49. love album- imgonnagetyouback: SOPHIA LAFORTEZA SMAU
synopsis: when sophia laforteza drops her debut single “drivers license”, the media and fans begin to point fingers at yn and a rivalry grows between the two singers.
pairing: sophia laforteza x fem!reader
lots of writing <3 ily !!
Y/N's gut was all over the place. No pun intended. Every lyric from every song from the new album ran loops in her brain like clockwork. Every second she wasn't thinking about what she was talking about- it was Sophia. It was all Sophia.
The bar was tardis-like, smaller on the outside, looking like it could only serve a handful of customers at a time; but once Y/N and Megan had walked past the first few stools at the bar, it opened up into a much larger area. Strangers were dancing to the bass of the song the DJ was playing- mostly Sophia's music. Every person Y/N passed by, heads turned and a few would whisper something incoherent.
"I've texted Dani asking where Soph is for you." Megan whisper-shouted over to her best friend. Y/N's eyes scanned across the wave of people on the dancefloor. She couldn't see her yet. "Do you want a drink? You seem a little... on edge?"
She nodded silently, following the actor over to the bar. She couldn't even look at her phone, too worried she'll see a text that she didn't wanna read right now. She just wanted to talk to Sophia. That's all. And a few other things...
"THERE YOU ARE." Y/N jumped at the familiar voice shouting behind her. "I WAS WONDERING WHEN YOU WERE GONNA COME!" The singer put on a brave face as she turned around to face a very, very drunk Lara Raj.
"Hi, Larz!" The girl said with a smile, pulling her friend into a hug. "Are you... drunk by any chance?"
Lara pulled away from the hug and made a face at Y/N, "Noooooooooooo. I don't get drunk!" She lied, making her laugh.
"She's wasted." A second voice piped up, handing her girlfriend a clear glass of something Y/N could only assume was water. Y/N gave Manon a hug as she spoke, then reaching over for her cocktail at the bar. "Which is what your girlfriend-to-be also is..." Manon then added on.
She choked on her drink at Manon's words, "My future.... what?"
The girl pulled a face at the singer, "Don't pull that bullshit with me. You kissed her at Lara's party; she was too drunk to realise what was going on and didn't kiss you back- so you've began to self destruct. You distanced yourself from her, from Dani, me and Lara. Everyone that reminds you of Soph you've kept a distance from for your own sanity." At each word that came out of Manon's mouth, Y/N was left more speechless. She kept hitting the nail on the head it was almost annoying. "But, now she's released basically an entire album saying she likes you and NOW you've mysteriously turned up here? Yeah right you're one makeout away from making it official."
The four girls sat in silence for a few seconds, soaking in Manon's words. Y/N lifted the cocktail back up to her lips, "Yeah..." She murmured quietly. Another minute or so passes. No one says a word. And then- "Do you know-"
"Where Sophia is?" Manon asked, finishing Y/N's own question. She nodded quietly. "No, I think Dani knows where she is, though." Megan had already texted her girlfriend telling her she had arrived with Y/N, and had been spaced out until the very moment she'd heard her girlfriend's name be mentioned.
"She's on her way!" She said, and almost automatically after that- Dani herself appeared. For a split second, Y/N's body tensed up, expecting Sophia to appear behind her. But she didn't.
"THERE SHE ISSSS." Dani practically screamed, rushing into her own girlfriend's arms. Dani melted into Megan's embrace, kissing the top of her forehead and holding her for a moment, smelling her perfume and the shampoo in her hair. "Missed you, baby." She murmured quietly, making Megan blush on her stool at the bar. Daniela then turned her head away from her girlfriend, arms still wrapped around her. "And you." She said to Y/N, "took your time..."
"Do you know where-" She doesn't even get to finish her question.
"Dancefloor. Like, right in the middle of it." No one else said a word, they just all looked at Y/N, waiting for her next move. Every second she didn't spend on the dancefloor was another second she was wasting not kissing Sophia, right? "Are you going or are you waiting for Christmas?" Dani joked, getting a nudge from Megan in response.
Fuck it.
Y/N stood up from the bar stool, taking one final sip of the cocktail and finishing the glass entirely. A few of the girls in the group cheered for her as she then turned towards the crowd of people dancing. She was going in. This'll be easy, right?
It got even louder as Y/N went into the hordes of people on the dancefloor. Every step stank more and more of sweat and alcohol, with some people she passed by exchanging spit like it was their last day of living.
The lights were dim in the bar and dancefloor, with the only main source of light being the strobes the DJ had set up. It was going to take Y/N forever to find her. She tried to call out for Sophia, but it was no use. Only a few heads around her turned, only momentary, before they turned back around and ignored her.
"So-" The name got stuck in her throat as she then found the girl she so desperately needed. She was stood on the side of the dancefloor, leaning against a standing table as she typed away at her phone. She looked immaculate. Y/N felt herself begin to smile as she walked towards the Filipino, trying to get her attention in some way. It was difficult for anyone to see anything in this light, anyways.
She was only a couple feet away when she then stopped. Her eyes widened. Oh.
There, at the other side of the table, Izzie stood- handing Sophia some kind of alcoholic drink. For a moment, she tried to not overthink it. Maybe they were just friends. Then Sophia leaned in slightly closer, listening to some kind of joke Izzie was making; and then she laughed. Oh fuck no.
Y/N's heart sunk on that dancefloor. She felt as though her entire world was shattering right there in front of her eyes. It was no use. Sophia didn't like her.
Maybe her friends were just making it out that way so she didn't feel so bad. Maybe it was all just some test to see how far she'd go before enough was enough. Maybe she should just leave.
She kept staring from her spot on the dancefloor, people moving around her like she wasn't even there. Sophia didn't notice her. Why would she, anyways? It wasn't like she was expecting her.
She felt as though if she stood and watched any longer, she'd throw up from the feeling twisting and growing in her stomach. She had to get out of here. She had to get home. It was tiring her out from just watching and thinking. The courage she once had with Sophia was well and truly gone.
The singer turned on her heels, and walked. She didn't stop walking until she reached the other end of the bar where her friends were- all wearing expecting facial expressions. "Soooooooo..." Dani had a smug face as she spoke, but it broke the moment she took a look at Y/N's face.
"I can't do this. I'm going home." Before anyone could stop her or tell her otherwise, she was walking towards the door. Whether someone followed her or not, was on them.
A beat passes between the two couples as they all exchange nervous glances. "What the fuck...?" Lara doesn't even get to the end of her question before Dani sees a snippet of what Y/N had seen from across the bar.
"Motherfucker..." She muttered under her breath, turning to her girlfriend, "Stall Y/N in the parking lot. Do your best impression of Tori for all I care. Keep. Her. There."
"Leave me alone, Mei Mei." Y/N said, walking at a fast pace. She didn't want to be spotted outside right now- let alone have to deal with any of this shit right now. "I'll be fine."
"You had a drink, I didn't!" Megan was coming up with every possible excuse she could think of. Anything to hold her back that little bit longer. "I can drive you, okay?"
"I don't want to talk. I'm fine. It was one drink." Y/N kept insisting as she walked towards the parking lot.
"We don't have to talk... Just- CAN YOU SLOW DOWN? I'M WEARING HEELS AND YOU'RE WALKING... REALLY FAST." Megan suddenly shouted at her best friend. Y/N stopped dead in her tracks, turning to face her friend who was practically running to try and keep up with her. "Thank you." Megan then said, catching her breath back as she finally caught up. "I'm just worried about my best friend, Y/N."
"I'm fine." She was anything but fine.
