#tvd ripper

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The fifth night came without footsteps.

No boots, no hiss of a mask, no cruel voice. Just pure silence. And that, you believe, was worse.

You tried to steady yourself the way you always had. You whispered bees, you pictured Eugene's small hands moving carefully over honeycomb, his nervous grin when a bee landed on his sleeve and he called it a "friend." You pictured the field buzzing with life, a world too orderly to ever belong to you but calm enough to pretend.

It worked for a breath. Just a breath.

Then your thoughts slipped.

To Enid — her laugh, high and bright, her chatter filling silence in ways you never could. You thought of her kindness, her warmth, how little you'd let her in. You wished you had. Because she mattered to Wednesday, and therefore she should have mattered to you. Now it was too late, you were going to die and the wish curdled in your stomach.

And Wednesday. Always Wednesday. Her dark eyes, the way she looked at you like a riddle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve. The twitch of her mouth the night you kissed her. You imagined her knowing you didn’t just leave but that you were taken. You imagined her frown, imagined her deciding not to follow, not to care. The hook dug deep: maybe you weren't worth it.

Your chest pulled tight.

And then — Moro.

Your little under-the-sea friend/spy. The one creature who had never asked you to be anything other than yourself. Who curled at the end of your bed, who nuzzled your hands with his slick, whiskered face. Gone. Vanished the night of Parents Weekend. No splash, no trace. You hadn't let yourself think about it, but now you couldn't stop. He had left you too.

The heat pressed harder, making your lungs seize.

And then your mother.

Not the myth, not the whispers. Just the memory that she left. That she chose the possibility of another life over you. That while other children grew up with lullabies and bedtime stories, you grew up with silence, with lessons, with a father who measured you like you were an heirloom instead of a daughter. She had left you, and she had never looked back.

You wondered often if she moved on, started another family - a more human-like one.

The thought cracked something in your ribs.

The spiral strangled you until there was nowhere left to go. Bees, gone. Eugene, gone. Enid's laugh, gone. Wednesday's eyes, unreachable. Moro, vanished. Your mother, gone before you could even remember her touch. Everyone left. Everyone left. Everyone left.

And then your body broke.

It started in your chest — a sharp crack of pain, as though your ribs were being pried open from the inside. You gasped, but it came out wrong: a rattling choke, half-scream, half-gurgle. Your lungs burned as though filled with fire. Then your gills split wider down your neck with a wet tear, raw and oozing, dragging in air that only hurt you more.

You convulsed, jerking against the chains, wrists twisting until the skin peeled back in strips. Blood slicked down your arms, staining the stone beneath you dark. You screamed again, but this time your voice was lower, guttural, vibrating with something inhuman.

Scales burst across your skin in patches, jagged and violent, not smooth — tearing through flesh like shards of glass breaking the surface. They split your arms, your shoulders, your collarbone, leaving you both armored and bleeding. Every new patch felt like knives dragging through you from the inside out.

Your gums split next. The pain was blinding, white-hot. Blood filled your mouth as your teeth shoved themselves into new shapes — longer, sharper, fangs pressing down until your jaw ached, until you could taste iron and salt and something ancient.

The heat pressed harder, smothering, fusing itself into the transformation. The cave walls seemed to ripple, sweat and blood mixing on your body until you no longer knew where the pain ended and the hunger began.

Your nails blackened, thickened, lengthened into claws. You curled your fingers, chains rattling as sparks of stone scraped away under your grip. Bolts groaned, metal bending under strength you hadn't known was yours.

You pulled once. The cuffs tore deeper into raw flesh.

You pulled again. Bone creaked, veins screamed.

You pulled a third time — and the rock itself gave. The chains ripped free, a thunderclap in the furnace-dark, shards raining down like embers.

You collapsed forward, chains torn free, blood slicking your arms and dripping onto the scorched stone. When you pushed yourself upright, trembling, you felt the fabric against you.

Your Nevermore uniform was in ruins. The blazer had burned away long ago, scraps of black fabric clinging uselessly to your shoulders. Only the skirt remained, hiding where scales had ripped through your skin. Your stockings — once neat, striped — were now little more than ribbons clinging to your thighs, soaked dark with blood.

Somewhere beneath it all you still wore your mermaid bralette, delicate scales worked into its weave, but you couldn't even see it anymore. Blood coated everything, streaked thick across your chest, smeared down your stomach, clinging to torn fabric until it all looked the same: ruin.

But it was also revelation.

Because that uniform had been your mask. Your attempt to fit into the rhythm of classrooms, quads, and dorm halls. To belong to the world of human teenagers with their laughter and cliques and dances. Every pleat of that skirt, every neat stripe on those stockings had been your camouflage, your way of saying: See? I'm just like you.

Now it was shredded, stained, unrecognizable.

Like you.

You could have been anyone, anything. Not a student. Not a girl. Just a figure bent and breaking under the weight of your own body's betrayal, dressed in the tatters of something that once resembled normalcy.

Your claws flexed, catching threads of fabric until they shredded further. Your gills flared, staining what was left of your collar in black-red streaks. You were no longer a girl in a uniform — just a mass of blood, torn clothes, and scales crawling across your skin like a plague.

The uniform had been a costume. Now it was a corpse.

If Wednesday had walked into the cave then, she wouldn't have seen the careful head cheerleader or the girl who brushed pinky fingers with her at her desk. She would have seen this: a creature in the ruins of a Nevermore skirt, stockings in shreds, teeth dripping, eyes black as the sea.

Completely unrecognizable.

And that, more than the claws or the hunger, made you want to scream until the cave collapsed around you.

A guttural roar ripped out of you, shaking dust from the ceiling, bouncing off the walls until the cave itself seemed to scream with you. It was grief, rage, hunger, loneliness — everything you had buried, everything they had tried to bury for you.

And there was no one to hear it. No captor to gloat. No friend to save you. No Wednesday.

Only you, in the fire-scarred cave, monstrous and alone.

