paxtito

[paxtito]

Lorraine Day x Masc!Fem!Reader

After their first time, Lorraine panics and says it was a sin, breaking R’s heart. Hours later, she crawls back to R’s bed, crying, admitting she’s never felt more alive.

-🐿

posted !

[paxtito]

love of my life

pairings: lorraine day x fem!reader tags: internalised homophobia, kissing, (i’m an atheist so apologies if anything is inaccurate) request: After their first time, Lorraine panics and says it was a sin, breaking R’s heart. Hours later, she crawls back to R’s bed, crying, admitting she’s never felt more alive.

MASTERLIST. | WC: 3k

The year is 1979. Disco balls and denim rule the world, but for you, the real treasure lies in the aisles of the record store. The faint crackle of vinyl and the hum of rock classics soothe the chaos of your mind. You’re here for one thing: Queen’s latest single, ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love.’

You adjust your leather jacket, fingers running over the racks, when you bump shoulders with someone.  

“Sorry,” you mutter, glancing up.  

She’s delicate. Soft brown hair, wide doe eyes, and a floral sundress clashing with the stack of gospel records in her arms. Her lips part slightly as she looks at you, almost startled.  

“It’s fine,” she says, voice quiet. Almost too quiet.  

You nod, turning back to the records, but you feel her gaze linger. It’s not the usual stare—the judgment you’ve grown used to. There’s something else. Something curious.  

“You like Queen?” she asks suddenly, surprising herself more than you.  

“They’re the best,” you reply, holding up the sleeve of the single. “Freddie Mercury’s a genius.”  

She fidgets with the corner of a record sleeve, eyes darting between yours and the floor. “I’ve never listened to them.”  

“Seriously?” You smirk, leaning against the rack. “You’re missing out.”  

There’s a faint blush on her cheeks. She looks away, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m… more into gospel,” she says, almost apologetically.  

“Figures,” you tease, tilting your head toward the stack in her arms.  

She laughs softly, but it’s nervous. You notice her grip tighten on the records, like they’re a shield.  

“I’m Lorraine,” she offers after a beat, her voice hesitant but warm.  

You tell her your name, and the smile she gives you is small but genuine.  

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, standing in the middle of the store, the world outside forgotten.  

But then she glances at the cross around her neck and takes a small step back. A flicker of doubt shadows her face.  

“You seem… different,” she says carefully, her tone caught between intrigue and fear.  

You don’t flinch. You’ve heard it before. “Is that a bad thing?”  

Her silence speaks louder than words, but you catch the way her eyes soften when they meet yours again.  

“No,” she whispers.  

She’s conflicted. You can see it—the battle between what she’s been taught and what she’s feeling.  

—

You clutch the Queen single in your hand, the glossy cover catching the dim store lights. She’s still lingering nearby, flipping through records but not really looking. Her fingers trail over the sleeves absentmindedly, her gaze flicking to you more often than she probably realises.  

At the register, you pay for your record and glance at the receipt in your hand. An idea sparks. You grab the pen sitting beside the till and scribble down your number.  

‘KL5-1629.’  

You fold the receipt, heart pounding just a little harder than you’d care to admit. It’s risky. Hell, it’s stupid. But something about her—the way she looks at you like she’s on the edge of something she can’t quite name—makes you take the chance.  

You walk back over, the receipt pinched between your fingers. She notices you coming and straightens, her lips parting slightly like she’s about to say something but doesn’t.  

“Here,” you say, handing it to her.  

“What’s this?” she asks, her fingers brushing against yours as she takes it.  

“My number,” you say, cool and casual, though your heart’s anything but. “In case you ever want to listen to Queen.”  

Her cheeks flush, and she stares at the folded paper in her hand like it’s something dangerous.  

“I—” she starts, but the words stick in her throat.  

“No pressure,” you add, stepping back. “But… you should call me sometime.”  

Her eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain, but there’s a spark of something there. Curiosity. Maybe even longing.  

You smile, giving her a small nod before heading for the door, the bell jingling softly as you leave.  

—

The first time she called, it was nearly midnight.  

You’d been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she ever would. The phone’s sudden ring startled you, and you practically tripped over yourself to answer it.  

“Hello?”  

There was silence on the other end, followed by a hesitant, “It’s Lorraine.”  

Her voice was soft, almost trembling, and for a moment, you thought she might hang up. But she didn’t. Instead, you talked—about music, about her small-town life, about the things she couldn’t say to anyone else.  

Those calls became a ritual. Every night, once her parents went to bed, the phone would ring, and you’d talk for hours. She told you about her strict upbringing, how she sang in the church choir, how she always felt like something was missing but didn’t know what. You told her about yourself—your dreams, your favourite records, and what it felt like to live as someone the world didn’t quite accept.  

You never pushed her, never asked for more than she was ready to give. But still, you could hear it in her voice—the way she lingered on certain words, the way her laughter would catch in her throat when you teased her. She was drawn to you, even if she couldn’t fully admit it yet.  

And then she started showing up at the diner.  

It always seemed to be during your shifts. She’d slide into a booth near the back, hands folded nervously on the table, and wait for you to notice her.  

“Hey, stranger,” you’d say, tossing a rag over your shoulder as you walked up to her.  

“Hi,” she’d reply, her smile shy but genuine.  

She’d order a milkshake or a slice of pie, and you’d steal moments to sit with her when the place wasn’t too busy. She never stayed long, just enough to exchange a few words and share a few glances.  

But every time she left, she’d look over her shoulder one last time, as if she wasn’t quite ready to go.  

And every time, you’d feel the same.

—

It’s late when you pull up to her street, the headlights of your car cutting through the quiet darkness. You’d offered to drive her home.

Lorraine sits in the passenger seat, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Her sundress brushes against her knees, and she glances out the window, watching the familiar houses roll by.  

“Just… stop here,” she says suddenly, her voice low but firm.  

You glance at her, confused. “You sure? It’s still a block away.”  

She nods quickly, not meeting your eyes. “I don’t want anyone to see.”  

Ah.  

You pull over to the curb, cutting the engine. The silence that follows is heavy, tense. She doesn’t move to open the door, though.

Instead, she stays seated, her fingers gripping the edge of her dress like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.  

“Thanks for the ride,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.  

“Anytime,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. You watch her for a moment, the way her hair falls over her face, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each careful breath.  

She’s nervous. You can feel it in the air, a crackling tension that neither of you knows how to address.  

“Lorraine,” you say gently, and she finally looks at you.  

Her eyes are wide, searching, filled with something you can’t quite name. Fear, maybe. Or hope.  

Before you can say anything else, she leans forward. It’s quick, almost hesitant, like she’s afraid she’ll lose her courage if she waits too long. Her lips press against yours, soft and warm, and for a moment, the world falls away.  

It’s clumsy, sweet, and over far too soon. She pulls back, cheeks burning, her breath unsteady.  

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know why I—”  

“Don’t be sorry,” you cut her off, your voice steady but kind.  

She looks up at you, her eyes glistening with uncertainty.  

“You don’t have to explain,” you say softly.  

She nods, biting her lip as she glances toward her house in the distance. The weight of what just happened lingers between you.

“I should go,” she whispers, reaching for the door handle.  

“Okay,” you reply, though it’s the last thing you want.  

She hesitates before stepping out, pausing to look back at you one more time.

And then she’s gone, walking quickly down the street, her silhouette disappearing into the night.  

You sit there for a moment, the taste of her kiss still on your lips, the echo of her presence filling the empty car.  

—

The first time she came to your place, she sat on the edge of your couch like she didn’t belong.  

Her hands rested awkwardly in her lap, her eyes darting around the room—taking in the posters on your walls, the stack of records by the turntable, the ashtray on the coffee table. It was a far cry from her world of Sunday sermons and cross necklaces.  

“You can relax, you know,” you teased, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.  

She smiled shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. It just feels… different here.”  

“Good different or bad different?”  

She looked at you for a moment, her lips pressing together. “Good,” she said softly.  

It became routine after that. She’d tell her parents she was studying the bible at a friend’s house or staying late at choir practice. Then she’d show up at your door, her floral dresses and shy smiles a stark contrast to your worn jeans and rock band tees.  

You’d sit together on the couch, her legs curled up beneath her as you played her records she’d never heard before. Sometimes she’d hum along, her fingers tapping nervously against her knee. Other times, she’d just watch you, her gaze lingering like she was trying to memorise your face.  

It wasn’t long before the distance between you started to shrink.  

One night, she was leaning into your side, your arm draped across her shoulders. The record spun quietly in the background, but you weren’t paying attention to it.  