"You don't look fine." Megan replied. Y/N couldn't meet her best friend's eyes. "Come on, you can tell me."
"Let's just go home." Y/N was done with the night. Done with the week, month and year. She was tired of trying and just wanted to go back to how things were before she even knew Sophia. Maybe that was for the best, right?
The duo walked in silence until they reached Megan's car in the parking lot. It was a pretty large parking lot, with barely any cars parked in it. Y/N beelined towards her best friend's car, while Megan slowed herself down, hearing her own girlfriend's words in the back of her mind. Keep her there.
"I'm not driving you home." Megan shouted out to her. Y/N's head turned back to her best friend at the entrance of the parking lot. Megan had an unreadable look on her face, which just pissed her friend off more.
Y/N let out a snort as she started to walk back to her friend, "Why...?"
"You know why." She insisted to the girl, arms crossed.
Y/N stared at her, as if it was going to somehow help in a way of her getting a ride home. "I'm not doing this right now, Meg."
"I can't have you bottling this up again, Y/N." When the singer tried to look away, Megan pulled Y/N's arm to get her attention again, "It's not okay that you keep doing that when I'm here to listen. You deserve to be listened to."
And in that moment, her best friend broke. That's all it took. Her vision blurred as she felt her throat burn and her stomach twist. "Meg..." Y/N fell into Megan's arms as she cried into her shoulder. "I don't know what to do, Meg. I thought I was ready to tell her, I thought- I don't even know what I thought."
"It's okay, Y/N. It's okay." Megan whispered to her friend, as if anyone could hear. "What happened in the bar? Did she say something? Do I need to go back and fight her?" She then asked, pulling her best friend away from her embrace slightly to see her facial expression.
"No... No she didn't say anything. I didn't get that far." The girl confessed, "I saw her... She was with Izzie..." Megan's face dropped a little at the name drop. "She looked happy. She was enjoying herself and I don't even know what I was supposed to do. To drag her away again and say; oh Sophia by the way I'm in love with you? And I've been in love with you for months? I couldn't, Mei." Her best friend was silent. She just listened. "I couldn't look her in the eyes on that dancefloor. I couldn't after all the shit we've gone through. She's gonna hate me when she finds out, Mei."
"Are you sure this isn't the cocktail talking?" She quietly asked the singer.
"This is me talking. No matter how much this eats me alive, I can't tell her that, Mei. She liked me all that time ago and she's found someone who cares for her just when I've come to terms with my own feelings. I can't win." She sounded exhausted. Megan had never heard her speak about past girlfriends like this. Sophia was different. "I can't go a day without my mind wandering to her. I can't stop myself from thinking how great we could be. I'm so in love with her it makes me sick to think about her for too long."
Megan's eyes drifted off for a second to a figure at the other end of the parking lot. She opened her mouth for a second, about to tell Y/N to perhaps walk with her to the car after all to keep the privacy. Then she closed her mouth again. Her best friend continued.
"I could go the rest of my life trying to find love, but none of them will make me feel the way Sophia does." Y/N might as well have shouted it. She meant every word coming out of her mouth and anyone in earshot could feel it. Everyone. "And you know what the best part is, Meg? She's gonna have a lovely time with Izzie. They're probably gonna have the best relationship the internet has ever seen. She's probably gonna release a love album about her stupid ass fucking smile and it'll win album of the year at the grammys. Every step I take and every scroll on the internet will be haunted by her and the fact that I'll never be brave enough to tell her the truth. I'm fucked, basically."
Megan nodded along, trying to find the best way to bring up a certain topic... Or so a certain someone. "Are you... sure?"
Y/N almost lost her mind at the question, furrowing her eyebrows at her. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her, Meg."
"NO NO NO." Megan then said, cutting her best friend off, "I worded that wrong. I meant like... are you sure that you're.. entirely fucked?" Y/N pulled a face, trying to understand what Mei Mei was saying, but getting nowhere. A few moments passed between them, but Megan just sighed, gesturing with a nod for Y/N to look behind her.
There, at the other end of the lot, Sophia stood. She'd heard everything. Every word Y/N had cried and confessed in those last five minutes had been heard. A few feet behind her, Daniela stood, thanking god that this may be finally happening.
Y/N went to speak, but when she did her mind came up blank. "Is that true?" Sophia asked, starting to walk towards her. "What you said?" Y/N's stomach was twisting again, the feeling of what might as well have been a rock settling in her throat. She couldn't find any words in her. She only nodded slightly, trying her best to keep her vision clear. "Y/N... It was never about Izzie." Sophia told her, stopping no more than a couple of steps from the girl. "It was never even about Kate, or Jyn, or even goddamn Tori... Years ago, I fell in love with a singer," Tears began to swell in Sophia's own eyes as she confessed, but didn't stop. She smiled widely as she spoke, even. "Probably one of the horniest songwriters I know, actually." She then said, making the other girl laugh.
Y/N was a mess opposite her, smiling from ear to ear as she tried to fully even comprehend what was being said. She worried that in a few seconds she'd wake up from the dream that was taking place.
"But you know what? She's probably one of the best in the industry." Sophia went on, "And I really, really fucked up with how I first handled interacting with her. Every day since I released that song I've beat myself up for how it all went down-"
"Don't." Y/N put simply, "It wasn't your fault, Soph."
"I know." The Filipino agreed, "But I've spent every day trying to make it up to you. I still am." She wasn't referring to this singer in third person anymore- she was being direct. "And in the process of that, I fell in love with you. My friends would tease me but I couldn't even deny it." She took a few steps closer to Y/N as she hopelessly stood in the parking lot, trying to not bawl her eyes out right there and then. "You said to Megan about me releasing a love album... But I've already done that."
Y/N entire face softened in realisation of what Sophia meant. The album. It was all for her. "It's for you, Y/N. It's all for you."
And that was the last straw for her. Y/N reached for Sophia in an instant, grabbing her hand and pulling her in. Cupping the girl's face, she pressed her lips onto hers. Unlike the one up in the bedroom at Lara's party- this kiss wasn't rushed. It didn't feel as though the two had to get it all out, now. They had all the time in the world. Their lips slotted together perfectly like two puzzle pieces that had desperately been missing each other the entire time.
A tiny final tear fell from Y/N's eye as they kissed, with Sophia's hands wrapping around her neck. It was perfect. It was everything they'd both been wanting. Finally.
Dani slowly walked towards Megan with a smile on her face, doing her best to not interrupt the two girls makeout. Megan rushed herself away from where she stood, grabbing her own girlfriend's hand before the two ran back to the party, leaving the other two alone.
They didn't separate for what felt like hours- but was no more than few minutes in reality. Sophia leaned her forehead against Y/N's, silently giggling to herself. "Y/N?" The girl in her arms was a mess, "Do you wanna take me home?" As if the answer wasn't obvious.
a/n- and thats a wrap :) thank you so much bbys for all the love and patience. i had quite a few mini breaks writing this fic but you were all so patient with me and i truly appreciate that. i love you all so so so much. i cant wait to see you guys soon in my future fics !!! my next fic will be a dani gamer fic if you're interested !! lots of love bbys <3
SYNOPSIS: as a youtuber, you love to pull pranks. so, listening to a fan suggestion to prank your popstar girlfriend with getting a fake tattoo of your exes name sounds like a great idea! wait, is it a great idea?
