#jennaortegaxreader

[s-zys-world]

LOVE AT FIRST PROJECT

SUMMARY: Jenna Ortega has had a crush on you ever since you worked together on her series Stuck in the Middle. But you never realized she had feelings for you—until years later, when you reunited on Wednesday Season 2. The truth comes to light while the two of you appear alongside the cast on a game show to promote the series.

WARNING: nothing, fluff—with a lil bit of angsty

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Jenna Ortega has known you for almost a decade now. She first met you on the set of Stuck in the Middle Season 2, when she was just fourteen years old.

You, at sixteen, were already making a name for yourself—a rising singer and actress in Hollywood. Even then, people on the internet recognized you as a trendsetter, admired for your bold style and the way you dressed better than anyone else in the room.

The very first time Jenna laid eyes on you, her world seemed to slow to a halt—as cliché as it may sound. Her breath caught in her throat, her dark eyes widened in wonder, and her heart began to race uncontrollably in her chest.

You seemed to glow under the studio lights, and though you were surrounded by people, Jenna’s gaze remained locked on you—like you were the moon among billions of scattered stars.

To her, you were simply the most beautiful person in the room. When the director formally introduced you to her, she felt a strange fluttering in her stomach—a ticklish, electric feeling that made her realize she had developed a crush on you.

But reality wasn’t kind to her. During the short time you were on set together, Jenna could never quite work up the courage to be close with you. Whenever she tried to speak, her words tangled clumsily on her tongue, and she found herself stuttering in your presence.

Her cheeks would flush crimson, forcing you to ask if she was alright each time. You had her completely wrapped around your finger without even knowing it—she was a flustered mess, a shy girl struggling to build even the simplest connection.

And as fate would have it, her time with you was cut short. Your role only lasted a few episodes—four, to be exact. No one even told Jenna when you were leaving; she only realized it when she filmed a scene where your character was mentioned as having left for Europe.

After that shoot, she quietly asked the director about you. The answer shattered her: your work on the show was already done. The thought that you hadn’t even said goodbye stung her deeply, though a part of her knew it wasn’t surprising. After all, the two of you had barely exchanged ten words off-camera—blame her flustered mess for that.

And to make matters worse, Jenna had never been the type to approach the people she liked—then, or now. So instead of reaching out to you directly, she kept her distance. Instead of calling you, she found herself mentioning you—over and over again, on camera.

In every interview where she was asked who her celebrity crush was, your name always slipped from her lips. If the question was about someone she wanted to work with, or someone she fancied, people could already guess her answer—it was always you.

At first, she was shy about admitting her feelings publicly. Back then, most people either admired you because you were trending or because they wanted to be like you. And since the world wasn’t so open about LGBTQ+ identities yet, they assumed Jenna only looked up to you, saw you as a role model.

But as she grew older, her answers only grew bolder. In every press junket, every movie promotion, every fan Q&A—your name lingered like a constant shadow. It didn’t take long before fans started shipping the two of you, even though you hadn’t spoken to her—hadn’t even interacted with her—since those early days.

People loved to believe there was something secret going on between you. They pointed out “clues”: you both wearing what looked like the same jacket, or being spotted in the same places. But those were just silly coincidences, baseless rumors. The truth was simpler—you and Jenna had never spoken, not once since she was fourteen.

You had no idea you were being shipped with Jenna Ortega. In fact, you barely even knew who she was—until you watched Wednesday Season 1. And that only happened because your friend, Olivia Rodrigo, forced you to sit through it.

You had no clue that Jenna harbored something deeper than admiration for you. No idea that while promoting Wednesday, she didn’t just casually mention you as someone she wanted to work with, or someone she liked—she went further. She said it boldly, confidently, fearlessly: you were her woman.

Yes. Without your knowledge or permission, Jenna Ortega claimed you as hers. But you were blissfully unaware. You weren’t active on social media, and for good reason. It had ruined you once before, and you swore never to let it ruin you again.

But fate works in curious ways. When Wednesday Season 2 was confirmed—with Jenna not just as its star but also as one of the producers—she finally had the power to pull some strings. And she did. She begged the team to offer you a role, insisted that they bring you on board.

But you weren’t just an actress—you were also a singer, a global one at that. Your career was stretched between film and music, and at first, you declined the offer. You were in the middle of a world tour; your priorities lay elsewhere.

The producers called again, this time with more desperation in their voices, but still, you refused. Touring was your world, your commitment. And when Jenna heard of your rejection, it crushed her. Hopelessness wrapped around her like chains, and in a moment of weakness, she even wondered if she should learn how to manipulate you into saying yes. She nearly convinced herself to do it.

Lucky for you—and maybe lucky for her too—her sanity, and her heart, stopped her just in time. The third time they called you came two months after filming had already begun. By then, the role originally meant for you had been given to someone else—but fate, in its strange way, intervened. The actress who took the part had fallen seriously ill and was barred from working for several months.

This time, it wasn’t a producer or some studio executive on the line. It was Tim Burton himself. His voice, dark and deliberate, carried a kind of conviction that only he could muster. He told you he believed in you—that you were the one who could breathe life into this character. That you weren’t just a fit for the role—you were the role.

And oh, Jenna Ortega nearly kissed the ground he walked on when she heard you had finally agreed. She thought Tim had performed some kind of miracle. She didn’t know the truth: that your “yes” had less to do with him, or even with her, and everything to do with timing. You had just wrapped up your world tour, exhausted and raw, and the network had been pushing to send you onto a show you despised. To you, Tim Burton’s offer wasn’t just a role—it was a lifeline, an open window in a house where every door had been locked.

No auditions. No grueling callbacks. Just your name, written on the contract, the role already secured for you. When the paperwork was settled and you finally stepped onto set, it was as if the universe itself had rewound time.

And Jenna—oh, dear Jenna. The moment her eyes landed on you again, the same rush she had felt years ago came crashing back. Her chest tightened, her breath faltered, her heart pounded like a drum of war. Time slowed, just like it had when she was fourteen, and you—still glowing, still magnetic—stood there as though you had stepped straight out of her memory and into her present.

When you approached her, Tim Burton himself made the introduction. And Jenna—oh, Jenna—nearly collapsed on the spot. She swore her soul tried to escape her body the instant you stood in front of her.

“Hi, my name is—wait, are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.”

Yes. As humiliating as it sounds, Jenna Ortega got a nosebleed the very first time she saw you again after all those years. Of course, she had seen you countless times before—you just never knew it. She was always there in the crowd at your tours, whether you were performing in the West or halfway across Asia. Always present. Never absent. Her dedication hadn’t gone unnoticed by the media, either; fans quickly pieced together what her constant presence meant. Jenna Ortega was, without a doubt, enamored with you.

And in that moment on set, as she stood mortified with blood dripping down her nose, Jenna wished she could evaporate into thin air. It was cliché, cartoonish even, to have a nosebleed in front of her crush—but fate had a cruel sense of humor. From then on, her co-stars never let her live it down. They teased her mercilessly, and the whole world seemed to know about her crush… except for you.

When Jenna finally mustered the courage—ironic, considering she was a woman with the heart of a lioness—to talk to you properly, she decided to settle for friendship. That became her safe ground, her refuge. And to her surprise, it worked. You were oblivious, completely unaware of her little public display of affection, and Jenna secretly reveled in that. It gave her space to breathe, to pretend she was cool around you, even though on the inside she was dying. Half her mind begged her to steal a kiss; the other half forced her to play it safe.

But her patience was tested when you—her own crush—started shipping her with Emma Myers. Can you imagine it? Jenna Ortega, being “Wenclair’d” by the one person she wished would ship her with you.

It wasn’t shocking, of course. Jenna herself was partly to blame for the Wenclair craze, but now that you were part of the series—now that your character was essential to the story—she thought, at the very least, you’d create a new ship with her.

You’d done it before. Your “Y/Via” ship with Olivia Rodrigo still had loyal fans, even though Olivia had a boyfriend now. Your playful ship with Dakota Johnson had been so strong it landed on billboards. You were the captain of these ships, the architect of fandom pairings, the one who breathed life into them.

So why not her? Why not you and Jenna? Why not your character with Wednesday Addams, when the chemistry was undeniable? Why couldn’t you see how perfect the pairing was? Was it because you were too invested in Wenclair?

That question lingered in Jenna’s mind, unanswered, each day you worked together. Even as your friendship grew closer, stronger, untouchable, she never dared to ask.

But the irony was cruel: you weren’t refusing to ship yourself with her because you didn’t see it. You weren’t ignoring the possibility because you didn’t care. No—quite the opposite.

You didn’t ship it because somewhere along the way… you had fallen in love with her.

You couldn’t help it. The time you spent together, the countless scenes you shared, the easy banter that sparked on and off set—it all chipped away at your defenses. And soon enough, the entire cast had caught on. They teased you both relentlessly, whispering how Wednesday Addams belonged not with Enid, but with your character.

