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It begins, as most disasters do, with a single lapse in judgment (hers, not Enid’s, which makes it worse). The idea is simple, craft a potion to heighten her visions. Not control them, that would be foolish, but sharpen them, distill the blurred edges, grant clarity where there is only static. She’s been feeling it for months now, the dulling, the dreams that flicker out too soon, flashes of memory that vanish before she can make sense of them. It’s infuriating.
So she does what she always does, she acts. She drafts the formula herself, drawing from obscure texts and half-burned grimoires, she writes out a neat list of ingredients in her bone-white journal and circles the hellroot three times. She knows how volatile it is, that’s the point.
All Enid has to do is fetch it. And she tries, she tries with all the earnestness of someone who once mistook powdered wolfsbane for stevia. She hands over the jar with a proud little grin, like she’s just delivered the heart of a dragon instead of heliomel root, which, crucially, smells like cinnamon (hellroot does not smell like cinnamon).
Wednesday knows this, somewhere in the back of her mind the warning flashes like a candle before it gutters out. But Enid is watching her with that stupid expression, and the candlelight is casting syrupy shadows on the page, and the room smells warm, safe, wrong. Still, she drinks it, of course she does.
The first few hours pass uneventfully. She chalks up the faint heat spreading through her chest as residual energy from the vision spell, or perhaps indigestion (Enid had fed her something suspicious earlier, gluten-free brownies or a “moon muffin,” whatever that means).
But by midnight, she knows something’s off. Her skin is flushed, her mouth is dry, her dreams are sharp… heavy and saturated with sensation. She wakes tangled in the sheets, damp with sweat, her thighs pressed together in a way that is decidedly not neutral. She stares at the ceiling for a long time before sitting up in bed. Her pulse is pounding and her jaw aches from how tightly she’s been clenching it. This is not a vision potion, this is something else.
By dawn, the irritation has bloomed into something worse. Wednesday yanks open her wardrobe and dresses in the stiffest, least breathable fabrics she owns, with a high collar, long sleeves and a corseted waist. If she’s going to be at war with her own body, she’s not going to make it easy on herself. She binds her hair tighter than usual, twisting it into a knot that pulls at her scalp. Still, nothing helps.
The friction of her stockings as she walks is unbearable, every brush of fabric over her skin is a provocation. Her own heartbeat feels indecent. By the time she reaches the dining hall, she looks like a plague victim. Enid, naturally, bounds up to her like a golden retriever with a death wish. “Hey, roomie! You look, uh, kind of feverish. Everything okay?”
Wednesday stares at her for a long, empty moment. Then she speaks, slow and deliberate. “Tell me. When you retrieved the hellroot yesterday, what label was on the jar?”
Enid frowns. “Um… Heliomel root, I think? Or something like that?” There is a silence so thick it could drown gods. Wednesday exhales once, sharply. “You gave me heliomel?”
“Is that bad?”
“That’s an aphrodisiac.” Enid blinks, then her eyes widen in slow horror. “Oh my God. Like… a real one? Like, an actual aphrodisiac?”
“I’m going to kill you,” Wednesday mutters, turning on her heel. “But first, I’m going to find a cure. And if I don’t, I’ll let you choose which limb I sever as penance.”
Day two bleeds into day three like sweat down her spine, the symptoms worsen with a cruel kind of elegance. It isn’t just heat anymore, it’s want… raw and aimless and utterly consuming.
She finds herself staring (at hands, at necks, at collarbones), she walks past a student tying their shoes and nearly whimpers at the sight of their fingers tightening the laces. She bites her own tongue so hard it bleeds… still better than the alternative.
Weems appears at the end of the corridor during her patrol, which is not unusual, the woman is always floating somewhere, all authority and elegance. But today, she’s wearing that midnight blue blouse with the faint sheen, the one that moves like water and outlines the sharp lines of her hips when she turns to the side. Wednesday stops walking (her body doesn’t move, her brain does… screaming, panicked, monstrous).
She feels it, the low tug in her stomach, the dizzying ache behind her eyes. Weems glances over and smiles faintly in acknowledgment, Wednesday turns and walks directly into a support beam… the bruise is worth it.
By day four, she’s lost the ability to regulate her temperature. Her cheeks stay flushed, her breathing shallow and her appetite is gone (except it’s not, not really… it’s just changed targets). She dreams of mouths and hands… and pressure. She opens her Latin textbook and the word constringo makes her groan out loud.
In class, she grips her desk like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the mortal plane. Enid gives her a look like she’s either going to hug her or perform an exorcism. Wednesday slaps a Post-it on her own forehead that reads DO NOT TOUCH ME, and she means it.
She catches herself making accidental eye contact with Weems during lunch and has to flee the dining hall entirely. The headmistress had just lifted a teacup to her mouth and something in the motion ruined her. She spends the rest of the day hiding in the greenhouse, silently judging herself and fantasizing about smothering the botanist who keeps spraying mist in the air.
By day five, her dignity is a corpse. She tries to reverse-engineer the potion, but the notes are a mess. Her handwriting from that night is unreadable, scrawled in a haze of pride and budding lust. She knocks over a bottle of salamander oil and nearly cries. The worst part is that she’s begun… speaking, not to others but to herself (out loud).
She mutters things like “Weems probably smells like citrus,” and “If I hear her voice one more time, I’ll start purring.” She doesn’t mean to say them, they just happen. She blurts, in the middle of her journal: “Her posture makes me want to beg.” And she crosses it out so hard she tears the page.
On day six, she almost gets expelled. Not for the potion, not even for threatening Enid with scissors. No, it’s for telling Xavier, completely unprovoked, “If I were dying of thirst and your wrist was bleeding, I might consider it.” She doesn’t know where it came from, she doesn’t even like Xavier, she just said it.
Enid takes her aside and whispers, “You have to tell someone. Like… an adult.” Wednesday snarls, “I’d rather climb onto the weather vane and throw myself into the quad.”
“But if you wait too long, it might…” “I am handling it.” But she’s not. She’s not sleeping, not eating, not blinking at times… just staring into space, sweating, aching, breathing like someone’s hands are always on her waist.
Day seven is not a day, it’s a fever dream. She wakes up writhing, her sheets are soaked, her pillows are destroyed. She’s lost time, whole hours swallowed in heat, her hands won’t stop shaking and her lips are chapped from panting.
