V

I can see Wednesday immediately becoming interested because, for once, she's met someone who makes her feel like the more expressive one!!!

Like, your first conversation lasts seven minutes 😭 and six of those minutes are silence.

Her trying to figure out what you're thinking>>

But unfortunately for her, your face remains exactly the same regardless of whether you're happy, annoyed, sleepy, or plotting murder (her favourite).

The first time she manages to make you laugh, it is barely visible, maybe a tiny smile, or a slight huff of amusement. And she’ll feel so prideful!!

Her unconsciously matching your pace.. and you both communicate largely through eye contact, with everyone else finding it deeply unsettling.

Wednesday loves that you're difficult to impress, like she can show you a centuries-old murder case and get a nod. A crypt full of skeletons? A nod. Her becoming determined to earn stronger reactions.

Being secretly amused by how transparent Wednesday becomes once she develops feelings.

The two of you spend an absurd amount of time together in silence, just reading, studying, like there’s no pressure to fill the silence.

When she gets injured during an investigation, you're the one who patches her up.

Her trusting your judgment more than almost anyone else's. If you tell her something is a bad idea, she'll actually reconsider, even if just briefly.

The first time Wednesday heard you mention wanting to learn cello, she assumed it was hypothetical, a passing interest, and maybe an aesthetic fascination.

The thought came from most people who liked the idea of instruments more than the discipline required to master them.

Then she found you alone in one of Nevermore’s unused music rooms at nearly midnight, sitting cross-legged beside a borrowed cello from the school with your glasses slipping down your nose and a sheet music stand pulled so absurdly close to your face it was almost touching you.

Wednesday stopped in the doorway, which you didn’t notice.

Your telescope lens caught the low light as you tilted your head down, trying to focus through it. One hand held the edge of the stand steady while the other awkwardly traced over the notes with your finger.

You sighed, pretty frustrated.

Wednesday watched your shoulders slump slightly.

“You’re struggling,” she said. You startled so hard the bow nearly slipped from your lap. “Jesus Christ-"

You pressed a hand to your chest. “You move like a ghost.” Wednesday stepped closer, gaze flicking over the setup. How the stand was pulled close, the enlarged photocopies scattered beside you.

The way you kept tilting your head downward to catch the notes through the tiny telescope in your glasses.

And the cello itself, held pretty carefully. Like something you desperately wanted to love correctly.

“You’re still awake,” you muttered. “So are you.”

You huffed softly and looked back toward the music. “I was trying to practice before everyone else started using the rooms tomorrow.”

“Your left hand positioning is wrong.”

You looked up at her flatly. “I literally haven’t even started playing.”

“Yes, but you’re still doing it incorrectly.”

Wednesday moved beside you before you could argue, and her fingers adjusted your wrist with care.

“You’re compensating for your depth perception,” she observed quietly, and you blinked.

Most people noticed eventually, but Wednesday noticed everything quickly. “You can tell?”

“You nearly walked directly into Xavier’s easel yesterday.”

“In my defense, he puts those things everywhere.” “You also missed the last stair outside Ophelia Hall.”

You groaned. “Okay, enough evidence.”

Wednesday ignored that. Instead, she focused on the music stand, studying the sheets.

“These copies are too small.”

“They’re enlarged already.”

“Insufficiently.”

You watched her carefully. “I can usually manage if I use the telescope lens.”

As if to demonstrate, you tilted your head downward slightly, peering through the tiny magnified section at the top of your glasses.

Wednesday’s gaze followed the movement.

“You hate doing that,” she said suddenly.

You paused.

“…what?”

“The angle strains your neck. And you lose awareness of your surroundings while focusing.”

You stared at her. That was kinda true.

“I mean,” you said carefully, “yeah, kinda.”

Wednesday straightened. “Then we’ll eliminate the problem.”

You blinked. “We?” She dragged a chair over and sat closely beside you, her knee brushing yours. “Play the scale you were attempting.”

You laughed weakly. “Bold of you to assume I know how.” “You know the basics.” “Barely.”

“Play.”

There was no escaping that tone.

So you adjusted the cello awkwardly against yourself, trying not to think too hard about how embarrassingly inexperienced you were under the scrutiny of someone who’d been playing since childhood.

Your fingers found the strings uncertainly. The bow trembled slightly.

You missed the angle. The note screeched.

You physically recoiled.

“Again.