The chemistry was laid bare for all to see. All but you and Jenna, who stood in the middle of it, pretending it wasn’t there—while your hearts told a very different story.

And so the little game of hiding feelings dragged on, even after the cameras stopped rolling. Months slipped past, your life swallowed by writing and recording songs for your new album—and through it all, Jenna Ortega was there.

She had been with you from the very beginning, when the “song idea” was nothing more than a scribble in your notebook: a track about a woman yearning for another woman… one who was in love with a man. You wrote it because of her. Because every thought, every lyric, circled back to Jenna. And you assumed, with painful certainty, that she was straight.

But you were wrong. She was hella gay—for you.

You didn’t know that, of course. All you knew was she said yes when you asked her to appear in your music video, brushing off her packed schedule as if your request mattered more than another film set, more than her reputation. She didn’t even ask for pay. She just… showed up.

And god, you admired her. Her relentless work ethic, the way she balanced chaos and precision, her fire. Sometimes, in the quiet spaces of your mind, you let yourself imagine being her girlfriend instead of just her friend. Waking up early to make her breakfast before a shoot. Standing offstage while she worked, ready to catch her exhaustion in your arms. Pressing kisses to her temple when she collapsed into bed at night.

You did some of those things already—just not with the title you wanted. Not as her partner. Just as a friend. And that word burned you from the inside out.

Because you wanted to be more. Wife material. Future material. But instead, you were her sweet, reliable friend.

Which is why it hurt so badly, sitting there during promotions for Wednesday Season 2, watching her laugh with Percy—your co-star who played Xavier.

The cast had been invited to film an episode of Hot Ones, the YouTube gauntlet of scorching wings and burning secrets. Everyone was crammed around tables, cameras and lights crowding the air, but your eyes refused to leave the pair across the room. Percy leaning closer, Jenna smiling at something he said. Too close. Too easy.

You couldn’t stop staring. That was your flaw. When jealousy wrapped its claws around you, you always looked directly at the wound, pressing down on the bruise until it hurt worse.

And the internet hadn’t helped. Weeks earlier, a TikTok rumor had exploded: Percy and Jenna spotted having dinner together. Whispers of dating, speculation climbing. She never told you about it, despite how religiously you shared timetables, daily updates, the tiniest details of life. The silence around it was deafening.

So now, watching them together, your mind spun. Was it true?

You sat stiff at your table beside Joy and Emma, their chatter washing over you like static, while across the room Jenna and Percy’s laughter carved fresh bruises in your chest.

“They look so cute together. They’d make a good couple, right?” A staffer dropped a plate of wings onto your table, oblivious to the knife they had just twisted.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess,” you answered, forcing a polite smile. Bitterness hid behind your teeth, and only god knew how badly it hurt to say it.

Because what could you do? Nothing. Nothing at all. You were the one who blurred lines between performance and reality, who let fiction bleed into truth until you couldn’t tell the difference. On screen, your character and hers had chemistry scripted into existence, feelings hidden beneath playful banter. On screen, love was inevitable.

But off screen? You convinced yourself it could never happen.

What you didn’t know was Jenna felt the same. For over a year, friendship had been her shield, but every time your hand brushed hers, every time your smile lingered, she wanted more. She wanted you. She was terrified of losing you if she confessed, convinced you weren’t interested—no matter how many signs she missed.

Emma Myers, however, missed nothing. She had been watching you both with the patience of a cat stalking prey, sick of the constant sidelong glances, the loaded silences, the yearning etched into every stolen second.

“Urgh, could these two just confess and kiss already,” Emma muttered under her breath, eyes flicking between you and Jenna.

“Who?” Joy asked, innocence written across her face.

“No one,” Emma deflected, though the wheels in her head had already started turning. She couldn’t sit by and watch this misery unfold any longer.

By the time the cameras started rolling, Emma Myers had a plan.

And the game—the dangerous, ridiculous, inevitable game—had begun.

At first, Emma went for you.

When she drew the card, she knew the professional move would be to stick to the script. But Emma Myers wasn’t in the mood for “professional.” Not when she’d spent months watching you and Jenna dance around your feelings like star-crossed idiots.

So she went off-script.

“This one’s for you,” she said, her eyes locking on you with theatrical adoration. The crowd leaned forward, sensing her tone shift. Jenna’s gaze, though, never wavered—she had been staring at you whenever she thought no one was watching, and Emma knew it.

“If you could play a lesbian role, and you got to choose your co-star from people you already know—who would it be, and why? Answer the question… or eat a death wing.”

The room gasped and cackled, voices overlapping in a chorus of “ooohs.” The staff exchanged confused looks, clearly wondering if that question had been on the card. It hadn’t. But the cameras were rolling, and improv made for good television.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. Your eyes flicked instinctively toward Jenna. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t obvious—just the kind of fleeting glance that spoke volumes to the one person who was desperate to catch it. Jenna’s chest tightened, her heart stumbling in its rhythm.

For Emma, that was confirmation enough. She expected you to say Jenna’s name, to rip the mask off then and there. But when you opened your mouth, you said—

“Dakota Johnson, as always.”

Emma’s smile faltered. “Why?” she pressed, disappointment edging her voice.

You shrugged, tone light, professional. “It’s Dakota Johnson, love. Who wouldn’t want to kiss Dakota Johnson?”

The table erupted in laughter and nods. A safe, clever answer. You handled it well. Too well. Emma narrowed her eyes. Professional or not, she wasn’t letting you wriggle out of this game.

She waited for her next round, studying you and Jenna as you exchanged subtle glances, smiles that lingered too long, silences filled with unspoken tension. She was tired of it.

When her turn came again, Emma struck—not at you this time, but at Jenna.

“Jenna,” Emma said sweetly, setting her card down. “Eat a death wing… or tell the truth.”

Jenna smirked, ready. “Go on.”

Emma leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “On The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon back in 2022, you claimed Y/N was your woman. And even before that, you used to say she was your crush. So—was that true? And if it was… do you still have a crush on her?”

The room froze.

Jenna’s eyes went wide, her expression instantly betraying her. Color flooded her cheeks, spreading fast until her face burned redder than the hot sauces lined on the table. She hadn’t even touched a death wing yet, but the way she fumbled, the way she stared down at her plate—it looked like she’d just swallowed fire.

The cameras caught everything.

And you… you sat there stunned, your chest tightening as if someone had just ripped the air from the room.

“It’s true.”

Jenna’s voice was steady, but her chest felt like it was splitting open. Finally, she’d cleared the crystal buried beneath mud. But the air hung heavy, unsatisfied, as if more needed to be said.

And before she could add another word—

“What? You used to have a crush on me?” you blurted out, eyes locked onto hers, searching for something. Expectancy, disbelief, maybe even disappointment.

The possibility of your disappointment was enough to make Jenna fold.

“Not used to. I still do.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “Just… deeper than a crush now. ‘Crush’ feels childish when you’re twenty-three.”

Emma nearly shouted finally! but clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together so hard they hurt.

“Seriously?” you asked, stunned—your voice laced with a strange cocktail of relief and disbelief.

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever.” Jenna muttered it like a confession to the floor, her shoulders tense as if bracing for rejection. But rejection didn’t come. You weren’t like that—you never had been. You were an actress, a singer, someone who could mask anything when the cameras were rolling.

So you masked it. For the rest of the show, you smiled, joked, and went along as if nothing had cracked open. The game carried on. Emma let it drop. And yet, under your skin, something buzzed—an ache, a thrill, a dizzy disbelief.

The love of your life had just confessed. And you? You were over the moon… and furious at yourself for not realizing sooner.

When filming wrapped, you rose first. Your manager fell into step beside you, rattling off tomorrow’s schedule, but her words blurred into static. Your focus was tethered to Jenna, who lingered across the room with Emma.

She caught your gaze. She smiled. You smiled back.

Your manager sighed, gentle but firm. “Go talk to her. I’ll save the schedule lecture for later.”

And you went.

Jenna excused herself from Emma, closing the distance until the two of you stood almost too close—closer than co-stars, closer than friends, closer than you’d ever dared to be before. She bit her lower lip, trembling under the weight of your eyes.

Her heart was a drumline, each beat faster, louder, harder. You just wanted to kiss her.

“Was it true?” you asked, voice low enough to curl down her spine like smoke.

“Y-yes. And I’m sorry… but you don’t have to say anything about rejection, I know—”

“Would you like to have a dinner date with me later? On me.”

Her brain short-circuited. “D-dinner date?”

You chuckled, leaning in until your words brushed her ear. “Yes. Dinner date.”

Jenna could hardly contain herself. Her longtime crush, the girl she thought would politely—or harshly—brush her off, maybe laugh it away, had just asked her out. On a dinner date. A dinner date.