“You’re so warm,” she murmured, her head resting against your chest.  

You chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You’re sweet when you’re tired, you know that?”  

She tilted her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and searching. It didn’t matter how many times she kissed you—it always felt like the first. Her lips met yours, slow and lingering, and you melted into her all over again.  

But then there were the moments when you could see it in her eyes—the doubt, the fear.  

She’d pull away suddenly, retreating into herself like she was ashamed. She’d fidget with the cross around her neck, her brows furrowed as she stared at the floor.  

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered one night, sitting up abruptly.  

“Lorraine—”  

“It’s wrong,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know it’s wrong, but I—” She stopped, her hands trembling in her lap.  

You knelt in front of her, gently taking her hands in yours. “Hey,” you said softly. “It’s not wrong to want to be happy.”  

Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head. “But it feels like I’m… betraying everything I’ve ever been taught.”  

You didn’t know what to say to that. You couldn’t undo years of sermons and guilt in a single moment. All you could do was be there.  

And yet, no matter how much she wrestled with herself, she kept coming back.  

Every time she showed up at your door, you’d see it in her eyes—that pull she couldn’t resist, the way she felt safe with you in a way she didn’t anywhere else.  

And every time she kissed you, it felt like she was fighting against the world—and herself—but choosing you anyway.

—

At first, it was just kisses on the couch. Her fingers would trace the hem of your shirt like she was testing the waters, always pulling back before going further.

But each time she came over, the distance between you seemed to shrink. The air would thicken with unspoken tension, your laughter fading into silence, replaced by the sound of your breathing—closer, heavier.

One night, you put on a record, the soft hum of Fleetwood Mac filling the room. She curled into you as always, but her hand slid over yours, trembling, hesitant. She looked at you then, eyes wide and desperate, like she was standing at the edge of something terrifying and beautiful all at once.

You kissed her, slow at first, but she leaned into you with a hunger you hadn’t felt from her before. It deepened, spiraled, until neither of you could pull away.

When you lifted her into your arms and carried her to your bedroom, she didn’t protest. She clung to you, her breath quick and uneven, her lips chasing yours like she was afraid of losing the moment.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, tender, rushed in some places and achingly slow in others. But it was real—her walls crumbling piece by piece as she let herself feel, really feel, without running.

And then it was over.

Now, the two of you lie tangled in the sheets, skin still warm, the silence heavy. Lorraine stares at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling.

You turn toward her, brushing a hand gently along her arm. “You okay?” you whisper.

But she doesn’t answer.

Instead, she sits up suddenly, the sheet falling away from her bare shoulders. Panic flashes in her eyes, sharp and blinding. She scrambles for her clothes, pulling them on with shaking hands.

“Lorraine—”

“I can’t—” Her voice cracks, broken and frantic. “I can’t do this. It’s wrong.”

She grabs her dress, tugging it over her head, her cross glinting as it falls back into place against her chest. The sound of her zipper feels louder than the music still spinning faintly from the other room.

You sit up, heart sinking. “Hey, it’s not wrong. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” she cuts in, tears brimming in her eyes. “You don’t understand… I’ve sinned. I’ve—” Her words stumble, collapse under the weight of everything she’s been taught to fear.

Before you can stop her, she’s out the door.

You’re left alone in the dim light, the sheets rumpled around you.

And for the first time, you wonder if love is enough to fight the war she’s waging inside herself.

—

The church is empty when she slips inside, the heavy wooden doors creaking shut behind her.

Her hands shake as she clutches the cross at her throat, the cool metal pressing into her skin like a reminder, like a wound.

She falls to her knees in the front pew, the silence pressing in on her. Her lips move before her mind can catch up.

“Forgive me,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Please, God… forgive me.”

Her fingers tighten around the beads of the rosary she pulls from her pocket. The words of the prayers spill out in pieces, tangled with tears.

She bows her head, rocking slightly, as though motion alone can wash away what she feels burning inside her.

But no matter how many times she repeats the words, no matter how hard she presses her palms together, she still feels your touch on her skin. Still tastes your kiss.

And it terrifies her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, begging for the feeling to fade, for the guilt to drown out the longing.

Yet deep down, she knows the truth.

The sin she’s praying against is the only thing that’s ever made her feel alive.

—

You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time after she leaves, staring at the space where she’d been. The sheets still smell like her perfume, sweet and floral.

Hours crawl by. You wander the apartment like a ghost. When you finally drop the needle on a record, hoping the music will drown it out, there’s a knock at the door.

Soft. Hesitant.

You freeze.

Another knock. Quicker this time.

Your heart lurches as you cross the room, every nerve on edge. When you pull open the door, Lorraine stands there—hair mussed, cheeks streaked with tears. Her eyes are wide, desperate.

Before you can speak, she crashes into you, her arms wrapping tight around your waist. She’s trembling, sobbing into your chest like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps between broken breaths. “I’m so sorry.”

You hold her, stunned but steady, your hand moving to the back of her head. “Lorraine—”

“I shouldn’t have run,” she chokes out. “I shouldn’t have—” Her words dissolve into another sob, her whole body shaking.

You pull her tighter, resting your chin on her hair. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to—”

“No,” she cuts you off, leaning back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are red, but blazing with something fierce. “I’ve never… I’ve never felt more alive than when I’m with you.”

Her voice cracks, but the truth in it makes your breath catch.

Tears cling to her lashes, her fingers clutching your shirt like a lifeline.

“I don’t care if it’s wrong,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I don’t care what they say. I can’t—I don’t want to stay away from you.”

The record keeps spinning in the background, faint and crackling, but all you can hear is the sound of her heart against yours.

You don’t answer her with words.

You just kiss her, soft and sure, holding her like you’ll never let her go.

[paxtito]

You don't have to speak up about what's going on with the tags drama but,

Please don't change a thing about your writing/posting! We love it as it is!

i don’t have much to say as OP of this post said it better than i ever could.

i always used the jenna x reader tag for all her characters since they’re connected to her, if that makes sense.

thank you, my love. i appreciate the support 💙🩵

[paxtito]

Just wanted to pop in and say how much I love your work! Your characterization is always on point and I love the dynamics you choose, especially from your recent zombie reader headcanons. You put so much thought into it all, you put your own spin on a character we basically know nothing about so it can be enjoyed for everyone and it couldn’t be better :)

thank you so much! your kind words honestly mean a lot and i’m really glad you enjoy the stuff i put out. i appreciate you popping in and telling me this 💙🙃🙃

[paxtito]

something 👻 about astrid and g!p reader?

such an underrated character. i love her so much. thank you so much for requesting 🫡

[paxtito]

Love the new theme!

thank you! 🙏💙

[paxtito]

Can we get a Mabel X gp reader 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

i completely forgot about her 🧍(forgive me, mabel)

apologies 😞 i’ll cook something up though 🙃

[paxtito]

zombae - zombie!reader x wednesday addams headcannons

request: I was hoping you could throw together a couple of headcannons with Wednesday x gender neutral reader? Theyre basically Slurp in the sense they have the same backstory but sense we don’t know a lot abt Slurps personality feel free to make it up. I can totally see them being rivals because of their ambition and stubbornness, but they fall for each others old fashioned charm and music taste?

⋆ ★ Wednesday first encountered you when she discovered Pugsley’s poorly hidden ‘pet.’ Following the faint scent of rot and the sound of faint rattling chains, she found you inside Eugene’s bee hut—gaunt, bloodstained, and undeniably undead.

⋆ ★ Your jaw snapped toward her immediately, teeth gnashing with instinctive hunger… but when she fixed you with a cold, unblinking glare, you hesitated. The chains creaked as you slowly backed down, confused by your own compliance.

⋆ ★ Over the next few weeks, Wednesday began assisting Pugsley in feeding you—sometimes with small animals, other times with human remains she had quietly ‘borrowed’ from the local morgue. Slowly, your decayed features began to regenerate, your skin knitting back together, your posture straightening, and a glimpse of your living self returning.

⋆ ★ Once you looked passably human, Pugsley became your closest friend. He scrounged up a discarded Nevermore Academy uniform from the lost-and-found and did his best to disguise you among the students. Few asked questions… though some found your odd mannerisms unsettling.

⋆ ★ You were from another time entirely, your speech steeped in old-fashioned vocabulary and old-world formality. While it made you stand out socially, it also gave you an advantage in essay-based classes—an advantage that soon caught Wednesday’s attention. Without a word, a subtle academic rivalry was born.

⋆ ★ In fencing class, you proved yourself the best in your year, your smile faint but undeniable as you claimed victory after victory. Wednesday, arms crossed at the sidelines, looked like a cat forced to watch someone else eat its prey.

