital crime?" Wednesday quietly asks, fitting her palm over the back of Enid's neck.
Enid arches into the movement, apparently unable to help herself. When Wednesday's nails drag over the sensitive skin of her neck, Enid makes a sound that Wednesday wishes she could bottle and preserve for her own personal use.
"You know how wolves are seen as a unit? Mates, at least?" Enid whispers, eyelids fluttering.
“Are you referring to the tribalism of the pack as a whole, or the emphasis on collectivism over individualism?” Wednesday asks.
"Um…" Enid bites her lip, teeth glinting in the torchlight. "The second one?"
Wednesday nods. "How does that correlate with your brother's friends trying to manifest lethal telepathy?”
Enid cracks an eye open in time to notice Maggie's glare before it darts away from them. She seems to be weighing her words carefully.
“Your actions are my fault,” Enid eventually replies. “And, to a degree, Toby's, I guess,” she considers.
Wednesday struggles not to show her disapproval. “That's hardly fair,” she states.
“Fairness isn't exactly, like, a core tenant of being a wolf,” Enid mutters, lashes casting spidery shadows over her cheekbones. “And you challenged Devon where Hugo could hear. There's no walking that back.”
Wednesday frowns. “Does it truly matter who issues the challenge?”
“I mean, yeah. If Devon challenged you, Toby could’ve just stepped in for you whether you liked it or not, but this way is—it’s finite.” Enid swallows. The light of a nearby torch catches in her eyes, throwing her whole face in stark relief as she finally meets Wednesday's gaze. “This way, Toby can only answer for your defeat.”
One of Wednesday’s braids shifts in her breeze, exposing the side of her neck.
“Excellent,” Wednesday replies, reclaiming Enid’s attention, “Seeing as I have no intention of accepting defeat.”
Enid stares back at her with eyes wide open.
“So certain you'll win, Addams?” Sebastian interrupts, sidling up next to them. Across the ring, Devon shoots them a furious look as he begins his descent into the pits. “Pretty arrogant of you. Devon's ranked third in the class,” he remarks.
“And I am the daughter of Gomez Addams, son of the Bone Weaver,” Wednesday replies. “You should attend to your friend, Sebastian. I daresay he’ll need your support.”
Sebastian sneers and takes off, swallowed up by the thickening crowd as Toby begins making his way back towards them.
Before he can reach their little spot under the trees, Wednesday turns to Enid. She takes a moment to press her fingertips over Enid’s face, softly, gently, tracing the scar on her cheek and the fluttering curve of her eyelids.
"Don't," Enid suddenly pleads, voice bursting out of her chest. "Don't do this, Wednesday."
Wednesday's fingers pause. "Are you asking me not to fight?"
Enid gives a great, shuddering breath. "Don't die on me, Wednesday,” she begs. “There’s nothing for me—I won’t—I won’t. Not without you,” she insists.
Wednesday stares at her, brow furrowing as she tries to pinpoint the source of the fear in Enid's voice, but she wouldn't understand even if Enid could successfully convince her that a human doesn’t stand a chance in single combat against a wolf. To Wednesday, the only fights worth having are against a stronger opponent. This is the way of her family, her people, her kind.
"I cannot promise you the future, because even that remains beyond my reach. But I have not seen this, Enid," Wednesday ultimately replies.
Enid’s lips pull down at the corners. "What does that mean?"
"I haven't received a vision," Wednesday clarifies, thumbs resting on Enid's jaw. "Generally, when death is imminent, I receive a vision of forewarning. I would consider that a positive sign."
Enid’s teeth clench hard enough to squeak. “I won’t ever forgive you if you die here, Wednesday,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare leave me here.”
Wednesday’s heart swoops in her chest, lungs expanding to the point where breathing is a challenge. “Then you believe me,” Wednesday murmurs. “You believe in my love for you.”
Enid drags her eyes up from the forest floor. Haunting, Wednesday thinks. It is chilling that Enid’s shade of blue can be so beautiful and so frightening in the same glance. Like ice cracking beneath my feet, Wednesday thinks. Like a lake in the dead of winter, waiting and wanting, eager to swallow me whole.
“I won’t, Wednesday,” Enid replies, breath uneven. “Don’t make me.”
Wednesday traces her thumbs along Enid’s jaw, aching to soothe her but burning to fight and prove herself to her intended. “I won’t make you live without me,” she voices aloud, nails digging little half-moon crescents into Enid’s skin. It isn’t a proper mark, but it will do for now.
Enid takes a long, shuddering breath. “Okay,” she whispers, nodding her head.
Wednesday pauses, hands twitching on Enid’s jaw as she considers her.
***
“Wednesday!” Toby calls out, still stuck in the soup of the crowd about ten yards away from where they stand. “You’re due in the ring!”
Wednesday ignores him, eyes still intent on Enid’s face. Enid can feel her mouth quivering, growing slick with blood as her teeth finally split through the skin of her lip. Wednesday's grip tightens around her chin.
“Well?” Enid chokes out, managing to land on the side of teasing rather than terrified. “Time to go, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as she leans in. For one earth-shattering second, Enid thinks she might lick the blood from her lips.
“Ask me not to fight,” she instead says in a low voice, ignoring Enid’s resulting spasm. “Nothing is worth your heartache. If you ask me for this, I will give it to you," Wednesday tells her. Wednesday, who has never shied away from an altercation a day in her life, who would rather wear the bruise of failure than cowardice. Enid almost could believe she was hallucinating if she wasn't suffocating on the stench of the pits and the heady anticipation of the crowd. "If you ask it of me, I will walk away."
Enid bites her bleeding lip. She cannot imagine what it must have cost Wednesday to speak such treachery aloud, and it burns behind Enid's eyes, guilty and wrong.
“No,” Enid says. “I won’t—I won’t live without you, but I won’t ask you for that.”
From the look that crests over Wednesday’s face, one would think she’d already found her victory. “I’ll be back for you, Puppy,” she vows. “Watch me.”
“I won’t look away,” Enid promises, stomach sinking as Wednesday finally releases her and steps back.
Wednesday's lips curve up into the sort of smile capable of ruining Enid's entire day.
"I won't get killed," Wednesday dryly says. "Injured, perhaps, but far be it from me to die in the presence of your mother. You know me better than that."
Enid does. Wednesday is a lot of things, but cooperative isn't one of them; she would never give Esther the satisfaction of watching her die firsthand.
“Wednesday?” Toby appears on their right, still breathing hard from the fight through the crowd. “You ready to—holy shit, Enid, what happened to your lip? Is that blood?”
Toby's hand twitches like he wants to reach out and examine Enid's bruised and bleeding lip for himself, but he wisely chooses not to touch her. A lucky thing, considering he catches sight of Wednesday's bloodied face a second later, and his face drains of all color.
"Wednesday," Toby whispers. "What the hell is that?"
Enid watches with her heart in her throat as Wednesday shifts to face him. “A blessing from my intended,” she announces. “You haven’t yet been introduced to the ways of my kin, but this is how we war.”
“You consider this war, Wednesday?” Toby asks, eyes flicking toward the ring where Devon waits.
When Wednesday smiles, it is wide enough to show her teeth. “No,” she replies, “But you will.”
Notes:
I LIVED LMAO
thank you all for your patience while i toiled through the unknown sickness that was railing me these last two weeks! this chapter is shorter than i’d planned, but i wanted to get something out to you asap so you knew i was still kicking. more to come soon!!! thinking next chapter will go up friday if fate allows
HAPPY BELATED AMERICAN THANKSGIVING!
UPDATE 11/30: well it's the middle of the fucking night and i'm still at work with no end in sight, which is an end of november classic in my line of work, so i'm gonna have to push this bad boy to sunday
**if you haven't seen already, Atlas did some really awesome art of this chapter. give it a look!!
Chapter 95: Challenge
Chapter Text
“You sure you don't want to watch from down there with me?” Toby asks for the fifth time.
“Give it a rest, Toby,” Jason snorts. “Sinclair’s gonna be just fine up here with us.”
“Yeah, we’ve got her,” another Montgomery wolf—Jake?—reiterates.
Toby does not look reassured by that vote of confidence, so Enid takes pity and musters up the most reassuring smile she’s capable of under the circumstances.
“Only fighters get to watch from the stairs. I'm just an audience member, Toby,” she reminds him. It pains her to think that her relationship with Wednesday has boiled down to witness and tribute, but here they are. The fight is due to begin any minute.
Wednesday is already sequestered down in the ring, lips moving fast as she converses off to the side with Leader Clifford, who was tasked with refereeing the match. In truth, fights like these don’t generally include judicial oversight from the Captain of the Warrior Corps, but Enid supposes the unusual presence of the elders in the audience demands some sort of due process.
Toby frowns. “Seems like a shitty system.”
“The pits aren't exactly a pinnacle of technological advancement,” Enid tries to joke, though her voice rings hollow.
Even if she was allowed to descend the stairs with Toby, there's simply no room for more than one wolf on the meager landing reserved for sidelined fighters. Enid will have to watch Wednesday fight from up in the stands alongside everybody else.
Pack Leaders Flint and Montgomery and their accompanying mates are stationed almost directly across from Enid’s little holdfast with the young Montgomery trainees. Some part of her appreciates that Toby’s friends appear to be gathering to offer her moral support. At the very least, she’s grateful that their presence has successfully warded off Hugo, who keeps attempting to catch her eye from across the pits. His father’s close proximity does nothing to mitigate the smug look on his face.
Toby sticks his hands into his pockets, loitering until the last possible second before he has to make his way down into the arena. He'll be in reserve until either Wednesday proves victorious and negates the need for a champion entirely, or she falls and Toby has to step in on her behalf. Enid feels sick to think about it. For all that Toby and Wednesday claim that this is her forest, or whatever, it sure doesn’t feel like she has a lick of influence over the events barreling into fruition down in the open sand.
Wednesday appears to have finally wrapped up her conversation with Pack Leader Clifford as he shuffles to speak to Devon, who flushes red in result. Enid hasn’t lived with her brothers for years, but she recognizes a protesting Sinclair when she sees one. What could they possibly be arguing about this close to the fight?
“Do you resent her for going through with this?” Enid asks without thinking.
Toby's brow furrows as he shifts his weight. “Resent her? No. Am I so fucking mad at her, I feel like I can't breathe? Not as much as before.”
Enid chokes out a harried laugh. Toby almost smiles.
“She can do this,” Enid suddenly insists, swallowing hard. “I know you've never seen her fight, Toby, but she's not some helpless damsel, and she is not an idiot. She—Wednesday knows violence as well as any wolf.”
Toby raises an eyebrow. “I don’t doubt you.”
“But you don’t believe me, either,” Enid mutters, hunching over the rail.
“Can you blame me?” Toby replies, mimicking her stance and frowning down at the ring. “These pits will make mincemeat of anyone. Pretty sure I’ll be smelling the filth of it in my nightmares for years.”
Enid supposes she shouldn’t have been surprised to hear Toby had already been coerced into fighting once; any dominant wolf intent on mating the past prospect of Pack Leader Flint’s son would have had to throw his weight around in order to be taken seriously. For a California Reform wolf, having to bloody himself in the pits is a pretty severe departure from their long-held traditions of verbal communication and legally enforceable prenups. Poor Toby, she thinks, stomach clenching. This whole trip must have been one ordeal after another for him on a seemingly never-ending cycle of horrors.
Wednesday, of course, took the chewing out that Toby inflicted on her in the hall with an unmoved expression. She could have been getting her toenails painted or sitting through a lecture on property taxes, for all that it seemed to bother her to have their closest ally on the verge of exploding into fourth-form out of sheer anger at her actions. If Enid didn’t know Toby as well as she does, she probably wouldn’t have been able to see through the thin veneer of fury cloaking the stink of his fear.
It wasn’t until that moment, listening to Toby spew venom at Wednesday at a volume just low enough to go mostly unheard by the rest of the hall, that his resemblance to Aminder struck Enid as though she was seeing him clearly for the very first time. Even if Aminder and Toby didn’t share the same visage, the same hair and skin and vicious cant of their eyes, the malice in their words would have marked them as kin. He is his mother’s child as much as Wednesday is her father’s brutality and her mother’s fanaticism.
Enid can only hope she doesn’t resemble her parents the way Toby and Wednesday do theirs.
Once Toby was done with Wednesday, he’d moved on to ripping into Devon, and it was at that point the other wolves wised up to the fact that having an audience for this conversation wouldn’t behoove any of them. Considering the fact that Toby and Devon can apparently no longer make eye contact without snarling at each other, it’s a mercy that the Montgomery packmembers took the initiative to herd them all outside when they did.
Toby’s friends are all as towering as he is or taller, but they lack the mettle an upbringing in the Flint pack tends to breed in their wolves. Within seconds of Toby raising his voice in the hall, his friends were swarming the table, pulling out chairs and urging them all towards the door, Wednesday and Enid included. It felt a little bit like being herded by a pack of overlarge sheepdogs.
Wednesday, of course, had watched the proceedings with unbridled amusement. Enid would have warned her not to spur them on if she thought it would help, but the air was already thick with anticipation for the coming carnage, and she knows better than to fight a losing battle. The Montgomery packmembers may not have grown up with the pits, but all wolves are susceptible to the call of violence.
“Almost time,” Jason warns. “Toby—you should get down there, yeah?”
Toby lingers a moment longer, gaze burning into the side of Enid’s face. When it becomes clear that Enid does not intend to look away from Wednesday as long as she remains down there, Toby turns and makes to leave. The loss of his presence, furious or not, has Enid’s throat swelling with apprehension.
A twig snaps beneath his foot when Toby pauses and shifts back towards her, his hesitation ringing like a shot in her ears, as blatant and unassailable as if he’d spoken the words aloud.
“I believe you,” Toby says, voice reaching her through the rising pitch of the wolves around them. “Wednesday can do this. And no matter what, Enid—there will be hell to pay.”
Satisfied, Toby turns on his heel and makes for the closest staircase, dark hair disappearing as he descends into the pits. Enid grips the railing with enough pressure to have the wood creaking in protest. Absently, she wonders if it might shatter under the force of her anxiety.
“—All but guarantee the fight will last longer than two minutes,” one of the Montgomery wolves argues behind her. “Come on, man. You literally can’t lose. I’m giving you chalk!”
“Don’t let him play you, man,” Jason advises from Enid’s left, leaning an elbow on the railing. “Jake’s got a nice little racket going with Cody that reels in suckers like you. Don’t fall for his shit.”
“First off, when was the last time you went head-to-head with anyone for longer than thirty seconds, Jason?” one of the other wolves replies. “You don’t know shit. And second off, it’s not a racket when Jake’s already handed me the meat of his paycheck. It’s up to the fates now whether he goes home a rich boy or a beggar.”
“Yeah, shut up, Jason,” Jake responds. “My money to spend, my money to lose. Well, kid? Are we on or what?”
“We’re on,” another wolf answers, and Enid’s stomach swoops as she recognizes Sebastian Connors’ voice. Sure enough, Devon’s friends seem to have migrated to join them at some point in the interim, and Cody quickly accepts a roll of bills from Sebastian’s hand.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Cody says, squinting down at a little notepad filled with atrocious handwriting. He taps his pen against the sheet. “You want in on this, Travis? Odds are good you’ll go home with a little extra paper.”
Money passes hands as more bets are laid and the crowd progressively grows antsier. Enid squints at Wednesday’s back, wondering what’s taking so long. Is Devon arguing with Wednesday, now? It’s hard to see from this angle.
“Didn’t you give up betting after Maggie’s kid sister took you to the cleaners?” Bernard asks.
“No such thing as a losing position when you refuse to pull out,” Sebastian answers. “And I know for a fact that Sinclair’s witch won’t last ninety seconds in the ring against Devon.”
Enid tenses, but her reaction goes mostly unnoticed. Only Cody catches on, eyes narrowing with a contemplative glint as he peers at her.
“Bets are in,” he finally declares, flipping his notebook closed. “It’s done.”
“Good,” Sebastian retorts, shouldering in on Jason’s other side for a better view of the sand. His mouth is split in the sort of grin that tells Enid his blood is already up before a single bell has sounded. Some wolves are quick to heat at the prospect of violence; Enid dearly wishes she wasn’t one of them.
“You know, I don’t think you guys are giving Addams enough credit,” Jason comments, unabashedly hip-checking Sebastian out of his space. Bernard has to catch Sebastian by the arm to keep him from slamming into Maggie. “Takes guts to challenge a warrior trainee like that. She didn’t even flinch,” Jason muses with the sort of smirk that would have any experienced gambler’s spidey senses going off at high pitch. What does he stand to gain, Enid wonders, from goading the Flint wolves like that?
“Guts, or a total lack of common sense?” Maggie scoffs, arms tightly crossed over her chest. “Just watch. She’s going to get hosed.”
“Yeah? You want in on the action, Walters?” Cody asks, tapping his pen against the cover of his notepad. “Say what you will, but the dog’s looking good tonight. Shit, I’ve never seen warpaint done up in blood before now.”
“It’s not warpaint,” Enid unthinkingly says. “It’s a blessing.”
The other wolves lapse into silence, a little bubble of unrest encasing the lot of them as every eye turns toward Enid.
“A blessing?” Cody repeats. His pen falls still. “Care to say a little more on that, Sinclair?”
Enid swallows, but persists, “Well, I’m not exactly an expert, but it—it’s done before battle. They, um, grant a warrior some sort of blessing, I think? I don’t know, actually, but Wednesday’s kin does this kind of thing before war.” Another beat, and she adds, “This one was called Vengeance.”
Complete and total lack of magical training notwithstanding, Enid understands the concept of asking magic for a blessing in return for a sacrifice. Runes aren’t wholly unfamiliar to her.
Vengeance, Wednesday had called it, when she knelt to trace unforgiving lines into the earth. Enid had to consider what vengeance meant to her, what she would define as justice against a person who had done her harm before she could visualize the outcome of such a rune. It was a grave picture she’d painted, but in the end, Enid’s understanding boiled down to recognizing that successfully carrying out vengeance meant being able to not only identify her enemies but bring to fruition whatever retribution they deserved. That was the gift she’d wanted to give to Wednesday when she drew the Vengeance rune.
Enid hadn’t spared a single thought for the inevitable cost of such magic. Instead, she thought of every hit she’d taken and cruel word endured for the gratification of others. In that moment, smearing her blood on Wednesday’s cheeks, Enid thought of a childhood so awful it was a relief to arrive at Nevermore with no mate, no pack, and no friends.
Enid anointed Wednesday in blood, not a wish for retribution so much as a promise of punishment. She blessed Wednesday with all of the viciousness a submissive wolf with an upbringing in these woods could conceive of, and what magic demanded of her in return, Enid gave without protest.
If her ability to sense danger is the necessary sacrifice to arm Wednesday with the means to succeed, so be it. Enid can live without caution for an hour. Hell, she lived without the instincts inherent to all fully-presented wolves for sixteen years prior to the night of the blood moon—she can survive another sixty minutes for Wednesday’s sake.
Even without functioning risk aversion, Enid’s surrounded by allies. How much damage can she possibly do from all the way up here? In her humble opinion, the deal she struck for Vengeance was a bargain.
“Sinclair,” Jake speaks up, jolting her from her reverie. “What exactly did you mean when you said it was called vengeance?” he presses.
Enid finally pulls her gaze from the pits, shooting a confused look over her shoulder. “You know,” she replies. “The rune on Wednesday’s face.”
There’s a moment of disbelief, a confused sort of silence that weighs heavily on all of them, and then the Montgomery wolves who’d previously placed bets—and who Enid is reminded were raised and educated in an entirely different pack with what appears to be a conflicting view of witches—are clamoring over each other to reach Cody.
“Alright, alright!” Cody barks, squatting down. “No one knew Addams was a runewitch. Go ahead and make your amendments now, you degenerates, because the moment the bell rings, this sheet is closed.”
“Fuck, that was a close one,” a Montgomery wolf breathes out. “Shit, who knew? A fully-trained runewitch.”
“Shit’s starting to make a lot more sense,” another agrees, slanting a curious look at Enid.
From the sidelines, Sebastian scowls. “What the hell does Addams being a witch have to do with anything?” he complains.
“Dude,” Jake laughs, slinging an arm around Cody’s shoulders. “I feel fucking sorry for you.”
Sebastian frowns, but before he can spout a single word in response, Cody’s notebook has snapped closed with a finality that reverberates through all of them. From what little Enid caught of the harried changes made to their wagers, almost all of the Montgomery wolves took a firm position on Wednesday being the victor of her match with Devon. It leaves the Flint wolves looking unsettled and Enid feeling unexpectedly warm.
“Can’t say I saw this coming,” Cody muses. “Guess the dog wasn’t Addams, eh, Sinclair?”
Enid doesn’t bother responding, but something in her expression seems to set Maggie off anyway.
“Who cares what witchy shit she got up to?” Maggie spits. “It doesn’t matter. There’s not a chance in hell that Addams can land a hit on Devon. She’s not an underdog, she’s a lamb headed for the fucking slaughter.”
Cody sticks his pen behind his ear. “We’ll see, won’t we?” he hums.
“Can’t believe we thought Addams was the dog,” Jason muses, peering down into the pits. “You know—she’s kind of cute, when you think about it.”
“You think that girl is cute?” Cody repeats. “No offense, Sinclair, but that girl could haunt a house.”
Enid’s throat unsticks as she barks out an unexpected laugh. “No offense taken.”
“How do I know a Montgomery wolf will pay up, huh?” Maggie interjects, the reality that she’s gambled real money seeming to have finally set in. “Are you gonna cough it up when you lose?”
Cody glances up from under his bangs. “What, you wanna do a little line shopping first?” he asks, voice ripe with sarcasm. “I welcome you to try. You can probably find another bookie in the twenty or so seconds remaining if you really hoof it.”
The Montgomery wolves laugh. If it’s possible, Maggie looks even more upset. “No,” she snaps. “But you better not fuck me, Hughes. I want my money.”
“You’ll get what you’re owed,” Cody replies. He rolls his eyes again as he pockets his notepad and straightens up, though it’s done so covertly that Enid suspects she’s the only one who caught it. “Friendly advice—keep it to yourself. Shit’s about to start,” he replies, thrusting his chin out towards the arena.
Enid shifts her attention back to the ring along with the others, but it’s no use—her stomach refuses to settle. The loss of her risk aversion does nothing to mute the inherent anxiety that churns away beneath Enid’s ribs. She knows this forest, would know the smell of these woods with a bag over her head, but something about the shade of the sky and all of its stars leaves her feeling unseated as she locks on Wednesday’s figure down below.
Really, they should have been placing bets on how long it’ll take for Enid to lose her stomach watching this fight. The pits have a long and storied tradition in wolf society, but only traditional packs like the Flints maintain blood sports in the modern age. Other packs aren’t interested in pitting their own members against each other.
Enid has truthfully never seen an outsider fight in this forest, but this close to the moon and with so many Montgomery wolves in attendance, it was inevitable that the place would be packed. Frankly, it’s a wonder that no one has mustered up the brazenness to try and goad Enid directly—though perhaps having a circle of Toby's friends around her puts a damper on that idea. Still, Enid can feel the eyes of pretty much everyone in spitting distance on her back or her face. The whispers are considerably worse. Even Devon’s friends watch her with something between disbelief and pity, which makes sense, considering that not one of the Flint wolves expect Wednesday to win.
Enid, of course, knows better than to underestimate Wednesday Addams.
“You good, Sinclair?” Jason asks her, voice pitched low with concern.
Enid ignores him in favor of reminding herself that Wednesday challenged Bianca to a duel within her first week at Nevermore for no real reason at all. Wednesday hadn't thought for a moment about avoiding that fight either, though the loss had nettled her for years. It's safe to say a loss here would be significantly more traumatizing, but Addams aren’t built to back down from a challenge. Violence for violence is the only way that Wednesday knows how to exist.
So Enid looks at her with what she knows must be an awful expression—difficult, desperate, and tragic, all at once—and prays that lightning comes thundering down from the sky and sets the whole of the pits aflame before her intended can come to harm by Devon’s hand. Wednesday would undoubtedly escape a fire, but nothing can arrest the brutality of the pits.
“Sinclair?” Jason repeats.
Alas, woodwitch or not, Enid evidently is not capable of summoning a biblical plague at will, so dread continues to roil in her stomach as she attempts to muster up the will to respond. She may have sacrificed whatever sense that warns her of imminent danger in order to draw Wednesday’s rune, but she lost none of the foreboding that always consumes her in a moment like this. Maybe that unnatural awareness never had anything to do with her being a wolf, Enid thinks. After all, there apparently was always another factor at play when it came to her magic, whether she was aware of it or not.
Perhaps it has more to do with whatever distinguishes her as a daughter of the forest than her creature inheritance that Enid can sense the exact moment before disaster strikes. Losing her ability to discern risky behaviors didn’t do anything at all to lessen Enid’s anxiety; in fact, it only muted her ability to sense when she should shut up and made it impossible to gauge whether she was acting against her own interests. She probably shouldn’t have mentioned the runes to the Montgomery wolves at all. Although, in all fairness, Enid has no way of knowing if that little stroke of genius was a consequence of her rune sacrifice or just another product of her own stupidity.
“They’re starting,” she eventually mumbles, and Jason's attention thankfully returns to the pits as Leader Clifford raises his hand for silence.
“Challenger Addams amends her terms,” Leader Clifford calls out, words hanging over the back of Enid’s neck with all the weight of a guillotine. She can almost hear it in the trees, an eerie sort of whistle high above her head.
Wednesday appears unaffected as she steps forward to address the crowd, but the blood on her face evokes a sense of such foreboding that even the wolves fall silent to hear her.
“For those of you who don’t know, I am Wednesday Addams,” she opens with. Her eyes flash as she finds Enid in the crowd, inexplicably aware of where she stands despite the many feet and faces between them. “I came here out of respect for your ways, but my intention remains as it always has been. I am here for Enid Sinclair.”
The crowd whispers in the wake of that little declaration, trading titters of amusement that an outsider would bother to observe their traditions at all and sharing in their scorn that a witch would follow this tradition, but not Enid. She can’t process anything beyond the determination in Wednesday’s expression as her stomach drops down to her toes. All the while, Wednesday holds her gaze and refuses to release her.
“Uh oh,” Cody mutters, sensing in the way only a reasonably talented bookie can that things are about to go pear-shaped.
The reality is Enid recognizes that tone of voice. She’s seen enough of this song and dance in past altercations involving Wednesday Addams and some perceived enemy to know it doesn't usually bode well for whoever's on the other end of it.
As luck would have it, she was right to be apprehensive.
“I am no longer interested in facing my future brother-in-law for what I feel are rather obvious reasons,” Wednesday announces. “Therefore, I formally challenge Hugo Flint to face me in his stead.”
Notes:
thank you to my beta for catching the criminal mispelling of "hungo flint" in the final line of the chapter before i posted
SPOILERS:
in rune magic, 'offering a blessing' is the practice of drawing a rune on another person besides yourself whilst sacrificing something for the sake of the bearer (as opposed to the bearer striking their own bargain themselves). obviously, a sacrifice offered for the sake of another person is much stronger magic than sacrificing something for your own benefit. an extreme example would be the power of a mother giving their life for their child. heady stuff.
enid bargained away her "gift of fear" or danger sense - aka, the spidey sense that tells you when you're about to do something dangerous or risky. she essentially is floating along now with absolutely no risk aversion. she has no sense of caution at all. in return, wednesday gains what she bartered for--"eyes" to identify their enemies, and the strength to teach them a lesson. TBD on how that’s going to manifest during the fight >:)
of course, while wednesday wanted enid to bless her because she's soft for traditions upheld with her beloved, wednesday neglected to recall that, since they are standing in enid's forest using enid's blood as a medium, any magic that enid casted would be magnified tenfold.
and both girls forgot that the forest, of course, has a will of its own.UPDATE 12/11: i am in the final week of working my entire ass off at my job, and then i'm taking a whole MONTH off so next chapter is likely going up this coming weekend!
after the fight chapter, i'm gonna go postal and post as often as i want because those kink arcs do be coming easy compared to the plot heavy parts. might fuck around and do quick succession updates again like back in the early days of yore, as a treat
UPDATE 12/17: lo and behold, my done with work date is now tuesday (': but i am actively working on next chapter and will get it up for you guys asap!!!!
UPDATE 12/28: i'm so sorry for the delay you guys, as pretty much right after i posted the end of chapter update--- I GOT ENGAGED! my fiance and i have taken three flights in the last week visiting our families to celebrate, so it's been a total whirlwind around here. next chapter will go up as soon as i'm able!!! in the meantime, HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND WISHING YOU A WONDERFUL NEW YEAR!
Chapter 96: Retaliation
Notes:
happy new year ya filthy animals! please enjoy the carnage
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday had been attending Nevermore for nearly two years by the time her father deemed her ready to carry a Nichirin blade.
While Morticia was honing her windsong in the Aokihagara forest, her intended filled the time apprenticing under a clan of nearby runewitches. They were an odd group of nearly thirty people living in a manor called Butterfly House. Gomez was impressed by their unique combat style and ritual-driven way of living, but even more so by their stories, the greatest of which chronicling an account of warriors known as slayers who’d once protected these woods.
The colorful blades on his mentors’ hips were supposedly forged by the same crafters who’d armed the slayers hundreds of years ago. There had been a great war, one that demanded the lives of every slayer but that had spared the hidden village of swordsmiths, who continued their craft in secret. The weight of such a legacy was not lost on Gomez, and he made it his mission to track down the master swordsmiths and commission a blade of his own.
It had taken months of tromping through the woods on aimless feet before the Butterfly witches took pity on him and sent off a crow requesting an official escort. Gomez was promptly blindfolded and brought before the village council, who agreed to forge a dagger in exchange for a single season of runework. The witches of Butterfly Hill may have been renowned bladesmen and the swordsmiths masters of their craft, but none had received a formal education from an accredited magical school. Their library of runes was as ancient and well-tended as it was limited.
Gomez taught them hundreds of new runes over a span of six summer weeks, and on autumn’s eve, he was presented with a dagger forged from the ore of the Mountain of Suns. As the story goes, his blade turned yellow the moment the hilt met his palm, and the swordsmiths and Butterfly witches alike henceforth referred to him as kin of thunder.
Gomez returns to Japan every few years to meet with the village elders and provide them with new knowledge. Rune magic, by nature, is ever-changing; the village considered semi-regular access to an outsider to be particular good fortune. When Momoko brought news of a daughter born to Morticia and Gomez, the Butterfly witches had sent an emissary of their own to bless the new child in the village tradition. Perhaps the sword-carrying witches knew something Morticia had not, for when Gomez arrived after Wednesday's fifth birthday and asked for a dagger to be forged for his runewitch daughter, the village had already commissioned the weapon. Gomez wouldn't pass that blade on to her for twelve years.
From that point forward, the village continued to make daggers for Addams family runewitches, leaving it up to Gomez to determine when his kin were ready to bear the sword. Ironically enough, Gomez had just presented his fifteen-year-old nieces with their Nichirin blades when Wednesday was expelled from her final normie school and promptly shipped off to Nevermore.
Though it still irks her to admit it, Gomez had been right to stay his hand until her seventeenth year. When her cousins were receiving their daggers, Wednesday was still displaying a flagrant disregard for the law, eschewing tradition, and, frankly, discounting the lives of others—the very values those who originally wielded the Nichirin blades once embodied.
The Wednesday who hadn’t blinked at putting Enid in mortal danger for the sake of solving a mystery certainly wasn’t equipped to handle such a formidable weapon as a blade forged to slaughter the enemies of humanity.
Gomez doesn’t speak of the swordsmith village and its masked clan members often, but when he does, he speaks of their unwavering beliefs rather than their expert craftsmanship. These were a people who knelt at the sharpening stone while war and fire raged around them, he’d murmur to her. Imagine it, my little lightning bolt.
Imagine what? Wednesday would ask in return.
And Gomez would smile. Choosing creation over carnage.
Having seen the effects firsthand, Wednesday suspects that exposure to such faith at what was undoubtedly an impressionable season of life left a permanent mark on her father. Gomez was melded by the swordsmiths just as she was changed by knowing Enid. Wednesday has never been to the swordsmith village, not by virtue of her own two feet, but she knows the words carved over their gates like she knows the sound of Enid’s voice and the sickening smell of her fear: the fire is where metal is reborn and the soul enters the sword.
Wednesday has always felt a certain distance between her father's understanding of the world and her own, but in this matter, in the decision to challenge Hugo Flint, she knows they would align. No creature that causes Wednesday’s beloved such fear in her own forest can be allowed to continue unchecked. No Addams would stay their hand with the well-being of their heart at stake. If her father were here, he would tell her that there is a time for creation and a time for slaughter—a daughter of his will know the difference.
If Wednesday is a metal, she was forged by fire, and if she is a sword, then let her be raised in Enid's defense.
***
Logically, Enid knows she should be feeling some degree of shock in the wake of Wednesday's declaration. Her palms feel cold around the railing in front of her. If the other wolves were eyeing her before, their eyes are burning into her now. It feels like the entire arena has turned on mass to face her, to witness her horror as she realizes the consequences of what Wednesday has done.
Leave it to Enid to prove a disappointment even in this regard. Her expression doesn't change, eyelids don’t even so much as twitch, because some part of her had known—some measure of her, Enid thinks, had been bracing for this all along. It would be impossible to love Wednesday Addams and not know the violence etched into the set of her shoulders, not recognize the brutality in her bones. She has loved Wednesday and all of her rancor since the moment they met.
Rather than the gutting anguish her pack was expecting, Enid feels nothing but cold acceptance as Wednesday's words settle over them. The moment of reckoning comes as less a shock than a silence, a coldness that spreads through her fingertips and toes and coalesces at the base of her throat, because of course, Wednesday would amend her challenge to Hugo. When has Wednesday ever not punched above her weight class? This is the girl who challenged Bianca Barclay to a spar without ever having seen her fence. Hell, this is a girl who would run into a forest not her own in pursuit of a creature known to butcher human beings. A fight in the pits, where there's merely a chance of dying, must seem like small game compared to that.
In any case, Enid should have known from the start that things would end this way. Wednesday has never been interested in cutting down the weakest of the herd, the unhardened, the untested. She likes the struggle. She revels in the fight.
Winning an easy match holds about as much appeal to Wednesday Addams as choking down a bowl of unseasoned food. She would have desecrated Devon in the pits, Enid has no doubt about that, but Hugo’s the best of their age. There is no opponent Wednesday could have chosen to greater effect or greater risk than the pack leader’s son. For that matter, there is no wolf in these woods more inclined toward violence than Hugo Flint.
“She’s got a death wish,” Maggie whispers.
It's not strictly untrue, because only a human who does not fear the reaper would welcome a spar against a warrior trainee, but the promise of brutality certainly wouldn't discourage her. For Wednesday, the filth is half the reward.
Cody’s stare feels like a physical weight on the back of her neck. “What kind of witch did you bring us, Sinclair?”
Enid doesn’t answer. Across the arena, Hugo’s shaking his head, lips curling up like he thinks this all is funny, and the disrespect is so blatant it steals the breath from Enid’s lungs. Down in the pits, Wednesday’s head shoots up again, expression morphing into concerned.
She should be, Enid internally admits. The wood thrums with the pulsing in her head, air thick enough to bite, and Enid has to force herself to remain focused while Hugo continues to grin with the certainty of a man who knows he can weasel his way out of just about anything. How dare he disregard Wednesday's challenge, she thinks. How dare he treat her conviction like a joke.
For the first time since she entered the pits, Enid feels her fingernails lengthening into claws. The other wolves start edging away from her, the Montgomery wolves in particular giving her as wide a berth as possible in such tight quarters, and Enid's teeth clack together as a painful shudder wracks through her shoulders.
“It's close to the moon,” one wolf whispers.
The others start shooting her fearful looks.
“Give her space,” Jason commands. “You guys should know better. Sinclair’s intended’s in the pits.”
But Enid doesn't have to do anything, it turns out, because Aminder is poised to whisper in her husband's ear, lips moving fast and ire almost palpable as she weaves her retaliation against the wolf who’d targeted her son. Whatever she said must have struck a chord because Pack Leader Montgomery's expression hardens as he climbs to his feet.
“The challenge will stand,” he announces, voice carrying into the trees. Then, to Pack Leader Flint, “If your son has honor, he will answer.”
To his credit, Pack Leader Flint looks mostly unmoved by this turn of events. His mate remains similarly still and silent behind him. It's hard not to feel confident when your son hasn't lost in years, Enid thinks, anger roiling thick in her gut. She wonders if Marissa Flint even registers what’s happened.
“Let them fight, then. The boy has yet to blood a witch,” Pack Leader Flint responds. Enid thinks he wouldn’t sound so cavalier if he could see the thunderous look dawning on Aminder's face. “He needs the experience.”
Down in the pits, Leader Clifford gives a short nod. “Challenger Addams to fight Hugo Flint!”
And still, Enid cannot conjure up even a faint stirring of surprise. She should have known better than to bring Wednesday within ten leagues of her childhood tormentor.
There's something inherently wrong about watching from the sidelines like a member of the chorus, of witnessing Wednesday’s plight while Enid remains safe up here in the black, but she supposes there's nothing to be done. Once Wednesday sets her sights on some burgeoning conflict, it's nearly impossible to unlatch her from the target.
Except something has been wrong with Wednesday all day, Enid knows it has, ever since the caning stripes and the shattered mirror and the haunted expression that devastated Wednesday's face. Whatever's happening here is clearly a product of that, considering Wednesday's looking at Hugo like she's taking a mental tally of his working ligaments. She's been reckless, Enid realizes, to a degree that Wednesday Addams would never normally risk.
Down in the pits, Wednesday's eyes catch the light as she peers up in Enid's direction for the final time. It would be a lie to say she looks contrite; for as long as Enid has known her, Wednesday has never backed down from a conflict that a court of law didn't force her to.
The truth dawns on Enid all at once like two hands coming together in a single, thunderous clap of understanding. She's been dropping, Enid realizes. All day, Wednesday has been in dom drop—and Enid let her walk down into the pits.
She grips the railing hard enough that the wood nearly splinters. Forget Hugo and his father and the wrath of this whole bastard pack, Enid thinks. If Wednesday's mental state leads to injury because she was too fucking stupid to see it, Enid will never, ever forgive herself.
***
As Wednesday watches Hugo descend into the pits, she feels a dull ache bloom behind her eyelids. It doesn't take a psychic to identify the cause; she's been around her mother in a foul mood enough times to recognize this particular disquiet.
Enid is the opposite of how a migraine feels, all bright and warm and weightless, like a smile in soft focus. She must be feeling near-homicidal for her woods to be reacting in such a violent manner.
“You really that desperate to get me alone, Addams?” Hugo asks the moment his feet hit the sand. “Or is this just another bid to get my attention?”
Wednesday doesn’t fall for his needling. She can see in the lines of his face that this wasn’t a part of the plan, that he’s irritated, verging on furious to be down here with her. Something of the clearing still lingers with him, she realizes, something that’s clouding his anger with unease. The memory of such powerful windsong will do that to the inexperienced, Wednesday knows. Some bruises cannot be seen with the naked eye.
“I haven’t forgotten your role in the plot against Toby,” she replies.
For a moment, Hugo looks genuinely confused. “You’re still pissed about that?” he asks.
“You nearly started a massacre,” Wednesday states. “We could have died.”
Hugo shrugs in response. “What can I say? I love conflict.”
Wednesday hopes she looks as unimpressed as she feels while she takes her starting position opposite him. “I believe I told you before—you ought not to antagonize witches in these woods, Hugo Flint.”
His face spasms with a flicker of fear that Wednesday would be able to spot in the dark. “You’re one mouthy bitch, Addams.”
Wednesday doesn’t deny it, but if she has her way, he will pay for his insolence in flesh.
***
Enid can hardly string a coherent thought together as she stares down into the pits.
The arena is resounding but distant in its echo, like a plastic film wrapped around the forest that cushions her from experiencing the pits at full tilt. All around Enid, wolves jostle for space, shoes scraping against dirt to the soundtrack of voices overlapping. She breathes in time with protests and exclamations and, above all, an excitement for blood reverberating from inside, spilling and surging with the tide of the crowd. Everything has been amplified; Wednesday, most of all.
In truth, she looks like David compared to Hugo's Goliath, but Enid knows better than most that Wednesday's short stature is deceptive. She would be a fool to underestimate the vitriol of any Addams.
Dom-drop notwithstanding, Wednesday’s fury as she faces down Hugo is so blatant that Enid’s wolf can taste it in the air. If these woods truly recognized her as its daughter, then surely, she would be able to feel it if such a fracturous event as Wednesday’s defeat were imminent. The forest could give her nothing but that, and Enid would be grateful for all her life.
These may be her woods, and Enid may be a witch, but she hovers on the line between foresight and hindsight as Leader Clifford raises his hand to signal the beginning of the match, and the space between what might happen and what has already occurred is grey and full of teeth.
“Fight!” Leader Clifford calls, and Enid’s stomach plummets to her feet.
When Wednesday lashes out with her first strike, the screaming crowd comes barreling back into her awareness, the initial cushion of Enid's apathy ripped away like a flimsy curtain in the rush of the fight's commencement. Hugo dodges her rather than take the hit, but Wednesday's silhouette is unbending, shoulders set with purpose as she circles him and probes for a weakness she can exploit.
Enid feels each breath and blow twofold. Everything that happens is created twice, once in imagination and once in reality, but Wednesday moves on impulse too quickly for even fate to orchestrate. Her second attempt at Hugo’s throat is a death knell rather than a mere step in a choreographed dance, a fact which Hugo rapidly seems to recognize, considering he takes it across the forearms and allows himself to be forced backward across the sand, losing several feet in the ring as a result.
“She's a mean little thing,” Jake says admiringly. “Alright, I get it. What wolf wouldn’t love a mate capable of pulling this kind of shit on the pack leader’s son?”
“Can’t blame Sinclair for that,” Cody muses. “Hell, even I’m starting to like her. Addams’ got one hell of a right hook.”
Jason makes a contemplative noise. “Any submissive wolf can appreciate a dominant with that kind of self-control,” he comments.
When the other wolves look at him incredulously, he rolls his eyes.
“Think about it,” Jason insists. “This whole thing was calculated from the start.”
Jake snickers. “And we’re off.”
“Here we go again with the conspiracy theories,” Cody snorts in agreement, tapping the pocket containing his notepad.
Jason scowls in their direction. “Oh, fuck you. Think about it—Addams only challenged Devon Sinclair in the first place to get herself into the ring,” he retorts. “She knew Flint couldn’t back down in front of his whole pack when she pulled this shit. He’d look like a total pussy.”
Cody and Jake exchange a look that clearly communicates no difficult task there.
“Addams waited all night to make her move on Flint, just biding her time until she could switch up and get him down there in the dirt with her,” Jason insists, voice pitching appreciatively. “It’s diabolical.”
“She’s strategic, that’s for sure,” Cody agrees. “Gotta keep an eye on that one. Couldn’t have planned it better, myself.”
“Sinclair found herself a bona fide fuckin’ tactician,” Jake laughs, leaning over the railing with bright eyes. “God, I hope she wins.”
“Nice going, kid,” Jason tells Enid kindly, a shadow of a grin unfolding on his face as he watches Wednesday advance on Hugo with cruelty clear in her expression. “Your intended is a force to be reckoned with.”
Enid should be used to the punchline by now, but it never fails to be a real fucking hit.
Notes:
thank you for your patience on this chapter and THANK YOU ALL FOR THE WELL WISHES! my fiancee (what the fuck!) and i are just overjoyed to be officially engaged. still can't believe it tbh
in other news: HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THIS FIC! here's to many, many, mAnY more updates :')
Chapter 97: Vengeance
Notes:
chapter warnings: violence, major character injury (not fatal), brief allusions to bloodplay and biting kink
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
While Enid has never legally left the country—that one incident with the Canadian border patrol notwithstanding—attending Nevermore still exposed her to a variety of experiences she wouldn't have otherwise had.
As recently as last autumn, Enid decided to fulfill her long-ignored Historical Contexts curriculum requirement by signing up not for the popular Magical Martial Arts course her friends were taking, but for Professor Claudine's Tuesday night class on European Architecture and Faith. Not even the essay requirement could dissuade her. Apparently, Enid's rambling treatise on the importance of Gothic influence on modern-day religion did it for Professor Claudine because she was one of just twelve students accepted into the course. Yoko almost spit out her drink when Enid first shared the news.
Later, once Enid had actually sat a full class with Professor Claudine, she would understand the face Wednesday made when she initially caught sight of Enid's fall schedule. Enid was one of only three wolves to be accepted into the class and the sole west coast wolf to boot. The other kids mainly comprised of particularly brave theological students and a smattering of vampires Enid had never before spotted on campus, not even in Yoko's social peripherals.
Professor Claudine ended up being just as awful as rumored, but in ways Enid hadn't anticipated. She would sneer something dreadful whenever a student made the grievous mistake of calling her 'ma'am,' but she answered emails within the hour, no matter how late at night. Professor Claudine wasn't gentle when referencing the war, but she was just as quick to detail the crimes of vampires at length as she was to lambast witches and sirens and wolves. As far as the actual curriculum went, the woman might as well have laid each stone on the streets of Paris herself. She could paint such an unbearable picture of life in twelfth-century France that Enid's dreams would take on an eerie stained-glass quality after spending an hour in her company.
While the entire course felt like a particularly stressful semester-long fever dream, Enid still thinks about their discussion on sculpture and symbolism—specifically, how Gothic cathedrals were intentionally filled with elaborate sculptures of monsters. In those days, the vast majority of Parisians were illiterate, so architects would adorn their houses of worship with warnings of what dangers awaited those who did not follow the teachings of the church. Professor Claudine waxed philosophical on architectural religious fervor as they paged through picture after picture of forest beasts and gargoyles and vampires and almighty dragons, their likenesses captured and immortalized in stone.
The French Holy Exorcists believed Hell awaited those less than devout, Professor Claudine told them, and if the Word of the Elder Will couldn't be read, then let their physical embodiments spur the parishioners to fear the wrath of God.
Enid never fully grasped the gravity of that sentiment until now, watching her own intended fight in the pits. Hearing words weaved into warning is one thing, but seeing it in flesh—seeing and smelling and tasting this armageddon that Wednesday has brought down upon them all—is an entirely different matter.
"Your intended is vicious," Jason comments, his gaze burning into Enid's neck. Her collar, always warm to the touch, might as well be scalding against her throat.
Enid can't bring herself to respond to him, heart too full of foreboding to risk opening her mouth.
Wednesday doesn't seem to be losing, per se, but she isn't gaining on Hugo either, and in some ways, Hugo is larger than life—a woeful reality that Enid knows well. This is the phantom that has hounded her since she was a child, a monster only surpassed by the harshness of her mother's affection. Watching Wednesday go up against Hugo is treacherous in every sense of the word.
"Toby's got a knack for making friends in high places," Cody mutters.
Wednesday's next strike at Hugo's chest is almost balletic in its grace and just as jagged in ferocity, and for the first time, Enid nearly regrets watching. Wednesday fights with an expression that's going to put Enid in the ground if she's not careful. The violent polarity between Enid's fear for Wednesday's safety and the sick little part of her that takes pride in having such a merciless dominant has her stomach climbing into her throat.
Wednesday throws a punch that rattles Hugo's teeth, but he holds his form, dogged to the last. The longer the fight goes on, the more prophetic Enid feels. Something is coming, she thinks. Of all the wolves clustered around her, Enid alone does not flinch when the first drop of rain splatters her shoulder.
“I knew it'd turn into a mudbath,” Jake crows.
Cody scoffs under his breath. “You didn't know shit.”
For a split second, as Wednesday glances up at the sky, Enid could swear her expression turns calculating.
The night changes between one breath and the next, clouds blocking even the stars until only a weak moon casts the sky in shades of grey. It's as if the heavens have opened up and dropped down upon them all, water sluicing over them in great splitting wraiths that plaster Enid's hair to the back of her neck.
“What does low visibility do to the odds?” Jake asks.
“Low visibility,” Cody contemplates aloud, “Makes for an interesting match, at least.”
“Maybe for the witch. Wolves aren't bothered by a little rain,” Maggie snaps.
“A fish could get lost in this much rain,” Cody sagely replies.
Jason makes a noise of agreement. “Addams doesn't look like she's struggling,” he points out, and outrageously, he's right.
Wednesday doesn't seem to have any trouble at all finding her footing in the sudden downpour. One would think she’s fought in plenty of hurricanes, given how easily she adjusts to the new, decidedly more harrowing circumstances. Her boots remain solid even as the sand grows muddied and loose beneath her feet.
Her braids will be a nightmare to unknot, Enid absently thinks.
She's so busy fretting over the state of Wednesday's hair that she nearly misses it. If not for the moon catching on a deceptively shiny patch in the ground—a puddle, Enid realizes, one that Hugo clearly didn't see—she wouldn't have noticed his stumble. She wouldn't have seen Hugo's foot sliding, catching in a skid that Enid imagines she can hear as he tries and fails to correct his momentum.
Wednesday, on the other hand, misses nothing.
It happens in a moment, a baring of teeth, and Enid can tell that this is what Wednesday was waiting for, that she'd been wanting to dig her teeth into the advantage and shake Hugo by the neck.
The crowd shrieks their approval when Wednesday lashes out and nails Hugo in the throat.
Enid feels like she's having an out-of-body experience as Hugo involuntarily drops to one knee, as Wednesday stares down at him with a sneer that would make a seasoned Pack Leader crumble.
For a second, it looks like Hugo might stand up and continue, but Wednesday doesn't give him the chance. Pity is not a part of any Addams’ vocabulary, Enid reminds herself. It would be a cold day in hell before Wednesday expends a single ounce of sympathy on Hugo Flint’s account.
Instead, Wednesday slams her boot into his chest, sending Hugo tumbling onto his back. Mud splatters Wednesday’s face, but she doesn't flinch, doesn't even slow as she continues stalking towards him. Enid’s fingertips pulse in eerie synchronicity with Wednesday’s footsteps, a war drum as much as a swan song that the rest of the crowd takes up around the ring. Feet pound the earth as the wolves around her beat their breasts, clamoring for the kill they know to be imminent.
Wednesday places the sole of her boot over Hugo’s neck, and when she looks up into the crowd, Enid nearly vibrates out of her skin.
“Blood him!” Jason bellows from behind her.
“Claim him, Addams! Blood him!” Jake screams.
“Claim him!” the crowd echoes, a thousand voices baying for blood.
“Take him!”
“Blood him!”
“Addams!”
Something wordless passes between them as Wednesday’s eyes find Enid in the audience.
There is no question in her gaze; Wednesday isn’t capable of mercy, especially not towards an enemy of this magnitude. Even if she wasn't in dom drop, Wednesday simply isn't built to ask for permission to defend her own. As Wednesday holds her foot above Hugo’s throat in promise, Enid feels an overwhelming sense of calm steel over her. She might as well be sitting in the depths of the sea.
This a language beyond all barriers, Enid thinks. Every killing creature shares a universal code of violence, one that all wolves inherently recognize from birth. Wednesday’s message could not be more clear.
If it were Enid’s will, she would kill him.
“Mercy call!” Leader Clifford unexpectedly announces. Enid isn’t the only one to gasp out loud.
“Mercy call!” the wolves around her begin to chant. “Mercy call!”
A tiny furrow appears in Wednesday’s brow, but she reads the crowd and steps backward accordingly. Leader Clifford takes this as the concession it is and straightens up off the railing, moving to join them in the center of the ring.
Enid’s desire for Wednesday has always been a vicious and ever-hungry thing not leashed by petty morality, but she suspects it isn’t altogether healthy that her canines extended when Wednesday held her boot over Hugo’s neck. Wednesday’s perfect teeth may not be capable of giving Enid a bondmark in the traditional sense, but Enid's dream of golden runes stitched into her throat still lingers like an ache that will never fully leave her. She can taste lotus flowers and glass lilies through the storm.
Moments pass like heartbeats as Wednesday notes Leader Clifford’s approach and rises to her full height. Enid might as well be a statue herself, some wretched thing erected in a cathedral as a warning to other young wolves of how low a person can sink into depravity. Her veins burn victorious as she looks out on her intended, hands digging grooves into the railing.
What sculptor could capture this ferocity in their hand? Enid wonders. No mineral or stone could possibly encapsulate the danger of Wednesday Addams.
As Leader Clifford moves to grasp Wednesday's wrist and announce her victory, Enid sends up a prayer of her own that the spirits saw this night. She dearly hopes Lucía witnessed the unholy beating her ancestor just delivered on the pack’s prodigal son.
The less charitable part of Enid hopes her family saw it, too. Her mother, most of all.
***
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Wednesday cannot bring herself to feel a lick of sympathy for Hugo Flint's plight.
She’d suspected it when he hesitated at her initial challenge, but now she is sure: Hugo’s grand fighting reputation was a farce. His perfect record was clearly cultivated by strategically accepting challenges only by those he knew he would defeat. Wednesday can tell from the shock on his face alone that this is not a man accustomed to losing.
If he’d sought to test his prowess against more accomplished opponents than himself rather than resting on his laurels at the top of the juniors’ circuit, peacocking his own self-importance, then maybe he could have avoided getting trounced by a witch half his size. Gomez has his shortcomings, but he would consider it the height of shame for any combatant to limit their fights to matches they’re sure to win.
The only prize in beating a weaker opponent is an inflated sense of vanity, Wednesday recalls, lifting her head.
Enid’s blessing begins to wane as the rain soaks her face. Wednesday hadn’t known what to expect when Enid first blessed her, as Aminder was unfortunately correct in assuming Wednesday was unlearned in war runes, but she’d gathered the gist soon enough. Once Enid’s blessing activated, Wednesday noted an unnatural aura appearing around certain wolves’ forms. Considering Hugo Flint’s aura was the brightest, outstripped only by Esther Sinclair’s, Wednesday deduced the blessing must expose her enemies by painting them in vivid color.
Wednesday wishes she wasn’t surprised when the entire crowd didn’t light up like a beacon. Enid must have fewer enemies than she'd thought. Toby’s offer of friendship has proven not all wolves are beyond help, but watching Enid flinch her way through the day’s events has soured Wednesday on forgiveness.
Fortunately, she still has plenty of time to decide how to deal with the Flint pack. While in the pits, Wednesday focused on tucking her chin whenever possible to preserve the rune's sanctity and devoted her attention to probing Hugo for weaknesses.
It wasn't more than ten seconds into the fight when Wednesday recognized something was amiss. The longer the fight went on, the more energy she found and the more her hands pulsed with the need to wrap and wrench around Hugo's throat. Gaining multiple abilities from a single rune is typically the stuff of myth, but Wednesday knows better than to underestimate a daughter's strength in her own forest. It's only natural that Enid's magic would bolster her intentions. As a result, every hit Wednesday had taken felt more like a nudge of endearment than a blow, and that initial deluge of rain had meant nothing when Wednesday could have spotted Hugo’s silhouette from space.
The desire to liberate Hugo’s head from his shoulders has lessened now that Vengeance is waning, but her skin still buzzes with unbearable need. Wednesday wonders if it’s the rune or the exhilaration of fighting in the pits that has her anxious to locate her submissive and present her victory like a hunter would lift their kill.
Hugo’s form remains prone in the sand as he stares up at the sky in stark disbelief, but Wednesday cannot bring herself to expend a single iota of energy further on him whilst Enid is still so far away. He'll either recover from the disappointment or not; it doesn't matter a lick to her. She strains to ignore the din of the crowd as she peers into the stands in search of Enid’s blonde hair.
For a society so concerned with conformity, the wolves certainly seem to relish their violence. Wednesday hasn't heard such pandemonium since the last time she competed in the Poe Cup. The crush of noise is so immense that Wednesday only manages to find Enid's gaze for a moment before the hair on the back of her neck stands up, and pain bursts under her eyelids like fireworks.
***
Enid sees Hugo move before the others do.
Toby’s friends are too busy celebrating to pay any more notice to the pits, their hands occupied with slapping shoulders and rustling hair and digging into the wounds of every poor sucker who chose to bet against their dog in the fight.
"So you lost your ass betting on a Flint victory, after all, eh?”
Maggie scowls, face nearly purple. "I didn't expect the little witch bitch to come out of the gate throwing haymakers.”
The normalcy of the conversation is almost enough to put Enid at ease, is almost enough to draw her attention—but Hugo doesn't stay down like he's supposed to, and whatever knack it is that awards Enid some slight forewarning of danger dials up to an immediate eleven. She watches Hugo's toes dig into the ground, spine straightening in minute clicks as he uncoils and prepares to stand. Enid hasn't attended many fights, but she's seen enough men fit to burst with fury to recognize the hard set of his shoulders.
She only has time to inhale a cry of warning before Hugo launches himself at Wednesday's back. Whether it's something in Enid's expression or some inherent sense of awareness that alerts Wednesday to the attack, she manages to turn halfway toward Hugo before he's on her. Enid's mouth falls open in a scream that never escapes her chest as Hugo's fist finds Wednesday's mouth and blood splatters the sand.
When Wednesday’s head snaps backward, Enid feels the force of the blow as if it were her own. She feels it in the heat under her collar, in the pounding in her fingertips, and in the tension constricting her throat.
The night blooms overhead as lightning arcs across the sky.
***
The silence that falls over the crowd after Hugo punches her is just as deafening as the pounding in Wednesday’s ears.
Having managed to stay on her feet, Wednesday struggles to control her expression. It does not do to show weakness in front of an audience. Unfortunately, there is no way to gracefully spit out a mouthful of broken teeth.
When lightning finally strikes, it comes with a glimpse of Hugo's thunderous expression. Wednesday had known what he was even without Enid's blessing, had clocked him from the moment they met as the sort of opponent who would sooner salt his own fields and burn his cities to ash than allow someone like her to gain a single inch over him. She expected him to do whatever it took to prevent her from winning this match.
She had not, admittedly, thought he would attack her from behind after the fight had already concluded. Before all his pack and all his people, the little king chooses a Cadmean victory, Wednesday muses. He's managed to mar her face, cave in her teeth, and potentially fracture her jaw, but all at the expense of his own reputation. Whatever else Wednesday accomplishes here, she can be content knowing she has unmasked Hugo Flint's true nature. Let it be known their beloved son is a coward and a cur and, as if that weren’t disgraceful enough, lacks the firepower to knock his opponent out with a single punch.
Whatever instinct that had warned Wednesday of Hugo's pursuit lights again, urging her to look in Enid's direction, and though she knows better than to turn her back on an actively attacking opponent, Wednesday cannot help herself. She easily locates Enid's blonde hair and stunned expression in the forest of hands and teeth.
For a single heartbeat, Wednesday thinks she sees lightning reflected in Enid's eyes, but it's raining too hard to hold onto, and a moment later, the image is gone.
Then Wednesday forgets all about the ache in her jaw and the split of her lip and blood filling where she used to have teeth as opposed to gaping holes with jagged edges because she's straining to see through the storm, and it occurs to her—it wasn't just the reflection of lightning that disappeared from sight.
It was Enid.
No longer does her sunlight hair glint like a beacon from the stands. Enid might as well have stepped into a slip in the space-time continuum, so clearly and completely has she disappeared. There one moment, gone the next.
Then the moon disappears, the sky pitching black like a sudden eclipse, and Wednesday's head shoots up as something arcs over her. The sound of wood splintering reaches her a second later, unable to keep up with the speed of the flying thing cutting through the storm as the railing where Enid once stood disintegrates and tumbles down into the sand.
Wednesday can hardly think over the sound of the wind howling like something wounded, but she would have to be dead not to recognize the shape of what soars overhead. As her eyes finally make sense of what her brain could not, Wednesday is inadvertently reminded that Enid was the one to bless her for this fight. It is Enid's will that drove her to vengeance and Enid's woods that bolstered her fury.
Tread lightly where you go, my daughter, in a wood not your own.
With a tearing of flesh and teeth, the wolf lands between Hugo and Wednesday, paws hitting the sand like meteors striking earth. If Wednesday were a weaker woman, she might have clapped her hands over her ears.
Enid, she thinks, mouthing the word like a soundless prayer. This snapping, snarling thing is her Enid crouched protectively in front of her, teeth bared and hackles raised in her defense. This beast of the forest tore through wood and wind and leapt into the fight for her. Hugo seems to know it too, judging by the speed with which his face drains of blood.
On a different night, under a different moon, Enid found the conviction to transform to wage war against the Hyde in Wednesday's defense. Stars wheeled overhead when Enid first shed her skin and became the very monster children's bedtime warnings are borne of. That night had been harrowing enough; it should, therefore, come as no surprise that the wrath of this wood is much harder to bear.
Enid is not the same wolf as the girl who lost her milk teeth under a blood moon. In this forest, in this moment, she is more a daughter than she ever was whilst belonging solely to the Sinclairs.
Notes:
let it be said that although wednesday hosed hugo in the pits on her beloved's behalf, enid's first reaction to someone harming wednesday is an airstrike and a nuke
UPDATE 2/12: had to work this weekend so running late on chapter 98!!! it'll hopefully go up some time this week. believe me, i've been missing the smut as much as you
Chapter 98: Bow
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Under any other circumstances, watching Devon Sinclair faint like an overheated debutante at their first spring ball would’ve been fucking funny.
Toby normally would have given up his firstborn—no, his car for the pleasure of witnessing such a sight firsthand. He would have brought it up every Christmas Eve like some vaunted tale of yore until his grandkids begged him to stop. If not for the fact that seeing Devon take down half a dozen wolves with his flailing limbs means Toby is also subjected to the cause, he would have considered it among his most cherished memories.
As it stands, he’s probably going to need therapy to avoid continually recalling the trauma of this moment in vivid, heart-rending detail like some cursed hypnic jerk before falling asleep. A part of him wonders whether the hysteria of Enid’s windsong will ever truly leave him.
If Toby hadn't instinctively braced for it, if he didn't know this shade of suffering as well as the sound of his mother's voice, he probably would be throwing up everything he'd ever eaten and a few organs besides. Just being in the same vicinity as Enid’s fury is agonizing. This windsong isn't like his mother’s, a shadow against skin and skittering under fingernails that can unnerve even the staunchest warriors, nor is it sun-dimpled hair and eyes like sky like Wednesday’s favorite Eve. Enid’s song is a cut of teeth. It's every nightmare Toby has ever had.
When he was still young enough that death seemed like a far-off spectre rather than a pressing concern, Toby's pack had lost a member in a freak accident one early October. An unseasonable snowstorm had sent trees still bearing the full weight of their leaves crashing down across the territory, destroying houses and blocking roadways while his people slept. The century-old poplar in front of Toby's own house had split right in two around midnight, taking out half a block of power lines and crushing his dad's car in the process.
He had been awake in his second-floor bedroom at the time, and though he doesn't remember what he was doing up that late, Toby will never forget the sound of that tree coming down. The boom as a hundred years of rotted wood struck the earth had been louder than the car wreck he would later narrowly survive at age fifteen.
When the first crack of air splintering around sound reaches him here, Toby nearly tears out of his skin. His head snaps up in search of the tree that must be falling, anxiety twisting between the instinct to leap out of the line of fire and the need to protect his friends, who are still down there, still fighting. Wednesday’s on her feet as far as he can tell, but even she seems frozen in the face of Enid’s magic, and Enid has graduated from standing over her protectively to crouching in preparation to lunge. The smell of Wednesday’s blood soaks the air.
Toby should get down there, he thinks, should help them—should fight with them, stand beside them, at the very least bear the consequences with them—but behind him comes another series of cracks, faster and faster, falling like blows, and he’s incapable of not looking to the sky in search of whatever’s causing such a harrowing clamour. He knows the sound of disaster. He knows nothing short of calamity can create such a ruckus.
The rain is distracting, but not enough to daze him, and certainly not enough to convince Toby that he’s imagining the trees caging the ring like spindles aren’t right where they’re supposed to be, unbent and unbroken. Not a single brand has come down. Only rain falls from the sky.
Toby’s stomach curls into his spine, something like cold disbelief flooding his chest as he reluctantly lowers his gaze to the audience just in time to witness the next wolf falling to their knees. Toby flinches in time with the crack of her knees striking earth, with the violence of her submission, a permanence that echoes through the night and melts into the rest of the din like a rolling clap of thunder as more and more wolves kneel with her. Toby’s mouth tastes like ash as he watches them drop.
Crack, the same splintering as the poplar who’d guarded his childhood window fell to its death. He's never heard such a display of despair. He's never seen such pride forsaken, but a single witch of Enid’s caliber could level an entire generation of warriors.
It figures her wrath could inspire a thousand wolves to kneel.
***
The Addams hold a grand party whenever a family member receives a nichirin blade. It’s tradition for the entire clan to witness which color the blades turn upon first contact with their masters.
Both of Wednesday’s cousins’ blades had burned a hellish red in their grasps, but her own blade darkened to pitch when she ultimately received it. Gomez had admittedly been surprised; if such legends are to be believed, a black blade made her kin of the Sun. Wednesday could never divine why she of all people would bear an affinity with daylight.
Perhaps, she thinks a bit absently, swallowing rainwater and blood, she’d been willfully misunderstanding the connection. What is a day without sunlight? What is a wolf without an enemy?
An animal, aching and feral with the desire to lunge at a target.
***
On any other day, in any other forest, Toby would sooner spontaneously develop the ability to transform into a unicorn than witness his kin kneeling to a witch. Pack Leader Montgomery simply isn’t a man who kneels, and his lead is law. A pack leader doesn’t fold.
But Toby has never been in the business of fooling himself, and he supposes if anyone can shatter a lifetime of belief in a single strike, it would be Enid Sinclair.
Within seconds, what seems like the entire arena has sunken as the wolves bow their heads to the pits, one right after the other until the air is clean and cold in his lungs and Toby stands alone. Enid’s windsong does not discriminate between Flint and Montgomery. They all go down together, a thousand hands forced by her fury.
When Toby seeks out his parents, anxious to see how his father fared and hungry as ever to witness his failings, something anxious alights in his stomach when his eyes catch on his mother's distinctive hair moving at a clip instead. All of her children share her likeness in that way. They each bear hair the color of elderberries and eyes just as dark, just as off-putting and unsightly as their witch mother. In the vacuum of Enid’s windsong, his mother’s silhouette is unmistakable in the sea of subservience that composes the crowd.
Aminder appears to be the only person capable of moving unimpeded on her own two feet. She is alone in her ability to walk through this magic unencumbered, just as Toby stands between his kin and his friends, still trapped halfway down the stairs. The rest of the wolves cannot withstand her.
The rest kneel to Enid.
Toby is struck with a sudden clarity that it wasn’t his father’s prejudice that led him to bar his children from studying magic; it was his strategic instinct. What would pack life look like if wolves could call upon the might of a forest when threatened? What's a pack leader’s rule if he can't use fear to keep his packmembers in line?
No wonder his father made the choices he did. A natural-born son without the aid of windsong is enough of a threat to a pack leader’s reign, let alone whatever he could have turned into with a proper magical education. At least his father loves him, Toby thinks, as much as a man like Pack Leader Montgomery is capable of love. He’s seen the way Pack Leader Flint treats his son, the way Hugo treats those beneath him as a result. It could have been much worse.
But it could have been better, Toby thinks, and it could end with him—this unbelievably stupid miasma around magic could be dispelled by a single tolerant pack leader. Just one generation is all it would take.
Our generation, he decides. Once he’s in charge of the Montgomery pack, every single wolf is heading straight to mandatory magic lessons, no excuses. Let the elders scream at him until they’re blue in the face, Toby thinks a bit vindictively. If he can't convince the pack to follow him without using this isolationist subterfuge bullshit as a crutch, then he has no interest in giving his life to lead these people.
Toby almost laughs out loud at the thought of the pack suffering under his sister’s rule should he resolve not to inherit the responsibility of his forefathers. In a surprise move that sent tongues wagging all over the state, his older sister Sakshi had rejected the courtship their parents painstakingly arranged for her with a Chicago wolf and took their father’s second-in-command’s son for a mate. Sakshi didn’t even ask permission before taking the bite. Toby wonders now if his sister’s behavior last spring influenced this hasty attempt to mate him off to a proper submissive wolf by summer.
Either way, Sakshi's mate is technically next in line to rule, assuming Toby either abdicates or dies and neither of his father’s bastards succeeds in claiming the seat by force. Sakshi is already a terror on them all; surely, his decision to encourage magic after a century of repudiation isn’t as radical as the idea of letting Sakshi lead anyone.
Toby can't help but grin as he finally locates his father. His teeth ache with the effort to keep smiling in the face of such calamity, but it is well worth it to meet his father's eyes and witness the shock that visibly unmoors him once Pack Leader Montgomery recognizes his son is standing without struggle. It isn't worth a childhood of turning his back on his mother's magic and weathering her hurt, but it’s close.
As he watches his father crumble in both face and will, aged knees sinking to the ground in a last spiteful surrender, Toby is brought back to the night his poplar tree fell. There had been the whisper of snowfall, a shuddering crack, and then the bounds of hell exploded outward like a demonic brass section as the tree sunk back to earth. His father was an immovable force, a titanic enemy to a child who would have done anything to earn his approval, and now, he is just one of hundreds kneeling to a witch in the eye of his own son.
Toby had admittedly been too busy staring down his father to pay close attention to his mother's progress, but when her scent enters his field of awareness, Toby is forced to wrench his attention away from his father’s plight. Aminder looks nearly as overwhelmed as he feels as she approaches him.
The elders can argue up and down and sideways that vampires are to blame for their estrangement from the greater outcast community, but watching this catastrophe unfold firsthand, seeing seasoned warriors bend the knee like river reeds snapping beneath the manicured foot of one woodwitch’s ire—Toby knows it was a matter of self-preservation that his kin denied themselves magic. The wolves’ way of life would never have survived contact.
Hell, if she had any more inclination, even one more pound of flesh to demand, Enid could yield the kind of suffering not seen on this earth since Bloody Mary. Once Toby can walk in a straight line without seeing stars, he should really ask his mother whether infamous witches can be spontaneously summoned to life with enough commitment to vengeance or if he's just being paranoid.
Aminder reaches him then, her presence comforting in a way Toby hasn’t experienced since he was a child still afraid of the sound of trees falling in a storm. His mother might be the one guest actually invited to Enid’s party rather than an unwanted audience to her rage, he admits to himself.
The yawning grave in Toby’s stomach opens up at the thought that he would also fall in that unwanted category. A single day of friendship won’t liken him to one of Enid’s trusted few, he knows. Despite the shuddering beneath their feet, it is this realization that unbalances him.
“Fools, all of them,” Aminder murmurs. “They should know better than to provoke her. Our Enid is a rainmaker.”
Toby feels a pulse of grief in his chest. He will never, ever be a part of this magic. Not like Enid. Not like Wednesday.
“I don’t know what that means,” Toby responds. Then, voice breaking, “I’m not a witch, mom.”
Aminder offers a knowing smile, and somehow, it is the worst she has ever looked at him. “You are my son,” she replies.
Unable to withstand the honesty in her gaze, Toby turns his attention back to the arena. It’s a rare sight, hundreds of wolves kneeling at once. He’s never seen so many trembling hands.
“Why are they crying?” he voices aloud, though in some sense, he already knows. Toby can feel tears pricking at the corners of his own eyes. Perhaps, he was actually asking after himself.
He’s grateful that she chooses not to answer him.
As if a blanket just fell over the trees, the rain stops all at once. Toby has witnessed a fair few storms in his day, particularly on summer trips to Alaska, but never has he seen such a stark end to what had been a truly miserable downpour. The last of the rain splatters on the ground like a bucket dumped over their heads, night ringing with a sudden silence that draws every eye down to the pits. Without the rain to hinder their view, the Flint and Montgomery packs suddenly have the perfect vantage point to watch as Enid curls back on her haunches, claws digging into the earth. Toby feels every sinew twingeing as if it were his own body preparing for war, her voice filling his lungs with the smell of blood and something older, wilder, as syrupy thick as lantern oil and nearly as appetizing.
Toby refuses to blink, committed to keeping both eyes on Enid as she finally lunges for Hugo's throat.
He’s surprised in the moment that Hugo doesn't bother to transform and defend himself, but in hindsight, it makes sense; even Hugo Flint isn’t stupid enough not to recognize the futility of fighting back against the thing that Enid has become. Toby knows this magic, and even he was sick with it. Even he watches with a visceral sort of fear as Enid lands atop Hugo, who tucks his chin to his chest in some last, desperate effort to withstand her. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this, he thinks.
Then Enid throws her head back and howls.
The trees curl in like fingers as she snarls, as her voice rips and threads through the woods, spearing them all with her fury. The forest bends to her will like a royal court bends the knee to their king, and Toby abruptly understands why his mother went to such lengths for a girl she barely knows. He knows why his father put his reign in jeopardy to take a woodwitch for a wife, despite knowing the threat his own children would present to him.
It’s the same feeling that has been clawing up out of his chest ever since Enid transformed, the same uncomprehending disbelief that any living thing can wield such chaos and remain a creature of blood and bone. A coldness he has never thought possible reverberates in his chest.
Hugo cowers beneath Enid, face bloodless with fear, and Toby wonders if he’s imagining the hundreds of whispers repeating her name. Enid, Enid, Daughter of the Forest, Blood of the Earth, Salt of the Sky. Enid of the First Garden. Enid of the First Bite.
She is beautiful, Toby thinks, in the way that angels are said to be beautiful: both inhuman and horrifying. Enid's rage is a tangible force, a sweeping titan that bows them all.
Suddenly, Hugo tips back his head, exposing his throat before the pack and the forest and God besides, submitting to Enid as only a wolf can. Toby would think he's graduated to full-frontal hallucination if not for the sudden change in air pressure as the inevitable presence in the darkness recedes. Beside him, Aminder scoffs aloud.
Enid's windsong was a thousand chimes ringing at once, haunting and eerie, as unsettling as it was stunning—then a silence so unyielding, it echoes through the clearing, cotton-thick and absolute. Hugo's shame settles heavily unto them all.
“He yields,” Aminder announces, dipping her own head in reverence. Toby is quick to follow her example, dropping his chin to his chest. He does not bow, but he would sooner disavow the moon than refuse to show Enid the respect she is due.
It's not every day that someone’s anger lights the night sky with a ferocity that challenges the stars.
Notes:
so sorry this took literally a m o n t h to get to you guys, i'm going to start doing the shorter chapters in quicker succession so it doesn't take two eons to post because this was genuinely evil of me
i have heard the doldrums about wednesday needing aftercare and i completely agree with yall, so next chapter will be something new i haven't written before :) PLEASE heed the start of chapter warnings lmao
UPDATE 3/13: okay after this weekend i'm done traveling until the summertime so next chapter should be up next week!!! and then hopefully faster updates from there. thank you for your patience <3
Chapter 99: Teeth
Notes:
Kink warnings: bloodplay
PLEASE check out this phenomenal fanart of the chapter by Zceri: Wednesday Post-Fight
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday has never felt such déjà vu as when Enid brings Hugo to heel.
She's at a poor vantage point to watch the proceedings in detail, not as close to the carnage as she would prefer, but it ripples through the crowd like a strike when Hugo yields and Wednesday knows what that looks like.
Perhaps it isn't déjà vu, she considers, but some echo of a past life now only remembered in her subconscious. Runewitches know well that memory is a shadow of the past; it would be the height of hubris to assume she alone prevailed in finding Enid when so many other versions of herself could have existed in another age.
Woods like these are older than the seven hells with just as long a memory. Another Wednesday could have left blood and bone in this dirt eons before she ever drew breath. Even if she hadn't felt the stirrings of some forgotten memory while watching her intended triumph, these woods love Enid so dearly and completely that Wednesday cannot help but suspect the forest may have known another maiden with sunlight hair and eyes of sky.
Her attention is stolen when a wet nose presses against her cheek, a mournful little noise escaping Enid's maw as the wolf undoubtedly tastes blood. Wednesday's face must look like a crime scene, teeth littering the ground at her feet. She would have preferred not to appear even slightly weakened in front of the packs, but her point has been made. No wolf will so easily underestimate Enid again. This is the unequivocal end of Enid being a submissive commodity.
In truth, Wednesday is far less concerned with the damage done to her mouth than with the possibility of retaliation from Pack Leader Flint in the wake of this latest catastrophe. Hugo is his eldest and she knows the value of a well-honed successor. Wednesday's parents had dedicated twenty years to raising Pugsley and herself.
Enid lowers her snout to the ground with a whine, pressing her nose and, coincidentally, Wednesday's blood into the sand. Wednesday twitches with the instinct to stop her. It aches to think of even harmless mud marring Enid's pretty face, dirtying her lovely moon-leeched fur, but she knows better than to part a woodwitch from the comfort of solid ground. If Enid needs to taste earth to keep from inciting any other pack-wide incidents, Wednesday certainly isn't going to stop her.
Enid keens again, heavy and broken, a lament that curls into Wednesday’s mouth and throat as the wind kisses her face. She hardly feels the pain anymore.
Then it occurs to Wednesday that even windsong honed through a lifetime of learning cannot completely erase pain, not for an injury of this magnitude—not from a woodwitch with less than a day of specialized magical education, not like Enid's windsong has—and her hand flies up to her ruined face in search of broken teeth. She'd felt them only moments ago. She'd been tracing them repeatedly with a compulsion beyond her control as her tongue attempted to reconcile a new landscape after two decades of familiarity.
Instead of jagged, ruined teeth, her index finger pricks on something smooth and sharp. Blood wells on her fingertip as quickly as if she'd mangled it on a silver spindle. She might as well be the fabled Princess Rosamond about to collapse into a century of dreamless sleep, another daughter left to languish in some forgotten forest.
And the wind ceased, and not a leaf fell from the trees about the castle, the memory of her mother's voice whispers.
The Brothers Grimm recorded many loathsome tales in their early writings, not the least or most egregious of which the original Sleeping Beauty, or Little Briar Rose as she knows it. How the tale of Rosamond the Reviled became Walt’s beloved Princess Aurora, Wednesday has no clue.
As a child, she had admittedly preferred Donkeyskin and The Juniper Tree to sweeter stories of princesses who bled on spinning wheels, but Wednesday had dutifully read them all. Pricking one's finger on something sharp generally bodes ill tidings.
Wednesday pushes her tongue against her teeth, expecting insurmountable damage, and receives a mouthful of blood for her troubles instead. The jolt of pain as her flesh splits takes her aback; she isn't used to having canines sharp enough to cut open her own tongue.
She isn't used to bearing the mouth of a beast, a mouth like her beloved's, for her canines no longer feel flat and dull and useless compared to Enid's. This is a mouth worthy of loving her. This is a bite that can draw blood.
“Sweetheart,” Wednesday whispers, and when Enid's eyes flick up to find her, piercing even in darkness, as golden as sunlight hitting water and just as unrepentant, her lungs feel two times their usual size. If she could sing the song with Enid, she would. She would sing until her lungs gave out.
The sight of Enid suddenly blurs, and Wednesday raises a hand to her face. Her cheeks have inexplicably grown wet even though the rain has long since ended.
“Wednesday!” a voice cries out from behind her, and that's Toby hauling ass down the staircase, Aminder mere steps behind him, which means the rest of the pack will be recovering soon. Toby and Aminder are as close to allies as a Montgomery could be, but Wednesday would sooner walk off a cliff than voluntarily cry with living witnesses. She wipes at her cheeks with uncooperative fingers.
As Aminder and Toby draw nearer to where Enid holds court in the otherwise silent pits, tail swishing like a victory banner, Wednesday exhales hard through her nose in an effort to clear it. She must not falter in what comes next; their likelihood of leaving this place alive depends on it. The burning continues behind her eyelids, but Enid's windsong is cold against her cheeks, shivering down her spine like a steadying hand. It's enough to prevent her from deteriorating completely.
“Wednesday!” Toby hollers, and then he's there, breathless and sweating and paler than she's ever seen. “Holy shit, Wednesday. You need a—a fucking ambulance, or something. Wait, shit, let me see. How bad is it?”
In lieu of a response, Wednesday grins.
If Toby were a lesser wolf, he would have stumbled backward, still unnerved and unused to such flagrant displays of magic. Instinct would suggest humans aren't meant to bear teeth like animals. Toby's hindbrain is probably urging him to run.
As it stands, he remains upright with both feet planted, mouth opening and closing without sound.
“You—” Toby sucks in a sharp breath. “Wednesday. You've the mouth of a wolf.”
Her smile stretches wider.
Aminder halts at his words, raises one manicured eyebrow at Enid’s wolf form, then sets her sights firmly on Wednesday. So quickly that if Wednesday hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it, a glint of something pained alights in Aminder's gaze. Wednesday closes her mouth a beat too late.
“You did this?” Aminder asks her.
“Not me,” Wednesday responds, pride swelling behind her ribs and leaking into her tone. Enid twitches with surprise, her ears flicking backward in something like embarrassment.
Even now, her beloved finds ways to arm her, Wednesday thinks. For not having a lick of actual knowledge about runewitch courting rituals, Enid sure has impeccable instincts. It's a rite of all runewitches to exchange personalized weapons with their beloved. Enid could not have armed her with a more well-suited weapon than this shiny new set of teeth.
Toby looks appalled. “I heard her teeth crack. I heard his—his wrist fractured when he hit her, I heard it!” he protests.
Aminder opens her mouth to reply, but Wednesday’s already speaking over her.
“You can hear bone fractures? And potentially pinpoint each specific bone?” Wednesday demands. Any talent of the human body is a talent runewitches regard with great interest. “Is that a trait of all wolves, or a gift of yours alone?”
Toby rolls his eyes. “Of course, I can't—”
“My son may not have been educated as such, but he hails from a line of distinguished woodwitches,” Aminder interjects. Toby and Wednesday both fall quiet, suitably chastened. “Magic does not disappear when ignored. It merely finds a new way to manifest.”
Toby begins to look rather ill, but Wednesday hums her agreement. “Shame no one has bothered to conduct any official study. If children from significant magical heritage suppress their abilities, can new gifts be wrought from the damage?” she wonders aloud.
“A question for another day,” Aminder states, though her eyes gleam at the prospect. “I daresay we have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Wednesday follows her gaze to the audience. Overhead, the wolves seem to have finally returned to themselves, heads tentatively raising as the braver pack members risk climbing to their feet. Once Toby's father can stand on two feet, he will undoubtedly descend to join them in the mud, Pack Leader Flint only seconds behind him. Hugo, on the other hand, has yet to pick himself up off the ground. The air around him stinks of urine.
“I don't get it. He broke bone,” Toby protests. “Wednesday, let me see again.”
“No, he didn't,” Wednesday argues. “Bones are living tissue, Toby. Teeth aren't.” Far be it from an Addams to not know their human anatomy.
Toby's brow furrows with confusion, even as he continues to try and peer into her mouth. “They aren't?”
“No.”
“Then how did a woodwitch, purveyor of all things living, heal non-living tissue?” he retorts, crossing his arms.
“A wind singer presumably can heal any injury short of death,” Aminder remarks.
They turn to her en masse, even Enid, who raises her wolf-head too quickly, bumping Wednesday's elbow and sending her arm rocketing up to her chest.
“What’s a wind singer?” Toby asks.
Aminder lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. In that moment, she so uncannily resembles Morticia’s lackadaisical avoidance of declaring anything concrete about forest magic that it raises Wednesday’s metaphorical hackles.
“Healers who use windsong,” Wednesday answers him, swallowing her irritation at the unwanted reminder of her mother’s evasiveness. “They are incredibly rare. Most are already in the employ of shifters or other immortals by the time they reach magical maturity.”
Enid goes still, no longer pawing at the ground as she had been, and Wednesday knows she has come to the same bleak conclusion. Perhaps their unwanted visitor from Shanghai gleaned more from his short trip than they'd realized. If his shifter master caught even an inkling of a notion that Enid could one day become this, a prized wind singer, a treasure beyond all others...
Wednesday’s stomach starts to sink.
“Wind singers are few and far between,” Aminder assures them. “I myself have never met one. It’s difficult to know if this is a natural effect of circumstance, or Enid.”
Enid makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a scoff. As she ducks her head to sniff at Wednesday’s ankles, Wednesday works to keep from panicking, aware that her scent will betray her the moment her body physically reacts to the threat of whatever awaits them in Shanghai. She focuses instead on petting the fur behind Enid’s collar.
“Aminder!” another voice calls out, and Enid's fur physically puffs up beneath Wednesday’s hand as Toby's father enters the pits.
Pack Leader Montgomery hadn’t left much of an impression on Wednesday initially beyond that of a hard-headed male, same as Hugo’s father, but perhaps she would have benefited from paying a bit more attention to the leaders in lieu of expending so much energy on the sons.
As of now, she knows nothing but that, evidently, the man will gladly ignore the unconscious body of a fellow warrior if it means reaching his wife sooner. Wednesday faintly recalls catching sight of Leader Clifford smacking the barrier at one point or another. Poor luck for being in the pits when Enid’s windsong erupted, she thinks.
Nevertheless, Wednesday tightens her grip in the fur beneath Enid's collar, silently urging her not to act as Toby's father draws closer. Will Toby stand with them against his father in the wake of this new catastrophe? Wednesday cannot be sure.
Her hope that the situation might settle without further violence dwindles the closer Pack Leader Montgomery comes. His very jaw creaks with anger as he stomps across the sand to meet them.
“Shit,” Toby mutters, echoing her sentiment exactly.
Aminder bites her inner cheek in an uncharacteristic show of nerves before she steels herself, moving quickly to intercept him. Wednesday will never be a wolf—new teeth notwithstanding—but even she can divine the immense insult it must be for a pack member to remain in wolf form while a Pack Leader addresses them.
The only likeness she can draw to her own experience would be if an Addams family member refused to surrender their weapons before presenting themselves to her grandmother. No one may remain armed in the presence of their matriarch. Gomez, as the chosen successor, would draw arms if an insubordinate family member paid her the same indignity before the whole of the Addams clan. It would be mutiny.
If even Gomez with his endless patience wouldn’t tolerate such disrespect, Wednesday can guess how Enid’s disobedience will be perceived by Pack Leader Montgomery.
“Enid,” she quietly says, taking care to keep her voice steady with one eye focused on how Aminder tries and fails to sway her husband from his course. “Transform back, please.”
Enid shakes off her restraining hand, planting her haunches in the sand with her ears pricked. She would have looked more amenable if she'd thrown her head back and howled her refusal.
“Enid,” Wednesday sighs.
“Yeah, good luck,” Toby mutters, eyes bright with something hard and unforgiving as he watches his parents hiss their way through a whispered argument. His hands twitch at his sides like he aches to join Enid in the mud. “You know, I've half a mind to—”
“Do not,” Wednesday commands, ignoring his resulting scowl. The very last thing they need is for Toby to go challenging his father in some half-baked attempt at usurping his authority. She turns back to her intended with more urgency than before, intent on persuading Enid to listen. The wolf may be aching for another chance at retribution, but their odds aren’t favorable by the most generous of criteria, and Wednesday refuses to accept defeat now.
It pains her to admit it, even internally without witness, but she's in no shape to fight another match and certainly not against the gamut of warriors Pack Leader Montgomery could conjure up to subdue her. Enid may be a witch of obvious talent, but she isn't trained for battle and she isn't infallible. Wednesday knows all too well the softness of Enid's stomach beneath her palm, how susceptible she is to fatal injury. Even a daughter of the wood can fall to a forest of teeth.
Their only option now if they hope to leave this place alive and mostly intact is brokering a fraught kind of peace.
“Enid. If combatants wish to avoid further conflict, they must both lower their arms.” Wednesday tries to replicate her mother's most pacifying tone, though speaking the words aloud feels like pulling teeth.
It isn't in the nature of an Addams to stand down. She was bred for war just like her father before her and grandmother before him. In some ways, she has more in common with Hugo Flint than with Toby.
Enid's lips pull back in a snarl that very clearly articulates her willingness to engage in a little more conflict. Wednesday had refused to surrender her nichirin blade before the match, but if she's forced to draw a single knife to defend them both against an army, things are grim indeed.
In a last-ditch effort to soothe the situation, Wednesday takes a knee, uncaring of the mud soaking through her pants. She slips both hands beneath Enid's collar, urging Enid to look at her.
“Is this how you wanted me?” Wednesday asks, dropping her voice so not even Toby can hear her. Though Enid's nose remains pointed in the Montgomeries’ direction, her flicking ear tells Wednesday she's listening.
“You liked the idea of bearing my mark so much, you gave me the mouth of a beast?” Wednesday presses, leaning closer. “How perverse.”
Instantly, she has Enid's full attention. Enid's scent wavers between obvious guilt and a sweetness that churns heavier until even the air around them seems to have grown hazy and fraught. Wednesday adjusts her hold to grip Enid's collar, tugging just enough to remind her it's there.
“Shall I punish you for this?” Wednesday asks. “Another infraction to add to the list, hm?”
Enid keens in the back of her throat, high and pleading, ears flattening against her head as she looks up at her.
“No?” Wednesday presses. “You think you should be rewarded, then.”
The wolf's eyes widen with a bewilderment that is entirely human, and Wednesday knows then that she can pull Enid out of the rage.
“Why shouldn't I? You healed me,” Wednesday murmurs, fist curling in Enid’s fur as she drops her face to rest against Enid’s. “Come back to me, Enid. I would hear your voice before suffering a single word from another.”
Enid remains still for a moment, her shoulders tensed, then she shudders and the fur between Wednesday's hands seems to melt. Wednesday untucks her blouse in anticipation of covering Enid's nakedness with her own shirt, uncaring if the wolves see her brassiere, but Toby beats her to the punch. He whistles a note that even Wednesday's untrained ears recognize as a command, and above them, a Montgomery wolf standing near the railing twitches into action. The unfamiliar boy shucks off his shirt and lobs him the roll of fabric, which Toby catches without looking.
“Hi,” Enid squeaks, voice unsteady.
Wednesday stifles a completely undignified smile. “Hi,” she rasps.
In hindsight, Wednesday is grateful that neither she nor Enid are naked when Pack Leader Montgomery arrives.
“—This pack is who you'd join our family with?” Aminder speaks quickly, clearly in the middle of an unfinished argument.
Pack Leader Montgomery scowls, eyes catching on Enid. “If I'd known what disgrace awaited us here, I would've spit in Winston’s face for daring to involve my son.”
The implicit insult to Enid has Wednesday's blood rising, physical condition be damned, but she doesn't have a chance to so much as retort. As soon as Enid has her purloined t-shirt to rights, she's dragging Wednesday back to her feet with or without her cooperation. Wednesday swallows a huff of surprise as she tries to find her footing on legs beginning to shake with exhaustion. Enid's arm is rigid around her waist. There's a brush against Wednesday's awareness, a breath nearing the back of her neck, and she senses that Toby has moved to flank them and provide something of a unified front.
Though Enid’s human body is less physically intimidating than her wolf, she holds her chin high with a defiance that Wednesday has never seen. It’s a wonder Enid didn’t snap before now, she thinks; big dogs don’t bite, but beaten ones do.
***
Toby had startled when his dad first entered the pit. He'd braced himself when his mother failed to successfully waylay him, and when the man managed to insult Enid, the Flint Pack, and Wednesday in a single breath, Toby understood why in fairytales the old king has to croak for a new leader to rise and take his place.
He tunes back in just as Enid informs his father, “That works for me, sir, because I'm never going to be with anyone else.”
Wednesday’s scent swelters with amusement. His mother does a better job of hiding hers.
“Um, no offense,” Enid adds in an aside to Toby, voice dropping in a slight wince.
Toby almost smiles. He'd known that solemn truth since the moment he first set eyes on his could-have-been mate; there would be no one for Enid but Wednesday. “None taken.”
“You wouldn't have my son for your mate?” his dad demands, voice hard.
Enid does not cower. “No. Sorry.”
Pack Leader Montgomery's eyes finally shift to Wednesday. “You'd rather have a witch for a wife?”
Toby could wither with embarrassment, but he catches a glimpse from the corner of his eye of Enid's eyes flashing golden once more, ripe with warning, and forces himself to remain silent. This isn't about him no matter how his father tries to twist it.
Still, he thinks it a bold choice to insult either girl when they all just watched Wednesday humiliate Hugo for less.
“I'd have her as a human,” Enid snarls. “Wednesday is mine.”
Though she doesn't raise her voice, it carries unnaturally far, whipping through them all with a bite that leaves their skin stinging. The reminder of her magic stills all the wolves in the audience who might have inched closer in hopes of hearing more drama. Even Pack Leader Flint, who'd made it as far as the stairs, seems to momentarily lose his footing.
“I have heard you, sister,” his mom assures Enid. “We have all witnessed this strike against your intended.”
Pack Leader Flint's boots finally hit the sand, and he straightens without urgency, more stalwart than Hugo could ever hope to be. Toby notes that the esteemed Winston Flint spares only a glance for his Second as he passes Leader Clifford, who still lies suffering on the ground. His eyes do not stray towards Hugo at all.
“Your son has caused this pack more trouble than seen since The Separation,” Pack Leader Flint opens with, and Toby automatically cringes.
“My son?” Pack Leader Montgomery repeats. “My son? When you harbor this monstrosity in your pack?”
Even with her newfound spine, Enid cannot erase a childhood of flinches and forgotten promises, as Toby knows well. She physically recoils at the vitriol in his father's voice. Toby can only imagine how Wednesday’s face must look.
“Is this the way your pack conducts itself?” his dad continues, color coming back to his cheeks with a vengeance. “This is the boy you hand your people over to? He is a coward. He should be sent into the dark and let the forest decide his fate.”
Toby nearly falls onto his ass right there in the sodden sand. He'd been all geared up to take another punishment, to bear the weight of his father's disappointment as he has since surviving infancy—only to discover that he is not the problem. Which, in Toby's experience, tends to be less likely than rising from the dead.
Aminder's lips curve upwards in victory. “The forest would gladly take a boy,” she murmurs. “What do you say, sister? Do the trees need fertilizer?”
Enid, still white with shock at the realization that Pack Leader Montgomery wasn’t talking about her, requires an elbow to the side to jolt her back into the land of the living.
“No,” she rasps, reaching back to pat Toby’s retreating hand in thanks. Then, shoulders twitching as she's struck with an idea that Toby can practically see forming behind those pretty blonde curls, she adds a bit breathlessly, “Let the hunt have him.”
Another first Toby can add to the record: before today, he had never seen his father so unnerved.
***
“The hunt?” Wednesday repeats, tasting the words as they leave her mouth. She must be careful with her speech lest she inadvertently opens another wound on her tongue.
“No,” Hugo gasps, voice ripping out of his chest as he clamours to his feet. “Father—”
Pack Leader Flint hardly moves, which perhaps explains why Wednesday jumps when he lashes out and slaps Hugo hard enough to send him to his knees. An open hand is much more personal than a fist, Wednesday knows. The sting of it lasts longer.
Hugo gasps out a screech that is immediately stifled by the warning in his father's gaze. Lapsing into silence, he kneels with a hand clapped over his cheek, blinking back furious tears.
“Quiet,” Pack Leader Flint orders rather unnecessarily. His gaze returns to Enid. “You ask for the life of my son?”
“He might not die,” Enid half-heartedly protests.
Wednesday never imagined she'd one day hear Enid lobbying for the death of another living creature. She could give up the ghost then and there and die satisfied, hearing her intended speak with such malice.
Pack Leader Flint's face hardens. “His mother wouldn’t survive the blow,” he points out.
Enid considers that, then shrugs.
Pack Leader Flint adopts a look of such displeasure, Wednesday nearly steps in front of Enid to shield her. A mere step behind them, Toby shakes out his hands, skin heating in anticipation of fighting.
“The girl has named her price,” Pack Leader Montgomery barks. “Will you honor it, Winston? Or follow the example of your son?”
Pack Leader Flint’s expression smooths out into cold apathy. When he turns on Enid, Wednesday instinctively grabs her wrist.
“I ask that you let my son live in disgrace,” Pack Leader Flint says. “In return, both you and your intended keep your place in this pack and call it home.”
This business with her eyes burning at the slightest provocation is becoming a hassle. Wednesday can count on one hand how many times she’s cried prior to today.
“My, my, Pack Leader Flint. You'd let a witch into your pack?” Aminder croons, unsurprisingly the first to recover.
For a split second, Pack Leader Flint looks disgusted, but his face sinks back into blank disinterest. “For the life of my son,” he repeats.
“We accept your terms,” Wednesday answers, hand tight around Enid's. Her chest is awash with new, unbelievable hope that Enid can take these woods without war. She couldn't have planned it better herself.
Enid looks disgruntled, lips pursing with annoyance, but eventually nods her agreement. “Accepted.”
Though Pack Leader Flint's expression does not change, Wednesday imagines she can see the cracks in his armour after such a debasing display, imagines she can smell his relief. If she’s learned anything of these unyielding men and their ineffective leadership, it’s that even a Pack Leader values the lives of their loved ones. Some fathers wouldn't have bothered.
“But father—the hunt—” Hugo cries.
“You think you deserve to run?” Pack Leader Flint asks him, voice sharp. “You don't deserve to call yourself a Flint, let alone blood your maw on a beast. You're a disgrace to our line.”
“If I don't run, I won’t become a warrior!” Hugo protests, voice catching on a sob.
“Consider yourself lucky you're still a member of this pack,” his father coldly replies.
Hugo loses the battle with his composure, snot dripping onto his lip as he muffles his cries into his arm. It’s as pathetic as Wednesday could have hoped for.
“She's just a fucking witch,” Hugo heaves. “Our rules don't even apply to her!”
“You're a wolf,” Pack Leader Flint states. “Our rules apply to you.”
“Father—!” he begs, scrambling forward to grasp at his pant leg.
Pack Leader Flint stares down at him without remorse. “You disgust me.”
“Enough,” Pack Leader Montgomery interjects. “We've settled the matter of insult done to Sinclair and her intended, but we haven't laid terms for the insult done to me.”
Pack Leader Flint's lips thin with displeasure. “What insult would that be, Michael? Your son's inability to claim a mate?”
“You brought my son here to forge a bond with a pack you knew would fall in the hands of your unworthy heir,” Toby's father accuses.
Pack Leader Flint is unfazed. “If I had known what sort of man he'd be, I'd have let the woods take him as a child and been done with it.”
Wednesday and Aminder share a loaded glance.
“The insult remains,” Pack Leader Montgomery insists. “If my son mated with this woman, we all would have been chained to your son's questionable leadership for the rest of his life.”
Pack Leader Flint gives a short, reluctant nod. “What do you ask for?”
“A discussion,” Toby's father's eyes flick to Hugo, “Away from the racket. We're in for a hard summer, Winston. Our packs can still benefit from trade.”
“Then let's discuss,” Pack Leader Flint agrees, gaze settling on Wednesday. “In a moment. Wednesday Addams?”
Wednesday straightens, ignoring the taste of blood in her mouth and sweat creasing her clothes and pressing feeling of exhaustion that worsens whenever Enid shifts further than a hand's length away.
“Yes,” she answers. It isn't a question.
“That is what you are called?”
Enid's grip tightens to the point of bruising her hand, a little gasp escaping her mouth.
“Yes,” Wednesday slowly agrees, aware she is missing what appears to be rather significant context.
Pack Leader Flint nods. “Raise your arm and face your people.”
Enid stumbles backward, nearly nailing Toby in the stomach as she hurries to step out of the way. Wednesday refuses to release her, tugging her hand until Enid reluctantly steps back into her orbit. Only then does the pressure in Wednesday's chest lessen enough to be bearable.
Pack Leader Flint glares at his son until Hugo stiffens and shuffles aside. After an agonizing thirty seconds spent watching Hugo wait for a reprieve that will never come, Pack Leader Flint clasps Wednesday's wrist and raises it to the audience.
Though the hatred Hugo aims at her from the sidelines is entirely expected, the desperate longing he directs toward his father is not. Wednesday jolts back to full awareness, such is the force of her discomfort.
“Hear me!” Pack Leader Flint bellows, and the audience ceases their mockery of cowering, now permitted to crowd the railing for a better view. Wednesday locks her knees in an effort to stay upright. It irks her that Pack Leader Flint must be able to feel her trembling.
“This fighter has won her match!” Pack Leader Flint declares. “You witnessed this! She won her place with blood and bone!”
A rumble from the crowd, wolves beginning to voice their agreement.
“This fighter is a credit to her line and her intended!” Pack Leader Flint continues, and only Wednesday seems to sense the irritation in his countenance.
The audience grows louder, calls becoming cheers as Esther Sinclair’s face freezes in an expression of abject horror that Wednesday vows to remember until the day she dies.
“Announce yourself,” Pack Leader Flint commands.
“I am Wednesday Addams,” Wednesday croaks, gritting her teeth and inadvertently flashing her new canines to the crowd. There are shrieks of terror, wolves backing away from the rail and recoiling from the sight, but there are also bellows of support.
Pack Leader Flint's grip tightens around her arm. “Wednesday Addams has earned her place among us,” he declares. “She will run in place of my son.”
Less support this time, more confusion and disapproval emanating from the Flint contingent, but the Montgomery packmembers abandon all decorum and howl their assent. Hugo clearly hadn't won many fans in the visiting pack, which even Wednesday could tell viewed its own heir with adoration. Hugo ignores the crowd, too busy watching his father to care.
“Wednesday Addams will take part in the hunt,” Pack Leader Flint states. “We will decide her mettle then.”
He drops her wrist, and Enid is there, catching her before she can sway and keel over. Toby shores up her other side under the guise of slinging a congratulatory arm around her shoulder, and together, they manage to haul her to the staircase. Wednesday struggles to keep her feet moving beneath her.
“Hey, Sinclair!” one of the wolves Wednesday recognizes as a member of Toby’s group calls out to them. He waves a notebook above his head. “Fancy a wager on how your intended will do on her first run?”
Wednesday thought that nothing could bring her to laughter in this situation, but the disgusted look on Enid's face comes close.
***
Shifting back into her human body had the strangest effect of making Enid feel like she was stone-cold sober and also like she was about to keel over dramatically. As they climb the stairs, she remains poised on needlepoint, waiting for the other shoe to drop. By the time they make it to the cover of the trees, Enid feels a bit like she dodged a missile-sized bullet. She’ll have to thank Lucia or the other powers at be when she gets the chance. How does one thank a spirit, anyway? Maybe Aminder would know.
“Hey, Sinclair!” Cody calls out, edging closer to them.
Enid struggles to control her face. So close, they were so close to ending this disaster of a day without further incident, and Cody just has to keep prodding them, looking for a reaction. Typical.
Cody grins at her expression. “Fancy a wager on how your intended will do on her first run?”
Before Enid can respond with a polite suggestion to get the hell out of her way unless he fancies the opportunity to piss himself like Hugo, Wednesday puffs up with such an immense moue of distaste, even Toby cringes backward.
"I've had a rather emotional day, so if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get my submissive home. Excuse me,” Wednesday states, the very opposite of apologetic. Her inflection alone has Enid’s mouth filling with saliva.
Enid’s skin then starts itching as she realizes just how much of Wednesday is covered in blood.
“The trees,” Enid breathes, changing course to avoid the rest of the crowd. “I know where to take her.”
“You have her?” Toby confirms, waiting for her nod before stepping back. He jams both hands into his pockets. “Holler if you need anything. Or, um, sing?” he adds, only half-joking.
Enid feels more than sees Wednesday roll her eyes.
“Thank you, Toby,” Wednesday responds, voice dry. Despite her tone, Enid can tell her thanks goes beyond that for a simple hand up the stairs.
Toby nods, eyes bright with understanding. “No problem,” he replies, and Enid’s stomach blooms with warmth. He doesn’t want to leave them, she thinks, but he will. His faith in Enid is as unfamiliar as it is unassailable. The lost little girl who supped on Healer Nima’s honey after a night spent crying in the dark couldn’t have imagined one day finding such friendship in these woods.
As soon as Toby’s disappeared back the way they came, Wednesday sags, her boots catching on the path. Enid doesn’t hesitate to scoop her up and hurry into the brush, clutching Wednesday’s body to her chest. Wednesday may be flagging, but Enid hasn’t ever felt so energized. Her skin crawls with the need to—to—
“Why have I not seen you transform before today?” Wednesday asks, voice deceptively casual.
Enid eyes her, drawn from spinning thoughts back into the safety of the woods. “I usually don’t. Only on the full moon.”
“You did today,” Wednesday points out, her expression revealing nothing. On any other day, she might have protested this treatment and insisted she not be carried bridal-style even under threat of death, but she’s suspiciously complacent now. Either she’s worse off than Enid realized, or Wednesday’s working from yet unknown ulterior motives.
Enid swallows, clutching her tighter. “I did today,” she agrees.
It's not an exaggeration. Enid doesn’t transform if she can help it, but it had all boiled up in a single moment, all of the shame she'd been feeling since birth, apologetic for her existence, and she’d plainly lost her shit. The wolf must have been closer to the surface than she'd thought.
Enid would never admit it aloud, too apprehensive to speak it into existence, but it frightened her to think of what the wolf could do if left untempered. In truth, she doesn’t remember the full extent of what transpired while she was in fourth-form. She recalls the smell of the pits, the stink of Hugo’s fear, and the taste of Wednesday’s pain—nothing else. If she used windsong to cure Wednesday of what Hugo did to her mouth, she doesn’t remember it. She’s never quite been able to reconcile the minutes spent as a wolf with real-time.
She does remember that it cost her something to transform back, that the conversation going mostly over her head served as nothing but an annoyance when Wednesday so desperately needed help. If Wednesday hadn’t asked her of it, point-blank and without exception, she would have refused.
They emerge into a clearing that tugs at Enid’s memory, a place she thinks she may have ventured sometime before, some memory or dream, and Wednesday places a stymying hand on Enid’s arm. Reluctant though she is to risk Wednesday hurting herself further, Enid recognizes that for the order it is and cautiously lets Wednesday down.
Wednesday probably expected to be set on her feet like a functioning human being, which would explain why she gasps when Enid lays her out on a bed of leaves and proceeds to crawl on top of her.
“What is this place?” Wednesday whispers.
Enid shakes her head. She’s finding it difficult to form words as long as the itch continues under her skin.
“Puppy,” Wednesday breathes, lifting her hands. “Come.”
Enid obediently curls into her collarbone, tucking her nose against Wednesday’s neck as she inhales and tries to get ahold of herself.
“Your eyes are gold,” Wednesday murmurs, fingers catching in Enid’s hair. “Why don’t you transform for me?’
Enid flinches back, sitting up on her haunches with her knees on either side of Wednesday’s hips. For some reason, Wednesday’s cheeks flush below her. The moon has leeched her of all color but this, the heat rising in her cheeks for reasons Enid cannot explain.
“Are you afraid of me?” Enid asks, voice breaking. Her words escape into the trees.
Wednesday makes a noise of disagreement, lifting her hand to cup Enid’s jaw.
“No,” she answers. “I am not. I will never fear you.”
“You won’t? Not ever?” Enid replies, disbelieving. Almost without her permission, she voices aloud, “I can make you fear me.”
For a single instant, Wednesday looks as startled as she feels. Then her lips split into a terrible smile. “By all means, Enid. You are welcome to try.”
Enid shudders, blood roiling beneath her skin with the urge to split, to surrender to the moonlight, to rip and claw and tear the way she was bred to, the way she has always, always denied herself and continued to deny herself until the moment Hugo knocked out Wednesday’s teeth. Her claws sink into Wednesday’s shirt, shredding the fine fabric and exposing her stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Enid breathes, but she pushes the fabric off Wednesday’s shoulders, nails leaving red marks wherever she touches. “I shouldn’t.”
Wednesday’s pupils bloom like spilled ink. She looks like a nightmare, skin pale as her beloved china set and eyes dark as the earth beneath her head. It’s impossible to tell where the forest ends and she begins.
“You want to bite me,” Wednesday says, and Enid keens in the back of her throat.
“I won’t,” Enid gasps, voice ripping out of her. “I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”
The corner of Wednesday’s lips curls up into a smirk. “You would do well not to make promises you won’t keep, my darling.”
Enid curls back as if struck, teeth digging into her lower lip to the point of pain. “You’re hurting,” she retorts, voice coming out harsher than she’d intended. “You’ve been hurting since this morning.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, but she otherwise remains unmoved. “Have I?” she asks, voice amused.
“Yes,” Enid snaps. “You’ve been agitated and lashing out. You’ve panicked every time I step away from you.”
Wednesday’s lips flatten out with irritation, and a vindictive sort of pleasure alights in Enid’s stomach.
“Why would you step away from me?” Wednesday counters. “Are you not mine, Enid?” Her hand slips up to Enid’s collar, jerking her downwards by the neck until they’re nose to nose. “Are you still my good girl?” she asks, breath fanning over Enid’s mouth. She smells like honeysuckle and blood. Enid has never wanted to taste something so badly in all her life.
In fact, the saliva pooling in Enid’s mouth spills over her lip when she opens her mouth to argue, splattering the tops of Wednesday’s breasts. Enid’s heart pounds in her ears, fingers spasming as she tries and fails to ignore the heat in Wednesday’s gaze. She tries desperately to look anywhere else.
“You’re in dom drop,” Enid tells her. Her voice sounds distant as if coming from far away. “You need aftercare.”
Wednesday’s hand twitches on her collar. “I need you to look at me.”
Enid’s eyes snap upwards. She’s distraught to discover that Wednesday looks ill at ease, and if it were anyone else, anyone on earth besides Wednesday Addams, Enid would think her a victim of good old-fashioned anxiety. Something flickers in Wednesday’s gaze, some unknown hurt—disappointment, Enid thinks—and it feels like a punch to the stomach when Wednesday’s expression shutters, face returning to smooth neutrality. Even her hand goes slack around Enid’s collar. The loss is nearly paralyzing.
“We’ll be returning to Hell Mountain shortly,” Wednesday assures her out of nowhere, business-like, and Enid feels panic erupt in her chest. “My family retains a talented oral surgeon for mishaps of this nature. I can have my teeth fixed within the week. It will be as though nothing changed.”
“What—why would I want your teeth to—what do you mean, fix your teeth?” Enid asks, struggling to catch up. “What’s wrong with your teeth? Did I—I messed it up?”
A little furrow appears above Wednesday’s brow. “What? No. My teeth are fully functional.”
“Then why would you change them?” Enid entreats, voice racketing up in her panic. “Do you not like them?” Do you not like that I made you in my image?
If it’s possible, Wednesday only looks more confused. “Of course, I like them. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why would you want to change them?” Enid demands, nearly crying. She’s breathing so hard, she can feel her heartbeat in her ears.
Wednesday’s eyebrows raise, concern leaking into her expression, and she places both hands on Enid’s face. Her palms are cold against the heat of Enid’s cheeks.
“You won’t look at me,” Wednesday informs her. “I figured…my teeth being what they are, now, isn’t as attractive—”
“Wednesday,” Enid heaves, gutted. “I can’t even—I can’t fucking look at your teeth without leaking slick. My underwear is a fucking mess right now. And I’m awful, I’m so screwed up, Wednesday, I’m—I’m supposed to be giving you aftercare right now, not begging you to fuck me,” she tearfully confesses.
The cold apathy that Wednesday wears like a shield gives, just a little. Her eyes soften with something like amusement. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you beg,” she muses.
Enid swallows hard. Her hands are shaking where she holds herself up on either side of Wednesday’s shoulders. “You have to let me take care of you,” Enid insists, shifting her weight. A little noise catches in her throat when her pussy inadvertently presses against the seam of Wednesday’s pants.
Wednesday’s eyes flick downwards, cataloging the motion, and Enid knows she’s been caught.
“Will you? Let me?” Enid quickly amends. She is under no illusion that anyone can make Wednesday Addams do something against her will, but if she doesn’t distract Wednesday from the situation unfolding beneath her shirt, they’ll never get anywhere.
When Wednesday’s eyes return to her, there’s something calculating in her gaze that sets Enid’s hair on end. Still, her expression smoothes out as if it was never there, and Enid tells herself she imagined it.
“You may,” Wednesday agrees, tipping her chin back to expose her throat.
Enid doesn’t move for long enough that Wednesday cracks one eye open.
“Having second thoughts?” Wednesday prods her, voice teasing.
“You’ve never asked for aftercare before,” Enid replies, voice small.
Wednesday hums, allowing one of her hands to slide down to Enid’s hip. When she squeezes, Enid has to bite back a whimper. “I didn’t need it.”
“I—I’m not sure how to give it,” Enid admits, rocking her hips under the guise of readjusting. “But I want to. Can I…?”
Wednesday stares at her, face giving nothing away.
“Can I clean you?” Enid breathes.
Wednesday’s eyes widen infinitesimally, but she schools herself and nods. “You may.”
Let it be said that Enid, all other faults notwithstanding, doesn’t waste any time. Wednesday’s hardly finished speaking before Enid’s sliding down her torso, mouthing at her ruined shirt like it’s done her a personal wrong. As soon as her lips meet the skin of Wednesday’s ribs, Enid gives in with a groan. How many times had she wished for this, for free reign to touch Wednesday without restraint? Enid laps at her sweat-dried stomach until Wednesday’s chest is heaving beneath her.
“Sweet,” Enid whispers to herself, dropping her forehead to rest on Wednesday’s hip. “Tastes so good, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s hand slides into her hair, petting the back of her head.
Enid presses a kiss to Wednesday’s hipbone, teeth snagging on the waist of Wednesday’s pants—and a hard hand jerks her backward.
“No,” Wednesday commands, voice coming out breathless. “You will wait.”
Enid whines in a wordless plea, teeth aching at the thought of mouthing at Wednesday’s soaked underwear, but Wednesday refuses to budge.
“If you’re a good girl, I’ll consider it,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid returns to licking her skin with renewed fervor, desperate to examine every inch of Wednesday’s skin for herself. She wants to press her lips to the small of Wednesday’s back. She wants to suck on Wednesday’s fingers until her jaw aches from the effort.