The quad no longer looked like Nevermore.

Where once there were cobblestone paths lined with neat benches and hedges trimmed into cruel perfection, now there was only fire. Smoke bled into the night sky, black plumes blotting out the moon. The air reeked of sulfur and scorched earth. What had been proud towers were now fractured silhouettes, windows shattered, flames licking hungrily at their stone throats.

Joseph Crackstone stood at the center of it all, his figure stretched monstrous in the glow of the blaze. His body was wrong — flesh marbled with rot, eyes burning with something that had never belonged to the living. Every movement of his hand tore open the ground itself, veins of fire crawling through the soil, splitting the quad like a wound. Statues crumbled into dust at his feet.

And across from him - unshaken, unblinking - stood Wednesday Addams.

Her braids were wild in the smoke. Ash clung to her skin like war paint. The cello-bowed precision of her posture hadn't faltered, even as the flames painted her in their savage glow. She moved like a shadow sharpened into a blade, black eyes fixed on Crackstone with a hatred so precise it looked surgical.

Lightning cracked, arcing off the fire-veins. Shards of stone rained from the tower walls as the ground split wider. Students screamed in the distance while Bianca pulled them toward cover.

The quad itself had become a crucible — the heart of Nevermore twisted into a battlefield. Flames licked across banners, turning their purple-and-black sigils into curling scraps of ash. Gargoyles toppled from rooftops, wings snapping before they crashed into the fractured cobblestones. The fountain at the center boiled dry, its cracked basin coughing steam into the air with the anger of Aries himself.

Crackstone's voice thundered through the chaos, guttural and cruel, every word laced with centuries of rot. "This place will fall. Every outcast will burn."

And still, Wednesday did not flinch.

She raised her blade — blackened, dripping with something older than blood — and stepped forward into the fire.

The forest cracked beneath your steps.

Branches splintered where your claws caught them, roots tore free from the ground as you stumbled forward. Each breath was ragged, dragging through gills that burned raw, through lungs that felt too small for the hunger swelling inside you. The night air tasted of smoke, of ash, of something alive.

You couldn't stop.

The cave was behind you now — broken chains dragging at your wrists like trophies, the walls scored with gouges from your claws. You'd left it in ruin, but the hunger had only grown. It wasn't enough to scream, wasn't enough to break stone. You needed more.

The pull was instinctive. A tide in your blood, an invisible current dragging you across the burning woods. And ahead — Nevermore.

The fire reached you before the sight did. Smoke choked the air, rising in plumes against the night sky, glowing orange where flames licked at treetops. Your body staggered but carried on, legs trembling beneath you, half-human, half-scaled. The hunger didn't allow weakness. It devoured it.

When you broke through the treeline, the sight struck like a blade.

Nevermore was ablaze. The quad — the place where you had sat with classmates, where you had laughed too loudly at Yoko’s jokes, where Wednesday's shadow had lingered against yours — was swallowed in fire. Towers cracked, stone falling in thunderous bursts. Students ran like insects scattering from a torch, their screams swallowed by the roar of the inferno.

And in the center of it — the clash of titans. Crackstone's grotesque, rotted body glowing with cursed fire, and Wednesday, black silhouette sharp against the blaze, blade raised and unflinching.

Your mouth flooded with saliva at the sight. Not because of Crackstone. Not because of the battle. But because the air was thick with the scent of life. Students, teachers, flesh, blood. So close. So many.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would think you were a vampire.

Your claws flexed, your teeth ached. Your stomach felt hollow, a pit with no bottom. You pressed a hand to it, but it only made the ache sharper.

You wanted to scream her name, Wednesday, but the sound curdled in your throat. What came out instead was guttural, inhuman, a growl that belonged to something dragged from the bottom of the sea.

The hunger clawed higher, tearing through every thought. Faces flickered in your mind — Eugene, Isla, Wednesday — but even they were drowned in it, reduced to the thought of blood warm on your tongue, of tearing, ripping, devouring until the ache was gone.

But the ache would never be gone.

You stopped just short of the quad, the flames throwing long shadows across your body. Smoke curled around you, hiding and revealing you in uneven flashes: scales glistening wet in the firelight, claws dripping from torn fingertips, gills torn open and heaving.

The hunger howled in your stomach, sharp enough to make you tremble. Your throat burned with the growl you couldn't hold back, low and guttural, echoing just far enough to carry.

And they heard it.

The students.

Your classmates.

They had been fleeing the blaze, clinging to each other in clumps, faces streaked with ash and terror. But the moment you stumbled into the edge of their vision, every scream, every footstep faltered.

You saw their faces turn — pale, wide-eyed, mouths open. One girl gasped so hard she choked on smoke. A boy dragged his friend backward, clutching at her arm as though she might be the one to keep him safe.

"What - what is that?" someone whispered.

And then louder, cracked with fear: "A monster."

The word cut through the fire, sharp and undeniable.

"There's another monster—!" another shouted, and suddenly it was a flood, students pulling each other away, stumbling over broken stone and fire-scorched benches just to put distance between themselves and you.

You staggered back a step, chest heaving, the chains still clinking faintly from your wrists. Both your being and heart telling you different things. One was saying ANGER, ANGER, ANGER. While the other wanted to speak, to say NO PLEASE, to beg them to stop, to tell them it wasn't you — not like this. But the words wouldn't come. Only a hiss, deep and ragged, tearing from your throat like it belonged to something else entirely.

The fear in their eyes told you what they saw: not their classmate, not the girl who walked the quad with Wednesday, who teased Yoko over her relationship problems, who argued with Isla every day during lunch break.

They saw the stories, the warnings, and the thing parents whispered about when they told their children to stay safe while being outside. They didn’t even know what you were, they just assumed.

Sharp teeth, scales, blood, and ripped clothing: DANGER DANGER DANGER!

And as they ran from you — from the sight of you — the hunger gnawed harder, feeding on their terror until it was almost unbearable.

The battle in the quad reached its peak in fire and ruin.