⋆ ★ Despite your clashing, Pugsley couldn’t help but point out your similarities—your shared love of classical music, your mutual appreciation for Edgar Allan Poe, and your quiet disdain for the overly cheerful. Neither of you liked hearing it, but you both knew he wasn’t wrong.

⋆ ★ Your rivalry with Wednesday became an unspoken war of intellect, skill, and sheer stubbornness. She would deliberately sit beside you in class, sliding her paper just close enough so you’d notice her answers—always daring you to match or outdo her.

⋆ ★ In fencing, she began challenging you personally, blade meeting blade in flurries so fast you could almost forget the faint stiffness in your undead joints. Almost.

⋆ ★ She quickly learned your undead nature came with odd advantages: no pain when struck, an unnerving stamina, and an ability to play dead mid-duel that once made her falter just long enough for you to win. She called it ‘cheap.’ You called it ‘creative strategy.’

⋆ ★ Outside of class, your zombie quirks made for… memorable moments. You had to avoid the cafeteria’s hot meals (your stomach didn’t quite appreciate the living’s cooking), and you once absentmindedly detached a pinky finger during art class. Wednesday wordlessly picked it up and handed it back without breaking eye contact.

⋆ ★ She began lingering after she ‘coincidentally’ found you reading in the library. Conversations were sparse at first—mostly dry remarks, veiled insults, and the occasional slip of genuine curiosity about your past life.

⋆ ★ You found yourself catching her watching you in quiet moments, eyes tracing the faint scars along your hands, or the way your posture still carried the elegance of your time period.

⋆ ★ Pugsley was relentless in his commentary: ‘You two fight like an old married couple.’ Wednesday threatened him with an ice pick. You threatened him with your teeth.

⋆ ★ The shift between you came during a nighttime fencing rematch—rain pounding against the windows, the two of you breathless (well, she was. You didn’t need to breathe). She won by a single point, blade under your chin, and you smiled instead of scowling.

⋆ ★ “You’re improving,” she admitted flatly. Coming from Wednesday, it was practically a love confession.

⋆ ★ From then on, the rivalry remained, but it was… warmer. Not in a hearts-and-flowers way—more in a ‘we’d fight side-by-side in a graveyard without question’ kind of way.

⋆ ★ And while neither of you would dare say it aloud, you both knew—dead or not—you’d found someone equally unsettling to match your own darkness.

⋆ ★ It started as a conversation about anatomy. You had mentioned, in a particularly slow evening in the library, that certain joints of yours could be removed without harm.

⋆ ★ Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, the way they always did when curiosity overpowered her mask of indifference. “Prove it.”

⋆ ★ You obliged. With the precision of someone far too used to the process, you unfastened your own left arm at the shoulder. Her eyes followed every movement with scientific hunger.

⋆ ★ She examined the detached limb like it was a rare specimen, turning it over, pressing along the old scars where flesh met bone. “Remarkable,” she murmured, almost to herself.

⋆ ★ There was no disgust, only fascination. If anything, she seemed a little disappointed when you reattached it.

⋆ ★ A week later, she asked to watch again—but this time she brought her own tools. Scalpel, bone saw, surgical thread. “For the sake of research,” she claimed.

⋆ ★ You sat on her dorm floor as she carefully dismantled you—arm first, then a leg, then, with unnerving gentleness, part of your ribcage. You didn’t flinch once, and her steady hands never faltered.

⋆ ★ The two of you spoke the whole time—quietly, casually—as though this were no different than sharing tea. She asked about your past life, your memories; you asked why she’d never seemed afraid of you.

⋆ ★ “Fear is for people who plan to run,” she replied, setting aside a polished length of your humerus. “I prefer to stay.”

⋆ ★ At some point, she looked up from her work, her gloves smeared with dried blood, and something passed between you—mutual understanding, something old and heavy.

⋆ ★ Without warning, she leaned forward and kissed you. It was deliberate, unhurried, and startlingly warm for someone so cold. You felt the faint press of her smile against your mouth before she pulled back.

⋆ ★ “You taste like formaldehyde,” she observed flatly.

⋆ ★ “And you taste like someone I should keep around,” you replied, your voice steady despite the fact that half your body was still neatly arranged in labeled trays beside her.

⋆ ★ She only smirked. “Then don’t fall apart on me.”

[paxtito]

hi! Am I the only one obsessed with Slurp?? He has amazing potential to be an amazing character and ngl his personality seems perfect for Wednesday, but maybe that’s just me. 

I was hoping you could throw together a couple of headcannons with Wednesday x gender neutral reader? Theyre basically Slurp in the sense they have the same backstory but sense we don’t know a lot abt Slurps personality feel free to make it up. I can totally see them being rivals because of their ambition and stubbornness, but they fall for each others old fashioned charm and music taste? 

sorry I know that was a lot here’s a treat for reading all that 🍔🍔🍟🍦

yes! slurp is definitely one of the best characters of the season so far— though i’m probably bias since i’ve always loved zombies.

this requests is amazing and i’d love to do it and try out headcannons for the first time. i appreciate it 💙💙

(thank you for the snacks, it’s boiling where i am so the ice cream in particular is highly needed.)

posted.

[paxtito]

i just read the story for the werewolf reader request i made and it was so good😭 way beyond how i thought of it you are such a great writer 👏 👏 omggg thank you👏 👏

aww i’m so happy you enjoyed it! i really appreciate it 🫶🏻

[paxtito]

wolf in-law

pairings: wednesday x g!p!reader tags: smut, reader has a dick, tried to make it rough, overstimulation, possessiveness request: hi there! love your work! if you can, may i request a wednesday x top werewolf!reader where werewolves have to take pills prior to a full moon because they go in heat and they can get quite wild/animalistic iykyk ;) at some point wednesday suggests taking it out on her instead of taking the pills. reader doesn’t want to risk it because she could get hurt but obviously wednesday into it—

MASTERLIST. | WC: 4.4k

(all characters are 18+)

The end of the school year at Nevermore had always been a strange, bittersweet event. You’d survived it, barely.

But the weirdest part wasn’t that you’d gotten through the year without shifting during finals or that Enid had hugged you and tried to sneak you into a group selfie. No. The weirdest part was Wednesday Addams.

She cornered you in the greenhouse while you were avoiding packing, arms folded over her chest, eyes unreadable as always.

“You’ll be coming with me for the next two weeks.”

It wasn’t a question. You weren’t sure Wednesday knew how to ask questions, just make mandates.

“I have to—” you began, instinctively reaching for some excuse. The truth was worse than anything you could say aloud.

You needed to hit the infirmary. Before you left. Before the full moon hit. Before she realised the way your hands trembled or why you’d been skipping meals and walking with your fists clenched, shoulders hunched like you were carrying something heavy inside your skin.

“I already cleared it with Principal Weems,” Wednesday added, arching a brow. “And your dorm’s already been packed.”

You blinked. “You… went through my stuff?”

Wednesday’s mouth curled — not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one. “Enid helped. She has a disturbing fondness for folding.”

Your pulse stuttered.

It was too late now to get to the infirmary unnoticed.

Too late to stock up on the pills that dulled the heat, the growl, the ache you got when the moon reached for you.

You swallowed thickly. “Right. Okay. Addams Manor.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t sound thrilled.”

“No, I am,” you said too quickly. “Thrilled. So much thrill. Just… haven’t been to a cursed estate in a while.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press. She never did. That was the problem.

—

The Addams family estate was worse than you’d imagined — tall, brooding towers, thick mist curling through the iron gates, and a butler with a face carved from graveyard stone.

Lurch simply grunts, as if to say ‘Welcome back, Miss Addams.’

She gave him a curt nod and glanced at you. “He doesn’t eat guests. Anymore.”

“Comforting,” you murmured, stepping over the threshold.

The place smelled like candle wax and old velvet. Your senses twitched uncomfortably. You were already too aware of how loud your heartbeat was, how tight your muscles felt. The moon was getting closer, its pull more insistent.

Wednesday led you to your room — not a dungeon, surprisingly, though there was a skeleton in the closet. Literally.

“You’ll be next door to me,” she said. “Mother suggested separate rooms. I disagreed.”

You tried not to visibly react. “And your mother?”

“Didn’t disagree back.”

Of course not.

You placed your duffel on the antique bed. Inside, buried under layers of clothes, was the last of your pills. Four doses. Not enough.

Definitely not enough.

You heard Wednesday pause in the doorway.

She turned, her expression unreadable again. “You’ve been restless lately.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

Her dark eyes studied you, unnervingly sharp. “You’re sweating. And you flinched when Lurch touched your shoulder.”

