Outline: You only meant to help Xavier with his sketches. You didn’t expect to find dozens of portraits of yourself hidden in his shed and you definitely didn’t expect to walk back in and catch him messy, desperate, and too obsessed to stop...
Word Count: 5'527
Warnings: aged up characters. Explicit smut including obsession, voyeurism, masturbation, caught in the act, oral sex, and a messy climax.
Author's note // Quick disclaimer: This is about Xavier Thorpe the character, aka Nevermore’s “sad, obsessive artist” archetype. This is definitely not about the actor, whose actions I don’t support. To keep the separation between the actor and the character clear, I’ll always use generic images when posting about him.
The classroom smelled like ink and parchment and dust. Xavier kept his head down, pencil scratching at the page, pretending to care about the nothing he was sketching, pretending not to notice the way the air shifted when you slid into the seat beside him.
Too close. Closer than anyone usually sat.
His grip tightened on the pencil. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d give himself away in seconds. Better to hunch lower, let his hair fall forward, act like he hadn’t just gone rigid at the sound of your bag hitting the floor.
“Sorry,” you murmured, adjusting your notes. Your voice brushed over him softer than chalk dust.
His throat worked. “No, you’re fine.”
He meant it. God, he meant it. You were fine, too fine, the kind of fine that made his stomach twist itself in knots. But it came out clipped, awkward, and he kept his eyes on the page like if he stared hard enough at the lines, you’d forget he existed.
For ten minutes he held himself still, every muscle wired tight. Every shift you made in your seat sent sparks racing across his nerves. You probably thought he disliked you, most people did, when he got distant and broody. It was easier to believe he didn’t care than that he cared too much.
Then your pen slipped. A clatter against the stone, rolling just out of reach.
Xavier didn’t think, he reacted. Graphite dust swirled under his hand, smudgy lines lifting from the paper, shaping into fingers, a half-finished sketch-hand that darted across the floor. It caught the pen and laid it back on your desk before collapsing into smoke.
Your breath hitched. “Uh… Thanks?”
Heat flared at the back of his neck, crawling up to his ears. He ducked his head lower, shading furiously like he hadn’t just betrayed himself completely. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just… quicker than watching you crawl under the desk.”
Idiot. Stupid thing to say.
But then you looked at him — really looked — and for one heartbeat he dared to meet your gaze. Soft. Curious. A little startled, but not afraid.
The pencil almost slipped from his fingers. He dropped his eyes fast, hiding behind his hair, scratching nonsense shadows onto the page just so he didn’t have to see the way your lips curved when you whispered back:
“Quicker.”
You spun the pen in your fingers and went back to your notes.
But Xavier couldn’t focus on a single word the professor said. He couldn’t stop replaying the sound of your voice, the flash of your eyes, the thought that you’d glanced sideways at him again, like maybe you’d noticed him after all.
The professor’s voice was a dull hum, nothing but background noise. He let his pencil keep moving, lines crossing lines until the paper was nearly black. Better that than look at you, sitting right there, chewing on your pen like you didn’t know what it was doing to him.
“Are you even paying attention?” you whispered.
His grip tightened, but he didn’t stop sketching. “Are you?”
“At least I’m pretending to.”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it. He hated how easy it was for you to drag that out of him. “Pretending’s a waste of energy.”
You rolled your eyes, shoved your notes closer to him just to annoy him. His chest went tight.
“So is whatever you’re doing instead of learning.”
“Art,” he said flatly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh please, you’re probably just doodling little skulls and bats in the margins.”
His pencil froze, just for a second. Then he slammed the sketchbook shut so fast it rattled the desk. “Not skulls.”
Your brow lifted, curious, and he felt his stomach sink. He’d given himself away.
The bell saved him. Students scraped their chairs back, the professor’s voice chased them out with reminders about tomorrow’s assignment. Everyone rushed to the door, except him. He gathered his things slowly. But he was tired, distracted, and when he finally slung his bag over his shoulder and stepped away, he left his sketchbook behind.
“Seriously?” your voice murmured, the rustle of paper flipping open stabbing straight through him.
His blood iced. He spun back, lunging for the book, panic choking him. “Don’t…”
Too late.
Your eyes were wide, scanning the pages he’d ruined with you — dozens of you, or almost you—your mouth too sharp, your eyes too dark, hair smudged into shadows. Every failed attempt was laid bare.
“Is this… me?”
Heat burned his face, crawling down his neck. His hand flexed helplessly at his side. “It’s… uh, they’re not good.”
“They’re everywhere.” You turned another page, another face that almost matched yours but not quite. “Why?”
His chest caved inward. All the shame he carried every time he picked up the pencil welled up at once. He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “Because I can never get it right. I see things when I draw, visions, but never of you. Ever. So I try, and it never…” He swallowed hard, frustration twisting the words.
“And… is that bad?”
He forced himself to look up and meet your eyes. His voice was lower, sharper now. “Not bad, just abnormal. I have visions all the time, about everyone, everything… But not you.”
You tried to laugh it off, but it fell thin in the air. “Well, maybe you just can’t have a clear vision of me because you never really look at me.”
Something in him snapped at that. His jaw locked, his hand clenched tighter around the strap of his bag.
“I do look at you.”
The words came out raw. The truth pulled straight out of his chest like it couldn’t be stopped.
And when you blinked, caught off guard, he felt the shift. The weight of it landing between you. For the first time, you believed him. The silence after his words pressed down heavier than the stale classroom air.
You hugged the sketchbook to your chest, pulse racing, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t even tried to take it back.
“Well… clearly not enough if you can’t get my nose right.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it slipped away. He wanted to tell you he’d memorized the slope of your nose, the exact angle of it in different lights, the way it wrinkled when you laughed, but all that came out was: “It’s not your nose.”
“What then?”
His eyes betrayed him, flicking down to your lips, your throat, back up again. He swallowed. “It’s everything. You never come through clear, it’s like you’re… blurred out on purpose.”
He wanted you to laugh, to tease him, to call him dramatic and ridiculous and shove the sketchbook back at him. He didn’t want you to look at him the way you were now, chest tight with something he couldn’t name, because it made hope claw up through his ribs in a way that terrified him.
“Maybe you’re just overthinking it,” you said lightly. “You’re trying too hard. Maybe if you just… ”
“Just what?” His voice came out hoarse, like the words scraped his throat raw.
“Maybe if you drew me while I was really there. Not a memory, not a vision, just me.”
The world tilted.
For a second, he thought he’d misheard you. The look on your face was open, unguarded, like you didn’t understand that you just offered him to let him watch you, study you, capture you in a way his visions never allowed, shamelessly.
It was dangerous. A gift he didn’t deserve.
And yet, when he found his voice, all he could do was nod, breath shaky. “You’d… do that?”
“Sure.” You shrugged like it was nothing, like his heart wasn’t slamming against his ribs. “Why not? Might as well help you get my nose right.”
That twitch of a smile returned, softer now, nervous and fragile. He looked away before you could read too much in his face, before you could see how fast his pulse was hammering, how badly his hands shook.
He told himself he’d wait, that dragging you into his shed straight after class would scream desperation but when you nodded when he suggested you did, when you said “yeah, why not,” it short-circuited something in him. So he brought you here. His place. His sanctuary… His prison.
And now you stood there in the patch of light like you belonged, your hands folded against your chest, your skirt riding just high enough to undo him.
Xavier forced his eyes up, anywhere but the curve of your mouth or the hollow of your throat. He couldn’t let you see it. The walls were covered in sketches, monsters and failed versions of you he hid under black stained cloths.
“What are these?”
His chest seized. Two steps, and he was in front of the wall, tearing a badly hidden portrait of you down, burying it under the stack. His voice came sharper than he meant.
“Nothing. Just… practice sketches. Ignore them.”
The heat crept up his neck again as you nodded, but he could feel your eyes still on him, like you didn’t quite believe him, like you saw too much already.
“Here,” he muttered, dragging the stool under the light. He didn’t give you a chance to argue. “Sit.”
And you did. That killed him the most; you didn’t even hesitate. You sat like you trusted him, like he wasn’t one breath away from falling apart.
He opened the sketchbook, pencil poised, but his hand didn’t move. He just stared at you, at the way the sunlight caught on your cheekbone, at the line of your throat when you tilted your chin, at the subtle dip of your waist where your blouse folded.
You shifted, fidgeting, breaking the spell. “Well? What do I do?”
“Just… stay still.” His voice was too tight, cracking at the edges. He adjusted the stool an inch, like that mattered, like any angle would make this safer. “And don’t… don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He shook his head fast, ducking over the page, forcing the pencil down. “Like you’re waiting for me to mess up.”
The scratch of a pencil filled the silence, but it wasn’t enough to cover his pulse hammering in his ears. He couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking up, couldn’t stop them from catching on the soft part of your lips, the edge of your skirt, the rise and fall of your chest. Every time, he dragged them back down to the page, furious with himself.
But you felt it. He knew you did.
You shifted again, and the fabric of your skirt inched higher on your thighs. The air left his lungs in a rush.
Stop staring. Stop staring.
He pressed the pencil harder into the page until the lead nearly broke but still his gaze climbed back up, helpless, caught on the sunlight sliding down your collarbone. And you smiled, just slightly, like you knew… Like you were doing it on purpose. He drew the outline of your lips, your neck, graphite grinding too dark into the paper. His hand twitched lower, sketching toward the line of your skirt before he yanked it back to your face.
“What?” you asked, head tilting.
The words spilled raw, low, dangerous. “Clothes always get in the way of… shapes. Lines. Shadows.”
The second he heard himself, his blood went cold. His grip tightened on the pencil.
Stupid idiot.
You raised a brow, slow and wicked. “What, you want me to strip for your art?”
Color flooded his face so hot it hurt. “No, I mean… Forget I said that.” He bent hard over the page, scribbling like he could bury the words in graphite, smear them into nothing but the air was ruined now, stretched taut and humming with heat.
You crossed one leg over the other, pretending it was casual. His gaze flickered, quick, guilty, but it was there, the inch of bare skin where your skirt slid.
“Better angle?” you teased.
He choked on his breath. “Y-yeah. That’s fine.”