She tries to write, her pen snaps. She tries to meditate, she ends up moaning… it’s humiliating (the way she’s losing herself).
By evening, she’s in front of Weems’ office, not entirely sure how she got there. Her body is taut, trembling, on the verge of collapse. Her hand lifts to knock, but trembles midair, she doesn’t want this… she doesn’t want to need. But if she waits any longer, she’s going to black out in public or accidentally hump a staircase.
So she knocks, once, sharp and final. The door opens without a sound. Inside, Weems looks up from her desk, utterly composed. “Miss Addams,” she says, not unkindly. “To what do I owe the…” She trails off when she sees her.
Wednesday is standing in the doorway like she’s about to faint or burst into flames. Her collar is askew, her cheeks are flushed, her breathing is shallow and fast. Weems rises instantly, concern overtaking curiosity. “Wednesday,” she says softly, taking a step forward, “are you…?”
“I need a book,” Wednesday rasps, trying to hold it together. “The one on potions,” she adds, blinking slowly. “The… restricted one.” Weems frowns. “You know I can’t give that to you without an explanation.” There’s a silence, Wednesday closes her eyes and her voice is barely above a whisper. “I made a mistake.”
The office is too warm, though not by any reasonable measure. The fire in the hearth is a low flicker, its presence ornamental rather than functional. The lights are dimmed to soft amber, bouncing gently off polished wood, and the curtains are drawn open to let the late sun spill across the long carpet. It should feel academic, safe, familiar… instead, it feels like a trap.
Wednesday is standing just over the threshold, spine locked, hands at her sides, eyes glassy and dark. Every inch of her skin feels stretched too thin over something molten. Her blouse clings to her back with sweat and her collar is damp where her throat keeps working in tiny, shallow swallows.
Across the room, Weems watches her with a wary sort of stillness, one brow lifting as she slowly steps around the front of her desk, long skirts swaying gently at her calves. The quiet click of her heels on the hardwood is almost deafening. “I need that book to check on something,” Wednesday says at last, forcing the words through her clenched teeth like they’re splinters. “And you have it.”
The headmistress’s pale eyes narrow slightly, concern flickering through her otherwise unreadable expression. She doesn’t move closer, but she gestures calmly toward the chair in front of her desk, her voice even. “Sit down.”
Wednesday doesn’t, she can’t. Sitting would mean pressure, friction, heat, and she can already feel herself trembling from the inside out. “I prefer to stand,” she mutters, though even her tone sounds unsteady now, too thin, too ragged.
Weems studies her for a moment longer, her gaze flicking briefly to the damp flush rising on Wednesday’s throat, the twitch in her jaw, the faint shimmer of sweat at her temple. Her voice softens, though it doesn’t lose any authority. “You look unwell.”
The words make Wednesday’s fists clench at her sides. She lifts her chin a fraction and tries to force her expression into something closer to defiance, but it’s unraveling around the edges. Her skin is too hot and her breath is catching at the top of her lungs. Every second she spends in this office (so saturated with Weems’ presence, her scent, the richness of her voice) drags her deeper into the undertow.
“I just need the book,” she manages, forcing her gaze toward the bookshelves and away from the delicate lines of Weems’ mouth. “For reference, that’s all.” She knows she sounds like she’s lying because she is. Weems doesn’t move, but something in her posture shifts, her hands loosely folding in front of her, eyes sharpening beneath her calm facade.
“You’ve never asked for it before,” she says, each word chosen like a knife. “And you know it’s not allowed out of this office.” The silence that follows is thick, humming like wires in the walls.
Wednesday tightens her jaw and lifts her gaze to the shelves as if willing the book to hurl itself into her hands and fly them both far away from this unbearable proximity. Her fingers twitch. “I was experimenting with a blend,” she says carefully, testing the sentence like a trapdoor. “Something for… vision enhancement, I may have used the wrong ingredient.”
“You may have,” Weems echoes slowly, tilting her head. Her voice is cool, curious. “And this wrong ingredient, it produced side effects?” The question lands too gently (it slices deeper because of it).
Wednesday sways slightly on her feet, weight shifting from heel to heel in microscopic, desperate movements. Her thighs are trembling, the back of her neck is damp and she can feel the fever behind her eyes now (not just physical, but feral).
“Yes,” she answers, but barely, she hopes that’s enough and it isn’t. Weems steps closer, only a foot or so, but it’s enough to make the air shift. Enough that Wednesday can suddenly smell her, citrus and bergamot and starch, heat and control. The scent slams into her like a brick and she stiffens violently.
“And what kind of side effects are we talking about?” the headmistress asks, her voice still calm, still maddeningly reasonable, though her gaze is no longer detached. Wednesday opens her mouth and closes it again. The truth is trying to claw its way out, dragging shame behind it like chains.
She shakes her head once, sharply. “It’s not serious,” she lies. “Just discomfort.” Weems’s eyes narrow. “You’re sweating through a blouse made of wool, and your pupils are blown so wide they look like ink stains. That’s not discomfort, Wednesday.” There’s a pause, just long enough for something to tilt sideways inside her. Her balance slips and then it happens.
Her knees give slightly, not enough to fall, but enough to stumble. Weems is moving before she can catch herself, a hand flashing out to steady her by the arm, the other settling instinctively, gently, against the small of her back (contact: real, solid, horrifying contact).
The sensation rips through her like a live current. Her breath hitches violently in her chest, her eyes fly open and her fingers dig into her own skirt. For a split second, she thinks she might die (or worse, that she might not).
Weems doesn’t let go. Her voice, when it comes, is lower now, concerned, closer (intimate in a way that shouldn’t be allowed). “You’re burning up.” Wednesday flinches, her legs lock and her breath escapes in a short, strangled gasp. “I told you,” she hisses, barely able to control her own voice, “it’s just a minor reaction.”
“You’re barely upright.” “I’m fine.” The hand at her back stays exactly where it is (warm, anchoring, torturous). “You’re not fine,” Weems says quietly and Wednesday could scream, could claw her way out of her own skin just to get away from how good it feels, how grounding, how deeply, viscerally wrong.
She stumbles backward half a step, out of reach. Her eyes are wild now, her voice unsteady as she rasps, “Just give me the book and I’ll take care of it.” But Weems doesn’t move to the shelf. Instead, she simply watches her for a long, silent moment, her lips parting slightly as she exhales, thinking.