“It’s hot outside.”

“It’s fifty-four degrees fahrenheit.”

You met her gaze and forced a crooked smile. “Must be my inner furnace.”

She didn’t look away. “You’re hiding something.”

The silence between you stretched, thick and taut like wire.

“I’ll figure it out,” she added, voice soft but edged in something dangerous. “Eventually.”

She shut the door behind her.

You sat down on the bed and exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.

You had two weeks. Four pills. And one very clever, very suspicious girlfriend.

This was going to be hell.

—

The last time you’d seen Morticia and Gomez Addams, you were in your school uniform, still sweating from fencing class. You’d barely gotten out your last name before Morticia was gliding toward you, her voice like chilled honey, commenting on the ‘primal strength in your aura.’

You weren’t sure if that had been a compliment or a thinly veiled warning. Maybe both.

Now, standing at the long, polished dining table at the Addams Manor, you felt that same chill crawl up your spine. The table was set like a feast for Victorian vampires: black candlesticks, glistening silverware that looked recently sharpened, and dishes you didn’t quite recognize but suspected still twitched.

“Mi alma!” Gomez boomed, throwing his arms wide when he saw Wednesday. He wrapped her in a hug so fierce you heard the creak of her ribs. “And my favorite wolf in law!”

Your brain hiccuped. Wolf in law?

He seized your hand in both of his, pumping it like he was trying to dislodge something. You did your best not to wince.

“Good to see you again, sir,” you managed, eyes flicking to Morticia as she descended the grand staircase like she owned the concept of gravity.

“You look… restrained,” she said, giving you a once-over, her red lips curving. “How refreshing. So many young lycanthropes are so… pungent this time of year.”

You flushed. Your skin was already running too hot — she could probably smell it on you.

You were late on your dose.

“I, uh. I use herbal supplements.”

Wednesday, already seated, gave you a look that could’ve flayed flesh.

Dinner began. It was a slow, ceremonial affair. There was a dish full of black liquid that might have been soup or poison, and a salad that was definitely moving. Gomez and Morticia talked in tandem, like a haunting duet, about summer court politics, Uncle Fester’s ‘latest experiment in luminous flesh,’ and Thing’s brief career as a blackjack dealer in Vegas.

You mostly nodded, chewed carefully, and prayed no one noticed the tremble in your fingers or the way your knee kept bouncing under the table.

“Darling,” Morticia said at one point, “do tell us what’s been troubling your beast lately.”

You froze.

Wednesday blinked once. “Nothing specific. Just… an increase in evasive behavior. Physical agitation. A noticeable change in scent.”

“Have you tried scratching behind the ears?” Gomez offered brightly.

You laughed — a sound that came out too high, too hollow.

“I’m just adjusting,” you said quickly. “To summer break. And, you know, the… manor’s unique ambiance.”

Morticia tilted her head, her inky hair swaying like shadow. “Your aura is tense, my dear. Like it’s waiting for something.”

You smiled tightly. “I get that a lot.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. You could feel it — the edges of the shift brushing your spine. The full moon wasn’t for another four days, but every hour closer made it harder to keep the instincts down. Normally, the pills softened the edge. Dosed regularly, they kept you human enough to think straight, to resist. But you’d taken your last one this morning.

And that wasn’t going to be enough.

Wednesday reached across the table and touched your wrist. Her fingers were cool, deliberate.

“You’re not fine,” she said softly, eyes boring into yours. “You’re lying to me.”

You stared back, throat tightening.

“I just need to sleep,” you said after a beat. “I’m— tired. That’s all.”

Morticia smiled, slowly. “Ah. Fatigue. The gateway to transformation.”

Wednesday didn’t blink. “I’ll be confirming that tomorrow.”

You weren’t sure if that was a threat or a promise.

—

That night, you lay in your room staring at the ceiling, sweat drying on your collarbones.

Three pills left. Maybe two if the pressure kept building.

Wednesday knew something was off. She could feel it. You didn’t have much time before she found out.

And worse — you weren’t sure what would happen when she did.

You didn’t sleep.

Instead, you laid there in the antique bed with your jaw clenched and your back to the moonlight leaking through the arched window, fingers curled so tight your claws had threatened to break the skin. You were trying to breathe evenly, trying to think past the haze. Every sound was too sharp, every movement a provocation. You could feel your instincts rising — no fangs or fur yet, but the pressure was there.

And you were almost out of time.

You had just started to reach beneath the mattress for the worn bottle — your second-to-last pill — when a chill prickled up your spine.

You weren’t alone.

You didn’t hear her enter.

You didn’t smell her.

She was just… there.

Wednesday stood at the edge of your bed, arms crossed over her chest, staring at you like you were a corpse she was seconds away from dissecting. The candlelight behind her turned her into a silhouette, but her voice cut through the darkness.

“You’ve been suppressing your true self.”

You flinched — just barely — but she saw it.

You sat up slowly, pulling the sheet with you even though modesty wasn’t the reason. You were sweating again. Your throat was dry. “Wednesday…”

“I can smell it on you,” she interrupted. “Even now.”

Your heart stuttered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I disagree.”

She took a step closer. The floor didn’t creak. She moved like smoke — quiet, impossible, inevitable.

“You’ve been lying,” she continued, calm as always. “To me. To yourself. Dulling the animal inside you. Drugging yourself to avoid temptation.”

“I didn’t— it’s not like that,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Another step.

���I know what suppression smells like,” she said. “It’s sterile. Sharp. Like fear wrapped in science.”

You swallowed hard, the pill bottle now hidden under the covers, burning your palm with its presence.

“Why are you taking them?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Is it because of me?”

Your throat closed. “I didn’t want you to see that part of me.”

She studied you in silence. Then — softly, cruelly — she asked:

“The part of you that wants to pin me down and devour me?”

You choked on your own breath.

She was in front of you now, inches from the bed, her silhouette perfect, her mouth unreadable, her eyes glittering.

“I know how you look at me when you think I’m not watching,” she said. “You’re always trying to control it. Pretend you’re normal. But you’re not. You’re a creature made of instinct.”

You stayed silent. You couldn’t trust your voice.

Wednesday reached down — slow, deliberate — and lifted the edge of the blanket. Not to climb under it, but just enough to see the pill bottle clutched in your hand.

Her lips curled faintly.

“Is this what makes you safe?” she asked. “Or does it just make you weak?”

You couldn’t look at her.

“Stop taking them,” she said flatly.

You looked up. “Wednesday, if I stop—”

“You’ll want me.”

Your breath caught. She said it without hesitation. Without fear.

“That’s not the problem,” you rasped.

“No,” she said. “The problem is that you already do. And you’re still pretending not to.”

She reached out and touched your cheek. Her fingers were cool, her nails short but sharp.

“You’re not dangerous to me,” she said, almost gently. “You’re only dangerous when you try to be someone you’re not.”

You closed your eyes, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. She smelled like nightshade and ink. It made your pulse race.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, voice cracking.

She leaned in, close enough for her lips to brush your ear.

“Then don’t hold back.”

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the pill bottle before dropping it onto the mattress with a muted thud. Wednesday’s fingers were still resting against your cheek, cool and deliberate, and when you opened your eyes, you were met with the unblinking focus of hers—dark pools of ink that saw everything you were trying so hard to hide.

The restraint you’d spent months meticulously maintaining was unraveling.

You could feel it—the shift beneath your skin. Not the full change, not yet, but the slow, undeniable slide of your instincts taking hold. Every ragged breath you took was deep enough to taste her. The scent of her made your mouth water.

“You’ve been fighting it,” she murmured, tracing a slow path from your cheekbone to your jaw. “For how long?��

Too long.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your ribs, against your throat. When you spoke, your voice was lower, rougher than before.

“Since the first time I saw you.”

A slow, dangerous curve of her lips. “And yet, you let yourself think you could resist.”

Your breath hitched.

She leaned in, lips ghosting over yours—barely there, just enough for your body to arch instinctively toward her—then pulled back, watching the way your breath stuttered, the way you ached.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, dragging a single sharp fingernail down the center of your bare chest, stopping just above the waistband of your sweat-dampened pants.

You growled, low and feral—unable to stop yourself—and seized her wrist, pinning it against the mattress as you rolled her beneath you in one fluid motion.

Wednesday didn’t fight it.

She let you press her down, let your weight settle between her thighs, let your claws dig just enough to prick the delicate skin of her wrist—but she never looked away.

She liked it.

“There you are,” she murmured.

Then you kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was hunger.