The pencil trembled. His strokes were too heavy, too dark. He swore, fumbling for another, smudges streaking his knuckles. You rolled your shoulders, blouse slipping just enough to bare more of your throat, more of your chest.
His hand stopped.
When he glanced up, his eyes locked on you, wide… And hungry.
“Should I fix it?” you asked, smug.
His mouth opened, closed. He dragged his eyes back to the page, ears burning scarlet. “No. I mean, it’s fine. It’s good. Just… Stay like that.”
“Sure, whatever helps the shadows and lines.”
The scratch of his pencil came frantic now, his hand jerking like it didn’t know whether to draw or shake. He wasn’t sketching anymore. He was memorizing the slope of your collarbone, the faint rise of your chest, the bare inch of thigh.
Stop staring. Stop…
The pencil snapped in his hand. “Shit.”
He reached for another, and you bent forward, blouse slipping lower. His eyes dragged up before he could stop them, and he froze, swallowing hard.
“You can’t…” His voice cracked, low and strangled.
You leaned back slow, folding your hands neatly, like you weren’t setting him on fire. “Can’t what?”
His hand clenched the new pencil. He stared at you, tried to pull the words out of his throat, failed.
“Can’t… Expect me to draw anything right when you…” He broke off, shaking his head hard. “Forget it.”
But you wouldn’t. He saw it on your face and he knew he’d already lost, because every time his gaze snapped back to your skin, no matter how hard he fought it, he wanted more.
Every time you shifted on the stool, it was worse. Every inch of skin, every tilt of your head in the light. His pencil wasn’t capturing you, it couldn’t. His hands were shaking too badly, graphite smudging into nonsense while his eyes betrayed him, dragging back to you again and again.
And you knew - of course you knew - the smirk you fought to hide, the way you leaned forward like you were offering yourself up just to watch him fall apart. It was torture, and he couldn’t stop wanting more of it.
Then there was a knock and a voice outside calling your name, reminding you of the next class. The sound shattered him.
You glanced at the door, then back at him. His chest was heaving, fingers tight around the pencil until it cracked again. He didn’t even try to cover it.
“I should go,” you said softly, slipping off the stool.
No.
The word screamed in his chest, but his throat locked around it. If he opened his mouth, something worse would come out.
Stay. Please. Don’t leave me like this.
You smoothed your skirt, all innocent again, though the fire you’d lit in him burned too hot to be disguised. You stepped closer, plucking the sketchbook from his lap and setting it on the table.
“I’ll come back later,” you said, voice playful.
His head snapped up. “Later?”
The hope in his voice made him sick, it was too raw and too obvious.
You smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing. “So you can finish drawing me.”
Then you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you. Xavier sat frozen, lungs burning, hands trembling, the echo of your words ringing in his skull.
But how the hell was he supposed to wait?
He pressed his hands over his face, smearing gray dust across his skin, but it didn’t matter. You were burned into him now, the curve of your collarbone, the inch of thigh, the smirk when you caught him staring.
Later. You promised, but he was going to break long before then. The shed was too quiet without you in it.
The stool sat in its patch of sunlight, empty now, and his sketchbook lay closed on the table where you’d put it down. He should’ve picked it up, gone back to work, kept forcing line after line until he got you right. That’s what he always did, but he couldn’t.
His hands still shook, every nerve humming from the way you’d leaned forward, the way your blouse had slipped. You thought it was a joke, a game, and maybe for you it was but for him? He was drowning.
He dragged his fingers back through his hair, pacing once across the room. The air was thick with turpentine, charcoal dust, and you. He swore he could still smell the faint trace of your perfume clinging to him.
This wasn’t new. He’d been here before, in this shed, when the visions wouldn’t come and you were the only thing in his head. He’d fill page after page with you until his hand cramped, until the paper tore, until he was left with nothing but smudges of a face he could never touch.
And then, he’d give up on drawing and close his eyes instead. Let his imagination sketch what his hands couldn’t: the sound of your voice, the tilt of your smile, the way your skirt rode up when you crossed your legs. He’d fisted himself to the thought of you more times than he could admit, guilt and need blurring until he didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
But today had been different.
Today, you were here. You sat in the light for him, all soft skin and cruel smirks, and let him stare like he always wanted.
He wanted you. Not just on paper, not blurred, not half-finished, not slipping away through smudges. He wanted you real, under his hands, against him, until there was no doubt you belonged to him and him alone.
The thought wasn’t new either. It had been there for weeks, months, clawing at him in the dark but now it wasn’t just a thought. Now it was a need burning through every inch of him.
The sketchbook sat there like bait. The page smeared with the half-finished lines of your mouth, your collarbone. Shadows where he’d lingered too long. His hand hovered, shaking, before he started flipping past frantic scribbles, past ruined versions of you, until he found one that was close enough. Not perfect — it never was — but close. Your lips parted, your eyes tilted just so, a faint curve of your body sketched in light strokes before he’d abandoned it. Close enough to fool him when his blood was this hot.
He groaned, slumping back into the chair, sketchbook open across his knee. His other hand shoved down his jeans before he could stop himself. The relief of skin on skin made his eyes slam shut, breath shuddering out of him.
And then it was just you.
His fist worked faster. His hips jerked into it, no rhythm, just need.
“Fuck…” he hissed, jaw clenching. His head tipped back, throat tight.
He pictured you leaning forward like before, smirking when you caught his eyes. Better angle? God, the way you’d said it, like you knew he was burning alive.
His grip tightened, desperate. He could almost hear you teasing him again, that sly voice cutting through the haze: What, you want me to strip for your art?
“Yes,” he groaned, voice cracking, spilling into the empty shed. His chest heaved, shame and lust tangled together, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop imagining you slipping the blouse off your shoulders, baring more and more until you were there in front of him, not lines, not shadows, but real. Flesh and heat and his.
He pumped faster, thighs trembling, knuckles white where they gripped the sketchbook. His eyes locked on the portrait and suddenly it wasn’t enough. He needed more.
With a snarl of frustration, his hand clamped down harder on himself, hips bucking into the motion like he could fuck the air, fuck the ghost of you that hovered everywhere in this shed.
Images blurred behind his eyelids: you in the stool, in his lap, bent over his desk, your skirt hiked up, mouth open around his cock. He wanted to mark you, sketch the aftermath across your skin with his teeth instead of his pencil. It was wild. The kind of desire that scared him when he thought about it too long… But right now it was the only thing that mattered.
He groaned your name, low and broken, pumping harder, chasing the edge like it was oxygen. His body curled forward, hair falling into his face, sweat beading on his brow. He was close, too close. The stool sat empty in the sunlight, and all he could see was you in it, lips parting…
The door creaked.
And there you were, standing in the doorway, watching.
His hand froze, blood roaring in his ears. He jerked his head up, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving. For one fractured second, he thought he’d imagined you, another hallucination, but then you spoke:
“I… uh, I forgot my backpack.”
He followed your line of sight and saw it, propped against the stool where you’d been sitting minutes ago. He hadn’t even noticed.
Now it was real. You were real. And you were looking at him, at his fist still wrapped around himself, at the sketchbook opened on his thigh, your half-finished face staring back in smudged lines. Heat slammed up his throat, flooding his ears. Shame tore through him so hard it almost knocked him sick but his body betrayed him, twitching in his hand, still aching, still desperate.
“Shit…” he rasped, fumbling to yank his shirt down, to cover himself, as if that would undo anything. His voice cracked. “I—I didn’t… Fuck, I didn’t know you would…”
You didn’t slam the door, you didn’t even move, you just stood there staring at him like he was something wild and cornered. The shame should’ve gutted him — it did — but underneath, darker, hotter, was the rush of being seen.
“You weren’t supposed to…” His voice broke, tangled between apology and hunger. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”
Something cracked in his chest. He should’ve begged you to forget, promised you this would never happen again. Instead, the words slipped out hoarse, raw, like a confession he’d already whispered in the dark a hundred times.
"I’ve tried to stop. I swear I have. But then you sat there in the light, looking at me like that… ” His hips twitched into his hand, helpless.
His fist flexed, pumping once despite the shame, dragging a broken sound out of him. Your eyes widened, surprise flashing across your face. His free hand dragged through his hair, but his eyes stayed on you, glassy and desperate.
You shifted, just slightly, weight tilting on your feet and that was all it took. His pulse spiked, hope clawed up through the shame. His hand worked faster, reckless, his whole body shuddering. He should’ve felt ashamed, he should’ve begged you to leave. Instead he wanted you to see, to understand.
“I can’t see you in my visions,” He groaned, head tipping back, voice ragged. “So I make my own.”
You stepped forward. His pulse slammed against his ribs. Then your hand was there, warm and wrapping over his fist, guiding the stroke. His whole body convulsed, a strangled noise breaking from his throat as his hips jerked into your grip.
“Fuck…” His head fell back, hair hiding his eyes, shame and ecstasy colliding. “Don’t… don’t do this unless you mean it.”
You didn’t stop. You stroked him smoother, faster, pulling desperate little whimpers from him he’d never let anyone else hear. His thighs trembled. His chest shook. He’d imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compared to your hand on him.
Then you shifted lower. His eyes flew wide when your mouth replaced your hand, wet heat enveloping him. His whole body arched, a ragged groan tearing from his chest. His thighs shook, his hips stuttering shallowly as your mouth worked over him. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t think, every flick of your tongue short-circuited him, every hum of your throat made his vision blur.
His hand fisted in your hair, his body shuddering as you swallowed him down. He’d imagined this a thousand times, alone in this shed with nothing but paper and guilt. But the reality — the wet heat of you, the way your lips stretched around him, the sound of you taking him deeper down your throat — it was too much and too good.
His chest heaved, panic and need colliding. At the last second, he pulled back with a broken growl, slipping from your mouth slick and throbbing, his body trembling with the effort not to finish right there. You looked up at him, your lips flushed and wet, and it nearly undid him anyway.
He tried to cover himself, hand pumping in a last frantic blur, but his body betrayed him. His climax hit hard, spilling across the sketchbook he’d left open, white streaks splattering over the blurred lines of your mouth, your eyes, dripping down the paper in messy ruin.