Since her lower half appears to be off-limits, Enid chooses to continue upwards until her lips catch on the wire of Wednesday’s bra. The lace is nearly see-through, she realizes. She can see Wednesday’s arousal.
“Am I—is this good?” Enid asks. “Is this good aftercare?”
Wednesday’s eyes are lidded when she glances up. Enid cannot help but watch for her teeth when Wednesday's lips part to respond, except—her lips look darker than before. Darker than a mere bruise, Enid realizes, fingertips prickling with something hot and sharp. As dark as blood.
“You bit yourself,” Enid whispers, swaying closer.
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening, but when Enid leans down to kiss her, her hand turns hard and unrelenting in Enid’s hair, dragging her into place.
Enid’s mind is swimming the moment she tastes Wednesday’s blood for herself. It must be hot, Enid knows, because all human beings are theoretically warm-blooded creatures, but objectively and spiritually, she might as well have just knelt at the riverside and stuck her tongue into a frozen spring. Wednesday tastes like holly berries, the coldest night, like everything that could conceivably raise goosebumps on Enid's skin. The sweetness of Wednesday's honeycomb is Enid's favorite scent in the entire world, but her blood was made for Enid.
She nearly sobs into Wednesday’s mouth, sucking at the twin punctures on Wednesday’s lower lip until Wednesday’s hips are twitching beneath her. Enid grinds down just as hard, shifting her position until she can slip her knee between Wednesday’s legs, hoping and praying with the desperation of a man starved that Wednesday won’t figure out what she’s doing and keep Enid from rutting against the thickest part of her thigh—but Wednesday doesn’t tell her to stop. She doesn’t even lift a hand to slow her.
Wednesday makes a noise like a gasp, something shattering in her expression as Enid jerks backward, and her face flushes with color as her honeycomb scent pitches to become near-suffocating. The hand that Wednesday had used to grip Enid’s hair spasms, tightening to the point of pain as she claps her other hand over her mouth. Wednesday’s eyes squeeze shut, but if they hadn’t, Enid would bet all of her money they’d be rolling backward.
Wednesday shudders once, twice, then her legs spread almost accommodatingly, accepting Enid’s weight as her entire body loosens.
“Did you just come?” Enid asks in disbelief, mouth full of Wednesday’s blood.
Notes:
guys. this chapter is so FUCKING long and i deleted almost TEN PAGES OF CONTENT FROM THE ORIGINAL DRAFT LMAO to the graveyard with you, inner mommy issues monologue of enid's!
anyway i have seen dune no less than FOUR times in theatres and my beta will tell you the immense sacrifice it took to keep from including AS WRITTEN! somewhere in this chapter. if you see me in full bene gesserit garb for halloween this year, no you did not
(also, i'm pretty sure canon enid doesn't have a tail in wolf form but for the sake of artistic license, she does now)
Chapter 100: Valiant
Notes:
on a dark, stormy christmas night, i got sloshed and proceeded to write and upload the first chapter of this story (without my beta’s knowledge) (or approval). i’d intended to write a smutty threeshot for a show i had seen ⅔ of the pilot episode of. now, guys and ghouls, allow me to present to you chapter one fuckin HUNDRED!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday trembles in the brush.
She isn't normally one for trembling, but as she generally refuses to lie to herself, she can accept reality for what it is: Wednesday Addams is trembling like a colt on new legs as the frisson of heat in her stomach finally, mercifully, recedes.
She came on Enid's thigh. Like a rutting dog, she'd gasped and shivered and shuddered apart—and she doesn't have the excuse of a near-full moon to absolve her. King Henry's many wives would surely commend how utterly and inexcusably she'd lost her head.
The old fear comes creeping back into Wednesday's chest. Since the beginning, she has harbored worry that Enid won't desire someone so inexperienced, won't want to be held by a dominant with such a blatant lack of self-control as her. Wednesday exercises control in all things, but managing to orgasm without humiliating herself in the process is still frustratingly beyond her. If she cannot overcome this, she might as well join the ranks of the other uncultured swine rumored to blow their load at the slightest provocation.
Seeing as how Wednesday would sacrifice a limb before accepting a personal flaw that left her comparable to the pitiful wolves of Nevermore, it simply cannot abide. She will improve her stamina or die trying.
Her pants feel uncomfortably damp, though whether that's a consequence of laying on a forest floor or coming without first removing her clothes remains unseen. Wednesday keeps her eyes carefully removed from Enid’s face until she can stomach the consequences of her behavior.
As if she can sense her reluctance, Enid gently shifts her thigh out from between Wednesday's legs, gingerly straddling her waist. Her t-shirt hangs just low enough to cover her nakedness, but Wednesday can feel Enid's heat pressed against her stomach. How pitiful that her stomach lacks the nerve endings of her hands and mouth. If Enid were seated on her face, Wednesday would know without a doubt if Enid thought her weak. She'd be able to assess the damage and triage the wound before it can fester any further.
As it stands, they both reek of blood and sweat and fear and it's nigh-impossible for Wednesday to pinpoint the smell of Enid's slick beneath that. She can only hope she doesn't stink of her own come like she suspects.
Enid doesn't rush her, sweet girl that she is, but Wednesday can feel eyes on her face. For all that she'd seen Enid in an almost identical circumstance years ago after the blood moon, right down to the appalling lack of pants, memory pales compared to the present and Wednesday is wary of subjecting herself to Enid's opinion in this state. If Enid looks at her with disgust, it will unravel her. Her limbs feel heavy and sodden like she's spent an age underwater.
Enid waits for her, patient and pliant. Quiet. When Wednesday cannot stand to look away from her for a moment longer, she raises her eyes to Enid's face and braces for the inevitable blow.
She feels it in her stomach, a sharp little tug that threatens to pull the fraying threads of her self-control, but not the way she'd expected. Not the wound she'd readied herself to bear.
Wednesday thought she'd imagined it before. She'd thought it improbable if not impossible that Enid would look at her this way, like she's—
Proud, Wednesday thinks, heart in her throat.
Enid looks glorious. Enid looks pleased.
The forest breathes around them and Wednesday warns herself not to jump to emotion-driven conclusions. She may be misinterpreting this look, this wild, wolflike expression on Enid's face, and it will only serve to hurt her if the truth turns out to be far less palatable.
Acceptance is a fickle thing, Wednesday knows. It would be reckless to hope for more than she deserves.
***
The flush on Wednesday’s cheeks seeps down to her neck.
“Why?” Wednesday drawls, the very picture of indifference. “Were you hoping to watch from a different angle?”
Enid presses the heel of her hand into her lap with a whine, hips twitching against the sudden pressure. She’s so fucking desperate, she can taste it in her mouth.
Wednesday had defended her.
“I thought this was supposed to be aftercare,” Wednesday muses aloud, eyes narrowing at Enid's hand. Anyone who didn’t know her would think her sincere rather than mocking.
“M’sorry,” Enid gasps, forcing herself to still. “I’m—trying not to.”
The smell of Wednesday's come feels like a sticky film over her skin, like every breath Enid draws is stirred with the promise of blood. It makes her want to keen and beg for a knot that doesn’t exist, a knot she’s never even felt in real life, a knot that would be anatomically impossible for Wednesday to have—but that would be insane, so she does not.
“Are you?” Wednesday asks her. It’s obvious she doesn’t expect a real answer.
“Yes,” Enid whispers anyway. “I want to—” Her voice breaks off, overwhelmed and unwilling to explain herself any further. The moon is too close for half-assed excuses. By now, Wednesday knows what kind of beast she is.
Wednesday had fought for her anyways.
“What do you want?” Wednesday asks a little too quickly to pass for true indifference. It’s her first real misstep since they entered the clearing, and it’s so entirely out of character—so ham-fisted and un-Wednesday—that Enid manages to think about something besides the taste of Wednesday’s skin.
Understanding falls on her with such abruptness it steals her breath. How could she forget that Wednesday is, at her core, a writer? For Wednesday, words are how she perceives the world. Her very magic is putting runes to skin, making sacred out of mundane. She’s been experiencing dom-drop for hours now, nearly an entire day, without any relief, and Enid could really and truly slap herself.
How could Wednesday's aftercare not start and end with verbal affirmation?
The Addams—Morticia and Gomez the only glaring exception—aren’t the most physically affectionate family, but they love each other deeply. They express themselves without reserve, offering criticism in as cutting a fashion as kindness. Wednesday doesn’t need empty platitudes or polite affirmations; she has never, not once, asked for anything but the bitter truth.
Enid doesn’t come from a family that values forthrightness. Unsolicited honesty leads to punishment, plain and simple. But Wednesday wasn’t raised to swallow instead of speak, and her need for reassurance is no less important than Enid’s longing for an anchoring touch. If she’s learned anything from Wednesday’s frankly unconscionable PDF collection, it’s that aftercare is aftercare, no matter the form. So what if having to voice her desires unprompted feels like a circumstance designed to send her into nervous sweats? Enid can do this. For Wednesday, she can be brave.
“You fought well,” Enid blurts a little too loudly. “In the pits, I mean.”
“Is that so?” Wednesday muses. Her gaze settles somewhere overhead, as distant and clouded as when she shattered the mirror and made unexpected overtures of marriage. So much has changed since the morning, Enid thinks, and yet she still cannot find the words to reach her. Enid’s not sure she ever has.
Except.
“Do you remember my senior thesis?” Enid asks, struck with sudden inspiration. How could she forget that night? It’s haunted her for over a year now.
A little furrow appears between Wednesday’s eyes. “Of course, I do,” she replies. “I edited it for you. Twice.”
She’d done more than that. While Wednesday had rolled her eyes and held out her hand with an air of long-suffering when Enid first breached her side of the room and fumbled her way through what was admittedly an embarrassing request, her annoyance over being asked to edit Enid’s thesis hadn’t lasted beyond the first page. Within thirty seconds, Wednesday was sitting up straight, ignoring the way her pencil rolled off her desk and dropped onto the floor. Every time Enid tried to interject, Wednesday held up a finger, warning her not to speak. She’d read the entire thing front to back twice before meeting Enid’s eyes.
“No edits,” Wednesday had told her, staring at her with an expression that set Enid’s hair on end.
“Shit, is it that bad?” Enid had squeaked. She would never claim to have Wednesday’s gift with words, but she had thought she was at least passably literate. Surely, her senior thesis didn’t warrant that kind of reaction.
Wednesday proceeded to ignore the hand Enid had extended to take her papers back. Instead, the whole packet disappeared into the locked drawer of her desk. “No. It just doesn’t need my hand on it. This is…”
Enid remembers how her chest tightened at her words, but she can’t recall the exact set of Wednesday’s eyes when she spoke. It feels like a loss now, but in those days, she tried not to make a habit of staring at Wednesday’s face for longer than strictly necessary.
“Yeah?” Enid had asked, breathless.
For a single moment, Wednesday’s expression betrayed her, but whatever it was about Enid’s thesis that so unbalanced her had disappeared just as quickly behind a glacial indifference that rivaled the stars.
“Then you remember the quote I chose from Caesar,” Enid presses, voice blanketed by the stillness of the forest. If she shuts her eyes, she can almost imagine the same stifling air in their dorm room, the way Wednesday had held her thesis in white-knuckled hands.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths,” Wednesday dutifully recites, drawing her back to the present.
Enid exhales. “That’s not the whole quote, Wednesday.”
And Wednesday goes still. If it weren’t for the delicate fluttering of her chest, ribs pushing against her skin, Enid might think her made of stone.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once,” Wednesday breathes.
Enid refuses to drop her gaze, burning in the uncertainty of the moment as it draws longer and longer.
“You think me valiant?” Wednesday eventually asks, and though it’s framed as a taunt, Enid wonders if she has ever looked more grave. This matters, Enid realizes. What she says here will linger in Wednesday beyond the end of this conversation.
“You’re braver than anyone I know,” Enid tells her, and even that falls pitifully short.
She wishes she could feed Wednesday more than just sentiment. If she were a better submissive, more articulate, maybe she could encapsulate this deepest, most violent want for a mate who would fight on her behalf and package it into words Wednesday would understand. Maybe then, Wednesday would understand what this day has done to her.
Wednesday would have killed for her.
“Is that so?” Wednesday murmurs.
A nod seems to pale in the enormity of the truth, but it's all Enid has to give. “Yes,” she agrees, palms flat on Wednesday’s stomach.
“How would you score the match, then?” Wednesday asks, hand curling around Enid’s hip.
Enid worries her lower lip between her teeth. The aftercare PDF hadn’t exactly prepared her to present an expert analysis of Wednesday’s fighting technique. A proper, worthy answer would require research she doesn't have the time or means to fulfill, given she's still sat atop Wednesday's worn-out body in the middle of the fucking woods.
“I’ve never…” Enid falters at the fragility in Wednesday’s expression. These moments are treacherous, she knows; one stumble and it will shatter. “Most of those wolves have never seen a witch fight,” she ultimately answers.
A day may come when Enid Sinclair doesn’t take the easy way out, but that day is not today. Pathetic, she internally cringes.
Whatever she sees on Enid’s face causes Wednesday to raise an eyebrow. “You have,” she points out, cutting straight to the meat of it without mercy. “You’ve seen me fight plenty of times.”
“Not like that,” Enid rasps. Then, with a sudden burst of courage, “Not for me.”
Wednesday's expression gives nothing away. Enid forces herself to maintain eye contact even as her newfound bravery begins to wither and wilt in her chest.
“You consider my performance satisfactory, then?” Wednesday presses, voice pitched lower than before.
It coalesces over Enid like a wave, and she tips her head back, reminding herself to breathe through her mouth. “More than,” she tells the sky. “Wednesday, you were…you were vicious out there. I couldn’t look away.”
Wednesday’s scent blooms with pleasure, and Enid is helpless not to look down and burn on the cross of her candor all over again. There's an almost shameful satisfaction in pleasing her this way, at being the cause of the warmth in Wednesday’s relief.
“I wouldn’t want you to,” Wednesday admits. Though she seems less hunted now, her gaze focuses somewhere past her, glassy and exhausted. Just as it is instinct for Enid to cling harder when she’s been hurt, it is in Wednesday’s nature to pull away.
“No?” Enid asks, biting her lip.
She knows her face is revealing too much, wearing hunger like a second skin as she itches to draw Wednesday's attention back to herself, but she waits it out in silence. If loving Wednesday the way she needs meant spending a lifetime suspended in the long quiet, Enid would. She will.
“I’m rather narcissistic in that sense,” Wednesday mutters, almost low enough that Enid wonders if she wasn’t meant to hear.
“No, it’s—it’s right for me to watch,” Enid insists, ignoring the inevitable curl of heat in her stomach to add, “Since you hurt him for me.”
Wednesday's gaze snaps back to her. The film of elsewhere in her eyes disappears and they are both present in that clearing, both choking on the stench of magic and pheromones that weaves them together.
She's beautiful, Enid thinks a bit helplessly. The moon paints Wednesday's skin in the same strangeness as Enid's hair, eyes reflecting silver like a wolf's eyes reflect the torch.
“Didn’t you?” Enid asks with bated breath.
Wednesday watches her for a moment longer, calculating—then her gaze warms with savage approval. “Yes,” she agrees. “For you.”
Something sharp sprouts to life in Enid’s stomach. She doesn’t find it as harrowing as before to admit, “I like it, Wednesday. That you hurt him for me.”
Wednesday’s face twists until her smile is more like a slice from corner to corner, sharp and unyielding, the sort of expression that burrows into the yawning need in Enid's stomach and sinks lower, lower, lower.
Without warning, Enid’s apprehension drains away as though it were never there at all. This is Wednesday, she thinks, Wednesday who wasted her precious tea on filling Enid’s pink-painted cup for no reason, who went beyond the realm of the living to prove her devotion to her. Wednesday wouldn't be embarrassed in her place if the very trees were screaming with laughter.
“You would have killed him for me,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s skin prickles with goosebumps. Her mouth parts, lower lip catching on one of her new canines, and Enid watches a new drop of blood well up under her teeth.
“Anyone,” Wednesday corrects her. “I would brutalize anyone who touched a single hair on your head.”
Enid nods, feigning indifference while her stomach roils like she’s been starved. “Have you ever thought about how dangerous it is that wolves bite each other on the neck?” she asks, breathless.
For the second time today, Wednesday looks genuinely taken aback. “...No,” she admits. “I haven’t.”
Enid nods, expecting this. “It’s because of our saliva,” she explains. “Our saliva stops the bleeding. There’s a special property or something, I’m not really sure—I mean, you’ve seen my biology grades—but that’s how we can bite over major arteries without killing each other.” Enid swallows hard at the look on Wednesday’s face. “That’s how we mark each other.”
Wednesday’s eyes alight with the familiar fervor of academic interest, but Enid doesn't give her the chance to launch an inquisition. These woods won't shelter them from notice forever.
“I'm told it feels good. Being licked by a wolf, I mean,” Enid hurriedly continues. “Something about our saliva eases pain. I’ve heard…” At that, she hesitates.
Wednesday’s gaze could spear a wild boar. “What did you hear?”
Enid’s voice is little more than a rasp. “The human girlfriend of an East Coast wolf was talking about it in the courtyard. She said it felt like he was eating her out when he licked the blisters on her hands, and I’ve wondered—I wondered even then if it would feel that way when I licked you.”
Wednesday’s hand tightens on her hip. “You’ve eaten me out before.”
“Yeah, once,” Enid mutters. “But I wasn’t licking an injury then. It only works on wounds.”
“How unsanitary,” Wednesday hums. The glint in her eye has thawed into something headier than academic interest.
“You must be in pain,” Enid says, thumbs pressing into Wednesday’s ribs. “Your whole body, probably. Every inch of your skin.”
“I…wouldn’t necessarily say that,” Wednesday breathes.
“So I should lick all of you,” Enid continues unhampered. “Just in case. Just to be safe.”
Wednesday’s lips quirk with amusement. “I'm not sure my injuries require a full body examination,” she replies. “I was recently healed by the world’s preeminent wind singer, if you recall.”
Enid cannot hide her disappointment. Twelve hours in, and her magic is already fucking her. “I…okay, yes. That’s fair.”
Wednesday smirks like she said something funny. “Why are you pouting?” she asks, reaching up to thumb at Enid’s lip. “Petulant little thing, aren’t you?”
Enid has never so regretted her lack of underwear. If someone told her a week ago she’d shred her clothes in front of the entire pack, she would have laughed herself sick. Submissive wolves don’t set foot in the pits—everyone knows that.
It suddenly occurs to Enid that being nervous about sounding like too much of a slut in front of Wednesday is a particular stroke of stupidity when she’s already leaking slick onto Wednesday’s stomach.
“You know what?” Enid says aloud, ignoring how Wednesday’s eyes widen. “You’re right. You don’t need healing. You’re perfect,” and she does mean that with her full chest, “But I can thank you, Wednesday. You’re my dominant and you protected me, you fucking fought for me, you—and—I can thank you for that. If you’ll let me.” She swallows. “If I’ve earned it.”
Though Wednesday doesn’t move, Enid’s heartbeat thrums in her fingertips as if Wednesday just reached up and wrapped both hands around her neck.
“Thank me?” Wednesday repeats.
Enid nods. “If I’m allowed.”
“If you’re allowed,” Wednesday echoes, slow and precise. Her eyes bore into Enid’s face. “And what would my pet ask for if she were allowed?”
Enid swallows a whimper even as she sways where she sits. “To clean you,” she whispers, thighs tightening. Wednesday’s abdominals tense beneath her. “I want to clean you, Wednesday. You….I want to groom you.”
Grooming is normally reserved for mates, but any wolf can comfort another after a hard-fought battle. It's an immense act of submission, to clean your warrior with your tongue. Enid has never seen it performed in public.
Wednesday won't understand the implications, that this is an act between wolves, but Enid will. She will groom Wednesday like a wolf because Wednesday fought for her like a wolf. She deserves to be honored.
And if this is something Enid can do to show her esteem for Wednesday, how incomprehensively proud she is of her dominant, her intended—Enid will do it and no one will stop her. They'd have to tear her away.
Wednesday’s hand cups her jaw. “With this?” she asks, voice deceptively casual, considering her thumb is pressing hard into Enid’s mouth.
Enid accepts it with a groan and sucks, whining her agreement as she clutches Wednesday’s wrist with both hands. She licks the blood from Wednesday’s palm, tongue slipping between her fingers as she swallows. She can feel Wednesday’s blood racing. It throbs beneath her skin in a constant hum.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday whispers, and the shock of her voice is just enough to jolt Enid right out of it.
She shoves Wednesday’s hand away from herself, violently aware that if she listens to Wednesday’s heart beat for any longer, she’ll clamp down and bite. Enid’s pulse thunders in her ears. Licking her, soothing her, even teething on Wednesday is one thing—but marking her without permission would be an inexcusable breach of conduct for any wolf. She’d let herself get much too close to catastrophe for comfort.
So horrified is she, Enid doesn’t realize what she’s done until she catches sight of Wednesday’s face. She stares up at Enid in outright astonishment, rejected hand resting awkwardly by her head.
“Oh, shit,” Enid bleats, snatching Wednesday’s arm right back up from where it had struck the ground. “I didn’t mean to—oh God, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
She pores over Wednesday’s wrist, probing for injury, but Wednesday just continues to watch her. Enid can see something wavering in her face, a decision yet unmade of whether or not to act, and she nearly vibrates out of her skin waiting for the scale to tip one way or the other. Sinking into what Wednesday chooses to inflict on her or mourning the loss of a missed opportunity are equally harrowing prospects, but the space between—the waiting—is still grey and full of teeth.
“Wednesday, are you okay?” she chokes out. “Please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I was fucking—I was—”
“Enid,” Wednesday interrupts her. “Breathe.”
Enid nods, chewing on her lower lip. She clutches Wednesday’s wrist to her chest like a security blanket, waiting for the sword to swing down upon her.
When Wednesday’s face clears of all traces of indecision, Enid’s stomach drops down to her toes.
“What were you about to say?” Wednesday asks. “Finish that sentence, please.”
Enid swallows hard. If there was ever a time for honesty, it’s now. “I was losing control,” she rasps. “I wanted to—I want to bite you. I’m sorry, Wednesday.”
Wednesday remains passive, her only reaction a mere tilt of her head. No one should look so confident while splayed out on their back, Enid thinks.
“You want to bite me,” Wednesday repeats.
Enid nods, curls ghosting against her neck.
“You feel you can’t control yourself,” Wednesday continues.
Enid only manages a single jerk of her chin that time.
If it’s possible, Wednesday’s gaze becomes harder to bear. “Take off my belt, Enid.”
Enid remains frozen for at least two beats before surging into motion. Her blood sings under her skin, heating at the prospect of what must come next, even as she chastises herself for once again failing at her one assigned task. If there was ever a worse attempt at aftercare than this, she would love to see it.
Her fingers fumble over Wednesday’s holster, but Enid eventually manages to lay the sheath safely at Wednesday’s side. The forest will surely protect Wednesday’s knife, she thinks, even if it is a bit disrespectful to leave a weapon like that in the dirt.
The moment her belt slides loose with a smooth snick, Wednesday clears her throat. “If you want it, you need only ask.”
Enid has to force herself to look up. The leather remains soft and warm in her grasp.
“You want me to ask for the belt?” she whispers.
“I want you to ask me for everything,” Wednesday retorts, then pauses and frowns at herself as if she hadn’t meant to give voice to that particular truth. It rankles to think of not being privy to Wednesday's desires. A wholly irrational strike of jealousy sinks into Enid with vicious teeth.
“I always want you to ask me for things,” Wednesday amends. “What you ask for is immaterial.”
Enid’s jaw clacks shut.
“When you want it, tell me,” Wednesday says, hand curling around Enid’s until they hold the belt together. “It doesn’t have to be a punishment. And if my puppy wants lick me, she does not need to frame it as soothing some imagined wound with her magical saliva,” she adds, voice dry.
Enid takes a series of deep, steadying breaths. There’s a kindness in the way Wednesday touches her that Enid has never quite thought she’d deserve, and even now, it stings.
“Okay, well, I wasn’t lying about the saliva,” Enid protests half-heartedly. “But I—I’ll ask for what I need.”
Wednesday exhales through her nose, and Enid hurries to correct herself.
“I’ll ask for what I want,” she amends. “I’ll—I’ll try, Wednesday. Promise.”
Wednesday nods, tilting her head back to expose her throat. “Then you may proceed.”
Enid nearly drops the belt in her hurry to lay it beside the sheath, hands shaking as she turns back to Wednesday and contemplates just how much exposure she’ll be able to get away with. Wednesday doesn’t seem to be adverse to taking her clothes off, per se, but they are in the middle of an occupied forest. Any reasonable person would be hesitant to put themselves in an even more vulnerable position.
Then again, Wednesday Addams doesn’t share the same fears as a reasonable person. When Enid slides her hands beneath Wednesday’s waistband and no protest comes, she throws caution to the wind and peels Wednesday out of both pants and underwear at once. Wednesday arches her back to allow Enid to unhook the clasp of her bra, but she doesn’t whimper and moan the way Enid would in her position. Her eyes remain sharp and focused.
Enid’s nails accidentally sink into her palms when she gets her first full look of Wednesday’s body, regret rearing its ugly head as her hands become sticky with blood.
“Shit,” Enid mumbles, cursing herself when Wednesday’s face spasms and she’s instantly sitting upright, forcibly uncurling Enid’s fingers to assess the damage. There goes any chance of licking Wednesday top to bottom, Enid gloomily thinks.
Wednesday exhales under her breath. “Oh, Puppy,” she murmurs, pressing the pad of her thumb against one of the punctures. Her eyes flash up to Enid’s face at her sharp inhale.
Enid breathes a little harder, thighs trembling when Wednesday refuses to relinquish her grip. A droplet of Enid’s blood spills down her wrist, making a break for it towards her elbow.
“Can you heal yourself?” Wednesday asks her.
“N-No,” Enid admits, biting her lip. “My saliva doesn’t work on me. It’s fine, Wednesday, it’ll—I’ll heal fast this close to the moon.”
Wednesday appraises her with a strange look, thumb still tracing the shape of her cuts. She’s either oblivious or making a valiant attempt at pretending not to notice how Enid’s hips twitch each time she presses down on one of the punctures. “You’re still struggling,” she deduces.
Enid gives a jerky sort of nod. With each passing moment, she could swear she feels the moon waxing in her blood.
Wednesday’s eyes flick back to the belt, that same calculating glint that had preceded Enid’s heat twisting her otherwise calm expression, but she just nods in acknowledgment.
All wolves hunger for acknowledgment, Enid thinks; Wednesday might not be one of them by blood, but she would know what it's like to starve.
“Wednesday,” she rasps.
Wednesday makes a noise of contemplation, attention still on her hand. “Be patient.”
Wednesday lowers her head, nails pricking Enid’s skin as she prods around the punctures. Her gaze is focused, frustrated, but worry does nothing to dampen the flush of her cheeks.
In the cast of the moon, in Enid's forest, to her heart and lungs and the wretched ache in her teeth that belongs to the wolf, Wednesday is a beacon in the dark. Enid can sense her presence like a thumb brushing over the fluttering pulse in her throat. She loves this sad patch of dirt and trampled plants if only because Wednesday's shadow once passed over it.
“Wednesday,” Enid repeats, volume raising. “Thank you.”
Wednesday's shoulders tense, but her eyes do not raise. “For?”
“Fighting for me.” Enid curls her fingers until she can hold Wednesday's hand. “You fought for me. I wouldn't….I'm…I'm so proud to call you my dominant, Wednesday.”
The forest awaits her verdict with bated breath. Wednesday could have been made of sky as she meets Enid's gaze, as pale and perfect and unrelenting as the moon. She is frightened, Enid realizes, and for that she is brave. To love her is to be brave.
Wednesday's eyes are black, but not void—never empty. Not as long as she's looking at Enid. Not as long as her lips are curving up and Enid's heart stutters in her chest as the weight that had hung around Wednesday's neck like a noose since the morning slowly dissipates into the night.
“You're welcome,” Wednesday answers, squeezing Enid's hand in return.
Notes:
alright so i'm gonna try to finish the whole hunt next chapter so that we can get to the REAL smut scene i keep pushing off and letting languish in my graveyard doc lmao AND AFTER THAT IS HELL MOUNTAIN!
Chapter 101: Fed
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday is first to wake the following morning.
It's not unusual for her; Wednesday has always risen with the sun. From early childhood, she’d find an excuse to join Morticia in her garden or Gomez in the kitchen in hopes of delaying the inevitable because even from an early age, school had not agreed with Wednesday. The private school she attended as a child lasted right up until she was accused of burning down the auditorium—a ridiculous accusation to hurl at a nine-year-old, considering she’d never make the mistake of leaving forensic evidence of her involvement—and then she'd cycled through a rotating cast of mixed public schools that proved a temporary solution to a permanent problem. By age fifteen, it was clear only a school for outcasts was equipped to deal with her.
If Wednesday had been booted from Nevermore, her parents would likely have shipped her to SOLLS, then Night’s Plutonian Shore, and then probably off to Japan to let her try her usual stunts on Momoko and see how successful she was at taking on a daughter of the forest in her own territory. Wednesday had been fortunate to land at a school where her sleeping habits weren’t outright discouraged, if frequently side-eyed, and where no one forbade her from rising at dawn.
Before Enid, the very idea of remaining still after she'd already opened her eyes made Wednesday feel vaguely disturbed. It was a matter of routine, she would argue to Pugsley, though even as a child, she had known her true motivations lay more with control than with maintaining any real sense of normalcy. Wednesday could not control how quickly she fell asleep. She could not control how well she stayed asleep, but she could set the conditions of how and when she woke.
Wednesday was raised in a home filled with pattering noise and fresh baking bread before the sun ever breached the trees, and she eventually grew used to waking in a dorm room that smelled like Enid. When either of those conditions are met, she can sleep.
“Mhm,” Enid sighs into her pillow, hand clenching and releasing over the spot Wednesday just vacated.
Enid’s childhood bedroom may be dark and unfamiliar, as unused to Wednesday as she is to it, but the scent is the same. As long as it smelled of Enid, Wednesday would be content to sleep in a sewer grate.
Another small noise from Enid's throat, her lashes casting shadows over her cheeks as she dreams. Her face is overwhelming at the best of times, but especially so in sleep.
At this ungodly hour, all of the anxiety that regularly pulls at Enid’s mouth and tightens her face in daylight feels distant and unbefitting, a mask she should never have donned. No wonder, Wednesday scoffs to herself as she begins to dress, that Eve the First flees her community in every shade of her mythos. If Eve was half as lovely as Enid, the beasts of her forest would surely have hungered for the skin of a creature so fair.
No maiden of Eve the First's reputed caliber would have been safe in any wood. Hunting has a different meaning for Wednesday than it does for the wolves, but she’d seen enough of the Flint pack to imagine what sort of monsters the first daughter faced in her home village.
Enid sighs under her breath. Her lips remain parted as though she was captured mid-gasp, red-swollen, a sole bloom of color in unforgiving light, but even in shadow, she is the picture of loveliness. The darkness does nothing to diminish her.
Wednesday is careful to move quietly as she eases the bedroom door open, gaze pitched forward on a hallway devoid of any family pictures or painted portraits in an effort to keep herself from standing and breathing and just watching Enid sleep. She hasn't forgotten the look on Enid's face when she’d returned from Australia and discovered a stowaway in her bed.
Some part of her still expects to be met with an immediate barrage of scowling faces outside the bedroom—Esther and Devon and Alex’s sallow-faced fiancée, since every person in this household seems to have some varying degree of problem with her presence—but the hall remains silent and still. Enid must not be the only Sinclair apt to sleep long past the sun.
It’s the work of a few minutes for Wednesday to discover what Esther's kitchen lacks in square footage, it more than makes up for in stock of eggs and milk and flour. While Wednesday favors waffles for breakfast, finding great enjoyment in cutting each waffle down to a perfect pile of surgically-excised squares she can then asphyxiate in maple syrup, Enid always chooses pancakes when given the option. It rankles to think that Pugsley will gain a new vote for his cause, but she’s been fighting his lobbying efforts for pancakes over waffles since lower school; Wednesday won’t fold so easily in a decade-long dispute just because her intended happens to take his side.
Pugsley should consider himself lucky Wednesday was selected to inherit governing control of Noble Maple instead of him. While Gomez had the great fortune of avoiding his slice of the family business in favor of preparing to helm the family itself, Wednesday will not be granted the same stay of execution. The last Addams family reunion had nearly devolved into a bloodbath when Auntie Gloria revealed a living will doling out varying economic responsibilities to each of her chosen inheritors.
The cousins were granted the family’s aerospace and defense company, Pugsley was given possession of their pharmaceutical operations, and Wednesday will one day be responsible for maintaining controllership of the world’s largest producer of maple syrup. She shudders at the thought of having to explain to Enid why they need to make bi-monthly pilgrimages to the Noble Maple forest in Québec, but figures it a problem for the future. Perhaps those woods will call to one of their children and Wednesday can write the trips off as training. To her knowledge, no daughter has ever been chosen by the maple forest her family harvests, but then no woodwitch who’d tried was the daughter of Enid Sinclair.
For the moment, Wednesday resigns herself to serving Enid pancakes without syrup. Nevermore breakfasts had been largely acceptable fare since they exclusively used Noble Maple products in the dining halls, but Wednesday would sooner eat broken glass than willingly give Enid the high-fructose garbage Esther Sinclair keeps in her refrigerator. No, Enid will just have to be content with pancakes sans accompaniment.
Wednesday has only just finished combining her batter when a tapping comes from the back door.
She pauses mid-stir, a glob of pancake mix plopping back into the bowl and splattering the cuff of her shirt. Wednesday frowns, eyeing the stain and wondering just how angry Esther would be if she discovered her future daughter-in-law prancing around in a clearly well-loved apron.
Not furious enough to dissuade her from doing it, Wednesday decides, swallowing a rather unkind smile. Before answering the door, she pulls the lacy white apron down from its hook of honor beside the pantry and ties it tight to her waist. Esther might be a miserable excuse for a parent, but she sure knows how to embroider. The peonies sewn into the hem of her apron are a masterclass in petulance.
"What do you want?" Wednesday asks, cracking the door only enough to reveal the face of her unexpected and rather unwelcome guest.
Jordan frowns at her. "Is that Missus Sinclair's apron?"
Wednesday shoves the door open, forcing him to shuffle back a few steps. "Yes," she answers. "Your point?"
Jordan shoves his hands in his pockets. "You wanna come train with us today?"
Wednesday can feel her brow furrowing, the usual suspicion alighting in her stomach, but Jordan Clifford doesn't look like a man with any particularly sinister plot. He stares at her with an open expression, shifting from foot to foot as he awaits her response.
"Alright," she agrees. "You'll have to wait half an hour. I'm making breakfast for Enid."
Jordan's nostrils flare, and Wednesday may not be an exemplary older sister, but any person with siblings would recognize the look on his face. "Pancakes?" he guesses, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Wednesday rolls her eyes, pushing the door open to allow him further inside.
***
By the time Enid stumbles downstairs, still rubbing her eyes and only partially miffed since she can tell by the potency of Wednesday's scent that she's still somewhere in the house, she's mostly escaped the thrall of the dream she'd been having. Somewhere between falling into her nest and waking to a bed empty of Wednesday, Enid had dreamt of walking barefoot through the forest.
It was her forest, she was sure, the path behind her house that leads to the northernmost stream—but that was where all familiarity ended. Her skin prickled with each brush of a fabric she hadn’t recognized by touch and her sense of smell was dulled, pinched, like she couldn’t smell anything past the wreath of holly leaves she’d been wearing like a crown. It was more frustrating than frightening, but the small part of Enid that was aware it wasn’t a normal dream had wondered if she should be frightened.
The path led her to the edge of the territory and to a towering black bear, the kind of beast they’d normally have to travel up the mountain to hunt in this day and age, who'd been waiting and had watched her with unforgiving eyes. Enid can’t remember the last time a wolf returned from the hunt with a bear in tow. Rabbits and deer and foxes are much more common trophies.
The dream-bear hadn't tried to eviscerate her the way its real-life counterpart undoubtedly would, but she could feel its grief from ten yards away and something about the vision had struck her as being a bit too sharp. It lacked the haze of her usual nightmares. Withdrawing from the dream was harder.
Distantly, Enid wonders if these visions will continue once she's left the bounds of the forest.
"Fuck," comes Wednesday's voice from the kitchen. “The heat distribution on this stovetop is atrocious.”
"'Nother one for the trash?" a distinctly male voice responds, causing Enid’s heart to leap into her throat. "Give it here."
Enid rounds the corner just in time to catch Wednesday flipping a pancake with all the deftness of a conductor into Jordan Clifford's waiting mouth. He wolfs it down like a starving dog, smacking his lips as he swallows.
In any other situation, Enid might have laughed at the sight of a six-foot-tall shirtless man idly kicking his feet where he sits atop her kitchen counter. As it stands, she thinks it lucky for him she doesn’t combust on the spot.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Jordan?" she demands, and Jordan freezes, all wide-eyed and confused like it’s somehow a shock to find Enid in her own damn house at seven o’clock in the morning.
"Enid," Wednesday breathes, laying her spatula down. "You're awake."
Enid is helpless not to melt into her when Wednesday moves forward to cradle her cheeks in sugar-sticky hands, but she manages to shoot a glare in Jordan's direction anyway. "Are you here for Devon?" she barks.
Jordan shakes his head, hopping down from the counter. "Nah. Come out when you're done feeding her, Addams," he tells Wednesday, making for the door. "Sinclair," he offers to her in an aside that has Enid jerking backward like she'd been slapped.
It's not so much the sight of him, shirtless as always, or the unexpected presence of a man in her kitchen—she’d long grown used to stumbling across random wolves in her home by proxy of living with four brothers. But since when does Jordan Clifford address her with any semblance of respect?
“What the fuck?” Enid whispers, startling when the door bangs shut behind him. “What the hell was that?”
Wednesday reaches up to smooth down her hair. "An invitation to join the warrior trainees for some exercise, by my understanding," she says at full volume. “Preparations for tomorrow's hunt are well underway.”
“With Jordan’s group?” Enid splutters. “What the fuck are you talking about, Wednesday?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Mouthy this morning, aren’t we?”
Enid’s teeth sink into her lower lip as the back of her neck begins to burn. “Did he break into the house, or did you let him in?”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth quirks up. “I let him inside the house,” she admits.
“Well, that was your first mistake,” Enid huffs. “Now that he’s tasted your cooking, we’ll never get rid of him. Why were you feeding him, anyways?” she wheedles, trying not to whine.
"Better he eats from the stove than out of the garbage," Wednesday responds, voice dry. "Those pancakes were failures. If he wants to eat my castoffs, he is welcome to it."
Enid scowls, cheeks puffing out as she allows Wednesday to tow her to the table. “Yeah, well, I would’ve eaten your castoffs too if you—if…your….”
Her voice trails off as she lays eyes on the kitchen table. It’s the same cracked laminate and sticky placemats she’d grown up with, but instead of the usual signs of her brothers’ mess, she’s met with a veritable tower of diametrically identical pancakes arranged on her mom’s holiday platter. The color is so unnaturally golden, they almost look artificial.
“Are you pleased?” Wednesday shatters the sudden silence.
Enid shoots her a look that is plainly aghast. “You made this for—oh my God, Wednesday. Is this all for me?” she squeaks.
Wednesday’s eyes crinkle at the corners like she said something funny. “Are you surprised?”
Enid doesn’t protest when she’s steered into a seat and given a napkin to place in her lap, though she does feel a bit hysterical when Wednesday takes the seat typically reserved for Esther at the head of the table. Maybe she never woke up from her black bear encounter in the woods. Maybe this whole fucking trip has been one long hallucination, starting with Toby Montgomery eschewing murder for friendship and ending with Wednesday being invited to run in the hunt with the warrior trainees.
Wednesday plucks the topmost pancake off of the pile and holds it out to her.
“Eat,” she commands, and Enid does.
She nearly moans at that first bite, even knowing that Jordan can no doubt hear her where he’s skulking outside in hopes of stealing more of her special breakfast. It’s the best pancake Enid has ever had. In fact, it's a struggle not to soak her shorts right there in the middle of her mother’s kitchen even though her childhood home is the very last place that she should reasonably be slicking up over breakfast foods.
If she wasn't already intimately familiar with how Wednesday tastes, Enid might have sworn it was the best thing she’d ever eaten.
“You like it,” says Wednesday, eyes bright.
“You don’t always have to make me food,” Enid replies, leaning in for another bite. It seems unfair that Wednesday can be beautiful and athletic and academically-gifted and still have room for a talent in cooking. Enid’s pretty sure her only real aptitude is for getting aroused when it’s least convenient for everybody around her.
Wednesday makes a noise of consternation, fingertips briefly pressing onto Enid's lips. “I am very concerned with your every want and need,” she says. “If asked to rank priorities, I would place the compulsion to keep you fed and content as chief among them.”
“Oh,” Enid breathes. Then she twitches, abruptly reminded of a cardboard box of cupcakes with perfect pink icing, and gasps, “Oh. Is this a runewitch thing? Not just—not just for the first courting step?”
Wednesday leans slightly over the table to offer her another pancake. “If you’re referring to a runewitch custom, then yes. It's customary for my kin to feed our loved ones by our own hand whenever possible.”
Enid struggles to swallow her next mouthful. A seed of something evil begins to take root, an idea that the old Enid would never have considered under threat of spontaneous combustion for the sheer shame of it now solidifying into a solid plan of action. She may not be as learned of a chef as Wednesday, but there is one advantage Enid has by right of biology.
Slick is sterile, after all. There’s no real reason it can’t theoretically be used in cooking.
“Is this…something I could do, too? For you, I mean?” Enid asks, making sure to keep her voice casual.
Wednesday’s brow furrows like she can sense Enid’s plotting by sheer proximity, but her scent blooms with approval. “Yes. This is a custom that may be shared.”
“Then I’d like to do it,” Enid declares, raising her chin. “If…if that’s okay with you,” she adds.
Wednesday’s smile is all teeth. “Tonight, then. After I finish thrashing the trainees.”
Enid scowls, taking a savage bite to keep from saying something unkind. “With Jordan’s group?” she mumbles around her mouthful.
“Yes,” Wednesday agrees. Though her tone is pleasant, her next words are ripe with warning. “I trust you to take care not to choke, Puppy.”
Enid pauses, cheeks bulging, then sullenly swallows.
“I would like to join them if only to test my skillset against worthwhile opponents,” Wednesday continues, fingernails of her free hand tapping an uneven beat on the tabletop.
Enid forces herself to look somewhere besides Wednesday’s hands. “You beat Hugo,” she points out, albeit weakly.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “I said worthwhile opponents.”
Enid tries and fails not to grin. Only a day ago, Hugo Flint was their greatest adversary in this pack. Oh, how the mighty fall, she thinks.
Almost as soon as Enid’s finished her pancakes—the entire plate of pancakes, eaten under Wednesday’s watchful eye—she hears movement coming from upstairs. She and Wednesday both freeze, staring at the ceiling as something above them creaks and groans.
“Is it better or worse for me to be here when your mother gets up?” Wednesday wonders.
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “Definitely worse. Go with Jordan. I’ll clean up,” she urges, leaping from her chair to start stacking dishes in the sink like speed can somehow deter Esther's wrath.
“Are you sure?” Wednesday asks from behind her.
Enid scoffs, “Yes, sure. You do not wanna be here when she comes down, believe me—”
She loses her breath when she turns around and discovers Wednesday standing directly behind her, encroaching on her space to the point where if it were anyone else, Enid would've snarled at the threat. Wednesday catches her wrist, breath spilling over Enid’s neck as she traps her against the counter.
“Will you be in danger?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid does laugh then. Her jaw clicks shut, eyebrows raising when she realizes what she just did.
“No,” Enid answers, surprising even herself. “She can’t…there’s nothing my mother can do to us now that the Pack Leader approves besides bitch at the injustice of having a witch in the family.”
“Two,” Wednesday quietly says. At Enid's confusion, she adds, “Even if you hadn't done me the honor of taking me for your intended, you would still be her daughter.”
Enid gives a startled laugh. “Um, yeah. That's…true.”
Wednesday smirks. “But you would still try to spare me the bitching?” she muses, voice teasing. “How sweet.”
Enid abruptly struggles to swallow. “W-Well, I'm not sure how much I can do considering you're spending the day with Jordan Clifford,” she hedges.
Wednesday snorts under her breath, hand slipping between them to tug once on the hem of Enid's shirt. Enid opens her mouth, breath rushing out of her, but the pressure of Wednesday's weight disappears as she goes swanning off to replace Esther's apron, and Enid isn't disgruntled enough with her full stomach and cheeks flushed from Wednesday feeding her by hand to whine out loud at the loss.
Instead, she leans her weight against the counter, idly chewing on her lower lip. Wednesday's not really dressed for sparring, but maybe she's used to fighting in any state at any time for any plausible reason. Learning single combat in business casual attire seems like something an Addams would do.
Wednesday makes a show of hanging the apron exactly like Esther had it, even going so far as to replicate her usual looping knot, but then ruins the performance by wiping her hands all over the fabric. Judging by her expression, Wednesday would be stomping the apron into the floor and spitting on it for good measure if such a thing were possible without summoning Esther to the kitchen like a curse.
Enid still has to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from snorting out loud. Making noises like that this early in the morning is a dangerous endeavor with her mother potentially within hearing distance, but something about the sheer satisfaction on Wednesday’s face has Enid muffling giggles with her palms like a child.
“Do you have plans for today?” Wednesday asks, cupping Enid’s cheek in her hand.
Enid leans into her with a sigh. “I'll be working in the kitchens with the other submitting wolves. I’ll see you tonight, though.” Once she's scrubbed herself clean somewhere in the woods, that is. There's a reason everyone who isn't obligated to work avoids the kitchens at all costs the day before a hunt.
Wednesday raises a manicured eyebrow. “Not at lunch?” she prods.
“Well…” Enid bites her lip. “Maybe. If you can stand it.”
Both Wednesday's eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “So ominous,” she murmurs, thumb pressing down on Enid's lower lip. “I had no idea chores were such a treacherous endeavor in these parts.”
“You have no fucking idea,” Enid mutters darkly, opening her mouth without protest. She's more than prepared to take Wednesday's thumb into her mouth. It will be a cold day in hell before Enid forgos any opportunity, no matter how brief, to taste her skin.
Wednesday huffs out a low laugh that raises the hair on the back of Enid's neck, but ultimately steps away before Enid has the chance.
“Til then, my darling," she says, leaving Enid braced against the counter with her lips still parted like a moron. Enid doesn't quite manage to swallow her whine as she squeezes her thighs together.
Wednesday pauses when she reaches the door, braids shifting she turns to appraise Enid over her shoulder.
“Be good for me,” she says, voice low enough that Enid knows it was meant only for her.
Enid tips her head back to stare at the ceiling as soon as Wednesday's disappeared outside. When the ceiling creaks again, she doesn't flinch.
Notes:
peonies (particularly pink): passive-aggressiveness, anger
okay i lied BUT the full chapter preceding the hunt ended up being over forty pages long, so i'm posting it over the course of this week in multiple parts in hopes my beta doesn't murder me!!!
next up: wednesday fights the trainees, enid braves the horrors of the kitchens, and The Return of The Smut
Chapter 102: Pack
Notes:
warnings: allusions to cutting oneself (though for the sake of runes, not for the sake of self-harm)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The air outside is sticky-hot, summer settling on their shoulders with the promise of real heat as sunlight spills over the trees.
“When does the hunt begin?” Wednesday wonders aloud.
Jordan's brow furrows. “Dawn. Tomorrow. Did no one tell you that?”
“I was rather busy last night,” Wednesday answers. “I'm afraid logistics weren't top of mind.”
Jordan shoots her a look. “They should be. You've got—what, twenty hours? Not a lot of time to cram a decade's worth of training in before the start of the hunt.”
His tone strikes Wednesday as odd. He might sound admonishing, if not for the harshness of his words. No matter, Wednesday thinks. She has no intention of making friends with Jordan Clifford. A working relationship will do just fine.
"Why do you want to spar with me?" Wednesday asks, sidestepping a rotting log. “I've already proven I have no qualms throwing my full weight in the ring. Surely, it isn’t worth risking an injury so close to the main event.”
Jordan slants her a narrow-eyed look. “Caught that, did you?”
“The importance of the hunt for your future prospects?” Wednesday dryly responds. “Yes. I gathered that when the thought of not participating reduced your dear friend Hugo to tears.”
Jordan scoffs under his breath. “We’re not friends.”
“No? Enid would disagree, I suspect,” Wednesday muses.
Jordan’s lips press into a flat line. “I thought you of all people would get the idea of a necessary evil, Addams.”
He’d looked much more intimidating last night, with ritualistic red paint on his chest and stomach and a hardness in his expression that’s apparently too difficult to maintain in the aftermath of a home-cooked breakfast. In the pale, greyish morning, he just looks unclothed and uncertain.
Wednesday murmurs, “Rather pitiful that your closest friend is your rival.”
“You don’t know wolves,” Jordan retorts. “You think I had a choice of who my friends would be? Rank decided that.”
He looks too resigned for real hope, too used to fuming over a fate he had no real way of changing until now. As long as Hugo Flint reigned over the trainees, Jordan had little to no chance of challenging him for the eventual right to lead the pack—at least, that was what Enid had sleepily explained when she’d asked. Resentment is a fickle thing, Wednesday knows. Some days burn hotter than others.
“I don’t believe I was introduced to your group, last we met,” Wednesday comments.
Jordan shoves his hands into his pockets. “They know you. The entire fuckin’ pack knows you, after the show you put on last night,” he scoffs.
“Excellent,” Wednesday responds. “That should save us time.”
Jordan’s mouth spasms in an almost-smile that he quells immediately, disgruntlement filling the hollows of his cheeks.
“You’ve met my group already,” he refutes. “They were there when you crossed the boundary.”
Wednesday recalls a host of wolves waiting at the treeline that she'd assumed had been placed there for dramatic effect. The reality seems to skew more towards emotional codependency, by the look on Jordan's face. Do wolves believe exchanging glares from afar qualifies as meeting? Or did Jordan's contingent of hanger-ons catch her scent and think that enough?
“This may come as a shock,” Wednesday drawls, “But not every species considers ass-sniffing a suitable introduction. My kin generally expects names as well.”
Jordan’s expression might have been offended if not for the twitching of his lips. “Here’s your chance, Addams.”
“We’re close?” Wednesday asks, squinting through the trees. This part of the forest looks like every other part of the forest.
Jordan, to his credit, looks as though he’s making a distinct effort not to roll his eyes. “You can’t smell them? They reek.”
“I would need to draw runes to mimic your sense of smell,” Wednesday admits, albeit reluctantly. It still grates to think she has such an immense disadvantage in any social situation with a wolf.
“They can definitely smell you,” Jordan mutters, ducking under a hanging branch. “You do know you can shower, right? We have showers.”
Wednesday smirks. “Why? Do I smell like Enid?”
Jordan spears her with an incredulous look. “Are you being serious? It smells like she pissed all over you.”
Admittedly, Enid's clinginess in sleep had reached new heights since arriving in San Francisco. Whether a product of a stressful day or a subconscious effort of Enid's to continue comforting her, she had spent the night rather…close.
It wouldn't have been a problem if they'd chosen to wear pajamas, but Enid didn't seem to have the will to put even the slightest physical barrier between them, and Wednesday didn't have the heart to defy her. Not after the pits and the forest and how Enid had looked in the light of the moon. They slept naked in Enid's nest together, steaming in a pile of blankets that seemed to absorb Enid's scent and deliver it back tenfold, sweating to the point of Enid's skin sliding against hers every time she scented Wednesday in her sleep. Even Wednesday can smell the sugar on her skin.
“Well, I can assure you, she did not,” Wednesday answers, aware that she must smell as pleased as she feels.
Jordan does roll his eyes that time. “Jesus. I've met wolves in rut less sub-drunk than you.”
“Sub-drunk?” Wednesday repeats, following him through a thin copse of trees. There seems to be a clearing up ahead.
“Drunk on your submitting wolf,” Jordan answers. “Happens sometimes when we go into rut.”
“And what if it’s a constant state of inebriation?” Wednesday taunts.
Jordan scowls at her. “I'd say to keep that shit to yourself. Not everyone's got a submissive willing to waterboard them with slick, Addams.”
Wednesday's still ruminating on that as they enter a clearing full of shirtless trainees. Noise doesn't halt, exactly, but the wolves certainly slow to watch her arrival.
She counts seven new faces in total, excluding Jordan—five males and two females. Wednesday is slightly surprised to note that the two female wolves had been sparring topless alongside their male brethren, though both move to gather t-shirts as soon as they lay eyes on her.
“Addams wants names,” Jordan announces, voice flat. “Says it's only polite she knows who's sniffing her ass.”
Scattered laughs, but no real smiles. Wednesday imagines the tension still lessens somewhat as the wolves obediently shuffle closer to where she stands.
“What’s it matter?” one of the female wolves asks. “Not like she’s staying.”
Before Jordan can reply, Wednesday shifts to make direct eye contact with the girl who’d spoken. “You must not be familiar with woodwitches,” she states.
The girl scowls, but her resulting shrug isn’t antagonistic. “No. Why would I?”
“Considering at least one of your packmates is a woodwitch, it might behoove you to learn,” Wednesday advises. “If you had the slightest inkling of who Enid is, you’d know better than to assume she will never return to these woods.”
The wolves share a look that Wednesday can’t quite decipher.
“You’re staying?” Jordan speaks up. “After the hunt, you’re sticking around?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at the unfamiliar note in his voice. “Not immediately. We have obligations elsewhere this summer,” she admits. “But come autumn, I imagine we’ll return for some time. Enid will need to be near her woods to advance in her training.”
“Submitting wolves don’t train,” one of the boys interjects. When the others glance at him, he twitches. “What? Sinclair’s not a trainee. She won’t fight.”
Wednesday smiles wide enough to reveal her new teeth. “I wasn’t referring to warrior training,” she responds.
An uncomfortable sort of silence descends over the clearing. Wednesday is aware that tensions between wolves and other outcasts never fully healed after the war, but to have this visceral of a reaction to the mere idea of one of their own practicing magic is just nonsensical. She will have to do something about this before Enid returns in the fall.
“How do you usually determine match-ups?” Wednesday asks, ignoring the looming tension. “Or am I the highest ranked fighter present, now that I’ve defeated the illustrious Hugo Flint?”
Jordan scoffs, and that seems to end the stalemate. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Addams. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Fine,” Wednesday agrees. “Who will I fight?”
“Spar,” one of the boys pipes up, albeit nervously. “It’s a spar. No serious injuries the day before a hunt.”
“I won’t go for yours if you won’t go for mine,” she retorts, eyes flicking to his exposed neck.
“Maybe you should take her knife, Jordan,” the other girl suggests. “I saw Bernard’s hand this morning. He’ll be lucky to bring home a rabbit.”
“What good will that do? We all saw what she did to Hugo. And that was with no knife,” Jordan points out.
“I wouldn’t relinquish my blade in any case,” Wednesday informs them. “Runewitches do not disarm themselves in the presence of non-kin.”
The wolves fall silent, gazes turning to Jordan.
He sighs. “What does that mean, Addams?”
“It means no runewitch worth her salt would devoid herself of rune-scribing tools while in unfamiliar territory,” Wednesday states. “As I am not a moron, I will not relinquish my quickest means to defend myself.”
One of the boys shifts uncomfortably. “She’s joking.”
“Uh, doesn’t sound like she’s joking,” one of the girls mutters.
Jordan rolls his eyes. “You’re not actually saying you use that knife on yourself, right, Addams?”
“Obviously, not,” Wednesday scoffs. “Imagine the mess. No, I prefer ink for daily runework.”
The wolves suddenly look rather horrified.
“What the fuck?” one of the girls whispers. “Jordan, what the fuck?”
Wednesday frowns. “I am aware that knives have fallen out of fashion over the last century, but I come from a traditional family. A blade is just as effective as—”
“You cut yourself? Like, on purpose?” one of the boys blurts. “Just to do runes?”
Wednesday fights to maintain a neutral expression. “No. I typically use ink, but seeing as how this outing was framed as a sparring opportunity and not an ambush, I neglected to bring additional supplies for rune-scribing,” she says, voice clipped. “Is that a problem?”
“No, just…you’re kind of hardcore, Addams,” another boy tells her, expression open and honest. “You’re really not what we expected.”
All frustration drains away and Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Beating Hugo Flint wasn’t enough?” she asks, voice dry.
The wolves twitter like she said something outrageous.
"No, that was definitely enough,” one of the girls answers. “Jordan. Who do you want up against Addams?”
Jordan continues eyeing her with a strange expression, but shakes his head. “Are you seriously planning to verse us without magic?”
Wednesday draws up to her full height. “I am, in fact, capable of defeating you without help. Shall I prove it?”
“Go ahead,” Jordan tells her, crossing his arms. “Sharpy. You and Addams are up first.”
The wolves break immediately, forming a loose circle around a section of grass that’s been trampled into flat submission.
“Who is Sharpy?” Wednesday asks, taking her place in the center.
A tired-looking boy beside Jordan sighs. “I am. Liam Sharpe,” he introduces himself, face pinched.
Wednesday stares at him. “A pleasure.”
If Jordan’s pleased with her attempt at being cordial, he doesn’t show it. He just raises a hand to call the start of the match.
“Fifteen says that Sharpy shits himself,” one of the boys on the sideline whispers to his friend.
“You’re on, man.”
The fight is over in less than thirty seconds.
As soon as Liam’s back hits the ground, Wednesday expects a protest. She expects to field the same lamentations of the weak that have always trailed after her whenever she puts a man stronger than her onto his knees. The boys she’d punished at her last public high school went from swaggering to screaming in seconds, had folded so readily the moment she met their taunts with violence.
Some part of her anticipated that same reaction from these wolves. After dealing with Hugo and the likes of Esther Sinclair, she wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Wednesday might have missed the glimpse of something sharp and interested in Jordan’s gaze if she hadn’t already been watching him while pressing her knee into Liam’s back, waiting for him to yield. Jordan regains control of his face when Liam slaps the ground with a frustrated snarl that would have brought a lesser opponent to tears. Wednesday braces for retaliation, stepping back as she releases him, but Liam only spits into the dirt and wipes his mouth.
“Good match,” he mutters to her, and Wednesday is surprised enough to offer a nod.
She makes her way through the others over the course of the morning, occasionally settling on the edge of the ring to watch another pair fight. It’s clear these wolves are well-used to each others’ fighting styles and that her presence here is offering a new and exciting challenge. It makes sense now why Jordan arrived so early to invite her to join them. One of the male wolves even goes so far as to ask for a correction in his stance.
Eventually, she ends up next to Jordan. “Why do you want to spar with me?” Wednesday asks again.
Jordan ignores her. “Bri, Sharpy! Front and center.”
Bri, the wolf who'd suggested they strip Wednesday of her nichirin blade, folds quickly against Liam. Wednesday spares her a rather vindictive glance as she exits the ring wincing at the pull of her shoulder.
Eventually, the only wolf Wednesday hasn’t faced is Jordan himself.
“Is it time?” she asks, amused despite her better judgment. These other wolves are good, but they haven't presented a challenge like Hugo. Even without her runes, Wednesday hasn't lost a single match.
Jordan tenses, but jerks his head in a tight nod. “Let’s go, Addams.”
It is immediately obvious why Jordan was chosen to lead his little pack of admirers. He isn't as reckless as Hugo, not as quick to lose his head and throw all integrity aside to secure a win, but his punches land with the same smack of cruelty. This isn't a man who knows how to hit for learning purposes. He knows only how to aim for the throat.
It makes sense, now, how he and Hugo could have existed in a strange suspension for so many years, each twisting and pulling and lunging at the other without Jordan ever once hitting his mark. He'd been conditioned to lose to Hugo for his entire life.
Wednesday could potentially bring herself to feel pity for Jordan, given enough time and exposure to his insecurities, but not enough to spare him. Not enough to lose.
When she finds an opportunity, she takes it, shoving the heel of her hand into Jordan's throat. He steps back rather than compromise his spinal cord, and that split second of uncertain balance is all Wednesday needs to ground him.
“Why did you want to spar with me?” Wednesday repeats, breathing hard where she stands over him.
Jordan scowls as he rolls over, heaving himself back to his feet. “Let it go,” he spits.
“I will not,” Wednesday retorts. “Why did you want to spar with me, Clifford?”
Jordan's face screws up, head rearing back like he's about to scream at her, but he insists, "You're not a part of Montgomery's pack."
Wednesday can feel her eyebrows furrowing. “What does that mean?”
"He may be your ally, but you're with us,” Jordan snaps, stepping closer. “How you do on the hunt reflects on us. Montgomery needs to lay off and let you train with your pack.”
Wednesday's hands drop limply to her sides. “Excuse me?”
Jordan's face twists, cheeks burning red, but he refuses to bow. “You heard me.”
The other wolves might as well have turned to stone. It’s so silent in the clearing, Wednesday imagines she can hear the lilt of faraway windsong on the breeze.
After a truly excruciating ten seconds, Wednesday clears her throat. “Toby does not let me do anything,” she corrects him. “But I appreciate your effort to include me in…pack procedures.”
If it’s possible, Jordan might be even more uncomfortable than she is. “Fine. Whatever. Riner and Luce, get in the ring!” he barks. “You're next.”
The girl who's apparently named Luce trips on her way forward, too busy staring between Jordan and Wednesday to pay attention to where she's walking, and Wednesday isn't quite able to swallow her smirk as the others begin to laugh.
“How are those new teeth treating you?” Liam mutters to her at one point, once the tension has receded and Jordan’s no longer red-faced and annoyed.
Wednesday glances at him, but his eyes remain focused on the match.
“Enid has always been exemplary, but I rather think this is some of her best work,” Wednesday replies, tongue sliding over her new canines.
When Liam gives her a dubious look, she continues, “Isn't my darling Enid a marvel? Consider me astonished that a pack of your….” Wednesday pauses, eyes flicking to the side, “caliber managed to produce such a wonder as my intended, accomplished woman that she is.”
Liam's face creases with displeasure. “All wolves are accomplished.”
“How odd,” Wednesday muses. “As I find it quite the achievement that your pack produced a wolf like my Enid. After all, I’m sure we can agree that an accomplished woodwitch must have a thorough knowledge of magic, of gardening, of dance—of the ancient languages and the song of the wood, in order to deserve the word.”
Liam frowns. “Those things don't matter to us.”
“They should,” Wednesday says. “Daughters of the forest are among the most powerful outcasts on earth. You would struggle to find another witch capable of constructing teeth from thin air.”
Jordan, who had come to stand beside Wednesday during their conversation, nudges Wednesday's elbow with his own. “We're next.”
Wednesday can feel Liam's gaze lingering on her back as she re-enters the ring and she hopes her words struck a chord. Toby won't be there in the fall to cushion the fallout if the pack decides they'd rather not host two witches, after all; it is imperative that Wednesday figures out where the lines are drawn.
With Hugo's failure, Jordan Clifford could well be in place to inherit the mantle of Pack Leader someday. If he can be trusted to tolerate Enid's magic—if his people prove willing to follow—there may be hope for them yet.
"To first blood?" Jordan asks, startling her out of her reverie.
Wednesday hopes she doesn’t look as surprised as she feels. "First blood,” she agrees.
The fight is quick but brutal, both Wednesday and Jordan seeking to end the match as decisively as possible. He manages to punch her in the mouth hard enough that Wednesday’s canines sink into the inside of her cheek, splitting open the soft flesh and filling her mouth with blood, but before his arm has fallen, Wednesday’s already given it back to him and broken his nose.
Blood spurts over Jordan’s chin and mouth as Wednesday swallows, feeling the damage with her tongue. Her cheek continues to throb.
“Who wins that one?” Bri wonders aloud.
“I think that was a tie.”
“No, Jordan hit her first,” Liam points out, arms crossing. “This one goes to him.”
Wednesday swallows again. “I’m not bleeding,” she lies.
Liam scoffs, shaking his head. “You think we can’t smell your blood, Addams?”
Wednesday frowns as Jordan spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva into the dirt. Rather than angry, he looks something akin to exhilerated.
“Best two out of three?” he calls out, bouncing in place.
“Only if you want me to reverse your bloodflow,” Wednesday replies, shaking out her hand. She’d pushed the limits of risking a fracture with that last hit, but far be it from her to go down without a fight.
His smile widens to reveal bloodied teeth. “I’d take that wager.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, sinking back into a fighting stance.
“She's good,” Bri comments on the sidelines. “It's almost a better matchup for her to verse Jordan than Hugo.”
“Like recognizes like. She's not psychotic, I don't think. Just…disturbingly driven,” Liam says with a sigh.
“Maybe a little psychotic. She was willing to take on Montgomery for Sinclair,” Luce comments. “He’s a Pack Leader’s son.”
“What are you, stupid? Sinclair's our only unmated submissive. Of course Addams was willing to fight for her,” Liam sneers. “You would too, if a sub ever looked your way without being under duress.”
Luce bares her teeth at him, but Bri rolls her eyes. “Lucky Montgomery's got a soft spot for witches,” she snorts.
“Lucky Montgomery didn't sound the alarm when his fucking ally disappeared into the woods at the crack of dawn,” Toby snaps, stomping out of the trees.
The fight immediately stops, all eyes darting to him. Even Jordan straightens up, still bleeding from his nose.
“Montgomery,” he greets.
Toby gives a tight nod. “Clifford. Wednesday,” he says pointedly, coming to a stop before her.
Wednesday offers a bloody smile of her own. “Good morning.”
Toby looks like he might start pulling out his hair, throwing his hands up in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how hard you were to find?" he rails at her. "It's like trying to track down a ghost! I had to brave the kitchens to ask Enid if she knew where you were!"
The other wolves wince in sympathy as Wednesday raises an eyebrow.
"What's wrong with the kitchens?" she asks aloud.
Jordan barks out a laugh. "Just wait. You'll see when we pick up lunch. You coming, Montgomery?"
Toby gives him a long look. Something unspoken passes between them, some conversation Wednesday isn't privy to, and then Toby smiles beatifically.
"Sure," he agrees. "Thanks, man."
Jordan doesn't bother replying, but his shoulders are relaxed as he leads them through the woods.
“I can't believe Enid let you out of her sight,” Toby mutters, falling in stop beside Wednesday. “Had a busy night, did we? You need a bath.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, even as the other wolves snicker under their breaths. “We're newly bonded. I'm told it's excusable,” she maintains.
“Doesn't mean I'm not gonna give you shit for it,” Toby says emphatically. “Hey—you’re gonna have to cut out on training after lunch. We have an errand to run in the city.”
Jordan shoots a suspicious look over his shoulder as Wednesday makes a noise of confusion.
“Is it critical?” she asks, careful not to venture into the realm of wheedling. It wouldn’t do for Clifford to realize how much she enjoys sparring with him. “I'm rather busy pushing Clifford to best-four-out-of-seven.”
“Fuck off, you’re on,” Jordan snaps over his shoulder. His lips curl up in a vicious grin, each tooth outlined in red.
“Unless you expect to hunt and kill animals with your bare hands, yeah,” answers Toby. “It’s pretty critical.”
Wednesday frowns. “I have a blade of my own.”
“Sorry, but that knife is not equipped to take down big game. Pretty, though,” he concedes, eyeing her nichirin blade where it swings on her hip.
Wednesday hums in agreement. “Isn’t it?”
Notes:
as promised, part two!
part three begins the smut >:) i think my beta legitimately would have rioted if i'd sent him all four parts at once so i hope you guys are liking this new little update schedule we have going on. kinda feels like it's winter 2022 all over again
Chapter 103: Seen
Notes:
KINK WARNINGS: body worship
GENERAL WARNINGS: mention (not explicit) of wednesday drawing runes with her own blood (implying that she cut herself)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Donna arrives mid-morning to escort Enid to the kitchens.
She and every other submitting wolf have been tasked with the all-important chore of mixing warpaint for the new warriors to aid them on their hunt. It's an old tradition hailing back to an age before the great separation, one that all submitting wolves come to dread by the time they're old enough to work in the kitchens.
For as long as wolves have fought, they've adorned their skin with sulfurous red clay collected from deep within the mountains. Probably a practice lifted from runewitches, Enid thinks a bit vindictively. Her patience had worn thin by hour two of stirring a giant vat of goop that reeks like rotten corpses. It will be a miracle if she can get the smell out of her hair.
Frankly, Enid thinks body paint purchased from one of the many retail giants in the city would have done the job just as well, but if the elders want them stirring charcoal and clay down to soupy slop, she will not be the one to argue. Enid would stir liquid shit with a smile on her face if it meant escaping the suffocating tension in the Sinclair household.
Esther hasn't spoken a word to her since last night.
"Enid," Donna chastises her. “Stir, girl. Stir.” She makes a churning motion with her arms, exaggerated and mocking, and Enid has to hitch a smile on her face to keep from killing her.
At least Donna is still treating her as disparagingly as ever. The other submitting wolves keep shooting her these wide-eyed little glances that have Enid flushing for no reason at all.
When Wednesday appears with Toby for a late lunch, surrounded by chattering trainees, it's a welcome relief.
“Enid,” one of the wolves her age whispers, tilting her head towards the door.
The heads-up is unnecessary. Enid could smell Wednesday while she was still outside.
“Jesus, Sinclair, did you scent her enough?” Alyssa mutters, nose wrinkling.
Her hair is pulled back in a greasy ponytail that shaves at least three years off her face. No amount of strategically applied makeup can mask the weakness of her chin.
Enid nearly laughs. “You know what, Alyssa? Go fuck yourself,” she says at full volume.
The other wolves freeze, mouths popping open, and Alyssa's cheeks splotch an unattractive red.
“What did you just say to me?” she demands.
“No, what did you just say to me?” Enid retorts, fingers turning numb where she grips the ladle. “You got something to say? Go on. Say it.”
Her heart feels like it might beat out of her chest, but an eerie sort of calm has stolen over her. Suddenly, it feels like stupidity of the highest order to let Alyssa fucking Evans push her around.
“Bitch,” Enid mutters, spoon hitting the table with a splatter.
Alyssa makes a choked little noise like an overheated kettle but doesn't say anything at all. The ladle rolls off the table and clatters to the floor as Enid turns and walks out, leaving her brother's fiancée spluttering behind her.
Wednesday's head snaps toward her when she exits the kitchen, instantly tuning out of whatever Bri Harley is telling her.
“Enid,” she mouths, and Enid imagines her name curling in Wednesday's voice even from across the great hall.
The corner of Wednesday's mouth lifts as Enid approaches, eyes catching the light. She smells like forest and sweat and something veering suspiciously close to blood. She looks like her time in the trainee ring was fruitful.
"Enid," Wednesday calls out, audible this time, and Enid goes to her.
Her hands immediately find Enid's, uncaring of the carnage splattering her forearms or the breathtakingly awful smell of her clothing.
“Hi,” Wednesday says, expression softening.
Enid grins, pulse still racing. “So I just told Alyssa to go fuck herself,” she blurts.
Wednesday's eyebrows disappear into her bangs as Toby twists to face her.
“What was that?” he squawks. “Shark, you said what?”
“Yeah, um.” Enid imagines her smile might be verging on manic. “We may need to make alternative plans for Thanksgiving this year.”
Toby bursts into laughter, and surprisingly, so do the wolves clustered around him. Enid frowns in their direction, distrustful of anyone who gravitated toward Jordan and therefore Hugo, but figures it isn't her business if they want to play at being target practice for Wednesday in their free time.
The submitting wolves potting clay on nearby tables look just as miserable as Enid felt right up until she laid eyes on Wednesday, but they begin exchanging looks, eyebrows waggling in the wake of her declaration. Maybe Alyssa's star power has dimmed somewhat since middle school, Enid thinks a bit viciously. None of those wolves look particularly aggrieved on Alyssa's behalf.
Meanwhile, Wednesday's expression turns decidedly amused. “I'll take that under advisement,” she says, voice low. Her eyes narrow playfully. “You look well-worked.”
Enid winces again, aware that she must smell horrendous. Wednesday's nose wrinkles, but she doesn't comment, for which Enid is grateful.
"Um…yeah," Enid agrees, her cheeks warming. "You—same to you."
Wednesday grins wide enough to show her teeth.
“Okay, that's enough,” Toby says loudly, hand over his nose. “Separate, you two. I need to share a car with Wednesday after we eat and I’d rather not roll down the windows the whole way.”
“Are the sandwiches ready for us to take?” Jordan asks Enid. His gaze is intense as ever, but he doesn’t look unfriendly. Far from it, she thinks a bit distantly.
Enid sucks in a sharp breath when she realizes she’s hesitated a beat too long. “Shit, sorry. Yeah, I can grab you—”
“I'll bring them, Enid,” a wolf Enid recognizes as Debbie announces, not even pretending not to have eavesdropped. She stands up from her table and slips into the kitchen before Enid can formulate a response.
“Huh,” Enid murmurs, aware Jordan’s group has gone quiet. “That was….nice.”
“Anything for Princess Enid,” Lucy Bischel sneers.
Wednesday cocks her head in her direction. “You're finally starting to understand,” she marvels, hands still cool and comforting around Enid’s wrists.
Lucy scowls, but there's no real heat in it. She shrugs off the jeering of the other wolves, shuffling off to hover near one of the submitting wolves at the potting table.
“Enid, will you show me the restroom?” Wednesday asks a little too abruptly not to be calculated.
Enid ignores the look Toby’s aiming in her direction and nods, tugging Wednesday away from the other wolves. The bathroom is empty, which is a mercy, considering Wednesday crowds her against the sink in an almost exact mirror of that morning. If Enid didn’t know better, she’d say spending so much time with the dominant wolves is beginning to rub off on her.
“Are you bleeding?” Enid asks.
“Do I look like I'm bleeding?” Wednesday murmurs in response.
Enid wraps her arms around her waist, hooking her chin over Wednesday’s shoulder. The crook of her neck smells like sweat, heady and overwhelming. “You kind of smell like it, maybe,” Enid tells her. “I don't know, though. I think the paint damaged my nasal passages.”
“Is that what that dreadful smell is?” Wednesday muses, tugging her closer. “Interesting. I figured you were flaying animals back there.”
“Nope, just clay,” Enid snorts, the edge of the sink digging into her lower back. Wednesday draws back an inch, eyes slipping down to the t-shirt Enid’s wearing. Her gaze seems to linger on the stretch of her throat where her collar sits. “Don't worry, I'll clean up before dinner.”
Wednesday straightens, expression warm and pleased. “Toby and I are making a trip into the city this afternoon. Any requests?”
Enid bites her lip. “Requests?”
“Groceries,” answers Wednesday. “For our date tonight. We're cooking.”
Enid blushes so hard that her ears begin to burn. “O-Oh. Um, I'll like whatever you choose. I'm not picky.”
Wednesday adopts a somewhat dubious expression at that, but she leans forward to tuck a sweaty curl behind Enid's ear. “I'll think of something,” she promises.
Enid sucks in another breath, tasting the smell of herself on Wednesday's skin and, beneath that, Wednesday’s sweat and blood, and she chokes out, “S-So, how's training?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Bloody,” she answers, lips twitching like she's fighting a smile. “Surprisingly so, considering they all hope to participate in tomorrow's event.”
Enid rolls her eyes, gripping the sink behind her. She could use some cold water on her face, but turning around to dunk her head under the faucet would probably be exceedingly rude and it wouldn’t help matters to bend over with Wednesday so close. Toby probably had a point, she admits to herself. It’s hard not to push for more when she now knows that Wednesday will give it to her.
“Pulling your punches isn't really a thing for trainees, even if it is just sparring. The day Jordan Clifford holds back, I'll eat my sock,” Enid rambles.
Wednesday frowns. “No need for that,” she murmurs, cocking her head. Then, sharply enough that Enid nearly loses her grip on the sink, “Did Jordan Clifford ever hurt you?”
Enid blinks back at her. “Jordan Clifford didn't give a shit about me,” she states, matter of fact. “He only ever cared about rising through the trainee ranks like his dad.”
Wednesday hums her agreement. "If Hugo fails to regain the pack's approval, Jordan Clifford is next in line to lead, correct? Perhaps he's trying to gain my favor, considering I have a direct line to Toby and to you.”
Enid frowns. "That's…surprisingly strategic for Jordan Clifford."
"He's not stupid. Frustrated with his lot in life, perhaps, but not hopeless," Wednesday muses. “Will you be alright to finish your shift?”
Enid makes a noise somewhere between a wince and a laugh. “Yeah, I'll just join Debbie’s potting circle or something. I think Alyssa might stroke out if I go back in there.”
“A tragedy that would be,” Wednesday drawls. “I'll be back before dinner.”
Enid nods, ducking her head, but she feels a finger tap beneath her chin. It takes a second for her to gather enough courage to look up.
Wednesday’s eyes are dark and intent on her face. “Are you being good for me, Puppy?” she asks.
“Yes,” Enid breathes, eyes falling closed. “Yes, Wednesday. M'being good.”
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, giving a single tug on her collar. “Until tonight, my darling.”
Enid doesn’t leave the bathroom for almost ten minutes after Wednesday’s exit. By the time she’s cleaned up the mess in her pants and gathered herself enough to be around other people, Jordan’s group has already left the hall.
Enid meanders towards Debbie’s table, but she doesn’t need to awkwardly angle for an invitation to join them. Debbie pushes out the opposite chair with her sneaker, grimacing when the paint she’s pouring splashes back up and douses her hands.
“Hi,” Enid bleats, dropping into the chair. “You’re potting?”
“Donna’s orders,” the girl beside Debbie glowers. “You’d think we’d have gotten a better job with Deb being courted by Leader Clifford’s son.”
Enid drops the jar Debbie hands her. It hits the table with a sharp crack, but luckily doesn’t shatter. “You’re being courted by Jordan?” she squeaks. “Jordan Clifford?”
Debbie’s face goes pink. “It’s still very new,” she mumbles. “He hasn’t even…we haven’t completed the first step yet.”
The girl beside Debbie offers Enid a hand towel. It’s already soaked with paint, so Enid’s not sure how much it’ll help, but she appreciates the gesture.
“Thanks,” Enid says, trying and failing to wipe off her arms. “Ugh. Maybe we should have waited until after the hunt to come back. I forgot how disgusting this is.”
“She must really love you,” Debbie blurts. “To come in here, while we’re making paint?”
“My intended would rather eat shit,” a third girl mutters, lifting a tray of jars to carry to the holding area.
Enid smiles to herself. “Yeah, not much makes Wednesday squeamish.”
“Lucky her,” Debbie’s friend sighs. “Even the thought of food makes me wanna yack.”
When Debbie offers a little smile at her, Enid returns it.
By late afternoon, every surface is crowded with jars that glow scarlet in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Enid’s always thought the vermillion shade the clay cooks down to in paint form is the stuff of horror movies, but tradition is tradition. Wednesday will like it, she supposes. It will be Enid’s job to adorn her before she heads off to hunt.
“Hey, Enid—we're heading to the baths to clean up,” Debbie says. Her friend is resting on her shoulder, but her eyes flick up to gauge Enid’s reaction. “Would you like to join us?”
Enid straightens up. Some part of her suspects she’ll never completely shirk the feeling of separateness, a deep, sharp twist that hooks between her ribs even now, but it’s a memory of a feeling rather than an existing ache. Middle school Enid would have killed for an invitation like this, but she doesn’t crave the acceptance of other wolves anymore. In any case, she’d much rather clean herself quickly in private than have to spend hours socializing with the other wolves in the baths when she has a date on the horizon.
A date, Enid thinks. Her first real date with Wednesday.
And she smells like a gutter hound of hell.
“Thanks, but I need to clean up before Wednesday comes back,” Enid answers. “Like, as quickly as possible. Wednesday’s not squeamish, but I’m not trying to smell like ass for our date tonight.”
Debbie’s friends start laughing, but it’s warm and friendly, almost like they’re laughing with her. Enid feels a bit unnerved by the thought.
Debbie smiles. “No problem. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Actually—maybe I could wait with you guys tomorrow?” Enid hurriedly adds, voice raising in question. “I don't—I’ve never awaited someone back from a hunt.”
The reality that she’s never had a group to wait with goes unsaid. No one had wanted Enid in their circles when she was young and clingy and annoying, and after she presented as submissive, when there was an explanation for all that made her so unlikeable to the others, she didn’t have the capacity to try and salvage any friendships. She hasn’t spent this much time with her packmates since before Nevermore.
Debbie nods, lips curling up in a little smile. “Of course. We'll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Bye, Enid,” Debbie’s friend offers with a wave.
Enid privately resolves to learn her name by morning.
She’s one of the first to leave the hall, which certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by the other wolves, but earning Donna’s ire doesn’t concern her anymore. After a brief stop at her empty house, Enid ventures off the path, trusting her feet to know the way even if she hasn’t walked this route in years. The trees rustle around her, branches groaning overhead, and Enid closes her eyes. When she next opens them, she’s in the clearing from her dream.
Enid takes a step forward, a stick snapping underfoot. It’s real, she decides, even if it’s almost uncanny after her vision of the black bear. She’s close enough to the northernmost border to catch the pack's scent, and that hadn’t happened in her dream. Dream-Enid hadn’t been able to smell much of anything at all.
“Bears don’t come this far down the mountain,” Enid whispers to herself, and the wind seems to chitter at her in response.
She undoes her shorts and kicks them to her feet, shucking her shirt off so the late sun heats her shoulders. It doesn’t bother her to be naked in these woods. She’s itching to get in the creek and scrub the war paint off her skin, to dunk her head beneath the same water that never entirely froze over each winter, but it feels wrong to leave her clothing strewn over the forest floor.
She carefully folds each item and places them at the foot of the oak tree towering over the creek, arranging the bath towel she'd stolen from her house beside her little pile. The smell of the tree is so achingly familiar, Enid imagines she could close her eyes and still identify each gnarl and knot by memory alone. This was where she sat and sang as a child. This was where she’d hide from her village when her heart felt like it might beat out of her chest.
“I know you,” Enid whispers, laying her hand against the bark.
Her tree somewhat calms the itch, but the feeling that she’d need to peel her skin off to feel human again still persists. It’s time to get in the water.
Enid’s first step in the creek has her gasping like she plunged over the side of a cliff, belatedly recalling that the water wouldn’t have had time to warm this early in summer. The unexpected shock of cold clears her head somewhat, and Enid wades further, submerging herself to the hip. Little silver flashes of fish wink around her ankles, curious enough to venture close but scattering whenever she moves. Enid trails her fingertips through the water, leaning backward to sink beneath the surface, and it’s easy to open her eyes and see to the tops of the trees and, beyond that, to the sky.
Maybe Aminder was onto something; it would be impossible to feel unsafe here. The very notion is unthinkable. She may not have had a home with her family, not a real one, but Enid has loved this place for so long that it feels as though her devotion eclipses her memories. She thinks that if it were possible to love a place for longer than a lifetime, it would feel like this.
Enid remembers the black bear with woeful eyes and grieves, even knowing it’s useless to mourn a dream. She thinks of her family next, and grief feels like the only appropriate description for the heaviness that hooks between her ribs and pulls, sharp and twisting. The loss is enough to steal her breath, but like everything, it eases. The ache eventually fades and she can breathe without hurting.
For a while, she just floats, letting the sun warm her skin.
***
“You don't happen to have a rune combo up your sleeve that’ll let you smell the boundaries, right?” Toby asks, crunching over the path.
They’d left his car parked with the others, Toby promising to keep her new acquisition in his custody since she hadn’t trusted a weapon in the Sinclair house overnight. They both carry groceries, but Wednesday hadn’t had to acquire much. For all her faults, Esther Sinclair keeps a well-stocked kitchen.
“I do, actually,” Wednesday responds. “I've given it some thought, and I suspect Home and Awareness can be layered for scenting purposes as long as I draw both counterclockwise.”
“Want to try it out?” Toby offers, eyes glinting as her hand rests on the hilt of her knife.
Wednesday cocks her head. “It doesn't bother you to watch?”
“Nah,” Toby answers, eyes on the path ahead. “Runes are cool as fuck.”
Wednesday hums. “Well, I don’t have ink, so I’ll have to use blood.”
Toby stares back at her, unflinching.
“Fine,” Wednesday says, unsheathing her blade. “For your sake, I hope you aren’t sensitive to the sight of blood.”
“I have a strong stomach,” he replies.
Wednesday makes quick work of the runes, hiding the application beneath her sleeve as soon as her blood turns tacky. True to word, Toby doesn’t look away once.
“Wicked,” he breathes, eyes flicking up to hers. “Holy—Wednesday, your pupils are huge.”
She sucks in a deep breath, shoulders hiking up to her ears. “Oh,” Wednesday whispers. “I can smell it now.”
“Yeah?” Toby asks, shifting the bags he’s carrying. “You good?”
Wednesday’s head snaps to the north. “I think I can smell Enid,” she breathes.
“Go get her,” Toby immediately says, reaching for the bags strewn around her feet. “Find me tomorrow when we line up to run, ‘kay? You'll go with my group.”
“See you at dawn,” Wednesday agrees, but she’s already moving, already beelining for the deepest part of the forest where she could have sworn she smelled Enid.
She walks for almost a half hour, trusting the throbbing runes on her arm to guide her, and her breathing picks up when she skids down an embankment and catches a glimpse of blonde hair, then of all of her, bare and floating and perfect. Enid.
It's as though the brook is cradling her rather than merely bearing her weight. Her hair billows around her, twisting and curling around her neck and shoulders like some possessive, living thing. The opal resting in the hollow of her throat seems to burn in the dying sun.
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes, and Enid opens her eyes.
Wednesday’s never seen water so blue, but then, it makes a queer sort of sense that even the forest would reflect the color of Enid's eyes. She rises from the water like a deity, like Nimuë coming to deliver Excalibur directly into her hands, and Wednesday's next breath shudders out of her.
Enid's hair clings to her neck and breasts, water dripping down her stomach and catching in the soft curls between her legs. Wednesday imagines she can smell her slick from here, even under the icy coldness of the lake, even beneath the smell of forest and soil and rot. Then Wednesday twitches, shoulders hiking up again because even her imagination isn't this vivid; the clearing reeks of slick because Enid is wet for her.
The runes pulse on Wednesday’s forearm. “You must be cold,” she observes aloud, eyes flicking down to Enid’s chest.
Enid smiles, not making any move to cover herself. “I’m not,” she answers, fingertips trailing through the water. “You want to come in?”
Wednesday has to swallow twice before she can speak. “I think we should get you dried off.”
Enid’s lower lip pokes out, but she nods. Wednesday briefly worries for the safety of her bare feet, anxious about all the sharp rocks that must litter the creekbed, but even the grass on the bank seems to soften for Enid. She makes it to Wednesday without incident.
“Get your towel,” Wednesday says, and Enid does so without argument.
She returns to stand before Wednesday, shivering and not making any move to dry herself. She’s waiting for instruction, Wednesday realizes, something hot curling to life in her stomach.
“Give it to me, please.”
Enid offers the towel with both hands. The moment Wednesday takes it from her, the sun slips beneath the treeline, casting them both in shadow. Enid looks up at her with wide eyes.
“Kneel,” Wednesday commands, breathless, and Enid sinks to the ground with an expression of abject relief.
The forest eases around them, sound filtering back in, and Wednesday realizes that Enid’s moment of submission had been perfectly, utterly silent. Even the trees halt to behold her, Wednesday thinks.
“Thank you,” Enid whispers. “Thank you.”
Wednesday nods, draping the towel around Enid’s shoulders. She takes her time wiping her skin clear of water, tracing her collarbones and the length of her neck. By the time Wednesday’s finished mopping up her hair, Enid’s head is tipped back, breath tearing out of her in sharp little pants.
“Lie back,” Wednesday says, softer this time, and Enid shifts back to rest on her elbows. Her abdominals tense when Wednesday slips a hand between her thighs to wipe up the slick, but she doesn’t linger there long, and Enid’s breathing eventually slows as Wednesday works to dry her legs and feet.
“Turn over,” Wednesday instructs, tapping her thigh. Enid drops her face onto her forearms as soon as she’s on her stomach, ass pushing out instinctively. She’s not presenting, but it’s close. Enid’s skin erupts in goosebumps as though she can feel Wednesday’s gaze.
Out of Enid’s sight, Wednesday pushes her sleeves up to her elbows and exposes her runes.
While rubbing the towel over Enid’s back, Wednesday allows her fingertips to wander, catching on the notches of Enid's spine. The towel drops to the side, forgotten, as her hand slides lower, pressing against Enid's tailbone, slipping between her cheeks. Enid gasps when Wednesday’s fingertips ghost over her hole, but she doesn't raise any protest.
The grass beneath them rustles as Enid’s knees spread wider.
Wednesday pauses, considering. Enid had smelled of slick when Wednesday first arrived, but that could have been an automatic response to catching sight of her intended the night before a full moon. It does not mean Enid wants to be fucked.
“Puppy,” Wednesday says, voice low, and Enid muffles a whimper into her arms. “Look at me, please.”
Enid rushes to roll over. She looks desperate, the wicked little voice in the back of Wednesday’s head whispers, eyes big and pleading and full of tears.
She didn’t ask, Wednesday reminds herself.
“Are you alright?” Wednesday questions, hand sliding up and down Enid’s calf like she’s stroking the flank of a spooked horse.
Enid nods frantically.
“Good,” Wednesday murmurs, squeezing her knee. “Come. Let’s get you dressed.”
“You're not going to touch me?” Enid blurts, voice breaking.
Wednesday pauses again. When Enid looks at her with something akin to betrayal, Wednesday’s resolve wavers.
She hadn’t planned to fuck Enid tonight. Wednesday had honestly thought it out of the question with the full moon so close, knowing how uncomfortable Enid gets at the thought of giving in to her wolf with her near, but Wednesday also knows herself well enough to understand she is constitutionally incapable of denying Enid anything.
“You can touch me,” Enid says suddenly, lower lip catching in her teeth.
“I want to look at you,” Wednesday replies without thinking.
Enid bites her lip, then nods, a sudden determination steeling over her expression. Wednesday knows she should brace herself, can sense that things are about to go awry, but Enid’s gaze is intent on her and Wednesday finds herself already resigned to the bloodbath.
“So the training was worthwhile?” Enid asks, deceptively casual considering she's parting her thighs wide enough to expose herself.
Wednesday releases a long, slow breath. From this angle, no part of Enid is hidden from her. She watches the warm flush of being seen spread over Enid's stomach and thighs.
“It was,” says Wednesday.
After a charged second, Enid reaches down and spreads herself open with her fingers. Wednesday summarily forgets about her canines and allows her teeth to sink into her tongue, mouth filling with what’s rapidly becoming the familiar taste of blood. She's bled more these past days than in all the months prior.
Nevertheless, she can withstand a little discomfort if it means seeing Enid show off for her.
“Show me what you learned today?” Enid asks with a wicked glint in her eye that Wednesday doesn’t trust for a second.
When she leans back, Wednesday follows, tipping with her onto the grass.
Notes:
yee haw yeah bring on the smut
Chapter 104: Shark
Chapter Text
Wednesday paints a formidable picture looming over her, shoulders silhouetted by the sky. Her eyes gleam even in darkness.
Enid tries to avoid her gaze but fails, Wednesday nailing her in place with a look.
“What is it?” Wednesday asks, voice hushed and wondering. “What makes you look at me that way?”
Enid begins to squirm, eyes squeezing shut as she tries to keep her ass planted firmly on the ground. The part of her that always feels the nearness of the moon hanging around her neck like a noose rallies, smelling an opportunity to buck up and fight. She’s been itching for it all day. She wants Wednesday to—she wants—
“No, at me,” Wednesday orders, cupping the back of her head.
Enid peels one eye open, discovering that Wednesday's gravitated a lot closer than before. If they weren't already sharing breath, if the faint smell of blood didn't have Enid's head spinning like she's lost the thread before the sun has even left the sky, she might have been unnerved by the look on Wednesday's face.
“That's it,” Wednesday whispers. “Like that.”
Then they're kissing, Wednesday licking into her mouth until they're both wet with spit, sliding over each other. It should be disgusting, objectively, but Enid’s never been one to shy away from mess; she and Wednesday seem to have that in common. For all Wednesday claims to prefer gargling broken glass over leaving a room untidied, she’s never recoiled from Enid and the many unattractive things her body is capable of.
When Wednesday pulls back to stare at her, eyes big and dark, Enid struggles to catch her breath. She expects Wednesday to start spewing filthy shit into her ear like she usually does, but something about the clearing or the soundtrack of Enid's desperation seems to have finally gotten under Wednesday's skin. She doesn't say a word, lips pressing together in a flat line.
Only when Enid's cheeks are so hot she thinks she might melt does Wednesday descend on her again.
She bypasses Enid's lips entirely to mouth over her cheeks and neck, to press her nose against the soft spot between Enid's ear and jaw, canines dragging against Enid's skin in a way that is wholly unfamiliar to her. Enid had never let Camie's teeth near her throat, not even in the deepest throes of heat, not for any reason. It's a dangerous endeavor to allow Wednesday to teeth on her so close to the moon.
The whole clearing smells sticky and hot, burning like there really is a wolf in heat on the premises, and Enid has enough self-awareness to recognize that she is mostly responsible for this latest slipup. If she weren't chemically incapable of controlling herself around Wednesday, maybe Wednesday wouldn't be using her as a chew toy. Enid had known perfectly well what she was doing spreading her pussy like that. Any dominant wolf would have reacted the same.
The longer Wednesday drags her teeth over Enid's skin, the more drunk Enid feels on the smell of her arousal. It's stuck in her mouth and her nose and her throat, and Enid is going to taste it for days, will feel it aching under her skin like a bruise she can’t stop touching.
She must squirm a bit too much because Wednesday reaches between them and shoves her back down. One hand lays flat over her stomach, pinning her, nails digging in.
“Stay,” Wednesday orders.
Enid shakes her head. “Can't.” She can feel her heartbeat in her pussy, a constant pulse. “Wanna come.”
“You want to come?” Wednesday repeats, drawing back. Her palm travels up from Enid's stomach to her chest, curling feather-light around her throat. “Tell me.”
Enid gulps, feeling Wednesday's fingers spasm on her neck with the movement. “I want to come, Wednesday.”
“How badly?”
“Bad,” Enid sobs, voice skittering out of her. “Need it bad, Wednesday. Need you to make me come.”
Wednesday releases her throat in complete disregard of her wordless protest, scooting backward to shove Enid's thighs apart. She leans down, close enough that Enid can feel Wednesday's breath on her pussy, and the moon seeps over the curtain of trees, spilling onto them both.
Enid's vision begins to soften at the edges, muscles going taunt as her scent burns bright and unbearable.
“Fuck,” Wednesday mutters, low enough that Enid might have convinced herself she imagined it. Might have, if Wednesday didn't drop down and sink her teeth into Enid's inner thigh.
It's not enough to break skin—not enough to draw blood—but it's more than enough to make Enid shake apart. For one frenzied moment, she wonders if she might have accidentally pissed herself. Her thighs are so wet, she can't find purchase against the grass, ass sliding around like she's landed in a puddle of soap, and it doesn't stop. The gush of slick just keeps coming.
Wednesday shoves her fingers inside her like she's plugging a leak, but then her fingers curl, coaxing, and Enid's throat vibrates with the force of her groan. Her stomach feels as though it's migrated somewhere up near her lungs to make room for the swell of heat between her legs.
“Gonna—Wednesday, I came, I didn't—didn't ask—” Enid sobs, struck through with a sudden bolt of fear. A distressed trill too high for human vocal cords warbles out of her, startling Wednesday from her task.
“You have my permission,” Wednesday tells her, incredulous. “Obviously. Now be a good girl and give me another.”
She's pressing in on Enid's stomach like she hopes to feel the curl of her own fingers through Enid's skin.
“Easy,” Wednesday tells her, gaze intent on Enid’s face. “You have my permission, Puppy.”
So Enid keeps squirming, but in an entirely different way, pitching her weight down in an effort to get more of Wednesday's fingers inside her. It feels like giving in and going belly-up for her dominant, showing the soft part of her stomach in surrender.
"That's it," Wednesday breathes. "Good girl, taking what you need. Go on."
Enid grits her teeth. She can feel it swelling in her throat like a balloon, throbbing and insistent, an orgasm that hadn’t truly ended but merely swung back around to tear another strip out of her flesh.
“I have never seen a rabbit yearn for the snare more,” Wednesday whispers, enthralled.
Enid's looking at the sky when it takes her.
***
Wednesday spares a brief moment to wish she'd packed more clothes for this ill-fated trip, but she can't bring herself to regret a single second of the carnage. Not when the sleeve of her blouse clings to her arm, tacky and warm where Enid soaked her. Not when Wednesday's thighs bear a pattern remarkably similar to when a slit throat splatters a wall.
Enid stares up at the trees with wide eyes.
“I think I peed,” she whispers, face alight with a distant sort of horror.
Wednesday cannot help her snort. “You didn't.”
“I did,” Enid wheezes, slapping a hand over her eyes and slaking her cheeks with dirt. “Oh my God, why did I do that?”
Wednesday takes pity on her and tells her, “That wasn't urine. It was ejaculate.”
Enid visibly cringes. “I don't think you can ejaculate that much,” she says weakly.
“Some people can,” Wednesday replies. “You can. You did during your heat.”
Enid's face immediately flushes. “Not like that!” she protests. “Not—not this much—”
“I suspect the lunar cycle is having a rather profound effect on your physical state. Am I wrong?” Wednesday asks, raising an eyebrow.
Enid ducks her gaze, but gives a little shake of her head.
“You may be able to come harder or longer over the next twenty-four hours,” Wednesday theorizes, fingers tingling. “You may also be able to come more frequently. It bears testing, don’t you think?”
Enid looks up at her with something that could have been fear if she weren't so obvious in her hunger.
“I'm sorry I came without permission,” she whispers, pink-painted toes curling in the dirt. “The first time, I mean.”
As far as Wednesday's concerned, Enid had done nothing worth punishment, but submissives often crave structure in otherwise chaotic circumstances. If doling out a punishment will make Enid feel absolved, Wednesday can surely oblige.
“Would you like to make it up to me?” Wednesday proposes, laying her hand over Enid's hip in such a proprietary way that her horse, Evergreen, would sooner throw her than tolerate the same gesture.
“Yes,” Enid says without hesitation, sucking in her lower lip between her teeth. “Please?”
Wednesday leans back, resting her weight on her heels. Enid's thighs automatically tense around her like she thinks she can keep Wednesday from pulling away if she squeezes hard enough.
“There is a kink I would like to try if you are amenable,” Wednesday says, words unhurried and deliberate.
Enid's breath audibly catches in her throat. “What is it?”
Wednesday watches the flush seep down her chest, painting even the delicate skin over her ribs in vivid color. She has long wondered if it's a product of being a submissive wolf or uniquely Enid that she runs so hot even outside of her heat, always seconds away from pinkening like an overdue sunset, pale to pyretic in an instant.
“I want to inspect you.”
Enid's mouth pops open, a flash of pink tongue behind teeth.
***
“Like…like you're buying me?” Enid squeaks, heart pounding in her ears.
And to think she'd worried about admitting to Wednesday that she gets horny for knives. Inspecting her sounds a good deal more depraved.
“If you would like to think so,” Wednesday replies, unbothered. “If that arouses you, by all means. You can pretend I am inspecting you for purchase. Like a horse at auction.”
Enid gives a somewhat hysterical giggle. “Did you just compare me to a horse?” Nevermind the fact she can turn into a wolf at will.
Wednesday absentmindedly strokes the lowest part of her stomach. “A prized broodmare,” she muses, eyes bright. “A perfect pony trussed up for auction, aren’t you, Enid?”
The word broodmare hits a little too close to home, on this night especially, and Enid has to clamp her mouth shut to keep from whimpering. The desire to be bred is bound in all submissive wolves. Wednesday may not be able to breed her in the traditional sense, being a presumably-human female and all, but in every other way—spiritual, ethical, emotional—it seems plausible. More than that, it feels likely.
“But what do you get out of it?” Enid protests, struggling to focus on the conversation and not on the mental picture of Wednesday putting her words into practice.
“Your trust,” Wednesday states, startling her. “Your trust in allowing me to inspect every inch of you. Your trust in allowing me to handle you.”
Enid glances down to where Wednesday grips the smallest part of her waist. She'll have bruises in the shape of Wednesday's fingertips by morning.
“That is what I get out of it,” Wednesday says, voice soft and cajoling and completely at odds with the unrelenting way she holds Enid in her hands.
“Okay,” Enid agrees in a rush. “You can.”
“I can what?” Wednesday asks, almost teasing.
Enid swallows, Wednesday’s eyes tracking the movement.
“You can look at me, Wednesday,” she whispers. “All of me. Anywhere you want, I’ll let you. I’ll ask you for it.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, but her smile is sharp and silvery in the moonlight. Any submissive wolf can recognize a predator. Any submissive would know a shark out for blood.
Notes:
PLEASE check out this fantastic fanart of chapter 99 from Zceri:
Wednesday Post-Fightyou guys i've been so spoiled with all your comments this week i had to get another one out before the holiday weekend <3 as wednesday would say, SADDLE UP !
UPDATE 6/24: so next chapter is 95% done but i am fucking ill lmfao it'll go up as soon as i can manage!!! long story short i took one (1) flight without wearing a mask and here i am, twenty four hours later, sick as a dog. woof
Chapter 105: Bone
Notes:
KINK WARNINGS: anal fingering, belts around wrists and necks as a restraint (consensual), spitting, bloodplay
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid expects to be spread apart.
She expects to plant both knees in the grass, to widen her stance, to bow until her spine arches and pushes her ass into the air. Or maybe on her back, knees by her ears and more vulnerable than if Wednesday had cracked open her chest and slid a hand between her organs. She expects Wednesday to look at her the way all dominants want to look at a submitting wolf.
“Open your mouth,” Wednesday instructs instead.
Enid jerks backward, leaves rustling, then squeaks, “What, why?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her tone. “Come. Sit up.”
Enid allows herself to be maneuvered, facing Wednesday cross-legged in a position eerily reminiscent of how they’d faced each other during the ritual.
“Open your mouth,” Wednesday repeats, and Enid does.
She would be more vulnerable with her legs spread, theoretically, but that’s a place every dominant—human or wolf—wants to see. Her teeth are something she’s grown used to having to hide, the one aspect of her appearance she cannot make as soft and feminine and non-threatening as she wants. It’s the one part of her face in which the wolf spills over.
“Wider,” Wednesday tells her, and Enid exhales, parting her lips until her jaw aches. Her head tips backward automatically, showing the hidden place in her throat, canines fully exposed, and it shouldn’t be intimate. It shouldn’t.
“May I?”
Enid nods, just a little jerk of her chin, and then Wednesday’s fingers are in her mouth. She flinches when Wednesday’s thumb brushes her canine, skin pulling against the sharpest point, but Wednesday doesn’t falter.
“Are you with me?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid manages another small nod. When Wednesday taps her lower lip, probing for an answer, Enid admits, “S’Just my wolf.”
“Your wolf,” Wednesday repeats, a little furrow appearing in her brow. “What does that mean?”
Enid goes still. “What do you mean?” she replies, caught off guard.
Wednesday stares at her for a long, drawn-out second that has Enid bracing herself. “Are you afraid?” she eventually asks.
Enid swallows, throat clicking as she considers denying it. “Yes.”
“Of me?”
Enid’s hair brushes her shoulders as she shakes her head. “No, never. Not…not of you,” she hedges.
Wednesday’s face smoothes out. “Of yourself, then. Of the wolf.”
Enid tries to keep her shoulders from hiking up to her ears. The thing with her wolf…she knows it’s not normal.
Other people don’t refer to their wolf like it’s a separate entity that lingers inside them, just waiting to capitalize on the slightest show of weakness. The distance between the wolf and her self is a problem without a solution, a separation she’s enforced since her very first heat, an issue that’s entirely, inarguably hers. Other wolves don’t struggle to accept that side of themselves, so the problem must be Enid.
This isn’t just a habit. The instinct to dissociate herself, to flee, to avoid—it’s something that’s ingrained. Something she’s gnawed on for years, chewing and chewing until the bone she’d picked had no taste left to despise. It’s a problem with no solution, but there is an answer.
Wednesday.
“I’m not as afraid when I’m with you,” Enid says, voice small.
She cannot stand the warm knowing in Wednesday’s gaze.
“Let me see you,” Wednesday says, softer this time.
Enid opens wide.
***
Wednesday balances her fingers on Enid's lips, waiting for Enid’s shoulders to relax before she presses in. Enid has proven more skittish than the animals Wednesday is used to working with, but far be it from her to recoil from any beast. She would never shrink back from her beloved.
“Pretty,” Wednesday exhales, relishing how Enid’s cheeks darken at the compliment. How Enid can walk around with a face like that and not know that she is more precious than the pinkest, most fleeting spring blossom confounds Wednesday on a near-daily basis. How could Enid not be a daughter of the forest, with eyes of winter morning and teeth sharper than bone?
Wednesday is careful not to cut herself as she pulls back Enid’s lips, exposing her teeth to the moonlight. Enid looks wide-eyed and wondering, her uncertainty obvious even in the twisting of her hands, but she doesn’t flinch under Wednesday’s touch.
“Look at those teeth,” Wednesday murmurs to herself. Brave, she thinks. “Beautiful,” she comments aloud.
Enid makes a small, wanting noise in the back of her throat.
“Bite down. Show me,” Wednesday coaxes, inevitably dropping into the drawl she uses with the horses at Hell Mountain.
Enid's teeth clack together, jaw flexing as she bares her bite for Wednesday's perusal. Her eyes go wide when she realizes she’s growling, a low and playful noise that only an idiot would mistake for aggression, and Wednesday moves quickly to head off the inevitable anxiety before it can overwhelm her.
The sounds vibrating out of Enid’s throat do more to unbalance Wednesday than the most heartrending puppy dog eyes ever could, but Enid might spook if she voices that particular truth aloud.
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, wrapping a gentle hand around Enid’s throat. “Well? Go on.”
Enid pauses, unsure, then makes a noise that sounds more like a wheeze than a true snarl. Her throat hardly rumbles. When Wednesday doesn’t react beyond an unimpressed raise of her eyebrow, Enid’s tentative half-snarl graduates to a growl.
“Pretty, aren’t you?” Wednesday muses to herself. “Pretty face, pretty girl. Pretty wolf.”
Enid’s voice ratchets up, turning high and frantic, and then she’s fallen back on words like her sweet whining just isn’t enough.
“Please, please,” Enid chants, though she doesn’t seem to know what she’s begging for. Mercy, maybe.
Something shivers through Wednesday’s chest without escaping her throat. It’s ruthless, the way Enid splinters at the point of desperation, the way her fears are so easily beaten back with just the barest assurance that Wednesday won’t condemn her for it.
As if such a thing were possible, Wednesday scoffs internally. Does Enid not know that she would turn the planet inside out for her? Men have torn down empires for less.
“Magnificent, Enid,” Wednesday breathes.
Enid's cheeks flush as dark as her lips. “Have you no shame?” she protests, albeit weakly. Her tongue brushes against Wednesday’s index finger and something hot blooms to life in Wednesday’s stomach.
“Shame is a crutch for those who cannot stand on their own convictions.”
Enid’s eyes blink open at that, tangled lashes framing the coldest blue. “Jesus,” she whispers.
Wednesday sits up, reveling in how Enid unconsciously mirrors her and shifts onto her knees.
“Show me your teeth, Submissive,” Wednesday says, voice soft and completely at odds with the feeling of triumph ringing hard in her chest.
Enid’s eyes glaze over. “My teeth?” she repeats, breath shuddering out of her. Her fingers twitch atop her thighs.
“Show me,” Wednesday commands.
Enid bares her teeth for real this time, chest vibrating around the accompanying snarl.
“Is that the best you can do?” Wednesday asks, unable to fully mask her amusement. “I thought you wolves were meant to be intimidating.”
Something dangerous alights in Enid's eye, something spurred on by the moon that seems to reflect more golden than blue, and the jagged sound that comes out of her might as well have been torn from her throat.
“Louder, Enid. Louder,” Wednesday orders. The hair on the back of her neck is standing up like she’s basking in the stead of a monster. “You think you can scare me? With those little teeth?”
And just like that, what had been playful teeth-baring tips over into snapping. Enid jerks away, visibly horrified with herself, but Wednesday snatches her wrist and drags Enid back up before she can retreat.
“Don’t hide from me,” Wednesday says, exhilarated. Her pulse throbs in her fingertips as she scoffs, “You don't scare me, Enid. Do not make the mistake of assuming you could.”
Enid meets her gaze, eyes glinting yellow. “I can scare you.”
“I can handle you,” Wednesday taunts in return. Then, softer, a promise more so than a threat, “I would never ask you for something I could not handle.”
Enid’s expression relaxes as her chest flushes pink. “I know that, Wednesday,” she mumbles, lower lip catching on her teeth.
Wednesday swallows a mouthful of saliva, tongue aching where it brushes her new canines. “What does the wolf want, Enid? Tell me.”
Enid stares at her. Above them, the moon is a cold silver coin. The forest seems to hold its breath, not a leaf rustling, not a breeze touching a hair on their heads as Enid extends a hand and reaches for Wednesday’s wrist. Her touch is searing hot, a shock of warmth against Wednesday’s skin.
Enid does not drop her gaze as she lifts Wednesday’s hand to her neck.
“What’s this? You want to be restrained?” Wednesday asks, a vicious satisfaction blooming between her lungs.
“Yes,” Enid croaks. “I want it.”
Wednesday wraps her hand around Enid’s throat, and Enid goes instantly, perfectly still.
“Do you want to be choked?” Wednesday asks, point blank.
Enid swallows hard. “Yes,” she rasps, eyes fixing on a spot behind her. “With that? Please?”
Wednesday nearly loses her breath as she follows her gaze. When she'd offered the belt, she'd assumed Enid would want to be struck, not restrained.
Then again, perhaps this is an idea borne of Wednesday's actions since she'd been the one taunting Enid with promises of leashes in that storage closet while tugging her around by the neck.
Wednesday doesn’t trust her own voice in that moment, so she simply nods and reaches down to retrieve the belt from the forest floor. It’s filthy, newly-turned soil staining her hands black, but it feels rather fitting that Wednesday looks as though she’s fresh off a round of summer grave-robbing with the cousins. Soil and blood are central tenets of forest magic and rune magic, respectively; she cannot imagine wedding Enid without painting vows onto her skin.
Wednesday knows this isn’t the right time—not even remotely—but a part of her aches to make the hunt a marriage rite, to bring Enid the skin of a beast and stake her claim like a wolf.
“This is what you want?” Wednesday asks, pulling the leather taut in her hands, a motion borne of muscle memory performed without conscious thought.
Enid gives a soft, near-silent little keen at the sound of the leather snapping together. “Y-Yeah.”
“Then ask nicely.”
Enid moans, listing forward. “Please, Wednesday. Will you give me the belt?”
Wednesday refuses to blink, refuses to miss a single second of this look on Enid’s face. “I said nicely.”
Enid stares up at her for a long, charged second before expelling, “Puppy wants to be choked, Wednesday. May I please have the belt?”
“You may,” Wednesday tells her, looping the belt around Enid’s throat.
The opal hanging off her collar would give any foreign customs agent a heart arrhythmia, but it’s the small, intricate carving of the bird that draws Wednesday’s attention now. Even though Enid’s throat is yet unmarked, she still bears the sigil of Wednesday’s family. She will not take the Addams name in marriage—daughters of the forest never do—but the part of Wednesday prone to coveting preens anyway. She may not bear the name, but she is an Addams. Enid will always belong.
"If you pull too hard and hurt yourself, I'm adding it to your list of punishments," Wednesday warns her.
Enid nods, teeth sinking into her lower lip. When a droplet of blood beads up under her canine, Wednesday leans in to lick it from her.
“Oh,” Enid breathes, stomach muscles tensing. The belt remains snug around her neck. “Oh.”
Wednesday’s hand is tight on the belt as she draws it closer, pulling Enid up off her heels. “You like this,” she says without thinking.
“Yeah,” Enid agrees, eyes big and blue and wanting. “I love it.”
The expression on her face is so plaintive, so unflinchingly honest, that Wednesday feels despair churn in her gut. She will burn before letting a single hair on Enid's head come to harm. She'll nail herself to the stake if need be.
Men have torn down empires for less, she thinks to herself.
***
Objectively, it's not sexy to have sticks digging into your naked ass, but Enid thinks everyone might be onto something with the I speak for the trees woodwitch narrative they've been spouting since yesterday because anything sharp that could do them damage just seems to avoid their bare skin. Twigs brush aside for Wednesday's balancing hand, rocks seem to shift out of the way of Wednesday's unprotected knees. It honestly feels like the forest is doing Enid a solid, which is something of a boon considering she is still acting like a complete and utter lunatic.
On some level, Enid recognizes that the way she is behaving is not acceptable by any standard, human or creature. A submissive wolf snapping at their dominant can generally expect to be drawn and quartered. On a larger, almost existential level, Enid thinks she may genuinely die if the pressure in her chest isn't relieved before the burning in her stomach caves in her whole torso. There's no walking back a request to have Wednesday's belt around her neck.
By now, Enid knows what it feels like in the seconds before she totally loses her shit. Her wolf is kicking and clawing to life, anxious to hurt, desperate to taste blood, aching for something to hunt her and fuck her and fight. Fortunately, Wednesday knows her well enough to read it in her face when Enid starts to slip.