Chapter Fifteen: The Captain’s Second Place Girlfriend
pairing: wednesday addams x fem!reader
summary: Back at Nevermore, you’re forced into the old cheer uniform for Homecoming Week. But what starts as damage control ends with candlelight, quiet honesty, and a confession that loving a human might be your greatest rebellion yet. And somewhere in the dark, the ocean listens.
word count: 7.4k
author’s note: selene wants that cookie soooooo bad
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
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The uniform feels strange in your hands, like something stolen from another life. You'd buried it at the bottom of your dresser months ago, under shirts you don't wear and sweaters you half-pretend still smell like an Addams family summer. Now the fabric is crisp, almost too bright in the light filtering through the dorm window, black and purple shining like it wants to burn. You hesitate before sliding it over your shoulders, as though pulling it on might be an admission. That you're trying - that you still might actually belong.
The skirt clings a little tighter than you remember. Your reflection in the warped mirror seems foreign - legs bare, hair pulled into the taut ponytail the squad requires, bow cinched like a crown you never asked for. The girl staring back at you is one you used to recognize: cheer captain, perfect, sunny, adored. You search for her but only find the shadow of something else crouched behind her eyes.
You sit down on the bed, sneakers unlaced, the weight of the pompoms heavy and ridiculous where you've dropped them on the blanket. They look like organs cut out of something living, sparkly and artificial but bleeding with memory. You bend to tie your shoes, fingers tugging harshly at the laces, knuckles blanching white. If you do them tight enough, maybe they'll hold you together.
That's when the door bangs open, wood shivering against its hinges.
Your roommate Selene strides in like she owns the place, hair damp, sweat still glistening along her collarbones. She smells like iron and grass and salt — whatever sport she just brutalized herself through this time (you think it might be boxing?). Her black tank is soaked through, the fabric clinging to her shoulders, and there's tape half-peeled off her knuckles. A duffel bag hangs heavy off one arm until she lets it drop, the thud echoing through the room.
Her gaze catches on you.
She blinks once, twice, then grins — slow and somehow wolfish for a deep-sea mermaid.
"Well, well," she drawls, leaning on the doorframe, muscles flexing with the movement. "Didn't think I'd see the golden girl dusting off that uniform again. Special occasion?"
You tug the cheer top over your head, adjusting the hem until it sits right. "We've got to be in the gym in ten," you mutter. "If you hadn’t noticed, it’s homecoming. They're making the cheer team go hype up the fencing match."
Selene's brows lift, the grin spreading. "The fencing team gets a pep rally now?"
"Apparently," you say, grabbing the ribbon for your hair. "Wednesday's competing, so they want a big show of school spirit for their new hero.”
"Ah," she hums, like that explains everything. "So this isn't duty - it's devotion."
You roll your eyes, turning back to the mirror. "You could just say I'm going to cheer for my girlfriend."
Her chuckle is low, amused. "Trust me, I got the message."
You tie the bow tighter than necessary, pretending you don't see her reflection behind you — how she's watching, half entertained, half something else you can't quite name.
Selene pushes off the doorframe and flops onto her bed, the mattress groaning under her weight. "You know, for someone who hates attention, you look very prepared to make an entrance."
You snatch your pom-poms off the chair. "It's not an entrance. It's just called school spirit."
"On you," she says, voice low and lazy, "it's always called something else."
You don't answer. Just head for the door before the heat in your face gives you away.
"Good luck out there, Captain," she calls after you, smirking. "Try not to start a riot. Or a love story with Nevermore’s almighty hero."
You glance over your shoulder just long enough to shoot back, "Too late for both," before the door swings open in front of you.
But when you swing the door open, the last thing you expect is someone already waiting for you.
Principal Dort stands in the hallway, posture carved from stone, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His glasses catch the dim corridor light, slicing his eyes into two glints of steel. He looks at you like a riddle he already knows the answer to.
"Miss Marina,” he says smoothly, that cool headmaster tone that makes even your name sound like an indictment. His gaze drifts over the uniform — the pressed skirt, the bow in your hair, the pompoms clenched in your fists. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "So. Back in uniform, are we?"
You shift your weight. "The fencing team's first match starts at four. The cheer squad was asked to go support, just like you apparently asked.”
"Ah, yes," he replies, adjusting a cufflink. "Nothing quite like enforced enthusiasm to boost morale."
You keep your voice steady. "It's the duty of the cheer team to help our classmates win with our… enthusiasm. I'm just doing what I'm supposed to."
"Hmm." He studies you for a moment too long, then lowers his voice. "Forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced your presence will be... neutral. Wednesday Addams is competing, isn't she?"
Your throat tightens. "She's the captain of the team, yes."
"And you're part of the spectacle," he says mildly. "The optics are delicate, Miss Marina. Given recent history, we'd prefer no incidents and we want our victors to not have any distractions. So, I figured it would be smart for you to have some supervision."
The word hits like ice. "Supervision?"
"A chaperone of sorts," he corrects, as if that softens it. "Consider it a vote of confidence — just with training wheels!”
Behind you, you hear the faint squeak of a sneaker and know before turning that Selene has appeared in the doorway behind you, hair damp from practice, eyes glinting with mischief.
"He means me," she says, voice sliding lazily into the space between you and Dort. "Apparently, I'm the only one strong enough to keep you out of trouble! Funny how things work, huh?”
Dort nods once, in mere seconds, his face is starting to annoy you. "Exactly! Miss Selene will accompany the squad. A royal monitor, if you will. She even beat majority of the werewolves on the entrance strength admission exam, so I trust she would be able to handle you in case any.. type of anger or outbursts arises.”
You stare between them. "She's not even on the team."
"She is now," he says. "Think of it as accountability."
Selene's smirk is already forming before he's done speaking. "Don't worry, Principal Dort. I'm great at accountability."
"Good," Dort says briskly, turning on his heel. "Then I expect decorum from both of you. The match starts in fifteen minutes. Try not to make the Nevermore Times, yes? I heard the “Stoners” are quite intuitive.”
He leaves you standing there, the faint scent of his overbearing cologne and condescension trailing behind him. For a moment, it's silent except for the low hum of the hallway’s candle lights.
Then Selene leans closer, her shoulder brushing yours. "So," she murmurs, "guess I'm your emotional support mermaid for the evening."
You exhale, tired already. "I'm going to cheer for my girlfriend, not start a fight."
Her grin widens. "That's adorable. Just remember — if she wins, it's because of your cheesy pep talk you already have planned to say to her, that she’ll inevitable hate. And if she loses..." She shrugs. "Well, at least you'll look cute holding the pompoms."
You glare at her, adjusting the bow in your hair like it's armor. "Try to keep up, Selene."
"Oh, I plan to," she says, falling into step beside you as you head down the hall toward the gym.
As the noise from the crowd begins to bleed through the doors ahead — blades clashing, voices rising — you can't shake the feeling that you're walking into an arena much bigger than the one on the floor.
The gym smells like floor wax and pure, sophisticated, adrenaline.
Someone's blasting a distorted marching-band track over the speakers, and the metallic hiss of sabres clashing in warm-ups cuts through the noise like static. The first fencing match of the season always draws a crowd — students packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the bleachers, faculty pretending not to be worried about blood on the floorboards.
You step in with the cheer squad trailing behind, pom-poms brushing against your thighs. The uniform feels heavier than it used to, the bow in your hair too tight. Beside you, Selene strolls like she's just out for a walk, hands shoved in her jacket pockets, mermaid eyes looking around lazily. She doesn't belong here — wrong sport, wrong energy — but the stupid new Principal's decree made her your shadow for the day.
Who does he this he is??????
You hear one of the new freshmen — a wiry kid with shifting eyes and a nervous habit of morphing his features when he talks — whisper something to his friend as you pass. “Holy shit! Is that Wednesday Addams’ girlfriend? It must be so freakin’ cool being the Wednesday Addams’ girlfriend!”