He collapsed back in the chair, panting. His gaze found yours, wild and ashamed, but reverent too, like you were the only thing left tethering him to the world. Your ruined portrait was smeared with the proof of what he couldn’t hold back. He should’ve been horrified. He should’ve begged you not to hate him, but when his eyes lifted and met yours… You weren’t even looking away.
Something inside him snapped again.
“You shouldn’t…” His voice cracked. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
But you did. You stepped closer, sliding your blouse off your shoulder, letting it drop forgotten to the floor and suddenly you were in his lap.
The sketchbook slid to the ground with a soft slap of paper, his stained hand instinctively catching your waist, smudging dark graphite on your skin. His other hand trembled, gripping the edge of your thigh like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to push you away or drag you closer.
“This was… It’s wrong. I’ve thought about this too many times… ” he said, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressing to your collarbone.
Your fingers tipped his chin up, forcing him to look at you. “So stop thinking.”
His restraint shattered. His mouth crashed into yours, clumsy, desperate, tasting of paper, dust and him. His hands roamed blindly, smearing stains across your skin as he touched everywhere he’d been too afraid to before. Your thighs, your waist, your chest.
When you gasped against him, he swallowed the sound like it was oxygen. His hand slid under your skirt, his streaked fingertips leaving faint black smudges of graphite as they dragged higher. You shifted against him, grinding down, and his strangled groan vibrated into your mouth.
He grabbed your hips, pulling you tight against the bulge still aching between his legs, guiding you to grind against him. His head tipped back, eyes dark, lips parted. Your answer was a kiss, deep and hungry.
If his visions never showed you to him, maybe this was better. Maybe this was the only truth he’d ever needed: you, real and trembling and pressed against him, with pencil dust all over your skin.
He kissed you back — clumsy, desperate, teeth clicking against yours — because he didn’t know how else to keep himself from falling apart completely.
You tugged at his shirt, sliding it up just enough to feel his skin under your palms. He groaned into your mouth, body jerking like every touch was too much after weeks — months— of starving for it. He kissed his way down your throat, sucking just enough to leave a mark, his hair falling in a curtain around his face.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracked and raw. “Not blurred. Not slipping away. You’re real.”
His fingers slid under your panties, slow, shaky at first, then deeper, curling just right. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and he groaned, forehead pressing into your collarbone like your voice was pulling him apart. His hand pumped into you, messy and desperate, thumb circling your clit until your hips bucked against him.
You tugged his head up, kissing him hard, tasting the shame and need all tangled on his lips. When you gasped, he caught it, swallowed it, dragging you higher into his lap until your legs wrapped around his waist.
“Tell me you want me.” you whispered against his mouth.
“I need you.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, begging silently. When you nodded, he pushed into you slow, almost reverent at first, a groan tearing from his chest. His fingers gripped your thigh as he started to move.
“Fuck.” His voice was hoarse, every thrust shaky with months of pent-up need. “You feel… better than anything I ever… Better than I ever imagined… ”
You clung to him, pulling him closer, your body moving with his. Every time he pressed into you, his breath hitched, his mouth finding yours, kissing you like he was drowning.
The stool rocked under you both, creaking against the floor, and he buried his face against your neck, groaning into your skin. Your nails dug into his back, and his hips stuttered, pace quickening, fingers slipping down between you to rub your clit.
You tightened around him, and the sound that tore out of him was raw and guttural. He thrust harder, faster, chasing it with you until the world narrowed to pencil smears, sweat, and the heat of your bodies tangled in a patch of light.
When you came, gasping his name, he followed instantly, shuddering, groaning into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, grinding through it until he was trembling.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, panting and shaking. Finally, he pulled back, eyes flicking down at the black smudges he’d left all over your thighs, your waist, your chest. He groaned, half-guilty, half-awed.
Then, his stomach dropped.
What the hell had he done?
“I…” His voice cracked, breaking under the weight pressing down on his ribs. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
You stood up slowly, skirt rumpled, hair mussed, still flushed and you looked at him like he hadn’t just ruined you in every way he could, like you weren’t about to bolt for the door.
“Xavier.” Your voice was soft, steady, pulling his wild pulse down a notch.
He shook his head violently, staring at the floor, shame burning hot through him. “I’ve thought about this too many times. About you. It’s… it’s sick, obsessive. You should hate me for it.”
You slid closer, shoes quiet on the wooden floor, and stepped into his space. His head jerked up, startled, when your hand caught his.
“I don’t hate you.”
The words slammed into him harder than anything. His throat worked, eyes burning as he searched your face.
“You don’t get it. It’s not normal. I can’t see you in my visions, ever, and it makes me…” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “You’re all I think about, all I draw, you’re… everything.”
You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead and you smiled, soft and real.
“Maybe I want you, even if it’s messy... Even if it’s obsessive.”
His forehead dropped against yours, a shaky laugh breaking out of him, half relief, half disbelief. His hands came up, careful now, cupping your face like you were a sketch he finally didn’t ruin.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
But when you leaned in and kissed him again, slow and certain, he started to believe — just barely — that maybe you didn’t care. Maybe you wanted him just as tortured and stained as he was.
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
💬 0 🔁 27 ❤️ 486 · MASTERLIST · Last update: Aug. 2025
All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading.
// Find me on
💬 24 🔁 74 ❤️ 2104 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow H
This is a Wednesday fic idea!!!! Maybe do a reader that’s really popular and ppl can’t help but have a tiny crush on her bc of how sweet she is to ppl, like Ajax, Kent, Eugene, Tyler, Pugsley, Xavier??? If that’s not too main character syndrome BFFFHAHAH we need to feed the delusions 😛
YES THE DELUSIONS NEED FEEDING also pretend Xavier is still at Nevermore
Everybody's Crush - Nevermore Boys x Fem!Reader
There were a lot of things people said about you at Nevermore.
That you were sunshine in human form.
That you once made Principal Weems crack a real smile before her untimely demise.
That you once complimented Wednesday and she blushed.
You didn't think of yourself as popular. You just liked people. It wasn't hard - Ajax's easy grin, Enid's glittery energy, Eugene's constant bee facts. Even Wednesday, with all her sharp edges, you somehow found...endearing.
Still, it didn't go unnoticed how half the population of boys at Nevermore tripped over their own feet whenever you walked by.
-----
Ajax was the first to fall victim.
You'd stopped to help him gather the books he dropped when his snakes tried to get out the beanie on his way to class. "It's okay," you said, smiling. "Happens to the best of us."
He swore he felt his heart actually stop.
Later, when Enid teased him about it, he turned bright red.
"I wasn't staring," he insisted.
"Ajax," she said, grinning, "you called her an angel then walked into a locker door."
-----
Eugene was worse.
You'd shown up at his beekeeping shed with homemade honey biscuits "just because." He talked so fast he almost scared his bees.
"She...she smiled at me," he told Wednesday afterward, dazed.
"She smiles at everyone," Wednesday deadpanned, only half listening to what Eugene was saying. "It's her only weakness. Like a Disney princess without the dignity."
Eugene only sighed. "Still worth it."
-----
Kent decided you were "out of his league" after you laughed at his joke in fencing class. "Did you hear that?" he asked Ajax later. "She laughed. That's basically soulmate stuff."
-----
Tyler met you when you stopped by Weathervane for cocoa. You asked how his day was, remembered his name when you came back a week later, and said, "You make the best drinks."
He almost spilled espresso on himself.
-----
And Xavier?
Oh, he was done from day one.
He'd known you before Nevermore - not well, but enough to remember how you always said hi, even when people wouldn't look his way. Now, every time you complimented his art or smiled across the quad, he felt that old warmth creep in again.
You were too nice, too soft, too everything he didn't deserve - but he couldn't help but be infatuated by you.
-----
Even Pugsley Addams wasn't immune.
He'd been at the school for all of three days when you found him sitting alone at lunch, head down.
"You can sit with us, you know," you said, setting your tray next to his. "You're Wednesday's brother, right?"
"Yeah," he said cautiously.
You smiled. "Don't worry, I don't hold that against you."
He laughed - actually laughed - and you felt a little burst of pride at that.
Afterward, Pugsley told Enid, "She's...nice."
Enid just grinned. "Yeah. Everyone thinks so."
-----
It wasn't that you tried to make people like you. You just couldn't not care.
Even Wednesday - the one person immune to charm - paused sometimes when you offered her coffee or asked how her novel was coming along.
"You fascinate me," she said once, staring at you like you were a rare specimen.
"That's not necessarily a compliment, is it?" you asked, smiling.
"Not particularly. But you may take it as one."
You never noticed the glances exchanged across the quad 0 the way Ajax would wave first if he saw you coming, how Xavier would sketch you absentmindedly, how Eugene straightened his glasses, or even how Pugsley walked a little taller when you said hi.
You were just being yourself - bright, kind, and blissfully unaware that every boy in a ten-foot radius was nursing a tiny crush.
And maybe that was the charm of it.
Because at Nevermore, where everyone was a little strange and everyone wore shadows like badges, you were proof that light didn't have to be loud to be noticed.
* begging on my knees * write something for Xavier. Us Xavier girls are not having a good time this season...
I am sad there is no Xavier this season too.... Let me know if I should do a part 2. Maybe Xavier going to the weeding?
Summary: This summer, the Addams clan travels to Transylvania, Romania for the wedding of Cousin Itt and Margaret. While being there, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to go to the infamous Bran Castle. On your way to the exhibit about Vlad the Impaler, a boy sitting with a sketchbook drew your attention.
—
Perched on a rocky cliff and cloaked in mist, Bran Castle loomed like a relic from a darker time. You had been dreaming of visiting the historical fortress since you were old enough to read Dracula, the pages of Bram Stoker’s novel forever tying the image of this place to something eerie and magnetic. When Cousin Itt and Margaret’s wedding invitations arrived in the mail, it felt like fate. This would be your chance to see the infamous castle up close, not just in stories, but in stone and shadow.
Despite the summer warmth, there was a gloom in the morning air of Bran village that clung to the cobblestones and hung low beneath the trees. The castle's spires and battlements pierced the sky, jagged and defiant, as if daring the sun to burn through the clouds. It looked like something out of a gothic novel, hauntingly beautiful in its isolation. The structure seemed to grow out of the rock itself, a silent sentinel watching over the valley, its weathered stones whispering secrets older than legend.
