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Chapter Text

As the passenger door opens, the LED light casts a soft glow on your teary eyes. You can't help but feel a mix of emotions as Morticia enters the car and quietly shuts the door. The silence between you is heavy, but neither of you dare to break it while the lights dim into complete darkness.

You agreed to meet at your usual spot because Morticia needed to talk to you. But deep down, you know what this meeting is about - her struggle to choose between you or her husband, whom she's still legally married to. Your heart aches as you remember telling her that she had to make a decision, tired of being caught in the middle of their back and forth.

The tears are already welling up in your eyes, not just from anticipation of what Morticia will say, but also from breaking your own heart over and over again with different scenarios of how this could play out. Your friend Ezekiel had tried to cheer you up all night, but even he couldn't shake off the heaviness in your heart.

As Morticia's warm hand strokes your arm, you turn to look at her and realize that you haven't even greeted her with a kiss. But even with that realization, you don't reach out to touch her. You sit there frozen in time, unable to shake off the feeling that this may be your last "loving" moment with her - if you can even call it that.

“You're choosing him?” You break the silence. She reaches out, her fingers finding yours on the center console, intertwining effortlessly. The way her slender fingers fit perfectly between yours is a sensation that etches itself into your memory. 

The taste of salty tears floods your mouth as you hold Morticia's hand, knowing that this may be your last moment of physical connection with her.

Attempting to mask her inner turmoil with a forced smile, a glistening tear escapes her eye and lands softly on her chest, followed by a steady stream down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice heavy with regret.

You nod in understanding, exhaling slowly. The weight of your emotions from the previous night's intense crying jag lingers, providing some shield against breaking down completely at her words. Despite this, the pain cuts deep as reality clashes with your thoughts.

Turning away, you stare ahead into the dense woods illuminated by your headlights. Keeping them on serves a dual purpose – to blind any potential onlookers and to create an illusion of decency should this secluded spot transform into a place of intimacy between you both.

For a year, you and her had been conducting clandestine meetings, comfortable in the secrecy until emotions intervened. When you confessed your feelings, she reciprocated, admitting her own love. However, the weight of living in the shadow of her husband grew unbearable for you. The whispered 'I love yous' shared during stolen moments were no longer mere words; they held weight and meaning. By month three, amidst stolen kisses and hushed promises, she began professing her affection openly.

Her lips glisten with plum gloss as she sits beside you, still holding your hand but turning to face forward. Adjusting herself in the seat, a solitary tear escapes her eye. The ultimatum you presented weighs heavily on her; torn between the security of her family life with a devoted husband and adoring children and the passion she found with you - her secret lover.

In your eyes, she sees a reflection of herself - torn between two worlds. She cherishes the stability of her marriage yet revels in the vibrant love affair with you; a relationship that ignited dreams she never thought possible outside her imagination. To express this duality affectionately, she playfully refers to you as her "Puppy," embodying both endearment and secrecy.

Being hidden was necessary for fear of losing it all in what she initially viewed as a fleeting romance. Now, however, she realizes the injustice of keeping you veiled in shadows while basking in the light of both worlds that have captured her heart.

Swallowing the lump that scorches your throat, you muster the words, “I wish you all the best that life has to offer.” The sound of her audible sniffle and soft cry reaches your ears as she tightens her grip on your hand. Avoiding her gaze, you turn to look out of the driver's window. Why does doing what feels right for your heart weigh so heavily on you? You were aware from the start that she wouldn't leave her husband; she made it clear. Yet, neither of you expected the depth of emotions that would accompany your actions.

“I'm sorry for causing you pain.”

“You didn't intend to hurt me.” Her touch envelops you as she sniffs, before you gently pull away. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

She nods, using her free hand to wipe away tears. “Of course,” she replies softly.

“I should go,” you say, scanning the surroundings outside while addressing her. On the verge of tears yourself, you resist breaking down in front of her; it wouldn't change anything.

“Okay,” she whispers, opening the car door to step out. Despite shattering your heart moments ago, she refrains from asking for a goodbye kiss.

“Before you leave,” your voice quivers slightly, prompting hope in her heart that maybe there’s a chance for reconciliation, “could I have my house key back?” 

In an instant, disappointment clouds her features. “I... um... I don’t have it with me... I left my keys at home,” she lies unconvincingly. “I’ll return it soon.”

“Please send it by mail,” you request firmly, unable to bear seeing her again. She nods in agreement but struggles to muster a smile.

“Okay.” Biting her bottom lip nervously, she exits the car and walks back into the woods along the path leading to her house. Dressed in an all-black Adidas tracksuit that accentuates her figure flawlessly.

Ever since meeting you, she began to venture out of her usual wardrobe of difficult-to-remove dresses and corsets. The constant battle to take off those clothes on drunken and amorous nights was too much. Her wardrobe bloomed like a garden in spring, full of breezy fabrics and easy silhouettes, all thanks to your love and acceptance.

In your arms, she felt completely at ease and accepted for who she really was. You were the first person to see her without makeup, and even helped her take it off when she fell asleep before you.

Your love for her went beyond physical appearance; you adored every part of her, including her stretch marks which you kissed affectionately.

Even the sudden appearance of gray hairs didn't diminish your admiration for her. She used to pluck them anxiously, but now she embraces them proudly and heads to the salon to dye her hair black. And her natural waves, a discovery made together through research, are possibly your favorite feature. Thanks to the right hair care routines and products, they have flourished into beautiful curls that you can't resist running your fingers through

The drive home is filled with a heavy, suffocating silence. With every mile that passes, you feel the weight in your chest getting heavier and heavier. You walk into the house, expecting to find only Zeke, but instead his boyfriend is there, delicately polishing Zeke’s toes. They both jump up to console you as you burst into sobs, surprise and relief washing over you at their presence.

Turns out, Zeke had called his boyfriend over because he knew he would need help taking care of you. The tall man pulls your face into his chest while his boyfriend wraps his arms around you from behind, creating a much-needed group hug.

“We’re so sorry,” Shane whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

After a few moments of standing in the doorway, they guide you to the living room where they have prepared to listen to you all night. That's one of the reasons why you love them - they're always there for you when you need them.

“I got your favorite snacks, alcohol, and we even rolled some joints if you wanna get high. And if not, we can just lay around together. Whatever makes you feel better, baby girl,” Zeke says softly, brushing back strands of hair from your tear-stained face.

Feeling grateful for their support, you decide to spend the evening with the boys since you don't have anything else to do. You lie on the sofa with a pillow in Zeke's lap while Shane carefully paints your toes the same color as Zeke's.

“So did you wish her the best?” Shane asks after a while.

You nod slowly before replying, “Yeah…”

“That was big of you, sweetie. Personally, I would have wished her ass the worst. No way she's going to break my heart and then run off to her husband,” Shane remarks with a hint of bitterness.

Everyone chuckles at his pettiness, trying to lighten the mood.

“Same,” Zeke interjects. 

“I can't even be mad at her - she did tell me that she wouldn't leave Gomez.” You say.

“But didn't she also tell you that you couldn't have a girlfriend? Yet here she is, married to someone else,” Shane points out with a raised eyebrow. “Sounds like she's living in a delusional fantasy.”

“Yeah, and didn't you guys have a huge fight about that?” Zeke asks, raising an eyebrow curiously as well.

[You close your eyes and think back to that night - the night when you brought home a girl from the bar and Morticia was already waiting for you at the apartment. The night that changed everything and ultimately led to this moment of heartbreak and confusion.

The room was shrouded in darkness, each flickering light reflecting off the lenses of your glasses as you entered. Morticia, menacingly, sat on the couch, her once beautiful face now twisted in a venomous mix of anger and betrayal as she watched you with the other woman.

Terror shook through your body as she rose from her seat, moving towards you with a predatory grace like a slithering snake ready to strike. And strike she did, her open hand connecting with your face with a force that sent shockwaves through your entire being. Confusion consumed you - Morticia had broken up with you, so why was she so enraged that you brought someone home? And how did she even find out? The questions only added to the seething anger and fear coursing through your veins as you braced for the next blow.

The situation spins out of control, and you realize too late that Morticia's love for you was never truly gone, but instead turned into a deep-rooted obsession that now threatens to consume both of you.]

“Yeah, we like actually fucking fought. She whipped my ass for like a whole hour before she got tired.” The laughter echoed off the walls, but for you, it was a cover-up. A mask to hide the pain and shame that still lingered from that night.

“Oh! And that time we were all at that bonfire, that’s she wasn’t even invited to, might I add — and she caught you making out with that girl and she almost put your ass in the fire?!” Zeke exclaims. It’s a moment you can all look back and laugh at but it was NOT funny in the moment.

“Oh my god girl, everybody was so confused as to why sweet little Mrs. Addams, of all people, was like… actually physically fighting you, they just knew you must have had to have done something to her. You know everyone thinks she’s the sweetest little person ever. Just by what she wore you could tell she came to catch a fade. Since when does Morticia wear fucking converse and a slicked back ponytail? She was coming to fuck you up for sure!”

“SHE DID FUCK ME UP! And it took you guys so long to get her off of me! We were scuffling for a hot minute.” You dramatically interject.

“Girl, that was like twenty seconds.” Shane exclaimes.

“Twenty seconds too long! How didn’t you guys see her?!”

Shane stops painting, “Again… converse, black jeans, black shirt, slicked back ponytail versus her long black dress and straight hair. You tell me you would have seen her, coming then talk to me!” He chuckles and gets quiet for a moment, “She even knew what car you were in and everything, like she had been watching the entire time.”

“She probably was. She kept tabs on me for sure.” You say.

"Honestly, I've been saying that something had to be wrong with her," Shane exclaimed, his voice laced with frustration. His hand clenched tightly around his beer bottle as he spoke. "What 'straight' married woman pursues someone she taught as a high school student just two weeks after graduation?"

Zeke nodded in agreement, taking a swig of his own drink. The dim light from the table side lamp cast shadows on his face, giving him a sinister look that did quite fit him. "And the fact that no one else knew about your relationship with her made it even easier for her to hide her true nature, hence the beatings you received. She never faced any ridicule for her behavior from anyone."

The air hung heavy with tension as they discussed their former teacher's questionable actions. 

"Sweetheart, Tish was toxic... You did the right thing by letting her go." Your friend tries to calm your restless thoughts. All night you have been questioning whether or not you made the right decision by making her choose.

"No, I'm surprised she gave up so easily." Shane corrects his boyfriend as he pulls out a colorful fan and begins drying the first coat of polish on your nails.

"Did she give you back the key?" Zeke, your best friend and roommate, asks.

"She said she didn't have it with her." Both boys pause and exchange a knowing look.

"And you believed her?" Zeke looks down at you.

"What else was I supposed to do? Perform a strip search? I asked her to mail it back." You reply.

"That bitch... If we don't get that key back in four days, you're paying to change the locks." 

You roll your eyes and laugh. "I promise I will."

Shane begins the second coat while Zeke massages your scalp, “I’m telling you… Morticia was too crazy and possessive of you for her to all of a sudden be ‘sane’ and just let you live a happy life without her. I don’t trust her. I can feel it in your head... Morticia's still lurking there, waiting for the right moment to strike. She never wanted you to be happy without her, and she'll do anything to make sure that doesn't happen.” Zeke murmurs.

“Why did you stay with hehe so long?” Shane innocently asks as you and Zeke try to stifle your laughter. The question hangs in the air, causing an awkward tension between the three of you. 

Suddenly, Shane's face contorts in disgust as he realizes the implications of what he asked. You can't help but burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Well that and because she pays my tuition.” 

But then Shane has another question, one that catches you off guard. "Is Morticia a top or a bottom?" he asks eagerly.

You and Zeke exchange knowing glances before simultaneously responding, "Switch."

“Switch and a sugar mama?”

“She wasn’t a sugar mama, she just enjoyed helping me.” You say innocently.

Shane lets out a groan of playful frustration. "Fuck, I owe Amber twenty bucks! She bet that Morticia was exclusively a top but I just had this feeling that she gave in when she was with you," he explains.

You can't contain your amusement at this revelation. "Well, technically she does give in...to both roles," you clarify with a smirk.

Zeke seizes the opportunity to embarrass you further by revealing a particularly intimate detail about your sex life with Morticia. 

Turning to you, Zeke ask with a hint of hesitation, "Did you ever tell Shane about the time she got so turned on that she ended up nutting on your nipple?"

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as Zeke recounts how the story was told to him. Even though you try to downplay the incident, Shane is practically jumping out of his seat with excitement. 

"Wait, wait, wait!" he exclaims. "You have to tell me everything! How did it happen? When did it happen?"

You can't help but smile at Shane's enthusiasm. “Well, after three weeks of not talking because we were fighting... Ezekiel let her in even though I told him not to...” you start to explain before being cut off by Zeke.

"She told me you guys made up!" he protests.

You roll your eyes playfully before continuing, "Well she lied! Anyway, when she finally got to see me again, she was so horny that she couldn't control herself. She tried to climb on top of me and ride my face, but ended up grinding against my nipple and accidentally nutting on it."

You all erupt into laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation. Despite the embarrassment, you can't help but feel grateful for these moments with your friends.

Shane's jaw practically hits the floor as he exclaims, "Holy shit! Mrs. Addams was a total freak, like seriously, I would have never guessed. She always seemed so prim and proper; stiff too...you know, like a sack of potatoes in bed," Shane continued, causing you to nearly choke on your drink.

“How desperate do you have to be to just say ‘screw it, I'm climaxing on any body part that comes near me?!’”

You come to Morticia’s defense, teasingly saying, "Hey now, don't talk about my ‘ex-wife’ like that! She was just a little...sexually frustrated.”

By now, everyone is having a good laugh because let's be real, that break up was a long time coming.

"I'm also surprised she never showed any signs of violence when she taught us in high school but come to think of it, she seems like she has it bubbling just beneath the surface," Shane comments.

"Yeah, but maybe it's those lesbian relationships that brought out the beast in her. Y/N licked all of her holes, of course she became a psycho.” Zeke chimes in. "I mean, who wouldn't want to pin someone against a wall by their throat every once in a while?"

The house is silent and dark, the only sounds are coming from your restless tossing and turning in bed.

Suddenly, with a faint jingle of keys, your former teacher and now ex-girlfriend Morticia appears in your room. She approaches your bed, her eyes glinting with a twisted desire as she reaches out to touch your face.

The jingle of keys was delicate, almost musical as she set them down, but it sent a ripple of unease through the still air of your room. 

It pulls you from the murky depths of sleep, but not entirely into consciousness. Your eyes flutter beneath their lids as the shadows in the corner coalesce into the slender form of Morticia.

"Shh," she whispers, her voice a silk thread unraveling in the darkness. The moonlight traced the contours of her face, casting hollows and highlights that dance with her expressions. As Morticia loomes over you, the silver glow seems to embolden the hunger in her eyes, a flicker of madness that kisses the edges of her irises.

Her hand, pale and cool, brushes against your cheek, trailing a line of shivers down your spine. Her touch, although gentle, carries the cold bite of dread. "There, there, my little Puppy. Mommy's here," she coos, but the words slither around you like a chilling embrace, tightening its hold.

Beneath the spectral caress of her fingertips, your mind races, seeking escape from this paralysis that you are perceiving as a nightmare. Her grin widens, stretching unnaturally as if delighting in the silent scream that caught in your throat. Had you been fully awake, you would have longed to recoil from her icy grip, to shout for help that would possibly come, but your body betrays you, remaining limp and unresponsive under her watchful gaze.

You are trapped, ensnared in a web woven from remnants of love turned sour and lessons twisted into obsessions. With each stroke of her hand through your hair, the reality of your nightmare tightened its grip, ensuring you couldn't wake up from the specter of Morticia—your obsessed tormentor cloaked in the guise of a lover.

Morticia's breath hitched, a soft crescendo in the stillness of the room as she watched your chest rise and fall with the rhythm of sleep. Shadows played across your form, a canvas of moonlit skin that beckoned to her twisted cravings. The faintest of smiles curled her lips, not of warmth but of dark anticipation.

With a sudden, deliberate motion, she grips the edge of the covers nestled around you. In one swift, fluid movement, they are torn away, leaving you exposed to the chill air and her hungry gaze. Her eyes, alight with fervor, traces the contours of your body, feeding the growing fire within her.

Her fingers, the ones that had once taught you with tender precision, now moved with an unsettling purpose. They dance across your skin, delicately grazing without fully waking you, each touch igniting sparks of pleasure that coils tightly inside her. A shudder ran through Morticia's frame as she revels in the illicit thrill of contact, the forbidden nature of the act amplifying her arousal.

The dance of her own hand upon herself was mirrored by the ghostly caress upon your half slumbering form. Each brush on her own clit, each whisper of contact, pushes her closer to the edge of release. She is lost in the moment, in the rapture of her own making, driven by the voyeuristic high of watching over your defenseless state.

A soft moan escapes her, muffled by the silence of the night, as the tension within her peaks and shatters. Her grip on reality, already tenuous, slips away as she surrenders to the wave of ecstasy that crashes over her. In this twisted tableau, Morticia finds her climax, writhing silently above you, while you remain none the wiser, ensnared in the depths of your own troubled ‘dream’.

Chapter Text

After the horrific night of unspeakable acts committed against you in your own home, Morticia's presence begins to suffocate you. Every moment is haunted by her looming figure, watching and waiting for another chance to strike. Desperate for some sense of normalcy, you meet up with Zeke to share your terrifying "dream" but as you sit sipping your coffee, Morticia and her daughter Wednesday walk in. The sight of them together sends chills down your spine, knowing what they are both capable of.

Morticia's piercing gaze locks onto yours and you can feel her icy fingers digging into your soul. You try to hide behind your cup, but it's no use. "Zeke, she's here," you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

Zeke looks up at you with confusion etched on his face, until he turns around and sees her too. Your ex-lover, the one who violated you in ways unimaginable, standing there unapologetically. And worse yet, Wednesday has no idea about the true nature of your relationship with her mother or her mother's bisexuality.

The tension in the air is suffocating as Morticia closes in on your table, a smug grin playing on her lips. "Hello again," she purrs, sending shivers down your spine. This nightmare isn't over yet.

“Hey,” You try to keep your voice calm as you speak, but it comes out strained and weak. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run away from her, to get as far away from her as possible. She's always up to something, especially when she can't have you.

Undeterred by the fact that she broke your heart, she still expects you to play her twisted game, to continue this affair that you've been trying desperately to end.

Despite your best efforts to avoid her, she sits across from you at a different with a devious smile, leaving your friend and her daughter sitting back to back while Zeke futilely tries to distract you. But her presence is suffocating, reminding you of all the pain and deceit she has caused. “She’s just a crazy old bitch, don’t let her get to you.”

Easier said than done.

And then your phone vibrates, a message from her. Your heart sinks as you see the explicit video she sent, accompanied by the chilling question, "Tonight?"

“Oh shit.” You gasp at the audacity of her actions and quickly lower the brightness and volume on your phone, hoping no one else saw or heard you absolutely eating the fuck out of her pussy.

But as you look up at her, she meets your gaze with a wicked smirk, relishing in your discomfort. She knows exactly how to push your buttons and drive you crazy. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and anger as she watches your reaction with delight.

Feeling sick and trapped, you whisper to Zeke that it's time to leave. But as you stand up and begin walking out to go, she grabs your arm with an iron grip as you pass her table.

"Where do you think you're going, baby?" she purrs in your ear, her devilish smirk sending chills down your spine. Why does she always have to turn into such a crazy bitch? And of course her daughter just had to not be right there at the moment to see her mother act like a fiend.

Ignoring her question, you tug yourself free and practically sprint out of the café with Zeke close behind. Your breathing is labored and your mind is reeling with fear and disgust at what she's capable of. How did things ever escalate to this point? You vow to yourself that tonight will be the last time she ever has control over you again.

As you and Zeke sit in the car, trying to wrap your heads around Morticia's disturbing actions, he turns to you and says, "I never expected her to do something like that. It's messed up." You nod in agreement, still reeling from the shock of it all.

Your phone vibrates with another video from her. This time, she's riding your strap-on as you watch, holding her hands to help her balance, her hands gripping yours as she moans and thrusts with wild abandon. Taunting you with messages like "You don't want this?" and "Remember how hard we came that night?"

The messages keep coming throughout the day and into the evening, each one more sinister than the last:

"You were my first woman. You can never escape me."

"I'll ruin you and make sure no one else wants you."

"Can I come over? I miss your touch."

"I want you to have my baby. We were meant to be together forever."

And then the final message that snaps you out of ignoring her: "I still have my key. I'm coming."

Each one strikes like a knife to your heart as you re-read them, reminding you of the dangerous hold Morticia has over you. Your hands tremble on the steering wheel as panic sets in. She knows where you live and she's coming for you.

Determination burns through you as you speed towards the hardware store, desperate to change the locks before Morticia can make good on her threat. The clock ticks down - twelve minutes since her last message, she lives only fifteen minutes away...and the store is fourteen minutes away. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You pray that it will be enough, that she was just trying to scare you. But deep down, you know that Morticia’s obsession knows no bounds and she will stop at nothing to get what she wants.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, an erratic metronome counting down the seconds as you push the accelerator closer to the floor. The hardware store is just a few more desperate miles ahead, but time feels like an antagonist, slipping through your fingers when you need it most.

Red and blue lights flash in your rearview mirror, a siren wailing its dissonant tune. “Fuck.”

“Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them.” You comply with a shaky hand, knowing that any sudden movements could result in a possible bullet piercing your flesh.

He approaches you with a menacing gait, demanding to know why you're in such a hurry. Your heart races as you explain that you need to change the locks on your house, desperate to escape from an abusive partner. You struggle to suppress the fear in your voice as you beg him to let you go, knowing that every second spent here puts you in more danger.

A glance sideways reveals Morticia's black newer model S-Class Mercedes Benz slinking by—a shadow with predatory grace—heading directly for your apartment. Panic surges through you like a live wire as the officer stands next to you asking so many questions about why you didn’t have a restraining order on said person, the epitome of unhurried authority. Just as he was about to let you go, you lose your cool just by seeing her.

"Officer, please," you plead, voice trembling with urgency as you jab a frenzied finger towards Morticia's disappearing car. "That woman, that’s her, she's stalking me. She’s the reason I’m getting the locks changed! You have to help me!”

Skepticism clouds his eyes, and he dismisses your claim with a shake of his head, marking you down as another paranoid soul on the edge. But you know the truth; you feel it gnawing at your insides, a relentless beast clawing at your sanity.

"Please! Listen to me!" Your voice escalates, sharp with desperation. You're moving closer to your car door now trying to get in, creating a spectacle you hardly recognize as your own. The cop's patience dissolves into stern commands that go unheeded. You can't stop, won't stop—the truth has to come out.

"Ma’am, calm down or—" He warns, but you're beyond calming, beyond caring. This isn't just about speeding anymore; this is about survival.

After a moment of what almost turns into a physical altercation to get a screaming and crying you out of the car, the officer's resolve hardens; handcuffs click coldly around your wrists. Disorderly conduct, he says, but what about the disorder unfolding in your life? What about the chaos Morticia weaves with her every calculated move? She probably fucking told him to stop you!

Hours later, under the sterile buzz of the precinct's fluorescent lights, Morticia emerges as your unlikely savior. She pays your bail with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes—a predator masquerading as a guardian angel.

You step past the threshold of the police station, the officer who arrested you watches from behind his desk. Your gaze locks onto his, a silent scream for understanding. Can't he see the trap laid bare before him? Can't he sense the darkness cloaked in her feigned benevolence?

With each step you take following Morticia out into the night, you carry the weight of unspoken pleas and unacknowledged fears. You're ensnared in her web, and no one seems to believe the danger that lurks within her twisted kindness.

The moment you sink into the leather embrace of her front seat, the air shifts, heavy with judgment. "Disorderly conduct, huh, Puppy?" Her voice, a velvet taunt, snakes through your defenses. Your eyes betray you, pooling with unshed tears as the weight of your choices anchors in your chest. You know she relishes this—your vulnerability is her victory.

You let the silence hang, a fragile shroud, and the tears escape, streaking down your face. She reaches over, her fingertips ghosting across your skin to brush away the evidence of weakness. The kiss she plants on your cheek burns with ownership, not comfort. "You have been very disobedient all day," she whispers, her words curling around you like smoke.

The car purrs to life beneath you, and with each turn of the wheel, you are taken further from refuge, closer to her twisted sanctuary. Inside, you rage against your own folly. If only you had bitten back the truth, remained silent before the law. A mere ticket would have been a small price for freedom. But no, instead, you're here, tethered by past confessions.

A hollow laugh breaks from you, the sound more bitter than amused. "I'll pay you back, Morticia," you murmur, drawing upon her name as dark as her soul.

“I know.” Her smile, sharp and knowing, cuts deeper than any blade as she drives past the familiar facade of your apartment. The sight of it retreating into the distance is a cruel reminder of what could have been.

"Stop, where are you taking me?" Your voice cracks, panic threading through the question, but she silences you with a glance that chills your blood.

"Stay quiet and enjoy the ride," she orders, but the plea in your heart drowns out obedience. Questions bubble up, relentless as the tide, until finally, she can’t bear them anymore.

In a sudden burst of fury, she pulls over, the car's abrupt stop jolting you back to reality. From the back seat, she retrieves a black bag, its contents hidden but intentions clear. "I need you asleep now," she says, her tone final.

Your protest dies in your throat as the needle's glint catches the dying light. The sharp sting at your neck is a whispered promise of oblivion, and as the world tilts into darkness, you realize that she never intended for you to see your prison coming. For a woman like her, control is paramount, and your silence, even if chemically coerced, is her symphony. Your head rests on the window until she gently pulls you away from it, positioning your body comfortably against the now reclined seat.

”Such a good girl.” She purrs.

Chapter Text

The sensation of being submerged in a sea of plush down caresses your senses, lulling you back into the world. This bed, it’s so comfortable. So, so comfortable. Your body resists the pull of consciousness, longing to sink deeper into the embrace of the decadent mattress.

"Hello, my little outlaw," Morticia's voice slithers into your awareness, and suddenly the warmth of the bed is replaced by a cold, numbing dread. You try to jump up and run, only to realize that one of your ankles is chained to the bedpost. Your heart hammers against your ribs as her laughter fills your ears, the sound a discordant melody as she watches you crumble to the ground.

"Oh, my love," she coos, extending a hand to help you up. Her fingers are cold as ice, gripping yours with an iron-like strength.

"Where am I?" you demand, yanking your hand back, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to appear brave. She tells you not to worry about it, that all that matters is that she's here with you. The words feel like a death sentence.

"Please, let me go," you plead, but she counters your request with a reminder that you'll be spending a lot of time here until the search for you dies down or the cops declare your case cold or you dead. Then you will be moved to where she wants you permanently.

"Stop this!" you shout, desperation fueling your anger. "I'll call the cops!"

Morticia smirks. "Oh, the same cop that I called on you for speeding? My good friend Officer Getty?" The look of betrayal crosses your face when you realize that the police officer that was supposed to protect you set you up to be taken by your crazy ex-girlfriend.

With a surge of adrenaline, you try to launch yourself at her, but she's just out of reach. Your fingers are only about a foot away from her when the chain stops you. She smiles at you menacingly and keeps speaking. "You won't be running from me, little girl..."

Just then, the door creaked open, and in walked a face from your past, one you never thought you'd see again. Principal Weems, the woman who once embodied authority and respect, now stood before you, clad in white, her eyes as lifeless as Morticia’s.

"Hello, Larissa," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion."We've been expecting you."

As the two women chuckle, you know, deep down, that your nightmare is only just beginning.

"Principal Weems?" you stammer, your voice barely a whisper. The sight of her tall figure looming over you sends shivers down your spine, but you can't shake the feeling that something is about to go very wrong.

Her words were as cold as ice when she said, "Hello, darling." She leads you back to the bed and settles next to you, her tall figure almost taking your breath away. You had almost forgotten just how statuesque she was.

"Principal Weems was so excited when I approached her for help in getting you back," Morticia explains, her voice dripping with twisted satisfaction. "She was eager to be part of my little plan."

Your eyes dart between the two women, searching for any sign of humanity left within them. But their cold, calculating gazes leave you feeling more trapped than ever before.

"Imagine all the effort we put into this," Principal Weems says, her voice eerily calm. "Bribing officials, faking documents, manipulating people... It was all worth it to have you here with us. I must say, bribing Zeke had to be the best part. Wave the right amount in front of him and he’ll give anything up, even you.”

Her words echo in your mind, painting a terrifying picture of the lengths they went to ensnare you in their wicked web. Your stomach churns with dread and disbelief, as unwanted tears threaten to spill from your eyes. Zeke, your best fucking friend. She’s lying, she has to be.

Principal Weems' face looms closer and closer, her cold, calculating gaze intensifying as her lips inch towards yours as she speaks. Her all-white dress stands out starkly against the dark, menacing room. Morticia's black robe only adds to the sinister atmosphere.

The smooth, pale lips of Principal Weems moving closer to yours, her cold eyes staring into yours with a hunger that sends shivers down your spine. Your own vision blurs with disbelief and disgust as her lips touch yours in a cruel, unwanted kiss, meeting yours with a force that makes you recoil in horror. You can see the twisted satisfaction in her expression and the cold, calculating gaze of Morticia as she watches on.

"Try that again, and I'll snap your neck," she hisses venomously. Tears cascade down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you hear Morticia gasp at the scene unfolding before her. A quiet giggle escapes Morticia’s lips, further cementing the fact that the woman you once loved has been replaced by a monster.

"Enough," Morticia commands, her voice dripping with authority and malice. She glances at Larissa, who releases your wrists. The pain of your newly-freed hands is both a relief and a reminder of the horror you're in. "I have to go back home for a few days," Morticia informs you, her words as cold as ice. "We can't have anyone making those connections, now can we?"

A devilish smirk forms on her face, one that you would give anything to slap off. With a simple nod, Larissa grabs your hands again, pinning them down so Morticia can speak to you without resistance. "Any plans you have of running away end today," she whispers menacingly into your ear.

Your head dips in defeat, tears streaming down your face as she continues to threaten you with unspeakable acts if you disobey your 'babysitter.' Glancing at Larissa, you see her smile in cruel delight. Morticia gives you one last chilling kiss, which against all logic feels good, before moving towards the door.

Just before she exits, Morticia turns to Larissa and says, "Don't forget to do what I asked. It'll be fun for you too." She winks at you, a sinister gesture that makes your stomach churn, then walks out.

The quiet start of her car outside provides a brief moment of relief, but it's short-lived. Larissa orders you to get up and go shower, her tone leaving no room for argument. You obey, feeling her eyes bore into your back like a prison guard as you make your way to the bathroom.

As you move about the unknown place, you take in the dark yet lavishly decorated space. Expensive items surround you, their opulence only serving to heighten your feelings of emptiness. The room looks almost exactly like Morticia's descriptions of the place she once dreamt of living with you in. The exquisite furnishings and decor only add to the crushing weight on your heart.

"Undress," Larissa commands, snapping you back to reality as she starts the shower.

You hesitate, memories of her as your high school principal flooding your mind. "But..." you protest weakly, but she silences you with a glare. Knowing that resistance is futile, you hurriedly undress and step into the shower, trying to wash away the nightmare you've been thrust into.

The warm water cascades over your body, and for a brief moment, you find solace in the sensation. It's as if the water is attempting to wash away not only the grime but also the fear and humiliation that have clung to you ever since Morticia’s sick attempt to come back into your life. She actually succeeded this time…

After about fifteen minutes of cleaning yourself, you stand still and take a moment to unwind. You close your eyes, the droplets drumming a soothing rhythm against your skin.

"Can I help?" Larissa asks, her voice softer than before. The unexpected question catches you off guard; it almost sounds like she's giving you a choice. When you open your eyes, you see her waiting patiently for your answer. Hesitantly, you nod, with the water still running, you reach out and grab a towel from the rack. You turn off the shower and hand her the towel you were going to use to dry yourself off with.

"Thank you," you mumble, feeling awkward and vulnerable under her gaze. She quickly dries you off before wrapping the towel around your body and securing it at your breasts.

"I'm sorry I couldn't resist Morticia's offer," Larissa says, her tone seeming to be full of remorse. "But I promise to make this as bearable as possible for both of us."

You look at her skeptically, unsure if she can truly keep that promise given her position as your 'babysitter.' But something in her expression tells you that she genuinely means it.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, not able to keep the confusion and hurt out of your voice.

"To protect my job," Larissa admits, a hint of shame in her eyes. "But also because I care about you."

Her words catch you by surprise. You never would have imagined that Larissa had any feelings towards you beyond those of an educator towards a student. But seeing the sincerity in her eyes makes it hard to doubt her words. But what does she mean ‘protect her job.’

You drag yourself up to a sitting position, the mattress creaking ominously under your weight. The past two days have been nothing but a hazy blur of semi-consciousness and oppressive silence, punctuated by the occasional murmur from Larissa as she busied herself with her own mysterious tasks. You were allowed to do nothing except lay in bed, a captive in a gilded cage of linen and uneasy dreams.

It's on the third day that the atmosphere begins to crackle with an unspoken tension. The incessant buzz of Larissa's phone becomes an itch you can't scratch, the vibrations crawling under your skin, setting your nerves on edge. She snatches it up with a predatory swiftness, her voice a venomous hiss that sends a chill down your spine. "I know what I have to do," she snaps, and you sit up, propped awkwardly on your elbow, concern worming its way into your consciousness. But before you can utter a word of inquiry, she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her like the period at the end of an ominous sentence.

Exhaustion creeps over you once more, heavy as a shroud, and you succumb to the siren call of sleep, unaware of the passage of time until you're jerked violently back to reality. Larissa stands over you, her eyes cold as winter ice. “You have to do something for Morticia,” she announces, her voice devoid of any warmth.

"Huh?" Your brain fumbles with the words, sluggish and disoriented. Rough hands haul you upright, and you're left stumbling to find your footing, confusion clouding your thoughts. The bond between you and Larissa had seemed to soften in the absence of Morticia's oppressive presence, yet now her touch is brusque, businesslike, and it stings more than you care to admit.

"Listen," she says, her tone brooking no argument. "Morticia wants a video—a POV video. Of you riding this." Her fingers pry open a box, revealing a massive dildo, its silicone surface matching Morticia's dusky complexion in an eerie mimicry of flesh.

A sickening cocktail of shock, revulsion, and fear churns in your stomach. You take a step back, the room tilting dangerously as you struggle to process the request. You thought you knew the depths of Morticia's sadistic tastes, but this... this is a new low, a twisted perversion that taints something intimate and personal.

"Is this what we've come to?" you whisper, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. You can feel yourself teetering on the precipice of some dark abyss, the last vestiges of the person you used to be, someone who could still feel outrage and indignation, slipping away like grains of sand through trembling fingers.

Larissa doesn't respond, her face a blank mask that offers neither apology nor comfort. And as you gaze into her eyes, searching for a hint of the camaraderie you thought you'd built, you realize that in this house—Morticia's house—you are alone, utterly and hopelessly alone.

“Work yourself up.” She says and walks out.

You sit there for what feels like hours, your mind a chaotic swirl of emotions. The oppressive silence is only broken by the occasional creak of the house settling and the ticking of the clock, a constant reminder of time ticking away.

You try touching yourself, closing your eyes and focusing on the sensations. You glide your fingers over your body, tracing the curves and contours. Tenderly, you rub your nipples, teasing them into hardness. Your clit pulsates under your touch, but it feels distant, unresponsive.

Frustration builds as you think about your favorite porn video that usually gets you going, but now it does nothing for you. You even try to conjure up memories of the videos you made with her...your deranged ex who has you captive. But then a sudden shift occurs in your mind, as if someone has flipped a switch.

As you sit there, your thoughts turn to Morticia. How did she become this way? What led her to this twisted desire for control and manipulation? And why did she choose you as her victim?

But then the door opens again, and Larissa strides in, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Time's up," she says with a smirk.

With a heavy heart, you slowly stand up and approach the bed. You feel nauseous as you pick up the dildo, its cold touch sending shivers down your spine. You take a deep breath and try to find some semblance of control over your trembling hands.

Tears stream down your face as you struggle to force it in. Your body is on fire, aching from the dryness of the dick and your equally parched pussy. Every movement creates a torturous friction that makes you want to scream. And all the while, Larissa stands there watching, her presence only adding to your embarrassment and shame.

Desperate for any sort of relief, you lick your fingers, trying to generate some lubrication. But even that simple act is a struggle, thanks to the new depression medicine you're on and the overwhelming stress of your current situation. It feels like you’re trying to shove a brick into a keyhole.

"Lie down, my dear," Larissa's voice cuts through the air like a knife. She seems almost lost watching you suffer like this.

Her long body slithers over yours like a snake, her words barely above a whisper in your ear. "I'll help you, but this will be our little secret." You can only nod in response.

Without hesitation, Larissa takes advantage of your consent, her lips finding yours in a passionate kiss that sets your entire body ablaze. As she explores your mouth with her tongue and moans escape both of your lips, you feel yourself starting to get wet. And for once, it's not because of your own efforts – it's all thanks to Larissa's skilled touch and Morticia's failure to provide any lube. In this moment, Larissa finally has what she's been wanting all along – you dripping with desire and need for her touch.

The tall woman sits up, her skin glistening with sweat in the dim light of the room. With a quick motion, she pulls her shirt off, revealing her bra-less breasts and their perky nipples. Without hesitation, she takes your own nipple into her mouth, her warm breath and skilled tongue causing you to moan loudly in pleasure.

Switching to your other nipple, she continues her tantalizing actions. It's like she knows exactly what you want and need without even having to ask. As she works you up quickly, you find yourself humping against her torso in anticipation. Suddenly, Larissa stands up and removes her shorts and panties, leaving both of you naked and fully exposed.

Before you can even process what's happening, she pins you beneath her on the bed. Her wet pussy lines up perfectly with yours as she whispers huskily, "I've been wanting to do this to you for a very long time." You catch a glimpse of desire in her eyes before she begins sliding against you, searching for the perfect angle, you feel a mix of pleasure and discomfort from your awkward position.

Just as you are about to voice your discomfort, she hits the sweet spot and you both let out a moan of pleasure. She releases your leg that was causing discomfort and instead grips onto the bed as she starts scissoring with you, intensifying the pleasure between your bodies.

Larissa's movements become more aggressive as she continues to grind against you, her hands gripping your hips tightly. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure almost too much to handle.

Just when you think you can't take it anymore, Larissa suddenly slows down. She leans down to capture your lips in another searing kiss before pulling away and looking into your eyes with a mischievous grin.

"Turn over," she commands, her voice sending shivers down your spine.

Without question, you flip onto your stomach as she straddles your back. Her expert hands find their way to your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh before giving it a sharp slap. You let out a gasp of surprise mixed with pleasure as she continues to spank you lightly.

"You like that?" she asks with a smirk on her lips.

You can only nod in response as she starts massaging your ass again. But then her hand moves lower, reaching between your legs to massage your clit. The sensation is intense and you feel yourself getting wetter by the second.

Larissa's fingers move inside of you, hitting all the right spots and bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Just when you think you can't hold on any longer, she stops abruptly. Your whole body feels tense with anticipation, waiting for what will come next.

You hear her rummaging through Morticia's bedside drawer and then feel something cold being poured onto your ass. You recognize the familiar scent – it's lubricant.

She knew where it was the whole time!

Larissa pours a generous amount onto her fingers before rubbing them between your ass cheeks and slowly pushing one finger inside of you. You moan loudly at the sensation of being filled by her, feeling like you're being stretched in the most delicious way possible.

As she adds another finger and starts thrusting in and out of you rhythmically, you feel yourself getting close to the edge once again as your clit bumps the bundled up quilt beneath you with her thrusts. But just as you're about to reach she stops.

“Go fuck yourself.” You know what she means so you quickly set up the phone and then, without any further hesitation, you begin to perform for the camera, your movements controlled and mechanical. Your mind disconnects from your body as you focus on pleasing Morticia, pushing aside any thoughts or feelings that may interfere. You hate that this ruined your time with Larissa, sex with her was fucking great.