Crackstone's roar tore through the night, a sound dredged from centuries of rot. His grotesque body convulsed, veins of fire surging through him like molten blood. For a moment, it looked as though the ground itself bowed beneath his curse, flames ripping wider through the cobblestones.

Then Wednesday struck.

Her blade carved through him, precise, deliberate, unstoppable. Fire surged from the wound, engulfing him in a searing blaze. His scream rattled the very stones, then cut off, swallowed by the inferno. His body staggered once, then crumbled into ash, scattered in the breath of the night wind.

The quad fell still, save for the crackle of fire and the ringing silence left in his wake. Students stared, slack-jawed, at the girl standing amidst the flames — ash smeared across her cheek, her posture rigid, black eyes unflinching even as the blaze danced around her.

But before the silence could settle into awe, a click cut through it.

Metal. Cold. Sharp.

Wednesday froze, her gaze flicking toward the sound.

There, just beyond the firelight, stood Thornhill. No longer smiling, no longer wrapped in the mask of gentle teacher. Her hand gripped a gun, the barrel leveled squarely at Wednesday's chest. The flames cast her face into sharp relief — not warm, but cold, cruel. “I might not kill all outcasts, but at least I’ll get to kill you, Wednesday.”

And below the hem of her slacks, catching the glow of firelight — red boots.

Your breath caught, claws curling against your side as the memory surged: the captor in the cave, the hiss of a voice changer, the glint of red leather stepping into the smoke.

It was her.

The one who chained you, the one who broke you. And now her gun was pointed at Wednesday.

The gun's click cracked through the firelit air like thunder, its barrel fixed squarely on Wednesday's chest. Time stopped — or maybe it shattered.

Something inside you surged forward before your mind even caught it. Instinct, hunger, fury — all wound together into one unstoppable drive. You launched yourself out of the shadows, claws gouging deep trenches into the walls of scorched cobblestones as you propelled your body forward.

The force of your tackle ripped the world sideways. Thornhill staggered back, the gun spinning from her hand and skittering across the stones in a metallic clatter. Her eyes widened, but before she could scream properly, you were on her.

Your claws pinned her shoulders to the ground, the stone cracking under her weight. And then your fangs found flesh.

You sank your teeth deep into the meat of her shoulder, tearing past fabric, skin, muscle. Hot blood gushed into your mouth instantly — metallic, copper-thick, coating your tongue in warmth so overwhelming you almost choked on it. Her scream rang high and shrill, muffled by the sound of your snarling as you shook your head, tearing deeper.

Her body writhed beneath you, nails scraping your arms, heels kicking against the stone. You didn't stop. Couldn't. Every bite, every gush of blood against your lips sang to the hunger like fuel on flame.

In that moment, you weren't a student, weren't a daughter, weren't even human.

You were teeth. Hunger. Violence.

And Thornhill was prey.

The air changed. At first, it was faint — a buzz, so low it could have been the roar of the fire in your ears. But then it grew. A hum, a vibration crawling across your skin, growing louder, louder, until it became a storm of wings.

Bees.

They descended in a living wave, their bodies glinting gold in the firelight, their furious hum cutting through every scream and roar. Thornhill shrieked again, but this time not from your teeth — from the swarm latching onto her exposed skin, stingers driving deep.

You felt the shift in yourself instantly. The sound cut through your frenzy like a knife. You tore your fangs from her shoulder, blood spraying in a hot arc across your chin, dripping down your throat.

You staggered back, claws dragging red streaks across the stone as Thornhill writhed under the swarm, her voice shredded into hoarse screams. Bees crawled across her face, her arms, under her clothes, her figure swallowed in a writhing, living mass of stingers and fury.

The hunger howled inside you, furious at being denied, demanding more — but the swarm's hum was louder. Louder even than your pulse.

You gasped, chest heaving, blood dripping from your lips like ink.

And then you saw him.

Through the haze of smoke and flame, through the writhing storm of bees attacking Thornhill, you saw the boy guiding them.

Eugene.

He stood just beyond the swarm, small and pale against the chaos, his hands trembling but outstretched, his lips moving in commands you couldn't hear. His wide eyes glistened with both terror and resolve, fixed on the bees — fixed on you.

Alive.

Your body froze, trembling with the weight of it. Alive. Breathing. Moving. Not broken in the woods, not still and bloodied.

The sight gutted you.

Your claws shook, dripping with Thornhill's blood. Your chest heaved and your blackened eyes locked on him, the boy you had thought of when you tried to calm yourself in the cave, the boy you had clung to in memory as proof you were still human.

You felt yourself change in the matter of seconds, a chill of exhaustion rushing through you.

"Eugene..." The word scraped out of your throat, mangled and guttural, more hiss than speech. You pressed a clawed hand against your chest as if to hold something inside, but the tremor only worsened.

He didn't run. He didn't scream "monster" like the others had. He just stood, wide-eyed, trembling — but facing you all the same.

And in his eyes, you saw yourself reflected: not just the monster, not just the hunger, but the shadow of the girl you used to be. It made the blood in your mouth taste like ash.

She had been watching the entire time.

Wednesday Addams stood amidst the flames, ash streaked across her cheek, her blade still dripping with Crackstone's ruin. She had not flinched when you lunged at Thornhill. She had not moved when your fangs tore through her shoulder. She had not even so much as blinked when you tore free, blood spilling down your chin.

And now, as the bees swarmed, as Eugene trembled, she stepped forward.

The fire clawed at her silhouette, painting her in hell's light. Smoke curled around her like a shroud. Her eyes — black, sharp, unyielding — fixed on you with surgical precision.

But there was something behind them. Something dangerous, something you didn't dare name.

Recognition.

She didn't look horrified. Didn't look surprised. She looked at you like she had been waiting for this moment, like she had known this truth all along.

Her lips parted, slow, deliberate, as if ready to speak.

And for the first time since the cave, since the hunger swallowed you whole, you felt it: seen.