Camera hanging around your neck, you captured the moment, impatient to add it to your photography portfolio — and show it to Wednesday, who decided to stay behind and work on her novel. She needed to hurry if she wanted to beat Mary Shelly as youngest published author. You wished you would have experienced this with her, a sister bonding moment. She would’ve appreciated the texture of the place: the cracked stones, the rusted hinges, the gargoyles that looked like they’d whisper curses if you stood too close.
As you got closer to the opened gates, people were starting to crowd. There were shops outside the main entrance, selling souvenirs made by local artists, plates with historical facts written, and even a cliché Dracula cosplayer. You wrinkled your nose at his costume, too cartoon-ish for your liking. You would’ve thought a popular touristic place like this would use more budget on their employees’ costumes.
You raised your camera to capture the towering archway, but just as you framed the shot, something in the corner drew your attention. A boy sat alone on a low stone bench, hunched over a sketchbook balanced on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced up with quiet focus, eyes scanning the scene before returning to the page, his pencil moving in deliberate strokes as he drew whatever had caught his gaze.
He was divinely handsome. Not in a hollywoodian way, but in the kind of way that made you want to stare just a little longer. His hair was tied into a half up hairstyle, with a few pieces falling and framing his face. He furrowed his eyebrows as he used his finger to smudge a line, then drew a few more with his pencil. His gaze was so focused, completely ignoring the loud cawks of a crow nearby.
You glanced over your camera, and when he glanced up again, his eyes met yours for a moment so intense it felt like the summer breeze had stilled. A shiver ran down your spine and the noise of the crowd, the chatter and footsteps, melted away, leaving only the two of you suspended in that charged silence.
⸸ִ ࣪𖤐°.⋆༺♱༻⋆.°ִ ࣪𖤐⸸
On your way to the Vlad the Impaler exhibit, you saw him again. His head tilted slightly as he read off one of the laminated posters on the wall. Most of the visitors didn’t care enough to take the time to read about the Count. To them, he was just a fictional character from vampire lore. Not worth stopping for.
However, he seemed to be interested.
‘’There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights,’’ you said as you stepped beside him, a calm softness in your voice.
Talking to boys was not something you mastered, but a common interest was a good way to start.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, surprised that someone would quote Dracula to him. ‘’Did you know Bram Stoker never actually visited Romania?’’ His voice was softer than you expected; it had a hint of an accent which you couldn’t place. ‘’He depicted the imaginary Dracula’s castle based upon a description that was available to him. The etching in the first edition of Dracula looks strikingly like Bran Castle — more than any other in Romania.’’
Of course you knew. You’ve read Dracula more times than you could count on your fingers.
‘’Although, without bashing Stoker’s novel, I find it’s a poor effort to describe something you witnessed firsthand,’’ you replied. ‘’When you rely solely on someone else’s perspective, it lacks the detail and depth that come with personal experience.’’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘’True. But if Stoker limited his descriptions on what he could see, it would have been an obstacle to his imagination.’’
Spiders filled your stomach. You almost couldn’t believe what was happening. You were having a conversation about gothic literature with a stranger. It wasn’t something that happened often. In fact, it never happened before. In your town, it was rare to meet people who shared your literature preferences.
You introduced yourself, and he extended his hand. ‘’I’m Xavier.’’ His touch was gentle, his eyes holding yours. He was a few inches taller than you, having to look down at you. His hand stayed in yours for a bit longer than usual introductions, but you didn’t mind. ‘’Is this your first time here?’’
“To Romania or the castle?” you asked.
‘’Both,’’ he responded, tilting his head slightly, causing a piece of his hair to fall from his half up hairdo.
‘’I’ve been to Romania as a child. My grandmother on my mother’s side used to live here.’’
Granny Frump lived a thousand lives around Europe. She couldn’t live in the same house for more than a year. Her life was captured on film and pictures, which you loved to go through whenever you visited her.
‘’You?’’ you returned. ‘’Is it your first time here?’’
The corner of Xavier’s lips curled and he shook his head. ‘’No. My father lives close to the village. I just love artistic history.’’
⸸ִ ࣪𖤐°.⋆༺♱༻⋆.°ִ ࣪𖤐⸸
You continued your visit of the castle, accompanied by Xavier. He led you through the secret passageways and narrow staircases, and for a moment, you felt like you were the main protagonist of a gothic novel, sneaking around with her forbidden lover.
Except Xavier was not your lover. He was just a boy from the village who happened to have common interests with you.
Much to your annoyance, the sun had come out while you were inside and was shining over the inner courtyard. You wrinkled your nose in disgust. You despised hot weather — especially the sun. It always ruins your pictures.
‘’Can I draw you?’’ Xavier asked, pulling you out of your summer hatred thoughts.
You glanced down at the sketchbook he held tucked under one arm. ‘’Draw…me?’’ you repeated.
Xavier nodded. ‘’I just don’t want to forget today. And you make the perfect model. I mean, you look like you belong here. A ghost of the past bound into this castle instead of a tourist.’’
Everywhere else, you always stick out like a sore thumb, looking like you came straight out of your coffin. But here, standing in your long skirt and silky dark hair, you blended in the decor as if it was your house.
‘’Eh…thank you?’’
‘’I mean it,’’ he added, sincerity in his green eyes. ‘’These people look so bland in comparison. You outshine anyone.’’
You were taken aback by his words, not expecting such compliments. You got those on very rare occasions. It was kind of strange honestly.
So, for the next thirty minutes, you sat on the stairs as Xavier worked his pencil on his sketchbook, capturing your alluring beauty on the paper.
How would he draw you? Was he more of a semi-realistic, minimalist, or perhaps even caricatural type of artist?
You watched him from the corner of your eye, focused and brows slightly furrowed in concentration as his fingers became more grey from the smudging of the graphite. The occasional breeze rustled the fallen front pieces of his hair, but he didn’t seem to notice.
When he showed you the final sketch, your breath caught slightly. The version of you he had drawn looked haunting. Being a quick sketch, the portrait wasn’t as detailed, but Xavier had captured the perfect essence on the paper. The ancient stones behind you were shaded with delicate strokes, your hair cascading over your shoulders like ink. The drawing reminded you of a scene from Carmilla.
‘’This is truly sublime, Xavier,’’ you said, your voice quieter than you intended.
Compliments didn’t come easily to you, but this one felt earned.
‘’You make it easy.’’
As you were looking at the sketch, his fingers lightly tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. His eyes wandered over your face, taking in the way your eyelashes casted shadows, or how your lips were parted in a small gasp.
The moment of silence stretched, and you felt your heart beat a little faster under his stare. You hadn't expected your visit to Bran Castle to take this turn. And, although you hated surprises, the thought of not meeting Xavier made your little black heart ache.
You opened your mouth to say something, but an unsettling violin ringtone came from your backpack — your phone. Apologizing, you fished it out, seeing a message from your mother asking if you were on your way back.
All good things must come to an end, right?
Refusing to lose contact with Xavier, you exchanged numbers before saying goodbye.
Before you disappeared back inside the castle, he grabbed your hand and kissed the back. ‘’Careful on the way. The Count might step out of his lair and take you for his next wife.’’
i js listened to a matter of time by laufey and lately been obssesed with those wednesdayxfemreader fics n i through that it would make a fire fic where yall use the line from too little too latte "guess that were soulmates in different lifetimes, what if you leave him, throw me a lifeline" idk if it makes sense pls pls pls
if it has a happy ending better but do what you want! ❤
Too Little, Too Late
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Masterlist
Fem!Reader coded but no specifics so GN!Reader
Word Count — 2.6k
Warnings — None!
A/N — Turned this into a soulmate au cause im big and greedy.. BUT ALSO WE BACK???? HEY GUYS SORRY FOR THE WAIT I HOPE Y’ALL LIKE THIS
Song — Too Little, Too Late by Laufey
You’ve kept your soulmark close to your chest since you got it. A small, black, teardrop shaped tattoo on your wrist that appeared on your sixteenth birthday months ago. Keeping it secret wasn’t hard, your very few friends had no clue when your birthday was, so none of them could interrogate you. Not that they would anyways, they all respect your privacy.
And boy were you glad for it.
Privacy has always been an important thing for you, you grew up in a pack where individuality was discouraged. You were told to act a certain way, do certain things, talk to certain people, so you opted to keep to yourself. It wasn’t until you were fourteen and still hadn’t wolfed out that you fully shut people out, though.
Of course, you do have a few friends. Namely Bianca Barclay and Divina. Both of whom are plenty confident and talkative themselves without the need for your input. Though, they still make you give it sometimes.
You had thankfully wolfed out when you were fifteen, a very late bloomer, and a disappointment to your family when you weren’t anything special. Just a normal sized wolf, with normal abilities, and normal features. It didn’t matter much to you, though. You were just happy to have them off your back.
You were happy enough on your own. So why surround yourself with unnecessary chatter?
The one social indulgence you allowed yourself, however, was the Nightshades. When Bianca and Divina approached you about joining, it didn’t take much convincing for you to agree. The thought of a secret society made you excited. A way for you to finally find people like you. And you sort of did.
You got along well with Rowan, considering him a close friend until his untimely death. Kent and Ajax were also both cool, and so were Xavier and Yoko, but you didn’t really hang out with them much in any situation other than a Nightshades meeting. Which was okay. Because despite things falling through with them, you did get to spend more time with Bianca, Divina, and Rowan, which you always loved.
And this year, it even brought you Wednesday Addams. An unlikely friendship with the almost-goth girl formed when you and the Nightshades kidnapped her for breaking into your library, your close relationship with Rowan was common knowledge around the school, so she aimed most of her questions at you after she finished insulting Bianca and the notion of a secret society.
She intrigued you. She had no reason to care about whatever it was going on in Jericho, but she did anyway. She devoted everything she had to finding the monster hunting people down. It was so admirable.
