Chapter Text
It starts, as always, with a well-intentioned idiot.
"I let the sheriff know that you would be by for her things," Grace Shepherd says earnestly, wiping at the tears rolling down her pale cheeks. She is a bland-looking suburban mother, with all the evident qualities of one—including, it seems, an uncanny ability to stand in the way of proper investigative work. "He's expecting you."
Wednesday and Tyler exchange displeased glances. The last thing they need is local law enforcement getting in their way; this is precisely why Thing warns all potential clients not to contact anyone once Wednesday has been engaged. Honestly. She would have thought that a soccer mom (as Tyler had described her) would be keen on following simple instructions.
"Oh, please say you'll still help," Shepherd frets, apparently picking up on the entirely unsubtle shift in the ambient temperature in the room, and Wednesday feels her skin start to itch with active disgust as the woman tears up. "I'm sorry. It's just—Ronnie's an old friend. He's a good guy, I promise, and he's done so much to help look for my sister— Oh, please. I need to find her."
"That's okay," Tyler cuts in, his own annoyance disappearing under a mask of soothing warmth as he turns towards Shepherd. He flips on the honeyed charm in one brutal heartbeat, smiling earnestly as he assures her, "We'll just go talk to… Ronnie. Don't worry about it."
Wednesday is rather of the opinion that Shepherd should worry about her inability to comply with clear demands, but she cannot fault Tyler's methods. The woman stops her sniffling almost immediately, giving the Hyde a watery smile full of appreciative relief. "Thank you. He's a good guy, really."
"I'm sure he is," Tyler says agreeably, faking that sweet smile so well that only Wednesday can tell that it is fraudulent—yet even he winces slightly afterwards, as though sensing the very same ominous foreboding that overcomes Wednesday at his words.
They will almost certainly remember this exact moment when everything inevitably dissolves into ungodly chaos. After all, it is usually Tyler's fault when an investigation goes awry. He seems incapable of shaking that particular folly of his teenage years.
He can thank his unlucky stars that Wednesday happens to revel in chaos.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
"Aren't you a little young to be playing detective?" Sheriff Ronald Jefferson—Ronnie—asks as soon as he lays eyes on Wednesday, his eyebrows rising as his gaze sweeps over her slowly.
She nearly scoffs. Behind her, she hears Tyler's quiet cough.
Either this fool's research or his preparation for their arrival has been sorely inadequate, because Wednesday Addams has made a respectable name for herself in the murky world of private investigators. Even among a class of rule-benders and technicality-connoisseurs, she sets herself apart by grinding every rule to dust beneath her boot. She does not deal in technicalities because she does not bother to justify her actions. All that matters is results, and she is very good at getting results.
Most of the local law enforcement she is forced to deal with—a hazard of the profession she tolerates only when it is unavoidable—at least figure that much out before she and Tyler arrive.
Her gaze passes over the Sheriff once, assessing him just as he had assessed her. She is utterly unimpressed by his middle-aged mediocrity; it would not be imprudent to conclude that he is simply inadequate in general.
"I am old enough to be eligible for capital punishment in the event of my slow descent into madness and subsequent killing spree," Wednesday informs him flatly, staring him down as he flinches (from words? pathetic). "I trust that answers your question."
Silence descends in the Sheriff's office.
Jefferson's gaze darts towards Tyler, as though expecting a similar reaction, but she does not need to turn her head to know that her Hyde is amused. She can picture with perfect clarity the little smirk he gets on his face when he is trying to hold back his reaction but not trying too hard.
"Now, Grace Shepherd said that you have her sister's things," Wednesday continues, ready to cut this interaction short and get back to real investigative work. She would have thought that neither she nor Tyler moving to sit down would convey that they are not interested in lingering, if this man has any deductive reasoning skills. Clearly not. "I need them."
"Gracie gave me a call," Jefferson says slowly, still looking a little shellshocked. He looks her over again—gaze lingering this time, in a manner that is just a touch too presumptuous to escape notice; Wednesday narrows her eyes, even as she feels the subtle shift of movement from Tyler pressing marginally closer to her shoulder. Jefferson shakes his head, bringing his eyes back up. "Of course, I will help with whatever you need, but I can't just let you walk out of here with it, little lady. That's evidence."
Little lady.
Wednesday has to school her expression to stop the violent disgust from showing. Not only does this insignificant man's audacity not warrant a reaction, but thanks to Grace Shepherd's good intentions, they still need the Sheriff to hand over the evidence willingly. They cannot have the entire local police force chasing after them to recover stolen evidence in the midst of their investigation.
"This case has been cold for nine years," Tyler says from behind her, his tone deceptively even. Wednesday detects the slight edge that betrays his agitation, but Jefferson does not seem to sense the danger looming over his head. "I think you can let us borrow some of Daphne's things for a few days. Mrs. Shepherd wanted us to do everything we can. We just want to help her find her sister."
That sharp edge softens and slips back into the shadows as Tyler works a degree of pleading earnestness into his words. He is oh so good at that—the emotional appeal; the small town warmth—and Wednesday does not tire of seeing people fall for it every time. It is quite vindicating for sixteen-year-old version of herself that once fell for it too.
Sheriff Jefferson hesitates, his brow furrowing as he considers Tyler. He is balanced on the precipice of a decision, almost certainly moments from caving, when his gaze returns to Wednesday. His face relaxes with clarity, but the resolute look in his eyes is not what she wanted to see.
"Look, I want to help Gracie out. And I appreciate you doing this for her—and Daph. Here's what I can do," he starts, confirming Wednesday's dreadful suspicions. The useless man is digging his heels in; the temptation to slash his Achilles tendons mounts. "You can have unlimited access, whenever you need it. But the evidence has to stay in the building."
It is woefully insufficient. Wednesday presses her lips together tightly, wrestling with her dissatisfaction, and concludes that they are going to have to make a strategic retreat for now.
"Fine. Show us."
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
"I don't like how he looks at you," Tyler announces bluntly as soon as they are alone.
Admittedly, it takes far longer for him to have the opportunity than she had anticipated: Jefferson had been insistent on hovering, contributing nothing aside from inspiration for a homicide (his), and Shepherd had called Tyler nearly the second they stepped out the station, eager to hear how things went with Ronnie.
Small towns.
Disgusting.
Tyler always insists that they cannot simply hang up on clients, and so he had endured the woman's chattering for the entirety of their short drive to solitude—making soft sounds of agreement and consideration here and there, feigning interest and due regard, even as his free hand curled over the inside of Wednesday's thigh while she drove, his fingers spreading warmly to grip at her flesh through her slacks.
She had allowed it, offering him benevolence in exchange for him handling all of Shepherd's incessant questions and fretful commentary. (The fact that he would have done so anyway is not relevant to her considerations.)
Now, in the relative safety (which is not much) of the house that is theirs for the foreseeable future, they are finally free from the displeasure of company. And Tyler is there immediately, hardly letting her step out of her shoes before he is pressing his chest against her back as he crowds into her space and makes his dismay known.
"You do not like how anyone looks at me," Wednesday points out mildly; a blatant exaggeration, one that they are both aware of, aimed entirely at agitating him further for her own amusement. It does not matter that Tyler knows she is just goading him—her Hyde has always been exceptional about feeding into it anyway, leaning into his instinctive reactions and irrational emotional responses just to satisfy her urge to annoy him.