Her head spun with the words. It sounded like a positive outcome. It was a positive outcome. Right?

Her heart thumped like a jackhammer as she replayed it in her mind. Dinner date. Those two syllables should’ve been enough to soothe her panic, but no—her overthinking was louder than her pulse.

Dinner date… but was it romantic, or just a glorified friend hangout? A soft “thanks for liking me but we're better off friends” kind of dinner? Or the candlelit, butterflies-in-your-stomach kind she’d been secretly scripting in her head since she was fourteen?

She tried to breathe, but it came out shaky Her nerves cracked. “Friendly… or romantic?”

“The latter,” you whispered. “Hopefully we kill those rumors too.”

Jenna Ortega nearly squealed. She wanted to jump, hug you, kiss you—everything at once. Instead, she managed a breathless nod.

“So that’s your way of telling me I’m not rejected?” You nodded, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“And maybe my way of trying to steal your heart from your rumored boyfriend.”

The joke slipped out smooth, half-teasing, half-claiming. And when Jenna chuckled—soft, nervous, but genuine—you felt something in your chest unclench. She hated that rumor as much as you did. If she was going to be linked to someone, why couldn’t it be you? Why couldn’t the headlines, the whispers, the TikToks, all point toward the thing both of you secretly wanted?

In that moment, Jenna thought she could die happy.

So she did something reckless—something bold in its own quiet way. She canceled her evening shoot, claiming she felt unwell. Which wasn’t entirely a lie. Her chest felt tight, her pulse refused to calm, her mind spinning like a carousel with only your face painted on every horse.

Backstage, she all but floated toward Emma, who greeted her with a smug grin that said mission accomplished.

“I went off-script,” Emma confessed with zero shame, like a kid caught with frosting on her fingers. “Figured somebody had to do it.”

Jenna, cheeks still warm, just laughed—soft and grateful. She didn’t even bother scolding her. Instead, she hugged her co-star, whispering a thank-you against her shoulder.

Because at last—whether it was scripted fate or messy, unscripted reality—Enid and Wednesday still had each other’s backs. Even beyond the cameras. Even in real life.

[jennartegaswife]

(pt.1) Drabble• W.A 《smut!》

G!p Wednesday! x vampire fem! Reader

Syponsis: ☆ In Which; You Can't control yourself when your around Wednesday

Warnings! Smut! ,Wednesday loves when your so submissive towards her, Language,

"You have to be specific cara mia you can be can't you like dirty little slut you are" wednesday's words hit you. YOur cunt ached with so much bliss and the dark haired girl was teasing you ever so painfully.

You squirmed in desperation you needed her. So badly that you wanted to touch yourself but Wednesday wouldn't allow it she's was the only one who's allowed to touch you.

"Wednesday I need you please-" Wednesday gives you a menacing glare as she lifted her eyebrows questionably. She smacked your ass with her pale hand before replying to you. "Normally I would make you beg out of despair but you've wasted my time little one I want you to be bold tell me what you so desperately want and quick my patients are inthin"

"I-i want your mouth" Wednesday smirked at your attempt pity of begging but she would allow it since you were so madly adorable she couldn't just say no to you that easily.

"Fuck right there !" Your hips bucked up in desperate need you loved the way her mouth responded to your every need her lips moving in such a manner that you couldn't stop moaning loudly.

"Your responding to me my little viper, you like it that much hm? Wednesday took that as a yes you couldn't responded due to the amount of torcher you were receiving Wednesday could feel herself getting more and more harder by the second her pants were wet before of the pre-cum that leaked from her blushing red tip.

She couldn't take it anymore she need to feel a part of you and now but she wanted you to cum for her first she need to feel your legs shake from how good she was fucking you with her tounge.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum" drool leaked from the side of your mouth your eyes rolled back your back arched up. Wednesday continued to suck and lick until she cleaned you up from the intense release you had Been wanting for awhile now. You finally got it.

" my-my t-turn I want to please you now please" you rubbed Wednesday aching buldge she felt huge. Which made your mouth water and your cunt pulse with wanting need.

Wednesday stood up quickly removing her pants her cock free against her stomach moving closer towards the bed her soft pale hand caressed your jaw lovingly.

" suck for me darling, and then I'm going to use your mouth as my personal toy" You licked her tip feeling the salty substance on your tounge Wednesday let's out a shaky breathe she loved the way you used her cock so good.

"Come on Cara mia don't disappoint me now you can do better then that can't you?" Looking up with pleading eyes you took the black haired girls cock fully into your mouth all the way until it hit the back of your throat you used your throat for her own pleasure the tight grip Wednesday had in your hair was only enough to send you to the edge.

"Fuck that's it mi amour keep doing that" your hands fumbled with her balls squeezing them as you used your throat for her cock it squeezed around her tight. Hips moving and the sound of balls slapping against your chin.

Your wet slick ran down your thighs messing up the black sheets underneath you oh how much you wanted to touch yourself still but its not allowed Mayne she would except it this one time. Sneakily you began to finger yourself Wednesday's moaning adding more pleasure towards yourself uour finger was as soaking as ever while it continued to easily suck you in.

Your moans sending chills down her spine. As she used your throat more and more nothing but spit and drool soaking her mouth fuck this was such a hot sight to see if anybody were to walk in on the both of you right now.

"I'm gonna cum my little pet. And it's going all over your face understand" you gurgle in response to a yes.

Wednesday pulls away from your lips as she strokes herself letting her warm wet cum all over your face she never thought you could look anymore beautiful especially with her cum leaking from your face so beautifully.

"Look at you so fucked out just from me fucking your throat, such a pretty girl you are my little pet you want me to fuck you now my sweet. Until; you cum so hard around my cock you'd like that wouldn't you?"

"Yes please Wednesday..." Wednesday smacked your ass mentioning for you to turn around Wednesday grabbed your hips. Yearning for your touch already she wanted nothing more then to just fuck you right her tip pressed against you as Wednesday's hips snapped towards you her thrusts getting more brutal and rough.

"Fuck that's to much Day !, please slow down a bit" you moaned repeadly hitting your spot over rand over and over again. Your pussy causing slqeunching sounds Wednesday didn't care how much you begged her to slow down she wouldn't her hands grabbed your neck as she fucked you with so much power and energy she had in her.

"Fucking hell Cara mia your doing to good for me such a good fucking girl taking my cock like this" your moans grew more louder with each thrust Wednesday sent your way you loved the way she squeezed your tits while fucking you so good.

"Wednesday fuck yes!, Yes!, Yes! I'm so close please please!" Wednesday thrusts got more sloppier she wanted to use you as her little cum dump the way your pussy sucked her back in.

"Oh shit! Cum! Cum with me Cara mia" your country squeezed around Wednesday you both moaned out loudly as your orgasm approached more rather quickly. Panting, her hot breath against your neck as she kissed it softly.

Wednesday pulls away as she watched you both mix together it leaking out of your swollen fucked out cunt she smiled happily loving the way your so fucked out because of her it was such a beautiful sight to see in Wednesday's eyes.

[s-zys-world]

THE SCARLET ANGEL

WARNING: This is my first time writing, so I hope you’ll bear with me. English isn’t my first language (literally), so I ask for your patience as well. The story features a slightly out-of-character Wednesday and an original character with considerable power.

SUMMARY: In which Wednesday Addams returns to Nevermore-not to resume her studies, but to bend the school itself to her will. Yet she finds herself ensnared in another mystery, one that bends her resolve and forces her to confront the very nature of her humanity. A mystery which, if left unsolved, will herald not only her undoing, but the ruin of the world she so longs to command.

CHAPTER FIVE

PART 4 / PART 6

"Wait—you went to Willow Hill? When?" Xavier’s voice sliced through the library’s hush. He was lounging beside Wednesday like an unwanted shadow.

"I always see you everywhere. When did you sneak out?" Iris chimed in from across the table, her nose buried in a book with the same title as Wednesday’s—except hers was a sanitized, rewritten edition.

Wednesday didn’t waste her breath. She turned another brittle page of the tome Iris had so elegantly stolen from the Nightshade library. Hours of silence had been sacrificed to its labyrinth of false leads, yet she persisted. Somewhere in those pages was the key—the reason Tyler and Ezra’s aunt bore the same crimson scars.

She knew the mark was no accident. Memory clawed at her: she had seen it etched before, upon the flesh of Salem witches. The ones who huddled together, whispering oaths to Eiseth in the dark. The same witches and warlocks who vanished without trace—not just from the streets, but from memory itself, erased from eyes, mouths, and minds alike.

"What are you even looking for?" Iris pressed, her curiosity pricking through the silence. Wednesday’s finger froze mid-turn of the page. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, her tone sharp but firm. "Marks. Crimson lines—thin, intentional. Etched across the temple like a cartographer gone mad."