Then, slowly, she turns and walks to the bookshelf herself, her movements as graceful as ever (measured, confident and so calm it makes Wednesday want to snap the spines of every volume in the room just to hear something break).
The headmistress selects the book with delicate fingers, the leather-bound spine sliding free with a whisper of age and magic. She returns to her desk, sets it down carefully, and opens it to the section she clearly already suspects is relevant.
But when Wednesday reaches for it, Weems lays a hand flat across the open page. “No,” she says, and her voice is final. Wednesday blinks once and then again, slower. Her arm freezes mid-motion. “I said I needed it,” she whispers, dangerously close to losing what little patience remains.
“And I said I won’t give it to you unless you tell me what this is really about.” The room pulses with heat. Wednesday stares at her, at the hand covering the page, at the wrist she’d once imagined biting for reasons she’s now deeply ashamed of. Her body is screaming, her skin is burning and her mind is fraying around the edges (still, she lies).
“It’s nothing, just a wrong root. I have a fever, it’ll pass.” Weems’s expression shifts as doubt flickering across it, followed by something else (something more complicated). “If it’s nothing,” she murmurs, fingers tapping lightly against the paper, “then why do you look like you’re about to cry?” The words hit too hard and Wednesday pulls back like she’s been slapped, jaw tightening, lips trembling just barely.
She is not going to cry, she is not going to break, but something inside her gives way, and before she can stop herself, her voice cracks in a hoarse whisper. “I think I made an aphrodisiac.” The word sits in the air between them like a dropped dagger (sharp, unwelcome, and ringing with implication).
Weems doesn’t speak at first. Her fingers pause mid-turn against the page, the tip of her nail pressing into the parchment as if anchoring herself there, physically holding steady as the sentence lands. She doesn’t say ‘What?’ or ‘Pardon?’ or ‘Excuse me?’ (because she’s far too composed for anything that raw). But the stillness in her shoulders, the slight parting of her lips, the way her breath draws in carefully through her nose… all of it tells Wednesday that she heard her.
Still, Wednesday keeps her eyes locked on the edge of the desk, refusing to look up. Her heart is thudding behind her ribs like it’s trying to bruise its way out. “I’m not sure,” she mutters, her voice scraping out low and defensive, like the underside of a coffin lid. “But I’ve narrowed it down.”
She dares a glance upward and Weems is still looking at her, but now there’s something searching in the way her gaze drags across Wednesday’s face, something just short of disbelief and far closer to calculation. “…An aphrodisiac,” the headmistress repeats, not quite asking, more like confirming that she hasn’t misheard one of her most infamous students say the word aphrodisiac in a voice that cracked mid-confession.
Wednesday gives the smallest of nods, and it feels like a defeat. “I didn’t mean to,” she adds quickly, bitterly. “Obviously.” The way Weems’s brow furrows (almost imperceptibly) is both galling and devastating. Her voice, when she finally speaks again, is careful… delicate. “And you’re experiencing… symptoms?”
The silence between that word and Wednesday’s response is one of the most humiliating spans of time in her young adult life (she grits her teeth so hard her jaw creaks). “I believe that much is self-evident.”
To her credit, Weems doesn’t smile, but something twitches at the corner of her mouth, some fragile sliver of amusement that dies quickly under the weight of Wednesday’s glare.
“I see,” she says instead, her tone slipping back into the clinical. Her hands return to the pages of the book as if re-centering herself in something rational. “Well, there are several known… aphrodisiacs, we should be able to identify the one you ingested and work backward from there.” The words are calm (logical… helpful). They do absolutely nothing to soothe the screaming inferno beneath Wednesday’s skin.
“I already tried that,” she mutters, shifting her weight again. The movement sends another wave of friction up her thighs, and she has to resist the urge to bite her own fist. “The notes are a mess, I don’t even know which combination of ingredients I used.”
Weems flips slowly through the section, her fingers trailing lightly down the yellowed parchment, scanning columns with an academic’s focus. “There are at least ten variations listed here,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Some mild, others… rather intense.” Wednesday says nothing, she can’t… her mouth is too dry. Her hands are shaking and the flush on her cheeks feels like it’s sinking into her bones.
She’s standing in front of her headmistress, aroused to the point of faintness, and being asked to help diagnose what flavor of horny chemical imbalance she’s inflicted on herself. “I’ll read the primary symptoms aloud,” Weems says, still professional, still calm. “You tell me when one sounds familiar.”
“No,” Wednesday snaps immediately, her voice sharp with panic. “Absolutely not.” Weems pauses, turning her head to look at her fully now. “If we’re going to identify it…”
“I am not going to stand here while you read off a checklist of debauched side effects like it’s some kind of quiz.” “Wednesday…”
“I already know I’m dying of lust and shame, I don’t need it narrated.” There’s a pause (a long one) and then, so softly it sounds like a breeze over broken glass, Weems says, “You could sit down.” That nearly breaks her.
Wednesday laughs, once, bitter and breathless. “If I sit down, I will combust. I’ll leave a scorch mark in the shape of my thighs.” That earns a blink from Weems. And, horrifyingly, a small twitch of her lips that is dangerously close to a smile. “Right,” she says gently, eyes flicking back down to the page. “Then standing it is.”
There’s a beat of silence. The fire in the hearth crackles once. The page turns under Weems’s fingers with a dry whisper. “This one lists persistent fever, restlessness, elevated heart rate, hypersensitivity to physical contact, and inappropriate thoughts toward authority figures.” The sound that comes from Wednesday’s throat is somewhere between a hiss and a wheeze.
“I’m going to jump out the window,” she mutters, half to herself. “I’ll land on a gargoyle and bleed out. It’ll be cleaner than this.” Weems turns another page, carefully, like she hasn’t just read Wednesday Addams her own erotic obituary.
“This one,” she murmurs, “was developed during the early Victorian period. Incredibly potent, considered a punishment potion actually. Used in rehabilitation camps to teach restraint.” Wednesday is sweating. “There doesn’t appear to be a cure for this one, it only says it’s designed to burn itself out.”
“It includes vivid dreams, compulsive honesty, involuntary flirtation, and, ah.” She pauses. “Accidental innuendo.”