Blood still dripped from your fangs. Your claws twitched with frenzy. The hunger clawed at your gut, begging for more.

But under Wednesday's gaze, you were frozen. Not prey. Not predator. Just... held.

And it terrified you more than the hunger ever had.

Thornhill's screams were still echoing when Wednesday moved. No hesitation, no warning. Her boot swung hard into the woman's temple, Thornhill's body jolted, then went limp, her mouth falling slack beneath the crawling mass of bees. The swarm buzzed louder for a beat, covering her in a living shroud, and Wednesday brushed her hands against her skirt as if she'd just rid herself of an insect. She didn't spare another glance.

"She was getting loud," she said flatly, her voice clipped and cold.

Then her eyes turned to you.

The firelight cast every ruin of your body in brutal clarity: blood streaked across your jaw, scales splitting through your arms and collarbone, gills flaring raw and useless against the smoke. But it was your eyes that made her pause, just for the length of a heartbeat. No longer lifeless black but now one green and the other blue. Mismatched and desperate, glowing strange in the glow of flames. A signal of your body failing — a mermaid left too long without water, on the edge of collapse.

"You need water," she observed, her tone more diagnosis than concern, but the words cut through your haze sharper than any plea would have.

Your claws trembled against your chest. Your lips parted, but all that came out was a rasp drowned in blood.

Wednesday didn't wait for you to speak. She stepped forward, her blade lowering to her side, and tugged at the lapels of her blazer. In one sharp motion she stripped it from her shoulders, the fabric falling dark and heavy in her hands. The fire behind her carved her into a silhouette — two black braids, pale cheek streaked with ash and her own blood, eyes cutting straight into you. Then she crossed the shattered cobblestones and swung the blazer around your shoulders.

The cloth fell over you, still warm from her body, swallowing the torn skirt, the shredded stockings, the blood-soaked bralette until you were wrapped in her black. It wasn't mercy. It wasn't pity. It was possession.

"Cover yourself," she said simply, adjusting the fabric at your collar. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, pale against your skin, streaked with your blood. She didn't flinch at the wetness. She didn't recoil from the monster on the floor before her.

Her eyes held yours - mismatched, wild, drowning - and in them, for the first time since the cave, you felt something steady pulling you back from the hunger. A tether in the blaze.

Behind her, Eugene's voice cracked. "Wednesday, she needs help…"

"I'm aware," Wednesday cut in, sharp as a blade, never looking away from you.

And then, softer — so soft it cut deeper than any command — her voice dipped for only you: "Stay awake."

The blazer clung heavy to your skin, the smell of blood still thick in your nose. It should have steadied you, but the hunger was louder, scraping at your ribs, gnawing at your throat. Your claws twitched, dragging against the cracked stone, your breath spilling ragged from both lungs and gills.

"I can't—" you rasped, lips pulling back over blood-slicked teeth. "I can't stop—"

Wednesday was in front of you before the words had finished. She pressed her hand firmly against your chest, right over your heart. The contact shocked you, sharp and deliberate, not gentle. Her eyes locked onto yours, black and unwavering, and for a moment, the hunger faltered.

"Breathe," she said, her tone cutting through the chaos like a blade.

You shuddered, chest heaving under her palm. Your claws flexed helplessly but didn't strike. The blazer clung to your shoulders like an anchor, the steady pressure of her hand forcing you to feel the beat beneath your ribs.

"You're here," she said, her voice precise, stripped of anything but fact. "Not in the hunger, not in the anger. Here. With me. Breathe."

Your mismatched eyes stung, tears threading through the blur of smoke as you tried to obey, dragging air into lungs that wanted only to howl. The fire crackled around you, the hunger snarling, but her hand held steady.

Movement caught at the edge of the flames. Bianca — ash-streaked, blade in hand. Her gaze landed on you, and her breath caught audibly.

"You're alive," she whispered, disbelief cutting through the battle still raging in the distance.

Your body jerked, the hunger twisting at the sound, but Wednesday's palm pressed harder against your chest. "Do not," she said, not unkind, but sharp enough to freeze you in place.

Bianca's grip on her blade tightened. Shock, caution, fear — all warred in her eyes.

Behind her, Eugene stumbled forward, bees dispersing into the smoke. "She's - she's not okay!" His voice cracked, frantic. "Wednesday, she—"

"Check the others," Wednesday snapped, her tone clipped but even. She didn't take her eyes off you. "Make sure they're alive."

Eugene stammered, "But—"

"Now."

Bianca caught his arm, tugging him away. Her eyes lingered on you one second longer, unreadable, before she turned and pulled Eugene into the smoldering dark where other students fled.

Their footsteps faded, leaving you with only the fire and the steady weight of Wednesday's hand pressed over your heart.

"Stay with me," she said again, lower now, almost quiet. Not a command, not a claim. Just an anchor in the chaos. And against the hunger tearing through you, it was the only thing holding you steady.

The fire roared around you, the night split open by smoke and ash, but Wednesday didn't flinch. Her hand remained pressed firmly against your chest, her gaze fixed unshakably on yours. The hunger tore at you, but under her palm, the steady thrum of your heart was undeniable. Her voice had been the scalpel; her touch, the restraint.

"Enough," she said evenly, though her hand didn't move. "You'll collapse here. You need water."

Your lips parted, your fangs flashing as you rasped, "I—can't..."

"You can." The words cut sharp, absolute.

And then she shifted, pulling her hand from your chest only to seize your arm, her grip cold and strong around your bloodied skin. The hunger snarled at the contact, a growl rumbling in your throat, but she ignored it.

"Stand."

You staggered to your feet, the blazer slipping against your shoulders, heavy with blood and smoke. Your legs buckled once, claws scraping sparks against stone, but Wednesday's hold didn't falter. She anchored you upright, her body slight but her resolve unyielding, and began to move.

The quad and its chaos were gone behind you, swallowed in fire and ash. The only sound now was the crunch of broken stone under your feet and the faint, steady rhythm of Wednesday's breath beside you. Her hand never left your arm, pale fingers streaked with your blood, anchoring you with every step.