“Puppy,” Wednesday breathes. When Enid continues to struggle, breath shuddering out of her, Wednesday barks, “Eyes,” and her gaze snaps up.
“Are you with me?” Wednesday asks, fingers tapping on her collarbone.
Enid nods, then shakes her head. “S’The moon,” she slurs. “Too much.”
“Do you want the belt off?”
“No,” Enid gasps, horrified at the very idea.
Wednesday's lips tighten in the way they only do when she's trying not to look too pleased. The way Wednesday loves her is painful, sore and stinging in equal measures.
“What do you want, then?” Wednesday asks. “Tell me, Submissive. With words.”
The sounds coming from Enid’s throat have graduated from whimpers to snarls, but she manages to garble, “Please, please don’t let me bite you.”
Wednesday’s expression ripples with shock in the split second it takes for exhilaration to claim her face. “My blood?” she whispers, eyes wild. Her gaze flicks down. “Hand me my knife.”
“No!” Enid wheezes. “I don’t—I’m not going to—”
“You said you wouldn’t bite me,” Wednesday quips. “Fine. Hand me my knife, Enid.”
“I won’t let you hurt yourself!” Enid shouts.
Someone else might have mistaken the look on Wednesday’s face for anger. “You can heal me,” Wednesday tells her, voice soft. Enid has never heard such unwavering faith as when Wednesday says, “You will heal me.”
“I can’t control it, Wednesday, I really—what if I can’t?” Enid pleads. “Don’t want you hurting yourself for me, please, Wednesday.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth pulls up into a smirk. “I wouldn’t qualify this as hurting myself.”
“Then what is it?” Enid snaps, lips curling around a snarl that seems to catch on her every word. She’s trying to rein it in, she really is, but the wolf—her wolf, that side of her—is rougher than her human face. Meaner. Life had made sure of that.
If anything, Wednesday’s scent blooms with approval. “Serving my beloved,” she exhales.
If Enid is a lunatic, then Wednesday has lost the thread entirely. Her entire face is glazed over, exultant, a fanaticism Enid has seen curling at the edges but never quite showing itself blossoming unrepentant in her expression. She is an Addams, Enid reminds herself, and a witch. A runewitch. A purveyor of blood and bone.
Collaring Enid had done nothing but encourage what had already been present within her.
Enid weakly protests, “You cutting yourself isn’t—”
“Do not do me the disservice of dismissing my labor as some sort of inane sacrifice,” Wednesday says, voice stilted. “This is how I may serve you. You think I wouldn’t?”
“Wouldn’t…bleed me for me?” Enid whispers.
Wednesday tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “If I must.”
Her hand tightens on the belt, urging Enid to lie back. Enid goes down willingly, but she cannot look away from Wednesday’s face. There’s something churning there, something Enid knows she isn’t ready to hear but that she’s going to hear anyway. Wednesday has never been one to soften her blows. She doesn’t know how not to press on a bruise.
“M’Sorry,” Enid cuts in before she can. “Sorry I’m so gross.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow as she looms over her. “Do not insult yourself,” she cautions Enid, voice low and warning and a little bit furious. “I would carve runes into my skin for you. I would burn for you, Enid. As if a little blood would be enough to turn my stomach,” she scoffs. “My heart is not so fickle. I’m offended you would even consider it.”
Enid’s eyes squeeze shut, but the hand that isn’t already anchoring her to the forest floor by the belt grips Enid hard by the chin, forcing her to look up.
“I beg you,” Wednesday says, voice low. “If you accept me, do your worst.”
“You don’t—” Enid loses her breath. “You don’t want that.”
“I do,” Wednesday retorts, eyes bright. She knows as well as Enid that the battle is already won. “And I’d thank you for it.”
Suddenly, it occurs to Enid that she’s barking up the wrong tree thinking she could out-weird Wednesday Addams.
“Oh,” Enid squeaks, and the forest seems to hum around her. “You’re not disgusted.”
“No,” Wednesday agrees.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Enid continues, voice pitching higher.
“Never.”
Enid bites her lip. Then, nearly accusing, “You love me.”
When Wednesday doesn’t deny it, Enid forces herself not to backtrack even though her chest tightens with a learned shame she no longer understands the source of. Why is her first instinct still to bolt when Wednesday has done nothing but ground her?
“I think I need help,” Enid blurts.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “What kind of help?”
“Like, professional,” Enid admits, swallowing thickly. “Think I need professional help. But, um, first I’d like you to fuck me. If that’s okay. If…if that’s something you want.”
Wednesday’s lips curve up in a smile that rides the razor edge of proud. It stings, but Enid has grown used to the humiliation of needing; after the last few weeks, it’s not exactly worse to admit as much aloud to Wednesday. It’s tolerable, Enid decides. She is a wolf, there are problems she cannot solve on her own, and Wednesday loves her. Three cardinal truths she can hold onto even when she’s deep in the muck of it.
“The very thought of not wanting you is inconceivable,” Wednesday tells her. “Even now, you honor me.”
Enid nods, fighting to maintain eye contact. “I don’t…I still don’t want to bite you like this,” she whispers. “I want to do it the right way. Court you like you courted me.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “What do you mean?”
Enid gulps, but persists, “You put so much effort into courting me, Wednesday, I mean…you went all the way to Australia to make my collar. Australia.”
Wednesday’s expression doesn’t change. “Your point?”
“That—Jesus, Wednesday, that wasn’t some small thing,” Enid insists, cheeks heating. “And I want to do the same for you before giving you my mark.”
“You want to go to Australia?”
“I want to court you the runewitch way,” Enid entreats. “So don't let me bite you. Not like this, Wednesday. Please.” Then, quieter, “Don't let me ruin this.”
Wednesday sighs under her breath. “You have already ruined me,” she whispers. “But I will not deny you. You want to court me like a runewitch.”
Enid nods. “I want to, Wednesday.” Then, sharper, intended to slip between her ribs and sink in, “Will you let me?”
Wednesday draws back, and in the light of the moon, she could almost be mistaken for impressed. “I already said I would not deny you anything in my power to give, Puppy.”
The ground beneath Enid’s back is cold, but she feels feverish, warm and cosseted even where she lies vulnerable. It’s strangely appropriate that she would feel like this for the first time in her home forest. It’s right, that she would feel so safe with Wednesday’s belt around her neck.
“I want it,” Enid repeats.
Wednesday smiles, sharp and terrible. “Then I will teach you,” she vows.
Enid’s eyes squeeze closed, but only so that she can breathe. Wednesday’s braid tickles her throat, and Enid can picture how she curls over her, protective, hair tangled and moon-bright.
“Will you braid my hair like yours?” Enid asks, unthinking.
Wednesday freezes, but hums her agreement before Enid can really work herself up into a spiral. “Of course,” she murmurs, free hand catching on a lock of Enid’s hair. She gives the silver-blonde curl a little tug. “There are knots reserved for courting. It would be my pleasure to braid your hair.”
“You’re making fun of me,” Enid sniffles, hand settling on Wednesday’s hip. She wants to wrap her arms and legs around Wednesday’s waist, but even more so, she wants to feel the pinch of Wednesday’s belt around her neck. She wants to be pinned.
As if Wednesday can hear her thoughts, she smirks. “No,” she replies. She gives Enid a considering look. “Your hair is long enough to be tied.”
Enid gulps, viscerally aware of the leather around her neck, snug and tight beneath her collar. “I haven’t cut it in a while.”
“You shouldn’t,” Wednesday interjects. “Not until marriage.”
Enid stares at her, wide-eyed, and nearly chokes on her own spit when Wednesday blushes.
“You want to marry me?” Enid squeaks. “Like…the human way?”
Wednesday exhales, but says, “I want to bind myself to you in accordance with every conceivable culture. I would make blood vows like a vampire if you so desired.”
Enid flushes, hot and terrible, and Wednesday gives her a knowing smile.
“Oh?” Wednesday taunts. “Wicked little wolf. You want my blood.”
Enid grits her teeth as a swell of heat travels down to her stomach. Yes, she thinks. Though Enid isn’t a vampire and cannot blame this urge on anything but her own hunger, she will not lie to Wednesday again.
“I want you,” Enid answers. “All of you. Maybe in ways that I shouldn’t.”
Wednesday’s hand leaves her hair, a rustle like skittering leaves providing more than enough warning of her intentions before the knife enters Enid’s direct line of sight. She can understand the song, even if she doesn’t know the music. The forest croons around her like a heartbeat, something she would recognize in the dark. Something that resonates in the prickling of her skin.
“No,” Enid quietly says, and Wednesday goes still. Enid reaches up and curls her hand around Wednesday’s, urging her to relinquish the blade. It slips down to the forest floor, forgotten, as Enid brings Wednesday’s fingers to her mouth.
“Here,” Enid breathes, parting her lips. “Let me?”
Although only a bite to the neck counts as a mating mark, bloodsharing is still an act reserved for bonded mates. If she had the slightest bit of sense, Enid wouldn't ask for this.
Wednesday exhales on one long, shuddering breath. “Take what you need,” she replies.
Enid cannot be sure if she bit down or Wednesday pressed up, but her teeth break skin, puncturing the pads of Wednesday’s fingers with a shock of pain that Enid imagines she can feel pounding in her own fingertips. Wednesday swallows a stuttering cough—something like a moan, or a gasp, if Addams were capable of such a thing—and Enid’s mind might as well have been smoothed over with a layer of buttercream icing, sweet and sticky, just thick enough to block out all other sensation. She doesn’t know what Wednesday would taste like if she were a wolf, if she had the sort of pheromones exclusive to a beast. She’ll never know what Wednesday would have been like with the face of an animal.
Enid still doesn’t feel bereft. The opposite, in fact.
The taste of Wednesday's blood is as close to holy as she's ever come.
***
While Enid's suitably distracted with sucking Wednesday’s fingers, Wednesday takes the opportunity to examine the drop of blood making steady progress towards her inner elbow.
She’s never had any particular interest in ingesting blood, generally preferring to reserve all bodily fluids for runes, but the look on Enid's face has her wondering if perhaps she's been missing out. Though wolves don't subsist on blood the way vampires do, it holds an important place in their culture; biting and teething and marking are considered acts of worship.
Enid lies prone on her back, a beast in repose, but the moon refuses to relinquish her. Wednesday can see it in her face.
She's never subscribed to the woodwitch propaganda her mother so loves to disseminate when she's spent too long in the forest, but any scientist worth their salt can recognize basic cause and effect. Enid's eyes don't throw light like a beacon under a normal moon. Her nails don't dig gouges into the earth in such a way that the marks she leaves might be read as runes.
In truth, Wednesday thinks the stars unworthy to shine upon Enid. How could anything measure up to her beloved? The sudden sense of protectiveness that crests over her head nearly unravels her. If all forces on earth are spirits, living and breathing and sentient like Morticia insists, then does the moon gaze across the sky and taunt this very forest? Does the wood resent the hold that the moon has on its most beloved daughter? Wednesday would. Wednesday does, though she is just a single life, far and away from the omnipotence of a spirit.
She wonders if the wood's affection for Enid can possibly compare to the wrenching in her chest. It’s enough to clutch Enid closer, to forget the belt and cradle Enid to her chest. If Enid’s body can warm at the taste of her blood, of Wednesday, then what is Wednesday missing out on, not tasting Enid in return? Not knowing her at the basest level, the way a runewitch should? The very thought paralyzes her. Incites her, even.
Wednesday is careful not to stretch boundaries, always desires for Enid to come to her before she proposes something of her own accord, but the feeling of missing out curdles hot and painful in her throat. She wants to belong to Enid wholly, without reserve, without the constraints of skin and bone and learned social constructs.
She wants to recognize Enid entirely. She wants to know her taste in the dark.
***
Enid does notice, distantly, when Wednesday’s breath starts to waver. She feels the prick of Wednesday’s nails on her nape—relishes it, even, sinking deeper into the bite so close to where she really wants to hurt—but she’s too busy whining around Wednesday’s bloody fingers to pay much attention until Wednesday’s nearly panting into her hair. Her exhales come in sharp little huffs, hitching and wet, desperation bleeding into her scent until even Enid cannot ignore the shift.
Enid pulls back, anxious to figure out what Wednesday's doing, what could have possibly caused her to smell so anguished—so wet—that she catches how Wednesday’s eyes catch on the veins in her neck. Any halfway-conscious person in this forest would recognize the look on her face.
Wednesday may not be a wolf, but she has the mouth of a dominant, and she’s fully capable of tearing into Enid’s throat like a mate.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, and Wednesday freezes, eyes sharpening back into focus.
The forest might as well be silent, so deafening is the sound of their breath. Wednesday’s head rolls up to look at her face.
“You want my blood too?” Enid blurts, voice coming out too high. “Are you going to—to—”
Wednesday cocks her head. “Are you going to let me?”
It hangs between them, suspended, twisting and tightening like a noose around both of their necks.
“Yes,” Enid groans, voice breaking, “Please.”
Wednesday abandons her fingers entirely, hand slapping the ground beside Enid's hip as she leans over her. Before Enid's so much as finished speaking, Wednesday's hand has curled around the back of her neck and her tongue is dragging over Enid's mouth, licking and sucking from the source, coaxing the blood from Enid’s ragged lower lip. Wolves don't put stock in bloodsharing like vampires do, but Enid wonders if there's a more intimate act than willingly spilling blood for a runewitch.
Wednesday makes a noise in the back of her throat, something guttural, something—less than human, a small voice in the back of her head suggests, though Enid's opinion cannot be trusted when she feels like she’s a hair off from splintering into a thousand shivering pieces.
When Wednesday’s teeth scrape against her throat, Enid makes a noise she didn’t know she was capable of, and the forest whirls around her as she somehow ends up on her back in the dirt. Her head is still spinning as Wednesday climbs on top of her, weight warm and solid between her thighs. In the cast of the forest, she looks unholy. Deranged, even, the way a wolf might look this close to the moon.
“You look like Eve,” Enid whispers, eyes on Wednesday’s bloodied mouth and chin. “Eating the forbidden apple.”
Wednesday’s eyes might as well be two punctures in her visage, a window into the night sky as she rears up. “What a strange thing to say,” she replies, then lowers her hand to Enid’s lips.
Enid obediently takes Wednesday’s fingers into her mouth, her throat vibrating around a noise she refuses to let out.
“May I?” Wednesday asks, and Enid only realizes what she’s referring to when she feels fingers slipping between her legs. Wednesday’s hand is soaked before she finds Enid’s pussy.
“You want to come again,” Wednesday murmurs, fingers probing. “Don’t you?”
Enid frantically nods, sucking hard on Wednesday’s fingers.
Wednesday’s gaze hardens with resolve, and she says, “I want to see.”
She sits back on her heels, ignoring Enid’s whimper of protest as she retracts her hand from Enid’s mouth. Enid is left splayed out on her back, aching and empty, holding still as she waits for further instruction.
“Will you touch yourself with my saliva if I ask?” Wednesday wonders aloud, and Enid has to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from moaning like a bitch.
“Be good,” Wednesday chastises her, pulling Enid’s hand away. “I want to hear you.”
Enid nods, breathing coming fast as Wednesday leans over her legs. This is behavior one might expect from a wolf in rut, an inherent sort of possessiveness that Enid had always expected to field from her faceless partner, someday—but it’s an entirely different experience to look her fate in the eyes. Without breaking their gaze, Wednesday spits on her.
“Touch yourself,” Wednesday commands, and Enid does.
But her spit-sticky fingers are darker than they should be, darker than they would be with just Wednesday’s saliva. Blood, Enid realizes, stomach dropping to her toes. Wednesday must have unknowingly bit herself. She’s touching herself with Wednesday’s blood.
Enid freezes, waiting for Wednesday to recoil, to scream at her that she’s sick and vile and needs to be institutionalized, or something—but Wednesday doesn’t react. Her face is as blank as a doll’s.
Maybe she doesn't realize, Enid thinks wildly, nearly collapsing with relief. The universe has granted her a lot of mercies today, but if she could have just one more, if she could just avoid Wednesday figuring out how unhinged it makes Enid feel to touch herself with Wednesday’s blood like a bonafide fucking lunatic—she could die happy.
Wednesday reaches down and grips Enid by the wrist, shoving her hand back against her pussy. “Did I tell you to stop?”
“No, Wednesday,” Enid breathes, fingers moving faster. She is so, so lucky. If Wednesday knew the truth of what she was doing, Enid would simply melt away.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for squeamish, Puppy,” Wednesday muses aloud. “I thought you liked the taste of my blood.”
“Yes,” Enid agrees, keening high in the back of her throat. She’s close.
“I was under the impression you enjoyed it,” Wednesday continues.
Enid nods fervently. “Yes, liked it so much. Tastes so good, Wednesday. It’s perfect, you're perfect,” she babbles, abdominals tightening.
“Then what difference does it make?”
“What…with what?” Enid asks, voice coming out too high. “What difference does what make?”
Wednesday's expression remains neutral. “Whether my blood is in your mouth or your cunt.”
Enid chokes on her own spit, pitching forward in an effort to curl over herself and hide what she’s done, an effort thwarted by Wednesday’s hard hand on her neck.
“Up,” Wednesday commands, and up Enid goes. “What, are you embarrassed?”
Enid gives a small, pitiful nod, and Wednesday makes a noise of amusement.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” Enid squeaks, chin digging into her collarbone. If Wednesday’s hand hurts squished between her chin and chest, she doesn’t voice any protest. “Like it, Wednesday. Like it so much.”
“You like touching yourself with my blood?” Wednesday enunciates, clear and concise.
Enid exhales on a hard breath. “I like touching myself with your blood.”
Wednesday’s lips curl up in triumph. “We’ll make a runewitch of you yet,” she says under her breath.
Enid moans out loud, head tipping back, and Wednesday’s fingers curl in her hair, cupping the back of her head and supporting her weight.
“What, you need more?” Wednesday asks.
Enid nods, eyes fluttering shut as Wednesday’s fingers press into her mouth. Her fingertips are smooth and unblemished, skin unbroken like Enid never bit down and took from her at all, but the hum of the forest around them has grown deafening and Enid has come to know better than to dismiss this magic outright. It sounds like snowfall, sun rising on that first winter morning: painful and blinding to the untrained eye, but beautiful. Worth burning for.
Enid bites down on Wednesday’s finger, just a single canine puncturing her skin, but Wednesday trembles like she just shoved a blade through her stomach.
Without warning, Wednesday drags her bloody fingers down Enid’s throat, slaking her skin in blood. Her lips move soundlessly as she works, motions quick and purposeful. Enid has never been particularly talented at anything, but she imagines this must be how it feels to watch a painter mark a canvas.
When she finishes, Wednesday leans back, lips parting as she gazes at Enid.
“Look at you,” Wednesday breathes. “Covered in my marks.”
Enid hesitates for a moment, but only a moment; when it passes, she lifts her arms above her head, crossing her wrists in a mockery of the pictures on Wednesday’s tablet.
Wednesday’s eyes sharpen with recognition. “You want to be restrained?”
“Yes,” Enid sighs. “Please.”
Wednesday works the belt off her neck, swiftly replacing the leather around her wrists until Enid’s arms are bound above her head. Enid arches her back, testing the give.
“Okay?” Wednesday asks, thumb stroking Enid’s bare hip.
Enid nods. “Feels good, Wednesday,” she breathes.
Wednesday’s lips curl up with approval. She taps Enid’s flank, a silent command. “Turn over, sweetheart.”
Enid goes obediently, the grass beneath her soft and comfortable, not a single twig so much as catching in her hair. She’s so busy luxuriating in the thought of Wednesday looking at her that she squeaks like a startled rabbit when Wednesday pries her cheeks apart, exposing her holes to the cool night air.
“Pretty,” Wednesday mutters, swallowing audibly. “Do you like wearing my stripes, Puppy?”
Enid struggles to turn her face and catch Wednesday’s expression. It’s especially difficult with her arms tied above her head.
“Such a pretty ass,” Wednesday murmurs, pupils blown wide. “Pretty holes, too.”
Enid makes a wet, stuttering noise that cuts off into a gasp when Wednesday taps a frantic beat on the lowest part of her tailbone.
“I haven’t touched you here,” Wednesday quietly says. “May I?”
Enid feels like Wednesday’s foot is hovering directly over her neck, threatening to press down and shatter her, but she nods. “Y-Yeah.”
“I can finger your ass?” Wednesday asks, straight to the point.
Enid nods, already fuzzy with want. “Belongs to you,” she slurs. “All my holes belong to Wednesday.”
Wednesday slips a soothing hand up her spine, anchoring the small of her back as she presses in with one spit-soaked finger. It goes easier than Enid expected, considering she’s never had anything penetrate her here—not in heat, not by Camie, not even herself—but she can’t help but like how full she feels, stuffed in an entirely different way than she’s used to. Something only for Wednesday, a small voice at the back of her awareness whispers. Something just for them.
Enid’s hips are twitching before long, anxious to rub on something solid and chase her relief, but her skin grows slick with sweat and Wednesday’s hand ends up sliding up her spine and twisting into her hair. It’s almost better that way, Enid decides.
“Careful,” Wednesday warns. “I’ll fuck you harder when we have proper lubricant. Be good for me, Puppy.”
Enid nods, clenching her abdominals in hopes she can stave off her orgasm. She’s not overly optimistic, too focused on how Wednesday’s finger feels in her ass to be able to devote much energy to any sincere effort at self-control.
“How does it feel?” Wednesday asks her, amused.
“Like being full, Wednesday,” Enid whispers. “Like when you fill me up.”
She feels bright and warm and hallowed out, guts removed like the inside of a jack-o-lantern. Wet and unstable.
Wednesday’s laughter feels like sunlight on her back, and Enid comes without warning. This orgasm rolls through her, thick in her lungs, the sort of sweet that dissolves in her mouth. It's violence for the sake of violence. It’s enough to leave Enid gasping for a breath that just won't come.
“Enid,” Wednesday murmurs, hand hot on her hip. “Breathe.”
“I won’t—can’t be quiet, Wednesday, I can’t,” Enid begs, the words melting behind her teeth, half-formed and slurred.
“I know, good girl,” Wednesday murmurs to her. "What's your safeword, Enid?"
Enid shudders through a sob. “B-Bean.”
“Good girl,” Wednesday tells her, voice heavy and slow. “I’m going to pull out, alright? Breathe out for me. Deeper—good girl. Again.”
Enid exhales, conscious of how the breath feels leaving her lungs, and Wednesday pulls out when she feels Enid’s muscles inadvertently relax. Enid appreciates it, in a distant sort of way. Wednesday is being particularly considerate for a girl who nearly took Hugo’s head off his shoulders a day ago.
Wednesday unbuckles the belt from Enid’s wrists, urging her onto her side where she can curl up. Enid opens her eyes, reaching out to tangle her hand with Wednesday’s when Wednesday lies down beside her. She wants to sink her teeth into her just to see the bite marks, but coming with Wednesday’s fingers in her ass has done much to temper the moon in her blood.
“Are you with me?” Wednesday asks, voice pitching with uncertainty.
Enid takes a single, shuddering breath. “I'm sorry if I scared you,” she whispers. “Before, I mean.”
“You do not scare me,” Wednesday replies, voice firm enough to make ice out of water. She gives Enid’s hand a squeeze. “But I would like to know your general state. I'd like to make this a part of our daily ritual if you're amenable.”
Enid's face heats. “What do you…make, um, make what part of our daily ritual?” Is Wednesday asking to schedule regular sessions with her ass?
“Inspection,” Wednesday answers. “I would like to inspect you. Daily.”
“My holes?” Enid asks, losing her breath.
Wednesday’s eyes darken. “Your holes. Any marks I’ve left on your skin, as well as your mental state. I want to know everything.”
Enid twitches, but in anticipation rather than anxiety. “Okay,” she whispers. “Yeah. You can inspect me. When should we start?”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth quirks up in Enid’s favorite half-smile. “Tomorrow. Though perhaps we put it off another day, considering it’s close to tomorrow already.”
Enid shifts closer, struck with a sudden desire not to leave so much as an inch of space between them. Wednesday seems to sense this, arm wrapping around her waist with a familiarity Enid wouldn’t have been able to picture two months ago.
“Why don’t you want aftercare?” Enid blurts.
Wednesday tenses, but Enid remains silent and waiting, cognizant by now that she’ll never get anywhere if she keeps filling the tension with chatter. As far as issues go, Wednesday potentially refusing aftercare could snowball into something much more sinister down the line. What if a time comes when Wednesday drops again and goes berserk on someone harder to hamstring than Hugo?
Wednesday seems to sense the seriousness of the situation because rather than offering one of her usual misdirections, she chews on the inside of her cheek. Wednesday only does that when she’s uncomfortable with herself, Enid knows. Whatever her hangup, it must be something she struggles to admit, even to herself.
Enid wiggles closer until she can lay on top of her, blanketing Wednesday’s chest with her body, offering the type of care that comes naturally to her, and she can practically feel the tension easing out of Wednesday. Verbal affirmation will always be a challenge, but this—Enid knows the value of a steadying touch.
“I suppose I don’t feel I deserve it,” Wednesday eventually replies.
It’s Enid’s turn to tense. “Why?” she asks, voice as soft as she can manage.
Wednesday strokes her hair as she considers the question. “I wasn’t the one who was caned. Why should I need aftercare?”
“I don’t think you have to be the one getting punished to drop,” Enid tells her with all the authority of a person who’d never been on the business end of a cane before that day. At Wednesday’s look of dubiousness, she presses, “I’m serious. We’re both…we’re in it together, Wednesday. Just because I’m the one with my head underwater during our scenes doesn’t mean we’re not both in the soup.”
Wednesday’s lips curl up at the corners. “In the soup? Is that a euphemism?”
Enid’s cheeks heat, but she smiles wide anyway. “Maybe. With the amount of fluids I usually end up covered in…” She manages an embarrassed little shrug.
Wednesday hums, smoothing Enid’s bangs back from her forehead. “You’re every runewitch’s dream,” she murmurs. “As if I would ever complain about such a thing. You’re a vision whilst covered in blood and slick.”
Enid bites her lip, but blurts, “You’re the one covered in blood.”
It’s true. The painting on Enid’s skin has smeared and dried on Wednesday, runes nearly illegible, and Wednesday’s front is still soaked in her blood from earlier and otherwise.
Wednesday pauses in her petting, seeming to come to a decision. Enid watches it war on her face and wonders which side won.
“I am,” Wednesday agrees.
“Can I…?” Enid falters, heat spreading to her neck, but Wednesday makes a valiant effort at not looking too amused as she patiently waits for her to finish. “Can I please, Wednesday?” she asks.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Please, what?”
“Can I clean you?” Enid asks. “Can I care for you?”
Wednesday slowly exhales. “You may.”
Enid tries not to make a big deal about it, but her scent burns bright and ecstatic as she laps the blood from Wednesday’s chin, as she preens and grooms Wednesday like any submissive wolf would her dominant. It satisfies her to do this, Enid realizes. Wednesday’s intense desire to comfort her with aftercare makes a sudden, startling sort of sense.
“Tomorrow night,” Enid begins, dropping her head onto Wednesday’s chest and breathing in the scent of her.
Wednesday cards a hand through Enid’s matted curls. “Yes?”
“The full moon,” Enid whispers into her skin. “I'll...I'll wait to transform. I'll wait to see what you bring me.”
It’s an old tradition, one that the Montgomery pack might not recognize but that any California Trad wolf would know by sight. When the dominant wolves return with their kills, collared wolves may accept the offering as a sign of their readiness to mate. Enid would accept the fur of a rabbit if it was Wednesday laying it at her feet, but she knows Wednesday won’t settle for little targets as long as other wolves are aiming for bucks and wild pigs further up the mountain.
Wednesday’s eyes glint with interest. “Is there big game in these woods?”
“All kinds of things. It's tradition for new warriors to bring their kills back to show off, but a lot of courting wolves use this hunt as the third step,” Enid reveals. “It…this can be the third step for us. The act of service.”
“No,” Wednesday tells her, gentle but firm. “I will write my own promise made in service, Enid. The pelt I bring you the night of the full moon will be solely for your amusement.”
Notes:
IM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY thank you all for your patience while i was wasting away in my latest sickbed <3
UPDATE 8/1: next chapter is in the works!!! i've been traveling for the last month so my schedule's been wonky but planning to have it up in the next sevenish days
update 8/13: sorry guys i know i'm so totally late work has kept me working twelve hours a day for the last two weeks :') promise i'll get next chapter up soon as galactically possible
Chapter 106: Hand
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid’s hand has grown clammy by the time they near the house, feet crunching on a bed of leaves lit by a moon that spills over the crown of Wednesday's head like a shroud.
Her features are so distinct in the moonlight. It paints Wednesday's eyelids silver, hollowing out the curve of her cheek and cant of her lips like a painting, or a marble statue in a museum somewhere—something meant to be seen and admired. Enid knows well that she looks a little too sharp in the face without her colorful nails and hair to soften the slant of the wolf, but Wednesday’s beauty intensifies in darkness.
Her loveliness won't be enough to spare them, of course, but it's a nice consolation that Enid's last image before her mother annihilates them both will be of Wednesday's pretty face.
There isn't technically a curfew for warrior trainees, but Enid isn't a trainee and she certainly isn't a warrior. If she had ever dared to come back this late before moving away for school, her mother would have strung her from the rafters. Disappearing to Vermont for a few years doesn't erase a childhood of walking silently in her sock feet in hopes of not being noticed.
“Are you nervous?” Wednesday asks her, hand shifting to hold Enid delicately by the wrist.
The territory is bustling around them, children shrieking as they shoot by clusters of seasoned warriors busy placing their bets on the rookies due to set out at dawn, but no one comes close enough to force an interaction. No one ventures off the path as they did. Enid figures she should, at the very least, be grateful for that.
“I don’t know. Yes?” she answers, voice pitching upwards.
Wednesday frowns at her. “Your pulse is racing.”
“Is it?” Enid gives a shrill half-giggle. At Wednesday's raised eyebrow, she allows her smile to fall and admits, “My mother's going to be pissed. I wasn't allowed out this late before.”
The look on Wednesday's moon-shaded face—Wednesday, who probably disappeared for days on end as a child without the slightest fear of consequences, Wednesday who never weighed her decisions against the crack of her mother’s right hand—is a little too hard to stomach. Rather than bear the weight of her terrible understanding, Enid kicks straight through a crumbling log and immediately regrets it when the whole thing disintegrates beneath her feet. Damp wood and soil and something worse, something rotting, squishes cold and wet between her toes. Fitting, she thinks.
Wednesday squeezes her hand. “Your mother has her rules for her household. It is a courtesy for us to follow them.”
“But…we didn’t follow them,” Enid points out, wisely hopping over the next thicket of forest debris. The grass is soft where she lands, a pale comfort before the rollicking she's no doubt receiving as soon as they reach the house.
“Yes,” Wednesday agrees, feet remaining firmly on the trail. Something dark and suspiciously-runelike in shape catches Enid’s eye when Wednesday extends her arm to keep ahold of her, but her attention is stolen by Wednesday's declaration, “I do not intend to extend your mother a single courtesy as long as there’s air in my lungs.”
Enid chokes out a laugh that echoes through the trees, climbing higher and higher until it disappears into the sky. After a moment of uncertain silence, the forest resumes its rustling around them.
“Sorry you ended up with an evil mother-in-law,” Enid snorts without thinking. “It's hardly fair when I get to have Morticia,” she adds dreamily.
Wednesday sends her a startled, wide-eyed look that sends Enid tripping over the stone ledge marking the start of the Sinclair property.
“Oh,” Enid squeaks, flushing with heat. Considering the circumstances—and the fact that they're not even engaged in human terms—it's a little soon to be spouting off about mothers-in-law. Or anything to do with holy matrimony. “Too much?”
Wednesday hums consideringly, but her eyes glint with obvious satisfaction. “No. Never,” she promises, words coiling hot and tight in Enid's gut. “I enjoy your poorly concealed allusions to our marriage. Please, go on.”
Enid blushes so intensely that her collar constricts around her neck, sweaty and flush against her skin. Her scent reeks of embarrassment.
Wednesday, on the other hand, smells jubilant. “Come,” she urges, tugging on her. “You know the way home, I presume?”
“I could probably find my way around this place with my eyes closed and ears plugged,” Enid replies, abruptly concerned that Wednesday can’t tell how close they’ve ventured to Esther’s territory. She’d known it in theory but hadn't quite processed just how dull Wednesday's senses must be compared to a wolf's.
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “By scent, then?” she guesses.
“‘Course,” Enid replies, swinging their hands between them. “How else would the warriors patrol?”
Wednesday makes a noise of contemplation. “The rune combination I used to find you only lasted until we made physical contact,” she notes. “I suppose we shall have to be careful tomorrow not to end the blessing prematurely.”
Enid draws up short, nearly slipping on the grass if not for Wednesday's iron grip on her hand. As she reaches for Wednesday's arm, Enid expects her to jerk away—anticipates it, even, telegraphing her movements to allow Wednesday the chance—but no such jerking comes. Wednesday stares back at her, unrepentant, when Enid turns her wrist to expose the bloody runes to the light.
“What did this do?” Enid asks, mouth dry.
“I could find you,” Wednesday quietly tells her. “It allowed me to smell you. Or sense you, perhaps. I could track your movements from across the forest.”
Enid feels a sudden pressure in her throat. “Like a wolf?” she asks, unsure if she really wants to know the answer.
On the list of things Enid currently needs, Wednesday developing the ability to track her movements or, worse, smell her every emotion like a bloodhound would probably rank dead last. The thought that Wednesday might figure out just how deeply she yearns for the belt is unconscionable.
“It wasn’t an exact replica of your natural capability as a wolf, but I suppose it will do for tomorrow,” Wednesday muses, oblivious. “I’ll simply use this rune combination to find you once I’ve collected my kill.”
Enid’s scent goes sharp and sour with a familiar spike of anxiety. Assuming Esther allows them to live that long, how the hell is Wednesday going to run in the hunt without a wolf’s nose? For packmembers, the territory boundaries are as immutable and unchangeable as the moon; everyone knows how far to venture and what path to take in order to stay within the safe bounds of their land. Wednesday could end up in the suicide wood if she’s not careful.
Enid briefly, impractically considers kidnapping Wednesday to ensure her safety, hunt be damned, but dismisses the idea almost as quickly. Wednesday would never turn down a chance to prove her mettle, let alone the rare opportunity to take on a wild beast and demonstrate her prowess in front of the entire pack. She would have to kill Wednesday first, Enid gloomily admits to herself.
Murder and abduction as a central tenet of a relationship might appeal to an Addams, but Enid would rather not court any more violence than strictly necessary. They’ve had more than their fair share since touching down in San Francisco.
“Wednesday,” Enid quietly says. “It’s not safe outside the territory. Will you be careful to stay in these woods? In—” She pauses, viscerally aware of Wednesday’s eyes on her face. “In my woods?” she breathes, ignoring how the words seem to linger around her.
The rustling of the forest dramatically increases to the point that Wednesday glances behind them with a look of suspicion. When a new breeze shifts Wednesday’s braid off her shoulder, she obstinately puts it right back. Enid doesn't realize she's clutching too hard until Wednesday lays a hand over her hold.
The forest quiets, wind settling readily, and Wednesday’s face pinches as she deduces, “You’re afraid.”
“Yeah,” Enid whispers. Always, she thinks.
Wednesday cocks her head. “Of tomorrow, or of the fact that we’re nearing your house?”
Enid gulps in lieu of responding. Her expression must be answer enough because Wednesday’s scent thickens the exact way it had before she set foot in the ring or whenever Bianca had managed to drag her into a verbal altercation that inevitably led to detention or, in one memorable instance, suspension.
“I will remain within Toby’s general vicinity tomorrow. We’ve already agreed,” Wednesday assures her. “I won't run by myself.”
Enid releases a long, hitching breath. “Okay.”
“As for tonight,” Wednesday squeezes her hand, waiting for her to make eye contact, “I will protect you,” she vows. “Despite mounting evidence to the contrary, I am relatively confident your mother is just a person. A rather monstrous person, but a person nonetheless.”
“Yeah, well, Jack the Ripper was just a man,” Enid mutters under her breath.
Wednesday’s lips quirk up with amusement. “So they say.”
“You don't think he was?” Enid asks, genuinely surprised. Even amongst outcasts, Jack the Ripper was notorious for his crimes. “Could a woman really do that?” she asks, voice dubious.
Wednesday slants a glance at her. “You’re awfully idealistic considering the woman you grew up calling mother.”
Enid winces in agreement. “Fair. But what makes you think Jack the Ripper was a woman?”
Wednesday leads her onto the porch, steps nearly soundless as they approach the darkened entryway. Esther didn't leave the light on for them, but Enid imagines she can smell her and just knows her mother's close.
“Remind me to tell you about my brother's least favorite painting in the house,” Wednesday replies.
True to form, Esther's shadow fills the foyer the moment they cross the threshold. She must have been watching through the window, Enid thinks nonsensically. Behind her, the kitchen is dark and silent, though a fire crackles merrily in the living room hearth.
Enid's stomach clenches with a sudden ache to join her father. She was never particularly close to him, not like a submissive wolf should be to the parent sharing their lot in life, but she remembers practicing her summer dances in the living room while her mother was busy elsewhere and sometimes, her father would sit in his chair and watch her. Those memories feel hazy and disjointed from her current life.
Enid swallows her trepidation, bracing herself for the confrontation her mother’s clearly been gearing up for, but Wednesday squares her shoulders in anticipation of the fight.
“Oh, dear. You two missed dinner,” Esther exclaims, clasping her hands together in front of her apron.
Enid squirms at the reminder that Wednesday wore that very same apron to cook her pancakes, resisting a bizarre urge to laugh. The corner of Wednesday's mouth curls up like she knows.
“I'm afraid if you want to share a meal with the rest of the family, you'll have to be on time,” Esther says, sweetly.
Wednesday smiles wide enough to show her teeth. “My human nose must be betraying me—I can’t seem to smell the remnants of your meal. What exactly did you cook, Madame Sinclair?” she asks, for all the world sounding interested rather than accusing. “I am deeply invested in learning all of my darling Enid's favorites, you understand. From one cook to another.”
Esther's eyes narrow. Wednesday's eyes narrow to match. Enid, gaze volleying back and forth between them like a tennis match, clutches Wednesday in lieu of wringing her hands.
Esther's smile widens. “We had sandwiches. There's so much to do the last night before a hunt, dear.”
“Quite,” Wednesday agrees, squeezing Enid's hand in reassurance. “While it is unfortunate we missed out on your…efforts," she says, lips curling, “I had intended to cook for Enid this evening myself.”
Esther's smile disappears, lips suddenly pursing in ugly disapproval. Her very jowls quiver at the audacity. Enid can't tell whether the fury radiating off her stems from the blatant lack of respect, the thought of Wednesday Addams dirtying her kitchen, or the insult to her cooking. Even amongst the wider pack, her mother is known for her culinary talents. This must be something of a novel experience for her.
Either Esther is too angry to answer aloud or she's become more cautious since the pack's acceptance of Wednesday's claim because she doesn't speak another word. She gives a short nod masquerading as permission, aims a glare that promises punishment in Enid's direction, and then flounces off into the living room where Enid's dad sits quietly by fire.
“Where are your siblings?” Wednesday asks, towing Enid into the kitchen with little care for the tension left in her wake.
Enid reluctantly steps away to flip on the lights. “I have no idea,” she admits, heaving a bone-deep sigh.
Her mother hadn't been exaggerating that there was an overwhelming list of chores for the elders to dole out every time the pack held a festival or hunt. Enid's just grateful she was collared before the summer solstice festival when she no doubt would have been made to dance with the other submitting wolves.
The summer dances are always quite the production, each performer agonizing over the color of their silk outfits and fluttering between dominants in anticipation of nesting season. As a true submissive wolf, Enid nests year-round, but the other wolves will make a show of creating nests for their chosen dominants come autumn.
“To me, Puppy,” Wednesday's voice filters across the room.
Enid glances over just in time to watch as Wednesday crooks a sharp, manicured fingernail in her direction. She nearly stumbles over her own feet in her hurry to comply, unsure of how to stand or what to say but desperate not to let her embarrassment overshadow the much more pressing need to be good. Wednesday wouldn’t ask this of her if she didn’t want it too, Enid reminds herself. She promised as much.
Wednesday's eyes alight with something a hair too sharp for amusement once Enid's settled in front of her. Her lips split with a flash of teeth as she extends her hand, palm up.
“Paw,” Wednesday murmurs.
And Enid almost misses it, is the thing. She almost acts without thinking, equally dazed and laser-focused, before the words land and Wednesday wants her paw. Like a show dog. Like a pet, Enid thinks, heart pounding. It billows and balloons in her stomach, expanding behind her ribcage until it grips around her throat.
“What?” she manages to choke out.
Either Wednesday has no shame or she simply has no qualms initiating pet play with Enid’s parents in the next room. Maybe this is normal for an Addams. “You heard me.”
Enid gulps, eyes flicking to the living room doorway, but she doesn't think Esther can hear Wednesday's voice as long as she continues to speak this softly and really, she should know better by now than to assume that Wednesday might be joking. Her words are like prayers; every syllable that passes her lips is meant plainly and wholeheartedly.
The pale lines of Enid's upturned palm look almost obscene in Wednesday’s black-painted grasp. Together, they look like Eve taking the apple, like Wednesday's hand is the snake guiding her straight to the flesh she's forbidden from sinking her teeth into.
Over in the living room, the floorboard creaks as somebody shifts their weight.
“And the other,” Wednesday continues, clearly enjoying herself.
Enid knows what she's expected to do: lay her left hand atop the pile like Wednesday's helping her cup something in their palms. Instead, she hesitantly flips her hand over, adjusting her grip until she's perched both hands atop Wednesday's palm exactly the way a dog would jump up onto a counter. Her fingertips throb, nails extending ever so slightly as her heartbeat rings in her ears. It's humiliating, she thinks, but Wednesday smiles and it's brilliant. Sharp. Teeth shining, victorious.
Wednesday leans forward and crowds Enid against the counter, and the tension seeps down from her stomach to between her legs, scent caramelizing around her. Enid might have gasped, but the sound is lost when Wednesday reaches out to turn on the sink and the splatter of water hitting steel spares her.
“Pretty,” Wednesday breathes, low enough that only Enid can hear. She strokes the delicate skin over Enid’s knuckles with her thumb. “Such a sweet girl. Aren't you, Puppy? Are you good at following rules?”
Enid nods, relishing the heat in Wednesday’s scent. She smells like forest and soil and sweat, like something Enid might have smelled once in a dream. Home, a voice in the back of her head whispers.
Wednesday tilts her head enough to expose her throat. “Wash your hands for me, sweetheart.”
Enid sways forward, then lurches back in abject betrayal once her words actually register. Reluctant though she is to move an inch away from Wednesday—or stop presenting her paws like a prized show dog, because she wants Wednesday's approval, maybe more than she wants breath in her lungs—Enid recognizes the challenge for what it is. One filthy lesson after another, one more exercise in trust, one more test of courage for her to pass.
Enid turns around and sticks her hands under the water. It might as well be freezing compared to the heat licking up her spine.
“Good girl,” Wednesday whispers behind her, palm settling on Enid's lower back. Though Enid had cleaned the blood and slick from Wednesday’s skin before they left the brook, she still reeks of Enid as she leans in. “Soap.”
Enid dutifully lathers her hands together, wrinkling her nose at the unexpected reacquaintance with her mother's preferred scent. She's always hated the smell of lavender.
“Rinse,” Wednesday instructs, and Enid obeys like she thinks this might end with Wednesday's legs over her shoulders. Attitude is key, she tells herself.
Rather than order her to towel off, Wednesday reaches around her and snags the scrap of cotton off the dishwasher handle, pressing herself against Enid's back as she takes her time drying her hands for her. It's oddly intimate, feeling Wednesday's touch through the cloth. Enid's never been particularly accustomed to acts of service as a show of devotion, but she thinks she could get used to this. Any occasion where Wednesday feels compelled to touch her is cause for celebration in her books.
“Why do you think Jack the Ripper was a girl?” Enid whispers.
Wednesday snorts under her breath as she tucks the dishtowel back on its handle and pats Enid's ass. “Go into the pantry and find the flour, please.”
Though she does as she was asked, Enid doesn't look away for longer than strictly necessary, eyes glued to Wednesday's face even as she heaves the sack onto the counter.
“Have you ever made homemade pasta?” Wednesday asks her.
By the time Wednesday finishes explaining the process in detail and sets Enid to work chopping vegetables, Enid has almost forgotten her question entirely.
“Very few professions in the Victorian era dealt in intimate knowledge of human joints,” Wednesday abruptly says, causing Enid’s head to jerk up. “One such career would have been that of a professional ballet dancer.”
Enid has to lay her knife down to avoid an accident. “You think Jack the Ripper, notorious murderer and scourge of Victorian Britain, was actually a prima ballerina?” she asks, voice climbing in disbelief.
“You've clearly never met a professional dancer,” Wednesday replies. “Viciousness is an essential quality of any artist, but particularly those competing with each other on a near daily basis. Professional ballet is a killing field.”
The most exposure Enid’s ever had to dance is her pack festivals and what little she's stumbled across on the internet. “Huh. I didn’t realize it was so competitive.”
“The ballet industry is even more cutthroat than surgical medicine, and that is saying something,” Wednesday states, deftly shaping a ball of dough. Enid stares dumbly at the way her forearms flex. “In the age of Jack the Ripper, many professional dancers were compelled to perform sex work on the side. If you recall, Jack the Ripper targeted—”
“Prostitutes,” Enid breathes, biting her lip.
Wednesday nods. “In those days, customers allegedly treated the dancers’ stage performances as auditions for less reputable services. It was a despicable time to be a lower-class woman in London.”
Enid feels a little like she's having a despicable time right now. Wednesday's graduated from rolling out pasta dough to cutting it into long, thin strips with a knife she wields with all the familiarity of a ballpoint pen. “But what does that have to do with Jack the Ripper? Or—or your brother's least favorite painting?” Enid presses, forcing herself to look anywhere else.
“Are you finished with the onions, Puppy?” Wednesday counters.
Enid nods, not daring to glance up.
“Perfect. Bring them here.”
Enid feels a splinter of vindictiveness catch between her ribs as she pours a small mountain of unevenly-chopped onions into her mother's favorite saucepan. She returns to her station to start on the mushrooms to the soundtrack of clinking bottles and roiling water as their biggest pot is set to boil, and for a moment, Enid wonders if this is what every night is like in the Addams household. If they keep a cauldron bubbling on the stove the old-fashioned way, if Morticia dabbles in herbal remedies like Professor Hyesol had at school. Enid wonders if Wednesday and Pugsley are allowed to touch the cookware in their house.
As Wednesday's scent softens behind a plume of red wine and olive oil, Enid drags herself out of her musings and firmly into the present. These mushrooms aren’t going to chop themselves, she thinks. Enid doesn't know the first thing about making pasta sauce, but Wednesday had looked deadly serious when she described the importance of the mushrooms.
It's lucky that mushrooms prove easier to chop than onions because the steam from Wednesday's oversized pot of boiling water soon has her hair curling around her ears and temples, scent intensifying with the heat. Enid has always been sensitive to Wednesday's sweat, but it was a lot easier to ignore when she didn't know how Wednesday's skin tastes under her tongue. How did she ever survive years of watching Wednesday flounce around their room after fencing or puttering around the Hive with Eugene, skin sun-warmed and hair plastered to the back of her neck? It would take a herculean effort to keep her from escalating the same situation now.
As her parents are in the next room and it would be galactically obvious to everyone in the house if they should start fucking, Enid figures she can withstand the urge to do something stupid. That resolution lasts right up until she misjudges the distance between her elbow and the counter and ends up flailing to regain her balance.
She freezes, caught, but Wednesday is too busy stirring her pasta sauce with one hand while checking the tensity of the noodles with the other. Enid sends a silent thank you up to whatever ancestor happens to be supervising them right now, sure that Auntie Lucía would be bellying that golden toffee laugh of hers if she could see them firsthand.
“There's a somewhat famous painter from that time period by the name of Edgar Degas,” Wednesday continues, oblivious. “He mostly painted ballerinas—though the women in his paintings, in hindsight, bear an eerie resemblance to the Ripper's victims. We have one such original work hanging in my house,” she casually reveals, like it's completely normal to have art worth thousands of dollars hanging in the foyer. Art her brother hates, no less. “In our Degas painting, the background extended wide enough to include a shadowy figure waiting in the wings.”
“A shadowy figure?” Enid repeats doubtfully. “Wasn’t that during the opium crisis? Lots of artists were probably painting weird shit at the time.”
“Of course, but Degas made something of a habit painting monsters in the background of his subjects,” Wednesday explains, “And not every painter chose to feature women widely known as prostitutes with faceless shadow men lurking over their shoulders. Particularly with the social climate of that time period, when all of Whitechapel feared another attack.”
“So you think Degas was Jack the Ripper,” Enid concludes.
“No,” Wednesday states. “I think Degas knew Jack the Ripper. I think the killer was one of the dancers and Degas painted her, over and over, his work expanding the longer her reign of terror went on.”
Enid frowns. The notion of a woman disemboweling other women sounds unthinkable, but who is she to deny the violence another person is capable of? “Sounds like one fucked up painting,” she comments. “I kind of want to see it.”
Wednesday smiles, teeth glinting. “You'll see it when we arrive in New Jersey,” she promises. “I'll make certain of it. Now, come and taste, my darling.”
Enid abandons her cutting board and books it across the room, leaning in to accept the spoonful Wednesday holds out to her. When a droplet of sauce escapes the spoonful and splatters onto the palm Wednesday had positioned beneath her offering, rather than reach for a dish towel like a normal person, Wednesday looks her dead in the eye and licks it up.
Enid gives her what she hopes is a wounded look rather than an expression that betrays the heat between her legs. A day may come when the sight of Wednesday's teeth doesn't send her stomach somersaulting into her chest, but it doesn't seem likely to arrive soon. Not in these despicable times of her own.
Notes:
IM BACK! HAPPY AUGUST! HAPPY WEDNESDAY AND ENID!
so remember last year around october when i suddenly wasn't able to keep up with my old posting schedule? that was due to changing circumstances at work that seriously cut into my writing time and general well-being. good news is my work circumstances are changing again next month, but this time for the better!! i'm hoping to go back to posting a couple times a week starting in mid to late september <3
i appreciate you all for bearing with me over the last year and i am so fucking ready to get back to grinding out chapters
Chapter 107: Cold
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid doesn’t sleep for very long and what little she does dream is fraught and full of shadows.
An hour before dawn, she gives up and leaves her nest. Though the floorboards creak beneath her sock feet, Wednesday remains as still as a corpse, breathing evenly on her back in perfect embalming position. She’s beautiful, Enid thinks, recognition forming cold and hard in her stomach. She trusts Wednesday’s strength, but hunts have made meat of stronger wolves than her, and Wednesday doesn’t have the same natural advantages they do. There’s always the risk of tragedy when a packmember ventures from the village.
Enid’s twisting and turning through the night had all but destroyed her nest, leaving her many sleeping blankets strewn about Wednesday’s feet, but she doesn’t care about the state of her bed so much as the fact that the temperature dropped severely in the night, unusual for this close to summer, and what little of Wednesday’s skin she can see is covered in goosebumps. Enid feels a bit like she’s risking her life as she gingerly tucks her favorite blue blanket over Wednesday’s thighs. Has anyone dared to touch Wednesday Addams while she was asleep? It doesn’t seem likely. Wednesday’s known to sleep armed.
Once Wednesday is suitably covered, Enid nods and leaves the room as quietly as possible. The house smells stale and cold, no trace of Brody’s apples or Alex’s roasted chestnuts in the hallway. Enid imagines a world where her house smells like Wednesday instead of her parents—where even the foundation of their home smells of honey and funeral lilies, a constant comfort no matter where Enid walks—and her cheeks grow warm at the thought. She probably has more pressing concerns than entertaining fantasies of building a house with Wednesday in some distant, uncertain future. Wednesday might not even want to erect a permanent homestead the way wolves do.
Enid passes a few vaguely familiar packmembers as she leaves the Sinclair property, but none do more than nod in her direction. Most will be congregating to the north, she knows, hauling vats of clay paint and food and supplies for the party once the hunters return. When the moon is full and the warriors have come down off the mountain, they’ll roast cobs of corn and sausages on the fire while the unmated wolves dance with the bloody furs brought back by their chosen partners.
Enid never stayed for very long at these sorts of celebrations before, always leaving early with the other underage wolves, but she can only imagine what havoc Wednesday would wreak if she knew butchering was an integral part of the feast.
“Fuck,” she whispers to herself, skin prickling at the thought of Wednesday blooding herself on a deer carcass or whatever else she manages to drag home from the hunt. It’s barbaric, really, but California Trad wolves are barbaric. It’s in her blood to find such savagery appealing.
The trees around her seem to agree, swaying in a sort of laughing acknowledgment that needles across her shoulders in a gush of cold air. Enid takes a single step off the path, ignoring the branches that catch on her hair and smooth out the tangles, squinting through the dark in search of what's causing the forest to feel so restless around her. An Eater wouldn't dare venture this close to the village, surely, but she can’t help feeling a bit like Red Riding Hood. She wasn’t supposed to leave the path, either.
There’s a sudden spill of wind over her collar, so familiar and welcoming a touch that any dread of forest monsters disappears at once. Enid knows this breeze. She’s heard this song before.
Without another thought to her original intention of doing a lap around the house to calm her nerves so she can catch another hour of sleep curled up beside Wednesday before the gathering begins, Enid leaves the path and sets off into the forest. She crunches her way eastward until she hits the square, already bustling at this early hour, and then, rising from the dark like an old tooth in the same yawning mouth she’s known her whole life—the church. Enid smells Aminder before she sees her.
Her scent has become comforting, Enid realizes, in the same way that Toby’s ozone and Eugene’s fireweed blossoms feel like an anchoring weight over her shoulders.
“Trouble sleeping, sister?” Aminder's voice carries from behind the church, ferried along by the breeze.
Enid sighs, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt. “I’m scared for Wednesday,” she admits, conveniently leaving out how the impending full moon has her feeling like she might crawl out of her skin.
Aminder acknowledges that with a hum that never seems to end, her voice threading through the trees and leading Enid right to where she sits like a sentinel among the weeds.
At Aminder’s beckoning, Enid takes a hesitant seat beside her, pulling her knees tight to her chest. Aminder looks beautiful with her loose hair and thick morning robe, the very image of a woodwitch. Enid’s pretty sure she currently looks like something scraped up from the bottom of a pond.
“Is it stupid to be afraid for her?” Enid blurts out. When Aminder’s dark eyes blink open to look at her, Enid continues, “Or am I stupid for trusting Wednesday? She could die. Anyone could die.”
“Stupid isn’t a word I would use,” Aminder replies, the corner of her mouth pulling upwards despite the weight in her voice. She must have been in the middle of practicing her magic when Enid stumbled upon her. “Caution is a credit to your wisdom, sister. It is natural to fear for your loved ones.”
“Is it?” Enid mutters.
“And the hunt has been known to take wolves from packs,” Aminder adds. “In this case, fear is warranted.”
“Do you ever get afraid for Toby?” Enid asks without thinking.
Aminder sighs, the sound echoing through the trees. “Every day since he was born,” she answers.
“Oh,” Enid mumbles, dropping her gaze. Her toenails desperately need repainting, she realizes. She might also be the least tactful wolf on earth. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a warmth on her knee, and then Aminder’s hand has found hers.
“No need to apologize,” Aminder responds, rings digging into Enid’s skin where she squeezes tight and comforting. “This is our duty. Just as our hunters leave to slay the beast, we fear for their safety and sing for their return. Come, sing with me.”
Enid sucks in a hitching breath. “But I don’t know how,” she replies, embarrassed to discover her eyes are burning with unshed tears.
It’s hours yet before she’ll have adequate reason to cry. Leave it to her to end up reduced to tears before so much as waving Wednesday off on her hunt. If she were Aminder, she’d be counting her blessings she didn’t up with a total mess of a daughter-in-law.
“You will learn,” Aminder tells her with a certainty that burns Enid’s chest. “If you will not sing, then listen. The forest hears you always.”
So Enid listens, breathing as deeply as she dares. Aminder doesn’t let go of her hand once.
***
Wednesday wakes in an instant, the tip of her nose stinging in a sudden gust of wind from the east. She cracks an eye open, irate at the open window waking her before the sun’s even attempted to peek over the trees,
For a moment, she’s appalled, irritation spiking at the realization that the potency of Enid’s scent lured her into such a false sense of security that she somehow missed the bearer of the scent leaving the nest, but then she catches sight of the blanket tucked around her legs. The blue blanket that Enid so carefully arranged around them last night when she huddled down to sleep, tucking her nose against Wednesday’s neck. The one belonging of Enid’s that, clearly, holds a place of esteem among her many beloved nesting items.
Wednesday presses the heel of her hand against her ribs, urging the ache to recede. She may never wake to an Enid-less room without experiencing an instinctive shudder of panic, the ever-present worry that her beloved has once again fled as pervasive as it is unjustified, but the thought that Enid so carefully arranged her favorite blanket over Wednesday before departing has her throat constricting.
As if to punctuate the unfamiliar stirring of emotion in her chest, her bag erupts at that moment with a chiming tinkle that Wednesday knows well. A herald of ill fortune, she thinks, already aggravated. She ignores the discomfort of the frigid wooden floor against her bare feet and retrieves the crystal ball from her belongings with an air of foreboding. Nothing good has ever come from her mother’s cold calls.
“Yes?” she answers.
“Wednesday, my child,” her mother’s voice emanates from the glass. “Why, pray tell, does the Degas painting go missing from the foyer?”
Wednesday crawls back into Enid’s nest, settling onto her knees. Enid’s beloved blue blanket remains carefully positioned at her side. “You’re calling me to explain your visions, mother? At this ungodly hour?” she drawls. Wednesday has never been more grateful crystal balls are limited to vocal interaction, lips curling up into a smirk despite herself. “I’m glad you asked.”
***
Enid opens her eyes when she hears the unmistakable crunch of sticks beneath a wolf’s paw, and though she can’t see as well through the early dawn as she would in fourth-form, her gaze finds Toby anyways. His dark grey coat nearly blends into the meld of the wood, but his eyes, so like Aminder, are unmistakable.
“Hey,” Enid croaks, voice lilting with uncertainty. She clears her throat. “Are you off to get Wednesday?”
Toby dips his head in a nod, eyes reflecting eerily in the last strains of moonlight.
“Okay. Be safe,” Enid tells him, exhaling through her nose. “I know you’ll look after her, but don’t get hurt either, Toby.”
He huffs out a noise that could have been a snort, shaking his head once before he turns and lopes off into the trees.
“Would you like a cup of tea before you leave to join the other submitting wolves?” Aminder offers, rolling up onto her knees. The robe she’s wearing is beautiful, a rich pink embroidered with green and gold flowers. She might as well be a queen holding court compared to Enid, who resembles more wood wretch than forest princess.
“Um, no thank you,” Enid says. “I think I'll just head out, if that’s okay.”
Aminder nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Her rings glitter unnaturally bright, a phantom pinch of metal tingling between Enid’s bare fingers. Something about those rings still strikes her as off, but it seems rude to ask after Aminder just held her hand and comforted her for forty-five wasted minutes of prime magic time.
“I wish you both luck in the hunt,” Aminder tells her, voice unexpectedly cryptic. It fits right in amongst the damp and the dark of the woods. “And please, Enid—do try to enjoy yourself.”
Enid pauses, searching for a suitable response, but ultimately ends up shrugging her shoulders in agreement. “I’ll try, Aminder.”
She leaves Aminder kneeling in the leaves, dirt warm beneath her feet as she meanders back to the square. Of course, Enid doesn’t intend to drop into fourth-form until after Wednesday’s returned from the hunt. It would feel too much like a coward’s way out if she got to spend the next twelve hours as a wolf while Wednesday fights for her life on two legs.
The moment she enters the village proper, someone calls out to her, her name ringing across the stone. Enid twists around, irrationally wondering if Alyssa’s come back for round two—but no, it was Debbie Hall heralding her right out here in the open for anyone to see.
“Enid!” Debbie repeats, coming a stop in front of her. Her hair is already tied into a pretty mass of curls on the crown of her head, elaborate enough that an immediate wave of self-consciousness steels over Enid.
“Are you heading for the line?” Debbie asks.
“Yeah, I…I guess I was,” Enid answers, fidgeting with the belt loop on the waistband of her shorts.
Debbie is dressed similarly, in a well-worn t-shirt and cotton shorts, but she looks well-groomed and beautiful. Enid has no idea how Jordan managed to sway a wolf like Debbie Hall into courting.
Debbie bites her lip, eyes flicking over Enid. “Do you want any help with your hair?” she tentatively offers.
“Oh,” Enid intelligently says. At Debbie’s face falling, Enid quickly adds, “Yeah—sure. Um, thanks, Debbie.”
Debbie’s lips split into a smile. “I’ve always loved hunting day,” she confides in Enid, wrapping her arms around herself as she turns in the direction of the bathhouses.
Enid tentatively falls into step beside her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s the only night mom lets me run with dad.”
Enid can feel her eyebrows raising. “Your mom lets you run with the warriors?” she asks in a hushed voice.
No wonder Debbie caught Jordan’s eye. Everyone in the pack is permitted to run on the full moon, even encouraged to do so—but within their social groups. Alyssa’s cronies will run with Alyssa. Toby’s group won’t separate again once they’ve all reunited. For Leader Hall to let his daughter run with the warriors as an equal…Enid can hardly imagine it. Debbie Hall must feel like the most powerful wolf in the pack when she runs alongside the hunters, one small submitting wolf permitted to join the ranks of a hundred of their strongest fighters.
“Will you be running with Montgomery’s group?” Debbie asks her.
Enid bites her lip. “Um, probably not? I’ll want…when Wednesday comes back, I’ll be with her. I don’t care about the run.”
Debbie gives her a startled look and then, inexplicably, blushes. “O-Oh. Yeah, that…makes sense. You seem really…you really seem to be in love,” she eventually says.
Enid realizes she’s smiling. “Can you blame me?”
“Ah, no,” Debbie laughs. “I can’t. The way she looks at you is kind of insane.”
“Yeah,” Enid sighs. “It totally is.”
“You don’t have to sound so pleased,” Debbie jokes, nudging her side. “You’re making me jealous.”
Enid does laugh at that. “You, jealous of me?” She’s pretty sure she escaped at least two near-death experiences by the skin of her teeth in the last forty-eight hours alone. What could a girl who runs with warriors possibly envy of hers? Enid’s unbelievable bad luck? Or her inability to string a sentence together in Wednesday’s presence without humiliating herself?
“Everyone’s jealous of you,” Debbie replies, though not unkindly, and then they’ve arrived. The heat of the bathhouse settles over Enid’s skin like a film, suitably distracting her from the absurdity of Debbie's comment.
“Hi, Enid,” one of the other girls greets her, waving a curling iron in welcome. The girl she’s working on winces as her hair is pulled with it. “Do you know what you’re doing with your hair?”
“I can do her hair,” Debbie says. "I'm done getting ready."
Enid honestly hadn’t planned to do much of anything with her appearance, too used to the leniency afforded to her child-self to recall that her appearance does still actually matter in these woods and too petrified of Wednesday’s participation in the hunt to bring herself to care, but the idea of Debbie eschewing all tradition to run with her father strikes a chord in her. Being a California Trad wolf blows in a lot of agonizing, intolerable ways, but their submitting wolves are brave. No one would ever accuse them otherwise.
“Actually,” Enid interjects, “Do any of you know how to braid?”
Notes:
I'M BACK! it's been a ride but i can finally confirm new circumstances, new city, and best of all - new posting schedule!!! on that note, see you all sunday for the next update<3 it's wenclair autumn guys. we're back in business with a bang
Chapter 108: Sun
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday walks beside Toby, fighting hard not to show her amusement.
Though she appreciates his consideration in returning to human form so as not to completely ostracize her while they saunter off to the starting line, she would not be as keen to waltz about the territory naked as he seems to be. The other wolves padding behind them seem to think Toby’s lack of clothing doesn’t warrant a single comment, but Wednesday’s somewhat less used to her friends embracing public nudity. Perhaps this is something that simply takes time.
“Just stick with us,” Toby tells her for the fourth time, stretching his arm above his head to brush the leaves on the nearest tree. “We’ll bring home the bacon. You got your runes ready?”
“I’ve selected the combination, yes,” Wednesday answers. “Enid will draw them with her war paint.”
“War paint?” Toby repeats. “That clay shit, you mean?”
“Clay shit? Forgive me, but I thought this was your tradition,” Wednesday retorts.
The wolves behind them exchange a series of bays that even her untrained ears recognize as jeering. “For a Trad wolf, maybe. This isn’t really our thing,” Toby tells her. “But yeah, cool. Just let me know if you need anything from me.”
“I daresay I’ll be just fine,” Wednesday states, no longer able to completely curtail her smile. Another chance to impress Enid, she thinks. Another opportunity to demonstrate her ability to provide.
Though one of Toby's friends spots the look on her face and hightails it to the other side of the group, Wednesday can’t bring herself to feel offended. He should be cautious. The wolves may have their claws and teeth, but Wednesday is an Addams. She was made for the fight.
Her hand finds the cool wood of the bow slung over her shoulder. “This is, as they say, right in my wheelhouse,” she muses, charitably ignoring how Toby rolls his eyes.
Wednesday hears the greater pack before she sees them. Considering the vast number of wolves still milling about in human form, her arrival with Toby draws rather less attention than other entrances they’ve made in recent days, but she will never walk these woods unnoticed. Toby cocks his head, then turns on his heel and heads dead east. His group of compatriots trots obediently after him.
Wednesday had ultimately decided not to reuse the rune combination that had granted her an enhanced sense of smell, choosing instead to trust in Toby not to lead her astray during the hunt. While the sheer number of potential rune combinations is unfathomable, all runes require a sacrifice and the runes she elected to use to increase her speed and strength will invariably take their toll on Enid. The original scent rune combination she devised would have led her home, but risking potential damage to Enid for the sake of a hunt is out of the question—and she’d rather have the tools to fell a beast than to scamper back to base without worry of getting lost.
“There you are,” Toby exclaims. “Nice hair, Enid.”
The girl he was speaking to turns around, and Wednesday—Wednesday stops walking. Stops breathing, even.
Enid’s pretty blonde curls have been twisted into braids.
Her hair is long enough now to hang past her shoulders and the twin braids framing her breasts might as well be chains of spun gold. Wednesday imagines gripping those braids in her hands, unraveling them with her fingers, unraveling her, and her next breath might as well have been torn from her lungs. Oh, she could teach Enid all manners of magic with those braids. She could knot runes into Enid’s hair that film over her skin like a blessing, as bright and burning as the sun.
“Wednesday,” Enid breathes. She’d looked nervous, maybe, before catching sight of Wednesday’s expression.
A twisting satisfaction settles deep in Wednesday’s stomach. “Puppy,” she replies, and every wolf within a ten-foot vicinity turns to look at them.
Enid’s cheeks warm as if to mirror her voice, blush traveling down her neck to her chest, and if not for Toby’s pointed cough, Wednesday might have done something drastic.
“That’s enough,” Toby announces, voice rather louder than strictly necessary. “Save it for after the hunt, yeah?”
Enid’s cheeks balloon outward as she exhales, visibly centering herself, but Wednesday has no intention of skirting back from the edge. She will protect this heat until she sees Enid again.
The girl standing beside Enid begins passing around those small jars of liquified human remains—or whatever horrid concoction they claim to be clay—and it takes a gentle nudge to her side for Enid to react. Her ears burn red as she stumbles forward, all but falling into Wednesday’s grasp. It’s a lucky thing the jar of clay doesn’t shatter right there at their feet.
“Hi,” Enid whispers, those sharp little teeth digging into her lower lip.
Oh, Wednesday will bring her a pelt for the ages. She will dress her submissive in a skin befitting her station. Nothing less than a monster of the forest will suffice.
Wednesday cups Enid’s cheek in her palm, thumb brushing over the delicate shape of her jaw. “Hi, pretty girl.”
Enid sinks into her touch, pressing against her hand in something akin to a nuzzle, and Wednesday’s fingertips tingle like she’s pressed the tip of her tongue to a battery. Staring at Enid’s braids, almost a mirror of Wednesday’s own hairstyle, she cannot help but think Pugsley may have had a point when claiming Enid was too lovely for her.
“Hi,” Enid repeats, softer this time.
“You’re too sweet for me,” Wednesday murmurs almost absentmindedly. “Aren’t you?”
Enid’s lips part, but nothing comes forth besides a shaking, shuddering exhale.
“Jesus,” Toby mutters, turning towards Debbie. “You’re Clifford’s intended, aren’t you?”
“Uh—yes,” Debbie bleats, still staring at Enid and Wednesday with heat high in her cheeks. She blinks rapidly. “I’m Debbie Hall. Nice to meet you. Officially, ah, meet you.”
“You too,” Toby replies. “Listen, I’m not sure what the tradition is with the paint, but do you know someone who can do mine? I want to represent my friend’s pack, you know?”
Debbie’s eyes widen, and she exclaims, “Oh! Oh, sure. That’s—that’s really nice of you, Montgomery. We’re proud to have Enid in our pack.”
Enid’s eyes grow wide like that’s news to her, but Wednesday manages to reclaim her attention by leaning in to kiss her jawline, inadvertently getting a lungful of her scent from the soft spot beneath her ear where it’s strongest. Something high and wanting rumbles up Enid’s throat, her hands winding tight into Wednesday’s clothes like she’s struggling to remain upright, but Wednesday is no help. She feels a bit like she just gulped down a measure of the golden liquor her father uses for toasts at Yule.
“Sweet,” Wednesday breathes low enough that only Enid will hear. “You smell so good. Don’t you?”
“Ugh,” says Toby. “You sure?”
Debbie gives a startled laugh. “We’ve seen worse, believe me. My friend—Carissa is unattached. She can do your paint, if you don’t mind?”
Another girl with hair the color of honey steps forward, offering Toby an embarrassed smile. “I can do it,” she assures him, though her eyes continually flick to Enid.
While Toby and Carissa embark on an awkward first conversation made even more uncomfortable by the fact that he is stark naked and the paint adorning ritual requires physical contact, Wednesday gently extricates herself from Enid’s grasp. She’ll be in no state to hunt if she keeps breathing Enid in.
“Shall we?” Wednesday prompts her, squeezing her hand.
Enid gives a little sigh, but nods. Her cheeks are still a pretty morning pink as she unscrews the lid of that awful paint and dips her finger inside.
“Have you already, um, drawn your runes?” Enid ventures.
Wednesday’s pride must be seeping out of her pores, so embarrassed does Enid suddenly look. As if it isn’t enough that Enid has the loveliest face this forest has ever seen, she happens to be incredibly intuitive and intelligent to boot. A true witch, Wednesday thinks. A true daughter.
“I hoped you might do me the honor,” Wednesday responds, and though her voice is quiet, the wolves around them seem to stiffen in anticipation.
Enid nods quickly, her teeth digging into her lip. “Yes. Please?” she exhales.
Wednesday struggles not to laugh, a vindictive sort of satisfaction roaring to life inside her. “Of course, you may. Follow these runes, my darling.”
Enid stares at the piece of paper Wednesday hands her for less than thirty seconds before giving such a firm nod, her braids are displaced. “Got it. Ready?” she asks, determination in the very set of her shoulders.
Wednesday smiles wide enough to show her teeth as Enid begins painting her skin. Morticia will have a conniption once she realizes Wednesday’s somehow managed to teach a true daughter more rune magic than she knows windsong. It’s a crime against nature, Wednesday thinks a bit gleefully. Her mother would faint if she knew.
Nevertheless, as long as Enid is willing to share in this part of her—this deepest, most intrinsic part of her magic and herself—Wednesday will not deny her. Not this, and not anything.
Wednesday’s eyes fall closed as the magic activates. She feels the runes so painstakingly chosen for this task click into place, nearly reverent as Enid’s fingers trace the lines of her face and hands and chest. She is still now, and so is the magic, simmering beneath her skin. She will feel it when she begins to run.
To share this with Enid on sacred ground, in her own forest, is a gift. Wednesday will endeavor to never forget it.
While the girl painting Toby goes as far as to smear paint over his stomach, venturing dangerously close to his unmentionables, Enid keeps to where it will be most visible on Wednesday’s skin. Pity, Wednesday thinks privately. She’s never been one to desire physical affection, but Enid’s touch has always felt like a blessing, and having more skin exposed would grant her a larger canvas to work with. Perhaps Toby is onto something with his blatant exhibitionism.
As soon as she finishes, Enid demands, “Wait, where the hell did you get a bow and arrow?”
Wednesday releases a long, mournful sigh at the loss of her touch, tapping the bow on her shoulder. “Toby and I made a trip into San Francisco, if you recall.”
“Yeah,” Enid agrees. “For groceries.”
“Don’t worry,” Wednesday assures her. “Its owners won’t be missing it.”
If it’s possible, Enid looks even more aghast. “You stole it?”
“Technically, it’s only borrowing if you plan to give it back,” Toby interjects, coming to stand beside them. He apparently doesn’t catch the look of disappointment that crests over Carissa’s face. “The sales lady refused to do business with outcasts, so we had to get a little creative.”
“Sorry, you went all the way into the city to borrow someone’s bow and arrows?” Enid demands, voice going higher.
“Amateurs borrow,” Wednesday replies. “Professionals steal.”
Enid drops her face into her hands. “Oh my God.”
“Hi, mom,” Toby quickly says, raising a hand in greeting.
“Toby,” Aminder replies, coming to a stop with her hands hidden in the sleeves of her robe. “Enid. Wednesday, dear, are you ready for the hunt?”
“I am,” Wednesday solemnly confirms. Whatever the fates have in store for her, she will return to Enid with a beauteous prize. Failure isn’t an option.
“Then I daresay you hunters should say your farewells,” Aminder dryly says. “My husband is anxious to start, and the sun draws near.”
They all glance up in tandem, and sure enough, the sky has lightened nearly to the cool blue of Enid’s eyes.
“Hey, wait a second,” Enid mumbles to Wednesday, tugging on her hand.
Wednesday allows herself to be towed a few paces away under the cover of the trees. The temperature drops once they return to the shadows, but Enid’s hair inexplicably remains as bright and golden as before, inevitably reminding Wednesday of her mother’s favorite old legend.
She can almost hear Morticia intoning in her singsong storytelling voice that when Eve returned to her people, her hair was made of sunlight. Not another daughter-in-law on earth would inspire such joy in Morticia than her darling Enid. If Wednesday were at all sentimental, she might have even smiled at the thought.
“I had a nightmare,” Enid blurts. “The night before last.”
Wednesday’s smile drops away. “And you didn’t wake me?” she asks, unexpectedly aggrieved. What good is her presence in Enid’s nest if not to ward away nightmares when they come for her and settle Enid back to sleep?
“No, that’s—what? No,” Enid replies. “That’s not the point. I don’t think it was a normal dream, is what I mean. I think…I think I saw a bear,” she hedges.
“And you believe this may have been a vision?” Wednesday asks.
Enid gives a jerky little nod, then a shrug. “You’ll be careful, right?”
Wednesday swallows the urge to press for more details, the memory of Enid’s last vision burning at the edge of her awareness. She has more pressing tasks than helping herself to Enid’s bad dreams.
After the hunt, however—then, Wednesday will investigate to her heart’s content. Visions may come to any magic user, woodwitch or runewitch or otherwise, but Wednesday hasn’t met many outside her own family who cultivate the power. Visions can just as easily ensnare a witch into ruin as warn of impending danger.
“I will,” Wednesday vows. “I will come back to you. Look to the east for my return.”
Enid bites her lip, but nods. “Okay.” Then, peeking up between her lashes, she shyly adds, “Good hunting, Wednesday.”
If Wednesday could snarl, could tear the sound from her throat like a wolf, she would. “Be good for me."
When Toby comes to retrieve her, it is an ordeal to release Enid’s hand. When it’s their turn to take off into the trees, when Wednesday’s runes burn to life on her collarbone and she gains the speed of a wolf, keeping pace beside Toby as he explodes into animal form with the forest shrieking around her, Wednesday isn’t surprised that dawn spills over the tops of the trees the very moment she leaves Enid’s line of sight.
Notes:
aaaaaand we're off >:)
next update: 10/1 (aka the first day of halloween)
Chapter 109: Great
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as Wednesday disappears into the trees, the adrenaline of watching her run seeps away and a sudden tiredness steals over Enid like a cloud gliding over the moon. It feathers across her chest all at once, sensations crawling over her skin as she struggles not to lose her footing.
“Aminder?” Enid asks.
Aminder hums, eyes on the horizon. “Yes, dear?”
“My legs feel weird,” Enid slurs, and then hard hands are helping her gently to the ground, shouts erupting above her as Aminder's cool palm finds her forehead.
Her heart beats in a steady thud thud thud that Enid imagines she can hear in the distance, hear in the woods, hear in time with Wednesday’s feet as she races through the forest. With Enid, Wednesday is so incredibly gentle, so steady, but in every other eye, she’s bones and angles with a ferociousness to never release a target once she’s sunken her teeth in.
“She's alright,” Aminder calls out. She gives a little sigh. “You'll sleep through the day, won’t you, dear?”
“And miss everything? We haven’t even had breakfast,” Debbie’s worried voice comes from somewhere overhead.
“How will she run if she doesn’t eat?” another girl wonders.
“She’ll eat her weight in spoils come nightfall,” Aminder declares. “Go on, girls. I’ll watch over Enid. Go on.”
Enid’s nose begins to twitch as something tickles her face. Aminder’s hair, she thinks a bit dazedly. Aminder must be leaning over her to smell this strong. What’s Enid laying on, anyways? Nothing in the forest is this soft.
“I'm really tired, Aminder,” Enid tells her. “I don’t think I can stand up.”
“You don’t have to,” Aminder replies, amused. Her voice sounds like music. “Tell me about this dream you had.”
“Dream?” Enid struggles to remember what she’s talking about. “The bear?” she asks with great effort.
“Yes, dear. Tell me about the bear.”
“It looked so sad,” Enid whimpers. “I felt sad. I am sad.”
Aminder’s hand moves from her forehead to her hair. “Why are you sad, my dear?”
Enid’s not sure she’s entirely comfortable with the hand resting on her braids, but that’s mostly because she’s never had anyone touch her to comfort her—besides Wednesday, of course, but that feels different from Toby’s mother. Aminder touches her almost absentmindedly, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing so, while every move Wednesday makes is sown with intention.
“I think the bear was real,” Enid exhales. “But I hope I’m wrong. Nobody—nothing deserves that,” she mumbles, which even she knows makes little sense, but Aminder hums like she just said something profound.
Eventually, the herculean effort it required to keep her eyes open no longer feels possible, let alone feasible, and Enid allows her eyes to fall closed. For just a moment, she tells herself. Just until she can muster up the energy to look at the sky once more. It smells like dawn, she thinks nonsensically, and the warmth of Aminder’s laughter surrounds her.
“It does, sister,” Aminder agrees. “Now sleep. I will watch the trees for us both.”
***
Wednesday watches passively as one of Toby’s friends tears into a buck. The fur of the poor beast splits like silk, bursting open in a spray that catches her from ten full paces away. Wednesday doesn’t dare wipe the splatter from her face in fear of damaging her runes.
“You haven’t even tried to take a shot,” Toby points out, mouth bloody.
He’d taken down a mountain lion around midday in a rousing battle that Wednesday had thoroughly enjoyed watching from the sidelines. If she’d had any doubt that Toby could have avenged her had Hugo proven victorious, the scrap with the mountain lion put that fear to bed. The bloody pelt he’d taken from the lion remains slung over his shoulder even now while he pesters her.
“I'm not a runescrafter,” Wednesday admits. “I cannot figure out how to make the rune permanent. This magic,” she runs her fingers over the rune carved into the wood of her bow, “Will be good for a single shot.”
Toby gives a great laugh, then his face falls once he realizes she’s being serious. “Just one?” he asks in disbelief.
Wednesday nods. “I'll have to make it count.”
What she doesn’t disclose is that while Aminder had been correct that Wednesday isn’t well-versed in war runes, she does know a thing or two about forbidden magic. The rune she’d carved into her bow was stolen from Gomez’s private study a number of years ago when he’d been careless enough to leave the family records unattended.
At the tender age of six, Wednesday wasn’t much of a spy, but she knew enough to memorize the rune crowning the top of her thrice-great grandmother’s family record. Every runewitch chooses a rune to adorn their tombstone, but some marks aren’t for use in the modern age. Gomez would have grounded her for a month if he knew she used this rune even temporarily, even for a cause as justified as bringing down a beast for her beloved’s delight.
It’s a lucky thing that no member of the Montgomery pack knows enough of ancient rune magic to have read the intention she’d carved into this weapon. Her bow will part the soul of any target from its body, but only once—one single arrow. After that, the bow will never hit its mark again.
“You don’t want elk, boar, cat…” Toby lists off. “What does the great Wednesday Addams, runewitch extraordinaire, want to hunt? You want to head down?”
“The opposite, actually,” Wednesday replies, lifting her gaze. “I’m going up.”
“Further up the mountain?” Toby repeats, eyes flicking to the sky. Wednesday understands his hesitation; the sun is dropping rapidly, already throwing shadows over their faces, and the farther they stray from the village, the more likely they are to run into something more perilous than your average woodland creature. Enid wouldn’t have known about Woodwraiths unless she’d heard the tale in warning before.
“Yes,” Wednesday replies a bit distantly, eyes focused beyond him. For a split second, she thought she’d heard singing from the north.
Strangely, Toby turns too. “What was that?”
Wednesday’s already moving past him, hitting a run by the time she leaves his group in her peripherals. Toby calls after her, shouting for her to wait, but Wednesday’s legs are pumping beneath her and the branches hitting her body might as well be feathers, so willingly do they part for her. Soon, only the sound of her own breath mars the soundtrack of the forest. She hears the song from ahead, the mourning, and before she even bursts through the trees, she imagines what she might find.
“Enid’s bear,” Wednesday breathes, and the beast looks up, eyes glinting in the sun.
When it lumbers to its feet, unfolding to its full height, Wednesday finds herself cast in its shadow. It must be seven feet tall, fur darker than pitch, the sort of bear only bred in the far west. New Jersey doesn’t see animals of this size in nature. She’s seen all manner of beasts over the years, but the sheer size of this bear steals her breath as it towers before her. It would be the most formidable animal she’d ever come face to face with if not for the great, festering gash in its side.
A fatal wound, Wednesday thinks, and the singing coalesces into a shrieking ensemble, trees whipping around her, the misery of such an ignoble death erupting at once in a shattering roar that comes from the bear’s open maw and all around them, deafening—then silence. The bear stares back at her without moving. Little life left in it, she thinks, and little fight left to live. Her grip tightens on her bow.
“You met my beloved,” Wednesday says, even knowing a common black bear cannot possibly understand her. “In a dream.”
The bear blinks at her, eyes dark.
“She felt sorry for you,” Wednesday says, shifting her stance. “She would sing for you, I’m certain, if she were here.”
If Enid were here, she would have cried. The sky would have opened up and rained down upon them all because this great, glorious beast is suffering an unimaginable end in Enid’s forest and nothing she could do, not a windsong of even Eve the First’s caliber would wrench the bear from death’s clutches. Wednesday can see the rot already spreading from its wound. A slow death to disease is no way for a warrior to die.
“Your death honors this forest,” Wednesday says, drawing her bow. “You honor me.”
If Enid were here, she would kneel. She would mourn.
Without breaking eye contact, Wednesday takes the shot.
***
When Toby hears a howl loud enough to set his hair on end, he transforms mid-stride, paws hitting the ground hard enough to dig gouges in the dirt. Whatever Wednesday’s found, it’s something too large for any single wolf to handle, judging by the sound of that roar. One fucking shot, he thinks to himself, panic erupting in his chest as he pushes himself faster. One fucking scratch on Wednesday and Enid will rip his limbs from the sockets.
He clears the trees just in time to watch her kill fall, ground shuddering as it crumples to its final resting place in the clearing. Wednesday lowers her bow, face solemn.
“What the fuck is that?” Toby hollers, shifting into human form mid-sentence so that most of his cry comes out unintelligible. “What the fuck, Wednesday? How did you even find this—is that a fucking black bear? Where did you find a black bear?”
Wednesday flicks her braid over her shoulder. “Will you get that side? It’ll take hours to skin alone.”
Toby sighs as he unties his own pelt and allows it to drop to the grass. “And what do you expect me to do, start gnawing at the skin with my teeth?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. A moment later, the knife she’d tossed in his direction hits the ground by his feet with a muted thump.
“Jesus,” Toby sighs. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle. Soon enough, the sound of wolves racing to their position fills the clearing.
"You called the cavalry?" Wednesday asks, amused. She places her hand over the bear for a short moment, eyes closed, before shoving her blade into its side and wrenching it open with a sharp tug. Blood and viscera spills over her shoes, inspiring even Toby to wrinkle his nose. This beast smells foul compared to the pelts their group has already won.
Toby inhales through his mouth to no avail, then declares, "This thing probably weighs a thousand pounds. Even if you just want the base of the neck to the tailbone, it's huge."
"I only have so many knives," Wednesday comments, opening her jacket. "But I think this will suffice."
In the spirit of the hunt and a truly magnificent kill, Toby elects not to ask why she's walking around with an armory under her coat. It's in the spirit of the hunt, he tells himself, and not because he's afraid of her answer.
Notes:
chapter title is 'great' for it's the (great) pumpkin, charlie brown. HAPPY FIRST DAY OF HALLOWEEN!
next update: 10/3
***OKAY i figured out my posting schedule, it's going to be fridays sundays and wednesdays :) see yall tomorrow 10/4!
Chapter 110: Crown
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By the time they finish skinning the bear, Toby and his friends have all been wallpapered in its blood. Who knew a thousand-pound animal contained so much meat? Toby’s hair is slick against his forehead, skin tacky with sweat behind his ears, loose-limbed with the exhaustion of a hard day’s work and his scent is warm and pleased. If not for the persistent rumbling in his stomach, this might be the most peaceful Toby has felt since arriving on this god-forsaken territory.
“You look like Carrie at the prom,” Toby informs Wednesday, narrowly resisting the urge to shake like a dog when the hair on the back of his neck begins to itch.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Your point?” she drawls. The skin they’d taken off the bear is so large that it drags behind her along the forest floor even when hiked up around her shoulders. No one else in their group can claim a kill so large. No one else in the pack, most likely, Toby admits to himself. Finding a bear this far down the mountain was an immense stroke of luck.
Toby throws back his head and laughs, just barely managing not to wince when it pulls against the gashes in his side. His fight with the mountain lion had been nasty, the aftermath even more so, but that only adds to the satisfaction of coming out victorious on the other side. He doesn’t have a partner to give his hard-won skin to tonight, but he’ll preserve it anyways, tucking it away in the chest full of furs all similarly won for some nameless, faceless person he’s yet to meet.
Enid Sinclair hadn’t been right for him and still wouldn’t have been the person that chest belonged to even if Wednesday didn’t exist in all her terrifying glory. Someday, though, he’ll have a reason to lay out every fur he’s claimed in the hope his intended finds him at least marginally adequate. He won’t ask for too much, wouldn’t dare to hope for the genuine adoration between Enid and Wednesday, but someone believing him strong enough to do what’s necessary would be nice. Toby sometimes fantasizes about his intended feeling safe with him, of believing wholeheartedly that he can provide the way his mother provided a childhood for all of his sisters, and his father provides a life for their pack. Toby so, so badly wants to provide that safety for the person he eventually loves. The desire is nearly suffocating.
“I could eat an entire cow,” Wednesday eventually says, hefting the bear skin higher. “I hope the post-hunt gaiety involves food.”
“If it doesn’t, we’re leaving,” Jason huffs. “Our festivals involve food.”
“It’s not really a festival, though. More like…fuel for the fucking,” Jake tactfully comments.
Wednesday turns to look at him, both eyebrows raised this time. “The post-hunt feast involves fucking? How quaint.”
“Not for everyone,” Toby snorts, rolling his eyes. “Not for Jake.”
“Not for you either, man,” Jake cheerfully replies.
Toby doesn’t deem that worthy of a response. Everyone knows he doesn’t participate in the casual sex that always takes place after the high of a full-moon run. Most just assume he’s a prude—or, worse, that he thinks he’s better than everyone else, and that explains why he never takes a rut partner, or a girlfriend, or a boyfriend—but they would be wrong. They’re all so comically wrong.
The real reason is much less original, and much more sad, in Toby’s opinion, for his lack of a healthy sex life is solely due to his father. He might have had a girlfriend if not for who his father is and who he became as Pack Leader Montgomery’s child.
Toby is the youngest of five, the prodigal son after four discouraging births of healthy baby girls, and he hadn’t come fast enough to keep his father from seeding bastards on the side. If his mother hadn’t finally provided a suitable heir in him, one of those boys—the half-brothers he doesn’t speak to, hasn’t even met—would have had the honor of fighting it out to lead their pack.
If Toby had been born a decade earlier, his mother wouldn’t have been dishonored by his father, wouldn’t have suffered a humiliating parade of pregnancies only to end in failure with each daughter born. If Toby hadn’t taken so long, Aminder might have smiled more in his memories of a childhood raised by a man whom everyone loves and he cannot, will not, respect. He didn’t dare learn his mother’s magic, but windsong has always been a sound of safety for him. It’s what he wishes for when he feels sick or scared. It’s why he still, to this day, opens the window when he wakes in a cold sweat from nightmares.
Despite having every reason to resent her only son, Aminder never blamed him for ruining her life. Toby is grateful for that. He’s grateful for every one of his older sisters and that his father allowed him to know them. He’s grateful for having a mother who could find it in her heart to love him regardless.
He’s grateful that Wednesday and Enid love each other, that his friends will be happy together, and that Enid can get the hell out of this place after the hunt concludes. Her fate would have been his mother’s if, by some unfortunate stroke of luck, she had been stuck with Toby as a mate.
It’s a lucky thing she escaped. Toby can be grateful for that.
***
Toby’s group is one of the last to come back.
Enid wakes suddenly, violently, as soon as she feels the runes break, but it’s another hour before the first warrior bursts through the trees with their deer skin in tow. She spends most of that wait standing around with her hands gripping her shirt and her cheeks on fire. Of all the ridiculous things she’s done, napping in Aminder’s lap for the entire fucking day like a child has to take the cake. Before she could choke out more than the basest of apologies, Aminder had given her braids a pat, told her to keep her eyes eastward for Wednesday’s arrival, and then flounced right off like nothing was amiss.
Enid’s face has only just started to cool when Toby’s group returns.
Toby’s friends come through the trees first, disappearing into the throngs of unattached wolves lingering along the fringes of the line in hopes of being presented with a fur to christen after the run, and it’s another few minutes before she spots him. Toby looks absolutely awful, soaked over in blood, but even his appearance with what looks like the skin of a big cat of some kind pales in comparison to Wednesday coming behind him.
Later, Enid would think she should have been shot and put down like a lame horse for her behavior when Wednesday brought back her prize. It would have been more merciful to just end her then and there than let Enid stand frozen, open-mouthed, panting like a bitch in heat in front of both her parents and Toby’s family and practically everyone she’s ever met as Wednesday approaches.
“What’s that she’s got?” Debbie gasps, and there are shrieks of terror as others finally spot it, as they register the head still attached to the fur Wednesday drags behind her like a cape, as the blood of the felled beast drips down the back of Wednesday’s neck and plasters her hair to her skin.
Skinning an animal is a very individual practice, Enid’s been told. California Reform wolves only take the skin of their kills from the base of the neck to the tailbone, leaving the rest of the animal for the forest. Enid’s pack, being Traditional, tends to haul back the entire body when possible in order to harvest the meat. Specifics will vary from pack to pack, but California Trad wolves never leave the head. What good is bringing back an animal skin without the head, depriving the rest of the pack of the chance to marvel at the jaws the triumphant wolf so skillfully escaped? Worthless. Any Trad wolf worth their salt knows that.
How Wednesday knew, Enid has no idea, but there she stands, wearing the head of a black bear atop her own like a crown on some despot king, looking for all the world like a member of the Flint pack, born and raised.
The information comes at Enid vaguely sideways, like she had lost her footing but not her hearing, and it’s a moment before she realizes she’s gasping out loud.
“You found him,” she repeats, over and over, and Wednesday’s head snaps around at the sound of her voice. “You found the bear.”
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes.
They meet in the middle, blood smearing over sleep-soft skin as Wednesday’s hands find Enid, as the fur envelops them both, drawing Enid into the dark.
“You found him,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday makes a noise in the back of her throat. “For you.”
Then she pulls the head down, allowing the fur to pool around their feet, and moves to stand behind Enid. The pack falls silent. The only applause Wednesday receives is the crackling of the bonfires and a strange whistling in the trees as she lifts her kill to the sky.
“For you, Princess,” Wednesday murmurs, voice low, but her words seem to carry over the wind anyway. It’s a joke, Enid knows. She meant it to be funny.
No one laughs when Wednesday sets the bear upon her head.
“The darkest shadows bear beasts,” Wednesday says under her breath, eyes glittering gold in the light of the fires.
Enid wonders for one long, confused second if she’s somehow started crying without realizing, then she recognizes that the tears dripping down her cheeks smell like blood. She imagines she can taste the bear’s sorrow and the all-encompassing relief of no longer having to suffer—that scent she knows well. The bear she saw in her dream, that mournful thing, will not suffer a moment more because of Wednesday. Because Wednesday has such a vast capacity for kindness, despite all appearances, that she listened and remembered every word that Enid said, including nonsensical ramblings about bears and visions and monsters in the woods. Wednesday heard her. She heard.
Enid turns to face Wednesday head-on. It isn’t her place to speak and never has been, never will be—but the pack is silent for her now, and the words bubble up in her throat.
“You’re not a wolf,” Enid tells her, more certain than she has been of anything. Certain enough to speak this aloud and damn the consequences. “You’re not a wolf, but you’re one of us.”
Wednesday’s smile is as beautiful as it is frightening.
Notes:
heavy is the head that wears the crown
next update on sunday!!!
Chapter 111: The Dark
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday Addams is no stranger to forest magic.
On the eve of her sixth birthday, she jerry-rigged her lunchbox to the belt loops of her pants using shoelaces stolen from Pugsley’s favorite sneakers and set off into the woods, intent on finding a mythical creature for herself. Wednesday lasted three days and three nights before running out of water, at which point she slunk back home to rob the pantry. Morticia had intercepted her in the kitchen, of course, insisting that Wednesday eat a full meal before resuming her quest.
Once she finished obliterating a bowl of black beans and rice, Morticia presented her with a set of shining silver utensils designed to feel comfortable in the hands of a child. New tools rattling in her Hex Girls lunchbox, Wednesday returned to the forest, buoyed from a hot meal and her mother’s unspoken support. Morticia and Gomez had never denied their children the woods. As a result, the twisting trails of Hell Mountain became as much a home for Wednesday as any room in the family manor. Almost sixteen years of unfettered access had still left much to be explored. Part of the appeal of the woods is the unknown.
Wednesday walks beside Enid, venturing further from the village than either of them had previously dared, and wonders if perhaps a little fear of the forest might be healthy for a young witch with a useless bow.
“It’s not much further,” Enid tells her, though even she sounds nervous. “It’s on the northernmost border.”
“You used to visit this place often?”
“Every winter,” Enid breathed, eyes going glassy in the light of their lantern. “On the first morning.”
Wednesday allows her to ponder that as her boots crunch over the leaves. Why Enid wandered this far from the village on her own, Wednesday has no idea, but it isn’t her place to question the whims of a daughter in her own forest. Nothing in these woods will harm Enid.
“We call anything beyond the border the suicide wood,” Enid whispers suddenly. The bear head still balanced atop her braids seems to absorb the light, only its milk white eyes and ever-sharp teeth in its maw breaking the black.
“Why?” Wednesday asks.
Enid shivers despite the summer air. “Wolves that venture out alone past the boundaries don’t come back.”
They emerge from the trees into a patch of moonlight, stark enough to set Enid’s hair aglow, and the distant sounds of the wolves’ revelry no longer dogs them. Wednesday had clocked Enid’s discomfort almost immediately from the first strains of moaning from the trees.
Apparently, it is a tradition to conclude a jaunt in the woods during a full moon with love-making in front of anyone who cares to watch. Enid had assured her up and down and sideways that she’d never participated, she’d never wanted to, but Wednesday would have known that even without her reassurances. Enid’s face nearly bursts into flames at the thought of having sex with Wednesday in the privacy of their own home, let alone with a stranger in front of an audience.
Instead of sticking around to witness the debauchery, Enid had suggested they find somewhere private to clean themselves and proposed that they visit her favorite stream from childhood while the moon is full and path remains clear. Wednesday had enthusiastically commandeered a nearby lantern and said their goodbyes to Toby, who looked rather betrayed to have been left behind with Debbie Hall’s eager friends.
The further they stray from town, the less effective the lantern becomes, its meager light soon faltering under the cover of the trees. It’s the kind of dark where opening and closing your eyes doesn’t make a difference, where the moon can only do so much, and Wednesday must rely on Enid to know the way there and back.
Enid gives a little muffled gasp as she stumbles over a wayward root, surprising Wednesday enough that she doesn’t reach out quite in time to catch her. The very thought of this forest tripping Enid is unconscionable, but if it isn’t rejecting the footsteps of its daughter, there must be legitimate grounds for keeping her from walking further.
Wednesday reaches out with one hand and silently pulls Enid to a stop.
“What is it?” Enid asks, head jerking from side to side. “Did you hear something?”
Wednesday raises the lantern to shine the light ahead of them, then nearly drops the whole thing right onto the forest floor.
***
Enid tries to inconspicuously rub her sore shin without Wednesday noticing, casting fervent glances in her direction right up until it occurs to her how odd it is that Wednesday failed to react to her movement. For better or worse, nothing gets past Wednesday Addams, yet she seems too preoccupied with the tree ahead to notice Enid’s plight. What could possibly have distracted her so much?
The culprit behind her near-fall is a towering tree of at least fifty feet, a monstrous thing from a different age with pitch-black sap that leaks and dribbles down pale white branches like dripping fingers. It’s the sort of tree wont to give Enid nightmares, but even still—the sight of it tickles at some long-forgotten memory from winters spent tromping around the territory alone. Enid thinks she may have been here before, maybe, and yet—
“We’re lost,” Enid admits aloud. “This isn’t the way to the stream. I think we went too far east.”
Wednesday sucks in a single, shuddering breath, then croaks, “Enid. Do you know what that is?”
Enid shoots a suspicious glance at the tree in question, then frowns. “No? Should I?” Then, realizing how ignorant she must sound, she adds, “Is this one of those trees that all woodwitches should know, and I’m just being dumb?”
Wednesday closes her eyes, giving a jerky shake in disbelief. "No. You wouldn’t know these trees.”
“I…wouldn’t?” Enid asks. She hopes she doesn’t look as confused as she sounds.
“These are eldwood,” Wednesday breathes, eyes wide and wondering. “One drop of its oil will keep a lantern aflame for an entire night."
Eldwood, Enid silently repeats to herself, wondering where she’s heard it before. Eldwood, eldwood…what was it they’d said about eldwood? It hadn’t been her professor, surely; she’d never forgotten a thing Hyesol taught them out of equal parts fear and respect for the woman.
As if she can read Enid’s mind, Wednesday intones, “In the darkest hour, the maiden knelt beneath an eldwood tree and prayed to the forest, begging for her safe return. The forest heard her and took her for its own, adopting the maiden as the first of its daughters.”
And she was called Eve, for her arrival changed the forest just as the first night stole the sun, she silently finishes.
Enid realizes belatedly that she’s laughing. When Wednesday fails to join in, when she just continues to stare at her in that desperate, frenetic way that only appears when something cataclysmic has occurred, Enid falls silent and scared.
“From the legend?” she asks, voice strangled. “You’re not serious. Wednesday.”
“I am.”
"From the legend of Eve the First?" Enid repeats, voice climbing higher and higher. "You seriously think this is her forest? That my—" She cannot even bring herself to form the words.
As if it wasn't enough to discover against her will that she isn't who she always thought, that she's a witch, that she was more—to have this revelation of cosmic fucking proportions dropped on her in the middle of the full moon is just unbelievable. Fate must have it out for her, though what Enid did to deserve this, she has no idea.
This place has felt familiar to her for as long as she's been alive, a little voice in the back of her head whispers. Doesn't everyone feel that way about their home? Enid thinks desperately.
"What the fuck, Wednesday?" she gasps, changing tack. "That was a myth! That wasn’t—how do you even know these are the right trees, if they’re from some ancient fairytale that nobody knows the origin of? That's insane.”
"It wasn't," Wednesday tells her. At the look on Enid’s face, Wednesday persists, “It wasn’t a myth. Eldwood trees are very real in ancient history.” Then more gently, as if she expects Enid to field it like a blow, “The location of Eve the First's forest just hadn't been discovered. Yet."
Enid shakes her head as much in disagreement as denial. “You can’t seriously believe we somehow stumbled upon some ancient tree from a famous myth. Maybe this isn’t—there’s got to be more than one eldwood forest,” she says a bit desperately. “It doesn’t mean this is the place where Eve the First supposedly lived! Or whatever.”
Seeming to finally notice the ardent panic blooming in Enid’s scent, Wednesday squeezes her hand with a nod. “Alright. Allow me to take some cuttings, and we can be on our way.”
“What do you need cuttings for?” Enid protests, dragging her feet as Wednesday tugs them both forward.
“My mother,” Wednesday answers grimly. “She’ll know the truth.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Enid demands. Her heartbeat is pulsing in her fingertips, real terror seeping up her throat like sickness even though a quick glance at their surroundings confirms there’s no visible threat that would warrant this kind of a physiological reaction. Why does her skin burn with the urge to flee? Could a mangled old tree seriously inspire this kind of response in her?
“Wednesday,” Enid blurts. “I think we should go.”
Wednesday looks up from where she’d been snipping off new growths with a tiny pair of shears. “What?”
“I think we should go right now,” Enid says louder, darting forward to take Wednesday by the arm and yank her up off the forest floor. Wednesday goes without protest, but one or both of their feet knock into the lantern and send the thing rolling into the darkness. It hits something solid with a thunk completely unlike the hollow mass of a tree trunk, and Enid watches in horror as the creature that had snuck up upon them shrinks backward from the spill of light.
Not fast enough, she thinks distantly, for the lantern rolled just far enough to reveal, for a single, stilted second, an unholy amalgamation of faces—every face of every person who had ever feared it, twisted in a silent scream.
“It’s an Eater,” Enid chokes, her collar nearly searing around the skin of her throat.
They both stand still, hardly daring to breathe as the thing drags itself around the fallen lantern, then away, slithering further into the dark. Wednesday exhales through her nose as soon as the noises grow distant, but before she can say a single word, they’re running. Enid must have started it, she thinks, blood thundering in her ears, but Wednesday does her best to keep up, feet pounding the forest floor beside her. Unfortunately, Wednesday without her runes can only run as fast as any other presumably human girl, and that paltry speed while still so close to the monster of her childhood, while Wednesday is still so close to that thing, is one Enid cannot abide.
She shucks the bear skin from her shoulders, tossing it into Wednesday's chest—a load Wednesday catches automatically, albeit with visible surprise—and then Enid has hit the ground on all fours, fur exploding from underneath her skin, the howl that tears from her throat nearly as involuntary.
Before Wednesday can so much as open her mouth, Enid shoves her wolf-head between Wednesday’s legs, ignoring the oomph that earns her and relaxing only when she feels Wednesday’s knees lock around her shoulders, automatically settling into a riding position as Enid runs as fast and as hard as she possibly can. Enid welcomes the spark of pain when Wednesday’s hand tangles into her fur. Relishes it, even, because it means Wednesday is alive and safe and with her.
Safe with me, Enid repeats to herself. She chants it like a heartbeat, in time with her tread, a rhythm of Wednesday’s breaths against the softer fur of her throat. Safe with me, safe with me, safe with me.
Enid cannot see her reflection, but she knows her eyes must be yellow with the wolf. For once, she doesn’t feel like she’s taken a backseat to the proceedings; her wolf and what makes her Enid are perfectly in sync, completely aligned in their shared desire to spirit Wednesday to safety.
It figures, Enid would later think, that it took the appearance of some primordial monster for her to get her shit together and run in symmetry like a normal, undamaged wolf under the light of a full moon.
Notes:
been waiting on this scene for MONTHS if not a year, happy autumn everybody!!!
next update on wednesday 10/9!
Chapter 112: Palm
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Fear, Wednesday thinks, is a curious thing.
She’d felt fear upon spotting the Wood Wraith, but the sort of fear that causes children to squeal on rollercoasters and adults to squeal in fabricated haunted houses. There is a difference between unbridled, adrenaline-fueled enjoyment and bonafide hysteria.
Enid seems to have landed squarely in the latter category.
Wednesday would have recognized her distress even if she couldn't feel Enid's heart thudding hard between her knees. If she was biologically capable of smelling Enid's emotions, she's certain Enid's lovely vanilla would be acrid with panic.
“Enid,” Wednesday eventually calls out once she feels they've fled far enough from the copse of eldwood trees to have a chance of convincing her to stop. “It's gone.”
Enid snarls over her shoulder, showing her teeth, and Wednesday swallows hard.
The difference between Enid's human body and wolf form isn't drastic in terms of sheer mass, but Wednesday would have a markedly different reaction to encountering this yellow-eyed beast in the forest at night than the pretty blonde witch in her cotton shorts and curls.
“Enid,” Wednesday quietly says, lips pressed to the soft fur of her ear. “You can stop.”
The wolf protests again, whining this time, the kind of noise that tells Wednesday she's halfway sold on giving in and only needs her permission to obey. It still makes Wednesday feel lightheaded, how desperate Enid is to obey her.
“Be a good girl for me and stop,” Wednesday says, voice tight.
Enid comes to a instant halt, nearly skidding out across the dirt. Wednesday manages to cling to her back by the grace of her core strength, but only just. Even with the cold night air curling underneath her clothes, Wednesday feels like she's burning, like every inch of her skin exposed to the moon has been set alight.
She thought she knew what it was to want before Enid. How callous of her to ever equate the desire for victory or food or air to this unbearable ache in her throat.
Enid stretches out her right paw and then instantly pulls back, twisting her head around to glance at Wednesday. When she does it again, neck vibrating with a whimper, Wednesday's knees tighten involuntarily as she realizes that Enid, her Enid, is lucid.
She hadn't expected that. From what little she’s managed to glean from Toby, even seasoned wolves fortunate enough to not suffer from an identity crisis struggle to rein in their animal instincts on the night of a full moon. For Enid to look at her with such clarity, such unshakeable awareness—Wednesday feels the heat of the realization like a physical weight. She can nearly taste it in her mouth.
Enid’s wolf trusts her.
“You want to go?” Wednesday asks her. “You may.”
Enid takes a single step, then another, and when no protest is forthcoming, she pushes through the trees into a clearing made colorless by the moon. Even the creek trickling before them is achromatic, nearly silver underneath the cloudless sky.
Enid doesn't ask for permission again, but Wednesday can feel her muscles tensing as she nears the water and knows she is fully prepared to stop the moment Wednesday opens her mouth to issue a command.
Wednesday does not open her mouth. She allows Enid to walk them into the creek, swallowing her hiss when the water seeps up over the top of her boots and soaks the legs of her pants. It feels sacrilege to speak in this place, so Wednesday takes it in silence, leaning into the shock of cold.
Enid exhales hard through her nose. Rather than let go, Wednesday tilts with her when Enid dips her head beneath the water. She could not care less what happens to her clothes or braids or the remnants of the runes on her face. If Enid goes under, so will she.
Wednesday bites back a protest of her own when she feels Enid's fur disappearing from between her fingers, her thick coat becoming skin slick with water, as the wolf disappears and the girl comes up gasping with golden hair plastered to her neck. Enid may very well be the only thing in the entire forest painted in color, from the heat of her cheeks to the cut of her collarbones.
“Wednesday,” Enid whispers, lips curling around the name like a sigh, and Wednesday pulls her in.
It's lucky the creek is shallow enough to stand with their heads above water, Wednesday thinks. This way, she can arrange Enid's arms around her neck and encourage Enid to wrap her legs around her waist without worry of being unable to carry her for as long as she needs. This way, Wednesday can bear the weight for her.
Fear is a curious thing, Wednesday decides, that it can affect Enid in this soft, shaking way and her so drastically the opposite.
“It wouldn't have come after you,” Wednesday assures her. “You weren’t in any real danger.”
Enid muffles her disbelieving snort into the crook of Wednesday’s neck. “You don't know that,” she protests, albeit weakly.
Wednesday idly lays her palm over Enid’s neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath her fingertips. “I do.”
“How could you possibly have known that, Wednesday?”
“Have you forgotten what scent you carry?” Wednesday asks, hooking a finger under Enid's collar. “You're wearing the skin of the most powerful creature on earth. Your collar should ward off most creatures on principle alone."
Enid shakes her head. “It doesn't work like that,” she argues, voice muffled. “It can't.”
“It does,” Wednesday informs her, patting her soaked hair. Her braids were an unfortunate casualty of the transformation, but Wednesday can always redo them. She’ll braid Enid’s hair with meaning this time. “A creature predisposed to hunt down the solitary and fearful would leave a witch wearing the skin of a shifter well enough alone. You weren't in any danger, Puppy.”
Enid just continues to shake her head. Wednesday wishes it wasn't so endearing.
So focused is she on Enid’s charming lack of faith that she manages to forget, if only for a moment, that Enid is completely without clothing. If she had been concentrated on Enid’s nakedness, she might have been more careful about her hand placement. If she had been focused when Enid shifted her weight, arms tightening around Wednesday's neck as she clung harder for comfort, Wednesday’s supporting hand might not have accidentally slipped between Enid’s legs.
Enid's breathing hitches, lips parting against her neck, and Wednesday—Wednesday is grateful for the creek. Enid won't be able to smell her as long as she remains partially underwater.
“Are you alright?” Wednesday asks, making a valiant attempt at keeping her voice level and comforting. She does not move her hand.
Enid shivers against her. “Yeah,” she replies, doing only marginally better at controlling her tone.
They stand still and silent, each waiting for the other to break the stalemate. It's wicked, Wednesday acknowledges, for her to be experiencing such overwhelming desire in the wake of imminent danger. Enid would not have been harmed by a creature in her forest—not even a Wood Wraith, which by nature subsists solely off those who fear it—but Wednesday wouldn't have been afforded the same immunity.
Most people would find it in themselves to be disturbed that she's capable of arousal after a near-death experience of that magnitude.
Wednesday, of course, has never found herself to fit within the category of most people, and she isn't about to start now with her naked submissive clenching her stomach muscles in an effort not to fuck forward into her hand.
“Are you sure?” Wednesday asks, and this time, the brush of her fingers is pointed and purposeful.
Enid presses herself into Wednesday's palm, then cringes back once she realizes what she's done. “No,” she squeaks, voice jumping at least two octaves. “I mean, yes.”
“No?” Wednesday repeats. “Yes? Which is it, Puppy?”
Enid shudders against her, full-bodied. “Um, what was the question?”
On the notion of feeling grateful, Wednesday adds that Enid cannot currently see her expression to the list.
Notes:
wednesday to the eater: bring it on bitch i'll make you part of my menagerie if you're not careful
Chapter 113: Teething
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday drops her face into Enid’s hair, breathing in her scent.
Her hand twitches, automatically seeking the warmth between Enid’s legs, but she doesn’t sink inside of her. Not yet. Not until Enid asks for it, Wednesday decides. On the night of the full moon, her darling Enid should have everything she could want or ask for.
“I asked if you were alright,” Wednesday quietly says. The hand she’d laid against Enid’s neck slides lower, pressing into the curve of her back. “Are you?”
“Alright?” Enid repeats, squirming so hard she nearly unseats herself in the process. “Um, no?”
Wednesday frowns, then sucks in a breath in realization as she glances down at herself. Of course, she thinks. If the full moon heightens every physical sensation for wolves, her leathers and spandex must feel awful against Enid’s bare skin. If Wednesday had any intelligence at all, she would have stripped before ever entering the water.
Unbelievable, Wednesday gripes at herself. If her hunting garb is this uncomfortable on her, clinging and cold, it must be nigh-unbearable for Enid. How could she be so callous?
“I understand,” Wednesday tells her, nails unintentionally digging into Enid’s back. “I feel it as well.”
Enid exhales hard. “Feel what?” she asks in this soft little voice that has Wednesday grinding her teeth like an animal. Suddenly, it feels like an egregious lapse in judgment to continue clutching Enid to herself without offering the comfort of skin-to-skin contact. She needs to remedy this immediately.
“Wet,” answers Wednesday, irritated with herself for allowing her desire to override her common sense.
So irritated is she, Wednesday nearly misses the moan Enid tries and fails to completely stifle against her neck.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, gulping air. “Wednesday. You’re wet?”
Wednesday can feel her brow furrowing. “We’re standing in a creek,” she points out.
Enid makes a small noise of confusion, and then barks out a laugh that seems to ring across the water as she shakes in Wednesday’s arms.
“No,” she chokes out, “Not like that.” Then, still giggling, Enid says, “Like this, Wednesday,” and shamelessly grinds down into her hand.
Wednesday’s fingers automatically adjust to hold her, blindly feeling for where Enid wants her most, but now that the thought’s taken root, she cannot ignore it. Allowing her sweet Enid to continue chafing against her sodden clothing would be sacrilege.