As always, Tyler takes the bait willingly, planting his hands on her sides and smoothing them down to clutch at her hips and drag her back more firmly against his body. His heat bleeds into her as he engulfs her with his larger stature, his fingers inching inwards to flatten against her stomach and hold her there once he is satisfied that he has eliminated every sliver of space between them.
His mouth touches down against the side of her throat a moment later, warm and certain, as he breathes out against her skin, "It would be a real shame if someone were to gouge his eyes out. Or maybe he just needs a spritz of alkalis to the face."
Warmth blossoms in her chest. Tyler always seems to know exactly what to say to wrap his hands around her black heart and dig his claws in, and for that she sees fit to reward him and his morbid fantasies. Wednesday leans her head back against his shoulder, offering up the full expanse of her throat to his greedy mouth, and feels her lips curve upwards when he latches onto her pulse point.
He starts to suck a bruise into her skin without preamble, working at it with a single-minded dedication, all heat and teeth and his rampant desire to have her all to himself. It is not until it starts to hurt that Wednesday feels her pulse trip and stutter under his mouth, her breathing hitching just slightly—and he feels it too, her heartbeat thrumming against his tongue, and groans low in the back of his throat.
His hands press harder against her stomach for a moment, fingertips digging into her, before they drop to her waistband. Wednesday offers him absolutely no assistance, content to set her own hands lightly on his forearms and listen to his quiet curse as he fumbles to get her slacks unbuttoned. Clearly, she has more patience than he does—and she is willing to delay getting what she wants in the name of her own amusement. Which, in the face of his whiny sigh against her throat, is immense.
Tyler finally gets the button undone, then the hook-and-bar clasp, and barely wastes time with wrenching the zipper down before he crams his hand into her panties. Wednesday exhales quietly in surprise at the abrupt jolt of his fingers on her clit, just pressing against her without further involvement as he starts to suck a new bruise over her jugular vein. It is unexpected in its restraint, offering her just a tantalizing suggestion of pleasure.
Even when her hips twitch forward slightly, an aborted little rock of movement to turn that press into a rub, he does not give her what she wants. The pressure—and the denial—mounts as he presses down harder, his teeth digging into her skin, and Wednesday feels the hunger work itself through her bloodstream as her whole body starts to flush.
She is at once incredibly wet, and growing wetter as he licks over the bite marks he has unquestionably left behind. For all that he had been insistent on getting his hands on her, he does not seem to be in any hurry now, when she is wretched with want, and something about that dichotomy sparks deliciously in her chest. If he wants to play games, then Wednesday most assuredly wants to play as well—and destroy him.
"Is that it?" she breathes, her voice still obeying her will well enough: it comes out even, marked with a hint of mockery, even as the pleasure-pain spikes through her as he bites her neck again, teetering on the edge of too-hard, not quite worrying at her flesh enough to break skin yet. "You are boring me."
His mouth pauses for half a second, his body tensing against hers, but it is the breed of tension that coils tight just before movement: a moment later his hand is diving deeper into her slacks, fighting against the constraints of her panties and abandoning her clit entirely to drive two fingers into her cunt. Wednesday jerks slightly at the sudden intrusion, taken admittedly off-guard, and has to bite her lip to strangle the moan that tries to fight its way free when he grinds the heel of his palm against her clit in one tight circle.
It is electrifying. She may have underestimated him.
"You get this wet for everyone who bores you?" Tyler hums as he releases her abused skin, mouth seeking out more unblemished territory for him to conquer and mar, and his hand is immobile again—just cupping her, pressing his long fingers up into her deeply. His voice dips, low and possessive. "You took two so easily, sweetheart. You're so bored that I bet I could fuck you just like this, no prep needed."
Something in her gut twists at the thought, a budding excitement even in the face of her own embarrassingly quick surrender. He could fuck her. Right here, against the front door of their borrowed home. Or perhaps the entryway table. It has been some time since they have made such flagrant and inappropriate use of common household furniture.
She wants him to, she realizes, and her breaths thin in her lungs at the array of enticing possibilities before her. Tyler stills for a moment, as though he has noticed—or perhaps he noticed her cunt tightening and spasming around his fingers, slicking them even more as the anticipation builds in her blood.
"Fuck," he breathes quietly against her throat, awed and almost pained, and then his fingers slip out of her as he tugs his hand out of her pants and redirects his focus from teasing her to trying to get her out of her clothes. For all that her body protests the theft, she must admit that this is a much worthier pursuit.
Still, Wednesday only cooperates minimally, letting him fight to strip her with all of his starved eagerness. When he shoves her slacks down to her knees, she notes with interest that he leaves her practically hobbled like that, his hands darting up to wrangle with her sweater. That he is happy to take off completely, tossing it away from her body, and then he is knocking into her back and driving her forward against the table. Her hands drop, palms braced on the dark wood, and her spine curves as she tests the limits of how far she can spread her legs.
With her slacks tangled around her knees, the answer is not very.
Half dressed, with no preparation, and dry—that is how he fucks her, his heat blanketing her back as he rubs the head of his cock into that messy slickness and then drives into her in one thrust. Wednesday groans, weight collapsing forward with the force of it as the sudden pleasure teeters into pain, his intrusion eased only by how unbearably wet she is—and still her body takes him readily, even as she sinks from her palms to her forearms, back arching into the feeling as she takes him even deeper.
"Holy shit," Tyler moans openly, his hips twitching forward as he grinds his cock into her, and then his hands are smoothing up her back, pushing her down flatter against the table when she does not resist. "Fuck, Wens. That is so hot. Can't believe—" he starts to pull out slowly, not quite as smoothly, dick dragging against her inner walls almost painfully "—you're going to let me fuck you like this."
Wednesday is not so sure that she is letting him do anything. She is a slave to impulse and instinct and his big hands as they find her hips again, holding her firmly in place as he pulls out almost entirely. She aches dully with the emptiness, not quite recovered from the sudden stretch, but he plunges back into her before she can do anything heinously indecent like ask him to hurry up and fuck her already.
It still echoes with pain, but the pleasure burns brighter, her breathing uneven and hitching as he starts to fuck her in earnest. The intensity of his driving hips forces her onto her tiptoes, incapable of spreading her legs apart for balance, and she balances precariously against the table like that, all of her weight—and his—anchored on her forearms. There is an unfamiliar helplessness to it, her body bent to his whims, and that sinks into her bones and lights up her circuitry like she never would have imagined prior to his invasion into her life.
Her thoughts flash, unbidden, to the obsessive, domineering way he had fucked her for the first three weeks of their engagement. The possessiveness of the Hyde claiming her over and over, insatiable, as he tried to fuck her pregnant to mark the new state of their relationship; on her knees, face down in the sheets, his body holding hers hostage as he bred her within an inch of her life, glorious and unhinged and feral.
Wednesday realizes, with deathly clarity, that she wants to see her monster again.
"Still—bored," she gasps out, the words twisting into a moan as he tightens his grip on her hips and slams into her harder. Wednesday clenches her teeth around the next sigh, forcing her words steady. "We should get back to our invest—"
Tyler surges forward, one hand leaving her hip to wrap in her braids and wrench her head to the side as his mouth descends on her neck. The shock of pain is blissful, her thoughts going hazy as he digs his teeth into her throat and moans into her skin. His thrusts go erratic and violent with the new angle, his chest pressing into her back as he pins her flat to the table.