But despite your best efforts, tears start to well up in the corners of your eyes. This is not what you wanted for yourself. This is not who you are.

But it's too late now. The damage has been done.

Larissa notices your change in mood and the disconnect. You were so close to climaxing, but now it seems like you're just stagnant. Once she feels that the video is long enough for Morticia's needs and can be edited easily, she decides to help you one last time.

As you continue to ride the dildo, she stands in front of you and commands you to “Eat it.” Without hesitation, you begin to pleasure her with your tongue. Just moments later, you reach a powerful orgasm and Larissa isn't far behind.

When it's finally over, Larissa takes the camera with a satisfied grin and leaves without saying another word. You're left alone again in the quiet room with nothing but your shame and self-loathing.

You slide off the bed onto shaky legs and quickly dress yourself before getting back in bed and sleeping for fourteen hours.

The moment hangs heavy, like a fog that refuses to lift. Morticia stands in the doorway, her eyes tracing the familiar outlines of Wednesday and Enid, backpacks slung over their shoulders, excitement etched into every line of their eager faces. "Where are you two off to?" The words leave her lips, wrapped in a melody of feigned cheerfulness.

"We're going to the search party for the missing girl, Y/N." Enid’s response mirrors Morticia‘s own jovial tone, but it strikes a dissonant chord within her. Her heart stutters, a faltering beat against the cage of her ribs, as the reality of Wednesday's involvement settles like lead in her stomach.

They watch Morticia’s face drop in the hallway mirror, the corners of her mouth betraying the fear clawing at her throat. She knows too well the gears turning in Wednesday's astute mind, the threads she could unravel with mere curiosity. How close she might get to the truth she’s buried deep beneath layers of normalcy.

A desperate idea springs forth, a lifeline thrown in turbulent waters. "I was just about to ask you girls if you wanted to accompany me to the mall." The lie tastes bitter on her tongue, yet she lets it bloom into a smile, a mask of maternal innocence.

Enid’s joy is a physical thing, bouncing beside her with an eagerness born from the contrast of her own life's austerity to the lavishness Morticia offers. Enid clings to Morticia now, her loyalty bought with the currency of a paid monthly phone plan, up to date devices and other unspoken promises. But Wednesday, oh Wednesday, sees through facades like glass, and yet, she nods in acquiescence, a temporary ally in her mother’s game of deception.

As Morticia drives them towards the mall—a destination never intended—Wednesday can't help but weave tales of clues and theories, each word a needle pricking at her mom’s composure. Morticia wants to silence the dangerous musings, to preserve the fragile peace she’s crafted, but fear holds her voice captive. Fear of revealing too much, of cracking the veneer of indifference she’s so carefully constructed.

“I think she ran away.” Morticia offers her ‘opinion’ wanting to lead the girls down the wrong path of clues.

Morticia grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles blanching, as she navigates through streets that feel suddenly alien, haunted by the specter of a secret that threatens to surface. In this confined space, with her daughter's inquisitive mind weaving its perilous web, she realizes the horror isn't in the unknown—it's in the possibility of being known.

Chapter Text

Morticia sits in the food court, her elegant fingers curling around the warm ceramic bowl of ramen, lifting the spoon to her lips with practiced grace. The rich aroma of the broth wafts up, a comforting scent that does little to ease the gnawing knot of anxiety deep within her, you. The chatter and laughter of families and friends around her are a distant hum, an inconsequential soundtrack to the silent turmoil churning inside.

Her daughter, Wednesday, her raven hair a stark contrast against her pale skin, speaks animatedly with her friend Enid, their voices growing increasingly speculative as they dissect rumors and possibilities surrounding the disappearance of you. Their innocence grates on her; their ignorance, a double-edged sword that both soothes and stings. How little they know, how far from the truth their young minds wander.

The television mounted on the wall flickers, the cheerful advertisement giving way to the solemn face of a news anchor. "Breaking news," the anchor intones, and she feels her breath catch in her throat, "the search for the missing girl continues." The screen fills with your image, those eyes - once so full of life and now staring out at a sea of strangers. She almost chokes on her next sip of soup but manages to hold it together, a feat of composure that she’s all too familiar with.

Enid and Wednesday are transfixed by the broadcast, trading theories and rumors about where you were last seen, none bearing even a passing resemblance to what Morticia knows to be true. A perverse comfort settles over her, you, knowing how wide of the mark you are. Her secret, her dark deed, remains shrouded in mystery, untouched by their naive conjecture.

"What do you think, mother?" Wednesday's voice slices through the fog of her thoughts, a pointed question that demands attention. For a moment, she allows herself the luxury of breathing, the fact that the girls are so far off course allowing a sliver of relief to seep into her bones.

"Hm?" She responds, feigning distraction as she meets Wednesday's piercing gaze. Her voice is slow, seductive even in its simplicity, a deflection wrapped in charm. Inside, her mind races, crafting a response that will steer them further from the jagged edge of truth. Her lips part, ready to spin another strand of lies, to weave the web tighter around the hearts and minds of those who look to her for guidance.

Yet, in this moment of fragile calm, as she sip the broth from her ramen and navigate the treacherous waters of suspicion, she can't help but wonder: how long can she, Morticia Addams, keep the truth hidden? How long until the facade crumbles and the horror she’s wrought comes to light? But for now, the illusion holds, and she continues the delicate dance of deceit, one slow, captivating step at a time.

You lie motionless on the beautiful leather sofa, your eyes fixed on the flickering television screen. The news anchor's voice drones on, detailing the ongoing search for you. Your face flashes across the screen, a stark reminder of your sudden notoriety. You feel a chill run down your spine, realizing how close yet far you are from the world outside.

Suddenly, the sound of a key turning in the lock makes your heart leap into your throat. You hold your breath, muscles tensing as the door swings open. Larissa Weems strides in, her tall, imposing figure filling the doorway. Her blonde hair, almost white under the harsh fluorescent lights, is immaculate as always.

"Still glued to that nonsense, Y/N?" Larissa's voice is smooth, controlled, with an undercurrent of condescension. She sets down several grocery bags on the kitchen counter, the rustle of plastic echoing in the eerily quiet house.

You sit up slowly, your eyes never leaving her. "What else is there to do in this prison?" you mutter, bitterness seeping into your words.

Larissa's piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, her red lips curving into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Now, now. Is that any way to speak to your gracious host?" She begins unpacking the groceries, each movement deliberate and precise. "I've brought ingredients for a delightful meal. You should be thankful."

Your mind races, recalling your fruitless search for escape routes earlier. The barred windows, the double-sided locks, the bullet-proof glass – all testaments to Larissa and Morticia's meticulous planning. You swallow hard, realizing once again how trapped you truly are.

"Why are you doing this, Larissa?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want from me?"

Larissa pauses, a jar of sauce held delicately in her long, manicured fingers. She turns to you, her expression unreadable. "Want? My dear Y/N, it's not about what I want. It's about what needs to be done."

As she speaks, you can't help but marvel at the contrast between her elegant exterior and the darkness that lurks beneath. You wonder, not for the first time, what twisted path led her to this point – to kidnapping you and holding you captive in this fortress-like home.

You shudder involuntarily, goosebumps prickling your skin as Larissa's words hang in the air. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too confining. You wrap your arms around yourself, seeking comfort that doesn't come.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Larissa says, her tone deceptively casual. "Morticia called earlier. She'll be joining us for dinner and staying the night." Her eyes glitter with cruel amusement as she adds, "Expect to get fucked."

Your stomach lurches at her crude statement. "That's... that's awful," you manage to choke out, bile rising in your throat at her verbiage.

Larissa throws her head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles. "Oh, Y/N, you're so delightfully naive. It's part of why she's so obsessed with you, you know."

You close your eyes, trying to block out the reality of your situation. Morticia – your former teacher, the woman who'd seduced you, manipulated you, and now imprisoned you – was coming. And Larissa, once a figure of authority and respect as your principal, now revealed as a willing accomplice in this nightmare.

"Why are you helping her?" you ask, desperation creeping into your voice. "You were our principal. You're supposed to protect students, not... not this."

Larissa's expression softens for a moment, almost wistful. "You’re not a student anymore. Things change, Y/N. People change. Sometimes we discover sides of ourselves we never knew existed."

You feel a chill run down your spine, wondering what dark desires Morticia had awakened in Larissa. What had happened to transform these women into the monsters before you?

You swallow hard, trying to process Larissa's words. The tall blonde moves closer, her imposing height making you feel small and vulnerable. 

"Go freshen up," she commands, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Make yourself presentable for Morticia. You know how particular she is."

A shudder runs through you at the memory of Morticia's exacting standards. Her pale, critical eyes examining every inch of you. You nod mutely and stumble towards the bathroom, your legs feeling like lead.

As you splash cold water on your face, you can't help but wonder what's happening at the Addams household. Is Morticia preparing for this twisted rendezvous with the same calculated precision she applies to everything else in her life?

In your mind's eye, you see her: tall, pale, and hauntingly beautiful. Her long black hair cascading down her back as she packs an overnight bag. You imagine her glossy black nails selecting lingerie with meticulous care, her plum-colored lips curved in a secretive smile.

"Darling," you hear her purr to her unsuspecting husband, "I'll be away for a few days. A little trip with some of the other teachers."

You grip the edges of the sink, your knuckles turning white. How can she lie so effortlessly? How can she betray her family – betray you – without a flicker of remorse?

The shower's warm spray envelops you, momentarily soothing your frayed nerves. You close your eyes, letting the water cascade over your face, trying to wash away the fear and uncertainty. Time slips away as you lose yourself in the rhythmic patter of droplets.

Suddenly, the curtain is violently yanked back. You gasp, instinctively covering yourself as Larissa's imposing figure looms over you.

"What's taking so long?" she demands, her blue eyes raking over your exposed form.

"I-I'm sorry," you stammer, heart racing. "I lost track of time. I'll be out soon, I promise."

Larissa's gaze lingers, a predatory glint in her eye. Before you can react, her hand darts out, grasping your tit and giving it a firm squeeze. You freeze, shock and revulsion coursing through you.

"Don't keep us waiting," she purrs, her voice low and threatening. "Morticia will be here soon."

As she leaves, you slump against the shower wall, trembling. The water suddenly feels ice-cold against your skin. You hurriedly finish washing, desperate to be out of this vulnerable state.

Drying off, you try to steady your breathing. Your hands shake as you apply moisturizer, your mind racing with possibilities of what horrors the night might bring.

Just as you reach for the doorknob, it swings open. Larissa stands there, clearly about to check on you again. Her irritation is palpable, but it softens slightly as she sees you're ready.

"Listen carefully," she says, her voice low and intense. "You need to be on your best behavior tonight. Keep Morticia happy, understand? If you upset her..." She trails off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. As Larissa leads you away, you can't help but wonder how you ended up here, caught between two formidable women, each capable of unspeakable cruelty.

You quietly sit on the sofa, your heart pounding in your chest as you hear keys jingling in the lock. The door swings open, and there she is - Morticia, her pale skin almost luminescent against her black gown. Larissa greets her with a hug, taking her bags.

"Welcome home, darling," Larissa coos, but you barely register her words.

Your eyes are fixed on Morticia, who's staring at you with that closed-mouth smile that never quite reaches her eyes. Behind her back, Larissa shoots you a threatening glare, silently commanding you to look happy.

You force yourself to stand, willing your legs not to shake as you approach Morticia. Her small frame belies the power she holds over you. As you embrace her, you can't help but notice how fragile she feels in your arms, yet you know the danger that lurks beneath her porcelain exterior.

"My baby," Morticia whispers, her breath hot against your ear. A shiver runs down your spine - is it fear or desire? You're not sure anymore.

She gently tilts your face towards hers, her plum-colored lips inching closer. The kiss starts innocently enough, but you feel the shift, the hunger behind it. Morticia's hands begin to roam, her touch growing more insistent, more demanding.

You think, "It's been days. She's missed this. She's missed me." The thought both thrills and terrifies you.

Suddenly, you're pressed against the wall, Morticia's body flush against yours. Her kisses become more aggressive, her hands more exploratory. You're lost in the sensation, your mind clouding over with a mix of fear and unwanted arousal.

A throat clears, shattering the moment. Larissa has returned, her tall frame filling the doorway.

"Shall we eat?" she asks, her tone deceptively light.

Morticia pulls away, leaving you breathless and conflicted. She takes your hand, her grip firm and possessive.

"Of course, my dear," Morticia purrs, leading you towards the kitchen. "I'm absolutely famished."

As you follow, you can't help but wonder what kind of hunger she's really talking about.

The aroma of Larissa's cooking fills the air as you enter the dining room. Your stomach growls involuntarily, reminding you how long it's been since you've had a proper meal. Morticia guides you to a chair, her hand lingering on your shoulder as she takes her seat beside you.

Larissa emerges from the kitchen, carrying a steaming dish. "I hope you enjoy," she says, her blue eyes meeting yours briefly before turning to Morticia.

You watch as Morticia takes her first bite, her eyes widening in delight. "Larissa, darling, this is absolutely divine," she purrs, her voice dripping with pleasure. "You've outdone yourself."

As you eat, you can't help but marvel at the normalcy of it all - three people sharing a meal. But the illusion shatters when Morticia speaks again, her tone suddenly sharp.

"Y/N, we'll be attending a girls' night out with some coworkers," she announces. Déjà vu. Her dark eyes lock onto yours, and you feel a chill run down your spine. "And you, my dear, will not run away. If you try..." She leans in close, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "I will find you. I will kill you. And I will eat your body so no one can ever find it."

You feel the room spin, your vision blurring as a tear escapes down your cheek. Morticia's predatory gaze follows its path before she leans in, her tongue darting out to catch the salty drop.

"No," you think, your mind reeling. "She wouldn't really eat me. She won't even touch squash." But the fear remains, coiling in your gut. Because deep down, you know she wouldn't hesitate to kill you.

As they prepare to leave, both women kiss you goodbye. The door closes behind them, and you exhale shakily, relief washing over you. You'd been so sure they were going to...

You shake the thought away, focusing instead on the empty house. This is your chance. You begin searching, desperate for any clue about why Morticia took you after ending things. But the house yields no answers - it's not her main residence, after all.

Frustrated and confused, you sink onto the couch, your mind racing. "Why, Morticia?" you whisper to the empty room. "What changed?"

Desperation claws at your insides as you eye Morticia's bags. Your heart pounds, knowing the risk, but you can't resist. With trembling hands, you begin rifling through her belongings.

"There has to be something," you mutter, carefully shifting items.

Suddenly, a sharp snap pierces the air. White-hot pain explodes in your left hand. You cry out, yanking back to find a rat trap clamped onto your middle finger.

"Oh God," you gasp, tears springing to your eyes. Of course Morticia would do this. She knew you'd search her things, knew you craved answers.

You scream, the sound echoing in the silent house. For a moment, hope flares - maybe someone will hear. But then you remember Morticia's smug words about soundproofing. No one's coming.

Choking back sobs, you pry the trap off your throbbing finger. "Dude… Fuck you, Morticia," you hiss, resetting the trap with shaking hands. You carefully replace everything, terrified of her discovering your betrayal.

In the kitchen, you frantically search cabinets. "Please, please," you beg, finally finding pain medication that doubled as sleep-aid. You swallow too many pills, desperate to numb the pain before they return.

Clutching an ice pack, you walk to the bedroom. Your stomach drops as you examine your finger.

"Shit," you whisper, watching purple bruises bloom across your skin. "What am I going to tell her?"

Time drags on interminably, each second pounding like a drum in your head.

You find yourself pacing the house in an anxious frenzy, your feet moving in a frantic rhythm as your mind spins. Panic claws at you, relentless and insistent.

It feeds on your worst fears about Morticia and Larissa, on the terrifying thought of what they'll do when they return and find you so completely vulnerable. You can't let them see you worn out and almost powerless with one hand out of commission.

The anxiety grows, sharp and intense, making every heartbeat feel like it's echoing off the walls.

As desperation mounts, you realize it's been half an hour. You stop in your tracks, a sudden wave of lethargy crashing over you. 

Why do you feel so tired? So completely drained? You have to figure it out before they come back. You stagger into the kitchen, your legs heavy and uncooperative.

The medication—it has to be the medication.

You snatch the bottle off the counter, your hands so unsteady you can barely keep hold of it.

You frantically read and reread the label, trying to make sense of the letters through the haze enveloping your brain. 

There it is. 

Those bold words taunt you, a cruel reminder of your mistake: "Sleep Aid." 

You walk back into the living room and you sink onto the coffee table, desperately trying to stay alert, to show that you're still in this fight. 

You slump onto the floor, your mind racing as fatigue creeps in. The room seems to tilt and sway, the effects of the medication settling over you like a heavy blanket. You blink hard, trying to focus—then darkness.

Hours go by…

"Y/N?" Morticia's silky voice floats from somewhere in the house. Your heart rate spikes, panic cutting through the fog.

"I'm... I'm in here," you call out, wincing at how slurred your words sound.

Footsteps approach, and you struggle to sit up straighter. Morticia glides into the room, her black gown swirling around her like smoke. Her eyes narrow as she takes in your drooping eyelids and unsteady posture.

"My dear, what have you done?" she purrs, her tone a mix of concern and accusation.

You try to explain, but your tongue feels thick in your mouth. "I... the medicine. Didn't realize..."

Next thing you know you are lifted to your feet, both women on each side of you, high heels clicking on the floor, guiding you to the room and then tossing you on the bed. Larissa walks out for a moment and Morticia notices your finger.

Moments later, Larissa appears in the doorway, her tall frame blocking the exit. "Morticia, I believe our guest has been self-medicating," she says coolly.

You shake your head, desperate to clear it. "No, I didn't mean to... I just wanted..."

"To avoid us?" Morticia finishes, her now nude lips, absent of its usual plum color curving into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Oh, Y/N. Did you really think we wouldn't see through such a transparent ploy?"

"It's not like that," you insist, but even to your ears, the words sound weak and unconvincing.

Morticia sits beside you on the bed, her cool hand cupping your cheek. "Shh, darling. Rest now. We'll discuss this... indiscretion when you're more coherent."

As your eyelids grow heavier, your last thought is that you've played right into their hands. You wanted to escape, but not like this. Never like this.

You struggle against the encroaching darkness, but it's a losing battle. Your limbs feel like lead, and the room seems to tilt and sway around you. Morticia's hand on your cheek is an anchor, but one that pulls you down rather than lifts you up.

"I... I don't want to sleep," you mumble, fighting to keep your eyes open.

Morticia's laugh is low and melodious. "Oh, Y/N. Always so stubborn. It's one of the things I adore about you."

You try to pull away, but your body won't cooperate. "Please... let me go..."

"Hush now," Morticia coos, her fingers running through your hair. The gesture is both soothing and terrifying. "You're safe here with us. Isn't that right, Larissa?"

From somewhere beyond your narrowing field of vision, Larissa's cool voice responds, "Absolutely. We'll take good care of our dear Y/N."

A chill runs down your spine despite the warmth spreading through your body. You want to scream, to fight, to run, but the medicine has robbed you of all agency. As your consciousness begins to slip away, you catch a glimpse of Morticia's wide smile, her straight white teeth gleaming in the dim light.

"Sweet dreams, my love," she whispers, and it's the last thing you hear before the darkness claims you completely.

You wake with a start, heart pounding as you try to orient yourself. The room is bathed in a soft, eerie glow. As you attempt to move, panic sets in - your wrists and ankles are bound tightly to the bed.

"Good morning, darling," Morticia's silky voice cuts through the silence. She glides into view, a vision in black, her pale skin almost luminous in contrast. "Did you sleep well?"

You swallow hard, your throat dry. "Morticia... please, what's going on?"

She perches on the edge of the bed, her long nails trailing along your arm. "I think you know, Y/N. But let's start with a simple question. Why did you take that medicine last night?"

Your mind races. Should you lie? Tell the truth? "I... I had a headache," you stammer.

Morticia's dark eyes narrow. "Is that so? Are you certain it had nothing to do with this?" Her hand moves swiftly, grasping your bruised finger and squeezing hard.

You cry out, pain shooting through your hand. "Stop! Please!"

"Tsk, tsk," Morticia clicks her tongue. "I knew you'd be a nosy little bitch and dig through my things. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"

Tears well in your eyes as fear and regret wash over you. How could you have been so stupid? "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Oh, but you did mean to, didn't you?" Morticia interrupts, her voice a dangerous purr. "You couldn't help yourself. Always so curious, always pushing boundaries. It's what drew me to you in the first place."

You shudder, torn between the lingering attraction you feel for her and the terror of your current situation. "Morticia, please... This isn't right. Let me go."

Her laughter fills the room, rich and melodious yet chilling to the bone. "Let you go? Oh no, my dear Y/N. We're only just getting started."

Your heart pounds as you struggle to find the courage to confront her. "Why?" you finally blurt out. "Why did you kidnap me after breaking up with me? I don't understand."

Morticia's eyes flash, a mix of anger and something darker. "You really don't know?" she says, her voice low and seductive. "It's because you ignored me, Y/N. You dared to act as if I didn't exist."

You feel a chill run down your spine as she leans in close, her perfume intoxicating. "I never wanted to leave you in the first place," she whispers. "But you... you were so ungrateful. Do you have any idea how much I cared for you?"

Her words twist inside you, a confusing blend of longing and fear. You want to believe her, but something doesn't feel right. "That's not fair," you protest weakly. "You chose to end things."

Morticia's lips curl into a cruel smile. "Because you made me!” She yells but then gathers herself. “Oh, my dear. Life isn't fair. And neither am I." She traces a long, black nail down your cheek. "You should be thankful I didn't tell my husband about how you tried to sabotage our marriage."

Your eyes widen in shock. "Morticia, that's not true! You know it's not," you exclaim, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Morticia's eyes glitter with malice as she tilts her head, her long black hair cascading over one shoulder. "Well, he doesn't know that," she says with a smug smile.

She dramatically places the back of her hand on her forehead, mimicking distress. "'Woe is me, Y/N tried to have her way with me!'" she mock-wails, then giggles, the sound chilling rather than cheerful.

Your heart races as she glides closer, her presence overwhelming. You want to back away but find yourself frozen in place.

"And he would have snapped your pretty little neck like that," Morticia purrs, her lips barely brushing your ear. The sharp crack of her fingers snapping makes you flinch violently.

As she backs away, you struggle to breathe normally. Your mind reels, trying to process her threats and manipulation. How did things go so wrong? You'd only wanted closure, not... this.

"Morticia, please," you whisper, hating how weak you sound. "This isn't you. What happened to the woman I fell in love with?"

But even as the words leave your mouth, you wonder if that woman ever truly existed, or if she was just another mask Morticia wore to get what she wanted.

Morticia's face contorts, her usually seductive features twisting into something cruel. "That woman died the moment you tried to hurt her," she hisses, her words dripping with venom.

You blink, confusion and hurt washing over you. "Hurt you? When did I ever hurt you?"

Her laugh is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. "When you made me choose between you and my husband," she spits out, her eyes flashing dangerously.

The accusation hits you like a physical blow. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over as the pain of that memory resurfaces. "Being a choice... it hurt me, Morticia. It made me feel less than, like I wasn't enough."

Your voice cracks as you continue, the words pouring out. "I wanted to be loved properly, wholly. I wanted to be shown off to the world instead of hiding in your husband's shadow."

Morticia's face reddens, her carefully cultivated composure cracking. "I was doing the best I could to keep everyone happy!" she shrieks, her voice rising to a pitch you've never heard before.

You flinch as she steps closer, her finger jabbing into your chest. "You ungrateful bitch," she snarls. "I'm the best you'll ever get. Who pays for your car?"

Shame burns through you as you whisper, "You do."

"And who pays all of your bills?" she demands, her face inches from yours.

"You do," you admit, your voice barely audible.

The sharp crack of her hand against your cheek echoes in the room, leaving you stunned and reeling.

Your cheek stings as Morticia's fingers suddenly wrap around your wrists, her long nails digging into your skin. With surprising strength, she yanks the straps free, releasing you from the bed. 

Heart pounding, you scramble to your feet, legs shaky from disuse. The door beckons - freedom so close you can taste it. You lunge forward, desperation lending you speed.

"No!" you scream, your voice hoarse. "Let me go!"

Morticia's low chuckle sends ice down your spine. "I like my fish squirming," she purrs, her words dripping with dark amusement.

You reach the door, fingers grasping the handle, when her arms encircle your waist. She pulls you back, her body pressed against yours. 

"Please," you beg, tears streaming down your face. "Please don't hurt me. I'll do anything!"

Her breath is hot on your neck as she kicks the door shut with a resounding thud. "Oh darling," she whispers, "the fun is just beginning."

In the living room, Larissa winces at your cries. She rises unsteadily, her tall frame swaying as she makes her way to the liquor cabinet. With trembling hands, she pours two shots of whiskey, downing them in quick succession. The burn in her throat can't erase the guilt gnawing at her conscience.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, closing her eyes against your muffled pleas. "I'm so sorry."

In the bedroom, Morticia's grip tightens around your wrists. The headboard creaks ominously as she pins you down, her weight pinning you in place. The coldness in her eyes chills your soul as she leans in, her mouth so close to yours you could feel her words against your lips.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she hisses. "You always loved it when I was rough."

Tears spill onto the pillow beneath you as she reaches for her belt. "Please," you beg, "I'll do anything. Just let me go."

Morticia's laughter is cold, mirthless. "You're mine now," she whispers, "and there's nothing you can do to escape."

The belt whistles through the air, marking the beginning of a nightmare from which you'd never wake up. 

In the aftermath, as Morticia's heavy breathing eases, she pulls away from you, her eyes devoid of any emotion. You lay there, shivering uncontrollably, your body a canvas of pain and humiliation.

"Clean yourself up," she says tonelessly, "and meet me downstairs."

As she leaves the room, the weight of her presence lingers like a suffocating shroud. You curl into a trembling ball, wondering how you ever could have loved someone so broken, so twisted. The single ray of hope that flickered in your heart, now extinguished by the harsh reality of your situation.

Tears spill down your cheeks, mingling with the blood on your cheek. "How did it come to this?" you ask the empty room.

But there are no answers here, only the ghosts of what might have been. And as the sun sets on another day in this living nightmare, you steel yourself for whatever horrors the night may bring.

Chapter Text

You trudge down the cold, dimly lit staircase, the thud of your footsteps echoing off the walls. The huge house feels like a tomb now, a testament to the death of your consent and the life you once knew.

You lock eyes with Larissa, but she quickly averts her gaze, unable to confront you. You’re certain she heard your cries for help.

In the parlor, the fireplace casts an ominous glow over the room. Morticia reclines in her favorite reclining sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looks up as you enter, and the chill in her eyes freezes you to your core.

"Sit," she commands, motioning to the spot beside her with a graceful wave of her hand.

Slowly, trembling, you obey. You're all too aware of the bruises forming on your wrists, the result of her iron grip. As you settle down, she draws you nearer, enveloping you in her warmth. Her black silk robe shimmers softly in the light, its smooth fabric draping elegantly over her form, revealing the bare skin beneath with every subtle shift.

"I'm so sorry," you choke out, your voice cracking with desperation, "I never meant to hurt you." Words spill from your mouth in a frantic torrent, as if Morticia hadn't just unleashed a storm of devastation, tearing through the very core of your being with a ferocity you never imagined.

Morticia smirks, her lips stained crimson. "Too late for apologies now, Y/N." She kisses your forehead.

The conversation persists, a tangled web of words and manipulation, her voice weaving through your thoughts as you try to shut her out. But Morticia's words are like tendrils wrapping around your mind, pulling you back to that first encounter.

"You know," she murmurs, her voice like silk laced with poison, "I only want what's best for you. After all, who else understands you like I do? Trust me, there's no one else who can make you feel this alive."

Her smile had been a siren's call, making your heart pound with reckless abandon, and her touch had ignited a wildfire beneath your skin. "Remember how you used to hang onto my every word?" she purrs, her voice dripping with a velvet smoothness. "You still do, even if you pretend otherwise."

‘Someone get me the fuck out of here. Please.’ You think to yourself.

As if reading your thoughts, Morticia sets her glass down with a thud. "Where are you, Y/N?"

You blink, snapping back to the present. "I'm here."

"No," she purred, "you're not. I can see the wheels turning in that pretty little head of yours. Tell me, what are you thinking about?"

The truth is like a heavy weight in your chest, aching to be set free. But the fear of her retribution keeps you silent.

Instead, you force a weak smile. "Just... remembering the good times, I guess." You lie.

Morticia's expression softens, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of the woman you once loved. The woman who made you feel like the sun, moon, and stars.

"I remember," she sighs, her voice laced with nostalgia. "We were happy, weren't we?"

Were.

The past tense hangs heavy in the air between you, a painful reminder of what could have been.

"We were," you manage, the words catching in your throat. "But... I don't know what happened, Morti-"

Morticia's expression darkened, and her eyes flashed with a cold, calculating light. "Don't you dare blame this on me, Y/N. You brought this upon yourself!" she screamed, shoving you away, sending you sprawling to the opposite side of the couch.

The room fell silent, save for the rapid breathing of both of you. The warmth from the fire had long ago faded, replaced by an icy chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

"I... I didn't mean..." you stuttered, choking on the words.

Morticia sits there, her silence stretching out like a noose around your neck, her eyes a storm of emotions you can't decipher. She looks fierce, feral, like a predator playing with its prey, and you feel the walls closing in on you. Larissa watches quietly, almost stunned at Morticia's performance, her rapid change of attitude, and pure manipulation. Her face is a mask of disbelief, as if she can't comprehend how quickly Morticia turned the tables.

Slowly, you sit at the other end of the couch, your body aching from her shove and the roughness of her earlier handling. You cradle your rat trap-snapped finger, wincing as the pain flares from her push. The injury throbs in time with your heartbeat, a cruel reminder of your helplessness.

"I'll get you some ice," Larissa says, her voice almost a whisper in the charged atmosphere. She rises, her movements hesitant, as if unsure whether to leave the two of you alone.

Her departure leaves a gaping silence, and your stomach betrays you with a loud growl that echoes embarrassingly in the room. Morticia turns towards you, her expression both amused and mocking. "Was that your stomach?" she asks, her voice dripping with condescension.

You hesitate, swallowing your pride and your fear. "Yes. I'll go get something to eat."

But Morticia has other plans. "Come here," she commands, her hand reaching across the couch to grab your arm. Her touch is both possessive and bruising, a promise and a threat. You flinch instinctively, and she smacks your arm with a quick, stinging blow. "Don't be mean," she admonishes, her voice sweetly poisonous.

The unfairness of her words sears you, and you find yourself shouting silently in your mind. 'What the fuck? Were you not just mean to me?' But the words are too dangerous to say aloud, and they stay locked behind your clenched teeth.

She pulls you closer, her grip unyielding, and the proximity is suffocating. "Let Mommy feed you," she coos, her voice a grotesque parody of tenderness. You glance around, expecting to see a plate of food, but there's nothing. Confusion knots your stomach as you realize what she intends.

Before you can react, Morticia pops her tits out, her breasts large and exposed, the skin pale and full. You stare, genuinely baffled, as she offers herself to you in a sickening display.

"I'ma go get a PB&J," you say, your voice shaky, trying to dismiss the weird shit she's trying to introduce you to. It's a desperate attempt to escape the insanity, to cling to some semblance of normalcy.

But Morticia's grip tightens, refusing to let you slip away. Larissa walks back in with the ice pack and gasps in shock at the sight of Morticia's nude breast on display in the living room. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, frozen in disbelief.

Morticia ignores her completely, her focus entirely on you. "Don't be silly," she chides, stroking your cheek with possessive hands, "all mommies must feed their little girls." You turn to Larissa, silently pleading for an explanation, an intervention, anything. But she's as confused and horrified as you are, her face a mirror of your own disbelief.

Morticia's voice cuts through the tension, demanding and petulant. "My breasts are full and they hurt. Do not make me wait."

The pressure of her insistence bears down on you, and you hesitate, trapped between your shame and her control. Slowly, as if in a daze, you begin to lower your head towards her milk-filled breast. It's an awkward, surreal moment, your mind reeling, your body betraying you as you comply.

Morticia guides you, her hands gentle now, easing you into position. She lays your upper body across her lap, arranging you like a doll, head resting on her arm. Her pink nipple is close to your mouth, and the absurdity of the situation leaves you speechless.

For a moment, everything is still. You, her, and the impossible expectation hanging between you. Then, with a soft, commanding voice, Morticia breaks the silence.

"Go ahead and suck," she instructs, the words filled with a twisted affection. The tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you begin to suck, humiliation scorching through you like wildfire.

Morticia lets out a soft moan as you take the pressure off her breast. Her eyes flutter with satisfaction, and she strokes your hair as if rewarding a good little pet. "Indulge my baby," she whispers, relaxing beneath you. "Mommy needs you."

Larissa's jaw is on the floor at the scene unfolding in front of her. She stands there, immobilized by the shock and perversity of it all. For a twisted reason she can't quite comprehend, her pussy throbs a bit at the sight. She's appalled and turned on, her emotions a tangled mess of disbelief, desire, and disloyalty.

The breastfeeding ordeal continues and you become embarrassed by how hungry you actually are.

In what feels like no time at all, she gently shifts you from one breast to the other, her movements smooth and practiced.

At this moment Larissa flees back to the kitchen, seeking refuge in the only solace she knows: the bottle. Her hand trembles as she pours another shot, and she gulps it down with a desperation that borders on panic.

The searing liquid coats her throat, a welcome distraction from the chaos unfolding in the other room. Her mind races, unable to process the scene she just witnessed, the audacity of Morticia's control over you, and her own inexplicable response to it all.

She pours another and downs it quickly, trying to drown the mix of emotions churning inside her. Shame, disbelief, and a dark, creeping desire claw at her insides, and she leans heavily on the counter, gasping for air.

If things keeps going the way they are, within the next two hours she'll be plastered.

Larissa then escapes outside to the porch, her movements shaky and uncertain. The wind bites at her skin as she fumbles with a cigarette, desperate for the nicotine to calm her nerves. She lights it with trembling hands and inhales deeply, the smoke filling her lungs, offering a fleeting moment of relief.

The chill of the evening air contrasts with the burning in her chest, providing a welcome distraction from the bizarre scene that just unfolded.

She stands there, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the enormity of Morticia's domination over you—and her own inexplicable reaction—continues to eat away at her. She pulls out her iPhone, scrolling through Facebook in a dazed autopilot, grasping for any hint of normalcy.

Her eyes widen as she sees articles about your disappearance circulating amid the community, your name in bold, your picture staring back at her like an accusation.

She hesitates before clicking on one, the guilt twisting inside her like a knife. Of course, she thinks, as Morticia’s all-too-familiar post appears on her screen, dramatically begging for your safe return.

She stares at Morticia's post, her cigarette burning down to the filter between her fingers, the smoke curling away into the air. She's upset, repulsed by the audacity of Morticia's public facade, but ultimately, she understands.

This is the role they must both play, the concerned confidantes in a worried community. It's yet another web of deception that Morticia has spun, and one that Larissa is unwillingly caught in. She takes a long drag, letting the cigarette burn further, the ash hanging precariously at the tip. With a resigned sigh, Larissa presses the share button.

Her manicured finger hovers momentarily before committing to the charade. Unlike Morticia, she leaves the remark section blank, her silence standing in stark contrast to Morticia's manipulative proclamations. It's her own small, desperate rebellion against the cage she finds herself in.

Larissa drinks more, reeling from how Morticia has trapped her as well.

Staring down into the glass, Larissa knows with bitter clarity that this... this is the whole reason she’s here, tangled in Morticia's sordid web. Because she couldn’t keep her damned mouth shut, couldn't even trust her own silence.

She had to get drunk and confess everything, let the truth spill out like liquor on the floor. It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment, and now it's the noose Morticia uses to keep her dangling.

That night replays in Larissa’s mind, a relentless loop of her undoing, a reminder of the bonds she forged with her own reckless words. It had begun innocently enough, drinks after school to celebrate the new semester, Morticia’s invitation one of those feigned gestures made under the guise of friendship. Larissa hadn’t meant to go, hadn’t meant to admit it, hadn’t meant to spill the secret that could ruin her.

But as the night wore on, the dim bar became a web in which she was caught, Morticia's piercing attention cutting through the haze of alcohol like a knife through flesh. Each sip loosened her tongue, reduced her inhibitions, made her forget the dangers lurking beneath Morticia’s facade of warmth and camaraderie.

She had been a fool, an arrogant fool, to think she could ever trust Morticia, to believe for a moment that the woman's intentions were anything other than sinister. Just as the lies began to blur, and the world around her sank into the soft oblivion of intoxication, Larissa found herself unraveling, revealing the haunting story of the young woman, the body in the woods, and the panic that swallowed her whole.

Her voice, once a guarded fortress, betrayed her, spilling the details Morticia would later use as shackles. She hadn't realized the brilliance of her own confession until Morticia parroted it back to her days later, making Larissa's blood run cold with the realization of how deeply she was compromised, and how completely Morticia had played her.

Morticia had listened that night with a predator's patience, her eyes fixed on Larissa as though the rest of the bar had fallen away, as if nothing else mattered except this sweet, damning truth. She had absorbed each detail, every word, with an attentiveness that should have warned Larissa, should have told her to shut her mouth and walk away.

But Larissa had been too far gone to see the trap clicking shut around her, too inebriated and too self-assured to hear the jaws of it closing. She had drunkenly mistaken Morticia’s cold calculation for genuine empathy, her own loneliness whispering lies that made her forget the stakes.

Now, she's imprisoned by her own foolishness, a captive of Morticia's sinister machinations and the sordid alliance that resulted from them. She knows there is no escape, not as long as Morticia holds the power to destroy her life, to ruin the fragile existence she's worked so hard to build.

Every time she thinks of that night, of Morticia's triumphant smirk when she realized the power Larissa had so carelessly handed over, Larissa wants to scream, wants to drink herself into forgetting all over again, wants to be anywhere but where she is. It's a nightmare of her own making, and Morticia is the monster she's let in with open arms.

But at least she has you in this with her.

Larissa walks back into the house, the scent of her cigarette trailing behind her like a guilty shadow. She tries to steady herself, to shake off the chill of the outdoors and the even colder grip of Morticia's threats.

You're in the kitchen, rinsing your mouth, the faucet running over your hands as if you're trying to wash away the very memory of Morticia's twisted nurturing.

The milk wasn’t nasty, the thought was. The act itself, the submission, the complete power Morticia held over you; that was what curdled in your stomach.

You hear Larissa’s presence before you see her, the clack of her heels hesitant on the tile, each step a reminder of her silence, of the betrayal you felt when she stood there, watching, doing nothing to stop the madness.

You turn off the tap and walk past her, your eyes unreadable, and catch a mix of alcohol and smoke on her clothes as you grab a piece of paper towel to dry your mouth.

You expect to be reprimanded for what you were just caught doing, perhaps a lecture on defiance or a harsher reminder of your captivity, but instead, she stands uncertainly, her back leaning against the counter. Like she needs the support to face you.

She wants to tell you that she's sorry for not helping, that she's caught in this web just as tightly as you are, but your demeanor is so cold she fears if she speaks it will freeze the words in her throat. You don’t say anything, your silence louder than any accusation, and it stings.

She braces herself and tries anyway, her lips barely parting as if she might finally break the uneasy quiet, but is suddenly interrupted by the sharp, unmistakable sound of high heels and a rolling suitcase echoing through the halls. The noise is a siren call of relief and terror all at once.

"I need to go home early, my son is sick," she announces to Larissa, the words carrying a casual detachment, and you know already. You heard her receive the call from her husband while you lay in his wife's lap emptying her breast.

You watched the flicker of satisfaction in Morticia's eyes when she answered the phone, a new ploy already forming behind her wicked smile.

"What's wrong?" Larissa asks, a forced concern barely masking the tension that grips her, her voice almost cracking under the weight of Morticia's presence.