“I haven’t done that,” Wednesday says automatically. “You just told me you’d combust if you sat down.” “I was being literal.” “You said it would leave a scorch mark shaped like your thighs.”
There is a silence in which Wednesday actually, for a moment, contemplates dismembering herself just to create a distraction. “I’m going to walk into the lake with rocks in my pockets,” she announces, pressing both hands to her temples. “Virginia Woolf my way out of this plane of existence.” Weems hums thoughtfully. “Unclear if that would nullify the potion.”
“Stop being calm,” Wednesday snaps. “Stop being reasonable, it’s making it worse.” The headmistress’s voice lowers just a touch, something sardonic creeping into her tone as she says, “Would you prefer I panic? Scream? Perhaps faint dramatically into your arms?”
“I’d prefer if you were less… you,” Wednesday growls, then immediately groans. “Forget I said that.” Weems arches a single brow. “Less me?”
“I mean… less everything, less tall, less composed, less voice.” The brow stays arched. “Less voice?”
“You have a voice,” Wednesday spits out, clearly regretting every vowel as it escapes. “A certain… tone. Like velvet dragged over piano wire. And it’s deeply unfortunate… for my condition.” There is another pause, then, softly (dangerously) Weems murmurs, “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Wednesday squeezes her eyes shut. Her chest heaves with breath she can’t control. “I will choke myself with this collar.”
“Please don’t, paperwork is involved.” “I hate you.” “I don’t believe you.” It takes a moment for the silence to settle after that last exchange, the kind that vibrates under the skin. Wednesday clenches her jaw so tightly she hears it crack, refusing to look at Weems again (refusing to watch her take that casually devastating breath through her nose, or glance down at the book like she hasn’t just been called tall, velvet-voiced, and deeply inappropriate for someone in charge of minors).
She wants the floor to open up beneath her. Or, failing that, for a large piece of antique furniture to collapse on top of her, preferably something baroque and heavy with Latin inscriptions.
The heat surging through her now is different from before, not just lust or fever, but something far more humiliating: vulnerability, exposure. The potion isn’t just prying her open, it’s shoving everything she normally contains beneath a mask of disdain right up to the surface, raw and bloody.
And Weems is still watching her, arms folded, expression unreadable but far too steady for Wednesday’s liking. When she finally moves, it’s not back to the desk or the book, it’s toward her. Wednesday’s first instinct is to step back (she doesn’t, barely). The headmistress closes the space between them with quiet, purposeful steps, until she’s standing just in front of her.
It’s close enough that Wednesday can see the stitching of her blouse, the faint shimmer of powder dusted over her cheekbones, the way her lashes cast sharp shadows beneath her eyes. “I need to check your fever,” Weems says, low and reasonable, as though she’s not about to touch her again. And before Wednesday can object, or protest, or fling herself backward through the office window, Weems lifts her hand… it’s gentle (too gentle).
Cool fingers brush Wednesday’s bangs aside, pushing them slowly back from her forehead. The touch is clinical, or at least it’s supposed to be, but it feels like a benediction. Her skin tingles in its wake, every nerve ending pulled to the surface like iron filings to a magnet.
The palm settles against her temple and Wednesday almost stops breathing. Weems hums, a soft, thoughtful sound deep in her throat. “You’re on fire.” The words should be factual, should be observational but they land like an accusation, or worse, an invitation.
Wednesday’s knees tremble, she sways forward by an inch, and catches herself (just barely). Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And the, God help her, she reaches out. She doesn’t mean to, doesn’t think. Her arm moves like it belongs to someone else, like it’s responding to a gravitational force stronger than her willpower. Fingers brush lightly at the side of Weems’ head.
Just a single, trembling stroke over a wave of perfect platinum. The softness of it, Gods it’s soft, makes her inhale sharply, like she’s just scalded herself. And the second she realizes what she’s done (what she’s doing) she jerks her hand back like she’s been burned. Weems freezes, Wednesday’s heart tries to throw itself through her ribcage. “I…” she starts, but the word is strangled.
Her hands hover midair for a moment, still tingling with the shame of that contact. She curls her fingers into fists, nails biting into her palms. Her eyes are wide now, too wide. Her pupils are still blown, cheeks crimson, chest rising and falling with shallow, barely-contained breaths. “I didn’t mean to do that,” she mutters, voice brittle and sharp. “It wasn’t… I’m not…”
The rest of the sentence breaks apart under the weight of sheer, undiluted panic. Weems says nothing and her expression doesn’t change, but she does lower her hand slowly, carefully, as though trying not to startle a wild animal that might bolt or bite. There’s a long pause and then, gently, with the kind of calm one uses to address someone on the verge of disassociation, Weems says, “Would you like to try again?”
Wednesday blinks. “I mean,” the older woman continues, adjusting her stance but not stepping away, “would you like to try explaining what, exactly, you’re experiencing? So we can determine how urgent this is.” It’s not patronizing, i’s not mocking… it’s worse (it’s kind). Wednesday drags both hands down her face, resisting the urge to scream into them. Her shoulders are hunched, her spine twitching with the effort of staying upright.
“I am not going to list my symptoms like this is a doctor’s office,” she mutters, though her resistance sounds increasingly hollow now. “I refuse.” Weems tilts her head, her eyes narrowing just slightly. “If you want me to help you, I need more information than ‘I think I made a sex potion.’” Wednesday groans quietly, as if in physical pain.
“You’re asking me to describe…” she hesitates, teeth gritting. “Things.” “I’m aware.” “I can’t say those things to you.” Weems doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze holds steady, unreadable, though her brow creases faintly in something like concern. “Why not?” she asks softly.
Because you’re tall and cold and terrifying and I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like it’s an order since I was nineteen, she doesn’t say that. Instead, she clenches her jaw so tight her teeth click and mutters, “Because I’ll never recover.”
The office feels smaller now. Not physically, nothing has moved, but the air is thicker, the ceiling closer. The world has narrowed to the weight of Wednesday’s humiliation and the sound of her own unsteady breathing. Her body is still alight with the potion’s effects, the ache now pulsing between her ribs, her legs, the very edges of her skin. It’s unbearable. She wants to tear herself out of it.
Weems is still standing too close, still watching her with that maddening blend of concern and calculation. She hasn’t moved since the hair-touching incident and she hasn’t commented on it either, which, somehow, is worse.
