#wednesday fluff

You had always known Jericho was full of secrets. It was the kind of town that looked peaceful until you stared too long. But you never thought one of those secrets would wear Tyler Galpin’s smile.

He wasn’t supposed to be part of that world — your world of monsters and mysteries and bloodlines whispered in Latin. He was supposed to be the normal one. The warm one. The boy with flour on his hands from baking, who’d kiss your knuckles over the counter when no one was watching.

He was supposed to be safe.

You used to sit in the Weathervane after classes, parchment sprawled in front of you while he pretended to wipe tables just to linger near your booth. He’d steal glances, ask about the strange school up on the hill, and tease you for your dark clothes and even darker humor.

“Tell me you don’t actually sleep in a coffin,” he’d say with that crooked grin.

“Only on Thursdays,” you’d reply dryly, and he’d laugh like you were the only thing in Jericho worth laughing about.

He made you forget you were an Addams — for a little while. With him, you weren’t the shadow everyone stared at. You were just you.

You remember the last night you saw him before everything went wrong. He’d walked you home, hands in his pockets, head tilted toward the stars. “You ever think about leaving?” he asked quietly.

“Jericho?”

“Everything.” His voice was careful, almost afraid. “Starting over. Somewhere far.”

You’d smiled, brushing your shoulder against his. “You could, you know. You’re not stuck here.”

He’d looked at you then — really looked. “Maybe I’d stay if you did.”

And gods, you almost told him then. About what you were. About the bloodline, the legacy, the things that didn’t belong in daylight. But you didn’t. Because for once, you wanted something simple. You wanted him.

And then Wednesday came.

Everything after that felt like a storm you couldn’t stop. The attacks. The whispers. The blood. The look in your sister’s eyes when she said she was close to finding out who it was.

You remember standing in your dorm window one night, rain streaking the glass, staring down at Jericho’s flickering lights and thinking, please, not him. You didn’t even know why you thought it. You just did.

And then came the woods.

You’d followed the screams, the smell of smoke and something sharp in the air. Branches tore at your cloak as you ran, heart pounding, calling for your sister, for anyone — until you saw it.

The Hyde.

Towering. Twisted. Eyes glowing with something wild and wrong. You froze, half-hidden behind the trees, breath caught in your throat. Its claws dripped red. Its chest heaved with animal fury.

And then it turned.

You don’t know what made you realize it — maybe the shape of his jaw beneath the monster’s skin, or the way his eyes caught yours with a flicker of recognition. But when it looked at you… you saw him.

You saw Tyler.

Your Tyler.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But you knew. You felt it, in that sharp, gut-twisting way your family always said was intuition.

You whispered his name before you could stop yourself. “Tyler?”

The creature froze.

For one second, there was silence — no screams, no movement, just rain hitting the leaves between you. Then it blinked, stumbled back, and for a moment, you saw something human flash across its face.

And then it ran.

Later, you saw him again — but not as the boy you loved. This time, there were police, and lights, and shouting. They’d found him. They’d caught him.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t speak.

You stood on the edge of the crowd, every part of you shaking as they strapped him down, wires crackling. And when the electricity hit, when his body jolted and that terrible yellow gleam filled his eyes again, your heart broke with it.

They called him a monster. They said he was dangerous, irredeemable.

You wanted to scream that they were wrong. That he used to hold you so gently you forgot what cruelty felt like. That he used to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt. That he wasn’t born this way.

But you didn’t. You just watched, helpless, as they loaded him into the van. Rain running down his face, his eyes glassy, lost — but they found you, even then.

And in that split second before the doors closed, you swore he mouthed your name.

Now, the woods are quiet again. Wednesday won’t talk about him. Your parents don’t ask. The town pretends to heal.

But every time you pass the Weathervane, you half expect to see him behind the counter — towel over his shoulder, smirk on his lips, saying, “You’re late, Addams.”

And maybe, in some part of you that still believes in things that shouldn’t exist, you hope the Hyde remembers you.