She feels the rough cotton against her flushed skin, the buttons digging into her, and he pushes against her forcefully enough that she feels his vial, too, the metal leaving its imprint on her back even through his shirt. Which he is still wearing. In fact, he is nearly entirely clothed as he fucks her over the table, a thought that lodges into her mind deliciously. Yes, of course her Hyde is too impatient to undress before he takes her. He is ravenous for her.
"You're so loud," Tyler groans in her ear after releasing her battered skin from between his teeth, and that is when she realizes that she is vocalizing her satisfaction quite clearly—panted, breathy whines and moans slipping between her lips as she rocks against the table. She cannot seem to stop them, not even when he taunts between breaths, "Good girl, Wens—tell me how—bored you are."
The outrage does not come. She is too busy being overwhelmed by him, his body covering hers, his cock driving her slowly insane as a blistering heat unravels in her stomach and rolls through her. Her body starts to tense up as she groans, canting her hips backwards to meet his agonizing thrusts, and hisses between her teeth, "Get me—"
His teeth dig into her flesh again, at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and she bites her words cleanly in half as that launches her body into convulsions, thrashing under Tyler's weight as he holds her down and fucks her through the blinding pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck, Wens," he whines against her shoulder, losing all sense of rhythm as her clenching cunt drags him over the edge with her, and she relishes in the way he ruts into her desperately just before he pulls out. The heat of his release splashes up her back as he comes on her with a low groan.
Her head is still spinning when he drops his head, resting his forehead between her shoulder blades and pressing his sweaty curls into her skin—or perhaps that is her sweat. She feels wrung out and thoroughly used, her energy unexpectedly depleted by the delightful whiplash of her body going from barely primed for his cock to overwhelmed with sensation so quickly.
Tyler's breath ghosts over her spine as he pants quietly, catching his breath slowly, and Wednesday takes a moment to find her own stability as she revels in the post-coital satisfaction of not only an excellent fuck but of having gotten her way.
Well. For the most part. There is still the minor issue of his come sticking tackily to her back, smeared into his stomach as he collapses into her senselessly, but she will have ample opportunity to rile him up again. It helps, of course, that he is oh so easily riled.
"Adequate," she informs him, even as the word escapes from her sore throat with a slight rasp to it.
Tyler huffs out a tired laugh against her skin, still sounding slightly winded as he murmurs back, "Uh-huh. Can I earn extra credit in the shower?"
Her mouth tips into a tiny smile, amused by his absurdity despite herself. Far be it from her to deny him the opportunity to better himself; Wednesday has always taken it upon herself to cultivate his ambition. She likes her Hyde competitive and driven to win just as badly as she is.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
"Above average," Wednesday graces him with when she has him on his knees in the shower, licking the taste of her off his lips and looking up at her with gleaming hunger, still not satisfied. It does not seem to matter that he already came on his own stomach as he ate her out, moaning into her cunt as he tried his very best to suffocate himself between her thighs until she finally broke; he is starved for her anyway, his eyes bright with it.
She smirks slightly, pulling at the wet curls clenched in her fists, as she studies him and watches to see how her words land.
Naturally, Tyler is not deterred by the low marks. His mouth curves into a slow smile as he flexes his fingers on her hips, holding her in place. "Give me one more try, sweetheart."
No one can ever claim that she is not endlessly generous with her Hyde. She grants him two more opportunities to prove his devotion.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
Wednesday does not make it a habit to plot against Tyler. For the most part, the days of her scheming and plotting on his downfall are well behind them; now, she schemes and plots with him, building him into her plans and weaponizing him to far better effect than any of his false masters ever managed to. He has proven himself to be a worthy accomplice to her nefarious ambitions, a perfect sounding board capable of tying up the knots where she leaves loose threads.
As in all things, however, she can make exceptions. Especially when she decides that she must have something, and Tyler is the only one who can give it to her. She can hardly be held accountable for the lengths she is willing to go to in the name of being well and truly fucked.
Her suspicions had borne out: after nearly a month of his obsessive, crazed need to fuck her full of his progeny whenever (and where ever) the chance arose, the Hyde had finally seemed to calm down. The new year had come and gone and her fiancé had been restored to his proper degree of pre-engagement sanity, moved only by the obsessive, less-crazed need to fuck her the normal amount over the past two months (which was still, blissfully, often).
She would not go so far as to call him docile. Nothing about Tyler is ever docile, and nothing about the way he fucks her is docile. But as the Hyde-induced hypersexuality had waned, the unhinged desperation and animalistic fervor had waned with it. Wednesday had not realized that she was craving such insanity in its absence until she had caught gleams of it yesterday, gold speckled in his irises as his possessiveness caught ahold of him.
There is nothing else for it. Wednesday must drive her fiancé to madness.
"Tell me about Daphne, ...Ronnie," she says that afternoon when they return to the precinct, the first shot in the war that Tyler does not yet realize he has been swept up in. The idiotic Sheriff does not seem to process the pause before she uses that disgraceful name with great deliberateness, nor to recognize the truly rare occurrence that he is witnessing, but Tyler certainly notices. His head snaps towards her; she ignores his disbelief and continues mildly, as though nothing is amiss, "You seem to have known her well."
"Oh, we grew up together," Jefferson says warmly, with that same undeniable familiarity with which he had called the sisters Gracie and Daph yesterday. If he finds it unusual that Wednesday is suddenly interested in his insight, rather than trying to badger him out of the evidence locker, he does not linger on it long enough to deny her request.
Grudgingly, she has to admit that knowing more about Daphne will probably be useful. She always finds that it is easier to compel her visions when she can tap into a greater well of knowledge about her target. So there are investigative merits to this approach.
More importantly, it sets Tyler on edge. It is subtle, the faintest tremor of tension radiating from his body as he encroaches a little closer into her space than normal, shadowing her steps as she circles the table and inspects Daphne's belongings—subtle, but undeniable to Wednesday. She sees right through him and his faux relaxation. The confusion lurking in his glances is quite clear; the way that confusion bleeds into suspicion, delightful.
"You two married?" Jefferson finally asks at some point, evidently no longer capable of pretending not to notice the glaringly obvious black ring on her finger—nor, she imagines, the fact that Tyler is also wearing a ring. (One that he seems interested in displaying, if the way his left hand rests on the evidence table is any indication.) She had wondered if the Sheriff was just being deliberately obtuse or if he simply had not pegged it as an engagement ring, as his transparent interest in her grew.
Wednesday feels her lips almost twitch towards a smile as devious inspiration strikes. She looks Jefferson directly in the eye, holding his gaze as she informs him succinctly, "No."
"Engaged," Tyler says tightly, finally, after several long beats of silence in which he was most certainly waiting for her to clarify. Jefferson blinks, glancing away from Wednesday to the Hyde.
"For now," she intones ominously. Which is true, in any event: eventually, they will be married, and therefore no longer engaged. The fact that her tone suggests they might no longer be engaged in the near future due to other reasons is entirely coincidental.
Jefferson glances between the two of them, perhaps finally registering the tension clinging to Tyler, and says only, "Huh."
When a young deputy on his way into the precinct gives her a double-take as they make their retreat for the day, stopping to introduce himself, Wednesday does not cut him off at the knees or otherwise flay him verbally for wasting her time. She says hello, politely, and carries on, well aware of two stares following her.
Tyler fumes in silence, obviously bothered by her outlandish behavior yet unwilling to confess just yet—not until he sees more of her pieces on the board, she imagines. His confusion is equally as apparent as his agitation; he keeps darting searching glances at her as he drives, his fingers digging into her thigh where he is gripping her tightly.