"All Gomez could tell me is that he's running a fever, so duty calls." There's a practiced sorrow in her voice, a mockery of maternal worry. You can see the way Larissa flinches at the words, as if each one is a reminder of Morticia's unrelenting hold over all of you.

Morticia walks up to you, now dressed in a black shirt and black pants, looking polished and pretty as if she didn’t have a predatory bone in her body. She moves with effortless grace, a deadly elegance that makes her sudden transformation even more surreal.

"Just when I was gonna eat the pretty little pussy. I'll see you soon, my beautiful girl," she coos, so close her breath is warm on your skin. She rubs her nose on yours gently, an affectionate gesture that contradicts every bruise she left on your heart and mind.

Right before she takes you in for a sweet, yet hungry kiss. It's a farewell that wraps around you like a chain, a promise that she will never really let you go. "Mommy will be home soon and I'll be checking in." Her hands roam your body, leaving traces of her possession on your flesh with a tight squeeze to your breast and a hard slap to your ass. "Be a good girl for Larissa?" The command is a barbed reminder of who's in control, of how little choice you have.

You nod, and she smiles the way a lion might smile at a lamb. "Walk me to my car?" she asks Larissa, her voice dismissive and domineering. She remote starts the Mercedes from inside the house. The soft roar of the engine is a taunt, a mechanical echo of her triumph.

When they get to Morticia’s car, Larissa helps her put a bag in, the action almost instinctual, like she’s forgotten how to do anything but what Morticia wants.

The silence between them crackles with unspoken threats, and Larissa dreads the words she knows are coming. She's not sure she can stand hearing Morticia lay claim yet again.

But Morticia doesn’t disappoint. She leans in, her voice a dangerous whisper that slices through Larissa like a knife. "I see the way you look at her, I don’t want you touching my baby… I know that everything you touch ends up dead. Touch her, and you’ll join your girl." The words are venom, pure and lethal, and Larissa feels the sting of them deep in her chest.

Larissa is taken aback as the car door closes right in her face and the black car leaves her standing there with threats lingering in the air, with the specter of her past haunting her steps. She watches the taillights until they blur, her vision damp, Morticia's parting words looping through her mind like a curse.

She gathers herself and walks back into the house, the heaviness of Morticia's warning dragging at her every step. Instead of kindness, instead of understanding or solidarity, the only thing Larissa has left to shield herself with is distance. She hardens, her demeanor now stone cold, possibly colder than yours was when she wanted to apologize to you. "Go to bed."

You don’t even argue. You get up go into the bedroom and stare at the wall until you fall asleep.

Chapter Text

You trudge down the cold, dimly lit staircase, the thud of your footsteps echoing off the walls. The huge house feels like a tomb now, a testament to the death of your consent and the life you once knew.

You lock eyes with Larissa, but she quickly averts her gaze, unable to confront you. You’re certain she heard your cries for help.

In the parlor, the fireplace casts an ominous glow over the room. Morticia reclines in her favorite reclining sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, a glass of red wine in her hand. She looks up as you enter, and the chill in her eyes freezes you to your core.

"Sit," she commands, motioning to the spot beside her with a graceful wave of her hand.

Slowly, trembling, you obey. You're all too aware of the bruises forming on your wrists, the result of her iron grip. As you settle down, she draws you nearer, enveloping you in her warmth. Her black silk robe shimmers softly in the light, its smooth fabric draping elegantly over her form, revealing the bare skin beneath with every subtle shift.

"I'm so sorry," you choke out, your voice cracking with desperation, "I never meant to hurt you." Words spill from your mouth in a frantic torrent, as if Morticia hadn't just unleashed a storm of devastation, tearing through the very core of your being with a ferocity you never imagined.

Morticia smirks, her lips stained crimson. "Too late for apologies now, Y/N." She kisses your forehead.

The conversation persists, a tangled web of words and manipulation, her voice weaving through your thoughts as you try to shut her out. But Morticia's words are like tendrils wrapping around your mind, pulling you back to that first encounter.

"You know," she murmurs, her voice like silk laced with poison, "I only want what's best for you. After all, who else understands you like I do? Trust me, there's no one else who can make you feel this alive."

Her smile had been a siren's call, making your heart pound with reckless abandon, and her touch had ignited a wildfire beneath your skin. "Remember how you used to hang onto my every word?" she purrs, her voice dripping with a velvet smoothness. "You still do, even if you pretend otherwise."

‘Someone get me the fuck out of here. Please.’ You think to yourself.

As if reading your thoughts, Morticia sets her glass down with a thud. "Where are you, Y/N?"

You blink, snapping back to the present. "I'm here."

"No," she purred, "you're not. I can see the wheels turning in that pretty little head of yours. Tell me, what are you thinking about?"

The truth is like a heavy weight in your chest, aching to be set free. But the fear of her retribution keeps you silent.

Instead, you force a weak smile. "Just... remembering the good times, I guess." You lie.

Morticia's expression softens, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of the woman you once loved. The woman who made you feel like the sun, moon, and stars.

"I remember," she sighs, her voice laced with nostalgia. "We were happy, weren't we?"

Were.

The past tense hangs heavy in the air between you, a painful reminder of what could have been.

"We were," you manage, the words catching in your throat. "But... I don't know what happened, Morti-"

Morticia's expression darkened, and her eyes flashed with a cold, calculating light. "Don't you dare blame this on me, Y/N. You brought this upon yourself!" she screamed, shoving you away, sending you sprawling to the opposite side of the couch.

The room fell silent, save for the rapid breathing of both of you. The warmth from the fire had long ago faded, replaced by an icy chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

"I... I didn't mean..." you stuttered, choking on the words.

Morticia sits there, her silence stretching out like a noose around your neck, her eyes a storm of emotions you can't decipher. She looks fierce, feral, like a predator playing with its prey, and you feel the walls closing in on you. Larissa watches quietly, almost stunned at Morticia's performance, her rapid change of attitude, and pure manipulation. Her face is a mask of disbelief, as if she can't comprehend how quickly Morticia turned the tables.

Slowly, you sit at the other end of the couch, your body aching from her shove and the roughness of her earlier handling. You cradle your rat trap-snapped finger, wincing as the pain flares from her push. The injury throbs in time with your heartbeat, a cruel reminder of your helplessness.

"I'll get you some ice," Larissa says, her voice almost a whisper in the charged atmosphere. She rises, her movements hesitant, as if unsure whether to leave the two of you alone.

Her departure leaves a gaping silence, and your stomach betrays you with a loud growl that echoes embarrassingly in the room. Morticia turns towards you, her expression both amused and mocking. "Was that your stomach?" she asks, her voice dripping with condescension.

You hesitate, swallowing your pride and your fear. "Yes. I'll go get something to eat."

But Morticia has other plans. "Come here," she commands, her hand reaching across the couch to grab your arm. Her touch is both possessive and bruising, a promise and a threat. You flinch instinctively, and she smacks your arm with a quick, stinging blow. "Don't be mean," she admonishes, her voice sweetly poisonous.

The unfairness of her words sears you, and you find yourself shouting silently in your mind. 'What the fuck? Were you not just mean to me?' But the words are too dangerous to say aloud, and they stay locked behind your clenched teeth.

She pulls you closer, her grip unyielding, and the proximity is suffocating. "Let Mommy feed you," she coos, her voice a grotesque parody of tenderness. You glance around, expecting to see a plate of food, but there's nothing. Confusion knots your stomach as you realize what she intends.

Before you can react, Morticia pops her tits out, her breasts large and exposed, the skin pale and full. You stare, genuinely baffled, as she offers herself to you in a sickening display.

"I'ma go get a PB&J," you say, your voice shaky, trying to dismiss the weird shit she's trying to introduce you to. It's a desperate attempt to escape the insanity, to cling to some semblance of normalcy.

But Morticia's grip tightens, refusing to let you slip away. Larissa walks back in with the ice pack and gasps in shock at the sight of Morticia's nude breast on display in the living room. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, frozen in disbelief.

Morticia ignores her completely, her focus entirely on you. "Don't be silly," she chides, stroking your cheek with possessive hands, "all mommies must feed their little girls." You turn to Larissa, silently pleading for an explanation, an intervention, anything. But she's as confused and horrified as you are, her face a mirror of your own disbelief.

”I don’t drink milk.” You say with hesitation.

Morticia's voice cuts through the tension, demanding and petulant. "Well you do today… My breasts are full and they hurt. Do not make me wait."

The pressure of her insistence bears down on you, and you hesitate, trapped between your shame and her control. Slowly, as if in a daze, you begin to lower your head towards her milk-filled breast. It's an awkward, surreal moment, your mind reeling, your body betraying you as you comply.

Morticia guides you, her hands gentle now, easing you into position. She lays your upper body across her lap, arranging you like a doll, head resting on her arm. Her pink nipple is close to your mouth, and the absurdity of the situation leaves you speechless.

For a moment, everything is still. You, her, and the impossible expectation hanging between you. Then, with a soft, commanding voice, Morticia breaks the silence.

"Go ahead and suck," she instructs, the words filled with a twisted affection. The tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you begin to suck, humiliation scorching through you like wildfire.

Morticia lets out a soft moan as you take the pressure off her breast. Her eyes flutter with satisfaction, and she strokes your hair as if rewarding a good little pet. "Indulge my baby," she whispers, relaxing beneath you. "Mommy needs you."

Larissa's jaw is on the floor at the scene unfolding in front of her. She stands there, immobilized by the shock and perversity of it all. For a twisted reason she can't quite comprehend, her pussy throbs a bit at the sight. She's appalled and turned on, her emotions a tangled mess of disbelief, desire, and disloyalty.

The breastfeeding ordeal continues and you become embarrassed by how hungry you actually are.

In what feels like no time at all, she gently shifts you from one breast to the other, her movements smooth and practiced.

At this moment Larissa flees back to the kitchen, seeking refuge in the only solace she knows: the bottle. Her hand trembles as she pours another shot, and she gulps it down with a desperation that borders on panic.

The searing liquid coats her throat, a welcome distraction from the chaos unfolding in the other room. Her mind races, unable to process the scene she just witnessed, the audacity of Morticia's control over you, and her own inexplicable response to it all.

She pours another and downs it quickly, trying to drown the mix of emotions churning inside her. Shame, disbelief, and a dark, creeping desire claw at her insides, and she leans heavily on the counter, gasping for air. 

If things keep going the way they are, within the next two hours she'll be plastered.

Larissa then escapes outside to the porch, her movements shaky and uncertain. The wind bites at her skin as she fumbles with a cigarette, desperate for the nicotine to calm her nerves. She lights it with trembling hands and inhales deeply, the smoke filling her lungs, offering a fleeting moment of relief.

The chill of the evening air contrasts with the burning in her chest, providing a welcome distraction from the bizarre scene that just unfolded. 

She stands there, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the enormity of Morticia's domination over you—and her own inexplicable reaction—continues to eat away at her. She pulls out her iPhone, scrolling through Facebook in a dazed autopilot, grasping for any hint of normalcy.

Her eyes widen as she sees articles about your disappearance circulating amid the community, your name in bold, your picture staring back at her like an accusation.

She hesitates before clicking on one, the guilt twisting inside her like a knife. Of course, she thinks, as Morticia’s all-too-familiar post appears on her screen, dramatically begging for your safe return. 

She stares at Morticia's post, her cigarette slowly burning down to the filter between her fingers, the smoke curling away into the air. She's upset, repulsed by the audacity of Morticia's public facade, but ultimately, she understands.

This is the role they must both play, the concerned confidantes in a worried community. It's yet another web of deception that Morticia has spun, and one that Larissa is unwillingly caught in. She takes a long drag, letting the cigarette burn further, the ash hanging precariously at the tip. With a resigned sigh, Larissa presses the share button.

Her manicured finger hovers momentarily before committing to the charade. Unlike Morticia, she leaves the remark section blank, her silence standing in stark contrast to Morticia's manipulative proclamations. It's her own small, desperate rebellion against the cage she finds herself in.

Larissa drinks more, reeling from how Morticia has trapped her as well.

Staring down into the glass, Larissa knows with bitter clarity that this... this is the whole reason she’s here, tangled in Morticia's sordid web. Because she couldn’t keep her damned mouth shut, couldn't even trust her own silence.

She had to get drunk and confess everything, let the truth spill out like liquor on the floor. It was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment, and now it's the noose Morticia uses to keep her dangling.

That night replays in Larissa’s mind, a relentless loop of her undoing, a reminder of the bonds she forged with her own reckless words. It had begun innocently enough, drinks after school to celebrate the new semester, Morticia’s invitation one of those feigned gestures made under the guise of friendship. Larissa hadn’t meant to go, hadn’t meant to admit it, hadn’t meant to spill the secret that could ruin her.

But as the night wore on, the dim bar became a web in which she was caught, Morticia's piercing attention cutting through the haze of alcohol like a knife through flesh. Each sip loosened her tongue, reduced her inhibitions, made her forget the dangers lurking beneath Morticia’s facade of warmth and camaraderie. 

She had been a fool, an arrogant fool, to think she could ever trust Morticia, to believe for a moment that the woman's intentions were anything other than sinister. Just as the lies began to blur, and the world around her sank into the soft oblivion of intoxication, Larissa found herself unraveling, revealing the haunting story of the young woman, the body in the woods, and the panic that swallowed her whole.

Her voice, once a guarded fortress, betrayed her, spilling the details Morticia would later use as shackles. She hadn't realized the brilliance of her own confession until Morticia parroted it back to her days later, making Larissa's blood run cold with the realization of how deeply she was compromised, and how completely Morticia had played her. 

Morticia had listened that night with a predator's patience, her eyes fixed on Larissa as though the rest of the bar had fallen away, as if nothing else mattered except this sweet, damning truth. She had absorbed each detail, every word, with an attentiveness that should have warned Larissa, should have told her to shut her mouth and walk away.

But Larissa had been too far gone to see the trap clicking shut around her, too inebriated and too self-assured to hear the jaws of it closing. She had drunkenly mistaken Morticia’s cold calculation for genuine empathy, her own loneliness whispering lies that made her forget the stakes. 

Now, she's imprisoned by her own foolishness, a captive of Morticia's sinister machinations and the sordid alliance that resulted from them. She knows there is no escape, not as long as Morticia holds the power to destroy her life, to ruin the fragile existence she's worked so hard to build.

Every time she thinks of that night, of Morticia's triumphant smirk when she realized the power Larissa had so carelessly handed over, Larissa wants to scream, wants to drink herself into forgetting all over again, wants to be anywhere but where she is. It's a nightmare of her own making, and Morticia is the monster she's let in with open arms.

But at least she has you in this with her.

Larissa walks back into the house, the scent of her cigarette trailing behind her like a guilty shadow. She tries to steady herself, to shake off the chill of the outdoors and the even colder grip of Morticia's threats.

You're in the kitchen, rinsing your mouth, the faucet running over your hands as if you're trying to wash away the very memory of Morticia's twisted nurturing.

The milk wasn’t nasty, the thought was. The act itself, the submission, the complete power Morticia held over you; that was what curdled in your stomach.

You hear Larissa’s presence before you see her, the clack of her heels hesitant on the tile, each step a reminder of her silence, of the betrayal you felt when she stood there, watching, doing nothing to stop the madness.

You turn off the tap and walk past her, your eyes unreadable, and catch a mix of alcohol and smoke on her clothes as you grab a piece of paper towel to dry your mouth.

You expect to be reprimanded for what you were just caught doing, perhaps a lecture on defiance or a harsher reminder of your captivity, but instead, she stands uncertainly, her back leaning against the counter. Like she needs the support to face you. 

She wants to tell you that she's sorry for not helping, that she's caught in this web just as tightly as you are, but your demeanor is so cold she fears if she speaks it will freeze the words in her throat. You don’t say anything, your silence louder than any accusation, and it stings.

She braces herself and tries anyway, her lips barely parting as if she might finally break the uneasy quiet, but is suddenly interrupted by the sharp, unmistakable sound of high heels and a rolling suitcase echoing through the halls. The noise is a siren call of relief and terror all at once.

"I need to go home early, my son is sick," she announces to Larissa, the words carrying a casual detachment, and you know already. You heard her receive the call from her husband while you lay in his wife's lap emptying her breast.

You watched the flicker of satisfaction in Morticia's eyes when she answered the phone, a new arousal already forming behind her wicked smile.

"What's wrong?" Larissa asks, a forced concern barely masking the tension that grips her, her voice almost cracking under the weight of Morticia's presence.

"All Gomez could tell me is that he's running a fever, so duty calls." There's a practiced sorrow in her voice, a mockery of maternal worry. You can see the way Larissa flinches at the words, as if each one is a reminder of Morticia's unrelenting hold over all of you.

Morticia walks up to you, now dressed in a black shirt and black pants, looking polished and pretty as if she didn’t have a predatory bone in her body. She moves with effortless grace, a deadly elegance that makes her sudden transformation even more surreal.

"Just when I was gonna eat the pretty little kitty. I'll see you soon, my beautiful girl," she coos, so close her breath is warm on your skin. She rubs her nose on yours gently, an affectionate gesture that contradicts every bruise she left on your heart and mind.

Right before she takes you in for a sweet, yet hungry kiss. It's a farewell that wraps around you like a chain, a promise that she will never really let you go. "Mommy will be home soon and I'll be checking in." Her hands roam your body, leaving traces of her possession on your flesh with a tight squeeze to your breast and a hard slap to your ass. "Be a good girl for Larissa?" The command is a barbed reminder of who's in control, of how little choice you have.

You nod, and she smiles the way a lion might smile at a lamb. "Walk me to my car?" she asks Larissa, her voice dismissive and domineering. She remote starts the Mercedes from inside the house. The soft roar of the engine is a taunt, a mechanical echo of her triumph.

When they get to Morticia’s car, Larissa helps her put a bag in, the action almost instinctual, like she’s forgotten how to do anything but what Morticia wants.

The silence between them crackles with unspoken threats, and Larissa dreads the words she knows are coming. She's not sure she can stand hearing Morticia lay claim yet again.

But Morticia doesn’t disappoint. She leans in, her voice a dangerous whisper that slices through Larissa like a knife. "I see the way you look at her, I don’t want you touching my baby… I know that everything you touch ends up dead. Touch her, and you’ll join your girl." The words are venom, pure and lethal, and Larissa feels the sting of them deep in her chest. 

Larissa is taken aback as the car door closes right in her face and the black car leaves her standing there with threats lingering in the air, with the specter of her past haunting her steps. She watches the taillights until they blur, her vision damp, Morticia's parting words looping through her mind like a curse. 

She gathers herself and walks back into the house, the heaviness of Morticia's warning dragging at her every step. Instead of kindness, instead of understanding or solidarity, the only thing Larissa has left to shield herself with is distance. She hardens, her demeanor now stone cold, possibly colder than yours was when she wanted to apologize to you. "Go to bed."

You don’t even argue. You get up go into the bedroom and stare at the wall until you fall asleep.

The front door slams shut with a thunderous bang, announcing Morticia's arrival and the discontent she carries like a plague. Wednesday can sense her mother's presence permeating the house, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface, poisoning the air like a lethal gas leak. Morticia moves into the living room, her bags rustling softly against her legs, a reminder of her rushed departure and bitter return. 

"Pugsley, darling," she croons, her voice a silky purr that contradicts the tension in her shoulders and the wildness in her eyes. "How are you feeling, my little gargoyle?" Her seduction falters, and for a moment, she is nothing more than an anxious mother, stripped of her usual allure and composure. 

Wednesday remains in the shadows, watching with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as Morticia tenderly places a hand on her son's forehead, her fingers more frantic than gentle. Morticia's eyes dart restlessly around the room, her focus elusive, betraying a mind preoccupied with matters far beyond her son's feverish state. 

Enid materializes beside Wednesday, her blue and pink curls bouncing energetically as she tilts her head to observe the scene. She raises an eyebrow, a silent question forming on her lips. "Someone's in a mood," Wednesday mutters under her breath, half to Enid, half to herself, the words carrying a sense of vindication.

Morticia's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing into slits. "What was that, Wednesday?" Her voice is sharp, a whip crack that cuts through the tension. 

"Nothing, Mother," Wednesday replies flatly, refusing to be baited, her expression deadpan. "Just pondering the futility of existence." She holds Morticia's gaze, daring her to engage, to acknowledge what uncontrollable force has her so off-kilter. 

Morticia purses her lips, a flicker of irritation rippling across her face. She is clearly not in the mood for her daughter's philosophical musings or her scrutiny. She sweeps past them both, her movements less fluid than usual, heading purposefully for the bathroom. The tremor in her hands does not escape Wednesday's notice as she reaches for the medicine cabinet, her motions betraying her normally calculated demeanor. 

Suddenly, there's a crash, followed by a muffled curse. "Shit!" The word is an uncharacteristic and explosive outburst, filling the silent house with noise and dread. 

The scent of sickly-sweet Benadryl saturates the air, seeping through the cracks of Morticia's carefully constructed facade. Her voice booms through the house, tinged with frustration and something else, something closer to fear. "Who didn't close the medicine all the way?" 

Wednesday appears at the bathroom door, wet paper towels in hand, ready to assist but also to observe. "You didn't," she states matter-of-factly, ever the problem solver. "You were sick last." Her eyes flick over her mother, taking in every detail, every weakness exposed. 

Morticia's eyes flash dangerously, a warning lurking in their depths as she snatches the towels from her daughter's hand. The tension is palpable. Enid holds her breath, waiting for the explosion that seems inevitable, but it never comes. Instead, Morticia kneels, her movements jerky and strained as she dabs at the spilled liquid, her elegance shattered like the bottle's fallen contents. 

As she leans forward, Wednesday catches a glimpse of an angry red scratch mark on her chest, the skin raw, perhaps even slightly beginning to scab a little. However, it’s fresh.

Her stomach churns with a mixture of dread and excitement, a storm of emotions she can't quite name. The sight is unsettling, the mark a crimson puzzle piece that doesn't fit with what she knows about her mother.

Quite frankly, she doesn't even know why it bothers her so fucking much but what she can say with certainty is that Morticia has been a lot more secretive, and it's eating away at Wednesday's relentless curiosity. Her eyes narrow, her gaze fixed on her mother's wrist as the sleeve of her long-sleeve shirt shifts, revealing what look like nail marks on bruised skin. 

"Wild night for teachers?" Wednesday quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm and challenge, her words a probe searching for the truth Morticia is hiding. 

Morticia's head snaps up, her eyes meeting her daughter's for a brief, charged moment. "It's adult stuff, Wednesday," she says dismissively, but there's an edge to her voice that makes Wednesday’s skin crawl, that tells her this is more than just another of her mother's indulgences. 

She can't shake the feeling that there's more to this story, more to Morticia's agitation and unexplained injuries, and the thought makes her heart pound with anticipation. As she watches Morticia clean up the mess, her movements tense and controlled, she wonders just how deep this rabbit hole goes, and whether she’s prepared for what she might find at the bottom. 

Was her mom cheating with another man?

Morticia leaves again, not saying a word as she sneaks out while Wednesday goes into her room, eager to get the things that she needs.

She heads to the store, the black of her car merging with the darkness of the night, the road mirroring the thoughts surging through her mind. She glides through the supermarket aisles, her presence both ethereal and unsettling, her grace almost ghostly as she plots her next course of action. The rhythmic click of her heels echoes off the linoleum, a metronome keeping time with your racing thoughts while you’re in the bedroom of her other house.

She hopes that you haven’t come to your senses in her absence, that you don’t run off like you did before when she held you hostage in your own home before.

Her long, raven hair cascades down her back, swaying gently as she moves, and you can't help but think of how those same silken strands tickled your skin not so long ago. With each item she selects, a new scheme forms. She will not let herself lose again.

The fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow on her alabaster skin as she hums along to the store's muzak, her plum-colored lips curving into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

She watches the other shoppers, moving mindlessly in their routines, so blissfully ignorant of the plans she spins. When will you accept that Gomez can’t give her what she truly wants?

As she loads her purchases into the trunk of her car, her thoughts linger on the scratches you left on her. How you belong to her and not to your friends or anyone else. She then closes the trunk, and there's Zeke, your best friend, his face contorted with rage.

“Oh, hello.” She says.

"What did you do with her?!" he demands, his voice cracking with emotion. 

Morticia's response is unnervingly calm. "Whatever do you mean, Ezekiel?" 

Her presence seems to chill him, to render him momentarily speechless, as if he wasn't expecting to find her so calm. She watches him, fascinated by his vulnerability, how his anger must mean that you two were closer than she thought. 

"Y/N! Is she dead? I know you had something to do with it! You’re fucking evil!" 

Morticia's act is flawless, her manipulations subtle yet effective, and she feels a strange sense of victory watching him unravel. She plays the concerned teacher, the wrongly accused victim, with such conviction that for a moment, he almost believes her himself. 

"Sweetheart, that's a serious accusation. Please don't make such a false statement."

Zeke's face twists with frustration, his determination rekindling even as she tries to snuff it out. He takes a step closer, his hands shaking, his eyes wide with desperation. "Does your husband know that you were fucking her?" 

The words slam into Morticia, and she flinches, if she had any color in her face it would have vanished. But she doesn't falter, her denial as smooth as silk. "Oh my gosh, Ezekiel. I would never! She was my old student! Listen, I don’t know what makes you think I would be in any of those horrible things but you’re wrong."

Zeke looks like he might explode, his fists clenched, a snarl forming on his lips. He is about to lash out again when an older woman intervenes, her voice stern and unforgiving, scolding him for his behavior.

"Young man! Leave that poor woman alone!" The interruption seems to drain the fight out of him, and he catches the triumphant smirk that flickers across Morticia's face. It's gone in an instant, replaced by a gracious smile as she thanks the woman and turns to leave, her heels tapping a victorious rhythm against the pavement. 

Morticia drives away, each mile dissolving the tension of the confrontation, each turn bringing her closer to where she truly wants to be. Her heart races with a wild mixture of excitement and trepidation, the thrill of deception coursing through her veins like electricity.

She wills herself to remain composed, to arrive at Larissa's looking like the picture of control and confidence. To make you believe her lies, to reel you back in before you remember that you wanted out. Disguising it as ‘checking on you’.

But when she walks through the door, she doesn't find you waiting. 

There's a moment of panic, a sickening jolt in her stomach as she imagines the worst, sees you running back to Zeke and to everything she stole you from. But no. You're still here, and she suppresses a laugh of relief. 

The relief is short-lived, as suddenly Larissa's voice cuts through the house, her tone both mocking and defiant, a challenge that Morticia isn't expecting but can't possibly ignore.

"Have a nice trip home?" she calls out with a knowing edge, as if taunting Morticia about her failure to sever the ties you still have to your old life, like she knew, like she set it all up.

Morticia turns, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Larissa standing there in an immaculate set of silk white pajamas and a matching robe, her blonde hair gleaming even in the dim light, her poise a stark contrast to the chaotic storm inside Morticia's mind. 

"I just came to drop off some treats for MY lovey," Morticia retorts, her voice dripping with possessiveness as she shuts the door and heads for the kitchen. She's not about to let Larissa see how much the confrontation with Zeke shook her, how much it unsettled the careful plans she had spun.

“Does Gomez know how much this… ‘retreat‘ cost?” Larissa smiles, sipping her night time tea from her ‘#1 Principal’ mug. “Or do you just sign his checks for him now?”

Morticia thinks how she could slap that smug smile off of her face but she keeps moving. She’s got enough going on at the moment.

She puts your favorite ice cream in the freezer, her movements fast and frantic, and then she snatches up the rest of the bags and rushes to bring them to you before her mind can needle her anymore about how Ezekiel knew where to find her or was it just a coincidence?

She throws the door open, ready to assert that she's not losing control. To see if you’re still hers. But when she walks in, she finds you asleep, your form peaceful on the bed, oblivious to the turmoil that rages around you.

She hesitates, the scene throwing her off balance, making her question if you're simply playing a game or really exhausted after the fight that put those bruises on her.

Her face softens for a brief instant, and she sets the snacks down quietly, wary of disturbing you, wary of discovering that you’ve been faking it.

She leans down to press a possessive kiss on your forehead, a silent claim and a reminder of the hold she refuses to relinquish. You shift slightly but don’t wake, and the nervousness she won't admit to having loosens its grip on her heart. 

The encounter with Zeke really shook her, left her rattled in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. She thought she could break him, keep the upper hand, but his accusations have left seedling doubts in the soil of her mind. She needs time to think, to regroup.

She needs to be sure that you’re still being her good girl and not just biding time until she relaxes and lets her guard down, like last time. In the hallway, Larissa watches silently from behind her mug, one eyebrow raised as Morticia exits as swiftly as she arrived, and goes back to play the devoted mother to her sick son for the remainder of the night.

You’re running.

Blindly, frantically, your feet pound the earth in a ferocious rhythm that echoes the desperate cries of your lungs. You should have known better. Should have seen her lies for what they were. Should have realized the moment she left to "check on things" there was more to it, there always is with her. You should have expected this and not let your guard down as quickly as you did. But now you’re running, running like prey chasing a freedom you fear you’ll never find. 

Your legs burn with the effort, aching as they tear through underbrush and brambles, the forest floor opening up beneath you like eager little mouths hungry to devour you whole. Your breath is ragged, your heart a wild animal trying to free itself from the cage of your chest, but still you push forward, terrified and relentless. It's dark and it's cold, but you don't stop. You can't. 

The trees seem to crowd around you, thick and menacing, close and suffocating, as if they know where you're going better than you do, as if they mean to stop you from escaping. Each shadow morphs in your periphery, taking on shapes and forms that threaten to engulf you. You’d think with how many times you’ve tried you’d be better at this by now, but it never gets easier, it never starts feeling any less impossible. You lose your way, the forest impossibly dense, almost sentient. It shifts when you’re not looking, every limb and root conspiring to trip you up, every tree and shadow bending to block your path.

The night air is wet and thick with the scent of roses. Her roses.

Thorns claw at your skin, tearing through your clothes the way her words tear through your resolve. Branches whip at your face, flicking across your cheeks like tiny, biting lashes. The darkness is so complete it almost feels alive. But you keep running, heart in your throat, lungs raw. Somewhere behind you, the sound of leaves crunching. Steady, patient.

She’s not running. She never needs to.

She’ll always find you, and you know it. 

“Y/N…” her voice hums through the trees, haunting and melodic, a siren song calling you back to your doom. It’s too close to be real, as if she’s right behind you, as if she’s already got you. “Sweetheart, come back. You’ll catch a chill out here…” 

Your chest tightens. You don’t turn around. You can’t. You know the moment you look, she’ll be there—smiling that slow, indulgent smile. The one that says: I already own you.

You trip.

Your body slams into the forest floor, a shock of pain exploding through you as your palms scrape against stone and moss. You scramble forward on all fours, like an animal, like a thing already broken. Your breath hiccups in your throat. 

And then—hands.

Fingers that feel like silk curl around your ankle like a noose, yanking you back into her grasp, back into despair. You kick frantically, a wild dance of panic and defiance, but her hold is relentless. “I gave you everything,” Morticia hisses, and suddenly she’s on top of you. Her knees press into your thighs, her weight crushing, her eyes gleaming like mirrors that reflect nothing but your own helplessness.

She pins you with effortless grace, her form obscuring even the dark sky above. Her face is so close, her breath warm and accusing. It’s like being trapped in a cocoon of dread, her presence suffocating, her intentions as clear as they are terrifying.

“You promised to be good this time…” Her words sting, slithering into your mind, twisting your thoughts like vines that strangle all reason. You scream, but the sound is thick and muffled, as if swallowed by the forest, as if it never existed at all. Her grip tightens on your throat.

You feel the airlessness of it, the inevitability. You feel your own resolve dwindling like a dying flame. Her mouth brushes your ear, and a shiver courses through you. “Don’t make me do something I’ll enjoy.” Her threat is as sweet as it is cruel, a promise wrapped in malice, and you know with chilling certainty that she means every word.

Your blood freezes.

Your mind reels.

You jolt awake with a strangled gasp, your own hand on your throat.

The room is dark—but not the forest kind of dark. The luxury of a gilded cage. The steady hum of the mini fridge and the faint creak of the new house settling around you like a weighted blanket.

The mundane realities crash back in, still and suffocating, reminding you of where you are and whose hold you’re really under. You’re slick with sweat, your heart hammering so violently it makes your ribs ache. Each thump is a reminder of captivity. Each beat pulses with the futility of flight.

You’re still in the bed.

Still in her bed.

The scent of her perfume—something expensive, yet dark—clings to the sheets like a ghost that refuses to leave. You stare at the ceiling, its vast, unfeeling expanse making you feel as small as she wants you to. For a moment, you think you might scream. Or laugh. Or both.

The nightmare was too real, too familiar, echoing the very fears and truths that bind you. It’s all so much and not enough all at once, and it threatens to unravel you, to twist you into the creature she wants you to be: compliant, docile, hers.

Your eyes flit to the nightstand, still adjusting. Still hopeful for a moment that this isn’t what it seems. But it is, and you see it clearly: a collection of your favorite snacks, each one meant to remind you how well she knows you, each one mocking your attempt to get away.

A bottle of water positioned beside them, chilling in the dim light of the room. And then your terror swells, your blood turns to ice, as you register the silk ribbon draped like a noose across everything, decadent and threatening all at once. It constricts around your lungs, makes you gasp for air. It's all her, every inch of it. 

And just beneath it all—almost lost, but there. A note. You don’t want to look, but you have to. You already know what it will say. Her elegant cursive, looping and perfect, draws you in like a spider’s web. 

“Try to leave me again, and next time I’ll fuck you up.” 

The words slam into you like a freight train, echoing the dream and making your heart stutter. 

Beneath the line, a hastily scribbled addition, jagged and manic: "Have you forgotten what happened last time?" 

Each word seeps into your blood, electric and terrifying. She will always pull you back. She will never let you go. 

You swallow hard, feeling the remnants of the dream still seeping into the waking world, blurring the lines between reality and imagination.

The boundaries between the two seem indistinct, leaving you uncertain of where one ends and the other begins. As you attempt to recall when you tried to escape from—your thoughts are interrupted by a dull, persistent ache in your lower body.

It serves as a stark reminder of the moment you attempted to flee, becoming more pronounced as you sit up, bringing the memory sharply back into focus. You didn’t even make it out of the room. 

You take a few sips of water from the bottle on your nightstand, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Laying back down, you try to quiet your racing mind. Sleep eventually comes, mercifully dreamless this time.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee gently rouses you from slumber. Blinking away the last traces of sleep, you drag yourself out of bed and shuffle towards the dining room. 

There, you find Larissa already seated at the table, her tall figure poised as she sips from a steaming mug. Her usually impeccable appearance is slightly disheveled - blonde hair not quite as perfectly styled, makeup less precise than normal. Dark circles rim her piercing blue eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice carrying a hint of weariness.

You study her for a moment, noting the obvious signs of a sleepless night. "Morning," you reply cautiously.

Larissa gestures to the coffee pot. "Help yourself," she offers, her red-painted lips curving into a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

As you pour yourself a cup, you can't help but wonder what kept her up all night. Worry about Morticia's hold over her? Or something else entirely? 

The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken tension. You take a seat across from her, cradling your mug, unsure how to navigate this uneasy dynamic.

You quietly sip your coffee, hair frizzy, still in your PJs, feeling a little out of place in the presence of someone who clearly took more time than you ever could to get ready on a daily basis. The stark contrast between your disheveled appearance and Larissa's polished look only amplifies your discomfort.

"Why?" You suddenly blurt out before you can stop yourself. The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.

Larissa's perfectly arched eyebrow rises slightly. "Beg your pardon?" she responds, not quite understanding what you mean by asking her 'why?'

You swallow hard, your heart pounding. You know you shouldn't push, but curiosity and frustration get the better of you. "Why are you here? Helping Tish?" The words tumble out, laced with a mix of confusion and accusation.

Larissa's posture stiffens noticeably, her long fingers tightening around her mug. Her blue eyes, usually so controlled, flash with a mixture of anger and... is that fear? "Well, I don't think that's any of your business," she replies, her voice clipped and cold.

You flinch at her sharp tone, immediately regretting your impulsive question. The air between you crackles with tension, and you can't help but wonder what secrets lurk behind Larissa's carefully constructed facade. What hold does Morticia have over her that would make this proud, accomplished woman bend to her will?

As you sit there, the silence stretching uncomfortably, you realize how little you truly know about the complex web of relationships and motivations that have led to your current predicament. The uncertainty of your situation weighs heavily on you, and you find yourself longing for answers that seem frustratingly out of reach.

Morning light sharpens into blades that slice through the narrow window, stabbing through the shine of white walls and ricocheting off the expensive linoleum in bright sprays of gold. 

You sit with shoulders tight as piano wires, fingers clutching a chipped ceramic mug, it’s the one Morticia threw at you in a past argument. Crazy bitch.

You nurse the last dregs of black coffee, eyes fixed on the steam as it curls into the still air. Larissa perches across from you, arms locked tight against her chest, and glares at the floor, sharp words still glinting beneath her lashes. 

You can still feel the sting of her voice from earlier, your accusations and bitterness that settled into the corners of the room like unwanted guests.

You shift in your seat, the creak of wood against tile impossibly loud in the silence. Larissa's eyes flicker up to meet yours, a quicksilver flash of guilt, before dropping again to the shadows beneath the table.

It almost hurts you to see her like this. Proud and unsure, struggling to be more than Morticia’s pawn. You wish she would say something more, anything to close the yawning space between you, but the moment drags on, heavy and interminable.

Her fingers tap a restless rhythm against her elbow, the only sign of her disquiet. You take a slow breath, releasing it in a long, careful sigh, and finally look away.

You rise, every motion deliberate, and walk to the sink. The coffee tastes bitter now, the ceramic of the mug cool against your palm. You let the water run hot, rinsing away the residue, rinsing away the hurt.

“Did Morticia come by last night?” you ask, voice quiet, neutral, straining to sound indifferent. You can feel Larissa’s eyes on your back, feel the tension rise and coil in the silence between you.

“She did,” Larissa says at last, her words careful, measured, as if weighing each one against the cost of uttering it. “Just to drop off a few things.”

You turn, lean against the counter, studying her, seeing the regret flicker in her dark eyes, the way her jaw tightens at the mention of Morticia’s name. It always comes back to her, doesn’t it? 

You step around the open dishwasher, move to the table where Larissa still sits, an exquisite portrait of distress and defiance. You gesture to the cooling cup in front of her, offering to clean it, offering some semblance of a truce. “Are you finished with that cup?” you ask, trying to keep the gentleness from breaking at the edges. You want her to see it as an olive branch, but the words sound hollow to your own ears.

Larissa's fingers are white where they grip the cup. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t answer for a long moment, and your heart sinks, fearing that the fragile connection is already splintering under the weight of her silence.

But then something breaks through the hard line of her mouth, a crack in the armor of her anger, and she gives a sharp, reluctant nod. “Yes,” she says, handing you the mug, a small, unspoken apology passing from her fingers to yours in the hush of dawn.

You take it, holding the moment in your hands, feeling it pulse and waver and settle into something almost like hope. There is so much you want to say to her, but the words tangle in your throat, knotted with the memory of Morticia’s cruelty, the way she still manages to twist a knife between you even when she isn’t here.

You carry the cup to the sink, keep your back to Larissa so she won’t see the uncertainty in your eyes, and reach for something more to fill the silence.

‘Why can’t she see that I’m on her side?!’ You think to yourself.

“Are you okay?” The question slips out, raw and vulnerable, before you can stop it. It hangs in the air between you, full of everything you are afraid to ask. 

“I’m fine.” Her voice is a flat line, but you hear the tremor beneath it, the faintest note of fear that Morticia has left behind.

You turn, slowly, not sure what you will find in her face, in the eyes that seem so unwilling to meet your own. 

You see the truth of her in the space of a heartbeat, in the way her hands flex and unclench as if wanting to reach for you and hold back at the last moment. And you see it, stark and undeniable, the dark bruising that rims her mind like a malicious whisper of Morticia's handiwork.