Iris squinted, and Wednesday could see the flicker of recognition stir behind her shifting eyes.

"Wait… you mean the marks as in warlocks and witches marks on their temple?"

A single nod from Wednesday confirmed it.

Before Wednesday could reclaim her page, Iris snatched the book straight from her hands, flipping with almost feral urgency. The old paper protested under her fingers until she stopped, tapping a spot halfway down the brittle sheet.

"I read that before—here." She thrust the book back at Wednesday, her fingertip pressing on a passage that bled its truth in the middle of the page.

Lo, victims bear a crimson trace,

A slender line on hallow’d face.

Not born of battle’s steel or flame,

But signs of worship, carved in shame.

"What does it say?"

"That your looks may distract the feeble-minded, but even they can’t conceal the vacancy rattling inside your head." Wednesday said coolly, her voice pitched low so only he could hear. The words struck with surgical precision.

Iris chuckled, unable to help herself.

"On the bright side, you think I’m attractive," Xavier replied with a grin, as though her insult had been carefully edited by his ego until it resembled a compliment.

"Rather a condescending histrionic. Like a clown, but without the talent."

"Damn, slay, girl." Iris muttered, her face turning red as she tried to smother her laughter.

Xavier pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. "Ouch. You really hate me, huh?"

Wednesday didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead, she rose to her feet, a book already in hand, flipping it to the exact page she wanted as though her mind had long since abandoned their company. Without a farewell, she strode from the library.

Her pace down the Nevermore hallway was brisk, every step purposeful. She had no interest in Xavier’s dramatics or Iris’s giggles. Her focus was singular—finding a certain werewolf. Not Enid, of course. The other one. The intolerable one.

Because Wednesday Addams wanted answers. Not about herself, but about someone else entirely. For someone so small, Wednesday moved like a shadow caught on the wind—swift, elusive, impossible to grasp but impossible to ignore. She hoped the werewolf might feel her approach and save her the indignity of initiating conversation.

But here she was, cutting through the corridor toward Ophelia Hall, students in their washed-out blue uniforms drifting past her like a dreary raincloud she refused to acknowledge. Even Principal Gilbert, flame-haired and sharp-eyed, attempted interception.

"Miss Addams, have you seen Iris?"

"Library," Wednesday answered flatly, not breaking stride, not offering so much as a glance. She passed her as easily as she passed everyone else, the hallway nothing but background noise against the weight of her thoughts—how to begin, how to bait the werewolf into revealing what she needed.

Her strategy unraveled the moment a sound—not a voice, but a violent, guttural riff—snapped through the air. Wednesday’s head turned, her feet following, until she emerged into the quad. And there she was. Ezra.

Standing on a table as though it were a stage meant only for her, a red electric guitar snarling in her hands. Roses—actual roses—rained at her feet, tossed by admirers drunk on the sight.

The werewolf wore a crimson leather jacket, a white shirt beneath, loose pants threatening to fall off her hips. Her hair was a riotous snarl, not careless but cultivated, as if chaos itself had been coaxed into style.

She played with no mercy, each note clawing at the crowd, shredding the air raw. Students gazed at her in collective awe. Wednesday, however, was not immune. Against her will, her chest constricted. Her breath lodged traitorously in her throat.

Admit it or not, Ezra had her attention. Watching Ezra now—red jacket gleaming, strings of the guitar crying like a wounded beast—Wednesday finally acknowledged the strange, treacherous sensation that had been gnawing at her stomach.

At first, she had assumed it was hunger. A simple problem with a simple solution. But then she remembered the two large sandwiches she had consumed earlier, one of which had been stolen from Pugsley after she choked him into unconsciousness.

Technically, Thing had done the throttling, but it had been her plan, and in her book that counted as a collaborative effort.

So no, hunger was not the culprit.

"Howdie, roomie! Didn’t know you were here. What are you doing?" The bubbly voice of a blonde werewolf interrupted, catching Wednesday staring—not at Ezra, not directly—but at her own stomach, hand pressed flat against it as if to cage whatever horror lurked beneath.

"I’m feeling ill," she replied dryly, raising her gaze only to discover, much to her regret, that Ezra was already looking at her. Staring, in fact. The taller werewolf grinned wide, cocky as sin, and waved in acknowledgment.

That was when it began again—an awful, crawling sensation beneath her ribs, something alive and writhing like a parasite eager to burst through. She had felt it before, fleetingly, whenever Ezra was near. But this time… it was undeniable. Stronger. More insistent.

"And it’s doing it again," she muttered, low enough for herself alone. A diagnosis eluded her, but one fact remained clear: this was no mere illness.

"Really? Maybe you should go to the infirmary." Enid—the ever-innocent, ever-concerned werewolf—suggested, her voice lined with that familiar worry. Wednesday had long ago recognized it as a trait she shared with her father: a chronic inability to conceal emotion, spilling it out for the world like a bleeding wound.

Before she could swat the thought away, another presence materialized beside them—startling Enid, but not Wednesday.

"Good afternoon, Wednesday." Agnes, the red-haired girl, greeted flatly.

Wednesday turned her glare on the invisible child, irritated not by her ability, but by her lack of originality. Silence was her chosen weapon; she refused to reward mediocrity with acknowledgment.

"Don’t do that! You almost gave me a heart attack!" Enid exclaimed, clutching her chest.

"If you did, I’d be the one singing at your funeral." Agnes quipped, smiling with that smugness that only fueled the blonde’s temper.

"You’re lack of originality is making me vomit." Enid’s voice dropped an octave, fury tightening her jaw. The air between them bristled with tension, suffocating in its banality.

Wednesday despised suffocation—unless, of course, it was literal. This petty drama was an offense to the art form. She was seconds away from reminding them both she could silence their bickering permanently when movement at the center of the quad pulled her attention.

Ezra.

The green-eyed werewolf leapt down from the table, guitar still humming faintly as she slung it carelessly to her side, red jacket gleaming like spilled blood in the afternoon light. Students applauded, roses still at her feet, but Ezra simply walked away as if their admiration were worthless.

Wednesday’s stomach twisted again—disgust, she assured herself, at the noise masquerading as music. It was far too pop, far too loud, far too… Enid.

She didn’t allow herself the chance to hesitate. She was already moving, weaving through the students, her boots sharp against the stone floor.

When she caught up, Wednesday seized Ezra’s wrist, halting her mid-step.

"Woah!" Ezra turned, brows knitting together, frown deepening when her green eyes met Wednesday’s dark, unflinching stare.

"Addams? What’s up?"

"I need to talk to you," Wednesday said flatly, the book clutched tight in one hand, her grip steady but deliberate on Ezra’s wrist. "About your aunt’s mark."

"I knew you were going to ask about the mark. Everybody does." Ezra said before Wednesday could even open her mouth. A small, crooked smile tugged at her lips, the kind that spoke of someone who had been waiting for this moment.

Wednesday’s grip on her wrist remained steady, her expression unreadable, though her dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Ezra leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. "I don’t know if you’re a believer, or just someone who likes chasing rumors—but let me clear things up."

She ticked her points off like she was listing ingredients for a recipe. "Yes, my aunt is part of the cult. No, they do not kill children for their little ‘let’s rise Eiseth’ ritual." Her smirk grew wider at the words, as if she relished how outrageous they sounded. "And yes, she’s a witch."

Confidence radiated from her, casual yet defiant, as though she’d already made peace with being the subject of whispers and stares. Wednesday, however, felt the words strike like ice against her ribs. Ezra’s candor was too sharp, too easy. Truth—or a well-rehearsed performance?

For once, Wednesday Addams did not have a ready retort. She simply watched, cataloguing the twitch at the corner of Ezra’s mouth, the iron steadiness in her voice, the green fire in her eyes.

"Right." Wednesday’s dark eyes lingered on the Blake woman a moment too long before she noticed her own hand gripping Ezra’s wrist. The realization made her recoil instantly, spine straightening, chin tilting upward in that imperious Addams fashion.

Ezra tilted her head, a teasing lilt curling her lips. "What—were you going to ask how she got it too?"

Wednesday gave a single, slow nod.

Ezra’s smirk deepened into a mischievous grin, her laughter a low, knowing chuckle. "Well… if you’re so curious, why don’t we schedule a little Q&A at the Weathervane? Just the two of us." Her voice was honeyed with suggestion—hope disguised as banter, bait wrapped in charm.

Wednesday caught it instantly. A date. Ezra Blake was asking her on a date. And disturbingly enough, Wednesday wanted to say yes. Not for the answers—though information was her favorite currency—but because Ezra asked. There was something about this insufferable werewolf that made obedience feel dangerously tempting. Like stepping off a cliff just because someone dared her to.

But she would never confess that. Not to anyone. Especially not to herself.

"I’ll take that into consideration," Wednesday replied, settling safely into the purgatory of maybe.