You almost laugh. Almost.
It’s not the first time you’ve heard it whispered like that — half awe, half disbelief — but it still catches somewhere deep in your chest every time. There was a point, not long ago, when it was the other way around. When you were the one people whispered about in corridors, pointed at in the quad, and was hounded on with classmates wanting your signature on their copy of the newspaper that had your face on the front.
Now, they look at her.
Wednesday Addams — the girl who used to make teachers twitch and parents pull their kids closer — has become a Nevermore celebrity. Her fencing victories are announced on the bulletin board. Her latest investigative article circulates through the dorms like contraband poetry. It’s only been a week into the school year and there’s already a rumor going around that she’s getting her own elective next term tilted “Forensic Journalism: Death, Truth, and the Written Word.”
She’s become a myth with perfect posture.
And somehow, you’re the side note. The asterisk. The “girlfriend.”
Sure, this isn’t the first time you’ve been second. You’ve spent most of your life there — second choice for your father’s approval, for your siblings’ spotlight, for anyone’s patience. You got used to watching people love the idea of you and not the reality.
But to everyone else, you were never second.
On land, you were a headline. The future heir to the oceanic throne — the royal who decided, for reasons no one could quite understand, to go to school among humans and other outcasts instead of the standardized royal school underwater. They didn’t know what to do with that. Humans aren’t supposed to see underwater royalty, and when they finally did, they didn’t act like they were meeting a person. They acted like they’d spotted a miracle.
That kind of attention never felt flattering. It felt invasive, almost. They wrote articles about your hair color, your posture, your accent — every movement interpreted like it meant something bigger.
You became a symbol first, and a student second.
And even when you crossed into the world of outcasts, the obsession followed you. They weren’t impressed the same way humans were — it wasn’t wonder, it was curiosity. They wanted to see how the “mer princess” lived on land, how much of the legend was true. Vampires asked if your blood tasted like salt. Sirens studied your voice. Witches wondered what kind of spell could turn a crown into a curse. You were entertainment and proof all at once — proof that even the ocean’s chosen could be pulled to the surface.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That people would get used to you eventually and some did but most didn’t. But, nonetheless, you were loved.
And then Wednesday happened.
She wasn’t trying to be anything, and somehow she became everything. The same people who used to whisper about you started whispering about her. Her duels, her writing, her name — all of it spreading through the halls like rumor. Wednesday Addams this, Wednesday Addams that. The girl who didn’t flinch, didn’t bend, didn’t care, and didn’t back down from a standoff versus the evil Joseph Crackstone.
You never thought that would bother you — you’re not the jealous type — but there’s something quietly surreal about it. A year ago, people crossed the hall to avoid you. Now, they whisper your name only in relation to hers. It’s safer that way, you suppose. “Wednesday Addams’ girlfriend” sounds more palatable than “the mer princess who nearly killed our botany teacher last winter.”
Still, part of you misses being known for your own type of popular chaos.
You instinctively roll your eyes while the polished wood gleams under the lights; you can see your reflection in it, faint and trembling.
Enid spots you first and she nearly drops her pompoms running over. "You made it!" she squeals, bouncing on her toes. "I was starting to think you were gonna ditch us for the VIP Addams Fan Club section. It’s totally insane how many people love your brooding girlfriend.”
You laugh. "Tempting."
She rummages through her cheer bag with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb. "Oh! I almost forgot — this is yours."
When she straightens, she's holding a black letterman jacket with white piping and ADDAMS stitched across the back in gothic font. You blink.
"I found it on the floor of Wednesday's room this morning," Enid says cheerfully. "You, uh, left in kind of a hurry."
Before you can respond, Selene raises an eyebrow. "You left last night?"
You snatch the jacket from Enid, folding it quickly like that'll make it less obvious. "Obviously after bed check I snuck into their room," you mutter. "What are you gonna do, report me to Principal Jackass?"
Selene smirks. "Tempting but watching you squirm is way more fun."
Enid looks between you two, confused but grinning. "You guys are such an odd pair."
"We're absolutely not a pair," You say at the exact same time as Selene says, “She wishes we were a pair.”
Bianca strolls over just in time to hear it. She takes one look at the jacket in your arms and grins like a shark. "Cute. Matching outfits now?"
"Borrowed property," you say. "Strictly practical."
"Sure," Bianca hums. "And I only joined fencing for the exercise." She leans in, lowering her voice. "You should see her warm-ups, by the way. The way she's moving today? Addams is out for blood."
"She usually is," you say quietly.
Before Bianca can reply, the crowd shifts — a ripple moving through the noise. Heads turn toward the center of the floor.
Wednesday Addams is already there.
Mask off, blade in hand, posture so still it looks sculpted. The team captain's patch gleams on her sleeve with pride. Her warm-up routine is a study in precision — no wasted motion, no flourish. Every slash of her sabre slices the air cleanly, rhythm measured, almost musical.
You forget to breathe for a second.
Selene notices. "You stare like that during every match?"
"Only the ones she wins," you say, not taking your eyes off Wednesday. “So, yes.”
"Lucky her," Selene mutters.
Then Wednesday's gaze lifts. She spots you immediately — eyes flicking from your uniform to the jacket clutched in your arms. Her expression doesn't change, but her steps do; she's already crossing the gym floor before you realize it.
The squad turns away as she approaches, dismantling into their own side conversations with the fear of feeling your girlfriend’s wrath. The sound of her boots on polished wood is sharper than the music. When she stops in front of you, the world seems to tilt a little.
"You forgot this," you say quickly, holding up the jacket like a peace offering.
"I see that," she answers, taking it from your hands but not putting it on. Her voice is low, dry, and far too calm for how everyone else suddenly seems to stop breathing. "It appears my property keeps finding its way into your possession."
"Bad habit," you admit.
"Mm. One I don't intend to break."
You hear a muffled giggle from Enid. Bianca mutters, "God, get a room."
Selene, though, stands a few feet back, arms folded, watching with open curiosity — the kind that feels a bit like a test.
Wednesday follows your line of sight, catching her in it. "Why is she here?"
"She's apparently my assigned babysitter for the day," you say, tone flat. "Principal Dort’s idea of damage control."
Wednesday's gaze hardens immediately. "I see."
"She's doing her job," you add quickly. "Mostly by being absolutely fucking annoying."
Selene gives a mock salute. "Just here to make sure the royal menace doesn't get hungry during a temper tantrum.”
Wednesday turns back to her, expression so icily polite it could freeze the gym. "Do you plan on interfering with my match?"
"Not unless you stab anyone outside regulation," Selene replies sweetly with her hands sarcastically tucked behind her back, “Or unless your girlfriend decides you losing is worth taking a chomp out of your opponent.”
Wednesday sets her jaw, “I don’t lose. And stay out of my way."
You clear your throat, stepping between them before the tension can fully ignite. "Okay, maybe we can table the fencing death stares until after the actual fencing?"
Wednesday's attention shifts back to you. "I expect you to be watching."
You smile, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck. "Wouldn't dream of missing it."
Her mouth twitches — the closest she comes to a smile in public — and she steps back, slipping the mask over her face. The black mesh catches the lights as she turns, sabre resting against her shoulder like it belongs there.
When she's gone, Selene whistles low under her breath. "She's intense. You sure she doesn't scare you a little?"
"Only when she's right," you murmur.
Bianca smirks, uncapping her water bottle without looking away from the students getting in position. "She's about to make that poor kid her thesis project."