It was a month after you met her that your feelings for her shifted, you went to her surprise birthday party in Crackstone’s Crypt and watched as her soulmark appeared. A small black tear drop just like yours. If she– or anyone for that matter– noticed you acting weird after seeing it, they didn’t tell you. Partly because of Wednesday getting a vision and then passing out, but you were grateful for it nonetheless. The distraction gave you time to decide how you were going to bring it up.
The next day you followed her to Jericho, planning on telling her at the Weathervane over coffee. At least then if she takes it badly, you could always just stay far away from each other the rest of the day. But things took a turn when you came back from the background to see Tyler Galpin holding his wrist right next to Wednesday’s. He was grinning, and she looked softer than usual. You put on a smile and walked over.
“Hey Tyler. What’s going on?” You ask.
“Wednesday is my soulmate, look.” Your heart drops, you look at his wrist and sure enough, his mark is a replica of hers– of yours.
“Wow– uh that’s awesome you two!” You reply.
“Not sure if awesome is how I’d describe it.” Wednesday mumbles. You laugh nervously.
“Well, um, I better get going. Bye!” You turn around and run away, your heart shattered, your lungs filling up.
—
For days, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Tyler is Wednesday’s soulmate. Not you. Their marks were identical, you saw them with your own eyes. But it didn't feel right. Seeing them together was wrong. It made your bones ache, your heart hurt. You knew in your heart of hearts it should be you by her side.
Somehow, Bianca noticed your distance. She saw you back even further away from everyone, specifically Wednesday, so she took it upon herself to check up on you constantly.
You gave in after a week of her pestering, and told her what happened.
“How’s your day been, Y/N?” The siren asks, plopping down beside you on your bed.
“Fine.” You reply, not looking up from your book. She hums.
“My day was great, thanks for asking.” You just nod, causing Bianca to sigh and snatch your book out of your hands.
“Okay, I’m done. What’s going on with you? And don’t say nothing, because whatever this is is not nothing.” She snaps. You frown.
“Leave it alone, Bianca.”
“No! I won’t! You’ve been left alone too long. Tell me what happened? You’ve been off for a week.”
“I can’t.” You reply shakily.
“You can, and you will.” Wordlessly, you pull up your sleeve and show Bianca your soulmark, feeling utterly exposed. She gingerly takes your wrist and inspects the mark with furrowed brows.
“Isn’t this Wednesday’s mark?” You nod, she smiles. “This is great! You two totally make sense together. Why exactly is this a bad thing?” You rip your hand away and pull down your sleeve.
“It wasn't until I found out that Tyler Galpin is Wednesday’s soulmate. Not me.”
“Wait, what? That doesn’t make any sense.” You shrug. “How do you know? Did you see his mark?”
“Yeah, I walked in on them comparing. They are complete matches.” You laugh bitterly.
“Well, maybe yours is slightly different. Maybe she isn’t your soulmate.” You shake your head.
“I can feel it, Bianca. I don’t know. Maybe we’re soulmates in another life and in this one I’m meant to wait.” She frowns.
“No, Y/N, you can’t give up like that. Have you talked to her?” You shake your head.
“How would I even start a conversation like that? ‘Hi sorry for avoiding you this past week, I know you have a soulmate but I actually think I’m your soulmate not him’?” She shrugs.
“Maybe?”
“No thank you. I’m just going to wait it out, I think.” You grab your book. “Can I keep reading, now?” Bianca sighs, but nods and gets up, leaving you alone.
—
It’s been a week since your talk with Bianca, and really the only thing that’s changed is she hasn’t been making you talk as much. Your hangouts have gone back to their normal quiet study sessions and her and Divina talking while you watch in amusement.
Wednesday, however, has gotten harder to avoid. It didn’t help that you shared every class and that she seemed to try and talk to you after or before every one of them. Not to mention her constantly sneaking up on you outside of class. You were running out of excuses to leave.
—
You were leaving your botany class in a hurry, your head down and music blasting in your headphones. Praying to anything that Wednesday doesn’t try to stop you again. You make it halfway to your dorm when you’re grabbed and pulled into an empty classroom by none other than the physic herself.
“Wednesday! Jesus!” You exclaim, pulling off your headphones.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” You frown, this was not how you wanted the conversation to go.
“I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
“Stop with the excuses. We have the same workload, and I happen to know you aren’t as daft as our classmates, so spill.” You still don’t budge, keeping your mouth in a tight straight line. “I am not above using means of physical torture to get you to talk, so talk.” A beat. “Okay, fine, it just so happens that I have some silver in my bag, maybe that’ll get you to talk.” She takes off her backpack and reaches in, you flinch.
“Okay! Fine!” You exclaim. “I don’t know how to explain myself, so I guess I’ll just show you.” You say shakily, pulling up your sleeve and squeezing your eyes shut. You’re not sure what you’re expecting. A slap, a punch, a piece of silver chucked at you, anything violent really.
“What is that?” She asks.
“My soulmark.”
“That’s a match to mine.. that doesn’t make any sense. Is this some kind of joke?”
“Trust me, I wish it was.” You pull down your sleeve and sit in a chair. “I’ve just been a little… confused.”
“If this is some kind of ploy to make me stay away from Tyler, I already told Xavier—“
“What are you talking about?” You ask, interrupting her.
“Xavier doesn’t like Tyler.”
“I mean, yeah, for good reason.” You shrug. “I’m not trying to pull something on you. This is exactly why I didn’t tell you in the first place.” You shake your head.
“I’ve never heard of anyone having two soulmates.” She says, diverting your attention.
“I know, which is why I don’t think we are. I don’t think I have one.” You mumble. Wednesday’s face is unmoving, unchanging. “Just, throw me a lifeline here, if you leave him, find me? Even if it’s years down the line and we haven’t talked.” She still doesn’t say anything. You give her a pained smile and stand. “Am I free to go?” She steps out of your way, and you nod once before leaving.
—
You honestly didn’t think it could get worse, but after that conversation, everything was seemingly on the decline. Attacks were getting more frequent, and tensions were higher. You were even forced to watch Wednesday and Tyler interact on way too many occasions.
Nothing has broken you before, nothing has even gotten close, but this might be too much.
The straw on the camel's back was when Wednesday asked The Nightshades for help in taking down Tyler, who, as it turns out, is the hyde. That was it. How did he deserve her and not you? He, the blood hungry monster who’s been ravaging Jericho for the past two months. The monster who’s been lying to all of your faces for months.
After the fight with Crackstone, when everyone was safe, you packed up your stuff and went home overnight. You left no trace of yourself behind, not even a note. The second you got home you tossed your cellphone, and turned to the one thing you know best. Solitude.
You spent the summer reading, journaling, and figuring out yourself. You also spent quite a lot of time in the woods on full moons. Leaving the cages and letting yourself roam in the country. By the time the new school year rolled around you felt stronger in yourself than ever, both mentally and physically.
Bianca and Davina found you before you even got a chance to start unpacking, both were rightfully angry for the lack of communication but after a conversation, they were fine. You found yourself talking and contributing to their conversation, and actually enjoying them. You weren’t in your head or distant. You were with them, and you loved it.
However, this newfound sense of peace didn’t last long. As soon as you saw Wednesday in the quad, talking to your new principal, your heart began to race and your past anger flooded you. Not at her, but at the world. You still managed to give her a small smile when your eyes locked, but barely, and you left immediately after.
Your first instinct was to avoid her again, but you quickly realized that would be nearly impossible as all of Nevermore now views Wednesday as their own personal hero.
They aren’t wrong, she did save the school, but knowing Wednesday, she was definitely hating the attention. You would too if you were her. You can’t take two steps without hearing Wednesday’s name whispered among the halls.
The founder’s pyre was the cherry on top. First she was the guest of honor, then she almost burned alive, and then the awful portrait of her saving the school was revealed, all culminating in her burning said portrait and the wooden stand it was on. You rushed to Davina and Bianca’s sides when the fire started reaching them, and walked back to the school arm and arm with your best friends.
The next morning you woke to a pounding on your door. You groggily answered it, not expecting to see Wednesday standing in front of you.
“Wednesday? What are you doing here?” You ask, your words slurring slightly.
“May I come in?” You hesitantly move to allow her entrance to your room. She walks in and looks around curiously. “Did you mean what you said?”
“Huh?” You sit down on your bed.
“You said you didn’t think you had a soulmate.”
“That was last year.” You say dumbfounded.
“And?”
“I have a mark.” You shrug.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t know what I think. All I know is you and I have matching marks.. but so do you and Tyler. So I really don’t know.”
“I don’t have matching marks with Tyler.” Your eyes immediately snap to hers, mouth going dry.
“What?”
“He faked his mark.” You blink, shocked and very, very confused.
“I’m sorry— he did what?”
“Tyler faked his soulmark.” She takes a step closer. “I should’ve known there was something wrong when you and I also shared a mark, but I just assumed it was another one of Fate’s tragically hilarious jokes.”
“So, wait, what does that mean?”
“It means that your soul is the one doomed to be tied to mine for the rest of eternity.”
“I don’t know what to say.” You whisper. “I’ve spent the last five months believing I was going to be alone for the rest of my life.”
“Sorry to crush your hopes.”
“You aren’t crushing me, and I wasn’t hoping to be alone. I wanted to be yours. When I found out our marks matched I was over the moon. It nearly killed me seeing Tyler’s mark.” She stays silent, listening intently, her eyes never once leaving yours. “It hurt so bad, Wednesday. I have spent my whole life alone, and I thought once I found my soulmate that would change.”
“It has changed. I’ve seen you these past couple of days. You’re talking, you’re interacting with others.” She pauses. “I know I should have come to you earlier. I hope you can find it in you to forgive my lapse in judgment.”
“I can certainly try.” You whisper.
“For the record, Y/N, I’m glad it’s you and not Tyler. He would never have been able to keep up with me.”
“And I will?”
“You will certainly try.” You smile slightly.
“I most definitely will.”
“Okay, well, that’s all I needed to talk to you about, so, I suppose I’ll go.” She says, making no effort to move whatsoever.
“Yeah, okay, um– I’ll see you in class.”
“Yes, see you in class.” She once again stands still, her eyes still intensely locked with yours.’
“Is there something el–” She surges forward and kisses your cheek.