“That sounded like an animal dying.”

“Yes.”

You glared at her, Wednesday stared back, perfectly calm.

And then her hand covered yours on the bow. And your breath caught.

“Your pressure is uneven,” she said quietly. She guided your wrist slightly lower.

“There.”

Her other hand adjusted your fingers on the string. “You’re overcompensating because you can’t judge the distance visually,” she murmured. “So stop relying on your eyes.”

You looked at her. “Huh?”

“Feel it instead.” Her fingers tapped lightly against the string positions.

“Memorize spacing. Tension. Vibration.” Her eyes met yours. “Your body can learn what your vision struggles to confirm.”

Wednesday adjusted your grip again.

“Try now.”

You swallowed and pulled the bow across the strings once more, the note still wasn’t perfect, still sucked, but it was cleaner..

Your eyes widened slightly.

Wednesday noticed immediately. “There,” she said softly.

The weeks after that turned into a routine.

She started modifying sheet music for you without being asked, in a large print, with high contrast.

Sometimes she memorized entire pieces so she could recite the transitions quietly beside you when you lost your place.

One evening, long after midnight, you finally caught her watching you instead of the music.

“What?” “You’re improving.”

You snorted softly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am.” “Oh, wow, rude.” “You were bad initially.”

You laughed despite yourself, and admitted quietly: “I almost gave up before you started helping.”

Then you asked softly, “Why do you care so much?”

For a moment, silence stretched between you. She reached forward and adjusted your glasses gently where they’d slipped down your nose.

“Because,” she said quietly, “I enjoy hearing you play.” “Even when it sounds terrible?”

It starts subtly, with Wednesday beginning to linger, to stand closer, to watch you longer than necessary.

She starts complimenting you (pretty badly though) “Your presence is less intolerable than most.” or smth like that.

Somewhere along the way, she develops a habit of kissing your hand.

Wednesday begins orbiting you. She appears wherever you are, in the library, courtyard, hallway, as if summoned.

Physical affection increases in very specific ways, not really soft or clingy. Grabbing your hand and pulling you away mid-conversation, kissing your knuckles.

She starts staring at you like you’re a piece of art she’s trying to memorize before it’s destroyed.

Thing notices immediately and encourages it. This only makes it worse.

She gets offended when you’re not near her.

Wednesday begins to monologue about you without realizing it.

She becomes fiercely, almost theatrically loyal, like if someone insults you, she reacts like it’s a personal attack on her entire bloodline.

If you encourage her even slightly, it escalates fast. Compliment her once and suddenly she’s looking at you like she’d burn the world down for you.

She starts doing small, obsessive things: memorizing your schedule, adjusting her routine to match yours, noticing when you’re even slightly off.

Sleep becomes a shared activity whether she admits it or not. She just ends up next to you more often.

Wednesday initially assumes you’re exaggerating. “A sore throat cannot possibly incapacitate you this thoroughly.”

Then she sees you attempt to swallow water and physically wince.

She’s so gonna research tonsillitis like she’s preparing for war (if she doesn’t already know everything). She returns with concerning amounts of information.

“You’ll live,” she says flatly while handing you medicine and tea she somehow made perfectly.

She acts deeply inconvenienced by your illness while taking care of you with terrifying dedication.

If you lose your voice, she secretly likes it a little. Not because you’re suffering, honestly just because your tiny croaky responses amuse her.

You try to say something and it comes out sounding like a dying Victorian child.

She absolutely forces you to rest.

If you complain about not being able to eat properly, she quietly starts bringing you softer foods without asking what you want.

Wednesday pretends she doesn’t care when you cling to her more while sick, but she never moves away. If anything, she stays longer than usual.

She sits beside your bed reading while you doze off, occasionally checking your temperature with her fingers against your forehead.

She does not tolerate other people bothering you while you’re sick. Enid bursts in loudly once and Wednesday practically materializes behind her.

You catch her watching you sleep at least once.

Physical affection becomes strangely constant during this time. Her hand on your back while you cough, fingers absentmindedly rubbing your wrist, letting you lay against her chest because it “keeps you still.”

The moment you start feeling better, she becomes annoying again immediately. “Good. Your whining was becoming repetitive.”

Meanwhile she still hands you water before you ask.

At first glance, you make absolutely no sense to her. With your pastels, perfume, soft laughter, Wednesday assumes you’ll be shallow. She is wrong, and she hates being wrong.