“Wait,” Wednesday instructs her. At Enid’s whine of complaint, she adds, “I have to take off my clothes.”
Enid muffles the damndest little sigh into her neck, this whimpering, wanting thing that sets Wednesday’s teeth on edge, and it requires every ounce of Wednesday’s remaining self-control to untangle herself from Enid. She only steps back as far as is absolutely necessary to divest herself of her shirt and jacket, and when her leggings prove too difficult to shuck off underwater, Wednesday cuts through them with her knife. Her weapons are tossed haphazardly onto the grass, and the moment she’s free of all constraints, she’s reaching for Enid.
As soon as Wednesday turns to her, Enid launches herself back into her arms. She finds Wednesday with such force that they slip backward a step, but it would take more than a running jump for Wednesday to allow Enid to fall. Even without the aid of runes, Wednesday has strength enough to urge Enid’s legs back around her waist, to press their chests together as Enid’s mouth finds hers with a shaky exhale that has Wednesday’s grip tightening on her thighs.
***
“Look at me,” comes Wednesday’s voice, lips dragging against her as Enid chases her mouth. “Look at me, Puppy.”
Enid reluctantly leans back, trusting Wednesday to keep her upright. Wednesday’s neck is flushed, pupils blooming wide and dark behind wet, tangled lashes, and Enid’s canines nearly extend at the sight of her. It would be so easy, she thinks, heart beating in her throat. It would be the most natural thing in the world to sink her teeth into Wednesday’s neck.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday whispers, cocking her head. “You look desperate, Enid.”
“I am,” Enid sniffles. “Am desperate, Wednesday. Need you.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth quirks up even as her skin visibly prickles. Enid still isn’t used to the sight of Wednesday’s bare chest, to be able to drape her arms around Wednesday’s neck and slide against her, skin to skin. Bending over for Wednesday’s cane had been equally as embarrassing as it had been thrilling, but something about this moment feels just as revealing. Maybe even more so, Enid thinks. There’s nowhere to hide her face with Wednesday holding her captive in her arms.
“I love you,” Enid blurts, forcing herself not to drop her eyes. “Love you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday doesn’t smile, but the warmth in her gaze is nearly unbearable. “You are all I have ever loved,” she responds.
When Enid sinks back into her, tucking her face into Wednesday’s neck, it doesn’t feel embarrassing at all to plead, “Touch me, Wednesday. Need your fingers.”
Wednesday’s throat vibrates with a hum. “Do you?”
Enid falls still. “Yes,” she eventually says. Then, with a deep breath, “Will you please fuck me, Wednesday? Puppy wants Wednesday’s fingers.”
***
Wednesday manages to limit her reaction to a somewhat audible inhale, but only just. “Because you asked so nicely,” she replies.
She hikes Enid higher up on her waist, settling her into the crook of her left arm so that she can slip her right hand between Enid’s legs. Enid makes a strange little noise as she clings to Wednesday’s shoulders, but since it isn’t a noise of discomfort, Wednesday leaves it alone.
“Can you carry me?” Enid asks suddenly. “Can you carry me like this?”
Wednesday can feel her brow furrowing. “Of course, I can.” Does Enid worry she might drop her? That cannot abide. “Take as long as you need to come. I can hold you.”
“O-Oh,” Enid squeaks, nose pressed to the soft spot between Wednesday’s neck and shoulder. “Okay.”
Wednesday takes a deep breath, centering herself, then slides two fingers inside of Enid. It’s a tight fit, but that was intentional—she wants Enid to feel filled. She wants Enid to feel secure in her arms.
She wanted Enid to ride her hand for at least a few minutes before coming on her fingers, but alas, Wednesday thinks, watching Enid gasp her way wide-eyed through an orgasm. You can’t have everything.
“Did you just come?” Wednesday asks, though she already knows the answer.
Enid keens into her throat. “Please, another, want another,” she begs, hips spasming.
Wednesday hides her smile in Enid’s hair. The satisfaction of being able to make Enid shake apart, to hold her in this way, is nearly strangling.
“You can have it,” Wednesday assures her, entirely too cheerful. “We can discuss your punishment for coming without permission tomorrow.”
The threat of punishment would hinder some submissives from finding their pleasure so soon. Not Enid, Wednesday gleefully acknowledges. Enid clenches her jaw like she’s trying to hold herself back from coming all over again through sheer force of will.
“Pretty,” Wednesday murmurs. “Even when you misbehave, you’re perfect for me. My pretty Puppy."
Enid's hips jerk forward again. Lips curling, Wednesday adds, "Always my perfect pet, aren't you?”
Enid buries her face into Wednesday’s neck. “Please keep fucking me,” she begs. “Really need you.”
“You have me,” Wednesday tells her. “You won’t be punished for the same transgression twice. I want you to come when you feel it, understood?”
Enid nods, lips catching against Wednesday’s throat. “Yes, Wednesday. I’ll come for you,” she mumbles.
“Yes,” Wednesday agrees. “You will.”
***
By her second orgasm, Enid feels like she’s lost the thread. She’s trembling in Wednesday’s arms, hips twitching unsteadily as she chases an orgasm that hasn’t fully left her, and the noises she’s making are inexcusable, even for a wolf. Even on the full moon.
Pressing her lips to Wednesday’s neck proves a poor remedy, however, as that only leads to Enid’s mouth falling open in a silent scream when Wednesday curls her fingers hard inside of her and it starts feeling dangerously like she might come a third time in quick succession. An open mouth this close to Wednesday’s neck is a risky business at the best of times, but especially with Enid trying to muffle her cries. Especially when that causes Enid’s teeth to scrape against the thin skin of Wednesday’s throat, and pleasure shoots down her fingertips as the nerve endings unique to a submissive wolf’s canines activate in magnificent fashion.
Enid chokes, throwing her head back as she attempts to rip herself away. The sound of her panting fills the clearing. While Wednesday’s eyes flick between Enid’s open mouth and the heat in her cheeks, visibly putting the pieces together, it’s all Enid can do to try to avoid her gaze. She’s not supposed to feel like prey, Enid acknowledges, and definitely not on a full moon. This is getting ridiculous.
Unfortunately, the second Enid lowers her eyes from the trees, her attention inevitably locks onto Wednesday’s neck, and even she can feel the reaction that inspires between her legs.
Teething is an act traditionally reserved for bonded mates. Once can be explained away as an accident, but twice—and this time, not even in the throes of heat, with both her judgment and sense of decency entirely intact—is a choice. Teething on Wednesday is a choice.
“I want it,” Enid admits, voice gutted. “It feels so good, Wednesday. Am I allowed?”
“Yes,” Wednesday says, lips parting. Her eyes are so wide, the whites of her eyes nearly glow in the moonlight. “Yes, Enid. Do it,” she urges her.
Enid falls back into her, latching onto Wednesday’s neck with her lips, and she drags her teeth along the skin of Wednesday’s throat. Enid might cry, it feels so fucking good. She might never release Wednesday again. She might never breathe again if it would require her to let go.
Wednesday twitches in surprise, and then her shoulders seem to slump ever so slightly, but Enid is plainly too enraptured with the pleasure emanating from her mouth to investigate the source of Wednesday’s disappointment.
Afterward, she promises herself. She’ll apologize as many times as needed and take whatever punishment is deserved for teething on Wednesday when she shouldn’t have afterward.
Notes:
next update wednesday 10/16***!!!
***this originally said wednesday 10/15 because unfortunately for all of us i am a dumbass lol
EDIT: make that friday as i am still not out of work :') think my regular posts will be fridays and sundays with occasional surprise wednesdays!!!
EDIT: my darling beta has taken ill and cannot review the chapter tonight so posting tomorrow!! stay tuned mates
Chapter 114: Neck
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid crawls out of the creek, dripping and shaking in equal measure.
It had taken extraordinary measures to detach her mouth from Wednesday’s neck, but she’d done it without breaking any skin. A miracle, Enid thinks a little hysterically as she pants on her hands and knees.
She’d wanted to bite Wednesday. Of course she’d wanted to bite Wednesday, but Wednesday has adhered to wolf courting traditions with an almost fanatical vehemence, and Enid just knows it would kill her to do things out of order. She won’t be the one to ruin this for Wednesday when it’s clearly so important to her.
Wednesday emerges from the water on two legs, water dripping down her ribs and the cut of her hips, almost enough to distract from the smug expression on her face. Enid doesn’t have a clue what they’ll do about the clothing situation. Wednesday’s leggings are in tatters at the bottom of the creek, and her shirt and jacket are soaking wet. Are they meant to waltz through the forest naked? Eve the First would be proud, Enid thinks a bit bitterly. She refuses to believe some legendary witch—the first woodwitch—walked these very same woods and called it home.
It is fundamentally impossible, she knows, because that would imply the forest that chose the first witch of her kind chose her, Enid Sinclair, for its steward. Enid, who has never been an adequate daughter of anything, least of all this forest and its inhabitants.
Unfortunately, since Wednesday’s cuttings likely suffered the same watery death as her leggings, they’re going to have to return to the copse of eldwood trees. One would think, Enid gripes to herself, that the forest that chose her would be a little less life-threatening.
“You didn’t drop, did you?” Wednesday asks her, coaxing her to unsteady feet.
“No,” Enid admits. “But, um, the moon. I’ll probably keep acting like a lunatic until morning.”
Wednesday’s answering smile exposes her teeth. “I look forward to it, Puppy,” she murmurs, cupping Enid's cheek. “Pretty girl, aren’t you?”
Enid’s face is flush with moon-fever and she’s pretty sure her pupils are the size of Jupiter. Even if she didn’t stink of creek water, all wolves know that humans find them about as attractive as a plague victim on the night of the full moon. “Is that supposed to be funny?” Enid snorts.
“No,” Wednesday replies, all lashes and moonlit eyes. “Sincere.”
Enid nearly crumples right back down to the forest floor. “O-Okay. Well, do you want go home?” she asks a little desperately. “We can shower and get something to eat. And put on clothes,” she adds, doing her best not to look at Wednesday’s bare chest. If the forest is on her side, the least it can do is not blow wind and cause Wednesday's skin to erupt in goosebumps.
Wednesday makes a noise of agreement. “To your parents’ house,” she confirms. “Would you like to run?”
Enid’s already shaking her head. “No,” she answers, and means it.
Unless the Eater circles back around for round two, Enid won't risk shifting into fourth-form again. Those few minutes as the wolf had her teething on Wednesday's neck like a total slut. She needs to keep it together, and giving in to instinct won't help matters.
Wednesday eyes her for a second, a little furrow appearing on her brow, and then she extends an empty palm in Enid’s direction. “Shall we?”
Enid gratefully accepts it. “Yeah. Okay.”
Wednesday scoops up her knives and the other little tools always hidden about her person, but she leaves the bow to disappear into the undergrowth. Apparently, its original owners will not be seeing the poor thing again.
Wednesday steps closer to her, ignoring Enid's huff of surprise as she drapes the jacket over her shoulders. She carefully threads Enid's arms through the sleeves, one at a time, dressing her like a doll. Enid's not sure where she learned that since Wednesday probably beheaded all of her childhood dolls.
“Do you like dressing me?” she asks without thinking.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, undeniably pleased. “Yes,” she answers plainly, smoothing the lapels of her jacket over Enid's chest. “I wish you would allow me to dress you more frequently. I fear I'd spoil you,” Wednesday murmurs to herself.
Enid shivers, though it's not clear whether it's the fault of the cold water dripping down her thighs or Wednesday's expression.
Wednesday frowns. “Are you cold?”
“Hot, honestly,” Enid replies, trying not to pant. She can only imagine what havoc Wednesday would raise if she were in charge of Enid's wardrobe. What would she dress her in? Silks and lace? Ball gowns for everyday lounging? Or slutty little outfits like the stunt Enid had pulled on the night of their negotiation? “But it’s just the moon.”
“The moon,” Wednesday echoes. The pelt she’d brought home from the hunt is tucked under her free arm. “The next full moon we see may be from Shanghai.”
Enid almost misses a step. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes. That could present a pretty serious problem. “I didn’t…do you think they’ll have a problem with me, you know—?”
“Being a werewolf?” Wednesday dryly finishes. “Transforming on the full moon? It would be rather ironic if they did, considering their leader regularly shifts into a giant reptile.”
Enid tries not to smile, but judging by the warm note in Wednesday’s scent, she doesn’t totally succeed. “Okay, point. But wolves aren’t accepted everywhere, you know? Before the war…wolves took the fall for a lot of carnage. People don’t like seeing us in fourth-form.”
“Shanghai wasn’t affected by the Vampire War,” Wednesday gently reminds her. “They won’t hold the same biases. In any case, I hear the temple houses all manner of outcasts. I am certain you won’t be the only guest with such needs.”
Enid contemplates that for the entire walk home. They leave the bear skin outside for the wolves in charge of preservation to collect in the morning, but Wednesday seems intent on beelining for Enid’s bedroom and Enid surely isn’t going to be the one to stop her.
Once they make it upstairs, the house dark and empty around them, Enid’s surprised that Wednesday bypasses the bed and tows her into the bathroom.
“You okay?” Enid asks.
Wednesday’s eyes flick over her soaked jacket and flushed skin. “We need to stabilize your temperature.”
She reaches around Enid and clicks on the shower, the rush of steam causing what’s left of her formerly neat braids to frizz and curl. “Come with me,” Wednesday says, allowing her t-shirt to drop to the tiles with a sodden plop.
“Wednesday?” Enid breathes, stomach flipping. She’s nineteen years old, a veritable adult wolf, and collared, no less—but the idea of slipping into the shower naked with Wednesday still feels a lot like breaking the rules.
“Come,” Wednesday repeats, tugging her inside.
Enid goes willingly, giggling like a teenager as she shucks off Wednesday’s jacket and follows her into the dark.
Wednesday’s hands feel unbearably good in her hair. She pulls apart every tangle, rhythmically cleaning the creek from Enid’s curls as she lathers her with shampoo. It’s not quite grooming like a wolf might do for their mate, but it’s close.
Enid leans against her, sighing at the feeling of Wednesday’s skin sliding against hers. As soon as her hair is sufficiently clean and rinsed, Enid tucks her face into Wednesday’s neck, wrapping her arms around her waist. They never turned on the lights. It’s dark in here, a warm little hiding place that will shield them from the moon and the pack and every person who means to cut them down. Here, under the water, Enid feels held. Safe.
“Love you,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s hand briefly tightens over the nape of her neck. “I adore you,” she responds, voice low. “My sweet pet.”
They stand there long enough that Enid’s toes begin to prune. After Wednesday shuts the water off, she plucks a clean towel from the cabinet with all the familiarity of someone who lives here and begins drying Enid off. She’s diligent, Enid thinks with a lump in her throat. Wednesday doesn’t miss a thing. She would never let Enid sit in discomfort, not even for the time it would take to dry herself off. Wednesday’s wrapped a towel around Enid’s wet hair and dressed her in an oversized t-shirt that smells like their dorm at Nevermore and sleeping shorts before she even begins attending to herself. Enid pulls her knees to her chest and curls up on the lid of the toilet as she watches Wednesday rebraid her hair.
How on earth did Enid ever think her cold?
“You’re good at taking care of me,” Enid quietly says.
Wednesday’s fingers still halfway down her braid. “Thank you,” she replies, a strange note in her voice. She must lose her place in the braid she’s been working on because after a moment of fiddling with her various locks of hair, she sighs and reaches for the light switch.
Enid’s resulting shriek has Wednesday reaching for a knife that isn’t at her hip, head whipping around in search of danger.
“Oh my God,” Enid squeaks through the hand clapped over her mouth. “Wednesday, your neck.”
Wednesday peers at herself in the mirror, and her eyebrows raise.
“Well,” she says. “They’ll certainly know what we were up to, now.”
Purple marks no doubt caused by Enid’s teeth are blooming up and down her neck. The longer Enid looks, the worse it all seems.
“I don’t think I have concealer in your skin tone,” Enid groans through her fingers.
Wednesday smirks, eyes lidded as she regards herself with an air of superiority that Enid really doesn’t feel is deserved. “So be it.”
As soon as Wednesday’s hair is braided and she’s found a sweater and pants, she leads Enid downstairs in search of food. Enid wonders if her grumbling stomach was the deciding factor, considering the longing look Wednesday had aimed at her nest. Soon, Enid thinks to herself. They’ll get something to eat, and then curl up and wait out the rest of the night together.
Enid almost plows into Wednesday’s back when she comes to a dead stop in the kitchen doorway, but she doesn’t have time to ask what’s wrong before the smell of her brother causes her over-sensitive nose to wrinkle.
“Back so soon, E?” Devon calls out to her. He lowers the carton of milk to the countertop. “Thought you’d stay out longer.”
“And I thought you’d be running,” Enid replies, shrinking back when Devon narrows his eyes in her direction.
“Evening,” Wednesday ends the sudden stalemate, voice ringing clear across the kitchen. “Successful hunt, Sinclair?”
Devon’s shoulders lower ever so slightly, but his knuckles remain white around the milk carton. “Not as successful as yours,” he sneers.
“Yes,” Wednesday agrees, rummaging in the fridge. “You must have seen the bear I cut down.”
Devon scowls at her back, but responds, “Uh-huh. They teach you to hunt like that at your little school?”
“No,” Wednesday informs him, emerging with an armful of food. The smile she aims in his direction is all teeth. “That was a consequence of my childhood.”
Devon watches her with narrowed eyes as Wednesday places her haul into a grocery bag, but when he scoffs, it sounds almost cordial.
“Bit much to dress my sister up in your kill, don’t you think?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at him. “No,” she states. “I do not. Enid isn’t what I would call squeamish. I would think you'd know that about your own sister.”
“Yeah,” Devon sneers, tossing the milk back into the fridge. Enid shrinks back as he passes her, but she still ends up shoved from the side. It’s the first time Devon’s touched her in years. If she wasn’t braced against the countertop, she would have ended up on the ground. “She’s used to it, right, sis?” he goads.
Enid cringes, already turning to Wednesday with her mouth open in protest, but the damage has been done.
The look that Wednesday sends Devon could fell a deer at fifty paces. "Put your hands on my intended one more time, and you'll be leaving this house feet-first,” she tells him, drawing up to her full height. Her beauty in this moment is almost surreal, something beyond the scope of a quarrel between young adults without so much as a single day of college education between them. That glare would put the most vicious snarl to shame.
Enid has a sudden vision of Wednesday gleefully zipping her brother up into one of those awful foldable body bags she always keeps tucked in her school backpack. She’d probably bang his stretcher against the walls for good measure while carting his corpse out to the woods, and then where would they be? Right back where they started: Wednesday entering the pits to answer for her actions. The thought makes Enid’s stomach turn.
"Are you threatening me?" Devon demands, halfway between amused and appalled.
“Uh, guys—” Enid weakly interjects.
"I am warning you," Wednesday replies, "Not to test my resolve. I am not some neighborhood wolf you can cow into submission, Devon. I am Enid's intended, and I'm a lot less forgiving than she is.” She raises her chin. “Step back."
Devon scowls at her, pushing off the kitchen counter and puffing up like a newborn pup. He scoffs, nearly spitting, but ultimately heads for the door like they aren’t worth a second more of his time.
Enid does notice he avoids making physical contact with her again, though.
“Devon,” Wednesday calls out when he’s just crossed the threshold to the outdoors. “I want to be clear. If you ever touch my darling Enid again, the next time we see each other will be inside the morgue.”
Devon heads off into the woods without offering a single word in response. Enid, meanwhile, turns to Wednesday with a slack jaw. It’s not that she worries Wednesday won’t be able to set his ass straight; the opposite, in fact. She worries Wednesday would kill him.
“We need to, um, talk,” Enid blurts.
Wednesday’s face is still pinched, but she dutifully retrieves her grocery bag of food. “Of course. Shall we?”
Enid doesn’t understand why Wednesday keeps stopping on the way until it occurs to her that Wednesday wants her in sight. Once Enid skips ahead to walk in front of her, they make it up the stairs and into her room without further incident.
Wednesday deposits her collection into the nest and then pulls Enid with her, settling down crosslegged in the middle of the blankets. Her hand emerges from the grocery bag with a red grape and a cube of cheese. “Eat," she orders.
Enid does so, chewing fast. “Wednesday,” she says as soon as her mouth is free, “You can’t just go around threatening my packmates.”
Wednesday’s fingers nudge against her lips with another bite of cheese. “Eat,” she insists.
Enid sighs as she complies. “What if someone calls your bluff and you end up back in the pits?” she quickly says. “I literally wouldn’t survive it, and God, don’t do it for him.”
“Him?” Wednesday repeats. “Jordan, you mean? He didn’t take my threats seriously, I assure you.”
“What?” Enid asks.
“It was all in good fun,” Wednesday tells her. “Just banter among competitors. Believe me, I would have amassed far more of an audience for a legitimate challenge.”
“Wait, what?” Enid splutters. “That—you've threatened more than one of my packmates? That's happened more than once?"
“I’m not even sure of which incident you’re referring to,” says Wednesday. “But men like Jordan and Devon only respond to displays of strength. They respect it, even if they despise the idea of backing down from someone like me.”
Enid bites her lip. “You can’t threaten to kill every asshole in my pack. There’d be no one left,” she argues.
Wednesday eyes her with amusement. "If he lays a hand on you, I'm going to jail," she replies. Enid can tell she is entirely serious. “But don’t fret. My parents retain excellent legal representation.”
“Oh God, Wednesday. How excellent could they possibly be?” Enid asks miserably, accepting another grape with a pout.
“Excellent enough to get me court-appointed therapy rather than prison time when I loosed an entire school of juvenile piranhas on the water polo team.”
Enid narrowly avoids choking on her grape. “P-Pirahnas? What the hell? Did you kill anyone?” Oh God, did Wednesday kill someone?
“Not that time,” Wednesday assures her.
“That time?” Enid repeats, voice raising.
“Live piranhas are oddly easy to import,” Wednesday comments. “You’d be surprised.”
“Uh, no, I don’t think surprised is the word,” Enid huffs. “Surprised is definitely not the word. Fuck, Wednesday. Piranhas? For a water polo team?” She blinks rapidly. "You dumped innocent piranhas in a chlorine pool?"
“Enid, listen to me,” Wednesday says, eerily reminiscent of what she’d said to Devon. “If a single wolf in this pack does you harm, they will have to put me down with horse tranquilizer. I will not tolerate it. Are we clear?”
Enid swallows hard. “Yeah, Wednesday,” she answers, voice strangled. “We’re clear.”
Notes:
i predict <2 more chapters in san francisco, and then we are OFF TO HELL MOUNTAIN!
next update: wednesday 10/23
*EDIT: alright i gotta fly out tonight so next chapter will go up tomorrow 10/24!!! gonna post from the airport lol
*EDIT: guys i'm sorry i'm seated next to the nicest chatty old gentleman and i simply cannot have the next chapter on my laptop screen lest i have to explain why i'm writing porn on an airplane LMFAO next chapter will go up as soon as i can manage!!!
*EDIT: IM SO SORRY I DISAPPEARED my job had me crashing out this weekend and i had to convince myself not to quit lol
EDIT 11/13: hey guys thank you so very much for the kind messages asking after my well being <3 i've been such a mess lately but i'm getting my life together and will be meeting with my beta tonight! hoping to post by end of week. love u
Chapter 115: Apple
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Bringing back the bear does more for Wednesday's reputation amongst Enid's packmembers than she could have ever anticipated.
“You’ll want to make that into a coat,” Jordan advises her. “It's tradition.”
Wednesday had vague intentions of making Enid a bear skin rug to adorn her room in Hell Mountain, which is why she’d left the head on the beast, but she supposes that a fur coat will be just as useful. “Are furs a common gift?”
“‘Course,” Toby pipes up, sloughing water over the sides of his bucket. “It’s a pretty typical first step to courting in trad packs.”
“Too late for that,” Jordan sneers, though there’s no real heat in it. The beauty of a society structured around strength, Wednesday thinks, is that a well-timed shot at a common woodland beast wins her a whole faction of supporters, and supporters with voting rights, no less. If Jordan didn’t entirely accept her before, those doubts died a dismal death with her felling of the bear.
While he may not be next in line to inherit the pack, as a direct alternative, Jordan Clifford is certainly a wolf with influence. Wednesday can only imagine what attending SOLLS must have been like.
Did Toby avoid the Flint pack wolves? Did Jordan trail after Hugo like a kicked dog, or did he grit his teeth every time his alleged friend opened his mouth? Having met Jordan’s father, Wednesday suspects she knows the answer. Leader Clifford may well seize control of this pack after the spectacular display of poor judgment from Pack Leader Flint’s chosen successor.
Of course, she ideally would have brought Hugo on board or rid the forest of his stench once and for all, but she can accept leaving with Toby and Jordan’s support firmly behind her banner alongside an overwhelming decline in popularity for the Flint family. There may be hope for Enid’s home pack yet.
“You almost done?” Toby asks, nudging her side. “I’ll take you back to Enid’s place if you want. It’s on the way to the church.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “You have far more to fear from these woods than I do.”
“Yeah, well, if there’s Eaters in these woods, no one should run alone,” Toby replies, lips pulling into a scowl. “Seriously. It’s not funny, Wednesday.”
“What the fuck?” Jordan barks, voice raising. “You saw an Eater, Montgomery?”
The entire clearing, nearly a hundred young wolves busy working their furs, falls silent and turns in their direction. Wednesday would have been able to sense their unease even if she couldn't read the fear in their expressions.
Toby shoots her a look that’s nearly apologetic, but pointedly responds, “Not me.”
Jordan’s eye twitches once it lands on her. It’s almost comical, Wednesday thinks, how quickly Jordan succumbs to annoyance in her vicinity. Could there be a correlation?
“Come on,” Jordan demands, wiping his hands on his shorts. “Addams. Let’s move.”
Wednesday frowns at Enid’s half-cleaned fur. “I’m not finished.”
“I’m not fucking around,” Jordan snaps. “You see that shit, you report it. No matter what. You should know that by now,” he says, accusing.
“From all of three days of visiting?” Wednesday silkily responds.
Jordan stares at her, unmoved. “We gotta report this,” he repeats.
Wednesday reluctantly passes her fur to Toby's friend, resisting the urge to huff. “To whom? Your dear friend Hugo? I'm not certain he'll be much help in hunting down your prized beast.”
She spots a muscle ticking in Jordan’s jaw. “To my father,” he replies. “And we don't hunt Eaters. Move.”
Toby falls into step beside her, shoving his hands in his pockets and raising his eyes to the trees as if he doesn’t notice Jordan glaring in his direction.
At least Hugo didn’t show his face today, Wednesday muses. She can only imagine his consternation from being left out of what’s spinning into quite the drama.
Jordan leads them without delay to a building Wednesday hadn’t bothered entering before, a musty old place that smells of woodsmoke and something suspiciously incense-like. After days roaming the woods, she’s surprised to find herself uncomfortable enclosed in such cramped quarters. Perhaps Enid’s magic is rubbing off on her, she thinks wistfully to herself. This is exactly the sort of low-ceilinged building that Enid would abhor.
Wednesday could sigh at how the floorboard creaks beneath their weight with every step, all but announcing their presence to anyone who might care to listen, but she doesn’t bother voicing her complaints. If she were Leader Clifford, charged with the safety of the greater population, she might also make a few discomfiting customizations to trouble any potential assassins or other unsavory visitors. Still, Wednesday thinks, a floor this brittle should be outlawed. The house at Hell Mountain would never betray the sound of her footsteps to this extent.
Jordan pauses before a door identical to three others branching off from the dusty foyer and lifts his fist to knock.
“Sir,” he calls out. “There’s reports of an Eater on the territory. Addams spotted it.”
Rather than a verbal response, the door flies open quickly enough that Jordan has to jump backwards to avoid being hit. Leader Clifford glares down at them in an eerie resemblance to his son.
“Is this true?” he asks her. “You saw an Eater?”
“Last night. Though, we refer to them as wood wraiths,” Wednesday thoughtfully contributes.
Leader Clifford shoves the door open. “Inside.”
***
Enid’s still snuggled in her blankets, floating somewhere in the halfway place between awake and asleep, when her bedroom door swings open. She hardly has time to pry her eyes open before Wednesday is upon her, urging her up into a sitting position. She smells like woods and sweat and tanning solution. They must be cleaning the skins, Enid realizes. That would explain where Wednesday disappeared to at the crack of dawn while Enid was busy burrowing down further beneath the covers.
“Wednesday?” Enid breathes. “What's wrong?”
Wednesday watches her with a strange, soft look on her face that has Enid fidgeting where she sits, but her voice is calm when she says, “Good morning. Are you hungry?”
Enid's stomach gurgles loud enough to have her cringing in horror, and Wednesday nods like she'd expected precisely that outcome. Maybe she had, Enid thinks, considering she produces an apple from her pocket and holds it up to Enid's lips.
“Bite,” Wednesday tells her, and after a moment of startled silence, Enid does.
She sinks her teeth into the skin, juice spilling over her lips and dripping down her chin as she swallows that first bite of flesh. It's tart, far too early in the season for sweet fruit, but Enid's never turned down a summer apple in her life.
“Good?” Wednesday asks, lips quirking up at her nod. “Excellent. Finish this and get dressed, please. The elders wish to speak with us.”
The next bite Enid had taken falls out of her mouth and plops into her lap. “The—what? What do you mean, the elders? What elders?” she splutters.
Wednesday plants one hand on the bed, tipping forward into Enid's personal space as she digs the escaped chunk of apple out of the sheets and holds it up to Enid's mouth. “Messy, aren't you?” she asks.
Enid chews quickly, then repeats, “What elders?”
“Unless you've taken the leap and made a bid to join the Montgomery pack while I was attending to your new coat, the same elders you've been heeding all your life,” Wednesday replies, raising an eyebrow. “Have you not met your governing council?”
“Um, no?” Enid says. “Not personally. Why would I? I haven't committed any crimes.”
Wednesday adopts a bit of a shifty look that has alarm bells ringing in Enid's head, but she's already across the room and rummaging through their remaining stash of clean clothes by the time Enid thinks to reach for her and drag her back in.
Then her words register, and Enid squeaks, “Wait, you're making me a coat?”
Wednesday straightens up, a pile of fabric clutched in her hands. “Is that a problem?”
“N-No,” Enid refutes, flushing hot. “That's just….it's a really traditional gift.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and she comes to take a seat on the bed. “You don't like traditional gifts?”
“Uh, the opposite, actually,” Enid quietly admits, trying not to fidget. “That’s just… it's something dominant wolves do. For their mates.”
Wednesday's eyes continue to bore into her. “And you like the idea of that,” she concludes. “You like imagining me as your dominant wolf.”
Enid's blush seeps down to her chest. “It's not like you’re thinking. I would never, ever trade you for a biological wolf,” she hurriedly explains. “And I don't want to change you. Not at all. Like, ever. It's just…” Enid bites down on her lower lip. “It's, um, kind of hard not to imagine it now. With your...”
She weakly motions to her own lips, and Wednesday's brow smooths out as she finally understands. Whether it's instinctive or intentional, Wednesday's tongue darts out to slide over her upper canines as she correctly surmises, “My teeth.”
Enid takes a shuddering breath, but nods. “Yeah. Your teeth.”
Wednesday's scent pitches deeper, almost as pleased as her expression. “Come,” she repeats. “Finish your apple and get dressed for me. We shouldn't delay.”
Enid's not sure she's ever finished eating anything so fast.
Notes:
CONSIDER THIS PROOF OF LIFE LMFAO next chapter will go up sometime this week!!!
Chapter 116: Betray
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Although she would have loved for Wednesday to personally dress her, Enid ultimately decides it was a mercy that Wednesday chose not to press her cold fingers into Enid's overheated skin. The moon may have waned, but she'll be trembling and weak for at least another day, and the elders really shouldn't be subjected to the smell of her slick in close quarters. That isn't likely to help matters, whatever the reason they've been summoned to this stinking house.
Wednesday notices her wrinkled nose and kindly takes her hand as they enter the elders’ keep. It's a nice gesture, Enid admits, but doesn't do much to reassure her. Why else would the elders have summoned them if not to bring down the hammer and permanently boot them from the territory? Not even Aminder could change the tide if this is what the elders have decided. After all the trouble they caused, some fallout was inevitable, but Enid had honestly begun to hope they could return someday and be welcomed.
Instead, their last day in San Francisco is off to a rather grim start.
“Breathe,” Wednesday says quietly, squeezing her hand. “I know you're opposed to an offensive position, but rest assured, we can take this land by force if need be.”
“Thanks, Wednesday. Very reassuring,” Enid scoffs without thinking.
Wednesday comes to a complete stop in the middle of the lobby. She cocks her head, eyes narrowing in Enid's direction like she's replaying the words in her mind and mulling over an appropriate response. When Wednesday's hand twitches in her grasp as if aching to move, Enid is reminded unbidden of that very palm striking the thickest part of her ass and thighs.
So much for not entering the room smelling like slick, Enid internally commiserates. Maybe next time.
Wednesday's lips part, the shadow of her teeth lengthening in the low light of the lanterns as she gears up to reply. Enid braces for whatever response Wednesday feels fit to dole out, but the door creaks open at that moment and Wednesday's mouth clacks shut. Enid jumps like a startled cat at the reminder that there are in fact other people in this building besides the two of them.
“Come, then. Inside,” a grating voice commands, and Enid's heart sinks as she recognizes it. “Quickly, Sinclair.”
Enid's feet remain glued to the floor. Oh, she knows this voice. The mate of a pack leader doesn't lose her influence when her partner dies—the contrary, actually. The widow becomes an elder that very day, even if she's not yet reached an age that portends wisdom.
Most unfortunately for Enid, Mary Flint's political power only increased when her husband died and her eldest son took control of the pack, designating Hugo as next in line to inherit. That woman hated Enid from the moment they crossed paths. Her upper lip seemed stuck in a permanent sneer whenever she smelled Enid coming, and those feelings certainly didn't improve when Enid presented as a rare submissive wolf and the obvious choice for her grandson. If Enid's existence irritated Hugo, it grated on Mary.
Enough time passes that another elder coughs uncomfortably, and still Enid refuses to move. It takes Wednesday gently towing her over the threshold with a look of concern for Enid to cooperate, but she's pretty sure the elders could spot her reluctance from space.
These are the eyes that watched her critically as she passed with mud-stained feet and flowers in her hair, the gazes that found fault with a child who'd been forced to make up her own friends while playing deep in the forest. Theirs are the mouths that agreed with her teachers that she was the problem when Hugo set her up to fail, the hands who condemned the idiot girl to punishment for trying to save the frogs from a grim fate in the biology lab. These are the hearts who sided with her mother when Esther decided to offer Enid up to the Montgomery heir in complete disregard of her existing courtship. These are the community pillars who allowed Pack Leader Flint to raise a monster for a son.
If Enid could dig her heels in and outright refuse to enter, she would. She would never cast her eyes upon them again.
***
Something is wrong with Enid.
Wednesday watches how her expression tightens with every step towards the center of town, how her lip becomes red-bitten and swollen as she chews in her uncertainty, and wonders if she's made a grave mistake including Enid in this meeting. She could have handled the matter of the wood wraith herself, of course, but these are Enid's people. Enid's forest. Wednesday shouldn't be the voice that represents them in these matters.
In truth, the whole Flint pack has had quite enough of Wednesday. It is Enid the elders want to see.
“Come in, then. Inside,” a gnarled old woman commands. Like a fox scenting a rabbit, her gaze grows sharp as she barks, “Quickly, Sinclair.”
Wednesday, already in the process of coaxing Enid through the doorway despite her clear hesitation, resists the urge to hiss in the old bitch's direction. Who is this crone to address her darling Enid in such a manner? Wednesday could turn her bones to matchsticks for the insult.
“Sheath that ugly look, girl,” the old crone warbles at her. “You'll find when you're my age you don't have patience for her loitering.”
“Perhaps it is due to your age that you mistake wisdom for weakness,” Wednesday retorts. “I too would be cautious entering a room with you in it.”
“Wednesday,” Enid softly says, reaching out with her free hand. Her pink nails shine brightly against the pitch of Wednesday's leathers.
Wednesday shifts to slide a slow, steadying hand onto the small of Enid's back, a small anchor of reassurance outside the elders’ view. Enid seems to appreciate it, judging by how she lifts her chin with renewed conviction.
The old crone continues to scowl in Enid's direction. Not even a glance at Wednesday, she notes. Her beady little eyes remain fixated on Enid's face.
“Why did you summon us here?” Enid bravely asks. “Wednesday has only done what every other wolf would have in her place. Her actions don't warrant your intervention. Or your opinion,” she adds as an afterthought. “Just because she's a witch—”
“This meeting wasn't called because of your taste in bedmate, girl,” the old crone interrupts. “We heard news of an eater on the territory. Do you deny it? Leader Clifford!” she barks.
Jordan's father straightens up from where he'd been standing silently out of the way. “My son heard it from Addams herself,” he confirms.
“He did,” Wednesday agrees, “As did every other warrior tending to their furs. A wood wraith is on this territory.”
The elders exchange worrying looks with each other, and Leader Clifford's lips go thin.
“Oh,” Enid says under her breath. Wednesday manages to catch her eye, but cannot quite read the look on her face.
“This changes things,” one elder murmurs, stroking his chin. “We should call a hunt. The new warriors need the experience.”
“And lose a generation of sons when the beast cuts through them like flypaper?” another woman croaks. “We won't. Not again.”
The first elder scowls. “An eater isn't exactly a vampire, Marissa—”
“As good as!” she insists. “We haven't seen such a beast in these woods for decades. Not since the witches warded the church.”
“Maybe witches drew the thing near,” a man interjects, voice accusing. “Girl! Did you summon that beast?”
Enid's hand spasms in hers.
“Did I summon a wood wraith?” Wednesday repeats, voice dry. “No. I am a runewitch, Sir. You could compare me to an accountant being accused of calling down a thunderstorm with a rain dance.”
“Who knows what your kind is capable of,” the old crone sneers. “Eaters are attracted by fear, aren't they? Perhaps your little display in the pits is responsible.”
“Perhaps your pack should have more fortitude,” Wednesday responds. “To think a single match would summon a beast of fear—”
“Not you,” the crone sneers. “Her.”
All eyes turn towards Enid.
Enid's lips part, and really, if she wanted to convince the elders of her innocence, closing her eyes in grim resignation isn't the route Wednesday would have taken.
“See? She doesn't deny it,” the crone sneers. “That girl brought this calamity down upon our heads! We should have casted her out from the start, when we knew what sort of abomination she'd become—”
“You knew I was a witch?” Enid gasps.
Before Wednesday can so much as open her mouth, the old crone shoots up to her feet with surprising speed.
“Of course we knew,” the woman hisses. “Some of us remember when the witches last came through these woods!”
A male elder shoots her a look of consternation and answers, “Healer Nima informed us of your affliction, Sinclair. She found you in the woods, do you remember?”
“N-No,” Enid whispers. “I found her. I was lost.”
“You remember wrong,” the man replies, voice grave.
“You disappeared for days,” the old crone spits. “Who knows what horrors you committed to come back cursed and ruined? She found you creeping through the muck like a rodent, betraying your own kind—”
“Betraying?” Enid repeats, face going white. “I betrayed my kind?”
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes, squeezing her hand.
Enid does not meet her gaze. She remains locked in silent battle with the old crone, whose mask has indisputably fallen, and finally, Wednesday understands. She's seen this strain of hatred in the faces of her public school principals. She'd know it even without the stinging smell of sweat betraying the elders’ fear.
The old crone stares at Enid with the vitriol of a lifetime spent stewing in resentment. She's the right age, Wednesday thinks, to have lost her childhood to the Vampire War. She would have been a girl when she learned to fear the night the vampires came, a child when she was taught to hate all those besides her own people just as all those besides her kin hated her.
No wonder they loathed Enid, Wednesday realizes. If they knew what she was, if this Healer Nima found little Enid as a child practicing magic, the pack would never have viewed her the same.
“Did they all know?” Enid asks. “My mother?”
“Of course not,” the crone sneers. “We would have been ousted by society, breeding witches—”
“Pack Leader Montgomery married a witch, unless I am mistaken,” Wednesday interjects. “You doubt his honor?”
“As long as his son isn't cursed with the same affliction,” a male elder coldly states. “It is no business of ours who he lays with.”
Enid shakes her head silently, jaw working like she's gritting her teeth hard enough to hurt.
“What will you do to rid us of the eater?” another female speaks up. “You've brought this beast upon us. How will you cast it out, Sinclair?”
Enid stares ahead, unseeing. When she shakes her head again, Wednesday decides it is high time that she intervenes.
“By your logic, Enid attracted the wood wraith by fear,” Wednesday pipes up. “Correct?”
The crone straightens up, making a valiant attempt at disguising her quivering lip as indignation rather than panic. “Of course.”
“Oh my God, my fucking anxiety didn't attract an eater,” Enid snaps. “Are you serious?”
The elders blink back at her, nonplussed. Wednesday clears her throat and says, “They don't believe it spawned from your fear. They think your display of power was so frightening that the pack's fear of you created a wood wraith.”
Even if it isn't true, Wednesday could burst with the self-satisfaction of it all. It would be Enid who inspired such fear with the revelation of her true self that a mythical creature was summoned in her wake, Wednesday thinks viciously. She would expect nothing less of her darling, precious girl.
Enid presses her lips together, but does not say another word.
“What will you do to rid us of this calamity?” the crone repeats, forcibly breaking their gaze. “Speak, girl.”
Wednesday shakes her head. “There's nothing to be done.”
“We'd hear it from the Sinclair girl,” the grizzled man interjects. “What does she say?”
Enid doesn't look capable of saying much at all. Honestly, what more can they blame on a single wolf? Wednesday doesn’t even attempt to repress her scoff.
“We both saw the creature,” Wednesday states. “I can answer your questions just as well, Sir.”
“You are not the steward of these woods, little witch,” the crone snaps at her. “We once allied with your kind, Sinclair. We know what you're capable of.”
“Actually, your church was warded by runewitches. My kind, if we're splitting hairs,” Wednesday says.
“We have no business with witches of chance, Sinclair's intended or n-ot,” the crone insists, popping her lips. “We will hear from Sinclair on the threat in the forest. No other!”
Jordan's father raises a pointed eyebrow at her. Wednesday suspects her irritation isn't as wildly obvious to the rest of the elders as it evidently is to him, but forces herself to calm anyway.
Enid raises her face to the light. “What do you want me to say?” she asks plaintively.
The elders exchange looks with each other that set Wednesday's teeth on edge.
“That you will drive it out,” the crone snaps, voice coloring with the first note of real fear. “You're the steward of these woods. It's your duty.”
“You confuse duty with kindness,” Wednesday sneers. “Enid is kind beyond measure to even entertain this madness. You'd send an untrained submissive wolf after a forest monster?”
“She's a witch,” the grizzled elder speaks up. “Healer Nima said so. She'll drive off the eater.”
“She'll drive off,” Wednesday agrees. “In my car. To the airport. As you said yourself, we have no further business in these woods. Handle your own infestation, or are your esteemed warriors just for show?” she sneers.
Wednesday turns and makes to leave, but Enid's hand stops her, as immovable as stone. It is Enid's voice that freezes her in her tracks.
“I'll deal with the eater,” she declares. “Fine. I'll drive it off the territory, on two conditions.”
Wednesday whips around to stare at her, mind already whirling as she tries to figure out Enid's angle.
Enid meets her gaze head-on. “I'll take care of the eater if,” she stresses, “You give our courtship your blessing to mate and name Wednesday a warrior of the pack. Officially.”
Wednesday cannot control her expression then.
Notes:
HELL YEAH i'm writing and posting this on my phone so hopefully the formatting isn't straight ass
(peep chapter 69 for enid's recollection of the encounter with healer nima ;) )
Chapter 117: Conversation
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid's heart is still pounding as she leaves the building with Wednesday in tow, painfully aware of the fact that Wednesday is nearly vibrating beside her.
“You promised a dead mythical creature for a mere uptick in social status?” Wednesday hisses the moment they're outside. “What on earth were you thinking, Enid? A whole hunting party couldn't take on a creature of that size!”
“I didn't say I would kill it,” Enid argues, taken aback. “Just that I would take care of it. The eater's not on the territory anymore, so…there.” She gives a half-shouldered little shrug. “Taken care of.”
If it's possible, Wednesday looks even more aghast. “You…lied to them?” she slowly says.
Enid swallows, glancing off to the side as she toes the ground with her worn-out sneaker. “I mean, it wasn't a total lie. More like a, um, misdirection?” she offers. “And this way, we can come back whenever we want. You're as much a member of the pack as Hugo or Jordan.”
Wednesday stares at her, mouth agape, eyes crazier than Enid's ever seen. “And how, precisely, were you planning to prove you upheld your end of the bargain?” she asks.
“It's a mythical creature,” Enid scoffs, hand landing on her hip in an automatic show of defensiveness. She's starting to feel like she made a grave misstep opening her mouth in front of the elders. “Who's to say an eater doesn't disintegrate as soon as it's defeated?” she continues anyway. “The elders don't know shit about shit, Wednesday, and they want to believe it's gone. If I tell them I did some forest magic and drove it off forever, they'll believe me. I'm, like, pretty sure this will work,” she hedges.
Wednesday’s chest heaves like she's run a far distance.
“Oh.” Enid bites her lower lip. “You don't think so?”
“Am I interrupting something?” Toby interjects, climbing to his feet. He leaves a Toby-shaped imprint in the dirt next to the building. “Uh…guys?”
“Yes,” Wednesday says fervently. Enid nearly topples over when Wednesday surges up against her, groaning into her mouth as Wednesday’s hands twist into her clothing.
“Unbelievable,” Wednesday murmurs, lips hard against Enid's. For one breathless moment, Enid imagines she can feel the shape of Wednesday's canines pressing an indent into her mouth. She wishes Wednesday would bite down. She can feel her pulse in her lips, in her throat.
The warmth of Wednesday's skin seeps through her jacket and Enid's thin shirt, settling somewhere deep in Enid's stomach, and she can’t help the whimper that escapes her. If Enid could press herself closer, she would. If it were at all possible to hold a person closer than skin to skin, Enid might just be willing to try and forsake the laws of physics to feel Wednesday's blood rush against her own.
“All this,” Wednesday breathes, “Just to buy me a place in this pack. Just to earn my welcome. You lied for me. Enid.”
Toby makes a vaguely disgusted noise. “Jesus, what happened in there? Did they declare you free to return at will?”
“Better,” Wednesday declares. She cups the back of Enid's head with a firm hand. “They gave us permission to mate.”
Enid senses more than sees Toby's mouth drop open in shock.
“How the hell did you negotiate that?” he demands. “If we had—even wolf-to-wolf pairings have to conduct a courtship under the elders’ eye. You'd never get approval to mate without being here in person.” He sucks in a sharp breath of realization, words tumbling out of him as he asks, “Are you staying?”
“No,” Wednesday informs him, finally turning in his direction. Her hand remains firm in Enid’s hair. “No need. Enid also negotiated that they declare me a warrior.”
Enid twists around just in time to watch the flash of disappointment in Toby's expression give way for a full-lipped smirk. “Well, now I know you're just fucking with me.”
“It's true,” Wednesday replies, laughter bubbling in her voice. Then lower, meant only for her, Wednesday murmurs, “Clever girl, aren't you?”
Enid's face flushes hot.
“Hey, what do you plan to do with your fur?” Toby asks, hands in his pockets. His expression is carefully neutral as he adds, “‘Cause you're leaving, right? This means you're heading out.”
Wednesday's brow furrows in his direction, but Enid softens at his tone. She can't blame Toby for being disappointed; no one knows better than her how it feels to be the odd wolf out. There was a time when she would have given anything for a real ally. Losing Wednesday, a friend he only just made, must be a tough blow.
“We'll be back,” Enid promises. To Wednesday, she states, “The bear fur needs to be finished here. In the forest.”
Wednesday's eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “Does it now?”
Recognizing that she just issued a command to Wednesday, of all fucking people, Enid amends her previous statement to, “Um, if that's okay?”
Wednesday smiles wide enough to show her teeth. “Of course, Princess,” she hums. “Whatever you want, my darling. You will have it.”
Mercifully, the squeak that Enid accidentally lets slip is almost entirely drowned out by Toby’s honk of laughter. Wednesday's eyes glint with pleasure as she watches her, though. She doesn't miss a thing.
***
They’re already halfway to the Sinclair house when something occurs to Wednesday that has her slowing in the middle of the path. The wind slips between her fingers, raising the hair on her arms, and she automatically reaches for Enid’s hand.
Enid takes her hand with an uneasy expression. “Is something wrong?” she ventures.
Wednesday raises her eyes to peer at Enid, watching how the wind shifts her curls off her shoulders, displaying her collar. Enid lifts her free hand and curls her fingers around the leather, holding tight like she’s reassuring herself it still exists.
“Puppy,” Wednesday quietly says, “It’s okay.”
Enid drops her eyes to the ground. “Is it?” she mutters, chewing on her lower lip.
Wednesday swallows a smile. Where is the confidence that had Enid popping out a hip and mouthing off to her before? So shy now, Wednesday thinks, marveling at how Enid’s cheeks so easily burn with color.
“Uh,” Toby pipes up. “Did I miss something? What’s wrong?”
“That depends,” Wednesday informs him, “On Enid. You see, our deal with the elders hinges upon the condition that she’s driven the wood wraith from this forest.”
Toby’s gaze flicks between them. “Yeah, cool,” he agrees. Then, eyes widening, he adds, “Except—didn’t you guys turn tail and run when you saw that thing?”
“Precisely my point,” Wednesday murmurs. “What will happen when someone else encounters the eater in this forest? Will the elders renege on the agreement when it becomes clear we did not uphold our end of the bargain?”
“No,” Enid blurts, eyes wide. “The eater's not here anymore, Wednesday. We're good. I promise.”
“Yes, but how do you know the wood wraith has left?” Wednesday stresses.
Enid shrugs uncomfortably. Wednesday's chest constricts when she releases Wednesday’s hand to wrap her arms around herself.
“I just know,” Enid maintains.
Wednesday controls her expression, forcing herself to be calm, but internally, her pulse begins to race. Could it be possible that Enid has picked up the complexities of advanced forest magic in a matter of days? It had been years before Morticia could catalogue the inhabitants of Hell Mountain with any accuracy. To sense which creatures plod through her forest using passive magic alone…
“Indeed,” Wednesday murmurs. Working to keep her voice light and unassuming, she comments, “You're beginning to hear the forest constantly, aren't you?”
Enid shifts where she stands, face paling like she’s being accused of a violent crime. Toby nudges her side with some measure of concern, and Enid pastes on a clearly false smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” Wednesday repeats, cocking her head. “Or you know?”
“Hey, it’s not a bad thing, yeah?” Toby tells her. “That’s what my mom’s doing when she meditates. Listening to the woods and all that.”
Enid chews on her lower lip, eyes finding Wednesday’s. At Wednesday’s firm nod of support, she reluctantly admits, “It's just…noise. Like music in the background.”
Toby, thankfully, doesn’t visibly react. “Yeah, cool,” he replies.
“That’s a common practice for accomplished woodwitches,” Wednesday adds.
Enid bristles like she’s been shouted at, then says almost accusingly, “You can hear it too.”
“I can hear the instrumentals,” Wednesday states thoughtfully. “But not the meaning. Never the words.”
“Same for me,” Toby comments, hands in his pockets. “We should start studying forest magic, eh, Wednesday?”
“Perhaps we should,” Wednesday agrees, keeping a careful eye on Enid’s face.
Enid's gaze still volleys between them like a skittish animal, her shoulders hiked up like she expects them to react poorly to the realization that a daughter of the forest can, in fact, hear the very forest she protects, but Toby maintains an impressive show of unbotheredness, and Enid eventually relaxes her stance.
If it weren't for the pointed look Toby aims in her direction where Enid cannot see, Wednesday might have believed he never even noticed Enid's distress. Whatever damage was done to her here, it will be a long while before Enid is comfortable discussing her magic with any honesty.
“What if it comes back?” Toby wonders aloud.
“I'll say it's a different one?” Enid proposes. “There's got to be more than one eater wandering around, right? Plus, how will they know? The elders haven't even seen it.”
Wednesday feels her mouth go dry. For all that Enid can ward off suspicion with those wide blue eyes and guileless expression, her precious girl has something of a manipulative streak. Just when Wednesday thought she couldn’t possibly be more attractive, Enid manages to prove her wrong.
“I fear I've been a bad influence on you, Puppy.”
Enid’s eyes widen. Her nostrils flare, undoubtedly inhaling some unknown change in Wednesday’s scent, and then she nearly shouts, “Let's turn around and tell them I cast it off the land!”
At Wednesday’s raised eyebrow and Toby’s snort of amusement, Enid blushes and adds, at a more reasonable volume, “T-The sooner, the better, right?”
“You're a menace,” Wednesday tells her, chest warming. “But indeed, let’s. We have business to attend to on the plane in any case.”
“Oh. What kind of business?” Enid asks, holding Wednesday’s hand between both of her own as they set off down the path.
Behind them, Toby snickers.
Wednesday chooses to ignore him, squeezing Enid’s palm. “The matter of your reward,” she plainly responds.
Toby gags out loud, then pivots on one heel and shouts, “‘Kay, see you guys later!”
Enid doesn’t bother muffling her giggle. When she smiles at Wednesday, it’s full and untempered, the sort of bright-eyed expression that used to haunt Wednesday’s sleep. Now, when she lies awake and thinks of Enid, it’s of the softness of her skin and the cadence of her breathing while she dreams.
“Wait, Toby,” Wednesday calls after him.
When Toby turns around, it’s with a put-upon expression. “Dude. Don’t subject me to this,” he complains.
“I would never,” she responds, electing to ignore how he rolls his eyes. “I merely wanted to ask if you would accompany Enid back to the elders’ house and stand with her while she speaks to them.”
“What?” Enid blurts, clutching her hand tighter. “Why aren’t you coming? This isn’t—you’re not up to something, right? Right, Wednesday?”
Wednesday’s answering smile apparently fails to reassure her. “Nothing that concerns you, Puppy,” she says. “I merely wish to pack our things. Better to expedite the chores so we can relish our goodbyes, agreed?”
Enid’s eyes narrow like she suspects Wednesday is up to no good, but upon finding no clues in her expression, she reluctantly releases her hand.
“Okay,” Enid agrees, lips pursing. “You’re not about to do something awful, right?”
“Of course not,” Wednesday retorts. It’s not even a lie; just because something is necessary doesn’t automatically equate it with awful. She simply will not leave the territory before speaking with Enid’s mother.
It’s about time they had an honest conversation, witch to wolf, one manipulator to another.
Notes:
i'm gonna miss toby so much :')
Chapter 118: Departure
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Returning to the Sinclair house is a quiet affair. Wednesday has marched to battle a number of times, but never in such eerie silence.
The trees remain subdued as Wednesday ventures forth with a single, concentrated purpose: to settle the matter of Enid’s liberation from her former warden once and for all. Better to head the sickness off at the source than deal with Esther’s hounding for the rest of their summer, Wednesday figures.
After Wednesday’s courteous knock at the front door goes unanswered, she follows the smell of melting sugar and spices to the back door, which is propped open so that only the screen protects the Sinclair home from the elements. Confidence, Wednesday wonders, or ego? Any wolf could saunter right in with this feeble defense.
“Madame Sinclair,” Wednesday calls through the screen, well aware the woman has already smelled her approach. “May I come in?”
Esther does not turn from where she stands stirring at the stovetop. “Where is my daughter, Wednesday?”
“That is precisely what I came to discuss with you,” Wednesday replies, shifting her weight. It’s a weak attempt at humiliation, all things considered; Wednesday’s endured worse than being made to stand outside like a door salesman. “Shall we take this conversation somewhere private?”
Esther sighs under her breath, but languidly raises a hand as though doing a great favor by gesturing for Wednesday to enter. The kitchen smells so warm and familiar, ripe with melting sugar and cloves, that Wednesday can almost imagine this place as a home where a person might feel welcome. Almost, she thinks a bit viciously.
“Excuse me,” Wednesday says. “I will be back shortly.”
Esther doesn’t bother to turn around.
Wednesday makes quick work of packing their belongings, and when she’s finished, she picks her way as quietly as possible down the stairs to place the bags on the front porch, aware that she may need to beat a quick exit out the back after this conversation. Once their things are secure, she finds her way to the kitchen.
“Would you like some tea?” Wednesday asks when it becomes clear Esther isn’t going to offer.
Esther’s back stiffens. “No, dear,” she answers, voice bright. “Why don’t you just cut to the chase?”
So be it, Wednesday thinks, ignoring her discomfort and taking a seat at the table uninvited.
“I’m afraid we’re leaving today,” Wednesday announces without preamble.
This does cause Esther to look back at her. “I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize to me,” Wednesday tells her. “You see, we have been granted formal permission by the elders to mate. Rest assured that we'll have no further business here for some time.”
“And you don’t plan to return,” Esther finishes, that wide-eyed manufactured expression she wears in front of visitors dropping for a split second into something decidedly more canny.
“Yes,” Wednesday agrees. “You'll have more than enough time to come to terms with your disappointment.”
Esther’s mouth twitches towards a scowl as she lays down her whisk. “Disappointment?” she repeats.
Wednesday frowns. “You wished me dead,” she points out, a bit unnecessarily in her opinion.
“The opposite, dear,” Esther simpers. Her eyes remain hard even as she leans languidly against the countertop, resting her weight on her hands. Her stance is wide and unbothered. Confident. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
Wednesday tries not to bristle as she asks, “What on earth makes you say that?”
Esther gives her a wide smile that only quivers at the very edges. “Why, we must have misunderstood each other, Wednesday.”
“No,” Wednesday retorts. “You understood me perfectly. As long as I live, Enid will never be under your control again, and I warn you—we Addams are difficult to kill.”
Esther's smile drops away. Her knuckles grow white where she clutches the countertop and she spits, “You think it's that easy, little girl? That you've won, just like that?”
Wednesday grits her teeth. At last, she thinks, we get to the root of it. “Your daughter's happiness is not a game. Not to me.”
“You smug little bitch,” Esther hisses, slapping the cupboard behind her right hand with an ease that has Wednesday’s heart pitching into her stomach. The realization that Enid grew up in a home where her mother’s anger drove her hands as readily as her words is physically nauseating to a person raised by Gomez and Morticia Addams, who believe in navigating conflict with mediation and, if necessary, a formal duel with honor. A child should never be subjected to such blatant loss of control from a parent. “So superior, aren't you? With your disgusting perversions—”
“Maybe so,” Wednesday acknowledges, fighting to keep her voice level. “I wouldn't expect you to understand me, but I assure you, Madame—I understand you.”
Esther laughs out loud, full-bodied. She pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “What would you know about being a wolf? Leading a family? You're a child,” she dismisses.
"Young though I may be, I understand that you must feel in control of everything in order to function," Wednesday states. "I do.”
And oh, she does. In some ways, she knows Esther better than Enid because this depravity—exerting your authoritarianism over others to manage your own anxiety—could have been Wednesday in another life. If she hadn’t found better ways to soothe her ills, she could have ended up as terrible a partner and parent as Enid’s mother.
“But you cannot manipulate Enid like a doll,” Wednesday continues, voice raising. “She is a person.” And more than that, “A witch.”
“She should never have known,” Esther says, nearly shaking in her rage. “You’ve ruined her, do you know that?”
“Aren’t you embarrassed, seeing your own child as a rival?” Wednesday retorts. “Does it rankle, knowing that it was truly inevitable Enid would become greater than you?”
Esther’s face grows white. “You sick little fiend.”
“My condolences,” Wednesday sneers, climbing to her feet. “And I do mean that, Madame. You see, there will come a day when you think you're over the disappointment and resentment you feel towards her now, and you will try to make amends."
Esther scoffs, rolling her eyes in an expression so reminiscent of Enid, it hurts.
Wednesday straightens to her full height. "I came here to warn you that you will not succeed. There will be no reconciliation. Yours will not be a name our children recognize.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren't you, Wednesday?” Esther sneers, eyes glinting. “You don't know my daughter.”
Wednesday doesn't dignify that last barb with a response. Instead, she tips her head in Esther's direction and says, “Enjoy your righteous anger, Madame Sinclair. It is much preferable to regret."
The screen door slams shut behind her.
Wednesday tries not to stomp through the woods, achingly aware that this is Enid’s beloved forest and every twig and branch underfoot has special importance to her, but she’s one step short of the edge. The bags she’d collected off the front porch bounce against her back with every furious stride. How Esther can look her in the eye and say such despicable things about her daughter, her own precious child, is utterly beyond Wednesday’s capacity to understand.
Every child born to the Addams family is a blessing. She would never deny a child of her own, wolf or witch or otherwise. For as long as Wednesday can remember, her family has celebrated the birth of even the most far-off cousin, traveling all over the world to attend their christenings and hear the name of the newest Addams family member.
There was no one to celebrate Enid’s naming, Wednesday thinks, a cold pit forming in her stomach. No one but the trees and roots beneath her feet.
As if by fate, Wednesday catches sight of Enid descending the steps of the elders’ house just as she enters the square. The sunlight reflects off her curls, so pale and bright, as silver as the sky and warm as candlelight. Beautiful, Wednesday thinks, beelining toward her. Her Enid is always as lovely as the dawn.
The thought of little Enid, cold and alone, curls plastered to her forehead with rainwater while she cried and cried until the forest saw fit to take this lost, unwanted child for its own is enough to make Wednesday’s stomach feel ragged.
“Woah,” Toby says on her approach. “You don’t smell so good.”
“Wednesday?” Enid gasps, already reaching for her with a look of intense concern.
Wednesday buries her face in Enid’s neck, breathing hard as she clutches Enid to her chest.
“Wednesday,” Enid repeats, voice trembling, “What’s wrong?”
Wednesday can only breathe.
***
Enid’s hands end up on Wednesday’s shoulders, patting her gently in an effort to calm her down while exchanging anxious eyes with Toby over her shoulder.
“Wednesday,” Enid breathes, curling around her. “It’s okay. Whatever happened, it’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”
The dubious look Toby sends her tells Enid she’s not doing as good of a job at being comforting as Wednesday would be, but Enid thinks she’s doing passably well. Wednesday’s not crying, at least, which is more than Enid usually can say. She sticks her tongue out in Toby’s direction.
Toby rolls his eyes. “What happened, Wednesday?”
Wednesday pulls away with what looks like some reluctance, keeping both hands clasped behind Enid’s waist. “Just a chat with Enid’s mother.”
Enid jerks back, but Wednesday’s grip prevents her from going far. “You did what?”
“I’ve handled it,” Wednesday tells her, eyes dark. Her expression is serious. “Do you trust me, Puppy?”
Enid sucks in a quick breath. “Always,” she replies, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to answer.
Wednesday gives a sharp little nod. “Then we’ll speak of it another time.”
After a moment of hesitation, Enid nods her agreement. “Okay, Wednesday. Okay.”
“Guess that’s the end of it?” Toby cuts in, crossing his arms. If Enid couldn’t smell his melancholy, she’d think him truly teasing. “You’re leaving now?”
It occurs to Enid that Wednesday has both of their bags slung over her shoulders. “We’re leaving right now?” she asks, surprised.
“Right now,” Wednesday confirms. “I’ve called the car. Leader Clifford has been informed. All that’s left is—ah, Aminder.”
Enid twists around, adjusting in Wednesday’s grip so that Wednesday’s hands slip down to her lower stomach. Something about this touch in particular is—well, three days earlier, it might have sent Enid to her knees, but now that the moon is waning, the thought of getting bred is the furthest thing from her mind. Mostly.
“Aminder?” Enid asks, and sure enough, the woman has materialized out of the treeline.
Toby’s brow furrows. “Mom?” he calls out. Then, out of the corner of his mouth and aimed only at them, “How on fucking earth did she know?”
“I had an inkling, son,” Aminder answers at full volume, coming to a stop before them. Her hair has been piled artfully atop her head. “The sun rose today over a forest in mourning. I guessed this feeling of loss meant its true daughter may be leaving.”
Enid flushes, but in truth, she’d felt it too. She’d been feeling it all day, how every leaf and branch seemed to touch her hair and skin with the same tenderness a grandparent might have with their grandchild.
“Is it too much to hope you guys have social media?” Toby asks a bit wistfully.
“Are you kidding?” Enid scoffs. “I’m on everything. Give me your phone.”
While she’s busy adding herself on every app she can think of, Wednesday adjusts their position to face Toby by hooking her chin over Enid’s shoulder.
“You’re going to receive an invitation from me to visit,” Wednesday informs him. “I hope you’ll consider it.”
Toby’s eyebrows raise. “To New Jersey? Where your family lives, Wednesday?”
“That is correct,” she replies. Her brow furrows a little at his tone. “Will you come?”
“Yeah, ‘course I will,” Toby sighs. “You…yes. I’ll be there.”
Enid has to raise Toby’s phone in front of her face to hide her smile. Wednesday might not recognize the significance, but to invite Toby into her territory, into the inner confines of her family home, her land—it’s not the sort of invitation you’d extend to a mere ally. Who would have thought that Wednesday would have such a knack for making friends with wolves? Enid’s a little choked up just thinking about it.
“You plan on giving that back, Shark?” Toby holds out a hand. His voice nearly sounds casual, but Enid can tell from his scent alone that his chest must be full to bursting. So much love, she thinks, in a place where she never thought she’d so much as make a friend. It’s a bona fide fucking miracle.
“My dear girl,” Aminder interrupts her reverie, bangles clinking as she raises a hand to smooth down Enid’s hair. Wednesday finally deigns to release her as Aminder maneuvers them to give the illusion of privacy, but Enid can still feel eyes on her back.
“Will I see you again?” Enid asks Aminder, hands twisting in the hem of her t-shirt.
“Of course, sister,” Aminder responds, catching her hand. She gives her a little squeeze. “We’ll meet again.”
“Can I walk you guys back to the border?” Toby asks, tucking his phone back into his pocket.
“Obviously,” Wednesday responds. “We have the particulars of your visit to discuss.”
The walk to the edge of the territory passes as slow as molasses and as quickly as the space between two heartbeats. Enid spends most of the time idly wondering if she might have been a different person if she’d had a friend like Toby growing up in this pack. If she’d had someone to run to when she came home from school, if she could have breathlessly told him, “I met a girl,” would he have gone just as wide-eyed with wonder at the idea of Wednesday Addams existing in the flesh? It seems possible. Toby cares deeply about his friends—of that much, she is certain.
Loss was a good way of putting it, Enid decides. Leaving this forest and its inhabitants will feel like loss.
“There he is,” Toby announces. “Your creepy Uber driver.”
Wednesday hikes the bags higher on her shoulders. “I’ll be in the car. You’ll be available to make flight arrangements next week?”
“Yeah, I’ll wait for your call,” Toby confirms. “See you soon, Wednesday.”
She gives him a firm nod, which is about as sentimental a goodbye as it gets from Wednesday Addams. Enid can’t help but smile as she watches Wednesday pivot on her heel and stride to the car without another word.
“You gonna be okay here?” Enid asks quietly. “I’m sorry for all the shit I caused you. Not just the pits, and the hunt, and just generally being around us—I’m sorry about our courtship, too.”
Toby gives her perhaps the warmest smile she’s ever seen on his face. “See you soon, Shark,” he tells her, pulling her into a one-armed hug.
Enid squeezes him back twice as tightly, wrapping both arms around his stomach. “See you soon,” she mumbles into his t-shirt, rolling her eyes when he musses her hair.
Enid’s trek to the car is a solitary one. She’s grateful to climb into the dark interior, to lean into Wednesday and breathe in her scent. Wednesday remains quiet even as she buckles Enid into place, twining their fingers together. Enid watches for a few moments, but turns away before Toby’s figure in the rear window, growing smaller and smaller, disappears in the trees. Wednesday watches until well after he must have left her line of sight.
A life without Wednesday would have been cold and colorless, Enid thinks, but if Wednesday had never maltreated those poor piranhas and got herself shipped off to Nevermore, if they never crossed paths at all, her cold and colorless life with Toby at least would have had friendship.
“To the airport?” Enid asks quietly.
“The airport,” Wednesday confirms, squeezing her hand.
They arrive in record time, unloading their meager luggage and finding their seats. Enid chooses a pair of leather seats in the back of the plane this time, too emotionally exhausted to bother with sitting close to the pilot. She lifts the seat divider and sprawls out on her back, lifting her phone above her face as she allows her foot to dangle in the aisle.
To her surprise, she feels a hand on her thigh, and then Wednesday has scooped up her feet and sat down in the very seat her legs previously occupied. She smoothes a hand over Enid’s knee, soft and calming, and Enid goes back to scrolling through her social media. She doesn’t realize she’s humming under her breath until Wednesday makes a little noise and taps her leg.
“It's been a long while since I've heard you singing hymns,” she comments, lips curling up. The lights overhead dim as the plane taxis, casting interesting shadows over the planes of her face. “Are you feeling particularly religious, leaving the woods?”
“No,” Enid responds with a little sigh. “More…I don't know. Nostalgic?” It's not quite the word, but Enid's not sure how else to describe the feeling in her chest.
Wednesday hums an acknowledgment. “This forest will always welcome you home.”
Enid cannot help but smile at that. “Should I be nervous about meeting your family, Wednesday?”
Wednesday aims a confused look at her. “They've already met you.”
“Not like this,” Enid replies, swallowing hard. “Not as yours.”
Wednesday pauses in her petting, cocking her head. “You see them as adversaries, then? I don’t blame you, but you have nothing to fear. I wouldn’t allow them to speak a single word against you, no matter the circumstance.”
Enid’s not even sure where to begin unraveling that statement, but what catches her attention and thus comes out of her mouth is— “I wouldn't expect you to take my side against your own family,” she says, taken aback by the very idea.
She of all people knows how close Wednesday is to her family. The Addams are such an impenetrable fortress, the only real quarrels they face come from within their own borders.
“I will always take your side,” Wednesday replies without a split second of hesitation, like it’s nothing. “Even against family.”
“Your family?” Enid repeats, skeptical.
Wednesday slants her a look. “Even when you're in the wrong. I care more for your feelings than for who is in the right, Enid. Know that I will always shield your back as if it were my own, no matter the conflict.”
Enid struggles to swallow. “Even when I'm wrong?” she whispers.
Wednesday reaches down to push a lock of hair off her forehead, fingertips lingering on the swell of Enid's cheek. “You could be positively dead wrong, and I would still tear apart the world to punish whoever dared to make my darling girl cry. I could not care less who is right. I stand with you.”
Enid inhales, chest rising, and then decides this would probably be a conversation better had sitting up. In the process of sitting up, however, she seems to have misjudged how closely Wednesday was leaning down toward her because her mouth ends up brushing Wednesday’s collarbone, and then Wednesday’s hovering over her, holding her breath.
Enid pauses. She can hear Wednesday’s heartbeat jack-rabbiting in her chest, and something deep within her, something that still resides in that forest, raises its head and listens. Before she knows it, she’s listing forward and pressing her lips to Wednesday’s collarbone, then lower, over her heart. Her fingernails dig indents into Wednesday’s ribs.
Wednesday makes a strangled noise, hand squeaking against the leather where she props herself up, and Enid takes the opportunity to pull down the neck of Wednesday’s shirt to expose the top of her breast. Before she can get more than a single touch of her lips in, Wednesday’s shooting backward, pressing herself to the seat and breathing hard like a person scandalized to find herself halfway to topless on an airplane.
“What’s this?” Wednesday asks, cocking her head. “Did you want something?”
Enid nods her head, lifting herself up onto her elbows. Her own shirt has ridden up around her ribs, exposing her stomach, and she can see how Wednesday’s eyes keep straying to her bare skin.
After a moment of contemplation, Enid spreads her knees apart. Wednesday’s eyes drop to her legs, nearly a physical touch as she follows the line of Enid’s thighs up to her cotton shorts.
“You want something, Puppy?” Wednesday murmurs. “So do I.”
Enid swallows. She would be content with this, just softly mouthing at each other, sucking bruises into their skin until it’s impossible for bystanders not to know how they spent this flight, but Enid’s willing to be flexible.
“What do you want, Wednesday?” she asks.
“I would like to initiate one of the items we spoke about.”
Enid can feel her eyes widening. “Which, um, item?”
“Inspection,” Wednesday replies, rolling up onto her knees. Her eyes drop to Enid's stomach. “Pull down your shorts.”
Notes:
esther: i'm sorry?
wednesday: no need to apologize to me, ladyupdate 1/19: well, the author's curse finally got me. my house burned down lmfao. i made it out but everything is gone so i'll let you guys know when i can next update!
update 1/26: guys, thank you so much for your comments. i'd made that last update^^from the ambulance when i was still in shock i think.
anyway, your words are such a comfort for me during what is no doubt the most traumatic experience of my life. my roommate and i escaped the fire, but it turns out we were the only ones to make it out. so - thank you. thank you for reading, thank you for commenting, thank you for your comfort. love u.
EDIT 2/25: i am back to writing! and i do think it's spooky i posted a chapter titled departure right before the reaper paid me a visit! anyways see you soon! i hope <3
Chapter 119: Sugar
Chapter Text
After days on the Flint pack territory, Wednesday can conclusively say she’s got a grasp of common scents among wolves. Floral scents are typical, wood scents are unremarkable.
No one smells like her wolf. No one smells like her Enid.
Because Enid smells like hands sticky with sugar-spun spiderwebs on the streets of Honshu, summer sunshine fading into night. She smells like the fireworks festivals of Wednesday’s childhood. She smells like the sweetest candy, burning and bright.
Wednesday’s vision narrows to the sugared slope of Enid’s thighs, and she isn’t a wolf, but she swears she can hear it. Enid’s heart, rabbit-quick, a pulsing cadence she can keep in her fingertips.
“Won’t the pilot see us?” Enid squeaks, eyes wide and fearful but wanting. Always wanting.
Wednesday understands that the most.
“From the front of the plane?” Wednesday retorts. “I daresay he’s distracted with other matters at present.” As is she. Enid’s shorts have gone dark at the gusset, already wet with her slick.
Enid’s teeth dig marks into her lower lip, her knuckles going white around the armrests. “I’ll be naked, Wednesday,” she whispers, eyes squeezing shut.
“That’s rather the point.”
Enid casts her gaze around wildly, skin flushing pink. “It’s, um, hot. In here. I’m too hot.”
Which makes very little sense at all, considering she’s being asked to undress, not don a jacket. Nevertheless, Wednesday ducks her head to kiss the inside of her knee. “I would never let a good witch burn,” she murmurs.
Those pretty lips pop open. “Fuck.”
Wednesday presses another kiss into her knee, this one edged with the indent of her teeth.
Enid sucks in a sharp breath, then nods. “Okay.”
“Yes?” Wednesday confirms.
“Yes,” Enid says, voice hitching, and she nearly kicks Wednesday in the ribs in her hurry to scoot out of her shorts and underwear. Wednesday catches her foot, squeezing her tightly.
“Slow,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like she’s running. Her eyes are so bright as to nearly be reflective, catching the light of the setting sun.
Beautiful, Wednesday thinks.
“My puppy,” she says aloud. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes, Wednesday,” Enid agrees, eyes wide. “I am. M’Yours.”
“You are,” Wednesday tells her, and means it.
***
Enid’s feet end up perched on the armrests, leaving her completely spread open. It’s a little unfair considering Wednesday’s kneeling in front of her fully clothed, but Enid would rather carve her ribs out with a serving spoon than protest. Finally, she thinks. Finally.
“How do you feel?” Wednesday asks her, eyes narrowed like she already knows.
“Naked,” Enid breathes, even though her torso is fully covered. “I’m…” She wiggles on the seat, caught somewhere between excitement and embarrassment. Some wicked part of her has always coveted the feeling of having Wednesday’s eyes on her, but this, in the daylight, feels like she’s reached down into her chest and opened all the soft, vulnerable parts of herself up for inspection.
Of course, her fussing draws even more attention to her pussy, if such a thing were possible, and Wednesday’s lips thin as she contemplates the sight. Wednesday looks as though she’s struggling to keep her heading through a storm. She looks like Eve faced with an apple that’s already suffered a bite.
“You’re wet,” Enid blurts, surprised even as her nose twitches.
Wednesday’s eyes flick up to her face. “So are you,” she replies, unabashed.
Enid’s ears feel hot. “Yeah.”
Wednesday hovers over her, eyes big and dark. There’s something heady about this position that gets under Enid’s skin in a way that being on her back or knees does not. Maybe it’s just Wednesday kneeling for her, shielding her, an embrace that protects her and exposes her in equal measure.
“Why do you like me like this?” Enid asks, voice breathless.
Wednesday’s eyes drag up to her face. “Because I want to see you.”
Enid shivers, full-bodied. “See me?” She bites her lip. “Like this?”
Wednesday’s eyes flick down between her legs. “Just like this.”
Enid would hide in her hands or her shirt if she thought for a single second that Wednesday would allow it. Instead, she endures. Allows Wednesday to look at her.
“Spread yourself open,” Wednesday says quietly. “With your fingers.”
Enid reaches down with one unsteady hand and obeys, cheeks flushing at how her fingers struggle to find purchase through the mess of her slick.
Wednesday’s pupils are so wide, they’ve swallowed her gaze. “Touch yourself.”
Enid is inevitably brought back to the heat they shared, to rutting against her own hand in Wednesday’s lap when they were nothing more than roommates. If someone had told her she’d be half-naked on Wednesday’s private jet, spreading her pussy on command so soon after, she would have laughed in their face.
Enid’s back arches involuntarily when her fingers slide farther down and she turns her face to the plane window, hoping Wednesday attributes the heat in her cheeks to the setting sun. There’s a soft touch on her jaw before she’s being led back to face forward.
“Don’t hide from me,” Wednesday says, voice quiet.
Enid’s fingers curl harder, but it’s not the same as when Wednesday does it. “Fuck,” she hisses in frustration, rucking her hips down against the seat. One of her feet slips off the armrest and she nearly loses her balance.
It isn’t until Enid’s near tears, eyes squeezing tight, that Wednesday makes a little noise and says, “There you are,” before ducking down to attach her mouth to Enid’s pussy.
Enid has to clap her clean palm over her lips to keep from shrieking out loud. Wednesday’s hand lashes out and snatches her by the wrist, firmly planting her hand back on the neighboring seat.
Their fingers lace together, sweaty and tight.
Wednesday sucks at her, hard, and Enid slaps the other seat with her dirty hand. “Wednesday, fuck,” she sobs.
“What is it, Puppy?” Wednesday asks. “Talk to me.”
Enid can only whimper, shaking her head back and forth in a desperate bid to take the edge off the heat rising in her throat.
“It’s alright,” Wednesday tells her. “It’s alright to come. You can come whenever you want today. Go ahead.”
For once in her life, that isn’t the problem. “Wednesday, I might…um, take longer,” Enid admits, feeling like she’s disclosing a major fault even as she pants aloud. “It’s harder for me right now.”
Wednesday cocks her head, brows furrowing with concern. “Why is that?”
“Cause the moon is waning,” Enid reports, swallowing hard. “So I’m not as horny.”
Wednesday raises a pointed eyebrow at the situation between her thighs. “You’re making a mess on the leather.”
“Well, I’m not supposed to be as horny,” Enid argues, flustered. “It’s the wrong time in my cycle. It's super easy to come on the full moon, or like, in heat, but I’m not going to be as easy to get off now.” Supposedly, she adds internally. Maybe Wednesday’s near-supernatural talent with her fingers and mouth will prove the exception.
Wednesday’s eyes widen for a split second, genuine shock splintering her controlled expression, but she seems to set whatever revelation she’s had aside because she simply says, “It is immaterial to me whether you come easily or at all, Puppy. As long as you enjoy it.”
“I—what?” Enid croaks.
Wednesday maintains eye contact. “May I continue?”
Enid resists the urge to lay an embarrassed hand over her face. “You still want to?” she warbles in response.
“You act like eating you out is a hardship,” Wednesday drawls, “Or, if you're really looking to offend me, a chore.”
The hand does find Enid’s face then. “I just don't want you to be disappointed,” she mumbles through her fingers.
“Never,” Wednesday vows. “Now, spread your knees for me. Wider.”
When Enid takes too long, Wednesday jerks Enid’s thigh over her shoulder, then the other, until Enid’s ass has nearly left the seat.
“Better,” Wednesday exhales, breath fanning over Enid’s pussy. “You smell so sweet, Puppy. Like sugar. How can you call this a hardship? You insult me.”
Enid muffles a groan, biting down on her own hand hard enough to sting. After the turmoil of the last few days, hearing this one, small compliment feels like a bucket of warm water poured atop her head, starting at the tips of her ears and steaming all the way down to her toes. Her scent was such a source of sensitivity when she lived in San Francisco. She was never good enough, then. Not for her mother or pack members or anyone. Not even herself, if she’s honest.
But here, with Wednesday—she can be good for her. Maybe not enough. But good.
“I’m, um,” Enid stutters, “My hands. Where do I put them, Wednesday?”
Wednesday glances up, eyes narrowing, then declares, “Keep them on the armrests.”
That only lasts as long as it takes for Enid’s nails to extend and risk the integrity of the leather. Both armrests shriek in protest as the material groans beneath her grip.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps. “I’m going to hurt the seats.”
Wednesday reluctantly comes up for air and casts an unimpressed gaze at Enid’s hands.
“Do you want to be restrained?”
Enid moans out loud, broken and debased and entirely uninhibited, and Wednesday’s eyes widen as they stare at each other, equally surprised.
“Alright,” Wednesday says, breathless. “Hands.”
It’s a matter of minutes to tie down both of Enid’s wrists using the seatbelt on either side of her. Once she’s secured, Wednesday pauses, eyes on Enid’s twitching fingers.
“Do you need something in your mouth?” Wednesday asks her, expression serious.
Enid sucks a breath in through her teeth. “Yes,” she decides. “Need it, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s eyes flutter shut for a brief second, but when they reopen, she doesn’t seem affected. Not like Enid is, panting and swallowing her own saliva like an animal.
“Do you remember how to give your safeword nonverbally?”
Enid nods, chin digging into her chest.
“Tell me,” Wednesday coaxes her. “I want to hear you.”
“Snap twice to safeword,” Enid parrots. “I remember.”
Wednesday pets her bare knee like she would a dog, soothing her as much as mocking her. “Good girl,” she croons.
Enid’s thighs twitch when Wednesday pulls her belt free with a snick, offering the leather up to her with both hands.
“Bite.”
Enid does, canines finding purchase on leather that smells an awful lot like the warm spot on the lowest part of Wednesday’s stomach, and it should be disgusting. It should.
“You like this,” Wednesday says.
Enid doesn’t nod. She doesn’t have to. She’s sopping wet, slick dripping down to her ass, and Wednesday leans back for a full view so shamelessly that Enid’s hips kick forward.
“Oh, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs.
She waits for Enid to start trembling, for the first droplet of her slick to splatter the leather seat beneath her and Enid’s knees to snap together in embarrassment, and then she’s on her.
Notes:
they couldn't burn the witch. i'm back!
also i am quitting my job shortly and will be writing full time for the whole summer. so there is that. surprise!!!
Chapter 120: Throat
Notes:
kink warnings: choking, fingering, riding, gagging, restraints, general bondage, references to pet play, praise
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid visited the ocean exactly one time in her Nevermore career.
They’d all piled into Yoko’s ridiculous murdered-out Tahoe and driven down to the shore for the weekend, intent on lounging by the boardwalk and gorging on pizza for as long as they could all stand the heat. Even though it was early September, the ocean had been just warm enough to swim in, and Enid had gotten horribly sunburned after ignoring Wednesday and Eugene’s warnings to wear sunblock. As a consequence, she had spent the entire drive back from Seaside sprawled across Yoko’s lap in an aloe-smeared haze of misery.
The days following a full moon typically feel like that.
No matter the hour, her skin tends to itch like a half-healed sunburn when the air so much as kisses it—unless Wednesday happens to be making contact with her. The moment they touch, Enid feels fuzzy and warm, stomach swooping like she’s jumping waves at the shore in her pink bikini while Wednesday watches sharp-eyed from the sand.
Wednesday shoves her back into her seat, palms tight on her shoulders. She looks wild, braids coming unraveled, but her hands are steady. Always sure.
Slowly, telegraphing her movement, Wednesday raises her hand with her palm wide open.
Enid doesn’t protest as it nears her neck.
She wouldn’t protest, not ever, even though Wednesday shows some teeth as she wraps her hand around Enid’s throat.
Wednesday’s smile widens. It’s an unkind sort of look, sharp and out to hurt, and Enid shudders at the feel of it. The feel of her. Her skin continues to burn.
Wednesday watches her, looking for cracks, for breaks, for a weakness she can exploit and dig in with all ten perfect, pointed nails. Enid stares back at her, unblinking. Not a chance in hell she'll safeword when Wednesday's finally indulging one of her most shameful kinks, allowing a human to pin her by the neck.
She imagines she must look terrible with her messy hair and wild eyes. Trembling like some half-eaten thing.
But then again, Wednesday’s seen worse.
“Lift your chin,” Wednesday instructs. “Higher.”
Enid does as ordered, swallowing hard as she shows her throat to what is, for all intents and purposes, a predator. She takes a slow, bracing breath and relaxes into Wednesday’s hold.
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs. She sounds remarkably composed for how fast her heart is beating. “You’re doing so well. Breathe in.”
Enid inhales.
“Fighting your nature takes a toll,” Wednesday tells her, stroking the side of her neck. “I know. But it’s not acceptable. Do you know why, Enid?”
Enid hesitates. She shakes her head.
Wednesday leans in, fingers flexing around her throat just enough that Enid feels the pressure.
“Because then you’ll have less fight left for me,” Wednesday says, voice low.
Wednesday’s free hand instantly finds Enid’s hip, as if she’s trying to hold her there, as if she thinks Enid might turn away. Like she thinks Enid will cut and run.
Her eyes remain firmly on Enid's hands. She fully expects her to safeword, Enid realizes. This moment, when she has to confront something uncomfortable about herself, her nature, is always the point when Enid flees.
Instead, Enid slaps both hands flat on the armrests and moans defiantly around the belt.
Anyone with ears would hear her wordless begging for what it is. Enid couldn’t keep quiet if she wanted to, little sounds eeking out of her around the leather still stuffed into her mouth. Wednesday watches her with a face full of greed, eyes wide and dark.
“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” Wednesday says. “I know you fucking will.”
Enid frantically nods, tucking her chin in an effort to trap Wednesday’s hand against her throat. As if such a thing were even possible. As if she could keep Wednesday’s hand locked around her neck like a permanent collar, day and night.
Wednesday’s palm flexes on her throat, not quite squeezing, but there. Hard and held. Just at the point of giving, like an apple beginning to bruise.
“We're going to work on it. You fighting your instincts, I mean. Right now, I’m going to eat you out,” Wednesday tells her. Her hand flexes around Enid’s throat again. “You stay where I put you.”
After a moment, Enid nods. It's a loss, having Wednesday's hand leave her throat, but then Wednesday's mouth is on her pussy, so she figures she'll survive.
Enid tries to stay in place, she really does, but it’s a losing battle from the start. Wednesday had to have known that when she set this task. She had to have known Enid would fail.
The exhilaration of wondering, even just for a second, if Wednesday set her up to take a punishment has Enid clenching around nothing, aching to come despite all her protests that it won't be possible. It’s not that Enid wants to be bad. She just wonders if being punished will make her feel less like she deserves it.
And Wednesday is not a loud person, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she sure isn’t quiet when she’s eating Enid out, and Enid cannot be expected to remain composed in these conditions.
Almost immediately, Wednesday starts sighing into Enid’s pussy like she’s the one getting fucked. Enid squeezes her eyes shut in hopes that not looking at her will help. Wednesday must take offense at that because she begins to press short and sharp little indents of her canines into Enid’s inner thighs even as she sucks the slick from Enid’s ass and clutches her hard enough to hurt.
Enid can’t remember how she rated Marking on her list of kinks, but she hopes she listed it near the top. She’ll throw a tantrum of massive proportions when the stripes disappear from her ass and the bite marks fade from her skin. Wearing Wednesday’s bruises makes her feel almost as had as her collar. The thought of walking around with bare, empty skin leaves her feeling vaguely nauseous.
“Mm,” Enid groans around the belt in her mouth. Fuck, she thinks. Much more of this, and she won’t be able to stay still at all.
Wednesday snickers into her skin, ignoring her moaning and trembling. When she kisses the crease between Enid's thigh and hip, it's with a tenderness unbefitting a creature with such sharp teeth. Those canines are meant for biting. Tearing. In fact, Wednesday’s mouth on her is about the only time her mouth is soft. She’s a general danger to at the very least the confidence of everyone around her, otherwise.
Wednesday seems to have taken Enid's groan as some kind of a concession because the next moment, her tongue is pushing inside her, and Enid’s gasping, fighting to keep her knees spread so she doesn’t accidentally strangle Wednesday ten thousand feet above the continental Midwest.
Enid has always been good at snapping back against the dog of desire that nips at every wolf’s heels. She never fucked anyone outside of her heats and she largely avoided dating during her formative years. Despite her behavior over the past few weeks, Enid was a well-behaved wolf for the most part.
Just not when it came to Wednesday. Not when Wednesday looks at her with those eyes, hand reaching up to rub a soothing streak along her thigh in complete ignorance of the mess she’s making as she rubs Enid’s slick into her skin.
Wednesday smiles, flashing her teeth, and Enid tries and fails to swallow around the ache that’s burned its way into her throat.
“Pretty, aren't you?” Wednesday murmurs, still stroking her thigh. “Prettiest girl I've ever ridden. Shall we get you a bit and bridle, really complete the picture?”
Enid makes a half-formed noise behind her makeshift gag. Her eyes must be huge.
“All you're missing is a tail,” Wednesday muses, fingertip pressing against Enid's ass. Enid shudders at the touch, hips jerking forward, and Wednesday's index finger nearly sinks into her.
“Would you sit at my feet?” Wednesday asks. “Would you eat from my hand and whine for my attention?”
Enid moans, gulping for breath as best she can.
“I know you would,” Wednesday says, eyes gleaming. “You're always my good girl, aren't you? My perfect pet.”
Enid garbles incoherently through the belt, spit dripping down her chin, and Wednesday’s brow furrows with a flash of annoyance. Her hand flashes up and tugs at the leather in Enid’s teeth, but Enid refuses to let it go, biting down harder in her confusion. Wednesday stands up, towering over her.
“Spit it out,” Wednesday orders, dragging the belt from her mouth in complete disregard of the string of spit still connecting the leather to Enid’s lips.
Enid gasps for air, breathing hard as she looks up at her.
Wednesday cups Enid’s cheek in her hand, cocking her head. “You’re crying,” she marvels. “Pretty, aren’t you?”
Enid doesn’t have the words. English has already deserted her, answer escaping in little whimpers as she fights to maintain her spread-knee position.
Wednesday’s eyes flick down. Enid knows what she must look like, still leaking onto the seat.
“Pretty,” Wednesday repeats. "Choking was on your list. You looked beautiful under my palm."
Enid's cheeks heat with pleasure.
"You'll look so pretty on the end of my leash, Puppy," Wednesday whispers. "I just know it. You're a natural."
Enid works to keep her gaze lifted. She promised herself she wouldn't hide from Wednesday, and she won't. Not anymore. Not as long as Wednesday looks at her like this, eyes lidded, lips parted like she can still taste Enid's slick in the air.
Wednesday's eyes drag up with what seems like some effort to Enid’s face. “Do you want to come?” she asks. “You’ve been so good. I think you’ve earned it, Puppy.”
Enid flushes, full-faced. She nods.
Wednesday places her hands on the armrests directly below where Enid is still restrained. She leans in, pressing her nose to Enid's cheek in a gesture eerily reminiscent to that of a wolf. “Are you sure?”
Enid nods faster, nearly unseating herself as she lurches against the restraints.
“Okay, Puppy,” Wednesday tells her, kissing her jaw. “I'll make you come.”
Instead of crawling back down to get her mouth on Enid’s pussy, Wednesday kneels, tucking her face into Enid’s neck as she slides two fingers inside of her. Enid jerks hard, hips twitching as she adjusts. Wednesday exhales, curling her fingers hard, and Enid has to muffle her cry into Wednesday’s cheek.
Wednesday’s free hand splays over the bare skin at the bottom of Enid’s spine, urging her closer to the edge of the seat, only fanning the urgency climbing up Enid’s throat into flame. Soon she’s fucking back against her, back arching, and Wednesday’s hissing out short little puffs of air.
“That’s my girl,” Wednesday whispers. “That’s my good girl. Come for me.”
Enid tenses hard, skin burning, hovering on the edge almost against her will. I’m not going to come, she realizes. It’s not going to be enough.
“Enid,” Wednesday’s voice comes suddenly, sharp. “Look at me.”
Enid’s eyes snap up.
“You don’t need to worry about this. Do you know why?”
Enid sucks in a breath through her teeth, then expels it. “Because you decide,” she says in a small voice.
“That’s right,” Wednesday says, tone grave. “I do. I get to decide what you take. I decide what you can handle. You wanted me to decide when you come? Fine. Then let me.”
Wednesday’s fingers had still been pushed inside of her, unmoving, but now Enid shudders and bears down all on her own. Wednesday’s eyes widen by degrees as she sits back on her heels and watches Enid plant her feet on the seat for leverage and push up, then sink back down on Wednesday’s fingers, over and over until her hand is covered in slick. Enid wishes her chest was bare. She wishes her wrists were unbound too, or at least tied behind her back, so that Wednesday could watch her ride unhindered.
Enid might not have Wednesday’s thighs, but she’s still a wolf. She can keep up with the best of them.
Quietly, as if only meant for herself, Wednesday says, “I should have painted you in runes.”
Enid loses her breath, rhythm faltering, and Wednesday’s smile is more of a slice from corner to corner as she curls her fingers and leans in to catch Enid in a kiss that’s all teeth.
Wednesday’s fingers move faster, insistent, and Enid sobs into her mouth as she finally shakes apart. Her heart pounds in her ears as she comes, and it’s nearly painful, head throbbing even as her eyes roll back. She distantly feels the ache in her wrists as she bucks and rips at the restraints hard enough to bruise her arms. Another mark to add to her collection, she thinks absently, even as she struggles to remain upright in the wake of such a vicious orgasm.
It’s not just physically challenging to come this time of the month. Any orgasm rent from a wolf in the wake of the moon is an act of violence in and of itself.
"Easy," Wednesday murmurs, like she's a nervous horse who needs soothing. She works fast to undo the seatbelts from Enid’s wrists, rubbing feeling back into her battered skin. Oh, how Enid loves it. It’s in these moments that she feels the full measure of her devotion.
Wednesday keeps a tight arm around her waist, holds her close, helps her land.
Enid wishes suddenly that they were both naked, skin to skin, and she must say it out loud because Wednesday strokes her side and answers, “We’ll sleep naked tonight.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. The thought that Wednesday, who normally refuses to climb into bed without at least a shirt and pants if not socks and a sweatshirt and freshly braided hair to boot, intends to willingly sleep nude beside her simply because Enid wished it is almost too much to bear. The vulnerability of such an act has a lump growing in Enid’s throat.
“I need a shower first,” she croaks.
Wednesday unexpectedly leans forward and kisses her forehead, lips lingering against her skin. “I’ll give you a proper bath when we're home,” she promises. “My ensuite has a tub big enough for you to swim in if you're so inclined.”
Enid perks up despite herself. “Will you get in with me?” she asks hopefully.
Wednesday's eyes widen, a little startled, but she says, “Of course, Puppy. Whatever you want.”
Enid's still smiling even as she stuffs paper towels soaked with slick into the garbage can in the cramped airplane bathroom, fully aware Wednesday is hovering just outside.
***
Once Enid’s been redressed and relocated to a clean seat on the other side of the jet, Wednesday decides it is high time to tackle a matter she’s been purposefully avoiding. Unfortunately, they must come to a consensus before her parents beat her to the punch.
“I would like to discuss a rather delicate topic.”
Enid’s pretty pink lips release her juice box straw with a pop. “Hm? What is it?”
Wednesday chews on the inside of her cheek, aware that her uncertainty will only cause Enid anxiety but unable to curtail her own apprehension. She is well aware this could go quite badly depending on Enid’s reaction.
“There is the matter of my trust fund and adding you as a beneficiary upon the likely event of my death,” Wednesday states. “I would like to add you as my primary and sole beneficiary. Immediately.”
As expected, Enid’s mouth parts in shock and her eyes go wide. Perhaps somewhat unexpectedly, the juice box she’d been sucking on is crushed between her fingers, juice spilling between her newly-extended claws as she bares her teeth and spits, “Absolutely not, Wednesday. Don’t even fucking think about it.”
Wednesday clamps her mouth shut, eyebrows raising. After a moment, she tries opening her mouth again, but Enid interrupts and insists, “No.”
“No?” Wednesday echoes, reaching for Enid's hand.
“No,” Enid repeats. “You’re not giving me any money.”
“Technically, I’m not giving you any money,” Wednesday points out, mopping up the juice with a hand towel. “I’m making you the inheritor of my money in the event I die unexpectedly. Which I feel is a logical course of action considering our history.”
Enid actually sticks out her tongue. “No.”
Wednesday struggles not to laugh. “I should put you over my knee,” she says, trying to tamp down on her glee. It’s not often that Enid behaves this way, and Brat Tamer had been firmly set on Wednesday’s list of interests. She cannot help herself.
Enid scoffs, “Try it. I’m not changing my mind.”
Wednesday narrows her eyes. “Fine. Then I’ll create a trust for you and transfer a portion of my own assets into your accounts.”
Enid’s face flushes with outrage. “No! That totally defeats the point!”
Wednesday grins, delighted despite herself. “Will, say, forty percent suffice?” she taunts, leaning forward in her seat.
Enid snarls at her, eyes flashing in the light of the sun as she rips her hand away. “No.”
“Ten percent, then.”
“No.”
“Twenty percent.”
“No.”
“Thirty percent.”
“Why would I take thirty percent if I wouldn’t even take ten?” Enid demands, vibrating unhappily in her seat. She’s in a clean pair of jeans, but Wednesday knows exactly how marked up her thighs look underneath. She’s a vision of caning stripes and teeth imprints where no one can see.
“Enid,” Wednesday croons, “I am asking you nicely.”
“That doesn’t work on me,” Enid dismisses, though the heat in her cheeks suggests otherwise.
“No?” Wednesday hums. “I thought you wanted to be a good girl for me.”
Enid looks betrayed, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. “Not fair.”
“Then take my fucking money, Enid,” Wednesday murmurs.
“N-No!” Enid stutters, leaning back. “It’s your money!”
“And it technically won’t be your money unless we marry in the normie fashion, which I have gathered you have little interest in,” Wednesday says without emotion, just as she practiced.
Enid’s eyes narrow like she just caught a scent, and Wednesday works to control her expression.
“Why is this stressing you out so much?” Enid slowly asks, nose scrunching up. “We live together. We’re fine.”
Wednesday exhales, lacing her hands together. “Enid. I need to know that you’re taken care of.”
Enid’s eyes widen. “What?”
“I can’t sleep without knowing that if I succumb to some battle wound or untimely illness, you’ll still have the means to live away from your parents.”
Enid looks a little shell-shocked. She swallows audibly, then quietly says, “Oh.”
Wednesday waits her out, content to sit in uncomfortable silence much longer than Enid ever will be.
“I’m not with you for your money, Wednesday,” Enid eventually cracks and says, almost in a whisper.
Obviously, Wednesday thinks, though she would never say it aloud, knowing how much that would hurt Enid. “No, but it exists, and this is how I choose to spend it,” she says plainly. “On you. On ensuring your happiness.”
Enid turns to the window, sun alighting on her eyelashes. “We can talk about it more later. Is that okay?” she asks, suddenly sounding exhausted.
Wednesday supposes that was a relatively productive first pass at negotiations. “Of course, my darling. Come sit with me. We’ll be landing in just a few hours.”
Enid goes to her readily, for which Wednesday is grateful.
Notes:
job: quit
i'm: BACK!next update: wednesday 6/11
UPDATE 6/11: i hiked a location today i'll be referencing soon in the story for authenticity's sake but it was supposed to be a couple of miles and it ended up being over FOUR HOURS so i ended up sleeping the rest of the day o_o i'll be posting tomorrow!!fun fact: wednesday calls or threatens enid with being her good girl no less than SIX times in this chapter. hell yeah i am chomping at the bit to start exploring runewitch courting traditions and ENID'S PET DYNAMIC hell mountain here we come
Chapter 121: Pink
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid squirms where she sits, glancing out the plane window every few minutes. She’s not bad with parents, but there’s a stark difference between meeting Gomez and Morticia as their daughter’s wayward roommate and meeting them as their eldest child’s prospective mate.
Wednesday grips her hand all the while. Enid appreciates that.
They continue to chase the darkening sky towards the east coast, hours ticking away, and Enid sits and frets.
“Are you nervous?” Wednesday asks for the second time.
Enid snorts under her breath, pulling her knees to her chest. “It doesn’t seem fair, right? After what my pack put you through?”
She feels a fingertip on her jaw, and then Wednesday gently leads her face back towards her.
“I have no idea how my parents will react, but I suspect they will want to maintain some level of decorum,” Wednesday tells her, voice remarkably gentle considering her words have Enid’s stomach sinking. “We are a rather traditional family.”
Enid gulps. “So, I’m guessing no sleeping in the same bed?”
Though Wednesday’s mouth doesn’t change, her eyes crinkle with warmth. “We will make do. My parents can make up all the bedrooms they want. It will not stop us,” she says quite seriously.
Enid smiles at her so widely that her cheeks hurt.
***
Enid has something of a tension headache by the time they touch down on the airstrip. She’s graduated to gnawing on her lower lip when they climb into the car sent by the Addams to pick them up, and she’s gripping the leather seats with both hands as they turn onto an unmarked road lined with trees that sway over the path like gnarled fingers, casting Wednesday’s face in shadow.
Wednesday seems to relax the further they drive into the dark. Though the sun hasn’t set, the maple trees provide a cover that has her lashes spidering over her cheeks.
Everything in New Jersey has a layer of damp that San Francisco lacks; it’s colder, in a way, despite the warmth of the season. Enid only recognizes the sharp scent of lilac blooms and red elderberry from botany class, but the smell of rot and summer soil is both familiar and comforting. This is the smell of Wednesday’s home, she realizes.
She knows they’ve crossed the boundary onto Addams land when Wednesday sucks in a little breath even though no marker on the road reveals as much. It’s as if her nose had been plugged, like she’d been sick for days, and only now can she finally breathe.
When they entered the car, Wednesday had cracked the windows just enough to have Enid’s bangs curling off her forehead in the breeze. Ignoring the noise of concern Wednesday makes behind her, Enid unlatches her seatbelt and lowers her window down as far as it will go. Her ribs ache against unforgiving metal as she leans out into the open air, but the scent—she could have sworn she’d caught the smell of—
“Mother,” Wednesday sighs, craning her neck to peer out her own window. “You didn’t.”
Enid gasps, hanging half out of the car like a lunatic.
The moment they turn onto the estate proper, towering trees and greenery and shadow give way to an explosion of soft pink color lining the way home. Enid was never first seat in botany, but she paid close enough attention to Hyesol’s class to recognize peonies in full bloom. And not just peonies, but—
“Pink,” she gasps. “It’s gorgeous.”
Wednesday pinches her nose. “My God.”
Someone planted pink peonies at least a half mile along the drive leading to the manor proper. The entire way, gorgeous pink flower petals wink their welcome as the car meanders towards the figure in the distance waving them in.
“Do you remember the definition of pink peonies?” Wednesday asks suddenly.
Enid cranes her neck, nose twitching. “Um…love, happiness…”
“Love, honor, and beauty,” Wednesday rattles off. “All qualities you possess.”
Enid twists around, staring at her wide-eyed.
“This was for you,” Wednesday quietly says. “To welcome you here. My mother’s efforts, I imagine.”
Enid blinks. “Me?” she squeaks.
Wednesday does not respond, but the look on her face is so heady, Enid whips back around to stare at the flowers, unseeing. Her collar feels uncomfortably snug around her throat.
“Come back to me,” Wednesday urges, guiding her by the wrist.
Enid folds into her lap without protest, curling close. She’s grateful for the way Wednesday touches her. Always a little too tight. Possessive, Enid thinks, shivering to herself. Especially under a waning moon, there is no better prescription for a submissive wolf.
“Does she know?” Enid blurts.
“I didn’t tell her you’re a woodwitch, if that’s what you mean,” Wednesday replies. “But my mother has a knack for knowing things she shouldn’t.”
Enid nods, tucking her chin. She’s grown so used to her collar, to the ever-present burst of warmth around her neck, that she’s certain she’d feel bereft if she ever took it off.
“Pugsley is anxious to greet us, I’m sure. He’s waving us in like an airport marshal,” Wednesday scoffs.
Sure enough, Pugsley doesn’t wait for the driver to so much as park the car before he throws open Enid’s door with a harried expression.
“Enid,” he greets with a half-smirk that Enid would recognize anywhere. The familiarity of her intended’s smile has her instantly warming to him. Then, his expression turns harassed as he declares, “Wednesday, the horses are going mad. Something’s spooked them bad, will you—?”
Wednesday frowns. “Will I what? Enid has only just arrived. Where are the stable hands?”
“It’s okay,” Enid pipes up, squeezing Wednesday’s hand. “If you need to go help, go ahead. I’m okay here.”
“Enid, you’re my favorite sister,” Pugsley says in a rush, as if it’s no big deal. “Come on, Wednesday. Your monster of a horse is going to eat the others, I swear.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “As if. Will you be alright here?” she asks Enid directly.
Enid nods quickly in agreement. “‘Course I will.”
Wednesday climbs out of the car with a put-upon expression, turning to help Enid without a word. She’d rebraided her hair on the plane and her appearance is pristine for having spent most of the day traveling.
Enid, on the other hand, is grateful she’s wearing jeans rather than shorts. She probably could have done a little bit better than a t-shirt and sneakers, but it’s too late now that Pugsley’s seen her.
“Where is mother?” Wednesday asks, casting a slanted look in Enid’s direction.
Pugsley’s head is turned firmly to the west. “In her garden.”
Even Enid can hear the commotion in the stables. Something really does have the horses spooked.
When Wednesday doesn’t move, Pugsley sighs. “Wednesday, seriously—”
“You go help,” Enid says, squeezing her hand again. “I'll just…wait here.”
***
She does not, in fact, wait there.
As a wolf, Enid has better hearing than humans, and a strange rustling in the trees catches her attention almost immediately after Wednesday’s reluctant departure. It’s more than just the sound of an animal. It’s the sort of noise that would set a whole stable of horses baying and bucking for escape.
She might have likened it to a skittering, or sand tinkling over glass, or butterfly wings beating fast in frozen winter air. That last comparison clues her in—because she’s only heard this sound once before, and never in adulthood.
“Faeries?” Enid breathes, skin prickling.
She takes a step towards the treeline. Enid glances towards the direction Wednesday took off in, then toes off her left sneaker. She places a single bare foot on the forest floor, and when Wednesday doesn’t materialize on the horizon like a harbinger of punishment, she kicks off the other.
On second thought, Enid arranges both sneakers neatly beside each other. Then she pads off into the trees.
Notes:
next update: saturday 6/14
Chapter 122: Room
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid’s never been in a forest with such a sweet smell.
Her woods are older, headier. They smell like crab apple trees and creek beds that have run for a thousand years.
These trees are much younger. Beneath towering oaks and poplars, she passes silver maple saplings barely tall enough to reach her hip and red maples only as high as her hair. Morticia must love this forest immensely, for woodwitches love nothing more than to watch things grow.
The rustling noise intensifies. Enid trails her fingertips over the tops of the silver maples, leaving her scent. Even though it’s early summer, the forest floor crunches beneath her feet.
Her neck prickles as she enters the treeline and a shadow falls overhead.
“Come,” the wind whispers.
Enid turns her head. “Come where?” she asks the closest tree.
The tree remains silent. She walks further in.
“Come with,” a shrub giggles.
Enid whips around. “Come with you?” she demands.
The shrub giggles again, but nothing emerges from the shadows. When Enid takes a step off the path, another snicker emanates from behind her.
“Come with us!”
“Come, come!”
That same fluttering noise, frozen wings beating, and the faeries finally show themselves.
They’re horrifying little things. Awful to look at, in Enid’s humble opinion. Blank faces like they’re wearing porcelain masks and sharp, conical fingers longer than the lengths of their bodies. It’s too bad Wednesday isn’t here to see them.
Winter faeries in the summer—wonders never cease.
“What are you doing here?” Enid asks, holding out her hand so that one of the creatures can land on her palm. “It’s not your season.”
“Come with us!” it cheers. “Come with us!”
It cocks its face up at her, round and pale as the moon.
“No,” Enid says aloud. “Thank you, but no. I'm not going with you.”
She takes a step back, and the faerie on her hand takes flight, wings beating fast.
“Come with us,” the faeries repeat in eerie synchronicity, taking hold of her hair and clothing. “The only path is forward.”
Enid looks around. True enough, she no longer recognizes the trees in this part of the forest, but as a wolf, there’s no path in this young forest she cannot find her way back from. The silver saplings she’d been so endeared by will still hold her scent.
No forest belonging to Morticia will keep her imprisoned.
“I’m going back, actually,” Enid informs them. “Sorry. Maybe next time?”
“A wise decision,” a musical voice interjects.
Enid’s shoulders hike up to her ears, but she forces herself to relax. She’d recognize that scent anywhere. Lotus flowers and ginger, warm as spring and sharp as summer.
Morticia makes a marvelous silhouette as the trees seem to part for her arrival. She looks beautiful as always, dress trailing behind her with a whisper over the ground. The faeries cringe back, muttering venomously amongst themselves as they ease off of Enid's clothes and hair and the setting sun finally reveals Morticia’s face.
She looks so much like Wednesday, Enid thinks, chest swelling.
“You should know better than to entrap a daughter of the forest,” Morticia chastises them, clasping her hands together. “Naughty things. Off with you, and tell your Lady if she so desires an audience with a Daughter, she can issue an invitation herself.”
The faeries take off, swirling into the trees without another word. Enid watches them go with wide eyes.
“Their Lady?” she repeats, mouth dry.
Morticia smiles, lips curling up. “Why, of course. Winter faeries in June? I fear these little nasties were sent to terrorize my precious guest.”
Enid ignores the heat in her cheeks, confused and quite honestly concerned enough to confirm, “Not by…not by the Court of Decay. Not for me. Right?”
Morticia only continues to smile. “It isn’t often these woods see a true daughter. I’m afraid my dealings with the Unbreathing Queen may have drawn her unwanted attention.”
“Oh,” Enid bleats a second entirely too late to be polite. “Okay. Well.”
She toes the ground, then cringes when her pink painted toenails end up covered in dirt.
Morticia extends a hand in her direction. After a moment, Enid accepts it.
Morticia’s lips split into a smile full of such unbridled, genuine warmth, Enid cannot bear to hold her gaze.
“Enid,” she responds, voice lilting as though in song. “Welcome.”
***
By the time Wednesday’s finished dealing with her horse, she’s sweaty, exhausted, and anxious to get back to Enid. She’d experienced a terrible sense of foreboding leaving her standing beside the car.
“I’d thank you for the help, but I think it’d fall on deaf ears,” Pugsley says, stripping off his jacket.
Wednesday scowls in his direction. “Not another word until I lay eyes on Enid.”
Pugsley’s eyes go wide. “Wednesday, your teeth!”
“You didn’t even notice originally,” Wednesday points out, irritated beyond measure.
“Your horse was provoking a massacre. I was distracted,” Pugsley replies. “You look just like Enid now.”
Wednesday feels somewhat mollified by that. “I know.”
Gomez walks up, tossing a brush into a nearby basket. “What’s this I hear about teeth?” he asks.
Wednesday has to show off her new canines to Pugsley, Gomez, and all of the stable hands before she finally manages to escape outside. Gomez and Pugsley both accompany her, though neither chooses to sprint alongside her once they crest the hill and spot pink sneakers lying abandoned next to the car.
Wednesday’s breathing hard as she stands over them. “Fuck.”
“How far could she have possibly wandered?” Pugsley rationalizes.
“Far,” Wednesday hisses, drawing her knife from her belt. “I’ll find her.”
“Get the horses, Pugsley,” Gomez orders, mouth splitting into a grin. “I’ll assist.”
“A rousing sight indeed, but no need for that.”
Wednesday’s head turns so fast, her braids slap Pugsley across the jaw. She nearly sprints to reach Enid as she and Morticia appear at the forest’s edge.
“Puppy,” Wednesday breathes, both hands cupping her cheeks. “Are you alright? You’re cold as ice.”
“Exposure to winter faeries, I’m afraid,” comes her mother’s musical lilt.
Wednesday tries very hard to control her expression, but judging by Enid’s cowering, she does not entirely succeed.
“Winter faeries?” Wednesday repeats through clenched teeth. “Tell me you did not follow a faerie into the woods.”
Enid bites her lip. “Um.”
“Perhaps a tour of the grounds?” Morticia suggests. “We have been ever so excited to host you, Enid.”
“Oh, yes. The whole grounds have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. We’ve spent ages preparing,” Gomez adds, eyebrows waggling.
"We've already selected your gravesite in the family plot," Morticia informs Enid, linking their arms together and beginning the charge up the stairs to the house.
Wednesday grimaces, feeling extremely put out to have been separated from her intended. "Mother. I will give Enid the tour."
“And deprive your parents of the pleasure? I think not, my darling.”
“Father!” Wednesday objects.