“No, that is all. Goodbye.” She rushes away and to your door, walking out as fast as she can, and slamming the door behind her. You laugh to yourself and bring a hand up to your cheek where her lips were just pressed. You could definitely get used to that.
Summary ⚝ The killing spree of the monster isn't going alright with your necromancer abilities and your sleep routine, but thankfully Xavier is there to help.
Warnings ⚝ none, just fluff and mutual pining!
a/n ⚝ This is my first time posting here so I apologize beforehand in case something is wrong with the format! Also, english isn't my first language so there may be some misspellings.
WC ⚝ 2k (ups)
Disclaimer ⚝ My posts are always about the characters themselves, not the actors.
Nevermore has never been a quiet place.
During the day the courtyard was usually filled with the voices of students talking about the latest gossip, the halls bustling with students going to their classes, but at night it was as if a cloak of silence covered the school, making reign a peaceful ambiance.
But these last weeks at night the silence that reigned at the school wasn't one of peace, it was one of uneasiness, of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
In this case, it's more like waiting for another body to drop.
The monster has been killing people for the last few weeks, and the worst part is that nobody seemed to believe you or your sister when you tried to tell your theories.
That only made the two of you more invested, for Wednesday, it was likely the need to prove herself right, for you, it was because you couldn't keep coexisting with the constant sense of death lingering in every corner of this place.
Being a necromancer like you were didn’t only involve seeing the ghosts that had been lurking around the school waiting for someone that could help them finish their last desires, but it also made you sense when a death was going to happen or it was happening.
Because of this, the killing spree that the monster has been on wasn’t doing you any good. Every time you were trying to be at peace or catch some sleep, the sense of death was lurking around you and making you feel uneasy.
You weren't new to the sense of death, after all, you were still an Addams, so death had been present in your life since childhood, but this time around it was different, probably because the possibility that you were the next victim was prevailing.
These circumstances, combined with your regular insomnia and the little desire you had to speak to people, had been making you more susceptible to a gloomy attitude.
That was one of the reasons you had ended up here, at one of the balconies of the school.
The place was isolated at this late hour, and after not being able to doze off after some hours, you had sneaked out of your dorm that you shared with your sister and Enid and arrived here.
You were leaning on the wood railing, looking out at the immense forest that surrounded Nevermore. You could still see some lights on at Jericho, and you were entertaining yourself making up stories about what the normies were up to at this hour.
You were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear the door opening behind you when suddenly you felt someone leaning against the railing beside you. You jumped surprised at the sudden arrival, and stared up at the face of who had joined you.
Xavier was standing there, leaning his back against the railing with his brown hair down, covering some of his face. He also wasn’t wearing the uniform like you, instead he was just wearing some shirt that was covered in spots of what seemed to be old paint.
“Goodness! Where the hell did you appear from?” you asked while jumping back, grabbing your putting a hand on your chest to calm your rapidly beating heart.
“I couldn’t sleep, and I know that this space is typically empty, so I thought I could find some peace but apparently you beat me to arrive,” he responded with a small smirk at seeing you startled, not a typical sight. He continued, “what are you doing here at this hour?”
“Why do you care?” you quickly responded, crossing your arms while leaning against the railing and looking up at his face.
“Well, it definitely isn’t common seeing someone up at four am lurking on a balcony” he started saying, glancing at you from bottom to top “...especially dressed in guillotine pajamas.”
You quickly looked down at yourself and looked at him a little flustered. “It was a gift,” you quickly defended yourself.
He raised his hands and looked at your eyes. “I didn't say I didn’t like it, it looks pretty on you,” he finished, sending you a small smile.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” you started saying, finally lowering your barriers a little “Necromancers and constant murders don't get together really good” you finished.
His face softens and gives you an understanding look, “I also get nightmares because of this whole thing,” he said, trying to make you feel better.
“It's not only the feeling of the deaths, it's also the lack of silence at the dorm, Wednesday sleeps like the dead, but Enid doesn't stop snoring,” you said, rolling your eyes jokingly when talking about your friend's habit.
Suddenly a goosebump goes through you when a wind picks up around you both, he stares at your definitely not outside-appropriate outfit.
“Come with me, I will show you a place that won't make you freeze to death,” he started saying while getting up from against the railing and started walking towards the door, “…and doesn’t involve a wolf snoring,” he finished with a small smile.
You admitted to yourself that you were quite curious about what he was referring to and decided to follow him through the school and the exterior.
After the walk that seemed interminable, you finally arrived at his painting shed. He opened the door for you and indicated that he wanted you to enter.
A little confused, you went into the shed and looked around. It looked the same as it had the last time you were here, the walls were covered in canvas and papers filled with his drawings.
In one of them, the images of the monster stared back at you, his big eyes seemed fixed on you, and you looked at it feeling jittery.
Xavier, seeing how you looked at the painting, quickly grabbed a fabric and covered it. “Sorry about that,” he said, standing in front of you, as if protecting you from the drawing.
“It's okay,” you finally responded, looking away, breaking eye contact after a few seconds of looking at his piercing eyes.
He decided to cut the silence and move to the side and stand beside what seemed to be a mattress covered in some blue blankets and some pillows. “I thought that you could try to catch some sleep here,” he started saying. “I know it doesn’t seem too comfortable, but I thought that the silence and some company that doesn't snore could help,” he finished, staring expectantly at your response.
After seeing your eyes going between the mattress and him, he quickly added, “It was probably a stupid idea, sorry.”
“No!” You said quickly you didn't want him to think badly about himself even if you didn't know why yourself. “It is a good idea, here I won't have to think of smothering Enid with my pillow to have silence,” you added rushedly, not knowing how to make him feel less uncomfortable.
He looked at you and gave you a grin, showing his dimples, the impression of you being a little nervous around him arousing some kind of feeling in him.
You returned it with a small smile and felt spiders crawling in your stomach at the sight of him.
After a few seconds of maintaining eye contact, you broke it, and seated at the makeup bed, you found that thanks to the few blankets that covered it, it was more comfortable than you expected.
“I think your theory will be right after all, it is quite up to my standards,” you said, turning back to your sarcastic self to try to stop the weird feeling you were getting when looking at him.
He gave you a chuckle and followed you with the sarcastic tone, “Oh! So after all, Miss Addams finds my little mansion quite exquisite.”
A giggle escaped you at his choice of words, “So now you know how to use big words.” You stared back at him with a playful glint in your eyes.
“You’re not the only one who can embody the tone of a thousand-year-old ghost,” he fired back.
You gave a dramatic gasp and grabbed your chest. “I don't talk like a thousand-year-old ghost, Mr. Thorpe.”
He laughed at your reaction and quickly retorted, “The first time we met, you told me if I had a fax machine to send me a message.”
You felt the blush going up your neck. “You know my family is quite old-fashioned. It is not my fault I didn't grow up with a computer.”
He just gave you a laugh in response, and you just felt your face getting hotter, so you decided to grab the black pillow that lay beside you and threw it at him.
It hit him in the belly, cutting his laugh. Now it was your time to let out a big laugh while looking at him being surprised at the sudden attack.
“That’s not fair, you attacked a disarmed man,” he finally got out after recovering some air. “I guess now is my time to get you.”
You didn't process his comment fast enough, and without realizing it, you were lying on the mattress with Xavier on top of you grinning, pinning your wrists on either side of your head.
Slowly both of you recovered from the sudden action and realized the position you were in. You stared at Xavier, who was inches away from you. He had a small smile covering his face, and his hair was hanging from both sides.
For a small moment it gives you the illusion that you two were the only ones in the world, both of you stuck inspecting each other's faces.
Suddenly a thunderflash outside the shed broke the moment, and both of you realized that it was raining outside.
You separated quickly, Xavier muttering a small apology and sitting beside you on the mattress, him with his back against the wall while you were still lying there.
“I suppose you have to get some rest if you want to stay awake during Thornhill class.” He said quietly, almost afraid of speaking louder and breaking the peacefulness the place has settled in.
You just muttered a small agreement, still slightly out of breath and still feeling your cheeks hot. You settled against your side, facing him and putting your head on the pillow.
“You’re not going to try to sleep?” You asked after not seeing him move after a few seconds.
“I will keep guard in case the monster decides that we will be the breakfast,” he said, lightly sending a grin your way. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked after seeing your eyes blinking rapidly trying to prevent the sleep from catching you.
You gave him an embarrassed smile and responded, “I think I haven't slept the whole night since the moment the murders started.” After seeing his eyes widen slightly worriedly, you were quick to add, “I have snoozed off a little in between classes, it’s okay.”
He still looked worried about you. “Well, I don’t care if we miss the morning classes, today you will catch the eight hours all doctors say we're supposed to have.”
“But—” you tried to tell him that you didn't want him to miss class, but he cut you off and gave you a pointed look. “Don't try to stop me, I am not above copying your methods and chaining you to the bed.”
You squinted your eyes but decided against not following his order and lay back at the pillows.
“Good night then,” you said, giving him a look.
“Good night, Addams.” He responded back, looking at you with a fond look on his face.
You didn't know what gave you the courage, but when he was going to get up to let you get some sleep, you grabbed his wrist. He looked back confused.
“Stay here,” you quickly said, staring at a spot in his shirt instead of looking at his eyes. “Please,” you added quietly, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding.
“Okay, I won’t move from your side, I promise,” he uttered while glancing from your hand to your pleading eyes. It seemed as if the promise wasn't only meaning today but instead referring to something bigger between you.
You finally settled in the mattress with him at his side when you noticed that you were still holding his wrist. When you opened your fingers and were about to bring your arm back to your side, he quickly grabbed your hand, slipping your hand into his, your fingers intertwining naturally as if it was something natural to both of you.
The last thing you remember before falling into a deep sleep was the beam he had on his face and the slightly rose tone crawling in his cheeks.
authors note: wednesday addams x reader — wednesday does not give a fuck about tyler or xavier, tyler galpin x reader x xavier thorpe but it felt too clunky to include. they are the main pairing, and i don’t envision percy as xavier — i picture ethan cutkosky as him, but you’re free to headcanon anyone.
word count: 4k
preview: “I get it," you say, trying to keep a straight face and when Wednesday looks at you out of the corner of her eye, you can't resist adding with mock solemnity, "I also love it when men die for me."