She supposes a more altruistic person might feel the slightest bit of remorse for upsetting their fiancé so deliberately, but Tyler did not fall in love with an altruistic person. He fell in love with Wednesday, and Wednesday has always enjoyed torturing her family. Watching Tyler squirm as he fights against his own instincts all afternoon has been marvelous. Knowing that they still have errands to run before he can try to pry answers out of her only makes his discomfort that much sweeter.
She does not put him out of his misery. Instead, she racks up the offenses, calmly committing atrocity after atrocity and tracking the way his temper frays through the gradual tightening of his jaw.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
"Do you need any help?"
Wednesday turns slowly to observe the fool who has mistakenly taken her for a fool. He is plain-looking and dreadfully normie in nature, and not in the way that Tyler once was; this bland normie lacks all of the inexplicable appeal and tantalizing snark that her barista boy had managed to reveal in less than five seconds of knowing him.
Accordingly, Wednesday feels no inclination to spare this pest. He would do well to get out of her way, with haste. "No. I am quite familiar with hunting supplies. More familiar than you, I do not doubt."
"Oh." The idiot pauses before smiling at her, completely undeterred by her dismissal. The persistence is decidedly not charming coming from anyone who is not Tyler. "Well, that's cool. Before I let you go... Uh, you know that guy?"
Wednesday pauses, glancing over her shoulder at his prompting, and she is not surprised to see that Tyler has returned from securing the rope. The Hyde is standing at the other edge of the outdoors section, several yards away, staring at the two of them with a dark-eyed intensity that is downright predatory. A thrill shudders down her spine as she realizes at once that this idiotic normie has just presented himself as her latest play against Tyler.
"I do not," she informs the sales assistant grimly, her hand disappearing into her pocket briefly. One slight of hand later, Wednesday is picking up the tent she had been eyeing (one can never be too prepared for whatever odd paths their investigation will send them down) and inclining her head towards Tyler. "He has been following me."
Of course, Tyler can hear her perfectly clearly. Wednesday watches with interest as her would-be savior nods seriously and turns to approach the Hyde, completely oblivious to the danger he is stomping towards with all the confidence of a self-important customer service warrior. Wednesday is too far away to hear their exchange, but she can tell by the sales assistant's gesturing hands and Tyler's tight posture—and the glare Tyler shoots her over the guy's shoulder—that her fiancé is not impressed by this little dalliance.
She withholds her smirk as she turns sharply on her heel and leaves him to it. The dreadfully-boring normie must be committed to his knight-in-shining-polo act, because Tyler does not catch up with her until she has already checked out, tossed her spoils in the car, and found her way to her next destination (fortunately for Tyler, that is merely the next store over—lest he might be forced to find a taxi to hunt her down).
Warmth blankets her as she reaches for a box of her preferred ammo. Wednesday feels the corner of her mouth tug upwards as Tyler crowds into her space, chest pressed flush against her back as his fingers close over hers. The Addams ring is dark and demanding against his pale skin, made all the more obvious by her own conspicuously bare ring finger.
"Where," he drawls quietly, a hint of a growl rumbling in the depths of his chest as he tilts his head down close to hers, lips grazing her ear and breath puffing over her skin, "is your ring, stranger?"
Heat creeps through her veins slowly, sharp and burning, as Wednesday luxuriates in the latent threat dripping down her spine. It seems her little stunt (or perhaps her series of stunts) has riled the Hyde up quite well—though Wednesday is not one to do things by halves. She wants him out of his mind by the time she is through with him; she wants him completely unhinged—more so than she has ever seen him, even. She wants to drive him crazier than his Hyde instincts ever could.
"If you like that hand," she murmurs, voice soft and lilting with a sickly sweet violence, "you will let go of me. Immediately."
Tyler's body tenses against hers, his fingers tightening around her hand momentarily before he releases her and takes a short step backwards. He is still standing far too close to her (not close enough, really), his presence prickling at her, as he huffs in annoyance, "What're you playing at, Wens?"
She claims the box of .22 caliber bullets, tossing a cool glance over her shoulder at Tyler in response, and marches towards the counter unencumbered. He follows behind her after a moment, so grouchy that she can practically feel the malcontent radiating from him.
It is not a large store. The man behind the counter clearly watched their entire exchange, and he eyes Tyler over Wednesday's shoulder before scanning the box of ammo that she slides towards him. Gruffly, he asks with the air of someone who really does not care that much for the answer, "Trouble in paradise?"
"Clingy ex-boyfriend," she deadpans, slapping down her card and staring the man down as he arches a brow, glances at Tyler, and wordlessly goes about ringing her up.
Intriguingly, Tyler does not correct her this time; he just shifts at her back, knee knocking lightly into the back of her leg, as Wednesday accepts her card and receipt when proffered. She steps neatly away from Tyler as she does so, leaving him to retrieve the bag with her ammo as she makes her exit.
"Good luck with that," the man grunts quietly behind her, and she smirks slightly when she hears Tyler's sigh.
The Hyde follows her in silence as she returns to the car, his stare a heavy weight pressing between her shoulder blades as he sulks in her shadow. He does not question her antics again; he just gets behind the wheel and waits for her to settle into the passenger seat, glaring at the windshield as he stubbornly waits for her to click her seatbelt in place.
Just to toy with him, Wednesday takes her time with it. She does not think the stalling goes unnoticed, if the way his jaw tightens further is any indication. Still, Tyler does not call her out on it, and he does not launch an inquisition into her current behavior.
Well. That is not ideal. A Tyler on the retreat, practicing patience and waiting to see what she is up to, is not what she is after. She thought she would have broken down his resolve and baited him into caving by now, but it seems that he has more self-control than she had anticipated.
No matter; Wednesday is perfectly assured in her ability to drive her Hyde insane, even without a convenient audience and unwitting array of human props at her disposal.
She rests her hand on the dash, flexing her fingers calmly, for no other purpose than to flaunt her barren ring finger. She knows that Tyler clocks it immediately, based on the way his grip goes white-knuckled on the steering wheel, but he still does not challenge her. He just drives on in sullen silence, taking them back to their temporary home, while Wednesday lines up the next attack in her mind.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
First, she showers—and does not invite Tyler to join her, nor leave the door unlocked to allow him to invade anyway. This has the natural consequence of undoubtedly confusing and annoying him further, as well as the added benefit of stalling him long enough for her to arrange for their next confrontation. By the time she is out of the shower, he has been waylaid by his scheduled weekly call with Pugsley—a foolish tradition that the two of them keep that Wednesday had warned Tyler would only be a nuisance. Perhaps now he will believe her.
It gives her more than enough time to drape herself in one of Tyler's black t-shirts and settle into bed with her case files. She does not pull back the covers or truly tuck herself in—that would be a wasted effort—but she does cross her ankles where her legs are stretched out before her, pale and bare. And then she lies in wait, plotting.
Tyler seems more settled when he joins her in the bedroom, as though the breathing room and speaking with his sycophant had given him enough time to regulate his emotions. There is still an intensity to his stare as it locks on her, running down her legs slowly, flickering to her ring back on her finger, but by now he must have seen through his own agitation to realize what she was playing at.
Or so he thinks. Wednesday doubts that he has seen through her scheme in its entirety. At most, perhaps, he has deduced (if it was not already obvious) that she was deliberately drawing out his jealous nature. Surely the entire game has not yet come into focus for him—he would probably be insufferable in his delight if that were so.