She's not wrong. The boy across from Wednesday already looks nervous — his stance uneven, the tip of his sabre trembling just slightly in the light. Wednesday stands opposite him, mask covering her determined stare, waiting for the signal with the stillness of someone who's already decided the outcome.
“Allez,” cuts through the gym like a gunshot.
And then she moves.
It's not just fast — it's deliberate, mechanical perfection. One second she's still; the next, she's slicing through the air with surgical precision, sabre gleaming silver-white. The crowd erupts, voices echoing off the walls, sneakers squeaking on polished floor. Somewhere to your left, someone shouts her name, but it doesn't matter — all you can see is her, all hard focus and quiet fury.
Enid is beside you, clapping entirely off-beat, shouting some hybrid of a cheer chant and a bark of excitement. You don't even realize you've joined in until you hear your own voice above the noise — louder than you expected, sharper. The kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep, the kind that bypasses reason entirely.
"Go, Weds!" Enid yells, pumping her pom-poms.
Selene laughs under her breath. The sound is low, amused, but there's something else in it — that half-curious, half-knowing tone she always uses when she's watching you unravel. She leans close enough that her shoulder brushes yours.
"You cheer like you mean it."
You don't look at her. "That's because I do."
She hums, the noise somewhere between approval and jealousy, but you barely register it. Because Wednesday's blade flashes again — a clean parry, a flick of her wrist, and the boy's guard collapses. She lunges, connects, retreats. A perfect touch. The referee's flag shoots up, and the crowd roars.
You know she doesn't like noise, doesn't need validation, but your chest still swells with pride, the kind that almost hurts. Her movements are all calculation — elegant, lethal geometry. Each strike is a sentence punctuated with precision. Watching her feels like reading a language you shouldn't understand but somehow do.
Another point. Then another.
Bianca mutters, "She's dismantling him."
And she is. Not just winning — teaching. Every feint, every parry, a lecture in control.
You can tell she's holding back — enough to make it look like a competition but not enough to make it close. Her opponent's breathing ragged now, his feet sloppy on the retreat. Wednesday presses forward, expression blank beneath the mask, grace so absolute it borders on cruel.
When she finally scores match point, it's almost anticlimactic — one final lunge, the sabre tapping against the target zone, the referee's announcement slicing through the air. The crowd explodes into cheers, the bleachers shaking under the stomp of feet.
You're on your feet before you realize it, pom-poms half raised, pulse racing. Around you, people chant her name, but it all feels distant, washed out by the rush in your ears.
Wednesday stands at center floor, chest rising with quiet, steady breaths, sword at her side. The rest of the team converges on her, shouting, laughing, slapping her back. She doesn't react to any of it. Her mask stays on, her posture perfect.
And then she turns — head lifting slightly, like she's listening for something.
You swear her eyes find you through the mesh, you lower the pom-poms slowly, heart still hammering.
It hits you all at once — the simple, ridiculous truth of it: no matter how loud this place gets, no matter how many people chant her name, she'll only ever hear you.
And you’re beginning to believe you are completely in love.
The gym smells like metal and sweat and the faint sting of victory.
Students are spilling from the bleachers, buzzing, shouting, clapping each other on the back. Wednesday's teammates are clustered near the far wall, already unzipping their gear, blades clattering against the floor. She stands a little apart from them — mask tucked under her arm, hair slightly mussed, face expressionless except for the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
You try not to stare but it’s hard not too. She looks like she was made for that moment — steady, untouchable, a little terrifying.
Selene bumps your shoulder. "Well," she drawls, "no chaos created by you. Color me shocked."
You snort. "See? I can behave in public."
"I'll alert the media," she says, slinging her duffel bag over one arm. "Principal Dort's going to be thrilled. His little science experiment survived an entire sporting event without spontaneous combustion."
You roll your eyes and start down the bleachers, the squad already scattering to retrieve their bags. "Congratulations to me, I guess. I didn't even bite anyone."
"Pity," Selene says easily, following. "Would've made things more interesting and maybe I would’ve gotten my own dorm out of it. Nothing sounds more freeing like your sudden expulsion.”
You glance back at her. "You realize your definition of interesting usually involves property damage."
"Only when I'm bored," she replies. "Which, right now, I'm not."
There's a tone under that — something lighter, flirty, testing. It's the same way she looks at you sometimes, like she's daring you to bite back. You pause, adjusting your bow. "Selene—"
She grins. "What? You can't take a compliment?"
"I can. Just not from my assigned babysitter."
She chuckles, stepping closer. "You make it sound so formal. Think of me as moral support and besides, I’m your roommate first, babysitter second.”
"Mm-hmm," you say. "The kind that won't stop flirting even after being told to stop."
Her grin widens, all teeth. "What can I say? It's in my nature."
You fix her with a look. "Yeah? Well, in mine it's called loyalty. I have a girlfriend, Selene."
"Right, the totally normal Addams girl." Her voice softens just a little — not mocking, just curious. "You two are really—"
"Yeah," you cut in, more sharply than intended. "We are."
She lifts her hands in surrender. "Hey, relax. Just checking the perimeter. I like to know the competition."
"There isn't any," you say quietly. “because you aren’t even in the running.”
That gets you a blink — the first sign she's actually thrown off balance. She recovers quickly, smirk returning. "Fair enough. But you can't blame me for trying. It's kind of my job to keep you out of trouble now, remember? I'm just... thorough."
"Overbearing," you correct. "And if you report this conversation to Principal Jackass, I'm filing for early emancipation."
She laughs, genuine this time, low and bright. "Noted."
The last of the crowd filters out, leaving only the clang of lockers and the soft scrape of blades being packed away. You glance back toward the fencing team just in time to see Wednesday looking your way again, expression unreadable under the harsh lights.
Selene follows your gaze, then sighs. "Guess supervision hour's over. Go congratulate your girl before she murders someone for trying to talk to her."
You hesitate — half grateful, half annoyed that she's right. "Try not to flood our room while I'm gone."
"No promises," she says, smiling faintly.
You roll your eyes as you watch Selene go, the only thought in your mind is one: Wednesday is totally going to kill her.
Once your annoying roommate leaves, the gym emptied to a hum. A few distant voices echo down the corridor, the metallic clang of equipment being shelved, the faint squeak of sneakers on polished wood. The air smells faintly of ozone, steel, and victory — hers, always hers.
You cross the floor slowly, the hem of your skirt brushing against your knees, the pom-poms tucked under one arm like an afterthought. Wednesday is near the edge of the piste, unhooking the wire from her jacket. The dark black fabric gleams under the lights, a few strands of hair slipping free from her two braids. She doesn't turn when you stop a few feet away, but she doesn't need to. She already knows it's you.
"You were very composed out there," you say.
She glances over her shoulder, eyes dark and steady. "I try to maintain professionalism when surrounded by mediocrity."
You bite back a smile. "Is that your polite way of saying you destroyed him?"
"It was a mercy killing," she replies, peeling off one glove. “He made three tactical errors in the first thirty seconds. I could practically hear them."
You laugh quietly, setting the pompoms down on the bench. "You know, you make it really hard to be a supportive girlfriend when you talk like an assassin."
"Then I'll consider that a compliment."
For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of your breathing, the slow rustle of her removing her jacket. You step closer, close enough to see the faint red line on her collarbone where the strap rubbed raw. Without thinking, you reach up and brush your thumb over it.
She stills. Not startled — just aware. Always aware.
"You did great," you say softly. "Even Enid was cheering like she knew what was going on."
Wednesday's gaze flickers down to the Nevermore crest on your top, then back up to your face. "I heard you," she says.
You blink. "What?"
"During the match. You were the only one shouting something coherent."