“What would you have me do, my little stormcloud?” Gomez asks, hands raised in surrender. “Your mother has spoken of nothing else for days.”
Wednesday does not pout as she stomps up the steps after her mother and her intended.
“—This is the foyer. My mother-in-law decorated it, of course. Ghastly taste,” Morticia tells Enid. “And here is the summer dining room. We opened it a few days ago.”
“You have different dining rooms?” Enid asks.
“Of course, dear. The winter dining room is on the opposite side.”
“And the walls in the winter room don’t open to the grounds,” Pugsley interjects.
Enid blushes like she’s embarrassed to have asked. Out of her line of sight, Wednesday sends the most vicious expression in her arsenal at her brother, who holds up his hands with a long-suffering look.
“If you’ll follow me up the stairs?”
Enid troops up the staircase in her skin-tight jeans, ignorant to Wednesday’s eyes on her. Who on earth bought her those pants? Surely not her shrew mother or that ridiculous pack of hers. What had they called themselves? California Trad? No traditional pack would want their precious submissive wolf wearing clothing that clings to her every curve.
“Ahem,” Gomez clears his throat. “Wednesday.”
Wednesday manages to tear her eyes away from Enid, but only just. “What?”
“Will you get the door? We’ve made up the summer room for Enid.”
Someone competent must have been in charge of that decision, Wednesday thinks. The summer room is located directly next to Wednesday’s bedroom and is usually delegated to Cousin Irma during seasonal visits. It’s the perfect space for Enid, especially with her newfound magic.
Wednesday holds out her hand, already anticipating the silver key that Gomez will drop into it. She is therefore surprised when a new, ornate brass key is placed into her palm instead.
“You refitted the locks?” Wednesday asks.
“Absolutely,” Gomez answers. “The whole wing.”
Wednesday nods, hand curling around the new key. “Your craftsmanship, I presume?”
Gomez’s smile widens. “But of course.”
Enid’s head volleys between them, eyes wide in question. Wednesday takes her hand before she can open her mouth, fitting the new key into the lock and throwing the doors open.
Enid gasps, mouth popping open.
The summer room is named as such because in the months of May to September, when the air warms and sweetens with the smell of fruit and soil, the glass walls come down and whoever sleeps in that room does so while exposed to the elements.
Wednesday had expected Enid to approve of the tall marble pillars with intricate carvings of vines and roses. She’d even, on some level, expected her parents to make renovations in preparation for Enid’s arrival. The hanging lanterns flickering overhead are a particularly nice touch.
She had not expected her parents to cover the bed in rose petals, prepare a bedside bucket of chilled champagne, and replace the bed hangings with dwarf sunflowers.
“For your first night together on the estate,” Morticia answers Wednesday’s unanswered question. “We wanted it to be special for you girls, of course.”
“Of course,” Wednesday answers, voice flat.
“When should we have breakfast sent up in the morning?” Gomez asks. “Or should we not expect you until lunch?”
She very narrowly avoids ordering every person in the vicinity besides her beloved to get out and never return.
***
"I thought you said we wouldn't be allowed to sleep in the same room?" Enid asks under her breath, lips quivering with the effort not to laugh.
Wednesday scowls. "I underestimated the propensity of my parents to find a way to embarrass me."
"I don't think your parents wanted to make you miserable, Wednesday."
"We're Addams," she replies, like that’s answer enough.
“Well, shall we leave you girls to it?” Morticia asks. “Or would you like to see Wednesday’s room as well? It’s right next door.”
“The family suites are all right next to each other, so maybe keep it down?”
“Pugsley,” Morticia scolds him. “These rooms are sound-proof. In any case, you are expected at dinner in the next fifteen minutes, my darling son. Girls, feel free to request a meal to your rooms.”
“Mother,” Wednesday interjects. “Stop. I will handle the arrangements.”
Enid’s only half paying attention to the conversation.
The room is beautiful—maybe the most beautiful room she’s ever seen—but that’s not what’s caught her eye. The huge, four-poster bed is covered in soft blankets and stuffed animals and all manner of pretty nesting materials. Brand new nesting materials that still smell unused and sterile.
Even from here, she can tell that each and every item was chosen with intention by someone who knows her. Someone who sees her.
“I…don’t understand,” Enid interrupts, heedless of how rude she’s being. Everyone else falls silent. “This is your guest room?”
“Of course not, dear. Our guest quarters are in the east wing,” Morticia answers her.
“And are not nearly as pink,” Gomez drawls. “We don’t hate our guests half so much.”
Enid hardly registers the stiletto heel Morticia smashes into the top of Gomez’s dress shoe. She’s too busy blinking back tears, because Wednesday’s taking her hand as Pugsley raises an eyebrow at her and declares, unexpectedly kind even as his words are cruel,
“This is your room, Enid. Obviously.”
Wednesday shoots him a truly frightening look, but it’s too late. Enid slaps a hand over her face and begins to cry right there in the middle of the room. Her room. A room filled with things for her, a room that the Addams family deigned to call her own.
“Pugsley,” Wednesday hisses. “You utter bastard.”
“What did I do?” he demands.
“Now, now,” Morticia intervenes. “Perhaps we should give the girls time to settle in? Traveling is always taxing, I find, and Enid’s still recovering from the full moon.”
“Yes. Leave,” Wednesday commands, slamming the door shut behind them.
Notes:
dwarf sunflowers: adoration
yall wanted nesting? let's do it
next update: monday 6/16
**make that tuesday 6/17
Chapter 123: Nest
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The wind rises, breeze whipping through the room hard enough to shift Wednesday’s braids off her shoulders. It seems every land that Enid traverses is doomed to yield to her every whim.
Perhaps that is the lot of a true daughter of the forest.
“Enid,” Wednesday whispers, starting towards her.
Enid shakes her head, face resting in her palms. “I’m sorry, I’m—I don’t know why I’m like this,” she says in a small voice.
Wednesday’s throat burns. If she had a dime for every bit of damage Esther inflicted on her beloved, she’d have enough money to name a building on Nevermore’s campus after herself. Perhaps multiple, she privately admits.
“You don’t need to apologize. Not to me and certainly not to my family,” Wednesday tells her, cupping her shoulders. “Believe me when I say they’ve seen worse.”
Enid makes a small, miserable sound of disbelief.
“When I was thirteen, I burnt down my mother’s greenhouse after we got into an argument. It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry,” Wednesday blurts. When Enid looks up at her, shocked, Wednesday swallows and soldiers on, “In apology, I built her the greenhouse she still uses to this day. You might be able to see it from here, though it’s getting dark.”
Enid stares at her, cheeks streaked with tears, and whispers, “You’re a really good person, Wednesday.”
Wednesday narrowly resists the urge to scowl. “I’m not often accused of that,” she carefully replies.
“You are,” Enid sniffs. “And I’m—I’m sorry I’m such a fucking disaster all the time.”
“You’re not. You’re not a disaster,” Wednesday insists. She pushes Enid’s sweaty bangs off her forehead. “Needing care is not an imposition, and I selfishly enjoy providing it to you.”
Enid tips her head back towards the ceiling, blinking rapidly.
Wednesday tries to angle her chin back down, eyeing her with growing suspicion. “Are you crying again?”
“No,” Enid warbles.
After a moment of uncertainty, Wednesday wraps both arms around her. She holds her tight.
***
Enid sniffles into Wednesday’s shoulder, somehow exhausted and keyed up enough to nearly be hovering off of the floor.
“What will make you feel better?” Wednesday asks her. “What do you need?”
“Nest,” Enid whispers, voice breaking. She casts a glance at the giant bed and all its plastic packages. “But it’s not—it doesn’t smell like us, I haven’t built it—”
For some reason, Wednesday’s chest puffs up with pride. She pulls out of their embrace with a determined expression.
Her fingers work quickly to undo the buttons of her collared shirt. The low light of the lanterns cast the most interesting shadows across her collarbones as more and more of her skin is revealed, but that only holds Enid’s attention for as long as her shirt remains on her body. As soon as Wednesday’s stripped down to her undershirt, the button-down is tossed aside, landing haphazardly on a nearby nightstand.
It slips sideways, one of the sleeves folding onto the floor.
“What do you need to build it? I’ll help you,” Wednesday tells her, interrupting her reverie.
Enid’s breath catches in her throat. “You—you will?”
Wednesday arches a single brow. Her fingers curl into fists. “That was never in question. I’ll have our dorm boxes brought up tomorrow from storage in case you want anything for our visit, but I purchased these items because I don’t expect us to remain here permanently.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “But…this is enough stuff to build a full nest.”
“I want you to have a nest in every place we stay for any length of time,” says Wednesday, the picture of nonchalance. As if she didn’t inevitably drop thousands of dollars at a high-end nesting store Enid normally couldn’t afford a napkin at, let alone all of this. “Now. Where should we start?”
Enid shifts to face the bed, clearing her throat. “Um. We need to clear the mattress.”
Wednesday strides forward and begins tossing the packages onto the floor with an efficiency Enid couldn’t hope to emulate. In less than a minute, the bed is completely clear of nesting materials, just yellow sheets and blankets and pillows remaining. She turns to face Enid expectantly.
“All of it,” Enid speaks up. “Blankets too. Down to the bones.”
Wednesday shoots her a look, but drags the sheets off until they’re both staring at a white mattress.
Enid releases a long, slow breath. “Okay,” she mutters, glancing down at her feet and cringing. “Um. Is there a place I can wash off? I’m…kind of covered in dirt.”
Wednesday’s mouth twists into something just off a smile. “Come with me.”
Enid follows her through an adjoining door, and if she hadn’t kept her eyes wide open, she might have wondered if she’d accidentally fallen through a rabbit hole to someplace else entirely.
This room is dark where Enid’s room was light, all wood walls with intricate wainscoting and giant painted murals of war. There are no flowers here. The bed is low to the floor, barely a foot off the ground, and it positively reeks of Wednesday’s scent.
“This is your room,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday nods, leading her by the hand into the largest bathroom Enid has ever seen.
“Oh,” Enid gasps. “You weren’t kidding. You really can swim.”
Wednesday snorts under her breath. “There is an ensuite off your room, but I thought you’d enjoy this more.”
Enid gives her a tremulous smile. “You were right. I do.”
Wednesday turns the faucets, helping Enid find her balance on the edge of the massive tub with a hand on her elbow. Enid sits down and swings her feet while the bathtub begins to fill.
“There’s a hamper by the door,” Wednesday tells her, testing the temperature of the water. “Laundry is done daily, so we generally have our clothes back by the following night.”
“No,” Enid tells her, tying up her hair.
Wednesday twists her whole body around to look at her. “No?”
“No,” Enid repeats. “I need your clothes now. And you can’t shower yet.”
“You need my clothes?”
“For the nest,” Enid explains. “And don’t shower. Please.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Which of my clothes do you need?”
Enid stops swinging her legs. “Um,” she hedges.
“Well?” Wednesday presses, turning off the faucet. “You’ll have to tell me.”
Enid frowns as she strips off her jeans and splashes her way down the steps into the bath, scrubbing at her feet until her pink toenails are clean again.
For good measure, she pulls off the rest of her clothing and gives herself a rub down with the washcloth Wednesday holds out in her direction, unsure why Wednesday’s hand remains raised for at least ten seconds after Enid’s already taken it from her.
“All of them,” Enid decides, squirting soap onto her washcloth.
Wednesday’s hand finally drops. “What?”
Enid leans in, sniffing her soapy hand. “Is this my body wash?”
“I keep your personal care products at all of my properties,” Wednesday answers. “You want all of my clothing?”
“Yup,” Enid agrees, rinsing herself off the best she can. “Everything.”
She trudges up the steps out into the cool air.
Before she can reach for one of the fluffy white towels stacked by the sink, Wednesday steps in front of her, already holding it out.
“I would like to do this,” Wednesday states, face set. “If you’ll allow me.”
Enid blinks, then drops her hand. “Oh. Okay.”
Wednesday exhales, shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”
Enid allows herself to be maneuvered, ignoring how her skin pinkens when Wednesday runs the towel over her chest, under her arms, between her legs. When she’s suitably dry, Wednesday draws her knife from her belt and reaches up towards Enid’s hair.
Enid blinks as Wednesday carefully severs the hairband she’d used to tie her hair up off her neck, tucking the ruined rubber band into her pocket. Her black blade winks in the light.
“Woodwitches keep their hair unbound in another witch’s wood,” Wednesday murmurs, cupping Enid’s jaw with her free hand. “Unless you’re observing a custom.”
“Like courting braids,” Enid whispers suddenly, feeling her messy curls. Her hair is getting so long. “Or….knots, did you call them?”
Wednesday smirks just wide enough to flash her teeth. “Braids work fine. Now, come. Let’s build a nest.”
Enid follows her back into the flower room, skin prickling. She doesn’t feel as nervous as she probably should be walking around naked in someone else’s home.
Building a nest should be done naked.
“Where do we start?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid glances at her, then at the abandoned shirt still hanging haphazardly off the nightstand.
“Unpackage everything,” Enid decides. “And rub everything you open against yourself so it smells like you.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen infinitesimally. “Where exactly would you like me to rub your nesting items, Enid?”
Wherever the spirit leads you, Enid thinks to herself. Out loud, she says, “Against your hair. Under your arms. Behind your knees. Under your chin. All the places you sweat the most.”
Wednesday frowns, staring down at a stuffed duck in her hand. “Shouldn’t you have refrained from bathing?”
Enid laughs out loud. “God, no. This room will stink of me soon enough.”
Wednesday looks inordinately pleased by that.
While Wednesday’s busy herding Enid’s new pack of stuffed animals into some semblance of order, Enid clambors up onto the bed and drags the sheets over the mattress. She rolls around for good measure, allowing her scent to start pumping out in earnest.
It’ll be quite some time before the bed smells like nest and not like department store and warehouse, but it’s a start.
Once the yellow sheets lie flat and perfect, Enid begins arranging the pillows. This part always takes her the longest for the pillows are the integrity of the nest. Without pillows, there’s no shape, no spine.
It’s not just an act; it’s an art. Every submissive wolf has a trademark. A style. For Enid, it’s pillows, blankets, then stuffed animals—in that order. Only scent-heavy clothes may enter the nest and none of it should be able to be seen from the outside.
In the past, she’d spent hours and hours arranging and rearranging pillows until they laid in the perfect Enid-shape. Especially now, with Wednesday’s approval at stake, there is no margin for error. Everything must be absolutely perfect.
Once the pillows are in place, Enid retrieves the blankets and lays them overtop the pillows in a very specific sequence. The pale pink comforter serves as a suitable base—she makes sure to test it first—and each pastel throw blanket is placed down afterwards in order of least to most soft. Some blankets are left out entirely for one reason or another, be it texture or otherwise.
Nevertheless, Enid makes a point of rolling around the bed periodically to spread her scent as much as possible. Her new nest smells so sickly, sugary sweet, even she’s beginning to feel light-headed by the end of it.
“Puppy,” Wednesday interrupts, voice hushed. Almost reverent. “Your stuffed animals.”
Enid raises her head from the blankets, dazed. “Yeah. M’Ready.”
Wednesday hands her a stuffed rabbit with both hands.
Enid tucks it carefully between a pink and light purple blanket.
Wednesday hands her a stuffed cow next. And so it goes.
Thirty sterile stuffed animals later, her new nest is stuffed to the brim with soft, pretty things that are beginning to smell like her sugary vanilla scent and Wednesday. It’s almost perfect.
Almost.
“I need your clothes,” Enid speaks up. She’s on her knees in the center of the nest.
Wednesday hovers just outside, one knee propped on the edge of the mattress. “What do you need?”
“Give me your underwear.”
Whatever Wednesday was expecting, it wasn’t that. “They’re dirty,” she says slowly.
Enid blinks up at her. “I know that.”
“Shameless,” Wednesday murmurs, easing off the bed.
“Yeah,” Enid says under her breath, hands folded over her knees.
She feels a finger beneath her chin, a light touch urging her upwards, then Wednesday’s dark eyes on her face.
“I love you,” Wednesday tells her. “You’re mine.”
Enid flushes, full-bodied. “I know.”
Wednesday strips off her undershirt, revealing her breasts. “I chose these items for you.”
“You did?” Enid asks, holding her breath.
“I did.” Wednesday hands her the undershirt, then reaches back and retrieves the abandoned button-down for good measure. Both are quickly tucked into strategic points into Enid’s nest.
“All of it?” Enid asks, placing Wednesday’s pants under her softest blanket. Her socks are shoved beneath a stuffed duck that’s been scented particularly well.
Wednesday’s underwear is given a place of honor under a pink rabbit that smells like honeycomb and sweat.
“Every single item,” Wednesday answers, standing bare and unashamed. “I chose them all.”
“How on earth did you find the time? Jesus, Wednesday. We had finals,” Enid protests.
“I read a lot of reviews.”
Enid gapes at her. “Wednesday,” she says, voice strangled.
Wednesday stares back at her. “Enid. May I enter the nest?”
Enid sucks in a breath, cheeks puffing out, but nods. “Yeah,” she answers. “Come in.”
Wednesday climbs into the nest with care, careful not to disturb the placement of all of Enid’s stuffed animals.
Enid holds her breath. “What do you think?” she expels.
Wednesday cocks her head at her, eyes narrowing, then says, “It’s excellent. The finest nest I’ve ever seen, Enid. Really.”
Enid flushes, burning from her ears to her neck. “You mean it?” she asks shyly. “Is it…?”
Wednesday blinks at her. “It’s perfect. Thank you for building us such a wonderful nest.”
Enid nods, throat vibrating with a purr that doesn’t quite materialize.
Wednesday reaches out to brush back her bangs. “Let’s sleep. You’ve been so good today, Puppy. I’m proud of you.”
Enid melts back into her new blankets, and though they don’t quite smell right, she’s content to close her eyes and find her place wrapped in Wednesday’s arms.
Notes:
this is all part of wednesday's plot to set enid up in a permanent residence in canada and corner the maple syrup market when the forest inevitably takes a liking to her
is anyone else watching the stanley cup finals tonight👀
next update: friday 6/20
***make that saturday 6/21
Chapter 124: Punishment
Notes:
warnings: punishment (within an agreed upon dynamic)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Most unusually, Enid is first to wake the next morning.
She sits up in bed, carefully extracting herself from Wednesday’s grasp. The sun has nearly risen, dawn beginning to paint the floor in shades of peach and pink. Enid can smell something sweet on the breeze. Dew, she thinks. The red and silver maples of Morticia’s woods are so much sweeter than her own.
Then her ears metaphorically prick up as she catches the last strains of someone’s song on the wind.
Wednesday makes a noise of complaint. “June must be off schedule.”
Enid peers down at Wednesday, eyes catching on how her dark hair gleams in the early light. “Hm?”
“June,” Wednesday murmurs, one eye cracking open. “My mother’s second-year apprentice. This is her usual time, but she typically practices when the moon is waxing.”
Enid inhales, allowing her cheeks to puff out. The idea of exerting so much control over windsong is unthinkable. She can’t even summon it at will, let alone decide what time of day is most convenient for regular practice.
“Is she out there all alone?” Enid asks, suddenly overwhelmed with concern. Winter faeries aren’t the most dangerous thing in these woods—it doesn’t take a wolf to sense that.
Wednesday’s mouth curls up into a pleased smile as she draws herself into a much more elegant sitting position than Enid had managed. “Of course. But rest assured, she is well armed. All who enter the woods must be for their own safety,” she pointedly adds.
Enid bites her lip, just barely managing not to duck her head. “You’re mad about yesterday.”
“I’m disappointed.”
That’s almost worse, Enid thinks. “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “Because I left the car.”
“Did I not ask you to stay where you were when I left to tend to the horses yesterday?” Wednesday asks.
Enid winces. “You did.”
“And did you for one second think it perhaps a poor choice to follow strange creatures into an unfamiliar forest?”
Enid casts her gaze across the room, eyes landing on the only painting on the wall. It’s gorgeous, a lovely landscape of a ballet performance onstage, but there’s something sinister about the perspective.
“What’s that?” Enid asks, distracted.
Wednesday turns her face forward by the chin, grip firm. “Puppy.”
Enid looks down, unable to bear the look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I knew as I was doing it that you’d be pissed.”
For the first time, Wednesday sounds a little bit frustrated as she says, “Then why did you? Why risk your safety?”
Enid looks at her then, brow furrowed. “I wasn’t in danger, though,” she protests. “I’m a wolf, Wednesday. Unless you have an Eater in these woods, there’s nothing in that forest that can kill me.”
Wednesday’s face spasms, then her expression settles back into something resembling neutrality. “You could be tricked. Trapped. Harmed in all manner of ways. Even by your logic, you truly believe it acceptable that you roam around unarmed when there are creatures that can injure you? Just as long as you don’t die?”
Enid gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I just don’t think you realize how much damage a wolf can do. If I do stumble across something serious, I’ll run.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as she considers her. “Do you promise me that you will always run? No matter the circumstances?”
Enid tries to pull back, but Wednesday refuses to release her. “Yes? I guess so, but why?” she wheedles.
“Promise me,” Wednesday insists. “Even if it means leaving me behind.”
Enid does jerk out of her hold then. “No. I won’t!”
“You will.”
“Try and fucking make me. I won’t do it,” Enid snaps. “We fight together. That’s how it’s always been, Wednesday. I won’t ever leave you behind.”
Wednesday exhales harshly, almost angered, but when she drags Enid in, it’s to kiss her. Enid melts into it. She breathes deep.
“Love you,” Enid mumbles. “Sorry I left the car. Nothing happened to me, though.”
Wednesday sighs, kissing her hard. “Still. I’d like to be kept apprised of any kidnapping attempts, failed or otherwise. And the fact that you escaped the faeries does not absolve you of disobeying me in the first place.”
Wednesday finally pulls back. Her lips taste like blood.
“Are you bleeding?” Enid asks, biting her own lip.
Wednesday snorts. She raises her hand and presses the pad of her thumb against Enid’s canine. “I keep cutting my lips open on my new teeth. I’m not used to them yet.”
Enid allows her tongue to slide against Wednesday’s shiny black fingernail, but much to her disappointment, Wednesday retracts her hand before she can start sucking in earnest.
“As for disobeying me,” Wednesday continues, “I believe this means a punishment.”
Enid is instantly, utterly awake. “Oh. Yeah, um. Yes,” she agrees a little too quickly, shifting on the bed. Her skin prickles in anticipation. Will Wednesday put her over her knee?
Wednesday smiles wide. “Wonderful. Then you must tell me ten things you love about yourself.”
Enid’s smile drops, mouth falling open in disbelief. “What?” she says blankly. “No.”
“Yes,” Wednesday tells her. “Go on. Don’t leave any details out.”
Enid can feel her eyes bulging out of her head. “No,” she wheezes. “You—Wednesday. Please don’t.”
Wednesday shifts onto her knees, towering over her. One of her braids hangs over her shoulder. “Please don’t what? You’re not supposed to enjoy it. That’s what makes it a punishment.”
Enid is horrified to discover she’s beginning to slick up. “Stop,” she whispers.
“Stop?” Wednesday repeats. “You have a safeword. Use it.”
“No.”
“No?” Wednesday echoes.
“No, I don’t—I’m not safewording,” Enid mumbles, leaning back on her elbows and baring her throat.
She’d been so glad they’d slept naked last night, but now, she wishes Wednesday at least wasn’t menacing her bare-chested. It’s far too distracting.
“Then obey me,” Wednesday murmurs, reaching out to push Enid’s bangs behind her ear. “Go on. Ten things.”
Enid swallows even though her mouth is bone dry. “I can’t even think of ten things, Wednesday. That’s, like, a ridiculous request,” she half-laughs.
Silence. Enid opens her mouth again, then snaps it shut when Wednesday’s scent pitches into something sour and furious.
When Enid finally gathers enough courage to look up, she discovers Wednesday staring out onto the grounds of the estate with a blank expression, head cocked.
“I see,” Wednesday says, voice measured. “Understood. Then allow me to amend the terms of my punishment—you instead must kneel in here for ten minutes.”
Enid frowns, still unbalanced by whatever just happened. She picks at the hem of the pretty pink comforter poking out from beneath all her blankets. “Um, how is that a punishment? Not that I’m complaining, but…I don’t get it.”
Kneeling is a position of comfort for any submissive wolf. Enid would happily kneel for hours if it pleased Wednesday, no punishment needed.
Wednesday reaches out to cup her face, thumb brushing along Enid’s cheekbone. “You will remain in here while I do my hair in my bathroom.”
It’s a moment before Enid understands. To her humiliation, her eyes fill with tears.
Since the night when Wednesday first unbound her hair in Enid’s presence, she’s allowed Enid to sit close to her while she does her braids each morning. Their schedules don’t always align, but when they do, Enid will curl up near Wednesday’s side or at her feet and watch her work. Those moments have become precious to her. Sacred, even.
Wednesday had clearly noticed.
“Oh,” Enid says very quietly. She sucks in a hard breath in an effort not to let the tears spill over her cheeks.
“You put yourself in danger,” Wednesday states, voice grave. “You followed a strange creature into the woods. I did not know where you were and, despite your confidence in your abilities, there are parts of this forest that are not safe for you to wander on our own. You will not make the same choice again, will you?”
Enid shakes her head, even as her eyes continue to burn.
“Good girl,” Wednesday tells her, patting her on the head.
Wednesday moves around the room while Enid brings her knees to her chest and struggles to regain control of herself. Logically, it is ridiculous to cry over effectively being put in a time-out. But there is nothing logical about the waning moon and the effect it wreaks on her emotions. There is no common sense in the way Enid treasures every moment with Wednesday.
“Come here, Puppy,” Wednesday tells her, voice gentle.
Enid allows herself to be led onto the floor. Wednesday helps her into an oversized t-shirt, directing her limbs into their proper spots. When Enid lays eyes on the plush pink pillow Wednesday has very kindly arranged next to the bed, she promptly bursts into tears.
“You’ll kneel here for ten minutes,” Wednesday tells her, lowering her onto the pillow. “Enid. Look at me.”
Enid manages to raise her head.
“Do you need to safeword?” Wednesday asks very seriously.
Enid sucks in a breath, braces herself, then shakes her head. “No. I want to do this.”
Wednesday nods. “Ten minutes.”
The moment the door closes behind Wednesday, Enid claps her hands over her mouth and cries as quietly as she can.
***
Ten minutes seems to last an eternity and pass in the space between two heartbeats.
Enid cries for so long, her nose gets stopped up and head begins to pound, but before she knows it, the door between their rooms swings open and Wednesday is blowing back inside, fully naked with her hair still as messy as when she left.
“Oh, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs, dropping to her knees in front of her and pulling Enid into her arms. “You did so well. You did exactly as I asked, didn’t you? My good girl.”
Enid half-chokes on a noise of confusion. “What—I don’t understand, your hair—your braids—”
Wednesday gives the smallest sigh before pulling back. “I did intend to follow through,” she states. “But it was my first time punishing you as well. I stood outside the door.”
Enid gives a little sniffle. “The whole time?” she asks, voice breaking.
“The whole time,” Wednesday agrees, pushing back her hair. “Come with me.”
She helps Enid to her feet, guiding her quickly through the room that reeks of Wednesday to the bathroom. Enid blearily looks around as Wednesday begins to fill the pool-sized tub again.
“Come,” Wednesday urges her. “Let me care for you.”
Enid steps into the steaming water, releasing the breath she’d been holding.
“Was I good?” she asks Wednesday, even knowing her question doesn’t make sense.
Wednesday looks at her full in the face. “Extremely,” she answers. “Consider me impressed. You took your punishment very well.”
Enid sinks down lower into the water to hide her blush. She feels dizzy with contentment, almost bubbly. Like everything she’s ever done wrong in her life has been absolved with this one act, this one punishment served. It’s a heady feeling.
Wednesday pulls her close, using a cup to pour a gentle stream of water over Enid’s hair. “Will you allow me to wash your hair for you?” she asks.
Enid nods, humming into her neck. Wednesday’s sharp nails pulling through her hair might be the best feeling in the whole world.
As soon as Enid’s clean, she’s left to float on her back while Wednesday bathes. She doesn’t stray far, never more than an arm’s length from Wednesday’s position. The warm water buoying her weight matches the fizzing in her lungs and hot relief in her chest.
“How do you feel?” Wednesday asks, hand splaying over Enid’s stomach.
Enid hums, eyes still shut. “Really good,” she murmurs. “Like I was good.”
“You were.”
Enid smiles without opening her eyes.
“How was your first punishment, Puppy?” Wednesday asks, tracing the shape of her ribs. “Is isolation an effective punishment for you?”
Enid frowns, then nods. “Yeah. I sure don’t like it in the moment, which…I guess that means it works,” she muses.
Wednesday makes a noise of agreement. “I remember you mentioning you never want to be left alone after sex. I guessed that kneeling in a separate room would serve its purpose, but I never want to cause you actual distress or harm. Was it too much?”
Enid cracks an eye open.
Wednesday looks beautiful, skin shining in the pale light from the window. The water only reaches her hips. Her hair is loose, dark strands plastered to her neck and breasts like dripping ink.
“You’re so pretty,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday gives her a dry look. “Answer my question, please.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Why are you so worried?” she asks.
To her surprise, Wednesday’s mouth pulls down with uncertainty. “I am new to this, too,” she says quietly. “I am also trying to find my footing as your dominant. It is important feedback.”
Enid presses her lips together so that she doesn’t laugh. Wednesday took a cane to her ass—albeit, without any pain—and she worries a time-out is too much?
“It’s not funny,” Wednesday warns her.
“It’s a little funny,” Enid chokes out.
Wednesday slips a hand beneath her nape, half-lifting Enid out of the water, and leans down to kiss her. “Your well-being is never funny to me,” she murmurs against Enid’s lips.
Enid moans and strains upwards, kicking her feet in an effort to kiss her again. The splash she creates nearly crests over Wednesday’s head, dousing her in water.
Wednesday blinks water out of her eyes. Upon seeing the gleeful look on Enid’s face, she spits what ended up in her mouth onto Enid’s bare chest.
Enid cannot contain her laughter then.
“It wasn’t too much,” Enid tells her later, when Wednesday’s standing over her with a towel and meticulously drying Enid’s hair. “I liked it.”
Wednesday’s hand pauses. “You cried.”
“It feels good to cry sometimes,” Enid says with a shrug.
Wednesday seems to accept that. She goes so far as to brush out Enid’s hair until it hangs soft and loose.
When it’s time for Wednesday to redo her braids, she tows Enid by the hand to the vanity in her bedroom and lays down a pillow at her feet for Enid to sit on.
“Stay with me,” Wednesday orders.
Enid happily obliges, kneeling with as perfect form as she can manage. “I’m not sure where my clothes are,” she says idly, picking at her fingernails.
Wednesday makes a noise of amusement. “I’ll help you unpack later. What would you like to wear today?” she asks. Her slender fingers move quickly and efficiently through her hair.
“That depends,” Enid hums. “What am I doing today?”
Wednesday ties off one of her braids. “Why don’t you visit mother in her garden?”
“Without you?” Enid asks, surprised.
“I have a few things I’d like to work on in the forge. You’re welcome to join me, of course—”
“No thanks,” Enid says quickly, nose wrinkling. “How will I find her?”
Wednesday scoffs under her breath. “She’s waiting for you, I’m sure. She won’t have wandered too far in.”
Enid bites her lip, then asks, “What should I bring?”
At Wednesday’s nonplussed expression, Enid adds, “To be safe. You said I shouldn’t wander unarmed, so…”
Wednesday’s eyes gleam with pleasure. “I’m glad you asked.”
With her hair half-braided, she leads Enid to a large armoire and throws open the wooden doors.
Rows and rows of gleaming knives greet her. Wednesday must be learned in all manner of weapons, for Enid can’t imagine her keeping a blade she hasn’t mastered.
Maybe she isn’t the only one with a thing for knives.
“Holy shit,” Enid mumbles.
“Take your pick,” Wednesday tells her. “I have a number of holsters as well. Perhaps a hip holster will suit? Thigh? A corset?”
Enid flushes red at the thought of Wednesday in whatever a corset holster is, then squeaks, “Hip is fine!”
Enid ends up borrowing a blade about the length of her forearm, though she’s not sure what exactly Wednesday expects her to do with it. Enid would have a much higher chance of survival transforming into a wolf and fighting hand-to-hand than fumbling with a knife she doesn’t know how to use if she happened upon something nasty.
Wednesday dresses her in a white lace blouse and skirt set that must cost more than her meal plan at Nevermore. It fits suspiciously well, considering she and Wednesday have vastly different measurements.
Enid forgoes shoes entirely. She wouldn’t need them in any forest, especially not one she’s become acquainted with already.
She feels a bit ridiculous heading off into the trees wearing an outfit suitable for a tea party with a giant blade swinging off her hip, but Wednesday looks so pleased watching her from the front steps in her customary skirt and thigh-highs, Enid can’t bring herself to protest. She receives Wednesday’s parting wave with a smile and sets out in the direction she’d been pointed in, letting her nose do most of the work.
She hears Morticia before she sees her.
“Good morning, Enid,” the wind carries to her. “Come join me, sister.”
Enid follows the song to a clearing full of startling red blooms. She’s never seen trees like these before.
“Don’t ask,” Morticia calls over her shoulder. “We’re harboring a few fugitives in these woods.”
“Oh. Are they illegal?” Enid says without thinking.
Morticia laughs, loud and uninhibited. “In a manner of speaking. Have you eaten yet? I brought breakfast.”
Enid wonders briefly if Wednesday had known her mother apparently planned to corner her into a breakfast date, then discards it. She just hopes Wednesday remembers to eat before she disappears into the forge for hours on end to toil over whatever project’s caught her attention this time.
Morticia hands her a picnic basket, and Enid gives a little gasp of pleasure when she opens it. There’s soft white cheese, warm bread, and all manner of sweet summer fruits. Peaches, plums, and blackberries fill a makeshift cradle of mint leaves.
“It smells good,” Enid reports. “Thank you, Missus Addams.”
Morticia throws her an amused look. “I would ask that you call me by name, my darling. It’s only right, considering your fate is forever entwined with my daughter’s.”
Enid blushes, but nods and takes a bite out of a slice of bread. It’s delicious, clearly homemade, bursting with seeds and crusted over with a smattering of sea salt. The cheese is just as good. Is every member of this family accomplished in the kitchen? Enid may need to step up her game.
When she bites into a plum, juice dripping down her chin, Morticia gives a high, tinkling laugh.
“It gives me great joy to see you enjoy the fruits of this land,” she tells Enid, who continues to munch on her plum. “I do hope you will try a little bit of everything.”
She’s talking to a girl who can put down half a dozen cupcakes without issue after a full lunch. The whole basket will be empty if Enid has anything to say about it.
Enid hesitates, hand hovering over the spread. “Have you eaten yet?” she asks, wondering suddenly if she’s commandeering Morticia’s breakfast.
“Oh yes, dear,” Morticia assures her. “That’s all for you. See, I knew you hadn’t eaten dinner and figured you could use a full meal,” she says airily.
Enid feels incredibly guilty then. “Um. Is there any way to make sure Wednesday eats?”
Morticia smiles at her, stripping off her gardening gloves. “I’ll send a message to the kitchens to have something sent to the forge for her.”
She purses her lips as if preparing to blow a kiss and spins a song right then and there on the wind, sending it curling on the breeze in the direction of the house. Enid smirks when she catches an errant instruction to make sure Wednesday eats a vegetable of some kind.
“Wow,” Enid mumbles, picking up a blackberry. “I sure can’t do that.”
“Perhaps not yet,” Morticia hums, shifting her hair behind her shoulders. Heedless of her long, wine-colored dress, she takes a seat beside Enid on the forest floor. “Come. Let’s sing together.”
Enid looks at her, wide-eyed, a half chewed blackberry still in her mouth. “Um. I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t do it,” she says, giving a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry.”
Morticia takes her hand, uncaring of the stickiness or general mess that Enid’s made with her breakfast. “We’ll sing together.”
She begins humming, a steady tune that even Enid would be able to follow, and it’s beautiful. Haunting, even. It makes perfect sense why the student of a true daughter took Morticia on as an apprentice all those years ago.
But as soon as Enid tries to join her, the wind stalls. It slips and slides out of her fingers, impossible to catch. She might as well be trying to grab ahold of a stream of water.
“Oh,” Morticia breathes. “Oh, my.”
“I’m sorry,” Enid huffs, flushing red. “I don’t know why I can’t do it.”
Morticia opens her eyes. “Do not apologize. These are not lamentations of the weak rolling over the land,” she murmurs. “Your disconnect from magic stems only from denial of your own self, my darling.”
Enid sits with that, allowing Morticia’s gentle windsong to swirl around her.
“When you arrive in Shanghai, you should inquire whether they have anyone suitable to teach you,” Morticia tells her, squeezing her sticky hand. “In the meantime, you are always welcome to sing with me.”
This time, when Enid flushes, it’s with pleasure.
“Hey…Morticia,” she asks hesitantly. “Do you know anything about, um, courting braids? The kind that runewitches wear?”
Morticia smiles wide.
Notes:
so it (the pet dynamic and runewitch courting traditions) begins
next update: monday 6/23
Chapter 125: Reverberate
Notes:
kink warning: dom/sub dynamic, kneeling, some general brat behavior
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday is hard at work in the forge when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stands up.
She pauses, laying down the gouge she’d been using and stretching out her fingers as her unwanted visitor approaches. She would recognize his steps even if she didn’t know his stride.
“Father,” she greets, wiping her hands.
Gomez leans against her work station, peering down at her half-finished project. “I never took you for much of a woodworker.”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf,” Wednesday says delicately. “What do you want?”
“Is it not enough to visit my precious daughter?”
“This early in the morning?” Wednesday says flatly, diligently checking her work with the pads of her fingers. The teak she’d chosen to work with is beautiful, but not as stable as some other woods she could have selected for this particular project. “No. What is it?”
Gomez huffs out a laugh. “I take it your Enid likes her bedroom?”
Wednesday nods, standing up to root around her kit for a smaller chisel. “She does.”
“And she finds the woods hospitable, all kidnapping attempts aside?”
“Quite,” Wednesday answers, distracted.
Enid seems more than content to wander around the mountain, though Wednesday has admittedly never seen her shy away from an opportunity to explore any muddy copse of trees. She should have known what Enid was long before their trip to San Francisco.
Gomez grins. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve actually come by to discuss the weapon exchanging ceremony and whether your Enid will need a mentor to craft her tribute to you. I would like to volunteer my services,” he says with a dramatic and frankly unnecessary bow.
Wednesday freezes over her toolkit. Her hand clenches into a fist, fingers spasming, then she carefully says, “We’ve been courting in accordance with woodwitch and wolf customs.”
Gomez frowns. “You’ve not broached the subject of courting in our tradition with her?”
Wednesday shoots him a venomous look. “A lot of change is happening at once. She’s doing her best, and I am doing my best not to overwhelm her.”
“I meant no offense,” Gomez says slowly, raising his hands in surrender. “Merely trying to understand, my little stormcloud. Why not teach her our ways, if you’re already instructing her in the ways of your mother?”
Wednesday purses her lips. “It was easier to introduce her to woodwitch customs,” she very reluctantly admits. “Mother’s traditions are easy to follow. Our ways are...more peculiar.”
“Are they?” Gomez wonders. “I get the impression your Enid isn’t easily intimidated. She seems to be made of sterner stuff.”
Wednesday squares her shoulders. “Obviously. Was there anything else?”
To her growing irritation, Gomez pats her on the head. “You only have one courtship. Who knows? Your Enid may even enjoy learning our ways, my little pickaxe.”
Though Wednesday watches him leave with narrowed eyes, she ruminates on that for the rest of the morning. His words continue to spin around her like a particularly spiteful windsong as she tries and fails to drown it out with the methodic scrape of her woodworking tools.
Enid probably would enjoy the runewitch traditions. She’d loved the woodwitch bouquets Wednesday had crafted for her at Nevermore, and no one could miss the reverence on her face every time she caught sight of her collar in a reflective surface. The problem isn’t that Enid wouldn’t lean into the runewitch culture wholeheartedly so much as that some part of Wednesday wishes they could follow runewitch tradition as tradition demands.
In their culture, the pursued party is the one who initiates courtship. After a runewitch communicates their interest in courting, the other party—the prey, so to speak—would declare themselves taken with a very public show of affection. Or they may choose not to. In this particular case, Wednesday has no way of initiating their courtship in the runewitch fashion without rejecting tradition.
It is solely down to Enid.
Oh, it would be easy for Wednesday to lead Enid in this way as she had through woodwitch and wolf customs, but the selfish part of her, the dominant part of her, wants to be chosen by her submissive like in the olde days. She wants Enid to choose her without being coerced.
If Wednesday pushes her into following runewitch traditions, it cheapens the gravity of their courtship in a way that she simply cannot stomach.
“Delivery!” comes a voice from the entrance of the forge.
Wednesday sighs, wiping her brow. “As if things couldn’t get any worse.”
Pugsley laughs. “Relax, Wednesday. It’s just breakfast,” he tells her, heaving a basket onto her work station.
Wednesday frowns, nose scrunching up. “Are those brussel sprouts?” she hisses.
Pugsley grins. “Like I said. Breakfast.”
Wednesday could have killed him right there.
***
The closer Enid gets to the forge, the greater the urge to turn tail and flee becomes.
Objectively, it’s not that big of a deal. She knows that Wednesday has made much greater, grander gestures in front of whole crowds of people without batting an eye. She once fed her a cupcake by hand in front of the entire Nevermore courtyard.
“Christ,” Enid whispers to herself, aware that she must look like a kicked dog skittering from shadow to shadow down the path.
Wednesday wouldn’t reject her for this, not after collaring her. Not after taking her in hand and promising to keep her safe.
And yet.
Enid hesitates in front of the entrance to the forge. She can hear laughter inside, and the low, sharp tones of what can only be Wednesday snapping in frustration. If she focuses with all her might, she imagines she can even catch her scent over the smell of oil and fire.
“I can do this,” Enid tells herself. Loving someone means being brave.
For Wednesday, she can be brave.
She pushes open the door.
Wednesday’s gaze finds her immediately, eyes creasing with relief once she recognizes her face. Then her lips part as if she’s scenting the air like a wolf, pupils blooming large and dark as she takes in the change in her hair.
That isn’t shock, Enid thinks distantly. Shock isn’t nearly so hungered.
“Enid,” Wednesday mouths from across the forge.
Morticia had been very diligent when teaching Enid how to braid the declaration of courtship.
“It’s an old tradition,” Morticia had explained. “You braid this pattern, the Addams family pattern, to show to all that you are taken by one of its members.”
“Would people really have recognized the difference?” Enid asked, fingering her new braid. It’s a small plait next to her temple, about the width of a pencil.
“Oh, yes,” Morticia had laughed. “Imagine a village with many different practicing families. It would have been a very big deal to arrive at a village function wearing the Addams family braid in the old days. It signifies that you are officially off the market. That you have accepted my daughter.”
Enid holds her breath, waiting for Wednesday’s reaction.
Wednesday stands up so fast, her stool topples over backwards with a bang.
Pugsley glances between them, then grins. “You guys are so cute.”
“Disgusting is what you are,” Wednesday retorts. “Get out. Now.”
Pugsley shakes his head, but leaves as requested. Wednesday doesn’t look away from Enid for a second.
“Come here, Puppy.”
Enid takes a tentative step forward.
“Closer,” Wednesday coaxes. She points at her feet, painted fingernail shining in the light of the fires.
Enid moves all the way forward this time, coming within an arm’s length of her. When Wednesday reaches out to touch her braid, her fingers are shaking.
“Do you know what this means?” Wednesday asks her.
Though her expression is the picture of composure, her scent is rich with something dark. Desperate. Enid feels almost drunk on it, gulping for air open-mouthed.
“Yes,” Enid gasps.
“Tell me,” Wednesday whispers.
Enid swallows. “I’m yours.”
Wednesday closes her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “You accept me, then. As your mate.”
Enid all but trips in her hurry to launch herself into Wednesday’s arms.
“Yes,” she stutters, fumbling her words. “Yes, I’m—I want you. I accept you, Wednesday, don’t want anyone but you. You know that. You have to know that.”
Wednesday places her hands on Enid’s hips. “Shall we pick a pattern for your family, then? So you may braid it into my hair?” she asks, voice low.
Enid shivers. “I don’t like the idea of cutting your hair.”
Wednesday’s grip tightens. “It’s tradition.”
“I don’t have to like it,” Enid pouts, hiding her face in Wednesday’s braids.
She’d been a lot less enthused when Morticia explained the braids aren’t just for show. At the end of the courting period, each party is supposed to cut the braid of their partner in front of all of their family and friends. While Enid doesn’t mind the idea of losing her little courting braid to Wednesday’s vast collection of odds and ends, the idea of cutting a single hair off of Wednesday’s head seems sacrilege.
Wednesday cups the back of her neck, stroking her curls. Her thumb finds Enid’s new braid. “You’ll like the celebratory ball even less, I’m afraid.”
Enid nearly chokes on her own spit, jerking out of their embrace. “Sorry, did you say ball?”
“Oh, yes. Did you think you could avoid a party, now that you’ve declared our courtship?” Wednesday asks, raising an eyebrow.
Enid blinks at her. “We leave for Shanghai in like ten days.”
“Twelve. Don’t underestimate my mother.”
“A ball? Like, with dresses?” Enid feels a bit nauseous as an even worse thought occurs to her. “Please tell me I’m not supposed to have a ballgown on retainer for this. I don’t even have nice heels.”
"It will be awful," Wednesday says, looking inordinately pleased at the prospect. “But nevermind that. Your attire will be taken care of, of course. I have quite a few ideas of how our courtship should proceed from here.”
“Oh?” Enid asks, cocking her head. “Where?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “Where, what?”
“Where are your ideas?” Enid asks.
Wednesday stares at her. “In my head.”
The last few weeks must have been quite the emotional rollercoaster if Wednesday the-red-yarn-connection Addams didn’t have the chance to construct a visual aid.
“What, no serial killer corkboard this time?” Enid teases.
Wednesday gives her a dry look, absentmindedly tugging on Enid’s braid. “No. I realize the timeline may seem fast to you, but runewitch courting is somewhat less structured than other cultures. Once we choose a spouse, it is for life. That is the meat of it. Please don’t fret over the details,” she assures her.
Enid frowns. “It’s the same for wolves, you know,” she points out. “I know that I’m from a traditional pack and you’ve gone, like, above and beyond courting me every way possible, but there was never anyone else but you, Wednesday. I would have chosen you even if you hadn’t formally courted me.”
Wednesday’s face softens. She cups Enid’s cheek in her palm. “It was always the same for me, Enid. Obviously. If the idea of a ball truly sickens you, I’ll tell my mother to go hang.”
Enid sways into her, allowing Wednesday to wrap an arm around her waist.
“I’ll live,” Enid says with a little sigh. “So. Back to the ball. I’m guessing that means dresses?”
Wednesday makes a noise of agreement, nose brushing the soft spot beneath Enid’s earlobe. “I’m rather looking forward to dressing you up like my own personal doll,” she murmurs.
Enid automatically presses her thighs together. She hadn’t thought she was into that, but, well.
Wednesday must feel the movement because she shifts forward, knee sliding in between Enid’s legs. She doesn’t move Enid’s hips, but she doesn’t keep Enid from rubbing forward either.
Intent on not ruining what she’s pretty sure is supposed to be a sweet moment, Enid focuses all her energy on staying still.
“Anything else?” Enid asks, voice shaking only slightly. “Two weeks isn’t a lot of time.”
Wednesday snorts under her breath. "Courting isn't just about dressing you in fine silks and gilding you with jewels," she says. "For me, courting is about acknowledging your importance."
Enid flushes red. “Oh,” she says very quietly into Wednesday’s neck. “Well, I want to do it right. For you. Can you…is there someone besides you who can help me?”
Wednesday pulls back and stares at her for what feels like a long time. “I can teach you,” she eventually says. “I will always help you.”
Enid takes a deep breath. “No offense, but I want to do this on my own,” she replies. “It’s only fair, you know? You deserve a proper courtship too, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s lips purse together, then twitch at the corners. Her mouth curls up into a full blown smile right there before Enid’s eyes, revealing her sharp new teeth.
“You’re perfect,” Wednesday breathes, giving a breathless little laugh. “I can’t wait to fuck you.”
Enid actually gasps out loud. Her hand flutters uselessly between them like she planned on shoving Wednesday away, then drops limply to her side. “Excuse me? What?”
Wednesday just continues to smile, eyes crazed. “You’re such a good girl. Aren’t you?”
Enid swallows. “Um. Yes?” she says in a voice that comes out entirely too high-pitched.
“Yes,” Wednesday answers clearly. “You are. You’re a good Puppy girl. So pretty and sweet.”
When Enid doesn’t respond, Wednesday insists, “Say it.”
Enid can feel her ears burning, but she dutifully repeats, “I’m a good Puppy girl.”
“All of it,” Wednesday orders.
“So pretty and s-sweet,” Enid stutters, shifting her weight until she’s leaning back against the closest table.
Wednesday does not allow her to step back fully. She refuses to surrender a single inch, arm tightening around her.
“Are you embarrassed?” she asks, sounding legitimately curious.
Enid burns hotter, scoffing as though irritated. She manages to wriggle out of Wednesday’s hold. “You know, Wednesday, I’m not even—no. I’m not.”
Wednesday hums. “Do you need to kneel?” she asks.
Enid’s mouth pops open. “What—no, what the fuck? We’re in public, that’s—first of all, I wouldn’t ask to do that in your parents’ home—”
“You wouldn’t ask, but you want to,” Wednesday surmises, crossing her arms. “I can smell you.”
Enid bites the inside of her cheek, fists clenching at her sides. “Go fuck yourself. I would never—”
“On your knees.”
Enid hits the ground so hard, the sound reverberates through the room.
Notes:
>:)
next update: thursday 6/26
Chapter 126: Knees
Notes:
kink warnings: oral sex, dirty talk, hair pulling, bratting, and not even sure how to tag the scent stuff (???)
***apparently the scent stuff is called olfactophilia >:) enjoy
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid was twelve when she learned to kneel.
“Steady, girls,” her teacher would snap. “Your knees should be silent when they touch the floor.”
A submitting wolf should bend with beauty and land without weight. Always silent, Enid was taught. As graceful in her descent as a falling flower.
Wednesday might be the only dominant on earth who would grin like a jack-o’-lantern at her crashing onto the floor.
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, eyes fire-bright. “You needed this.”
Enid nods. She’s a submissive wolf by nature. It’s her duty to kneel. To be silent in all things.
But with Wednesday, she doesn’t have to worry about being too much, too loud. Wednesday has seen her yellow eyes and sharp teeth and still wanted to spread her apart. She’s seen her drop to her knees, utterly out of form, and smiled wide like Enid made her proud.
“You’ve had a lot of upheaval recently, haven’t you?” Wednesday continues, stepping forward.
Enid parts her lips, breathing deep. “Yeah,” she exhales.
“Mhm,” Wednesday hums. “I know.”
The weather outside is perfect, sunny and summer warm, but uncomfortably hot inside the forge. It makes sense why Wednesday chose to wear her usual silk thigh-highs rather than tights with her skirt. Thinner material, Enid thinks distantly. Allows for more airflow.
She licks her lips and tastes sweat.
Wednesday touches the soft spot beneath her chin, tilting her head up. When Enid meets her gaze, she finds Wednesday watching her with narrowed eyes.
“What are you thinking about?” Wednesday asks under her breath.
Enid swallows the noise climbing up her throat. “Are you sweating?” she blurts.
Whatever Wednesday expected, it wasn’t that. Her eyebrow raises, but she replies, “Yes.”
Enid exhales shakily. “Yeah. I can tell.”
She might have been able to behave if it was just the sweat beading at Wednesday’s temples and behind her knees and arms she had to contend with. But from this angle, nearly eye-level with Wednesday’s skirt, she can smell the dampness of Wednesday’s underwear.
“What do you want?” Wednesday asks, voice lowering.
She takes another step forward.
Enid tips her head back, panting out loud as she looks up at Wednesday. “Just—just let me smell you,” she pleads, hands clenching on her thighs.
Wednesday fingers the hem of her skirt, raising it to expose an inch of her upper thighs. “You want to smell me?”
Enid frantically nods.
“Ask nicely,” Wednesday coaxes.
Enid bites her lip, mouth filling with saliva. “Please, Wednesday,” she whispers. “Let me smell you. Just for a second.”
Wednesday moves close enough that Enid could press her face into the front of her skirt if she only tilted forward. She keeps her head still, refusing to cave until Wednesday gives her permission.
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth pulls up into a terrible smirk. “Wicked thing,” she hums. “Aren’t you?”
Enid gives a little whimper in response, beginning to shake.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow as she takes in the sight of her. She looks a little bit impressed. “Alright, then. Go ahead,” she says warmly.
Indulgent, Enid thinks, dizzily swaying forward.
When Wednesday doesn’t jerk away from her or plant a steel-toed boot on her shoulder, Enid tentatively ducks under her skirt.
“Fuck,” Enid whispers to herself, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, it’s all she can do to keep breathing.
If she’d thought Wednesday’s scent was strong out in the open, it’s nothing compared to beneath the curtain of her skirt. She’s in legitimate danger of passing out shielded on all sides by the sweet smell of Wednesday's sweat.
Cognizant of the fact that Wednesday would inevitably put a stop to this if Enid began to show signs of losing consciousness, she decides to push her luck and lifts Wednesday’s skirt up to her waist. The rush of fresh air comes as a blessing and a curse. Enid’s glad to no longer be seeing stars, but it’s much more difficult to focus on the task at hand with Wednesday’s underwear exposed to the light.
“Better?” Wednesday asks, amused.
Enid nods, eyes falling shut.
She carefully tucks the hem of Wednesday’s skirt into her waistband. It’s easy to wrap her hands around the backs of Wednesday’s thighs, waiting only a moment to see if Wednesday stops her.
It’s significantly harder to keep her composure when she leans in and buries her face between Wednesday’s legs.
Wednesday doesn’t quite muffle her choke of surprise, but Enid’s too busy inhaling as much as she can to pay much attention. Wednesday would have stumbled backward if not for Enid’s hands anchoring her where she stands. Her thighs jerk as if aching to slam together, scent pitching high and hot.
“Oh,” Wednesday whispers, hand sliding into Enid’s hair. Her thumb strokes Enid's courting braid.
Enid parts her lips under the guise of getting a better breath, allowing her lower lip to slide against the edge of Wednesday’s underwear. Wednesday’s leg jerks, and though her hand tightens in Enid’s hair, she doesn’t stop her.
The fires of the forge continue to crackle behind them. Enid can feel sweat beginning to drip down her spine, the pretty white outfit Wednesday had chosen for her sticking to her skin. Her knees ache something fierce.
She presses a kiss to the crease between Wednesday’s thigh and hip, dislodging her underwear as much as she dares.
When still no protest comes, Enid starts to lick Wednesday’s underwear in earnest, adding to the mess on the silk. The noises she’s making are obscene, but Wednesday’s breathing hard enough that Enid can’t bring herself to stop. Her chin is already sopping wet.
One unfortunate characteristic of being a wolf—besides the inhumanly long tongue—is the ungodly amount of saliva. Most humans find it gross.
“Fuck,” Wednesday hisses. “Enid.”
Enid moans into her underwear, then rises up onto her knees and pushes the silk aside.
Wednesday allows herself to be propelled backwards until her lower back hits a nearby table. She grips hard in Enid’s hair, forcing her head back enough that Enid must look her in the eye.
Wednesday opens her mouth as if planning to speak, but falls silent when Enid unthinkingly allows the full length of her tongue to slide out and lick up the mess from her chin.
Color burns high on Wednesday’s cheeks. Her hand softens in Enid’s hair, from gripping to petting in an instant.
“Let me get you something to kneel on,” Wednesday says breathlessly.
Enid shakes her head. She’d rather die than unhook her hands from the back of Wednesday’s thighs, and anyways, she loves her bruises. The idea of putting a pillow under her knees to lessen her marks makes her metaphorical hackles raise.
“Enid.” Wednesday’s voice comes hard and unyielding. “Be good.”
Enid bares her teeth with a snarl. Wednesday straightens up, towering over her, and bares her teeth right back.
Enid shrinks down, pressing the heel of her hand between her own thighs in hopes it’ll lessen the ache.
“Does it hurt?” Wednesday asks, voice right on the edge of mocking.
Enid nods, pressing her lips together.
“Good,” Wednesday retorts. “Lift your knees.”
Enid scowls as she allows Wednesday to slide a rolled up mat beneath her knees. She probably would have continued pouting for the rest of the day if Wednesday hadn’t leaned back against the table and hooked a sharp fingernail beneath her underwear, dragging the silk aside to expose herself.
“Is this what you wanted?” Wednesday asks magnanimously.
Enid licks her lips again. “Yeah,” she rasps.
“You want it?”
Enid lifts her eyes to meet her gaze. “I want it, Wednesday.”
Wednesday makes a noise of understanding. “If I allow you to have it, will you be a good girl for me today? You’ll follow my orders?”
That sounds suspiciously planned, but Enid can do nothing besides nod in the face of Wednesday’s pussy. “I will. Promise, Wednesday.”
Wednesday wraps a hand in Enid’s hair, finding her braid again. “Then go ahead.”
“I have permission?” Enid whimpers, grinding her hand into her own pussy.
Wednesday releases a shaky breath. “You have my permission, Pet.”
Enid groans out loud as she leans back in, mouth open wide.
Notes:
biiiiiiiiiig arc for eaters guys and i am NOT talking about the eaters in the woods that little wolves are taught to fear!
next update: sunday 6/29
***my beta has a big exam tomorrow so i'm going to wait to post 127 until he's had a chance to look over it! next chapter will go up tomorrow guys and ghouls, thank you for your patience
Chapter 127: Plot
Chapter Text
When Enid imagined eating Wednesday out like this, she pictured something a little—different. Rougher, maybe.
She didn’t imagine Wednesday being violent, but she did picture her being mean. Unrelenting. Almost unkind in the way she’d ride Enid’s face.
While Wednesday is letting Enid eat her out, she’s…complacent. Sitting back like she’s getting a pedicure rather than rucking herself into Enid’s mouth and hissing through clenched teeth. There’s no hair pulling. No half-baked curses that escape her despite her best efforts.
The worst part is, Enid can tell that Wednesday’s enjoying it. Even if it weren’t impossible to fake your pleasure with a wolf, Enid can feel and taste and smell how much Wednesday likes her tongue.
But she wants her scalp to be sore from how hard Wednesday’s dragging her around. She wants Wednesday to touch her harshly, like she’s strong.
Like she believes that Enid can take it.
Enid pauses, breathing hard against Wednesday’s thigh.
“What?” Wednesday asks, infuriatingly calm even as she pets Enid’s hair.
Enid rolls her eyes up to look at her. “You taste—because of your scent. It reminds me of honey,” she blurts in lieu of demanding why aren’t you fucking me? What have I done wrong?
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Because of my scent?”
Enid nods.
Wednesday hums, still petting her. “Have you had enough?” she asks, a little furrow appearing between her eyes.
“No,” Enid retorts, startled. She’s very nearly offended. It’s one thing for her to fail at making Wednesday lose control; it’s a whole other beast to not finish what she’s started out of spite.
“Okay, good girl,” Wednesday murmurs. She leans back on unsteady legs with a sigh. “You may continue.”
Enid flushes and leans in again. Instead of licking harder, she goes gentler, kissing and sucking with a soft mouth. She’s careful not to use her teeth.
Wednesday makes a pleased noise. “Puppy. I’m close,” she whispers.
Enid can tell. She slides her tongue into her, accidentally pressing her canines against Wednesday in the process, and that’s it. Wednesday comes silently, head tossed back to expose her throat as she exhales harshly through her nose. Her knuckles are white where she grips the table.
Disappointed though she is, Enid cannot bring herself to look away. Wednesday’s orgasms are a thing of beauty, like a fleeting sunrise. There one second and gone the next.
Wednesday eventually relaxes her fingers and looks down with hooded eyes. “Are you alright?”
Is she? Enid’s stomach is churning with disappointment, but she’s safe in this little bubble of Wednesday’s scent. That’s no small thing, she reminds herself. She can always improve her oral skills, but the security Wednesday provides her on her knees, safe in between her shaking thighs—that cannot be bought.
Maybe she can incite Wednesday in other ways, Enid thinks. There’s more than one way to skin a rabbit, and Wednesday has already proven susceptible to some of her more underhanded tactics.
“Yeah,” Enid decides. “I am.”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. She reaches out and gives a little tug on Enid’s braid.
“Let’s get you off your knees.”
Enid allows herself to be pulled up, but when Wednesday’s hands stray down to her hips, hooking under the waistband of her skirt, she draws back.
“I’m good,” Enid chirps. She can’t allow her head to be clouded now; this is the time to be strategizing, not falling to pieces in a public area.
Wednesday freezes. “You’re…what?”
“I’m good,” Enid repeats. Her stunt with the crop top for their last dinner at Nevermore had done wonders for the kink negotiation; maybe a similar strategy can work here? “Hey, what’re the plans for dinner, do you know?”
Wednesday stares at her. She looks vaguely unnerved.
“Ah,” Wednesday eventually clears her throat. “We generally have dinner as a family in the summer dining room.”
Enid can work with that. If she strikes the right balance between an outfit that Morticia won’t faint at and Wednesday might actually notice, maybe she can get somewhere. It’s worth a shot, she decides.
“Great,” Enid enthuses. “What are our plans for the rest of the day?”
Somehow, she needs to fabricate an excuse to get into those boxes that arrived from Nevermore. The outfit Wednesday dressed her in today is beautiful, but not at all sexy. She needs something short and preferably pink for these purposes.
Wednesday’s brow furrows, but she says, “I’d like to freshen up. We should go back to the house. I’ll draw you your bath.”
“Sounds good,” Enid agrees, swinging their clasped hands as she leads the charge out of the forge.
She only just manages to swallow her grin. Being good for Wednesday is the best feeling in the whole world, but there’s nothing quite so exciting as knowing that she’s going to misbehave.
***
Enid hums under her breath the entire walk back to the house. The breeze feels nice against her sweaty neck and face. Maybe Wednesday had a point with wanting a bath, she admits internally.
“Can I have my bubble bath?” Enid asks. “The cherry one?”
Wednesday shoots her a look. She still looks suspicious and confused. “Of course.”
They bypass Enid’s room entirely and head straight for Wednesday’s grand ensuite. Enid takes a deep, steadying breath as she crosses the bedroom. What she wouldn’t give to sleep in a room steeped so deeply in Wednesday’s scent.
When the water’s steaming hot, Enid notices Wednesday makes a point of adding twice as much cherry bubble bath as she normally would. Strangely, Wednesday’s eyes bore into Enid’s face as she turns the container upside down and squeezes the bottle like she’s wringing a woodland animal’s neck.
“Um,” Enid pipes up, feeling like an intervention is needed if she wants any hope of having bubble bath left after today. “Thanks. That’s good.”
Wednesday gives a sharp nod, tossing the now-empty bottle into the trashcan. Enid tries not to look too forlorn.
“Is there anything else?” Wednesday demands. “I’ll ring for lunch. What do you want to eat? You can have anything you’d like.”
Enid shrugs, fumbling with the fastenings on her skirt. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
Wednesday’s hand catches her wrist, slowing her movements.
“Wait, please,” Wednesday says quietly. “I would like to undress you.”
Enid looks back at her, surprised, but nods. “O-Oh. Okay.”
Wednesday looks strangely tense, shoulders hiked nearly up to her ears, but she crosses the floor and disappears into her bedroom without another word. When Enid leans back to peek through the doorway, she spots Wednesday speaking softly into an old-fashioned black phone.
Wednesday hangs up the phone with a clatter, and Enid hurries to turn back around and face the steaming bath.
She feels a hand on her waist, then a touch on the back of her neck. Enid leans into Wednesday’s kiss, allowing Wednesday to support her weight.
“Lunch will be up shortly,” Wednesday tells her, nose brushing Enid’s ear. “Come.”
Enid allows herself to be led to the water’s edge. She tries to remain sharp and keep strategizing as Wednesday’s hands slide beneath her clothes, but between the comforting smell of her favorite bubble bath and the heat of the room, Enid can’t help but drift a little bit.
Wednesday places the knife that had hung off Enid’s hip on a side table. It gleams in the light of the midday sun, and though Enid didn’t use it, she is grateful Wednesday cared enough to give it to her.
“Okay, sweetheart. Carefully,” Wednesday warns, helping her down the tiled steps into the water.
Enid slips down to her shoulders, blowing bubbles as she sinks into the heat. For all that Wednesday had removed Enid’s clothing with care, she divests her own outfit with routine efficiency. As soon as she’s naked, she joins Enid in the water.
Wednesday tugs on Enid’s courting braid. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, still looking somewhat disturbed.
How best to piss you off doesn’t seem like a good answer, especially with Wednesday in such a weird mood, so Enid replies, “The fruit tastes really good here.”
Wednesday makes a sound of agreement, choosing a washcloth from the display next to the tub. “My mother practices every night. It helps the forest grow.”
Enid considers that as she watches Wednesday give herself a perfunctory rub-down and rinse her hair in cold water from the faucet. There’s a ringing chime from the bedroom, and Wednesday’s head snaps around to look at it.
She glances at Enid, still covered in bubbles, and orders, “Stay here.”
She waits until Enid has given a clear nod of agreement before climbing out of the water. Enid sinks down so that her chin and mouth are covered as she watches Wednesday walk to the door and don a thin grey robe. Oh, she may have had Wednesday in her mouth, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
Wednesday disappears into the bedroom, and Enid sits and plots.
Within less than a minute, Wednesday has returned with a brass tray stacked nearly as high as her head. Enid rises half-out of the water, alarmed, but remains where she is at Wednesday’s pointed look.
“Stay,” Wednesday tells her, placing the tray down at the edge of the bath. “I’ll feed you.”
Enid hopes her blush is attributed to the heat of the bath.
Wednesday sits with her feet in the water, beckoning Enid with a sharp finger. She uncovers a bowl full of strawberries just as Enid draws close enough to smell them.
“Ooh,” Enid mumbles. “Looks good.”
She licks her lips, opening her mouth again to comment on the perfect red color of Morticia’s harvest, only to find a strawberry hovering in front of her.
A strawberry offered by hand. Wednesday’s hand, to be precise. Now that Enid is looking for it, there’s not a single piece of silverware in sight. The lunch tray contains only covered dishes of food and two elaborately folded white napkins.
When Enid glances up, she spots a flicker of uncertainty in Wednesday’s expression that shutters as soon as she realizes she’s been caught.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Wednesday asks. Her fingers twitch. “Perhaps I’ll eat this myself.”
Enid leans in and bites down, licking up the strawberry juice and Wednesday’s fingers besides. She can plot and conspire all she wants; Enid would have to be dead not to take the chance to be hand-fed by Wednesday.
Wednesday’s pupils dilate, and she quickly places another strawberry in front of Enid’s lips.
Enid hums happily as she bites down again.
“Good girl,” Wednesday whispers.
She offers Enid a cube of pineapple next, and though the fruit is ripe, the tartness causes Enid’s nose to scrunch and lips to pucker.
“Ugh,” she says. “Sour.”
Wednesday glances down at her hand, then at the glass of beautifully cubed pineapple, and suddenly she’s on her feet. Enid watches with an open mouth as Wednesday dumps the entire glass into the garbage.
“Wednesday!” she gasps. “What—?”
“You didn’t like it,” Wednesday replies, retaking her seat on the edge of the tub. “Come,” she urges, drawing Enid between her spread knees. “Let me take care of you.”
Enid bites down on another strawberry.
Strangely, Wednesday doesn’t wipe her face clean each time Enid misjudges her mouthful and the juice drips down her chin. The pristine white napkins on the tray go ignored and unused.
Instead, Wednesday just watches her until Enid inevitably has to stick her tongue out to lick up her chin. Enid’s beet red by the time they finish the bowl of strawberries.
Wednesday offers her a small square of what looks like a cucumber sandwich. When Enid dutifully eats it, Wednesday’s lips split into a pleased smile.
“No more,” Enid eventually protests, a feeling of exhaustion coming over her. “M’full.”
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmurs, fingers sliding into Enid’s hair. She strokes Enid’s braid. “Go float. I’ll be back with you shortly.”
Enid does as ordered, laying out on her back. Nearly all of the bubbles have gone.
Wednesday takes a seat on the highest step, only her feet and ankles in the water. “Come here, Puppy. I want to look at you,” she says.
Enid straightens up in the water. Her skin prickles in the cool air.
Aware of Wednesday’s eyes on her bare chest, she troops across the bath until she’s standing in front of her. When Wednesday pats her knee, Enid frowns.
“What am I supposed to—?”
“Right here, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs, dragging Enid down into her lap.
“Wednesday!” Enid shrieks, trying and failing to squirm away. “Your robe!”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “It’s a bathrobe. It will survive. Now, spread your legs for me.”
Enid bites her lip, but sinks lower into her lap. Sitting bridal-style means she can part her knees without problem, which in hindsight feels like a grave miscalculation. From this angle, Wednesday can still see her face.
Wednesday prods the admittedly wicked-looking bruises on Enid’s knees. “Do you feel any pain?”
“No,” Enid reports. “Honest,” she adds at Wednesday’s dubious look.
As a wolf, she heals much faster than humans. She’s too afraid to look at her ass in fear the stripes Wednesday left have already begun to fade.
Wednesday makes a noise of acknowledgement, then continues her inspection. She presses the pads of her fingers into the soles of Enid’s feet. She examines the marks around Enid’s wrists. She touches every inch of her jaw, pressing down as if she expects Enid to wince in pain.
“Alright,” Wednesday mutters. “Would you hand me that blue jar, please?”
Enid reaches for it, then pulls back. “Why?” she asks, suspicious.
Wednesday stares back at her. “It’s a balm to treat your bruises.”
Enid jerks backward so fast, a wave of water crests over Wednesday’s lap, soaking her robe to the waist.
“No,” Enid says, voice shaking. “Don’t. You can’t take my bruises away from me.”
Wednesday’s hands jump to her hips, alarmed. “Puppy, what’s wrong?”
“Please don’t take them away,” Enid says in a small voice, already sniffling.
Wednesday stands up, moving further into the water in complete disregard of her robe. “Enid. Look at me.”
Enid shakes her head, chin digging into her chest.
“Puppy.”
Enid cracks an eye open, tentatively glancing upwards.
Wednesday strokes her arms, face soft with sympathy. “I understand you like your marks, but I cannot leave you injured. Your knees were already bruised before this morning and your wrists are concerning me.”
“But—”
“Puppy,” Wednesday interjects, a note of finality coloring her tone. “This is important. If you don’t allow me to take care of you, we cannot play as rough. I will not risk your safety.”
Well, that just won’t do. Enid sucks in a sharp breath.
“Fine,” she huffs, lower lip poking out. “You can…if I don’t have a choice, then fine. Treat my bruises or whatever.”
Wednesday reaches up to stroke her hair, giving her braid a little tug. “I have to ensure your well-being, sweetheart. It’s my prerogative as your dominant.”
Enid huffs out a sigh. “I said fine. Just—put the ointment on, or whatever.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her tone, but leads Enid back to the highest step without a word. Instead of pulling Enid sideways into her lap again, she encourages Enid to straddle her.
“Like this,” Wednesday says. “I want to check your holes too.”
And just like that, all of the frustration drains right out of her. Enid shivers, wet skin prickling in the much cooler air.
“Check my what?” she squeaks.
Wednesday’s eyes raise from her chest to her face. “You heard me,” she says, uncapping the ointment. “I need to ensure you haven’t sustained any damage from our conduct in San Francisco.”
Enid’s face burns hotter than the bathwater. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if I was, um, hurt.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Wednesday replies. “You’re going to let me check you anyways, aren’t you?”
Enid can do nothing but nod, even as she squirms on Wednesday’s lap. “Yeah,” she breathes.
“I thought so,” Wednesday hums, rubbing a palmful of ointment into Enid’s right knee. “There’s a rune for this, of course, but the sacrifice is rather dangerous. I’d rather let your bruises heal naturally with some magical assistance than risk death by getting too greedy with an instant cure.”
Enid cocks her head, interested despite herself. “There’s an instant cure for bruises?”
Wednesday nods. “As long as you’re willing to accept a sacrifice of blood that cannot clot when exposed to oxygen. If you accidentally cut yourself while the rune is active, you’ve ensured your death.”
Enid shivers. “I want to keep my bruises, anyways,” she mumbles. “It’s bad enough that you’re speeding up the healing process.”
Wednesday moves on to her left knee. “Poor Puppy. I suppose you’ll live, won’t you?”
Enid sticks out her tongue in response. Wednesday leans forward and kisses her with such force that Enid nearly topples backwards into the water.
Where was this energy earlier when she had her mouth on Wednesday’s pussy? Enid wonders a bit petulantly.
“Let me see your wrists.”
Enid raises her wrists for Wednesday’s inspection, admitting only to herself that the cool tingle of the ointment feels really good on her skin.
“Who made the ointment?” she wonders aloud.
“My mother,” Wednesday replies. “Advanced windsingers are often healers.”
Enid considers that as Wednesday douses her wrists in the strange green gloop. It doesn’t move once it touches her skin, despite contact with the bathwater.
“Will it come off your fingers?” Enid asks.
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “If I ask nicely,” she says, voice dry. At Enid’s wide eyes, she clarifies, “That was a joke. There’s a topical solution that removes the salve after treatment. I’ll use it to clean my hands before inspecting your holes.”
Enid flushes hot. “O-Oh. Yeah, that makes, um, sense.”
Wednesday nods, focused on her task.
“Alright,” Wednesday eventually says. She upturns a small green bottle over her hands, and the blue ointment immediately dissolves. “Turn over for me.”
Enid bites her lip. “Are you sure—?”
“Enid,” Wednesday sighs. “Must I explain to you in detail how easily tears can—?”
“No!” Enid shrieks. “No, I’ll just…turn over.”
She shuffles around, huffing under her breath as she reluctantly gets into position on her stomach. How many times had she ached to be over Wednesday’s knee? Be careful what you wish for, she thinks sardonically.
“Good,” Wednesday murmurs, hand sliding down Enid’s back. “Spread your knees. Wider.”
Enid bites her lip harder. She’ll draw blood if she’s not careful.
Unfortunately for her, Wednesday starts with her ass, prodding around the edges of her hole like she’s testing for give. Enid’s leg twitches, but she manages not to kick out.
“Sensitive?” Wednesday asks.
Enid manages a strange noise that could somewhat pass for agreement.
“I can tell,” Wednesday replies, sounding almost amused. “You haven’t experienced any pain?”
“No,” Enid whispers, eyes squeezing shut. If Wednesday actually fingers her, she’s done for.
Wednesday’s hand pauses, then disappears. She hears the rush of the faucet and takes a breath of relief.
“You’re doing very well,” Wednesday tells her, hand stroking her flank. “Just let me feel your cunt and we’ll be finished.”
Enid tenses, sucking in air hard enough that her abdominals ache. “Oh, God.”
Wednesday’s fingers pause. “You feel pain?” she demands.
“No,” Enid replies, voice coming out much too high. “I’m just, um.” Afraid of getting wet. “Trying to be good.”
Wednesday pats her ass. “You’re always my good girl. Almost done.”
Wednesday feels around her, fingers sliding through what has to be a combination of bathwater and slick, but doesn’t make any comment. When Enid’s hips jerk involuntarily and Wednesday’s fingers slip into her up to the first knuckle, Wednesday audibly inhales.
“Enid,” she says in a low voice, fingers twitching like she intends to curl them.
Fuck, Enid thinks. If she lets Wednesday finger her now, all hopes of conniving her way into a second attempt at eating her out are inevitably out the window. Her dinner plans will be completely ruined.
“I’m actually really wondering about that painting in the summer room and if it has any special significance!” Enid says much too loudly.
Wednesday freezes, then withdraws her hand. Enid takes that as permission and scrambles off her, breathing hard. She’s still throbbing between her legs.
Meanwhile, Wednesday’s looking at her with a completely bewildered expression.
“What’s going on?” Wednesday asks, hand falling into the water. “Do you not—?”
“Didn’t you say you had journals from the Grimm Brothers here?” Enid asks desperately, now grasping at straws. Hopefully, Wednesday can’t tell the difference between the water dripping down her legs and the shimmering vanilla slick.
Wednesday blinks at her. “I…had them delivered to your bedroom.”
“Great!” Enid enthuses, smiling wide. “Let’s rinse off and do that, yeah?”
Wednesday continues to eye her for the entire time they’re in the bathroom. She refuses to let Enid stray more than an arm’s length from her, too.
“What’s this?” Enid asks, touching a dress hanging from the back of the bathroom door.
Wednesday glances in her direction as she buttons her trousers. “An option for tonight that I’ve decided against.”
It’s beautiful, really, a starch black dress with boning that must reach lower than Wednesday’s knees. Unlike many of Wednesday’s other outfits, the entire garment is done in pitch black.
“Is this your funeral dress?” Enid wonders.
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“Like, is this the dress you'd wear to a funeral if it came up?”
Wednesday lowers the shirt she'd been holding. “Are you planning on killing someone?”
Enid laughs out loud. “What? No. It’s just that most people only have one black outfit that they recycle for every funeral.”
“How bizarre,” Wednesday murmurs, buttoning her silk blouse. Her skin looks marvelous. “In our culture, we have funeral robes made for each unique occasion. Then we burn them afterwards to free any malingering spirits.”
“You burn brand new outfits?” asks Enid, aghast.
Wednesday nods. “It's quite the celebration.”
“Wow,” Enid mumbles, replacing the dress where she’d found it on the hook. “I think I’d be too sad to burn a brand new dress.”
When she turns around, she nearly runs into Wednesday, who’s holding a pile of frothy white fabric.
“Oh!” Enid exclaims. When Wednesday wordlessly offers it to her, she bites her lip and says, “Um, no thank you!”
Wednesday’s arms lower very slowly. “No…thank you?” she repeats. “Do you plan to attend dinner in the nude?”
“God no,” Enid laughs. “Can I see the boxes we got from the dorm? I have a specific outfit in mind for dinner. If that’s okay.”
Wednesday bites the inside of her cheek. “That’s fine. They’re in my room.”
Enid marches into the neighboring room fully nude, violently aware of Wednesday’s gaze on her back. Thankfully, Wednesday had the foresight to label each box by owner and object, so it takes only minutes to locate her semi-formal clothing.
Enid briefly considers asking Wednesday to leave to make her dinner outfit a surprise, but at this point, Wednesday looks so twitchy that Enid’s afraid she might do something drastic.
“What are you planning to wear?” Wednesday asks suddenly.
Enid startles, but smiles up at her. “My pink dress. Gomez will hate it.”
Wednesday gives a laugh that’s only slightly off. “Probably.”
Enid ruffles through the box, pulling out her pink dress as soon as she finds it. The neck is a little higher than she’d like, but it’ll still show her collar off adequately.
Most importantly, the length is a tad bit too short to pass for semi-formal attire and may even reveal her lowest stripe, given the right angle. Since no one but Wednesday will likely be looking in that direction, it feels like a gamble she’s willing to make.
“That’s the dress you’d like to wear?” Wednesday asks over her shoulder.
Enid inhales sharply. Wednesday’s much closer than she realized. She can feel the heat of her against her bare back.
“Yeah,” Enid replies. “Do you, um…do you approve?”
All the tension seems to leave Wednesday’s body at once. She places a hand on Enid’s shoulder and squeezes.
“Let me see.”
Enid turns around and holds it up in front of her, but Wednesday shakes her head.
“On you. Let’s get the full effect, shall we?”
Enid hands the dress to Wednesday without argument, raising her arms in anticipation of Wednesday helping her put it on.
Though Wednesday doesn’t smile, her expression brightens significantly. Her scent is warm and pleased as she helps Enid into the sleeves and begins fighting with the zipper.
“Are you sure this fits?” Wednesday asks, albeit hesitantly. “It cannot possibly be comfortable.”
“It’s the brand,” Enid wheezes, still holding her breath. “If you can zip it up yourself, it’s too big.”
“Well, it’s zipped,” Wednesday says, patting her hip.
Enid steps in front of the mirror, evaluating her appearance. It’s certainly short enough.
“What do you think?” she asks innocently, swishing the skirt.
She hears Wednesday’s sharp intake of breath.
“That shade of pink is criminal,” Wednesday murmurs. Then, a beat later, “It’s perfect.”
Enid grins wider than she’d normally dare. For some reason, Wednesday’s skin pinkens.
“We have a few hours until dinner, right?” Enid asks, clasping her hands together. “Maybe I can see those journals?”
“And the painting,” Wednesday agrees, sliding a hand behind Enid’s waist. “I would love to show you. But first, I think we should take a trip to the family library and consult the old texts for a braiding pattern.”
Enid frowns. “But…I thought my braid was your family pattern.”
“I was talking about me,” Wednesday responds. “We need to select a pattern for your family that I may wear.”
Enid loses her breath.
Notes:
enid waging the bloodiest campaign the world has ever seen to get wednesday to fuck her face is more likely than you think
next update: thursday 6/3
***ao3 being down yesterday was harrowing, 128 will go up today!!!
Chapter 128: Boundaries
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As nice as the Addams estate is, Enid will always prefer the woods over the house.
The Addams family home is a great, towering thing of iron spires and a rib vault in place of a regular foyer and pitched roofs that seem to defy the laws of physics. While Enid likes the creaking manor, she feels much more at home plodding around Morticia’s forest than creeping through the endless halls of the house.
That is, until she sets foot inside the library.
“Oh my God, Wednesday,” Enid breathes, lungs burning.
She’s never been in a room so beautiful. It’s impossible to yearn for the forest when the entire west wall is made of glass, revealing the maple trees and sunlight just beyond the boundaries of the manor. The library itself must be four floors high, she thinks, craning her head to look up.
Though she can see the wooden beams far above her, the height of the cathedral ceilings is almost beyond her comprehension. Each floor is stacked like a cake, a gorgeous wooden bridge wrapping around the atrium so that library-goers can peer down at the lowest floor or out at the forest no matter where they stand.
“It’s so beautiful,” Enid says quietly. She wouldn’t dare shout in a room like this. It’s almost insulting to call it a mere room.
Wednesday pockets her phone. “Pugsley says our braiding text is on the third floor. Would you prefer the elevator or the stairs?”
Enid shrugs. She’s wearing a pair of strappy sandals that aren’t overwhelmingly comfortable, but she can surely climb a few floors.
“Let’s walk,” Enid decides. “I want to see more.”
Wednesday’s scent sweetens. “As you wish,” she replies.
If Enid were in fourth-form, her nose would be going wild. As it is, she nearly dizzies herself with how fast she turns her head, desperate to find the source of each new interesting smell.
“There’s more than just books?” Enid asks, surprised. Someone must have a penchant for collecting clay pots as there’s an entire corner of the second floor devoted to their display.
“Absolutely,” Wednesday tells her. “Our family places great importance on recording our shared history. The text I’m about to show you is quite old.”
“How old?” Enid wonders, peering at a glass cabinet full of dried flowers.
“It originates from the days when our ancestors lived in a compound with other runewitches,” Wednesday answers. “There were twenty families of note. You might recognize the last names Majors or Dobrev.”
Enid shakes her head. She hasn’t met any runewitches besides Wednesday and Gomez.
“There was a Dobrev at Nevermore, though I didn’t know him,” Wednesday muses, towing her across one of the bridges. “I believe the Majors daughter attended SOLLS.”
“Weird,” Enid mumbles. “I guess I didn’t realize how many runewitches there are.”
Wednesday tosses her an amused look. “Compared to woodwitches, we’re quite the minority.”
Enid gives a one-shouldered shrug. Up until a month ago, she didn’t have much to do at all with magic of any kind.
“Here,” Wednesday tells her, stopping before a narrow hallway. She unburdens the wall of one of the hanging lanterns and leads Enid into the dark, the small circle of orange light casting out to guide their way.
Enid readily follows her. Nothing in this room feels inherently dangerous, and even if there was, Wednesday could handle it. Her black knife glints on her waist, drawing Enid’s eyes every time her attention wanders.
“Here,” Wednesday declares, handing the journals she’d already been carrying to Enid. “This is it.”
Wednesday climbs up onto a rickety stool and pulls out a leather-bound book about as thick as a slice of watermelon. When she places it on top of the stack, Enid grins.
“Where are we going to read?” Enid asks, hefting the piles of books higher on her hip. She spins on her heel and makes for the bridge before Wednesday can try to take the stack from her.
“I can carry that,” Wednesday protests behind her, though she sounds amused.
Enid tosses a smile over her shoulder. “I don’t mind.”
Wednesday carts the lantern along with her. The bridge alights with odd shapes as they cross it, each creak of their footsteps causing Enid’s skin to prickle.
“Why don’t we sit here?” Wednesday proposes.
There’s a note in her voice that puts Enid on edge, but she dutifully follows Wednesday into an alcove with a large grey cushion already arranged on the floor.
“Oh, are we kneeling?” Enid asks.
Wednesday shoots her a look that could almost be mistaken for surprise. “We’re sitting. Or you may lie down, if you’d like.”
Enid’s cheeks heat, but she lies down on her stomach beside Wednesday, who sits crossed-legged.
Wednesday’s hand absentmindedly lands in Enid’s hair, and Enid feels her eyes slipping closed.
“Let’s choose a pattern, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs.
She flicks through the braiding tome with fast fingers. When she finds what she’s looking for, she spreads the pages open in front of them.
Enid bites her lip. She had no idea there were so many types of braids. Not only is there a list of at least twenty different braids drawn and described before her, but the page unfolds vertically to reveal a greater range of patterns when she investigates with her fingertips.
“The bolded family names are extinct or no longer practicing,” Wednesday informs her. “You may choose any of those, if they appeal to you.”
“What about these?” Enid asks, pointing to one of the patterns near the bottom of the list.
Wednesday makes a noise of contemplation. “These braids haven’t been claimed.”
That strikes a chord in Enid. How could she not choose a braid nobody else wanted, when she herself has been unwanted for her entire life?
“I like this one,” Enid declares, pointing to one of the unclaimed patterns.
Wednesday peers down at her choice. “Pearl braids,” she murmurs in interest. “Do you have an affinity with the sea?”
Enid shrugs. “I just like the way it looks.”
“Half of magic is intuition,” Wednesday decides. “If it appeals to you, it’s the right choice. Shall we?”
Wednesday reaches up and pulls the tie from her left braid, allowing her hair to go loose.
Enid bites her lip. “Wait. You’re going…to let me—?”
“Of course,” Wednesday staunchly replies. “It’s your family braid. You should know how to knot it.”
After a moment of hesitation, Enid very carefully pulls her fingers through Wednesday’s unraveling braid, trying to memorize the feel of Wednesday’s hair in her palms. This is a far cry from Wednesday's punishment where she was made to kneel in timeout while Wednesday allegedly did her hair alone.
“Is there a sacrifice for these runes?” Enid wonders.
Wednesday smirks. “The Addams family braid is spun with Loyalty,” she replies. “As long as you remain loyal to me, your courting braid will offer a measure of protection from poisons and other harmful substances.”
“Oh,” says Enid. She giggles. “Nice. Not like that’s hard.”
Wednesday’s eyes warm as she looks at her. Enid’s cheeks grow hot.
“So, um, pearl braids,” Enid quickly says. “What kind of rune is that?”
“Pearl is a rune that originated from saltwitches, by my recollection,” Wednesday answers. “A very long time ago, woodwitches and runewitches and saltwitches readily traded knowledge with one another. This rune provides a measure of protection from drowning, by my recollection. Like an oyster shell protecting a pearl.”
Enid feels a little embarrassed, shifting where she lays. “Oh. Um, immunity to poisons sounds a lot more useful. Do you want a better rune than protection from drowning?”
“No,” Wednesday retorts. “No. You chose this for me. It’s mine.”
Her hand slides over the nape of Enid’s neck. Though her touch is gentle, her hold is firm.
“Will you braid for me, Enid?” she asks. Her eyes glow in the light of the lantern.
Enid nods, sitting up. “Y-Yeah. I will.”
She fumbles to smooth out the paper, peers down at the pattern, and slowly begins to work.
For her part, Wednesday remains completely still. Enid would probably be bored out of her mind allowing someone to practice a rather complicated braid with fingers unused to knotting hair on her, but Wednesday’s scent is content. Pleased, even.
“Okay, I’m almost done,” Enid announces, chewing on her lower lip. Once she got the hang of the motion, it wasn’t too difficult to twist the hair in the pretty round knots that form each pearl. “What should I tie it with?”
Wednesday hands her a short length of white ribbon. “Use this.”
Enid has to duck her head to hide her smile. Morticia had tied her braid in the forest with a small piece of black velvet ribbon that she’d pulled from one of her many hidden pockets.
“Just a regular bow okay?” Enid asks, suddenly nervous. Her fingers still.
Wednesday’s eyes roll up to meet hers. “Just a bow,” she confirms. “Like you’re tying your shoes.”
Enid gives a short, jerky nod. “Then…I’m done. I think.”
Wednesday’s up and out of the alcove so fast, Enid nearly gets smacked by her right braid in the process.
“Wednesday?” she calls out.
“Over here,” comes Wednesday’s voice from the bridge.
Enid follows her scent, trailing Wednesday to a large mirror leaning against a wall.
Wednesday stands still, examining her reflection.
“Is it okay?” Enid asks, wringing her hands. She should have taken more time to ensure the braid was perfect. She should have—
Wednesday whirls around to face her, taking Enid by the shoulders.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes, forehead leaning against Enid’s. “Let me kiss you. Please, Puppy.”
Enid feels guilt swirl to life in her stomach. “You can always kiss me,” she replies, allowing Wednesday to take her weight.
With half her hair still unbound and her brand new courting braid swinging at her temple, Wednesday draws her close and kisses her hard.
“Good job, Enid,” she whispers. “Now I belong to you, too.”
Enid moans into her mouth, those words settling high in her throat. Wednesday’s hands tighten in her dress, then release her.
Though she’s breathing hard, Wednesday looks remarkably composed.
“Come,” she says, ignoring Enid’s flabbergasted expression. “You wanted to see the Grimm Brothers’ journals, did you not?”
Enid pouts the entire way back to their cushion. It was one thing when she was the one ensuring they didn’t fuck; Wednesday depriving her is a whole other animal. If her game during dinner doesn’t work, Enid might have to buck up and start begging.
“Where would you like to begin?” Wednesday asks, handing Enid the topmost journal.
Enid flops down, ignoring how the skirt of her dress rides up to the soft part of her thighs. “The beginning, I guess.”
Wednesday doesn’t react for long enough that Enid twists around to look at her. By the time she can see Wednesday’s face, Wednesday is already head down, flipping through the pages.
“Snow White,” she announces, pushing the journal toward Enid. She begins to braid her remaining loose hair. “I assume you’ve heard the story before?”
“Well…yeah,” Enid mumbles, poring over the page. There’s a drawing of a girl with long dark hair and pale skin that looks remarkably familiar. “Are these original drawings?”
“Of course,” Wednesday murmurs, leaning close enough that Enid can smell her throat. “One of the brothers drew while the other did the recording.”
Enid quickly begins to read, nails tapping on the edge of the leather binding. She flips the page, then stutters to a halt. “Wait a second. Are those—braids?”
Wednesday hums, glancing at the drawing in question as she ties off her hair. The girl that must be Snow White is sat atop a horse, hair braided into an elaborate crown on her head. Enid’s not sure she recognizes the flowers woven into her braids, but they certainly emphasize the delicate beauty of her face.
“Yes,” Wednesday answers. “Though I don’t recognize the pattern.”
“I mean, it wouldn’t be a runewitch braid," Enid points out. "Right?”
Wednesday makes a noise of contemplation. “There is magic in braids beyond runework. You’ll find that every magical culture uses braids in some fashion.”
“Really?” Enid asks, distracted from the story of Snow White and her plight after the evil Queen had the beloved King killed off.
“Oh, yes.” Wednesday nods. “The saltwitches of the sea use magical knots in their nets and hair. Woodwitches braid flower crowns for when guests visit their forests to alert the wildlife of your safe passage.”
Enid frowns. “I didn’t get a flower crown.”
“You wandered off into the dark and forced my mother to rescue you,” Wednesday replies. “Apparently, now that the Unbreathing Queen has sensed your presence, there’s no point in giving you a token of safe passage. My mother says you’re known to these woods.”
Enid shrugs. She had noticed a difference that morning when she ventured into the woods in search of Morticia. At the very least, she’d felt no fear upon leaving the manor.
“Who’s the Unbreathing Queen, anyways?” Enid asks.
“My mother’s magical patron,” Wednesday answers, voice dropping. “She reigns over the winter fae.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “What does she have to do with Hell Mountain?”
“She took this forest under her wing a number of years ago. Ghastly woman,” Wednesday mutters.
Enid chews on her lower lip. “I’ve never heard of a forest having a magical patron.”
“It's not often spoken about,” Wednesday answers. “Typically due to fear. But while woodwitches may be stewards, all magical forests originate from someone—or something. The forest we’ll be visiting in Shanghai is looked after by the dragon shifter, as an example.”
“Weird. Do you think my forest has someone?” Enid asks a little too quickly.
Wednesday gives her a knowing look. “I’m certain of it. It’s strange you’ve never met them, though.”
Enid shrugs. The only person she’d ever met in her woods was Healer Nima. Nobody besides Enid dared to venture as far as she had, even as a child. Maybe her magical patron is shy, Enid thinks.
“Snow White looks…meaner than I thought she’d be,” Enid comments. “Pretty, though.”
Wednesday’s lips pull up at the corners. “And her windsong was even more beautiful than the lovely Queen’s,” she recites without looking at the page.
At Enid’s look of surprise, she admits, “I enjoyed this tale as a child. Particularly the part where the hunter slaughtered a pig and brought its heart to the Queen in Snow White's place.” She grins. “That was especially exhilarating for a child who went through an animal husbandry phase, as I did.”
“No, it’s just—are you implying that Snow White was a woodwitch?” Enid demands, eyebrows raising.
Wednesday gives her a strange look. “She talked to animals, Enid. What other explanation is there?”
“I mean…I’m pretty sure the normie version doesn’t paint Snow White as a witch,” Enid points out.
“That wouldn’t have sold half as well,” Wednesday replies. “Outcasts were deeply hated by humans in the wake of the Vampire War.”
Enid snorts without humor. “No kidding,” she mumbles, stretching out so that her back arches where she lies on her stomach. “Half of the older generation outcasts can’t even stand each other. Forget about normies liking us.”
Wednesday blinks down at her, long and slow like a cat. She reaches out and turns the page.
Enid leans in, examining a cliff drawn so steep, it makes her stomach hurt to look at.
“What about the evil Queen?” Enid asks. “Was she a woodwitch, too?”
“I suspect so. My mother thinks this story was originally written about a very powerful woodwitch who feared her stepdaughter would eclipse her,” Wednesday muses. “Though, after the Queen fell from the cliffs, she had bigger fish to fry. Terrorizing her step-daughter took a backseat to her greater ambitions.”
“Is it even possible to survive a fall that far?” Enid asks, tracing the crooked cliff in the drawing.
“No,” Wednesday answers. “She became something inhuman. Having met the woman in question, I can attest she would throw away her life to punish a beautiful young adversary.”
“You’ve met her?” Enid demands. “The evil Queen? From the fairytale?”
“Well, yes,” Wednesday replies, brows furrowing. “We’ve been speaking of her all this time. She’s now known by a different name, of course.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath as she gets it. “The Unbreathing Queen.”
“The highest ranked woodwitch of winter,” Wednesday agrees. “She’s more fae than human, now. I have no idea what happened to her step-daughter.”
“How the hell did the Grimm Brothers learn this story?” Enid asks, wrapping her hand around her courting braid.
“The Grimm Brothers, world-class gossipers and gifted detectives? Those Grimm Brothers?” Wednesday’s mouth pulls up in a smirk. “They were excellent journalists. Though, with how poorly the Unbreathing Queen is portrayed, I suspect their original source to be the step-daughter.”
“I can’t believe they interviewed Snow White,” Enid exhales, turning onto her back. “It’s so weird to think all the fairytales could be true.”
Wednesday peers down at her, eyes crinkling. “We should read a new story each day,” she decides. “Would you like that, Puppy?”
Enid flushes red. “Ugh. Yes,” she admits with a sigh. “I love spending time with you like this.”
Wednesday inhales, swaying like she’s contemplating leaning down to meet her. Enid bypasses her indecision and leans up, capturing her in a kiss.
This isn’t worth it, Enid thinks. Even if her ploy during dinner doesn’t pan out as intended, she needs to end the weirdness and open her mouth tonight.
Tonight, Enid decides, stomach clenching in anticipation. Even if she has to beg, she will.
Begging for Wednesday would be the easiest thing in the world.
Notes:
NINE HUNDRED THOUSAND HITS??? AND DURING AN AO3 SHUTDOWN? witches, all of you !
next update: monday 7/7
****129 will go up tomorrow after my beta's had a chance to look at it!!
Chapter 129: Darker
Notes:
kink warnings: bratting in public (not explicit but good god enid)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The library grows darker as afternoon turns to evening. Sunlight pitches gold, Wednesday’s lashes casting spidery shadows over her cheekbones as she leads Enid across the bridge.
She looks wonderful in her evening wear, and though Enid doesn’t regret her pink dress, she does wonder if perhaps she’s pushing the envelope a bit far for her first formal dinner with the Addams. Her skirt swishes between her thighs with each step she takes. One wrong move, and her frilly pink underwear will show.
Enid imagines she can feel Wednesday’s gaze burning on her bare thighs as she accepts Wednesday’s offered hand and descends each flight of stairs.
“Are you certain you’re comfortable in that dress?” Wednesday asks, voice stilted. “You won’t be…cold?”
Enid shoots her a sunny smile. Her decision not to wear a bra had been intentional. “I’m good.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “The walls will be open,” she warns her. “It can get quite cool.”
Enid’s smile widens. “I’m just relieved your parents haven’t brought up the bruises,” she replies, eyeing Wednesday’s neck. She wasn’t the only one to leave San Francisco with marks.
“They courted once, too,” Wednesday reminds her, lips drawing up in a smirk. “I daresay they’d rather not know the details.”
“Fair,” Enid snorts.
She keeps hold of Wednesday’s hand as they depart the library and enter one of the many identical, endless hallways.
“How do you ever tell where you are in this house?” Enid asks, lowering her voice. “Every hallway looks the same.”
Wednesday gives a crooked smile. “The art,” she points out. “Each wing of the house is decorated with a different period. The paintings in the foyer are all Impressionist. The West Wing paintings are Surrealist. Once you learn the art, it’s quite easy to navigate.”
“Oh, easy,” Enid snorts. “I just have to learn a million paintings and their specific types. Silly me.”
Wednesday squeezes her hand. “Or you can follow my directions. Your choice.”
Enid exhales through her nose. She’s spared from having to come up with a response by the sudden appearance of a young woman wearing a black lace shroud at the dead end of the next hallway.
Wednesday comes to an abrupt halt beside her.
“Oh, fuck,” Enid whispers. “What part of the mansion houses ghosts?”
Wednesday snorts under her breath. “It’s not a mansion. It’s an estate.”
Enid shoots her an incredulous look. “No comment on the ghost?” she demands, voice coming out too high.
Wednesday eyes her with amusement. “That’s Soledad. I assure you, she is very much alive.”
“Who’s Soledad?” Enid asks.
“Wednesday,” the woman calls out, unmoving. “Come to me. Bring your beloved.”
“Dramatic as ever,” Wednesday mutters, which Enid thinks is rich coming from a girl who summoned a dead ancestor to prove a point.
“Is she another relative?” Enid whispers.
“In a manner of speaking,” Wednesday replies at full volume. “Soledad is my mother’s third-year apprentice. Her little sister, to put it in woodwitch terms.”
Enid eyes the young woman with new interest. She certainly looks like the sort of witch who would fit in with the Addams family. Her floor-length veil seems right in line with Morticia’s summer wardrobe.
As soon as they’re within arm’s length of the girl, her hand lashes out and takes Enid by the wrist, dragging her in.
Enid’s so shocked that Wednesday’s allowing someone to touch her without launching into berserker mode that she doesn’t protest the over-familiar treatment. The young woman has dark eyes not unlike Morticia, though her hair curls in beautiful ringlets around her face.
“My name is Soledad. I won’t be joining you for dinner, but I wanted to come see you,” the girl announces, holding Enid’s hand in both of her own.
Enid glances at Wednesday. When no help is forthcoming, she swallows and says, “Oh, cool. It’s nice to meet you.”
Soledad gives a small smile. “It’s an honor to meet a true daughter,” she replies, straight to the point. “Please come visit my corner of the woods when you’re able and we’ll get to know one another as sisters.”
Before Enid can come up with a less awkward reply than cool, definitely, Soledad releases her and swirls away in a whoosh of black lace. Wednesday looks like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Stop,” Enid tells her, trying not to whine.
Wednesday shakes her head, lips pressed together. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it,” Enid huffs.
Wednesday takes her by the elbows, expression warming. “You can read minds now, Puppy? How talented you are.”
Enid flushes hot. “Okay, seriously, shut up.”
Wednesday smiles wide enough to show her teeth.
“Was that Soledad?”
Enid has never been so grateful to see Pugsley. “Yes!” she answers him. “We just met.”
Pugsley nods. “Odd girl. Did you know she’s afraid of turtles?”
“Turtles?” Enid repeats.
“Only black ones,” Pugsley confirms. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a black turtle.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Weird. Me neither.”
“What are you afraid of?” Pugsley asks, the picture of casual.
“Pugsley,” Wednesday snaps, voice sharp.
“Me?” Enid asks, pointing at her own chest. What is she afraid of? Lots of things, she thinks, but most recently, the dreadful monster she stumbled across in the woods is a real contender for the top spot. “Um, Eaters, I guess.”
“Eaters?” Pugsley repeats, voice lilting in interest. He takes a step forward.
“You know, in the forest?” Enid tries to remember the word Wednesday used to describe them. “Big, awful monsters created by fear?”
Pugsley looks to Wednesday, who sighs and very, very reluctantly says, “She means woodwraiths.”
“Woodwraiths,” Pugsley repeats, pulling out a little notepad. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You will not,” Wednesday retorts.
Pugsley gives a beatific smile. “Nice braids, you two. Have either of you seen June?”
“She’s on her way,” comes a musical voice from behind them.
Enid automatically relaxes. By the time her eyes find Pugsley again, his notepad has disappeared.
“Hi, Morticia,” Enid greets her.
Morticia smiles. “Good evening,” she replies, “To all my children. You look lovely in your courting braid, Wednesday. Enid made a wonderful selection, didn't she?"
Wednesday's chest seems to puff up. "Her taste is impeccable as always."
Morticia smiles. "I’m so very glad Soledad was able to introduce herself before returning to her garden.”
“Oh? What’s she doing out there?” Enid asks, interested despite herself.
Morticia offers her arm, and Enid happily takes it.
“Why, this is her regular hour to practice her windsong,” Morticia reveals. “Soledad always practices in the hour before the sun sets. You’re welcome to join her after dinner, if the wind moves you.”
Enid involuntarily wrinkles her nose.
Morticia lets out a tinkling laugh. “Or not,” she says dryly, leading Enid through the doors to the dining room. “It is a very personal decision, when you choose to practice. You’ll know when the time is right, my dear.”
Enid chooses to hum noncommittally rather than voice her doubts aloud.
The dining room is magnificent, almost as beautiful as her bedroom even though it’s at least three times the size and not nearly as decorated. Enid finds it a bit funny how the grand table that can fit at least twenty grown adults has only been set with six places.
“Oh,” she breathes, straying from Morticia’s side to approach the edge of the floor.
True to word, the walls have been drawn back to open up the room to the expanse of the forest. Enid imagines she can hear Soledad’s song on the wind as she looks over the sea of red and silver maples that enshroud Hell Mountain. While the view is unbelievable, there is no railing to keep unwitting dinner guests from pitching over the edge into the dark below.
Enid thinks of the evil Queen's fall from the cliffs and shivers.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday murmurs, only a step behind her.
Enid makes a noise of agreement. “I can’t believe how far you can see,” she exhales, raising her eyes to the setting sun. Treacherous, but stunning. Almost otherworldly.
When she turns her head to catch a glimpse of Wednesday’s expression, to see if Wednesday loses her breath at how the sun alights on each individual tree like she does, Enid discovers that Wednesday is looking at her.
“Girls,” Morticia calls. “Come meet June.”
Enid forces herself to break their gaze, dazedly turning towards a girl bouncing beside Morticia.
“Hi!” the girl calls out. “I’m June!”
For some reason, Enid’s hackles raise.
It isn’t just that the girl is pretty, with warm brown eyes and round cheeks that would put a cherub to shame. It isn’t even her trendy grey dress and sneakers that Enid recognizes from social media and even considered buying for herself a couple of months ago.
It’s the fact that she is blonde, undeniably attractive in that cute, innocent sort of way, and living in Wednesday’s house.
“Enid?” Wednesday murmurs, nudging her side.
Enid forces herself to move, putting one foot in front of the other. By the time she’s in front of the girl, she’s graduated from defensive to embarrassed. It’s not June’s fault that she just so happens to be Wednesday’s type and a presumably talented woodwitch to boot.
“I’m so glad to meet you, Enid,” June gushes, smiling wide. “Oh my gosh, you’re so pretty! Wednesday! Look at you,” she coos.
Enid manages a very weak, closed-lipped smile. Wednesday sends her a look of concern.
Before it can get too awkward, Gomez steps through the doors.
“My apologies,” he booms, dropping a kiss on Morticia’s cheek. “Enid, Wednesday. Your braids are splendid. I'd like to discuss them in detail with you, but I fear my lovely wife may have me drawn and quartered if the appetizer congeals. Shall we sit?”
“Let’s,” Morticia agrees. “I’ll ring for the first course.”
***
Enid stays vigilant throughout the appetizer and the soup. June asks Wednesday a question or two about finals and graduation, but instead of blatantly seducing Wednesday in front of her family, she focuses her energy on interrogating Enid. It’s a good strategy, Enid very reluctantly admits.
June enthusiastically asks her question after question to the point where Enid becomes fatigued talking about Nevermore, the strange encounter with Mei, and her own forest in San Francisco. Enid spends so much time talking, she’s only eaten half her salad when the server comes to take it away.
June never seems to lose interest, either, always watching her with those wide, guileless eyes.
She’s so pretty, Enid thinks, practically vibrating with anger. June is so pretty, and so sweet, and worst of all—she’s strategic. No one would ever suspect this girl of having designs on Wednesday when she comes off as being so fucking nice.
Still, Enid remains on guard. She can’t believe a girl like this was living in Wednesday’s house for two whole years and she had no idea.
Morticia eventually takes pity on Enid and jumps in, giving a run down of the many tasks she’s taken on to prepare for the upcoming ball. There’s a lot more that goes into planning a party than Enid realized.
"You called the modiste?" Wednesday interjects with a note in her voice not unlike resigned acceptance.
"Well, of course," Morticia answers, raising an eyebrow. "You both need new gowns for the occasion, my darling."
Wednesday looks a lot more pleased at that. “Enid could use a few new dresses,” she decides. “How soon will they arrive?”
“Dresses, you say?” Morticia repeats, eyes glinting. “Well. I’ll let them know to bring the full fabric catalogue.”
“Oh, no—I don’t need anything. All of my stuff from Nevermore is here, I have enough clothes,” Enid pipes up.
Wednesday and Morticia summarily ignore her.
“Then it’s settled,” Wednesday says ominously.
“Quite,” Morticia echoes. “Have you enjoyed walking these woods, Enid?” she suddenly asks.
Enid bites her lip. June looks at her expectantly, quiet for the first time all night.
She hasn’t done a whole lot of walking, truth be told, but it seems rude to say that to a woodwitch in her own forest.
Panicking, Enid blurts, “The trees here smell so sweet.”
Morticia stares at her.
“That’ll be the maples,” June comments, earning a smile from Morticia whereas Enid only gets a small nod of contemplation. June awards Enid a pitying twist of her lips.
In that moment, Enid hates her.
“Why don’t you take a trip up to Quebec, show Enid the production facilities, Wednesday?” Gomez offers. “I’m sure she would appreciate a change of scenery.”
Wednesday sends him a flat look. “Certainly, after we finish our indentured servitude in Shanghai.”
“It is a lovely collar, Enid,” Morticia says warmly. “A worthy trade, in my opinion.”
“I’m glad you think so, mother,” Wednesday sneers. “Considering you didn’t have to strike the deal.”
Morticia smiles. “You only have one courtship, dear. And what a gift it was.”
Enid touches her collar. It probably wasn’t smart that Wednesday risked their freedom for sheddings, but she wouldn’t trade her collar for anything.
Before the air can become too stilted, June gasps.
“Oops! I need to go check on my pitcher plants,” she exclaims, hopping up from the table. “Enid, it’s so wonderful to meet you! I do hope you’ll come visit me soon.”
Enid gives her something between a grimace and a smile. “Thanks for the invite,” she replies.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow in her direction.
“Yay!” June gives a little cheer, waving over her shoulder as she hurries out of the room.
Morticia hides a smirk behind her napkin.
“So!” Gomez breaks the silence. “Enid. Tell me, do you have any dietary preferences? I confess, we haven’t hosted a werewolf before.”
“Father,” Wednesday sighs, a hand over her face.
Enid sits up in her seat. In her irritation at June’s presence, she’d nearly forgotten her whole objective for tonight’s dinner. “We pretty much have the same palate as the average human,” she answers.
Gomez looks somewhat disappointed. “Is that so?”
“Well, I do like my meat bloody,” Enid reveals, eyes wide and innocent as she can manage.
Across the table, Wednesday twitches.
“Really?” Gomez says, leaning forward. He grins. “I enjoy a rare steak myself. Tish, why don’t we—?”
“Consider it done,” Morticia says, smoothly rising from the table. Her gown whispers across the floor as she approaches a black phone identical to the one hanging in Wednesday’s room.
“What are those phones for?” Enid asks, cocking her head and purposefully baring her neck.
In the corner of her eye, she notes how Wednesday’s hand flexes atop the table.
“Forgive us, dear. We’re working to have one installed in your room,” Gomez apologizes. “We’ve run into a few issues locating an all-weather model. It’s harder than you’d think,” he says, gesturing with his fork.
“They’re for the family to communicate,” Pugsley tells her. “And also call the kitchens,” he adds.
“The main course will be served shortly,” Morticia announces, retaking her seat.
Enid smiles, hoping she looks sufficiently virtuous.
Across the table, Wednesday’s eyes narrow.
When the steaks are finally placed in front of them, Enid doesn’t have to play up how excited she is to see a bloody cut of meat on her plate. She licks her lips, aware that Wednesday is watching her as she picks up her fork and knife.
“Will that do, Enid?” Morticia asks.
Enid smiles, purposefully showing her teeth. “Oh, this is perfect. Thank you so much.”
Drawing upon every ounce of grace she’s ever seen Wednesday demonstrate at mealtimes, Enid cuts a generous piece of her steak. Perhaps even too big to be polite. Large enough that she’ll have to show her teeth.
She makes direct eye contact with Wednesday as she lifts the bloody piece to her lips. If she allows her canines to extend just the teensiest bit as she bites down, that’s no one’s business but her own.
Across the table, Wednesday’s knife screeches against her plate.
“Wednesday,” Morticia admonishes. “Do be more careful, dear. You could hurt yourself.”
Pugsley snorts into his well-done steak.
“I’ve got it,” Wednesday says through gritted teeth.
She shoots Enid another look of suspicion as she viciously cuts her own meat to pieces. Enid winces internally that the treatment the poor steak’s receiving on her behalf, but she supposes there will always be casualties in war.
“What do you most enjoy eating, Enid?” Gomez asks.
Enid hums. “Desserts are my favorite,” she admits.
“Mine as well,” Gomez tells her. “You’d like my aunt, I suspect. She’s a grand hand at baking. Say, why don’t I teach you a recipe?”
“Father. Enid’s schedule is packed,” Wednesday interjects.
“No, that sounds great!” Enid enthuses. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you had time to show me a few things, anyways.”
“It’s settled, then,” Gomez declares. “We’ll meet on the morrow.”
Wednesday stabs her steak with more violence than strictly necessary. Pugsley eyes her with trepidation as he takes a cautious bite from his own plate.
They continue eating in silence until the dinner plates are cleared and tea and coffee are served. Enid declines both, but she gladly accepts the beautifully decorated mousse that comes around afterward.
“Well. We’re quite aware that you adore cupcakes,” Morticia states, lips curling into a knowing smile. “What other desserts do you enjoy, Enid?”
Now’s her chance, Enid realizes. She scoops up a spoonful of whipped cream, then airily announces, “Honestly, I like my desserts best when they’re dripping in honey.”
Wednesday chokes on her tea.
“Honey?” Morticia repeats in interest.
“Oh, yes,” Enid says, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s my favorite flavor in the whole world.” Then, locking eyes with Wednesday, she adds, “Nothing tastes better. I only wish I could have it more often.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs.
“Here.” Gomez slides her a small, golden pot. “All yours, little terror.”
Enid grins when she gets a whiff of the contents. “Mm, my favorite,” she murmurs, aware that she’s laying it on a bit thick.
Wednesday watches with wide eyes as Enid dumps nearly the entire pot of honey over her mousse. The bite she takes tastes of nothing but honey, almost sickeningly so, but it’s well worth it when she licks her lips and Wednesday’s mouth pops open in blatant disbelief.
“Are you quite finished?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid smiles with all her teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies, hoping that she’s the picture of innocence.