Because you still remember the boy who promised you forever under a sky full of stars — before the monster took his place.

The room smelled like antiseptic and smoke. Bandages, gauze, and a basin of pink-tinged water covered the small table beside the bed. You pressed a damp cloth to Wednesday’s temple, watching her flinch but say nothing. She never did. The nurses had wanted to take over, but you waved them away. She was your sister. You would handle this.

Outside, Nevermore buzzed with whispers. The Hyde. The attack. The betrayal. It spread through the halls like wildfire, burning through every conversation. And then there was his name — Tyler Galpin.

You wrung the cloth tighter until water dripped from your fingers.

“Stop hovering,” Wednesday muttered, her tone dry even as she winced when you tightened the bandage around her arm.

“You nearly died,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t,” she replied, ever stubborn, her dark eyes glinting. “He didn’t get that far.”

The word he cut deeper than you expected. You tried not to react, but your chest felt heavy. They’d said his name so easily — as if he hadn’t once been the boy you loved. You’d overheard the sheriff earlier, his voice low but certain: He confessed. It’s official. They’re taking him away.

A breakthrough, they called it. As if discovering the monster inside him was some kind of achievement.

He was a Hyde.

You looked down at your sister — pale, bruised, but alive — and wanted to ask if she knew. If she saw it coming. If she felt that same flicker of unease you once did and ignored. But before you could speak, Wednesday’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“Don’t,” she said flatly.

“Don’t what?”

“Blame yourself for not seeing it.”

You froze, your hand hovering in midair.

Her gaze met yours, calm and sharp as glass. “You were close to him,” she said simply. “You saw the version he wanted you to see. That’s not a failure. It’s manipulation.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “He wasn’t like that before.”

“Maybe he was,” she said. “Maybe you just didn’t want to know.”

You hated how easily her words fit. Hated how much truth they carried.

“I saw him,” you whispered after a moment. “When they took him away.”

She stayed silent.

“He looked at me like he didn’t even know who I was,” you said, voice barely steady. “And for a second, I think I didn’t either.”

The room went still. Wednesday watched you quietly, her usual sarcasm gone. For once, there was no sharp edge, no coldness — only silence.

Finally, she spoke. “Monsters wear very convincing masks.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “You sound like Father.”

“He’s right more often than he should be,” she murmured. Then, softer — almost too soft to catch — she added, “But you’re not the reason he became what he is.”

You nodded, though you didn’t really believe it. The cloth in your hand had gone cold. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, like the world itself was sighing after everything it had seen.

Soon, the news would spread through Jericho. They would all talk about the sheriff’s son — the Hyde, the murderer, the monster.

But you would remember the boy who smiled shyly at you over coffee. The boy who traced hearts in foam and promised you forever under flickering streetlights.

You push open the door to your apartment, the weight of the day clinging to you like damp fog from Jericho's streets. Spending hours with Wednesday had been a whirlwind—her sharp wit slicing through the town's shadows, her dark eyes pulling secrets from the air. But now, alone in your quiet space, exhaustion tugs at your limbs. Something feels off the moment you step inside: the air thicker, a faint creak from upstairs that you dismiss as the old building settling. Just tiredness, you tell yourself, kicking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the kitchen table with a thud.

You rummage through the fridge for a quick snack, your mind replaying Wednesday's cryptic warnings about monsters lurking in plain sight. The clippings you've hidden—yellowed newspaper stories about the Hyde's rampages—flash in your thoughts, but you shove them down. Not tonight. You grab a glass of water, set it aside, and head upstairs, the wooden steps groaning under your feet.

Your bedroom door is ajar, just as you left it. You slip inside, flipping on the lamp, the warm light spilling across the rumpled bed and the small table by the window. You don't see him at first—not until you turn from hanging up your jacket. There, in the corner shadows near the table, Tyler stands frozen, his fingers brushing the edge of those hidden clippings you've stashed in a drawer, now pulled half-open. Shirtless, his torso gleams under the faint light, every inch marred by jagged scars that twist like lightning across his chest and abdomen—remnants of the Hyde's fury, or whatever tortures came after.

Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the sudden silence. He's a Hyde. The monster from the woods, the one they strapped down and shocked until his eyes glowed yellow. Fear coils in your gut, cold and immediate. You take a step back, your heel catching the edge of the rug.

Tyler's eyes—those familiar hazel depths, now shadowed with desperation—snap to yours. Devastation flickers across his face, raw and unguarded. He doesn't want this, doesn't want the fear widening your eyes. Slowly, he straightens from the table, his scarred body tensing as he takes a quiet step back, hands raised palms out like he's approaching a wild animal. "Are you scared of me?" His voice is low, cracked, barely above a whisper.

You open your mouth to reply—something sharp, something to push him away—but he's faster. In a blur of motion, inhuman speed rippling through his frame, he crosses the room. His hand slams the door shut behind you, the lock clicking with finality. You're trapped, the space between you shrinking to nothing as he looms close, his breath ragged.

He drops to his knees before you can react, the thud echoing like a plea. His hands hover near your hips, not touching, trembling with restraint. "Please," he begs, voice breaking. "Just hear me out. I'll leave Jericho tonight—disappear, I swear. But I need you to listen. I crave you… God, I need you so badly it hurts." He's groveling now, head bowed, scars pulling tight as he presses his forehead to the floor at your feet. "Don't turn me away. Not you. Please."

Your heart hammers, fear twisting with the ghost of old affection. He's not safe. He's the monster. But his desperation cracks something in you, and before you can stop it, your hand reaches down, fingers threading into his hair. You pull him up, and in seconds, his mouth crashes against yours—hungry, bruising kisses that taste of rain and regret. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming, as his hands finally grip your waist, yanking you flush against his scarred chest.

The kiss turns feral fast. He rises, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his hips as he backs you against the wall. His cock hardens against your thigh through his jeans, thick and insistent, but he doesn't strip you yet. No, he wants it harsh, wants to feel your fear in every thrust. He drops you onto the bed, pinning you down with his weight, his mouth devouring your neck, teeth scraping skin hard enough to mark.

"Tyler—" you gasp, but it comes out half-fear, half-need, your body betraying you as your hands claw at his shoulders, nails digging into old scars.

He growls low, a Hyde's rumble in his throat, and shoves your skirt up, ripping your panties aside with one rough yank. His fingers probe your pussy roughly, two thrusting in deep without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes you arch. But he doesn't fuck you there—not yet. He pulls back, eyes locked on yours, seeing the war in them: the way you look at him like he's a stranger, like the boy you loved is gone, replaced by this beast using your body to sate his hunger.

It guts him. You see it in the flicker of pain before he masks it with desperation. He flips you onto your side, one leg hooked over his arm, exposing the soft flesh of your thighs. His jeans are gone in a scramble, his cock springing free—thick, veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum. He presses it between your thighs, the head nudging your slick folds but not entering, trapping himself in the tight squeeze of your legs.

"Fuck," he groans, hips snapping forward in a brutal thrust, his cock sliding harsh and fast between your thighs, the friction burning hot. Each pump grinds the shaft against your clit, rough enough to make you cry out, your pussy clenching empty and aching. He's relentless, one hand gripping your hip to hold you still, the other fisting your hair to tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You stare at him, and it's the fear that stabs deepest—not yours, but his, mirrored in the way your eyes narrow, distant, like he's just taking what he wants, like you're a vessel for his craving, not the girl who once kissed flour from his lips. "You're not him," you whisper, voice trembling as his cock pistons between your thighs, slick with your arousal, the slap of skin echoing.

He whimpers, a broken sound, but it only drives him harder. His thrusts turn punishing, the head of his cock battering your clit with every slide, building that coil in your core despite the terror. Sweat slicks his scarred torso, dripping onto your skin as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. "I am. I'm still yours. Please… see me."