You laugh again, quieter this time. "Guess I'm loud when I care."
"I've noticed."
The air between you shifts, warm and close. She studies you like she's cataloguing the way light falls across your face — deliberate, unhurried. Then, with a precision that feels almost ceremonial, she removes her remaining glove and lets it fall to the floor.
"Thing has been... restless," she says after a beat. "He misses you."
You tilt your head. "Does he, now?"
"He was incredibly disappointed that he didn’t see you last night because he was too busy with my brainless brother. He was tapping out Morse code on my desk this morning. I believe the message was 'where is she.' It was both irritating and touching."
You can't stop the smile spreading across your face. “Guess I made a great impression from all those deep-sea spa days this summer.”
Her lips twitch — the closest thing to a smile she'll allow herself in public. "You did. Which brings me to a proposal."
"Go on."
She steps closer, closing the space until the edge of her foil case presses lightly against your thigh. "I was wondering if you'd consider staying over again. For research purposes, of course. Thing is conducting an experiment on human sleep patterns, and your proximity appears to improve his mood."
You laugh under your breath. "Right. The experiment. Definitely not because you want me there.. in your bed.”
Her eyebrow arches. "I prefer to frame desire in empirical terms."
You shake your head, trying not to blush. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet you continue to indulge me."
You look up at her — the faint flush still on her cheeks from the fight, the ink-dark braids loose at the ends, the tiny scrape on her wrist from the tightness of her gloves. "Yeah," you admit quietly. "I do."
She studies you for another long, still moment, then says — softer now, almost hesitant — "So you'll come?"
"Yeah," you say again. "I'll come."
Something like relief passes through her expression — gone as soon as it arrives. She picks up her foil case, the motion crisp, composed, and perfectly Addams. "Good. I'll inform Thing to prepare the guest side of the bed. He insists on decorum."
You grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to her cheek before she can overthink it. "See you after lights out."
She pauses mid-step, touching the place you kissed as if to confirm it happened. Then she turns, voice cool again but eyes betraying the smallest spark. "Try not to get caught sneaking in. It ruins the thrill."
You pick up your pompoms, smiling. "No promises."
And as she walks away — braid swinging, blade gleaming at her side — you realize the whole gym still smells faintly of her, like ink and ozone and something dark that almost feels like home.
———————
The hallway outside Wednesday's room is dark, the sconces turned low. You pause, listening - nothing but the faint hiss of rain against the windows. When you knock, there's no answer at first, only the sound of something being struck - metal on metal - and then the latch clicks.
She opens the door halfway, black nightdress brushing the floor. The room glows behind her.
Candles. Dozens of them.
They line the desk, the windowsill, the shelf above her cello case, even the nightstand - circling her half of the room in a soft, golden halo. The light shivers over the dark walls, flickering against the glass jar of ink on her desk, making everything feel strangely alive.
You blink, stepping inside. "I thought this was Thing's sleep experiment," you say, closing the door behind you. "He forget to mention the séance part?"
Wednesday lifts a brow. "He requested data. I provided ambiance."
"So... this isn't for science?"
"Not tonight." She motions toward the candles. "They are for you. You said last night that the dorm lighting made you feel like you were being interrogated."
You glance around again, half-smiling. "I was joking."
"I wasn't," she says simply, and that's the end of it.
Her bed looks softer in the candlelight, the quilt neatly smoothed, a small stack of folded clothes waiting at the foot. You recognize them immediately - her black pajamas, crisp and faintly starched, the ones she'd loaned you in New Jersey after you stayed at her house unexpectedly.
"Changing attire is recommended," she says, following your gaze. "The uniform looks uncomfortable."
You laugh under your breath. "You really don't like it, do you?"
"It's bright and it squeaks when you walk. It offends several of my senses."
You unbutton the cheer skirt and shimmy out of it, putting it folded over a chair. "Noted."
When you slip into her pajamas, the fabric is cool at first, smelling faintly of cedar and something dark — the kind of scent that feels like it should leave ink stains on your skin. Wednesday turns away politely, pretending to adjust the candlesticks on her desk. You can tell she already aligned them perfectly ten minutes ago.
“I’m beginning to think you actually planned this,” you say.
“I plan everything,” she replies, without turning. Her tone is precise, measured — the Addams version of flustered.
You tie the drawstring and smile to yourself. “Right. Just another one of your carefully controlled experiments.”
“Precisely.”
But it isn’t just that, your not stupid and you both know it.
This is her way of caring — carefully, methodically, like she’s dissecting the idea of comfort just to understand it enough to give it to you.
It’s been about seven months since you officially started this — since the first kiss, the first time Wednesday snuck into your guest room at Eugene’s house, the first night she actually let you somewhat hold her until she fell asleep. Seven months of orbiting around the word love without either of you daring to say it.
Not because you don’t feel it, but because you do — and neither of you has found a way to say it without ruining whatever fragile equilibrium you’ve built.
She loves in subtleties: in structure, in detail, in preparedness. In candlelight that smells faintly of wax and smoke. In pajamas folded neatly at the edge of her bed.
And it reminds you of the summer.
Of how, after Morticia gently suggested that her daughter might want to “express affection in a more traditional way,” Wednesday treated romance like an academic subject — grimly determined to master it.
There was the picnic in the cemetery, which she called “a controlled study of atmospheric vulnerability.” You had no idea what she meant by that but you still sat on the grass while she poured black tea into mismatched cups and declared the ants “a charming audience, if uninvited.”
There was the night she dragged you into the back garden to stargaze, reciting the names of every constellation associated with death. You didn’t care. You just listened — until you realized she’d memorized your favorite constellation on purpose, saving it for last like a secret.
There was the bouquet of belladonna she left on your windowsill at Eugene’s with a note that read, Do not ingest. Consider this sentiment enough poison for one day.
And the time she carved your initials, small and neat, into the bark of a tree already half-dead. When you asked why, she’d said, “If affection must decay, it might as well do so symmetrically.”
Seven months of that — of her never actually saying I love you, but showing it in gestures so painfully specific you’d recognize her in them even blindfolded.
So yes, she does plans everything.
She planned this too — the candlelight, the quiet, the illusion of accident.
When she finally turns around, her eyes linger on you for a moment longer than usual “Comfortable?” she asks.
You nod, pulling at the sleeve so it hides your hands. “Very.”
“Good,” she says, like she’s confirming data, but her voice has gone soft at the edges.
And maybe she doesn’t need to say it — not yet, not out loud. Because somehow, in this strange little kingdom of candlelight and silence, you can feel it anyway.
When you crawl into bed, she joins you, sliding beneath the covers with the measured care of someone entering a pact. The mattress dips, and for a moment neither of you speak; the only sound is the rain thickening outside, tapping against the panes like soft applause.
Then, in a tone almost clinical, she says, "I know it has been... unpleasant. Returning to Nevermore. More unpleasant than you expected.”
You glance at her. "Unpleasant?"
She meets your eyes, unblinking. "You were ostracized by most of the student body, assigned a minder, and forced to perform enthusiasm at a fencing event. I consider that unpleasant."
You laugh under your breath. "That's one way to summarize it."
But Wednesday isn't done because truly, when is she ever? Her gaze drifts toward the candlelight, its reflection flickering in her eyes. "You returned to a campus that once feared you, after spending the summer of your life pretending you could belong somewhere without consequence. You left the ocean somewhat behind, along with the illusion that freedom was permanent. You came back to whispers, to teachers pretending not to stare, to dorm rooms that don't feel like yours anymore. You watched the people you thought of as friends measure their words around you. And instead of setting the entire place on fire, you attended a sporting event wearing a cheer uniform."