Ezra grinned, victorious. "Great. Tell Thing to relay your answer. Or…" she winked, tapping Wednesday’s shoulder with an ease that should’ve been intolerable, "…you could just show up at the abandoned greenhouse later. Pugsley and I are working on something. Call it a surprise for the camping trip."

Wednesday expected to flinch at the contact. Yet, to her own dismay, she didn’t mind. Which is precisely when fate—or rather, her visions—struck.

Her head jerked back violently as the world around her fractured. She saw Ezra sprawled across a bed, a book in her hands. No—not a book. Notes, bound in red hard cover, an ornate golden “E” carved into its front. Its pages blurred like smoke, except for one word searing through the haze: Eiseth.

And then it was gone. She came to with Ezra’s arms around her, lifting her effortlessly—like a groom carrying a bride.

"Oh, thank god. You’re awake. What the hell happened to you?" The worry in Ezra’s voice was disarmingly genuine.

Wednesday’s stomach twisted—not from the vision, but from that feeling again. That damned crawling, gnawing thing inside her. Without a word, she shoved herself free, landing lightly and putting space between them.

Ezra blinked, exasperated. "Oww. You’re welcome—"

But Wednesday didn’t let her finish. She snatched the book Ezra had been holding and turned on her heel, striding away without explanation.

The werewolf’s voice called after her, but Wednesday ignored it. The ache in her stomach was worse than ever. And she hated it.

---

No. Wednesday told herself firmly—she would not succumb to Ezra’s stomach-churning charm. She was not that desperate.

And since the universe seemed intent on handing her an alternative—in the form of that vision of a journal—Wednesday chose the obvious route: break into Ezra’s dorm.

It wasn’t difficult. Thing had confirmed Ezra was busy collaborating with Pugsley on their rocket contraption, and the door hadn’t even been locked. Odd, but convenient. Wednesday never questioned convenience.

Inside, the vision unspooled before her eyes in reality: a single bed on the right, a bookshelf with LED strips glowing like spectral lanterns, a red guitar gleaming proudly on its stand beside an amp, a chessboard mid-game, a cluttered study desk, and a modest closet.

The journal was nowhere in the closet—just a mess of sweaters, one of them black and oversized, practically begging to be stolen. Wednesday’s fingers lingered on it. She could imagine herself wearing it. Almost. But she shut the closet door instead. This was a mission, not an indulgence.

Her gaze shifted to the desk—then the voices came.

Ezra. Iris.

Wednesday dove under the bed in a silent sweep, her breath still, her glare sharper than knives.

The door creaked open, and two sets of footsteps entered.

"As your roommate and a friend, I deserve to be trusted," Iris said, her voice soft with wounded reproach. "But when you keep disappearing, it tells me you don’t.

Prada boots paced closer, stopping so near to Wednesday’s hiding spot she could practically trace the scuffs on the leather.

Ezra’s voice dropped, closer, louder, almost over her head. "Iris, I do trust you. Don’t overthink this."

"Then what are you and Pugsley Addams planning for the camping trip? Trying to ruin Enid’s plans?"

Ezra scoffed. "No. Why would I do that?"

"I don’t know. To get Wednesday’s attention?"

The words slammed into Wednesday like a blade to the gut.

"What? No!" Ezra’s tone was quick, defensive. "I don’t want her attention at all."

Wednesday’s lips thinned.

"Really? Because I’ve seen you two talking—"

"Girl," Ezra cut her off, frustration simmering. "For your information, I’m not trying to get the Addams’ attention. I’m just… being friends with her brother. He’s lonely. Can you believe it? Feeling like an outcast in a school full of outcasts? That kid needs a friend, and I’m here to offer one. You, of all people, should know what that feels like."

The sincerity in Ezra’s voice was jarring, warm in a way that nearly thawed Wednesday’s carefully frozen heart. For once, someone wasn’t mocking the Addams family name, wasn’t whispering it like a curse. Ezra spoke it gently, with something like respect.

And Wednesday almost fell for it.

Almost.

"Listen," Ezra continued, her voice softening. "If you’re worried Wednesday will fall for me and steal Enid’s attention, don’t. That’s not happening. In fact…"

Wednesday held her breath.

"…I’m going to help you win Enid’s heart."

The words struck sharper than any dagger. Wednesday stayed frozen in the dark beneath the bed, her fists clenched, her stomach twisting harder than ever.

"You do know she likes you, right?" Iris pressed, almost shy.

"Yes," Ezra answered breezily. "But I don’t. That chic is all yours, clone-y. Yours to put on a leash to say the least."

Wednesday’s stomach twisted. Not from jealousy this time, but from pure revulsion. To speak of Enid—her Enid—as though she were some object to be handed off, some prize in a game… that was where Wednesday drew the line.

She loathed that kind of person more than anything: the ones who believed everyone around them existed only to orbit their lives, reduced to props or distractions, insignificant roles on their stage.

And the fact that Ezra, of all people, had just proven herself capable of it? It made Wednesday’s blood boil.

Oh, how much she wanted to punch Ezra right now—rip those perfect teeth out one by one until her grin was nothing but ruin. That would’ve been fun. The kind of fun Wednesday had been craving.

"Fine… Wait, what were you and Wednesday talking about earlier?" Iris asked, pulling Wednesday’s patience thinner than thread. She almost groaned aloud. At this point, crawling out of her hiding spot and strangling them both sounded preferable.

"Well, she was asking about my aunt and her marks. I didn’t tell her everything, though. Can’t trust someone nowadays."

"Why not?"

"Why would I? I don’t want to deal with another Eiseth believer or whatever. My aunt and her bloody undying cult is enough. Plus, if I wanted to talk religion with a sadist, I’d just come to you and hand you a sword." Ezra chuckled, then stood, stretching like it was all a joke. "Anyway, I’m gonna hit the shower."

The door shut behind her. Seconds later, the bathroom hissed alive, Ezra’s voice belting "I Kissed a Girl" with such volume Wednesday briefly wondered if murder might be an act of mercy.

It took only a few minutes for Iris to excuse herself, too, yelling something to Ezra over the water. Wednesday waited—patient as a predator—until Iris’s footsteps faded.

Then she slid from beneath the bed, dusting herself off, her dark gaze scanning the room. That’s when she saw it. Ezra’s bag, carelessly open. And inside: the red journal. Exactly as in her vision.

Without hesitation, without thought for consequence—because consequences were for cowards—Wednesday snatched the journal and slipped from the room as silent as a shadow.

---

And tell you what—Wednesday Addams’ grand effort to steal that journal? Completely wasted. Not only did the wretched thing come in a shade of red so vulgar it made her skin blotch like some allergic Victorian child, but the journal was also… empty.

Yes. Blank. Not even a dot. Every single page: pristine, untouched, blindingly white.

At first, Wednesday suspected she had been duped—Ezra must’ve kept a decoy, a fraud to lure nosy hands away from the real thing. But then she remembered the gold-carved E scorched across the cover. No, this was the right book.

Which only deepened the insult. Because in her vision, Ezra had been reading it. Like it contained the secrets of Eiseth, like scripture. And yet here it was, mocking her with the smug silence of a diary that had nothing to say.

God, Wednesday almost broke her own rule—almost approached Ezra to demand whether she’d stolen the wrong prize. Almost. But no. Instead, she was locked in her own room, studying a book that refused to be studied.

A book of Eiseth—supposedly rewritten more times than the Bible normies clung to like pacifiers. And yet, it sat in her desk, nothing but paper and wasted effort. For once in her macabre little lifetime, Wednesday Addams had no idea what to do.

"This is a waste of breath," she muttered, shoving the hollow journal aside and dragging her typewriter closer. If the cursed book refused to give, then she’d turn back to her novel—her beloved Viper De La Muerte now locked in a duel of words with Adira Lupin, a sharp-witted, absurdly handsome, but insufferably narcissistic new character.

But even that betrayed her. Her mind, usually a scalpel, now felt like a dulled blade—blank, black, and empty. As hollow as the crimson journal Thing had decided to deface.

The hand scrawled away gleefully, sketching a crude portrait of himself—a hand, of course—with an arrow and the word Thing in shaky ink.

And then—gone. The ink vanished. Evaporated right before her eyes.

In its place, new words bled onto the page, slow and deliberate.

hello, Thing.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. "Thing," she ordered, and the hand, uncharacteristically hesitant, passed her the pen.

Skepticism wrestled her still chest, but Wednesday tested it anyway. She wrote her full name across the page. Wednesday Friday Addams.

And again—the ink dissolved, the paper swallowing her words whole.

When the new message crawled into view, her pulse stalled.

hello, Wednesday Friday Addams.