But you don't. You can't. Your body responds—thighs squeezing tighter around his cock, pussy dripping down to ease his glide—but your eyes stay guarded, making him feel like a user, a monster stealing scraps of intimacy. He chokes on a moan, pace fracturing as he nears the edge, his free hand sliding down to pinch your nipple through your shirt, twisting hard.

The pressure builds unbearably, your clit throbbing from the harsh friction, and you shatter first—orgasm ripping through you in waves, your cry muffled against his shoulder as your thighs clamp down, milking his cock without taking him inside. He follows seconds later, roaring your name as hot cum spills between your legs, coating your thighs and pussy in sticky ropes, his body shuddering against yours.

You could barely remember how it happened. You spent so long hanging around Wednesday that, even though you were a ghost, the two of you began dating.

It was another afternoon at Nevermore. You followed your lover through the halls as she headed to the dorm room from classes.

"Ugh, I'm so glad I don't have to worry about school anymore. Like if one good thing can come from being dead, it's definitely that. I'm sorry babe but your classes are so boring," you rambled. Wednesday rolled her eyes, not looking in your direction and instead focusing ahead as she spoke.

"For someone with a tombstone that says 'Rest In Peace' you are not doing a lot of resting," Wednesday muttered.

You couldn't help but smirk, floating over to her and resting your arm to her shoulder.

"Oh come on, I know you love me."

"Love is a strong descriptor."

Leave it to Wednesday to always keep things interesting, you rolled your eyes and took your arm off her. Waiting patiently as she opened the door to her dorm she shared with Enid.

Could you technically just float through it? Yup, you could. But you'd rather stay next to Wednesday.

Enid looked up from her phone when she saw Wednesday walk in, she couldn't see you though.

"Hey, Wednesday! Is Y/N with you?"

Wednesday gave you a side eye when Enid addressed you," no." You huffed at that and kicked Wednesday's writing chair over, earning a glare and laugh from Enid.

"Hi, Y/N." She waved in the direction of the chair, though she wasn't sure if you were still there. You waved back.

You liked to make yourself pretty known. So, when things started randomly knocking over or going missing in the dorm Wednesday reluctantly introduced you to Enid. Enid, at first, thought Wednesday was joking. She couldn't seriously have a ghost girlfriend, could she? But then you'd gone and knocked a few things over, even possessing her typewriter to say hello and introduce yourself to Enid.

The blonde was definitely startled. Only Wednesday Addams would fall in love with a ghost. But after a while, she warmed up to you and often asked if you were there, or how you were doing.

Wednesday always acted annoyed by it, but deep down was honestly glad you had someone other than her to talk to now.

You and Enid were the same level of ramblers, so you got along quite well. Wednesday walked over to her chair and propped it back up, sitting down in it to do her daily hour of writing.

While you floated over to Enid. Using a pen and paper to talk with her. Even Thing came over and joined the conversation.

Wednesday simply tuned it out. Being used to Enid's yapping, your scribbling and Thing's signing.

You told Enid about your day, how boring Wednesday's classes had been, to which she laughed and nodded in agreement.

"Ugh, I know. Classes here can be tots boring sometimes," Enid agreed.

You, having died before modern slang but still a teenager, looked confused and glanced over at Wednesday.

"Babe, what does tots mean?"

Being friends with Enid meant you were learning lots of new things. She'd even introduced you to TikTok.

Wednesday ignored you and you threw your pen. Aiming for the back of her head but instead it fell helplessly on the desk next to her.

Wednesday sighed and turned in her chair to face you, Enid paused in her rambling.

"What just happened?"

Thing shrugged in response to Enid's question. As best as a hand can shrug, anyway.

"Someone's throwing a fit cause I won't tell her what... tots... means," Wednesday said the word 'tots' with so much distain.

Enid blinked in surprise, then laughed," sometimes I forget Y/N isn't from the 21st century. Tots is just a short form for totally."