“I have to admit, I’m both impressed and disappointed,” Wednesday reveals, dispassionately looking at Xavier and Tyler engage in an amicable exhibition of camaraderie by the snacks table that now had crumpled cocktail napkins and half-eaten confectionaries that party-goers had surmised weren’t actually tasty at the second bite. There is a lack of animosity that had been present for the first few months of your knowing them. Most of it, you could admit, was in fact, Tyler’s fault — he’d even had the good sense to confess to it. His remorseful tone had temporarily mollified Xavier’s ire.
“Disappointed?” you inquire curiously, peeling the cupcake casing before taking an abundant bite.
“Yes, actually. I was looking forward to a fight till death over your hand,” she admits, looking more sullen than usual.
“Oh Wednesday,” you coo, “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”
“I enjoy a grand gesture with a subsequent death,” she muses.
"I get it," you say, trying to keep a straight face and when Wednesday looks at you out of the corner of her eye, you can't resist adding with mock solemnity, "I also love it when men die for me."
Silence hangs in the air like a head in a tightened noose until Wednesday’s voice cuts into it. “Fine. I’ll bite.”
“I’m sure you will,” you grin wolfishly.
She ignores your comment. “How did you do it?”
“I could show you,” you offer, a glint of mischief in your eyes.
“Your paramours would despise that. A tempting offer, I’m almost inclined to agree,” she replies and it’s a little hard to tell with Wednesday but you think she’s being genuine — or at least she finds the prospect of Xavier and Tyler hating something she was the cause of, appealing.
“But,” she interjects, impeding your thoughts from running wild. “I don’t like being touched.”
You hum thoughtfully. “You like to watch?”
She pauses, and considers this question thoroughly before answering with a simple, “yes.”
You nod and your voice dips lower so no one can hear what you’re talking about. “You wanna touch?”
She stares ahead, letting the question sink in, then says, “not them. Just you.”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise. “Didn’t think you were interested in me.”
Wednesday lapses back into her dreary silence.
“Wait, do you like me?” This was news to you. For the longest time, you thought she had been barely tolerating you for Tyler’s company. Or more accurately, his aptitude for getting her what she needs for her ongoing investigation. Tyler had conjectured that they were friends based on their minimal interactions and you didn’t have the heart to tell him that Wednesday didn’t do friends but at the same time you’re positive that she had most definitely made that fact perspicuous.
She glares daggers at you. Don’t push it.
“I’ll talk to them,” you concede. “If either of them says no, then the whole thing’s off.”
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
.
Xavier’s place is huge; embellished with ornate furniture that seems to be customized to the Thorpe’s liking. His bedroom feels more personalized, however, and out of all the rooms in the manor, it was your favorite. Taped on his walls were a cluster of sketches of both you and Tyler. An odd one of Wednesday and any prophetic dreams he had. Most of it is nonsensical. You’d ask him about any dreams that plagued him often and he’d confide in you, even if they didn’t make much sense. It just felt good to share them with people so he didn’t feel like he was spiraling. His father had enough diatribes, he didn’t want to hear any new additions.
“You’ve made Tyler a muse too?” Wednesday asks, vetting the sketches. It sounds a lot like goading. You don’t mention the copious amounts of leather journals with provocative delineations of both you and Tyler in compromising positions nor the concealed canvases depicting the same thing in higher quality paints.
Xavier shoots her a dark look, then an exasperated one at you. “Is she gonna be like this the entire time?”
“You know what she’s like,” you reason and he softens but not without rolling his eyes. You take it as a begrudging acceptance.
You turn to her. “Wednesday,” you croon, “remember what I said about being nice and what it gets you.”
“I’m beginning to understand,” she begins, her unwavering stare meeting Tyler’s. Who usually engages in a one-sided conversation with Wednesday but not today. He seems on edge, observing her like she’s an anomaly which is strange for two reasons: they’d both acquiesced when you had made the offer and out of the two, Tyler is the one who actively seeks out her company.
“Understand what?” he bites out.
Wednesday’s dull, lifeless eyes light up in amusement and she raises a brow. “What you see in her.”
From what you know about Wednesday, you understand that this isn’t entirely a compliment. She’s doing it to rile up Tyler. And it’s working.
Xavier goes to stand next to him, arm nudging Tyler when he crosses them and Tyler finally looks away and at you; there’s an intensity to him, a possessive glint in his eyes.
“If you’ve changed your mind…” you taper off.
“No,” Tyler says with a frown. “I want her to see what she can’t have.”
“And here I thought you liked me,” Wednesday intones laconically, not particularly caring about Tyler’s opinion of her but intrigued by this sudden change in demeanor. This confused you to no end, Tyler was usually the level-headed one out of the two, it was much easier to get a rise out of Xavier and you were under the impression that Wednesday was on good terms with Tyler. You brush this thought off; obviously, there is a soupçon of acrimony when your partner allows a voyeur into the room.
Xavier cuts in, divesting his shirt and pants. “Tyler. You wanna go first?”
Tyler hesitates for a moment like he’s just remembering where he is then licks his lips. “Yeah.”
“Interesting,” Wednesday comments.
Xavier opens his mouth to retort.
“Kiss me, Xavi.” You let yourself get comfortable on his bed, holding yourself up on your forearms.
His mouth dries up at the sight of you and he follows you, tall body hunched over your relaxed frame. He kisses you long and slow, slim fingers curling around the nape of your neck and pushing you in closer, occasionally tugging at the coils.
You tilt your head up and Xavier leaves open-mouthed kisses along your jawline before dragging himself back, watching Tyler move to encapsulate you in a covetous kiss, maneuvring you so that your back hits the soft, fresh linen of Xavier’s bed.
“How do you want me?” you murmur against his lips.
He pulls back with that gentle crooked smile you love. “Normally, on top of me,” he glances back on Wednesday, “but right now, I wanna fuck you like this.”
“Yeah? Want Xavi to hold me open?”
Tyler groans and Xavier takes this as a sign to hold one of your thighs and spread you open, rubbing a thumb down your slit, eyebrows flying up at how wet you are already.
“Shit, you’re soaked already,” he says. “Don’t even have to get you ready. Come feel her, Ty.”
Tyler swipes his thumb at your cunt and you quiver, your cunt fluttering around nothing, slick gushing out of you and coating his hand.
“Is this for her?” he asks slowly, thumb spreading the wetness and rubbing careful circles at your clit.
“No,” you gasp out at the contact. “‘s for you and Xav. Just you two.” You raise your head to look at where he’s touching only to immediately throw it back onto a pillowcase encased in silk — something that Xavier had specifically bought for you should your head wraps come loose while you were spending the night. You take to tilting your head to the side, watching Xavier steadily stroking the length of his cock.
“Shit, Xavi,” you moan, holding out a hand for him, which he is quick to grasp, thumb tenderly stroking the back of it. “You look so good.”
His mouth is popped open but he graces you with an open-mouthed smirk at your comment, hand twisting around himself. He feels a little lightheaded from the way your pretty cunt glistens. “If you think I’m the one that looks good then I have to get a mirror in here.”
Tyler lines his cock up at your entrance, a feather-light hovering as he rubs it along your folds, coating the length of it with your wetness, then uses his hand to press the weight down, rutting himself against you.
“Ty?” you whisper tentatively.
“Hm?” His voice is strained, distracted but he still lifts his head to look at you.
“Can Xavi come hold me?”
He chuckles. “Uh, I think he’s a little busy...”
You give a little fucked-out grin to Xavier who hasn’t taken his eyes off you before remembering that Wednesday is there, cloistered exactly where you left her and not a step closer. You notice she hasn’t even sat down, her hands by her side. “You know you can touch yourself too, Wednesday?”
“I’m here to watch,” she says monotonously. "And I'm not interested in pleasuring myself."
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean you’d just be stood there doing nothing.”
“I’m enjoying myself, can’t you tell?” Her eyes remain cadaver-like, and her cute plum-lacquered mouth is pressed firmly together.
“Not really.” In all honesty, you couldn’t tell when she was enjoying herself unless there were very specific tells: a razor-sharp glint in her eyes, the beginnings of a dimple that had endeared her to you in the first place — a physical trait she shares with Xavier. The former you rarely had the pleasure of seeing.
“I am,” she repeats, then makes an offer that confounds you all. “I can come and… hold you.” To harshen the blow, she adds, “seeing as Xavier is preoccupied with his own pleasure.”
Xavier sneers at her blatant heckling.
“No, I like it, he does it for me,” you say defensively. And it’s true — Xavier enjoys fucking your mouth over jerking off. It isn’t until he realized the effect pleasuring himself had on you that he started doing it more. “I love watching him, it makes me feel so good. Can always feel my fingers slide inside myself easier when he does.”
Xavier whimpers, pale cheeks mottled with poppy-red; a look that makes you beam at him, infused with an amalgamation of arousal and puerile joy.
“You should come closer,” you beguile, a smile gracing your face.
“Nice try,” he scoffs. His eyes gloss over as he trails them down your body. He has to forcefully tear them away from you with a shaky exhale so he doesn’t cum there and then.
You spread yourself open with one hand, sending Tyler a coy smile which he amusedly mirrors. “But I want you to feel me from inside. Wanna feel you deep in my throat.”
His dick visibly twitches. “Shut up,” he hisses, embarrassed that he’s already so close.
Tyler calls out your name, voice cracking, “you’re killing me here. Need you so bad.”
You grin, the back of your hand stroking along the apple of his cheek. “Not yet. Let her come closer.”
His hips stutter at the contact, grinding his dick against your cunt and he leans his face into your touch.
He lets out a disbelieving laugh like he can’t believe he’s doing this and looks over his shoulder. “Wednesday?”
“Tyler,” she acknowledges.
He leans back, hooking your thighs around his hips. “Come and give her what she needs.”
Wednesday takes calculated steps, warily eyeing Xavier and then Tyler before methodically taking off her shoes and ensconcing herself behind you. Her long black pleated skirt fans out on Xavier’s bed and you peer up at her with an idyllic smile. “Hi.”
“Hello,” she replies flatly.
You hold out your hand for her to tentatively clasp hers around.