Wednesday grins back at her in gleeful incredulity, palm twitching against the tabletop. “I see,” she breathes.
Her expression promises punishment. Enid can hardly wait.
“Jeez,” Pugsley mumbles. “Stop making that face, Wednesday. You’ll scare off your intended.”
“Doubtful,” Wednesday muses, cocking her head. “Isn’t that right, Enid?”
Enid takes another oversized bite of her dessert in answer. Her mouth is too full to respond.
“...Well,” Morticia says, sounding very much like she’s trying not to laugh. “Perhaps we should call it a night?”
“Oh, but I wanted to show Enid—”
“It’s high time we went to bed,” Morticia speaks over her husband, rising gracefully from her seat. “Come, Pugsley. Gomez. Goodnight, girls.”
“Goodnight!” Enid chirps, licking the back of her spoon as soon as Morticia’s back is turned.
She hears more than sees Wednesday shift in her chair. Once the room is clear, Wednesday rises to her feet, each step a killing blow as she rounds the table.
Enid trembles where she sits.
Wednesday’s hand lands on the back of her neck. “You want to misbehave? Go ahead.”
Warmth spreads through Enid, starting in her throat and seeping through her ribcage all the way to her fingertips and toes. Wednesday’s touch might as well be tethering her to the earth, and she’s not done with her yet. Not even close.
“You want correction. You need it,” Wednesday guesses. “Fine. I’ll give it to you.”
When Enid exhales, it is a breath of relief.
Notes:
june: i'm so glad wednesday found someone! this is so exciting!
enid: there is a WOODWITCH living in your house with FASHION SENSE? and morticia likes her BETTER? and she's BLONDE??? i hate her i hate her i hate her
next update: i'm going to aim for friday or saturday, but i am flying to japan on saturday for a two week trip!!! so if i'm late or if the chapter arrives in the middle of the night, that would be why
***i am three hours into my fourteen hour flight but apparently we will not have wifi while flying over the pacific??? so tbd on when the next chapter will go up lol
****i'm so sorry for the delay guys! i made it to tokyo, actually figured out the monorail and took the train - only for my esim not to work🫠 i slept twelve hours and bought a new esim so will get the next chapter up whenever i get the chance! i woke up at three am starving today and was devastated to discover i couldn't use google maps, so all in all, i won't put a date on the next update as i'm living in a jet lag induced fog. i did find my way to the senso-ji temple though when no one was around and got a picture of myself standing in front of it all alone!! so that was tight
edit 7/28: i'm back from japan!!! i am also attending a wedding and moving to a new city this week, so next update will go up whenever i get the chance!! japan was so magical i'm SO sad to be back🥹 and if you saw me stumbling out of a karaoke bar on the streets of roppongi last week...no u didn't
Chapter 130: Rough
Notes:
kink warnings: general manhandling, kink negotiation
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Get up.”
Enid rattles the table with her knees as she clamors to her feet. Her chair disappears from behind her with a screech, and then Wednesday’s warmth is pressed to her back.
“Put your hands down. Flat.”
Enid lays her hands on either side of her abandoned dessert, allowing them to take her weight. Pressing her ass against Wednesday in an imitation of a traditional presenting position is the easiest thing in the world.
Wednesday’s mouth ends up near her throat. She seems to go still, almost preternaturally so, then takes a deep, shuddering exhale.
“You wear this—fucked little dress—”
“You like my dress,” Enid accuses.
Wednesday snarls at her, “I love it.”
Enid grins. Wednesday’s hand clenches around the hem of her dress, then releases it. Her palm lands beside Enid’s on the tabletop instead. Enid’s not sure if she moves or Wednesday does, but their pinkies end up intertwined. That one small point of contact emboldens Enid to tilt her head to the side and expose her neck.
Wednesday’s next exhale might as well be a half-strangled screech of frustration.
“You reject my every advance in private, then you pull this stunt with the honey to arouse me in front of my family?” she demands. Despite her obvious exasperation, she still manages to sound amused. “How depraved. How very sick and twisted of you, Puppy.”
“That’s—that wasn’t what I was doing!” Enid protests. “The fact that it happened in front of your family was, like, inconsequential. I just thought causing trouble at dinner would piss you off more.” She blinks rapidly as another thought occurs to her. “Wait, did you say it aroused you?”
Wednesday’s hands curl around on her hips, and she shifts a reluctant Enid around to face her. “Why are you causing trouble?” she asks, straight to the heart of the matter. “Are you…dissatisfied with our courtship—?”
“No,” Enid splutters. “That is not it.”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “Then explain it to me.”
Enid bites her lip. “Earlier today,” she begins in a small voice. “When you—um, let me eat you out. You didn’t…”
“I didn’t what?”
“You didn’t get rough with me,” Enid all but whispers, dropping her gaze. “I thought maybe if I made you mad enough, you’d finally fuck my face like I deserve.”
Enid cannot gather the courage to look up. Night has finally fallen outside, shadows curling around their feet, and she’s beginning to wonder if she might genuinely be an idiot.
Wednesday’s hand wraps tight in her hair, jerking back her head, and she presses her hips into Enid’s. Pins her there. The table is cold and unyielding against the back of her thighs.
Enid watches her in silence, legs trembling, mouth aching like a bruise though Wednesday hasn’t kissed her once. She wishes Wednesday would say something. Her face reveals nothing, expressionless as a doll, though her eyes eat the candlelight.
Finally, Wednesday's head rolls up, gaze finding her in the dark. “You deserve a lot more than that.”
“W-What?” Enid asks, voice cracking.
“What you deserve,” Wednesday enunciates. “You deserve to be gilded in jewels. You deserve to spend every day of your life warm and safe and treasured.”
Enid swallows. “Oh,” she whispers, stomach sinking.
“But if this is what you want, I can give it to you. You need only ask,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid blinks at her. “Wait—wait, so you’ll do it?”
“Of course, I’ll do it,” Wednesday scoffs. She very nearly sounds offended. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”
“I didn’t want you to think I’m a whore,” Enid says in a quiet voice, giving a little half-shouldered shrug. “What kind of a wolf asks for that?”
Wednesday stares back at her, bewildered, then exhales hard enough to displace Enid’s bangs.
“That’s the worst you can think of?” Wednesday asks her. “Of all the kinks you’re interested in, that’s the worst?”
Enid’s eyes involuntarily dart down to the black blade hanging off Wednesday’s hip.
“Oh, Puppy,” Wednesday whispers, thumb stroking her collarbone.
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I know it’s so fucked up.”
Wednesday frowns. “Who are you to say whether a kink is fucked up or not?”
“Um, I’m pretty sure knifeplay is fucked up. Like, universally considered so,” Enid points out.
“You would be wrong.”
Enid rolls her eyes.
Wednesday tenses against her, but ultimately lets it go. “Has this been bothering you all day?”
Enid gives a sharp nod.
“I can tell,” Wednesday muses. “You’ve been miserable. And mean,” she says with relish.
Enid sighs, curling into Wednesday’s chest. “When I ate you out in the forge, I was so disappointed,” she bursts out with.
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “You were disappointed?” she slowly repeats.
“You wouldn’t—I couldn’t—nothing I did made you lose control the way I always...” Enid trails off into silence, embarrassment burning hot on her cheeks. “What do I need to do to get you to fuck my face, Wednesday? Seriously,” she huffs under her breath.
Wednesday stares at her. “Have you asked me to fuck your face?”
“Well…no.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. Pointedly.
“Okay. Well,” Enid mumbles. “Will you fuck my face?”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth pulls up. “You can do better than that.”
Enid’s cheeks burn. “Wednesday, would you please fuck my face?”
“Are you sure you want me to?” Wednesday asks her, hips pressing forward. Enid thinks a bit distantly that the back of her thighs are going to bruise. “Hm. I’m not sure you’ve earned it.”
Enid makes a truly humiliating noise that she will later deny came out of her mouth.
“Please,” she begs much too loud for the middle of the summer dining room. “Give me another chance, Wednesday. I’ll be good this time.”
Wednesday’s hand finds her cheek, thumb tracing the shape of her jaw. “I will never deny you, sweetheart. Do you know that?”
Enid squeezes her eyes shut tight. “Yeah,” she mumbles.
“Look at me,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid cracks an eye open. Wednesday smiles, teeth catching the candlelight.
“Do you want to know something, Puppy?” she asks.
Enid’s breath hitches, but she nods. “O-Okay.”
Wednesday leans in, eyes hard on her face. “Closed mouths don’t get fed,” she murmurs. “Ask me for what you want and I will give it to you. I would give you anything. Understood?”
Enid nods, dazed.
“Good girl,” Wednesday tells her. “What’s your safeword?”
“Um,” Enid answers. “Bean.”
“And what’s my safeword?”
That’s easier. “Hatchet,” Enid says with a hysterical giggle. She slaps a hand over her mouth, ignoring Wednesday’s resulting smirk.
Wednesday cocks her head, eyes dark. “Will you use your safeword, if I go too far?”
“Yes,” Enid says blankly. “What’s wrong? Are you nervous?” she asks.
Wednesday exhales through her nose. “No. But I haven’t played very rough with you, have I? I’ve treated my Pet so very nicely these past weeks.”
Enid groans. “Oh, God. Wednesday, I’m—I’m so sorry I was bad.”
“Were you bad?” Wednesday asks, tone venturing into mocking.
Enid nods anyway. “Yes. Was bad, Wednesday. M’Sorry.”
Wednesday cups her cheek. “What a sweet girl. Go ahead, then.”
Enid fumbles for a moment, unsure of how she’s supposed to eat Wednesday out when she’s currently being pinned to the dining room table. Wednesday does not do her any favors. She does not step back, does not give her room to maneuver, does not relinquish a single inch.
It’s another few seconds before Enid understands. She gives Wednesday an experimental push, just a little shove on her shoulder to test what Wednesday will do, and Wednesday takes a single step back that she reclaims almost immediately.
“You want me to force you?” Enid asks, voice coming out too high.
It’s not that she can’t. Wolves are built to be stronger than humans. Though Enid is a submissive, the very lowest rank in terms of physical prowess, she’d still beat Wednesday in a test of strength.
But the very idea of forcing Wednesday Addams into anything is inconceivable.
Wednesday cocks her head. “You can certainly try,” she responds. “I thought you wanted to play rough, Puppy girl. I thought you could take it,” she taunts her, tugging on her courting braid.
Enid bares her teeth in a smile that Wednesday returns twofold.
Notes:
I'M BACK! japan was absolutely magical, thank you guys for being patient with me!!! so...the chapter count has gone up. i know.
BUT that's partially because i'll have to the time to devote to yall since i'm just gonna keep writing for the foreseeable future instead of getting a new job🫣 and let me say, i am so excited for wednesday and enid's upcoming ball!!!! you see, i've got Plans.
i just gotta get through moving to my new and hopefully PERMANENT home this weekend. very excited to have a home again!! and then i get to write for guys everyday!<3
EDIT 8/31: i've been hearing your cries for the new chapter!!! i have one more trip and then my new, regular posting schedule begins next week *salutes*
Chapter 131: Ache
Notes:
gobs and ghouls, i present to you...the facefuck chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It began with an ache in her fingers.
Enid didn’t realize she was curling her hands into fists, clutching the fabric of her skirts or blankets or whatever was closest every time her new roommate was around, until her hands began to hurt when she tried to hold her phone. Scrolling social media was physically unbearable. Watching the back of Wednesday’s head across their dorm room was worse.
In those early days, Wednesday was constantly in the room, pinning up her serial killer corkboard and generally polluting the air with her scent until Enid couldn’t breathe around her without feeling dazed and somewhat deranged.
Then her nose started to burn when fall gave way to winter and the air turned cold. Her only place of respite became their dorm room, which smelled so sweetly warm like vanilla and funeral lilies. Outside those walls, Enid’s head pounded. She ached for inside, where it smelled safe.
In some ways, Enid has ached for Wednesday for years.
She doesn’t have to hurt to get off. Enid has never needed pain to find her end. But it sure doesn’t hurt to ache a bit in the process of getting there.
***
Wednesday is proving more challenging to maneuver than Enid thought.
She quickly realizes that the half-assed little shoves she’d been using to test Wednesday aren’t going to get her anywhere. To her misfortune—or good fortune, depending on the perspective—the moment she pushes hard enough to cause Wednesday to stumble back, Wednesday’s hands are on her shoulders and she’s being shoved onto her knees with such force, her teeth rattle.
To her utmost embarrassment, Enid whimpers out loud like a bitch in heat.
Wednesday freezes, eyebrows disappearing into her bangs. “...Was it—?”
“It’s the show of strength!” Enid bleats. “I’m—fuck, Wednesday, I’m still a submissive wolf. I like when my d-dominant shows off, or whatever.”
Wednesday’s gaze turns calculating, but she thankfully leaves that for another time. Instead, her hands soften on Enid’s shoulders.
“How do you safeword nonverbally?”
Enid frowns. “I snap twice.”
“Show me,” Wednesday orders.
Enid huffs, but does so.
Without warning, Wednesday grabs her jaw, turning her face forward. “You need to be able to safeword, Puppy. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“I already know how to safeword,” Enid retorts. “My safeword is bean, and I do in fact speak English.”
If Wednesday looks surprised, Enid feels appalled. She would normally never, not under threat of death, talk back to Wednesday like that, but she had gotten a bit too into character while being a massive brat all day and it was difficult to turn off at the drop of a hat.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Enid wheezes. “I don’t know what that was. I’m sorry.”
The corner of Wednesday’s mouth quirks up. “For the record, you need to remember how to nonverbally safeword in the event your mouth is too full of my cunt to speak. But I am aware that you speak English.” She raises a pointed eyebrow. “Clearly.”
Enid cringes, full-bodied. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“You’re forgiven,” Wednesday tells her. “You little brat. Now, I want you on your knees, facing me.”
Wednesday side-steps her, nudging the chair out of the way to clear the prime floor space directly in front of the table. She then leans back on the table, resting her weight on her hands.
Enid bites her lip.
She realizes that Wednesday probably intended for her to climb to her feet like a normal person and walk the few steps over to her assigned position, but what’s the point of a criminally too-short dress if not to abuse an opportunity like this?
Wednesday’s hands go slack when Enid begins to crawl toward her, and by the time Enid takes her place at Wednesday’s feet, her eyes are wide and dark.
“Perhaps I should have brought you a leash,” Wednesday murmurs.
“Next time,” Enid quips, smiling up at her.
Wednesday audibly inhales, then takes her by the hair. “If I only had the words,” she breathes, and Enid wonders if she was even meant to hear it.
Her muscles are beginning to burn. This position on the cold, unforgiving floor will never be comfortable, and Enid is grateful for it. Whether it’s her knees, or her palms, or the ever-persistent ache in her jaw—an inner voice that sounds suspiciously Wednesday-like insists a little suffering can be gratifying.
And oh, it can. She was dead right on that.
Enid’s knees are already beginning to bruise, the ache radiating up her thighs to her spine, and she knows her neck isn’t far behind with the position Wednesday has her in.
She’s never been so thankful to kneel.
“Are you pleased?” Wednesday asks her, hand easing off her scalp as she leans back against the table. “Good. You certainly caused enough of a fuss.”
Enid’s face heats, but she still has to sit on her hands to keep from reaching for Wednesday like an overeager dog. It’s not worth the risk of Wednesday slapping her hand away, and if she didn’t earn Wednesday’s hand in her hair, then she doesn’t deserve it.
“So she can behave,” Wednesday marvels, voice mocking. “Good girl, aren’t you?”
Enid nods. Plaintively.
Wednesday’s lips curl up into a smirk. “So quiet now. You could almost be mistaken for obedient.”
Enid bites her lip, which proves a fatal mistake.
Wednesday sucks in a sharp breath, then her hand is back in Enid’s hair and she’s jerking Enid forward so hard, Enid has to catch herself against Wednesday’s thighs. Enid squeaks out loud at the harsh treatment, but the ache in her scalp—it’s a relief. She’s so grateful, she nearly tears up.
“Look at you,” Wednesday says, voice low. “So pretty.”
Enid does tear up then. “Are you gonna keep being mean, Wednesday?” she asks, voice breaking.
Wednesday’s hand immediately loosens, hard grip shifting into a cradle, and her eyes widen with fear. “What’s your safeword?”
“What? No, I’m—it’s bean,” Enid says, confused. “When are you gonna stop being mean and fuck my face like you promised?” she wheedles.
Wednesday’s eyes slip closed, her face smoothing out. She pets Enid’s hair. “Fuck, Enid,” she whispers. She exhales on a long breath. “Alright.”
She grips Enid’s hair like she would a set of reins, pressing Enid’s face against the gusset of her pants. It smells so strongly of her here. She’s wet, Enid thinks, a little thrill shooting through her fingertips.
“How hard is too hard?” Wednesday says under her breath, fingers spasming against Enid’s scalp.
Not hard enough, Enid thinks.
She must have said it out loud, or somehow telegraphed that, because Wednesday hisses through her teeth.
Enid doesn’t mind that her nose is squished against a silk blend that costs more than her coursebooks for an entire semester’s classes. In fact, she sticks her tongue out and sucks at the fabric in hopes that she’ll taste Wednesday’s arousal.
She’s dragged back by the hair hard enough to hurt, hard enough to ache, and something in her face convinces Wednesday to shove her all the way backward. She rests on her heels and tries not to pout too obviously.
“Fine,” Wednesday mutters, unbuckling her pants.
Suddenly, pouting is the very last thing on Enid’s agenda. She would never dare to pout while Wednesday is stripping off her pants, revealing her bare legs in their entirety. She hears glass breaking as Wednesday swipes her arm across the dining table and clears a space for herself to sit, but she doesn’t look. How could she, when Wednesday’s spreading her legs and beckoning Enid forward, crooking her finger like some wicked witch from the storybooks?
Enid can picture it now: how beautifully a corset would sit on Wednesday’s waist, how a wide-brimmed hat would set off the hue of her hair, how the long, trailing sleeves of her gown would slip back to expose graceful wrists. All by design, she thinks, and all meant to lure wolves like her from safety.
Enid drops between her legs, breathing deep as she swallows her scent.
“Wednesday,” she sighs happily. “Please, pull my hair.”
Wednesday’s hand tightens in her curls. “You’ve always been such a good girl for me. Haven’t you, sweetheart?”
Enid opens her mouth and eats.
She sucks and licks and swallows until Wednesday’s thighs are twitching around her ears, until it’s getting difficult to breathe. Wednesday’s hand only grows heavier, dragging her in to meet her hips. Enid’s lips ache with the pressure.
She thinks Wednesday might be close. She thinks this is the best thing that has ever happened to her, bar none. Wednesday’s breath begins to stutter, and for one single, glorious moment, Enid genuinely thinks she's going to kill this.
Then Wednesday begins to speak.
"This is what I think of when you mouth off to me," she hisses. "Shutting you up. Filling you up myself."
Enid moans like she's the one getting her pussy licked, voice breaking on the way out with a hitched little gasp. She would reach down and touch herself if she didn’t worry she’d lose her balance in the process.
“Oh, you liked that,” Wednesday croons. “I should have known.”
Enid does have to move then, if only to relieve the pressure. She jams a hand between her thighs, pressing hard in hopes it’ll alleviate the ache. Her abdominals protest as she balances on a single hand, clinging to Wednesday’s thigh, but it’s worth it to press her fingers to her pussy and listen to Wednesday try and fail to stay silent.
Enid wishes more than ever she’d thought to take her underwear off before Wednesday put her on her knees. She feels like she’s scrabbling for purchase, unable to find her footing even as she arches her back and tries to hang on.
“Enid,” Wednesday exhales through her teeth. “Your—mouth.”
That appears to be all she can manage.
Wednesday hunches over herself, stomach muscles clenching as she coils like an overwound spring. Then she shudders, full-bodied, breath hitching on a gasp that pierces Enid to the bone. Enid's blood runs hot and thick, pulsing in her fingertips.
“I’m going to come,” Wednesday gasps.
Enid moans into her pussy. Please, please, please, she chants internally, a constant soundtrack.
“What you said earlier,” Wednesday suddenly grits out. “When you feared I wouldn’t want —ah—a pet that bites and bleeds.”
Enid licks her faster, tongue sliding over the crease of her thigh as she chases every drop of Wednesday's arousal.
"You were afraid I'd find you unattractive," Wednesday scoffs. "For liking knives, of all things. I ought to put you over my knee."
Enid moans into her pussy, clawing not to lose her position as Wednesday drags her back by the hair. “No, why?” she protests. “Let me back, let me have it—”
“You like knives?” Wednesday asks her, pupils blown wide. “I like the look in your eyes. Right now.”
Enid whimpers up at her, ignoring the drool dripping from her chin.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Wednesday whispers, fingers tightening. “Oh, Puppy. Are you going to try?”
Enid whines out loud, shaking her head as best she can while she protests, “No, no, would never, won’t.” At Wednesday’s dubious look, she tries again, working desperately to string together a coherent sentence. “I won’t, Wednesday, promise, I won’t.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow before releasing her. “Pity. I was rather looking forward to your attempt.”
“W-What?” Enid blusters, scrambling to her feet. “How can you even say that? I would—Wednesday, what the fuck, I would die before hurting you!”
Wednesday stands up so fast, Enid nearly falls over. She looms over Enid like a titan, solid and unmovable. Her hand snakes back into Enid’s hair, jerking her close enough to share breath.
“I would kill before inconveniencing you,” she replies, voice grave. “Don’t ask me what I would do to those who dared to harm you unless you want the honest truth.”
Enid wouldn't be able to conjure up the ability to speak in that moment if her very life depended on it.
“What? Lost your voice?” Wednesday jeers.
Enid shakes her head, then nods.
Wednesday stares at her for a long moment. “You drive me to the fucking edge, Enid," she says under her breath. She releases her and leans back on her hands. Her blouse sits high on her ribs, exposing the cut of her hips. Even in the dark of the night, Wednesday is unbearable for Enid to look at directly without wanting to drop her gaze.
When Enid doesn't move, Wednesday cocks her head. "Did I tell you to stop?"
Enid feels her pussy throb. She folds back onto her knees.
“Good girl,” Wednesday tells her. “Go ahead.”
Enid readily leans back in, grateful that Wednesday takes her by the hair. It’s a matter of moments before Wednesday’s dragging Enid against her pussy, smearing her arousal over Enid’s face, and Enid does her damndest to catch every drop. She’ll sprain her tongue, at this rate. A werewolf has certain innate advantages, but Wednesday’s playing rough. Enid keeps her eyes closed and focuses on breathing.
She’s desperate to make Wednesday come. She’s terrified this moment will end.
When Wednesday doesn’t protest, Enid slips her tongue inside of her, curling hard, and that seems to push past whatever last boundary was staying Wednesday’s hand. She gasps, loud and unfettered, and the sound is so un-Wednesday that Enid nearly pulls out.
“You little witch,” Wednesday hisses. “Do you have any—idea—what you’ve done to me?”
She drags Enid in, hard.
“I cannot sleep apart from you,” Wednesday hisses, hips snapping. “I cannot breathe without your scent. The feelings—"
She releases Enjd's hair and grips her own chest, fist twisting in her shirt like she's applying pressure to an open wound. Enid's nails dig into Wednesday's thighs to the point of what must be pain, but Wednesday doesn’t seem to notice.
"The feelings that you have inflicted on me—" Wednesday cuts herself off again, and Enid automatically pulls back, worried she's done something wrong. Wednesday stares down at her with an unreadable expression.
"That was the most unkindest cut of all," Wednesday tells her.
Enid's heart is pounding in her throat.
“You think your sexual interests will cause my love for you to wane?” Wednesday gives a sharp laugh, and though she's not the one splayed back with legs spread wide, Enid has never felt so powerless. “Absurd. You should know better, Puppy," she sneers, voice biting and tugging at the deepest part of Enid's stomach.
“I just—”
“You just what?” Wednesday demands. “What?”
“Don’t know how you’ll—react—” Enid gasps, face hot.
"React?” Wednesday repeats, as if the word doesn’t make sense between her lips. “How absurd. My devotion to you cannot be measured in mere reactions. You want me to fuck you with my knife to your throat, Enid? Look at me."
Enid's hips jerk against nothing, a terrible whimper clawing out of her throat. She's making a mess on the ground beneath her.
"Look at me, Enid," Wednesday repeats. "Eyes on me. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Enid can't even manage a nod.
"I would vow myself to you here and now," Wednesday tells her. "Don't insult me by insinuating my reaction to your kinks would mean the end of our relationship."
Enid does manage a nod then. Her vision has gone blurry.
"What?" Wednesday asks, though Enid can tell she already knows.
Enid sniffles, "Want your come so bad, Wednesday."
A fingertip beneath her chin, lifting Enid's face.
"You can have it," Wednesday tells her. "Go ahead. Take it."
When Enid falls back into her, it is with relief. Wednesday is no longer dragging her in by the hair, but she doesn’t need to; Enid is doing her best impression of drowning between Wednesday’s thighs. She presses herself as close as her body will physically allow and inhales.
It’s still not enough.
Above her, Wednesday’s hand finds her bangs. She brushes them back from Enid’s forehead. Her thighs twitch around Enid’s ears.
“My Puppy girl,” Wednesday whispers, so low she cannot possibly have meant for Enid to hear it. “My mate.”
Enid turns her head and digs what will undoubtedly become a nasty bruise in the shape of her teeth into the softest part of Wednesday’s inner thigh, biting just hard enough that her canines don’t cleave through skin. She manages not to mark her, but only just.
Overhead, Wednesday grits her teeth violently enough that Enid swears she hears the creak, and Enid is thankful she’s locked in place by Wednesday’s trembling thighs if only so she won’t be tempted to go after Wednesday’s throat.
Then her mouth fills with warmth, streaming and sticky and Wednesday-sweet, and Enid’s too busy swallowing to think about much else.
“Enid,” Wednesday gasps. “Enough.”
Enid reluctantly pulls off, but only because she was ordered. She’d love to keep going, to push past Wednesday’s oversensitivity until it feels good again instead of just hot and swollen.
“Are you okay?” Wednesday asks. “Come up here. Now. Just be wary of the broken wine glass, please.”
“Come up onto the table?” Enid rasps, licking her lips and chin. “I mean…okay. But I think Morticia might be mad in the morning,” she hedges.
Though Wednesday’s face remains neutral, there’s relief in her edges. “Brat,” she says, voice almost too warm for Enid to bear.
Enid grins. “Yeah,” she says, rocking on her heels next to the table. She shrugs. “There’s always tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be better behaved.”
“I hope not,” Wednesday replies, entirely serious.
Enid hopes a day comes when she doesn’t flush at every other word out of Wednesday’s mouth, but she knows better by now than to hold out hope.
Notes:
i wanted to address it here since season two of the show has come out - no matter what happened or continues to happen there, our enid will still be the submissive wolf we know and love! that will never change in this fic, i can promise you that. i guess we are officially no longer canon compliant though 😛 (i personally am not watching season two so that it doesn’t influence this story, i’ve just seen some things on social media and have obv been reading your comments lol)
next update: 9/13
UPDATE 9/13: the chapter is currently with my beta and will go up tomorrow!!!
Chapter 132: Falter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A year and a season after Wednesday first arrived at Nevermore, Enid found herself sitting around a bonfire with Yoko’s wider circle of friends. The vampires of Nevermore were a much tighter-knit community than the wolf population. Yoko’s family friends were nice enough, but they didn’t have much in common with Enid, a California Trad wolf a long way from home.
Wednesday had been hovering on the fringes of the group, more interested in trading whispers with Eugene than participating in the conversation. Enid was content to sit on the ground by the fire and listen in while Yoko and friends discussed slow aging and mortality and the ever-shifting social hierarchy of the children from the most prominent vampire families.
Somehow, the conversation turned to each vampire’s greatest fears.
“Fire,” a girl Enid was pretty sure was named Wana interjected. “After what happened to Priscilla’s house—”
“—Tragic,” another boy drawled. “And yet Priscilla probably has a different answer.”
Priscilla shivered, displacing her perfect blonde hair from her shoulders. “I don’t know. I think I’m most afraid of the dark, now. All the smoke…” She trailed off, fair face scrunching with the ghost of an old distress.
For a moment, the air was somber, and Enid looked away. She’d heard about Priscilla Parker’s house. They all had.
“The dark, Pris? What kind of vampire are you?” another boy teased, breaking the tension. Priscilla’s face had cleared, and she rolled her eyes in his direction.
Enid had lowered her chin to her knees, gazing into the fire. The vampires were always uncomfortably direct.
“What about you, Sinclair?” a girl she recognized from dance tryouts asked kindly, probably thinking she was kind for including Yoko’s wayward friend in the conversation.
Enid swallowed hard. Distantly, she recognized that Wednesday and Eugene had fallen silent behind her.
“Silver,” Enid had blurted, latching onto the first thing she could think of that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or concern.
The vampires all winced or nodded in sympathy. Depending on the potency of their lineage, most of them suffered from some degree of allergy to sunlight and alliums. Yoko would end up hospitalized if she consumed even a single drop of garlic alfredo sauce; it had happened before.
Enid could practically feel Wednesday’s gaze burning into her back, but she refused to turn around. The last thing she wanted was to give her frankly unpredictable roommate any more ammunition.
But even then, Enid had found the whole conversation strange. She doesn’t fear fire, spiders, or snakes. Silver was a danger to her general well-being, but it wasn’t something that kept her awake at night.
What Enid would never admit aloud is that she fears a familiar house she’ll never find her way out of. She still dreams of the sound of her mother’s footsteps, always haunting her, always a breath behind the back of her neck.
Enid doesn’t have nightmares often, but some shadows you never forget.
***
When she opens her eyes, it is violent.
Enid feels as though she was gasping moments ago, and only now, fully awake, can she inhale deeply enough to breathe. She would clap a hand over her chest if that wouldn’t inevitably rouse Wednesday, who wakes from a dead sleep when the wind shifts the wrong way.
She gingerly sits up in bed, staring around the room. Though the walls of the summer room open to the forest, the air is stifling. She still struggles for breath.
It’s unexpectedly radiant around her, moonlight streaming between the marble pillars and soaking the floor in silver. When Enid picks up her phone to check the time, it’s only minutes past two in the morning. Not quite the witching hour, she thinks a bit sardonically. Morticia’s forest is so loud.
As sleep would be impossible with her heart still pounding in her ears, Enid swings her legs over the edge of the mattress, easing her feet onto the floor. Wednesday doesn’t stir, though her forehead does crease with displeasure when Enid leaves the safety of the bed. The edge of the summer room beckons.
Enid wearily approaches, but no danger can reach them up here, safely tucked away from the yawning mouth of the forest.
She’s wearing a big t-shirt and a pair of her brother Chase’s old boxers. It doesn’t occur to Enid that she should have at least found some pants until she’s already down the staircase and through the foyer, striding right out of the doors.
When her bare foot touches the dirt, she finally recalls what had made her chest seize up in fear whilst she was dreaming. For once, it wasn’t nightmares of her mother.
A cold, wailing song. Winter night. A veil of snow and ice over Wednesday’s eyes, no longer brown but silver. Decay.
It had been so unbearably cold that her lungs burned with every breath. Even the seeping warmth of summer now can’t entirely chase the chill away. She really, really regrets not finding a pair of pants.
Enid has made it less than a hundred yards into the trees when she realizes she’s being watched.
She whips around, thinking plaintively to herself that this forest is really rather crowded.
Whether it’s a product of having the eyesight of a wolf or pure luck, she locks on to her shadow almost instantly. The creature hovering just over her head in the nearest silver maple isn’t quite the same species as the faceless fae that had tried to kidnap her upon her arrival, but it’s similar enough in biology for Enid to recognize it as kin.
“Why are you following me?” she whispers. Then, nonsensically, “Was that your song?”
The sprite’s silver-lilac wings beat faster. “You can hear?” it squeaks, twittering with something unnervingly intent.
Enid gets the sudden feeling she’s made a grave error. “I was asleep,” she says lamely.
The sprite cocks its head. Enid shuts her eyes for a single instance, and when she reopens them, it's disappeared.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Enid spins around, finding no one at eye height. For a moment, she wonders if she’s genuinely begun hallucinating, but then there’s a rustling at her feet, and there—a set of pale yellow eyes emanating from the darkness. Not a winter sprite, at least, she thinks to herself. A sand-colored hare about the size of a shoebox.
“Who are you?” Enid asks. It seems only polite, considering most forest animals aren’t capable of speech.
“You’re just encouraging her,” the hare replies. “Ignore her before she takes too much of an interest in you, daughter.”
“Daughter?” Enid repeats, taking a step forward. “You know who I am?”
If a small forest animal can give her a deadpan look, that’s what the hare does. “Of course, Honored Enid. You are the master’s treasured guest.”
Enid frowns. “You have a master?”
“We follow him willingly, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the hare answers. “It is the greatest honor of my life to serve.”
Enid considers that, then shrugs. “What’s your name?”
“Mǎoyuè. But you can call me Mǎo.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you,” Mǎo replies. “Your beloved sent word that your arrival at the temple has been delayed. I’ve been sent to find out why.”
Enid flushes. “Um. Probably because of the ball?”
Mǎo’s hare nose twitches. “There was an invitation for a celebration enclosed in Honored Wednesday’s letter.”
“Yeah. Our ball,” Enid supplies helpfully, taking a seat on the forest floor. She picks up a broken twig and begins pulling off the half-rotted bark.
Mǎo sits beside her, coarse brown tail settling in the grass. “You seem unhappy.”
“Oh,” Enid exclaims. “Not because of that. I just…I’ve never been to a ball, you know?” She shrugs a bit uncomfortably.
“You worry you’ll embarrass your beloved,” Mǎo surmises. “You should practice your magic.”
“My magic?” Enid echoes. “How is that going to help me not make an idiot of myself at the ball?”
Mǎo sits up on their hind legs, cocking their head. “Surely you’ll be expected to dance, Honored Enid.”
Enid’s eyes widen. She hadn’t thought of that.
“Shit,” she mutters. “You’re right.”
Mǎo circles themself twice, sniffing a patch of dirt. “You should practice.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing as she drops her now-bald twig by her feet. “What does practicing my waltz have to do with being able to use windsong?”
Mǎo stares at her for a long moment. “You shouldn’t delay your arrival at the temple much longer. For your own sake.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Enid muses.
***
Enid hums under her breath as she darts back down the hallway towards the summer room. If she’s quick, she’ll make it back before Wednesday ever notices she was gone. What an odd little hare, Enid thinks to herself as she nears the door. What a strange nightmare and what a bizarre night in the forest.
She turns the brass handle, steps over the threshold, and comes face-to-face with a frenzied set of eyes.
“Shit!” Enid wheezes, nearly falling backwards.
The eyes materialize into a face, then a person. A very, very incensed person.
“Where have you been?” Wednesday asks, voice low.
“Um,” Enid says, voice high. She glances down at her feet, covered in dirt. “I was outside,” she admits, letting the door fall shut behind her with an ominous thunk.
Wednesday’s gaze travels over her, clearly searching for injury and finding none. To Enid’s relief, her face softens ever so slightly. “Where did you go?”
“I just, um, needed some air,” Enid hedges.
Wednesday eyes the open walls with disbelief.
Enid flushes hot and says, much too loudly, “I needed more air.”
“More air,” Wednesday repeats.
“And…there was a really weird hare,” Enid adds, hoping to provide a suitable distraction. “It talked.”
Wednesday’s face hardens. “It what?”
“Talked,” Enid quickly says. “Full sentences. And I know I was awake. I’m not making it up.”
“I never said you were,” Wednesday slowly replies. Her brow furrows. “Did the hare appear hostile?”
“No,” Enid reports. “Well, I don’t know. They were kind of nice,” she offers.
Wednesday suddenly looks exhausted. “Why did you leave?” she asks, voice easing. She takes Enid by the elbows, drawing her closer, and Enid’s will falters the stronger Wednesday’s sleep-soft scent becomes.
Enid gulps. “I have nightmares. Sometimes.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, but she does not say anything else. Instead, she leads Enid back to bed, helping her climb under the blankets. For how keyed up Enid was only minutes before, she slips into the haze of half-sleep humiliatingly quickly with Wednesday’s hand stroking her hair.
“Feels good,” Enid sighs. “Love you.”
Wednesday’s hand pauses for a split second.
“Have you ever considered sleeping as a wolf?”
Enid’s nose scrunches with confusion. “What? Why would I do that?” she asks, one eye cracking open. She can only see Wednesday’s silhouette from this angle.
“The online forums suggested it was quite natural,” Wednesday says with the sort of tone that tells Enid she’s intentionally keeping her voice light.
Enid tries not to feel too defensive, but it’s hard, even in the safety of her new nest. “I don’t want to do that, Wednesday.”
“Then just sleep like this,” Wednesday soothes her, resuming her petting. “Can you do that for me, Puppy?”
Enid nods, burrowing down to press her nose against Wednesday’s collarbones. Wednesday wraps her hand over the nape of Enid’s neck.
“Am I going to be punished for leaving?” Enid mumbles.
Wednesday gives a thoughtful hum that causes her chest to vibrate beneath Enid’s ear. “Let’s discuss it in the morning,” she murmurs. “Sleep now, my darling. No peril will find you here.”
If she says anything else, Enid doesn’t remember it.
Notes:
:)))) pls know i am LIVING for your comments and theories as the shanghai plot and therefore wider endgame plot begins to unfold
next update: wednesday 9/17
EDIT 9/17: chapter 133 is with my beta who is stuck at work!! will go up tomorrow🫡
Chapter 133: Strange
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid lies curled on her side, floating in that space between asleep and awake.
Though she can smell Wednesday lying behind her, she’s filled with too much trepidation to fully relax. Her impending punishment looms over her like the Sword of Damocles. It feels like one wrong move, a single stuttered breath, will shear the horsehair and bring it crashing down upon her.
Thus, she immediately stirs when the mattress shifts and her back is awash with a prickle of cold air. Wednesday’s leaving, she thinks with a shock of anxiety.
Of all the punishments she could possibly receive, this is among the worst.
“What’s wrong?” she slurs, blindly lifting her head. “Where are you going?”
A palm lands heavily in her hair, guiding her back to her pillow. “Try to get some more sleep,” Wednesday coaxes her.
Enid bites her lip. “Where are you going?” she repeats.
“I’ll be back soon.”
Enid frowns, burying her face in her blanket. She hears the door latch. Silence.
“Fuck,” Enid mumbles, kicking the covers back. Her skin needles in the night air. “I am in so much fucking trouble.”
She should never have left the room without permission. Now it’s half past—four in the morning, her phone informs her—and Wednesday has abandoned her. Enid sniffles, reminding herself that this is what she deserves. She stretches out her arms and legs as though filling the bed with her own body will make up for the distinct lack of Wednesday.
“You fucking idiot,” Enid says out loud.
The room remains silent around her.
Enid inhales deep, cheeks bulging out, and holds. When she releases it, she imagines the whole room exhaling with her, a mournful sort of sigh that rattles the trees.
***
“Wednesday, my dear! What on earth are you doing at this unholy hour?”
Wednesday doesn’t look up. “I’m busy,” she snaps, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. Her apron is covered in a layer of flour, and she still reeks of the maple syrup she’d spilled while combining her filling. Why her father insists on keeping the kitchen candlelit instead of installing electric lighting is beyond her.
She can feel his look of amusement. It rankles more than it should.
“I can see that,” Gomez replies, leaning against the counter. He’s well-dressed in a way that is wholly aggravating to Wednesday, whose braids are beginning to come unraveled the longer she stands over the fire.
“I just cleaned that,” she spits. “Don’t contaminate my workspace.”
Gomez holds up his hands. He ambles to the sink, flicking on the faucet. “And what are we up to this morning? The kitchen staff doesn’t begin work for another hour.”
Wednesday grits her teeth. “Plaiting.”
“I can see that,” Gomez muses, peering over her shoulder. “Using Enid’s family pattern is a nice touch. But blackberry, my little stormcloud? The raspberries are much sweeter this time of year.”
Wednesday takes a deep, steadying breath. “Father. If you would, make yourself useful and go anywhere else.”
Gomez lets out a harsh, booming laugh. “How about I give you a hand?”
“I don’t need your help,” Wednesday tells him. “I have it under control.”
“I can see that,” Gomez replies, voice amicable. “But it would be my honor to aid you. Where can I be of assistance?”
Wednesday eyes him with suspicion, but ultimately answers, “You can stir.”
Gomez rolls up his sleeves with a grin. “It’s been some time since we allied in the kitchen, my dear. What a grand opportunity! I look forward to showing your Enid—”
“Be careful with her,” Wednesday interjects, voice harsh.
Gomez pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Be careful?” he repeats. “Are you worried I’ll teach her to outstrip you in the culinary arts? Because it is quite possible. She has a real nose for flavor, I can tell.”
Wednesday can feel her lips twitching. “In that case, I would applaud her,” she snorts. “I’m just urging you to be cautious.”
Gomez frowns. “Cautious? Of what, pray tell?”
Wednesday can feel herself stiffening. She forces herself to maintain a neutral tone as she replies, “Enid hasn’t had much exposure to positive male figures. She may not respond well to your efforts to connect with her.”
“You think so little of me, Wednesday?” Gomez scoffs, gesturing mightily at her with a steel whisk. “Might I remind you that I survived your preteen years largely intact? Whatever your Enid can throw at me, I daresay, bring it on.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes. Under her breath, she mutters, “Your funeral.”
Gomez has the good grace to pretend not to hear her.
***
Enid must have fallen back asleep because she twitches violently awake, nostrils flaring, when Wednesday reenters the room. Whatever she’s carrying on that tray could have woken a warrior out of a dead sleep after working a two-day shift.
It’s not that it’s overtly sweet; the opposite, really. Enid’s inhaling something so tart, so cutting, it has her mouth filling with saliva.
“What is that?” she breathes, eyes fluttering open. “Berries?”
“Blackberries,” Wednesday murmurs, taking a seat on the bed. “Good morning, my darling.”
Enid props herself up, squinting in the weak sunlight, and discovers Wednesday supporting an entire breakfast tray with her hands.
Enid sits all the way up, rubs her eyes, then smacks her cheeks with both hands.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asks. “Wednesday, is that a pie?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “For your breakfast.”
Enid stares at her, aghast. “It’s an entire pie,” she repeats. “What—did you bake this—?”
“Obviously,” Wednesday retorts. “Don’t be ridiculous, Enid. As if I would serve you garbage from the store.”
For some reason, Enid begins to feel incredibly guilty. “Jesus,” she mumbles, leaning in closer to inspect the contents of the tray. Her nose twitches. “What’s with the ginger?”
Wednesday’s face clears to an almost suspicious degree, and she takes Enid’s hand in her own. “Don’t worry about that yet,” she says smoothly, nudging the piece of raw ginger about the size of a thumb aside. “Won‘t you allow me to feed you?”
“You want to?” Enid asks quietly, looking up through her lashes. “Even though I left the room without permission last night?” she asks, words spilling out.
Wednesday doesn’t roll her eyes, but it seems to be a near thing. “How can you ask that after I labored away in the kitchen for you, my darling?” she murmurs. “I love cooking for you.”
Enid huffs. “Well, maybe I don’t deserve it.”
“I’ll decide what you deserve,” Wednesday retorts. She leans back, visibly steadying herself. “Cooking and baking are very important customs in my family. That was one of the reasons I chose to bake cupcakes for your first step.”
Enid feels her cheek heat at the reminder. “Yeah, well—wait.” It occurs to her suddenly that the decorative crust atop the pie isn’t just any design. “Is…is that—?”
“Yes,” Wednesday answers, voice hushed. “It is.”
Enid’s heart pounds in her chest as she finds a porcelain plate and fork thrust into her shaking hands. “How early did you wake up this morning?” she whispers.
How the hell did Wednesday manage to braid her family pattern into a pie crust? If she didn’t already know that Wednesday was, quite literally, a witch, this would have confirmed it.
“Oh,” Wednesday responds, producing a long, tapered knife from her belt and piercing the crust. Steam begins to rise around the cuff of her blouse. “Around four.”
Enid’s fork clatters onto her plate. “Four? In the morning? Wednesday, what the fuck?”
“I wanted to make you breakfast.”
“I don’t need fresh pie!” Enid very nearly shrieks in protest. While she was lying here asleep, tuckered out from her illicit jaunt in the woods, Wednesday was toiling away in the kitchen for her. Enid might just be the worst submissive alive.
“Do not presume to tell me what my pet needs. I’ll decide,” Wednesday retorts, though Enid can tell by the glint in her eye that she’s enjoying this. Truth be told, Enid’s enjoying it, too. Her underwear is in real danger of faltering and ruining the new sheets.
“I’m fucking awful,” Enid announces, staring down at her allotted serving of pie. “Wow.”
“Eat,” Wednesday insists, voice cheerful to a frankly inappropriate degree.
When Enid doesn’t move fast enough, Wednesday jerks the fork right out of her hand and deftly scoops up a forkful of blackberry filling. Enid opens wide, accepting it without question.
She moans as soon as the taste registers. Wednesday’s eyes glitter in response.
They continue that way until the whole slice is gone, and Enid tries not to mourn the loss. She’s gripping the blanket with both hands, biting her lip hard enough to sting, and as it turns out, she’s gluttonous as well as completely fucking awful because she looks up at Wednesday with eyes that she knows will cause problems, oh, she knows—
And Wednesday drops the fork, splattering Enid’s yellow blanket with blackberry syrup.
Enid gasps in protest, but Wednesday’s already digging her fingers into the pie, destroying the pretty golden lattice she’d plaited in the same style as Enid’s courting braid, and she picks up a wet glob of blackberry with her bare hand.
“Eat,” Wednesday says, voice on the very cusp of breathless.
Enid leans in and sucks, tongue sliding between her fingers.
Wednesday takes her by the hair with her clean hand, holding her in place as she feeds her. Enid’s scalp still aches from yesterday’s treatment, a grateful reminder. It hurts as much as helps.
When she kisses her, Enid is so thankful, she could sob.
“You taste so sweet,” Wednesday breathes.
Enid swallows. “So do you,” she replies, licking her lips.
Wednesday leans forward and licks Enid’s mouth. There’s a rustling by her side, then a pressure at Enid’s lips in the shape of sharp fingernails. “Clean up for me.”
Enid sucks the blackberry syrup from her fingers, licking her knuckles, her palm, her wrist. She rubs her nose against the inside of Wednesday’s hand, aching to inhale the sweet honey of Wednesday’s scent.
“Smells so good,” Enid moans. “Thank you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday hums. “You’re welcome.”
Enid draws back at the strange note in her voice, aware that she must look like a freak, if not a complete lunatic. “What is it?”
Wednesday tucks Enid’s courting braid behind her ear, eyeing her with an odd glint in her gaze. The pie is a lost cause, a veritable soup of blackberry filling and ruined crust, but that wasn’t the only element on the breakfast tray.
As if she can read her mind, Wednesday rescues the piece of raw ginger from the carnage and holds it up into the light. “Do you know what this is used for?”
Enid leans back, sensing sudden danger, though Wednesday’s expression does not change. “Um,” she hedges. “No?”
Wednesday slides a hand down Enid’s flank. “You will.”
Notes:
(sorry enid it had to be done)
one. MILLION. HITS!
i literally cried. like you guys. i fucking bawled when it hit a million on wednesday (of all days, ironic!!!). i was a little university post-grad a few months into my first job when i started this story and here we are, just shy of three years later. shocked and honored.
next update: monday 9/22
EDIT 9/22: pushing back posting to tomorrow because i'm making my wedding registry?? what do i put on a wedding registry??😭 guys seriously what do i put on here hElp
EDIT 9/23: chapter 134 is with my beta for editing and will go up tomorrow!!!
Chapter 134: Clench
Notes:
KINK WARNINGS: punishment, figging, bondage, spanking, ass eating
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid eyes the ginger with trepidation.
“What does that mean?” she asks.
The ginger doesn’t look threatening; quite the opposite. It’s so small, so unobtrusive, Enid can’t imagine what Wednesday intends to do with it. It’s hardly the length of a finger, skin shaved away to expose the pale flesh. The most offensive part of the thing is frankly the smell. Sharp, Enid thinks. Like winter. It reminds her of Christmastime in the pack, stirring vats of oranges and cloves with the other kitchen wolves. Her nose burns.
Wednesday picks up the flared base, tendons flexing. “In all your related research, did you happen across figging?”
Enid slowly shakes her head. If she did, it didn’t stick with her. “Um, should I have?”
Wednesday smiles. “Mhm. Do you recall when you requested more impact play in our day-to-day routine?”
“Yes,” Enid quickly says. That she does remember. “Is that how you’re punishing me?”
“In a sense,” Wednesday responds, voice ominous. Her eyes are bright. “The impact play isn’t the punishment. I won’t be hitting you with any real force.”
Enid can feel herself deflating. “You won’t?”
“No,” Wednesday tells her, lips curling up in amusement. “You may not even bruise.”
Enid tries not to whine. “I won’t?” she wheedles.
“In fact, I doubt my hand will pain you at all,” Wednesday informs her, voice merry.
Enid’s mouth drops open. “You’re going to spank me, and it’s not even going to hurt? What the fuck, Wednesday—?”
“Because,” Wednesday interrupts her, “of this.”
She holds up the stub of ginger, wiggling it in front of Enid’s nose.
Enid can feel her nose wrinkling. “And what the fuck is that supposed to do?”
“I’m not a monster, Enid,” Wednesday responds, drawing back.
Enid ruminates on that while Wednesday places the breakfast tray onto the floor, cleans her hands on a damp towel, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She’s so busy wondering what exactly that means, in fact, she’s wholly unprepared for Wednesday to produce a length of red ribbon from her pocket and announce,
“Place your wrists behind your back, please.”
Enid freezes, meeting her eyes. “I—what?”
Wednesday watches her with an unchanging expression. “You heard me. Unless you’re exercising your safeword?”
Enid shakes her head. “No,” she breathes. “You’re tying me up?” Suddenly, Enid is a lot more on board with whatever this punishment entails. She hasn’t forgotten the ache of seatbelts around her wrists on the Addams family jet.
“Believe me when I say it’s for your benefit,” Wednesday replies. “It will be difficult for you not to struggle. I would like to remove the temptation.”
“Struggle?” Enid echoes, thighs clenching together. “O-Okay.”
Enid shifts around to face the forest, exhaling hard through her nose. She crosses her wrists behind her back. Though she still wears an oversized t-shirt depicting an advertisement for Melick’s Town Farm and Corn Maze that must belong to Wednesday, her purloined boxer shorts feel pitifully inadequate. What the hell is Wednesday going to do with that ginger?
“Relax your shoulders,” Wednesday murmurs, placing a hand on the nape of her neck. “You look like a frightened cat.”
Enid huffs out a startled giggle. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m not scared.”
“You’re not?” Wednesday asks, warm breath displacing the tiny hairs by her ear. “You look awfully afraid.”
Enid shivers. “M’Not. I love when you touch me.”
Wednesday hums. “We’ll see if that sentiment lasts.”
Enid’s eyes widen, but then Wednesday’s careful fingers are looping the ribbon around her wrists and deftly securing her hands behind her back. She’s too busy trying to remain upright to worry much about Wednesday’s bizarre comments.
“Good girl,” Wednesday whispers, patting her flank. “Come. Over my knee.”
Enid goes easily, gratefully, nearly toppling over as she lowers herself without the use of her arms. When she twists around to glance up at Wednesday, she discovers Wednesday looking down at her with hands still extended, expression hovering between irritated and impressed.
Enid can understand the disconcertion. Her core strength might be daunting to a human, but it’s standard for any wolf to be able to twist their bodies in unfathomable ways. She’s seen warriors perform physical feats for the sake of avoiding petty inconveniences that would bring normie Olympians to tears.
Wednesday audibly exhales. “I would have helped you.”
Enid shrugs the best she can. “I knew where I would land.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “You—”
Her lips press together. If her scent wasn’t so sweet, Enid might have been concerned.
“What?” Enid asks, tilting her head.
Wednesday looks down at her with lidded eyes. “Lift your hips,” she orders.
Enid turns back toward Wednesday’s thighs, tucking her face into the soft fabric of her leggings and raising her hips. She makes a slight noise when Wednesday’s fingers brush the sensitive skin of her hipbones, but otherwise doesn’t react when Wednesday pulls down her boxers and exposes her ass to the morning air.
“I’m going to insert this without lubricant,” Wednesday says without preamble. “You will soon understand why. Tell me immediately if there is pain.”
Enid can feel her eyes widening. “Wait, insert where?” she asks, lifting her head with some difficulty.
“Your ass,” Wednesday tells her, voice warm. “This is your punishment, Puppy.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “Putting ginger in my ass?” she asks, fighting a bizarre urge to laugh. “Um. Okay.”
Wednesday strokes the crease of her ass and thigh. “Funny? You’ll think so. Spread your knees, Enid.”
Enid huffs as she shuffles her legs apart. The toes of her right foot brush the marble floor.
“Relax,” Wednesday tells her. Though the ginger feels unbearably hard, Wednesday’s fingers are gentle. “Good. Now, bear down.”
Enid winces a little at the intrusion, but it’s more odd than painful. The piece of ginger isn’t large. I can take it, she realizes.
“Is it in?” Enid asks, though she knows. She clenches around the flared base. “Jesus,” she mumbles to herself. She clenches again with a hiss.
Wednesday pats her ass. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“What?” Enid asks, sweat beading on her forehead. “Um, why?”
She’s starting to feel uncomfortably warm.
Enid, as a general rule, runs hot. She always has. Wolves run a degree hotter than humans, and Enid runs a degree hotter than that. Yoko calls her a mobile heater with what Enid’s mostly confident is an affectionate tone, and Eugene once very seriously told her she’d be invaluable in an emergency in a subarctic climate.
Her heat cycle aside, Enid is comfortable in a slightly fevered state, so the fact that she’s sweating now tells her something is legitimately wrong.
“Wednesday,” she gasps. “It’s—it’s—”
“I know,” Wednesday soothes her. “Are you safewording?”
Enid clenches down. It’s the ginger, she realizes. The ginger is scorching, searing hot in her hole, and the fact that it’s shoved up her ass leaves her feeling like the heat is pulsing through her entire body. She feels a little drunk, in fact.
“No,” she gasps. “Oh my God.” Clenching down makes it worse. Only by relaxing her muscles can she find the slightest bit of relief.
Wednesday seems to know it, too. “I know, Puppy,” she croons. “You’re going to take my hand like this.”
“No,” Enid gasps. “Wednesday—if you spank me like this—”
“That’s your punishment, my darling,” Wednesday tells her. “You’ll have to take it.”
Enid stares at the fabric of Wednesday’s leggings in horror. If she cannot so much as clench her ass, she’ll have to feel the full force of Wednesday’s every slap. Her ass is already burning, aching, and Wednesday hasn’t even touched her yet.
She’ll have no choice but to ride it out. Hell, depending on how hard Wednesday intends to spank her, each hit might force the ginger in further. The thought of how much that would burn has Enid slicking herself a little bit in anguish.
She sucks in a hard breath, cheeks bulging. “Oh, fuck, please make it fast,” she babbles. Her toes are curling, thighs spasming even though Wednesday hasn’t even touched her yet. If she actually comes on Wednesday’s knee with a vegetable up her ass, she’ll never live it down.
Wednesday’s hand lands on her lower back. “Are you sure you can take it?”
“Yeah, yes, just—h-how many?” Enid asks, voice breaking. “How long is it gonna be inside?”
“Five,” Wednesday immediately answers. “Then I’ll take it out, good girl. Can you take five?”
“Yes, yes, please start,” Enid begs, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders ache. “Please, Wednesday. Please start right now.”
Wednesday’s hand comes down onto her ass with a crack.
Enid tries to breathe in, fails, and her chest seizes. She may as well have Wednesday’s hand wrapped around her throat. The heat is so intense in her ass, in her lower back, in her lungs, she might lose consciousness. She might fucking come.
Then her chest fills with air, and she sobs.
“Oh, oh God, Wednesday,” she cries. “It fucking hurts.”
Wednesday’s palm rubs hard on the spot she’d hit. “Can you take four more?”
“Yes!” Enid gasps. “Go, go. You’re fucking mean.”
“I know,” Wednesday says, and even her breath sounds unsteady. “You’re doing so well, Puppy. You look so pretty like this. Do you know that?”
Before Enid can respond, Wednesday’s hand comes down again.
“Oh my God,” Enid squeaks. “Wednesday, oh my God.”
“I know,” Wednesday says, breath coming fast. “I know, Enid.”
Her hand comes down again.
“Fu-uck,” Enid groans, grinding her hips down. “Oh, Wednesday, fuck, I’m—”
“Me, too,” Wednesday blurts. “Enid, it’s okay.”
Enid sobs into her leggings. “M’Sorry.”
“No, you’re good. You’re doing so well,” Wednesday tells her. “Two more.”
“Please, please go faster,” Enid begs. “I’m trying, I’m trying—”
Wednesday’s hand meets her ass with a crack.
Enid’s pussy begins to leak, slick dripping down her thighs even as the heat in her lower back becomes nigh unbearable.
“Last one,” Wednesday tells her, voice low. “Enid?”
Enid inhales through her teeth. “Fast, please,” she whispers. “M’Gonna come.”
Wednesday freezes, back stiffening, then her hand comes down over the thickest part of Enid’s ass. Before Enid can so much as open her mouth, Wednesday’s pulling the ginger out of her hole, and then there’s something slick and cool and wet replacing it, warmth covering her blistering skin as Wednesday folds over her.
“Oh my God,” Enid gasps. “Wednesday, wait, I’m—your mouth—”
“Don’t care,” Wednesday tells her, voice gutted. “Let me eat.”
Enid buries her face in Wednesday’s leggings, spreading her legs as best she can as Wednesday’s tongue slides over her, soothing the burn. Her whimpers are lost to the emptiness of the room as Wednesday sucks the heat from her hole. As the pressure in her pussy ebbs away, Enid’s muscles slowly unclench. She feels like she’s swum a mile, ears still ringing.
“Wednesday,” Enid eventually protests, trying and failing to press her knees together. “Too much.”
Wednesday’s hard hand clamps down on her hip. “Stay. I’m assessing whether you’re injured.”
“M’Fine,” Enid huffs, wiping her sweaty lips on her shoulder. “Um. Am I allowed to be untied? Or is my punishment still going?”
Wednesday lifts her head. Her eyes are dark, cheeks high with color, and she looks a little bit like a nightmare Enid once had at Nevermore where she came upon a dream-Wednesday who hadn’t been fed in a week.
“Of course,” Wednesday says, tugging on one end of the red ribbon. Her elaborate knot immediately falls away, allowing Enid’s arms to hang limply at her sides. Wednesday’s hands begin rubbing out the prickles. “How was your punishment, Sweetheart?”
Enid drops her gaze even as she rolls onto her back. “Um, better than the time out. It hurt, though.”
Wednesday’s swollen lips curl up. “Punishments aren’t meant to be enjoyable. I’m not sure I’ll repeat this one, since you nearly orgasmed from it.”
Enid’s face flushes with heat. “I don’t think that was the ginger’s fault. It really fucking burned.”
“It was meant to.”
“Well, it did,” Enid retorts.
Wednesday’s smile widens to show her teeth. “Perhaps you’ll think twice before gallivanting off into the forest in the middle of the night, then.”
Enid’s mouth drops open. “I was just—it was that song,” she says nonsensically.
Wednesday’s smile instantly disappears. “What song?”
Enid gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s so loud here,” she huffs. “It’s hard to sleep. I hear it all the time, don’t you?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. It remains furrowed with concern even as Enid leaves for the day.
Enid imagines she can feel Wednesday’s eyes on her back long after she’s left Wednesday’s line of sight.
Notes:
next up: Bonding With Gomez (TM)
also guys, i need to build a wedding gift registry and i have literally no idea what to put on it. what are some good items for a home?? right now i have...cauldrons. my fiancé was like "great start but it's all cauldrons" lmfaooo i need more than cauldrons of various sizes and bakeware in my favorite color 😭 send help i'm not creative!!!
Chapter 135: Dusting
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid meanders through the halls, feet pattering along the cool marble. The temperature outside is suspiciously crisp for June. Cold, she thinks, even for the East Coast.
Enid shivers, tugging her sleeves over her hands. Formalwear may be required for dinners in the Addams family, but she is perfectly within her rights to wander around Hell Mountain in leggings and a dance team sweatshirt otherwise. Wednesday had said so as she cleaned her up that very morning.
“Hungry?”
Enid spins around, cocking her head. Does every member of this family act like the Cheshire Cat? Maybe they teach stealth to Addams in the same way they foster physical strength in wolves. “Uh, no. Why?”
Pugsley melts out of a particularly dark corner. “Too bad. My father’s in the kitchen.”
With that, he sticks his hands into his pockets and strides off in the opposite direction. Enid blinks after him in confusion.
“Now, what the fuck was that about?” she whispers to herself.
Nevertheless, she had planned to hunt down Gomez, so she crosses the foyer and approaches what can only be the kitchen. She could smell the melting sugar from two floors away.
“Enid!” Gomez greets her, wiping his palms on an ornate white apron. “Come, give me a hand. We’re making profiteroles.”
Enid takes a jolting half-step over the threshold, silent and unsure, then hurries forward at double speed. She clamours onto the step stool to wash her hands in the frankly gargantuan sink, then takes her place at Gomez’s side.
This, at least, she knows. She’s been helping her mother in the kitchen since she was a child.
“What are profiteroles?” she asks, voice hesitant.
“Donuts,” Gomez soundly answers. “One of Pugsley’s favorites.”
Enid sniffs the air. “Have you already started baking?”
“Oh, yes,” Gomez answers, handing her a mixing bowl. “This is the fourth batch. We’re making six dozen in total, little witch.”
“Six dozen?” Enid repeats. “Are you having a party?”
Gomez barks out a laugh. “No. They’re for Pugsley, of course!”
She stares at him with wide eyes.
Gomez raises an eyebrow right back at her. The expression is so Wednesday-like in nature that Enid loses her breath.
“His greed is immeasurable,” Gomez tells her, placing a whisk into her hand. “Stir that.”
Enid stirs on autopilot, watching as he pipes out little dollops of dough with expert speed. This is a man who knows his way around a donut, she absently thinks.
“Actually,” she speaks up. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Gomez sticks his tray of profiteroles into the oven, then folds into an elegant bow. “Ask away.”
“What…um, are there courting traditions that you could teach me?” Enid manages to say mostly coherently. “Runewitch ones, I mean? That I could do for Wednesday.” She at least ends strong and certain.
Gomez grins. “But of course. I assume my dearest beloved already taught you the significance of your braid?”
Enid very nearly reaches up and touches her hair. She would have, if not for years of kitchen sterility drilled into the deepest facets of her person. “Yeah. I’ll have to cut Wednesday’s off at the ball.”
“And she will shear yours before five hundred of our closest family and friends,” Gomez says a bit dreamily. “How magnificent.”
Enid nearly drops the bowl. “Five—five hundred? Five hundred guests? No, that can’t be right.”
“And then you will light your lantern together and raise it to join the rest of our family!” Gomez announces. “Don’t fret—I’ll walk you through the ceremony step-by-step. You should take to the runework quite easily, if half of what Wednesday boasts of your magical talent is true.”
He ends on a little wink, and Enid tucks her chin to her chest, inexplicably embarrassed.
“I don’t know. Do you really think that’s a good idea?” she asks, privately thinking it sounds like her own personal nightmare to try and fail to perform magic in front of a crowd. She’s already beginning to sweat.
“Nothing about the evening will come as a surprise,” Gomez assures her. “Your lighting of the lantern will be awe-inducing. We haven’t raised a lantern in a generation! But first, there will be the exchange of weapons.”
“And that comes before the lighting ceremony,” where I have to do magic, Enid frets internally. “Okay. So, braids, then weapons exchange, then lantern lighting?”
“If we’re splitting hairs, the exchange of weapons would be the third step in a proper runewitch courtship,” Gomez informs her.
Enid purses her lips to keep from sighing. She now understands exactly where Pugsley learned to be so infuriating. “Um, alright. So, what’s the second step? If braiding’s the first, and trading weapons’ the third—what comes second?”
“Ah,” Gomez takes the bowl out of Enid’s slack hands, “We’ve done things a bit out of order, I’m afraid. Technically, you were supposed to hold a séance immediately after taking the braid so that Wednesday could introduce you to our ancestors.”
“Isn’t there still time?” Enid points out.
“Unfortunately, not. The séance must be conducted before Wednesday presents you to the living family, if you’re truly adhering to tradition,” Gomez tells her.
“Oh. That’s no problem then,” Enid replies. “We already did a séance at Nevermore.”
Gomez’s hand nearly slips off the bowl. “You did what?”
“Well…Wednesday was the one who contacted Lucía,” Enid admits. “Obviously, I’m not capable of that. I kind of just watched?”
Gomez’s face cycles through a variety of expressions before finally settling on harried. “She chose to contact Lucía? Spirits, Wednesday. What on earth was she thinking—”
“It went well. I think,” Enid offers. “Lucía gave us her blessing, at least.”
Gomez pauses. “Did she really?”
“Yeah. She also told us, um, well wishes?” Enid says, wracking her brain for the exact exchange. She’d been under the influence of Satisfaction at the time, but she’s pretty sure that’s the proper terminology. “And she said she’d watch over our courtship.”
Gomez leans back against the table. “I’ll be damned. That woman is impossible!” He barks out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. At Enid’s obvious bewilderment, he offers a half-smile. “I would know. She’s my older sister.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. She doesn’t get along with the majority of her siblings, but she cannot imagine a world where they aren’t walking around, causing her heartache. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I had no idea, sir—”
He gives her a sardonic little smile. “I’m sure you didn’t. And please—call me Gomez.”
Enid nods, albeit reluctantly.
“Wednesday must have neglected to mention she chose to call up the aunt who got herself killed hunting wendigos?”
Enid can’t help but giggle at that. “Did she actually?”
“She did,” Gomez sighs. “I’m glad to hear my sister approved of you, Enid. Things could have gotten quite hairy otherwise.”
Enid chews on her lower lip. “Uh…what if Lucía said no?”
“Wednesday would have entered what amounts to a possessed state and fought for your honor in the spirit realm,” Gomez says matter-of-factly. “Which in all likelihood would not have ended well for her. My sister hunted wild beasts for a living, you see.”
“Wednesday beat the Pack Leader’s son in single combat,” Enid blurts. “When she was with my pack, I mean. She’s considered a warrior now.”
Gomez looks incredibly pleased by this, but even so, he very gently tells her, “My sister was a formidable opponent. Prodigy though she is, my dear daughter is still a novice in hand-to-hand combat.”
Enid profoundly disagrees with that sentiment, having seen firsthand what Wednesday had done to Hugo Flint, but she chooses to stay quiet. She does wonder what explanation Wednesday decided to give her parents about her new teeth.
“Was she not a runewitch?” Enid asks. “Lucía, I mean.”
“She was. Lucía was a runescrafter, like myself,” Gomez says with a little flourish of his spatula. “Her specialty was forging rune-affected bows and arrows.”
“Oh. What do you make?” Enid asks, clasping her hands together.
“My specialty is sword-making,” Gomez reveals, ignoring the rush of heat that washes over them both when he opens the oven door.
Enid thinks on that for a second. “So, I have to find a weapon for Wednesday?”
“You have to make a weapon,” Gomez corrects her, beginning what looks to be an incredibly precise process of stabbing each individual profiterole with a long pick.
“Oh. Cool,” Enid says. “That’s…I don’t know how to make swords,” she admits. “I didn’t take a single forging class. I don’t like the heat. Or the smell.”
Gomez gives her a sardonic little smile. “Not to worry—that’s where I come in. Wednesday tells me you studied Anthropology and Dance at Nevermore?”
Enid nods, then shrugs. “I think I kind of fell into Anthropology. I just had enough credits for the specialization.”
“That’s no small accomplishment,” Gomez refutes, replacing the tray in the oven. “I studied Forging and Magical Martial Arts myself.”
Enid gives a little smile. “I was never very good at fighting. Not like Wednesday.”
“We all have our strengths,” Gomez declares, handing her a piping bag. “Fill each profiterole with a titch of cream. Mind the top of the bag—it’s prone to bursting. What foreign language did you study for your Anthropology specialization?”
“I studied French, actually,” Enid reveals, cheeks flushing. “I had a French professor of European Architecture and Faith. I…she did a number on me.”
Gomez laughs out loud. “The best instructors tend to have that effect. How long did you study before reaching fluency?”
“How did you know I’m fluent?” Enid asks, surprised.
“Wednesday mentioned it offhand,” Gomez airily replies. “I suppose she thought we’d find common ground.”
“Wait—you speak French too?” Enid exclaims. “I had no idea!”
“Ah, don’t get too excited! I speak Québécois French. We do business in Montreal.” Gomez waves her off. “Nevertheless. How long did you study to reach fluency?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Two semesters?” Enid offers, sticking out her tongue as she tries to load each donut with the same amount of filling. The piping bag is surprisingly unwieldy. “I only took Professor Claudine last autumn…so I started French over January Term and then continued through this spring.”
She’s made her way through two lines of donuts before it occurs to her that Gomez has fallen uncharacteristically silent.
He’s staring at her with a peculiar expression, head tilted ever so slightly in thought.
“You know, I’d heard tales of true daughters all my life,” he comments. “But even that didn’t prepare me for the might of one in person. You could say the moment of revelation still comes as a shock,” he snorts, shaking his head.
Enid’s piping bag hangs limp at her side. “What do you…what does that mean?”
“Your proficiency with languages,” Gomez replies. “Your magic,” he then clarifies at her confused look. “It is wondrous, Enid. Simply wondrous.”
Enid frowns to herself. “What does being a woodwitch have to do with learning French?”
“Ah, but you didn’t just learn French. You mastered a foreign language in a matter of months,” he replies, raising an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
Though Enid blushes, she doesn’t argue. She never told anyone, but Professor Claudine had suggested in private that she look into apprenticeships in France. Enid hadn’t considered it for even a moment, knowing she would be due back home to San Francisco to be some poor wolf’s willing bride the moment she graduated from Nevermore.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” she mumbles.
“It is,” Gomez plainly refutes. “You should be proud of your accomplishments. They are quite impressive.”
Enid bites her lip, then blurts, “But what does the true daughter thing have to do with me being, um, decent at languages?”
Gomez raises an eyebrow at her, but says, “All woodwitches practice wind-singing. Wouldn’t it make sense for the most powerful among you to be able to communicate with all living creatures, no matter the spoken tongue?”
Enid pauses, brought up short. She hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Huh,” she mumbles. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Indeed. Did you often take classes over winter break in lieu of visiting home?” Gomez asks a hair too casually to escape her notice.
Enid tenses. She’s been fielding questions about why she never returned to San Francisco for winter vacation since she started attending Nevermore as a preteen.
“I didn’t like taking eighteen credit hours during the regular semester,” she states, the same excuse she’s been parroting for years. “It was easier on my schedule to stay at Nevermore through January and take an extra couple of classes instead. Then I could just take twelve or fifteen hours in the fall and spring instead of the full eighteen.”
“Very strategic of you,” Gomez comments. “And you never once went home for the winter solstice? To celebrate any holidays—?”
“Were there any other runewitch traditions I could do for Wednesday?” Enid interrupts, derailing the conversation before it can veer too far off course. “I could swear there was something else she mentioned that I’m just not remembering. I feel like I’m a terrible intended,” she huffs, glancing up through her lashes.
Gomez doesn’t look like he buys it, not for a second. He doesn’t melt the way Wednesday would in the same position. In fact, he gives her a face that says her pitiful attempt at distraction is just that: pitiful.
Still, he concedes with a sigh. “You would be thinking of the dessert custom. It’s tradition to exchange baked goods with one another during the courting period.”
“Is that why Wednesday made me pie?” Enid gasps.
Gomez’s brow furrows. “She baked you a pie?”
“Can it be any recipe?” Enid asks. “Or does it have to be something specifically out of the Addams family cookbook?”
“Ah, nothing so exact,” Gomez says with a smile. “Though the true custom is to use the recipe of a friend or loved one. Particularly for important occasions.”
For some reason, Enid’s mind goes squarely back to her forest. She thinks of Aminder’s hands twinkling with rings, scent like tea leaves and winter, and wonders if she likes to bake.
“Gomez,” Enid pipes up. “Does Wednesday have a favorite dessert?”
He levels her with his widest grin yet. “She particularly enjoys meringue swans,” he reveals.
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “That sounds…suspiciously unlike her. Isn’t meringue, like, really sweet?”
Gomez looks as though he’s trying very hard to keep a straight face. He raises a pointed eyebrow at her.
Enid’s entire face flushes red. “Oh my God, shut up,” she mumbles, hunching over even as Gomez gives a full-bodied bellow of a laugh and shoves a powdered sugar shaker into her hand.
“Start dusting the profiteroles, little witch.” He must take pity on her, because he adds, “I believe Wednesday enjoyed the act of chomping them apart. She always beheaded the wretched little sweets first.”
That sounds more like it. Enid straightens up, employing her sugar device with gusto. It’s beautiful, really. Like a brush of falling snow. “Could you make meringue with vanilla?” she wonders aloud.
Gomez hums. “Why, I do believe you can. What did you have in mind?”
Enid shakes her head. “Um, just wondering. Just curious,” she says a touch too quickly to pass for nonchalant.
If it’s possible, Gomez’s grin widens. “Of course. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance, Enid. It would be my honor to assist you.”
Somehow, Enid doesn’t think he’ll be much help with this one. “Thanks, Gomez.”
He smiles widely in response.
Notes:
enid: i Have An Idea
gomez: great, i'll help!
enid: NO no, not with this one. thanks tho
i have officially made a twitter and a tiktok!! i can be found on both at @pumpkinsbelow
next update: saturday 10/11
*EDIT 10/11: if you don't have me on twitter, i just did my first ever hair wash for my 22 inch extensions...i literally can't move my arms😭 postponing chapter 136 to monday. that's how serious this is. oh my god you guys is the drip worth it??
Chapter 136: Scissors
Notes:
KINK WARNINGS: toys, accidental voyeurism, slick collecting for baking purposes, fingering
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid absconds to the summer room with a disposable water bottle and a knife behind her back.
She doesn’t run into Pugsley this time, fortuitously enough; she’s not sure she could explain what exactly she plans to do with these items. Even she’s not sure what she’s going to do with these items.
As soon as she reaches the bedroom, she shuts the door. There’s a long moment where she just stands there, breathing hard, clutching her assortment of purloined kitchen paraphernalia. On second thought, she hits the lock.
“Okay, guess I should cut the water bottle,” she says a little bit hysterically.
There was not a chance in hell that she was going to violate Gomez’s glass tupperware set with her bodily fluids. So, in her genius, she had figured that cutting a plastic water bottle in half would give her a container just large enough to collect her slick. Plastic wrap and a hair tie will work just fine to secure it once the deed is done.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, her meager knife skills don’t translate very well to cutting a water bottle in half. The water bottle slips out from under her twice before she concedes that she’s risking a wound that would likely require stitches and, even more worrying, rolling the dice on Wednesday’s wrath by screwing around with a knife this large. It’s time for Plan B.
“Does Wednesday keep scissors around here?” Enid asks aloud, peering around the room.
She hates the idea of rifling through Wednesday’s things without her knowledge, but needs must. Wednesday might forgive her. Maybe. It’s altogether too much to hope she won’t notice someone’s been through her belongings, though.
Enid loiters at the door connecting their rooms for almost ten minutes before she finally bites the bullet and turns the knob. She sticks her head in, and when Wednesday doesn’t descend on her with punishment sewn into her countenance, Enid nudges a tentative toe over the threshold.
Still nothing.
“Did Wednesday seriously not ward these rooms?” Enid says in utter disbelief.
She waves her hand in the doorway, figuring that should trip the invisible wire. Yet still no wailing alarm goes off or giant cement block falls from the sky or anything. It’s so unlike Wednesday, Enid’s metaphorical hackles raise, skin prickling with suspicion.
“This is weird,” she mutters. “But whatever.”
She has bigger fish to fry than Wednesday’s personal security or lack thereof.
Enid beelines for the writing desk, opening the second drawer on the left. It’s where Wednesday keeps her trio of scissors at Nevermore—one for paper, one for fabric, and one for defense—and sure enough, there they are. A shining set of three.
Enid chooses the one for defense, figuring that’s the least likely to break against plastic. She can beg Wednesday’s forgiveness for dulling the blades later.
It’s a matter of moments to cut the water bottle in half with Wednesday’s scissors, and then she’s back in the summer room, climbing into her new nest. The blankets and stuffed animals that Wednesday chose for her are beginning to smell like them.
That’s going to help, Enid thinks. She hasn’t done this in a while, but when she used to do it at night, in the dark, she would imagine that she could smell Wednesday. There was a time when it made her feel incredibly guilty.
It still does, in a way, but for different reasons. Now, she feels like she’s breaking a rule by touching herself without Wednesday’s express permission.
“As long as I don’t come, right?” Enid says a bit nonsensically to herself, pulling her fingers away with a sigh. This isn’t working.
She has no idea when Wednesday’s going to come back, or what she’s off doing, in fact. She has limited time alone in the room. If Enid’s going to get this done and collect enough slick to bake Wednesday vanilla slick meringues, she’s got to get serious and fast.
Serious slick collecting calls for serious measures.
Cheeks burning, Enid pokes around the room until she uncovers the box of her heat toys. Right on top is the gargantuan pink dildo that had once bounced its way across the floor to Wednesday like a sparkly, overeager dog. Enid physically cringes at the memory. She hasn’t touched this box since spilling it open in front of her poor, unsuspecting roommate, too traumatized by the horror of that moment to revisit it so soon.
“Well, you get your chance for redemption,” she says a bit vindictively, grabbing the pink dildo in a strangling hold. It flops over in her hand as if showing off its impressive length, ever mocking her.
“Fuck you,” Enid says with feeling, huffing as she shucks off her bottoms and climbs onto her hands and knees. She shoves the pink toy between her legs. “F-uck you. Embarrassing me in front of Wednesday. Stupid silicone asshole. I don’t even like you.”
“You don’t like who?”
The noise that Enid makes is so undignified, she nearly topples over as it leaves her chest.
"Oh my God, Wednesday," she heaves. "W-What are you doing in he—uh, back so soon?"
"Funny. That's precisely what I was going to ask you," Wednesday responds, eyes firmly fixed on the hot pink toy still sticking out of Enid. She takes a step further into the room, shutting the door behind her. "I have the strangest recollection of you asking me for permission to come last time you felt the urge. Is this an act of rebellion, or have you given up entirely on the idea of being my Pet?"
"No!" Enid gasps. "No, Wednesday, what the fuck? I wouldn't! Never, you know I wouldn’t come without your permission!”
Her agitation causes her muscles to contract, and the dildo slips out of her, flopping off the bed and onto the floor. It rolls across the marble and comes to a stop next to Wednesday's boot.
"I see," Wednesday says delicately. "You just intended to use this apparatus for exercise."
"Yes," Enid sighs in relief, hunching over her forearms. "Exactly."
Wednesday raises both eyebrows. "Seriously, Enid?"
Enid flushes hot. "Well, I wasn't going to come. I swear, I wasn't! I just...I need the slick."
Suddenly, Wednesday looks a lot less suspicious and a lot more interested. "You were collecting bodily fluids? For what purpose? Experimentation? Magic?"
Her head is cocked, an almost demanding look twisting her expression, and it feels like too much. Enid cannot lie to Wednesday in the best of circumstances, let alone half-naked with her pussy still fluttering in search of the sparkly fake cock she'd just been clenching around.
"Um," she says eloquently. "Well."
"Enid." Wednesday speaks before she can come up with a suitable excuse. "Tell me."
What ends up leaving her mouth is mortifying. "I wanted to eat it?"
Wednesday stares at her. "You...wanted to eat it."
Enid grimaces, her internal monologue one long scream, but manages a very weak nod. "Y-Yes."
The lock activates with an audible click. “Indeed,” Wednesday says.
“Wait, how did you get in?” Enid blurts. “I locked that door. I know I did.”
“Open rune,” Wednesday replies. “The locking mechanism will never function again. A pity, but a small price to pay, in hindsight. Now, you were planning to consume your own slick.”
"Yeah," Enid states, more certain this time. "It's just—you seem to like it so much, and I never really understood why? So I figured maybe if I tried it, I would get it. So I'm...collecting some. For science."
She's never going to fall for this, Enid commiserates. No way in hell that Wednesday Addams falls for such a paltry, pitiful lie—
"Of course. That makes perfect sense. What are you using for a receptacle?"
Enid gapes at her. "Huh?"
Wednesday picks up the sparkly pink dildo, grasping it firmly in her palm. Enid's eyes feel like they're bulging out of her head as she watches it boing in Wednesday's hand.
"Let's wash this off. You've only just started, correct?” Wednesday raises her head as if scenting the air. “Forgive me for interrupting. Should I take down your observation notes, or do you have that covered?"
"Oh my God, no," Enid wheezes, gripping the blankets. "Please, no. God. Wednesday, I promise, I do not need notes. Let's just forget this happened. And never bring it up again, ever."
Wednesday halts halfway to the bathroom, turns on her heel, and peers at her through narrowed eyes.
"You're embarrassed," she deduces. "And sweating."
"Um, yes," Enid agrees. "This might be the most humiliating thing to ever happen to me. Maybe even more than the time you walked in and I spilled every sex toy I own all over the floor."
Wednesday makes a noise of acknowledgment. "I suppose you'll need my assistance, then," she declares.
Enid nods, then freezes. "I'm—wait, what?"
"Not to worry," Wednesday informs her, cracking her knuckles. "I've experimented plenty over the course of my own research. Were you using that plastic container to collect your slick? I would recommend glass.”
“Um,” Enid says in a very small voice. Her cut-up water bottle is starting to look sad and pathetic. “Glass is probably a better idea.”
“I have vials in my bedroom. Excuse me for a moment,” Wednesday says, whirling out of sight.
Enid collapses onto her arms with a groan. “Oh my fucking God.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Enid whimpers, biting her lip. She presses her thighs together. “What, um, did you have in mind exactly? When you said you were gonna help? Cause I’ve never done this in front of somebody else—”
“I wouldn’t ask you to use this apparatus of yours in front of an audience. Don’t be ridiculous,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Christ.”
“I’ll use it on you.”
Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. “What?” Enid squeaks. “You—you’re gonna use that?” She blinks rapidly. “On me?”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow as she takes a seat on the bed. “Did you have a better idea?”
Enid would laugh at the ridiculous picture Wednesday makes, holding a hot pink dildo the length and girth of her forearm, if not for the fact that she apparently intends to shove it inside of her. And then collect her slick. For science.
This is the last time Enid concocts schemes without Wednesday’s knowledge. She cannot take the heat.
“Wednesday, I don’t know—”
“If you don’t want me to participate, I can leave. You need only ask.”
Enid snaps around to glance at her, craning her neck. Wednesday is no longer meeting her gaze, eyes now focused somewhere around the nape of Enid’s neck. There’s a strange note in her voice. Something flat. Unsure.
“No,” Enid says so fast, the words tumble over themselves. “I always want you here. You can fuck me with that. I’d love you to fuck me with that, actually.”
Wednesday’s gaze darkens, finally finding Enid’s. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears.
“Would you really?”
“Yes,” Enid breathes. “I need to collect my slick. Would you help me, please, Wednesday?”
Wednesday twists the toy over in her hands, fingers somehow elegant over the least tasteful item Enid owns. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Wednesday toes off her boots and shifts onto her knees, stockings pulling tight over her thighs. Her skirt draws up as she spreads her knees, revealing the precious few inches above the hem of her thigh-highs where the flesh spills over, skin soft and unmarked. Enid wants so badly to bite down. She might have, if Wednesday didn’t rest a palm on her lower back and begin prodding at her with the other hand, feeling between her legs.
“I thought you knew how to use this.”
“What—it’s my toy,” Enid huffs. “I know how to use it.”
“You’re barely wet,” Wednesday tells her, lips brushing her neck as she folds over her. “It’s a wonder you managed to shove any part of this monstrosity inside yourself without causing damage.”
She slides two fingers inside of Enid, twisting her fingers in a mocking curl as if searching for some imagined injury. Enid, of course, knows better.
“You—ah—you’ve seen me in heat,” she gasps. “I can take a lot more than that.”
“I remember it well,” Wednesday murmurs. “I didn’t think I would survive the fallout.”
Enid cracks one eye open. “W-What do you mean?”
“Being parted from you afterward was a torment of the highest degree,” Wednesday states, matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst adversary.”
Enid twists all the way around, landing on her back. “Seriously?” she demands, voice coming out too high. “I feel like I barely saw you after the heat. You were, like…barely around.”
Wednesday stares down at her. “I was searching for information. Frantically. I had no idea how to initiate formal courting with a werewolf, and the library was no help.”
Enid presses her lips together to keep from giggling out loud. “Oh?”
“Yes. Hilarious,” Wednesday dryly says. “I had to turn to the internet for assistance. I even joined one of those heinous online forums for advice.”
Enid gasps. “I’m on those forums! Which one did you join? I’m Princess Bean on most of them. What was your username?”
Wednesday draws back, staring at her in surprise. “You’re…Princess Bean?”
“Yeah, why?”
Wednesday blinks, fingers limp inside of her. “Before all else be armed.”
“That’s…wait,” Enid whispers. “Then…didn’t we…did I…?”
“You chose your gift,” Wednesday confirms, reaching out with her clean hand to touch the opal hanging off of Enid’s collar. “Ironically, Princess Bean gave me the idea when they asked me what the most meaningful gift I had ever been given was. For me, it was the necklace my mother gave me. That comment led me to the age-old tradition of collaring.”
“What are the odds?” Enid breathes. “I can’t believe it was you.”
“I can. For me, it was always you,” Wednesday replies.
Enid makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and a choking sound. Her mouth closes with a snap when Wednesday proceeds to remove her hand from Enid’s pussy with a squelch and picks up the obscenely large toy. It flops over again, this time in Enid’s direction. Taunting her.
“Shall we get on with it?” Wednesday asks.
“Oh my God,” Enid groans, peeking through her fingers. “What the fuck is happening?”
Wednesday waggles the dildo above her. “We have a task to complete, Puppy.”
“The fuck we do,” Enid mumbles. “Am I awake right now?”
“I thought you needed slick for your experimentations.”
“Uh, I do?” Enid offers. “I’m just not sure I can do this without being super embarrassed about the fact that you’re about to stick the most ridiculous toy in the world inside of me.”
Wednesday frowns. “What do you have to be embarrassed about?”
They both stare at each other, nonplussed.
“Well, shit. Nothing, I guess,” Enid mumbles. “Just please don’t make fun of me.”
“When have I ever made fun of you, Puppy?” Wednesday murmurs, hand pushing back Enid’s bangs. “Do you trust me?”
“Always,” Enid exhales, squirming beneath her.
Wednesday adjusts to straddle her hips, trapping her legs.
“Wednesday,” Enid whines. “Come on. You can tease me later, okay? Let’s just—get this over with—”
“I thought you were embarrassed?” Wednesday asks, cocking her head.
Enid gulps. “M’not anymore.”
“Oh, no?” Wednesday prods. She places the toy over Enid’s stomach. “Why not?”
Because it had occurred to Enid, as she argued with Wednesday about receptacles and semantics and online forums, that she was naked from the waist down and Wednesday was willing to fuck her with something. The slick collecting thus became incidental.
“I need it right now—”
“You need it?” Wednesday repeats. “Interesting. And I thought you were treating this as a chore.”
“No, I want it. I really do,” Enid insists.
“Then you need to try to relax,” Wednesday tells her very seriously. “You’re too tight.”
Enid whimpers, loud and uninhibited.
“Go on, sweetheart. Relax for me,” Wednesday croons, rubbing at Enid with the pad of her thumb. Enid feels it licking up her spine like Wednesday’s touching her with a live wire. “Give me something to work with, Puppy. I can’t fit in your little cunt like this.”
“Oh, my God,” Enid garbles out, thighs tensing. “Oh, no—Wednesday, Wednesday—”
“What’s wrong?” Wednesday’s voice bites out. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m leaking.”
Wednesday moves so fast, she’s a whirl of braids and black velvet accouterments as she reaches for the glass vials she’d lined up on the nightstand. She holds one out of Enid’s line of sight, dark eyes intent on her task, and Enid tries not to hold her breath.
Wednesday’s chest visibly lifts and falls as she holds the vial up to the light. Enid cringes at the sight of the syrupy liquid inside, but Wednesday’s eyes glint with something dangerous.
“That’s so gross,” Enid whines.
Wednesday looks very close to offended. “Bodily fluids are precious to runewitches.”
“Yeah, but that’s, like…pee,” Enid laments, hand over her eyes. Her thighs twitch beneath Wednesday’s knees. At least Wednesday didn’t need to use the toy, after all.
“Werewolf slick is not equivalent to urine,” Wednesday snorts. “And anyway, I’ll be needing this for my own purposes. You understand.”
Enid splutters, watching in disbelief as Wednesday ferries her precious and only container of slick off into the connecting bedroom. “No, the fuck I do not! What do you mean, you need that for yourself? That’s my slick, Wednesday! What am I supposed to do, now?” she hollers.
Wednesday returns in mere moments, retaking her place above Enid. She urges Enid’s knees apart, spreading her open. “Obviously, we’ll collect your slick. I haven’t given up on your pink behemoth.”
“Oh my God, don’t call it that,” Enid begs.
Wednesday holds up the toy. It catches the light, throwing glittering pink fractals over her face. “What should I call it then? Have you actually named this abomination?”
“No!” Enid denies, lying through her teeth. “I would never!”
Wednesday levels her with a very dry look. “Of course not. My Puppy would never do such a ridiculous thing. Never, ever. Is that right?”
She presses the head of the toy against Enid, knuckles soaking in her slick.
Enid inhales, automatically clenching against it, but forces herself to relax at the soft look Wednesday gives her. Wednesday rubs her hand up Enid’s stomach, watching how Enid arches her back up into the touch. “That’s it. Relax for me, sweetheart.”
Enid’s eyes fly open, her lips parting as the toy sinks an inch into her. “Oh,” she whispers. “It’s inside.”
“Yes,” Wednesday breathes, eyes intent on her face. “How does it feel?”
Enid keens. “It’s so big, Wednesday. I don’t know…”
“You can,” Wednesday says. “You’re doing so well. Does it hurt?”
Enid arches her back again, and the toy slips deeper. She tries and fails to get a full breath. “No. Doesn’t hurt.”
Meanwhile, Wednesday feels around the head, her index finger prodding at the sensitive skin stretched around the toy.
“Fuck,” Enid gasps. “Oh, Wednesday, it’s so much.”
“I think you can take my finger,” Wednesday mutters. “Do you think you can, Puppy girl? I think you can.”
Enid grits her teeth, but nods. “Y-Yeah. I think I can.”
“Yeah,” Wednesday repeats. “I know you can.”
She presses in, sliding her finger in to the first knuckle.
Enid trembles against her, legs shaking. She’s so full, she could swear she can feel Wednesday’s finger at the bottom of her throat.
“Alright?” Wednesday asks her.
Enid nods, sucking in each breath like it’s painful. In a way, it is. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah—”
“Enid. Breathe,” Wednesday orders.
Enid forces herself to calm down, tilting her head back to expose her neck. “So full,” she whispers.
“I know,” Wednesday tells her, glass tinking as she shifts around the vials. “Not much longer. We’ll have to work you up to taking more. It’s beyond me how you use this thing regularly.”
“I usually reserve this one for special occasions,” Enid admits in a whine.
Wednesday pauses, finger twitching inside her. “What was today?”
“What?” Enid gasps.
“How did today constitute as a special occasion?” Wednesday asks, eyes narrowing.
Crap. Enid looks around wildly, grasping at straws. “Um—would you believe me if I said it was woodwitch business?”
“No,” Wednesday immediately replies. “But I trust you.”
Enid flushes all the way to the tops of her shoulders. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll tell you about it. S-Soon. Just trust me a little bit longer.”
“Whatever my Puppy wants,” Wednesday hums, tucking Enid’s hair behind her ear. “You have two full vials. Is that enough?”
It should be, Enid thinks. “Yes,” she exhales through a shudder. “It has to be. I’m going to come if you don’t take this out of me in the next thirty seconds.”
“Interesting,” Wednesday says under her breath. She strokes Enid’s thigh. “I had no idea you were so receptive to toys. You know, there are runes that—”
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps. “Right now, please. I don’t want to be—I don’t want to break a rule.”
Wednesday makes a strangled noise. “Oh, sweetheart. Such a good girl, aren’t you?”
“Please, please, I need it out,” Enid whimpers. “I’m—it’s so much. Wednesday, take it out.”
“I’m taking it out,” Wednesday soothes her, slipping her finger out from beside the toy. “Take my hand.”
Enid blearily opens her eyes. “W-What?”
“Take my hand, honey, come here,” Wednesday urges her, lacing their fingers together. “Now squeeze. Hard.”
Enid squeezes, and Wednesday drags the toy right out of her. The noise it makes as it leaves her would be mortifying if not for the fact that Wednesday tips her head back, sweat collecting on her collarbone as if she simply cannot bear to watch Enid’s hole contracting around nothing. Her fingers twitch around Enid’s.
Enid pants where she lays on her back.
“How did you know how to do that?” Enid gasps.
Wednesday finally glances down at her. “I finally finished my research on werewolves. Submissive wolves are a marvel of biology. You like to be constricted, don’t you?”
Enid can do nothing but nod.
“Don’t worry. I have plans,” Wednesday tells her, tossing the sparkling pink dildo aside. “Come. Let’s get you clean. Your legs and ass are covered in slick.”
Enid would pull out her hair if Wednesday wasn’t still holding her hand.
Notes:
the return of the giant pink dildo ! and our first ever chapter with sex toys. enjoy >:)
next on the docket is enid's first foray into baking. should i start posting the actual recipes i reference for this fic? every food item ever included in this story is an actual recipe that i myself have made. i could start making tiktoks ig. let me know! also your tweets as i was posting chapter updates today were cracking me tf up you guys are toooo funny
next update: thursday 10/16
Chapter 137: Meringue
Chapter Text
Enid sits with her chin on the edge of the tub, allowing Wednesday to pour water down the nape of her neck. It feels nice, even if her hair is piled high on top of her head and she won’t really feel clean until she washes it.
Wednesday kneels behind her in the water. Her braids are pinned to the back of her head, sparing her hair and black ribbons from the steaming bathwater.
“Wednesday, do you seriously not ward your rooms?” Enid wonders aloud.
Wednesday pauses, palm landing on Enid’s shoulder. “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”
Enid twists around, peering up at her. “But I was able to get into your rooms without booby traps or anything.”
“Obviously. They’re not warded against you,” Wednesday replies. “Now I hesitate to ask what you were doing in my room.”
Her voice is teasing, but Enid turns back around and sinks lower in the water, face flushing. “You might want to sharpen your, um, defense scissors,” she mumbles.
Wednesday’s hand curls around the front of Enid’s throat. The touch is light, just barely cupping her, but it forces Enid to untuck her chin and bare her neck. “Did you require defense?”
“No,” Enid breathes, tilting her head back to keep Wednesday in view. “I just needed something sharp.”
“For what?” Wednesday asks her, thumb stroking the thin skin of her throat. “Did you feel threatened? Frightened?”
“No, never,” Enid sighs, shifting up onto her knees and arching her spine. She rests her head against Wednesday’s shoulder, eyes fluttering. “Just needed to cut the water bottle in half. It was dumb.”
Wednesday leans down and drops a kiss on her forehead. “I wouldn’t say dumb. Though next time, please take one of the many containers in my possession instead.”
Enid shivers, clutching the edge of the tub. “I’d rather not rob you, actually.”
“It’s not robbing if I give you permission. And I would rather you steal than risk injuring yourself.”
Enid works very hard to control her face. “Injuring myself? Who said anything about injuring myself? I know how to use scissors. There was absolutely no risk of getting hurt.”
Even upside down, Wednesday’s expression looks extremely dry. “Absolutely none?”
Enid wavers, biting her lip. Wednesday raises a single brow.
“Nope,” Enid blurts, doubling down. “I wouldn’t have hurt myself with those scissors, Wednesday.”
“Of course not,” Wednesday says. “Because that would be ridiculous.”
“Yeah. Exactly!” Enid agrees enthusiastically. Perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, because while Wednesday does let go of her throat, her hand slides down Enid’s sternum and pulls tight against the lowest part of Enid’s stomach.
“Careful,” Wednesday warns her, voice low.
Enid gulps. “Y-Yeah.”
She can still feel the ghost of her toy. More than that, she can feel Wednesday’s finger sliding in beside it, stretching her. Filling her. Pumping her slick out onto the bed and soiling all of her blankets.
So shameless, Enid thinks, squeezing her legs together. They should be ashamed—and yet.
Wednesday eases off, her fingers trailing through the water lapping at Enid’s thighs. “You’re clean.”
“Not really,” Enid mumbles, climbing out into the cool air. If she remains in Wednesday’s orbit, she’ll start begging, or worse. A wolf on a waning moon shouldn’t behave this way.
She shivers on the edge of the tub.
Wednesday wraps a towel around Enid's shoulders, rubbing the warmth back into her skin. “Are you alright?” she asks.
Enid hums, leaning into her. “Yeah. Why?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “You look stressed.”
“I’m focused,” Enid corrects her, sticking out her tongue. “I have things to do.”
“Apparently,” Wednesday hums. “Does it have to do with your experiment?”
Enid’s brain fires blanks for a few beats before she realizes what Wednesday’s talking about. “Oh, you mean the slick?”
“Yes.” Wednesday’s eyes narrow. “What other experiments have you been conducting?”
“Nothing,” Enid instantly replies. “I haven’t. Been conducting experiments, I mean. Yes, I need the slick for something. No, you can’t know about it. Where’s my sweatshirt?”
Wednesday hands her the sweatshirt in question with a bemused expression. “Would you like any other supplies for your mysterious endeavor?”
“Hmm, I don’t think so. Actually, where’s my phone?” Enid asks, pulling the sweatshirt over her head.
Wednesday passes her that, too. She presses her lips together in amusement when Enid pulls on a pair of panties and a frankly loud pair of pink leggings, but doesn’t voice any further opinion beyond, “Have fun.”
“I’ll see you at dinner!” Enid replies, sticking her precious vials of slick in her pocket and scooting out the door.
Her legs are still a little shaky from earlier, but it helps that she didn’t come. She would have been useless, otherwise. The waning moon truly couldn’t have arrived at a better time.
Unfortunately, Enid doesn’t know the first thing about making meringue swans. She’s not even entirely sure what meringue is.
Her first thought was to head to the library. Surely, a family as educated as the Addams would keep an extensive collection of cookbooks. There must be a recipe carefully archived somewhere for their only daughter’s favorite dessert.
Regrettably, Enid has no idea where to begin looking. The library is composed of multiple floors, bridges, nooks, and crannies she’d have to traverse, and the whole thing makes absolutely no rhyme or reason to an outsider. At all.
Rather than waste precious time getting herself lost in the labyrinth that is the Addams family library, Enid decides to call in the big guns.
She turns a corner, deems herself far enough away from the family wing that Wednesday cannot possibly overhear her, and crawls underneath a writing desk tucked into some long-forgotten corner.
“Toby!” she whispers into the phone. “Perfect, I need your help.”
“Shark?” Toby laughs. “Is that you? What are you, calling from inside a washing machine? I can barely hear you.”
“I literally have one bar. Sorry, but this is an emergency,” Enid replies. “You’re not still with my pack in San Francisco, right?”
“No. You’re not in danger, right?” Toby replies, speaking fast. “It’s been, like, two days. How do you already have an emergency?”
“It’s a baking emergency. Sort of.”
“It’s a—what?” Toby guffaws. “Did you just say baking?”
“Okay, stop laughing,” she grouses. “It’s really very serious. This is important.”
“I’m not laughing at you, but—I’m not much of a baker.”
“Yeah, no shit. Me neither. That’s the problem!” Enid whisper-shouts into the phone. “I need to bake special swans for Wednesday so that she knows I love her, but I don’t know fuck-all about meringue! And the Addams family library is a fucking maze, and they don’t have wifi for some reason? I don’t know. I can’t look up a recipe myself. I need help!”
“Okay. So…you need me to look up a swan recipe for you? Did I hear that right?”
“No, Christ. It’s a meringue recipe, Toby, keep up,” Enid huffs. “Can you put Aminder on the phone?”
“Can I—you know, sure,” Toby snorts. “Mom!” he shouts.
“And tell her it’s an emergency!” Enid hisses.
“Hey, Mom? Enid’s having a meringue emergency. She needs your baking expertise, or something—”
“It’s not funny!” Enid whines. “Seriously, Toby.”
“You’ll be relieved to know he’s taken his antics elsewhere,” comes Aminder’s soothing voice. “How may I be of assistance, sister?”
“Oh, thank God,” Enid expels in a rush. “Do you happen to have a meringue recipe? Like, by any chance? At all? Please say yes.”
“I do, though I haven’t made it in quite some time. I can write it down for you and send a picture of the instructions, if that works?”
“I’m honestly not sure a picture will send,” Enid tells her, biting her lip. “My service is really horrific out here, and the Addams don’t believe in wifi, apparently. Who knew?”
Aminder gives a low laugh. “Have you considered it may be the magic interfering with your connection?”
Enid frowns. “But there’s service in my forest.”
“In the village, certainly. Not in the forest proper,” Aminder points out.
“Well, that’s because it’s up in the mountains and all that,” Enid argues. “Or…well, that’s what I thought.”
“You’d think in this day and age more normies would question why dense forests pose such frequent problems for cell phone coverage,” Aminder muses. “But I digress. If a picture won’t do, how about I dictate the instructions?”
“That’ll work,” Enid agrees, fumbling to put her call on speakerphone. She quickly opens her notes app and pauses, thumbs hovering over the screen. “Ready when you are.”
“Now, you’ll want to be extremely careful when cracking your eggs. Even the slightest bit of egg yolk will ruin the whole batch…”
***
Meanwhile, in the forge, Wednesday curses harshly enough that it attracts the attention of her own personal harbinger.
“Wednesday, my dear?” Morticia calls out to her, voice carrying on what little breeze the forge permits. “Where are you, my darling?”
Wednesday sighs, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She would like to draw and quarter whoever used the entire month’s leather allotment for their own insignificant project. She would like to find Enid, drag her back to their rooms, and milk her of enough slick that she needs to physically rehydrate. She would like to just go find Enid.
“My, my. That was quite the sigh,” Morticia muses. “My dear, why do you turn such an expression on me? I have only come to offer my assistance.”
“You cannot help me in this,” Wednesday retorts. Then, as if the words are being drawn from her by force, she clenches both fists and confesses, “This is my gift to Enid.”
“For the weapons exchange?” Morticia asks, drawing closer. The train of her dress is gathered at the knee and tossed elegantly over her arm. “I thought you were set on forging her a knife.”
“I changed my mind,” Wednesday answers, voice guarded. “It recently occurred to me that Enid has no use at all for bladed weapons, and in fact often risks hurting herself when she tries and fails to use them safely. This will be a much more practical weapon.”
Morticia leans over her worktable, her curtain of hair pooling uncomfortably close to Wednesday’s tools. Morticia has always operated with an intense familiarity that gave Wednesday the skin-spiders, but she has grown less averse to closeness since falling in love with Enid. Intimacy no longer makes her feel nauseous the way it once did.
Morticia eyes her with an interested glint, but makes no other comment on Wednesday’s new set of designs.
“You’re out of leather, then?” Morticia guesses.
Wednesday grits her teeth. “Obviously.”
“I’ll make a call. Relax, darling. We have days yet,” Morticia assures her. “The modiste hasn’t even made landfall.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Landfall from the great distant ground of New York?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” Morticia responds, smiling warmly. “We have time.”
Not enough, Wednesday thinks. Not nearly enough. She could have had years with Enid before this, and it still wouldn’t have erased the suffocating feeling in her chest that she is always, always running out of time.
***
“Aminder, thank you so much,” Enid sighs. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. Seriously.”
“Please, call me if you run into any difficulties. Call me when you are successful as well,” Aminder replies. “I look forward to hearing how your meringue swans come out, dear sister.”
“I’ll take pictures and send them the moment I have service, promise,” Enid tells her. She twists around, peering through the spindles of the writing desk. The hallway remains empty, but— “I have to go. Someone’s coming.”
“Be well,” Aminder responds.
Enid ends the call. She tries to crawl out from under the desk, but she’s only made it halfway when Morticia rounds the corner. Enid’s left staring wide-eyed up at Morticia from the very humanizing position of her hands and knees atop the antique carpet.
“Hello,” Morticia says after a prolonged moment of silence. “Did you have any plans this afternoon?”
“Um,” Enid intelligently replies. “Yes, actually. I was hoping I could borrow your kitchen? If Gomez is done with it?”
Morticia gives a tinkling laugh. “I’m certain he is. Shall I show you the way?”
She makes a good point; Enid doesn't have a clue where she is in the house now. She’s definitely not in the family wing, and none of the art on the walls looks remotely familiar. For having a History specialization under her belt, she’s sure making a poor showing of it.
“That would be great,” Enid says, offering a relieved smile. “Thanks, Morticia.”
“No need to thank me,” Morticia responds. She holds out a hand. “Come. What did you have in mind to make?”
“Oh, nothing,” Enid says a little too quickly. “Just something for Wednesday. Um, meringue?”
Morticia’s entire face brightens. “Oh, Enid. How marvelous. How very thoughtful of you to make Wednesday her favorite dessert.”
“Oh, well, I haven’t made it yet,” Enid refutes, flustered. “It might not even work.”
Morticia links their arms. “I believe it will,” she says with complete confidence. “Do let me know if you need any extra hands in the kitchen. I’m not much of a mind for the culinary arts, but I certainly can follow orders.”
Enid can feel her ears getting hot. “Oh, y-yeah, I think I’ll be okay. But thanks! That’s…that’s really nice of you, Morticia.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Morticia replies.
Once Enid is alone in the kitchen, she gathers her ingredients and fires the oven. Strangely, the recipe Aminder gave her required that she set the oven to a higher heat than she would be baking with.
It’s no surprise that Wednesday loves the most complicated, finicky, immoral recipe ever to be attempted in the history of baking. Enid would expect nothing less from her intended.
“Okay. Let’s whip some eggs,” she says under her breath.
Enid takes the eggs out of the carton, holding the shells in her hands. It’s easy enough to separate the whites from the yolks, and soon enough, she has a nice mixture going in the giant steel bowl Morticia procured for her.
Glancing around, Enid furtively upends one of her two vials of slick into the bowl. The smell of vanilla plumes around her, sticking to her face and neck.
She’s not exactly sure what stiff peaks are supposed to look like, but when she pulls the whisk out of the foamy eggs and sugar, the mixture tries to cling to it, sticking up tall and proud like a strange little snowman.
“A snowman made of slick,” she whispers, biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud.
It’s so absurd, just unbelievably ridiculous, and yet Enid’s underwear is starting to cling to her the longer she stands here and continues busting her ass for Wednesday’s special dessert. If she weren’t so stressed about screwing up the swans, she might be able to expend a little more energy on being horrified at her conduct today. Alas, Enid thinks a bit hysterically.
Of course, relocating her meringue into a piping bag is harder than stirring it. She ends up making a sugary mess of her hands and sweatshirt. If she didn’t reek like slick before, she sure does now.
Nevertheless, the bag is loaded, and it is time to pipe.
“Swans,” Enid chants to herself. “Swans.”
Her first attempt is pretty sad. It looks more like Slenderman than a swan’s head. Aminder had told her to stencil out the four shapes she’d need to pipe, but Enid didn’t have a pencil, and anyway, she should be able to freehand a bird.
“Okay, well,” Enid mutters, cocking her head. She squints a little bit at the baking sheet. “That’s…maybe not as bad.”
She ends up wasting half the mixture trying and failing to pipe something approximating a swan, and by the time she starts getting into a groove with her piping skills, Enid is down to her last three swans.
She blows her bangs out of her face. “Damn,” she mumbles to herself. Maybe Wednesday will believe she intended to go for a fine-dining experience instead of a normal serving size.
Once the piping bag is empty, Enid lowers the oven temperature and carefully places both trays inside. Then she sits cross-legged in front of the little window and watches her swans progress. They actually seem to be rising—right alongside Enid’s blood pressure. She sits with her nose pressed against the glass.
“Please don’t give up on me,” Enid whispers. “Come on, little swans. For Wednesday.”
Ninety minutes to bake. The moment the timer goes off, Enid is poised and ready to crack open the oven door. She takes the sheets out and sets them on the stovetop.
The swans that had looked so decent in the warm glow of the oven window deflate almost immediately before her eyes. To Enid’s absolute horror, their pretty pale skin begins to wrinkle, and she’s left with a terrible, awful impersonation of a stuffed animal without any stuffing.
“What the fuck just happened?” Enid wheezes into her oven mitts.
The meringue’s collapsed. Ruined. Completely and utterly useless.
“I fucked it up,” Enid says, lowering her hands. One of her oven mitts falls to the ground with a plop. “I really fucked it up.”
She presses her hand over her pocket. One vial of slick left.
Notes:
if you guys are on my twitter...you'll know what malfeasances went on around this chapter, the evil chapter that didn't want to post
but more importantly,
PLEASE CHECK OUT THIS INCREDIBLE ART DONE BY ATLAS OF CHAPTER 94! is it just magical
next update: monday 10/20 (tentatively since my beta is on a work trip and we'll be playing it by ear)
EDIT 10/20: chapter 138 will be going up tomorrow!!!
Chapter 138: Star
Notes:
warnings: kiss on the cheek occurs that could be read as non-consensual
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid sits with her back to the oven door, allowing the residual warmth to bleed through her sweater.
She holds a wrinkly swan neck-piece in her hand.
“I believed in you,” Enid mumbles, taking a shaky breath. Her collar feels especially tight around her throat.
She chomps off the head, chewing spitefully.
“Fuck you,” she chokes out, vision blurring.
She’d like to say it tastes like ash in her mouth, but it mostly just tastes like sugar. Maybe a little like vanilla, though honestly, her slick has never really tasted like much of anything to her. Her hands drop to her thighs, leaving meringue behind in a powdery white residue over her pink leggings.
The rest of the swan-neck ends up in the trash. Both trays' worth of meringue join it shortly afterward.
Enid does the dishes mechanically, wiping her cheeks on her shoulders every time her face grows wet. The kitchen remains dark and silent around her.
Once the last baking utensil has been laid to rest in the drawer, Enid steps back, pulling her sleeves over her hands. Maybe it was egotistical to think she could make Wednesday’s favorite dessert by herself when the most she’s ever successfully done in the kitchen was follow orders.
When she leaves, it’s as though she was never there at all.
Oddly, the moment she enters the forge, Wednesday’s head snaps up with something like panic twisting her expression.
“Stay there,” Wednesday orders, scrambling to collect her papers. She has a selection of thin blades in front of her, but that’s about the least unusual state Enid would expect to find her in, so she shrugs it off.
“Okay. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going into the forest,” Enid calls out to her.
Wednesday pauses, eyes widening. “You’re what?”
"Just to think,” Enid tells her, fists clenching by her thighs. “Just to…meditate,” she offers, cringing at herself immediately afterward. No way Wednesday will buy that, she sighs internally.
Nevertheless, Wednesday simply asks, "Are you alright?"
"Um," Enid answers. "I just want to sit for a while. I'm irritated that my...experiment...isn't working out."
Wednesday softens. "I understand. Thank you for telling me.” She abandons the mess on her worktop and crosses the room, reaching out to touch Enid’s courting braid. “Do you want company?"
Enid takes a deep breath. Wednesday’s scent is calm, which is why she says, "Not this time."
A little furrow appears on Wednesday’s brow. "My mother would be glad for company in her garden,” she offers.
"I really just want to sit by myself for a while."
Wednesday’s scent dips, but she merely nods. “Alright. Let me know if you change your mind, and I will come to you.”
Enid very nearly takes it all back. If there’s such a thing as worse than the smell of Wednesday’s disappointment, it would be Wednesday’s hurt.
She would have taken it all back if not for Pugsley’s sudden arrival, causing her to flinch back and shut her mouth with a snap.
“Alright, here’s your leather, Wednesday. Beats me why it had to be delivered by jet—hey, Enid. Are you okay?” Pugsley asks her, stepping closer. “You’re pale as snow.”
Enid backs all the way up into the counter, managing to knock over no less than three wooden statues in the process. She stutters something about needing a sweatshirt in complete disregard of the fact that she’s already wearing one, shoots Wednesday an agonized look, then turns and flees. She flees to the outdoors like a fucking coward.
“Fuck, fuck,” Enid huffs under her breath, speed walking to the treeline. “Fuck me.”
She pushes her sleeves up to her elbows, aching and anxious. She feels like she might crawl out of her skin even as she darts under the cover of the trees.
Maybe it’s not too late to fix things, Enid thinks. She has one more vial, one more try, and then Wednesday will know how much she cares. How hard she’s willing to work to be good.
Thighs burning, Enid leans into a run, pushing herself faster. She hardly feels the sticks snapping under her bare feet.
“Stupid,” Enid bursts out, skidding to a stop.
The sound of her panting echoes around the clearing. Her hair sticks to her neck, but she doesn’t bother to tie it up. She might just lie down here for a while. Enid’s not sure she can face Wednesday again so soon.
“I thought I would find you by night,” an unfamiliar voice reaches her.
Enid freezes, slowly turning her head to the west.
There’s a boy standing in shadow. His chest is unclothed, unmarked, and his nails might rival hers in length. He would look like a normal teenager if not for the fact that his skin and hair are a pale, unliving blue.