You looked at Enid, then back at Wednesday, gesturing to your friend," there. Did that seem so hard?"

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon in New Jersey, golden rays of sunlight bathing the mansion floor in a beautiful blanket of bronze. The windows were open to the outside world, a warm breeze flowing through the house and invading the walls with the scent of pine and apple pie.

You were in the kitchen, humming along to one of your favorite songs while you stirred ingredients together to make a sugar glaze. Your pie was in the oven, almost ready to be taken out and admired for how damn talented you were at baking, but it needed a few more minutes to reach perfection. It’s crust was a delicious looking light brown, dusted with a bit of salt for flavor, that covered the mouth watering apple filling that was crafted from your great grandmothers secret recipe.

Your cooking and baking skills were a great blessing, especially since your wife has a bit of a sour tooth when it comes to entrees. You always made sure to craft each dish to the exact perfect condition of what she was craving in that moment, and every time, without fail, she would praise you in her gothic ways about how delicious each meal was.

Speaking of your wife, she was currently typing away on her typewriter in the office, working on a new book series since finishing her last collection. Becoming such a well respected writer had boosted her confidence a lot, which in turn helped open more doors to new plot lines and perspectives of storytelling and imagery for her to explore. You had been her biggest supporter throughout her journey and definitely earned the title of “#1 Wednesday Addams Fan” after showing up to every conference and book signing wearing her face on your shirt.

She scolded you for it every single time.

“Doing okay, babe?” You called out, whisking the icing gently.

The ‘tap tap tap’ of the typewriter abruptly stopped, and the sound of footsteps ranges out softly in the house as your partner approached the kitchen. You turned your head just in time to see her round the corner, your breath catching in the back of your throat from the sight of her.

Wednesday Addams was a glorious view, and just so easy to look at for you even after all these years. Her skin was supple and pale, almost ghostly white from lack of melanin in her cells. Her eyes, black as ever, were filled with a sense of warmth that to others, would be discomforting; to you, it was home. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt that held her checkered sweater tucked in at her waist, with a thin silver chain hanging loosely from the front of her hip to the back. She had white, shin-length socks on that hugged her calves in such a way that it was almost hypnotic to stare at her. Her hair was in her usual duel braids paired with her beautiful bangs that you loved oh so much, and she wore an expression of admiration on her face when she spotted you.

“Hey you.” You said, setting your whisk down to fully turn to her, “Finished the third chapter yet?”

“Not yet.” Wednesday replied, stepping into your personal space and tilting her face up to you, “I am stuck in the torturous prison of what the people call ‘writers block’.”

You chuckled, taking her chin in your hand and leaning down to kiss her. She stood up on her toes to meet you, her hands resting on your hips while you cupped her jaw. She tasted divine, her lipgloss flavor consisting of black cherries and dark chocolate with a hint of eucalyptus to complement the sweetness.

“Hi.” You murmured to her after pulling away, staring into her dark eyes.

“Hello.” She whispered back, her hands slithering around your waist, “I missed you.”

“We live together.” You teased, smiling when she undid the tie of your apron.

“You have been baking all morning.”

“Could’ve joined me.”

“And suffer with the nauseating effect of home life and domestication? I’d rather be nailed to a post.”

You giggled, moving around her to hang your apron on the pantry door hook before coming back over to the oven to peak at your pie. It seemed to be done, so you grabbed your black mittens and carefully took the hot dish out and placed it on the stove. The aroma of apple hit you like a warm pillow to the face, and you felt your whole body physically relax from the touching smell.

“I hope to get a slice later.” Wednesday said, sliding her hand into yours once you took the mittens off, “It looks divine.”

“I thought Wednesday Addams didn’t like sweet things?” You asked, scrunching your nose at her.

“I like you, isn’t that enough proof?”

You hummed, pressing your lips to her forehead as a loving gesture. The radio sounded light static before Foolish Girl by Marjorie filled the room. Your unoccupied hand slide to rest on your wife’s waist, gently beginning to sway to the music with her. She let her head rest against your chest, her eyes falling shut at the sound of your heartbeat.