She knew this enchantment. Rare. Magical. A diary that bound a soul inside its pages, a place where memories lived long after flesh decayed. Grandmama had gifted her one years ago, and she’d ignored it—diaries were sentimental distractions, fit for bleeding hearts and schoolgirls. Not for her.

But this was no ordinary soul whispering back. The next words coiled off the page like a snake tightening around her throat:

hi, Wednesday. my name is Eiseth, the Goddess of Death.

For the first time in days, Wednesday Addams sat perfectly still—more corpse than girl—while her mind replayed every puzzle piece she’d been too proud to fit together. No. That didn’t make sense.

In her vision, Eiseth lived—flesh, bone, fury incarnate, spilling mankind’s entrails on a whim. Alive. Breathing. Laughing at blood. And yet here was a journal, whispering back with the audacity to call itself Eiseth. A soul. A prisoner of paper. No deity reduced to ink and margins should exist.

Wednesday’s pen hovered, then stabbed across the page. One sharp question: Who are you really?

The ink bled, then vanished. Silence for a breath, two. And then the reply unfurled like a sermon written by an unseen hand:

I am Eiseth. A Celestial Being. The Goddess of Death. The Mother of Outcasts. Slain by the hand of my own witch. Betrayed under the gaze of my husband. And cast back into THE CONSTELLATION, where I dwell as punisher of sinners.

The words scrawled themselves with such finality it was almost smug. Almost daring Wednesday to deny it. Now there was proof. Her supposed “role model” was not merely a figure in myths, but a voice bleeding through pages. Still—proof was not enough.

No.

Because it did not make sense. And Wednesday Addams despised nonsense.

Her glare at the paper could have set it ablaze if it had any courage. “How can I be certain you’re who you claim to be?” she asked, every syllable clipped with disdain.

The ink bled slowly this time, as though savoring her impatience. I can give you insight into my life thousands of years ago. You choose—the life of the first outcast… or the life of the Fallen Goddess.

Wednesday’s fingers stilled.

Two roads. Both dangerous. Both intoxicating. If she chose the first, she would glimpse the architecture of power itself—how Eiseth forged creation, carved outcasts from clay, ruled, killed, commanded. A myth made flesh.

If she chose the second, she would see the ruin. The betrayal. The fall. Maybe answers to the vision that gnawed at her mind.

But choice was never safe. The wrong insight could taint her. The right one could break her. And hovering above it all was the gnawing question:

Even if Eiseth's past was laid bare—would it change the truth that someone now, in the present, was claiming her name and spilling blood in Wednesday’s visions?

Was her premonition true after all—or was it failing her, mocking her with visions that twisted into lies?

One way or another, Wednesday resolved herself. If the journal dared deceive her, she would drag it into the nearest church, let holy water hiss against its cursed pages, and then burn it to ash with her own hands.

Truth or fraud, she would have her answer. And either way, the journal would scream.

The former. - Wednesday wrote.

Very well then, happy travels!

[s-zys-world]

THE SCARLET ANGEL

SUMMARY: In which Wednesday Addams returns to Nevermore-not to resume her studies, but to bend the school itself to her will. Yet she finds herself ensnared in another mystery, one that bends her resolve and forces her to confront the very nature of her humanity. A mystery which, if left unsolved, will herald not only her undoing, but the ruin of the world she so longs to command.

WARNING: This is my first time writing, so I hope you’ll bear with me. English isn’t my first language (literally), so I ask for your patience as well. The story features a slightly out-of-character Wednesday and an original character with considerable power.

CHAPTER FOUR

PART 3 / PART 5

If the world were ever to meet its end at the hands of Eiseth—whose resurrection after thousands of years was still a mystery—Wednesday wished she could be the first to go.

Truthfully, she wanted to vanish right now. And all because she had just learned that her parents were extorting rent from Ms. Thornhill’s former house—the same normie teacher who had resurrected Joseph Crackstone, the man hellbent on destroying every last outcast.

But fate, cruel and mocking, did not side with the normie teacher that day. Not that Wednesday ever placed her faith in destiny’s ink or the notion of life as a script pre-written by nature. Still, if she were to believe in it just for a moment, she prayed this would be the last breath she’d ever draw. She wanted to dissolve, to slip into nothingness—but she couldn’t.

"I want you two gone." Wednesday’s words cut through the air the moment she stepped into the house and saw her parents twirling about in a careless waltz. No greetings. No hollow pleasantries. No hello or good afternoon. Only the blunt edge of disdain, offered in its purest form.

"Oh, my little raven, you always greet us with such venom," her father chuckled as he stepped toward her, arms outstretched, ready to embrace.

But Wednesday recoiled, retreating a step back. She loathed physical touch, and her parents were no exception. What happened two days ago—when her father’s embrace had sparked a vision of what was yet to come—had only sharpened her hatred of contact into something closer to dread.

She loathed to admit it, but fear gnawed at her—fear of seeing that vision again. No, it wasn’t the vision itself that set her skin crawling, not in the delicious, shiver-inducing way she usually welcomed, but in a way that left her raw and restless. It was because of the figure cloaked in scarlet, the one who had spoken to her.

That voice still echoed in her skull. They had called themselves death. The doom of this world. It was them. Or rather… her. Eiseth.

As a child, Wednesday had nursed a perverse fascination with the thought of meeting Eiseth—the murderous mother of all outcasts. To glimpse her, to stand before her, had been the stuff of her most cherished nightmares, a dream she once craved to come true.

But now, with the possibility looming that their paths might truly cross—and that such a meeting could herald the end of the world she inhabited—Wednesday Addams found herself facing an emotion she had never been fond of. Let’s just say… excitement was the very last thing she felt.

"But my bad, my little thunder—we have to stay." Her father’s grin stretched from ear to ear, unfazed as ever. Wednesday averted her gaze, folding her arms across her chest. Her dark eyes shifted to her mother, brows knitted tight with disdain.

"And why is that?" she asked, her voice cold and steeped in loathing. Sensing the frost thickening between them, Gomez slipped away with a flourish. "Ah, mother-and-daughter time," he declared, excusing himself and leaving Wednesday alone with Morticia. Her mother stood tall, every inch the graceful shadow, smiling soft and small.

"My darling, cut your father some slack, will you?" Morticia said at once, her tone silk wrapped around steel.

"I’d much prefer to be on the cutting end of things—but you’d never allow me."

A smile tugged at Morticia’s lips. She lowered herself elegantly onto the couch and tapped the empty space beside her. Wednesday sat down, careful to leave a cavernous gap between them.

"Darling, your father and I have decided to fund the school," Morticia explained, her hands folding neatly, "and the new principal has graciously allowed us to reside here for as long as we wish."

"I heard you want to be in charge of the gala," Wednesday stated bluntly—something she’d overheard not only from Enid but from the whispers of several teachers as well.

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

Morticia let out a quiet breath, her fingers fidgeting against one another as though idly bored. "Well, I wasn’t expecting things to shift so swiftly. Your brother shot up like poison oak this summer, and with both of you now in Nevermore, I’ve been left to wonder… what might my next chapter be?"

Wednesday’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with pure disgust. "The thought of you and Father alone in this wretched house, unsupervised, fills me with a sense of dread I usually reserve for costumed mascots."

"Oh, my love, I deeply apologize for making you uncomfortable," Morticia cooed sweetly.

Wednesday turned her head, her tone sharp as a blade. "I was born uncomfortable, Mother."

Morticia’s soft laugh lingered in the air like a dark lullaby. "Ah, I remember the day you were born. You were so quiet, you nearly frightened the doctors into retirement."

Wednesday allowed the faintest shadow of a smirk. "And it is my pleasure to remain the only one capable of such terror… well, aside from apples."

As their gazes locked, Morticia’s voice slid across the silence like a blade through silk.

"Darling, I want to talk about your vision." Wednesday froze. No. Absolutely not. She’d sooner wear a bubblegum-pink ballgown and braid daisies into her hair than discuss visions with her mother.

Especially this vision. The one of fire, screaming, her family burning alive beneath a blood-red moon. The kind of nightmare that was supposed to belong to fiction—or the grave.

"Unfortunately, I have to go." Wednesday rose abruptly, her chair scraping the floor like a warning note. She was halfway to the door when Morticia’s voice stopped her—cool, commanding, and yet impossibly tender.

"Wednesday."

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The weight of it pinned her in place.

"I know it’s been difficult since Goody’s departure. No spirit guide to anchor you, no one to steady the shadows you walk in." Morticia leaned forward, her eyes softer than Wednesday wanted to admit. "You could lean on me, darling. Just crawl back to me. Mama is here."

For a fleeting second—just one—Wednesday’s blackened heart stirred, thawed by that warmth. The part of her that had always wanted to believe Morticia could understand her almost answered.

Almost.

Wednesday turned, expression carved from marble. "Thank you, Mother."

And with that, she slipped into the hall, her words sounding less like gratitude and more like a lock sliding shut. Walking through the woods on her way back to the dorm, Wednesday found herself tangled in her own mind.