And the moment she realizes you’re not fragile, just expressive, her interest spikes immediately.

You will call her “pretty.” and she stares at you like you’ve committed a crime. “I am not pretty.” “You literally are.”

Your worlds clash aesthetically but blend emotionally, because you’re her warmth, she’s your stillness. You’re her color in the world, and she’s your shadow.

One thing I can see is doing her hair and she pretends to tolerate it. Secretly, she enjoys you doing her hair even more than when she does it herself.

If you put something pink (or honestly, anything non black) on her (a ribbon, a clip, lip gloss as a joke), she will threaten you, but she won’t take it off immediately.

Wednesday doesn’t understand your love for things like romance, gossip, or cute aesthetics… until she starts associating them with you.

You ramble, she listens. It’s not always visibly, but she remembers everything you say.

She learns your routines: your favorite lip gloss, how you like your nails, which outfits make you feel confident. She will never comment directly, but she will (!!) notice when something changes.

If someone underestimates you because you’re “girly,” Wednesday takes it personally.

You’re physically affectionate. She is not, or atleast, not at first.

She lets you hold her hand in public eventually which then becomes your thing. She won’t initiate, but she won’t pull away either.

She grounds you when your emotions get overwhelming, with the calmest voice.

Absolutely keeps something of yours with her. A ribbon, a hair tie, a note.

In private, she’s more affectionate than anyone would believe, with her seeking you out, sitting close, letting herself exist near you.

Nevermore always had a talent for turning even its most questionable traditions into a spectacle.

And this Dance was no exception.

Colored lights fractured across the walls, music pulsed just a little too loud, and the air buzzed with the kind of chaotic energy that Wednesday Addams typically avoided on principle.

And yet she was there. Kinda, well, specifically, she was standing just inside the entrance, already regretting every decision that had led to this moment.

Beside her, you looked entirely too pleased.

“This is fun,” you said, scanning the room like you were about to claim it.

“It’s overstimulation,” Wednesday replied flatly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is.” You grinned. “You’ll survive.”

“I always do.”

You didn’t wait for her to argue further, you were already moving, weaving into the crowd with an ease Wednesday found both impressive and deeply unnecessary.

For a moment, she remained where she was, simply watching and cataloguing. How the students dance with reckless abandon. The lights flickering in nauseating colors. The faint scent of punch that was certainly spiked.

Then she heard a loud:

“Wednesday!”

A bright blur collided into her periphery.

Enid Sinclair, glitter dusted across her cheeks, because fucking of course, beamed like this was the best night of her life.

“You actually came!” Enid grabbed her arm. “I told everyone you might, but no one believed me, oh my god, where’s your girlfriend?”

“Circulating,” Wednesday said.

Enid followed her gaze, spotting you laughing with a group near the dance floor.

“Aww,” she said, nudging Wednesday. “Look at you, being all mysterious and broody while she socialises for both of you.”

“I am not broody.”

“You’re literally standing in a corner in all black watching people have fun.”

“I’m observing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before Wednesday could respond, another voice cut in.

“Well, well. Addams at a party.”

Barclay approached, drink in hand, expression sharp with amusement.

“I assume there’s an ulterior motive,” Bianca continued. “Blackmail? Reconnaissance? Assassination?” “Don’t tempt me,” Wednesday said.

Bianca smirked, then glanced toward you. “Your girlfriend seems comfortable.”

“She’s adaptable,” Wednesday said. “Unlike you.” “I adapt when necessary.”

Bianca raised a brow. “And this is necessary?”

Wednesday didn’t answer immediately.

Her gaze drifted back to you again.

You had somehow gathered a small orbit of people, laughing, talking, moving like you belonged in the center of things. Every so often, your eyes flicked across the room, checking and looking for her.

Your eyes always finding her. Wednesday looked away first. “…apparently,” she said.

You found her again some time later. Or rather, you returned to her. Sliding back into her space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You okay?” you asked, slightly breathless, energy still clinging to you. “I’ve been better,” Wednesday said. “That bad?”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“But you are.” Wednesday’s eyes flicked to yours.

“I said I would attend,” she said. “I did not specify duration.” You smiled at that. “Give it a little longer?”

She considered it.

Then, reluctantly: “…ten minutes.”

“Deal.”

Ten minutes turned into thirty.

Then forty-five.