He prowls towards the bed slowly, not quite stalking, everything about him far too contained. Wednesday arches a brow pointedly as she tracks his advance, feigning boredom as her gaze flickers over him once—a quick up-and-down, sizing him up—before she turns deliberately back to her files.
"Wens," Tyler sighs at the rebuff, reaching for her carefully. His fingers loop around her ankle warmly, his palm pressing firmly into her skin as he gives her a little shake—just one, a bid to capture her attention more than anything else. She feigns not giving it to him, keeping her gaze trained on the text before her even as the entirety of her attention hones in on him. "You're a menace. You want me to tell you how insane you make me feel, trying to make me jealous like that?"
Her gaze flickers up to him, assessing, and she takes in the vaguely exasperated look on his face, the faint trace of humor. Beneath that, however, there is still a very real restlessness there: the agitation has not faded in its entirety. She suspects that he will not be soothed until she has thoroughly worked it out of his system.
Slowly, she closes her file, setting it on the bedside table as she holds his gaze. Something brightens there—anticipation—as his pupils expand; he must be taking her actions as her cooperation. As he should... Though she is not cooperating in quite the way he must be imagining.
"Tell me," she says lowly, watching as his chest rises and falls with his slow inhale and exhale. An illusion of surrender to lure him into a false sense of security.
His gaze drops, raking up her bare legs once more, before rising back to hers. His fingers tighten around her ankle as he takes that festering agitation and flips it in a way only Tyler can: he suddenly smiles at her, warm and honeyed and dirty. "How about I show you?"
A nearly flawless recovery after a day of deliberate provocation. Wednesday is impressed by the maneuver; such a play very neatly sidesteps the traps she has lain out, momentarily forcing her to re-evaluate her plot—perhaps she will have to keep working at it, rile him up even worse tomorrow—before she firms up her resolve. She is winning this war now, before Tyler can catch on to her scheme on his own.
"Not now, dear," she intones drolly, mockingly, as her thoughts drift to something Enid had once said to her. She is fascinated to know what Tyler will do when presented with this obstacle, even as his brow arches at dear. "I have a headache."
Her unsuspecting fiancé stares at her in disbelief for a moment (astonishing, that he can still be surprised by her games), his hand freezing on her ankle, and Wednesday keeps her expression perfectly still and indifferent as he processes. Perhaps another push is necessary? She has quite enjoyed digging her way under his skin and driving him insane, and already she can think of any number of nasty things to say to shatter his psyche entirely.
But no: Tyler's expression abruptly goes dark, gold flickering in his irises as the Hyde snaps its teeth close to the surface, and all at once the easy warmth and calm vanishes. He must have stopped fighting with his own temper, ceding to his mounting agitation as he tightens his grip around her ankle and yanks her bodily down the bed towards him.
Satisfaction erupts in her bloodstream in the face of the rough handling, a devilish thrill surging up her spine as Tyler hooks his hand under her knee, dragging her to the edge of the bed and forcing his way between her spread thighs. She allows it, blood heating up as he plants his hands on her shoulders and leans over her, pressing his weight down into his grip deliberately. "Don't worry, dear. I'll fuck you until you can't feel it."
Wednesday feels her mouth curve just slightly, pleased by her success, but she stops the traitorous impulse short. Instead she lets her legs dangle over the side of the bed rather than wrap them around his waist welcomingly; instead she scowls at him, narrowing her eyes in challenge as she tenses up under his grasp: the first threat of the thrashing and escape to come. "A charitable offer, but unnecessary. Release me."
There is no hesitation this time. Tyler leans closer, fingers curling tighter around her shoulders as though he can sense the coiled tension and her intentions. His voice drops several registers, humming with the low undercurrent of the Hyde's aggression as he breathes, "Your body is mine whenever I want it, remember? I think I want it now. I think I want to fuck my pretty little wife senseless. To save her from her headache."
Wife. Tyler has not worked up the audacity to call her that to her face since the very night she put the Addams ring on his finger. It seems she has dragged him much closer to the edge of his sanity than she estimated—and she relishes in the near total victory when she feels the heat of his arousal pressed against her, triumph making her almost too bold.
"I am not your anything," she lies, so blatantly and entirely untrue that it almost feels weak in effort, but it has the intended effect: Tyler freezes, thrown by the unexpected declaration, and she seizes her opportunity to make her escape. She bucks her hips, yanking one leg up to wedge her knee against his stomach and shove him away from her, and starts twisting to wiggle out from under his hands.
Tyler hisses between his teeth, barely recovering in time to catch her, but once he does—oh, once he does, he lunges after her, clambering onto the bed just to drive her down into it as she thrashes and scratches at him. Excitement thrills through her when her nails catch on his cheek, drawing blood, and that vicious sense of victory sings louder when he catches her wrists and slams them down on the bed above her, shackling her in place with his big hands and the full weight of his body pressed into hers. Even as she bucks her hips again, trying to dislodge him, he drags her wrists together and lashes one hand around them, the other dropping to yank her leg up until he has made enough room for himself between her thighs, driving his hips down into hers to hold her wriggling lower body in place.
Wednesday pants, breathless, once he has her immobile—and she finally sees that feral yellow hue again when she meets his gaze, his pupils nearly drowning it all out, as he leans his face over hers and mocks quietly, "Where do you think you're going? Back to the precinct? The store? Off to bat your lashes at someone else?"
He grinds forward, his cock hard in his pants and pressed flush to her core, and Wednesday has to inhale sharply to cut off the moan that rises in her throat. She feels almost giddy with getting what she wants, her pulse already thundering loudly in her ears as she tries to angle her hips in such a way as to deny him the contact. It is, of course, no use—he just shoves her flatter against the bed, forcing her thighs open wider, and rubs himself against the growing wetness so hard that the cotton of her panties nearly chafes.
She does not need to answer. Tyler groans low in his throat, fingers splaying wide across her thigh as he pulls her closer, his hips rolling as he ruts into her as though he can fuck her through three layers of material. The friction is harsh and divine, sparking in her blood, even as she starts trying to wrench her wrists out of his grasp once more. "Let—me—go."
"No," he growls back, eyes flashing open to lock on hers once more as his hand rises from her thigh. She feels it clench in her—his—shirt, trapped between their bodies, and the unmistakable tug and tear of the cotton ripping under his claws. He leans more weight into the hand holding her wrists hostage then, driving her wrists up the bed and forcing her back to arch upwards and bare her breasts to his hungry gaze as the shirt falls open. "I don't think I will. I think I am going to fuck you until you remember that you are mine."
The threat rings with the earnestness of a promise, dark and certain, and Wednesday is all too prepared to let him ruin her. But not until she is finished ruining him.
She locks her legs around his waist tightly, baring her teeth in challenge as she tilts her chin up slightly, breathing in his unsteady exhales as she returns, "Don't hurt yourself attempting the impossible."
Tyler's eyes stay locked on hers as he deliberately grinds his hips into hers again, rubbing the length of his hard cock against her clit until her own breathing has gone thin and reedy. Still, Wednesday does not break, holding back the moans that want to claw their way out of her throat as he keeps up the constant, steady pressure.
And then he shifts slightly, adjusting his weight, and suddenly fucks forward against her brutally hard, grinding and rubbing his cock on her as Wednesday tenses up. It feels unfairly good, disastrously good, for the complete lack of skin contact; it feels better than it should, pleasure rolling through her rigid body as she fights every instinct crying out for her to give into his onslaught.