Wednesday shifts again, subtly, just enough to create a sliver of distance, though it does nothing to ease the heat crawling over her skin. If anything, it makes it worse, she feels exposed, like air itself is too intimate now. She folds her arms tightly across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves, as though she can anchor herself with pressure alone. Her voice, when it comes, is low and brittle. “I’ll be vague.”
Weems, ever composed, dips her chin in agreement, though her tone is careful. “That’s fine, just enough to identify which formula we’re dealing with.” Wednesday swallows, the motion feels violent in her throat. “I’m running hot,” she begins, her words clipped and reluctant. “Feverish. Uncomfortable. And I’ve been… restless.”
She says it like a swear, like the very concept of restlessness offends her. Weems nods slowly, not interrupting. “I can’t sleep,” Wednesday continues, her eyes darting to the fire, unable to hold the headmistress’s gaze. “I wake up drenched, my dreams are vivid… sensory, invasive.” The pause after that word is short but searing.
Weems’ brow furrows just slightly, the faintest tilt of her head betraying curiosity. “Invasive?” Wednesday lifts her hands briefly, gesturing vaguely in the air like she’s trying to sculpt something she refuses to name. “I’ll dream about someone brushing past me and wake up… affected.” The word hangs there, soaked in shame.
Weems doesn’t speak, but her lips press together thoughtfully. Encouraged by the fact that she hasn’t yet been swallowed by the earth, Wednesday powers forward like someone walking into traffic on purpose. “There’s a pressure, low in my stomach… it pulses, I can’t sit still for long. Every movement…” she falters, eyes narrowing. “makes it worse.”
She shifts again unconsciously, and when the friction of her own thighs sets off a wave of molten shame down her spine, she flinches so visibly that Weems moves instinctively, just a fraction, but doesn’t touch her. Instead, her voice lowers with a gentleness that makes Wednesday want to scream. “Have you had any… intrusive thoughts?”
The silence that follows is the loudest one yet. Wednesday freezes before she lifts her chin, stiff and defiant, even as her cheeks blaze scarlet. “If I start listing them,” she rasps, “you’ll expel me.” Weems exhales slowly, and for the first time since the conversation began, she looks… conflicted. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. Then, very softly, she says, “That bad?”
Wednesday doesn’t answer, she just glares at the floor like it has personally betrayed her. When she finally does speak, it’s in a voice so strained it barely qualifies as hers. “I walked into a statue two days ago because I thought its posture was seductive.” Weems doesn’t laugh, not out loud, but the twitch of her lips betrays her. Wednesday shoots her a look that could curdle milk.
“And then there’s you,” she blurts out, and immediately looks like she wants to claw her own tongue out. The silence that follows is monumental. Weems blinks once, then freezes so completely that she looks like a wax figure.
Wednesday takes a shaky breath, eyes wide, hands now fisted at her sides again. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” “Clearly.” “I meant to think it and then kill the thought. Like a normal person.” Weems makes a noise (a soft one), it might be a cough, might be a laugh… it sounds like something inside her is breaking.
“I’ve been avoiding eye contact with you for days,” Wednesday says, horrified, like she’s confessing to a murder. “I can’t look at your wrists.” This time, Weems does laugh, quiet and stunned, eyes widening just a little before she looks away, the hand at her temple betraying her with a small tremor. “I’m sorry,” she says, and to her credit, she almost sounds like she means it.
“I’m going to walk into the lake,” Wednesday whispers again. “I’m going to tie myself to a cinderblock and drift away like an Elizabethan widow.” “You’ve said that already.” “I was serious.”
Weems regains her composure with a visible breath, then returns her attention to the book as if giving them both something else to focus on. Her voice, when she speaks again, is steadier. “That helps,” she says. “With your symptoms. That rules out half of these.” Wednesday doesn’t answer, she’s still staring at the corner of the rug like she’s trying to climb into it and disappear.
“You said you’re overheating, restless, easily stimulated, dreaming vividly, and avoiding me specifically.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” Wednesday mutters, biting down on the last thread of her pride. “I’m trying not to do something unspeakable.” “Such as?” “Touch you again.” There is another pause before Weems speaks again, very gently, “That’s not the worst thing you could have admitted.”
“You don’t know what I’ve not admitted.” There’s another long pause in which Weems’s hand slowly curls over the corner of the book as if to steady herself. “Do you have an idea which formula this might be?” Wednesday nods once. “I suspect the Victorian one, the one used in behavioral correction trials. The cruel one.” Weems frowns at that. “The one with no cure?”
A beat passes, Wednesday exhales sharply, her voice a dry rasp. “My guess is that it only ends when I… fulfill the potion’s purpose.” Weems blinks. “Which is?” Wednesday meets her eyes now, fully, with all the fury and embarrassment in the world churning beneath the surface. “You know what it is.”
The second Weems absorbs what Wednesday’s just said, a subtle but unmistakable shift moves through her. She doesn’t flinch, of course she doesn’t, she’s Larissa Weems and flinching is something other people do. But her eyes widen just slightly (enough for the pale blue to catch the light) and her fingers curl tighter around the edge of the desk as if anchoring herself in place. Her posture doesn’t change, but her composure develops a crack so fine and quiet, most people wouldn’t notice… Wednesday notices.
She feels it like a vibration in her bones. Still, Weems keeps her tone steady as she asks, slowly, as if confirming a chemical formula, “So the only way to neutralize the potion’s effects… is to allow the desire it amplifies to be… resolved.” Wednesday closes her eyes and very softly mutters, “Don’t use that word.”
A beat passes. “Which word?” Weems asks, not unkindly. Wednesday grits her teeth so hard it hurts. “Resolved, you make it sound like I need to file my libido as a report.” Weems exhales once through her nose, and something in her jaw shifts, just slightly.
Silence follows, a deep one and it is suffocating. Then, just as Weems opens her mouth again, Wednesday speaks, louder than necessary. “But there has to be another way.” Her voice is jagged, desperate, laced with something halfway between fury and pleading. Weems turns her full attention back to her now, brows drawing together, but still saying nothing.
“I refuse to accept that copulation is the only path forward,” Wednesday snaps, folding her arms so tightly across her chest it looks like she’s trying to hold herself together by force. “That’s archaic and obscene, a design flaw in the potion.” Weems lifts one brow slowly. “A very intentional flaw, I believe.”