You drifted in and out of conversations, occasionally pulling her along, occasionally leaving her with familiar faces, Enid, who kept trying to drag her to dance; Bianca, who seemed entertained by her continued presence; even Eugene, who nodded at her like they shared some silent understanding, which they kinda did, she guessed.

Wednesday endured. But even her endurance had limits.

By the time you returned again, cheeks flushed, smile softer now, she was done.

“You’ve had enough,” you said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Wednesday looked at you. There was noise all around you. Music. Laughter. Movement.

“Yes,” she said.

You didn’t tease her and just nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The walk back to the dorms was quiet.

Cool night air replaced the heat. The noise faded behind you, leaving only the sound of your footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Wednesday walked beside you, posture as composed as ever, but something in her shoulders had eased. “You lasted longer than I thought,” you said.

“I am capable of resilience.” “Mm. You even talked to people.” “I was interrogated.” “That’s one way to put it.”

“You enjoy that environment,” Wednesday said. You glanced at her. “Yeah. I do.” “Why?

You shrugged lightly. “It’s easy. Being around people, talking, laughing, it’s not complicated.”

Wednesday was quiet for a moment.

Then, more quietly: “You make it look easy.”

You smiled a little. “You make everything look hard.” “That’s because most things are.” “Not everything.”

She didn’t argue.

Back in your dorm room, you shut the door behind you, kicking off your shoes. “God, that’s better.”

Wednesday stepped inside, gaze flicking over the room, before she made quick steps towards your bed. She sat down, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from the blanket.

“…you were tolerable,” she added.

You laughed, crossing the room. “High praise.”

You sat beside her, close but not crowding, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Wednesday said, almost like an observation: “You stayed aware of me the entire time.” You blinked. “Yeah?”

“Your line of sight shifted every few minutes.” “Oh.” You shrugged. “Habit.” “Why?”

You met her gaze. “Because you don’t like being there,” you said simply. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Something in Wednesday’s expression shifted, something sweet and almost soft appearing.

The quad wasn’t really supposed to sound like that.

Not during the afternoon lull, when the students drifted between classes and the air carried more idle chatter than tension. But something had happend, and now a tight circle of bodies had formed, voices rising, shoes scraping against stone.

And at the center of it were you, and some student Wednesday didn’t recognize, or didn’t care about enough to recognize him.

It started stupid, like it always did.

A simple shoulder check that lingered too long. A muttered comment that wasn’t quiet enough, so you heard it. A look that hit something already seething under your skin.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said. “You walked into me,” you shot back. “Sure.” And his dumb smirk did it.

Something in your chest twisted, fast and hot. “Say that again.” “I said” he stepped closer, eyes narrowing, “you should watch where you’re-”

You shoved him, and it wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, but hard enough to mean it. And with everyone tense he lunged.

From across the quad, Wednesday looked up, due to the shift in everyone’s mood. There was a distinct difference between noise and violence. One was chaotic. The other had rhythm.

Her gaze cut across the quad and landed on the crowd, already tightening into a ring. Thing tapped once against her shoulder. “I see it,” she said.

Bodies shifted, which blocked her view, then parted just enough and she saw you swing, which caused the other student to stagger back, more surprised than hurt.

Interesting.

He recovered quickly, grabbing your arm, trying to wrench it back. You twisted, drove your shoulder forward, and it was just messy, but kinda effective.

“Back off!” someone shouted.

“Are they actually fighting?”

“Should we get a teacher?”

But it was kinda too late, with the other student landing a hit, glancing, but enough to snap your head to the side, and a sharp sting bloomed across your cheek.

At that, Wednesday finally moved from her spot, with students peeling out of her path without being told to.

By the time she reached the edge of the circle, you had the other student shoved back a step, but your balance was off, breathing uneven, anger overriding precision.

The other student lunged again, Wednesday stepped in, and the motion stopped like it had hit a wall.

The student blinked, thrown off. “What the-”

Wednesday didn’t look at him. Focused on you.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. There was a split lip, blood just starting to darken at the edge. Your hands were still half-curled, ready to go again.

“Leave.”

There was something in her voice that didn’t invite argument.

The student hesitated.

Then yanked his arm free and stepped back. “This isn’t over.” “It is,” Wednesday said.

He didn’t test it, instead backing off, muttering, disappearing into the loosening crowd.