She holds out, jaw aching from how hard she is gritting her teeth, and Tyler lets out a frustrated grunt before he switches tactics. The torturous grind does not stop, but his voice goes sweet and honeyed again as he murmurs against her mouth, "What do you want, Wednesday? You want me to beg for your pussy?"
Heat floods her, her face flushing slightly at the filthy word and unexpected nature of this play, and he does beg oh so prettily when she wants him to. She almost tells him yes, almost demands that he start pleading with her for mercy, but she does not have to: Tyler has already tilted his head down further to whine breathily in her ear, "Please, sweetheart. Let me have you. I'll make it so good for you, baby, please."
Wednesday shudders, her own hips twitching and rolling into his once before she catches herself and reins it back in, but it is too late. Tyler seizes on the flash of weakness, drawing back to meet her gaze again with gleaming smugness as he drops the pleading immediately. Her demanding, taking Hyde is back instantly, voice dark as he drawls slowly, "No, I don't think so. I think you like this. Like being at my mercy."
He squeezes her wrists together tightly, grinding the delicate bones under his palm pointedly, and Wednesday cannot refute the way her lashes fight to flutter when he pairs it with another torturous attack on her clit. "I'll tell you what you want, Wednesday. You want me to fuck you into submission, don't you? My bratty little wife with her bratty flirting."
"I don't submit," she gets out stubbornly, her breath hitching in her lungs at the way his eyes flash with something wild. At once, she realizes she well and truly has him on her hook, the Hyde baited into his own monstrosity so thoroughly that she can barely detect any of his humanity when he snarls down at her.
She moans when he thrusts against her harder, battering into her clit as he rubs on her until she cannot fight the burning pleasure any more; once she cracks, she collapses into the feeling, her hips twitching as she tries to roll her hips in time with his. It hurts, too much material between them, his weight pressed too heavily into her, but it hurts deliciously. Hurt so nicely that she feels almost crazy herself, chasing a high that feels just slightly out of her reach.
It is not until Tyler laughs harshly against her mouth that she realizes he has stopped grinding against her—that the wild trashing and rocking is entirely her own, her hips rolling as she rubs up on his cock, and it may have been all her for a while now. Wednesday hardly even cares at this point, her body working away to get her the release she craves without permission, mindless and borderline desperate.
"There you go, sweetheart," Tyler hums, groaning quietly as he presses his hips down into hers a bit harder, still not grinding back. "Rub off on me just like that. Don't even need me to touch you, do you?"
He ducks down then, mouth warm on her neck for a moment before he bites down on her bruised pulse point, and Wednesday gasps as her body finally seizes up and shatters. The orgasm is blissful after chasing the high in such frustrating conditions, flooding her system with molten heat, but Tyler barely gives her a chance to enjoy it. He backs off of her immediately, his hand disappearing from her wrists as he fights his way free of the vice-like grip of her legs wrapped around his waist. Her stomach spasms as his hands skate over it, hot and intentional, and then he wrenches her drenched panties down her thighs and shoves her legs apart.
Wednesday's spine arches upwards as he falls on her cunt, fucking his tongue into her heat before she is entirely positive that she has stopped coming the first time, and there is no resisting the starved way he devours her: her hips start jerking immediately, pleasure erupting in her veins as her body twists and thrashes against the bed. Tyler holds her down with those big hands of his, fingers splayed wide on her thighs as he pushes them down into the bed even as she fights to free them, and that only makes her squirm harder, driven by a wild desire to escape and make him give chase, something in her chest thrilling with it when she can't escape his strong hold.
His teeth scrape over her clit punishingly, sharp and electrifying, and Wednesday groans loudly as the second orgasm hits her so hard that the fight goes out of her entirely, her hands fisted in his curls to hold his face against her cunt as she rides it. The noise he makes when she comes is filthy, a low punched out groan fed right into her cunt, and then he presses his tongue back into her and laps up her release as she spasms in the aftershocks.
She is not quite sure how she lost control of the situation, but she finds that she is willing to accept the loss of control when she has masterminded the entire scenario. Particularly once Tyler sits up, dark stare raking over her hungrily, and makes the mistake of taking the momentary weakness as defeat. He releases her, rolling off the bed to strip out of his clothes—the front of his pants stained darkly with precum and her—and Wednesday lolls her head to the side to watch him with a possessive warmth.
She likes the lean lines of his body, the faint scars raised along his pectoral and lower hip, the undeniable strength hidden underneath that pretty exterior. She particularly likes his dark curls hanging in his eyes, sweaty with exertion, and his cock bobbing against his stomach, flushed from friction and want; more than that, even, she very much appreciates the way he looks at her, hungry and entitled.
Wednesday allows herself a moment of indulgence, gaze sweeping over him, before she flips onto her stomach and makes a break for it.
She barely clears the side of the bed before Tyler catches her, his arm banding around her middle to yank her backwards—towards him, dragging her kicking and thrashing back onto the bed, and this time when he shoves her down he pins her on her stomach, his palm spread flat on the nape of her neck as he holds her face down in the comforter. Wednesday gets her knees under her—ostensibly to give herself leverage to fight free—and is utterly thrilled when Tyler knocks her legs wider apart and forces his way between them.
She inhales deeply, skin buzzing with the building excitement as her checkmate finally, finally comes into view. There is not much air to inhale, her breathing already restricted by the blanket crammed against her mouth and the pressure of his hand on her neck, especially not once he leans more of his weight into it as he bends forward to hover over her back. His vial thuds against her spine, metal warm to the touch.
"You're going to stay right here," Tyler breathes in her ear, his hand lifting off her neck—but only to grab her braid. He wraps it around his fist, craning her head back, and Wednesday feels the burning stretch of her throat on display as she angles a sideways glance at him. His stare burns through her, bright and feverish with his intensity, even as he promises darkly, "And I am going to fuck you until you forget your name. Until you only remember mine, because you are mine."
Wednesday does not doubt that he means it. He most certainly believes it, and she feels her mouth curve slightly as she cants her hips backwards, rubbing her cunt over his cock in subtle encouragement. "Are you sure it will be your name?"
The spark of jealous anger in his glare is immediate, and to her delight he does not fight it. There is a violence to the way he yanks her braid again, the warmth of his body disappearing as he leans away from her back and fists himself; she feels the brush of his fingers, hears his intake of breath, and vibrates in anticipation when he lines his cock up and pushes into her slowly—torturously slowly, taunting her with the glacial pace, even as his breathing goes ragged above her. Wednesday spreads her knees wider, trying to shove back onto him, but his hand lands heavily on her lower back to hold her in place, denying her the freedom of movement as he hisses, "Greedy. You want me that bad, sweetheart? Want me to hold you down and make you break for me?"
So close. Wednesday can feel the tantalizing prospect of her victory hanging over her—and, she imagines, an exceptionally good fuck—while she draws him closer and closer to her endgame, her cunt just as greedy for him as he claims while he sinks into her slowly. Once his hips are flush with her ass, his cock buried deep in her warmth, she relishes that fullness and the sting of him pulling her hair.
"Tyler," she murmurs lowly, quietly enough that he is forced to lean over her again. His hand leaves her back in the process, replaced by his body pressing against her, and she does not protest when he finds her wrist and pins it to the bed beside her head. Once she is satisfied that she has his full attention, she turns her head against the bed to cast a glance back at him, voice sharp in challenge. "You want me to be yours? You want to marry me?"