That vision. That voice. That suffocating sense of inevitability. It stalked her, silent and merciless, like a predator waiting for the moment she finally collapsed. She wanted to deny it. To crush it beneath logic and cynicism. But she couldn’t. Shadows like that always returned.

"Earth to Ms. Shorty."

The intrusion yanked her out of her spiraling thoughts. Being dragged back to reality by Ezra of all people felt less like a lifeline and more like a nuisance.

"Call me that revolting alias again," Wednesday said, her tone flat and glacial, "and I’ll make sure your pack eats the remains of you."

Ezra trailed behind her like a wayward wolf pup, utterly unbothered, lips curled into a grin. "I’m flattered."

Wednesday’s eyes rolled with the weight of a guillotine. Her words were meant to wound, to scare, to draw out trembling and tears. That was how it usually went. But Ezra never flinched. She wore Wednesday’s threats like gifts, like whispered endearments. Wednesday did not flirt. She did not coax hearts into beating faster. She ripped them out to watch them stop.

"Next time, you’ll falter."

Ezra’s grin widened. "Can’t wait. But for now—why don’t we go out? Just the two of us." Wednesday froze mid-step. The sudden stillness sent Ezra crashing into her back.

"Oh—sorry, why’d you—"

Ezra’s apology died in her throat the moment Wednesday turned her head, black eyes gleaming like sharpened obsidian.

"What torment do you expect me to endure this time?" Wednesday asked, her tone as flat as a blade laid against the skin, her gaze glacial and unblinking. Ezra swallowed—fear, perhaps. Or maybe just the audacity of her own shameless existence.

"I only wanted you to come with me. Out of Nevermore."

Wednesday tilted her head, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "You mistake tolerance for consent. A pitiful error, but fitting—given your existence is one long mistake."

The words should have scorched. They should have reduced Ezra to silence, to ash. Instead, the taller girl’s smile lingered, fragile and reckless, as though she mistook cruelty for invitation.

"Is that a maybe?" Ezra asked, hope leaking into her voice like a cracked pipe.

Wednesday’s glare was glacial. "No. That was rejection, in case your underdeveloped mind failed to grasp it."

Ezra only pouted, insufferably unshaken. "Would your answer shift if I mentioned I may be planning a trip to Willow Hill Psychiatrist Hospital? I hear a certain someone has returned."

The implication was obvious. No name necessary.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. "You expect me to leap at your breadcrumb trail of half-truths? You mistake me for desperate—or worse, gullible."

Ezra straightened, smugness practically stitched into her posture. "Then perhaps you’ll have to risk it. Trust me."

Wednesday’s lips twitched into the faintest, cruelest imitation of a smile.

"Trusting you would be like trusting a guillotine to hesitate."

"Well, it’s always better to take the risk."

XI would sooner march into a gunfight armed only with a butter knife than place the slightest faith in your cloddish existence," Wednesday replied, her tone colder than iron. "And do not tempt me to catalogue your complete lack of boundaries or your juvenile self-confidence, both of which gnaw at me like rats in the walls." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "But… fine. Ten o’clock. Sharp."

Her agreement was not born of desire for Ezra’s company—far from it. The only thing that compelled Wednesday was the chance to confront Tyler and demand answers about the whispers: that he had been attacked by a cloaked figure.

Besides, it also presented her with an excellent contingency plan. If Ezra continued her current streak of unbearable insolence, Wednesday could always use the outing as the perfect opportunity to kill her. As if she's actually going to do that.

Ezra’s grin spread wider, dazzling in its reckless brightness—like the sun itself daring to blind her.

“Very well then. See you later,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away.

Wednesday did not linger to watch. She headed toward Ophelia Hall, though something uninvited clawed at her chest—an unsettling spark, sharp and electric, as though her ribcage had been wired to a live current. Her heart beat too fast for her liking. She dismissed it immediately. A malfunction, nothing more.

When she entered her dorm, she found Thing perched comfortably on Enid’s side of the room, flipping through a glossy magazine as if he were on holiday. Wednesday didn’t waste a greeting; she strode to her desk and sat before her ancient typewriter, attempting to silence her mind in ink and paper.

But then—her black eyes caught it. A drop of crimson. Fresh. Sitting like a scar upon the steel keys of her typewriter.

Her gaze swept downward. Another drop glistened on the floor. Her head snapped toward Thing, but the disembodied hand appeared perfectly intact, no trace of injury. The trail continued—small droplets leading toward the balcony. Wednesday followed, her boots silent, her pulse anything but.

And then she saw her. Enid. Collapsed on the balcony, golden hair fanned out, blood snaking down her forehead.

"Enid?" Wednesday’s voice fractured on its own name, disbelief breaking her tone. She rushed forward, clutching the fabric of her skirt so tightly the seams protested.

"Enid! Thing—get help!!"

The idea of Enid hurt—of her warmth extinguished—was intolerable. She was more than a roommate, more than an irritant. She was… necessary. Someone Wednesday would protect, though she’d never cheapen it by naming the bond aloud.

And then—

A giggle.

It sliced through the tension, grotesque in its lightness. Enid’s eyes snapped open, shining with mischief as she sat up. "Happy Prank Day! I got you!!" she squealed, licking the crimson streak down her face.

"Mm. Strawberry syrup. The classic."

Wednesday froze, her face smoothing into a mask of murderous calm. She shut her eyes for a long moment, breathing as if the world itself had been chained to her back. Only years of discipline kept her hands at her sides instead of wrapping around Enid’s neck.

Because if she hadn’t learned restraint—if she hadn’t clawed control out of her vexation—there would be a thousand funerals scheduled within the next forty-eight hours.

"You've got to be kidding."

---

"I’m not kidding," Ezra muttered, her proud smile stretching wider, as if she were unveiling a grand victory. Wednesday, however, saw no triumph. Only torment.

Sneaking out of Nevermore had been tolerable—irritating, but tolerable. Yet standing before the hulking silhouette of a motorbike, Wednesday realized the true cruelty of Ezra’s plan. It wasn’t the machine itself that unsettled her; she could handle noise, speed, even danger. But what she could not tolerate was the inevitable proximity.

Closeness was poison. The forced press of another body against hers, the heat, the breath—Wednesday would sooner embrace a nest of venomous serpents. To ride this infernal contraption meant pressing herself against Ezra, her arms around the werewolf, her face close enough to inhale her scent.

It wasn’t the motorbike that would kill her. It was the intimacy.

"Hop on, little moth. I’m an expert at leading things to their doom."

Wednesday ground her teeth as she watched Ezra clasp her own helmet with an air of smug satisfaction. The werewolf closed the distance between them, and instinctively Wednesday stepped back, her expression darkening.

"Don’t move away," Ezra chided lightly, shaking the second helmet in her hand. "I’m putting this on your head."

Wednesday could not see her expression behind the tinted glass of the helmet, but the teasing lilt in Ezra’s voice betrayed a grin. A grin that should have been erased from existence.

Still, she allowed the werewolf to lower the helmet onto her head and fasten the strap beneath her chin. Through the sheen of Ezra’s visor, Wednesday caught her own reflection: a pale face framed by black hair, now encased in a glossy helmet—one embellished with feline ears, of all things.

The Addams girl, made into some caricature of a cat. Humiliating. As though this indignity weren’t enough, Ezra shrugged off her leather jacket, revealing toned arms inked with fire tattoos that coiled and burned across her skin. With a nonchalance that stoked Wednesday’s irritation further, Ezra draped the jacket over her narrow shoulders, as though warding her against the chill of the night.

"Wear that. It’s cold," Ezra said simply.

"I can endure frostbite." Wednesday replied, her voice flat as winter.

"You don’t have to." Ezra’s tone softened, almost coaxing. "And don’t worry—the jacket’s sanitized."

"I prefer hypothermia over your hoax generosity." Wednesday intoned, her voice as frigid as the night air. Ezra didn’t flinch. Her eyes glimmered in the shadows, unwavering, her grin replaced with something steadier, almost resolute.

"It’s me taking care of you genuinely, Addams. Not as your dorm supervisor, not as a schoolmate, not under any excuse. Just me. If you hate it, then hate it. But at the end of the day, you’ll have to bear it." Ezra countered.

"In my sixteen years of living, I’ve learned that kindness is nothing but a mask—a wall to conceal the devil festering in one’s heart. Revolting, really, how people try to disguise it. I, at least, embrace mine."

Ezra tilted her head, green eyes glinting as though she were studying a puzzle. "You speak as if betrayal has been the only language you’ve ever known."

"A few betrayals, yes," Wednesday admitted coolly. "But I have betrayed many more."

The werewolf chuckled low, then swung one long leg over the motorbike, settling on the seat with ease. With a flick of her hand, she lowered the tinted visor of her helmet.