The circle broke apart almost immediately, whispers trailing in their wake.

You wiped at your mouth, and winced slightly. “They had it coming.”

“Most people do,” Wednesday said. “That doesn’t make it efficient to deliver it personally.”

You stepped back, frustrated energy still crackling under your skin. “Why do you even care?”

The question landed harder than the punch had.

For a fraction of a second, Wednesday didn’t answer. Then she stepped close enough that the noise of the quad faded into something distant.

“You compromised your safety,” she said quietly. Her hand lifted, then pressed just under your chin, tilting your face slightly to inspect the cut on your lip.

You stilled. Her thumb hovered near the blood, not quite touching.

“Sloppy,” she murmured. “Next time, you inform me.”

You blinked. “Before I get into a fight?"

“Yes.”

“…why?”

Her hand dropped, but she didn’t step away.

“Because if someone is going to engage you physically,” she said, voice low and certain, “I would prefer they understand the consequences before they make that decision.”

There it was.

You huffed out a breath, tension finally starting to bleed out of you. “You’re insane.”

Sleep was an inconvenience.

It was a biological weakness, a nightly surrender of consciousness she tolerated only because she needed edequate energy. She had never needed comfort, routine, or another warm body beside her. The idea itself sounded stupid to her.

Which was why the past four nights had been intolerable.

She lay flat on her back in the bed of Ophelia Hall, eyes fixed on the dark canopy above. Moonlight bled through the half stained-glass window in fractured colors. Thing clicked quietly from his suitcase in the corner, pretending not to notice that she had not closed her eyes for longer than twenty minutes.

Wednesday rolled onto her side. And onto the other. Then onto her back once again, and it was truly pathetic.

She had tried every remedy available as a person who despised remedies. Black tea, some boring book she couldn’t even finish, which was rare enough. Counting the cracks in the ceiling. Even Enid’s revolting suggestion of “rain sounds,” which had only made Wednesday imagine being buried to escape the sound.

Nothing worked for her, because the bed was wrong. It was too cold, too large and too fucking empty.

Her jaw tightened, and she grumbled. This was your fault.

No, partly her fault. Wednesday was many things, but dishonest was not one of them, and again, the argument replayed itself with maddening clarity.

You had accused her, correctly, if she’s honest, of pushing you away whenever something mattered.

She had accused you, incorrectly, for her shame, of being dramatic.

You had said, “You don’t get to hurt people and then hide behind being fucking emotionally constipated.”

She had replied, “And you don’t get to demand access to every part of my mind simply because you’ve occupied my bed.”

You had gone still in the way people did when wounded enough to stop speaking, and then you left.

In truth, Wednesday had expected you to return the next evening, irritated but reasonable, but you did not. Not then, and not the other evenings.

Now she was discovering the grotesque truth that sometime between your late-night intrusions and your tendency to steal half her blanket, her body had adapted to your presence.

She missed the weight of your leg slung carelessly over hers. She missed your breathing evening out the silence. She missed the way your hand searched for her in sleep, finding her wrist, her sleeve, the edge of her palm.

She missed you.

And the word sat in her chest like poison, until Wednesday sat upright abruptly and Thing looked up.

“Do not start,” she said. Thing signed go apologize. “I would rather gargle nails.” He made a rude gesture.

Wednesday glared at him, then swung her legs off the bed, and ten minutes later, she stood outside your dorm room, with her fist hovered near the door.

Unsure, she lowered it. Then lifted it again.

She knocked once, with no answer, so she knocked harder.

The door yanked open.

You stood there in sleep clothes, hair mussed, eyes heavy with exhaustion and immediate annoyance. “What?”

Wednesday took in the sight of you and, absurdly, forgot every sentence she thought about on the way.

You folded your arms. “If you came here to win the argument four days later, I’m going back to bed.”

“I came,” Wednesday said stiffly, “because this has become inefficient.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I have slept a cumulative total of seven hours since you left.”

You stared at her, and really, she hated that she had to continue.

“My room is intolerably silent. The mattress temperature is incorrect. My circadian rhythm has apparently become dependent on your irritating presence.”

Wednesday pressed on, each word dragged from somewhere uncooperative inside her ribs.

“I was cruel, I was defensive,” she said. “Which is not the same as correct.”

You looked at her for a long moment.

“That sounded painful.” “It was abhorrent.” “And?” “And I dislike that you were hurt.”