His eyes gleam, possessive, as he promises, "I will marry you."
Wednesday lets her mouth curve upwards slightly, charmed by his confidence, and arches her back more deeply, hips wiggling slightly as she presses back into him. "Show me you deserve it," she goads, finally showing all of her cards, "Make me yours." And then, the demand that she had not managed to complete yesterday afternoon: "Get me pregnant."
Tyler freezes as her knife lodges itself between his ribs, her blow true and deadly and perfectly calculated to kill him on the spot, and Wednesday watches with immense satisfaction as her words detonate after one long moment of frozen stillness. His pupils devour every last shred of yellow, blowing outwards as a feral hunger takes over, and Wednesday braces for the devastation as he draws his hips back and slams into her hard, so hard that her entire body rocks forward on her unsteady knees.
Wednesday groans, pleasure exploding in her bloodstream as Tyler immediately sets a punishing, erratic pace, his hand dropping away from her braid to claim her other wrist. He pins her to the bed like that, trapped under his hard body, as he drops his head down beside hers and growls low in his throat, "I'm going to—fuck you—full of my come—" He punctuates it with a slower roll of his hips, the abrupt drop in pace making her jerk and rock back into him desperately. He is breathing heavily, guttural, as the reprieve gives him the chance to speak more clearly and drive her insane with the denial. "—over and over. I'm going to keep you here spread out for my cock just like this, my pretty little wife, and put a fucking baby in you. Is that what you want, Wednesday? You want me to breed you?"
Yes, she thinks immediately, denying him the admission if only to make him more deranged, but he does not need to hear her say it to know it is true. He has caught onto her now, his breathing heavy and ragged as he fucks into her slowly, deeply, setting her nerve-endings on fire as she bites her lip to hold in her moans. His mouth ghosts over the side of her throat, body engulfing hers so completely, as he buries himself in her cunt and grinds his hips in a tight circle that makes her head spin.
"Say it."
She does not, excitement building in the base of her spine as a new game presents itself, as he hands over a glorious opportunity to taunt him without seeming to realize it. Or perhaps he does, perhaps he does not care, because he is playing along with her now—feeding right into her sick fantasies, holding her captive beneath him, taking her body, driving his teeth into her throat so hard that she smells the iron tang of blood.
Wednesday jerks with the pain, moaning loudly, and stretches her neck out to offer more of it eagerly—but Tyler releases her without sucking the hickey into her skin, breathing harshly against her throat, "Say it, Wednesday. Admit you spent all day trying to make me crazy for this. Because you wanted me to fuck you full so badly."
He draws out of her slowly when still she refuses, mouth stubbornly shut, dragging his dick out all the way to the tip—and then he pulls out of her entirely, leaving her empty and wanting, a prospect that she had not anticipated. Wednesday cants her hips backwards, rubbing against the hard line of him as she tries to coax him back into her cunt, but he denies her just as cruelly as she has denied him.
"Yes," she finally exhales, forced to give this ground but satisfied in the knowledge that this is still her victory in the end, her design coming together, his ferocity hers.
Tyler sinks back into her just as slowly, his mouth tipping into a sharp grin against her throat as he taunts, "Yes what, sweetheart?"
Devious Hyde. Wednesday cannot help but to be impressed with his sadism, her resolve wavering when he is finally filling her so completely again. At once, it is no longer a surrender: it is a weapon, her words low and goading as she realizes that this is an excellent opportunity to show him her own cruelty. "Yes, I want you to breed me—before I have to find someone else to do it—"
That does it. Tyler makes a low noise, something between a groan and a growl, and his entire body goes rigid against hers before he clamps down on the side of her neck and finally starts to fuck her, driving into her with such a furious violence that Wednesday is immediately undone. Her moan is torn out of her, wrenched right out of her chest as the sweet thrill of victory and the ungodly force of his fucking slams her straight into an orgasm.
Her thrashing and whining only seems to spur him on, her cunt tightening and spasming around his cock as he sucks on her pulse point harshly, teeth scraping, leaving behind mottled bruises with an obsessive focus even as he fucks her so hard that she feels it in her entire body. Wednesday's knees start to slide, her hips held aloft only by the curve of her spine and the press of his body keeping her trapped in the prone position, perfect for his cock to keep driving into her, for breeding her.
"Tyler," she groans, overwhelmed, wiggling her upper body as the comforter rubs against her tight nipples and she rubs back, chasing after the friction, even as she is feeling too much, her clit pulsing and desperate for attention, her cunt pulsing and aching with the attention it does have, pain blossoming and blooming along her neck as his teeth keep finding new purchases in her throat, and still he fucks her through it, ignoring her whines.
She moans his name again, louder, the sound broken in half as he slams into her harder, and his mouth finally lifts off her neck, finding her ear as he pants out, "Mine. You are mine. Stay—there."
For a moment, the order spins in her head with a directionless confusion, and then his hands loosen on her wrists. They thrum with the sudden circulation, bruises already rising on her pale skin, and Wednesday leaves them right where they are as Tyler paws at her. His right hand burrows its way under her body, fingers pinching at her nipple harshly, but his left—his left is at her mouth, driving two fingers between her lips when she moans, shoving deeper when she chokes around them in surprise, her teeth clacking down around his knuckles and colliding with his ring.
He pulls them away, drenched in her spit, after letting her choke on them for several long moments, and Wednesday inhales a gasp of air just in time for him to find her clit, slippery and sloppy as he rubs at her. Electricity shocks through her veins, frying every conscious thought in her head as her body jolts and shudders, slicking the way even further for his insistent cock.
"Good girl," Tyler moans as she squeezes him greedily, pinching her clit between his fingers until her entire body convulses, and his voice washes over her in a sluggish haze as he ruts into her and rambles obsessively, "You feel—so good, begging me to breed you—my perfect wife with this perfect pussy—mine—" And then sharply, demanding, "Say it."
Wednesday groans low in her throat, thoughts too disorganized to comprehend what exactly he wants her to say, already spinning around the way he is still fucking her, that he has not filled her up yet, her cunt woefully deprived of the depravity that she craves, and her complaint makes itself known only through his name again as she hisses, "Tyler."
Her Hyde pants against her throat, his lips dragging to the nape of her neck, and when he bites her there—scruffing her like an animal in heat—she loses all sense of higher function. Wednesday lets out a chanting litany of his name, moaning uncontrollably as he digs his teeth into her and finally fills her up, his own groan low and wounded and muffled by her skin as his frantic thrusts dissolve into disjointed rocks, driving his come into her.
The world around her goes hazy and indistinct, narrowed to the heat of his cock buried in her cunt and of his panting moans against her neck, as a blissful sort of weightlessness settles into her bones. Winning has never felt so good, and she has been treated to plenty of satisfactory victories in her life.
And then Tyler flips her over, his dick slipping out of her, and she is brought back down into her body by the abrupt loss. Wednesday does not get the chance to berate him for the interruption; he pushes back into her almost immediately, hissing between his teeth as he forces his softening cock into her body, already starting to harden again as Wednesday catches up to his intentions and locks her ankles together behind his back, urging him onwards.
Face-to-face, she can see the unhinged glow in his eyes, the crazed way his gaze darts over her body hungrily as he takes in the offering before him—her nipples still pulled tight, arms stretched languidly over her head, bloody bruises undoubtedly covering her throat, and Lilith only knows what he sees in her face when he meets her gaze. Wednesday feels drunk with self-satisfaction, gloating over the flawless execution of a well-plotted scheme, and that is before Tyler starts to rock his hips slowly again, forcing his come deeper into her cunt.