The hunger, once deafening, had ebbed under her touch. Each time it threatened to rise, she cut through it with the press of her hand against your chest, the steel in her voice. Breathe. Stay here. With me. And you had. Somehow, impossibly, you had.

By the time the trees opened, the ache wasn't hunger anymore. It was weariness — heavy, bone-deep, the kind that made every muscle tremble as though you were stitched together by threads ready to snap. Your mismatched eyes burned, your body sagging, but Wednesday's grip never wavered.

The lake shimmered under the moon, vast and dark, its surface rippling faintly with the reflection of fire behind you. The air was cooler here, damp, almost kind. The moment you smelled it, your gills fluttered open in relief, dragging in the water-soaked breeze like it was enough to stitch you together.

Your knees buckled at the shoreline. You half-collapsed into the damp earth, claws sinking into mud, but Wednesday moved with you, catching your weight against her. She wasn't large, wasn't strong enough to hold you in the way others might — but she was unyielding, and that was enough.

Her arms braced you, one steadying at your shoulder, the other still hooked around your arm, refusing to let you slip forward into the water without her say.

You felt your body go quiet. No hunger, no fury. Just exhaustion. Just her.

Wednesday's braids brushed against your temple as she leaned closer, her breath cool against your ear. "You'll survive this," she said evenly, as though it wasn't a hope but a fact.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your head lolling against her shoulder. The blazer still clung to you, heavy, soaked through with blood, but her arms held it in place. Held you in place.

"Stay awake," she murmured again, quieter this time. You weren't sure if it was for you, or for herself.

The lake lapped softly against the shore, the tide reaching for you. But you stayed where you were — held steady in her grip, her black blazer wrapped around you, the night carrying both of you forward.

The lake stretched dark and endless before you, its surface trembling faintly with moonlight. The air here was different — cool, damp, carrying the kind of weight your lungs had been starving for. Your gills fluttered desperately against your neck, your chest hitching each time the damp air filled them.

You swayed forward, your body urging you into the water, but Wednesday's grip held you firm. Her arm braced across your shoulders, her fingers iron around your bloodied waist. She didn't let you collapse, didn't let you plunge headlong into the black surface.

"Not yet," she said, low but unwavering. "Slow. You need to get used to it before you dive in head first like an idiot.”

Your mismatched eyes met hers, one green, one blue, both glimmering strange in the dark. You were trembling, your claws still caked with blood, your skirt in tatters, her blazer clinging to you heavy and black. You couldn't shape words. You didn't need to. She read the exhaustion in your body like it was written on stone.

She shifted her grip, steadying you as she knelt at the shoreline, pulling you with her. The cold water lapped at your boots, then your knees, soaking through fabric and blood alike. You gasped, your gills flaring open wide, instinct surging through you as the relief of proximity shuddered through your body.

"Easy," Wednesday murmured, her voice the only thing keeping you tethered. She guided you inch by inch, lowering you until the lake's surface rose to your waist. The water clung, cold and silken, sliding against torn skin, catching on the cracked scales across your arms. Every nerve in your body screamed with gratitude.

When your knees gave again, Wednesday didn't stop at the edge. She stepped forward with you, her boots sinking into the mud, her skirt dragging heavy with the weight of the lake. Cold water climbed up her legs, then her waist, soaking her through until the fabric clung dark and slick against her body.

She didn't falter.

By the time you were half-floating in the shallows, her blazer slipping loose around your elbows, Wednesday was in the water too, guiding you with steady hands. The lake lapped at her ribs, her braids heavy with it, her collar plastered flat against her pale skin.

She didn't care. She held you upright as the water claimed your weight, her grip unyielding, her presence as constant as the tide itself.

Your gills flared once, twice, then pulled a full breath of water into your body, clean and cold. Your eyes flickered shut as the relief swept over you, your trembling finally stilled.

Wednesday eased you further, letting the lake take what it needed to restore you, but never loosening her hold completely. Her pale fingers dug into your arm, her expression sharp as ever, watching for the slightest sign of you slipping away.

"Breathe," she said again, quieter now, almost to herself.

The water carried more of your weight with every step, until your body sagged against it, your trembling finally dulled by the cold. Your gills pulled in clean water, steadying, slowing, quieting. The blazer floated heavy at your shoulders, drifting like seaweed in the current, but you kept it clutched around you as though it were part of her still.

Wednesday stood half-submerged at your side, her boots sunk into the silt, her black skirt dragging heavy in the tide. Strands of her braids clung dark and wet to her shoulders, droplets running down her pale throat. She didn't shift, didn't flinch from the lake's cold. Her grip on your arm remained iron, as though she had decided that if you slipped under, she would go with you.

Suddenly silence didn't feel crushing. The roar in your head had quieted. Only the water moved, lapping gently against the two of you.

You lifted your head, eyes burning, throat raw. You wanted to say something — anything — but the words tangled, torn apart before they could leave your mouth.

Wednesday moved first.

Her free hand rose, pale against the black water, and brushed slowly across your face. The pads of her fingers swept away the streaks of blood smeared across your jaw, smudging them into the lake. She was precise about it, deliberate, as though she were cataloguing the gore even as she wiped it away. Her thumb lingered at the corner of your mouth, pressing faintly against the curve of your lips before pulling the stain away.

Your mismatched eyes fluttered, one green, one blue, staring at her through the blur of exhaustion. She held your gaze the entire time, her expression unchanged — sharp, steady, as if this tenderness was no different from pulling a knife from her belt.

You were going to return the favor, but you figured Wednesday liked the idea of blood on her skin.

When her hand lowered again, she said nothing at first. Only watched you breathe, watched your gills flare and settle, watched your chest heave slower, calmer.

"You're not gone," she said finally, her voice low, flat — but something threaded beneath it, something almost soft.

The water shifted against your ribs, cold but steady. Her hand stayed on your arm, her body close enough that her shoulder brushed yours, her wet collar pressed against your skin.