“Really, I’m fine,” she says again, but it sounds less convincing now. Less like a lie she is telling you and more like one she is telling herself. The betrayal in her voice is brittle, the tremor spreading through each word. 

“Look… um, Principal Weems,” you hesitate not knowing what to call her despite fucking her not long ago.

“Larissa,” she corrects you.

“Larissa, I know how she can be,” you say, soft and hesitant, unsure if your words will make a difference, unsure if they will drive her closer or farther away. 

Larissa leans over the kitchen table, her sharp cheekbones illuminated in the thin, early morning light. “Don’t you have something to do?” she snaps, lifting the collar of her long coat to reveal a bright pink blouse beneath.

You want to be a splinter in her spine, a lingering ache that won't be ignored, but you bite your tongue instead. “I’m sorry,” you say, the words cracking like eggshells between your teeth. Your footsteps fade towards the living room, that vast, empty space, and you feel her eyes on your back until you disappear around the corner.

You in fact didn’t have jack shit to do.

Dust settles in ghostly beams of sunlight, the house heavy with silence and the remnants of her voice. You sink into the couch, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar, like a skin you can't quite slip into. The remote feels foreign in your hands, a piece of technology that belongs to someone else. As you press the power button, the screen flickers to life, a glaring contrast to the stillness that surrounds you.

Your face appears, an echo of yourself projected on every channel.

Missing. Disappeared. Gone. 

Words blur into noise as your eyes track the looping footage. They show you leaving a building, that last night in the world you thought you knew. The reporter stands where you vanished, her lips moving soundlessly, like an apparition conjured from the worst of your nightmares. 

A video of your brother flashes by, his eyes dull and searching, the weight of a thousand sleepless nights pulling at his skin. You imagine his breath, shallow and uneven, as he sits by the phone waiting for it to ring. But it won't. Not the way he hopes.

Zeke’s pain is a spear through your ribs, the kind that twists deeper with every word he speaks. He looks so worn, so haunted by the specter of you. He pleads, voice cracking, and you see in your mind’s eye how it nearly brings Morticia a sick joy to know that your best friends and everyone you love beg for you to come home, even when she knows you can't. Larissa's command echoes in your mind: Stay out of my business. As if your own life has become an affair you have no claim to. 

The day stretches like an endless, barren road. You sit motionless, watching the world remember and forget you in a relentless cycle. Faces appear, pleading and desperate, friends who have turned your name into a prayer. But no one hears. Least of all you. 

Larissa’s voice lingers like the stench of something rotten, souring every breath. You turn up the volume, trying to drown her out. Trying to drown yourself in the static of other people's grief.

The morning bleeds into afternoon, shadows shifting their weight across the floor. It all blurs together, an unbroken reel of speculation and anguish. You watch Ezekiel speak again, his words like a funeral dirge. He doesn’t mention her name—thank god for his partner’s warning—but his eyes burn with everything he doesn't say.

Your mind drifts to Morticia, the puppeteer pulling invisible strings, and you wonder how long it will be before they tie a noose around your neck. How long before you become a headline, the newest unsolved mystery.

You wonder, too, what lies she's spun to keep herself in the clear. How far she’ll go to protect the secret that is you. 

It gets dark, and the emptiness feels like a second skin, tight and suffocating. The light of the television casts you in an otherworldly glow, a ghost in your own story. You shiver, though it's not cold, wrapping your arms around yourself in a feeble imitation of comfort. You close your eyes, imagining what it would be like to simply disappear from existence. 

You let the fantasy take root, wild and unwieldy, knowing it will only shrivel under Morticia’s scrutiny. She's made you the center of her twisted universe, and you can’t tell if it's love or loathing that keeps her orbiting. Maybe both. 

You blink, eyes blurry, staring at the familiar shape on the screen: your own shadow. It blinks back, taunting, as if to say: Remember me? 

The air is stagnant with sickness. Morticia listens to the pitiful sounds of her son's coughing, suppressing the urge to flee his miserable side. The television drones on, each mention of your disappearance a terrible, wonderful symphony in her ears.

Her daughter, Wednesday, murmurs darkly with her friend Enid, but Morticia hardly registers them. She sees Zeke's face on the screen, and her stomach twists with fear and satisfaction. He could ruin her with a single word. But he doesn't. Her heart hammers in her chest, the thrill of it all too much to bear. She rises.

It’s like she has to drag her feet through cement just to remain in the room, but she knows that this is where she needs to be. It’s all part of the cover. The pretentious, perfect teacher and mother with the picture-perfect family. Her eyes flick to the television, watching the spectacle unfold with morbid interest.

“I think it was someone she knew,” Enid says, her colorful presence like a slap in the otherwise somber atmosphere.

“Of course it was,” Wednesday replies with a twinge of amusement in her voice, her dark eyes glued to the screen. “The real question is: which one of them finally snapped?”

The cough interrupts their conversation, reminding Morticia why she is really here. Her role. Her duty. Her burden. She places a gentle hand on the boy's forehead, feigning concern while her mind is miles away, hovering over the scene of the crime.

“There was no note, no message,” Enid continues, oblivious to Morticia's inner chaos. “She just disappeared.”

Morticia’s pulse quickens. She imagines her name on everyone's lips, the guilt, the accusations, the danger of it all. The thrilling, nauseating danger.

She watches the television like a hawk, her son’s body wracked with tremors beside her. She is cold, detached, until Zeke’s face appears on the screen again, and suddenly she is anything but. Her fingers dig into the fabric of the couch, knuckles white with anticipation.

“I bet they find her body in a few weeks,” Wednesday says, as if commenting on the weather.

Enid gasps. “Don’t say that! I bet she comes back and explains everything. You’ll see. There’s no way she just up and left without telling anybody.”

Morticia's heart stops. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to imagine everything collapsing, her world crumbling like a poorly built house of cards. But the foundation is strong. Too strong. She won't let that happen.

The moment stretches, suspended in time. The reporter passes the microphone to Zeke, his face drawn with grief and desperation. It's beautiful. Almost too beautiful. Almost more than she can bear.

“This is so creepy,” Enid whispers. “I can’t believe he’s standing right where she was last seen.”

Wednesday shrugs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they never find her.”

Enid opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by Zeke’s voice, the sound strained and broken as he speaks to the reporter.

“We just want her back,” he says, eyes glazed with what looks like tears. “Please, if you know anything, if you’ve seen her, tell us. We’re desperate.”

It takes every ounce of Morticia's willpower not to smile, the edges of her lips twitching with barely contained triumph. Zeke says nothing incriminating, nothing that could tie her to you. Her carefully woven web remains intact. For now.

The girls exchange a glance. Morticia barely notices. She is too wrapped up in the unraveling drama, too giddy with relief and something else. Something darker.

“He looked so sad,” Enid says, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger. “I don’t know how much more of this he can take.”

Wednesday nods, the shadow of a smile on her face. “I love a good mystery,” she says. “And this one is better than most.”

As the girls speak back and forth to each other, Morticia gets up and goes outside to gather her thoughts disguised as checking the mail. 

Chapter Text

Three weeks have passed, each one more unbearable than the last, and the ache of your absence is starting to consume Morticia like a slowly spreading fire. She can measure the time in the small windows of escape she's managed, four hours total, stolen moments snatched desperately from her needy family. If she doesn’t find a way to see you soon, to breathe you in like oxygen after drowning, she fears she might not survive the wait. It's all becoming too much, the facade, the pretend, the cold spaces between her fingers where you used to be. 

She lives for the brief FaceTime calls, the moments when her phone flashes Larissa’s name and she can see your face, hear your voice, vivid and longing even through the screen.

But each call is torture, a sweet, searing agony that leaves her wanting more. She has grown frantic, desperate, the x rated videos of you she watches on loop offering only the most hollow of comforts, a false intimacy that never comes close to the real thing. She finds herself needing more and more, spiraling into a deeper obsession, her mind and body screaming for something only you can sate. 

Each passing day adds to her tension, the pressure building until she thinks she'll explode. Even her own body betrays her. She has to pump and dump, she still produces breast milk, though her youngest child is fourteen.

The call comes in at 6:01 p.m.—a minute past when she said she’d call, just long enough to make you think she wouldn’t. The screen flickers blue-white in your lap, the name "Tish" spelled out in thin, aristocratic letters. You’re still in your sleep shorts, legs curled under you on Morticia’s bed. The phone isn’t yours, but Morticia doesn’t care; she’d call you on a child’s walkie-talkie if she thought it could bear the weight of her voice.

You answer, bracing yourself. The background is plush black leather, a smooth slope of dashboard, the slightly inhuman glow of luxury instrument clusters. Morticia, perfectly centered in the frame, a spill of blue-black hair across her bare shoulder, mouth lacquered deep plum, nails matching and immaculate. “There you are,” she croons, like you’re the only person on earth who could have picked up, like her entire day has revolved around the possibility of your answer.

You can’t help it—you smile. A weak, exhausted kind of smile, but she sees it and her whole face softens, eyes shining. There’s a shimmer at her lash line that, if you didn’t know her, you’d call tears. But you know her. You know what she does with tears.

“Hi, Mommy.” You keep your voice low, in case Larissa is lurking just outside the door.

“Darling.” She sighs. “I’ve been absolutely wild with anticipation all day. Tell me everything. Don’t spare me the details, I crave your details.”

She always wants the details. It’s the only way she can live with you gone—if she can wrap herself in every minute of your life, even if that life is reduced to a handful of rooms and a schedule set by your captors. You hesitate, because what is there to say, really? The sun rose. Larissa made eggs, burnt coffee. You paced the upstairs landing for exercise, read two chapters of a book you can’t remember the name of, then watched rain spatter down the window like some old-timey invalid.

“Did you finish the book?” Morticia interrupts, tilting her head, hair swinging like a curtain of black silk.

“It was boring. The main character dies at the end. Totally pointless.”

“Death is rarely pointless, darling. Sometimes it’s the only reason things happen at all.”

You exhale, pretending that doesn’t send a shiver down your spine. “I guess. I mostly just painted my toes and…tried waxing myself. Out of boredom.”

A sharp, delighted inhale. “Waxed yourself? Are you trying to kill me?”

“Not intentionally.” The silence after is loaded, a sticky anticipation. You glance at the time—6:04—and realize she could keep this up for hours if you let her.

Morticia’s smile goes a shade meaner. “Well, I’d certainly hope not. Why would my sweet girl wish to deprive me of such…tempting incentives?” She shifts, camera dipping briefly to the low curve of her chest. “You did a good job, then? I must inspect your work. Quality assurance.”

You shake your head, cheeks flushing, but she’s already started in with the pouting and those ridiculous, sultry whimpers she does so well. “Show me, darling. I want to see my masterpiece. Please?”

You glance at the door, hear nothing, and finally prop the phone up and scoot the chair back from the vanity. Your legs look lighter in the vanity’s LED light, and the shimmery gel on your toenails glows radioactive pink. Your loose shorts are pulled down and your legs are spread and Morticia actually moans, full-throated, like you’ve just confessed to murder. “Look at you. Ravishing, even as a shut-in. I miss you so much I could die.”

“You’re the one who left,” you mutter, suddenly bitter, but she talks right over it.

“I’m going to devour you when I get back. You won’t leave my bed for days, you’ll see.”

You yank the camera back up close to you and slide your short back on. Your face is burning, and Morticia throws her head back with laughter. The sound is luxurious, rich, completely at odds with the tears now painting her cheeks. “Oh, my cruel, cruel angel. Don’t hide from me. You know I need you.”

You know she does. She needs you like lungs need air; she’s just never been able to breathe right with you in the room. Maybe it’s your fault for still loving her at all. You watch as she wipes her eyes with the back of her manicured hand, perfectly composed again in less than a second.

“When do you want to see me again?” she purrs, voice grown velvet and sharp at the same time.

You know what she means. It’s not really a question; it’s a challenge. “Whenever you can. Larissa said you’re busy this week.”

“I’d quit the world to be with you,” Morticia says. “But I have responsibilities. I have to keep the rest of the chessboard quiet, for your sake. You understand, don’t you? I won’t let anyone take you from me.”

“I do.” You try to sound convincing. Maybe you even succeed. Both her phone and Larissa’s vibrates as a text from Larissa’s other phone appears in the mandated group message. Morticia demands to know everything—DINNER IN 15—before Morticia’s face slides back into view.

“I’ll let you go soon, I promise,” she says, a little frantic now. “But before I do, say it.”

You hesitate. “Say what?”

“You know.”

It’s a power game. Always. “I miss you. I love you.”

She closes her eyes, savoring it, but the moment shatters instantly when there’s a hard knock at her car window. The sound cuts through the call and Morticia’s whole demeanor changes—panic, then calculation, then a rapid mask of civility.

“Got to go,” she says, and the screen blips to Home Screen.

You lock the phone and stare at yourself in the dark reflection, feeling the afterimage of her touch in the way your skin prickles.

Wednesday Addams is the last person on earth who’d sneak up on her own mother, but she does it anyway, silent as a shadow in the rain-slicked dusk. Morticia jumps, very nearly flinching, and only opens the window an inch. “Wednesday, darling. Shouldn’t you be at rehearsal?”

Wednesday’s eyes are flat and glassy, like the sky before a hailstorm. She doesn’t respond to the question, just stares at Morticia’s phone as if she could reach in and pull out the ghost of whoever was on the other side. “Who were you talking to?”

Morticia recovers fast, every muscle in her face smoothing over like oil on water. “A work call, my little rain cloud.”

“You hung up fast for a work call.”

“Well, you startled me.”

Wednesday slides a hand onto the car’s ledge, fingers drumming. “You looked upset. Are you upset?”

“Just tired,” Morticia lies, folding her hands in her lap.

Wednesday peers in, and for a second Morticia wonders if she can see straight through the tint, through her skull, through the whole performance. “You’ve been crying.”

“A sad video.” Morticia does not blink.

“Did it have a happy ending?”

“Don’t they always?” Morticia smiles, a razor’s edge in the low light.

Wednesday holds the look a second longer, as if daring her mother to blink, before stepping back from the car. She doesn’t say goodbye.

Morticia waits until she’s sure her daughter is gone before she dares to let her hands tremble, just a little.

You eat the dinner Larissa brings—a pre-made salad, stale croutons, protein bar for dessert—while watching the window, half-expecting Morticia to appear as a shadow on the other side of the glass. You wonder if she’s told anyone, if anyone else would even believe her if she did.

You wipe dried wax off your inner thigh, heart pounding, and think: Maybe tomorrow I’ll do a better job. Maybe tomorrow she’ll call again, and you’ll have something else to show her.

She has to trust you.

In contrast to her missing you, you actually feel a sense of calm not being around her all the time. Sure, she's beautiful, but her possessive nature is wearing on you. With Morticia frequently absent, you've been asking, pleading, and begging her to allow Larissa to take you outside so you can breathe fresh air, feel the sunlight on your skin, and actually touch some fucking grass. You can sense she wants to let you.

You're not asking for much; all you want is the freedom to move, to leave the confines of her lovingly established prison. She could give you that, she knows, but not without risk. As long as she's not there to control it, to be the puppeteer of your every movement, she can't take that chance.

Her paranoia sees danger everywhere, in every opening, every opportunity for you to slip through her fingers. She won't allow it, not when she's worked so hard to keep you right where Morticia wants you. Where she needs you to keep her own life together.

The next morning, Morticia’s frustration simmers, a boiling undercurrent beneath her carefully maintained cool exterior. It’s an old trick, but she knows it will work. She decides to start a fight with Gomez, something big and blazing, something that will give her the excuse she needs to leave.

As much as she loves the drama, she feels the walls closing in, and she is nearly consumed by the longing to drive across town and pin you to the mattress until you both scream.

Her cunning kicks in, a survival instinct dressed up as strategy. She’s done this dance with Gomez before and knows the steps by heart.

Pick at him relentlessly, say something incendiary, watch him flare up like a match struck in gasoline. She can almost hear the opening chords of their familiar refrain, the music of their conflict ringing sweetly in her ears. It will be a glorious show. It will be enough to carry her out the door and into the haven of your waiting arms.

So consumed is she with her plotting, so focused on her frantic anticipation, that she doesn’t hear Gomez’s footsteps until they are right behind her.

“What? Gonna hit me?” She asks without turning around.

Gomez had never laid one finger on her so the fact that she would say something so ridiculous hits him in the gut.

“Tish… you know I’d never. This all started behind who did the dishes last. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Me? Ridiculous? You don’t help me do anything around here Gomez. No help with the kids or anything. I had to cut my trip short because you couldn’t even take care of a teenager with a cold!” She didn’t mean any of what she was saying but she had to get out of that house!

“Morticia, you know that’s not fair,” Gomez retorted, frustration creeping into his voice. “I tried my best. Pugsley’s cold was more of a tempest than an ailment!”

“Your best? Is that what you call it?” Morticia shot back, finally turning to face him. “Your ‘best’ leaves me drowning in chores and chaos!”

Gomez threw his hands up in exasperation. “Well, maybe if we communicated instead of constantly bickering, we’d find a solution!”

“Communicate? With you? The man who thinks setting the table is a Herculean task?” she countered, eyes narrowing.

“Ah, the queen of sarcasm strikes again,” Gomez said, his tone tinged with irony. “I suppose I should just bow down to your unparalleled household prowess.”

“Perhaps you should,” Morticia replied sharply. “You seem to forget who keeps this family from unraveling.”

“Unraveling? Tish, our life is a tapestry of chaos, and you know that’s how we thrive!”

“Chaos doesn’t mean neglect, Gomez. There’s a difference!”

Their voices rose, filling the room with the familiar, fiery symphony of their argument, neither willing to concede, each fueled by the tempest of emotions that always brought them back to this tumultuous dance.

He was right where she wanted him. Before he can end his argument she’s out of the door. She’ll apologize tomorrow after she’s nutted enough.

Larissa is aware of Morticia’s impending arrival and decides to surprise you with Morticia’s request.

“Are you finished?” she inquires, her voice a gentle lilt.

“Yeah, you like it?” you reply, gesturing to your newly adorned nails. Two weeks ago, Larissa had ventured to the store, returning with an array of vibrant nail polish colors, shimmering decorative nail jewelry, and a compact UV light to cure the polish. She knew how boredom gnawed at you and couldn't begin to fathom how she’d cope in your shoes.

“Yes, very colorful, my dear, your Mommy will hate it.” she confirms snickering, admiring the pastel French tips that adorn your toes, each hue soft yet striking. “Come along, I have something for you.”

Over the weeks, you’ve noticed a change in Larissa; the longer Morticia has been absent, the kinder Larissa has become toward you.

You follow Larissa through the house, your heart a relentless drumbeat in your chest. Her presence is a comfort, an unexpected solace in this tangled web of love and longing and captivity.

As she leads you further, your mind twists with anticipation, anxiety, and a spark of hope.

What could she possibly have in store? What minor freedom has Morticia decided to grant you today? The hallway seems to stretch for miles, each step echoing in your ears like the ticking of a clock. When you finally arrive at the back door, it's as if time itself has held its breath, waiting for this moment. 

With nimble fingers, Larissa taps the security code, a sequence of clicks and beeps that sing like a forbidden song. The lock disengages with a satisfying click, opening up a portal of possibility, a crack in the fortress of your confinement.

When she pushes the door open, light spills into the room, a bright, blinding thing that pierces through the shadows. You squint against it, your eyes struggling to adjust, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity. 

Larissa steps outside, and you follow her, your footsteps hesitant, each one a gamble, a prayer that this is real. So close behind her that when she bends over to grab something you bump into her ass. She turns around with a heavy metal chain, its length glinting ominously in the sun. She holds a cuff in her hand, a grim reminder of your status.

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t make you wear this.” Is all she says while she cuffs you.

Her hands are tender but firm as she secures it around your ankle. With a mechanical finality, she checks the bolt’s end to the concrete slab just off of the wooden porch, its presence an iron anchor rooting you in place. 

Yes, you are still a prisoner, but for this moment, you’ll accept the illusion of freedom like a starving person accepts crumbs. You’ll play along and bide your time until they let their guard down. Perhaps this is how you gain their trust, how you win a future where you plan your own escape.

For now, you step into the grass and blink like a newborn at the sprawling world. The backyard is a magnificent expanse, an endless field of green that feels too large, too luxurious for a captive. The smell of earth and grass fills your senses, and you find yourself inhaling deeply, greedily, as if trying to soak it all in. 

The sun is a curious sensation, warm and insistent as it blankets your skin. You hold your arms out to greet it and close your eyes, turning your face up toward the sky's vastness. Behind you, your shadow lies stretched and long across the yard. 

You are so absorbed in the moment, so enraptured by your newfound surroundings, that you don’t see Morticia lurking around the side of the house, her eyes fixated on you. She stands silent as a specter, her heart swelling with dark satisfaction. She loves seeing you like this: raw, vulnerable, clinging to these scraps of freedom with desperate joy. 

She loves that she is wearing you down, bit by bit, breaking you so beautifully that you cherish even these simplest of pleasures. From where she watches, you are more precious than ever, her obsession fueled by the sight of you. It takes all her willpower not to rush forward, to let Larissa fulfill this role and see you for herself at your weakest. Her body trembles with anticipation, willpower on the verge of breaking. 

You fall to your knees, overwhelmed by the sensory overload, shouting your grateful agony to the sky. Tears come unbidden, and you sob uncontrollably, the release of emotion too powerful to tame. In an instant, Larissa is at your side, her face a mask of concern, wanting to comfort you while knowing she is not allowed. She hovers, desperate but tentative, afraid of crossing the lines Morticia has drawn. 

Your cries are too much for Morticia, too intoxicating to resist. She abandons her post and rushes to you, her presence consuming everything. 

She pulls you into her arms, cradling you dearly against her breast, letting you weep without restraint. Gently kissing your forehead, shushing your cries. “Mommy’s here.”

“Oh my,” she murmurs softly as your cheek pressed against her tit gets even damper and warm.

Her gaze drops, and you notice two dark spots spreading on her dress. Her breast has begun to leak, triggered by the sound of your crying. You stop abruptly, staring at the dampened fabric in shock. 

A soft giggle escapes her lips, a sound so unexpected it coaxes a small chuckle from you as well.

You blow bubbles, your sorrows and pain trapped inside, then watch them lift and pop in the unrelenting sun. She said she bought them to cheer you up, but now the woman in black and her accomplice sit, wine glasses in hand, surveying your performance from a nearby table.

Foolish. That’s how you feel. You need a drink, a blunt. Something. You lie back on the warm ground. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” Morticia’s words linger above you.

“Yes,” you answer, “I need to be under the influence of something other than you.”

She doesn’t punish you this time. Her restraint feels deliberate, a shrewd move in her tangled game of control. You almost feel her calculating her next move, the pause stretching into a shiver of uncertainty. “Okay… well, I can make that happen,” she says, with a slightly tipsy sing-song delight that makes you wary. Her accomplice and you both stare at her. “Yeah, let’s have a girls’ night,” Morticia continues, the words almost like a threat. 

“Are you serious?” The tall blonde next to her raises a skeptical eyebrow, the tip of her tongue running over her teeth, a quick betrayal of how Morticia’s whim affects her. Larissa had known Morticia longer than you, had probably been ensnared by her same fatal charm. 

“Why not?” Morticia stands, her movements fluid, her black gown billowing like storm clouds around her ankles. “I think we all need it. Something to take the edge off.” Her smile is wide, deliberate, her straight white teeth catching the light.

“I think we need more than one night to take off that edge,” you say, but you hear your own defeat as the words escape. 

“You’d be surprised what one night can do.” She sashays past Larissa, her confidence almost bruising. You watch her with a mix of dread and hope that maybe, this once, it might lead to something bearable. 

“I think this is a mistake,” Larissa mumbles, half to you and half to herself, her eyes avoiding yours as she stands to follow Morticia. 

You should listen, but the suffocating summer heat makes you dizzy with resignation. The bubbles lie abandoned on the grass, rainbow circles evaporating in the air. 

Morticia’s laugh echoes from inside the house, melodic, already tipsy with anticipation. You lie there listening, your eyes half-closed, too stubborn to join them but too desperate not to listen.

You hear Morticia bark commands at Larissa like an impatient rich person ordering a servant, her confidence sickening in its ease. You don’t have to look to know Larissa’s frustration; it spills from every awkward pause in her replies. 

“Make sure you get everything,” Morticia calls as Larissa steps onto the porch, her voice laced with authority. 

“I’ll manage,” Larissa snaps, but her rebellion is a shallow comfort, too. Morticia will always get what she wants, always bring you to a point where the only option is submission or collapse. “This is your scene, not mine,” Larissa adds under her breath, loud enough for you to hear but not loud enough to mean it. 

She descends the porch steps with an exaggerated sigh, the heel of her shoes clipping the wood, a beat of irritation in every step. She catches your eye for a moment, a flicker of something undecipherable. Resentment? Solidarity? 

“You really going to go through with this?” you ask, not moving from the grass. 

“You mean, is Morticia going to go through with this?” Larissa smirks. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“It’s her choice, sweetheart. I don’t have much say.” Her smile fades, and she looks away, her guilt hanging like smoke between you.

You wonder what this is for her. Survival, maybe. You don’t imagine she has much fun being Morticia’s pawn, but she plays along because the alternative is worse. Her footsteps recede into the garage, and the distant slam of a car door punctuates the afternoon.

Left alone in the silence with Morticia, you feel her gaze perforate the nape of your neck, a razor wire drawn tight between your spine and the chasm of the porch behind you.

Instinct claws at you to turn around, to check that she isn’t about to descend upon you, but you know her better: Morticia is a predator that prefers you trembling and still, trembling in anticipation. The air itself thickens, every molecule charged with the static of her amusement and your dread.

You stay rooted in the grass, unwilling to break the spell by standing, hoping perhaps that if you sit perfectly still she will lose interest, go inside, pour herself a drink and forget you for once. But the hope wilts quickly. You feel her shadow spill over the lawn, cool and inky against your sun-warmed skin, followed by the almost imperceptible rustle of her dress as she closes the distance.

Her perfume—the cloying, narcotic sweetness of Baccarat Rouge 540 and secrets—hits your nostrils, and with it comes the electric certainty that she is standing directly over you, arms folded, surveying your resigned collapse. This is exactly how she likes you: docile, defeated, clinging to the last vestiges of your own stubbornness but knowing, deep down, that you’ve already lost.

She crouches beside you, her knees creaking the fabric of her dress, and her hand reaches out, trailing the length of your arm with a possessive familiarity. The simplest touch, and your pulse jolts. She relishes your every flinch and shiver, absorbs it the way a cat drinks spilled milk. “You’re so easy to break, darling,” she coos, her lips curling not into a smile but a warning.

You don’t answer. She doesn’t need you to.

Inside the house, the air remains brittle with anticipation; always waiting for her strike, but outside, time slows until each beat of your heart rings like a shot in the quiet. Morticia kneels there, a black-robed priestess at a heretic’s execution, and you are both the condemned and the congregation. The sun presses against your eyelids, making tiny shadows dance, but the only true shadow is the one she casts.

You focus on the grass, on the brittle stems poking your palms, grounding you in this moment and this place, but it’s useless: Morticia already owns the moment, and she owns you. The certainty of that is the real prison, more than any locked door or steel chain.

Her fingernail catches on the soft skin of your wrist, right over your pulse. “So beautiful,” she whispers, the words both a caress and a threat. “I could watch you suffer all afternoon.”

And you believe her.

The preparations unfold with a tension that’s palpable, a wire stretched thin and taut between you. So you do what you know best, nap.

You drift between waking and sleep, and each time you open your eyes, the world feels more unreal, more a place Morticia has woven to trap you. You don’t know how much time has passed when the scent of pizza finally rouses you, a momentary comfort in a world where comfort is just a trick of the light. 

“Guess I didn’t mess this up,” Larissa says as she returns, a tired triumph in her voice. She carries several bags, Morticia’s shadow at her heels. 

“Oh, you managed,” Morticia purrs, taking the bags from Larissa as if she’s granting a favor. She rifles through them, her lips painted a deep plum today, twisted in appraisal. “Perfect,” she declares. “And you—” she turns to you, her eyes bright with possessive affection. “I got your favorite. This will be fun.” 

You force a smile, a mask to hide your tangled thoughts. She looks so pleased with herself, and the absurdity of her effort almost amuses you. 

“Bring it all inside,” Morticia instructs, her focus already elsewhere, already imagining how this night will bend to her will. 

“Where do you want it?” Larissa asks, following her with an obligatory reluctance. 

“The den. And make sure we have enough glasses,” Morticia chirps, her mood buoyant and manic, like a child on the eve of Christmas. 

You hesitate on the porch steps, watching them disappear through the door, your heart a drum of doubt. Then you follow, because what else is there? Because anything is better than nothing. 

The room is a dim cocoon of low lights and low expectations. You perch on the edge of the sofa, a safe distance from Morticia as she uncorks the wine. The air is rich with cheese and olives, a landmine of comfort. She usually claims first taste, but today she lets you drink. It burns. It heals. “That’s my girl,” she says, brushing hair from your eyes with cruel tenderness. Larissa clears her throat.

“You got my text?” Morticia asks.

“Nothing but the best,” Larissa replies, as the wine flows red and thick. 

“See, I knew we’d all feel better after this.” Morticia leans back, a satisfied cat, as you take another sip. It settles your nerves, ignites your confusion. You wonder if you should say thank you or scream. 

The first few bites of pizza taste like your past life, a life with choices, the life you sacrificed for this madness. You barely hear Larissa and Morticia exchanging quick jabs, the words lost in the swirl of new sensations. 

“Nothing but the best,” Larissa repeats, more to herself this time. You hear an edge in her voice, a ripple of something bitter that makes you pause. 

Morticia notices too. “Something on your mind, Larissa?” 

“Nothing a good drink won’t fix,” Larissa says, then downs her glass like a challenge. She pours another. 

You see the game but not the rules. Morticia’s touch lingers too long as she offers you another slice, another glass. You’re tipsy from her attentions, drunk from the way she pretends this is all so easy, so real. 

The alcohol wraps around you like an unexpected embrace. Each drink a little sweeter, each sip a little faster. It erases the hard edges of the room and of her, and even Larissa seems softer, less like a coiled spring and more like someone who wants you to want her. 

Morticia pulls you to her side, and the move is so smooth, so natural, you don’t notice until you’re nestled against her. “This is perfect,” she murmurs, her breath warm on your cheek. You forget where you are, just for a second. 

Larissa’s eyes burn into you from across the room.

“Having fun yet?” she asks, a slight slur to her voice that wasn’t there before. She pushes off from the wall and moves to the couch, a forced playfulness in her step. 

You nod, though the answer is more complicated than yes or no. 

She plops next to you, making sure to crowd Morticia just enough. “Better make sure you last all night,” she teases, passing you another drink. You see a flicker of defiance there, something almost brave in her attempt to challenge Morticia’s hold on you.

Morticia gives a low, indulgent laugh. “I’ve never known her to give up,” she says, running her fingers down your arm in a mock display of confidence.

You drink again, and it goes down too easily. Too welcoming. 

You try to savor the escape, but it’s fragile. A soap bubble of normalcy that quivers with every passing minute. The room spins a little, a carousel of red wine and whispered tension. You feel the ground slipping beneath you, a strange satisfaction in knowing there is nothing to catch you if you fall.

“Remember when it was just us?” Morticia asks, and her words strike a tender, aching place inside you. 

“I remember a lot of things,” you reply, the sting in your voice sharper than the alcohol. 

Larissa shifts, a flash of guilt in her eyes as she reaches for another slice. “I’ll just be over here,” she jokes, but it lands heavy and hollow.

“No, stay,” you hear yourself say. You surprise even yourself. You surprise her too.

Morticia raises an eyebrow, then smiles. “The more the merrier, right?” Her fingers grip your wrist, a gentle vice. “We’ll have so much fun together.”

You should stop, but instead, you drink. Instead, you watch Larissa settle back, her lips twisting into something almost like a smile. She believes you, or she wants to, or maybe she’s just drunk enough that she doesn’t care.

You should leave. It would be so easy to put the glass down, to stand and walk away. But the night wraps tighter around you, a vine that curls with every sip, every reminder that even this false freedom is better than none. 

The next drink goes down hard, bitter at the last. 

The bottle clinks against the edge of the glass—again.

You’ve lost track of how many she’s poured for you. The wine is sweet, deceptively smooth, and warm in your stomach. Morticia lounges next to you facing you, legs elegantly crossed, swirling her own drink without taking a sip.

“You always did have a terrible tolerance,” she says with a smile that’s too pleased. “It’s endearing.”

Your head feels cottony, thoughts a bit sluggish as the world begins to soften at the edges. You blink slowly, disoriented, trying to focus on her face, but it’s like trying to hold water in your hands.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, the words slurring just slightly. You regret them as soon as they leave your mouth.

She leans forward. “Because you let your guard down when you’re like this. I get to see the real you. The you that wants to be here, the you that loves me.” She’s closer now—a hand on your stomach, her glass placed gently on the living room table in front of you. 

Her fingers brush your belly button, trailing downward like they have every right to.

You try to shift away, but your limbs are heavy and warm and slow.

“I used to imagine this,” Morticia whispers. Her hand traces the curve of your full tummy, not rushed or desperate—reverent. “Back when you were in my class. How you’d look if you belonged to me.”

Her fingers dig in slightly, a silent warning.

“I’d see you raise your hand, answering so earnestly—so eager to be good. I used to picture what your voice would sound like begging.” She sighs, like the thought alone soothes her. “And now look at you. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You turn your face away. The room sways. You can feel her breath near your neck, she places a soft kiss.

She continues, softly, almost like a lullaby. “You’d look so pretty in white, you know. In a little dress. Locked away in a house made just for us. No phones. No friends. Just obedience. Peace.”

You feel her hand on your face now, gently turning it toward her. Her thumb grazes your lips.

“You wouldn’t need anything else. I’d brush your hair every night. Dress you. Undress you. You wouldn’t even need to speak unless I said so.”

Your skin crawls—but your body won’t move.

Her lips graze your cheek—soft, deliberate.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” she murmurs. “And you’re finally starting to understand. Even if I have to remind you a few times… I always win in the end.”

You close your eyes, either from fear or dizziness or both.

She kisses your forehead—possessive, as though she’s already laid claim to your soul.

Morticia watches your face with eerie fascination, like a collector admiring a stolen artifact.

Her fingers slide from your cheek to your throat, delicate, lingering. “Your pulse,” she whispers, “always races when I touch you. Isn’t that interesting?”

You flinch, or maybe try to. Your body’s unresponsive in the worst way—weighted, warm, slow. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or if something was in the drink, but everything is sweet, and wrong.

“You can pretend it’s the fear,” she continues, brushing her knuckles down your collarbone. “But I know better. I’ve studied you. I know your tales.”

Her hand disappears beneath the throw blanket draped across your lap, moving with maddening patience as she sits next to you, too close, too calm.

“I used to imagine your scent on my pillows,” she whispers, her eyes heavy with hunger. “Used to stand in front of the classroom after everyone left, staring at your desk, wondering if you’d left any of yourself behind. A hair. A fingerprint. Something I could keep.”

She lifts her eyes to yours. “Is it strange? To know someone wanted you that much for that long?”

You try to form words, but your mouth is dry. A tremor rattles through your body. She sees it. She smiles.

“You’re trembling. That’s okay. I think you like being wanted, even if you’re too proud to say it. Always so stubborn, my love. But the body never lies. Your body always betrays you to me.”

Her long elegant fingers rub your clothes pussy and you jump, oddly enough, the contact, the pressure… it feels good.

Her breath warms the base of your throat as she presses her lips there, barely grazing. It’s soft. Too soft. And somehow worse than roughness—it’s worship.

“I fantasize about our mornings,” she whispers. “You’d wake up before me, always trying to sneak out of bed like a disobedient kitten. And I’d catch you by the ankle, like always. Drag you back in.”

She kisses the side of your neck, teeth ghosting just behind and both you and Larissa let out a gasp.

“I’d let you cry a little,” she hums. “Sometimes that’s part of the routine. But I’d hold you so tightly that you’d forget why you were upset. Because you’d remember… I’m the only one who really knows you.”

Her hand slides to your waist beneath the blanket, languid and practiced, like every touch has been rehearsed a thousand times in her mind and has finally come to life. She rests her palm there for a moment and then begins inching downward, her fingers slipping past the soft band of your shorts.

Her breathing grows shallow with anticipation, and she pauses deliberately as if savoring the inevitability of it, as if you might struggle or fight back. But you don’t. She dips inside your panties and you feel her hand there, warm and waiting, resting on the top of your pussy with a confidence that makes your heart hammer against your ribcage. 

“I don’t have to force you, Y/N,” she whispers, the words wrapping around you, sticky as cobwebs. You hear the triumph laced in her voice. “You’ll stay because I make you need me. You’re not mine against your will. You’re mine because I replaced it.” Her voice is so sure, so terribly certain, and you hate that it sounds true.

With no warning, she dips her fingers between your pussy lips and begins rubbing your clit with a maddening precision, a slow, deliberate pressure that makes your head spin. You didn’t expect it to feel so good, but it does. And she knows it.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she whispers, and the gravel in her voice makes you shiver. You moan, louder than you thought you would, the sound echoing like a confession.

She leans in again, and her breath is a soft rush against your cheek, then your jaw, before her lips press just beside your ear. “Say you belong to me.” It’s a command wrapped in a lover’s plea, and you know she expects it, waits for it, like a prize she’s already won.

You don’t. You can’t.

Her breath sighs against your skin, her fingers following the trail, until they find a new place to make you moan. Twisting and certain, they demand the answers your mouth won’t give, waiting until she hears the noise you promised you wouldn’t let escape. 

She wants you to be loud, wants you to give in completely, and the desperation in your strangled cry pleases her.

Your voice travels in gasps and echoes, needy as Morticia wants it. Each noise is a surrender, each sound an admittance. “So greedy, Y/N. Can’t get enough, can you? Tell me. Who do you belong to?” 

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. You will not say it. You don’t care how close she pushes you to the edge, how much you hunger for release. You won’t give her what she wants. 

But your body betrays you in a different way. She listens to your silence, the slick thrust of her knuckles, her palm rubbing against your clit, the hungry stare of Larissa watching you—they clench you, helpless and hollow.

You don’t have to say it when every inch of you is already screaming. The room blurs as your own heat rises, the only clarity in the frenzy of your breathing. Just when you are close, when you’re certain the very next second will bring you bliss, her fingers pull away, leaving you wet and aching. 

“Fuck,” you let out breathlessly as Morticia takes the wetness of you into her mouth. She devours it like a victor’s feast, smiling with wicked satisfaction as you twitch and tremble and remind yourself how to breathe.

The taste of you coats her lips. She savors it, savoring the power of denying you, knowing that dragging it out will only make the surrender all the sweeter. 

“On your back, kitten.” Morticia sweetly demands and you quickly do as she says, eyes looking upward as you relax to see Larissa practically salivating at your naked lower body.

Then Morticia rises, peels the black gown away. She is pale, hairless, perfect, lowering herself over your face until you taste her wet, natural heat. 

Morticia rocks above you, capturing your mouth with her smooth, pale thighs. You lose yourself in how good she tastes, the warm saltiness of her, the way she moves against your tongue. Your body trembles, arms limp beside you, unable to focus on anything but how her wetness spills into your mouth.

“Just like that, darling,” she purrs, voice quivering as she quickens her pace. Her milk is beginning to leak, creamy droplets escaping from her nipples and trickling down her breasts. You can feel her tightening, close and desperate. Larissa watches with bright eyes, red lips parted, the heat of her stare wrapping around you as your breath turns to gasps and Morticia grinds down hard, harder, chasing her own release.

"You're mine, aren’t you?" she murmurs one last time, almost like a prayer. You continue to lick and respond with a hum of agreement. That was all she needed to hear.

Morticia’s control is slipping, and you feel a hot gush as she loses it completely. The milk spurts from her in a sudden shower, wet and sticky, sliding down her stomach, and pussy juice dripping off your chin. She cries out your name, voice wild, raw, unfamiliar. You drink every drop of her, panting, dazed, eyes blurring with need.