Your teeth grazed her bottom lip hard enough to draw a sharp inhale from her, your tongue

Your tongue slid against hers with possessive insistence, swallowing the rare, breathless sound she made as you pinned her wrists overhead with one hand. The other roamed—fingers tracing the sharp angles of her collarbone, the rapid flutter of her pulse, the dip of her waist where her usual layers of black fabric had ridden up just enough for your claws to scrape teasingly against bare skin.

Wednesday arched beneath you, not in surrender but challenge, her knee brushing deliberately against the aching hardness between your thighs.

"You're still holding back," she whispered against your mouth, voice laced with that razor-edged amusement you both loved and resented.

Your restraint frayed further. With a growl, your hands slipped beneath the hem of her nightgown, tracing the outsides of her thighs in slow, deliberate strokes.

When your fingers dipped inward, tracing higher, she exhaled sharply, though her gaze remained defiant. Testing, you scraped a claw lightly over the delicate lace of her underwear—watching as her breath hitched, as her hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward your touch.

Yet still, she didn’t break.

So neither would you.

Leaning down, you nipped at the tendon of her neck, relishing the way her fingers twisted into the sheets for the barest second before she caught herself.

"Pathetic," she murmured, though the slight breathlessness in her tone betrayed her.

You smirked against her skin, lips brushing the shell of her ear as your hand finally—finally—slipped beneath lace, fingers gliding through slick heat.

"Say that again."

Wednesday’s breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—before she recovered, her midnight-dark eyes narrowing.

“Pathetic,” she repeated, voice low and taunting, though her hips tilted reflexively into your touch.

You rewarded her sharp tongue with the slow, deliberate stroke of your fingers between her legs, groaning softly against her throat as you found her already soaked

Fuck.

Your thumb circled her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her fingers tighten in your hair—whether to pull you closer or shove you away, you weren’t entirely sure. Maybe both.

“You’re lying,” you murmured, lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear as you pressed a second finger inside her, loving the way her body clenched around you.

Her jaw tightened, but she refused to give you the satisfaction of a moan.

So you took your time.

Your fingers moved in slow, rhythmic strokes—deep enough to make her back arch, then retreating just before she could chase the sensation. Again and again, until her breath came in uneven bursts, until her thighs trembled against yours, until her nails bit into your shoulders hard enough to hurt.

“You’re the one who told me not to hold back,” you reminded her, voice rough with desire.

Her response was a hiss of frustration—or maybe surrender—as you finally curled your fingers just right, dragging a sharp, choked gasp from her lips.

There.

You grinned, predatory and pleased, watching as her composure cracked—just for a second—before she forced it back into place.

“Wednesday,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in your hair.

“Don’t gloat.”

You laughed—dark, pleased—and obeyed.

By not stopping.

Your patience shattered.

With a growl, you wrenched her off the bed in one smooth motion, ignoring the crash of the overturned nightstand—the sound of glass breaking, something heavy thudding against the floor. None of it mattered.

Wednesday barely had time to react before your hands were on her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the dresser, her back pressing into the mirror with a muted thud. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your waist, heels digging into the small of your back as you finally—finally—shoved your own pants down just enough to free yourself.

She hissed at the first brush of your cock against her thigh—hot, dripping, aching for her.

"You're—" she started, but whatever taunt she had prepared died in her throat as you lined yourself up and pushed inside, sinking into her in one smooth, devastating thrust.

She gasped, nails raking down your shoulders, her back arching as she took every inch of you.

"Fuck—" you groaned, forehead dropping to hers.

Tighter. Hotter. Better than you'd imagined in all those restless nights staring at her from across the room, pretending you didn't fantasise about this exact moment.

"You feel insane," you panted, voice croaky with need, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other tangled in her braids as you pulled her even closer.

Wednesday's breath was ragged, her usually composed expression fractured—a rare, beautiful unraveling just for you.

"Move," she demanded, the word trembling just slightly at the edges.

You obeyed.

With a sharp snap of your hips, you did—driving into her with a roughness that rattled the mirror behind her, that sent her head tipping back with a breathless sound you’d never heard from her before. You caught her throat in your teeth—not biting, not yet—just enough to feel her swallow against your lips, to hear the way her breath fractured into something desperate.

"Mine," you growled against her skin, hands tightening on her hips as you fucked her in deep, relentless strokes, each one aimed to drag a new, broken noise from her.

Wednesday, untouchable Wednesday, was shaking beneath you—her thighs gripping you like she’d kill you if you stopped, her nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. Her usual composure was coming apart in your hands, and you reveled in it.

"Say it," you demanded, lifting her chin with your fingers to force her to meet your gaze.

Her lips parted, her eyes black with lust and something dangerously close to fury that you’d made her like this.

"No."

You snarled, gripping the back of her neck and slamming into her hard enough to make the dresser creak in protest.

"Say. It."

A sharp gasp—her nails dug deeper.

"Yours," she finally hissed, voice ragged, hating how much she meant it.

You kissed her then, swallowing her frustrated moan as you fucked her through it, your own release barreling towards you.

She came first—her body clamping around you in silent, shuddering waves, her teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle the sound. The pain of it sent you over the edge, hips stuttering as your own climax

You didn’t stop.

Even as your release ripped through you, even as Wednesday’s body clenched around you in aftershocks, you didn’t stop.

Her breath hitched—the first flicker of real surprise in her eyes as you kept moving, your grip on her hips unforgiving as you pushed her through the oversensitivity.

"Wait—" she started, but the word dissolved into a ragged gasp as you dragged your cock out and then back in, slow and deliberate, watching her pupils blow wider.

You smirked, licking the sweat from her collarbone. "You don’t get to tell me to stop now."

Her thighs trembled—whether from exhaustion or renewed need, you weren’t sure—but her glare was as sharp as ever. "I’ll stab you."

You nipped at her jaw, breath hot against her skin. "You’d miss."

Then you pulled her off the dresser entirely, carrying her the few steps to the nearest wall and pinning her against it, her back pressed to the cold surface as you thrust into her again. Harder.

She choked—a broken, glorious sound—her nails scraping down your spine as you fucked her through the second wave, her body so tight around you it was maddening.

"You wanted this," you reminded her, voice rough with satisfaction. "You wanted me. So take it."

She answered by dragging your mouth to hers in a biting, messy kiss—all teeth and tongues and unspoken surrender.

The moment your lips crashed into hers, you knew she wasn’t surrendering.

She was claiming.

Wednesday’s teeth caught your lower lip hard enough to draw blood—the metallic tang exploding across your tongue as she pulled back, chest heaving, eyes black with something feral.

“Mine,” she snarled, hips tilting to take you even deeper, her body arching to meet every brutal thrust.

You saw red.

Gripping her thighs, you lifted her higher, slamming her against the wall with enough force to shake the frame of some long-dead Addams ancestor’s portrait loose. The impact tore a ragged moan from her throat—one she instantly smothered by biting down on your shoulder again, her legs locking like a vice around your waist.

You didn’t care.

You were too far gone—too consumed by the way her cunt fluttered around you, hot and wet and perfect, squeezing every inch of your cock as if she could force another orgasm out of you already.

“Fuck—Wednesday—” Your voice was raw, unrecognizable, your hips pistoning into her with a rhythm that was more animal than human now.

She didn’t answer—just dug her nails into the back of your neck, dragging you down to crush her mouth against yours in another searing, bloody kiss.

You didn’t just fuck her.

You ruined her.

Pinning her against the wall, you drove into her with a force that had her gasping, her usually razor-sharp composure fracturing with every brutal thrust. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the ancient wood behind her, the way her breath hitched as you angled your hips just right—God, she was perfection unraveling in your hands.

And she hated it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Her nails raked down your back hard enough to leave red, stinging trails in their wake. “Is that all you’ve got?” she sneered, though her voice trembled just slightly on the last word.

A challenge.

You grinned—feral, unrestrained—and slammed into her harder.

She yelped, her thighs tightening around you instinctively as you hit that spot inside her that made her toes curl.

“You were saying?” you rumbled against her throat, teeth scraping over her pulse point.

She opened her mouth—probably to hiss some venomous remark—but all that came out was a broken moan as you rolled your hips just so, grinding against her clit with every thrust.

Her body clenched around you, her back arching as she came—her orgasm crashing over her with silent, shuddering intensity.

You followed right after, burying yourself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a guttural groan, your forehead pressing against hers as you rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the slow drip of sweat between your bodies, the faint creak of the settling house.

Then Wednesday spoke.

“Disappointing.”

Your laugh was rough, breathless, your arms still locked around her.

You didn’t hesitate.

At her taunt, your hands tightened on her hips—ignoring her startled noise of protest—and you yanked her off the wall, tossing her onto the bed with a force that made the mattress groan.