"Come on then. Let’s pay a visit to your monster of a… boyfriend—if one could call him that. Word is, he’s the one who broke your heart into a million jagged pieces."

Wednesday rolled her eyes, her expression colder than steel. "We were never near romance. He was a mistake. An idiocy of mine to believe in the sham of kindness."

"And that," Ezra said softly, voice almost lacking its usual mockery, "I understand."

Of course Ezra understood her. Being duped by affection was the oldest blunder in existence—one a girl like Wednesday should never have succumbed to. And yet she had. Which placed her in the same pitiful category as everyone else.

She despised the notion. Not because she believed herself better, but because she knew she was smarter, sharper, more strategic. To be tricked so easily was… intolerable.

Her gaze slid to Ezra, who still straddled the motorbike with irritating ease. “Remind me, what possible use are you on this excursion? Other than breaking the already meaningless rules of this institution?”

She made no move to climb onto the bike. Curiosity had her pinned in place. After all, only days ago Ezra had been the obstacle, standing guard to block her escape. Now she offered herself as an accomplice. The shift was almost insulting in its inconsistency.

"Nothing," Ezra said.

"Liar."

The werewolf sighed, her smugness dropping a degree. "Fine. I heard my aunt was admitted to Willow Hill. She went missing a week ago and was found by the lake, acting… not herself. Principal Gilbert won’t allow me to visit. I thought maybe I’d see her if I slipped out, but I’m pathetic at this sort of thing. You, on the other hand, are an expert. So I asked you."

Wednesday’s lips curved into something between disdain and amusement. "So you’re using me for your own benefit. How… quaint."

"I'm not—"

"Accept the compliment, before I pluck your tongue and embroider it into a love letter to death itself." Wednesday said, stepping closer, her gaze falling on the motorbike with visible distaste.

If she’d known Ezra would insist on using her ridiculous machine, she would’ve stolen a car from Nevermore’s garage without hesitation. But alas, here she was—forced into compromise. With a sigh as heavy as the night itself, she climbed onto the backseat, leaving as much distance as humanly possible between her body and Ezra’s.

Her fingers curled tight around the fabric of her trousers, knuckles pale. Ezra noticed immediately.

"What?" Wednesday snapped, her voice muffled but cutting.

"Girl," Ezra said, glancing over her shoulder, "you have to hold onto me. Otherwise, you’ll be airborne within seconds."

"No."

"Yes."

"I’d sooner perish than lay a single finger on you."

"I’d rather die than see you hurt. Come on, Addams. Stop fighting me for once."

Wednesday exhaled sharply inside the helmet, the faint scent of vanilla filling her lungs. The aroma was strangely sweet, irritatingly so—like a ghost of something soft trying to gnaw at her defenses.

She hated this. She liked to argue with Ezra. She liked to fantasize about killing her. But submission—touch—that was worse. And yet, slowly, with the reluctance of someone stepping into a grave, Wednesday lifted her hands. Hesitation clung to her every movement as she finally wrapped her arms around Ezra’s annoyingly slender waist.

It was unsettling. Infuriating. Against every natural instinct in her body. And yet… she was doing it.

---

The ride to Willow Hill was longer than either of them anticipated. The night air was sharp, the wind aggressive yet survivable, wrapping around them like restless spirits. By the time they reached the Psychiatric Hospital, Wednesday had, as Ezra expected, found her own way to bend the rules until entry was perfectly legal.

They were ushered first into an office, greeted by Dr. Rachael Fairburn, who introduced herself as their escort to Tyler’s cellar.

"Tyler returned only days ago," Dr. Fairburn explained, her voice uneasy. "He vanished after an attack, then came back on his own. We don’t know how. It’s… strange."

Ezra frowned. "What happened to the kidnapper? Or whoever helped him?"

"No one knows," the doctor admitted. "Our best guess is that they released him—fear, maybe. We don’t know. We’ve been too focused on the aftermath—his… change."

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. "Change?"

"When he was first committed, Tyler was unstable—constantly transforming into his Hyde form. We kept him chained, electrified at intervals, monitored around the clock. He nearly escaped days before he was abducted. But since his return… nothing. No transformations. No rage. He just sits. Staring. As if he’s not himself anymore. See for yourself."

They were led to a guard station, a grainy monitor casting light across the room. On the screen, Tyler Galpin was barely recognizable. He sat hunched on his bed, arms around his knees, rocking faintly, eyes wide and hollow.

Wednesday’s pulse remained steady, though her curiosity sharpened. Ezra, on the other hand, tilted her head. "We’d like to see him," she said before Wednesday could speak—adding unnecessary courtesy that made Wednesday silently recoil.

The doctor allowed it, though warned them to keep their distance. Inside the cell, the air smelled of sweat and damp concrete. Wednesday didn’t look at the bars or the boy first. Her attention was drawn instead to the floor—where a blackened outline spread like paint. No, not paint. A shadow. The Hyde’s silhouette, claws bared, jaws unhinged mid-roar, frozen in some violent memory.

"Wow," Ezra muttered, eyes flicking to Tyler. "Your ex is still good-looking."

Wednesday followed her gaze. Tyler trembled on the bed, sweat slick on his skin, muttering silently to himself, his eyes locked to the Hyde-shadow below him. A smear of dried crimson traced the side of his face, branching outward like the whiskers of some rabid cat—thin, jagged lines that nearly touched his eyes.

"Hey, loser!" Ezra barked. But Tyler didn’t move, didn’t blink. His fingers dragged again and again over his bare chest, smearing sweat in nervous circles. Wednesday’s expression hardened. His pathetic state wasn’t what troubled her. It was his gaze—fixed, unwavering—at the shadow.

"Why don’t you talk to him?" Ezra murmured, half-daring her. Wednesday didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, voice cold and sharp, her syllables cutting through the cell like glass.

"Galpin."

The name echoed, and Tyler’s head snapped up instantly. His eyes found hers—wild, desperate, flaming with something unspeakable. Then he lunged. His body slammed against the iron bars so hard they rattled, reverberating through the floor. Ezra flinched backward, almost stumbling. But Wednesday didn’t move. She stood, unmoved, eyes locked on his, as if daring him to shatter.

"She’s here," Tyler howled, his voice cracking like a broken bell. He pounded the bars again, forehead bleeding where it struck the steel. "She’s coming! She’s going to end us all!"

“Who?” Wednesday asked flatly, her gaze unflinching. But Tyler gave no answer—only the same frantic chant, over and over again, as if he were a record skipping on the same cursed line.

“Who the hell are you talking about, dude? Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Ezra muttered, half-joking but rattled.

The effect was instant. Tyler went silent. He sank back onto the bed, rocking faintly, eyes darting like trapped animals do when they know there’s no way out.

Both girls tried again—different questions, different tones. Nothing. Tyler was unreachable, locked inside whatever madness held him. At last, Wednesday turned away, though her mind remained crowded. Her vision. The book of Eiseth. The patterns of shadow.

And her.

The Scarlet Angel.

Could she be the reason Tyler’s mind had unraveled? But no—only Eiseth left shadows as her calling card. Eiseth burned bodies, consumed souls, reduced flesh to ash. Wednesday had studied that much.

The Scarlet Angel was something else. Something that named itself, claimed wings, claimed divinity. Eiseth was no angel. She was Death in its rawest form.

"You good?" Ezra’s voice broke through, softer now, worried.

Wednesday didn’t answer. She only felt the weight of Ezra’s leather jacket settle across her shoulders—a warmth she didn’t ask for, but didn’t remove. They walked in silence down the dim corridor until they reached Ezra’s aunt’s room. Ezra opened the door first, her movements sharp with nerves.

The sight inside froze them both. Nothing. No bed-bound woman. No faint sound of breath. Only a doctor in panic, fumbling for explanations, and Ezra already seething.

"Where the hell is my aunt?!" Ezra barked, fury cracking in her voice. But Wednesday wasn’t looking at the doctor. Her eyes had already caught it—something smeared on the far wall. A silhouette, dark and painted in absence, unmistakable in shape.

A woman. Another shadow. Ezra’s question hung heavy in the air, but Wednesday already carried the answer. Or at least, the suspicion. Eiseth was real. The signs were no longer whispers. They were screaming.

"Oh god, Aunt Amelia!!"

Wednesday’s breath caught when her eyes landed on Ezra, clutching the woman she claimed as her aunt. To her grim astonishment, the same dried crimson that streaked Tyler’s face now marred the woman’s as well—thin lines crawling across her skin like the mirrored scars of a curse.

Which left Wednesday to wonder—not with panic, but with the cold curiosity of a coroner—how they acquired such markings. Were they carved by claws, branded by fire, or kissed upon the skin by something far less merciful? Coincidence was a weak man’s answer, and Wednesday was not in the business of weakness.