She isn’t finished with you yet. 

She flips you onto your stomach, the leather of the couch grazing your cheek as she presses you down, spreading your legs with insistent hands. You’re shaking with need, clenching, straining for release, but she’s moving so slowly, like you have all the time in the world. Her sweet scent is everywhere. She drags herself over your bare ass, wet and slick, and a needy whimper escapes you.

“So eager,” she teases, “but you’re not nearly wet enough yet.” 

Morticia slips between your legs, a warm body wrapping around yours. She’s away for what feels like forever but she returns. The harness is tight against her skin. You tremble beneath her.

“I told you that you’re mine.” She slaps the wet dildo against you. You need to cum so badly that you don’t even care about standing your own ground.

You nod your head, “I am.” Just what she wanted to hear.

You begin feeling her press against you with slow, perfect strokes. She finds a new rhythm, and you lose yourself in the push of her body, the fullness of it, and her voice—god, her voice—demanding to hear how much you love it.

“Tell me again, darling.” 

Her voice makes your head spin. You’re so close, spiraling, the world a blur of Morticia’s skin and the creamy sweet taste of her still in your mouth, the feel of her cock moving inside you, faster now, faster, with urgent thrusts that shake the sofa and knock the air out of you in ragged moans. 

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—” 

Larissa shifts, biting her lip, unable to look away, and you feel her heat like a pulse in the room.

“Tell me how good I feel.”

“God, yes. Yes, Mommy. You feel so good. So fucking good. It’s your pussy.” You breathlessly moan.

She smacks your ass, “Say it again for Mommy, my little whore.”

“It’s your pussy, Mommy. Fuck it.” You whine out. You don’t even recognize your own voice, the desperation. Getting fucked in front of someone? That was new for you but you were so toasted that it didn’t even matter.

“You’re gonna make Mommy cum again, kitten. You want Mommy to cum inside of you?” She pants. She’s watching you hold your ass cheeks open for her so she can vividly see her cock going in and out of your pussy hole.

You know she can’t but you play along, after all… she was the one to give you the breeding kink, “Yes, cum in me Mommy, get me pregnant.”

Morticia pounds into you, the lube making it slippery, fast, your body arching, tensing, pulling her deeper, until you clench around her and finally cum, muscles taut and every part of you unraveling. 

Her own release follows, an urgent groan, a long shudder, a final claiming push that leaves you tangled together, sweating and breathless and stained with each other’s wants.

Chapter Text

Larissa’s panties are an absolute mess. She can feel the way they slide and stick to her as she watches both you and Morticia finish. Her cheeks are flushed, mind tangled with excitement, and something even more dangerous—a greedy need to have you. The room is heavy with the aftermath of it all, breathless and ripe with sex. 

“Go ahead, kitten. Your other Mommy needs you too. I’m sure.” Morticia says after a couple minutes of both of you resting.

You glance at Larissa. She looks startled, unprepared for Morticia to make such a suggestion, almost as if the offer was forbidden. Her hesitation is palpable, her lips parting in disbelief at what she’s been given permission to take. Larissa’s heart is pounding, mind racing with the possibility that Morticia might change her mind. But the opportunity is laid before her, slick and undeniable. 

Larissa's eyes widen with anticipation as she drags your body onto hers, her lips glistening with saliva as she hungrily leans in for a kiss. Her movements are quick and nimble, almost desperate, as if trying to capture every ounce of pleasure she can in this moment. She quickly drags your limp body on to her before you could even sit up straight, kissing you deeper.

The room is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and the wet sounds of kissing as Larissa passionately takes you, her murmurings of pleasure and need blending with the sound of your own moans and gasps.

Morticia must admit, that was quite a turn-on for her. Before she realizes it, she’s reaching over, your head nestled between the two women's chests, as your eyes follow Morticia who begins to kiss Larissa passionately.

You feel hands exploring every inch of your skin, your shirt effortlessly sliding off over your head, leaving you completely bare. Morticia reclines, settling back on her bare skin, allowing Larissa to take charge of you.

As Morticia speaks, you glance back to catch her words, "Go ahead, I know you’ve been longing to touch her." She encourages Larissa, and your gaze returns to Larissa's eyes, which are fixed on your exposed chest with a longing intensity.

"Come," Larissa beckons, patting her lap invitingly. You pause, aware of your size, but she firmly pulls you onto her lap, her large hands gripping your ass as she inhales the scent of your perspiration from your neck.

"Delectable," she murmurs with satisfaction.

In one swift movement you’re now lying under the tall blonde.

Larissa’s mouth finds your breast with the certainty of someone who’s thought about it for years. She doesn’t hesitate. Her lips close around your nipple, tongue slow at first, savoring. The coolness of the air fades instantly against the heat of her mouth, a direct and delicious contrast that makes your skin pebble and your mind spin.

She’s greedy and purposeful, suckling hard enough to send shocks straight to your cunt, both her hands pinning your wrists above your head. You try to move, to arch into her, but her grip is vice-strong, and your attempt only makes her laugh—a raw, throaty sound you’ve never heard from her before.

“Patience, kitten,” she rasps, the words vibrating against your chest. “I want to taste all of you.”

She bites, gentle but possessive, marking a dark bruise at the swell of your breast. The faintest hint of pain, a bright spark against the flood of pleasure. You gasp and twist your hips, grinding shamelessly against her thigh, desperate for friction. The world has narrowed to her mouth, her teeth, the grip of her fingers and the calculated pressure of her leg between yours.

Morticia watches from across the room where she moved, arms crossed tightly under her own silk black robe clothed breasts, face set in a porcelain-perfect mask. Her lips are parted, just slightly, and you know—by the way her chest rises and falls, by the precise rhythm of her blinking—that she’s furious, but also aroused, that she wants to intervene but cannot look away.

Larissa knows it, too. She glances up, smirking around your nipple, eyes locking with Morticia’s for a loaded instant. Then she pops your nipple free with a wet sound and moves to the other, lavishing it with even more intent, as if proving a point.

You moan, and Larissa coos, “That’s my good girl. Such a perfect, pretty thing, aren’t you? I could suck on these for hours.” She flicks her tongue in fast, merciless circles, then soothes it with broad, slow licks, never repeating the same motion twice. “So sensitive. You like it when I use my teeth, don’t you?”

“Yes, please—fuck, yes,” you manage, your voice ragged.

Morticia’s jaw almost hit the fucking floor at the way your voice…craved someone’s touch.

You try to close your thighs around Larissa but she pries them apart, positioning herself with one knee on the edge of the couch and the other hooked behind your calf, stretching you open. She keeps your wrists pinned, forcing your chest up and your hips exposed, an offering. She hums in approval as she kisses down your sternum, lips hot and wet, leaving a trail of saliva and faint bite marks. You can’t help but squirm, every nerve ending electrified, the promise of her mouth lower overwhelming your ability to think.

You’re not sure how you get your hands free—maybe she lets go, or maybe you wrench loose in your desperation—but suddenly you’re clawing at her shoulders, dragging her closer, and she grins, delighted, and goes lower. You tilt your head back and see Morticia step forward, fingers biting into her arms. Her eyes burn with possessive hunger, but also an unmistakable threat. The sense of danger only fuels your arousal.

Larissa gets to your navel and pauses, swirling her tongue around it, before she slips her hands under your ass and yanks you toward the edge of the sofa with a shocking show of strength. She kneels between your legs, so tall her mouth is perfectly aligned with your cunt. Her eyes flick up, meeting yours, then Morticia’s, and her lips curve into a smug, almost cruel smile.

“I wonder if you taste as sweet as you look,” she says, voice honeyed and wicked. “You want me to find out, princess?”

You nod frantically. “God, please—“

She doesn’t even wait for the last word. Her tongue is on you, slow and flat, lapping from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit, gathering your slick and spreading it everywhere. She hums, savoring you, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble. 

You’re so wet you can hear it, obscene and messy, and she seems to take pride in that, circling your entrance with deliberate, teasing strokes before plunging her tongue inside. Her nose grinds into your clit, each motion perfectly calculated to keep you hovering at the edge, never quite allowing you to fall.

“Fuck, you’re so—” Larissa breaks off, panting, “soaked. I could eat this pussy forever.”

Her fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open, and you buck helplessly against her face, the shame of it long gone. All you want is more—more pressure, more friction, more of her voice praising and teasing you. She seems to sense your need, because she slides two fingers in without warning, curling them expertly until you see sparks behind your eyelids.

“That’s it, kitten,” she coos, tongue flicking your clit with staccato bursts, “Take it. You can take more, can’t you? So greedy. Such a good girl for me.”

Your brain is dissolving; every muscle in your body is taut, straining toward the finish line, but she draws it out, switching tempo and pressure, bringing you to the brink and then pulling away. She’s playing with you, obviously, but you can’t even resent it. You’d let her do anything to you in this moment.

Morticia is right there now, standing over you, her face so close you can feel the chill from her breath. She reaches down and brushes your hair off your forehead, tucking a loose curly strand behind your ear, the gesture oddly tender.

“Does it feel good, cara mia?” she asks, voice low and trembling. “Is Larissa making you feel things I never could?”

You’re about to answer but Larissa bites your inner thigh, a sharp warning, and you cry out instead, clutching at Morticia’s wrist.

“She’s doing perfect, aren’t you, princess?” Larissa purrs, barely lifting her head. “Your little pet is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I almost want to keep her all to myself.”

Morticia’s eyes narrow, but she says nothing. Instead she traces a finger down your sternum, between your breasts, stopping just above where Larissa’s mouth is working you open. Her touch is featherlight, and in your current state it might as well be fire.

“I think you’re right,” she murmurs. “She is very, very good.”

You’re so close you can barely breathe, and Larissa finally gives you what you want: relentless pressure, tongue and fingers and dirty words all at once.

“Cum for me,” she orders, voice sharp and commanding. “I want to feel you squeeze my fingers. I want to taste you when you fall apart.”

You do. Your whole body locks up and then shatters, a hot, violent wave that rips a scream from your throat. You’re vaguely aware of Morticia cradling your head, Larissa moaning against you, the wet sounds obscene and perfect. When you come back to yourself, you’re boneless, slumped against the couch, Larissa’s face slick and triumphant, Morticia’s lips twisted into a bitter smile.

But Larissa isn’t done. She grabs you by the waist and flips you, so you’re face-down on the cushions, ass in the air. Before you can protest she’s on top of you, covering your body with hers, breath hot in your ear.

“My turn,” she growls, and you realize she’s naked now, her skin soft and impossibly hot against yours.

She grinds her pussy against your ass, slick and desperate, but then she pulls you up, rearranges your body so you’re sitting astride her thigh, facing Morticia. Her hands roam everywhere, squeezing your tits, tracing your ribs, fisting in your hair. She kisses your neck, bites your earlobe, then sucks on the bruise she left on your breast, like she’s staking a claim.

You don’t know how it happens, but suddenly you’re kissing Morticia, her mouth insistent and devouring, tasting like expensive wine and rage. She bites your lip hard enough to draw blood and you moan into her, the pain sharp and intoxicating.

Behind you, Larissa presses her cunt to yours, lining up perfectly. She wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you against her, and then she starts to move, grinding and sliding, the friction almost unbearable. Every nerve ending is still raw from your other orgasms, and the new sensation is too much, too soon, but you crave it.

“Look at her,” Larissa pants, addressing Morticia. “Look at how pretty she is when she’s fucked out. You ever seen her like this?”

Morticia says nothing, but her nails dig into your shoulders, holding you steady as Larissa ruts against you. The motion is frantic, both of you slick and wet, your clits catching perfectly with every thrust.

Larissa’s hand moves up, fingers encircling your throat—not tight enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who’s in charge. She rocks her hips faster, her moans getting higher, more desperate. The pressure on your throat sends a dizzy rush to your brain, every sensation heightened, every touch magnified.

“Cum with me,” Larissa commands. “I want to feel you milk it out of me, pretty girl. Show Morticia who you belong to.”

You’re sobbing now, the pleasure so intense it borders on agony, your muscles locking up as you reach the edge again. Larissa’s nails score your hips, dragging you down harder, and her breath is ragged, her voice breaking.

“Oh fuck—yes—right there—oh my god—” Larissa screams.

You both explode at once, the world going white behind your eyelids. You scream, Larissa howls, Morticia’s grip tightens to the point of bruising. It feels endless, wave after wave, sweat and slick and the smell of sex heavy in the air.

When it finally stops, you collapse onto Larissa, both of you shaking, sticky, spent. Morticia stands above you, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She looks at you for a long moment—like she’s trying to decide if she wants to comfort you, destroy you, or both.

Larissa strokes your hair, murmurs, “Good girl, so good, I could eat you every night,” and kisses the back of your neck. You’re too dazed to move, too boneless to think, so you just let her hold you, shivering in the aftermath.

Eventually, Morticia crouches down, lifts your chin, and kisses you softly, almost reverently. You can taste Larissa on her lips. She holds your gaze, eyes black and endless.

“I hope you enjoyed your little reward,” she whispers, cold as winter.

You nod, unable to speak.

“Good,” she says, standing. “Because tomorrow, you’re mine again.”

The threat hangs in the air, equal parts promise and warning.

You know you’ll think about this moment every time you close your eyes.

You know you’re already addicted.

Chapter Text

You wake with a mouthful of dread, your tongue thick and your eyelids sticky as honey, every inch of your body brimming with the new ache from the night before. Light—dim and spectral, as though filtered through old lace—presses on your face. Your brain is cotton, your thoughts shrunken and limp. Morticia sleeps next to you, one hand pinning your arm beneath the sheet, her hair unspooled across the pillow like a graveyard blossom. She snores, just barely, the sound too soft to be embarrassing. Her lips—plum at the edges from her lipstick—part on the exhale, and her thigh cages yours in a clutch so intimate it’s almost clinical.

For a moment, you let yourself believe you are safe. That the whole thing—your humiliation, the unspooling of your carefully-wound control, the feeling of Morticia’s nails pressed just above your collarbone—was only a dream. But then you shift, your bladder clenching, and her nails hook your wrist with muscle memory born of years of predation. There are no dreams here. Just the hush of entombed morning, and the smell of last night’s sweat.

You slip out of bed, extracting yourself with the slow reverence of a bomb technician, then shuffle toward the half-light of the hallway, pausing to glance back at Morticia’s sleeping form. She looks content. Fragile, almost. It should be disarming, but the knowledge of what that mouth can do makes you press your lips into a full bloodless line and hurry down the corridor to the other bathroom, bare feet silent on the shiny, cold, expensive looking floor.

You tug your panties down and settle on the toilet, feeling every muscle in your thighs protest. You expect to see the usual signs of a night like that—redness, at most—but instead your eyes catch the constellation of bruises blooming along your hips and inner thighs, dark fingerprints ghosted in purple and blue. The place where Larissa bit you is already swelling, a perfect impression of teeth right up against the soft seam of your leg. It thrums with a heat both vicious and tender, and your cheeks flush at the memory.

You run your fingers experimentally over the bruise, feeling the ridged edges and the subtle tenderness beneath the skin. Your instinct is to hate it, to resent it as a mark of victimhood, but you find yourself smiling, almost wickedly. It’s a souvenir. Proof that you were claimed, if only for a few hours, by something more than sadness.

"I can make the best of this, right?" you ask yourself.

You wipe, flush, and catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror. The sight stops you: hair a hopeless rat’s nest, neck littered with purpled shadows, lips bitten swollen. There is a mascara streak under one eye. You look like you’ve been devoured… because you had been.

You splash cold water on your face, pat it dry with a towel, and step gingerly back into the chill of the hallway. The house is quiet except for the distant trill of birds at the window—a sound so at odds with the wreckage in your head and body it almost feels like a taunt. You pad down the stairs, half-expecting to find Morticia awake and waiting, but the kitchen is empty. 

You shuffle across the foyer, each step reminding you of the ache between your legs, the rawness at your core. You can’t stop thinking about the way Larissa’s mouth felt, the way Morticia’s hands pinned you open, the way you screamed for both of them. The shame is molecular, buzzing under your skin. You wonder what will be expected of you today. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to look either of them in the eyes. What Morticia will do to you for letting yourself feel that good.

The living room is as you left it, except for the presence of Larissa Weems: six feet three inches of disheveled platinum and nervous efficiency, gathering empty wine glasses and stacking them like spent shells. Her hair is swept into a lopsided ponytail, face free of paint or powder, and she’s wearing a tank and boxers—clothes she would sooner die than wear in public. The light catches the hollows of her collarbones, the freckles on her shoulders, the faint blue veins on her hands.

“Morning,” you whisper, and it’s almost embarrassing how the word comes out, soft and barely there, like a postscript.

Larissa startles, then glances over her shoulder. Her eyes are blue in the way glacial lakes are blue: deep, cold, and always threatening to crack. “Oh. Good morning.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, but the gesture is all nerves, no grace. The broom she holds looks absurdly undersized in her grip, as if someone gave a grown woman a child’s prop and told her to act natural.

You hover, watching her struggle with the bristles, before you blurt, “I got it.” Your hand wraps around the shaft, an inch from hers, and for a half-beat neither of you move. The silence is thick enough to scrape up with a spoon. Then she lets go, fingers grazing yours, and you both pretend it isn’t strange.

You sweep, pushing up the detritus of the previous night—crumbs, lint, stray threads, the ghost of spilled wine—while Larissa fusses with the glasses, emptying them into the sink with an almost religious precision. You’re aware, acutely, of how short you must look next to her, how the broom is just the right size for your hands and Morticia’s but not for hers, and you try not to feel anything about it. But you do.

She loads the dishwasher. You finish sweeping. There’s no need for words, but the hush isn’t unfriendly; if anything, it feels conspiratorial, as if you and Larissa are united in the silent aftermath of a storm you never asked for.

You finish the rest of her sweeping and put the broom away. “Y/N, would you like to help me with breakfast?” Her voice is softer than you expect, almost gentle.

You say yes, because it’s easier than no, and because you want to be useful, and because part of you still wants to make her like you.

The kitchen is a new one, mortuary-bright, everything still smelling of fresh tile and expensive finishings. Larissa moves around it as if uncertain she’s allowed, but then she opens the fridge and sets out the eggs and bread like she’s lived here for years. You’re hyper-aware of her height, the way she stoops to see what’s in the lower shelves, the way the shorts ride up and the tank gapes at the armhole, showing the pale stretch of her side. You are also aware of her nipples, hard and clearly outlined, and you try not to look but you do, and she definitely sees you looking.

She pretends not to notice, but there’s a stutter in her movements as she sets the eggs on the counter.

“How do you like your eggs?” she asks, looking not at you but at the carton.

“Surprise me,” you say, and she gives a smile that doesn’t feel like a performance.

“Turkey bacon or regular?” she adds, hand already reaching for both.

“I’ll take the turkey today,” you say, and it’s so stupid how good it feels when she smiles and says, “That’s my choice too.” She lines up the pans and bread and sets the coffee pot percolating. You move to slice strawberries, standing shoulder to shoulder, and try to ignore the way you brush against her every few seconds. The kitchen is not small, but you both pretend it is.

For a while, there is only the hiss and pop of bacon, the crack of eggs, the faint burble of brewing coffee. She laughs—a real, throaty laugh—when you drop a shell fragment into the bowl, and you pretend to be annoyed but you’re not. There is a normalcy in this, a simulation of it, and you could almost believe you are two regular people making breakfast together on a regular morning, not a pair of trauma-bonded captives in Morticia’s perfectly decorated hell.

Larissa softens, the longer you work together. “I used to be terrible at this,” she confesses, gesturing at the frying pan. “My mother always said I was more likely to burn down the house than cook breakfast.”

You hum, “Did you ever actually burn anything down?”

She grins, which makes her look ten years younger. “Just the curtains. Once. I put out the fire before the firemen arrived, but the neighbor across the street thought we’d all died.” She glances at you, searching for a reaction, and for a moment you want nothing more than to reach out and touch her arm, to prove that she’s not alone.

“Any disastrous exes?” you say, wanting to keep her talking, wanting to keep her soft.

She shifts, suddenly shy. “You mean, like, men?”

“Or women,” you say, and you can’t help but blush at your own boldness.

At first, you’re not sure if you’re really curious, or just desperate to distract yourself from the primal ache thrumming between your thighs, the phantom pressure of Morticia’s nails in your skin. But the question boils up anyway, sour and urgent: is Larissa, too, one of Morticia’s castoffs? Another former lover, now press-ganged into service by some exquisite cocktail of guilt and humiliation? The thought is absurd and yet so plausible it makes you shudder.

Morticia collects people. She breaks them open, reads all their secrets, then files them away in alphabetical order: friends, lovers, pets, projects, curiosities. You can almost see Larissa’s name on an invisible index card—written in Morticia’s neat, villainous hand, catalogued under “someone who knows too much.”

You imagine the conversations that must have preceded this kitchen truce. Morticia, all doe-eyed and aggrieved, spinning her sob story over an expensive bottle of something red and ancient. Larissa, perched on the edge of the couch with a glass she doesn’t want, listening, always listening, until the offer is made: help me, and I’ll never tell. Was it blackmail? Pity? Some twisted kind of loyalty, or the lingering aftertaste of Morticia’s attention?

You want to ask, but you can’t, because it would make everything real and ugly and permanent. Instead you stare at the strawberries you are butchering into uneven chunks and wonder if kitchen knives are allowed to live here, or if Morticia only brings them out when she wants to see someone bleed.

The silence balloons between you, heavy with all the things you can’t say. Under the smell of frying eggs and percolating coffee, there is a skin of dread: a story you are both pretending not to live inside. You watch Larissa’s hands as she cracks eggs, the way her knuckles tense before each strike, the careful precision with which she extracts shell fragments, and you bet yourself a hundred dollars she’s done this before, somewhere else, with someone else, under circumstances just as fraught. 

“Did you ever work with Morticia before?” you blurt, voice too sharp for the early hour. She looks up, startled, then quickly away, the color blooming high on her cheeks.

“I mean—” you stammer, “—not just at school. Like, did you ever… is she always like this?” It’s a stupid question. Of course Morticia is always like this. The question is, why is Larissa still here, when she is so obviously built to run? “Never mind… What about your exes?”

Truly, you are just wondering if maybe she’s one of Morticia’s exes as well as you, that got roped into her bullshit.

She shrugs a bit confused but she doesn’t question further but continues. “A few of both, but none worth writing home about. I—” She stops, her mouth working around the rest of the sentence. “I don’t think I’m very good at relationships. I always pick the wrong people.” She flashes a brittle, sidelong smile. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Your chest tightens, because it is a compliment… you think?

The breakfast comes together quickly. The eggs are perfect, the bacon crisp, the toast golden. You line up three plates on the counter, then start plating up the food. Larissa hands you a cup of coffee, black but with a mountain of sugar, just how you like it. She remembered. Something inside you loosens.

Larissa on the other hand is thinking about bending you over the counter top and continuing what happened last night.

The quiet giggles are broken by Morticia’s entrance. She glides into the kitchen, still in her nightgown—a thing of sheer black and impossible cut, clinging in places that make your face go hot. Her hair is less than immaculate, but the effect is more deliberate than lazy. She leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you and Larissa with eyes the color of fresh bruises.

She clears her throat, the sound low and surgical. “Don’t stop your laughter on account of me.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. You freeze, spatula mid-flip. Larissa goes still, her back straightening to its full and intimidating height.

“We were about to wake you,” you say, plating up the eggs with trembling hands. “We—uh—we made breakfast.”

Morticia slinks to the table, lowers herself into a chair with the grace of a predator, and smiles. “How thoughtful, Cara Mia.” She extends a pale hand toward you, palm up, and you have no choice but to take it. Her fingers curl around yours, icy and possessive. Pulling you into a light but possessive kiss right on your lips.

Larissa sets a plate in front of Morticia, and for a second you think she might say something snide, but instead she says, “Let me get you some coffee,” and moves away.

You start to sit, sliding into the chair nearest the window, but you’ve barely set your plate down before Morticia’s hand sweeps in—two fingers, icy and deliberate, catching your wrist just above the pulse. Her touch is so gentle it’s almost apologetic, and yet it sets the skin beneath it tingling in a way that makes your scalp buzz.

She doesn’t look up at first, just lets her gaze skate over the breakfast spread, then up to your face. Her lips curl into something that, if you didn’t know better, you’d call a smile. There’s a split-second where you think she’s going to compliment your cooking, or at least allow you the dignity of eating in peace. But you see the flicker of calculation behind her eyes—a little muscle jumping at her jaw—and you know, instantly, what this is.

“Oh, honey. You won’t need that,” she croons, her voice so smooth it almost slips past you. She releases your wrist, but only to nudge the plate away from you with the edge of one talon-like nail. “I’m afraid you’re on a very special diet now.” Only then does she finally raise her gaze to meet yours, and it’s so cold and bright it’s almost phosphorescent.

You freeze, your whole body going rigid, the ceramic clatter of the plate against the table louder than it has any right to be. For a moment you pretend you didn’t hear—that she isn’t doing this, not here, not in front of Larissa. But Morticia’s attention is unshakable, a laser burning through the thin facade of domesticity you’ve just constructed.

Larissa, caught mid-pour with the coffee carafe, goes so still you wonder if she’s stopped breathing. She sets the pot down with exaggerated care and folds her hands in front of her, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles bleach white. She looks from you to Morticia and back again, her mask of composure splintering just at the edges.

“But I’m hungry,” you say, and you hate yourself for how weak it comes out. You sound five years old: lost in a supermarket, tugging at someone’s sleeve and asking to go home.

Morticia’s voice softens, but it’s the kind of soft that happens just before a snake strikes. “Oh, baby. You can eat from Mommy, right?” She pats her chest, right above the swell of her breast, the gesture obscene in its casualness. “You made such a mess last night before bed, darling. But I know you like it. I know you’re hungry for it.”

It takes every scrap of willpower not to burst into tears or throw something, and for a moment you’re paralyzed, caught between the scorching shame of her attention and the mortifying heat flooding up your neck. You try to salvage a shred of dignity by laughing, shaky and false, “Can I do it later? I really wanna—” You gesture helplessly at the food, but Morticia leans in and drags the edge of her nail across your cheek, feather-light but unmistakable.

Her next words are as soft as snow and twice as cold. “Baby. I’m just waking up. Let’s not be so defiant so early in the morning, hmm? We don’t want to start a pattern.” She holds your gaze for a long, suffocating moment—long enough for Larissa to clear her throat, as though she might intervene. But Morticia doesn’t break eye contact.

“Please,” she says, and the way she says it leaves no room for negotiation. “You will eat from Mommy, that’s final.”

You want to argue, want to say something clever that will flip the script or at least buy you time, but your body betrays you. You remember the night before with crystal clarity right after getting fucked by her again: the weight of Morticia’s hand around your throat, the oxygen deprivation that made your thoughts swim and your limbs go limp, the way her voice sounded so far away but her power was absolute. You remember the sensation of falling and the way you surrendered, and the raw, humiliating thrill of it all. You remember how, afterwards, she cradled your head and whispered into your hair until you could breathe again. Now, the memory is enough to make your legs shake under the table.

Your chin drops. “Okay,” you whisper, so quietly even you can barely hear it.

Immediately, the tension in the room shatters: Morticia beams like a stage mother, triumphant, and kisses the back of your hand as if she hadn’t just undressed you in front of company. “Good girl,” she purrs, and releases you with a little flourish. “Now, go wait for me in the living room. I want to finish my breakfast before we play.”

You stand, numb and miserable, and shuffle out. Larissa’s gaze follows you, sympathy barely concealed. You hear her say, voice taut with anger, “She really does need to eat. I don’t think this is healthy—”

Morticia laughs, light and cold. “Oh, Larissa. You’re sweet to worry. She’ll have plenty to eat.”

The words are meant for you, and they hollow you out. You collapse on the couch, curling your knees into your chest. The smell of bacon and toast torments you, and you stare at the rug until your eyes sting. You are so hungry, and so humiliated, that the tears come almost without warning. They spill down your face, wet and silent, until your nose clogs and you have to breathe through your mouth.

Through the walls, you hear them eating. The scrape of forks, the clink of glasses. The occasional low murmur from Larissa, the sly chuckle from Morticia. Every now and then you catch your own name, and your stomach knots itself tighter.

After a while, Morticia glides into the living room, her presence enveloping you like an oil slick. You’re sitting up and forward now and she kneels in front of you, pressing your knees apart, and cups your face in her hands. She kisses your eyelids, damp from crying, and hums a little lullaby under her breath.

“Shh, shh, my darling. I know it hurts. Mommy’s here now.” She strokes your cheek with the back of her finger, and you hate yourself for the way you lean into it.

You don’t fight as she slides onto the couch and pulls you into her lap, cradling you with predatory tenderness. She unbuttons the front of her nightgown, exposing the perfect pale curve of her breast, and guides your mouth to her nipple. It tastes sweet, salty, and wrong.

Larissa enters, sees you feeding, and falters at the threshold. For a moment, you think she might leave, but instead she sits at the far end of the couch, watching you with stormy, unreadable eyes. You wonder if she pities you, or envies you, or both.

You try not to cry, but the tears keep coming. Morticia shushes you, stroking your hair, humming little nonsense songs. She holds you tighter, her hand splayed across your lower back, and you realize it’s not just affection—it’s possession.

When you’ve had your fill, you pull away, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand. Your nose is completely blocked, and you sniffle, feeling ridiculous and small.

Morticia kisses your forehead. “Good girl. Go take a bath, sweetheart. Mommy and Larissa need to talk.”

You obey, drifting up the stairs and down the hall, closing yourself in the sanctuary of the bathroom. You draw a bath so hot it scalds your skin, and sink in until the water covers your ears, muffling the world. You cry until you’re empty, then fall asleep in the tub, the water gone cool and the morning drained of all color.

You wake up in the bath, your own snore scaring you awake. Your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth, a film of tepid water hugging your skin. The temperature has long since lost its battle with the frigid air, and your limbs are leaden with cold. You float just under the surface, nipples poking out like glass marbles, and stare at the ceiling, letting your mind drift into nothingness. 

It’s almost noon, you realize. Sunlight filters through the frosted glass, painting your flesh in jaundiced bands. Your hair forms a black corona around your head, spiraled and wild, a suggestion of something monstrous. You close your eyes again, wishing you’d drift back into sleep. 

Instead, the door creaks open with a practiced slowness. The scent that follows is instant, so thick it’s practically a presence: expensive perfume, orchid and jasmine. Morticia Addams drifts into the room, all inky gown and glossy black hair. 

“Oh, cara mia. Look at you.” Her voice is delighted, like a mother catching her child at mischief, and you can hear the smirk in her tone before you dare open your eyes. “You’ve been in here so long I feared you’d melted away.”

She’s standing over you now, a column of shadow with plum-stained lips stretched into a perfect smile. Her teeth are bright and predatory.

You want to say something—beg, maybe—but your voice dies in your chest. Morticia crouches beside the tub and skims her hand over the water, then over you, her fingertips leaving trails of sensation so brief you question if they ever touched at all.

“My, my. Such a sight you are. I suppose I ought to fish you out before you drown.” She runs the tap for a moment, the hot water roaring like applause, and scoops you upright with effortless strength. You let her because there is no sense fighting gravity, and because you are so tired of resisting.

She wraps her hands around your shoulders, her fingers shockingly warm. You shiver, and she giggles, a sound so at odds with the darkness in her eyes you almost laugh yourself. 

“Stand and bathe. Or do you need me to bathe you myself?”

You lurch up and out of the water, barely registering the flash of your own nudity. Morticia makes a show of looking you up and down, purses her lips, then clucks her tongue. “We’ll need to slow down, darling. You’re getting positively chubby.” She playfully pinches your stomach then the chubbiness of your pussy.

You keep quiet, inwardly rolling your eyes.

She grabs a bottle of her own shampoo and works it through your hair with the precision of a woman who has controlled every detail of her life since puberty. She ends up bathing you anyway as well while humming to you and giving you kisses on your wet face and lips.

She remembers, without asking, that you hate the scratch of towels on your curls, so she pads to the laundry bin, returns with an old t-shirt, and swaddles your hair in it.

She dries you with impossible gentleness, fingers grazing the curve of your spine, the small of your back, the insides of your arms. Every so often, she leans close enough for you to see the fracture lines of her own mascara, the feathery beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.

“There,” she purrs. “All clean. Now, isn’t that better?” She rubs your arms briskly and walks you to the vanity stool. You notice, for the first time, the bags under your eyes, the mottled bruises blooming down your collarbones. The way Morticia looks at you makes you feel like a masterpiece, even as she’s the one who ruined the canvas.

She stands behind you, running a brush through the ends of your hair. In the mirror, you look so fragile. You half expect her to shatter you with a touch.

“I don’t have to go to do anything today, do I?” Your own voice startles you—soft, raspy, barely there.

Morticia’s lips graze the shell of your ear. “No, angel. You can rest. I have errands. I’ll be gone most of the day. Unless you’d rather I stay, hmm?”

You shake your head too fast and immediately regret it. The brush pulls hard at a tangle, and you wince.

Morticia tilts her head, then coos: “You’re such a delicate little thing. I wish you’d take better care of yourself.” She’s still brushing, slow and deliberate, as if each stroke is a spell to keep you still.

You don’t see her hands go for your throat, not at first. You’re staring at the hollow-eyed girl in the mirror, so you miss the way Morticia slides the damp t-shirt off your shoulders and drapes it over the towel bar, how she moves to the closet, her gait lazy and feline. 

She opens the door, fumbles for something, then turns around with a belt in her hand.

“You know,” Morticia says, “I was up half the night. Imagining how good it must have felt. Larissa’s hands, so much larger than mine.” Her voice is sing-song, but her eyes are bottomless. “It’s disgusting, really.”

You barely process the threat before she swings. The first hit stings, a sharp slap across your shoulder. You gasp, then look at her, confused, thinking—this is some new sick joke. Morticia grins wider.

“Don’t look at me like that, you desperate whore.” The second lash is faster, smacking across your thigh and raising a welt. You yelp, try to scramble out of the chair, but she’s already at your side, driving you back into it with the flat of her hand. 

“Morticia—please—” you start, but she’s already pulling your wrist up behind your back.

“Oh, don’t start with the waterworks,” she snarls. “You think tears are going to work on me after what you did?”

You’re crying now, and she is delighted. She’s in her element, radiating giddy malice. She lifts the belt again and cracks it against your hip, the pain radiating in a white-hot bloom.

“Pathetic. Is this what you want? Is this what gets you off?” Another smack, this time catching the curve of your fat soft ass, the edge biting into sensitive skin. You twist away, try to crawl over the vanity, but Morticia’s grip is iron.

She pushes you onto the cold tile, straddles your back, and pins your arms down with her knees.

“I am so fucking sick of you pretending you’re not a slut for her,” she growls, her mouth against your ear, her breath hot and furious. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at her? The way you moaned for her?”

You sob openly, all shame lost. The belt lands again and again, the sting overwhelming, but not as bad as the words she hisses: “Stupid bitch. Disgusting cunt. You make me sick, you know that?”

You beg, but it’s useless. Morticia is past reasoning, drunk on her own rage. At some point you start to black out, she’s standing over you now, the individual strikes, just a haze of noise and heat and her voice.

Then she slips.

There’s a slick of water on the tile from your bath, and her bare foot hits it. For a second, the world freezes. Morticia’s face goes wild, her arms pinwheeling for balance, and she crashes sideways, her weight smashing into your bruising back. She’s so startled she lets go of her anger for a second, and you’re so shocked you actually say sorry.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—” you start, but she’s already up, seething.

“You little bitch,” she spits, wiping her wet hair out of her face. “You think that’s funny? You think you’re clever?”

You don’t move. You know better. Morticia circles you, fast, then seizes your ankle and drags you back toward the closet. Your head knocks the vanity, spots sparking behind your eyes, and you mewl. 

She straddles you again, pinning you chest-down. This time she loops the belt around your neck, tightens it until your vision tunnels. You claw at the tile, at her skin that you could grab, but she is merciless.

“That’s right,” she croons. “Cry for me. Let’s see if your other mommy can save you now.” 

The blood is roaring in your ears. Every muscle in your body tenses, desperate for air. In a last, pathetic attempt to reason, you whisper:

“Please, Mommy. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t—”

The belt loosens, suddenly. Air rushes back in, burning your throat. Morticia flips you over so you’re staring up at her, her lips peeled back in a feral rictus.

She draws her fist back and smashes it into your mouth and face three times. Pain erupts, blinding and immediate, a sick pop as your tooth slams into your lip. You taste blood, then more: Morticia spits in your face, mixing her saliva with your tears and blood.

She stands up, looking at you like she doesn’t even recognize you.

You lie there, shivering, every inch of your body screaming, snot and blood slicking your chin.

Time dilates in the aftermath. Morticia recovers her composure with terrifying speed, as if some internal regulator snaps her back into equilibrium. She stands above you, breathing hard, hand trembling for a moment as she surveys the landscape of your battered face and body. The whole scene reflected in the mirror: you, a half-naked heap on the floor, her, the architect of ruin, straightening her dress with glacial poise.

You struggle to orient yourself as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a washcloth, meticulously erasing any trace of exertion. She observes her own reflection, perfecting the line of her lipstick, smoothing flyaways in her obsidian hair. The air between you is dense with a chemical tang—her perfume, your blood, the steamy ghosts of your interrupted bath. Then she turns to you with a look of theatrical disappointment, clucking her tongue as if you’ve spilled wine on the carpet.

“There, there,” she says, crouching down to your level, her shadow slicing across the tile. “Let’s not sulk. You’ll look back on this and realize I was right. I always am.” Her tone is honeyed but hollow, an actress delivering the final line before the curtain falls. You consider spitting at her feet, but the sick pain in your mouth tells you it’s not worth the effort.

She leans in, so close her hair brushes your cheek. For a moment you think she’s going to kiss you—some grotesque benediction—but instead she takes your jaw in her hand, squeezing until your vision flickers. She studies your eyes, searching for something, maybe fear, maybe obedience, maybe just her own reflection.

“Darling, you are so precious to me. Why can’t you understand that?” Her grip tightens, and you whimper, lips slick with blood and spit.

She sighs—deep, the martyrdom of a woman who’s had to discipline a wayward child. “You know I hate having to do this. But you make it impossible to be gentle.” She lets your head drop, watches you slump like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

For a moment, you think it’s over. But Morticia isn’t finished. She stands, stalks to the linen closet, and returns with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a fresh stack of cotton pads. She doesn’t bother to warn you; she soaks a wad and slaps it onto your torn lip, and the pain is pure and incandescent. You scream, but the sound is muffled by the pad of her hand. She dabs at the split in your eyebrow, your scraped cheek, and then, for good measure, pours a splash directly onto the welts striping your entire body.

“My dirty, dirty little girl. Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she murmurs, voice syrupy with false affection. “And you, cara mia, are in desperate need of redemption.” Each sting is a lesson, each clumsy wipe a benediction. You sob and twist away, but she holds you perfectly still, humming a tune that sounds like a bedtime lullaby. “Let Mommy help you, darling.”

When she’s satisfied that you are disinfected—inside and out—she tosses the bloodied pads in the trash and wipes her hands on her dress. “Darling, I do hope you learned something from this. I love you. Don’t make me do it again.” The words are so gentle, so matter-of-fact, that for a second you almost believe them. That the agony was a kind of gift, a favor to you. You feel a hysterical laugh bubble up, but it fizzles into a broken whimper.

Morticia blows you a kiss, then turns on her heel and stalks out of the bathroom. Her footsteps are bright and decisive, echoing off the tile as she moves through the silent house. You hear her in the bedroom, opening drawers, tossing her perfume and lipstick into her purse, zipping up a little clutch with the metallic snick of finality. The laptop clicks shut, then the heavy fall of her heels as she walks back and forth, collecting every item she needs for the day.