She barely had time to scramble up onto her elbows before you were on her, pinning her thighs apart with your shoulders and lathing your tongue over her swollen clit with a single, brutal stroke.

"Fuck—!"

Her back arched off the bed, her hands flying to your hair—not to push you away, but to wrench you closer, fingers twisting in the roots hard enough to make your scalp burn.

You didn’t stop.

If she wanted to play cruel, you’d be ruthless.

You dragged your tongue through her slickness, savoring the way she tasted—bitter and sweet and hers—before sealing your lips around her clit and sucking hard.

Wednesday jolted, a broken sound tearing from her throat as her hips bucked against your mouth.

"Too much—" she gasped, her voice fraying at the edges.

You growled against her, sliding two fingers back inside her without warning, curling them just right as you flicked your tongue in relentless circles.

She shook, her thighs clamping around your head as another orgasm ripped through her—this one faster, sharper, her nails clawing at your shoulders as she came with a choked-off cry.

You didn’t let up.

When she tried to shove you away, you grabbed her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, your other thumb circling her oversensitive clit in slow, cruel presses.

"You don’t get to tap out," you snarled, your voice raw with lust. "Not after that fucking lie."

She bared her teeth, her chest heaving—but the way her body pulsed around your fingers betrayed her.

You smirked.

And bent your head again.

She’d regret calling you disappointing by the time you were done with her.

[paxtito]

don’t dawdle

pairings: wednesday x fem!reader

warnings: smut, strap-on sex (w receiving)

request: can i make a request of Wednesday who usually tops fem!reader but after a certain moment (perhaps a new haircut, outfit), Wednesday makes an odd request of r using the strap this time and she has to guide r on how to use it properly (so like powerbottom!wednesday and softtop!reader)

MASTERLIST. | WC: 2.9k

(all characters are 18+)

The morning had been… oddly peaceful. A rare treat. No rushing through uniforms, no last-minute essays you’d forgotten to do. You had the first half of the day off—well, you were skipping—you’d spent it in Jericho, finally getting that haircut you’d been debating for weeks. The salon was warm and smelled like lavender and hairspray, the stylist chatty in a way that didn’t grate on you for once. When it was done, you left with a subtle confidence curling in your chest, tugging your collar straight as you walked back to Nevermore.

Now, just after noon, you slipped into the quad and headed for the familiar stone bench under the tree where you always sat with Enid and Wednesday. You spotted them immediately—Enid waving enthusiastically, and Wednesday…

Well, Wednesday was staring.

You approached, dropping your bag with a sigh and brushing a crumb off the seat before settling beside them. Enid launched into a recap of whatever drama had happened in your absence, but you barely caught it—your eyes flicked to your girlfriend, whose dark gaze hadn’t left your face.

Not once.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Wednesday blinked—slowly, as if waking from a trance—and immediately looked down at her tray, poking her fork into something green.

“Nothing,” she said flatly.

Enid leaned in, stage-whispering behind her hand. “She’s been staring at you since you walked up. Like hardcore eye contact. Like she’s trying to solve a crime on your face.”

“I am merely observing,” Wednesday snapped, her tone icy.

“You’ve barely blinked,” Enid grinned.

“She never does.” You tried not to smile as you turned to Wednesday. “Do I look different or something?”

“No,” she said much too quickly.

Enid snorted. “Lie.”

Wednesday’s jaw tensed. She stabbed her salad with increasing frustration.

“Is it the hair?” you asked, teasing, nudging her knee with yours under the table.

She didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

Wednesday, normally composed to a terrifying degree, looked like she was trying not to react. Her lips twitched the way they did when she was suppressing a smirk—or in this case, maybe something else entirely. Admiration. Affection. Possibly a bit of dazed, reluctant awe.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “You like it.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “I tolerate it.”

“Which is basically a love letter coming from her,” Enid chimed in.

Wednesday let out a quiet, dramatic exhale and finally looked at you—really looked. There was a flicker of something soft in her expression. Barely there. But you caught it.

And despite her best efforts, you saw the truth in her eyes.

She loved it. She just didn’t want you to know that it made her heart skip.

The final class of the day dragged on. You’d already mentally packed up your books and walked out ten times in your head, barely able to focus on the assignment in front of you. Outside the window, the sky had dulled to that soft blue-grey haze.

You were half-listening to your teacher’s closing remarks when a soft tap-tap sounded near your hand.

You looked down.

Thing was perched on your desk, tapping insistently beside a folded piece of dark paper sealed with wax.

A note.

From her.

You quickly slid it open, already recognising the neat, sharp handwriting.

Meet me at our usual place. Don’t dawdle. — W

That was it. No greeting. No sign-off. But it made your pulse stir all the same.

You slipped the note into your pocket, gave Thing a grateful nod, and started gathering your things, barely waiting for the bell to ring. As soon as it did, you were out the door, cutting through the trees that flanked the edge of campus, following the familiar worn path through the woods.

The abandoned hut stood quietly in the clearing—tucked away, crooked and weathered, barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. Your sanctuary. Yours and hers. No curious roommates. No staring eyes. Just silence, shadows, and each other.

You pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside.

There she was.

Wednesday stood by the cracked window, arms folded, still in uniform. Her braid was slightly looser than usual, like she’d run her hand through it out of impatience. The light hit her in that odd, slanted way it always did in the hut—like the world tilted just for her.

“You came,” she said simply, though her voice was softer than usual.

You closed the door behind you. “You summoned me. I’m not suicidal enough to ignore that.”

A faint smirk ghosted across her lips before she looked away. “I needed a moment. With you.”

You crossed the room to stand in front of her, close enough that the space between you was nothing more than suggestion.

She reached out—quiet, certain—and took your hand.

“I don’t like being observed,” she murmured. “Enid is incapable of silence, and your roommate is a nocturnal cryptid.”

You laughed quietly. “So this is for privacy.”

Her eyes lifted to yours. “This is for peace.”

A pause.

“…And for kissing. If you’re amenable.”

Your heart stuttered at the casual way she said it—like asking you to pass the salt. But that was her way. Emotion, real and raw, always disguised in deadpan delivery.

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“I’m very amenable.”

She didn’t reply.

She just kissed you.

Her hands slid up your back, fingers curling into your shirt as she pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, slow and steady, her lips moving deliberately against yours. There was no rush, no frenzy. Just a calm, consuming intensity that made your head swim.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were dark and her breath came a little faster. She studied your face for a long moment before speaking.

"Your hair," she murmured, reaching up to run her fingers through the strands, "it suits you. It's...different."

"Different good or different bad?" you asked, teasing.

Her expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Different...interesting."

It was the closest thing to a compliment you were likely to get from her. You grinned.

"Well, I'm glad I could pique your interest," you said dryly.

Wednesday rolled her eyes but didn't pull her hand away from your hair. If anything, her fingers lingered, brushing along your scalp in a way that made your skin prickle.

Wednesday's fingers stilled in your hair as she gazed at you, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand and reached into her satchel, pulling out the strap-on she'd brought with her. She held it up.

"I brought this," she said, her voice low and even, "for you to use on me."

Your breath caught. In all the time you'd been together, you'd never topped her before. You knew she preferred to take charge, to maintain that control. But now, with your new haircut, she was handing over the reins.

"Wednesday, I..." you began, but she cut you off with a sharp look.

"I want you to," she said, simply. "Tonight. Here."

She stepped closer, until you could feel the heat of her body through your clothes. Her eyes searched yours, dark and intense.

"I like the way you look," she murmured, "and I want to see you...use it."

She pressed the strap-on into your hand, her fingers brushing against yours. It was an unspoken challenge. A test. A gift.

Your heart raced as you took it, curling your fingers around the leather. You knew this was a big step for her. A big gesture. One that meant more than words ever could.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against hers, your breath mingling with hers. When you spoke, your voice was low and sure.

"Okay," you whispered. "I will."

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a soft breath escaping her lips. Then she stepped back, turning to walk towards the rickety. makeshift bed in the corner of the hut.

"Wait for me to get ready," she said over her shoulder, already starting to unbutton her uniform shirt with deft fingers. "I want to make this...special."

You stared dumbly at the strap-on in your hand, your mind racing. While you'd fantasised about this moment, you'd never actually considered the logistics. Your fingers fumbled with the leather, trying to figure out how to thread it through the loops and buckles. The harness seemed to twist and turn in your hands, as uncooperative as a live snake.

Wednesday, noticing your struggle, let out a quiet, exasperated sigh. She stepped closer, her uniform shirt already discarded on the floor, and took the strap-on from your hands. With practiced efficiency, she began to adjust the straps, her fingers moving with a purposeful economy of motion.