And for that moment, the hunger, the chaos, the fire — it was all far away.

There was only her hand brushing the blood from your face, and her black eyes steady against yours.

The water cradled you, cool and endless, when the change came. It started as a sharp pull in your spine, a twisting ache in your legs that made you gasp into the night. Your body seized, your claws clutching at Wednesday's blazer, and then the tearing began. Flesh and bone melted into something other — one fluid motion, violent and inevitable, until your legs were gone. In their place, your tail unfurled beneath the black surface.

It was red — impossibly red — scales catching the moonlight with every ripple. The fin spread wide, silken yet jagged at the edges, its every flick slicing through the water like a blade. Drops of firelight from the quad reflected against it, making it glow as though it had been forged in blood and flame.

The weight of it nearly dragged you under. Your chest lurched, your gills flaring wide in desperation, but Wednesday's hands were already there. Her grip slid from your arm to your waist, her slender fingers digging into your skin through the wet fabric as she steadied you against the current, practically cradling you in her hold.

She was soaked now. The black of her skirt floated around her thighs, heavy with water, her boots sunk deep into the mud. Her braids clung dark and wet to her shoulders, strands stuck against her pale cheek. Droplets ran in silver lines down her throat, disappearing beneath the sharp line of her collar. The lake had swallowed her whole, but she didn't move away. She stood in it with you.

Your head bowed, shame crashing harder than the waves. Her blazer floated loose from your shoulders, drifting uselessly at the edges, but you clutched at it with shaking hands anyway, as though the cloth could still keep you together. Your mismatched eyes burned, tears mixing with lakewater.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, the words breaking as they left you. "For kissing you. For being a coward after. For - leaving things unsaid."

The lake hushed at your voice, your confession swallowed by ripples. For a long moment, you heard nothing but the water against your tail, your own frantic breathing, and the sound of her fingers tightening at your waist.

Then Wednesday spoke.

Her voice cut through the night, sharp but low, carrying not pity but precision. "Do not apologize."

You looked up, startled, and her gaze pinned you in place. Black eyes, unwavering, catching the faint shimmer of your scales as though they had been made for her to study.

"You think yourself a coward," she continued, her tone clipped but deliberate. "But here you are — alive. Changed. Half monster. Half mermaid. Exactly what the world told you not to be."

Her hand slid slightly at your waist, steadying you when your tail thrashed once in the water. She glanced down, just briefly, at the red fin curling beneath you, before her gaze rose again to yours. "You've never looked more beautiful."

Your breath caught, your mouth parting. "Beautiful?" The word cracked, disbelieving.

"Yes." She said it without hesitation, without ornament, as though it were the most obvious truth in the world. "Terrible and radiant. Exactly as you are."

Your throat closed around the ache in your chest. The lake was quiet again, the world behind you gone to smoke, and all that remained was her.

Then her hand moved — slow, deliberate — leaving your waist to trace the line of your side, rising to your jaw. Her fingers were cold, wet, streaked faintly with your blood, but precise as they tilted your face toward hers. Her thumb brushed once across your cheek, smearing away the last line of crimson, lingering just long enough to make your breath stutter.

Her eyes didn't waver.

The space between you shrank, the tension a string pulled tight. You could feel the lake rippling against your tail, the cool water sliding along your skin, the faint chill of her wet collar brushing against your shoulder. Her lips hovered close, steady and certain, until finally — inevitably — she closed the distance.

The kiss was cold at first, lakewater clinging to your skin and hers, but beneath it burned warmth. Her lips were soft, insistent, tasting faintly of smoke and ash, and yours still carried copper. Together it was strange, raw, and utterly consuming. She wasn't gentle — she never was — but she was precise, pressing into you with a surety that stole the breath from your lungs.

You trembled in her arms, your claws twitching uselessly against the fabric of her blazer, your tail curling around the water as though to hold you steady. The hunger was gone, the shame dimmed. All that remained was this — her hands, her mouth, her steady presence holding you in the dark water.

For the first time since the cave, you weren't breaking.

You were kissing Wednesday Addams, and she was kissing you back.

—————-

As soon as you saw medical care for your cuts and gashes, you found out exactly what happened to you. Thornhill kidnapped you because her hatred stretched further than Nevermore — she wanted to ruin the lives of all Outcasts, even the ones hidden beneath the waves. Her plan was simple and vicious: frame Isla and yours disappearance as the work of the Pacific royal family, spark suspicion, and let the ocean tear itself apart in war just like the Trojans did.

The only flaw in her carefully spun scheme? Your father. He barely noticed when you or Isla were around, let alone when you were gone. To him, two missing daughters sounded more like gossip than truth.

So, in a twisted way, his failure to be an actual father might've been the only thing that kept the seas from erupting into chaos.

Score one for negligent parenting?????

But with Principal Weems assassinated, Dr. Kinbott dead, Ms. Thornhill alive only to rot in prison beside Tyler — the Hyde exposed at last — and a vengeful half-dead pilgrim reduced to ash, Nevermore had little choice: the rest of the school year was cancelled.

In the matter of days, Nevermore emptied. Parents arrived in carriages and cars, their faces drawn tight with fear, collecting their children as though the gates themselves might collapse if they lingered too long. Trunks were packed in a hurry, dorm rooms abandoned half-lived in, and the echo of footsteps faded from the halls until the school stood hollow and silent.

Your dorm felt smaller without the noise of students spilling through the halls, quieter than it had ever been. Half the rooms on your floor were already stripped bare — bedsheets pulled, posters torn down, drawers left ajar in the scramble to leave. You sat on the edge of your own bed, folding what little you owned into a trunk that suddenly felt heavier than it should have. The blazer Wednesday had draped over you was still tucked beneath your pillow, too bloodstained to wear but impossible to throw away.