You leaned against the doorframe. “That still sounds like you’re writing an apology under duress.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Must I bleed for it to be accepted?"

“No.” Softer now. “But you do have to mean it.” She stepped closer.

Close enough to see the sleep crease on your cheek. Close enough to smell detergent and warmth and the faint scent that had lingered on her pillow for days.

“I mean it,” she said quietly. “I should not have used your love for me as a weapon simply because I was afraid of needing it.”

Your face changed first, your anger loosening into something wounded and tender all at once.

“That,” you murmured, “was pretty honest.”

“I feel ill.”

You laughed, sudden and helpless, and Wednesday exhaled for what felt like the first time all week.

Then you said, “You really can’t sleep without me?”

She straightened. “Do not become insufferable.”

“Oh my god.” You grinned now, fully awake. “Wednesday Addams is codependent.”

“I will push you down the stairs.”

“You missed me.”

“I missed the blanket distribution.”

“You missed me.”

Wednesday seized the front of your shirt, pulled you forward, and kissed you hard enough to shut you up.

When she drew back, you were smiling against her mouth.

“Come on then,” you said, stepping aside.

Your bed was smaller than hers, somehow warmer too. You slid under the covers and opened an arm without comment.

Wednesday hesitated only a second before fitting herself against your side, nearly instantly, your fingers traced lazily over her wrist.

“There,” you whispered. “Better?”

Wednesday would be drawn to you almost immediately, though she’d frame it as academic curiosity or something.

You don’t fit neatly into “good” or “bad,” which makes you far more interesting than the transparently shallow people around her.

While others try to impress her with kindness or charm, you impress her with your results. You solve problems efficiently, even if your methods are questionable to others.

She notices quickly that you don’t seek approval. That alone puts you above most people in her eyes.

Wednesday would appreciate that you don’t moralize her. You don’t try to “fix” her, soften her, or make her more normal.

In return, she doesn’t judge the parts of you others whisper about. If anything, she respects your honesty over their false virtue.

You’d be one of the few people she trusts to help investigate, because you’re competent and discreet.

The two of you together would be terrifyingly effective.

Wednesday isn’t openly affectionate, so your intimacy looks strange to outsiders. But it’s not like you or her care so.

If you patch up her wounds after something reckless, she becomes very still and lets you.

She’d never say “I need you,” but she’d start seeking you out instinctively after difficult days.

You understand her better than people who are openly emotional because you kinda recognize what she’s hiding.

Wednesday would secretly enjoy when you indulge her darker humor instead of reacting with concern.

She’d like gifts from you more than gifts from anyone else. Especially if they’re practical.

Physical affection from her would be rare but intense: taking your hand when she’s overstimulated, leaning against your shoulder while reading, some random kisses when nobody is looking.

Wednesday would not recognize jealousy at first. She’d identify it as irritation, then annoyance, then homicidal ideation, then reluctantly realize she does feel jealous.

She would become visibly more curt with everyone except you. To you she’s clipped but attentive. To everyone else she’s one insult away from tears.

If someone flirts with you in front of her, she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches with that blank expression until the person becomes self-aware and stops talking mid-sentence.

Her stare alone would ruin most competition.

I can see Wednesday pretending she doesn’t care then immediately start investigating the person. Grades, family, habits, criminal record if available.

Physical possessiveness would be subtle because Wednesday isn’t naturally too touchy. So if she suddenly stands close enough that your shoulders touch, that means she’s seething.

She’d accidentally interrupt your conversation with: “There you are. We’re leaving.” and no prior plans existed.

If you laugh too much with someone else, she gets quieter and moodier.

The next chapter of her novel would contain a suspiciously specific side character based on them who dies embarrassingly (and brutally).

Wednesday would hate being jealous because it means someone has power to affect her emotions. She’d kinda resent you and herself.

If the person keeps pushing boundaries, Thing may begin assisting with “coincidental inconveniences.”

Her getting more jealous over trust than flirting. Someone you confide in too deeply would bother her far more than someone calling you attractive.

If she sees you upset because of someone else, jealousy instantly becomes protection.

Reassurance affects her more than she’d admit. If you choose to sit beside her, seek her out first, or take her hand voluntarily, she softens immediately.