"Allow me," she said, her tone dry. "It seems I'll need to assist you in this as well."

You flushed, feeling suddenly clumsy and inexperienced. "Sorry, I..."

She cut you off with a sharp look. "No apologies. Just...pay attention. Watch."

You fell silent, watching as she tightened the last strap and held the harness out to you. You stepped into it, letting the leather settle against your skin. It felt strange. Intimate. A little scary.

Wednesday's hands rested on your hips as she adjusted the fit, her touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. When she was satisfied, she stepped back and looked you over, her gaze slow and appraising.

"Good," she said, finally. "Now...undress."

The command hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Your heart started to race as you reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off in one swift motion. The cool air hit your skin, making you shiver.

Wednesday watched, her expression unreadable, as you unzipped your skirt and let it fall to the floor. You stood before her, in nothing but your underwear and the strap-on, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

She stepped closer, reaching out to run a finger along the length of the strap-on, tracing the shape of it through the fabric. Her touch was light. Curious. Almost reverent.

"I want you," she said, softly, "to take me. Hard."

And with that, she turned and lay back on the makeshift bed, waiting. Watching. Ready.

You frowned, confusion and uncertainty flashing across your face as you tried to process her words. She could see the questions in your eyes, the hesitation in your stance. It was rare to catch Wednesday off guard, but here you were, managing to do just that.

"Wednesday, I..." you started, swallowing hard, "I'm not sure what you mean by 'hard'. I want to make you feel good, but I don't want to hurt you."

A flicker of something soft, almost tender, crossed Wednesday's face. She sat up slowly, reaching out to take your hand in hers. Her fingers were cool and steady, a calming presence against your racing pulse.

"Hard," she explained, her voice low and patient, "means taking control. Being assertive. Letting me feel every inch of you. Not holding back because you're worried about me."

She brought your hand up to her lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. Her eyes never left yours.

"Trust me," she murmured, "I can take it. I want to feel you. All of you. Don't hold back."

A thrill ran through you at her words, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. You knew this was a big moment for her. A chance for her to let go, to surrender control in a way she rarely did.

You took a deep breath, nodding slowly. "Okay," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "I'll try."

A ghost of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Good," she said, softly. "Now...come here."

You moved to hover over her, your heart pounding as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties. With a swift tug, you pulled them down her long, coltish legs, baring her to your hungry gaze. She lifted her hips to help you.

Wednesday watched you through half-lidded eyes, her chest rising and falling with each steady breath. She could see the way your hands trembled slightly as you positioned yourself between her thighs, the strap-on jutting out, hard and ready. The sight of it, there, poised at her entrance, made her stomach flip with anticipation.

"Go slowly at first," she murmured, her voice low and calm despite the heat building in her core. "But don't be gentle."

You nodded, swallowing hard. You took hold of the strap-on, lining it up with her slick, warm entrance. You could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the way her body softened, welcoming you. With a deep breath, you pushed forward, feeling the head of the strap-on catch and then slip inside her.

A soft gasp escaped her lips at the intrusion, her back arching slightly off the bed. Her hands came up to grip your hips, nails digging into your skin as she urged you on. You pushed deeper, inch by careful inch, until you felt the strap-on fully sheathed inside her. She was tight. Tighter than you'd expected. But she took it all, her body adjusting, accommodating you.

Wednesday guided your hips with a firm grip, her fingers digging into your skin as she directed your movements. "Start slow," she instructed, her voice a low rasp in the quiet room, "but don't be afraid to go deep."

You began to move, pulling back until just the tip remained inside her, before thrusting forward again, burying the strap-on to the hilt. You set a steady rhythm, your hips rolling against hers. The room filled with the sound of your ragged breathing, and her soft, breathy sighs.

"That's it," she encouraged, her grip on your hips tightening as she guided your movements. "Harder. Faster."

You complied, your strokes growing more forceful, more purposeful. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. Wednesday's breath came faster now, her chest heaving as she lost herself in the rhythm you'd set.

"Yes," she gasped, arching up to meet your thrusts. "Don't stop. Just like that."

Her words spurred you on, your own desire building with each passing moment. You could feel the heat of your own arousal, the ache of your own need. But you focused on her, on the sounds she made, the way her body moved beneath yours.

Wednesday tangled her fingers in your newly cut hair, gripping the shorter strands as she guided your movements with increasing urgency. Her legs wrapped around your thighs, ankles locking at the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer with each roll of your hips. She used the leverage to meet your thrusts, her body rising to greet yours in a dance of give and take.

She tangled her fingers deeper, using the grip to guide your face down to hers. Her eyes, dark and hazy with desire, met yours. Her next words were a low, needy plea.

"Kiss me," she breathed against your lips. "Kiss me while you...while you fuck me. I want to taste you while you take me."

The crude words falling from her usually prim mouth sent a bolt of lust straight to your core. Without hesitation, you crashed your lips against hers, swallowing her moans and whimpers. Your tongue delved into the warm cavern of her mouth, stroking along hers.

You could feel her body tensing, her movements growing more erratic as she chased her pleasure. The grip in your hair tightened, nails scraping against your scalp as she teetered on the brink. You doubled your efforts, determined to push her over the edge, to feel her climax beneath you.

Wednesday's body began to tremble, her hips bucking wildly against yours as the coil of tension in her core wound tighter and tighter. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest heaving as she teetered on the cusp of something monumental.

"Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth, her fingers twisting almost painfully in your hair, "yes, yes, yes...don't stop. Please don't stop."

You could feel the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of her arousal coating the strap-on as it plunged in and out of her.

Suddenly, with a sharp cry, she came undone. Her body convulsed beneath you, back arching off the bed as a powerful orgasm ripped through her. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, making her shake and shudder as she rode out the intense sensation.

Through it all, you held her close, your body never stilling as you worked her through her climax. You could feel the way her walls fluttered and clenched around the strap-on, trying to pull you deeper, to keep you inside.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she went limp, her body melting into the mattress as the aftershocks subsided. She was panting, her skin flushed and dewy, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

As Wednesday came down from her high, she looked up at you with a hazy, satiated gaze. Her fingers, still tangled in your hair, gentled their grip, stroking the strands almost absently.

"Don't," she murmured, her voice hoarse from her cries of pleasure, "ever change this haircut. It's...perfect."

[paxtito]

I LITERALLY SCREAMED WHEN I SAW YOU POSTED

[paxtito]

accidental turn-on

pairings: ghostface!tara x fem!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: smut 18+, small knife play, fingering (r receiving)

summary: a new ghostface killer is in town and you’d been set on finding out who it was, only for your sweet girlfriend to reveal herself but the danger of her standing over you with a knife elicits some feelings…

MASTERLIST

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for almost a year. i don’t know whether i like it or not but it’ll make due as a filler

After a long, exhausting day chasing leads and piecing together clues, you finally make it back to your dorm, your mind buzzing with theories and suspicions about the recent Ghostface killings. The news has been relentless, each story adding another layer to the dark mystery that seems to consume the campus. But tonight, all you want is a break from the tension, a quiet night with your girlfriend, Tara.

Pushing open the door, you immediately spot her sitting cross-legged on your bed, scrolling through her phone, her face lit by the soft glow of the screen. She looks up as you step in, her eyes sparkling with that familiar warmth, and she gives you a small, sweet smile.

“Hey, finally,” she says softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Long day?”

“Yeah… you could say that,” you reply, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into your bones as you take a step closer.

You can’t help but feel a strange tension in the room, something just slightly… off. Tara’s watching you a little too closely, her gaze intense in a way that sends a subtle chill down your spine. You brush it off, chalking it up to your frayed nerves. But as you move closer, your eyes catch something—a glint of metal peeking out from behind her back.

Your breath catches.

She’s holding a knife.

Every story, every suspicion, every haunting detail you’ve chased hits you all at once. You feel your heart hammering as the pieces fall into place in one horrifying, undeniable realization.

“Tara…?” You take a shaky breath, searching her face for any sign that this is some twisted joke. But she only tilts her head, her smile deepening, her eyes flashing with something dark and unreadable.

“Surprised?” she asks, her voice soft, almost playful. She shifts slightly, the knife now fully visible in her grip, held casually, like it’s just an ordinary part of her.

And in that moment, you realize the truth. Tara—your Tara—is Ghostface.

Your stomach twists with nausea, a wave of betrayal and fear crashing over you. You can hardly believe what you're seeing, the person you trusted most in the world now revealed as the monster you've been chasing. The air feels thick, heavy, making it hard to breathe as you stare at the knife in Tara's hand.