The door creaked open, and Bianca leaned against the frame. Her smile was gone, her grey eyes dull with exhaustion, but her smirk still ghosted at the corners of her mouth. "So... where are you headed? School's over, apocalypse averted, yadda yadda." She gestured vaguely toward your trunk. "You going home?"

You paused, your fingers brushing over the edge of your last folded shirt. "Not yet."

Bianca raised a brow.

"I'm going to stay with Eugene for a while," you said, voice quieter than you expected. Saying it out loud made it feel more real, more steady. "Make sure he's okay. Then..." Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the lake stretched far and black in the distance. "I'll head back to the ocean."

She pushed off the frame, crossing the room to perch on your desk. "Bold move. Kind of thought you'd never set foot back down there. Guess Addams really has changed you.”

You gave a tired laugh, shoulders heavy. "I never thought I’d go back either."

For a moment, the silence settled again, only the echo of empty dorms around you. The trunk snapped shut, your decision made.

You shut the trunk and sat back, letting your hands fall into your lap. The room felt emptier already, the silence pressing in.

"Truth is..." you said slowly, eyes flicking to the lake beyond the window, "after everything, I think I'm starting to accept it. What I am. The mermaid, the monster — all of it. I spent so long trying to hide it, wishing I could just... pass. Be normal."

Bianca tilted her head, listening more intently than she let on.

You exhaled, softer now. "It's not because I suddenly got brave. It's mostly because of her. Wednesday makes it—" you paused, searching for the right words, "she makes it seem like it's okay. Like it isn't something to bury. Like even the parts I hate... might actually be worth looking at."

The words hung between you, quiet, almost dangerous to say aloud.

Bianca smirk softened into something closer to a smile, begrudgingly accepting that you were happy with someone who wasn’t her. "Guess if Addams can live with it, maybe you can too."

You gave a tired laugh, brushing hair back from your face. "Yeah. Maybe I can."

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the half-packed trunk. "I don't know if I can actually do it," you muttered. "Go back to the ocean. It feels like the only part of me I've ever hated is the part I can't get rid of."

Bianca gave a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, well, join the club. I can't exactly switch off the siren thing either. You don't see me writing tragic poetry about it."

You shot her a look, but she only folded her arms, tilting her head at you. "Here's the thing: you're still here. That means you're tougher than half the psychos who tried to kill you. And if Wednesday Addams of all people isn't running in the opposite direction? Then maybe stop acting like you're the worst thing to crawl out of the lake."

Her words landed harder than she probably meant them to.

She glanced away, tugging a pair of sunglasses out her pocket and back into place. "You're not perfect. None of us are. But you're not broken either. So quit making it so complicated."

A laugh slipped out of you, shaky but real. "That's your advice?"

"Yeah." She smirked, already halfway to the door. "Take it or leave it."

But as she stepped out, she paused just long enough to add, quieter, without looking back: "For what it's worth... I'm glad you made it."

And then she was gone, leaving the words hanging in the silence of your half-empty dorm.

You were tightening the straps on your trunk when the door creaked open again. Isla slipped inside, her expression cautious, as if she wasn't sure she belonged here. Her hair was pulled back, but loose strands stuck to her face, still damp from a swim in the lake. Harsh and unforgiving scars littered her neck.

"You're really leaving," she said — not a question, just a fact.

"Yeah." Your fingers lingered on the latch. "Going to stay with Eugene for a bit before..." You hesitated, then admitted, "before heading back down."

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. For a moment she said nothing, only shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Finally she stepped closer, her arms folding across her chest.

"You scared me," Isla murmured, her voice low, rougher than you'd ever heard it. "I thought - I thought we'd lost you. For good this time."

You swallowed hard, throat tightening. "You almost did. And don't think I wasn't scared for you, too. When I found out... when I realized Thornhill had you chained up—" Your voice faltered, a flash of rage cutting through the exhaustion. "She was a psycho. Trying to literally kill you. I don't think I'll ever forget that."

Isla's eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glassy. Her jaw worked like she was trying not to let the memory sink too deep. Then, with a sharp exhale, she reached out and wrapped her arms around you. It wasn't gentle — more like she was proving you were solid, here, not another vision she'd lose if she blinked.

You hugged her back, just as fierce.

"I'm not going anywhere without telling you first," you said into her shoulder.

"You'd better not," Isla muttered, voice muffled but steady.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red but her smirk returned, a little crooked. "And don't think you're the only dramatic one in the family."

That made you laugh — the sound cracked in your chest, but it felt good anyway.

The corridors of Ophelia Hall were emptier than you'd ever seen them, the usual chatter and shuffle of feet replaced by the distant groan of suitcases over stone and the occasional slam of a dorm door. You carried nothing but your trunk handle in one hand and Wednesday's blazer, folded carefully against your side, as you made your way down the hall.

The familiar door to Wednesday and Enid's dorm was ajar, light spilling into the hallway. You knocked once anyway, a soft rap against the wood, before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was already half dismantled — Enid's half. Her side of the room looked like a rainbow had exploded and then been hastily stuffed into duffel bags. Posters were peeled from the walls, bright sweaters folded haphazardly into boxes, a stuffed wolf perched on top of an overstuffed suitcase as though keeping watch.

Enid herself was crouched on the floor, shoving shoes into a bag while trying not to cry. She looked up at you, her eyes already glassy, and broke into a grin. "Oh my god - you're here! I thought you were gonna sneak out without saying goodbye!"

"Not a chance," you said, stepping further inside. The words caught in your throat, but you pushed them through. "Hey, um... we should hang out this summer. You know, if you're around."

Enid froze mid-shove, one shoe half sticking out of her bag. Her eyes went wide, as if you'd just told her she'd been crowned Queen of Nevermore. "Wait - really? You're not just saying that? You actually wanna, like, hang out-hang out? With me?”

You blinked at her, bemused. "Yeah. I mean... why not?"