Wednesday sat on the edge of her bed, braids draped over her shoulders like usual, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the comforter. Her brown eyes were fixed on the floor, her usual blank stare a little more pronounced tonight, like she was bracing herself against an invisible wind. You stood between her thighs, hands resting lightly on her hips, thumbs tracing idle circles.

It was your first time. The air between you both was thick with the kind of awkwardness that only comes from knowing each other well enough to be comfortable, but not well enough to be this comfortable instantly. Wednesday’s throat worked, her fingers curling into the fabric of the comforter as your thumb inched closer to the waistband of her pants.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, the kind that made Wednesday’s chest tighten.

Wednesday exhaled through her nose, a sound that almost sounded like a scoff. “I want to.” The words came out rough, like she hadn’t used her voice in days. She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching against the bed. “Just… don’t expect me to be good at it.”

Your smile was soft, understanding. “I don’t expect anything.”

That made Wednesday’s stomach flip. She hated how much she liked that. Hated how much she wanted to be good for you. But she wasn’t about to say that out loud. Instead, she reached for the hem of your shirt, fingers fumbling as she dragged it up, over your head. The fabric pooled on the floor, and Wednesday’s breath hitched at the sight of you. Soft and flushed skin, the dip of your collarbone. You looked like something edible.

Wednesday’s hands found your waist, her touch hesitant but sure as she guided you down onto the bed. You didn’t resist, sinking onto your back with a quiet hum, your fingers tangling in Wednesday’s hair. “You’re staring,” you teased, voice thick.

Wednesday didn’t deny it. She couldn’t. Her gaze was locked on your chest, rising and falling with every breath, the way your nipples pebbled under Wednesday’s attention, or more the lack of it. She licked her lips, her own body thrumming with a need she didn’t know how to name yet.

“Stay like that,” Wednesday ordered, her voice rough. She didn’t wait for a response before shoving your sweatpants down your legs, taking your socks with them. You were bare beneath her, skin flushed, thighs trembling slightly. Wednesday’s mouth watered.

She settled between your legs, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. The first swipe of her tongue was slow, simply savoring the salt and sweetness of you. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, fingers twisting in Wednesday’s braids.

“Fuck- Wednesday-”

Wednesday actually moaned against you, the vibration making you shudder. She liked the way your thighs shook around her ears, the way your hips jerked up like you couldn’t help yourself. Wednesday’s hands gripped tighter, her tongue working in slow, deliberate circles, savoring every twitch, every gasp.

She was obsessed. Obsessed with the way your pussy clenched around her tongue, the way your moans turned desperate. Wednesday’s own arousal was a dull ache between her legs, but she ignored it, focused entirely on your pleasure. On the way your back bowed off the bed, on the way your fingers tightened in Wednesday’s braids, pulling just enough to sting.

“Wednesday, please-”

Wednesday pulled back just enough to speak, her breath hot against your skin. “Please what?”

Your eyes were dark, glazed. “Don’t stop.”

Wednesday grinned, sharp and wicked. Then she buried her face between your thighs again, her tongue working faster, her fingers joining in, two of them sinking inside with a wet, obscene sound. You cried out, your hips lifting off the bed, your thighs trembling around Wednesday’s ears.

Wednesday moaned again, the vibration making your legs shake. She could feel your pussy clenching around her fingers, your thighs trembling as you neared your climax. Wednesday’s own arousal was a throbbing ache, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel you come apart on her tongue, wanted to taste your pleasure, wanted to memorize every gasp, every shudder.

Your back arched off the bed, your thighs locking around Wednesday’s head as you came with a broken cry, your pussy pulsing around Wednesday’s tongue. Wednesday groaned, her fingers still working, drawing out every last tremor of your orgasm.

When you finally collapsed back onto the bed, boneless and breathless, Wednesday didn’t pull away. She licked you one last time, savoring the taste of you, before pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. You whimpered, your fingers still tangled in Wednesday’s braids.

Wednesday crawled up your body, her own arousal aching, but she ignored it for now. She pressed her forehead to yours, her breath mingling with yours. “Okay?” she asked, her voice rough.

You nodded, your lips curving into a satisfied smile. “More than that.”

Wednesday huffed a quiet laugh, her body thrumming with need. She was far from done with you. Not even close. But for now, she just wanted to lie here, skin to skin, heart to heart, and pretend she wasn’t trembling with the need to be filled.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns down Wednesday’s back, your touch grounding, steady. “Your turn,” you murmured, your voice sleepy and content.