You blink. "...that's disturbingly thorough."
"I have been paying attention," she says simply.
Her tone softens, just enough to register. "You have endured being treated as spectacle and threat simultaneously. You have tolerated authority figures who believe supervision is equivalent to care. You even managed to tolerate Selene's voice for several hours. And you did it all without a single homicide."
You huff out a real laugh this time. "That last one was a close call."
Her lips twitch - almost a smile. "Nevertheless, I am impressed. You have exhibited more restraint than anyone had the right to expect."
"You mean I didn't bite or drown anyone?"
"Precisely." She studies you a moment longer, head tilting slightly. "That self-control should be rewarded."
Her words linger in the quiet between you, candlelight trembling along the curve of her jaw. You can't tell which startles you more - her precision or her gentleness. When you don't reply right away, she reaches out, fingertips brushing your wrist. The gesture is cautious, experimental, as if she's testing whether touch can say what language can't.
"Rewarded how?" you ask, voice low. You arch an eyebrow, half teasing, and half curious. Over the past few weeks, especially after coming back from your travels around the ocean, your girlfriend has been more open to... flirting. In the most Wednesday ways she could muster.
"By allowing yourself to stop performing," she says. "Even if it's only here."
For a long second you just look at each other. The air feels thick with wax and rain and the echo of everything you haven't said. You shift closer, and she doesn't move away. Her hand finds yours again, steadier this time; your forehead rests against hers, breath mingling, quiet and warm. It's not a kiss exactly - more a pause in which both of you forget that the rest of the world exists.
The candles hiss faintly while the storm outside slows.
When she finally pulls back, there's a softness in her expression that wasn't there before, like she's letting the armor drop one plate at a time.
"I think that counts as a reward," you whisper.
"An efficient one," she answers, though her voice sounds different now - lower, almost shy.
You glance down and notice a faint blue glow against the sheets. The iPad sits half-hidden beside the pillows, its screen paused on the sea-foam title card of The Little Mermaid.
You blink, then look back at her. "Wait... did you actually learn how to use an iPad just to play this for me?"
Her composure doesn't so much as flicker. "It seemed the most expedient way to obtain results."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm thorough," she corrects.
You laugh softly, settling against her shoulder as she presses play. Ariel's voice fills the candlelit room, sweet and defiant, echoing over the rain. Wednesday doesn't comment; she only shifts closer until your fingers overlap again.
Outside, thunder rolls once, distant and tired, as if even the storm is willing to let the night belong to the two of you.
The opening credits shimmer across the iPad's screen — soft blues and golds that flicker against the waxy glow of the candles. You settle back against the pillows, still half in disbelief that Wednesday Addams, of all people, figured out how to stream a Disney movie.
"Do you even like this?" you ask quietly, curling under the blanket.
"I'm... ambivalent," she replies, tone precise as ever. "But I can tolerate ninety minutes of sentimentality if it improves your mood."
You glance at her — she's sitting upright, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. The candlelight cuts delicate lines along her face, the kind that make her look both ethereal and impossibly real. "You could at least pretend you're enjoying yourself," you tease.
"I find falsifying emotion tedious," she says. "Besides, I'm enjoying the sociological aspects."
"Sociological?"
"The creature's willingness to abandon her entire ecosystem for a stranger. A fascinating case study in hormonal recklessness."
You laugh softly. "That's one way to ruin my favorite movie."
"I assumed you appreciated honesty."
"I do," you say, smiling despite yourself. "Just maybe not while Part of Your World is playing."
She glances over at you then — really looks — and something in her gaze softens, the sharpness melting into something gentler. "Understood," she murmurs.
For a while, you just watch. The screen flickers in the dimness, painting the walls with waves of light. The song swells, familiar and bright, and the quiet hum of rain outside matches its rhythm. You feel her hand brush yours again under the blanket. This time, she doesn't pull away and instead laces her slim fingers with yours.
You shift a little closer, and she lets you. The two of you sit like that — not touching much, but enough. Every few seconds, you catch her sneaking a glance at you instead of the movie, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and affection.
"You're not even watching," you whisper, eyes still on the screen.
"I've seen enough," she replies softly. "The ending is predictable."
"You're impossible."
"I'm efficient."
You rest your head against her shoulder. "You keep saying that."
"And yet," she says, gaze flicking down to you, "you never seem to mind."
You don't. Not even a little.
The movie keeps playing — Ariel's voice, the orchestra swelling, the quiet churn of thunder rolling beyond the windows. You think of how far you've come since the summer: the ocean's freedom, the sting of self inflicted exile, the exhaustion of pretending everything's fine. And somehow, here, in the glow of her ridiculous candlelight, it feels like you're allowed to stop running for a night.
When the credits finally fade, you realize Wednesday never looked away from you once.
"So," you murmur, breaking the quiet, "what did we learn from our sociological experiment?"
"That humans are irrational," she says. "And that I might be, too."
You turn toward her, heartbeat loud in your ears. "That's new."
"Don't get used to it," she says — but her voice is too soft to make it sound like a warning.
You smile. "Too late."
Outside, the rain slows to a drizzle. The candles burn low, small flames still dancing in the dark, and for the first time in months, the world feels like it can wait.
The movie ends in a wash of blue and gold. The iPad goes dark, leaving only the candles — small, steady flames swaying in their pools of wax. Their light paints the ceiling in soft amber, flickering like breath.
You shift under the blanket until you're lying fully against her, head tucked just below her collarbone. Her nightdress smells faintly of her typewriter and parchment. For a moment, neither of you speak. The quiet feels earned.
Wednesday's fingers trace slow lines along your forearm, not absent-minded but deliberate, like she's memorizing something. You tilt your head up slightly. "You're really bad at pretending you don't like this."
She hums. "Nonsense. I'm excellent at denial."
"Could've fooled me."
"I believe I just did."
You laugh, soft enough not to disturb the candle flames. She tilts her head toward you — not quite looking down, but aware. "You're more quiet than usual," she says. "Unusual for you."
"I'm thinking," you murmur.
"About?"
"About how weirdly peaceful this is," you admit. "Nevermore never used to feel this calm."
"That may not last."
You glance up. "What do you mean?"
She's silent for a beat, her thumb still moving idly against your wrist. "My parents have been... more involved as of late. Principal Dort, in his infinite misjudgment, believes the Addams family can provide structural guidance to the school's 'alternative program.'"
You blink. "Structural guidance?"
"He means chaos management," Wednesday says dryly. "They've been offered residence on the property. Thornhill's old house, to be exact."
You shift to look at her fully, propping yourself on one elbow. "They're moving in?"
She nods, calm but tight around the edges. "Apparently, the administration thought it was fitting to have them 'nearby.' Despite the horrendous shade of pink on the walls, Mother found the decay charming. Father was impressed by the basement."
"That's... actually terrifying."
"It's home improvement, Addams-style."
You smile at the image: Morticia in her long gown, pruning the overgrown roses outside Thornhill's cottage, Gomez fencing with the local ghosts. "Do you mind?" you ask. "Them being here?"
She considers the question. "It's not their proximity I mind. It's their interference. My parents are incapable of existing quietly. They will host dinner parties with the living and the dead, conduct séances at inconvenient hours, and ask probing questions about my personal affairs. You will almost certainly be invited."
"Invited or interrogated?"
"Both," she says.
You laugh again, the sound spilling into the warmth between you. "I think they like me, though. That's got to count for something, right?"
"It does," she says, her tone so soft you almost miss it. "Too much, perhaps."