“I could meditate,” Wednesday announces, beginning to pace slowly, like her joints are made of rust and lust and shame. “I could immerse myself in icy water, or sear the desire out with fire, or needles… prayer.” Weems gives a soft, strangled sort of exhale, the barest hint of a laugh ghosting through it. Wednesday whirls on her. “Don’t laugh.”
“I didn’t,” Weems lies, expertly. “You’re smiling.” “Not at you.” “That’s somehow worse.” Weems rests her hands lightly on the desk, watching her now the way a scientist watches a tornado (impressed, curious and faintly horrified).
“You’ve been like this for how long?” Wednesday makes a low noise in her throat that might be a growl, or a cry for help. “I’ve been enduring this inferno with grace and silence,” she says, pacing again. “Which is more than I can say for most of the idiots on this campus who experience even a whiff of arousal and immediately hump the nearest surface.”
Weems doesn’t speak for a moment, then murmurs carefully, “And yet you’re in my office. Asking for an antidote that doesn’t exist.” Wednesday stops moving and the room shifts again. “I wasn’t going to come,” she admits, her voice thin and cracked around the edges. “I thought I could wait it out.”
Weems tilts her head. “And why didn’t you?” Wednesday breathes in slowly, then speaks without looking at her. “Because today I hallucinated a moan when you shut a book.” There’s a pause, a beat (a wince) and then, almost whispering she adds, “It wasn’t even a good book.”
She finally looks up. Weems is staring at her now with an unreadable expression, somewhere between sympathy and stunned disbelief. “I’ve tried everything,” Wednesday says, stepping forward, frustration rippling off her like heat from pavement. “I’ve practiced cello until my hands blistered, I’ve done pushups on cold stone floors. I bit my own wrist to redirect the sensation and nothing works.”
Weems exhales again, slowly. “And you’re sure it’s the Victorian formulation?” Wednesday nods, tight and humiliated. “The cruel one, it’s designed for maximum humiliation. The only known resolution is…” She doesn’t finish, Weems does. “Release.”
Wednesday nearly chokes. “Stop saying it like that.” “Would you prefer the term completion?” “God, no.”
Weems’ tone remains maddeningly clinical. “I’m simply trying to identify what we’re dealing with.” “We are dealing with my unraveling.” “I can see that.”
Wednesday stops in front of the desk again, standing across from Weems like she’s trying not to throw herself onto it. Her hands brace the edge, fingertips white.
“But there has to be something else. Something temporary… a suppressant or a sedative. You’re the headmistress, surely you have access to experimental antidotes, black-market inhibitors, medieval herbalist spells…” Weems gives a small, helpless shake of her head. “Wednesday…”
“I will drink battery acid if it will calm this down.” “That would only inflame your insides.” Wednesday stares at her and Weems lifts her palms, gently, like she’s surrendering. “Chemically speaking.”
“Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Don’t use the word inflame when I’m already contemplating licking a doorknob just to feel something cold.” There is silence, then Weems closes the book with the softest thump (Wednesday’s knees go weak at the sound).
She collapses into the chair without meaning to, limbs folding awkwardly beneath her. The pressure makes her moan before she can stop it, quiet and muffled, but real. Both of them freeze, Weems looks startled and Wednesday lifts a hand slowly, covers her own mouth, and whispers through her palm, “I think I’m going to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Weems says, a little too quickly. “I’m going to die right here, and I want it in writing that Enid Sinclair is responsible.” Weems remains quiet for a beat too long. Then, softly, like she’s speaking to a feral creature in a trap, she asks, “What do you want me to do?”
The question isn’t suggestive but it isn’t gentle either (it isn’t anything, really, just quiet). It slams into Wednesday like a wall. Her mouth parts, her breath catches and her entire spine lights up. And very slowly, her eyes drag upward, locking onto Weems like a fuse finding a flame.
The question ‘What do you want me to do?’ still hangs in the room, suspended in the silence like dust in sunlight. Wednesday can feel her heartbeat in places that are no longer anatomical. Her fingers tremble where they curl against the edge of the chair, and her throat is dry, too dry, as though her body’s forgotten how to regulate anything except need.
She lifts her gaze slowly, inch by inch, until her eyes meet Weems’s. Something passes between them (not a spark, no that would be too fast, too bright… this is slower… deeper.) And Weems doesn’t look away.
Wednesday swallows hard and tries to breathe, but it catches, unsteady, as she forces herself to answer the question without truly answering it. “I want this to stop,” she says, and her voice is cracked glass. “I want the heat to go away. I want to be able to think again.”
Her fingers twitch, she doesn’t look down at them. “I want to stop feeling like a wire pulled so tight it’s going to snap.” Weems listens, unmoving, though something in her expression flickers now… something tender, something unbearably human. Wednesday’s eyes are shining. She doesn’t realize it until her voice softens further, scraping raw against the back of her throat. “I hate needing. I hate that I can’t… stop this.”
Weems’s voice is so soft it nearly folds into the walls. “And you want me to help?” The words hit something deep inside her. Wednesday flinches slightly, just barely, but she doesn’t look away.
Instead, she breathes in sharply, exhales even slower, and replies with a quiet, ruined sort of honesty. “I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t.” There’s no pride left in the way she says it, just surrender.
It makes something in Weems shift. Her posture loses some of its rigidity and her expression softens (not with pity). The understanding that this is not about power or control or even lust, it’s about need. About what happens when someone like Wednesday Addams allows herself to unravel and asks someone else to hold the threads.
Weems moves first. Slowly, so slowly, as though afraid that if she breaks the moment with haste it will shatter like spun glass. She closes the final distance between them, one hand reaching out (not forceful, not possessive, but offering). She touches Wednesday’s jaw, with her fingertips only, feather-light.
And Wednesday shudders, it’s the most intimate thing that’s happened all week, and she’s still fully clothed. Her eyes flutter closed like her body is trying to retreat inward, make the moment smaller, survivable but it’s already too late. Weems speaks again, her voice a hush, velvet worn thin at the edges. “You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to say.”
Wednesday doesn’t answer, she can’t. Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Instead, she leans forward (fractions, inches, not even conscious of the motion) and the tip of her nose brushes Weems’s cheek. That’s all it takes. Weems exhales, then lifts her other hand, cupping Wednesday’s face now with both palms, thumbs grazing the heat of her cheekbones.