"How... why?" you manage to choke out, your voice trembling. "I thought... I thought we had something."

Tara's smile falters for a moment, a flicker of something almost like regret crossing her features before it's quickly replaced by that unnerving intensity. She sets the knife down on the bed beside her, then stands up slowly, closing the distance between you.

"We did have something," she says softly, reaching out to cup your cheek with her hand. "But it wasn't enough. It never is."

She leans in close, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, "You just couldn't let it go, could you? Always so nosy, always digging for answers. I told you, some things are better left buried."

You feel a shiver run down your spine at her words, your mind reeling. All those late nights she spent working on her 'art projects', the unexplained absences, the way she always seemed to know more than she should about the crimes... it all makes a sickening kind of sense now.

"I... I don't understand," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Why me? Why us?"

Tara pulls back slightly, her eyes searching yours. There's a vulnerability there, a crack in her carefully constructed facade.

"Because you were the only one who saw me," she says quietly. "The real me, beneath all the masks. And I thought... maybe, just maybe, I could make you understand. Make you see the beauty in what I do."

She reaches for the knife again, running her fingers along the blade with a tenderness that makes your skin crawl.

"But you couldn't leave well enough alone. You had to keep digging, keep pushing. And now..."

She trails off, her gaze turning distant, almost lost.

And now, here you stand, face to face with the woman you thought you knew, the woman you loved. The air between you crackles with tension, heavy with the weight of all the secrets and lies that have brought you to this moment.

Tara's eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting instant, you catch a glimpse of something raw and vulnerable beneath the surface. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same unsettling intensity that has haunted your dreams since the killings began.

"I didn't want it to be this way," she murmurs, her voice low and almost tender. "I wanted... I wanted us to have a future together. But you made it impossible."

She takes a step closer, the knife still gripped tightly in her hand. You can see the gleam of the blade catching the light, the sharp edge that promises only pain and death.

"You left me no choice," Tara whispers, her breath hot against your cheek. "You just wouldn't stop until you found the truth. And now... now you know the truth."

She lifts the knife slowly, the point hovering just inches from your chest. Your heart pounds in your throat, your body frozen in a mix of terror and disbelief.

"Please, Tara," you manage to choke out, your voice barely audible. "Don't do this. It doesn't have to end like this."

But even as the words leave your lips, you know they're futile. The woman standing before you is a stranger, a monster wearing the face of someone you once loved.

Tara's eyes narrow, her grip tightening on the knife.

As Tara presses the cold steel of the knife against your skin, you feel a sudden, unexpected rush of heat coursing through your veins. The danger, the forbidden nature of the moment—it's intoxicating, firing up desires you've kept buried deep inside.

Tara's gaze flickers with surprise as she senses the shift in your energy. She leans in closer, the knife now tracing a delicate line down your neck, leaving a trail of tingling sensation in its wake.

"What's this?" she purrs, her voice low and seductive. "Getting turned on by the danger, are you? How... predictable."

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, mingled with a moan as the knife's edge catches on the sensitive skin of your collarbone.

"Fuck, Tara..." you breathe, your body responding to her touch despite every rational thought telling you to resist. "You're playing a dangerous game."

She smirks, her eyes glinting with wicked delight. "Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing," she murmurs, pressing the flat of the blade against your racing pulse. "The question is, do you?"

Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as Tara continues her sensual torture, the knife alternating between gentle caresses and sharp, stinging nicks. Each touch sends a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to your core, stoking the fire building within you.

"Tell me," Tara demands, her free hand sliding up your thigh, fingers teasing the hem of your skirt. "Tell me how much you want this. How much you crave the forbidden, the dangerous, the deadly."

You can't hold back the moan that tears from your throat, your hips bucking involuntarily against her touch.

"Fuck, yes," you pant, your voice thick with need. "I want it. I want you. Even like this, even knowing what you are..."

Tara's lips curl into a wicked grin, her eyes darkening with lust. "Good girl," she purrs, nipping at your earlobe with her teeth. "Because I'm going to give you exactly what you want.”

Tara chuckles darkly, her breath hot against your skin as she presses her body flush against yours. The knife disappears from sight, discarded carelessly onto the floor as her hands roam freely across your curves.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," she murmurs, her lips brushing against your jawline. "The things I'm going to do to you... the ways I'm going to make you scream..."

Her teeth graze your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the heat of her body seeping through your clothes, igniting a fire deep within you.

Tara's hands slide beneath your shirt, calloused fingers skimming over the soft skin of your stomach. You arch into her touch instinctively, craving more despite the voice in the back of your head screaming at you to stop, to run.

But you're frozen, pinned in place by Tara's intense gaze and the intoxicating scent of danger that clings to her like a second skin. You've always been drawn to the dark side, to the thrill of the forbidden, and now, faced with the object of your desire, you find yourself helpless to resist.

Tara's lips crash against yours in a brutal, demanding kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs. Her tongue invades your mouth, claiming every inch of you as her own. You moan into the kiss, your body melting against hers as she grinds her hips into your core.

She breaks away abruptly, leaving you gasping and dizzy with need. Tara's eyes rake over your form, taking in the flush of your skin, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

Tara's hands make quick work of your clothing, tearing and tossing aside the flimsy fabric until you're bared before her, exposed and vulnerable. Her gaze devours you, drinking in every curve and contour of your body with a hunger that sets your skin ablaze.

"God, you're fucking breathtaking," she breathes, her voice rough with desire. "I've wanted this for so long, wanted to have you completely at my mercy."

She trails a finger down your sternum, circling one nipple teasingly before pinching it between her thumb and forefinger.

The sharp sting of pain mingles with the pleasure coursing through your veins, making you cry out and arch your back. Tara's lips curve into a wicked smile as she watches you squirm under her touch.

"That's it," she purrs, her other hand sliding down your stomach to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. "Let me hear you. Let everyone know who you belong to now."

Her fingers find your slick folds, teasing and probing with maddening precision. You writhe against her touch, desperate for more, for everything she has to offer. The old adage about danger being an aphrodisiac rings true as Tara expertly stokes the flames of your desire.

She captures your lips in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans and cries as she works you closer and closer to the edge. The world narrows down to the feel of her skin against yours, the taste of her tongue in your mouth, the promise of ecstasy thrumming through your every nerve.

Tara's fingers plunge deep into your slick heat, curling and stroking in a rhythm designed to drive you wild. She breaks the kiss, her lips trailing hot and wet down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"You're so fucking wet for me," she growls, pumping her fingers faster, harder. "So ready to come."

Her thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that send sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. You're lost to the sensations, your body moving of its own accord, chasing the bliss only she can give you.

Tara's mouth closes around one nipple, sucking hard as she drives you closer to the edge. The dual stimulation is almost too much to bear, your thighs trembling, your core clenching around her fingers.

"That's it," she breathes against your skin. "Come for me. Let go and give me everything."

With a final, skillful twist of her wrist, she sends you flying over the precipice, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body convulsing with the force of your release.

Tara holds you through it, her fingers gentle as she helps you ride out the aftershocks. When you finally collapse back against the mattress, spent and sated, she withdraws her hand, bringing her glistening fingers to her mouth.

She licks them clean, her eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious," she purrs, a wicked gleam in her gaze. "But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook.” She picks the knife back up, looking at her reflection through the spotless blade.

Tara turns the knife over in her hand, examining it with a critical eye. The light dances along the razor-sharp edge, casting shadows across her face. She looks up at you, her expression unreadable.

"You know," she says, her voice low and thoughtful, "there's something almost poetic about this, isn't there? The way the blade reflects the truth, cutting through the lies and the deceit."

She traces the tip of the knife along her jawline, a gesture that's both sensual and menacing. You can't help but shiver, torn between fear and desire.

"I've always been fascinated by the way people hide their true selves," Tara continues, her eyes never leaving the knife. "The masks we wear, the personas we create... it's all just a façade, isn't it? A way to avoid facing the darkness within."

She sets the knife down on the bed beside her, then leans in close, her breath hot against your ear.

"But you... you saw through my mask. You saw the real me, the part of me I've kept hidden for so long."

Her lips brush against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "And now, you're mine. Completely and utterly mine."

[paxtito]

Pax I miss u 💔😔

(history is kicking my ass) 😞🙏

[paxtito]

take care of yourself! good luck on exams!

trust, we'll be here thirsting whenever you publish

thank you so much!! 🙃🫠

[paxtito]

omgg puppy love was so cute! would you be open to doing a first time for pip x g!p reader as well, once exam season is over?

i was actually going to write a fic exactly like that when agggtm came out, but i never got around to it. so thank you so much for requesting this!! 💙