He leans over her as he does so, fingers bracketing her wrists as his face hangs over hers. His voice is low and hoarse, twisting down her spine pleasantly, as he purrs out, "I'm going to fuck you so full of my come that not even your little ritual will be able to stop me from knocking you up. You will marry me, because you are mine, and you are going to marry me with your belly already swollen with my baby. Do you hear me, Wednesday? You want me to breed you, I'm going to fucking breed you."
It is, objectively, her worst nightmare—and yet somewhere along the line—undoubtedly during the heightened allure of claiming him as hers on Mabon—her wires have gotten so tangled and crossed that hearing such outrageous claims sets her blood on fire, her cunt fluttering around his cock tellingly. She had wanted him out of his mind with his need for her and she has gotten exactly that—and now he seems hellbent on driving her out of her mind with his filthy mouth.
"Say it," Tyler insists, rolling his hips languidly as he fucks her slowly, his cock hard and full again. "Say you want to be my wife. Say you want me to keep breeding you until it takes."
This time, Wednesday does not bother with antagonizing him, not when she already has him right where she wants him—desperate and begging in equal parts as he is demanding and taking. She fights one wrist out of his grasp, letting him keep the other hostage, and sinks her hand into his curls, dragging his face down closer to hers. She licks into his mouth, kissing him hungrily, and it is only once the kiss starts to get wet and sloppy that she tears her mouth away to breathe, "I do want to be your wife. Now be a good Hyde and breed me like you claim you can."
Tyler reclaims her mouth with a groan, plunging his tongue into her mouth as his hips start to speed up again, and Wednesday pulls his hair as the pleasure unfurls in her gut again, building and building with the new feverish dedication of his cock driving into her. She feels exceptional—and then his hand drops to her neck, palm spreading against the base of her throat and fingers digging into her jugular, and she feels incandescent.
"Only I can fuck you like this," he gloats, self-assured and cocky as he cuts off her air and sends her higher and higher into orbit with each slam of his hips against hers, each wheezing breath that makes its way out of her lungs in the form of a moan. "That's why you want me to fuck you full. That's why you only let me touch you like this, fuck you like this. Breed you like this. My spooky little wife."
Wednesday offers no protests, having neither the air nor a thought in her head to object with, willing to let him have this moment of deluded (if true) grandeur so long as he keeps fucking her, choking her into ecstatic oblivion, his pace finally picking up as he seems to send himself careening into impatient insanity. Her vision spots as her head spins, a soundless moan working its way up her throat as her back arches upwards, pressing her chest into his, craving more of his suffocating warmth to hold her down, and he gives it to her—of course he gives it to her, bodily shoving her down into the bed as he fucks into her cunt with an untamed urgency, panting open-mouthed against her own parted lips as his control frays and snaps.
He squeezes her throat so tightly for a second that she wheezes, blinded with pleasure, and then he releases her so swiftly that the rush of air into her lungs makes her head spin. Wednesday moans his name, low and drawn out and broken, as she comes so hard she blacks out.
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
She comes to settled more comfortably into bed, curled on her side with Tyler's body tucked around hers securely. His knees are pressed into the backs of hers, one arm pillowed under her head, and she discovers the other arm draped over her side and clutched tightly in her own as she hugs him against her. It is oppressively warm, his heat a furnace, but that warmth is pleasant against her battered and sore body.
When she inhales slowly, her throat aches. Wednesday smiles, pleased, and that satisfaction blooms even more sharply when she shifts slightly and realizes that his cock is still buried in her, keeping his come trapped inside her. True to his word, and true to her design, he has bred her within an inch of her life—even more aggressively than ever before, meaning it more than he has ever meant it before, and she cannot help but to think that all of the groundwork she laid out was critical to her success.
Tyler shifts a bit, nuzzling his cheek against the top of her head as he undoubtedly feels her wake up. He sounds drowsy and content as he murmurs into the quiet, "You are insane, you know that?"
"Of course," she breathes back, smug, and closes her eyes as she luxuriates in the lingering agony of his love. "As are you, it seems. I thought as much."
"You knew as much," Tyler grumbles, sounding only slightly put-out by the role he has played as her perfect pawn. His arm tightens around her as he tries to snuggle even closer, as though he needs to climb into her skin to be satisfied. She understands the feeling entirely. "You know you can just ask me if you want to do kinky shit, right?"
Wednesday is quite aware of that. And she has asked him to bend to her whims and curiosities before, is more than capable with clearly communicating her chosen experiments to him, even better than he is at it—he is far too prone to getting flustered under her intent stare, or to not even recognize his own urges for what they are until she points them out. He is also aware of that.
"That would defeat the purpose," she points out mildly, only confirming what Tyler already must have guessed, "which was to make you deranged. This was much more satisfactory."
Tyler laughs hoarsely, his body shifting against hers with the movement, and she feels her lips twitch. They split into another arrogant smile when he muses, "Yeah, okay. I guess I can't fault your methods when the results are this hot. I fucked you again after you passed out, you know."
She did not know, but Wednesday is inordinately pleased with this information. She can only imagine how desperate he must have been, rutting into her limp body as he tried to make good on his promise to keep breeding her, and she almost wishes she had been awake to enjoy it. But that, of course, would have made it significantly less fun.
"Pathetic," she says, warmly, and then with an even greater affection, "Very good."
"It was good." Tyler shifts again, his palm pressing against her collarbone as he spreads his hand over her skin, arm still caught in her vice-like grip. "Though if you take your ring off again, I might break someone's arm."
"Tempting," Wednesday hums, intrigued by the notion, but his fingertips press a bit harder against her in protest and she concedes, "Though inconvenient. Do not worry. I found myself oddly bereft without it, and I doubt a repeat of that trick would work as well as the first time."
Tyler sighs, the sound carrying with it some degree of amusement. "I think you would turn me into a rug if I tried to do this shit to you. Just saying."
"Undoubtedly." She shifts, pleased that he seems to know his place so well, and adds, "And I would turn your victims into curtains. You are mine, Tyler Addams."
He stills as her words settle over both of them. She had not quite planned to call him that, well-aware that they are not yet married (no matter how much he evidently likes to call her wife), but she feels no inclination to take it back. He has been an Addams for far longer than he has had a ring on his finger; there is no reason to deny the obvious, nor the inevitable.
Tyler squeezes his arm around her tighter, ducking his head down to nuzzle against her shoulder and into her neck, and she feels his grin even if she cannot see it. He does not put the delight into words, content to thrum with the quiet happiness and try to suffocate her with his hug, and Wednesday feels her lips tug into a smile of her own.
They stay like that for a while, drowsy and sated, until Tyler starts to pepper kisses over her shoulder. Wednesday is perfectly amenable to his suggestion for dinner (and then to finding an actual meal, when he is finished trying to devour her).
— 𓏲ּ𝄢 —
Wednesday steals what she needs out of the evidence locker the next morning, sweeping past Jefferson and the moon-eyed young deputy without a second glance, and does not think she imagines the satisfaction that radiates from Tyler as he trails behind her. In truth, the prudent thing likely would have been to swipe the locket that first day, or at least the second, but she can admit to having gotten a bit sidetracked.
It is as Tyler said, however: this case has been cold for nine years. Wednesday does not think Daphne's bones will mind having waited an additional 24 hours.
It was, after all, for a good cause.