You try to move, but your limbs are made of iron and static electricity. From the floor, you watch the sliver of hallway outside the bathroom door. The world narrows to sound and shadow: the way Morticia sings to herself as she dresses, the sound of her phone buzzing with messages, the clatter of jewelry and glass. You picture her pausing in front of the mirror, checking her teeth, dabbing a fresh smear of plum across her lips. You imagine what the world must look like through her eyes—every moment under perfect control, every gesture a work of art, every injury to you just another brushstroke on her living canvas.

She lingers in the bedroom, maybe making a call or finishing a cup of tea, and you stare at the ceiling, counting the oscillations of the vent fan and the way the light shifts from white to gray as clouds pass overhead. Time balloons and collapses, your awareness caught in painful flashes: the throbbing haze over your left cheekbone, your tongue swollen where it bit down on itself, the slow, sticky ooze of blood from your eyebrow. You try to focus on something else, anything else, but every memory is a loop of Morticia’s voice, the snap of the belt, the way she looked at you when she said I love you.

After what feels like hours, you hear the front door slam with a sense of finality. The house falls silent except for the distant tick of the clock on the nightstand. You lie very still for a long while, waiting for Morticia to return, for her shadow to darken the threshold again. When she doesn’t, you finally allow yourself to breathe.

You lie there for what might be hours. The ache in your body is electric, pulsing with every heartbeat. Your ribs feel like splintered wood, and your throat is striped with belt-shaped bruises.

When you finally crawl to the bedroom, you see that Larissa has left a mug of broth on the nightstand. She must have heard everything. Maybe she was even outside the door, hand trembling, too afraid to interfere.

You spend the rest of the day in bed, muscles locked, and sip at the broth until you vomit. When dusk falls, Larissa tiptoes in, looks at you with infinite sadness, and lays a fresh ice pack on your pillow. She doesn’t say a word. Just pulls the blanket up over your battered body and sits, silent, in the dark.

That night, you dream of Morticia. She is everywhere—under your bed, behind the door, staring through the windows with eyes that never blink. 

In the morning, you check your reflection and see the new colors painted across your skin, the evidence of her possession. 

You wonder if you will ever truly belong to yourself again.

Chapter Text

The nights after Morticia’s little display are always the worst, though you could be forgiven for failing to distinguish between them. Every evening that she is there in the house is a rebuke, a silent contest of who can force the other to break first.

It’s almost funny, the way Morticia’s violence could still sting even when she wasn’t in the room with you—her presence sticks to the walls, clings to the bedsheets, soaks into the softest parts of your brain. Even when she’s gone, she is here. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, her shadow is the only thing that visits.

The house is a monument to secrecy. No locked door goes unopened for long, no boundary left undisturbed. Morticia built this prison to be beautiful, and in that she’s succeeded. The room is a museum of bruised prettiness: midnight velvet curtains, darkly lacquered furniture, a mirror that doubles as a funhouse for your face, and of course, the rocking chair that no one will admit is actually useful, because its creak is a warning system.

You try not to fall asleep at night. You fail every time.

It is the third night that you wake, the need to pee tugging you up from a chemical-thick sleep. You’ve been dreaming of Morticia’s hands, the way they can be soft and then suddenly not. The old ache in your jaw is worse tonight. She hasn’t hit you since, only because she hasn’t been back, but it’s as if the body can’t let go of the echo, and the swelling refuses to die down. In the half-light, you reach up and feel the texture of it—tight, hot, too tender to prod for long. Even so, the pain feels cleaner than the shame, so you linger with it a second longer than you have to.

A shadow twitches in the corner of the room. The rocking chair. You freeze.

It’s occupied.

Larissa, headmistress, jailer, and on her worst days, Morticia’s accomplice. She’s curled into the chair in an impossible pose, knees hooked over one arm, chin tucked to her chest. You’ve never seen her so defenseless. Her white-blonde hair is half fallen from its pins, a tangle you wouldn’t have believed possible. She’s wearing her clothes from the day before—a soft heather-gray sweatshirt, the sleeves casually rolled up, the neckline slightly relaxed. Her breathing is even, her eyelids fluttering slightly with the current of some secret nightmare.

The sight of her is so human it makes your heart splinter.

You don’t mean to gasp, but you do.

The sound is sharp as a dropped glass. Larissa lurches upright, head snapping back, mouth opening in a silent oh. She blinks at you, blue eyes dilated and watery. For a second, she looks like a little girl who’s woken from a storm, and you almost laugh. But then her gaze tightens, and you remember everything about her that isn’t sad or sweet.

She says your name, or at least tries to. The syllables catch on her tongue.

You manage a whisper: “Why are you here?”

Larissa smooths her sweatpants, adjusts her sweatshirt, composes herself. Her voice is a hush, barely audible above the blood rush in your ears. “I couldn’t sleep. I… needed to see you. You weren’t answering when I came to check on you.”

Her eyes travel to your jaw, linger there a fraction too long, then dart away. “I didn’t mean to—” she gestures, weakly, at the chair, at herself, at the small universe of your misery. “I’m sorry. I know you need your space. I just… You’re not safe with her. You never were.”

Your mouth feels full of cotton. “So you thought it’d be less creepy to watch me sleep?”

She looks genuinely pained. “Not less. Just… different.”

You push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the mattress. The room tilts, and you grab the nightstand. “I have to pee,” you say, as if this excuses you from any further conversation. You stand, but Larissa doesn’t move out of your way. She watches, hands twisted tight together, as you limp toward the en-suite.

You feel her gaze burning holes into your back the entire time.

Larissa has righted herself, feet planted square, hands resting on her knees. She looks like she’s waiting to be sentenced.

You want to tell her to leave, but the words snag somewhere between your ribs and throat. You wonder if she wants you to beg her to stay, or to scream at her to go. Maybe both.

She tries again. “You should have called me. If she—” Larissa’s voice breaks, and for a second, her mask slips. “She could’ve killed you.”

You laugh, but it’s a sound you don’t recognize. “She could’ve killed you, too. Still could.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” She leans forward, urgency crawling up her spine. “You don’t get it. Morticia’s dangerous, but not just to you. If she thinks I’m not loyal—if she thinks I care more about you than her—she’ll burn us both to the ground.”

You stare at wall. The idea of anyone being jealous of you is laughable, but the fear in her voice is real.

“You don’t have to protect me,” you say, voice small. “You never really could.”

Though you can’t see it, Larissa’s expression hardens. “But I wanted to. I still do. That’s the problem.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The room is full of unsaid things as the pee streams into the toilet. 

You return, you want to scream, or cry, or reach out and put your hands on her and shake her until something comes loose. Instead, you sit on the edge of the bed and look anywhere but at her.

Larissa stands, crossing the room in two strides. You flinch, expecting her to grab you, to do something violent or desperate. She just stands over you, big and raw and trembling, and when she speaks again, her voice is so gentle you almost don’t believe it’s real.

“I’ll go,” she says. “You don’t have to see me again tonight.”

She hesitates, and then: “Do you need anything? Food? Ice?”

Your face aches. “No.”

Larissa nods. “Okay.” She turns to leave, but her hand lingers on the doorknob. “If you change your mind, just… I’ll be around.”

The door shuts behind her with a muffled click. You sit in the dark, the weight of Larissa’s words pressing down harder than Morticia’s fists ever could. You don’t know what hurts more: that Larissa failed to save you, or that you still want her to try.

You lie back on the mattress, and this time, you don’t even bother trying to keep your eyes open. The house is quiet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before Morticia returns.

You tell yourself you’ll be ready. You tell yourself you don’t need anyone.

But as the ache in your jaw pulses, and the memory of Larissa’s shaking voice floats through the air, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you both need each other to make it out alive.

You call Larissa’s name, barely more than a whisper, and it takes a moment to realize it actually worked. She’s already in the doorway. You can’t read her face—a trick of the late afternoon light on her high cheekbones and the neat, pale hair pulled so tight it looks like a helmet, a shield. You feel ridiculous sitting at the edge of the bed, bruised and thin-skinned, unable to even look at her. You’re shaking a little. Not from fear, you try to tell yourself. Just pain.

You say, “Could you… hug me?” You sound younger than you are, and you hate it.

Larissa blinks. For a second, you see a glitch in her composure, a tightening of the mouth, an almost imperceptible step backwards before she steadies herself and steps in. “Of course.” She moves stiffly, as if someone’s watching or will be watching, and when she sits beside you her body is locked in place. Her arm comes around your shoulders, hesitant and cold. The kind of hug you’d expect at a funeral—one where the dead are still in the room.

You want to tell her to leave. To go away and spare you this performance. Instead you say, “You don’t have to if it’s that hard.” The words are sharp as a snapped wishbone.

She tries again, this time with a little more effort, but it’s still wrong. You want the warmth she offered that morning in the kitchen, her voice soft and breakfast-scented, the glimmer of kindness you almost believed. Now there’s a wall between you, glassy and absolute.

You push her away. “Never mind. You act like you’re afraid she’ll beat you up too.” You meant it as a joke, but it’s too close to the truth to land. Your smile is already unraveling.

She says nothing. Her silence is loaded.

The new bruises ache. You imagine them like angry galaxies, each a cold sun orbiting Morticia’s gravity. The memory of days before: Morticia’s hand in your hair, the sting of her ring cutting into your temple, the glimmer of amusement on her painted mouth as she told you that you were lucky, that she’d only ever break what she can fix. You told her you were sorry. She said, “I know you are, darling.” The words were the bite, not the balm.

You ease yourself back onto the bed and curl up, careful not to let the sheet touch the worst spots. You try not to cry, but you can’t stop it. The tears slide down your cheek and soak into the pillow. You do it quietly. You always do it quietly.

There is a tremor in the mattress and you think, for a moment, that you imagined it. But Larissa is moving. She climbs into the bed behind you, a slow, mechanical motion, like she’s afraid you’ll shatter if she’s too quick. She spoons you, her body a rigid parenthesis, and her arm comes around your waist. There’s a sharp scent of her cologne and the static crackle of her sleeve against your bare arm.

You sob into the bedding, a child again, and she says nothing. You can feel her heartbeat behind you, rapid and light. You say, “Please, Larissa. Let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I don’t even want to remember. Please. I just want to go home.”

Her grip tightens. Her breath goes shallow. You’re both prisoners, you realize. “She’ll kill me,” you whisper. “She said she would. I think she means it.”

Larissa’s voice is so small you almost miss it. “I know,” she says.

You turn in her arms, forcing your battered body to face her. You look up. There are tears on her cheeks, cutting through her makeup and leaving pale streaks on her skin. She doesn’t wipe them away. You wonder how long she’s been holding this in. Maybe longer than you.

She says, “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t let you go.” Her hand is on your back, warm now, trembling as much as you are.

You want to scream. You want to tell her she’s a coward, that she’s worse than Morticia because at least Morticia is honest about being a monster. But you don’t. You just cry until your head pounds and your hands go numb. And eventually, the exhaustion wins.

The world shrinks to a single point: Larissa’s arms around you, the cool cotton of her shirt against your cheek, her faint scent of flowers and bleach and fear.

You sleep.

It’s bright out when you wake, the kind of blue-silver glare that leaks through eyelids and pulls you out of even the deepest anesthetic. You’re alone, but the indent in the pillow next to you is still fresh, and you trace it with your finger, wondering if she’s in the kitchen or the bathroom or just gone.

You push yourself upright, wincing as your body protests. Your face looks worse than it feels—your eye is nearly swollen shut and your lips are split. Morticia’s handiwork is thorough. You stand, legs wobbly, and make your way to the door.

In the hallway, Larissa’s voice is a hissed whisper. You hover just out of sight.

“...no, I understand. Yes. She’s sleeping now.” Larissa’s voice is low and stripped of its usual warmth.

There’s a silence, then a laugh—a sound that crawls up your spine and settles at the base of your skull. Morticia. She’s on speakerphone, you realize. You edge closer, eyes on the shadows flickering under the door to the sitting room.

“You’re not coddling her, are you?” Morticia’s voice is syrup and razors. “I’d hate to think you were getting attached.”

A pause. You sense Larissa tensing. “She needs to rest. That’s all.”

Morticia sighs. “You always were sentimental, Larissa. A fatal flaw. I’ll be home soon. I expect her presentable.” You hear the call end, and then nothing.

Larissa’s shoulders droop. For a second, you see her mask drop, and underneath is raw panic.

You step into the room, and she startles—just for a fraction of a second, but you catch it. You sit in one of the plush armchairs, pulling your knees to your chest and hugging them.

Larissa kneels in front of you, careful not to touch. She says, “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” Your voice is flat.

She nods, as if she expected that, and stands. “I’ll make tea.”

You want to ask why she’s doing this—why she’s letting Morticia do this to you, to her. But you’re afraid of the answer. So you just sit in silence and listen to the sound of the kettle, the familiar domestic hum that feels alien now.

Larissa returns with tea, sets it down on the table, and sits across from you. “She’ll want to see you when she gets back,” she says. “You should… try to look better.”

You laugh, a dry sound. “What difference would it make?”

She opens her mouth, closes it. “You don’t know her like I do.”

You glare at her. “You think I want to?”

A muscle in her jaw jumps. “No. No, I don’t.”

You look at her, really look, and realize she’s more scared than you are. It’s not comforting.

The day stretches on, uneventful except for the relentless ticking of the clock and the ache in your bones. Eventually, Larissa retreats to her room, leaving you to your own devices.

You drift, doze, wake to the sound of footsteps and the hush of someone checking in on you. Time loses meaning. You wish you could do the same.

When dusk falls, the room fills with long, fingerlike shadows. You curl up on the bed, facing the wall, pretending you’re anywhere else.

You hear the creak of the door. Then Larissa’s weight settling on the mattress beside you.

You don’t look at her, but you feel her hand on your back. “I’m sorry,” she says again. The words are quieter this time. “If I could—”

You cut her off. “If you could, you’d let me go. But you can’t. Because of her.”

She doesn’t argue.

You fall asleep, not because you’re tired but because you’ve run out of things to say.

It’s 3am and you’re pulled out of a dream by the insistent buzz of a phone. Larissa jolts upright, almost falling out of the bed in her panic. You watch, dazed, as she grabs her phone and flees the room, closing the door behind her. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the invisible sheep and trying not to think.

Voices leak in from the hallway—first a muffled, urgent tone (Larissa), then the clear, metallic chime of Morticia through the phone. You can’t make out the words, but you don’t need to. The rhythm of the conversation tells you everything.

A few minutes later, the door opens. Larissa’s face is drained of color. “She wants to see you,” she says.

You nod. You stand and follow her to the vanity in front of the bed.

Larissa props the phone up on the desk. Morticia’s face fills the screen—flawless, even in pixels, the black hair framing her sharp jaw, her lips a perfect, poisonous bow.

“There she is,” Morticia croons. “Let me see her, darling.”

Larissa adjusts the phone so the camera captures your whole body. Morticia’s eyes widen, and for a moment you hope for a flicker of regret. Instead, she laughs. “You heal beautifully, Cara Bella. Turn your face.”

You obey, and she clucks her tongue at the bruises. “A little rougher than I’d intended, but you always did bruise like a peach.”

You feel sick.

“Show me the rest,” Morticia purrs. Larissa hesitates, but Morticia says, “Now.” Larissa pulls your sleeve up, exposes your battered arm then your shirt, showing your bare breasts. You look away, humiliated.

Morticia purrs. “You’re doing so well, y/n. I’m proud of you.”

The phone almost misses it, but Morticia’s eyes narrow. “What’s that on the bed?”

Larissa’s mouth goes dry. You glance and see nothing—then you spot it: a small, silver hoop, glinting in the lamplight. Larissa’s earring.

“Is that yours, Larissa? Because my little baby can’t wear jewelry right now.”

She snatches it up, nodding. “It must have come off when I changed the sheets.”

Morticia’s voice is syrup again, but there’s an imprint too. “You didn’t sleep in there with her, did you?”

Larissa’s knuckles go white. “Of course not.”

Morticia stares through the screen, eyes like scalpel points. “You remember what I said, Larissa. About boundaries.”

Larissa says nothing. You see her jaw working, rage and humiliation pooling in her eyes.

Morticia smiles. “You’re such a good girl. Clean her up, would you? I want her perfect for when I get back.” The call ends with the ending noise of a FaceTime call that feels like a guillotine.

Larissa stands perfectly still for a moment, then hurls the earring across the room. It bounces off the desk and skitters to the floor.

You say, “Why do you let her talk to you like that?”

She whirls on you, eyes wild. “Because she owns me. Because she has something on me, something that would destroy everything if it got out.”

You stare at her. “So you just do whatever she says?”

She laughs—a broken, ugly sound. “Isn’t that what you do, too?”

You want to fight back, but you’re out of ammo. The room is thick with defeat.

Larissa paces, hands trembling. “I never wanted this. Any of it.”

“Then help me. Please.”

She stops, looks at you with a strange tenderness. “I want to.”

“Then do it.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. The words hang between you, an unfinished equation.

Finally, she says, “Get some rest. Later will be worse.”

You know she’s right. But you still hope she’s wrong.

You crawl into bed and wait for the light.

You wake an hour later to footsteps, voices. You hear Larissa crying in the hallway, muffled and desperate. You don’t know if it’s for you or herself, and you’re not sure it matters.

In the morning, Morticia will return. You will try to survive her again.

You lie there, listening to the empty house, and for the first time you wonder if anyone will come looking.

You hope, irrationally, that it will be Larissa.

But you know it won’t.

It isn’t the sound of the doorbell that catches your attention. It’s the change in air—how it thickens and grows sweet, like a bakery with something forbidden rising in the oven. A syrupy, spicy perfume seeps under the threshold, sickly and thick, and you know before Larissa’s even opened the door that Morticia Addams is here. She’s here, and you’re not ready.

You try to ready yourself anyway. You press both hands to the kitchen counter, body weighted forward, black eye still burning where last night’s tears cooled it to a purplish luster. You can hear Larissa’s footsteps, soft but rapid, as she goes to answer. You hate that you tense at her voice, that you tense at all. Morticia Addams is not supposed to scare you. She’s supposed to love you, or at least fuck you nicely, but she isn’t supposed to hurt you. She isn’t supposed to hurt you and then show up like you asked for it.

There’s no time to spiral. Larissa’s voice carries down the hall, polite and clipped, but behind it is the low purr of Morticia’s, syrupy and slow.

You keep your eyes fixed to the fruit bowl in front of you. Bananas browning at the tips. One single green apple. You try to make your mind blank, but you’re too aware of the noise behind you, the way Morticia’s heels click and drag on tile. The smell of her intensifies—a fistful of blood mandarin, a high note of cinnamon, and underneath it all a bitter bite of leather, something animal and raw. One Million Lucky by Paco Rabanne, if you’re not mistaken, which you never are especially because you purchased it for her birthday. She’s worn it before. She’s never dressed up for you before, though.

When you finally look up, you see her in the doorway, standing gracefully in front of Larissa’s tall frame. And you do not recognize her. Not at first.

You see a tall woman, warm not sickly, her skin dusted in a rose glow that creeps up her bare shoulders. She wears a maroon dress, strapless, all exposed collarbone and glossy. Her hair is done in waves—light, touchable, soft—and her makeup, which is usually all sharp lines and matte, is now almost vulnerable. Subtle blush, demure smoky shadow, a wine-colored gloss instead of a deadly matte. You can see the way her earring sparkles, refracting a mean glimmer onto her neck, and the diamond necklace, the way it lies flat on her collar like a shackle. For a split second, you want to touch it.

Morticia smiles at you, and it’s not the dangerous, knowing smile you expect—it’s the kind people wear when they’re trying to sell something. A version of nice that is so obviously fake you want to laugh. “Hello, darling,” she says, and the “darling” is all velvet and oil, sliding down your throat and coating it with something sweet and caustic at once.

You say nothing.

Larissa, for her part, is also silent. You glance at her and realize her expression is every bit as baffled as yours, though she tries to mask it. Morticia unloops her fingers from each other and glides toward you. Every move she makes is calculated, a practiced elegance, but tonight it’s got a new charge—effervescent, a little giddy, as if she’s just finished a bottle of champagne in the limo.

“Pretty girl,” Morticia says, stopping inches in front of you. Her voice drops so only you can hear. “You’re healing up so nicely. I almost wouldn’t believe it happened.”

You feel the urge to spit something back. Instead, you just nod, eyes fixed to her collarbone, refusing to make eye contact. “Thank you,” you manage. It comes out in a hoarse whisper.

Morticia’s hand lifts—so light, so soft, like a cat pawing at a curtain—and gently tips your chin up with a single finger. She’s not rough. She’s not rough at all, which is almost worse.

“Don’t hide,” she murmurs, and then, to the room, “I wanted to see you before my evening plans. I didn’t want to leave things…unaddressed.”

Evening plans. It doesn’t register at first, so she repeats it for you, teeth showing in a pretty white bar. “I have a date,” she says, and only then do her eyes flick to Larissa’s then back to yours. “Oh, don’t be so sad.” She giggles.

The way she says it, you know she knows exactly what she’s doing. She wanted this moment to be a surprise, to drop it on you like a brick through a window. You feel the blow in your ribs before your mind can even process it, a quick contraction of all your organs and a strange, cold calm. You manage to say, “Oh,” like it’s the weather.

Larissa, who’s been looming at the edge of the kitchen this whole time, says, “A date?” There’s something frantic in her voice, but Morticia just gives her a polite, dismissive smile.

“Of course. I do have a life, several actually,” Morticia says, and steps a half-inch closer to you. You can see her eyes now. They look brown, but not the dead brown of usual—they’re alive, flecked with copper, full of something like pleasure. “And I wanted to make sure you were still breathing after our little…encounter. I see now that you are. I hate to admit that I am rather horny. I thought about coming fuck you just to get it out of my system before I got there but… I think I’ll save my body for someone more grateful. Maybe even more qualified.” 

You are very much alive, though you’re not sure you want to be and you have to admit that that last sentence was a gut punch, of course it’s because you fucked Larissa. But she told you to.

Larissa tenses, and for the first time, you see something like protectiveness in her. She crosses to you, puts a hand—gentle, huge—on your shoulder, and squares off with Morticia. “Is there a reason you’re here besides to gloat?”

Morticia hums, slapping Larissa’s hand off of your shoulder. “I’m not gloating. Mommy is just letting her baby know.” She flicks her gaze down, taking in your bruised face, the way you flinch at Larissa’s touch, and her smile stretches. “I just wanted to see you. And maybe make amends for the trouble I caused.”

You can’t take it. You try to pull away, but Morticia’s proximity tightens, anchoring you. Morticia tilts her head, observing, then lets her hand slip from your chin to your neck, slow and languid. Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, feather-light, but it feels like fire. She leans in and murmurs, “Don’t be upset, cara mia. This is how things go.” 

Morticia moves in, closing the already suffocating gap between you, her body corralling yours until your hips hit the kitchen counter with a dull, finalizing thud. You don’t want to recoil, don’t want to give her the satisfaction of watching you shrink, but the way she moves, the way she smells—it’s all too overwhelmingly good. Her hands land first on your waist, then slide, with dreadful slowness, to your back. She pulls you forward into her, not like a lover but like a puppeteer pulling strings, and her hands start to roam, exploring the bruised and tender topography of your skin as if she is mapping it for later conquest.

She is methodical. One hand cups your ass, squeezes, then slips up to your rib cage, fingers splaying to measure the curve of your side. She pinches, grabs, massages—at each place of contact she extracts a minuscule flinch, a wince that she files away with a private smile. Her touch is warm, almost clinical, but inside the chill of it you can feel the heat of her intent. She is putting on a show, and you are both audience and captive prop.

Suddenly, her hand snakes up your back and into your hair, which she gathers into a fist. She doesn’t tug, not at first. The anticipation is worse than any pain. Then she yanks just enough to force your head back, exposing your throat and jaw, and she leans in, tongue darting out to lick the full length of your neck—slowly, languidly, leaving a glistening trail from collarbone to earlobe. The tip of her nose follows, nosing aside any stray hairs, and then her free hand comes up to caress your face, thumb trailing over your cheekbone with a parody of gentleness. 

You’re frozen, not from fear—though fear is certainly there—but from the sick nostalgia of longing. The memory of wanting her this badly. It’s pathetic, you hate it, but it’s real.

Morticia’s lips hover at your ear, her voice a hot purr that vibrates through your whole body. “Do you want me to touch it?” she whispers. “I can make you feel so good, wouldn’t you want that, my precious girl?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just nips at your earlobe and lets her hand wander lower, fingers kneading the flesh of your arm, your hip, always moving, always taking. 

Larissa is still in the room. You know this because her anger is palpable, a rising red tide that fills the air, but Morticia never acknowledges her, not even a flicker of attention wasted. She is wholly fixed on you, and it feels both intoxicating and suffocating at once.

Then, just as abruptly, Morticia goes still. Her gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall, as if she’s just remembered the world outside the two of you. She releases your hair, smooths it down with a slow stroke, and then, with her other hand, lifts your wrist and inspects it. You’re so disoriented that it takes a second to realize why. There are bruises—old, new, technicolor. She runs her thumb over them; the pressure is feather-light, but her expression is clinical, almost cold.

“I was rough with you, my darling,” she says, her voice stripped of any playfulness. “I’m sorry. I won’t be again.” The way she says it, you know she doesn’t mean it. Because the minute you disobey, she wouldn’t hesitate.

It is crueler than any beating.

You hold your breath, but your body betrays you. A single tear, hot and angry, slips from your right eye. You shake it away, but Morticia sees. She always sees. She coos, “Oh, my stolen star... You’re so sensitive tonight. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

You want to scream. Instead, you say, “What’s she like?” You don’t know why you ask. Maybe you want her to say “she’s ugly, she’s nothing,” but instead Morticia beams, as if she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“She’s nothing like you,” Morticia says, eyes lighting up. “She’s taller, for one. Blonde, for another. Very put together, very elegant. Trying something new...”

You feel it in your chest, a soundless burst, like a champagne cork popping. It is stupid, how much you want her to take it back.

Larissa’s interrupts, hoping to remind Morticia to get a move on. She says, “Wow, Tish. You look…not dead. Very beautiful.” It’s supposed to be sarcastic, but the words come out flat, and you hear the undertone of defeat.

Morticia soaks it up. “Thank you, Larissa. That’s very gracious of you.” She takes a step back, surveying you with a smirk, then checks her diamond watch—no, it’s not a watch, it’s a bracelet, even more ostentatious. “Well, I mustn’t keep her waiting. But I needed to see for myself that y/n was on the mend.”

She leans in, to kiss you on the mouth. You flinch, and she stops, regarding you coolly. “I won’t fight you for it. I’m already late… I’ll think of you the whole time.”

You want her gone. You want her to stay. It is unbearable. You look to Larissa, but she’s lost in her own embarrassment, jaw clenched.

Morticia walks away, slow and deliberate. But at the threshold, she stops, and looks back over her shoulder with a look so smug it makes your skin prickle.

“You never took me on a date. I guess I was always just some piece ass to you… Try not to get anything you can’t get rid of,” you say, louder than you intend. The words echo, ugly and sharp.

Morticia gasps and stops. She doesn’t turn, it’s true she hadn’t taken you on the date but she can’t excuse the mean thing her special girl just told her. “You’ll pay for that,” she says, sing-song, and then she’s gone, her perfume lingering like the residue of a particularly cruel joke.

You stand there, breathing hard, eyes stinging, and the only sound is Larissa’s nervous shuffling.

You want to collapse. You don’t. You stand there, wanting to die, wanting to rip the necklace off Morticia’s neck, wanting to bite her until she bleeds, wanting to vanish.

Larissa is the first to speak. “Don’t take it personally. She’s…she’s not herself.” You want to believe her, but all you can see is the shimmer of Morticia’s dress, the perfect set of her hair, the memory of her hands tracing your face and then pulling away like you were something sour as she shuts the door behind her.

You take three ragged breaths. Then, without looking at Larissa, you whisper, “She’s never done that for me. Not once.”

Larissa hesitates. “It won’t last long, Morticia’s fucking psycho. You’re better off, y/n.”

You try to keep yourself busy. You start dishes but leave them floating in greasy suds. You switch on the TV and mute it, watching the closed captions scroll across the bottom, words making less and less sense until your vision swims. 

You curl on the futon, burrowed under three layers of blankets, eyes raw and gritty from crying. You do not want to think about her with another woman. You do not want to picture it. But the mind is a traitor. But… why the fuck are you so mad?

You imagine her sitting at a linen-draped table, candlelight painting her hollowed cheeks, the curve of her lips as she tells some story about her fake life. Morticia, beautiful in her armor of red satin and wine lipstick, sucking all the oxygen from the room. The woman across from her is pretty in a sad, generic way. An accessory more than a rival. You wonder if she can see it, the way Morticia’s attention is a hungry, unyielding thing.

The thought stings and you sit up, burying your face in the hoodie’s sleeve and screaming into the crook of your elbow. It comes out muffled and trembling. A child’s tantrum in a grown woman’s body.

Time does its strange, elastic thing. The hours move forward and backward at once.

On the other side of town, Morticia’s foot taps out a war drum beneath the table. The woman—Kaylee? Katie?—is still monologuing about herself. Morticia is watching her, or rather, watching the reflection of the dining room in the polished surface of her wineglass.

You haunt her every thought, a ghost lurking in the background of her peripheral vision. Morticia drums her nails on the menu, distracted, fangs a tight smile. She does not remember what this girl’s laugh sounds like. She wonders if she could call you right now and what you would say, if you’d even answer. She has not texted Larissa because it would be—what, rude? Or would it simply betray her own inability to focus on the person in front of her?

Morticia finds herself longing for the scent of your shampoo, the way you are so very breakable when you let yourself be. She cannot even bring herself to touch her date’s hand when offered. “I’m sorry,” she says, sudden and low, “I was distracted by your eyes. I hope that isn’t too forward.”

The girl blushes. Morticia grits her teeth. She hates herself for it.

The food is unspeakably bland. She dabs her napkin at her mouth, not because she needs to but because she must keep her hands busy, must do anything to keep from texting Larissa to check on you as she’s done a hundred times before, always at the exact wrong moment.

The conversation is still a series of buoys in a black, infinite sea—she paddles from one to the next, feigning interest, performing delight, but every word is just another reminder of how much more alive she felt when you were pressed up against her, whispering dark little promises into her ear. This bitch isn’t even giving Morticia a chance to lie about her fake life, how rude.

The date—Morticia is sure her name starts with a K, Kelly or Kim or Katrina, but refuses to look at her phone to confirm—leans forward, telling a story about a trip to Paris, a weird encounter in a hotel elevator. Morticia could not care less. She nods, smiles, but has already begun to imagine you in that elevator, your laugh echoing off the walls, the way you’d press every button just to prolong the ride. She imagines you pushing her up against the polished brass, your hands everywhere, and the thought is so real she has to take a gulp of her wine to swallow down the moan building in her throat.

She should have fucked you before she left. That’s the heart of it, isn’t it? She should have sated herself on you, gorged until she was sick, before she tried to pretend at normalcy again. This is not normal. This is a farce, a diorama of happiness constructed out of cardboard and glue. She is an animal in a human suit, and only you ever saw the seams.

Her date is saying something about consulting and rescuing cats and running a marathon. Even the cadence of her voice is off, and Morticia’s eyes keep drifting to the patch of skin between the woman’s throat and her collarbone, wondering if she can conjure a bruise there with just her gaze.

She is so wet she can barely sit still, but the thought of this woman—this stranger—touching her is enough to kill the feeling instantly. She only wants you, the way you’d let her use your body as a canvas and a knife and a chalice all at once. She wants to see you ruined and remade in her hands.

She remembers—god, she can’t forget—the way she would straddle you, the beautiful, ugly noises she made when you pushed the strap in deep, choking her on your fingers until she cried. She remembers the first time she let you milk her, your astonishment at the taste, the way she blushed and begged for more, and how you would keep her secret even as you let her mark you everywhere. She remembers your mouth, greedy and sweet, and the sound you made when she bit down just a little too hard, and how you’d threaten to bite her back, but never did. 

Morticia feels the heat rising in her, a flush that starts along her chest and runs up her neck, and she’s grateful for the dim lighting that hides the evidence. She shifts again, crossing her legs tighter under the table, and her date mistakes it for nervous excitement. “Isn’t this place cozy?” the woman says, and Morticia almost laughs. If she opened her mouth, a scream might come out instead.

She fans herself with her napkin, feigning a hot flash. “I find it hot in here, don’t you think?” She tries for flirtation, but it comes out too sharp, edged with impatience.

The woman blinks, startled. “No, it’s comfortable,” she says, maybe a little defensive. Morticia grits her teeth and offers an apologetic smile that is more a baring of fangs than anything else.

You are a ghost at the table, more real to her than the other woman’s pulse. Morticia’s mind drifts again, this time to the aftermath—the quiet, the stillness, the way you’d curl up beside her, bruised but proud, clinging to her as if she were the last solid thing in a world gone soft. How easy it was to hurt you, how impossible to stop.

She knows she will text you. She knows she will beg. She knows she will offer whatever you want, even though you won’t believe her and you’ll ask for something that hurts. She’s already constructing the message in her head, rehearsing the apology, planning the next time she will see you, touch you, break you open and drink whatever pours out.

Her date is talking about her family now, about how she grew up in a small town, how she always felt a little out of place, how she was bullied for being too tall, too smart, too much. Morticia can conjure a drop of empathy—she too has been too much for everyone, except for you—but she is bored by the neatness of the story, the lack of bite. She wants to ask the woman if she’s ever been truly afraid, if she’s ever let someone thread their fingers around her throat and squeeze, just a little, until the world goes black and bright at the same time. She wants to ask if the woman has ever ruined anyone, or been ruined in turn.

Instead she says, “You have beautiful hands.” She means it, sort of; the hands are manicured, pale, trembling just a little. Morticia wonders what they’d look like clumsy and desperate, or painted in blood.

“Thank you,” the woman says, flustered. Morticia takes her hand, runs her thumb over the knuckles, and tries to imagine it as yours. It doesn’t work. The date’s hand is soft and lifeless, a prop.

Morticia almost laughs again. She drinks more wine, fast and reckless, and lets the burn remind her she is still alive, still hungry, still wanting. The woman across from her is talking about her job again, something about clients and deadlines, and Morticia nods, but inside she is somewhere else, in a memory of the last time she saw you, the way you trembled at her touch but still spat insults at her, your defiance always making the final surrender all the sweeter.

She knows she is being unkind. She knows she should at least pretend to care, but it’s so hard. All she wants to do is drag you out of her brain, kneel you between her legs, and make you say her name until your voice cracks. She wants to punish you for letting her leave for this date, for making her have to settle for this, for anything less than the violence and devotion of your love.

The girl across from her has noticed her distraction. She looks down, laughs nervously, and says, “I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

Morticia blinks, caught. “Not at all. I’m…a little distracted. It’s not your fault.” She tries to soften it, and maybe she even means it a little.

The woman smiles, relieved but wary. “Do you want to get out of here?” she asks, voice low and hopeful.

Morticia hesitates. She knows she should say yes, go through the motions, let this woman have her night and wake up with a story to tell her friends. But the thought of it—of trying to be present, of faking pleasure, of pretending to care about the afterglow—makes her skin crawl. She wants to be inside you or inside her own head, nowhere else.

She forces herself to smile. “That’s very forward of you,” she purrs, and the woman giggles, thinking it’s a compliment. Morticia feels a jolt of pity for her, for her hope, for her ignorance of the dark things that wait beneath Morticia’s pretty skin.

Morticia pays the bill and offers her arm, because that’s what a lady does, and leads the woman out into the night. The air is sharp and cold, and Morticia breathes it in, trying to cool the fever that burns in her veins. She glances at her phone. No new messages. She wants to send one, but she doesn’t trust her hands not to tremble.

Morticia navigates the streets, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts, when the girl beside her suggests just how they continue the night inside. With a reluctant nod, Morticia agrees, but all she can think about is racing back to her secret hideaway for a wild encounter with you before slipping back into her life as a mother.

Then, just as she prepares to pull over, her heart plummets at the sight of Wednesday dressed in her usual dark attire, with her backpack and her tape recorder to her mouth as she stares at her mother’s car.

A wave of icy fear washes over Morticia, freezing her in place. Wednesday, with her uncanny ability to sense trouble, spots the sleek Mercedes and halts, eyes narrowing, waiting for someone to step out. The tinted windows offer no glimpse of Morticia's panic.

"Oh shit," Morticia whispered, her voice barely escaping her lips. The girl next to her catches the look of sheer terror on Morticia's face just as she slams on the gas and speeds away. 

"What are you doing?" the girl squeaked, her voice quaking as Morticia whips around the corner. 

"You need to get out! That's my daughter!" Morticia barked, urgency lacing her tone. 

"She's really pretty!" The girl says.

"Bitch!" Morticia is now full-blown panicking while the brainless woman lollygags around.

Then it hits her, "Wait. You didn't tell me you had kids!" the girl stammers, panic rising like bile in her throat. 

Morticia's fear twists into a sharp, biting sarcasm as she regains her composure. "Well, you didn't exactly give me a chance to chat," she shot back, her expression deadpan. The girl falls silent, left bewildered as Morticia shoves her out of the car and speeds off. 

Once she is safely out of town, her hands still trembling on the steering wheel, Morticia glances at the dating app. "Ohhhh… Francesca," she muttered, finally matching a name to the face. "Where the hell did I get a K from?"

She dials Larissa. The phone rings five times, six. She pictures Larissa’s phone on vibrate, left in a drawer or at the bottom of a bag. Or maybe it’s just you together, huddled in some corner of the house, whispering behind her back. The thought is maddening, and Morticia does not handle madness well.

Chapter Text

While Morticia is on her date. You take the longest shower of your life. It’s not intentional—you just lose time, standing with your head bowed under the scalding stream, watching the water run milky white from your uncleared hair. The mirror is a perfect rectangle of condensation, your reflection a faceless ghost behind steam.

When you step out, the chill hits hard. You pad to the bedroom, towel discarded somewhere along the way. You’re drying off with slow, distracted gestures, so lost in the fog of exhaustion and bruised emotion that you don’t notice the creak of the door until it’s too late.

The door swings open and she’s there, so tall she seems to fill the entire doorway, platinum hair coiled into a helmet of icy authority. Principal Weems—or Larissa—eyes your bare body for a long beat. Her lips part like she’s about to reprimand you for something, then she grins, razor-bright.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she says, deadpan, and you scramble to snatch up a shirt, any shirt, and manage to get your head stuck in the collar for the first ten seconds of your flustered struggle.

She laughs, not unkindly, and tosses herself onto the end of the bed, shoes still on. The springs groan. You finally emerge from the jersey cotton with your dignity mostly intact, cheeks burning so hot you could start an electrical fire.

“I—uh. Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly,” she says, and you can’t tell if she’s teasing or if that’s just how she sounds all the time. She gestures at the rumpled heap of comforter and patted the spot next to her. “C’mere.”

You, still bottomless, hesitate. She’s intimidating, this woman. Even slouched on a bed, she carries herself with that same predator-elegance as Morticia, but where Tish is all velvet daggers and manipulation, Larissa is built of steel beams and old wounds.

You sit, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around yourself. It’s quiet. Larissa’s eyes are bloodshot, her eyeliner smudged just enough to suggest she’s had a day. She surveys the room—the tangled sheets, the wet footprints, the stray black bra draped over the desk lamp.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough one,” she says.

You laugh, an ugly little hiccup. “You could say that.”

She lets the silence breathe between you, just long enough to become uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry about Morticia,” she says. “She… she gets bored. I wish I could say it wasn’t predictable.”

You nod. It’s not really an apology you want from her. What you want is something you can’t even name.

She nudges you with her shoulder. “You okay?”

“Not really,” you say. It feels good to admit it, out loud, to someone who won’t weaponize it later. You glance over, searching for the right words. “I just—I keep thinking about how everything would be different if I’d actually gone for what I wanted. Back when I still had options.”

Larissa cocks her head. “What did you want?”

You wrap a fist in the comforter, twist it. “I was going to be a writer. Move to New York, get some dumb MFA, marry a barista, die in a rent-controlled apartment surrounded by cats and disappointment. Instead I just… stayed here. And now I can’t even remember the last time I wrote anything that wasn’t an, ‘I’m sorry, Mommy’ letter to Morticia.”