And then she kisses her and it’s not hard, not rough but deep… controlled. Like she’s giving her the choice to pull away at any moment (she doesn’t). Wednesday melts into it like wax under a match. The tension in her spine evaporates. Her mouth parts on instinct, and Weems breathes her in. The kiss doesn’t burn, every movement slow and measured.
Their mouths brush, press, taste. Again and again. When they finally break apart, Wednesday is panting softly, lips swollen, chest heaving like she’s run for miles. “I…” she starts, but Weems shakes her head, barely.
“You don’t have to,” the older woman murmurs, her fingers sliding down to trace the edge of Wednesday’s throat. “Just let me help.” And this time, when Weems bends down to kiss her again, Wednesday pulls her closer. Her hands, usually clenched into fists or curled around weapons, slide up the front of Weems’s blouse with slow, almost reverent motion, her fingertips trembling just slightly as they follow the lines of polished buttons and soft, expensive fabric.
There’s no finesse: Wednesday doesn’t touch people, she dissects them but here, now, she’s learning in real time how to ask. Weems reacts in kind. She bends at the waist just enough to kiss Wednesday again, slower this time, letting her lips linger (press, then pull, then press again) as if matching the rhythm of a body trying to remember what relief feels like. Her hand finds Wednesday’s hip, guiding, grounding, her fingers splaying through stiff layers of fabric to hold.
Wednesday makes a sound against her mouth, small and involuntary, the kind of sound that slips free when control no longer fits. She feels molten. Every part of her aches in the same rhythm now: her breath, her pulse, the ache between her thighs that’s been haunting her for seven days and seven nights, finally cresting into something less like punishment and more like permission.
When Weems’s hand slides around to her lower back and pulls her flush against her, Wednesday sways, body arching to meet it, hips twitching with the instinct to chase friction. Her voice, when she speaks, is wrecked… quiet and desperate in a way that kills her to hear, even as she says it. “I can’t wait.”
She means it, her skin is buzzing, her spine is liquefying… the pressure is unbearable now, the weight of arousal pushed to the point of collapse. Weems’s voice is low, steady, curved like a hand on the back of her neck. “Then don’t.” That’s all it takes and something in Wednesday breaks. Not like a snapped bone, like a dam. Like seven days of molten, aching restraint rushing forward all at once, flooding her from the inside out.
Her hands move (clumsy and trembling, and start working at Weems’s buttons. Her motions are messy, frantic, every breath a gasp. The polished fabric slips loose under her fingers, one, two, three buttons gone, and then there’s skin… warm, soft, real. She moans, just from touching.
Weems exhales softly, her own breath faltering as she reaches down, sliding her fingers over the edge of Wednesday’s high collar, tugging it open with more care than necessary. Wednesday’s throat arches into it. “I’ve wanted to do this for days,” she breathes, before she can stop herself.
Weems freezes briefly at the confession, eyes flicking up to meet hers, and Wednesday watches the realization settle behind her expression like heat beneath glass. It doesn’t scare her away, it makes her kiss harder. Hands slide down, over the curve of Wednesday’s waist, gripping her thighs through layers of black pleats and stockings. And when she pulls her up, swiftly and decisively, onto the edge of the desk, Wednesday gasps like she’s been thrown into water.
The wood is cool against her thighs, a shocking contrast to the furnace heat between them. But nothing compares to her touch. Weems’s hand finds her knee and pushes gently, parting her legs just enough to step between them. Wednesday’s fingers tighten in her shirt, dragging her down into another kiss: this one messier, wetter, her mouth opening under the pressure, tongue curling with Weems’s in a rhythm that makes her thighs shake.
Her body is lit up like a live wire, her skin is so sensitive she feels every shift in air, every drag of fabric and when Weems’s hand slides beneath her skirt, fingers gliding up the inside of her thigh with infinite patience, Wednesday whimpers. She hasn’t whimpered since she was nine. Weems pauses, her forehead resting against Wednesday’s temple, her voice low and careful. “Is this okay?”
The question, the consideration, almost undoes her more than the touch. Wednesday nods frantically, her hand gripping Weems’s wrist like she needs it to breathe. “Yes,” she gasps, “yes, please, yes…” Weems doesn’t tease, doesn’t hesitate.
Her hand moves, sliding up, over the heated silk of Wednesday’s underwear (damp already, sticky with want) and presses firmly, exactly where the need is worst. Wednesday cries out.
It’s not a scream, it’s not even loud but it’s raw and helpless, broken open like a confession as her hips jerk forward into the touch, desperate and instinctive. “Fuck…” she chokes, breath shuddering, eyes wide and unfocused. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare.” She feels Weems smile against her neck.
And then those fingers press in (firm, sure, slow), circling her through the silk. Not frantic but intentional. The kind of touch that says I know what this is, I know what you need and i’m going to give it to you… Wednesday’s body shakes.
Her legs fall further open, her head tips back and het breathing collapses into sobs of pleasure, hot and panicked. Weems kisses the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her throat. Her other hand comes up to palm her breast through her blouse, slow, warm, grounding. Wednesday’s body is a lit fuse, and every second is another inch toward detonation.
“I’m close,” she gasps, hips bucking into the hand between her legs. “It’s, oh God… it’s working…” She’s not sure if she means the potion or Weems or the unbearable way she’s finally allowed to feel (maybe all of it or maybe none of it matters). Because then Weems slides her fingers beneath the fabric, skin to skin now, and everything goes white.
It doesn’t feel like pleasure at first, it feels like collapse. Wednesday’s breath stops in her throat the second Weems touches her bare. Her hips lurch forward with all the violence of someone shoved over a cliff. Her thighs tremble so hard she nearly loses her balance on the edge of the desk. Her hands, claw-tight in Weems’s shirt, pull and twist, because if she lets go, she will fly apart molecule by molecule.
Weems doesn’t falter. She moves her fingers slowly, firmly, working in slick, perfect circles that drag wet sounds from between Wednesday’s thighs, obscene and hot and utterly unignorable. Every movement is confident and every touch knows its target.
There’s no teasing, no delay, no game (only relief and release). Wednesday tries to hold back the sound that builds in her throat, but it breaks through anyway, raw and high and helpless. Her back arches sharply. Her breath is all stuttered sobs now, and when Weems leans in, pressing kisses to her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her open, panting mouth, she shudders like someone exorcised.