Enid practically launched herself across the room, squealing, her arms locking around you before you could brace. "THIS IS THE BEST NEWS EVER!" she shouted into your shoulder. "You don't even understand! I've been waiting months for you to say that! Summer plans! Us! Actual friends! Oh my god, I need to start planning outfits right now—"

You laughed, startled but genuine, hugging her back as best you could with her squeezing the air out of you. "Enid - Enid, breathe—"

She pulled back only far enough to beam at you, her hands gripping your shoulders tight. "I'm gonna text you every day. No, wait, you'll get sick of me. Okay, maybe not every day, but like, a lot. You're not allowed to ghost me!"

"I won't," you promised, your smile tugging crooked.

From across the room, Wednesday sat calmly at her desk, hands folded on a half-empty journal. She watched the scene unfold with her usual deadpan expression, though you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth — not annoyance, not disdain. Something quieter. Amusement.

"Summer with Enid," she said flatly. "Consider yourself warned."

Enid shot her a glare but immediately returned her attention to you, squeezing you again. "I don't care, you're stuck with me now. Best. Summer. Ever."

And for a moment, in the middle of a room half-packed, in the ashes of a year cut short, it felt like something normal. Something worth holding onto.

Enid squeezed you one last time before pulling away, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "Okay, okay, I'll stop smothering you — for now. But I'm serious, you're mine this summer." She sniffled, grabbed her duffel, and bounced toward the door in a flurry of color and energy.

"Don't you dare leave without saying goodbye to me again!" she warned, pointing a finger at you like it was a sacred vow, before vanishing down the hall in search of more luggage.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The dorm felt too still after Enid's exit, her rainbow chaos leaving behind a hollow quiet. You lingered by your trunk for a beat, her blazer tossed lazily to the side, then finally turned toward Wednesday.

She was waiting — of course she was — standing near her desk, black eyes already fixed on you. Your steps carried you forward before you could talk yourself out of it. "Guess this is it," you said softly.

"For now," she replied, precise as ever.

You let out a breathy laugh and kissed her before you could stop yourself — steady, unhurried, your hand curling at the sharp angle of her jaw. She didn't move for a beat, but then her lips pressed back against yours, cool and deliberate, returning the kiss as though she'd already dissected its meaning before you'd finished giving it.

When you drew back, she studied you with that scalpel gaze. "This isn't going to become a normal occurrence."

"Fine," you murmured, trying for a smile. "But can we at least take the fake off the dating label."

Her eyes flickered, the barest ripple of surprise, before hardening again. "I'll break your heart," she said evenly. "I don't nurture. I don't comfort. I don't forgive. If you come to me for warmth, you'll freeze."

Your throat tightened, but you didn't back down. "I'll ignore you. I'll get restless. I'll vanish when you need me to stay, and show up when you wish I'd leave. I'll make you hate me for choosing the easy way out."

Her expression sharpened, but she stepped closer. "I am obsessive," she said, low. "Suffocating. Once I decide you belong to me, I won't release you. Not ever."

You let out a humorless laugh. "I'm reckless. Impulsive. I'll drag you into chaos you didn't ask for and expect you to follow me anyway."

Her dark eyes gleamed. "I will pry you open," she continued. "Your secrets. Your fears. Your history. Nothing will remain yours alone."

Your breath shook, but your voice stayed steady. "And I'll ruin your patience. I'll talk too much, say the wrong things, pick fights when I'm scared. I'll test how much you'll put up with."

Her tone didn't waver. "I will never say what you want to hear. I don't believe in lies of comfort. You will bleed on the truth."

Your lips curved faintly. "And I'll never stop doubting it. I'll question everything. Even this. Especially this."

The silence stretched, the air thick between you, both of you laid bare in a litany of reasons, a catalogue of warnings neither seemed willing to heed.

Finally, Wednesday moved. Not for your mouth — but for your wrist. She caught your hand in hers, turning it with clinical precision, her black eyes steady as her lips lowered. She pressed them to the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse beat frantically beneath your skin.

Cold, firm. A kiss not of comfort, but of claim.

When she lifted her head again, her gaze pinned you in place. "Consider yourself warned," she murmured.

Your pulse raced against her fingertips. You smirked faintly, though your voice cracked with the weight of it. "Guess I'm terrible at taking warnings, girlfriend."

—————

By the time you and Eugene rolled your trunks out to the gates, a dark sedan idled at the curb. The back window was already down, and one of his moms leaned out, waving both arms.

"There's my boy!" she called, her voice bright enough to cut through the gray sky.

Eugene groaned, ducking his head as he hurried forward. "Mom, please—"

"You survived a monster, Eugene. Let me be dramatic." She kissed the top of his curls through the window anyway.

The other mom stepped out to grab his trunk, and when her eyes landed on you, she gave a polite smile. "And you must be the mermaid."

You blinked, shifting your grip on your bag. "Uh... yeah. That's me."

"Oh, we've heard about you," she said with a little nod. "The one who keeps him from biking into traffic."

"Barely," you muttered, and Eugene made a strangled sound.

"Mom!" he hissed, shoving his trunk into the car himself. "Don't - don't embarrass me!"

"Too late," she said cheerfully, stepping aside so you could load your own things.

You slid into the back seat beside him, trying to hide your grin as his moms fussed in the front — adjusting mirrors, offering bottled water, pointing out the snack bag between the seats. The car smelled faintly of peppermint gum and coffee, lived-in but comfortable.

"So," the driver said as she pulled onto the road, glancing at you in the rearview. "Do you eat normal food, or do we need to swing by a fish market?"

Eugene groaned so loud his voice cracked. "MOM!"

You bit down a laugh, shrugging. "I mean... I'm not saying no to vegetable sushi."

That made both women laugh, while Eugene slumped against the window like he wanted the earth to swallow him.

"Great," you said, nudging him with your elbow. "Road trip rules: moms pick the music, we pick the snacks, and you don't get to complain."

His head thunked against the glass. "Worst. Car ride. Ever."

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward — and for the first time in weeks, "normal" didn't feel so impossible. With the long ride ahead, you slipped on your wired headphones and dug through your bag, searching for some fragment of comfort to hold onto.