She hums, sympathetic. “It never quite goes how you planned.”

You sigh. “What about you? Did you always want to be the benevolent warden of a school for mutants?”

She snorts, the sound nearly scandalous coming from someone so composed. “God, no. I wanted to be President of the United States.”

You glance at her, surprised into a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Oh yes,” she says, dry as bone. “Madam President Larissa Weems. I was going to live in the White House and fix everything. World hunger, nuclear proliferation, standardized testing—all of it.”

You grin, despite yourself. “You know, you still could. I mean, after the latest guy…”

Her eyes glimmer. “What, you mean the orange toad? I assure you, my résumé is far more impressive. Plus, I look better in a suit. He stole that darn election, by the way.”

“I believe he did too.” You collapse, giggling, for the first time in days. It feels dangerously good. You haven’t seen Larissa so normal before being captive with her.

Larissa grins. “See? Not so hard. Laughing at life’s stupidity is the only way through it.”

She leans back, head tilted, thoughtful. “Truth is, what I really wanted was to teach. But I was too ambitious. Couldn’t stand the idea of being mediocre at anything, so I just… climbed until I couldn’t go higher. Now I don’t remember how to climb down.”

You study her face, the delicate lines at the corners of her mouth, the way she never quite looks directly at you unless she means it.

“What stopped you?” you ask, voice small.

“My father,” she says, softly. “He died before I graduated. He always said I’d do something big, and I believed him. I didn’t want to let him down.”

You swallow, hard. The room feels both heavier and lighter at once.

“I don’t think it’s too late,” you say. “You still have time to do something for you.”

She chuckles. “You sound just like him.”

You lean into her, shoulder against arm. She doesn’t flinch.

“In case you didn’t notice,” Larissa says, “I’m currently an accomplice in a kidnapping.” She gestures to you, making an exaggerated show of your disheveled state. “I think that ship has sailed.”

You snort. “Guess we’re both stuck, huh?”

She shrugs, and for a moment her hand lingers on your thigh, light as snowfall. “Could be worse.”

You hesitate, then rest your head on her shoulder. She lets you, almost as if she was hoping you would.

For a while you just sit like that, breathing in sync, hearts drumming old battle hymns. She’s warm, solid, a far cry from Morticia’s chill.

“I liked me better before all this,” you mumble, eyes closing.

“Before what?”

You wave your hand, vague and encompassing. “Before I became this. Before I let someone treat me like a chew toy.”

She huffs. “You’re not a chew toy. And you’re certainly not a lost cause.”

You’re about to reply when her hand slides further up your thigh, thumb brushing circles over skin that’s still damp from the shower. It’s so gentle you almost don’t register it at first, but when you look up, her gaze has gone hard and hungry. Not cruel, but determined.

You let her. You lean in, testing, and she doesn’t recoil. Instead, she presses her mouth to your hairline, slow and deliberate.

For a heartbeat, you freeze. Then something inside you cracks, and you climb onto her lap, straddling her hips with your naked thighs. You expect her to make a joke, to say something cutting or clever, but she just exhales and lets her hands roam up your back, the size of them making you feel tiny in a way that is not at all unpleasant.

You grind against her thigh, feeling the heat of her body through both your skin. Her hands find your ass, kneading, and you gasp, a pathetic little whimper that echoes off the plaster walls.

You ride her thigh, friction making your clit throb, and in your mind you picture Morticia watching, arms crossed, lips curled in jealous disgust. The thought nearly undoes you.

Larissa seems to sense this, because she leans back, dragging you down with her, and crushes your mouth in a kiss that is nothing like the ones Morticia gave. This is not a performance, not a manipulation. This is need, raw and unchecked.

She bites your bottom lip, not enough to break skin but enough to make you keen. Her hands are everywhere—your tits, your hips, the nape of your neck. You rock against her, slick and desperate, grinding until her tailored pants are soaked through and you’re shaking.

You pull away, breathless, and she grins up at you, lipstick smeared and eyes wild. “Is this what you want?” she asks, voice gravelly.

You nod, unable to form words.

She rolls you onto your back, sheets cool against your fevered skin. She pins your wrists above your head, kisses you with a reverence that borders on worship. Her tongue trails down your throat, across your collarbone, circling each nipple until you’re arching off the mattress, begging.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she murmurs, and the words make you tremble.

She works her way down, mouth hot and insistent on your belly, your hips. Her teeth graze the softest part of your thigh. You spread for her, shameless now, and she hums her approval before burying her face in your cunt.

She eats you like she’s starving, tongue lapping slow at first, savoring, then faster, rougher, until you’re clawing at the headboard and sobbing her name. You come hard, vision whiting out, and she doesn’t stop, working you through every aftershock until you’re limp and gasping.

When she finally surfaces, her chin is slick and her smile is wicked. She crawls up your body, kisses you deep and messy, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

Morticia swerves into the driveway, nearly taking out a trashcan. The porchlight is off. The only illumination comes from a slit of yellow in the window—your bedroom. Her bedroom. She listens, engine idling, then kills the lights and stalks to the front door, leaving her heels in the car for silent movement.

Inside, the air is thick with sex. The house is humid, the kind of humidity that only comes from bodies spent and sweating. Morticia’s hand tightens on the doorknob. She hears it before she sees it: the muffled gasp, the sticky wet pat of flesh on flesh, the rasping, stuttering cry.

You’re not alone.

She floats up the stairs, as if the floorboards were made of velvet. At the top of the landing, she pauses, hand splayed on the wall. Her nails dig into the plaster, leaving crescent scars.

The door is open just enough.

Inside, you’re splayed naked atop the sheets, hair wild and limbs loose, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen with recent pleasure. Larissa is above you, straddling your thigh, her perfect white hair shaken loose, mouth glued to your neck, sucking dark flowers of bruises onto your skin. You are making a sound Morticia has never heard before, a keening that is all need, none of the artifice you’d ever given to Morticia. Your hands are buried in Larissa’s hair, pulling, desperate.

Morticia watches for a full minute, heart hammering, bile slick in her mouth. She thinks of all the times you had begged, whispered, promised to be hers alone.

The illusion is so thoroughly shattered she wants to scream.

Instead, she walks away, closes the door, and stalks down the hall. In the guest bathroom she sits on the closed toilet, shaking. There is a clatter in her bag—her phone, a silver flask, a pocketknife she keeps for emergencies.

She pours a shot of gin straight from the bottle, drains it. Then another.

The sounds from the bedroom are growing, punctuated by the wet slapping of Larissa’s palm against your cunt. She hears you cry out, “Fuck, please,” and then Larissa’s voice, gravel and velvet, “Take it, sweet girl, let it happen.”

Morticia cannot breathe. She wants to claw her face off. She wants to kill Larissa Weems. She wants to tear you apart and make you whole again, all at once.

She stands and looks in the mirror. Her eyes are running black from mascara, lips bruised where she’s bitten them raw. She is not the vision she had prepared for tonight. She is ruined.

She goes back down the hall and waits. When she hears the first round of climax die down, she slams the door open, making the whole frame rattle.

You and Larissa both flinch, the spell broken. Larissa goes instantly to high alert, one arm thrown across your torso, eyes narrowed and calculating. You curl into yourself, arms across your chest, suddenly so small.

Morticia is on you in two steps, the force of her presence so total that Larissa actually pushes herself backwards, naked and unashamed. Morticia grabs your wrist, yanking you from the bed, and for a moment you fear she might break you. But her grip softens and she instead buries her face in your hair, sobbing.

“You traitor,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “My traitor.”

Larissa climbs to her feet, stands over both of you. “Don’t blame her,” she says. “You lost the right—”

Morticia cuts her off with a backhand so quick and sharp it echoes. Larissa reels but does not fall. Instead, she snarls and pounces. They collide in a tangle of limbs, Morticia’s red dress against Larissa’s pale, naked flesh. Morticia’s nails rake down Larissa’s shoulder, drawing blood. Larissa gets a grip on Morticia’s hair and yanks, nearly pulling her off her feet.

You scramble from the line of fire, clutching the comforter to your chest. The room is a battlefield.

Morticia lands a slap on Larissa’s face, open and savage. Larissa retaliates with a knee between Morticia’s legs, pinning her against the wall. Morticia spits in her face, an obscene, perfect arc.

“You think you can take what’s mine?” Morticia hisses.

“She’s not property,” Larissa growls, voice shaking. “You fucked it up.”

Morticia twists, kicking off the wall, and they crash onto the bed. Larissa tries to pin her, but Morticia slips free, baring her teeth. “She’s mine,” she moans, “mine, mine, mine.”

Larissa gets Morticia in a chokehold, squeezing just enough to make her vision blur. “No,” she says, voice low, “she’s no one’s. She’s her own.”

Morticia manages to elbow Larissa in the gut and wriggle free. She lands on top, knees digging into Larissa’s ribs, both hands around her throat. Larissa does the same but tighter. Morticia’s face goes purple, but she’s grinning, the sick bastard. She likes it. You see her hips buck, unconsciously humping Larissa’s body as Larissa strangles her.

It is so fucked up you almost laugh.

You scream, “Tish, stop!”

The word cracks through the room like a whip. Morticia freezes. Her hands slacken, eyes going wide with animal panic. She lets go and rolls off, trembling.

She turns on you, and before you can brace, she smacks you across the face, hard enough to send you tumbling against the nightstand. The lamp topples. You taste blood in your mouth.

She does not apologize. She staggers back, fists balled, then slams the en-suite door behind her.

You hear glass shatter in the hallway.

Larissa recovers first. She rushes to your side, cradling your head, thumb brushing away the hot well of tears that spring up. “I’m so sorry,” she says, “I didn’t think she’d…”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

You both listen, tense, as Morticia rampages through the house. Drawers slamming, more glass breaking, a scream that rattles the windows. Then silence.

Then the most awful sound: a wet, heavy slash. Then a scream.

Larissa bolts for the door, but you’re already up, sprinting after her. You find Morticia in the master bath, crouched over the sink, a bloody shard of mirror in her hand. Her left forearm is a mess of red. She’s slicing parallel lines with the clinical precision of someone who’s done it before.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you shriek, and Larissa pins Morticia’s arms from behind.

Blood spatters everywhere, glistening on the tiles, the bathmat, Larissa’s hands.

You rip Morticia’s dress off, exposing the black lace bra and matching panties she wore for the date. You grab a towel, wrap it tight around her arm, but the blood just seeps through, thick and hot. You have stitched yourself up a hundred times, but never her.

Larissa is trying to talk her down, voice low and soothing. Morticia is howling, twisting, spitting curses in three languages.

You grab the emergency sewing kit from the cabinet. You shove a hand towel into Morticia’s mouth and order her to bite. She does, teeth sinking in, eyes wild. Larissa puts Morticia on the floor and you get your naked body on top of her to hold her down.

You thread the needle, hands slick with blood, and start sewing. Morticia’s body writhes, her hips bucking wildly. She screams through the towel, and you see her free hand shoot down, yanking her panties to the side. She rubs her clit ferociously, eyes never leaving your face.

You want to puke from all the blood and anxiety. You want to die. You want to finish this and run.

But you keep going, sewing up the gaping wounds, knotting the ends, dousing the line with rubbing alcohol. Damn near each time you pull the thread through, Morticia convulses, her orgasmic moans growing louder, less muffled. She spits the towel out, yelling how she wants to get you pregnant so badly right now. Morticia is a whore for pain. Bucking wildly against you as you ask her to be still.

Larissa looks like she might faint. She’s got one hand on Morticia’s shoulder, the other on the back of her head, holding her steady.

When the wound is closed, you reach up to slap Morticia across the face, just to break the spell. But she’s already cumming again, thighs clenched, body arched off the floor.

After the fourth time, she yanks her hand away from her pussy and shoves her fingers in your mouth. You gag, but she tastes like iron and wet sugar, and you suck anyway, just to make her shut up.

She shudders, sags, and finally goes still.

You collapse next to her, blood and cum and tears smeared all over your skin. Larissa kneels there, arms wrapped around both of you, silent.

No one speaks.

The only sound is your own ragged breathing, and somewhere in the house, the distant wail of a police siren passing by.

You lie there, waiting for the next disaster.

(Wednesday’s POV)

Wednesday Addams does not believe in luck, but she believes that the universe has a sense of humor. Especially today, as she leans against the rain-slicked glass of the antique bookshop and watches her mother, Morticia, glide up Main Street arm in arm with a woman who is not her father. The woman's features are unremarkable: cheerleader’s posture, the bland smile of someone who has always walked the correct side of a crosswalk. But Francesca herself commands every molecule of air between the cobblestones, her tailored pink dress clinging like a spider’s last silk. Just like the December cold, she radiates the chill of a family crypt.

Wednesday’s lips twitch upward. “Incognito as a banshee in a snowdrift, and what the fuck does she have on?” she mutters, and flips her notebook open commenting in her mother’s nonblack evening gown. Morticia pauses beneath the awning of Dalloway’s Restaurant, putting her hand at the small of the woman’s back. Their conversation is mostly touch: the lean-in, the brush of fingertips, the quick flashes of white teeth. Morticia drops her sunglasses, lets them dangle from one finger, and for a moment Wednesday swears her mother’s head turns—just so—toward the window where Wednesday stands.

It’s impossible, of course. The glass is mirrored, and Morticia has been actively ignoring Wednesday’s existence for several weeks. But she still slips further into the shadow of the shop’s F. Scott Fitzgerald display and waits. The doorman opens the restaurant door. Morticia shakes her hair loose and escorts the woman inside, her heels carving tiny tombstones in the mud.

Wednesday checks her phone. Forty-two unread messages from Enid, most about the latest “Missing Girl of Jericho” podcast episode; three from her father, all emojis; and one from herself, a blank reminder: Today is the day. She types “observed: Morticia, target acquired, 10:34pm” and tucks her phone away.

She after the dinner. When Morticia emerges, walking arm in arm with the woman, faster now, toward the parking lot on the far end of Main. Wednesday waits for the crosswalk to blink, then falls into step fifty yards behind. She has her mother’s gait mapped in her muscle memory, but she keeps her movements measured, unsuspicious. Morticia does not look back. She unlocks her car—a black Mercedes that is somehow never dusty despite the dirt roads—and merges into traffic without hesitation.

Morticia screeches to a halt as she drops her date off, her eyes already scanning the shadows when she spots her daughter. She speeds off and with a sharp turn, she circles the block like a predator closing in on its prey, drops her off unceremoniously in a dimly lit spot, and slams the pedal to the metal, roaring away into the night with a fierce intensity.

Wednesday crosses to the alley, where her bike is chained to a lamppost. She pedals after the Mercedes, the soles of her platform sneakers slapping the pedals, her braid whipping against her neck. Morticia’s driving is theatrical: she never signals, she never brakes except at the very last second, and she uses roundabouts like jousting tournaments. Wednesday keeps her distance, ducking behind minivans and an ice-cream truck, until the Mercedes takes a sharp left out of town and into the woods.

She coasts to a stop. There is no other traffic out here. If she follows on the road, Morticia will spot her again for certain. Wednesday sets her kickstand, glances at her notebook, and cuts through the ditch into the underbrush.

The forest here is thin, all scraggly birch and hissing grass, but the way Morticia’s car barrels down the old road, she clearly has a destination in mind. Wednesday jogs parallel to the route, shins scraping on brambles, knees wading through dead leaves. She smells rain, feels the ozone on her tongue, and pretends she is being hunted. It makes her smile.

Morticia’s Mercedes slows, turns right, and vanishes into a stand of trees. Wednesday pauses, checks the map she drew in her notebook last night: there’s a dead end up ahead, and then an abandoned subdivision that never made it past the foundation-pouring phase. She crouches, hidden, and waits.

Nothing happens for fifteen minutes. She picks a tick from her sock and wonders if her mother is having a rendezvous with the ghost of a lost contractor. She’s about to double back when her mother’s vehicle starts again. Morticia knows Wednesday is following her, so she’s conjured a plan.

Morticia’s car slowly vanishes into the woods.

Wednesday follows, slower now, careful of every broken branch. The trail is overgrown, the path eaten up by ferns and the broken bones of last year’s snowstorms. She hears laughter, then nothing. After thirty yards, she stops at a clearing.

For a brief moment, Wednesday is almost excited.

She circles the clearing twice, then cuts into the trees in the direction the car’s tracks were headed. The woods close around her. Moonlight flickers through the leaves, and somewhere to her left, a crow caws three times. Wednesday counts the caws—always three, never four—and pushes through the tangled green until she hits the fence.

It’s new, just about a year old if she had to guess, and topped with a line of razor wire so shiny it hurts to look at. Beyond the fence is a house: white, blocky, all windows and right angles, utterly at odds with the old-growth forest around it. A bright red security sign is staked in the lawn, and a camera pivots toward her as she approaches. Morticia has led her to the right property, but the wrong house but Wednesday doesn’t know. You are far deeper on the uncharted Frump Family land than the first house shows.

Wednesday edges up to the fence, scanning for a break or a weakness, but the thing is seamless. She lifts her phone and snaps a picture of the house, then another of the security sign, and a second of a footprint in the soft mulch. She is not expecting Morticia to reappear behind her, but she’s ready when it happens.

But instead she hears, “You’re trespassing, darling,” Morticia purrs from behind the fence. “It’s illegal in this county, you know. A misdemeanor, but still.”

Wednesday doesn’t flinch. “Who lives here?”

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?” Morticia’s voice is velvet over arsenic. “Go home, Wednesday.”

“I’d rather not,” Wednesday says, tilting her head. “And if I knew the answer, I wouldn’t ask.”

Morticia’s smile is a fissure in her face. “Curiosity is a dangerous habit.”

“Says the woman who once read the entire DSM-V before breakfast.”

Morticia’s eyes narrow, but she does not look away. “I have business to attend to. Kindly stop following me, or I’ll call the police.” She slips a gloved hand through the fence, trailing her fingers along the mesh. For a second, Wednesday is sure Morticia will say something else, something important, but then she’s gone, heels crunching across the gravel to the back door of the house. A house that is empty.

Wednesday watches until the white door swings shut. Then she turns and follows the edge of the fence back to the road, her mind spinning with new, unpleasant possibilities.

The rain has started in earnest by the time she calls Lurch for a ride. When the hearse pulls up—today’s a black Volvo in her mind, but it smells the same as the casket van—Wednesday slides into the back seat and stares out the window. Lurch is silent, which she appreciates, and drives with all the urgency of a funeral procession.

On the way home, Wednesday flips open her laptop and searches the county property records. Nothing is listed under Addams, Gomez, Morticia, or any of the family aliases she knows. The new house is owned by a trust registered in a Delaware shell, and the listed contact is a law office in New York. She digs deeper, but every link is a dead end.

Morticia’s trail is cold, scrubbed clean by design. But the mud on Morticia’s shoes tells a different story, and the security camera’s eye follows her even after she’s long gone.

As they loop back toward the main road, Wednesday glances out the window and notices another car parked in front of the white house: a silver Audi, familiar from Nevermore’s faculty lot. The principal’s car. The dots refuse to connect in her mind right now. She looks away, irritation flickering behind her eyes.

They drive on. The rain paints the woods in a greasy blur, and in the rearview mirror, the white house vanishes behind the curtain of trees.

Wednesday closes her notebook and taps a new note into her phone: “Morticia. Secrets. Blood.”

It isn’t a lead, not yet. But it’s a start.

Wednesday’s feet barely touch the ground on the way home. She leaves the bike abandoned in the grass that Lurch took off of the top of the family car for her, bypasses the front door, and climbs the iron trellis to her parents’ balcony. The lock is a trivial obstacle—an eight-digit code, the year of Morticia’s wedding reversed—and she slips inside like a chill.

The master bedroom smells of rosewater and scorched candlewick. Morticia’s half of the room is all obsidian silk and looming houseplants, while Gomez’s is cluttered with cufflinks and greasy romance novels. Wednesday goes to the closet, where the true secrets live.

Inside, darkness. She flicks the light, but the bulb is out; instead, she fishes her phone from her pocket and turns on the flashlight. It reveals the ordinary first: rows of identical black dresses, three pairs of velvet gloves, a jar of moths labeled “Emergency.” She searches every shelf, every pocket, even the space behind the shoe rack. Nothing.

Wednesday’s frustration is a tight, metallic knot in her stomach. She’s ready to give up when she notices the baseboard, slightly splintered, at the far back. She kneels, pries it up with the edge of her switchblade, and listens for the telltale snap of old wood.

Beneath is a compartment. No dust, no spiderwebs, just a small metal box and a brown-papered parcel. Her heart thuds. She opens the box first: inside, a key, a chipped tooth, and a laminated card. The card reads: “C. Ophelia, 4th Street Trust, Baton Rouge, LA.” She frowns, pockets the key, and unwraps the parcel.

It is a notebook, bound in dark leather, heavy and warped. Its spine is labeled simply “06—.” She flips it open and the scent of clove oil and ink hits her. The first page is a copy of a newspaper clipping, yellowed with age:

ZARIA PARKER (1979-2006)

Beloved daughter, sister, and friend.

“May her memory be a blessing.”

The headline is from a Harlem daily. Wednesday turns the page: there is a photo, carefully taped in, of a woman with high cheekbones, bright amber eyes, and long brown locs. Morticia’s handwriting curls beneath:

the first one who mattered.

the last one who was worth it.

Wednesday turns more pages. Most are blank, but here and there are bursts of cramped, angry script. “Noelle Fairchild. She said I had a diamond heart. I cut her loose at Mardi Gras. She’s still alive, somewhere. Probably hates me.”

Another entry: “Samya Jennings, Lafayette, La. Found her while looking for Noelle. She tasted like gunpowder and bad decisions. Left in a hurry, barely escaped her father’s shotgun. No regrets.”

Wednesday’s brow furrows. She flips through the rest. There are receipts—late-night diner coffee, a hotel in Lafayette, a pawn ticket from the Bronx. A lipstick-stained napkin, faintly kissed. And everywhere, Morticia’s handwriting: increasingly erratic, each entry more confessional, less coherent.

One paragraph stands out, written in a careful, deliberate hand:

“They say obsession is a disease, but I disagree. Disease has a cure. This is something else. This is hunger, and I am so, so hungry.”

Wednesday closes the notebook, chills writhing up her arms. The house is still empty. She tucks the book into her satchel and slides the floorboard back into place, careful to match the splinters.

On her way out, she pauses at the vanity, scans the surface. Morticia’s perfume bottle is missing; the brand was discontinued a decade ago, but her mother still tracks it down online. Wednesday rubs her wrist along the faint imprint where the bottle sat, then leaves as silently as she entered.

She cuts through the backyard, past the dying roses and the gnarled willow, and hops the fence to Enid’s place. The Sinclair house is all color and noise, every room reeking of essential oils and teenage sweat. Enid answers the door before Wednesday even rings the bell.

“Did you find anything?” Enid asks, her voice pitched with worry.

Wednesday opens her bag and produces the journal. “You’re not going to like it.”

Enid takes the book, her fingers trembling. She starts to flip through, then stops. “There’s… a lot of sex stuff in here, isn’t there?”

Wednesday shrugs. “Mother has never been coy about her appetites.”

Enid’s face goes pink. “Yeah, um… welp she was doing some fucking! Anyway. I’ll, um, skim the important parts.”

While Enid reads, Wednesday traces the shape of the obituary in her memory. She’s always considered visions to be a nuisance—her mother’s side of the family gets them, flashes of before or after, never during. But touching the brittle newsprint, something happened.

She is not in the room anymore. She’s sitting at a sidewalk café in Harlem, a mug of bitter coffee in her hand. Morticia is young, her hair still long and black, her mouth soft. Zaria is across from her, laughing, locs trailing over a knitted scarf. They lean together, and Morticia’s hand slips into Zaria’s, then up to her cheek.

The world flickers: it’s winter, they are on a bridge over the Hudson, the river choked with ice. Morticia is very pregnant, her coat straining at the buttons. She stares into the water, not moving, her knuckles white on the railing. Behind her, a shadowy figure waits. It isn’t Gomez.

Wednesday blinks. She is back in Enid’s kitchen, the smell of popcorn and cinnamon intruding on her thoughts.

Enid snaps the book shut. “She—your mom, I mean—she’s been with a lot of women.”

“Yes.” Wednesday’s voice is flat. “More than she ever let on.”

“And… some of them disappeared.” Enid’s voice drops. “You don’t think she…?”

Wednesday shakes her head. “Not all. But some.” Her fingers curl into a fist. “The first one, Zaria, my mom was pregnant with me. She’s dead.”

Enid stares at the journal, then at Wednesday. “What do we do?”

Wednesday takes the book, her mouth twisting. “We find out how many there were, and we ask my mother what happened to them.”

Enid nods, voice barely a whisper. “And if she did something…”

Wednesday smiles, sharp and bitter. “Then I’ll be the one to bury her.”

She tucks the journal under her arm and stares out the window. 

Wednesday is happy to oblige.

Chapter Text

Enid doesn’t sleep the entire night. She lays in her bed with the journal open on her chest, blinking at the ceiling, the aftertaste of Morticia’s words prickling her tongue. The things in the book are more than just sex and heartbreak—they’re fevered, predatory, punctuated with threats and boasts and the kind of violence you can’t read out loud without choking.

By sunrise, Enid’s eyes are bloodshot and her hands won’t stop shaking. Her mom tries to drag her into the kitchen for herbal tea, but Enid mumbles something about calculus and locks herself in her room, where she re-reads the worst parts and tries to make sense of Morticia Addams. When the texts from Wednesday start (“status?” “Alive, presumably.” “Meet 9:15 sharp, avoid surveillance.”), Enid throws on a hoodie and slinks out the back.

Wednesday is waiting for her on the swing set behind the old elementary school. She’s eating dry cereal from a Tupperware, feet hovering above the mulch.

Enid drops down on the swing beside her and pushes the journal into Wednesday’s hands. “This is—” She falters. “I’m not sure your mom is just a narcissist, Wednesday.”

Wednesday snaps the rubber band off and fans the pages with her thumb. “There are better diagnoses, but I’m listening.”

Enid inhales, lets it out in a rush. “I mean, I always thought your family was weird but… this is like a whole other thing. The stuff she writes—it’s about the women, but also about how she likes hurting them. Not just emotionally, but, like, really hurting them.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitches. “Mother has a high pain tolerance.”

“I’m being serious,” Enid whispers. She lowers her voice, glancing at the empty school windows. “There are a bunch of entries about Zaria—about how she died. Morticia says it was an accident, but then there’s stuff about ‘cleansing’ and ‘necessary endings’ and ‘eliminating the evidence.’” Enid’s hands are pale, knuckles shining through the skin. “And the others, the girls from Louisiana—they’re alive, but she still writes about wanting to…” She swallows. “To finish what she started.”

Wednesday shuts the journal. “Mother’s emotional detachment is legendary. But she isn’t a murderer.” She pauses. “Probably.”

Enid blinks. “Probably?”

Wednesday stands, brushing cereal dust from her skirt. “All I’m saying is, if Mother were truly homicidal, she’d have cleaned up after herself better. There would be nothing for us to find.” She waves the journal. “This is performance. She wants to be caught.”

Enid shakes her head. “You didn’t see the part about the recently missing girl.” Her voice cracks. “It’s in the back. Your mom mentions her by initials—Y/N—and talks about her like she’s a science project. I know it’s her, it has to be. There’s a whole rant about ‘finally creating a perfect companion,’ and ‘the sweet satisfaction of ownership.’” Enid’s cheeks go blotchy, as if she’s embarrassed for Morticia.

Wednesday’s grip tightens on the book. For a moment, she stares past Enid, her eyes gone flat and glassy. “She always hated rivals,” Wednesday says softly. “She never learned to share.”

Enid shivers. “You think she did something to the missing girl? To Y/N?”

“I think,” Wednesday says, “that whatever happened, Mother is hiding her. Or what’s left of her.”

Enid tugs at a frayed piece of her sleeve. “You’re not even upset.”

Wednesday’s lips quirk. “If I start feeling, I’ll get sloppy. Sloppy is how you die.”

They sit in silence, the only sound the distant rattle of a lawnmower. Finally, Enid says, “So, what’s the plan?”

“We confront her,” Wednesday says. “We demand an explanation.”

“And if she refuses?”

Wednesday bares her teeth, almost a smile. “Then we do what Addams women do best. We dig.”

Enid nods, and for the first time in twelve hours, she feels like the ground beneath her is solid. Wednesday stands, and Enid follows, both of them clutching their secrets like loaded guns.

As they leave, Wednesday glances over her shoulder. “You were right, by the way.”

“About what?” Enid asks.

“About not wanting to believe the worst of people.” Wednesday tucks the journal under her arm. “I used to think that was a weakness. Now I think it’s the only thing that makes you different from the monsters.”

Enid blushes, unsure if it’s a compliment or a warning. But she falls into step with Wednesday anyway, determined to see this through, whatever it takes.

They head toward the Addams house, where Morticia is waiting.

The Addams kitchen is gold-washed and sinister in the late morning. Light hits the counter in slim, accusatory lines, turning the flecks of flour and stray breadcrumbs into evidence. Morticia is hunched over the sink, wrist-deep in a swirl of soapy water, her hair veiling her face. On the table, a knife sits freshly cleaned, edge glinting.

Wednesday and Enid linger at the threshold. They do not announce themselves. Morticia’s ears are sharp enough; she knows they’re there.

After a moment, Morticia turns, hands dripping. “If you’re looking for breakfast, darling, the kitchen is temporarily closed. Your Father and brother left it a mess last night.”

“Not hungry,” Wednesday says. She notes the way Morticia clutches her left forearm, the bandage stained through. “What happened to your arm?”

Morticia’s lips curl, not quite a smile. “Minor domestic mishap.”

Enid’s voice cuts in, sharper than she means it. “That’s not a paper cut. It looks… bad.”

Morticia lifts her chin, hair falling back to reveal the wound: a long, brutal gash running from wrist to elbow, held together by hasty black stitches. She wears it like a fashion accessory, as if the pain is just another layer of silk.

Enid hisses, “Did you go to the hospital?”

“Of course not,” Morticia says. “Hospitals are for the weak.” She turns back to the sink, but her hand trembles as she picks up a plate.

Wednesday approaches, slow and deliberate. “Mother, I’m not an idiot.”

Morticia sets the plate down. Her voice is as smooth as marble. “No one said you were.”

“You’re hiding something.” Wednesday is so close now, she can see the goosebumps on Morticia’s bare arm. “What did you do?”

The room holds its breath. Even the refrigerator’s hum seems to cut out.

Morticia dabs her hands on a towel and finally faces them. “Why are you interrogating me in my own home? What is this about?”

Wednesday doesn’t blink. “I want to know why you’re meeting strangers in the woods, hiding journals in the floor, and lying about your injuries.”

Morticia’s composure shudders for half a heartbeat. Then she laughs, brittle and bright. “You’ve been reading my old diaries? Oh, darling. Is this a phase? Should I be concerned?”

Enid, emboldened, steps forward. “It’s not a phase. And it’s not just old journals. There’s stuff in there about people who went missing. Girls.” She glances at Wednesday. “We just want the truth.”

For a moment, Morticia is silent, eyes unreadable. Then she sniffs, flings her hair over one shoulder. “Is this what you think of me?” Her voice wavers, just enough to be convincing. “That I’m some sort of monster?”

Wednesday doesn’t answer.

Morticia’s lip quivers. “Yes, I’ve had my fair share of women, probably more than your father. Yes, I probably do lean a little more towards them but your father is my everything. I spent my entire life holding this family together. Sacrificing everything. And now my daughter, my own flesh and blood, is accusing me of—” She shakes her head, voice cracking. “Of murder?”

Enid looks away, unable to meet Morticia’s gaze.

Wednesday is unmoved. “There are gaps in your stories, Mother. And you’re not as careful as you think.” She gestures to the bandage. “People don’t get wounds like that from “nothing,” admit it, someone did that to you. Who?”

Morticia draws herself up, regal even in pain. “You have a vivid imagination. Perhaps you should write a novel.”

“I’d rather write your confession,” Wednesday says.

There’s a beat of silence before Morticia whirls, slamming a mug into the sink hard enough to shatter it. The pieces scatter across the porcelain, some landing in the soapy water, others clinking onto the tile.

At that moment, Gomez enters the kitchen, trailing the faint scent of cigar and last night’s cologne. He takes in the tableau: Morticia anger, Wednesday cold as ever, Enid, scared, white-knuckling the edge of the counter.

“Trouble brewing?” Gomez asks, voice too light.

Morticia turns to him, wounded pride glinting in her eyes. “Your daughter is having another one of her episodes.”

Gomez sighs, placing a gentle hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. “You know how she gets, my love.”

“I know,” Morticia whispers, voice gone delicate. She presses her face onto Gomez’s shoulder, the picture of elegant suffering. “She doesn’t trust me.”

Wednesday extracts herself from her father’s grasp, her gaze fixed on Morticia. “I’ll find the truth,” she says quietly, “whether you want me to or not.”

Gomez tries to joke. “Such determination! She gets it from you, Tish.”

But Morticia just clings to Gomez’s sleeve, her eyes glistening, her mouth set in a perfect line of sorrow.

Wednesday walks out, Enid trailing after her, the kitchen door swinging closed behind them. The last thing they hear is Morticia’s voice, soft and perfectly pitched for pity:

“She’s just being a difficult teenager, Gomez. It’s nothing to worry about.”

But Wednesday knows better. And so does Morticia.

Weeks go by slowly and quietly. The mansion, once full of gossip and the faint smell of preservation fluid, is now completely shut off. Wednesday watches her mother with growing frustration. It’s as if Morticia expected an investigation by Wednesday and turned the house into a carefully staged scene.

Everything follows a strict, boring routine. Morticia only leaves for scheduled teaching and faculty meetings at Nevermore, and she’s gone for exactly the time the commute, school hours, and meeting allow. No quick errands, no last-minute detours, not even her usual stop for a couple hits of her joint in the school parking lot.

Groceries arrive by delivery with “no-contact drop” service. If she must run a small errand, like the post office or dry cleaning, if Lurch is unavailable, she takes the same Uber driver every time—one with a spotless record and shy manner. Morticia drives her own car only when she absolutely has to. Wednesday checks the GPS log each night: home, school, home, school—always the same. She’s onto Wednesday just as much as Wednesday is onto her.

Her phone is another locked fortress. On day one, Wednesday cracks the passcode but immediately puts the phone back down when her mother enters the room, only to find it changed by morning. Morticia sleeps with the phone under her body, so any touch near the bed wakes her instantly. One midnight, Wednesday reaches for it and Morticia, eyes open and still silent, murmurs, “Try again and I’ll chop your fingers off.”

New messages disappear as soon as they arrive. There are no photos or saved files of you or Larissa, no hint that Morticia has emotions, secrets, or even a heartbeat. Weeks ago, Wednesday found a single thick strand of curly hair on her mother’s coat. One that did not match her mother’s own hair.

Wednesday sticks to her own routines. She tails Morticia to Nevermore, staying three cars back with changing license plates so she won’t be spotted. She plants a voice recorder in their bedroom, only to have it returned the next day with a note that reads, “You can do better.” At breakfast she sits across from her mother, waiting for her to slip up and reveal the monster hiding behind all the manners. She knows Morticia is the monster. She has been all along, and Wednesday knows the real monsters never get caught.

Then, one Thursday, Morticia cracks.

It begins with the sound: not a wail or even a sob, just a low, keening exhale that escapes the door of Morticia’s suite and hovers down the hallway like a sick perfume. The house is unused to this—pain is private, especially for Morticia, and if she must bleed she does it in absolute darkness, alone.

But the crying goes on for hours. When Wednesday stands at the door, she can hear Morticia’s breaths hitching, a helpless child’s rhythm that’s unfamiliar and frightening. The crying is not showy or performative; it is not weaponized or poetic. It is ugly. It is real.

When Morticia emerges, it is nearly noon, and her face is wrong. The makeup is missing, the lips raw and colorless, her hair in its natural wavy state, not even in her signature middle part, it’s flipped over from the side. She wears a bathrobe and no shoes, the pale flesh of her ankles exposed and ordinary.

Wednesday is waiting. She stands in the kitchen, eyes narrowed over the rim of a mug, and when Morticia enters, she doesn’t say anything at first.

Morticia ignores her and goes to the coffee pot. Her hands shake. She adds two spoons of sugar and stares at the swirling, watches it dissolve.

“Crying is weak,” Wednesday says.

“Not today, Wednesday, damn!” The verbiage is so… not her mother.

“It is weak.” Wednesday doubles down on it.

Morticia turns, and for a moment she looks like she just lost the love of her life. “Is that what you think?” she asks, but her voice has none of its usual melody.

“It’s what you’ve always said,” Wednesday replies. “You used to make fun of me for it.”

Morticia smiles without humor. “You were always so sensitive, darling. I worried you’d get eaten alive.” She sips, spills a little, dabs at her lip. “You don’t know what it’s like to love something so much it ruins you.”

Wednesday sets her mug down. “I don’t think you actually feel things. I think you pretend. That’s your real gift.”

Something flickers behind Morticia’s eyes, but she recovers quickly. “You’re wrong,” she says, too quickly.

“What was it this time?” Wednesday presses. “Did one of your lovers leave you? Did you lose control of your latest project? Or are you mourning the loss of plausible deniability?”

Morticia’s hand is tight around the handle. “I’m allowed to mourn, Wednesday.”

“Oh, really? Mourn what exactly?”

“Darling, I can’t imagine that being you.” Morticia fakes her sadness for the recent news of your disappearance going cold and you being presumed dead, but it is really because she misses you deeply, she hasn’t been in contact with you since Wednesday has been tailing her and she’s starting to break from the inside out.

Wednesday leans in. “And since when do cold-blooded killers cry?”

The slap is instantaneous, no warning, no escalation. The sound is sharp and the pain is real, and Wednesday is startled to feel herself stumbling backward, the ceramic mug shattering on the floor. She doesn’t fall—she refuses—but her vision blurs and her ears ring.

Morticia is already reaching for her, lips trembling, hands fluttering as if to catch the air between them. “Wednesday, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Gomez and Pugsley enter just as Morticia’s hand hovers uselessly in the space before Wednesday’s cheek. Gomez’s face twists in horror; Pugsley instinctively puts himself between Wednesday and Morticia, arms spread wide.

“What’s gotten into you, Tish?” Gomez demands. His voice is frightened, pleading.

Morticia’s tears has streaked in two lines down her face. She looks at her family, her creation, and sees only accusation.

She flees. The back door is unlocked and she vanishes into the garden, robe flapping behind her like a dislocated shadow.

Pugsley holds Wednesday by the elbow. “Are you okay?” he whispers. He is afraid for her and for Morticia and for the invisible cracks splintering through the house.

“I’m fine,” Wednesday says. “It was nothing.”

But Wednesday’s cheek stings, and so does her pride. She watches through the window as Morticia sinks onto the cold stone bench among the withered roses, arms wrapped around her knees, and she is crying again, louder than before, as if the sound is the only thing that keeps her real.

For the rest of the day, no one speaks. The mansion becomes a tomb, and Wednesday is its best mourner, presiding over the silence with an unwavering, unblinking stare.

The next week, Wednesday waits until nightfall, the hours when most people in Jericho lock their doors and count their regrets. She is not most people, and the only regret she nurses is not acting sooner.

She parks the hearse three blocks from the old Hamilton property and walks the rest, hood up, hands gloved. The windows are dark, just as they were the night she got caught here. There is no car in the driveway, no lights, no flicker of a television. But she knows better. Morticia’s obsessions are nothing if not thorough.

With her thick gloves protecting her hands, Wednesday scales the fence and lands in a crouch among dormant hydrangeas, there’s cameras everywhere but she ignores them and continues moving. The grass is wet and the moon is full. She slinks to the cellar window and works the lock, already rehearsing what she’ll say if she finds anything—evidence, body, proof that Morticia is not one of the grief stricken mothers of the community at the recent news of your possible death but the architect of all this.