You rest your head back against her collarbone. The candle nearest the window sputters, its wax nearly spent. "It's funny," you murmur. "I used to be terrified of your parents. Now I think they're the only people here who actually get it — what it means to be... different, but not broken."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Mother told me something once. That love, for people like us, is rebellion. Not softness. Not weakness. Just defiance made tender."
You breathe out. "That sounds like her."
"It does," she says, and for the first time tonight, you hear fatigue slip into her voice — not exhaustion, just that rare edge of vulnerability she never lets anyone see. "Perhaps she's right."
You tilt your face toward hers. "She usually is."
The candles have burned low — small islands of wax pooling across the nightstand. Their light flickers against the walls like breathing things. You're still lying side by side, half-wrapped in the blanket, the quiet between you unbroken except for the faint sigh of wind through the old window.
“I thought so.” She drags a light hand up to your neck, the motion deliberate but not unkind, nudging your chin up until you’re forced to meet her gaze. Her fingers are cool and steady against your jugular — the kind of touch that feels more like observation than comfort. She studies you the way she studies everything she intends to understand, eyes sharp and unblinking, as if she’s cataloguing your pulse.
You groan, the sound that escapes you half a laugh. "Oh my god, not you too."
"I take that as a no."
"They're not therapy," you mutter. "They're surveillance with better lighting. I sit in front of a sink once a week while a woman made of water tells me to manage my impulses."
Wednesday blinks once, unimpressed. Her thumb grazing your jaw as though to underline her question. “And does it work?"
"Do I look calmer to you?"
"You look like you haven't thrown anyone into a fountain yet," she says. "Progress."
You laugh under your breath, staring up at the ceiling. "It's exhausting, Weds. The ocean doesn't want healing; it wants obedience. They call it 'emotional regulation,' but what they mean is 'behave like a crown, not a creature.'"
"I can't decide whether that's condescending or accurate," she replies.
"Both," you say. "Probably both."
Wednesday tilts her head slightly, her braid falling across her shoulder. Her hand drags down your throat before going back up to her original place, her thumb pressing squarely at your jugular. "If they think therapy will civilize you, they clearly underestimate your capacity for chaos."
You smirk. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
"I wasn't trying to be nice," she says, but there's the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth.
You smile up at her, "I'll survive the check-ins. I always do."
"I have no doubt," she says evenly. "Still, if they ever attempt to drown you metaphorically, let me know. I prefer my violence literal."
You laugh again, softer this time. "Duly noted."
She nods once, satisfied, as though the matter's settled. The candle nearest her flickers, throwing her shadow up across the wall — elegant, sharp, undeniably alive.
And for a moment, lying there in the light she created just for you, you almost believe you could outlast both the ocean and the court — as long as she was watching.
You lean up and kiss her square on the mouth. It’s soft, unhurried, and entirely unceremonious — the way everything between you somehow is.
You’ll never get used to it, this feeling. The quiet shock of being allowed to touch her, the way she never quite braces for it anymore.
Wednesday Addams does not do public affection — she’s practically allergic to it. But here, behind closed doors and flickering candlelight, she changes. She lets her hands linger. Her voice lowers. Her walls don’t drop, exactly — they just tilt, enough to let you in.
When she kisses you back, it’s hard but deliberate, the kind of touch that feels like punctuation — final, certain, inevitable. And when she pulls away, she doesn’t retreat. She stays close. Her forehead rests against yours, her breath slow, careful.
Her hand finds yours under the blanket, fingertips brushing your knuckles in a rhythm that feels almost rehearsed by now. She’s not a natural at this — affection still looks like strategy when she does it — but somehow, that’s what makes it work. Every gesture is conscious, chosen.
You’ve learned that Wednesday’s love exists in small, precise movements: her thumb tracing lazy circles against your wrist; her hand resting lightly on the front and back of your neck, not possessive, just grounding; her voice softening in that rare way that only ever belongs to you.
She doesn’t say I love you. Not yet. Maybe not ever in words. But when she looks at you it’s like she’s memorizing proof of something she can’t quite name.
And you think maybe that’s enough.
When you lean back, you see the faint imprint of your chapstick against Wednesday’s lips. You sigh, "It's just... complicated."
"I'm shockingly patient when properly motivated." Wednesday says, you feel the tip of her finger drag against your jugular again.
You breathe out a small laugh. "You really want to know?"
"I don't ask idle questions," she says, deadpan.
You trace a pattern on one of the buttons of her nightgown with your finger. "Humans and merfolk aren't supposed to fall in love. It's not... natural. At least that's what they say. It's a cultural taboo — something that always ends in tragedy or exile. My parents were the only exception. It worked for them because my mother changed into one of us. The ocean accepted her for it, but it destroyed her too. You can't just trade your body and expect your soul to keep up. That's why, originally, I chose you as my fake-girlfriend. There's nothing more scarier to my father than my disobedience to the crown and dating a human... well..."
Wednesday's expression doesn't change, but her voice loses its edge. Her hand moves from your neck and down to your clothed hip. "You fear history repeating."
"I fear being the reason it does."
"Ah," she murmurs. "Martyrdom. Always tedious."
You glance at her, a little startled. "You think this is about martyrdom?"
"I think you're overestimating the ocean's influence," she replies evenly. "Large, unpredictable, occasionally self-righteous — it sounds suspiciously like every bureaucracy I've ever encountered. If it wants to lecture you about your personal life, it can send a formal complaint."
You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You can't file away nature, Wednesday."
"I've done worse," she says. "I once talked a poltergeist into taking a sabbatical."
The smile fades from your face, replaced by a quieter truth. "You don't understand. It's not just politics. It's... myth. Biology. The idea that people like me don't belong in your world long enough to love anyone from it. That we're built for power, not affection."
Wednesday's gaze sharpens, black eyes glinting in the dim light. "Then consider me an anomaly in your data set."
You blink. "What?"
"I don't believe in belonging," she says. "It's an overrated concept used to keep people obedient. You and I are equally maladjusted which makes us compatible."
You can't help laughing softly. "That's your romantic argument?"
"It's irrefutable," she says, dead serious.
You shake your head, the weight of the conversation easing a little. "You're impossible."
"I'm pragmatic," she corrects. Then, quieter: "And I'm not asking you to change. I don't particularly want a girlfriend who molts during the lunar cycle."
You laugh into her neck, her pajamas muffling the sound. "I wouldn't ask you to change either."
"Good," she says, settling back against the pillow. "I rather somewhat enjoy being terrestrial."
The silence stretches again, softer now, filled with the sound of rain easing into a gentle rhythm. Her hand finds yours beneath the blanket, the gesture so small it feels almost accidental — but it isn't.
After a moment, she adds, "If the ocean disapproves, it will have to find a better way to express its disappointment. Drowning me seems unimaginative."
You smile faintly. "You'd outstare a storm if it tried."
She inclines her head, completely serious. "Precisely. I've seen The Little Mermaid. I'm aware how these things end. Rest assured, I have no intention of bartering my lungs for romance or learning to sing about utensils."
You laugh, quiet but real, the sound spilling into the space between you. "You'd make a terrible Disney princess."
"I would make an exceptional sea witch," she corrects.
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling, "that tracks."
And just like that, the tension breaks. You shift closer, her arm settling around you, the two of you framed in candlelight and quiet defiance.
Outside, the world listens. The ocean, somewhere far off, stirs and whispers. But inside this room — within this tiny orbit of flickering light — you think maybe, just maybe, you can survive being both a myth and a girl.
————
(a/n: soak in the fluff bc it’s about to go downhill from here sorry)
blakekathryn
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prguitarman
romaincrisis
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vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
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