She’s never felt anything like this, not even close. Her body isn’t just surrendering, it’s rushing toward something. Slamming into it, clawing for it with everything she has. Every nerve is lit. Every breath is fire. And then Weems curls her fingers, inside her.
The world stops. Wednesday gasps, a sound so sharp and wet it’s almost a cry, and her legs snap shut around Weems’s hand, her body folding inward like it’s trying to contain the explosion. But it’s no use. She comes with a ragged, shaking sob. (It’s not graceful and it’s not quiet, it is pure surrender.)
Her whole body convulses around Weems’s fingers, heat pulsing through her in thick, rhythmic waves. Her thighs twitch. Her breath stutters into broken, high-pitched moans that she doesn’t recognize as hers. Her head falls forward against Weems’s shoulder, mouth open, hair stuck to her damp forehead.
She doesn’t say anything, she can’t. The wave crashes over her, deep and wide, and keeps going. A second pulse follows, then a third and by the time it’s over, her body is sagging forward, boneless and breathless and limp in Weems’s arms.
The heat (the fire) that’s haunted her for a week has been ripped out of her, taken and burned off in one massive, overwhelming release. And for the first time in days she feels cool, empty… clean. Weems is holding her gently now, her hand no longer moving, just cradling her like something fragile. Her other arm wraps around Wednesday’s back, steady and warm.
There’s no rush to pull away, they stay like that for a long moment, tangled in silence and aftershock, with nothing left but the sound of Wednesday’s shuddering breath and the wet heartbeat still echoing between her thighs. When she finally lifts her head, she doesn’t speak, she just looks at Weems: flushed, wide-eyed, lips parted. And then she whispers, hoarse and shaken: “I think… it’s over.”
Weems doesn’t answer right away. She reaches up first, brushes a strand of damp hair from Wednesday’s cheek, and lets her thumb linger just beneath her eye. Her voice is soft when she finally replies. “It certainly seemed effective.” Wednesday would glare, but she’s too tired so she leans in instead.
She lets herself fold into the body in front of her, head tucked against Weems’s shoulder, breath slowing, muscles twitching with every last aftershock that refuses to fully let go. “I hate you,” she mutters, breath warm against her collarbone. “I know,” Weems says, pressing her lips to her hair. And then, for the first time in a week, Wednesday Addams smiles.
••••••••••••••••••••
The sun is far too smug when Wednesday wakes up. It streams in through the tall windows like it owns the room, filtering through the sheer curtains with soft golden warmth that lands across her bare legs, her shoulder, her cheek. There’s a breeze too, faint, just enough to lift a strand of her hair and cool the skin behind her ear.
It should be intolerable and yet, somehow, it’s not. Her body feels… loose, wrecked in the most medically interesting way. She stretches experimentally, slowly, and every muscle responds like it’s been uncoiled after years of tension. Her spine doesn’t crack for once, her thighs ache faintly in a way that’s neither shameful nor urgent (just satisfying).
It’s almost offensive how good she feels. A moment later, she registers the warmth behind her, a body, still and breathing steady (Weems: still here, still in bed). Wednesday doesn’t panic, she just exhales through her nose and stares at the ceiling for a long moment, allowing the facts to line themselves up neatly in her mind.
She came to Weems’ office begging for an antidote. She ended up on her desk, legs open, moaning like a goddamn Victorian novel. She came, hard (several times). And then, somewhere in the haze that followed, Weems had lifted her gently, murmured something quiet and dry like “well, that was efficient,” and brought her to her private quarters.
She’d stripped off Wednesday’s sweat-drenched blouse with clinical patience. Had unhooked her stockings with a level of reverence Wednesday refused to think about. Had given her water, tucked her under the sheets, and held her like something worth keeping (no one had ever held her like that before).
Wednesday turns her head slightly, Weems is awake. Bare-shouldered beneath the sheets, her hair slightly undone, one arm tucked behind her head as she watches the ceiling like it’s answering a question she hasn’t asked yet. When she notices the movement, she glances over and their eyes meet. Her mouth curves, softly, smugly and Wednesday immediately regrets opening her eyes.
Weems doesn’t speak, she just reaches out, slow and patient, and brushes the edge of Wednesday’s jaw with the backs of her fingers. The touch is feather-light, unspoken: ‘You’re alive.’ ‘You’re still here.’ ‘You didn’t burn.’
“I’m not thanking you,” Wednesday mutters, because if she doesn’t say something sharp, her chest might start doing something worse (something sentimental). Weems sighs, so put-upon it should be illegal. “You came into my office convulsing from lust, accused me of weaponized wrist structure, and nearly passed out after moaning at book sounds.”
“I was feverish.” “And then you orgasmed loud enough to disrupt the campus wards.” “I was possessed.” Weems turns her head on the pillow, arching one brow with exaggerated patience. “I brought you water and ibuprofen and let you sob into my shoulder.”
“I didn’t sob.” “You did, quietly, very repressed. It was charming.” Wednesday glares at her, but there’s no heat in it. Mostly because Weems is now toying with the hem of the blanket near her hip, dragging her fingers across the exposed skin there in a way that makes Wednesday’s breath catch. After a moment, she says, low and reluctant, “Fine.” Weems hums. “Fine what?”
“…Thank you.” There’s a pause and then, warmly, genuinely (smugly) Weems replies, “You’re welcome.” They lie in silence for a while after that. The wind shifts outside. Somewhere, a bell rings and a bird makes a single, offended sound before flying off.
Wednesday’s gaze trails over the curve of Weems’s shoulder, down to the slope of her collarbone. She watches the way her breathing moves through her, slow, deep and unbothered. And for the first time in seven days, Wednesday doesn’t feel like she’s about to explode. She feels… steady (strangely full).
Possibly in love with someone she once vowed to murder over a dress code. She closes her eyes again and lets her hand rest (tentatively, gently) over Weems’s heart. “I’m still going to kill Enid,” she says into the silence.
Weems shifts beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist, voice content. “She did get the label wrong.” “She almost ended the world.” “She got you laid.” Wednesday scowls. “I hate you.” “I know,” Weems murmurs, pulling her closer. “And I look forward to you hating me again tonight.”