Tyler shakes his head and you curl your calf around his waist. “Still okay with it? It’s okay if you change your mind.
“Yeah, no. I’m good. This is… I wasn’t expecting it,” he divulges. “Guess you could say I’m still getting used to it.”
“Don’t,” Wednesday deadpans.
He takes his dick into his hand, tapping the head of it against your swollen clit, failing to hide a grin when he feels your thighs tremble around him. He nudges the tip between your folds, allowing you to soak the head of it to facilitate an easier fit.
His breath catches in his throat and you have to hold back a snarky comment at his slackened jaw.
Your hips buck, wanting nothing more to ease the dull ache inside you. “ C’mon. Fuck me.”
Tyler sighs. “Yeah… yeah . Hold on a sec.” He slowly inches his length inside you, grinning when he feels your legs push him closer, hips twitching impatiently. “Wanna fill you all the way up.”
You wail when he pushes himself all the way in, hands flailing against the bed sheets, Wednesday’s skirt, her hand. Anything you can reach for. You scramble up to see exactly what he’s doing with the support of Wednesday’s body. She’s rigid behind you, arms held out mechanically as she holds your hands.
Tyler’s cock throbs. “That’s it, there you go.” And he begins to thrust at a steady pace, pulling out a series of gasps from you, manicured nails digging into the back of Wednesday’s hand. The sting of pain doesn’t deter her, she just tightens her hold on you, a visible tick in her jaw from how hard she’s clenching it.
“Fuck,” you pant, dizzy at the stretch, searing, white-hot pleasure that erupts in your stomach, coiling and tightening each time Tyler’s hips collide with your quivering thighs, the slick crash of skin against skin resonating through your whole body. “Feels so big.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunts, lips ghosting over the soft skin of your neck. “It’s all yours.” He lifts your leg up, the crux of your knee sitting atop his shoulder.
“That all it takes for you to forget about me, huh?” Xavier jokes dryly.
“You can join him, y’know?”
The blush on Xavier’s face makes you laugh into Tyler’s neck.
He fucks into you with a renowned vigor and you attempt to lift your hips to meet his movements halfway. With a grit of his teeth, he pushes himself up and drags you out of Wednesday’s hold, your back arching into him as you cry out when you feel the drag of his cock against your velvet-soft walls.
“Shit!” you moan, the pressure in your belly winding up tight. “Xavi. Xavi.”
“Yeah, I got you,” Xavier murmurs, pressing a knee into his mattress as he leans over you. He presses his thumb to your clit and feels you jolt with a breathless laugh, then takes it between his forefinger and thumb and gently pinches it as he watches Tyler’s cock move in and out of you. He catches your lips in a fervent, desperate kiss despite you not being able to return it.
“Squeezing me so tight,” Tyler murmurs.
Your whine metamorphoses into a scream and you thrash your head against Wednesday’s chest, pushing up for a modicum of reprieve from Tyler’s incessant fucking. Xavier, unable to tear his lips from you, takes to leaving wet kisses on your cheek and jaw— wherever he is able to reach. You feel yourself tighten around the girth of Tyler’s cock before you cum.
“I love you,” you gasp out, clinging onto him, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on his shoulders and side. His hips stagger and he whines, nose digging into your cheek as he pants into the side of your face. He nudges Xavier’s nose with his own and Xavier laughs, pressing a kiss to the corner of Tyler’s unresponsive mouth as his strokes become uneven.
Tyler groans, his body stiffening as he spills his cum into you, the act prolonged, as if he’s unwilling to relinquish the sensation, to let the moment slip into the void where pleasure eventually dissipates into memory. His hips falter, though his gaze doesn’t waver from the juncture where the two of you remain locked. He’s utterly consumed by the sight of his own release mingling with yours, the mingling of fluids, the almost alchemical way in which they combine—an exchange both primal and grotesquely intimate. His movements become languid, deliberate, as if relishing this convergence. His hand drifts lower, the back of his finger grazing the raw nerve of your clit, eliciting an involuntary lurch from your hips—a jolt of response so instinctual, it almost betrays you. Tyler’s eyelids flutter, a sigh, more akin to a growl, escapes him, rasping and coarse. “You always smell so good,” he rasps, the words heavy, weighted with a dark reverence, a proprietary tone woven into the thick cadence of satisfaction.
Wednesday’s voice cuts through like ice breaking the surface of still water. “I wasn’t aware you had such strong olfactory senses, Tyler,” she remarks, every syllable sharpened, wielded with precision. The words hang, cool and surgical, punctuating the thickened air, though her eyes—those black, inescapable eyes—remain fixed entirely on you, as if you are some enigmatic puzzle only she can solve.
Tyler, for all his fixation, barely acknowledges her remark, absorbed as he is in the overwhelming tide of his own pleasure, too far gone to wade into the depth of her observations. His brow furrows, confusion etching across his face, the barest hint of recognition flickering but quickly drowned out. “Uh… sure, I guess,” he mutters, as though responding to a question in a dream, untethered from reality.
"Wednesday," Xavier's voice crackles with tension, a low, simmering warning. His posture is taut, shoulders rigid as his gaze sharpens, flicking between you and her, suspicion twisting his expression into something clenched, controlled, yet barely holding back a deeper unease. He knows this moment is anything but benign.
“I am simply stating a fact,” Wednesday replies, unperturbed, cool as ever, her focus unwavering, fixated. Her hand moves with calculated calm, her thumb swiping the corner of your mouth, dabbing away the glistening thread of drool as if this, too, is part of her methodical observation. The gesture is absent of affection or tenderness—no more than the cleaning of an experiment’s residue.
Xavier watches her, his lips drawing into a taut line, the controlled façade beginning to crack under the weight of a realization that gnaws at the edges of his mind. He scoffs, though the sound is hollow, resigned. You see it in the flicker of his gaze, the way he shifts his weight. There had been a strangeness from the start, hadn’t there? The way you’d first introduced the idea—how carefully, how cautiously you’d broached Wednesday’s involvement in all of this. The absurdity of it. Wednesday Addams, whose very presence seemed an antithesis to any form of intimacy, let alone this kind of carnal entanglement. And yet, somehow, here she was.
But now, standing on the precipice of understanding, it all begins to crystallize in Xavier’s mind. Of course, Wednesday had ulterior motives. She always did. How had he been so blind, so hopelessly naïve, to think otherwise? His own infatuation, his own delusions, had cloaked her in some false mystique, some foolish romanticism. He’d allowed himself to be deceived, to view her through the cracked lens of his own making.
“Right…” Tyler’s voice, slow and uncertain, trails off, the confusion on his face deepening, thickening in the charged air. He senses it too now—the subtle shift, the unspoken change in atmosphere. There’s something darker, heavier, settling over all of you, like a storm cloud rolling in just before it breaks.
You stir slightly, your mind still fogged, the remnants of your shared pleasure clinging to your thoughts like a mist. “Feel like I’m missing something,” you murmur, your voice barely audible, a soft, questioning lilt beneath the languid drowsiness still rippling through your body. It’s a quiet confession of your own bewilderment, spoken aloud without the expectation of an answer.
Xavier’s eyes, hard-edged moments before, soften at the sound of your voice. There’s something almost protective in the way his gaze shifts toward you, his hand flexing as though he’s contemplating reaching out, but doesn’t. His response, though gentle, is taut with residual tension. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, though the tightness in his jaw betrays his words. He flicks his gaze back to Wednesday, unable to shake the gnawing distrust clawing at the corners of his mind. “Wednesday needs to go.”
You blink, still adrift in the aftermath, struggling to reconcile the abrupt shift in tone. “Already?” you ask, your voice tinged with surprise, almost disappointment, as if something vital is being cut short before you’ve had the chance to fully comprehend it.
Wednesday shifts minutely, her posture as rigid as ever, her stillness unnerving. Her gaze remains pinned to you, her expression inscrutable, a mask of cold, deliberate calculation. “Yes. This was… enjoyable,” she says, though the flatness of her tone makes the word feel clinical, stripped of warmth, as though she were commenting on a fleeting curiosity. “I am… willing to do it again.”
A smile curls at the edges of your lips, a slow, unhurried grin that spreads as you instinctively lean into her orbit, a heat reigniting in your chest. You open your mouth, ready to respond, to agree, to push for more, but Xavier’s voice slices through before you can speak, his frustration bleeding into the air, thickening it like a toxin.
“The next time you want to accuse either of us of something,” Xavier says, his tone sharper now, hard as flint, as his gaze locks onto Wednesday with an intensity that borders on fury, “don’t drag our girlfriend into it. This was low, even for you.”
The accusation lands like a stone, heavy, sinking into the charged atmosphere. Your brow furrows, confusion knotting your features as you try to make sense of the sudden shift in the dynamic, the weight of what he’s saying settling slowly into the back of your mind. You start to form a response, to ask what he means, but Tyler’s hand wraps gently around your wrist, pulling you closer to him, as if to shield you from whatever is unfolding between the others. You can tell he knows too. His touch is soft, protective, but there’s an underlying tension in the way his fingers hold you, something unspoken in his need to pull you close.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Wednesday’s voice cuts through, ice-cold and precise, as though carved from the very air itself, untouched by the undercurrent of tension now thickening the room like smoke. Her gaze—obsidian, all-consuming—remains resolutely locked on you, a stare so unwavering it feels like the weight of the universe is pressing against your skin. “I didn’t come here for either of you.” The words fall from her lips with a lethargic grace, each syllable deliberate, measured, like the final strokes of an artist painting a canvas with the dark, inevitable truth. “But I will admit, observing Tyler was simply an added bonus,” she continues, as though the revelation were an afterthought, a footnote in a grander scheme, devoid of any real significance to her.
Her admission, devoid of any flourish or drama, lands with the weight of a cold, merciless stone sinking into the depths of a dark lake. The ripples spread slowly, but with the kind of inevitability that crushes breath from the room. Tyler’s hand tightens around your wrist, a reflexive squeeze, his body instinctively reacting to the shifting reality, though his mind seems slow to catch up. Xavier, meanwhile, remains still, stiff and unyielding: his face a portrait of dawning comprehension, the sharp lines of his jaw tightening as the full, chilling weight of Wednesday’s words settles into his bones.