“Shit,” Enid whispers, nails automatically extending into claws.
The boy drifts closer, bare feet silent over the forest floor. Either he weighs as much as a sparrow, or he’s using some kind of magic to mask the sound of his steps.
Strangely, Enid feels a prickling of awareness as he draws near. Like she’s met this boy before. Or scented him, somehow. It perhaps explains but does not excuse why she does not immediately shift into fourth-form to defend herself.
“A girl of summer,” he whispers. Then, louder, “You have a touch of summer about you. She won’t like it.”
“Sorry,” Enid automatically apologizes, though she’s not sure what for. Her breath feels like it’s crackling in her chest. Where has she smelled this before?
The boy smirks.
“Word of advice, Enid of the Eldwood Forest,” he draws out, almost singing as his lips curl around her name. “Do not so lightly give your gratitudes and apologies. Who knows what foul creature may take advantage?”
Enid takes a sharp, unbearable breath. She might as well be inhaling knives.
There’s an instinct all wolves share that alerts when a predator draws near. A hindbrain, they call it. The animal side. Enid’s hindbrain screams into action the closer the boy ventures toward her, urging her to run, run, flee back to the safety of the well-trodden path.
Yet she remains frozen in place, even as the boy leans in close enough that she can count his eyelashes. It is impossible to breathe. She remains perfectly still, unmoving, until he presses a lightning-quick kiss to the apple of her cheek, fingers wrapping tight and unyielding around her wrist.
Enid gasps out loud at the flash of pain across her face. It feels like a bee-sting that settles underneath her eyelids, rippling out over her skin.
“What did you do?” she gasps, hand over her cheek. The skin where his lips touched her is already puckering, burnt and broken.
“Just a touch of luck,” he whispers, mouth splitting into a sharp-toothed grin. “Consider it a gift.”
Enid shudders, a sob climbing up her throat, and the forest around them begins to jerk and roll. The boy’s eyes raise to the darkening sky as the trees pitch from side to side as if caught in a burgeoning storm.
There’s a flash of sandy fur by Enid’s feet, and the wind drops into eerie, unnatural stillness. On the ground is a hare, nose twitching with fury as it stands tall between them.
“Release her,” Mǎo commands.
That is no hare, Enid thinks. She could have sworn that Mǎo was the size of a loaf of bread when they met, and now, the creature stands at least as high as her waist. Enid’s not sure which makes for a more nightmarish sight—the unliving boy, or the hare standing abnormally still on its hind legs.
The boy throws back his head in a split-jaw laugh that raises the hair on the back of Enid’s neck. “What’s this? A summer hare, so far off the path?”
“This daughter is not yours to soil. Begone, spider,” Mǎo spits in a guttural tone so unlike the gentle voice they had used to speak to Enid days earlier.
The boy scoffs, but releases Enid’s wrist. Her skin throbs where he’d touched her.
“Enjoy your sweets,” he murmurs to Enid, snickering as he melts into the trees.
Enid gasps, clapping her hand over her mouth.
“Kneel down,” Mǎo tells her, paws resting on Enid’s thigh as they attempt to peer up at her. Though they were so tall and intimidating before, Enid suspects she could once again carry Mǎo in one arm. “I need to see the rune.”
“He put a rune on me?” Enid wheezes, struggling to breathe. What little she manages to exhale is visible in the air. “He didn’t—I didn’t see him draw—”
“A foul mark of a beast,” Mǎo says, leaning in close once Enid drops to her knees. The hare’s nose twitches. “A human witch must draw runes to access magic. The rules are different for creatures.”
Enid chokes on a sob, tears streaming down her cheeks as she begins to cry in earnest.
Mǎo sighs, but pats Enid’s thigh in some semblance of comfort. “It’s alright. He didn’t curse you.”
“Curse me?” Enid repeats, hiccuping. “He could have cursed me?”
“I just said he did not,” Mǎo huffs. “Go back to your homestead. Do not delay.”
“What—what are you going to do?” Enid warbles, hands twisting in her lap.
The hare straightens up. “I have my own objectives. Go now, before night falls in earnest.”
Enid clamors to her feet, hands shaking at her sides. The hare takes off at a clip into the undergrowth, disappearing into the growing shadow, and Enid is left standing alone in the dark.
“I am in so much fucking trouble,” she whispers.
***
Wednesday is just beginning to boil her water when the door to the forge bursts open.
She’s about to snap at Pugsley to be more careful, mouth already open to chastise him, when she glances up at the entryway and sucks in a shocked breath. Her ladle clatters to the ground as she takes a jolting step forward, arms extended, then darts for Enid at the same time that Enid dives for her.
They meet in the middle of the floor. Enid’s legs seem to give out the moment that Wednesday’s hands find her face, and they both end up kneeling on the unforgiving stone.
“Wednesday,” Enid bursts out with, wild-eyed and panicked. She looks like a spooked horse, nostrils flaring. “Wednesday, something happened.”
Wednesday clutches her jaw, turning her face from side to side. “What on earth happened to your cheek?” she demands, working hard to keep from shouting.
The very last thing she wants to do is scare Enid when she’s clearly been attacked. She’s terrified, Wednesday realizes.
“Wednesday,” Enid breathes in, and her voice is so small. So scared.
You failed her, Wednesday thinks. She needed guarding, she needed protecting, and you let her wander alone. You let this happen.
Enid makes a wounded sound as her fingers touch the coin-sized mark on her cheekbone. “I think he burned me.”
“Burned you?” Wednesday hisses. “Who touched your face? Who are you talking about?”
Enid shuts her eyes, tears leaking out over her cheeks. Her lips tremble. “There was a boy in the woods.”
“Wednesday, what’s going on?” Pugsley demands, lifting his welding mask. “Enid! Good God, what happened?”
Wednesday takes two deep, centering breaths. “Sound the alarm. We’ve been attacked.”
***
Pugsley turns to a bell on the wall without a word of protest and gives it a solid whack. The reverberating echo is so loud, Enid claps her hands over her ears.
Wednesday tucks Enid’s face into her chest, shielding her from the sound. Enid shudders at the feeling of being held. Protected. Ironically, her heartbeat begins to slow for the first time since laying eyes on the boy in the woods.
“Is it ugly?” Enid asks, voice breaking. She knows that it's nonsensical, and that's probably the least important thing on the list of priorities right now, but she cannot help herself. Her face was already scarred before coming into contact with the boy.
“No,” Wednesday says, shocked. "How dare you? You're beautiful. Every part of you is perfect,” she stresses, nearly aggressive in her insistence.
“Even the gross parts?” Enid tries to joke.
“Especially so. Even the most disgusting, despicable, frightening parts of yourself. There is no part of you I do not desire,” Wednesday declares. She clutches Enid hard to her chest.
“Wednesday!” Gomez shouts from outside the forge. “Pugsley, Enid, what’s happened?”
Enid tries to extract herself from Wednesday’s embrace, but Wednesday makes a guttural noise of protest and shakes her head. Her scent is burning. Enid can hardly breathe to be near her. She cannot bear to be apart.
“Enid was attacked,” Pugsley answers. “Her face is…burned.”
Enid can’t quite see what’s going on, but she feels Wednesday shudder, her teeth knitting together with an audible clack.
“Oh, dear,” a voice that sounds like Morticia whispers.
“Wednesday,” Gomez says from much closer, voice stern. “Let us examine her. She may need medical attention.”
Wednesday breathes in hard, arms tightening around Enid almost to the point of pain, but she does let go. Mostly. Her hands slide down to grip Enid’s, entwining their fingers.
“Forgive me,” Wednesday says to her, eyes wide. Wild. “I failed you.”
“N-No,” Enid blurts. “No, what? This was—it’s not your fault. What are you even talking about?”
“Wednesday,” Morticia interjects. “Please, my darling. Allow me?”
After a moment of fraught tension, Wednesday shifts a couple of inches to the right. Just enough to reveal Enid to the rest of the room. She does not let go of Enid’s hands.
Enid spots Pugsley hovering behind Gomez and Morticia, and further back, Soledad, whose hands are dripping in muddy water. June is nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, dear,” Morticia murmurs.
“What happened?” Gomez asks Enid directly. “Was this a weapon? A dart of some sort?”
“No,” Enid answers, blinking rapidly. “There was a boy in the woods. He was blue and bloodless and, and cold. He k-kissed me.”
"He kissed you?" Wednesday whispers.
Enid flinches, and Wednesday’s eyes fall shut as her face draws tight in remorse.
“I’m sorry,” Enid blurts at the same moment that Wednesday repeats, “Forgive me.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” Enid rushes out. “I should have stopped him, Wednesday. I didn’t mean to let him kiss my cheek—”
“No, Enid. Please,” Wednesday mutters, shaking her head. “I’m concerned about your well-being. I’m…I am furious that this happened to you, and I wasn’t there to defend you.”
“But I froze,” Enid protests. “I froze and let a naked boy in the woods kiss my cheek. I’m the worst person in the world—”
“Stop,” Wednesday breathes. “Please do not ever say that. Please, Enid. Don't.”
“But I am,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday shakes her head, lips pressed together so hard as to be white and bloodless.
“Good news. This is a rune, not a burn,” Gomez announces, voice grim. “It’s not a permanent scar. The mark will fade once the effects of the rune wear off.”
“How could a creature with rune magic enter these woods without our knowledge?” Wednesday demands. “What rune did he inflict on her?”
“I am not certain,” Gomez admits. “I’ll consult the library. And our relatives. Perhaps someone has encountered this rune before.”
“That’s not good enough,” Wednesday snaps. “Enid is walking around afflicted by unknown magic! We cannot leave her in this state!”
“Wednesday, dear, take a deep breath,” Morticia cautions her.
“Do not tell me to take a deep breath. I will not take a deep breath!” Wednesday thunders. “He touched her! He burned her! He assaulted my intended!”
“Wednesday,” Enid speaks up.
Wednesday twists around to face her, fight diminishing to a simmer as she takes in the shakiness of Enid’s voice and whatever expression is on her face.
“I’m sorry,” Enid whispers. “I shouldn’t have gone into the woods alone. You told me so.”
“No,” Wednesday refutes, squeezing her hands. “No, this is my fault. I will fix this.”
“I daresay the magic affecting Enid isn’t malicious in nature,” Morticia comments, eyes narrowing in thought.
Wednesday grits her teeth. “How do you know?”
“The shape of her rune,” Morticia answers. “Assuming the creature who cast magic upon her hails from the Court of Decay—which it sounds so—stars are a symbol of good fortune.”
Enid feels her mark again. It no longer hurts, though it still feels tender to the touch. “It’s the shape of a star?”
“More of a snowflake,” Pugsley comments.
“That is the shape of a winter star, my son,” Morticia answers. “A symbol of good fortune and luck. Quite common for the Unbreathing Queen’s court.”
Wednesday pulls Enid’s hands up to her chest, clutching them against her heart.
“You will be alright,” she assures Enid. “I promise.”
Enid nods. Even when the boy had touched her, she'd been more shocked than truly terrified. “I…I’d heard about the Court of Decay. In ghost stories. But somehow the stories never included the Queen.”
“She’s a private woman. She prefers it that way,” Morticia tells her, voice lowered as if they’re sharing a precious secret. Enid appreciates the attempt to calm her down. “Is there anything else worth sharing about your encounter, Enid?”
“I saw the hare again,” Enid replies. Her eyes lock with Wednesday’s. “Mǎo.”
“You learned its name?” Wednesday asks.
“Yes. They’re from the temple,” Enid answers. “In Shanghai.”
The Addams family stares at her, nonplussed.
Enid shrinks back. “Did I not mention that before?”
“We should find this Mǎo and invite them to stay in the house,” Gomez declares. “The forest is no place for a guest.”
“Mother,” Wednesday speaks up. “The forest is no longer safe.”
Morticia releases a breath that sounds a lot like a sigh. “I cannot control her court’s comings and goings. That is the bargain we struck when we settled here.”
“No one should traverse it alone as long as Enid is here and the Unbreathing Queen continues to dog her steps,” Wednesday argues. “What if the next time Enid is upset, it attracts a worse adversary? One who tries to steal her tears? Or her blood?”
“Enid was upset?” Gomez asks. “How intriguing. Perhaps—”
“—Misery attracts company,” Morticia finishes.
“Why were you upset, Enid?” Pugsley asks.
“Mind your business,” Wednesday snaps.
Enid swallows. "It wasn’t that big of a deal. I had asked Aminder for help with something, and it wasn’t working out—"
"You talked to Aminder?" Wednesday interjects.
Oh, shit, Enid thinks. “Um. Yes?”
"Ahem. Who is Aminder?" Morticia asks after an awkward moment of silence.
"Toby Montgomery’s mother," Wednesday answers, eyes intent on Enid’s face. She very reluctantly shifts to face Morticia. "She’s a woodwitch who attended Night’s Plutonian Shore Prep. Toby is our friend."
"Yes, I do recall mention of your new friend from California," Morticia muses. She unfolds gracefully to her full height. "Why don't you invite Toby’s family to the ball, dear? It couldn't hurt to have another woodwitch in attendance. Particularly if the Unbreathing Queen has taken an interest in Enid.”
Wednesday nods tightly, pulling out her phone. Her expression still looks thunderous.
Enid bites her lip, then blurts, "Could I invite a couple of friends? Eugene? And Yoko?"
"Eugene already has an invitation," Wednesday answers, slipping her phone back into her pocket. "And of course. Invite Yoko and whomever else you would like."
"Yoko Tanaka?" Morticia asks.
"Yes. She’s one of my best friends," Enid answers, scratching her cheek.
Wednesday catches her hand, tugging it into her lap. She gives it a reassuring squeeze.
"Why don't you invite Miss Yoko’s family?" Morticia airily suggests, drifting towards the door. "I daresay she would appreciate it."
"Sure," Enid answers distractedly, texting one-handed to avoid letting go of Wednesday.
Her phone immediately lights up with an incoming call as Morticia's dress disappears around the doorframe.
"Hi, Yoko," she winces.
"Enid? What's going on?" Yoko replies. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Mostly," Enid answers. Her cheek twinges. "Wednesday and I are…great, but I'm kind of getting terrorized in the woods. And I'm not doing so hot in the, um, gift-giving department." And her face has been marked with a mystery rune that may or may not activate at any time.
Wednesday snorts beside her. Over the phone, Yoko makes an almost identical noise.
"I see," Yoko answers. "Well, I'll have to talk to my Grandsire and let you know about my family, but I think I can attend your ball. What's the dress code?"
"Black tie," Wednesday answers for her. "But feel free to dress as extravagantly as you would like."
“I did just get a new gown,” Yoko comments thoughtfully. “What are you two planning to wear?”
“I literally have no idea,” Enid responds.
“Come, Pugsley,” Gomez says. “Let's track down our guest.”
Yoko sounds skeptical when she asks, “Are you sure you’re okay, Enid?”
“Yeah, totally. See you at the ball?” Enid quickly answers.
“See you then,” Yoko concedes, albeit sounding a bit confused.
Enid ends the call, then turns to Wednesday.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she announces. Her voice comes out remarkably steady, considering she can feel her pulse in her fingertips.
Wednesday frowns. “Are you certain you’re alright?”
“Yes. I’ll find you after?” Enid offers, holding her breath.
Wednesday gives a slow, reluctant nod. “There’s a bathroom just inside the foyer. I’ll escort you to the house—”
“It’s like twenty steps, I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me,” Enid tells her, twining their fingers together.
Wednesday shuts her eyes. “An impossible request,” she says under her breath. “Puppy…I would feel better if you allowed me to personally escort you.”
Enid bites her lip, but manages to hold firm. “I promise I’ll be careful. No more strangers in the woods.”
Wednesday releases a long, slow breath. “I want almost nothing more than to hunt the creature who did this to you,” she says in a low voice. “I would slaughter any living creature that laid a single finger on you.”
“You can,” Enid tells her, voice wavering. “You can go. If you want to go after him—”
“But I want nothing more than to be with you, Enid,” Wednesday speaks over her, eyes intent on her face. "Please—please don't deny me that. Not now.”
Enid kisses her. Wednesday twists her hand in Enid’s hair, pulling her closer. It hurts, and Enid wants to climb into her lap so badly, she might just start crying again. Wednesday bites down on her lower lip, gives Enid just enough time to inhale, and then groans into her mouth. She sounds desperate. She sounds frightened, Enid thinks.
“When I saw you—” Wednesday says, speaking soft and fast.
“I was okay,” Enid chokes out. “I was just scared.”
Wednesday pulls back, eyes wide. “So was I,” she whispers.
Wednesday leans in and, when Enid doesn’t protest, places a feather-light kiss on Enid’s new scar. Her rune doesn’t react at all. Not even a twinge.
“I trust your ability to protect yourself,” Wednesday tells her. “Please do not ever doubt that.”
“I don’t, Wednesday,” Enid breathes.
“But I worry for you still because I love you, and I see how the world covets you,” Wednesday continues. “You are all that is beautiful. I am not the only one to have realized that.”
Enid cannot possibly think of a suitable response to that.
Fortunately, Wednesday doesn’t seem to expect a response, as she simply presses a kiss to Enid’s temple and mutters, “Be good.”
Then she climbs to her feet and returns to her workstation. Even as Enid exits the forge, she doesn’t hear Wednesday move an inch from where she stands, hunched, over the countertop.
“Yoko?” Enid breathes into the phone. “Can you hear me?”
“I can. Is everything alright? Did you decide you wanted me to bring you a dress, after all?” Yoko asks. “We’re nearly the same size. I have plenty of white.”
“Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Enid says, voice dropping into a whisper. She feels hunted, out in the open between the forge and the house, but this is important. “It’s just not, um, a dress. And it has to be secret.”
Notes:
....i'll see yall on twitter
next update: monday 10/27
Chapter 139: Treat
Notes:
kink warnings: voyeurism, kneeling in public (without witnesses), slick eating via baked goods, spanking of genitals, shibari, bondage
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So, that’s what’s been going on,” Enid finishes, crouched against the wall in the foyer bathroom.
She hadn’t mentioned the boy in the forest or the rune on her face to Yoko. She still hasn’t garnered the courage to look at herself in the mirror, either.
“I’m not sure how to help with the meringue,” Yoko says, voice regretful. “I’m not much of a baker. Have you thought about asking—?”
“Nope,” Enid refutes. “Never. Not even under threat of death.”
Yoko gives a low chuckle. “She’s quite good at it, though. Don’t you follow her on social media?”
“I don’t care,” Enid maintains stubbornly. “Asking Bianca for help is, like, admitting defeat. And asking for a humiliating death. This is my courting gift for Wednesday. I have to do it myself.”
“You sound a little bit stressed,” Yoko notes.
Enid allows her head to hit the wall behind her with a thunk. “No, I’m really fine,” she insists in a high voice.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you about the swans,” Yoko tells her. “But as for the weapon…what if you gave Wednesday a runed blade?”
Enid sits up straight. “I think Wednesday mentioned something about that. How weapons can be imbued with runes? Or something?”
“Yes. You’re thinking of runescrafting,” Yoko confirms. “It’s a rare skill. I believe Wednesday was the only runescrafter at Nevermore whilst you were attending. The forgemaster was constantly chasing her down.”
Enid hadn’t known that. A runed blade of some sort would be the perfect gift for the weapons exchange, except— “How am I ever going to find the right runes?” she entreats. “The library here is a complete mirror maze. And I have days,” Enid groans, letting her head thwack against the wall. “I don’t have time to sort through hundreds of books for the perfect couple of runes.”
Yoko makes a slight noise. “My family has rune magic.”
Enid leans forward, clutching her phone to her ear. “You do? Seriously?”
She hadn’t known that Yoko’s family used any magic at all.
“Yes,” Yoko slowly says. “We don’t…advertise it. Not after the war. But I have a few distant cousins who still practice, and I’ve seen the books in our personal collection. I could ask Grandsire for permission to teach you our runes, if you’d like.”
Enid suddenly feels choked up. “Yoko, thank you so much.”
Yoko gives a little laugh. “Don’t thank me yet. He may not say yes, even if they are defunct runes. I’ve never made this sort of request before,” she says thoughtfully. “I’ll call you and let you know. And…I’ll see about the other thing you asked for.”
Enid breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Yoko. Seriously.”
“It’s not a problem, Enid. I’m glad to help you.”
After she ends the call, Enid climbs to her feet. She’s planning to leave, she really is—but before she can, she inadvertently catches sight of herself in the mirror.
It’s like a car crash, Enid thinks a bit distantly, or some other terrible accident. Once you get close enough to see the grisly, gory details, you just can’t bring yourself to look away.
Morticia hadn’t been mistaken to call the rune on her face a star; she just was wrong to call it a rune. It’s a wound, plain and simple, a puckering of her skin that resembles a burn more than an indentation or incision. It’s no wider than a nickel, jagged peaks extending in seven distinct points. She figures herself lucky that the boy hadn’t kissed her any closer to her eye; he very well could have blinded her.
Enid shuts her eyes, refusing to look for any longer, and then turns and makes for the kitchen.
She’s not ending the day without apologizing to Wednesday, and what better way to apologize than with a tray of her favorite desserts in tow? Even if they come out wrinkly and horrible, it’s the thought that counts. Wednesday will appreciate the effort. Probably.
Enid stares around the kitchen with her hands on her hips, ignoring the urge to scratch her cheek.
“You are not going to fucking break me,” she says aloud, voice echoing weakly through the room.
There is no response. Still, Enid persists, collecting her ingredients from the ever-full cabinets and reorganizing her workstation. If Wednesday can traverse the planet to find her the perfect rock for her collar, then Enid can give Wednesday’s meringue another try.
This time, Enid is extra careful with her single remaining vial of slick. Instead of setting it haphazardly to the side, it’s given a place of honor atop a piece of paper towel. The paper towel itself rests on a platter all its own. Even unstoppering the lid is done with extreme care.
“Stay right there,” Enid orders, holding out her hands in warning. “Don’t move.”
The vial remains silent. Foreboding.
Enid sighs aloud, shaking her head. “Please don’t ruin my life,” she begs. “I’m counting on you, dumb little jar.”
She’s not sure if a vial even counts as a jar, but if magic is derived from intent, then surely the universe will hear her threats and take her seriously.
Enid gets to work on her eggs, working diligently to ensure not even a sliver of egg yolk makes it into her mixture. Once she has a nice blend of foamy egg whites and sugar, she turns in search of the last vial. Her peaks are starting to look nice and shiny, so this should be the perfect time to introduce the slick. She hopes.
Unfortunately, Enid is so intent on supervising her eggs that she doesn’t quite look as she reaches out for the vial. Instead of carefully picking it up like she planned, she somehow manages to knock the whole thing over, spilling her precious remaining slick all over the paper towel.
“No,” Enid whispers in sheer, unadulterated terror. “Oh God, no!”
It’s too late. The paper towel instantly absorbs her slick, shimmering cruelly in the low light.
“What the fuck,” Enid says to herself. “Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.”
She peels the paper towel off the platter, figuring her best hope is to try to wring it out over the mixture. Despite her best efforts, she only manages to wrest half the vial from the paper towel. The meringue doesn’t look nearly as slick-shiny as her first attempt, though it still smells just as strongly of her vanilla scent. Enid just has to hope it’s enough.
“I can’t believe I fucking did that,” Enid chants as she stirs. “I cannot fucking believe I did that.”
She’s practically morose as she pipes out her swan shapes. The oven temperature is adjusted, and into the fire they go.
Enid drapes her entire upper body over the counter, letting her forehead rest against the cool countertop. This entire day has been one hell after another. If she can ask for one good fortune, a single mercy, it would be for these evil little meringues to come out edible.
If she could only make Wednesday proud of her, the rest would be bearable.
Right as the timer dings for her to take out the swans, and Enid turns off the oven and cracks open the door, June skids into the kitchen. Her arrival is so unexpected, she nearly startles Enid into dropping her oven mitts.
“Enid!” she shouts. “Enid, are you alright?”
Enid stares at her, slack-jawed, feeling the heat of the half-open oven crest over her. “Um—what?”
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” June exclaims, rushing forward. “I was all the way across the woods when the alarm sounded, and by the time I got back, nobody was in the forge! Then I had to hunt down Soledad, and she said you were attacked by a courtier in the woods. That must have been so scary! I’ve never seen them, but I’ve heard of them. Morticia sometimes has to meet with them to discuss things and—”
June suddenly thrusts something out at Enid. It looks like a jar of some sort, squat and circular. Whatever’s inside it is clearly homemade.
“I brought you this salve,” June tells her. “Well, I made it first. It’s a family recipe. We aren’t runewitches, but we put a big emphasis on healing in my family? So we have a bunch of recipes like this. I thought maybe you might want it for your rune.”
“Um,” Enid says eloquently, speaking up for the first time. “Oh. What is, uh, it for?”
“Burns,” June tells her, offering a small smile. “My dad showed me how to make this one when I was fifteen. I burnt my wrist taking a frozen pizza out of the oven.”
Enid giggles without thinking, then cuts it off, confused at herself. June cracks a smile, waving in the general direction of the door.
“Listen, I can do the singing for you? If you want?” June offers. “I mean, your rune doesn’t look that bad to me, but a little extra wind-singing can’t hurt—”
“Wait, what do you mean?” Enid interrupts, hand flying up to her face. “What do you mean, it’s not that bad?”
June’s face scrunches up in thought. “Well, it looks…kind of unobtrusive, you know? Like a birthmark. It’s not super obvious, I don’t think.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Enid whispers.
Except, June might not be entirely full of shit, because now that Enid’s feeling for it, she can’t actually tell where the rune is sitting on her cheekbone. What had been so unmistakable and violent before is undetectable now—at least by touch.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Enid mumbles. At June’s look of confusion, she continues, “No, seriously—it was all raised and awful like an hour ago. Hold on, where’s my phone?”
Enid pulls her phone out of her hoodie pocket, fumbling to open the camera.
When she catches sight of her appearance, she nearly drops her phone on the tile below.
“Enid, are you okay?” June asks, hands fluttering.
Enid stares at her, wide-eyed. “I. Um. I need to see a mirror.”
June takes her by the wrist, tugging towards the door. “Come on. There’s a mirror two halls away.”
Enid tenses against her touch, but she’s so anxious to confirm what she thought she spotted in the little glass surface of her phone that she grudgingly allows herself to be led. For as confused as June must be, she sure seems to be taking Enid’s attitude in stride. Enid has to give her that much. Very reluctantly.
“Here!” June declares, slowing to a stop. “Will this do?”
As far as mirrors go, it’s less of a vanity and more of a centerpiece, a floor-to-ceiling installation with an ornate, wood-carved frame that Enid would like to examine in greater detail some other time.
Right now, at this moment, she steps right up to the glass. Close enough to see her breath.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers.
“What?” June asks, startling her.
In all honesty, Enid had forgotten she was there. She flinches, then announces, “I need to go find Wednesday.”
June gives a staunch nod. “Okay. Do you know the way outside?”
“Nope,” Enid replies. “But I’ll figure it out. And June?”
June raises both eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Thank you for bringing me the salve,” Enid tells her, offering a small smile.
June’s grin is wide and uninhibited. “You’re welcome, Enid.”
***
Wednesday is bent over her workstation in the forge, doing her level best to focus all of her attention on the platinum bar she’s working with and not on the look on Enid’s face from earlier, when the door slams open once again.
Wednesday raises her loupe, adjusting her headband so that the magnifying lenses don’t obstruct her vision. She then frowns, mouthing, “Enid?” just as Enid comes barreling toward her.
“What happened?” Wednesday demands at full volume.
“My face, do you see my face?” Enid rambles, all but climbing into her lap.
Wednesday rolls her chair back from her countertop, giving Enid room. Her hands find Enid’s hips, and then, once she’s had a good look at Enid’s face, she shucks off her gloves and her palms find Enid’s cheeks.
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes. “Your rune changed.”
“Do you see?” Enid asks her, eyes wide. “My face isn’t fucked up anymore.”
Wednesday’s chest fills with such fire, it might as well be burning. “Your face was never fucked up,” she says slowly, so that Enid knows she means every word. “I would love your face if you were covered in marks. No injury or battle scar could lessen your attractiveness. Not to me.”
Enid drops her gaze, cheeks reddening. “Okay, well. That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s what I meant,” Wednesday insists. “Look at me, Enid.”
Enid’s gaze snaps up.
“I love you,” Wednesday tells her, grip tightening on her hips. “I love every part of you. Do you believe me?”
Enid remains silent for long enough that the heat in Wednesday’s chest coalesces into something nigh-unbearable.
“I believe you, Wednesday,” she says in a small, agonizing voice. It seems to cost her something. It costs Wednesday something, too.
“I love you,” Wednesday repeats, nearly forceful in her conviction. She leans in to kiss Enid’s cheek, then sniffs her neck. “Why do you smell like sugar?”
Enid snorts under her breath. “I always smell like sugar.”
Brat, Wednesday thinks fondly. “Nevertheless, you don’t usually smell like egg whites. New perfume?”
Enid gives a mock-offended gasp. “Shut up,” she whines, wiggling over Wednesday’s lap. “You’re just smelling the—the fucking meringue!” she gasps suddenly, shooting up into a sitting position.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “The what?”
“The meringue! I made you meringue, and my rune changed afterward! The fucking rune changed because of my meringue!” Enid crows.
“So, my mother was right? It was a rune of good fortune?” Wednesday theorizes.
Enid pauses, lower lip sticking out. “Well, I don’t know. I didn’t…actually…” Her eyes go wide. “Oh, fuck me.”
She clambers off of Wednesday’s lap, shooting for the door like a bat out of hell.
“Enid?” Wednesday calls after her.
Her efforts to summon her back are to no avail. Enid’s already gone.
***
“Fuck, fuck, I am the stupidest person on planet earth,” Enid chants to herself, running full-tilt back towards the kitchen.
She has no idea how long it’s been since the oven timer went off. At least forty minutes. Maybe an hour. The oven door was cracked, but with the residual heat, she has no idea what the state of the meringue will be.
Wednesday’s poor swans, she mourns internally. What a motherfucking, awful goddamn ordeal.
“I’m so sorry, Wednesday,” she rehearses. “I’m sorry that I’m the worst baker in the history of baking and couldn’t do this one thing for you, when you went to the Mines of Moria to find my opal, probably.”
That will have to be good enough. Enid approaches the half-cracked oven like the gallows, inching forward as if it's liable to lash out and bite her. The kitchen smells like her vanilla, sugary and sweet, but hadn’t it the first time? That means nothing.
With her body already braced for disappointment, Enid opens the oven door and removes the first tray, placing it on the stovetop. She then stares in slack-jaw disbelief.
“No fucking way.”
She spins around and removes the second baking sheet, but it’s identical. The exact same result.
Two baking sheets of smooth, white, by all accounts, technically flawless meringue swans.
“Oh my God,” Enid whispers, leaning her full body weight against the countertop. “Oh my God, it fucking worked.”
Enid melts the white chocolate and assembles her swans with shaking hands. They’re beautiful. She’s never seen meringue in person, but she somehow knows this is precisely what it should look like. Pastry chefs would weep to see such artistry in the flesh.
They’re beautiful. Perfect. Not even her unsteady fingers can ruin her little white swans.
“I love you,” Enid very seriously tells her meringue. “Do not fucking implode before I can get her here.”
Enid spins on her heel and rushes for the door.
This time, when she enters the forge, it’s as if Wednesday were waiting for her. She’s already standing, facing the door. Her skin is shining with sweat.
“Come with me,” Enid urges. “Come with me right now.”
“Wait,” Wednesday tells her, digging in her heels. “I have something to give you.”
“I do, too,” Enid replies. “But mine is, um, maybe time-sensitive. Please. Please come right this second before the house explodes or a fire starts or something else happens to obliterate them. They’re perfect. You’ll never, ever believe me unless you see them.”
Wednesday stares at her. “See what?”
“The meringue!” Enid exclaims. “The meringue! It’s fucking perfect, Wednesday!”
The corner of Wednesday’s lips turns up. “So, it was a rune of good fortune. You felt it activate?”
“Well, no. But it definitely did,” Enid rushes out. “And I think it was a luck rune, actually. See, I was making you meringue because I needed to tell you something, but there’s no fucking way I could have actually made you this meringue without supernatural help, right? But then all this shit happened, like I was spilling things, and then June interrupted me, and somehow, I still made a perfect dessert! And my face changed!”
Wednesday’s brow furrows as she parses through that. “What did you need to tell me?”
Damn, Enid thinks. Still, she takes a deep breath and says, “That I’m sorry I left.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen ever so slightly.
“I’m sorry I left, and I love you,” Enid tells her. “Can you forgive me?”
Wednesday audibly inhales. “Oh, Puppy.”
“I’m sorry,” Enid repeats. “I love you.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Wednesday replies. “Enid, I…shouldn’t have asked you to stay. You needed space, and I was being selfish. You were the one who was attacked—”
“No, I was fine. You were the one who was hurt,” Enid argues. “I mean, fuck, he kissed me! On my face! I can’t imagine how that made you feel—”
“Enid, please,” Wednesday murmurs, cupping her cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’m proud that you got away safely. I’m so proud of you.”
Enid swallows. It’s suddenly difficult to speak. “I—I’m sorry, Wednesday.”
Wednesday watches her with slightly narrowed eyes. Maybe a little too closely. Then she says, “Okay, good girl. You’re always forgiven.”
It crests over Enid like a rush of warm water. She feels the tension lessen at the base of her neck, at her shoulders. Even the weight in her chest seems to subside.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” Wednesday quietly asks, hand slipping beneath Enid’s hoodie to settle on her bare hip.
Enid chews on her lower lip. She wants the cane, or the belt, or—something to make her feel absolved of going in the woods when she very fucking well knew not to and causing this whole mess. But since she knows for a fact that Wednesday won’t punish her for being attacked, she’ll have to settle for whatever comfort Wednesday’s willing to dole out.
“Will you come with me to the kitchen?” Enid asks.
Wednesday hums. “Of course. Would you allow me to give you something first?”
Enid frowns. She has a sinking feeling that Wednesday’s about to throw their gift-giving even further out of proportion. “Okay.”
“I made this for you,” Wednesday says, pulling something small and shiny out of her pocket.
Enid loses her breath. “Oh, Wednesday,” she exhales. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s a hairpin,” Wednesday points out unnecessarily. “I thought you might want to wear it to the ball.”
“I had no idea you made jewelry,” Enid marvels, admiring the beautiful platinum. “Besides my collar, I mean.”
“I prefer weapons,” Wednesday answers with a shrug. “But you prefer jewelry.”
Enid might as well be glowing from the inside out.
The pin has been carved to resemble a rose, complete with a prickly stem and saw-toothed leaves. The stem forks into two different blooms, arcing and curving around each other like lovers. It must have been painstakingly carved. Enid cannot imagine the effort such a detailed project would demand.
“Winter roses,” Wednesday informs her, voice low. “New beginnings, purity, and beauty.”
Enid chokes out a laugh. “I think I’m the furthest thing from ‘purity’, but I appreciate the thought.”
“No, I—I chose that intentionally,” Wednesday says softly, cautiously. Her gaze flicks up. “Please don’t misunderstand. To me, purity has nothing to do with your actions or actions done unto you.”
Enid watches with wide eyes as Wednesday reaches up and affixes the rose pin in her courting braid, fingers lingering on her temple.
“You are pure of heart,” Wednesday tells her. “I do not say that lightly. If you could see the sun…”
“What?” Enid asks, holding her breath.
Wednesday meets her gaze head-on, then whispers, “If you could look to the sky and see the sun, I would glimpse your face.”
To Enid’s utmost humiliation, her leggings begin to grow damp. She shifts as if to make a run for it, already planning her escape, but Wednesday’s hands clamp down hard on her hips, refusing her exit.
“What?” Wednesday asks. “What is it?”
“Um,” Enid says in a high voice. “I’m maybe, kind of…”
Wednesday frowns, nostrils flaring, then her eyes go wide with shock as she understands.
“I thought you would be upset,” Wednesday says. “This has been a very upsetting day.”
“Yeah, I’m not that upset,” Enid admits.
Wednesday’s eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe her. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine, Wednesday. Seriously,” Enid insists.
“Are you lying?” Wednesday prods.
“No. I promise.”
Wednesday continues to search her face, but her hands finally ease enough for Enid to slide away and straighten up.
Meanwhile, Wednesday’s lips quirk up. “So, where’s my meringue?”
“I’ll…I’ll show you,” Enid declares, though her legs feel suspiciously wobbly. “Come with me.”
“I’m with you,” Wednesday promises, taking her hand.
The trek back to the kitchen seems to take half the time. With Wednesday beside her, Enid feels like her heart might beat out of her chest.
Luckily, nobody else appears to have wandered into the kitchen in the time it took for Enid to corral Wednesday here. It would have been extremely embarrassing to have to explain why these particular desserts were off-limits to the rest of the family.
The moment Wednesday enters the kitchen, she goes stock-still, refusing to draw any closer. Enid nearly trips over her own feet when she attempts to move forward and finds herself jerked backward by the hand.
“You made me swans?” Wednesday asks, voice strained.
“All by myself,” Enid answers with an awkward little laugh. She bites her lip, resisting a sudden urge to turn and flee. Her chest feels tight.
Wednesday’s eyes are wide as she turns to look at her. “Enid,” she says in a hushed voice. “This is a runewitch courting ritual.”
“I know,” Enid mumbles, ducking her head. “I did it for you.”
Wednesday audibly inhales, holding her breath. She visibly centers herself, then holds out her other hand for Enid to take.
“Thank you,” she says to Enid, squeezing her hands. “Thank you, Enid.”
Enid smiles wide enough to hurt. “You’re welcome,” she responds.
Wednesday does not let go of her until she’s taken a seat at the counter, placing her hands in her lap. “Well?” she asks Enid, eyes slitted like a cat’s. “Are you going to serve me?”
Shit, Enid thinks, squeezing her thighs together. “Y-Yes,” she stutters, jolting forward. She manages to load the swans onto a plate and place them before Wednesday without further incident, but only just. The situation in her leggings is becoming dire, fast.
Wednesday’s eyes glitter as she reaches out with those shiny black nails to pluck one of the swans from the pile.
“I almost forgot,” Wednesday states, pushing her stool back from the counter. She smoothes her skirt down as she circles Enid, close enough that Enid can inhale her scent. “I need to wash my hands.”
“Oh. Of, of course,” Enid says faintly, watching Wednesday head to the sink.
Wednesday shoots her an amused look over her shoulder. “Hygiene is very important, Puppy.”
“Uh-huh,” Enid agrees. “I know that.”
“You do, don’t you?” Wednesday murmurs, lathering her hands with soap. “Go to the cupboard to your left and retrieve one of the cushions.”
Enid knows she must look confused, but she does as ordered, heading for the cabinet. The cushions inside are neatly stacked, the kind used for dining room chairs. Velvet, she thinks, taking the topmost one off the pile.
“Go ahead and place that next to my stool. On the ground,” Wednesday says to her.
Enid freezes, still facing the cabinet. She twists around, glancing over her shoulder, but Wednesday’s facing the sink. She’s taking a suspiciously long time cleaning underneath her fingernails.
Still, Enid carries the cushion over to Wednesday’s stool and places it at the foot. Her new hairpin swings into view whenever she bends over, a constant ray of silver light.
“You can kneel,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid loses her breath. Hunched over as she is, she doesn’t see so much as sense Wednesday shutting off the sink and venturing closer. She can tell Wednesday is looming overhead when her lungs fill with funeral lilies and honeycomb, and something sharper. Sweat, her memory supplies.
“You don’t want to?” Wednesday asks, hand landing on top of Enid’s head.
Enid drops onto her hands and knees, folding immediately. “I want to,” she tells the cushion. “I want to so badly,” she admits in a whisper.
Wednesday pets her. There’s no other way to put it. “You’re being so good for me, Enid. Stay right there while I enjoy my Puppy-sweets.”
And the thing is, Enid would be perfectly happy to kneel for her while Wednesday ate every single swan off the platter. She would kneel here ass-naked, wearing nothing but her collar in the middle of Gomez’s kitchen if that would please Wednesday.
Except for the fact that Wednesday doesn’t know what’s in the swans, and while Enid isn’t an expert on consent, she’s pretty sure it’s immoral, if not outright illegal, to not disclose that her bodily fluids are inside the food item she’s just presented to Wednesday.
“Wait,” Enid bursts out with, hands twisting in her lap. Her leggings are still dusted with sugar.
Wednesday pauses above her, mouth already open. “What is it now?”
“Um, Wednesday, those are…mine,” Enid tells her.
Wednesday looks down at her, nonplussed. “I gathered that, seeing as how you made them.”
Enid shifts her weight, thighs rubbing together. She is in so much fucking trouble. “I just thought I should warn you. Before you put them in your mouth,” she says a bit more pointedly. “They’re mine.”
Wednesday’s eyes cut to her face. “Warn me of what, Puppy?” she asks, though she sounds like she already knows.
Enid swallows hard, raising her chin to bare her neck. “They’re made from my slick.”
Wednesday’s pupils bloom wide and dark. “You didn’t.”
Enid begins to pant, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and Wednesday stares down at her incredulously. They both watch as Wednesday raises a swan to her lips and takes a shuddering, bone-deep inhale.
“Jesus,” Enid whimpers.
Wednesday looks her dead in the eye as she bites the head off the swan. Her throat moves as she swallows, and Enid presses the heel of her hand between her legs.
Wednesday’s head tips back, lips parting as she breathes in hard.
“God,” she mutters. “God, Enid.”
“Yeah?” Enid whispers.
“Yes,” Wednesday retorts at full volume. “If I sick up from eating all of your swans in one sitting, I’ll punish you,” she states, and though her expression is dead serious, anyone who knows her can clearly tell she is joking.
Enid has to bite down on her lip to keep from whining out loud. Which is just sick and twisted, if she gives it more than a single second of thought, but she’s so desperate for a punishment, for any punishment, even being punished for Wednesday’s gluttony would be a mercy.
But Wednesday, of course, misses nothing. She pauses mid-bite, eyes narrowing down at Enid with a look like the cogs in her head are actively turning even as she chews and swallows.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t put away the rest?” Enid asks a bit desperately. What is she going to do if she leaves a wet spot on Morticia’s cushion? Die on the spot, probably.
“No,” Wednesday replies. “I’ll tell you when I’m finished.”
That moment never comes. Wednesday sits there and eats and eats until all of the swans have gone. Enid does her best to remain still and silent and think non-sexy thoughts, mostly to no avail. She actually made Wednesday meringue out of her own slick. She must have been out of her mind.
“I can’t believe you ate them all,” Enid mumbles.
Wednesday glances down, then narrows her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, voice low.
Enid swallows. “You—you’re making me leak,” she admits in a whisper, squeezing her hands together.
Wednesday’s pupils bloom wide and dark. She pushes the empty plate away from herself. “Show me.”
Enid stares up at her in confusion. “What…what do you mean?”
“Stand up,” Wednesday says slowly, clearly, “pull down your pants. Show me.”
Enid stands on shaky feet, heart pounding in her throat. She hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her leggings and slowly drags them down, exposing the tops of her thighs. The length of her sweatshirt just barely covers her underwear.
“Come here,” Wednesday tells her, lowering her voice.
She points to her thigh, spreading her knees to make room. Enid shuffles forward awkwardly, hands at her sides. At the last second, before she can straddle Wednesday’s knee, Wednesday reaches out and cups Enid’s pussy with her hand.
“You’re so wet,” she murmurs.
Enid’s hips jerk forward, but she manages to stay quiet. Mostly.
When Wednesday retracts her hand and holds it up to the light, Enid cannot help but cover her face with both palms. She still peeks through her fingers, though. She can smell herself from here, even if she couldn’t see the unmistakable glimmer of her slick on Wednesday’s fingers.
Wednesday’s eyes zero in on the sheen, and when her lips part, tongue darting out to wet her lips, Enid whimpers aloud.
Wednesday glances up at her, startled, then smirks. “You like to be looked at.”
“Only by you,” Enid argues uselessly. “Only you, Wednesday.”
“Mhm.” Wednesday shifts forward a little, like she wants Enid to really hear her. “I think you like it more than you’re saying. I can smell how much, in fact.”
“You can smell me?” Enid asks, breath stuttering.
“Of course,” Wednesday replies. “You smell like whipped cream. Like sugar.”
“That’s just my—”
“Your slick,” Wednesday finishes, eyes dropping between her legs. “I know. I have eyes.”
Enid’s thighs snap together—or they would have, if Wednesday didn’t reach out with both hands and force Enid’s knees to remain spread. There’s a split second of back-and-forth, Enid’s not inconsiderable inner thigh strength against Wednesday’s hands, before Wednesday wins out and leans in, her shoulders pressing Enid’s legs even further apart. Enid’s lower back presses hard into the countertop behind her.
“Wednesday, I’m really—my underwear—” Enid protests, face beginning to burn.
“You’re soaked,” Wednesday states. “I know.”
She reaches out and traces the edge of Enid’s underwear. Her scent is rich with want. Even more so than when she laid eyes on Enid’s meringue and realized what she had done.
So Enid spreads her thighs, eyes on Wednesday’s face. She braces herself against the countertop behind her, lifting one bare foot to rest on the rung of Wednesday’s stool. Wednesday makes a noise of approval, raising that leg until it’s slung over her shoulder. Enid’s leggings have entirely come off that foot and now hang uselessly from the other.
“How much slick did you use?”
“Hmm? What?” Enid breathes, teeth sinking into her lip.
“In my swans,” Wednesday clarifies, glancing up. Her thumb ghosts over the gusset of Enid’s underwear, causing her hips to snap forward.
“Only—only one vial,” Enid manages through her bitten lip. “Not even. I spilled it on a paper towel and had to wring it out,” she rambles.
Wednesday pulls completely off. Enid tries not to whimper in protest.
“What did you do with the other vial?” Wednesday retorts.
“What?” Enid gasps. “What do you mean? My first meringue collapsed.”
Wednesday’s expression is doing something truly strange. “Where is it?” she demands.
“Where is what?” Enid replies.
Wednesday’s eyes widen. “The first attempt. Where is the first attempt, Enid?”
“I threw it out,” answers Enid, confused.
“You threw it out?”
Enid’s mouth pops open as Wednesday scrambles off of her, landing squarely on both feet. Her leggings lie limp and useless on the floor.
Wednesday’s head whips back and forth twice before she lays eyes on the trash can by the door. She rushes across the room, but it’s too late. Even Enid can tell the bin is empty.
“Oh, shit,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s head snaps towards her like a predator scenting a rabbit. Enid freezes, doing her level best not to make any sudden movements.
“We’re going to your room. Now,” Wednesday decides, stalking towards her.
“But—I need to clean up the kitchen—” Enid protests, scrambling to pull up her leggings even as Wednesday takes her by the hand.
“No, you’re not. We’re going to your room.”
“But why?” Enid asks, leggings halfway up her ass. It’s a lucky thing her sweatshirt is long.
“You’re getting punished,” Wednesday responds.
Enid loses her breath. “Yeah?” she asks, cringing internally at how disgustingly hopeful she sounds.
“Yeah,” Wednesday repeats, eyes dark. “You are.”
She pulls Enid along by the hand, squeezing her palm.
When they enter the summer room, Enid bites down on her lower lip.
“How am I being punished?” Enid blurts, suddenly anxious that Wednesday’s going to put her in time-out again.
“I’m spanking you,” Wednesday replies, releasing her hand and moving towards the connecting door to her bedroom.
Enid would fall to her knees and rejoice if she wasn’t apprehensive about why Wednesday appears to be leaving after just promising to spank her. That doesn’t add up at all.
“Wait, where are you going?” Enid warbles.
Wednesday stops, looks at her, then holds out a hand. “Come with me. We’ll go to my room.”
Enid accepts her hand with relief.
She’s not sure she should be rewarded for an act that very clearly has hurt Wednesday’s feelings, or at the very least pissed her off, but she’ll take what she can get. Wednesday hasn’t spanked her in a long time. Too long.
“Do you know why you’re being punished, Puppy?”
Enid nods. “I threw out the first batch of swans.”
Wednesday corners her against the bed, thoroughly infiltrating her personal space. “You wasted an entire vial of your slick. You didn’t even think to ask me if I wanted the failed attempt,” she continues, eyes heating. “Unbelievable. Take off your pants.”
Despite her enthusiasm, Enid apparently moves too slowly, because when she fails to get her leggings off at an appropriate pace for Wednesday’s liking, Wednesday takes it upon herself to jerk Enid’s leggings down to her knees.
Enid whimpers, falling backward on the bed.
“Go ahead and whine,” Wednesday tells her, hand on Enid’s hip. “Be as loud as you like. On your stomach.”
When Enid still doesn’t move fast enough, Wednesday drags her down the bed by her ankles, flipping her over and positioning her so that her feet are flat on the ground. Enid arches her back, relishing Wednesday’s hand on her spine even as she allows her face to sink into the bedcovers. Embarrassing as it is to admit, she’s done this in front of a mirror before. She knows exactly how slutty it looks.
“Where do I put my hands?” Enid asks, wiggling on her stomach.
“Behind your back,” Wednesday tells her. “Keep them there. I’ll be right back.”
Enid remains in position, smirking to herself.
She hears drawers opening and closing, and then the distinct sound of the deadbolt sliding into place on the door.
“Are we going to do something about the fact that the summer room no longer locks?” Enid wonders aloud.
Wednesday hums, hand sliding up Enid’s spine and pushing her sweatshirt to her ribs. “You let me worry about that,” she responds. “Enid. I need you to stop squirming and listen.”
Enid raises her head off the covers, squinting in an effort to find Wednesday. Her bedroom is much darker than the summer room, lit by lanterns in lieu of sunlight.
“I’m listening,” Enid reports.
“I would like to introduce a new item on your list,” Wednesday tells her. “Do you remember from our discussion when we touched on Shibari?”
Enid nearly turns right back over. She might have, if not for Wednesday’s warning hand on her tailbone, tracing over her underwear.
“Yes,” Enid whispers. “I…remember.”
“Is that still a topic of interest for you?”
Enid shuts her eyes. “Yes,” she breathes. “Are you going to tie me up?”
“I am,” Wednesday tells her. “I’m going to restrain your arms.”
“Okay,” Enid agrees. She feels like the comfort of Wednesday’s bed has seeped inside her.
Wednesday must lean down, because Enid feels her lips at the lowest part of her back a moment later. “Good girl,” she whispers. “I’m going to use an intermediate level of restraint. It will be safe for you to lie on your stomach as it evenly distributes the pressure while still securing your arms behind your back.”
“Oh,” Enid mumbles, trying hard not to rub herself against the edge of the bed. “That’s, um, fine.”
“It’s called the diamond weave arm binder,” Wednesday continues. “I will not be incorporating any runes since this is our first time trying Shibari.”
“Aw,” Enid pouts.
Wednesday huffs out a noise of amusement. “You’ll need to remove your sweatshirt. Lift your arms, please.”
Enid does so obediently. She has no problem at all with Wednesday undressing her. The longer she allows Wednesday to handle her like a doll, the more comfortable Wednesday seems to become. Even her scent sweetens.
“I’m going to begin,” Wednesday informs her.
Enid sighs out, “I love you so much.”
She then wrenches her eyes open, lifting her head to twist around and glance back at Wednesday.
Wednesday is holding a pink rope limply in her hands, staring at Enid like she’s something extraordinary. Precious.
“Um,” Enid squeaks, face-planting back into Wednesday’s bedcovers. “Okay, yeah, I’m ready. Tie me up.”
Wednesday makes a noise of assent, fingers working to tuck and tie her rope around Enid’s body. Enid doesn’t mind the added pressure; in fact, she relishes it. As long as the rope is snug around her, she can almost imagine that Wednesday is holding her. Surrounding her.
There’s something comforting about that. She might even escape with a few bruises, if she’s lucky.
“Beautiful,” Wednesday says so quietly, Enid wonders if she wasn’t meant to hear it at all.
Enid tests her arms, finding no give at all in the ropes Wednesday’s secured around her. There’s an X over her collarbones that Enid wishes was lower, wishes was affixed over her breasts. Maybe then Wednesday would have touched her while she worked. She’s already so sensitive with the ropes dragging over her skin…
"How does it feel?" Wednesday asks.
Enid hums. "I like it, Wednesday. Feels good."
Wednesday must be smiling, smug and satisfied, when she asks, “Are you ready for your punishment, Puppy?”
Enid nods, little noises eeking out of her as she rubs her face into the covers.
“Do I have you?” Wednesday asks, leaning close to her. “Are you mine?”
“Have always been yours,” Enid mumbles. “I want it, Wednesday. Please? Will you give it to me?”
“Always,” Wednesday tells her. “How many do you want?”
“Um,” Enid squeaks, squirming where she lays. Somehow, in the thrall of Wednesday tying her up, she’d forgotten that Wednesday promised to spank her. “Ten?” she offers.
“Five,” Wednesday corrects her. “Don’t go overboard with something new, Puppy.”
Wait, what? “Something new?” Enid repeats, voice thin. “I don’t understand. You’ve spanked me before.”
“Not like this.”
Enid has about four seconds to wonder what that means before Wednesday’s hooking a finger beneath the waistband of her underwear and dragging it down her thighs. She removes both her leggings and panties and tosses them aside, kicking Enid’s feet apart to spread her legs and expose her holes.
“You’re wet,” Wednesday comments. “That’ll help.”
“What—I thought you were spanking me—”
“I’m spanking your greedy cunt. Throwing out my fucking swans, how dare you?” Wednesday replies.
Enid’s eyes go wide. Fuck, she thinks.
“Count,” Wednesday tells her, just before her hand lands on Enid’s pussy.
Enid makes a sound like a sob, except it isn’t. It’s the furthest thing from a sob she could make. Wednesday just slapped her pussy, full-palmed, bare-handed, and it doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t hurt at all.
“Oh God, fuck, I thought this was supposed to be a punishment?” Enid wheezes.
“It is,” Wednesday replies ominously. “And you’re supposed to count.”
“Wuh—one,” Enid gasps.
The waning moon must well be over, because Enid’s going to come all over herself if Wednesday keeps slapping her like this. Every hit feels like it’s directly connected to the nerve endings in her pussy, in her toes, in her fingertips. She can feel it reverberating in her spine.
Wednesday smacks her again, pressing her groin up against Enid’s ass, and Enid moans out loud, begging wordlessly as she presses her ass back against her.
“T-Two,” Enid chokes out, voice catching. “Oh, no, Wednesday. Wednesday, I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” Wednesday tells her. “I know you can.”
“I can’t,” Enid protests, and this time, it is a sob. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m gonna—I’m gonna pee,” she says nonsensically into the covers, voice coming out muffled.
Wednesday pulls all the way back, tugging Enid’s ropes to drag her face out of the blankets. “You feel like you might come, just from this?” she asks, surprised.
Enid sniffles. “Oh fuck. I might,” she admits. “My pussy hurts.”
“Well, yes,” Wednesday responds.
“No, it fucking—it feels like I need something inside,” Enid warbles. “It hurts, it hurts, I need to rub it—”
“Ah,” Wednesday replies. “I see.”
“Please?” Enid asks. “Please, Wednesday?”
“Hm,” Wednesday murmurs. “Too bad this is a punishment. Keep counting.”
She slaps Enid again, and Enid bites down so hard that she tastes blood. She’s bitten clear through her lower lip, and her right leg is twitching, kicking out against nothing as she tries to keep from coming without permission.
“I need,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “I need to come. I need to come, Wednesday.”
“You need to come?” Wednesday repeats. “You can’t even count out loud.”
“Three,” Enid gasps. “Three, you gave me—t-three.”
“Good girl,” Wednesday tells her. “I haven’t given you permission to come. But you’ve been extraordinarily good for me today. Would you rather finish your punishment and come afterward, or have your ropes taken off now and get into the bath?”
Enid will pitch herself off the roof if she leaves this room without an orgasm. Morticia can go ahead and ready that grave in the family plot, because she will need it.
“I’ll finish,” Enid moans, voice catching. “I want to come.”
Wednesday spanks her again, and Enid could swear she feels it in her throat.
“I’ve been wondering when it would come to this,” Wednesday says under her breath.
Enid sucks in a hard breath. “Come to—come to what?”
Wednesday pulls away. Enid can only hear her voice, disembodied, as she says, “When you would ask me for permission to come again. You’ve been waiting a while, haven’t you, good girl?”
Enid nods. Her cheeks are wet. “Four,” she says belatedly, too quiet.
Wednesday lightly scratches the back of her neck, tracing the shape of her spine. Her nails catch on the ropes crisscrossing up and down her back.
“You’re a vision,” Wednesday whispers. “I can’t wait to make you come.”
Enid has to hold her breath to keep from crying. “Last one?” she asks.
“Last one, Puppy girl,” Wednesday promises. “Then you can come.”
Enid spread her legs wide. She doesn’t shy away from it. She lets the spit drip messily down her chin and feels nothing but a sense of purpose. A sense of peace.
“I love you,” Enid mouths into the covers.
Wednesday’s hand meets her again, and when the pleasure comes clawing up her throat, overwhelming, she is grateful.
Notes:
this chapter was a mammoth, i'm sorry it's late, my beta is a TROOPER, i'll see yall on twitter >:)
next update: thursday 10/30
Chapter 140: Mess
Notes:
Kink warnings: shibari, bondage, dirty talk, general submission, oral sex, fingering, anal fingering, slick eating, scent/come marking
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid stares down at the bedcovers, eyes wide and unseeing. Her thighs are wet.
“I think I pissed myself,” she whispers.
“You didn’t,” Wednesday says, though she sounds equally surprised. “You came.”
“Sorry, m’sorry,” Enid moans. Her legs twitch. “I—I couldn’t hold it, Wednesday.”
Wednesday makes a noise in the back of her throat. “I can see that.”
Enid whines into the covers, her cheeks burning hot. “Oh my God, did I actually just pee?”
“You ejaculated,” Wednesday tells her, hand slipping between Enid’s legs. Her fingers spread Enid apart, exposing her to the cool air. “I normally have to penetrate you to make you come like this.”
“I can’t believe I did that,” Enid groans, voice strangled. “Did I—?”
“Make a mess? Yes,” Wednesday says, though her voice sounds further away, now. Is she crouching behind her? The thought of Wednesday getting that close to see what she’d done is enough to have Enid panting with embarrassment. “You’re a messy thing, aren’t you, Enid?”
A moment to take a single, full breath, and Wednesday’s spreading her open again, this time to make room for her mouth.
“Be good for me,” Wednesday murmurs in warning.
Enid chokes on a moan, her voice catching, and it’s as if Wednesday decides to chase that sound. Her tongue slides into Enid again and again, heedless of the obscene amount of slick she’s coaxing out of her. Wednesday must not care about the racket that Enid’s making, or the fact that her pussy is pushing back into Wednesday’s face, smearing slick all over her nose—or that Enid’s definitely pulling hard enough on her ropes to bruise.
“Wednesday, wait—shit—” Enid bleats, legs shaking. She twists so hard against her bindings that she nearly dislocates her shoulder. “I’m going to c-come—”
“Are you using your safeword?” Wednesday rasps, pulling her cheeks apart. Her thumb rubs against Enid’s hole, ignoring how her entire body spasms. It feels like there’s not enough room inside of her and the swell of warmth in her stomach is going to have to go somewhere. It’s leaking out of her, Enid realizes. With every gush of slick, little by little, it’s leaking, hot and wet and unrelenting.
“Fuck, Wednesday—why are you—my ass—” Enid whimpers, back arching.
“You said these were my holes,” Wednesday replies, voice low. “‘All my holes belong to Wednesday,’” she says in a mocking, high-pitched voice that has heat flooding Enid’s face and chest. “Don’t you remember, Puppy? In your forest?”
“Wednesday,” Enid whines. “You’re being mean.”
“Am I?” Wednesday responds, voice amused. “Isn’t that what you said, Puppy? I thought these pretty holes were mine. This mess is mine.”
Her thumb presses against Enid’s ass, and Enid thrusts her hips back, wordlessly urging her to slide in.
“You want me inside you?” Wednesday asks her, voice quiet.
“Yes,” Enid pants. “Yes, yes, I want it.”
“Good,” Wednesday replies. She hooks her thumb inside of Enid’s hole, just to the first knuckle, and it’s not enough. Not even close.
“Why aren’t you?” Enid sobs.
“Believe me, I want it, Puppy,” Wednesday huffs out a laugh. “I want to be inside of you so badly,” she confesses in a whisper that even through the haze of her almost-orgasm, Enid recognizes as monumental.
Enid clenches her teeth. “Please? Please give it to me?” she tries again.
Wednesday’s thumb eases out of her.
“No, no, no,” Enid protests. “I want it!”
“What was that?” Wednesday asks her.
“I want it,” Enid repeats louder. Wholeheartedly. “Please finger my holes. Please, Wednesday.”
“Mhm, I don’t think so,” Wednesday replies. “I’m not done eating your sweet cunt.”
Enid releases her breath in a huff. “But it hurts,” she whispers. “Feels empty, Wednesday.”
Wednesday makes a little noise that Enid knows well enough by now to recognize as want. “Poor Puppy. You need something inside you?”
Enid nods, nuzzling her face against the blankets. Between her legs, Wednesday’s fingers brush against her, sliding through her slick. Enid’s toes curl as she fights to keep her feet flat on the floor.
Surely, Wednesday can see how her pussy clenches. She must be able to tell how badly Enid needs it, laid out on her stomach, aching and empty.
“Yes, Wednesday,” Enid exhales. “I want it. I know it’s greedy, I know—I know I’m greedy, but I want your fingers. I want it,” she admits in a rush.
Enid can’t see her from this angle, but she just knows that Wednesday is smirking.
“It is greedy,” Wednesday agrees. “My Puppy’s never this vocal about what she wants.” Even so, she sounds absolutely delighted. “Did you know that spanking your sweet little cunt would elicit this type of response? I didn’t.”
Enid opens and closes her mouth twice before she manages to choke out a weak, “N-No?”
“Hm,” Wednesday murmurs. “Interesting.”
Wednesday suddenly pulls off, touch disappearing completely as she eases off the bed.
“W-Wait,” Enid protests, arms straining against her ropes. “Wait, please don’t leave, Wednesday. I’m sorry.”
She should have kept her damn mouth shut. Wednesday doesn’t want to hear her talking like that. No one on the planet wants to hear her saying shit like that.
“What did you just say?” Wednesday demands.
Oops. “What?” Enid warbles. “What did I say?”
Wednesday circles all the way around the bed, climbs on top of the covers, and bends down so that she can support Enid’s chin in her hand whilst maintaining direct eye contact.
“I want to hear you saying shit like that,” Wednesday retorts. “I do, Enid. If I catch you purposefully muzzling yourself during one of our scenes again, you’re going over my knee.”
Enid pants, open-mouthed, but manages a nod. “Okay, Wednesday. I’ll—I’ll say what I want.”
“Out loud,” Wednesday enunciates, thumb catching the drool on Enid’s chin.
Enid swallows. “Out loud,” she repeats, though it costs her something to make such a promise.
Seemingly satisfied, Wednesday releases her chin and kisses her hard on the mouth. “Good girl,” she murmurs.
Once again, Wednesday slips out of sight, but Enid holds her breath and manages to remain quiet this time. She’s not going to leave, Enid reminds herself. Wednesday said so.
“I said I’m not done with you,” Wednesday says from somewhere behind her, hands settling on Enid’s hips. “And I meant it.”
Wednesday sighs into her pussy, kissing her sloppy and wet. Enid tries not to buck back into her too hard, aware that she could cause Wednesday some serious damage if she nails her in the face, but it’s difficult. Perhaps the most challenging thing she’s been asked to do. Even more so than the evil meringue.
“Thank you for tying me up,” Enid sniffles. “Thank you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s nails dig into Enid’s thighs. After a moment, she resurfaces to say, “You’re thanking me, now? For tying you up?”
“Yes,” Enid exhales. “Thank you so much.”
If Wednesday hadn’t bound her arms, Enid would have ruined the bed. At the very least, Wednesday’s beautiful, embroidered black covers would have fallen victim to her claws. It was a mercy if not a miracle that kept her from destroying everything in her fervor to come.
“You’re being exceptionally good today, aren’t you?” Wednesday muses, hands spreading Enid apart again. “You take your spanking so well. Come so beautifully for me. Look gorgeous in my ropes. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect Puppy pet. My pretty girl.”
Enid keens out loud, legs shaking. “P-Please don’t, Wednesday. M’close,” she mumbles into the damp spot her mouth has made on Wednesday’s blankets.
Wednesday rubs her lips over Enid’s swollen pussy, nuzzling her wet skin. “You think I don’t know that?” she says in a low voice.
She kisses Enid’s pussy again, but this time, she sucks hard. Enid’s gasp sounds more like a cry, or a plea, and she’s reminded abruptly of just how much Wednesday likes to hear her beg.
“Please,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday licks her, rhythmic and ruthless.
“Please,” Enid says, louder. “Love your mouth, Wednesday. Please make me come in your mouth.”
Wednesday makes a noise then, something small—maybe not even something intended for Enid to overhear—but it’s enough. Enid hones in, scenting just enough blood to bite down.
“Want to come in your mouth so bad,” Enid rambles, ignoring the humiliation roiling high and hot in her throat. Wednesday wants it, she reminds herself. If Wednesday wants it, she can do it.
“I wanna come in your mouth,” Enid repeats, voice lowering. She squeezes her eyes shut, but manages to choke out, “I hope I squirt again. L-Love marking you with my come, making you smell like me.”
Wednesday snarls into her pussy. For a split second, Enid imagines she can feel the imprint of her teeth.
Wednesday’s nails dig half-moon marks into Enid’s ass, prying her open, and she sucks so hard, it snaps through Enid like a breaking bone. Splintering. The feeling takes her before the sound.
Her pussy contracts, swollen and hot, and her slick splatters Wednesday’s neck and chest.
“Good girl,” Wednesday soothes her, licking her upper thighs. “You’re such a good girl, aren’t you? Look at you. Look at my fucking pet.”
Enid refuses to open her eyes. She shakes apart in silence, teeth clenched. The words she pried out of herself for Wednesday were almost more than she could give. Maybe not now, maybe not today, but there’s going to come a point where she admits something too dirty, too despicable, and the way that Wednesday looks at her will twist from desire to disgust.
“I love you,” Wednesday tells her, steadfast and sure, and that is enough to have Enid releasing the breath she was holding.
“I’m sorry,” Enid rasps in response.
Wednesday must sit back, because she pats Enid on the ass. “You’re going to come again for me.”
“What—wait, what?” Enid bleats, trying and failing to squirm out of position. “What do you mean, I’m going to come again? I’m fucking—dehydrated, Wednesday, I can’t come again!”
Before she can come up with a better argument, Wednesday is kneeling in front of her again, holding a water bottle. Enid reluctantly allows Wednesday to support her chin as she takes several small sips, doing her best not to look too hard at how Wednesday’s shirt is clearly soaking wet and plastered to her chest.
“I can’t believe you ate me out,” Enid mutters.
“Why?” Wednesday replies. “You were so well-behaved. You deserved to come.”
“I did?” Enid asks, suddenly shy. She’s grateful that Wednesday placed her on her stomach and not on her back. This way, she has a place to hide.
Wednesday’s clean hand finds her hair again, petting her. “Yes.”
“Am I?” Enid mumbles into the covers, though it’s hardly comprehensible. Wednesday cannot possibly know what she’s really asking.
And yet.
“Yes,” Wednesday tells her, hand settling over the nape of her neck. “You’re so good for me, Puppy. You’re perfect.”
Enid’s eyes well up with tears.
“I love you, Wednesday,” she whispers. “I do want to come. I want you.”
“Alright, sweetheart,” Wednesday tells her. “I’m going to make you come. Stay still.”
When her hands disappear, when her scent weakens to the point where Enid knows she’s no longer in arms’ reach, her heart rate surges into instant panic.
“Where are you going?” Enid warbles. “Wednesday?”
“I’m here, Puppy,” Wednesday says from somewhere behind her. “I’m right here. I’m just retrieving the scissors.”
“The—the what?” Enid asks, trying and failing to remain in place. Her limbs have gone all jittery like she’s getting ready to start shaking apart.
“Scissors. Always keep them nearby during ropeplay in case of emergency,” Wednesday tells her, already back on the bed. She strokes Enid’s flank, steady and solid, and it instantly calms her. It calms her so well, in fact, that Enid doesn’t immediately react to the snip, snip, snip that starts echoing through the room until the knots around her wrists begin to loosen.
“Are—are you cutting the knots?” Enid demands, flexing her wrists. So much for the pretty pink rope Wednesday chose just for her, she thinks a bit petulantly.
“I want you out of these. Right now,” Wednesday replies. “I don’t have the patience to untie them.”
The moment the ropes go slack around Enid’s elbows, Wednesday’s pulling her free, carefully easing Enid’s arms back to her sides.
“It feels like a waste,” Enid mumbles, allowing Wednesday to help her up onto her knees. She still feels a little bit shaky.
Wednesday shakes her head. “I have more ropes. Right now, I want you on your back, where I can see your face.”
Enid bites her lip. Uh-oh, she thinks. “Um,” she mumbles, looking up through her lashes. She clutches onto Wednesday’s upper arms, shaking like a newborn foal. “I didn’t ask before I came. Am I in trouble?”
“You were allowed to come, Puppy,” Wednesday tells her, leaning down. Her lips drag against Enid’s neck, eliciting a shiver. “You’re still allowed.”
Enid cringes back, trying and failing to tuck her chin to her chest. “I’m—I’m sweating, Wednesday,” she gives a weak protest. She can’t imagine how gross the skin that was plastered beneath her hair must taste.
Wednesday presses her face to Enid’s neck, teeth catching against Enid’s collar. “You think I don’t know that?” she responds.
Wednesday breathes in deep. There’s a touch at the edge of Enid’s jaw, and it’s a moment before it clicks and Enid realizes that Wednesday is licking her. She licks the sweat from Enid’s nape, from her shoulders, from the fragile expanse of her throat. Her tongue drags flat and wide over every inch of Enid’s exposed skin.
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, arching her back. Wednesday chases the curve of her body, tongue sliding down to her chest. When Enid crashes onto her back, Wednesday follows her down.
The thing is, wolves aren’t squeamish about bodily functions—it’s natural to nuzzle and lick and suck all manner of fluids from your mate. Especially during sex. When Enid took Wednesday for her intended, she’d expected some degree of separation between the typical behavior of a wolf and what Wednesday, presumably a human, would be willing to give her.
“Where did you learn this?” Enid whispers, hand in Wednesday’s hair. Her braids are unraveling, Enid thinks absently.
Wednesday pulls back, propping herself up on her forearms. “Learn what?” she replies. Her lips are red-bitten and swollen.
“The…licking,” Enid answers, skin prickling. Every brush of Wednesday’s shirt against her bare chest causes Enid’s hips to jerk up in minute spasms. “Who taught you that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Enid blinks up at her, hands resting by her temples. Her knees part automatically to make room for Wednesday. “You don’t know about grooming?”
“No,” Wednesday replies, brow furrowing even as she grips Enid’s thigh in her palm. “I like the way you taste. What is it that you’re referring to? Grooming?”
Enid’s face flushes hot. “I—I don’t—”
“You’re not going to lie to me, right, Puppy?” Wednesday asks, leaning closer.
Enid shakes her head. “Nuh-uh.”
“No?” Wednesday prods, eyes glinting.
“No,” Enid whines. “M’not.”
“I know you’re not,” Wednesday hums, laying her palm flat over Enid's sternum. Pinning her there. “Because you’re good for me. You make a fucking mess when I tell you to, don’t you?”
Enid sucks in a harsh breath. Wednesday’s fingers flex over her skin.
“Don’t you?” Wednesday demands.
“Yeah,” Enid chokes out. “I’m—I make a mess when you tell me to.”
“I know. Spread your legs, Puppy,” Wednesday tells her, hand slipping between her thighs easily through all the slick. “I didn’t tell you to close them.”
Enid does as ordered, skin flushing warm all the way down to her breasts.
When Wednesday slides a finger inside of her, Enid’s back arches, foot kicking out at the bed and disturbing the covers.
“Oh, God,” Enid keens. “Wednesday.”
“That’s what you wanted,” Wednesday murmurs. “I know it is.”
“Feels good, Wednesday,” Enid groans. It suddenly occurs to her that if she comes again, she’ll make a mess of Wednesday’s bed instead of the floor and Wednesday’s poor outfit. “Your covers and s-sheets—”
“This is nothing,” Wednesday says, voice low. “Spread your legs. Further.”
“Wha–why?” Enid garbles out, straining to part her knees.
“Because I’m not done with you,” Wednesday replies. “You’re going to come on my hand. Then you’ll be done.”
“I don’t think—three is—”
“A lot,” Wednesday finishes. “I know. I’m asking a lot of my Puppy, aren’t I?”
Enid blushes, but nods, tucking her chin to her chest.
Wednesday curls her finger, eyes glinting when Enid’s mouth drops open.
“I want you to come on me this time,” Wednesday tells her. “Not just on my face, or in my mouth. Not just on my bed.”
Enid works to keep her eyes open, even as Wednesday begins to curl her finger hard enough to have tears beading at the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Enid says, voice twisting into a sob.
Wednesday pulls out of her, shoving her fingers into her mouth. Enid watches in disbelief as Wednesday licks her fingers clean, sucking the slick from her knuckles and wrist.
“What the fuck?” Enid whines. “Wednesday…”
“Don’t worry, Puppy,” Wednesday says. “I’ll be right there.”
Enid’s confusion only grows as she watches Wednesday kick off her socks, then her bottoms, and finally—her underwear.
“What’s going on?” Enid whispers, eyes locked on Wednesday’s pussy. She sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you going to let me eat?”
“No,” Wednesday replies. “I want you to come on me. Exactly the way you did before.”
Enid stares up at her, nonplussed. “I don’t get it.”
“Come on me,” Wednesday repeats, spreading her knees even as she sits back on her heels. She drags Enid’s thighs over her lap, spreading Enid apart. If Enid sat up, she’d be straddling her, but in this position, on her back, her pussy is hovering just a few inches above Wednesday’s lap—
“You want me to come on your pussy?” Enid asks, voice coming out much too high. She wonders if her eyes are bulging out of her head.
Wednesday looks at her plaintively. The corner of her mouth pulls up into a smirk. “I want you to soak me, yes. Come as close as you can to my cunt. Understand?”
Enid’s mouth hangs open as she stares at her.
“Even if you hit my stomach, I’m certain it’ll be close enough,” Wednesday says, reaching down to spread her own pussy apart. “I want to smell like you, Enid. Right here. Surely, you won’t deny me that?”
Enid chokes on a garbled sound that ends up sounding much more like a moan than she intended.
“Oh my God, Wednesday,” she gasps. “What the fuck? I—oh my God.”
“You won’t do it?” Wednesday asks, leaning in. Looming over her. “Pity.”
“I never said that,” Enid wheezes. “I just—am—shocked. And confused.”
“Disgusted?” Wednesday asks, raising an eyebrow.
She looks amused.
Enid sucks in a stunned breath, and she blurts, “You would be okay with that? Me being…disgusted?”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “Obviously. You’re allowed to say no, Enid. You’re allowed to find things that I enjoy repulsive.”
“But that wouldn’t…make you upset?” Enid presses. “Or embarrassed?”
“Why should it?” Wednesday retorts. “Just because you find something I like disgusting doesn’t mean you think that I’m disgusting.”
And oh, that was not at all what Enid expected to hear. From anyone. Least of all someone she’s having sex with.
“Oh,” Enid says in a very small voice. “So you wouldn’t be disgusted with me either, then. If it were reversed.”
“Never,” Wednesday tells her, not a trace of amusement left on her face. “No matter what.”
Enid releases a shaky breath and says, “What if I accidentally do something gross? What if—?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Wednesday interrupts. “I still want to fuck you. I always want to fuck you.”
Enid takes a deep, fortifying breath, then surges up onto her forearms and kisses her. Wednesday leans into the kiss hard enough that someone—one of them—draws blood. Enid thinks it might have actually been her, though Wednesday pulls back with a hiss of apology.
“Forgive me,” Wednesday says, licking her canines. Each tooth is outlined in red. “I’m still not used to my teeth.”
“I like it,” Enid says boldly. “The taste, I mean. It’s hot.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen.
Enid flings herself down on her back, eyes locked on the ceiling. She very narrowly resists the urge to throw an arm over her face.
“You’ve always known what to say to get under my skin,” Wednesday mutters.
Enid cuts her gaze to Wednesday’s face, but Wednesday’s eyes are focused downward. Her eyes are intent on Enid’s pussy. Dark and sure.
“Are you gonna fuck me again?” Enid whispers.
Wednesday glances up at her. “Yes,” she answers, two fingers sliding into Enid. She entwines the fingers of her other hand with Enid’s.
Wednesday fills her like it really is her pussy. Like she decides how much it takes, how much Enid can withstand. It’s overwhelming, and Enid cannot bring herself to look away from Wednesday’s face. Not for a second.
“Feels good?” Wednesday asks her.
“Yeah,” Enid whispers, toes curling. She’s too close, too fast. Now that Wednesday’s inside her, stuffing her full, she’s going to finish much quicker than before. “Wednesday, please—”
“I’ve got you,” Wednesday tells her, making a soothing noise in the back of her throat. “It’s okay. Just let go.”
And, fuck—Enid does. The aching pressure releases all at once, hot and wet and relieved. Her slick gushes out over the lowest part of Wednesday’s abdomen. Enid pries her eyes open just in time to watch the hair that’s usually hidden by Wednesday’s delicate undergarments become plastered to her skin.
“You probably smell so good,” Enid says nonsensically. “Let me smell you.”
Wednesday snorts, reaching down to pet the very place that Enid just drenched with her come. “Maybe if you’re a good girl and eat your dinner.”
Enid stares up at her in horror. Her hair is sticking to her neck, nearly as soaked with sweat as if she’d just jumped into a swimming pool, and she reeks with slick. She’ll need several showers before the prospect of rejoining proper society is even within the realm of possibility.
“You’re not actually expecting us to attend a formal dinner like this,” Enid splutters. “I—I can’t walk. My legs are—Wednesday—”
“Absolutely not,” Wednesday retorts. “I’m ordering a meal to our rooms. I would never parade you around in this state, Enid. Be realistic.”
Enid supposes that’s fair. She probably looks like a horror, half-drowned in her own come and hardly able to direct her own limbs.
“In any case, I want to sit in your slick a while longer.” Wednesday is smiling something crooked and cruel. “You’ve made such a mess.”
Enid flushes hot, but not humiliated. Not anymore.
“Cute,” Wednesday murmurs, cupping her cheek.
Enid huffs out a laugh. “You think I’m cute?” she asks, glancing up through her lashes.
Wednesday does not laugh. “I think you’re mine.”
Notes:
HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY
(if you've seen me rambling on twitter, yes the chapter count is going up. yes i'm in denial)
next update: monday 11/3
***EDIT 11/3: minor wedding planning emergency has come up (which i know is a ridiculous thing to say, but here we are), i canceled pilates tomorrow morning so i can work on 141 and will get it posted for you guys asap!! so sorry for the delay
Chapter 141: The Visitor
Notes:
***just as a note, I’ve made mention of Morticia having a twin sister before in this story, but for clarity’s sake, just because I’m calling her Ophelia does not mean she bears any resemblance to the character Ophelia from the netflix show. I have my own plans for Ophelia Frump >:)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid remembers the first time she laid eyes on Yoko.
It was an early autumn evening. October or November, cold enough that Enid had been wearing a fluffy pink jacket that swallowed her hands. She was sitting on the periphery of some dance team acquaintances, messing around on her phone, when everyone in the courtyard had fallen silent and still.
Enid had looked up, expecting a teacher, or at least a threat—something to explain the strange reaction of her classmates. The last thing she’d expected was a girl with long, shimmering dark hair and obscenely expensive sunglasses standing stiffly in the middle of the walkway.
Her outfit was intense. Perfect tailoring, excellent style, immaculate for the season. Rather than her rigid expression, Enid’s eyes were glued to the girl’s chunky leather boots. She vividly remembers wondering where the hell the new girl managed to find shoes like that stateside.
The girl with the dark hair was uncomfortable with the influx of attention—clearly, Enid thought, her nose wrinkling—but making a valiant effort not to show it. If Enid hadn’t been able to catch her scent, rose and golden amber, she would have never known that the new girl was nervous.
“Why doesn’t she sit with her own kind?” one of the sirens on the dance team had whispered behind her hand.
The new girl twitched, then sat down resolutely at a nearby table. All alone.
“Don’t you know who that is?” another siren hissed back. “Yoko Tanaka. Yuito Tanaka’s heir.”
Enid didn’t know enough about East Coast outcast society to have any real understanding of the inner workings of the vampire families, but she knew that tone. She’d had sneers like that aimed in her direction since she was a little kid, too scrawny for team sports and too whiny for group projects. Never voluntarily picked. The only group activities Enid took part in were those she could claw her way into through effort and sheer luck, like dance.
“I can’t believe she’s actually here,” another siren scoffed.
Enid had bit her lip, twisting around to peer in Yoko Tanaka’s direction.
Even though there were at least two different groups of vampires in the courtyard, neither seemed inclined to approach her. Yoko Tanaka sat alone.
Nobody at Nevermore would touch her.
And Enid—Enid knew what that was like. She knew that feeling intimately.
"Hi," Enid had said from the other side of Yoko’s table, ignoring how her heart pounded. "Um. I'm Enid."
The girl had raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows, sunglasses slipping down her nose. "...Hi, Enid."
"Are you new?" Enid had asked in a rush, clasping her hands together. She was still standing, ignoring the whispers that had followed in her wake.
The girl watched her in confusion, but answered, "Yes. I just…transferred." After a moment, she added, “I was homeschooled before.”
"Oh. That's cool," Enid remarked.
The girl stared up at her, unblinking. Someone behind them coughed.
Violently aware of how awkward she must look and desperate not to let her spike of bravery shift into mortification, Enid proceeded to ramble, "My parents didn’t want me so far from home, but. Well. They don’t really care what I do as long as I don’t embarrass the pack.”
She then flushed completely, humiliatingly red.
To her surprise, the girl blurted, "My Grandsire insisted I come here. There were too many political adversaries at Night’s Plutonian Shore Prep."
"Political adversaries?" Enid repeated, shifting her weight. "Huh." She wasn't important enough to have any adversaries besides, like, Alyssa, but she could understand conflict. Her whole pre-adolescence was a roadmap of one battle after another. "My parents wanted me at SOLLS with the rest of my pack. But…um, when I didn’t present on time, I think they agreed it was better if I—you know. Went somewhere else."
For all that Enid regularly begged and pleaded to the universe that she would wolf out with her peers, she could acknowledge that much had been a mercy. She couldn’t imagine what her life would look like if she’d been stuck on the same campus as Hugo Flint for ten months out of the year.
The girl leaned forward. "How do you hide it?" she asked quietly, eyes alight with interest. “I thought your kind were treasured and kept very close to the wolfpack.”
"I wouldn’t call an inability to wolf out treasure-worthy," Enid said, laughing nervously. "It’s kind of seen as, uh, horrifically bad? Like, that would be nice and all, but not being able to wolf out might be the worst thing in the entire world. For a wolf, at least.”
“Your parents can’t tell that you’re a submissive type?” the girl asked, frowning. Her eyes then went wide. “I mean, excuse me. That was rude.”
“No, it’s—it’s okay,” Enid had said, nervous smile hitching high, because what the fuck? “I’m not a submissive wolf, though. I’m not presented yet,” she explained for what felt like the third time. “And also, if I ever did present as submissive, I think my parents would arrange a mating for me that day. On the spot.” Enid had felt a bit dizzy just thinking about it. “Not kidding. So, like, let’s just hope that I’m not,” she had joked.
The girl pushed her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose, then said, “Would you like to take a seat, Enid?”
Enid opened her mouth twice before exclaiming, “Oh, sure! Sorry.”
Once seated, the girl had leaned forward and asked her, "Have you ever been to Manhattan?"
"Um." Enid blinked. "No. I'm from San Francisco."
"It's very diverse,” Yoko informed her. “There are lots of werewolves of all types. You'd feel very comfortable there."
"Oh. That’s cool. So, um, I didn’t actually ask you your name?” Enid had pointed out.
The girl flushed, but offered her first real smile. "Yoko Tanaka. It's a pleasure to meet you."
She then reached forward, extending her hand turned outwards to expose her wrist.
Enid took it and gave her hand a gentle shake. "Nice to meet you, too. I'm Enid Sinclair."
"Enid Sinclair," the girl repeated. “Thank you for introducing yourself.”
Enid flushed hot all over again. “Don’t thank me. I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, me coming over here, or…or if you were sitting alone because you didn’t want anyone accosting you.”
“I don’t mind the company,” Yoko had maintained, fourteen years old and steadfast—even then.
***
When Enid’s phone vibrates in the middle of the night and interrupts the fragile peace of Wednesday’s bedroom, she doesn’t hesitate to pick up once she sees Yoko's name on the screen.
"Yoko?" Enid whispers. "Is everything okay?"
"Sorry I'm calling so late," Yoko replies. "Grandsire pulled me out of school."
Enid's eyes widen. She knew that Yoko observed night hours while at home with her family, but since most of their communication happened via text during school vacations, it never really came up.
"You were pulled out of school? Why?" Enid asks, crossing the floor on silent feet and stepping inside the summer room. She leans into the door as she closes it, ensuring that Wednesday doesn’t so much as stir. The last thing she wants is to disturb Wednesday’s sleep.
"Probably because of what I asked on your behalf," Yoko replies. "Don’t worry. I’ll be back to lessons soon enough. On the subject of runes for Wednesday’s gift, I have good and bad news."
Enid slides down to the ground, leaning her weight against the door. "What's the bad news?" she asks, bracing herself.
"Grandsire wants to meet you," Yoko reveals. "Grandmire, too."
Enid stares at her phone, wondering if she heard her correctly. Yoko’s parents regularly attend her events on campus, but Enid’s never once laid eyes on the grandparents, not in years of friendship. As far as she knows, Yoko’s grandparents don’t ever leave New York.
For that matter, Enid doesn't have the best track record with meeting the family members of her friends. Aminder liked her well enough, but before that, there was a long string of wolves who turned their nose up at her very existence and all the disappointment that entailed.
"What's the good news?" Enid asks.
"They're willing to wait until your ball," Yoko informs her. "And you can use one of our runes for Wednesday's gift."
"Really?" Enid asks, perking up. "Just like that? No background check, or anything?"
"You're my friend," Yoko says simply. "My word was enough."
Enid’s chest warms. "How am I supposed to learn the rune, though?" she wonders aloud. “I’m not exactly a master runewitch.”
"That's...part of the bad news,” Yoko admits.
Oh, God. "What does that mean?" Enid asks, clutching the phone to her ear.
"My cousin is heading to the Addams family estate. He will teach you whichever rune you choose."
By Enid’s recollection, Yoko's family lives in Manhattan. The East Coast is large, but New York can’t possibly be that far from New Jersey. "Um, when exactly is he coming?" Enid asks. “Because I haven’t mentioned this to Morticia and Gomez. Like at all.”
“He left twenty minutes ago, so I would say you have about forty minutes.”
“Fuc—forty minutes?” Enid splutters. “Forty? As in less than an hour?”
Yoko makes a noise of commiseration. “I called as soon as I could.”
“Oh my God,” Enid mumbles, grabbing hold of her collar. “Oh my God. Okay. It’s literally one in the morning, I need to—I need to go wake up Wednesday,” she declares.
On the other end of the call, Yoko makes a noise. “You’re going to spoil the surprise?”
“Not a chance,” Enid scoffs. “But if I go into the woods without a chaperone again, I think Wednesday may string me from the rafters. Not kidding. So I need to tell her that someone’s coming, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
Yoko snickers under her breath. “It’ll be great to see you at the ball, Enid.”
“I can’t wait to see you too, but I have, like,” Enid checks her phone, “thirty-eight minutes, and I need to get dressed. And figure out how I’m going to explain a surprise visitor to every member of the Addams family without sending them into a panic. Again,” she winces. “So I’m going to have to let you go, Yoko.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Hey—thank your family for me,” Enid tells her. “Seriously. It means a lot. And thank you so much for asking, Yoko. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Though she cannot see her, Enid can tell that Yoko’s smiling when she responds, “It’s a privilege to help a friend.”
The moment the call ends, Enid shoots to her feet, ripping through boxes as she hunts for something appropriate to wear. What’s the etiquette for meeting the extended family member of a friend who’s arriving in the middle of the night to do you an immense, extremely secret favor?
“Fuck, wait—Wednesday will know,” Enid realizes, dropping the pants she’d been holding. She turns on her heel and scampers right back into Wednesday’s room.
“Wednesday,” she whispers, reaching out towards Wednesday’s bare shoulder. She’d gone to sleep without pajamas on Enid’s request. Her skin still smells like Enid’s favorite bubble bath.
Before Enid can make contact, Wednesday turns over, sheet slipping down to expose her chest.
“Shit,” Enid mumbles, biting her lip. “Um—Wednesday?” she asks at full volume.
Wednesday’s eyes open immediately. “Why aren’t you in bed?” she demands, skin prickling with goosebumps that Enid tries very hard not to zero in on.
Enid draws back, chin tilted up to keep from staring too pointedly at Wednesday’s chest, but Wednesday catches her hands before she can escape. She grips Enid by the elbows, pulling her in until Enid has no choice but to crawl atop the bed.
“Did you have a nightmare?” Wednesday asks, apparently uncaring of her nakedness. The corner of her lip curls up. “It must have been marvelous to have you looking so spooked.”
“Um…not quite,” Enid hedges.
Wednesday’s amusement dissipates all at once. “Is something wrong?” she asks, voice hard as she searches Enid’s face. “What’s happened?”
“I wouldn’t use the word wrong,” Enid winces. “But I don’t think you’re going to be overly pleased, either.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrow as she winds up into a sitting position, sheet pooling around her waist. “Explain.”
“I, um,” Enid bites her lip, then blurts, “I’m sorry. I have a visitor coming in, like, thirty-five minutes. And I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear, because I think he’s kind of important? In the way that you and your family are important?”
Wednesday stares at her. “You have a visitor coming here?” she slowly repeats.
Enid tugs on her wrist, trying and failing to communicate the urgency of the situation. “Wednesday, what am I supposed to wear? If anyone would know, it’s you—”
Wednesday holds up a hand, and Enid falls silent.
“What kind of visitor?” Wednesday asks.
“Yoko’s cousin,” Enid replies. “He’s coming here to teach me something, but you can’t…you can’t know about it,” she says in a very small voice.
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear in her bangs. “I can’t know about it?” she repeats, voice volleying over disbelief right into amusement.
“Yes?” Enid tries. “It’s…yes. You’re not allowed to know,” she finishes quite firmly.
Wednesday snorts out loud. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Sorry.” Enid shrugs. She glances up through her lashes. “I still need help with my outfit, though. I don’t know how to dress for midnight visitors.”
“It’s half past one,” Wednesday replies, eyes slipping downwards towards Enid’s bare stomach. “But I see your point.”
It occurs to Enid then that she’s been treating with Wednesday while ass-naked herself, and she feels her cheeks grow hot. “Well, I wasn’t planning to meet him like this,” she mumbles.
“And you certainly won’t be meeting him alone,” Wednesday retorts, lifting the sheet to climb out of bed. She offers a hand to Enid. “Come. I’ll dress you.”
If it’s possible, Enid’s cheeks burn hotter. “Well I—I kind of just needed you to choose an outfit—”
“You wanted my help,” Wednesday maintains. “You’ll get it. Come.”
Enid takes her hand.
Wednesday tows her into the summer room, braids swinging behind her back. Her muscles flex beneath her skin, pronounced even in the weak moonlight. It’s getting close to a new moon, Enid thinks absently. It’ll get darker and darker in the days leading up to the ball.
“Do you know anything about the Tanakas?” Enid asks.
Wednesday looks back at her. “Yes,” she answers.
“Oh,” Enid mumbles. Maybe she should have asked Yoko for more context, but it felt awkward to ask her new friend for a complete family history when they met, and over time, it no longer seemed like an appropriate question given their level of closeness.
“Let’s dress you in this,” Wednesday murmurs, holding up a pink ensemble that Enid once wore to give a presentation for Professor Claudine. It’s a little old-fashioned for her taste, but who is she to say what’s suitable for this sort of occasion? Enid doesn’t make a habit of greeting people in the middle of the night.
“Alright,” Enid agrees. She holds out her hands, intending to take it, only for Wednesday to draw back.
“No,” Wednesday says. “I would like to dress you.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “I thought that’s what you just did.”
Either it’s a trick of the light, or Wednesday’s cheeks color. She looks pointedly at Enid.
“O-Oh,” Enid chokes out as soon as she understands. “Um. Okay.”
Wednesday’s fingers loosen where she was gripping the poor fabric. “Arms up.”
Enid closes her eyes, lifting her arms above her head. She knows what her chest must look like. What she must smell like. Suddenly, Enid has a flickering worry that the most private scent spots of her body—under her arms, inside her elbows, behind her knees—might be too potent for Wednesday to stand.
Wednesday pulls the shirt over her head, smoothing Enid’s hair down with her palm as soon as the neckline’s settled into place. Her fingers drag over Enid’s sides as she tugs the shirt down to her waist, eliciting a shiver.
Admittedly, Enid had thought she would feel awkward, being dressed like this. They’d tiptoed around the subject in the past, constantly nudging it without ever actually addressing the Eater in the room. Maybe Wednesday was embarrassed, Enid thinks, though that doesn’t feel quite right either.
Maybe Wednesday was afraid that she would freak out about this. Inspection is one thing, getting spread apart and looked at, and handfeeding comes as naturally to a submissive wolf as breathing—but being dressed like a doll is a whole other beast. It’s comforting, Enid thinks. She likes being handled like this. She likes Wednesday’s hands on her.
Enid supposes she should have known that they would have a penchant for this.
Wednesday kneels in front of her, stealing her breath.
“You don’t have to—Wednesday—” Enid whimpers, thighs squeezing together.
“I want to,” Wednesday states, looking up at her. “I want this. You.”
Enid tips her head back, fighting to keep her composure.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, Wednesday.”
Wednesday slides the skirt up Enid’s legs, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her weight as she secures the zipper. She doesn’t insist on shoes and socks, for which Enid is grateful.
She feels better with her feet on the ground. In the forest, especially.
Enid sits on the edge of the bed, clutching her blankets as she watches Wednesday dress. Unlike her, in her pink top and skirt, Wednesday dons black pants and a long-sleeved blouse with what Enid could swear are leather epaulettes.
“You’re dressed for war,” she blurts, hugging her knees.
Wednesday slides her blade home, securing her sheath to her hip. “I’m prepared for any eventuality. Are you ready to greet our guest?”
No, Enid thinks. “Yes,” she answers aloud, climbing to her feet. “I’m so sorry I woke you up, Wednesday.”
Wednesday stops her with a hand on her shoulder. She turns Enid around, gripping her upper arms.
“Thank you for waking me,” she says very seriously. “I’m proud of you.”
Enid sucks in a hard breath, then nods. It’s the most she can manage.
Wednesday squeezes her once before letting go. “Come,” she says. “We’ll meet him together.”
“Together,” Enid echoes.
She tentatively reaches out, taking Wednesday’s hand. Enid doesn’t reach for Wednesday as a rule. Not unless she’s in heat. Not unless she has an excuse. Wednesday doesn’t like to be touched without ample warning, and Enid understands that. She’d rather let Wednesday come to her.
Wednesday looks surprised, but she doesn’t seem discomforted. In fact, she grips Enid harder, securing Enid’s palm in her grasp.
“Always,” Wednesday tells her.
***
Enid walks quietly, listening carefully to the forest around her.
If Yoko’s estimate was correct, the visitor should be arriving any moment. Enid hasn’t trekked this way since arriving. Now, she wonders if she was remiss to spend all her time in the deepest parts of the forest.
“Here,” Wednesday decides, coming to a stop a dozen yards from the wrought iron gates. The trees provide some cover, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Enid gulps, glancing around. It’s difficult to see anything at this hour besides the peonies lining the drive. Petals that had looked so pink in sunlight are leeched of all color at this dark hour, soft and swaying in the cast of the moon.
Recalling on a whim how Wednesday had mentioned offering flower crowns to visiting guests in the forest, she stoops and gathers an armful of peonies. Though Wednesday doesn’t speak, Enid can sense her confusion like a physical touch along her spine as she works quickly to braid the flower stems together with unsteady fingers.
Without warning, a hand covers hers, and Wednesday’s scent fills her lungs.
“Let me help you,” Wednesday murmurs to her, and Enid exhales, nodding. Wednesday makes quick work of the crown, fashioning a much more structured headpiece than Enid ever could have managed on her own.
“So pretty,” Enid whispers.
The corner of Wednesday’s lip pulls up. “Would you like one?”
Enid flushes hot. “I’m fine.”
“Mhm,” Wednesday hums. “My mother should have offered you a crown.”
Enid fidgets where she kneels. “Wednesday, it’s seriously fine.”
“It would be very remiss of me not to rectify her mistake,” Wednesday whispers to her, tugging on Enid’s courting braid. “How lovely you’d look in a tiara, my darl—”
“Wait,” Enid interrupts, rising to her feet. Her head snaps to the side. “Do you hear that?”
Wednesday joins her, hand on her knife. “No. What do you hear?”
The stars wink overhead. Enid peers up into the trees, wondering if she’s truly being watched or just imagining it.
Enid takes a sharp breath, and with her inhale, the breeze hits her face, carrying crackling birch and anise. A scent that doesn’t belong.
“He’s here,” she whispers.
“You have good ears,” a new voice breaks the silence. “Considering this isn’t your forest, young witch.”
Enid feels a knot of nausea climb high and thick in her throat. “I’m a wolf,” she replies, watching the man melt out of the trees. “Our ears are more sensitive than humans’.”
He smiles, teeth shining bone white in the dark. “How deceitful,” he says approvingly. “We both know you didn’t hearken to my arrival with your wolf ears.”
The man is shorter than Enid had expected. Lithe, she thinks, and tensed in a way that suggests he’s not as relaxed as he’s endeavoring to be perceived. She can’t quite catch his scent from this distance, but she can see his face—or lack thereof. There’s a thin blindfold tied over his eyelids, completely obscuring his gaze.
“I would prefer that you not insult my intended,” Wednesday interjects. “Considering that you are a guest in these woods. And I still fail to understand why you’re infringing on this forest in the first place.”
The man cocks his head at Enid, who frantically shakes her head.
“I do so enjoy secrets,” he says with relish, letting out a barking laugh. “You must be the young miss of the manor. Addams, I presume?”
“Strange that you know my name whilst you have me at such a disadvantage,” Wednesday says, tone distinctly disapproving. Enid winces beside her.
Luckily, the man doesn’t seem offended. “You’re the spitting image of your mother and aunt,” he admits. “You must be an Addams or a Frump. Judging by the moue on your face, I’d hazard Addams. Morticia’s child, then?”
“You know Morticia?” Enid asks.
“We met long ago. The Frump twins were mere children, then, but I thought it possible young Morticia might remember me. I must admit, I was expecting to meet her at the foot of this forest,” he says pointedly, lips curling with amusement.
Enid sends a guilty look in Wednesday’s direction, who reacts with an unrepentant eyebrow raise.
“Interesting,” the man murmurs. “Am I invited to enter, young Miss Addams?”
Wednesday frowns, but nods. “You may come in.”
The gates creak open, and the man takes a single step over the boundaries. He tips his head back, face tilting towards the stars.
“Ah,” he says.
Enid bites her lip, but steps forward. She can feel Wednesday’s eyes on her back as she raises her hands and says, “Can I, um, offer you this? Sir?”
“Ren,” he corrects her, ducking his head. “Ren Tanaka. It’s been a long while since I received a traditional welcome from a woodwitch. How wonderful.”
Enid places the hastily constructed flower crown over his hair, taking care not to touch his skin. When Ren straightens up, the pink peonies remain precariously balanced atop his head.
“Wonderful,” Ren repeats. Though Enid cannot see his eyes, she gets the impression he's staring at their respective courting braids. “It does an old man well to see young witches observe the old ways.”
He extends a hand in Enid’s direction, palm up, exposing his inner wrist.
Before she can accept it, Wednesday takes Enid by the hand, drawing her backward and out of reach. “You’re a runewitch,” she accuses.
Ren gives a funny little bow. “Guilty,” he says with a wave of his hand. His sleeve slips down, revealing a trail of inked symbols on his arm. Tattoos, Enid recognizes. They look a little bit like Yoko’s, but mostly, they look like—
“Runes,” Wednesday hisses, showing her teeth.
Ren cocks his head. “Perhaps not human, then,” he comments, crossing his arms. “I was under the impression that young Morticia set her flowers on the mantle of a human witch.”
Meanwhile, Wednesday has gone completely rigid, fists clenching at her sides. “You’re blind, aren’t you?” she accuses.
Enid stares at her in abject horror. “Wednesday, oh my God.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “He traded his sight for those abominations on his skin. Am I wrong, Ren Tanaka?”
Ren smiles. “I’m surprised you’d recognize these runes, young miss.”
Wednesday’s shoulders hike up to her ears. “Of course I recognize them,” she retorts, though she doesn’t seem inclined to volunteer a single word more.
“Indeed,” Ren murmurs, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows to expose the ink on both arms.
Wednesday turns her gaze on Enid, who wilts.
“What is going on?” Wednesday demands.
“Um,” Enid winces. “Wednesday, I should have told you—”
“That you invited a runewitch to accost us in the night?” Wednesday drawls, voice dry. “A pretender, who must use artifice to evoke visions of the future?”
“Pretender is a strong word,” Ren says somewhere behind them.
“Are you mad?” Enid asks, biting her lip.
Wednesday’s expression softens. “I’m concerned of what could possibly be going on that you felt this was necessary. I am not mad at you.”
Enid breathes a sigh of relief she can feel in her fingertips, but she maintains, “I really, really can’t tell you.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “Even now?”
“I need you to—to trust me,” Enid forces out, voice wobbling. “Wednesday, I’m sorry. I’m not telling.”
Wednesday looks at her for a long moment. Enid wavers under the attention, but she doesn’t falter.
This is important, she reminds herself. For Wednesday, she can be brave.
“Don’t apologize,” Wednesday quietly says, giving a little sigh. “I’m concerned, not angry. Are you certain it’s safe?”
“I do not pose a threat to you or your kin,” Ren speaks up. “I would swear by it, young Miss Addams. I am only here for Enid Sinclair.”
“I promise it’ll be worth it,” Enid offers.
Wednesday shakes her head, but her eyes are warm. “I do trust you,” she says, voice low. “If you feel it’s necessary, I believe you.”
Enid nods, clasping her hands together. Wednesday reaches out and tucks her courting braid behind her ear.
“As heartening as that was, perhaps we could move this tête-à-tête inside?” Ren proposes. “It’s rather chilly for June, and I do believe young Enid is missing shoes.”
Enid shivers, but nods her agreement.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, turning towards Ren. “I didn’t actually introduce myself.”
Ren holds up a hand. “No need,” he tells her. “I know you. Shall we get on with it?”
Wednesday grips her hand uncomfortably tight the entire way back to the house.
***
Ren Tanaka is an unsettling man.
Wednesday knows very little of vampires. She’s aware of the fraught tension between their people and the closed society of wolves, but it’s never interested her. Not directly.
As she watches Ren Tanaka gaze at Enid, she wonders if perhaps she should have paid greater attention to her history lessons when they covered the Vampire War. Ren looks at Enid like a threat, like a walking corpse, something to be feared and beheld. Strange, in every sense of the word.
He watches Enid with an intensity that is frankly unwarranted for what little he knows of her. How he could tell that she was a woodwitch at first meeting, Wednesday has no idea.
Wednesday keeps Enid directly in her sights, violently aware of the eyes on Enid’s back.
She doesn’t trust Ren Tanaka for a second. Not with her intended, and not with whatever secret they’re harboring.
But if she wants Enid to trust her—to be confident in herself, in her magic, in her autonomy as a witch—she has to trust that Enid can handle herself.
Wednesday thinks of the hesitance that Enid had approached her with, afraid to wake her, ever terrified to inconvenience her, and burns with pride that finally, finally, Enid had asked for help. She’d reached for Wednesday unprompted. For the very first time, she hadn’t ventured into the dark alone.
“I’m proud of you,” Wednesday says again, uncaring of their audience.
Enid’s cheeks grow darker. “Thanks, Wednesday,” she mumbles.
“Apologies for arriving so early,” Ren breezily interjects, hands in his pockets. “I realize humans don’t observe the same hours.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes. “We’re more than able to accommodate.”
“I can see that,” Ren murmurs, lifting his chin in the direction of the house.
On the front steps waits Morticia, dressed in a lovely gown of black velvet that drapes over the steps like pooling ink.
“Ren Tanaka,” Morticia speaks on the breeze. “It has been a very long time.”
“You told them?” Enid whispers.
Wednesday hums her agreement. “My father and Pugsley are still searching for your friend in the woods. My mother prepared a room for our guest.”
“Morticia Addams,” Ren greets her in kind. They climb the steps together, reaching Morticia just in time to watch Ren extend the same handshake he’d attempted to offer Enid.
Morticia accepts it graciously, offering a genteel tilt of her head. “Please be welcomed inside.”
“Wonderful,” Ren responds. “But I do believe young Enid and I have business elsewhere. Perhaps you have a sitting room we could abscond to?”
Wednesday tenses. She ignores her mother’s warning glance, already thinking through how she can avoid Enid spending any significant time alone with this man.
“Would you prefer the library?” Morticia proposes. “There’s much better light.”
“Perfect,” Ren agrees, lips splitting into a slow smile.
***
Enid can tell that Wednesday is reluctant to leave her. If Morticia hadn’t been there to physically remove her from the library doorway, Enid’s not sure anything could have deterred her from taking a stand and refusing to go.
“Shall we?” Ren proposes, moving toward a long table by the windows.
Enid dutifully follows, admiring the tea set Morticia had so thoughtfully set out for them to enjoy. She cannot fathom how Morticia knew they’d end up in this spot, but supposes it was a nice thought—even if she does despise tea.
“Would you like any?” Ren asks, setting a tiny teacup beneath the porcelain arrangement. Now that she’s paying attention, it doesn’t look like any teapot Enid’s ever seen. There are multiple pieces stacked on top of each other, the pot balanced atop a spout, sitting on delicate, pale painted legs.
“What is that?” she asks, leaning closer.
“It’s a rotating teapot,” Ren tells her, turning the handle of the topmost pot so that a stream of tea pours from the spout into the little cup held beneath. “Morticia remembered my preferences. How wonderful.”
He turns the handle again, and the stream stops.
“Tea?” Ren offers.
Enid blanches, rocking backwards on her heels. “Um,” she wheedles.
Ren grins. “Me, neither,” he says conspiratorially, abandoning the teacup to the side. “Let’s get to work, then. I’m told you want to forge a runed blade to gift your intended?”
“That would be ideal, yeah,” Enid answers, hoping she doesn’t sound as nervous as she feels. “I’m just not super confident I’ll be able to execute it. At least not well. What do I know about runes?” she scoffs.
Ren makes a considering noise. “Magic is derived from intent. You don’t need to be a runewitch to use this magic.”
“I just want it to be enough,” Enid answers, perhaps revealing more than she should have.
Ren adopts a look like he’s actively working to figure something out. “You genuinely worry young Wednesday won’t be pleased with whatever you deign to give her?”
“But I don’t want her to just be pleased,” Enid protests, holding her elbows close to her chest. “I want—I want her to be delighted. I want her eyes to go wide and her face to…to look at me like I’m—competent, I guess.” She gives a half-shouldered shrug. “I don’t just want to give her something she’ll use. I want this gift to be something she’ll treasure, Mister Tanaka.”
His lips split into a sharp smile. “Delighted,” he repeats under his breath with a little shake of his head. “I do believe your Wednesday will delight in this gift,” he continues, words emphasized in a way that Enid doesn’t quite understand. “And please, call me Ren.”
He reaches up and unties his blindfold, revealing pale, colorless eyes.
“You think so?” Enid asks. “You think my gift will be enough?”
“Absolutely,” he replies. Ren opens his jacket, retrieving a journal that looks as old as any of the books on the shelves. “I have brought you four runes to choose from.”
“Four?” Enid mumbles. “That’s kind of…specific.”
Ren's eyebrow raises, looking rather more impressed than Enid really feels she deserves. “You were born in the fourth month of the moon calendar. I thought it best to keep with tradition.”
“Okay. I guess that makes sense,” Enid mumbles, though she counts through the months twice in her head and still can’t make the math work of how July comes fourth in any measure.
Ren spreads his journal open, revealing four starkly inked symbols.
“Would you like explanations for each one?” he asks kindly. “I realize you won’t be able to read the kanji.”
Enid extends her hand without thinking, her fingers landing on the symbol in the bottom-right corner. The ink is raised, arcing ridges beneath her fingertips that feel oddly familiar even though the language is foreign to her.
“I’ve seen this before,” Enid whispers.
Rust-brown doors the color of blood. Crumbling steps. A church she’s known her whole life by sight if not by faith.
When she glances up, she discovers Ren watching her, something hidden in his expression.
“Where on earth would you have seen this, young witch?” he asks softly.
“My forest,” Enid answers. Her fingers remain locked on the rune. “It was carved over the church—the pack safehouse. It cut off Wednesday’s magic when she entered.”
“Remnants of the conflict, no doubt,” Ren murmurs. “It would have cut your magic off, too, would it not?”
Enid shrugs. “I hardly feel my magic half the time, anyway. Entering the church just makes me feel sick.”
“Undoubtedly,” Ren says ominously. “You’d probably have felt it like the loss of a limb.”
Enid frowns at him, resisting the bizarre urge to step back. “So, how does this rune work? On Wednesday’s blade, I mean. I don’t want to cut off her magic.”
Giving Wednesday a blade that would cause her physical nausea at best and magical deprivation at worst could quite possibly be the worst gift ever given to anyone. Enid feels something, looking at this rune—a flicker of her forest, maybe—but she won’t put something debilitating on Wednesday’s blade.
“Cut off her magic? No,” Ren snorts. “It would achieve the opposite. Whenever she wields the blade, it would negate the magic of whomever she cuts.”
At Enid’s look of surprise, Ren points to a particular kanji and reiterates, “Blood-activated. When her target’s blood meets the blade, the rune triggers.”
“Wow,” Enid breathes. “It would hamstring anyone she fought. Or at least, anyone magical.”
“At the cost of siphoning your own magic, as the drawer of this rune,” he informs her.
“So, I’ll be magicless while the rune is active,” Enid speculates. “Whenever Wednesday cuts someone with this blade, I won’t be able to use magic at all. Because Wednesday will be drawing on it to fight.”
The cant of his smile turns decidedly sly. “Of course, there is another way.”
“Another way besides paying the cost?” Enid asks, confused. “I thought that’s how runes work. Draw and sacrifice.”
“It is,” Ren agrees. “For humans.”
Enid stares back at him.
“Humans must bear the sacrifice themselves,” he whispers. “But the rules differ for creatures. And you are no human, are you, Enid Sinclair?”
She sucks in the sort of breath that stings her chest as she finally, horrifyingly, understands. “N-No. I’m not going to—shunt the cost of the rune off onto some other living creature, just to avoid paying it. I’ll take it myself.”
Ren shrugs. “As you wish. Be warned that every time Wednesday activates this rune, you will effectively become powerless.”
“You mean, I wouldn’t be able to use magic,” Enid surmises.
Ren nods. “A heavy cost to bear.”
Enid looks at him in confusion. She would give her life for Wednesday; what’s her newfound magic compared to that, especially if only temporarily? It seems too small a price. Too paltry for Wednesday’s gift. Surely, there is something greater she can offer than her magic.
“Are there death runes?” Enid wonders aloud. “Or, like, life and death runes?”
“Leave that for a later age, young witch,” Ren tells her firmly. “Enjoy the spring of your life. Autumn will find you soon enough.”
Enid frowns. “Why did Wednesday get so uncomfortable when she saw your tattoos?”
He gives a barking laugh. “Your intended—she’s a Raven, isn’t she? Experiences visions of forewarning?”
After a beat of silence, hesitant and unsure, Enid nods.
“I could tell,” he says, voice lowered in confidence. “Only a Raven would feel such disgust at using magic to achieve the same results.”
Enid draws back, looking at his tattoos in a new light. “You mean…those runes…?”
“Also allow me to see the future,” he tells her, voice curling with amusement. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Enid whispers. “I had no idea that was possible.”
But even as she says it, Enid realizes with a churning in her gut that it is not entirely true.
Hadn’t she experienced visions of her own while visiting her forest? The pool of gold and glass lilies. The black bear who begged for death. She’d seen it before it happened.
“How is it possible?” she amends, biting her lip. “How does magic let you…?”
“Sometimes it’s a fancy of genetics,” he replies. “Like your intended. Occasionally, a witch makes modifications to themselves to reach greater magical heights.” He then looks directly at her. “Sometimes, magic just leaks.”
Enid swallows hard. “I’m not like you. Either of you.”
“No, you are not,” Ren agrees, leaning his elbows on the table. “You are something else entirely, Enid Sinclair. I hadn’t thought I would live to meet another in spring.”
“What…um, what does that mean?” Enid asks.
Ren smiles. “Never mind. It seems you made your choice, Enid Sinclair.”
Enid glances down at the rune beneath her fingertips. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I have.”