“Twenty-five years old and you still dance like you’re fifteen.” You mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles out of her sweater.

“I need to perfect my skills, I just haven’t had the time.” She replied softly, burying her nose into your hoodie, “Fifteen year old me would be devastated.”

“No.” You said, lifting her head and reaching to cup her face, “She would be so proud to see what you have achieved; you’re incredible, baby”

Wednesday blushed, shamelessly letting her eyes run over your features with pure admiration. You both stayed like that for a while, content in swaying in each other’s embrace whilst occasionally sharing little kisses here and there. The moment was perfect, until a sharp knock at the front door startled you.

“Who could that be?” You wondered aloud, knowing you weren’t expecting anyone today.

“A spokesperson maybe.” Wednesday grumbled, turning and heading towards the front door, “I’ll tell them to leave.”

“It’s not like we get solicitors.” You said, knowing it’s a pretty long walk from the road to your front door, “Be nice, please!”

She waved you off, rounding the corner out of sight but not of earshot. You heard the front door open, and a male voice respond to your wife’s question of his presence.

“I’m here for you, actually.” The person said, his words slightly slurred.

“Sorry, not available, please leave.”

“Seem pretty available to me; pretty cute too.”

“Use the word ‘cute’ to describe me again and i’ll remove your finger nails with my pliers.”

“No need to get attitude with me, gorgeous. How about I come inside and we chat a little?”

You tensed up, dropping the plate you were drying onto the counter and briskly walking to the front door. There was a tall man in the entrance, holding the door open with his hand so Wednesday couldn’t shut it on him. He was scruffier looking, his greasy hair long and his wiry beard unkept on his bumpy skin. He had a smirk on his face that was unsettling and gross looking, like something that came out of a shitty thriller from the 60’s or something of the sort.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man drawled out, seeming to size you up when you approached.

“Her wife.” You deadpanned, standing to slightly in front of Wednesday to block him from entering your home, “And I’m pretty sure she asked you to leave.”

He laughed, his breath reeking of scotch and beer when it hit your nose. You recoiled slightly, mistakingly taking a step back in disgust. The man saw that as an opportunity to strike, and shot his hand out to grab Wednesdays arm.

It felt like everything happened in a millisecond; one minute you were pinching your nose to block the smell, the next you were swinging your fist into his face, his nose breaking with a satisfying ‘crack’. He fell backwards onto your concrete front porch, his hand immediately covering his injury. You breathed heavily, your chest heaving up and down from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Not many things angered you, but if someone ever put their hands on Wednesday, you would see red.

Call it your wifey instinct.

“OW! What the fuck?!” He screamed, cradling his face, “Son of a bitch!”

“Never, ever, touch her again.” You growled, squaring your shoulders to make yourself appear bigger, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops.”

With that you slammed the door once he retreated down your steps and to the street, locking the deadbolt with a grunt of annoyance. Blood coated your knuckles from the impact of the man’s nose breaking, but you could honestly care less as your focus was on the women standing in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You asked, reaching for her arm to make sure she wasn’t scratched or bruised.

“I am fine.” Wednesday reassured, a glint of love in her eyes as she stared at you, “That was the most attractive thing I have ever seen.”

“Wednesday, I just punched a man in the face.”

“And it was divine.” She replied, biting her lip in a teasing way, “The way you spoke to him; impressive.”

You sighed with a smile, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her softly. She responded with leaning into you, titling her head to the side to welcome you in as much as she could.

“I’m glad to have you.” You whispered against her lips, “Truly.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She whispered back, tugging you forwards with her as she walked backwards.

“The pie is still on the stove.” You reminded her as she began to run her hands down your chest, “Didn’t you want a slice?”

She pulled back from your embrace, nodding in the direction of your shared bedroom. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, a small smirk coming to her face.

“I can think of something sweeter to eat.”

—————————

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