Notes:
i realize canon has confirmed wednesday is born in the fall blah blah blah but when have i ever cared about canon? anyways i'm clinging to my hc of wednesday born in march and enid born in late july because it's relevant to the plot later on >:)
next update: monday 11/10
Chapter 142: Taut
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Enid can hear pots and pans rattling in the kitchen from two halls away.
She tentatively peeks inside, and sure enough, there’s Wednesday at the counter, whisking with one hand while the other cracks eggs into a comically oversized mixing bowl. Her shoulders are taut, braids still messy from sleep. Enid would know from her scent alone that she’s upset, but the braids are a dead giveaway. Wednesday doesn’t appear in public without immaculate hair as a rule.
Enid takes a single step inside, then freezes when Wednesday whips around.
Her expression eases once she lays eyes on Enid, but she’s still tensed like a wounded animal. Ready to flee, Enid thinks. Or fight.
“Enid,” Wednesday breathes.
“Are you mad at me?” Enid blurts in response.
Wednesday’s eyebrows raise. “What?”
“Are you—” Enid wraps her arms around herself. “I’m sorry.”
Wednesday sets her mixing bowl aside and wipes her hands on a nearby towel. She’s already crossed most of the kitchen by the time she finishes with the towel, which ends up abandoned on the floor the instant Wednesday reaches her.
“I’m not angry,” Wednesday tells her, hands curling around Enid’s shoulders.
Enid swallows. “You smell angry,” she mumbles.
Wednesday’s scent eases a little bit as she visibly collects herself. “Come here, Puppy.”
She leads Enid to the countertop and physically cages her in. Enid can feel the unforgiving edge of the counter digging into her lower back, but she’s so grateful to have Wednesday close—to have Wednesday covering her like this, shielding her—that she cannot bring herself to care.
“I’m sorry,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday makes a noise, then slips her hands beneath Enid’s thighs and hoists her up onto the counter, ignoring her squeak of surprise.
“Wednesday, it’s okay—”
“Let me explain. Please,” Wednesday says, hands firm on Enid’s hips. “I would like a chance to explain.”
Enid nods, leaning back against the cabinets. Wednesday steps forward to fill the space between her knees.
“I’m not angry,” Wednesday eventually says, meeting her gaze head-on. “I am frustrated with the situation. Leaving you alone with a stranger in the middle of the night will always piss me off, but particularly so when it’s a runewitch I’m not familiar with.”
Enid gives a little spasm and splutters, completely nonsensically, “Are you jealous?”
Wednesday shoots her a confused look. “I’m…upset,” she replies. “I have no idea what Ren Tanaka’s motivations are for encroaching on our land. To leave you with him, where I can’t protect you…” Wednesday looks up, and Enid can tell it costs her something to admit, “It makes me feel powerless.”
It’s as if understanding comes to her all at once. This is the girl who begged her repeatedly not to hide, who pleaded for Enid to show her wolf face even in the safety of their bed, and still did not look upon her with fear. She has always, always advocated for Enid to embrace every facet of herself, no matter how wicked and worrisome.
She was a fool to think that Wednesday would celebrate a blade that steals her magic. Wednesday would be horrified to be presented with such a thing. Because never, not once in the entire time that Enid has known her, has Wednesday asked Enid to lessen herself.
Not even for her sake.
“I get it,” Enid marvels. “I—I get it now.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Enid insists, leaning forward. “Wednesday, you and I—we’re a team. We fight together.”
Wednesday’s face creases with relief. “Yes,” she whispers. She releases a long, slow breath. “I will not abandon you. Pack is pack,” she adds dryly.
Enid giggles aloud, hand over her mouth. “Where did you hear that? Toby?”
“Does it matter?” Wednesday responds. She reaches forward and drags Enid’s hand away from her lips, then tugs on her courting braid for good measure. “If you were human, I would say I subscribe to the ethos of no man left behind.”
“Well, that makes it sound like it’s just about me,” Enid jokes, swinging her legs.
Wednesday does not laugh. “Correct,” she replies, eyes intent on her face. “It is about you. I will never leave you behind, Enid. The rest can burn, for all I care.”
Enid falls silent and still, slowly lifting her hand to Wednesday’s face. When Wednesday does not protest, Enid touches her cheek, just a ghost of her fingertips, then slides her hand around the nape of Wednesday’s neck and tentatively pulls her in.
Wednesday meets her kiss with a groan, hand planting beside them as she leans her full weight into Enid’s chest. Enid sighs in relief, wrapping both legs around Wednesday’s waist.
“I was making you breakfast,” Wednesday murmurs into her mouth. “I know you must be starving by now.”
Enid shrugs. As far as her priorities go, food doesn’t rank very high compared to Wednesday’s mouth.
“Poor thing,” Wednesday hums. “Aren’t you?”
Enid reluctantly draws back. “Aren’t I what?” she asks.
Wednesday’s eyes flick down to her mouth. “Hungry,” she responds.
Enid’s mouth automatically fills with saliva. “I—um, I don’t want to eat you,” she nervously laughs. “I’m not that kind of wolf.”
Wednesday’s eyes drag back up to meet her gaze. “Aren’t you?”
Enid audibly exhales, cheeks warming. “Wednesday,” she protests. “We’re literally in the kitchen.”
Wednesday rolls her eyes, but pulls off. “If you insist,” she replies.
“Yeah, I do,” Enid huffs, hopping down. “Ask me how much I want to eat you when we’re alone.”
Wednesday twists around to look at her, but Enid’s already swanning past to peer into the mixing bowl.
“What are you making?” Enid asks. She sniffs again. “Sugar?”
“Crêpes,” Wednesday answers, coming to stand beside her. “Would you like to help?”
“Sure,” Enid agrees, leaning against the counter. “Do you want me to stir?”
“If you would. I’ll handle the strawberries,” Wednesday decides.
Enid tries to focus on carefully adding her butter and flour, but it’s difficult to pay attention when Wednesday’s wielding a paring knife like a fine instrument as she expertly cuts up the strawberries.
The kitchen smells sweet like summer. Enid’s stomach really does begin to protest the lack of food the longer she stands there, watching Wednesday work. She ate a full dinner under Wednesday’s close supervision, but she’s never been one to turn down a home-cooked meal, and the sun is beginning to rise.
“Come sit up here for me,” Wednesday instructs, patting the counter beside the stovetop.
Though Enid does as bid, she protests, “Won’t I get in your way?”
She snags an uncut strawberry from the basket, teeth sinking into the fruit.
The corners of Wednesday’s lips curl up. “I like having something pretty to look at,” she answers, dropping a pat of butter in her pan. The sizzling nearly covers the sound of Enid’s choking gasp.
“Swallow,” Wednesday instructs without looking at her. “Be careful with my things.”
Enid pauses mid-bite, hand falling limp. A streak of strawberry juice arcs across her thigh, shiny and pink atop her skin. Nearly the same color as her skirt.
“You mean the strawberry?” Enid rasps.
Wednesday notices the strawberry juice, eyes zeroing in on the mess. Before Enid can say a single word, Wednesday leans down and licks the juice from her. Her tongue drags flat and wide up Enid’s skin, nearly to the apex of her thighs.
“No,” Wednesday says into her lap. “I don’t mean the strawberry.”
“Wednesday,” Enid gasps, hands gripping the edge of the counter. She presses her thighs together. “Um. I’m not wearing underwear.”
“I’m aware,” Wednesday responds, voice low. “Did you forget who dressed you?”
Enid swallows a whimper, squeezing her eyes shut. “N-No.”
“Don’t worry,” Wednesday tells her, patting her thigh. Her thumb strokes the soft, sensitive part behind Enid’s knee. “I’ll feed you soon.”
By the time Wednesday finishes the crêpes, Enid has mostly gotten her blush under control. She does wish she’d thought to ask for pants, though.
“Eat,” Wednesday instructs, offering a forkful of crepe and strawberry slices. Her pretty, manicured hand hovers beneath the fork, ready and waiting to catch any spills. Enid’s chest aches just watching her.
“Thank you,” Enid tells her, swallowing. “So good, Wednesday.”
Wednesday smells more content than she has since Ren’s arrival as she feeds Enid her crepe, bite by bite.
The moment Enid finishes, Wednesday’s on her, fork clattering on the countertop as she licks into Enid’s mouth.
“So sweet,” she murmurs. “My Puppy always tastes so lovely. Aren’t you sweet, Enid?”
Enid moans—and would have done a lot worse than that, if not for the pointed throat clearing in the doorway.
“Ahem,” the voice asserts. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”
Wednesday nearly hisses as she pulls back. “Must you, mother?” she demands.
Morticia enters with a serene smile. “I must,” she replies, clasping her hands together. “First and foremost, the modiste is due to arrive this morning. I trust you’ll both be available in an hour?”
Enid wilts, thinking an hour surely isn’t long enough for whatever Wednesday had planned for her.
Wednesday looks similarly incensed. “Undoubtedly, they’ll want time to settle in.”
“I’m afraid we’re working on a tight schedule. Not a moment to spare, according to Ksenia,” Morticia replies, smile in place. Her eyes find Enid. “On that note, I have a task to complete, and it occurred to me that Enid might enjoy tagging along in the forest.”
Wednesday opens her mouth to protest, but Enid’s already hopped down from the counter with an apologetic wince. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d say no to Morticia, and Morticia seems to know that, judging by the pleased lilt to her smile.
“Come along, dear,” Morticia airily says. “We’re heading into the forest.”
“Uh, should I change first?” Enid asks, voice rising in question.
“What you’re wearing will suffice just fine.”
Enid hopes so, considering Morticia is sporting a wine colored gown with a floor-length cape.
“I’ll see you later?” Enid asks Wednesday.
Wednesday crosses her arms, but nods. “You will.”
“Make sure you eat breakfast too, okay?” Enid calls after her, walking backwards to keep Wednesday in sight.
Wednesday’s expression warms. “I will,” she promises. “I’ll even feed your unruly guest.”
“No need for that,” Morticia interjects, hand on the doorframe. “Pugsley and your father have returned from the forest. They can arrange breakfast.”
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “Were they successful in locating Enid’s shadow?”
“The missing hare?” Morticia asks. “No. They were not.”
Enid reaches the door then, and she tosses Wednesday one last smile of commiseration before exiting with Morticia. It doesn’t surprise her to learn the Addams were outfoxed by Mǎo; Enid could tell from the moment they met that the creature had an unnatural awareness of the forest.
“What are we doing today?” Enid asks, following her outside. The sun has just begun peeking over the trees, sky peach-creme with color.
“My older sister sent me saplings,” Morticia tells her, pausing to retrieve a bag from the steps. Enid can see a few tufts of evergreen needles protruding from the opening. “Would you like to help me plant them?”
“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Enid marvels, skipping down the steps two at a time.
“Oh, yes,” Morticia answers with a little laugh. “I have an identical twin. I was actually referring to my teacher, Momoko.”
Enid frowns. “Is it normal to call your teacher your sister?”
“Only amongst woodwitches,” Morticia replies, leading them deeper into the woods. “I apprenticed under Momoko when I was about your age. She’s the younger sister of a true daughter of the forest—a witch like you.”
Enid nearly trips over her own feet. “Really?” she squeaks. “So you actually know someone else? Like me?”
“Yes. I have met Sayuri before, though obviously Momoko knows her far better than I do. Perhaps you will visit her someday,” Morticia muses. She pauses without warning, staring ahead. “I daresay this spot will do nicely.”
Enid shrugs, accepting the trowel Morticia passes her. “I don’t know any Japanese,” she points out. “I’m not sure how well I’d do in Japan.”
“I didn’t have a single Japanese phrase in my arsenal when I boarded my first plane to Tokyo,” Morticia responds. “And I hear you’re quite the language prodigy. Perhaps you’d like some of my old schoolbooks?”
Enid copies Morticia’s technique as best she can, patting the dirt around her newly-planted sapling. “Yeah, that would be great,” she muses. Really, she should have been studying Mandarin in preparation for Shanghai, but there’s not much she can do with a week to go.
“Beautiful,” Morticia murmurs, wiping her hands. "That’s that. Come along, dear."
Enid dutifully follows after her. She's prepared to do pretty much anything Morticia asks her to do.
“Are we heading back to the house?” Enid asks, already perking up at the thought of tracking down Wednesday. She might still be in the kitchen if they hurry.
“Yes, although I wanted to discuss a rather delicate matter with you,” Morticia says. “I hope you don’t mind the deception, but I thought it might be easier to discuss without prying eyes or ears.”
“You mean…Wednesday?” Enid asks, stomach churning with discomfort. The very last thing she wants is for Morticia to ask her to keep a secret from Wednesday. She feels like she’s been skating too close to lying already with Ren’s untimely arrival.
“Partially,” Morticia admits. “I wished to discuss the matter of the guest list for the ball with you.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Is this because I asked to invite my friends? Yoko’s family?”
“Of course not, dear,” Morticia soothes her. “I am asking after your family.”
Enid comes to a stop, right there in the middle of the woods. She braces herself and asks, “My family?”
“It would be a severe social gaffe not to invite your parents and siblings to your celebration,” Morticia gently tells her. “That said, I will gladly bear the consequences to ensure that you feel safe in my home. I leave the decision in your hands.”
Enid keeps her eyes on the forest floor. A green caterpillar is crawling awfully close to the hem of Morticia’s dress.
Before the poor bug can get himself squished, Enid squats down and rescues him from the dirt. She relocates the caterpillar onto a nearby plant, grinding her teeth together even as she internally concedes.
She’d rather suffer the indifference or, worse, disapproval of her parents a hundred times over than disappoint Morticia.
“You can invite them,” Enid announces. “And—there’s this other family. The Cliffords? Their son Jordan might lead the pack someday now that Hugo’s toast. I think we should invite them, too.”
When Enid glances at Morticia, she discovers Morticia watching her with a strange glint in her eye.
“Of course,” Morticia tells her. “How astute. Would you like to return to the house before making the call?”
Enid pulls her phone out of her pocket, holding it up in the air. “I’ll just send a text.”
Unfortunately, less than five minutes after her text spirits out into the universe, Enid’s phone begins to ring. She looks wide-eyed at Morticia, who smirks to herself.
“Please, don’t mind me,” Morticia tells her.
Enid grimaces and answers the call. “Hello?” she tentatively asks.
“Sinclair,” Jordan responds. When neither of them speaks, Jordan adds, “It’s about your text.”
“...Yeah?” Enid replies. “Did you have a question about it, or…?”
“Is Debbie invited?” Jordan asks, voice short.
Despite herself, Enid softens. She’d nearly forgotten that Jordan was courting Debbie Hall.
“Yeah. Debbie’s definitely invited,” she responds. “And your parents, too.”
“Okay.” There’s a stilted moment of silence, then, “See you soon.”
Jordan clicks off before she can answer. Nevertheless, Enid finds herself smiling as they forge onwards.
“I take it that was a favorable response?” Morticia asks, clearly amused.
Enid grins back at her. “I know this sounds stupid, but I’ve never had a single person in my pack want to attend a party for me. This is, like, uncharted territory,” she laughs.
Morticia’s smile grows rather fixed. “What about your birthday parties?”
“Oh, I wasn’t…I wasn’t very popular growing up,” Enid snorts. “I didn’t have birthday runs. I’m actually kind of shocked Jordan said yes, but I think he and Wednesday sort of hit it off.” She gives a half-shouldered shrug as she skips out of the way to avoid stepping on a landed butterfly in the path.
“That sounds quite unlike my daughter,” Morticia comments. “You must feel attached to the pack, considering they hail from your forest.”
Enid gives an uncomfortable shrug. “I don’t know if I’d say that. But my forest…it is home,” she admits. She then brightens considerably when she recalls, “I have cuttings from my forest.”
Morticia comes to a dead stop in the middle of the path. She turns to Enid and says, breath bated, “You do?”
Enid had known that Morticia was Wednesday’s mother, could see the resemblance between them stark as night, but she had never seen an expression quite so Wednesday-like on another person’s face before this moment. It’s another beat before she responds, “Yes?”
Morticia smiles wide. “You’ll bring them to dinner, won’t you, dear?”
“Uh…” Enid tries and fails to remember where Wednesday stashed the cuttings they’d taken from the eldwood trees. “Sure. I can bring them to dinner, if you want—”
“Excellent,” Morticia says with relish. “Come. I do believe our modistes have arrived.”
Enid can’t begin to divine how Morticia had known that, but sure enough, when they emerge onto the driveway, she instantly notices a sleek black SUV parked in front of the house.
“They sure travel in style,” Enid mumbles.
Morticia snorts. “Gladis and Ksenia have amassed quite the client base since graduating from Nevermore. It would not be an exaggeration to call them the premier threadwitches of the East Coast.”
Enid opens her mouth, intending to ask another question—but her attention wavers when she catches the strangest scent as they pass the car.
“What the hell?” she blurts.
Morticia glances at her in concern. “Is something wrong?”
Enid stares at the SUV, then shakes her head. “No. I don’t…I must have just, uh, hallucinated.”
Morticia’s eyes gleam as she asks, “A vision?”
“A scent, actually,” Enid weakly replies. “But I imagined it.”
Even so, she leans into a jog as they reach the front steps. Enid clears them nearly three at a time, her thighs burning, and she still can’t quite the scent she’d almost thought—wished—she smelled.
Green apples and brown sugar. A scent she’s known all her life.
“To the parlor, then,” Morticia tells her. “On your left, dear. I believe Wednesday will arrive with our guests in short order.”
Inside the parlor, a raised platform has been erected in the center of the room. Three intricately carved mirrors tower around the platform, nearly as high as the ceiling.
“Where do you keep these mirrors?” Enid asks. “I mean, normally. When they’re not in here.”
Morticia chuckles and admits, “These mirrors typically adorn the walls of the ballroom.”
Despite her anxiety, Enid straightens up. “You have a ballroom?”
“Oh, yes,” Morticia answers. “Perhaps you’ll take Enid to see it, Wednesday, dear? Once our business has concluded, of course.”
Enid spins around just in time to watch Wednesday step through the door. The twisting in her stomach immediately eases.
“Of course,” Wednesday echoes. “Though it’s more impressive at night.”
“Don’t discount the dawn, dear,” a new voice emanates from the doorway.
***
Wednesday takes her place beside Enid, and they both shuffle closer to the wall as an imposing woman with weighty spectacles enters the room. She’s prim and polished like a ballerina, hair pulled just as tight.
Gladis Dobrev, Wednesday thinks. As long as she’s known her, the woman has yet to age. Wednesday might suspect her for a vampire if she hadn’t seen Gladis eat garlic-seasoned food with her own eyes.
“Gladis,” Morticia greets her. “Welcome. Where is the rest of your lovely family?”
“Admiring the artwork in the hall,” Gladis answers with a roll of her eyes. “My son’s rather taken with Beksinski these days. Is that an original?”
“My sister-in-law Lucía brought it back from Poland,” Morticia answers. “It normally hangs in our suite, but we thought such a lovely painting deserved a turn in the sun.”
Lucía had dragged the enormous painting of a woman sitting atop a skeletal horse into the house without either Gomez or Morticia’s express permission, by Wednesday’s recollection. They hadn’t seen her for months before her sudden appearance in the dead of night.
Wednesday and Pugsley had roasted marshmallows and bits of mystery meat with Auntie Lucía over the fire as they admired the newest addition to the Addams family home. Morticia and Gomez didn’t discover them for hours.
“How generous of her,” another woman’s soft, lilting voice comes from the hallway. “I do love how you’ve redecorated, Morticia.”
“I enjoy a change of scenery now and again,” Morticia airily replies. “Welcome, Ksenia. Enid, this is Gladis and Ksenia Dobrev," she introduces them. "Our esteemed modistes."
“And this is our son, Yuuri,” Gladis interjects, dragging the boy inching through the doorway into the light. Wednesday can spot his grimace from here. “You might remember him from school. He transferred to Nevermore just last year.”
The rude boy with the tattoos, Wednesday distantly recalls. The boy brave enough to rail at Bianca. “We’ve crossed paths,” she answers, since Enid has gone suspiciously silent and still.
Yuuri scowls, but steps aside, revealing the boy walking just behind him.
Ksenia smiles and adds, “And of course, Yuuri’s beloved mate—”
Enid gasps, nearly tilting over and slipping down the wall. It’s as if her limbs have gone loose, all control of her body beyond her. Wednesday grips her by the arm, narrowly keeping her from collapsing right there in the middle of the parlor.
“Oh my God,” Enid whispers. “I knew it was you.”
“Who?” Wednesday demands, shooting the sandy-haired newcomer a glare. “Who is that man, Enid?”
“That’s—” Enid gasps. “My—my brother—”
“Enid?” the boy breathes, eyes wide with disbelief.
“—Chase,” Enid warbles in response.
Notes:
>:) WELCOME BACK CHASE SINCLAIR
next update: friday 11/14
EDIT: pushing next chapter to monday 11/17! will update on twitter if anything changes
Chapter 143: Found
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
From an early age, Chase learned there was much to fear at home.
All wolves in San Francisco knew better than to venture into the forest alone. The dark holds horrors, creatures and monsters and shadows of all sizes, and wise wolves stay out of it whenever possible.
Chase did his level best to keep his younger brother and his little sister safe from the nightmare outside their door. If he could just keep them safe, he would have succeeded in his responsibilities as an older sibling.
Then Enid disappeared in the woods.
She was gone for days. Even their parents seemed concerned, launching a full-blown search with the warriors, and Chase had defied them all to search for her himself.
He’d trekked through the forest for hours, until his feet bled and his vision blurred, hoping desperately for a single sign that his sister lived. Her scent on a tree. A heel dug into the earth in the shape of her small foot.
Chase hadn’t found her. Enid remained missing until Healer Niima somehow, inexplicably located her, and she was returned to their family, dirty and hungry but otherwise uninjured. Changed, but unharmed.
Their mother was relieved when she was found, and then promptly furious when Enid reappeared. Esther never looked at her the same after that. Everything Enid did was ridiculed, derided, or looked at with an air of suspicion. It was as though their parents didn’t trust her, despite her being their daughter. Just a little kid. A lost wolf.
Chase had seen how it wore down Enid. The sister who’d once sung to herself through all hours of the day and night became quiet, always walking on her tiptoes to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Maybe it shouldn’t have shocked him that Enid would rather be in the woods than their house.
He would try to stop her. To include her, so that she wouldn’t feel the need to draw back and venture off, but nothing helped. If Enid was missing, she was inevitably sequestered somewhere in the forest. Chase always did his best to keep their parents from finding out.
So it comes as a surprise but not a shock when he realizes the others in the parlor are referring to Enid like she’s some sort of wicked witch of the woods. Just like Devon said, he thinks. Chase loves his sister, has always adored her, but something in Enid changed when she went missing. She was never the same since that first time he failed to find her.
Chase thought of it like a shadow in the back of Enid’s eyes. It wasn’t always visible, and sometimes, he could even forget, but then the light would hit her a certain way and he would see it. That flicker, deep in her eyes. Something other.
Maybe it was just magic all along. Her wood magic. Whatever it is that makes Enid—brave, Enid, always caring—a witch like they say.
Chase imagines that if he thinks that enough times, he might even come to believe it.
***
Enid had known she would cry the moment she laid eyes on Chase again, but she hadn’t expected the naked relief on his face. It’s more than just a long time apart—more than siblings who were once close. He’s relieved to see me alive, Enid realizes. For some reason, he didn’t expect to see her again.
“Chase,” she manages to choke out. “I’m sorry.”
Chase exhales, crumping with relief, and he finds her in the middle of the parlor just as Enid launches off her feet and into his arms. He buries his face in her neck, inhaling deep, and Enid tries hard not to shake.
He still loves her. Even after everything she’s done, bringing a witch on the territory and rejecting her parents’ wishes and being a veritable all-around failure of a pack member, forever refusing to fall in line, Chase loves her.
“I’m sorry,” Enid says again.
“Why are you apologizing?” he laughs, though his voice sounds thick. Enid nearly chokes on the sadness in his scent. “I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I left you there, E.”
Enid’s eyes well up with tears. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should have taken you with me.” Chase is crying now, too. “I shouldn’t have left you there alone. I was—if I could have gotten on the territory, I would have looked for you. I would have found you this time.”
“I was okay,” Enid tells him. Her voice cracks as she says, “I am okay,” and meets Wednesday’s eyes over his shoulder.
Wednesday’s expression softens. She gives a little nod and steps back.
“You were okay with mom and dad?” Chase says, disbelieving. “With the elders?”
Enid flinches, but remains standing. “Yes,” she replies. “I wasn’t alone. Wednesday was with me.”
Chase finally pulls back and twists around, looking for Wednesday. When he finds her, his lips split in a broad smile, heedless of the tears staining his cheeks.
“Addams,” he says, voice warm. Tucking Enid under his arm, he extends a hand in Wednesday’s direction. “We’re not on the territory, and my protection doesn’t mean jack shit, but you have my loyalty. Thank you for taking care of my sister.”
Wednesday gives a firm nod and takes his hand. “I will always protect her.”
“She’ll need it,” Chase says, and Enid flushes at his tone.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, suspicion beginning to materialize in the hard set of her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Chase,” Enid mutters. “Jesus. You’re scaring everyone.”
“I’m not joking,” Chase continues, unhampered. “Enid was a target, yeah, but not just for—not just for what you think.”
Now Enid’s feeling alarm flicker to life in her stomach, twisting and terrible. “Chase,” she says. “I’m not going to—that was a long time ago.” She hasn’t gotten turned around in those woods for years. It boggles her that Chase still remembers that.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” he replies, staring down at her. “I’ll never forget how it felt. You were just…gone.”
“I was in the forest,” Enid argues, albeit weakly. “I wasn’t in danger or anything.”
Chase scoffs. “You weren’t in danger, right. You were lost in the middle of the most treacherous forest on the west coast, a little unpresented kid on her own, and you weren’t in danger. Enid, you never stopped being in danger. The way that they watched you after that—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enid protests at the same time as Wednesday says, “And what does that mean?”
“Exactly like it sounds,” Chase tells Wednesday. “You’ve been on the territory.”
“Yes, I have,” Wednesday replies, brow furrowing.
“Then you know,” Chase states. “You’ve seen how they treat Enid—”
“Chase, shut up,” Enid snaps. “You’re—stop fucking bringing up—”
“Mom and dad?” Chase retorts. “Everyone in this room knows, Enid. I think they’ve gotten the picture by now.”
“Enough,” Wednesday interjects, stepping forward and drawing Enid out from under his arm. “She's had enough.”
Chase doesn’t look even a little bit regretful. His face twists with defiance, obstinate to the last. “You want to protect her? Fine. Then you should know that monsters always find my sister. No matter where she goes, home or otherwise—”
“They find her,” Wednesday finishes, eyes alighting with understanding. “They track her down. Don’t they?”
“Like a homing beacon,” Chase agrees. “Our parents were no different. Whenever she was in the house, she couldn’t escape them.”
“Chase,” Enid gasps. “Shut up.”
“I won’t shut up,” Chase tells her. “Not anymore. We don’t—” For some reason, when he looks at Gladis and Ksenia, his cheeks color. “We don’t pretend not to see shit in the Dobrev family.”
Enid cringes back, shame swelling hot and thick in her throat. Wednesday sends her a concerned look and squeezes her hand.
“Right you are,” Gladis speaks up. “Morticia, I should have called you earlier. We would love to attend the girls’ celebration, but I’m afraid we will not be doing so if Esther Sinclair or her mate are on the property.”
To her credit, Morticia’s face remains remarkably composed. “Consider the extended Sinclair family officially uninvited,” she responds. When her eyes inevitably find Enid’s face, Enid drops her gaze to the floor. “I hadn’t yet made the call to invite them, auspiciously enough.”
“Excellent,” Gladis replies. “Then we can get started.”
“I’d like to hear more about how every danger in every forest Enid steps foot into ends up attracted to her exact location, while we’re on the subject,” Wednesday interjects, ignoring Enid’s glance of warning. “Why does this keep happening?”
“I think it rather makes sense,” Morticia suggests. “Considering her status. Magical creatures will recognize her, even if they’ve never met another daughter. They’ll inherently see her as a threat.”
“Daughter?” Chase repeats, brow furrowing.
Enid groans internally, but admits, “I’m…Chase, since you last saw me…” She struggles to find the words.
Chase frowns. “Is this about the woods?”
Enid exchanges a look with Wednesday, who squeezes her hand.
“What do you mean?” Enid tentatively asks him. “What about the woods?”
“You and the forest,” Chase returns. “Your thing.”
“What thing?” Yuuri speaks up, voice gruff. “Woodwitches belong in the forest, Chase.”
Enid feels a little bit staggered, because unless she just hallucinated, it sounded a little like Chase’s mate just tried to defend her.
“I know you,” Enid whispers, staring hard in his direction. “You’re the one with the mean—you lived in Ophelia, didn’t you?” she quickly pivots upon seeing Chase's expression.
“The boy with the mean what?” Chase asks, disapproval clear in his tone.
“Face, I imagine,” Wednesday answers him. “Your mate was prone to scowling at anyone who ventured too close. He also screamed at Bianca Barclay in front of an entire classroom of students,” she helpfully adds.
Yuuri flushes, but nods. “You’re Enid Sinclair,” he replies, lips pressing together in a hard line. “Chase’s sister.”
He’s nervous, Enid realizes. Maybe she wasn’t as welcoming to Yuuri at school as she strictly could have been.
“I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better,” Enid offers, albeit awkwardly. “And for—implying you had a mean face.”
“He doesn’t have a mean face,” Chase interjects. “That was rude.”
“Yeah, it was,” Enid agrees. She takes a deep breath, then smiles. “I don’t think I ever really introduced myself.”
Yuuri shrugs, visibly uncomfortable. “You had a lot going on last term.”
It’s Enid’s turn to blush. “I—yeah, but if I had known that you were—that my brother was your mate—”
“It’s a recent thing,” Chase sighs, returning to Yuuri’s side. “I didn’t ask when I should have. Yuuri left SOLLS without me officially asking to court him.”
“I didn’t know,” Yuuri informs him. “You never said you wanted to court me.”
Chase smiles. “I guess I kind of figured throwing away my spot in the pack and very publicly going against Flint was evidence enough that I was in love with you.”
“Flint?” Wednesday speaks up, expression brightening with clear interest. “Hugo Flint?”
Chase’s face goes hard in an instant. “That prick had a thing for messing with him. He wouldn’t leave Yuuri alone, and eventually, I had to step in—”
“That’s why you weren’t home when we got there,” Enid realizes, stomach sinking. “Mom and dad…they had you trespassed, didn’t they? You’re not allowed to come back?”
Chase gives a short, grief-stricken nod. “I didn’t even make it onto the territory. The warriors met me at the border.”
Enid sucks in a sharp breath. “Nobody spoke up for you?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. Nobody in the Flint pack would have accepted a wolf that took a witch for a mate. “What about Alex, or Brody—?”
“Alex took my phone from my hand and said to leave with my guts intact,” Chase responds. “He was disgusted. Wouldn’t even look me in the eye.”
“I’m so sorry,” Enid stutters. “I—I texted you so many times. I should have known something was really, seriously wrong when I never heard back—I should have come to find you—”
“I was already in New York by then,” Chase soothes her. “When Gladis and Ksenia heard what happened, they offered for me to stay with them until Yuuri’s summer break.”
“But summer break at Nevermore isn’t for another few weeks,” Enid replies, confused.
“We pulled Yuuri out of school for your celebration, dear,” Ksenia says. She gives a warm smile. “He was rather nervous to come here, truth be told.”
“Yuuri’s an only child,” Gladis states. “He’s not used to being around extended family.”
Yuuri doesn’t deny it, though his scowl deepens as he sticks his hands into his pockets.
When Enid notices Wednesday’s pointed gaze, she blinks back at her, confused.
“Chase, how did mom and dad know?” Enid asks, wrapping her arms around herself. “About you and Yuuri, I mean. If they had wolves ready to intercept you at the border…”
Wednesday releases her hand very reluctantly, slipping an arm around Enid’s waist. Steadying her.
Chase winces, and for some reason, Yuuri turns bright red. “Um. It was kind of obvious at school. I gave up on lying and just…told the truth, when people asked.” He then scowls. “I’m sure Hugo gleefully spread the news that I was courting a witch when he got home.”
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Mom and dad really kicked you out?” she asks, voice small.
Because if they’d thrown Chase from the pack without even hearing his side of the story, if they’d disowned one of their precious sons for mating with a witch—how on Earth did she and Wednesday somehow escape their wrath?
“Don’t worry about me. I’m an adult, E,” he tells her. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m an adult, too,” Enid argues. “And I just don’t—get it. Why did you get turned away at the border, and—and—”
“And you were welcomed in?” Chase guesses. “Honestly, I think the shock of what I did scared mom and dad straight. I was disposable, but you…”
“You’re not disposable,” Enid whispers. “You’re my brother.”
Chase’s scent sweetens, even as his expression turns decidedly bleak. “Devon told me you brought a witch home for the hunt. Brave of you, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Enid mutters. “I’m turning twenty next month.” She then frowns and adds, “You’re still talking to Devon?”
“He sent a letter to my school after Wednesday brutalized Hugo Flint in front of the entire pack,” Chase reveals. “It got rerouted to my new address. Um, in New York. I gave him my new number,” he shrugs.
“Is it nice in New York?” Enid asks, setting the mystery of Devon’s sudden change of heart aside for a moment. “Do you have a job there?”
“I’m hoping I get accepted at one of the universities,” Chase reveals, cheeks coloring. “I’ve always wanted to get a degree, and that way, I can stay closer to Yuuri. Vermont’s not so far.”
Enid can’t help but smile at the way Chase says his name. Reverent, she thinks. Like he really loves him.
“I’m so glad, Chase. I…I’m sorry home wasn’t safe for you,” she says, eyes stinging.
That’s her place. Her territory, her domain, and Chase wasn’t able to enter. He didn’t feel welcome in her forest.
“Well, it’s definitely not your fault,” Chase laughs, stepping forward to squeeze her shoulder. “Why do you smell so guilty?”
“It is my fault,” Enid warbles. “I should have—you should feel safe there, Chase. You should always feel safe in those woods,” she insists, clutching her arms.
“Enid,” Wednesday interjects. “Breathe.”
Enid nods, trying to calm down. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s your forest,” Wednesday replies, voice low and soothing. “Of course this would upset you. It would upset anyone.”
“I daresay it is completely natural for a woodwitch to feel responsible for her territory,” Morticia speaks up. “But what could anyone have done from thousands of miles away, my darling?”
Enid slumps, allowing Wednesday to take her weight as the fight drains out of her. “I don’t know. I just…he shouldn’t have been turned away.”
Wednesday clutches her tighter, scent thickening with agitation.
“So, bring him back,” Wednesday tells her. “Let’s walk him into the forest and demand that no one leaves the pack without your express permission. What will the Elders do?”
“Blow a gasket, probably?” Chase laughs, looking a little bewildered. “No offense, but what are you guys talking about? Why would anyone listen to my sister, even if she is a witch?”
Wednesday’s scent sours, her shoulders tensing, but Enid knows what he meant. She places a hand over Wednesday’s.
“I’m not...” She pauses, biting her lip. “Something’s changed, Chase.”
“Clearly,” Gladis speaks up. “I should have expected this, Morticia. Your family has always produced exemplary witches.”
“Thank you,” Morticia answers. “Though I cannot take credit for this.”
Chase’s face remains blank. “I don’t understand. Aren’t all the Addams witches?”
“They’re talking about Enid,” Wednesday informs him.
Chase stares at Enid, unmoving, for a long moment. Then he sighs and says, “I should have protected you.”
“From…magic?” Enid asks, confusion swirling in her gut.
“Not from magic,” he says, eyes flicking to the side. Though he is clearly trying to censor his words, his meaning is clear.
Enid wilts. “No one could have protected me from that,” she mumbles. “I couldn’t even protect myself.”
“A kid shouldn’t have to protect themselves,” Chase tells her.
“You were a kid, too,” Enid retorts.
He gives a sad smile. “You’re my sister. It’s my job to look after you.”
After a moment of stilted silence, Morticia claps her hands together.
“Wednesday, why don’t you take Yuuri on a tour of the house while we get Enid sorted?" Morticia proposes, clapping her hands. "Yes, run along. We'll look after your intended, my darling,” she adds when it looks like Wednesday might protest.
“Don’t worry,” Chase tells her. “I’ll stay here with Enid.”
Wednesday wears a scowl that rivals even Yuuri's, but she does as bid and exits after him.
“We won’t take too much of your time,” Ksenia assures Enid, offering a warm smile. “We’ve already selected the fabrics. We just need to confirm your measurements and make a decision on which fabric you’d like to wear.”
“Oh, I’m fine with, um, whatever everyone else is wearing?” she replies, voice rising in question. “I want to—match, or whatever. I don’t want to look out of place.”
“Sweet, but misguided,” Gladis interjects, peering at Enid’s face. “You’re a warm spring. Black won’t flatter you.”
“Warm spring?” Morticia asks. “How intriguing. I had guessed light summer.”
“She looks like a summer,” Gladis replies. “Anyone would mistake her for a summer right up until they see her blush. The warmth of her cheeks belongs to spring.”
“What’s a warm spring?” Enid asks.
Morticia gives a tinkling laugh, and even Chase cracks a smile. Enid tries not to feel embarrassed for opening her mouth.
“Your color season,” Ksenia explains, giving Enid a gentle smile. “I’m a light autumn. We have warm skin tones and low-contrast features. Similar to you, actually.”
“Except that warm springs are clear and bright,” Gladis interjects. “You’re hazy in coloring, my dear.”
Ksenia laughs. “You’ve said that since the day we met.”
“We were fifteen. And I was awkward,” Gladis says, matter-of-fact. “I would rather not relive it.”
“All roommates are awkward at first,” Morticia hums. “Just ask my darling daughter.”
“I’ll pass that along to Wednesday,” Enid pipes up, smiling despite herself. “She’ll definitely agree that I was awkward.”
“On the contrary, I was suggesting they ask you, dear,” Morticia gently says. “You see, ladies, while Enid tried very hard to make her new roommate feel welcome, Wednesday could have stood to be a tad more receptive to her efforts.”
“Common for a child,” Gladis murmurs. “And a runewitch, for that matter.”
“We tend to be rather solitary,” Ksenia agrees. “Social graces don’t come naturally to most of us. It’s the nature of our magic, I suspect.”
Enid tries to ignore the heat in her cheeks. “I liked Wednesday just the way she was,” she mumbles.
“Very warm,” Gladis comments, eyes on Enid’s cheeks. “Throw out the sunset pattern, Ksenia. This witch should be dressed in dawn.”
Ksenia makes a noise of agreement. “Chase, dear—?”
“Here you go,” Chase responds, plucking a bolt of fabric out of the pile by the mirrors. “Spring dawn.”
Ksenia holds up the pink fabric against Enid’s face. “What do you think, Miss Enid?”
“Just Enid is fine,” she replies, blushing harder. “We’re—um, family, aren’t we? Since your son mated with my brother?”
Ksenia’s resulting smile is kind. “I would consider us so.”
“And the fabric?” Gladis prods, face ripe with expectation.
Enid offers a smile of her own. “I think it’s just right.”
***
“Would you like to see the library?” Wednesday very reluctantly asks, resisting the urge to glance back at the front hall. “It’s this way.”
“I’d rather stay close by Chase,” Yuuri replies, voice blunt. “He was upset for a long time. He might get upset again.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, slowing. “Anyone would be upset over being forced to leave their home,” she diplomatically replies.
“He worried about throwing his sister to the wolves,” Yuuri states. “He said Enid would defend herself against people her age, but she was taught not to defy her parents or the elders.”
“She should have been taught to exact retribution for the suffering they caused her,” Wednesday mutters. Her eyes narrow as a new thought occurs to her. “Did your Chase tell you how their mother treated her?”
“I’m not going to talk about that,” Yuuri instantly replies. “Ask Enid if you want to know.”
“Enid insists that the way she grew up was normal,” Wednesday says. She seems to genuinely believe it, too, she thinks.
“Chase didn’t realize how awful his parents were until they kicked him out,” Yuuri tells her. His face twists, and then he blurts, “You shouldn’t assume Enid’s lying just because what she’s saying sounds improbable. That’s not fair.”
Wednesday drawls, “Funny. I don’t recall you caring overmuch about her feelings when we were at school and you never missed an opportunity to glare at her.”
Yuuri scowls. "Look, I don't make friends easily," he blurts, aggressive even in the cadence of his tone. "I know that. But I didn't make a mean face at your intended. And if I did, it was a fucking accident, okay?"
“You accidentally snarl like a hellhound whenever someone speaks to you, brushes by you, or otherwise acknowledges your existence?” Wednesday surmises. “And here I was thinking it was intentional.”
"I don't like to be touched," Yuuri mutters. "Stresses me out. Gets my turtles all bent out of shape."
Wednesday remains neutral. "Neither Enid nor I will touch you."
At Yuuri's dubious expression, she adds with a bite in her voice, "And if we had, it was most certainly by accident."
“I believe that,” Yuuri says. “Your Enid is very protective. So are you, even though she’s a werewolf.”
Wednesday straightens up. “Can you blame me?”
Yuuri frowns. “I’m protective of Chase, but I know he can protect himself.”
“I daresay your Chase has fewer enemies than Enid,” Wednesday retorts. “He wasn’t exaggerating. Enid courts attention, wanted or otherwise, wherever she goes. The woods recognize her.”
“Is she really a daughter of the forest?” Yuuri asks.
“Yes,” Wednesday says without hesitation. “She won’t be able to live a life of obscurity now that others have figured her out.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Yuuri informs her.
Wednesday tries not to scowl. “The fate of every daughter is to be known.”
“She can protect herself,” Yuuri replies. “Maybe she didn’t, when she was younger, but she was alone before. Werewolves need a pack.”
Wednesday swallows a snort. “And you’re such an expert?”
“I’ve read a lot of books,” Yuuri answers, entirely serious. “Every book the Nevermore library had to offer.”
Wednesday’s mouth parts with a sudden swell of rage. “You checked out all the books on wolf courting, didn’t you?” she accuses.
“Yes,” Yuuri says without shame. “I was confused about what Chase was doing. It required research.”
Wednesday finds herself somewhat mollified by that, despite the hardship he’d inadvertently caused her. If there’s one thing she understands, it’s the unassailable need to research.
“You were never a true threat to Enid,” she acknowledges. “But I won’t apologize for being cautious.”
Yuuri’s face twists in a scowl. “I don’t make friends easily, Wednesday.”
“I can see that,” Wednesday replies.
"I don't make friends easily," he repeats, "But you're a runewitch. I am, too."
"It's almost like we're related," Wednesday dryly comments.
Yuuri frowns, eyes flicking towards her like he doesn't understand. "No. It means we're both runewitches."
“Is there a point in there, somewhere?” Wednesday asks, beginning to enjoy herself. Yuuri is almost as easy to agitate as Pugsley.
Yuuri scowls. “We can be friends,” he all but spits at her.
Wednesday pauses, taken aback. “You would like to be friends with me?”
"Yes,” Yuuri answers, and beneath his anger, Wednesday spots a hint of relief. “Just don't touch me," he reiterates, back to scowling.
"Don't touch Enid," Wednesday returns, "And we have ourselves a deal."
Yuuri’s face screws up in disgust. “She’s my sister.”
Wednesday feels the aggression drain right out of her. If there’s one thing Enid is in short supply of, it’s siblings who don’t outright despise her.
“I suppose that will suffice,” she decides.
Notes:
yuuri is so funny i'm so glad he's back. and enid is officially wearing pink to the ball!!!
(to be clear, ksenia and gladis' convo about enid's season was purely referring to color analysis. not to anything else >:) )
next update: thursday 11/20
EDIT: beta is busy tonight so pushing to monday!!!
Chapter 144: Serve
Notes:
kink warnings: mutual masturbation, scent marking fabric
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Hand me my shears, Chase.”
Enid watches in confusion as Gladis takes a gleaming set of scissors to the spring dawn fabric without so much as measuring the cut.
“How do you know it’ll fit?” Enid asks, a little bit horrified.
Gladis barks out a laugh. “Ksenia is taking your measurements. This is for the tribute.”
“The…tribute?” Enid repeats, turning her head just in time to notice Ksenia measuring the length of her arm from fingertip to shoulder.
“Turn for me, dear,” Ksenia tells her, and Enid does.
“The tribute for Wednesday,” Morticia answers her. “I remember giving Gomez the piece of my dress. He still keeps it on his person.”
“What did you do with his tribute?” Ksenia asks, lips curling up. “Bury it in the woods?”
“Under Wednesday’s naming tree, actually,” Morticia sniffs. “Her sapling broke ground the next day.”
“A good omen,” Gladis murmurs, examining a small square of the pink fabric Enid had chosen. “That will do. Just let me turn under the edge.”
Enid’s eyes widen as Gladis produces a silver needle and begins stitching the raw edge into a seam, creating a neat little handkerchief. She tenses all over as the needle swims in and out of sight, skin turning clammy with cold sweat.
“Enid?” Chase speaks up. “It’s steel. Not silver.”
Enid releases a long, relieved breath. “Oh,” she weakly replies.
“Good on you for being cautious,” Gladis says with stark approval, tugging Enid back into the center of the platform. “We wouldn’t use any materials you’re allergic to. Even for the sewing.”
“You’re not the first werewolf we’ve dressed,” Ksenia chirps, sharing a knowing smile with Gladis. For some reason, Chase blushes.
“Well, I’ve gotten the measurements I need,” Ksenia continues, unfolding to her full height. “We’ll have the rest of the pieces finished before the girls’ trip,” she tells Morticia directly.
“Perfect,” Morticia replies. “Enid could use a few new things.”
“Uh…I thought I was only supposed to get a gown?” Enid ventures, voice pitching up in question.
"I asked after a couple more items." Morticia waves her off. "Just a few things, of course. Odds and ends."
“Oh. Thank you,” Enid tells her, fighting the urge to fidget. “How much do I owe you?”
Gladis crows like she’s said something awful, and Morticia’s smile becomes rather fixed.
“You owe me nothing,” Morticia tells her. Though her expression belies something sharp and disapproving in her scent, her voice is gentle and sincere. “I love dressing my children. You’ve done me a favor by any measure, my darling.”
Enid flushes hard, unable to swallow the sticky feeling in her throat.
“There,” Gladis states, pressing the swatch of pink fabric into her palm. “Take this with you. Keep it on your person,” she instructs. “Only give it to Wednesday when the time is right.”
“I’m supposed to give this to Wednesday?” Enid asks, chest seizing in sudden fear. “How will I know when the right time is? Will she—”
“You’ll know,” Gladis ominously replies.
“I’m not sure I will, actually,” Enid mumbles, gripping the swatch in both hands. “I don’t want to get this wrong. If it’s as important as you’re implying, I don’t want to mess up.”
Enid notices the women exchanging a look among themselves. She wonders suddenly if she’s said something wrong.
“I gave Yuuri my swatch immediately after I saw him again,” Chase helpfully offers. “I didn’t wait at all.”
“Yuuri was overjoyed to see the color of your ensemble so early,” Gladis says, voice dry. “You should have made him wait.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Ksenia croons. “Yuuri was so red.”
“You did it in public?” Enid asks, aghast.
Chase gives her a strange look. “Well…yeah? It’s not some shameful thing you have to keep hidden. Everyone knows you’re doing it.”
Whatever expression ends up on Enid’s face, it’s enough to have all three women snickering.
“I remember that age,” Ksenia sighs. “Always sneaking around…”
“Again, I would rather not relive it,” Gladis says with a shudder. “No matter how beautiful you looked in your vow ensemble.”
“I did look pretty good, didn’t I?” Ksenia grins. “I wore buttercream yellow.”
“You looked as beautiful and unattainable as the sun,” Gladis tells her. “I wore navy blue.”
“I wore black, of course,” Morticia muses. “Gomez wore black and deep red. He looked dashing.”
“I wore dusk blue,” Chase offers.
“Dusk blue is pretty,” Enid tells him, smiling at his resulting grin. “You always looked nice in blue.”
“Yeah. We sort of had a winter night theme going,” Chase laughs. “Me in dusk blue, Yuuri in silver. It was great.”
Morticia hums. “The Unbreathing Queen would have been thrilled. She was quite miffed that neither Gomez nor I chose to wear her colors.”
“You were promised in another forest,” Gladis dismisses. “Greedy woman. She cannot have every witch who sets foot on her land.”
“Now, now,” Morticia merrily interjects. “Witches are a possessive bunch. Can you blame her?”
“Not a jot,” Gladis retorts. “Though with how many forests she’s claimed, you would think she’d be a tad more lenient with her subjects.”
“Will it be a problem that I’m wearing pink?” Enid tentatively speaks up. “We’re in her forest, right? And pink’s not exactly a winter color. At least I don’t think so?”
“It’s not,” Ksenia confirms. “But no matter. You’re not her subject.”
“I will be wearing a silver shawl for her, dear. You need not worry,” Morticia assures her. “If the Unbreathing Queen sends any spies, they will report back that I was an adoring subject and adequately honored her."
“I guess that’s good,” Enid mumbles, clutching the swatch in her hands.
Gladis pats her wrist. “You’ll know the right time, dear.”
Enid tries to let that bolster her as she leaves the parlor and heads in the general direction of the summer room. The swatch is starting to heat up in her sweaty grasp.
Ironically, she knows exactly how she would present this to her dominant as a wolf. The idea of trying to embody witch culture, on the other hand, still feels alien and uncertain. While she’s sure Wednesday has little to no expectation of her adhering to traditions she didn’t grow up with, Enid still wants to get this right.
The thought of Wednesday being disappointed in her leaves her feeling stricken.
Nevertheless, Gladis and Ksenia had given her so little to work with, Enid decides she has no choice but to stick to what she knows. When a submissive wolf wants to present their dominant with a gift, the proper position is always a full kneel. She’s committed to putting on the best performance of her life by the time she reaches Wednesday’s room.
Enid kneels onto the ground directly across from the hall door, laying out the swatch in a serving grip over her thighs. When Wednesday enters, she’ll lift the swatch to her. For the first time in what feels like far too long, she’ll be able to serve.
***
“You’re finished already?” Yuuri blurts, slowing as they enter the parlor.
Chase glances up from where he was organizing rolls of fabric. When he lays eyes on Yuuri, his entire face brightens. “Yeah, about ten minutes ago. I’m just cleaning up.”
“Where is Enid?” Wednesday demands. Her mother must have taken their guests to the craftsroom, which is always commandeered when Gladis and Ksenia come to work, but there’s no sign of Enid.
“I’m pretty sure she went to find you,” Chase replies, brow furrowing. “Did you miss her?”
“We didn’t see her,” Yuuri reports. “Are you helping my moms?”
“No, I’m off the hook once I have this stuff put away,” Chase tells him, quirking a smile. “Don’t worry, Wednesday. They took the fabric Enid chose with them.”
“Being spoiled for Enid’s outfit is my very last concern,” Wednesday retorts. “Did she seem upset? Distressed?”
“No,” Chase replies, eyes widening. “Why would she be upset?”
Chase must not have spent significant time with his sister for many, many years. Any mention of Enid’s parents causes her to brace like she’s expecting a blow, and the argument that had ensued during her reunion with Chase must have been deeply upsetting. No one likes to have their dirty laundry aired in front of an audience, even if everyone in the room had some inkling of how Enid had been treated by her family.
“I’m going to find her,” Wednesday announces. “For further reference, Chase, it does upset her when others speak of your parents. Please keep that in mind.”
Chase tenses, expression shadowing with some old, learned anger, but he doesn’t argue. “Believe me, Wednesday, she has a lot to be upset about.”
And that’s enough to have Wednesday’s stomach roiling with rage, because all these wolves knew what was happening to the youngest Sinclair, and not a single pack member deigned to step in and do something? She can’t even blame Chase for his failure to protect her. He, like Enid, was a child.
“Be that as it may,” Wednesday manages to state in a mostly even tone, “This is a time of celebration. She should be reminded of her place in this family, not of the worst moments of her life.”
“We won’t talk about the Sinclairs if it upsets Enid,” Yuuri interjects. “I wouldn’t want to be reminded of that shit, either.”
Wednesday gives a short nod, then leaves the room. The rage still curls hot and furious in her gut.
***
On her knees, Enid patiently waits. This position is familiar to her. Natural, even. She was born a submissive, not coached and drilled into submitting, and she will always feel comfortable serving.
When she hears distinct footsteps in the hallway, she lowers her head, exposing the back of her neck. There’s the creak of the door to the summer room opening and closing, then another set of footsteps as Wednesday approaches her bedroom from the hall.
Enid holds her breath as the door opens. She glances up through her lashes as the door slams shut, then tilts her entire face to the light once she catches sight of Wednesday’s expression. The swatch lies forgotten in her hands.
Wednesday has always had a coldness to her, a distance she maintains with every interaction—but now that Enid knows her intimately, she can see that coldness for what it is.
Hunger, deep and ravenous. Difficult enough to control that she hides it behind a stony mask intended to keep all others from seeing her, from seeing it.
Enid’s carefully composed speech goes right out the window. Something about the look on Wednesday’s face has her gulping and automatically widening her knees.
Wednesday watches her impassively, leaning against the door. Though her face is cold, her gaze locks onto Enid like a shark.
After a long moment of silence that sounds a lot like mass mechanical failure in her head, Enid stands up and kicks off her skirt. She removes her shirt, leaving herself completely bare as she sinks back down to her knees.
She hears the click of the lock.
“Were you waiting for me?”
Enid nods. “Yes, Wednesday.”
Wednesday nods, squatting down beside her. “And what does my Puppy want today?”
Enid’s head whips up, breath catching in her throat as she takes in Wednesday’s expression. “It’s for you,” she whispers. “I just wanted to do something for you.”
Some of the coldness in Wednesday’s face fragments. “What did you want to do for me?” she asks, the timbre of her voice volleying between warm and amused.
Enid raises the fabric swatch to the light.
Wednesday’s eyes widen, her lip catching between her teeth. She looks taken aback, or as taken aback as a person like Wednesday Addams can be.
“For me?” she quietly asks.
“For you,” Enid tells her, lifting her hands another inch. “This is what I’m wearing to the ball.”
Wednesday stares at the fabric a moment longer before her gaze shifts to Enid’s face. “I don’t have my tribute yet.”
“...Okay,” Enid replies, trying not to panic. “Is that—it’s still okay for me to give you mine, right?”
Wednesday rises to her full height, towering over her. She’s still wearing her outfit from earlier, leather tight on her waist.
“Yes,” she responds, holding out a hand. “Stand up.”
Enid takes it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Don’t you want the swatch?” she wheedles, disregarding the feeling of having done something wrong.
Wednesday’s eyes flash. “Yes,” she retorts. “But I want you to spread yourself for me first.”
Enid’s mouth falls open, breath shuddering out of her as Wednesday leads her over to the bed.
“Over my knee,” Wednesday orders.
Enid does as instructed, resting on her stomach in Wednesday’s lap. She feels Wednesday’s fingers brush over the clasp of her collar, then lower, skimming over her spine. When she reaches Enid’s ass, she spreads her cheeks, exposing Enid to the room.
Enid tries her damndest to remain in position, but the longer Wednesday handles her, the harder it is to behave.
“Um, Wednesday,” Enid chokes out. If Wednesday makes her come again without allowing her to reciprocate, she might splinter apart into a million miserable pieces. It’s starting to feel like Wednesday doesn’t want Enid to fuck her in return. “Please don’t fuck me,” she ends up blurting. “Not—not unless you’re going to come. I want you to come.”
Wednesday pulls back. “I wasn’t intending to fuck you. Do you have objections to being over my knee?”
“Oh,” Enid mumbles, fidgeting where she lies. Her face warms with embarrassment. “...No?”
“Good,” Wednesday replies, stroking her flank. “Then spread your legs like I told you.”
Enid obeys. She feels Wednesday’s sharp nails dig into her skin as she spreads Enid open, then something silky-soft dragging up her pussy. Is Wednesday—wiping her?
“What are you doing?” Enid squeaks. “Are—are you rubbing something in my slick?”
“Obviously,” Wednesday snorts. “Stay where you are. I’m busy.”
Enid moans into her hands. She manages to stay quiet just long enough for the fabric Wednesday’s sliding between her legs to become soaked, and then she’s trying and failing to throw her hips back and chase down the pressure as Wednesday pulls her hand away.
“No, no—I want—” Enid whimpers.
“What happened to your request?” Wednesday asks, voice just on the edge of mocking. “‘Please don’t fuck me, Wednesday’. Isn’t that what you said?”
“No—” Enid tries to squeeze her legs together, but finds her thighs obstructed by Wednesday’s arm.
“No?” Wednesday repeats, cupping her pussy. “What did you say?”
Enid clenches her teeth against a whine. “I did say that,” she rambles. “But you’re—I’m—”
“You’re wet,” Wednesday states. “Believe me, I know.”
Enid twists around, endeavoring to see her face. She manages to catch sight of Wednesday just as Wednesday’s lips turn up into a satisfied smile.
Wednesday raises the swatch of fabric to her face—the pink swatch that Enid had given her, the fabric now dark and soaked through—presses it to her nose, and inhales.
“Are you serious?” Enid squeaks.
Wednesday strokes her, spreading her apart with her fingers. “Yes,” she breathes, lashes fluttering. “Perfect. Now it smells like you, Puppy.”
Enid whines out loud. “Oh my God, Wednesday.”
Wednesday’s eyes open, then narrow. She watches Enid for a long moment.
“Will you kneel for me, Enid?” she asks, cocking her head.
Enid sucks in a short breath. “Yes,” she replies. “I will. For you.”
“Good,” Wednesday says. “Then kneel.”
Enid rolls off Wednesday’s lap, kneeling as close to the edge of the bed as she can without forcing her shoulders between Wednesday’s knees. From down here, Enid can smell her arousal. Honeycomb and funeral lilies, sticky and sweet. It’s enough to make her teeth ache.
“You’re wet,” Enid groans, fists clenching over her thighs. “Will you let me eat?”
“No,” Wednesday tells her, leaning backwards on the bed.
She unhooks her belt, carefully laying her knife to the side. Enid watches in disbelief as Wednesday pulls down her pants and shucks them off onto the floor. It’s so unlike Wednesday, who folds even her underwear into crisp little squares, that Enid snatches her pants up off the floor and clutches them to her chest.
“Keep your eyes on me,” Wednesday tells her, lying flat on her back.
Her legs were bent over the edge of the mattress, but she props up her heels, spreading her thighs apart. Her pussy is nearly eye-level with Enid’s face.
Enid watches incredulously as Wednesday presses the swatch to her mouth, audibly inhaling, and reaches down with her other hand to slide her fingers over herself.
“Are you touching yourself?” Enid demands, though the answer is right in front of her.
“Yes,” Wednesday hisses, hips twitching. “You taught me. Remember?”
Enid shoves the heel of her hand between her legs, accidentally creating a wet spot on Wednesday’s pant leg when it gets trapped between Enid’s palm and her pussy. She’s going to make a mess on the floor.
“But I—I wanted to—” Enid weakly protests.
“To watch?” Wednesday replies, snorting under her breath. “I’m allowing you to, aren’t I?”
“This isn’t fair,” Enid whispers.
Wednesday’s thighs tense, hips jerking forward, and Enid can see her abdominals clenching.
“I’m giving you exactly what you wanted,” Wednesday tells her, voice shaking ever so slightly.
“I want more,” Enid mouths, hardly any sound making it past the gasp that punches out of her when Wednesday’s toes curl. Wednesday’s chest heaves, scent growing stronger as her fingers slide and circle. Enid has grown to like something inside her, whether it be a toy or a tongue or fingers, but Wednesday’s touches are light. Teasing. Like she’s edging herself intentionally rather than giving in and taking what she really wants.
“You’re not trying to come,” Enid accuses. “You’re trying to—p-punish me.”
Wednesday props herself up on her elbow, fingers slowing. “You think this is a punishment?” she rasps. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re always allowed to say no, Enid.”
“But I’m not saying no!” Enid protests, leaning forward. “I’ll eat you out, Wednesday. It’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be so good—”
“I know you will,” Wednesday croons, sitting all the way up. She dangles the swatch in front of Enid’s face. “Come on this for me first, Puppy.”
“You—are you being serious?” Enid asks, holding the damp swatch in her hands. Wednesday’s pants end up sliding off her lap and onto the floor, forgotten. She flushes as a new thought occurs to her. “Are you going to watch me?”
“Yes,” Wednesday tells her, eyes intent on her face. “Just like the first time.”
Enid’s entire face burns. “I was in heat,” she mumbles. “I—I still shouldn’t have done that, though.”
“No,” Wednesday agrees. “You should have done that long before.”
Enid stares up at her, open-mouthed. “You—you wanted to see me touch myself? Before my heat?”
For the first time, Wednesday’s cheeks darken. “Yes,” she answers. “I did.”
Enid sits back on her heels, floored. She’d touched herself before, of course—but when Wednesday was out of the room. Never when she was around, not when she was sick or asleep or otherwise.
“I wouldn’t have done it in front of you,” Enid admits. “It wouldn’t have been right of me to—do that. Not if you didn’t ask.”
“But subjecting me to the smell of your come was acceptable?” Wednesday asks sardonically.
Enid’s lips part.
"What are you talking about?”
“It took me a while,” Wednesday admits, absentmindedly petting herself. “During the heat, your scent—I realized I had smelled it before.”
Enid’s breath comes fast. “I swear, Wednesday, I never touched myself while you were there. Never ever.”
“I believe you,” Wednesday tells her, mouth twisting in amusement. “But you touched yourself before I came back, didn’t you? That’s why the room would smell especially sweet when I returned from fencing club on Friday nights? Or Saturday afternoon, after I finished chores at the Hive?”
Enid blushes so violently, the heat seeps down to her chest. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” she says weakly. “You’re human.”
“I could still smell you,” Wednesday hisses, self-control cracking as she hunches forward. “I could smell your come, Enid. Every time. It just wasn’t until your heat that I knew what it was.”
“I’m sorry,” Enid warbles. “I shouldn’t have—that was fucked up.”
“No,” Wednesday tells her. “You’re entitled to touch your tight little cunt whenever you want. But it was fucked up that I had to smell the ghost of it without ever knowing what that sweet scent was. How cruel can you be?”
“I’m not cruel,” Enid whines. “M’Not, Wednesday.”
“You are,” Wednesday tells her, clearly enjoying herself. “Come on that tribute, and I may overlook it.”
Enid’s hand flies down to her pussy, and she begins moving fast, chasing an orgasm that’s been hanging over her head since Wednesday first pulled down her pants. She slides a finger inside of herself, and Wednesday’s bare foot lands on her shoulder, stilling her arm.
“Don’t finger yourself,” Wednesday orders. “You can touch, but no penetration.”
Enid makes a noise so desperate, so submissive in nature, it takes both of them aback.
“Okay,” she blurts. “Okay, Wednesday. I won’t go inside.”
Wednesday’s skin visibly prickles, chest tightening like she’s cold. “Touch yourself,” she orders, eyes dark.
“You too,” Enid begs. When she accidentally tilts forward, Wednesday wordlessly encourages her to rest her forearm on the bed, helping her to brace against the mattress as Enid rises onto her knees and continues to touch herself. The swatch remains balled up in her fist even as the heat coalesces deep in her stomach.
“You still want me to touch myself?” Wednesday asks. She pushes Enid’s bangs back, touch gentle on her skin. “I wasn’t actually going to come, Puppy. You know I wouldn’t deny you anything.”
“Besides fingering myself,” Enid weakly jokes, laying her cheek on Wednesday’s thigh.
Wednesday’s eyes narrow. She tilts Enid’s head up, fingers beneath her chin. “Your hole is mine, Enid,” she replies. “I decide when you fill it.”
Enid gapes at her, fingers still plastered against herself, and accidentally tips forward so that she shifts down in just the right way. The heat in her stomach coils tight, on the very edge of splitting apart.
Wednesday’s eyes widen when Enid begs, “Let me come, let me come—”
Wednesday jerks the swatch out of Enid’s fist, sliding down in front of her until her knees smack the floor. She presses the swatch beneath Enid’s hand, fingers sliding against Enid’s.
“Come,” Wednesday orders, arm snaking around her waist. “You can come.”
Enid collapses against her, face landing in the crook of Wednesday’s neck while she gasps and comes. Wednesday shudders as she holds her through it.
“Not as much slick as last time,” Wednesday murmurs. “Pity.”
Enid blearily and somewhat reluctantly lifts her face from Wednesday’s neck. “I can’t make myself come as hard as you can,” she says without thinking.
Wednesday’s scent pitches thick and hot, rolling off her in waves. Though her eyes are shut, lips flattened out into a line, Enid can see her fighting for composure.
“Will you come too?” Enid asks. “Will you come in front of me?”
When Wednesday opens her eyes, her pupils are dilated. “On the bed.”
Enid clamors to her feet, stumbling the two steps it takes to reach the mattress.
Wednesday’s only a breath behind her, climbing gracefully onto the bed. She tucks the swatch in beside her knife, then sits against the headboard, spreading her legs. Enid can see her arousal shining from several feet away. She sways on the edge of the bed, caught by the sight of Wednesday waiting for her, wet and exposed.
“Come here, Puppy,” Wednesday murmurs.
Enid scrambles into her lap, straddling Wednesday’s waist. “Are you going to be able to come like this?” she asks, biting her lip. “I’m in the way.”
“Never,” Wednesday tells her, sliding her hand down between her thighs. Her forearm brushes against Enid, who whimpers at the oversensitivity. “Tell me it’s too much.”
“M’Okay,” Enid sighs, leaning into her. Her hand lands on the headboard. “You smell so good.”
Wednesday kisses her temple. “Not like you.”
“You smell better,” Enid protests, riding out the feeling of Wednesday’s arm rubbing against her.
“You smell like the sweetest sugar,” Wednesday replies, voice low. “Like candy. No matter what I smell like, it will never compare.”
“You smell like autumn,” Enid whispers. “Like honeycomb at the end of summer. Like a graveyard after it rains, when all the funeral flowers smell green and alive.”
“That’s not nearly as appealing as your vanilla.”
“It’s better,” Enid argues, affronted. “You smell like home.”
Wednesday tenses, stomach muscles clenching, and comes. Enid can feel her eyes rolling back as she breathes open-mouthed, desperate to inhale as much of Wednesday’s arousal as possible.
“I love watching you come,” Enid gasps. “Please let me see it again.”
Wednesday pats her hip. “I don’t actually have much interest in touching myself. But I do love to see your face and chest turn pink as you watch me.”
“I can’t help that,” Enid exhales, tucking her face back into Wednesday’s neck as she slumps over.
“No, but you could stand to look less offended when it’s my fingers in my cunt instead of yours,” Wednesday snorts.
Enid frowns. “S’Not fair,” she mumbles. “I want to make you come.”
Wednesday carefully shifts her backward, holding Enid’s chin in her palm.
“You please me every day,” she says very seriously. “It takes a lot of confidence in my ability for you to offer control of your orgasms. Thank you for trusting me.”
Enid flushes. “I always trust you, Wednesday. Even with this.”
Wednesday’s smile is all teeth. “You make an excellent pet, Enid. How lucky am I to have such a sweet girl?”
“I’m not sweet,” Enid protests, squirming. “I’m not.”
“Could have fooled me,” Wednesday hums, clean hand sliding up to Enid’s throat. “I want to come again.”
Enid loses her breath. “Really?”
“Really,” Wednesday confirms, tugging on her courting braid. “But not tonight. We have things to do, I’m afraid.”
Enid pouts her way through their bath, going as far as to roll her eyes when Wednesday dresses her in a white silk skirt borrowed years ago from Yoko and a soft pink sweater she’s pretty sure she didn’t buy herself. It’s far too fine a material to be hers.
“Did you get this for me?” Enid asks, smoothing her hands over her stomach.
Wednesday glances up from where she’s buttoning her blouse. She pauses in her movement until Enid goes still. “Yes,” Wednesday eventually answers. “I purchased a few pieces before we arrived. Not the work of the Dobrevs, I’m afraid, but still adequate.”
Enid takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “How can you tell if something was made by Gladis and Ksenia? I mean, other than remembering when you were measured for it. Maybe they don’t make many outfits,” she considers.
“They don’t,” Wednesday confirms. “But you should be able to spot a threadwitch's work with a basic assessment. Come, I’ll show you.”
She refastens her belt around her waist, knife settled at her side, and then claims the spot beside Enid. Wednesday spreads out the swatch of pink fabric, which still reeks of slick.
Enid wrinkles her nose. “What am I looking at?”
“Proof of your cruelty,” Wednesday easily replies. At Enid’s startled look, she adds, “Tributes are usually exchanged the night before the vows. That way, you only torture me for a single day with the thought of how you’ll look when promising yourself to me.”
Enid can’t help but smile. “It’s kind of sweet. You have a memento of that night forever.”
“That’s the intention,” Wednesday muses. “Cruel and unusual punishment must be incidental.”
“Will it really torture you that much?” Enid giggles.
Wednesday stares at her. “Yes,” she responds. “I’ve imagined this moment for a long time. The thought of you in this dress…” She smoothes her hand over the square of pink material. “I can only imagine.”
Enid leans into her, shoulder pressing against Wednesday’s. “What are you going to wear?” she asks. “Black?”
Wednesday’s face remains impassive. “You’ll have to wait and see,” she replies.
“Oh, come on, Wednesday. That’s just so unfair—” Enid complains.
“You’ll know soon enough,” Wednesday assures her. She taps on the swatch. “What do you see when you look at this?”
Enid leans in. The color is gorgeous, as warm and rosy as the dawn, just like Gladis said—but it still just looks like a piece of fabric.
“I don’t get it,” she admits. “What am I looking at?”
“Look closer,” Wednesday murmurs.
Enid squints down at the swatch. The stitching is the same color as the fabric, though it’s got a metallic sheen that’s almost uncanny when it catches the light, and finally, Enid sees what Wednesday was talking about.
Enid breathes, "These are—"
"—Runes," Wednesday finishes, eyes bright. "Yes. This is the work of threadwitches."
“They sew runes with every stitch?” Enid asks, fingers tracing over the tiny symbols.
“Every stitch,” Wednesday confirms.
Enid cannot imagine how much time it would take to sew an entire gown. “Isn’t that, like, an obscene amount of work?” she wonders.
“It can take months or years to complete an ensemble,” Wednesday answers. “Depending on the extravagance. Of course, my mother was conspiring with the Dobrevs since I first informed my family of my intentions to court you. I’m sure the price was exorbitant to rush multiple outfits in a matter of weeks.”
Enid chokes back a laugh. “Did she actually?”
“She did,” Wednesday confirms, rolling her eyes. “I imagine she sent your school picture and the Dobrevs chose a selection of pre-sewn fabrics from their collection based on what they thought would most flatter you.”
Enid cringes at the thought of anyone looking at her school picture by choice. “I’m not even going to ask how Morticia found that.”
Wednesday gives her a strange look. “I offered it to her,” she replies.
Enid stares back at her, nonplussed. “Why would you have my school picture?”
“I’ve been purchasing your picture each year,” Wednesday slowly answers. “Alongside Eugene’s. To keep for my personal records.”
“That’s so weird,” Enid moans, squeezing her thighs together. “Wednesday. I fucking—I really love you.”
Wednesday looks a little confused, but answers, “As I love you.”
Enid grins. “So, do these outfits have any magic?”
“Of course,” Wednesday tells her, fingers dancing over the delicate stitching. “A threadwitch is a type of runewitch.”
“Oh,” Enid murmurs. “So, what type of runewitch are you?”
Wednesday smirks. “I haven’t decided yet. My father is a forgewitch—more commonly known as a runescrafter. He deals in weapons and other metalcraft rather than fabrics. I may study that.”
“That would make sense,” Enid agrees. “You’re so talented in the forge.”
Wednesday blinks at her, surprised. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Enid chirps. “Hey, why aren’t there different types of woodwitches? There aren’t, right?”
“No, there are not,” Wednesday tells her. “Woodwitches have a very strict hierarchy, from what I understand, but they are all woodwitches. You should ask my mother for her take.”
“How do they decide which woodwitches are more important than others?” Enid wonders. “Like the Unbreathing Queen. She’s a woodwitch, right? Since she controls a forest? Even if she is a magical patron and not a true daughter, forests belong to woodwitches.”
Wednesday looks a little impressed as she says, “I believe you are correct.”
“So, how did she get control of the winter fae?”
“You must understand that the Unbreathing Queen is no longer just a woodwitch,” Wednesday replies. “She transcended mortal hierarchies when she fell from a cliff and rose as a fae. There are only four woodwitches who have gained that much power. Each of those woodwitches keeps a season, though I’m not entirely sure what that means.”
“Well, if the Unbreathing Queen takes care of winter,” Enid supposes, “What about the dragon shifter?”
Wednesday frowns. “I’m not certain of his status,” she admits. “Perhaps he was a woodwitch who died and transcended, like the Unbreathing Queen. Maybe he’s just a thousand-year-old shifter. I’m not even sure if he is a woodwitch, but if he is, he must control summer. The city of Shanghai worships summer to an almost fanatical degree.”
“The shifter has to be a woodwitch, if he looks after a whole forest,” Enid argues.
Wednesday hums. “Lineage matters quite a lot amongst woodwitches—who your older sister is that you learned magic from, and so on and so forth. The shifter might call a true daughter his elder sister and have earned prestige that way.”
“Like how your mother learned from Momoko?”
“Momoko is the little sister of a true daughter,” Wednesday reminds her. “That makes my mother the little sister of a little sister of the real power in the forest. Even that connection affords her status in the woodwitch community that others wouldn’t dream of.”
“So…” Enid swallows. “What’s it mean when you’re the true daughter? If having a great-great-sister makes Morticia that important…what does that make me?”
Wednesday looks back at her with a complicated expression.
“I don’t know,” she admits, though it seems like it pains her to do so. “I’ve never met a true daughter before you. I wish I had the answers, Enid, but we need to conduct research.”
“No, I don’t expect you to know everything,” Enid rushes to assure her. “Sorry. We should just ask the shifter when we arrive in Shanghai,” she suggests with a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe he’ll know something about true daughters. At the very least, he can tell us who he is.”
“You could also ask my mother,” Wednesday offers. “She knows more of Sayuri and the Unbreathing Queen than I would ever care to find out. She may know what distinguishes each season and why the most powerful woodwitches keep them.”
“Maybe I will ask Morticia,” Enid muses.
“Ask me what, my darlings?” Morticia asks, entering the bedroom with a soft knock. She shuts the door behind her, but not before a chilly breeze sneaks in from the summer room. “You must replace that door handle, Wednesday. It’s mysteriously become unusable.”
“How odd,” Wednesday muses. “I’ll ask father to forge a replacement.”
“Have him cut a set of keys for Enid, too,” Morticia instructs. “It’s her room, after all.”
“Oh, I don’t need a key—”
“You do,” Wednesday refutes. “As mother said, it’s your room.”
Enid tries to hide her smile, but judging by the identical look on Morticia and Wednesday’s faces, she doesn’t quite succeed.
Notes:
i'm sorry this is so late my beta didn't have a chance to read until the middle of the night lmfao
if you celebrate thanksgiving, happy early thanksgiving!!!
next update: monday 12/1
EDIT: delaying 145 to tomorrow (12/2), my future in laws are in town lol
EDIT AGAIN: i'm sorry i'm pushing back one more day to wednesday😭 but my future in laws leave tomorrow!!
EDIT AGAIN: guys i'm so sorry i need one more day so my beta can read it!! 12/4
Chapter 145: Cuttings
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I apologize for intruding, girls,” Morticia tells them, wholly unapologetic as she folds her hands together with a smile. “The modiste has finished the first mock-up of Enid’s gown, and I thought she might have an opinion.”
There’s something odd in the turn of her words, almost pointed—like Enid’s supposed to recognize some sort of whistle and react accordingly.
“Thank you?” Enid tentatively offers.
Wednesday snorts. “The sponsor of the ritual is meant to design your outfit. Mother is being rather modern by allowing you a say.”
Morticia’s eyes glitter. “I’ve never been one for tradition,” she says in a low voice, beckoning with a single, manicured finger. “Come with me, Enid, dear. Stay put, Wednesday—I’ll release her in a moment.”
Morticia’s gown whispers across the floor as she glides into the summer room. Enid all but jogs after her, nearly tripping over the hem of her own skirt when she crosses the threshold and hits marble instead of wood.
“Careful, dear,” Morticia laughs, gentle hand on Enid’s elbow. “Now, I realize your tastes may vary from the expected style. The only real requirements are that your shoulders are covered and your hair is bound.” Her lips twist with a wicked sort of satisfaction. “As you are a woodwitch first and foremost, you will not be binding your hair under any circumstances.”
“Woodwitches keep their hair unbound in another witch’s wood,” Enid whispers, Wednesday’s voice echoing in her head.
“Precisely,” Morticia tells her, looking inordinately pleased. “Have a look at your dress.”
Enid accepts the sheet of paper Morticia offers her, then promptly freezes, lips parting in surprise.
She’d expected a dress. It is a ball, Enid had figured, and people wear dresses to balls. She’d even anticipated that her outfit would be beautiful, considering it would be crafted by threadwitches and magic has always borne more beautiful things than she, a wolf, could imagine.
She had not foreseen this.
The dress—if it can be called a mere dress—is almost absurdly ornate. Enid is sure the sketch doesn’t do it justice. The warm pink of an early morning sun, pale as a garden rose, with emerald vines and pearlescent flowers sewn in such a pale pink as to nearly shine white. The pattern of flowers unfurls over her hips, snaking down towards the dark rose skirt of her gown.
It’s pink in the sense that a roiling sea in a storm is a body of water, or the Addams abode is just a house. Calling this color mere pink feels like sacrilege.
While the shade of fabric is perfect, exactly what she would choose for herself, the silhouette is overwhelming. Enid’s not sure her body can look like that. She doesn’t mind how tight it is on her waist, but her thighs…she’s never worn something like this. Something that clings to every inch of her, from her breasts to her knees. The effect is softened somewhat by the grand train, an overskirt of sorts that will train behind her like a ship in sail, but it will still restrict her movement.
Even more pressing, the exaggerated off-the-shoulder neckline will fully expose her collarbones as well as the tops of her breasts. Though the stiff fabric rises as high as her earlobes at the shoulders, sharp and pointed as it follows the line of her upper arms, anyone taller than her could look down and spot that most forbidden flesh. What a world that a flash of bare shoulders is deemed more scandalous than overt cleavage, she thinks.
“Are you sure this is allowed?” Enid asks, pointing to the drawing’s chest and the obvious peeking skin of her shoulders.
Morticia gives a tinkling laugh. “We won’t split hairs,” she replies. “The shoulders are covered. Mostly.”
Enid raises both eyebrows, but leaves that alone. She’s never worn a dress so fine, and a part of her revels in the idea of not hiding behind modest necklines the way she always had before. This dress will showcase her collar to an almost diabolical degree.
She should have known her pack culture was behind the times when she walked into that first school dance after Wednesday’s arrival at Nevermore and discovered that even an Addams is willing to show some skin for the sake of fashion. Enid had felt so childish in her formless, fur-trimmed dress in comparison, every inch of her covered from neck to knees. Enid had even worn solid white tights, she recalls with a wince.
Next to Wednesday, in her black tulle gown that clung to her chest and waist, she had been positively frumpy.
“This is more beautiful than—well, anything I’ve ever laid eyes on, pretty much,” Enid comments, tracing the elegant cut of the gown. “But…”
“But?” Morticia prompts.
Enid reluctantly meets her gaze. She can live with scandalizing Wednesday’s aunties with the suggestion of her bare shoulders and frankly dishonorable cut of her cleavage, but the idea of her legs being constricted is unbearable. Not when she still can smell Wednesday’s blood seeping through the sand of the pits, her clothes tearing apart as easily as her flesh as she dived into the dark after her. It was the most harrowing moment of her entire life.
And she’d faced that with loose, nonconstricting clothing that gave way to her easily. Without question.
“I want to be able to run,” Enid tells her. And, more than that, “I want to be able to fight.”
Morticia’s face creases with a sadness that is somehow as warm as she’s ever looked at Enid.
“I understand,” she replies. “I’ll ask Ksenia to let out the skirt.”
“Thank you,” Enid expels in a rush, heart pounding like she’d just taken a running leap off a cliff. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”
Morticia’s hand is solid on her shoulder. “It’s no trouble,” she replies, voice uncharacteristically thick. She delicately clears her throat. “Go on, then, sweetheart. I’ll see you both at dinner.”
She departs in a sudden swirl of black fabric. The summer room falls silent in her wake.
“That was weird, wasn’t it?” Enid whispers to the open walls. “I think I upset her.”
No reply comes on the wind. Never when I actually need it, Enid thinks a bit petulantly. It’s truly astounding that a single person can act impressed with her abilities when she cannot perform even the most basic of forest magic on command.
“Well?” Wednesday asks as soon as she reenters. “How did it go?”
Enid opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. “No. You don’t get to know,” she says, suddenly gleeful. “It’s a surprise.”
Though a truly affronted expression dawns on her face, Wednesday concedes with a sigh. “It was worth a try.”
“Well, what are you wearing to the ball?” Enid retorts, taking a seat on the bed.
Wednesday shoots her an amused look. “Patience,” she mock-admonishes.
Enid sticks out her tongue. “Pot to the kettle.”
Wednesday pauses, eyes heating as she cocks her head in Enid’s direction. “Undoubtedly,” she murmurs, and Enid’s cheeks grow hot as she recalls the first time she’d said those words to Wednesday.
Who am I? Wednesday had asked her. The pot or the kettle?
“I have something for you,” Wednesday speaks up, continuing across the room to her desk. “I’ve been keeping it safe.”
When she turns back around, extending her open palm, Enid nearly bounds off the bed.
“My seed!” she gasps. “The one that Albert brought me!”
Wednesday steps forward and passes the seed into her waiting hands. It’s just as warm as Enid remembers, golden and butterscotch bright, and her stomach twists with the urge to hold it close. To protect it, she thinks, and plant it somewhere dark and safe.
As clutching a random seed to her heart would be absurd behavior, even by her standards, Enid clasps the seed between her palms instead.
She smiles despite herself. “I forgot about this,” Enid whispers, holding the seed tight.
“You should plant it,” Wednesday suggests.
Enid hums under her breath. “I might have mentioned the tree cuttings to your mom,” she admits, thinking back to the strange copse of her forest and the creature they’d encountered there. “I think she wanted to see them tonight.”
Wednesday sighs. “Then we’ll be heading into the woods after dinner to plant them immediately, no doubt. Why not plant your seed then? Bring it with you.”
Enid sighs, narrowly resisting the urge to shake her head in refusal. The poor thing probably wants to settle and grow. Being carted around like a lucky rock is no life for a seed.
“Alright,” she reluctantly agrees. “I just—I wish I could spend more time out there."
What she’d almost said was I wish I knew this forest better before leaving it alone out there, but that would be insane, so she does not. Even a gifted seed is still just a seed.
Wednesday looks at her for a long time. "Would you like a corner of these woods for yourself?” she eventually asks. “Soledad and June both tend to their own gardens. I could arrange the same for you."
Enid rolls her eyes. “I don’t need my own garden,” she mumbles. “Don’t I have a whole forest to myself?”
“I do believe allowances can be made,” Wednesday dryly responds. “In any case, my mother has always given a part of the forest to every woodwitch she’s mentored. I’m certain she’s already prepared a plot for you, if not whole acres.”
Enid settles back into the bed, swinging her feet. “Are the cuttings you took even still alive?” she wonders aloud, peering down at the seed.
“Of course,” Wednesday replies. “I took rooted cuttings. They’re doing well so far. I transported them to a selection of pots in my corner of the greenhouse soon after we arrived.”
“And that will save them?”
“Your eldwood trees are unnaturally hardy,” Wednesday reveals. “I also worried they would perish in transport, but every specimen is thriving. Perhaps it’s because they’re still physically close to you.”
Enid gives a weird little twitch. “I don’t think I have anything to do with it.”
“I’d beg to differ,” Wednesday replies, brow furrowing. “Magical plants have different needs than other growths.”
“Okay, but how can a tree be magical?” Enid asks, craning her neck to meet Wednesday’s gaze above her.
Wednesday touches her cheek. “The eldwood tree has, by all accounts, never existed in any forest besides your own. Who is to say it’s not the product of magic?” she responds.
Enid can feel her brow furrowing. “Didn’t you say there’s proof the eldwood tree exists?”
“Obviously,” Wednesday snorts. “How do you think I knew of the oil?”
One drop of its oil will keep a lantern aflame for an entire night, Enid recalls. “Do people actually own the oil? Or at least some of it?”
“Only the extremely wealthy and well-connected,” Wednesday replies. “It’s quite the rare find, but yes—it does exist. My father has seen it.”
“Where?” Enid asks, a little baffled.
“Japan,” Wednesday reveals. “In the village where he spent his apprenticeship. The village leader had a bottle of eldwood oil they used to send off forgemasters in death.”
Enid stares at her, aghast. “You mean—they burned them?”
“Their caskets,” Wednesday answers, unmoved. “It’s tradition, apparently. A drop of oil on the flames will have the casket burning to ash. Or something along those lines.”
Enid shivers at the thought of disappearing into fire, but she supposes it’s better than the alternative. She’d heard ghost stories of witches that dropped their dead into the ocean, allowing their loved ones to sink into nothingness. That might be the worst way to go, Enid decides. Disappearing into the deep. She’s dreaded the dark as long as she’s been alive.
“Why do you look so afraid?” Wednesday asks, voice quiet. She places a hand on the side of Enid’s neck, steadying and sure.
Enid swallows, lifting her gaze. “I’m not,” she states. “I just wouldn’t want to go like that.”
“By fire?” Wednesday asks.
“No,” Enid responds, throat tightening. “In the dark. Alone.” Even the idea of being trapped inside a casket, thoroughly dead, is distressing.
Though Wednesday doesn’t look like she quite understands, she still gives a little tug on Enid’s courting braid. “You’re not alone,” she responds. “Not now, not ever.”
Enid allows that to bolster her as they head down to dinner, her golden seed still clasped in her palm. Only a few feet from the dining room, she pauses.
“Hey, Wednesday,” she speaks up. “I’ll be right back.”
Wednesday comes to a complete stop in the middle of the hall. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Enid replies, startled. “I just…Ren’s not in there.” His scent, crackling birch and anise, is nowhere to be found.
Wednesday’s brow furrows. “And this prevents you from eating dinner?”
“No,” Enid snorts. “I just want to talk to him about something. Really quick, promise.”
Wednesday sighs, but says, “I’ll make your excuses.”
“Thank you.” Enid smiles, stepping closer. “Swear I’ll make it up to you.”
Wednesday raises an eyebrow. “You’re late to dinner, not guilty of murder. No need to make up anything, Puppy.”
Even as Enid flushes, her smile widens.
***
“Ren?” Enid asks, shutting the library door behind her. “Do you have a minute?”
Ren lifts his head, placing a marker in the book he’d been tracing his fingertips over. “I do, in fact. Have you come to draw the rune on your blade?”
“Um.” Enid bites her lip. “I don’t actually have the blade yet.”
Ren smirks. “Tick, tock,” he says, nearly singing. “You do like cutting it close, little witch.”
Enid takes a deep breath. “Okay, well, before that—I want to reverse the rune we picked. Is it possible?”
Ren sits up straight, abandoning his book entirely. “How did you think of such a thing, Enid Sinclair?”
“I’ve seen reversed runes before,” Enid tells him. “Can it be done? So that instead of canceling out magic, Wednesday can access my magic? Forever?”
“I…suppose,” Ren slowly replies. “Magic is a matter of intent, after all. Using runes is akin to speaking a magic spell aloud—it makes your intent clear. There’s still room for interpretation, though.”
“So it will work,” Enid marvels. “When Wednesday cuts someone with the blade, it’ll activate, and she’ll be able to use my magic to fight.”
“One problem,” Ren holds up a finger, “How do you intend to power the rune? This rune is blood-activated.”
“With—with her enemy’s blood,” Enid replies, confused. “Like before.”
“Except now, the blade is accessing your magic, not just negating another’s at the cost of your own.”
“So…the enemy’s blood won’t work?” Enid presses, stomach sinking.
Ren shakes his head. “It’s no longer a mere sacrifice of the drawer. For this to work, the blade will need to retain a permanent connection to you.”
Enid can feel her face scrunching up. “Shit,” she mumbles. “That is a problem. Can it even be done?”
Ren remains silent for a long moment, then softly suggests, “You could imbue the blade with your blood.”
Enid can sense that she’s stumbled into something taboo, but she persists, “Will that work?”
“If the rune is written with your blood, it can be activated at any time. Not just when Wednesday draws blood from another,” Ren slowly says. “That is the beauty of a blood-imbued rune. Permanence.”
“But it’s, like, illegal or something,” Enid comments. “Right?”
Ren grins, teeth glittering in the candlelight. “Illegal is a strong word.”
“Unsanctioned?” Enid offers. “Looked down upon?”
“It just isn’t done these days,” Ren says simply.
“But it’s so convenient,” Enid wheedles. “Why don’t more people imbue their weapons with blood?”
“I believe the immutability of the connection deters them,” Ren admits. “Few witches want to be tethered for the rest of time to a blade in another person’s possession. Imagine if the person you bestowed it upon was disarmed. Such a gift would require more trust than a mating.”
Enid flushes, full-bodied. “Oh,” she mumbles.
“By drawing this rune, you are allowing permanent access to your magic,” Ren informs her. “Don’t consider it lightly. That is a heavy price.”
“Heavier than having my magic cut off every time Wednesday cuts someone else?” Enid weakly jokes.
Ren does not laugh. “Think of it as a permanent vulnerability. A willing weakness, so to speak.”
Well, that’s nothing new for Enid. The matter of Wednesday Addams has always been her greatest vulnerability.
“Are you truly still up for it, little witch?” Ren asks, quiet and wondrous. “You are,” he marvels.
Enid nods. “I am.”
“What a strange creature you’ve turned out to be,” Ren murmurs. His fingers tap a strange beat on the tabletop, nearly frenetic, even as his face remains unchanged.
Enid shrugs. “I’d trust Wednesday with my life, let alone my magic.”
Ren cocks his head in her direction, an odd, considering look on his face, but he ultimately nods his head. “Come to me when the blade is finished. We’ll write your rune together.”
***
Enid pauses mid-chew when the dinner conversation turns to tasks left for the ball, drawing ever closer.
“There’s the matter of choosing a china pattern, of course,” Morticia comments. “Guests are already asking about the girls’ registry. Perhaps we should consult a catalogue later?”
“Very good,” Gomez praises. “Silverware, too.”
“And crystal,” Ksenia thoughtfully says.
When Chase snorts beside her, Enid kicks his skin beneath the table.
“Girls, will you be available after dinner?” Morticia asks.
“Enid wants to plant her cuttings,” Wednesday replies. “You can regale us with the joy of predetermining our gifts afterward.”
Setting aside the harrowing thought of building a registry, Enid swallows and admits, “Well, they’re not exactly my cuttings. Wednesday took them. I watched, sort of.”
“What’s mine is yours,” Wednesday interjects. “In any case, I would never have found them without you.”
Enid shakes her head, but tentatively asks, “Is…is that alright, Morticia? If I plant something in the woods?” She swallows. “Your woods?”
Morticia visibly softens. “I would be honored, my darling.”
“It’s not often the fruit of a true daughter’s forest comes through here,” Gomez adds. “Not since Momoko brought the naming trees for the children, right, Tish?”
“Quite right,” Morticia says.
“Naming trees?” Enid asks, allowing her fork to rest against her plate.
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” June gushes, looking a bit like she’s vibrating from the inside out. “My naming tree at home is an ironwood, but Wednesday and Pugsley both have Japanese maples!”
Morticia gives a soft smile. “It’s an old tradition shared amongst woodwitches,” she explains. “An elder sister might provide a seed from her forest when a child is born. My elder sister brought seeds from Sayuri’s forest, as Momoko has never deigned to leave those woods and find a forest of her own.”
“That’s really sweet. I wonder if Eugene has a naming tree,” Enid muses.
“He does,” Wednesday answers her. “Basswood, if I’m not mistaken. His moms mail us the flowers each spring.”
Enid smiles. “We should ask Toby, too. I bet Aminder received a naming tree when he was born.”
“Likely for all her children,” Wednesday theorizes. “You should ask her when she arrives.”
“I will,” Enid says, scooping up another spoonful of potatoes. “I still can’t believe the cuttings you took survived this long. You’re a miracle worker, Wednesday.”
Wednesday glances up, contemplative. “Who’s to say it had anything to do with me? We know so little about the species. Perhaps it’s especially hardy.”
“Which species is that?” Pugsley asks, reaching for his cup. “Oak? There are oaks in San Francisco, aren’t there?”
“Eldwood,” Wednesday replies. "The cuttings came from eldwood trees.”
In any other instance, cranberry juice shooting out of Pugsley’s nose and soaking the tablecloth would have been funny.
Notes:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE ON THIS ONE<3
next update: monday 12/8
EDIT: changed my mind about how 146 should go and sent it to the graveyard, next update will be friday!!
Chapter 146: Spit
Chapter Text
Morticia and Gomez fall silent. Across the table, Pugsley heaves for breath, eyes darting between his parents as juice drips down his chin. June’s fork drops directly onto the floor.
“Eldwood?” Morticia asks, voice strangled.
“Fates above and below,” Gomez whispers. He stares at Enid, eyes as wide as if he’d just watched a spirit descend on them all, right there in the dining room.
“Yes,” Wednesday says, nearly gleeful. “Eldwood. In Enid’s forest.”
Morticia and Gomez exchange what looks like an extremely loaded glance.
“Are you quite certain?” Morticia asks, leaning forward. She’s as pale as Enid has ever seen her.
“Dead certain,” Wednesday replies.
Morticia clears her throat, shaking her head. “Well. We will all accompany the girls into the forest and examine these cuttings, I should think.”
“Of course,” Gomez echoes. “Of course, we will.”
Enid bites her lip and tentatively asks, “Are you sure it’s alright, Morticia?”
For the first time for as long as Enid has known her, Morticia physically startles.
“Is what alright, dear?” she asks.
It’s Enid and Wednesday’s turn to share a pointed glance. Wednesday looks amused, eyes dancing as she basks in the unraveling of her family members, but Enid’s stomach churns with the sense that she’s inadvertently done something wrong.
“I don’t have to plant anything,” Enid blurts. “I don’t care that much. It’s really not a big deal.”
Wednesday’s lips curl downwards, brow furrowing, and Morticia calmly says, “Don’t be absurd, dear. Of course, you may plant your cuttings.”
“We are excited, make no mistake,” Gomez tells her, gaze haunted.
Enid swallows. “Okay. If you’re sure,” she hedges.
“Dessert?” Wednesday proposes, hands smoothing over her dinner napkin. Her fingernails glint in the light. “I believe we have a selection of cookies this evening?”
“We—we do,” June interjects after a beat of stilted silence. “I was in the kitchens earlier. Gomez made each of our favorites.”
Enid could hug her, she really could. “Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite cookie, June?”
June offers a weak, trembling smile. “Iced gingerbread.”
“I don’t think I’ve had gingerbread in years,” Enid marvels.
She doesn’t regret staying at school over the winter holidays. No amount of gingerbread would have made up for her mother’s criticism and her father’s cold silence. Christmas music can only soften so much.
But there is a part of Enid that mourns the fact she hasn’t smelled holly bushes since she was a child. High in the mountains as it is, her pack’s territory always sees snow, and she misses making that trek on the first real morning of winter to the northernmost stream. She’d held drinking from icy waters while the sun rose above the trees as close to sacred as a single act could be.
“What’s your favorite cookie?” Enid absently asks, turning to Wednesday.
Wednesday’s lips curl up at the corners. “Besides meringue? Sugar cookies.”
Enid tells herself that Pugsley snorts because of the absurdity of Wednesday Addams preferring sugary sweet cookies and not because of the heat that rises on her cheeks.
“I prefer double chocolate chip, myself,” Gomez mutters. He straightens out his own napkin, eerily reminiscent of his daughter, then clears his throat. “We’re ready for dessert, then?”
“Bring out the sweets,” Wednesday commands.
Great platters of cookies are placed on the table. Streaks of icing and powder-soft sugar glitter like winter in the candlelight. There are Gomez’s favorites, chocolate chips oozing onto the bone china, and a beautiful black-and-white checkerboard cookie that Enid cannot begin to conceive of how a person could create without magic. The smell of spices and melting sugar has Enid’s mouth watering.
“Hot chocolate, anyone?” Gomez offers.
Cookies and hot chocolate in the month of June would be patently ridiculous in any other household besides the Addams’. Enid finds herself settling into a genuine smile as she sips from her mug, and when Wednesday wipes the whipped cream from her nose with her thumb, Enid doesn’t mind how her cheeks color as a result.
***
“Is the forest safe this time of night?” Enid asks, kicking off her shoes in the foyer.
The whole family has gathered to watch—plus June, Soledad, and Chase, and every member of the Dobrev family, besides. Even Ren had deigned to make an appearance. He leans against the far wall, listening to the proceedings with an amused smirk.
Chase joins her, shucking off his dress shoes. “I'm gonna guess not.”
“You would be correct,” Wednesday answers him, offering Enid a jacket. "Though it is safer in numbers."
Enid shakes her head in polite refusal, thinking to herself that the fur they’d left behind in San Francisco would have been perfect for this. In the same way that her forest always smells damp, a little bit like rot, this forest is always unnaturally cold.
“What about your feet?” Yuuri asks, frowning at Chase. “It’s cold. You’re barefoot.”
Chase and Enid share a grin.
“Nah,” Chase answers, slinging an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Wolves run hot. And our feet are pretty roughed up from running around the forest as pups.”
“How precious,” Morticia comments, fastening the buttons of her floor-length black trench coat. “Shall we?”
They troop out as a group, all twelve of them, Enid bringing up the rear with Wednesday and Ren. She’s dragging her feet enough to leave footprints behind as they troop across the driveway and enter the woods.
“Do you need any help?” Enid asks Wednesday.
Wednesday adjusts the planting pot she’s carrying to rest against her hip. “No. It’s not heavy.”
“Speak for yourself,” Pugsley mumbles from ahead, stumbling over an errant log. “Why couldn’t we bring a mule, Mother? Or a wagon?”
“I like to do things traditionally,” comes Morticia’s airy response from the front of the pack. She’s carrying a pot of her own, though her eldwood looks smaller than the others.
Gomez huffs out a laugh, hefting his pot higher in his arms. “It’s a bit like a naming tree ceremony, isn’t it?”
Morticia laughs loud and uninhibited, her voice echoing through the trees and spiraling higher, higher. As her good humor disappears into the stars, Enid idly wonders where her hare friend is hiding.
It’s odd that Gomez and Pugsley couldn’t track Mǎo. Neither hide nor hare, Enid giggles to herself. She ignores the raised eyebrow that Wednesday aims in her direction.
Jokes aside, Enid has the strangest feeling that if she really wanted to find them, genuinely put her mind to trying, she would be able to locate the creature. Every friend she’s made in the forest has always stuck with her in some form or fashion. Mǎo, she thinks, would be no different.
“I do believe we’d be hosting a much larger party if we were planting naming trees for four children,” Morticia muses.
For some reason, Wednesday’s cheeks darken. “Don’t kid, Mother.”
“It’s possible,” Gomez pipes up. “Depending on the strength of the magic cast—”
“Could we complete our bonding ceremony, perhaps, before you accost us with threats of children?” Wednesday snaps.
Enid nearly trips over the hem of her skirt. This whole time, Gomez and Morticia were teasing them about grandchildren? How would—biologically—?
“Don’t worry,” Wednesday mutters to her. “Four children seeding at once is exceedingly unlikely. No matter how powerful the mother.” Her eyes shift anywhere but Enid’s face. “Ridiculous, the whole conversation…as if we’d have children in our twenties,” she scoffs.
Enid stares at her, wide-eyed. “Wednesday, are you implying that we could have children? Together? From—both of us?”
Wednesday comes to a complete halt, right there on the path. “Are you suggesting we couldn’t?”
Enid’s mouth opens and closes, words escaping her.
“I do believe this is it,” Morticia announces, directing the party to a standstill with a single, raised hand. The runes inked on her wrist look dark and formidable in the light of the lanterns the Dobrevs carry. “Welcome, friends, to Enid’s garden.”
Enid looks around, lips parting as she inhales. Despite all the time she’s spent in the woods, she hasn’t actually experienced much variety. Her forest, the woods around Nevermore, and Morticia’s mountain. These are the only woods she’s known.
Nevertheless, she thinks Morticia chose a nice spot for her. It’s more of a hollow than a copse, a sheltered little glen surrounded by trees on all sides. A single, sparkling stream threads through the dark soil, shrouded by towering oaks and trimmed with sharp river rocks of all shades and sizes. It isn’t Enid’s stream, the icy rivulet that crowns her own forest, but it’s certainly cold enough to remind her of home.
“So pretty,” Enid whispers, shaking her hand as she retracts it from the water.
Chase frowns. “And dark,” he mumbles, toeing at the ground. The ground is harder here, less willing to give than the soil in her own forest, but it’s still fruitful—Enid can tell. The whole hollow reeks of growing things, the smell of wet earth sharp in her nose.
“Hang the lanterns,” Morticia orders, eyes shining. “It’s the perfect time to plant.”
They could have chosen a better time to venture out for a family hike, Enid privately thinks. This close to the new moon, the forest is nearly pitch black. The darkness seeps into every fold of their clothing, hollowing out the cut of their cheeks. From this angle, Morticia’s eyes look huge and colorless, the fine fabric of her coat melting into the trees behind her as she tilts her face to the sky.
“It’s showtime,” Pugsley mumbles, kneeling to place his pot beside Wednesday’s.
Lined up in a row, the four eldwoods look alien. Certainly non-indigenous, Enid thinks. Their leaves cast the strangest shadows on the ground, rippling and rolling in a breeze she cannot feel. Small though they are, Enid can tell from sight that their proportions are strange—off, almost, as if they’re meant to grow much larger than the other trees. She kneels beside the eldwood Wednesday had been carrying, touching one of its slender branches.
“You look happy,” Enid whispers, realizing she’s smiling. She lifts her head towards Wednesday and says, nearly breathless, “You took such good care of them.”
Wednesday’s eyes widen, lips parting, then she clenches her fists at her sides and turns her face to the stream. “It was minimal effort,” she replies.
“Ah, yes,” Morticia muses. “Because tending to exotic plants requires so little effort.”
Wednesday shoots her a truly fearsome look, but her face softens when Enid laughs.
“I think they look great,” Enid declares, rising to her feet. She doesn’t bother to brush the dirt from her white silk skirt. “Do we have, um, shovels? Is that the right thing for planting trees?”
“A hand auger, actually,” Morticia tells her, hefting over a strange, twisting tool. “Allow me to show you.”
***
Wednesday watches her mother and Enid plant all four trees. Both women are sweating and covered in soil by the end, their clothing ruined, but both seem to be in high spirits. Wednesday supposes this is a joy singular to woodwitches—they love to watch things grow.
“Are you certain you don’t need help?” Wednesday asks for the fourth time.
Morticia grins, nearly baring her teeth. “Wednesday, my darling, your Enid needs to learn these things. She should have been taught long ago.”
“Yeah,” Enid says, tongue sticking out in focus as she hacks away at a cluster of dried, dead roots. Wednesday eyes her hold on the hatchet, wondering if it will offend if she moves closer to correct her grip. “It’s actually kind of fun,” Enid muses.
Wednesday would beg to differ, but then, the forest has never called to her the way it does her mother and beloved.
“Wonderful job, dear,” Morticia says, voice warm. “Ah, but I do want to examine the fourth seedling…it’s rather close to the water…”
Morticia turns away, leaving Enid to her own devices, and Wednesday watches in surprise as Enid abandons her hatchet on the ground. Casting a surreptitious look around, and finding the Dobrev clan as well as Gomez and Pugsley thoroughly distracted by some constellation that Gladis and Ren are holding a spirited argument over, Enid slips her hand into her pocket with an expression of intense secrecy. She couldn’t look more obvious than if she had her hand shoved inside a cookie jar, Wednesday muses.
The poor attempt at subterfuge abruptly makes sense when Enid’s arm reemerges with the golden seed in hand. She paws at the ground, apparently not daring to use any of the tools, battery-operated or otherwise, and Wednesday watches with a smirk as Enid casts dirt and mud all over herself in her hurry to plant the seed before anyone notices.
The seed disappears into the earth just as the lantern beside Enid flickers out, a gust of wind carrying the weak light with it, and her pretty wolf is cast in shadow. Wednesday can only make out the whites of Enid’s eyes and the pale glint of her blonde hair. She looks like a wraith, Wednesday thinks, or a particularly vengeful spirit. Daughter of the woods, indeed.
Enid’s eyes seem to flick around frantically, clearly searching for something, and Wednesday locks onto the watering can by her boot at the exact same time as Enid.
It’s too far away for Enid to reach from her vantage point, and if she opens her mouth and asks for it, she risks attracting Morticia’s attention. Wednesday can practically hear Enid’s pulse hammering away as she debates what to do. Even the slightest movement could draw unwanted eyes. With Ren and Chase in the garden, any motion Enid makes could very well be caught.
Wednesday kicks over the watering can with a shrieking clatter, drawing every eye to herself as water spills over the earth where Enid planted her golden seed.
“Oops,” Wednesday announces.
Pugsley guffaws, dodging the grounding hand that Gomez extends towards his shoulder.
“Do be careful, dear,” Morticia tuts, eyes narrowed in suspicion even as she comes over to retrieve the upended can from the dirt. It’s too late, Wednesday notes. The spilled water has darkened the soil to the point where it’s impossible to tell that it was ever disturbed.
Wednesday locks eyes with Enid as she says, “My mistake.”
Enid sucks in a breath, fails to properly inhale through her laugh, and promptly chokes. She begins to cough, spit dribbling over her chin as she hunches over on her knees, one palm landing in the dirt with a wet slap.
Her saliva drips all the way down to the soil, one long, glimmering tendril connecting her chin to the ground.
“You see?” Ren speaks up. “My point exactly.”
Gladis bristles with what looks like genuine rage as she retorts, “Aquarius isn’t responsible for a spilled watering can, Ren Tanaka!”
Meanwhile, Wednesday kneels beside Enid, whose hacking cough has petered off into an unsteady breath.
“Are you alright?” Wednesday innocently asks.
Enid rolls her eyes, but rasps, “Yup. Just perfect.”
Wednesday hums in agreement, reaching out with her hand to touch Enid’s chin. When Enid flinches back, raising her own hand as if to wipe the wet from her skin herself, Wednesday shifts to grip her jaw. Holds her a little tighter.
Enid freezes, pupils blowing wide. It’s as if she can smell it, Wednesday marvels, as if Enid can sense her very intentions as she leans closer. If Enid is still breathing, it’s silent.
Wednesday feels a little bit separate as she reaches forward, but not absent. Not detached. She feels separate in the sense that she and Enid exist here, in this dark, depraved corner of the forest, and everyone else is simply chatter in the trees.
Wednesday touches her chin, then presses harder, smearing the saliva around Enid’s mouth. The tendril connecting her to the dirt breaks, hanging from her chin like a delicate, spider-spun remnant of a web, and Wednesday catches that too. Allows it to mark her skin, to dry on her wrist, as she slips her thumb into Enid’s mouth.
Enid goes to suck on her, lips forming a pretty heart around her thumb, but Wednesday pulls out before she can. She holds her hand beneath Enid’s mouth, creating a makeshift cup. From the possessive hunch of her shoulders to the sweat beading on the small of her back, it is plainly obvious what she wants.
Spit, Wednesday mouths.
Enid stares back at her, flabbergasted.
Wednesday raises an eyebrow, hand still raised. Still holding firm in position. Unmoving, Wednesday thinks. Unbowed.
Wednesday’s lips part again, but before she can mouth a single word, Enid leans down and spits into her hand.
She instantly looks bowled over, maybe even horrified at herself for actually doing it, but Wednesday’s chest burns with approval. She can feel her mouth twisting with the satisfaction she cannot fully swallow as she pushes her spit-wet hand into the dirt, pressing her offering against Enid’s.
“Now, it will grow,” Wednesday whispers.
Her whisper isn’t quiet enough. Morticia’s head twists in their direction like something out of The Exorcist, and she extricates herself from the argument about Aquarius, coming to loom over them like a plant-smitten spectre.
“These seedlings will grow,” Morticia echoes, misinterpreting Wednesday’s words.
Enid hurriedly wipes her chin, curling backward like she’s embarrassed, but Wednesday catches her by the wrist and keeps her still.
“Enid,” Morticia whistles into the trees, face alight with joy. “Enid of the Eldwood Forest.”
***
The wind carries her words further than intended.
***
“You must come sing to them every day,” Morticia instructs, walking steadily along the path.
Enid nods, picking her way through a root system that looks suspiciously humanoid. “I will. Up until we leave.”
“I will sit vigil for your trees once you’ve departed,” Soledad informs her, face solemn.
“Me, too!” June enthuses. “I’d be happy to come chat with your eldwood trees.”
“I will also look on in their progress,” Morticia assures her, linking their arms. Enid notices Wednesday’s face creasing with irritation, but she doesn’t say a word in protest as she walks quietly behind.
“Okay,” Enid answers, chancing a smile. “That sounds great.”
“—Really, Gladis, we aren’t living in the old days,” Gomez’s voice filters over to them, “This is the modern age. Young witches don’t feel the need to veil.”
“Young witches could stand to learn a few things from the old days,” Gladis grouses.
Gomez barks out a laugh. “Next, you’ll be telling me we should loose wild dogs in the ballroom for the children to slaughter for blessings.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ksenia giggles. “A willing sacrifice is a much better medium, in any case.”
“What are they talking about?” Enid whispers.
Morticia’s lips curl up in a serene smile. “There was a time when runewitches used the blood of other animals to draw their runes for bonding. They’d slaughter a creature before all the guests and use that blood as the medium for their bonding.”
“And now?” Enid asks, a little shocked.
“Now, we use hair,” Morticia replies with a wink. “Handfasting with your shorn courting braids is less pungent, in any case.”
“I miss the old ways,” Wednesday speaks up. “At least then, the parties were exciting.”
“You’ve been to one bonding in the old ways,” Pugsley snorts. “And they slaughtered a mighty chicken for blood, so I’m not sure that counts.”
“What do you do with the blood, though?” Enid asks.
“Handfasting, as you might know, instructs the vowed to clasp their left palms together. Two witnesses then work to tie the courting braids around their hands to keep them connected whilst they make their promises,” Morticia answers, brow furrowing in thought.
“It’s nice,” Pugsley interjects. “Much more interesting than exchanging rings.”
“In the old days, rather than connect the hands with braids, you smeared your hand with blood and held it against your intended’s,” Wednesday tells her.
Enid is dragged unbidden back to the moment when Wednesday asked her to spit into her hand, a bodily fluid by any measure, and smeared it into the dirt, right over her own. She shudders at the thought of holding Wednesday’s hand, slick with blood, and giving a speech in front of everyone they know. A true nightmare, Enid thinks.
“And you watched someone do that with the blood of a chicken?” Enid asks, skeptical despite her best efforts to remain open-minded. Who is she to say what’s weird for runewitches when she comes from a culture that considers licking their partners a socially acceptable form of affection?
“It’s supposedly more impressive when the witches slaughter a large predator and use the blood of their kill to make their vows,” Wednesday responds, voice dry. “I admit the chicken was underwhelming.”
“It was kind of sad, really,” Pugsley snickers. “What a waste.”
“It could be worse,” Morticia muses. “When I was vowing myself to your father, we had only just moved past the days of hanging bedsheets in the foyer for all the guests to admire.”
“It wasn’t to admire, Tish,” Gomez sighs. He meets Enid’s eyes and explains, somewhat harried, “An old fable states the couple’s future can be divined from the rune left by their consummation.”
Enid’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she understands. “Oh my God, that’s…really?”
Wolves don’t shy away from the reality of sex, but hanging bloody bedsheets out for all the guests to see seems a step too far. Enid would perish on the spot if the evidence of her supposed virginity were displayed for her in-laws to inspect.
“It’s for interpretation,” Gomez insists. “Divining is an art. Some witches believe that all bodily fluids leave runes, and it is up to the skill of the witch to interpret them.”
“Your consummation left a rune on the sheets?” Wednesday asks under her breath. “How masterful.”
“Wednesday,” Morticia mock-chastises. “You’ll upset your father.”
“I’m more shocked that so many runewitches were virgins on their bonding night,” Pugsley comments.
Enid and Chase burst into shocked laughter, and Yuuri and Wednesday both smirk.
“Now, really!” Gladis protests. “It was a different time!”
“Perhaps that’s why we did away with that particular tradition,” Gomez admits with a wince.
“Because so many couples refused to wait?” Ksenia teases. “Or because someone finally realized interpreting the remnants of their consummation was barbaric?”
“Don’t mind my wife. She comes from a modern family,” Gladis sniffs. “I understand what you mean, Gomez.”
“I can’t say any of what you’ve described would leave me shocked,” Ren speaks up. “I’m rather disappointed there won’t be chickens loose in the ballroom.”
“No chickens, please,” Morticia interjects.
“I beg you,” Wednesday says in a low voice. “The feathers make an awful mess.”
Enid grins up at the sky. Though the moon is weak, the stars shimmer brightly as if laughing alongside her.
Notes:
re: wednesday thinking having children in her twenties is crazy - i am also a girl in her twenties from new jersey and literally no one i know has children. none of my bridesmaids are married or engaged. i am regularly referred to as a child bride for choosing to get married this young and i am a fully cooked adult😭
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