She’s inside in under a minute. The air is crisp, clean, tinged with the sight of new unused gray hardwood floors and fresh paint. She moves by muscle memory, as if she’s been there before: down the corridor, past the immaculate parlor, to the study. She pulls out her phone, flicks on the flashlight.

The shriek of the alarm is instantaneous. There is no polite delay, no warning beep. Just a banshee’s howl, so loud and unnatural it makes her teeth hurt.

The alarm's distant howl cuts through the night, faint but unmistakable from across the property. Your eyes lift from the toaster where your Eggos warm. Larissa's book lowers an inch, her body stretched across the sofa like a cat in sunlight. Your gazes meet, hold for a beat. A mutual shrug passes between you—someone else's problem. You return to watching the toaster. Larissa's eyes drift back to her page. The moment dissolves as quickly as it formed. You didn’t even know there are houses that close to you.

Wednesday runs, retracing her path, only to see red and blue lights strobing through the cracks before she even reaches the back door. There is no time. She hides in the pantry, hears the door batter open, hears boots pounding on hardwood.

They find her, of course. Hands zip-tied behind her back, face pressed into the saw dust from the wonder’s earlier renovation project. She doesn’t fight. There’s no point.

The station is a refrigerator at two in the morning, staffed only by a half-asleep rookie and a veteran who drinks his coffee with bloodshot eyes fixed on the clock. They know Wednesday, of course, and the officer can’t hide a smirk as he fills out the paperwork. “Your mom’s on her way,” he says, sliding a paper cup of water toward her. “I wouldn’t want to be you.”

Wednesday says nothing. She nurses the cut on her cheek from the kitchen altercation and counts the minutes until Morticia arrives.

It takes less than half an hour. When she enters, Morticia looks restored, immaculate, as if she hadn’t been losing her shit for the past couple of weeks. Hair done, lips red, dress like a funeral director’s daydream. She moves with absolute confidence, as if being called to the station in the middle of the night is just another errand, another inconvenience.

“I’m here for my daughter,” she says. Her voice is soft, almost gentle. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, Mrs. Addams,” Officer Getty, Morticia’s good buyable friend, answers. “But she did break into a private residence. The alarm company—”

“Yes, I pay for the service,” Morticia interrupts in a whisper. “They’re very efficient.” She says behind her had, regarding Wednesday with a look of cultivated disappointment, as if she’s more annoyed at the trouble than worried about her child’s safety.

The officer glances at Morticia, then back to Wednesday. “You’re lucky,” he says quietly, “that the owner isn’t pressing charges.” As if Morticia isn’t the mother-fucking owner! But of course that secret stays buried in one of her mother’s cemeteries, Wednesday will never find out. In fact, Morticia owns all of the houses on that property.

Morticia’s smile is a small, cold thing. “We all make mistakes,” she murmurs.

They walk to the car in silence. Morticia unlocks the doors with a gentle click and Wednesday slides in, eyes on the dashboard.

It’s the first time in weeks Morticia has used her own car. The smell of leather and faint vanilla is overpowering. Wednesday stares at the dash, noting the digital clock’s precision, the way Morticia’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel.

They drive in silence for the first mile, Wednesday watching Morticia’s reflection in the passenger window. The rain starts, soft at first, then pelting the glass in furious sheets.

Finally, Morticia speaks. “What were you hoping to find, darling?”

Wednesday doesn’t answer.

“Because if you’d found anything, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me. You’d be in a cell, or worse.”

“I’m already in a cell,” Wednesday says, voice flat. “You built it.”

Morticia’s hands tighten. “Don’t be melodramatic.” Morticia knows a cell that she’s built when she sees one… Wednesday ought to consider herself extremely lucky that she hasn’t had the displeasure of being her mother’s actual prisoner, like you.

“I’m not. I just want to know what you’re hiding there.” Wednesday turns, eyes fixed on her mother’s profile. “Who owns the house?”

Morticia hesitates, just for a moment, but it is enough. “An old friend. From school,” she says. “They needed a place to stay. It’s nothing sinister, Wednesday.”

Wednesday laughs, bitter. “He? Or she?”

Morticia’s mouth twitches. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if you’re lying.” Wednesday doesn’t blink. “Which you are.”

Morticia pulls to the side of the road, rain battering the roof like a drumline. She turns to face her daughter, eyes dark and glassy.

“You don’t know everything, Wednesday.”

“I know enough.”

They sit in the car, the air thick with old hurt and new suspicion. Morticia’s breath comes sharp and shallow, and Wednesday watches her, unblinking, waiting for the next lie or the next confession.

“If you keep this up, you’ll end up like me,” Morticia says quietly.

Wednesday bares her teeth, almost a smile. “Maybe I already have.”

“No… you’re not.”

They drive home in silence, two statues in the dark, trapped together by blood and by secrets. The only sound is the rain and the low, constant whine of the engine—always running, always waiting to explode.

When they arrive at the mansion, Morticia goes inside first. Wednesday lingers in the car, watching the tail lights of her mother’s Mercedes fade to black after she locks the doors of the car. She sits in the cold and the quiet, thinking of all the things Morticia might be hiding, and wonders how many more locks she’ll have to break before she finally gets to the truth.

The thing that strikes you most about waking up in someone else’s home is the silence. In the apartment you shared with Zeke, there was always something: the heavy rattle of antique plumbing, the distant laughter of the tv in the living room, the echo of neighbor’s shrieks during fencing matches with his wife, even the endless mutter of Morticia’s phone calls in languages you never learned, of course, that was when she was your girlfriend. Here, in Morticia’s beautiful home—her bunker, as you privately call it—there is only quiet, punctuated by the slow tick of a wall clock and Larissa’s polite hush of classical music played at a volume that does not offend you… at least you think.

You peek outside and imagine a life where you are not afraid to go out there, where you are not afraid of who will find you and what they will do.

Larissa has been gone for an hour, maybe two. She left behind a cup of tea steeping in the kitchen, a basket of fresh towels in the hall, and a note in her careful, looping script: “I will be back before noon. Look in your closet, I got you something.” You crumple the note in your hand. There are three of them in the trash already, each slightly more frantic than the last.

You make your way to the front door. There is a security panel above the handle, a small square of brushed metal that looks as innocuous as a light switch. But you know what happens if you touch it the wrong way.

Larissa has shown you the video: the first time you tried, a current ran through your fingertips, burning in a way that felt alive. You spent the rest of the night with your hand submerged in a bowl of ice water, listening to her apologize and then, somehow, justify it. “You have to be safe,” she said. “I can’t lose you to her.”

It is funny, in a way, to be the prize in a contest between two women who are both smarter and more dangerous than you could ever hope to be.

But you have not been idle. In the weeks since Morticia’s abrupt absence, you have cataloged Larissa’s routines with the patience of a botanist. You know how she takes her coffee, when she showers, when she leaves the window cracked in the spare room. You have tried every knife in the kitchen drawer against the hidden locks in the windows and found them all wanting.

You have mapped the one floorboard that creaks, the spots where the security cameras blink just a little too slowly. You have learned the password to Larissa’s phone, your birthday, of all things, and with it, you have found the true extent of Morticia’s reach: emails, voicemails, gifts sent to the school, letters that arrive in envelopes black as night and sealed with crimson wax.

Knowing her password to her phone, weeks back, you tried to call 911 and hang up. You’d heard that they sometimes send a cop to the pinged address of the call but this time, they called the fucking phone back and you got caught. Larissa told them she accidentally hit the panic button and no one was sent. She made you sit in the room all night.

And yet, despite all this preparation, you know you are no closer to freedom than you were the night you almost ran.

You make your way to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of water, you rinse out your cup, the tap turning with a metallic squeal. You then get crushed ice from the fridge’s ice maker and then water. You sip slowly, listening for the sound of footsteps in the hall, a key in the lock. Nothing. You are alone.

For now.

You glance at the clock. Two hours, thirty-four minutes. You have mapped this time, too. Larissa will not return early. She is predictable in her movements, even if she is otherwise a mystery.

You walk to the spare room, where you have stashed your bag under the bed. It is small, just enough for what you can carry: your notebook, the cash Larissa never bothered to hide, a change of clothes, your mother’s locket. You check the window again. Still locked. But you notice something new: the curtains are drawn just slightly, letting in a sliver of light. If you time it right, you could slip through, drop to the fire escape, and be gone before the alarms catch up. But your intuition tells you not right now. The time isn’t right.

You slip into the dim closet and shake aside Morticia’s coats until you find the gift Larissa left: a sleek, sunburst guitar resting on its stand. A second note flutters to the floor: “Try not to forget who you are.” deciding not to throw this one away, you fold it neatly, tuck it into your pocket, and walk into the bedroom and sink onto the edge of the bed with the guitar cradled in your lap. You decide to face the window to the back yard, maybe it can help you feel something.

For a moment, you almost forgot your escape plan—this is the kindest thing Larissa’s done since you arrived. You close your eyes and remember the last time you played.

Your fingers move across the frets, slow, deliberate, until the chords bleed into something raw. You hum under your breath, then once fully submerged into the song, you sing low, a whisper meant for no one but yourself:

“Well, good things don’t last,
And life moves so fast,
I’d never ask who was better…”

The words catch in your throat, because they taste too much like truth. Your voice deepens, shaky but steady enough to push forward:

“’Cause she couldn’t be
more different from me—
happy and free in leather…”

You close your eyes, feel the sting in your chest. It’s almost unbearable, how much the song echoes you: the shadow of who you once were—free, laughing, in leather instead of silk cages. And who you are now. Trapped. Altered. Something Morticia remade.

Your breath quivers as you push through the next lines:

“And I know that you love me,
you don’t need to remind me,
wanna put it all behind me,
but baby—”

The music sticks in your throat. For a moment you almost stop, but then it bursts out, the part you can’t not sing:

“I see her,
in the back of my mind,
all the time—
feels like a fever,
like I’m burning alive,
like a sign…”

You’re lost in that rush when the doorknob rattles—no polite tap, no Larissa’s measured knock, door creaks with deliberate slowness, even the gentleness feels like a whip-crack authority that jolts you rigid. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears.

The final note trembles. You let it hang in the air, and it’s then—then—you smell it, you taste her: the lethal sweetness of Baccarat Rouge 540 clinging to the air like smoke before fire. Even weeks later, it still haunts your pillows, your hair.

Morticia.

The room tilts, heavy with her presence. The air feels weighted, charged.

You freeze, hoping invisibility will save you. But Morticia doesn’t tiptoe. You hear her stilettos click against the tile, the silk hem of her skirt whisper as she steps inside.

She pauses, lets the silence hang like smoke, and then, from behind you, velvet and knife-sharp, her voice threads through the silence—finishing your confession for you: “Did I cross the line?” She finishes your refrain, that infuriating perfect timing: “Keep playing, my Wildflower. You sing better when it hurts.” Her tone is syrup-sweet, mocking, tender, dangerous—all at once.

Your hand trembles on the guitar. You can’t move for a moment.

You strum the melody again, but its thrill is gone—she’s poisoned the mood. Morticia leans in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glinting as she surveys you like prey. “My stolen little star…how are you?” Her voice is calm, intimate, a velvet blade.

Your lips part but only manage, “Good.” Flat. Distant. You refuse to let her see the tremor in your hands, the way your pulse quickens.

She smiles, slow and knowing. “I have missed you terribly. Have you missed me?” You swallow, taste that same old ache. You lie: “Yes.” Even you sound convinced.

“Good,” she whispers. Her gaze drifts over you—how your shirt clings, the curve of your collarbone, the beat of your throat. You try to look away, to remember nothing but the guitar’s warm wood under your palm.

Morticia crosses the room in three graceful strides. She stops inches from you, gloved fingers touch your shoulder, turning you to face her, those same fingers curling under your chin. The leather is cool, faintly vanilla-scented. Your breath hitches; your strumming falters.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of me?” You shake your head. Another lie—she knows it already. She presses her thumb to your bottom lip, and for a dizzy moment you forget to breathe.

Then she releases you, abrupt as a snapped string. “Let’s shower,” she says. “We’re both a mess.” You glance down—your shirt’s damp, your hair wild, like a lion’s mane.

She’s right. You look like you fell off a train. And maybe you do smell like garbage. But you’re her mess now, and she’s come to clean you off.

She doesn’t ask if you want to. She simply turns and walks towards the bathroom, expecting you to follow.

You do. You go around her as she stops to put her purse down on the bed and takes her heeled boots off.

You step into the en-suite expecting a brief pause, a moment to center yourself before the inevitable, but Morticia is already in the room with you before you even finish undressing. She stalks in, dark velvet pooling at her feet, and when she strips you it’s not with the desperation of someone hungry for flesh—it’s with a deliberate, ceremonial gravity, as if each button and zipper is a ritual act.

She peels away your shirt, your Nike shorts, your underwear, and you can see in her face that she’s not just removing clothing—she’s removing defenses, peeling off what little armor you thought you had left. When she’s finished, she steps in behind you, still fully clothed, and reaches around to turn the water on with one sharp twist of her wrist.

Hot needles of water sting your skin; in seconds, steam clouds the glass, the tile, your vision. Morticia watches you with the hunger of a starved animal. She stands just outside the spray, letting steam billow around her, her eyes never leaving your body.

For a second, you think maybe she wants you to beg, or fight, or run. But instead, she enters the shower, clothes and all, letting her dress cling to her like a second skin… like a weirdo. She moves behind you and, with careful hands, undoes her own zipper, letting the dress slip to the floor in one fluid motion. Even that is a performance for your benefit.

She presses against you, full chest to your back, so close you can feel the swell and give of her breasts, the sweep of her hips. Her arms encircle your waist, palms flat against your stomach, and she inhales as if to memorize the scent of your terror.

Her hands begin a slow migration, starting at your hips, up the ribcage, a detour to cup your breasts, each movement more methodical than the last as if she’s reacquainting herself with an old map. You brace yourself against the icy tile, every nerve firing at once, the scalding water barely masking the way your body shudders under her touch.

She leans forward so her lips hover at your ear. “You still fit me perfectly,” she breathes, and you know she means it. Her hands travel lower, this time skimming over your thighs, the backs of your knees. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, not even in your own mind. You try to count the droplets on the shower wall, focus on the rhythm of the water, the swirl of steam, but all you can feel is Morticia’s hands reading the Braille of your body.

She pivots you forcefully, pressing your chest to the wall now, and you gasp at the shock of cold tile on burning flesh. Her arms slide around, one pinning you at the waist, the other snaking up to grip your jaw, tilting your head back so you have to look at her, see the black hunger in her eyes. “Stay,” she commands, and you know better than to disobey. Her hands return to your hips, anchoring you in place, her manicured black nails biting crescent moons into your skin.

You clench your eyes shut. You wonder if this is what you deserve, if this is how it’s always going to be if you stay: Morticia wielding your desire like a weapon, never asking, always taking, always knowing just how to break you apart and remake you in her image. It’s almost an art form—the way she finds every scar, every soft spot, and claims it as hers.

She slips her leg between yours, parting your thighs; the shift in pressure makes you gasp. “Relax, carissima,” she purrs, voice velvet and smoke. “You’re safe with me." The words are almost gentle, but then she laughs, a sound sharp and cruel, and you realize the safety she promises is a cage you’ll never escape. The water runs hotter. Her hand slides up, fingers teasing, then pressing, then plunging, mapping the inside of you with clinical ruthlessness. You moan, an involuntary, ragged noise, and Morticia rewards you with a nip at your earlobe, a scrape of teeth.

“Don’t pretend you don’t want this,” she says, soft but lethal.

You can’t answer her. You don’t trust your own voice.

“Touch me,” she commands, voice low and urgent.You obey. Your fingers slip between her thighs, finding that familiar slickness that both terrifies and thrills you. “Deeper,” she whispers against your ear, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. “You remember how I like it. Mommy taught you so well.”

"Remember how I found you that night?" she whispers, her voice a razor against your skin. "Remember how I saved you from yourself?"

When she's close, her teeth sink into your shoulder—not a lover's bite but a predator's claim—and you feel her watching your face, studying your pain like it's the most exquisite thing she's ever seen. Her climax ripples through her body, milk spraying hot across your back, and you realize with hollow dread that she's marked you inside and out. "I've missed this," she laughs, breathless, her eyes meeting yours. "Haven't you?"

Sweating from her climax, she lowers the water temperature. “Let’s get you all cleaned up.”

You stand there, dazed, as she washes your hair, her fingers surprisingly gentle as they massage your scalp. She hums a song you don’t recognize, something slow and mournful. You turn your back to the water, letting the water rinse shampoo from your hair while her lips find yours—soft, insistent. Your eyes stay closed, as if darkness might make this bearable.

She takes it upon herself to bathe you as well, her manicured nails gripping the loofah trailing soapy paths across your collarbone, down between your breasts. Her touch lingers there, “So beautiful.” Before sliding to your stomach, thumb circling your navel, then at the curve of your hip before dipping lower.

"Turn," she murmurs against your ear, and when you do, her palms slide over your shoulder blades, tracing each vertebra down your spine like she's counting precious stones. The loofah she uses makes small, deliberate circles across the small of your back, her other hand steadying you with a firm grip on your waist.

When she is finished, she wraps you in a towel and kisses your forehead.

“Come,” she says. “Let Mommy fix your hair.”

You perch on the marble vanity—white with blue veins, cold and smooth beneath your thighs, the kind of surface that would be in every Architectural Digest editorial ever published, except you can’t keep your gaze off the opaque rust smudge at the edge, a souvenir of the night Morticia beat you so badly you thought she’d finally snapped.

The memory comes unbidden, as they all do with her: you, folded in half, nose gushing, eyes watering, Morticia’s hands balled into fists so tight her knuckles shone and a couple of her nails broke off. Even then, the moment it was over she was all cooing apologies, a cool cloth to your face, whispers of “there, there, Cara Bella, you know I never mean it.” At least that’s the way you remember it. The contradiction is her signature. You can never tell if the hands that touch you next will cradle or crush you.

Now those same hands are wringing your hair out with a ratty old college t-shirt—your college t-shirt, in fact, rescued from a donation bin during the first summer you stayed together, the one that says “HAIL TO THE GEESE” in peeling gold script.

She’s so methodical: section, squeeze, section, squeeze, each movement as precise as surgery. She loops a strand around her finger, letting the coils spring back, and you realize that even after everything, Morticia still knows your hair better than you do, sometimes. Her fingers rake the tangles out with patience you didn’t know she possessed. She produces a spray bottle from a drawer—your old one, relic of drugstore detanglers and midnight routines—mist after generous mist, then the familiar squelch of her palms working the leave-in, careful not to disturb the curl pattern.

You steel yourself for some new indignity, but instead, she tilts your chin toward the mirror and holds your gaze in the reflection. Her own hair, dampened, her natural waves perfectly sculpting themselves as if she demanded them to, framing her face with witchy elegance. She says nothing… it’s almost like she’s in a trance, all of a sudden she begins moving again. For a full minute, she simply attends to you, her lips pressed in concentration.

She splits your hair into four sections, coils each into a twist, and pins it close to your scalp the way you used to do on Sundays to get extra definition. She grabs the defuser and dries only about eighty percent of the dampness of your hair. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she releases all four and lets the curls tumble down, glossy and defined. She cups your face, thumbs resting lightly on your cheeks. The mirror shows you both: you, bare and shivering in the towel, her towering behind like a specter in black silk, eyes narrowed but soft.

“Beautiful,” she says, assessing her work the way a painter might, satisfied but hungry for more.

A small, traitorous part of you glows under her praise.

“Turn this way,” she commands, nudging your knees so you swivel on the stool.

She sits behind you—not beside you, never equal, always looming. Her hands find your shoulders and start kneading, long and practiced, like she’s warming up for something sinister or, worse, tender. The massage is almost clinical at first, her thumbs digging into the knots at the base of your neck, then her palms flatten, spreading warmth across your trapezius. It should feel nice, but the pressure is a reminder: you’re hers to touch, to soothe, to use.

You want to flinch when her breath ghosts your ear, but you’re so tired, so numb, you let it happen.

“I know you’ve been planning to leave,” she says, almost offhand, as if she’s discussing grocery lists and not your escape attempts. That sentence surely woke you up. “You’ve always been good at hiding things, but lately it’s different. You’re restless. I also had a vision while doing your hair.” She increases the force of her fingers, working a knot until your eyes water. “It’s almost charming, watching you try.”

You expect a threat, but instead she sighs, long and theatrical.

She lets her hands slide off your shoulders and down, tracing the line of your collarbones, then further until she’s cupping your breasts through the towel. She rests her chin on your shoulder, smell of soap still thick in the air, and studies you in the mirror. “You’re not going anywhere, my love. Larissa is soft, she’ll forgive you. But I…” She trails off, but her fingers tighten. You know what would happen if you ran. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

For a fleeting moment, you entertain the idea of biting her. Hard. Drawing blood. But you catch your own eyes in the mirror—wide, frantic, rimmed red—and realize you don’t have it in you. Not tonight.

Instead, you just sit, shivering, as she gently tweaks your nipples through the towel, not even for arousal but as a reminder of her reach, her power.

“I want you to be happy,” she says, voice low, and somehow that’s worse than anything else; you know she means it, in her own deranged way. You nearly laugh—what world does Morticia Addams think she’s the good guy? But you don’t laugh. You don’t move.

She hugs you from behind, enveloping you in black and the clean, sharp scent of her body wash still rising from her warm skin. You let her. This is the closest thing to safety you’re allowed.

In here, the world that you’re shielded from contracts to this: Morticia’s arms around your chest, her heartbeat slow and steady at your back, her hands possessive and cruel and, sometimes, impossibly gentle.

You close your eyes. You let yourself be held. You let the moment last.

You go into the bedroom and sit on the bed, still dazed, wrapped in a bath towel that barely covers your thighs. She finds her Dyson hair dryer in the vanity and spends a good ten minutes coaxing her waves into drying the rest of the way, humming an old French pop song under her breath.

When she finally joins you in the bedroom, she’s in a black silk nightgown that clings to her in all the ways you remember. She pauses in the doorway and watches you, eyes heavy-lidded, a cat stalking the bird it already caught. She says nothing for a minute. You say nothing back.

She has a joint between her fingers—already rolled, already lit. She takes a long, slow drag, holding it in her lungs for an almost comical amount of time before exhaling through her nose in two sharp streams.

“I haven’t smoked pot in weeks,” she says, voice reedy from the smoke. “Fuck. I need it—and you.” She takes another hit, the cherry flaring orange in the darkness. The faint smell of weed and rosewater body scrub fights for space in your nose.

She offers you the joint, holding it out while she fills her chest with another ghostly draw. You shake your head. “No thanks. Weed gives me anxiety.”

She cocks her head, genuinely curious. “No it doesn’t.”

You let out a tight, unamused breath. “Oh, okay. My bad. Crazy of me, not knowing my own body.”

She doesn’t like being mocked, but she lets it go. She stares at you until you feel the blood rising to your cheeks, then raises the joint higher, as if daring you. “Go on,” she says. “Take it. You might find I’m right.”

You reach for it, but just as your fingers graze hers she jerks it away and squints at your T-shirt. It’s an old one—black, stretched from too many washes, the logo half-flaked off. “That shirt looks comfy. Can I wear it?”

You shrug. “Sure.”

She sits the joint in a black glass ashtray on the nightstand, then, with a smooth shrug, lets the silk nightgown pool around her feet. She’s completely naked underneath—no surprise—and her body still gleams with a faint sheen of moisturizer. She picks up your shirt, holds it up like a trophy, and slips it over her head. It covers everything and it’s oddly sexy seeing her almost… not her, but she struts around the room as if dressed for dinner at the Ritz.

You go to the dresser and rummage for another shirt, settling on an old powder-blue one, softer than the one she’s taken. When you turn back, Morticia is perched cross-legged at the head of the bed, smoking again, hair wild, face wiped clean of makeup.

“How do I look?” she asks, flipping her hair over one shoulder, eyes bright with mischief.

“Really sexy. Comfy,” you say, flopping onto the bed.

She gives you a sly smile and scoots closer. “Hit this,” she says, offering the joint again.

You take it this time, more to end the argument than to please her. The smoke burns in your throat and you start coughing almost immediately, eyes watering. She laughs, a low, rolling sound that sends shivers up your spine. “You’re adorable,” she says, sliding her hand over your thigh.

You hand the joint back, wiping your eyes. “Thanks.”

She grins, then places the joint between your lips, pinching your cheeks between her fingers. “Again. Bigger hit.”

You inhale, feel your lungs fill, then exhale in a fit of desperate coughing. She giggles and presses her palm to your chest, pushing you back against the headboard. “Breathe,” she commands, her other hand stroking lazy circles over your thigh. “Just let it in.”

You feel the world soften at the edges, the colors more saturated, the sounds a little slower. The ceiling seems higher, the sheets softer, Morticia’s hair impossibly black against the pillow.

She traces her fingers up your shirt, bunching it above your waist, exposing your breasts to the cool air. She looks at you with something like awe, eyes wide and hungry. “Perfect,” she whispers, then dips her head to flick her tongue over your nipple, slow and deliberate.

You groan, body already humming from the weed, and let your head loll back. She laughs against your skin and bites down, gentle at first, then harder, until you gasp.

“Keep smoking,” she says, mouth still on your breast.

You obey, taking another hit and holding it this time, watching her as she moves lower, kissing down your belly, her hands pulling at the waistband of your panties.

She has you naked in seconds. She slides down the bed, hair trailing across your thighs, and buries her face between your legs. You moan, loud and unfiltered, and she clamps her hands on your hips to hold you still.

The joint burns down to the filter, forgotten between your fingers, but you barely notice. Morticia’s tongue is relentless, all slow circles and sharp, practiced flicks, driving you to the edge over and over before pulling you back. You beg her, without shame, and she only smiles, lips slick, eyes locked on yours.

When you finally come, it’s with a force that leaves you shaking, your body clenching around nothing, your hands tangled in her hair. She stays there, licking and sucking until you push her away, too sensitive to bear another touch.

She crawls up the bed and kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. She wraps her arms around you, pinning you to the mattress, and presses her face into your neck.

“See?” she murmurs. “No anxiety. Just me.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

You let her hold you, the two of you tangled together, breathing the same smoky air. For a brief moment, you almost believe this is enough.

But you know better.

You can always tell when Morticia is about to pivot from predator to mother. The lines between the two have blurred over time, but there are still tells—the way her hands flatten against your stomach, the way she tucks your head under her chin, the way her voice drops into a low, almost musical hush. She is a connoisseur of comfort, and right now she wants you pliant and adoring.

You’re so high your bones feel like jello and your skin like velvet. She wraps you in her arms and sits back against the padded headboard, drawing you into her lap as if you weigh nothing at all. She smooths your hair, kisses your brow, then tugs the collar of her shirt down to expose a perfect, milk-white breast.

She puts her nipple to your lips, and you are too fucked up to protest, too lost in the fog needing affection to do anything but suck when she tells you to. The taste is sweet, richer than before, and the rhythm of her hand on the back of your head is hypnotic. You hear the gentle, wet sounds you make, hear her soft gasps when your teeth graze her skin. There’s something raw and electric about it—like the two of you are soldered together at the mouth, a circuit that could fry the world.

“Look at you,” she purrs, stroking your cheek with the back of her finger. “My perfect little leech. My milk-drunk angel. I want to keep you like this, just forever. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She squeezes her breast, offering more, and you drink because it is easier than not.

She reaches for the TV remote with her free hand and flicks on the news. The blue glow splashes across the room, illuminating the tight, contented smile on her face as she nuzzles your temple. For a few seconds, you don’t even listen to what the anchor is saying—just focus on the warmth of her, the gentle up-and-down of her chest.

Then you hear it. Your name.

It’s not just any mention. The newscaster says it in that funereal, headline-grabbing way: “Authorities have now confirmed that the young woman missing from Jericho is presumed dead, pending identification of the remains—”

You freeze, lips still wet and sweet. Morticia’s grip tightens; her other hand ghosts down to your thigh, a not-so-subtle warning. But you’re locked on the TV, on the photo they use—pictures from your Facebook page probably submitted by your friends and family.

Then the camera cuts to your mother.

Your real mother, the one whose face you haven’t seen since Morticia snatched you. She is crying, her voice quaking, makeup smeared from hours of interviews and begging the world to find you. “Please,” she says to the camera, “if anyone knows where my daughter is—please, please let her come home. I just want her back. I know she’s not dead, I can’t still feel her fire. Wherever she is, she’s fighting like hell!”

It’s like a physical jolt. Your teeth clamp down on Morticia’s nipple, hard enough to draw a hiss from her, and in the scramble to pull away, some of her breast milk sprays onto your cheek, hot and sharp.

You tumble out of her lap and scramble to the floor, staring up at the mounted TV as if you can crawl inside it. “Mommy! Mama, I’m not dead! I’m right here!” The tears come fast and unbidden, your voice thick and raw.

You lunge for the wall that the TV is on, as if you could reach through the glass. “Mommy, please! I’m here!” You’re almost certain she can hear you—so certain that it doesn’t even matter that you’re screaming at a recorded news segment.

Morticia’s shadow falls over you, her silhouette blocking out the screen. She kneels behind you and draws you back into her arms, but this time it’s not gentle.

“Hush, little darling,” she says, voice all sugar and poison. “I’m right here. Mommy’s got you. You don’t need that one. You need me.”

But you’re not listening. You’re still reaching for the screen, sobbing, calling for your mother like a child.

Morticia cups your jaw and turns your face to hers. Her eyes are blazing with something you can’t read—anger, desperation, hunger. “I am your mother now,” she says, slow and deadly. “I am everything you need.”

You shake your head, tears blinding you, milk still sticky on your chin. “No. She’s my mom. Please. Just let me go. Please—”

She slaps you, open-palmed and sharp. The sound echoes off the walls. You see stars.

“Don’t say that,” she snarls. “Don’t ever say that.”

You collapse, shuddering, as she holds you even tighter, smothering you in her arms.

The TV keeps playing, your mother’s voice fading to static.

Morticia rocks you back and forth, humming that same sad song from the bathroom, and you know, with a sinking certainty, that you will never be allowed to leave.

Not while she still has a drop of you left to drink.

Chapter Text

Wednesday Addams is no stranger to the art of absence. In her home, the absence of emotion is the default, the absence of daylight a design principle, the absence of ordinary comfort a fact of life. Yet as she stands at the base of her family’s grand staircase, luggage in hand, she feels the unfamiliar sting of being outmaneuvered. 

Her mother is gone.

She lets her duffel slump to the polished wood, the sound echoing through the empty foyer. Normally, Morticia would be waiting for her at the newel post, arms outstretched with that aristocratic grace, lacquered lips pursed in anticipation of a dry homecoming report.

Instead, the only movement is a stray black moth, tracing frantic circles near the ceiling, searching for a lamp that will never exist in this house.

Wednesday blinks once, then again, slower the second time. Her gaze snags on a vase in the entryway. The roses inside are not only alive but trimmed, their heads upright and fragrant, petals a ferocious arterial red. This is unusual. Mother always preferred them wilted, crushed into aesthetic decay.

She unslings her coat and drapes it over a suit of armor, absently straightening the gauntlet as she passes. There is a note tacked to the grandfather clock, but it is from Thing, who has thoughtfully annotated the time of her arrival (early, by two minutes) and the fact that the family hearse is missing, as well as her Mother’s personal vehicle from the garage. As if she hadn’t noticed.

Her first stop is the kitchen. Morticia’s absence is confirmed by the lack of her signature perfume—something between burning saffron and crystallized amber, with a lingering trace of cedar that clings to the skin like a whispered secret.

There’s no one at the stove, no shadowy presence arranging hemlock sprigs into a mortar. Even the blood pudding is sealed in the fridge, untouched, with “Pugsley” written in Sharpie across the lid.

It isn’t that Wednesday expected a grand reunion. But she did anticipate a confrontation—a gentle grilling about camp, the expected jokes about future funeral homes, the clinical rehashing of Wednesday’s daily routine at “embalmer’s camp,” as Morticia called it. Instead, her return is greeted only by echoes.

She pads across the cold tile, opens the laundry chute (no messages from Lurch today), and finds herself at the door to her parents’ bedroom. She knocks, just in case, but receives nothing in response.

Inside, the room is as immaculate as always: black canopy bed, mirrored ceiling, a collection of knives displayed above the headboard. The closet, however, is ransacked. Morticia’s traveling case is missing, and a line of her favorite black gloves is interrupted, a single pair missing.

She calls her father next. Gomez picks up on the first ring, voice giddy and breathless, as though he’s been running through brambles.

“Mi amorcito! Is this not the apple of my eye, the queen of my future casket?”

“Father, where are you?”

“I am in the woods, querida, with your brother. Pugsley has located what he insists is the largest orb-weaver in the entire state of New Jersey, and as you know, I cannot deny a man his quest for arachnid glory.”

Wednesday waits for the background shriek to die down before she replies. “And Mother?”

“She mentioned she was going to pamper herself. Something about spa treatments and mud baths. The usual.”

“The usual,” Wednesday repeats flatly. “Father, have you heard from her since I left camp?”

“Not since yesterday morning. I left her in the sunroom. She said she wanted to catch up on some reading. She was in…good spirits, as I recall.”

There is a long, pregnant pause. In her mind’s eye, Wednesday sees her mother lying in a fluffy black robe while she plots something quietly apocalyptic.

She ends the call and moves to the garage. It smells of rubber and machine oil, with an undercurrent of taxidermy. The hearse is indeed gone and so is her mother’s Mercedes.

She considers calling her mother’s phone, but thinks better of it. Morticia never answers when she doesn’t want to be found.

She tries anyway, out of principle. The call rings three times, then bounces to voicemail. Morticia’s greeting: “You’ve reached Morticia Addams—” Wednesday hangs up.

She then tries the family crystal ball, the old one with a crack running down the middle that Morticia swore gave it better “reception.” She steadies her breath, places her palms on the glass, and waits.

The only image that swims into view is a black glove, waving lazily from the window of a moving car. The scenery blurs past: green fields, white-fenced houses, an ugly detour sign. Then the image winks out.

She tries Morticia’s Find My iPhone location. It’s off. She curses softly in Latin.

The last resort is the AirTag Morticia “never knew about”—a trick Wednesday engineered after her mother’s last disappearing act.

She opens the tracking app on her phone and finds the AirTag, all right.

It’s blinking, stationary, right here in the garage. She walks to the side shelves, and there it is: taped neatly to the underside of a shelf, blinking its helpless dot. A single black hair is caught in the tape.

Wednesday plucks the AirTag from its hiding spot, rotates it in her fingers, and smiles. “She’s getting better,” she says, more to herself than to Thing, who has emerged from behind the toolbox to offer a congratulatory thumbs-up… mostly to Morticia.

Thing scuttles up to her shoulder, flicks at the AirTag, then points to the empty parking bay with a flourish.

“I know, Thing. She’s several moves ahead.” She lets the AirTag drop to the floor, where Thing retrieves it for future use.

Back inside, she makes her way to her bedroom, where the shadows are deepest and the posters on the wall seem to judge her lack of immediate action. She allows herself three minutes of silence to process. Then, she gets to work.

She lays out the timeline. Morticia had exactly forty-eight hours between Wednesday’s departure for camp and her own disappearance. That’s enough time to make arrangements, plant false clues, and buy herself a head start. The glove in the crystal ball is a taunt. The AirTag trick is a challenge. However, Morticia does not want to be found, not until she’s ready anyway.

She runs through the knowns: Her father and Pugsley are out of play, lost in the woods until sundown. Lurch is running errands (today is graveyard mulch day; he’ll be gone for hours). Thing is loyal to Wednesday, but has the attention span of a caffeinated toddler. The house is otherwise empty, and Morticia has left her daughter a puzzle to solve.

Wednesday packs a bag. Not much—just her favorite knife, a flashlight, three pairs of gloves, and a half-eaten protein bar. She considers leaving a note, but that would be redundant. If Morticia has planned this properly, she will be monitoring Wednesday’s progress at every step.

She pauses at the door, looks back at her empty bed, then at the desk where her mother once left love letters in invisible ink. She feels the ache of anticipation, the same one she gets when she knows a good horror movie is about to turn.

She is halfway down the driveway before she realizes she’s left her jacket behind. She doubles back, grabs the oversized jacket, and on her way out, catches her own reflection in the glass of the front door. Her face is expressionless, but her eyes are alive.

“I’m coming for you, Mother,” she says. “Don’t get comfortable.”

With that, she mounts her bike, kicks off, and disappears into the late afternoon, chasing after the first clue in a new family mystery.

The route to the mysterious property is five miles of shifting gray. Wednesday Addams pedals her bike like it’s the last horse out of hell, hood of her jacket billowing, twin braids snapping in the wind. The back wheel wobbles on every pothole. She doesn’t slow down; the small discomforts are a distraction from the absence at home, the puzzle gnawing at her.

Morticia is somewhere ahead, and if Wednesday doesn’t outsmart her, she deserves every embarrassing second of “embalmers camp” recounted at her next family dinner.

The roads are nearly empty, save for the occasional pickup. Even the crows keep their distance, watching her with heads cocked as if they’ve placed bets on her arrival time.

Her only companion is a playlist of true crime podcasts, the voice—a monotonous drone in her left earbud. and Thing of course. By the third mile, she’s already plotting her approach to the fenced houses, the places she’s visited twice and been forcibly removed from once.

She is less than a mile out, just after dusk, when the gravel crunches behind her. Headlights blind her in the fading light. The car slows to her pace. A window slides down, and a voice as cool as chilled vodka floats out.

“Miss Addams. It is generally frowned upon for minors to wander these back roads unsupervised—especially ones with a criminal record.”

Wednesday coasts to a stop and turns, keeping her hands at her sides. Principal Weems looks even taller than usual behind the wheel, platinum hair severe against the dark interior, pale blue eyes reflecting every light source like a predator’s.

“I was released for good behavior,” Wednesday says, deadpan. “And you’re not my warden, Weems. Or have you taken on new duties since retirement?”

The car idles beside her, humming like a purring lynx. “Old habits die hard. I saw you on my way home. I’m assuming this little excursion has something to do with your mother’s current whereabouts? She’s complained to me about you stalking her.”

“She’s not at home. Neither is her car.” Wednesday glances at the dashboard clock. “You’re stalling me.”

Weems offers a small, careful smile. “I’m protecting you from yourself, as always. The people who own the property up the road are—how shall I put this—deeply humorless about trespassers. Last time, you were lucky, your Mother talked them out of pressing charges.”

“They couldn’t make them stick anyway. I didn’t touch anything.” Wednesday plants her feet. “Why were you there couple weeks ago?”

“I’m allowed to visit friends, Wednesday. Some of us have social lives.”

A silent standoff. The sun dies a little more, and the distant trees fuse into one black mass. Wednesday watches Weems’s hands on the wheel: steady, unadorned, nails clipped short.

“Who’s your friend? The same friend as my mother’s I’m assuming? You know, since she’s complaining about me to you now.” Wednesday asks.

“I don’t have to disclose the nature of my personal encounters. You’re not law enforcement, no matter how many true crime podcasts you devour.”

Wednesday considers for a beat, then: “If you’re not here to arrest me, leave. I don’t need an escort.”

Weems’s smile evaporates. “Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The window slides up. The car peels out, gravel spitting like buckshot, and vanishes in the direction of the property.

Wednesday waits. She watches the taillights shrink, then glances down at the small tracker app running on her phone that tracks Thing, who is hanging on to the back bumper.

She hadn’t expected to need it tonight, but her gut tells her Weems is not just a casual presence. She opens her bag, removes a ziplock containing the granola bar, and takes a bite.

She gets back on her bike and rides the last mile, off-road, through a patch of rough grass and weeds. The property comes into view just as dusk bleeds into night: four identical white houses, only two visible from the road, modern and sterile, two in the front, two at the bottom of the unseen slope.

Bright floodlights make the yard glow unnaturally, flowerbeds bursting with spring colors, despite the lingering winter chill. The grass is trimmed within an inch of its life, not a single weed, not a single dead leaf in sight. It is the opposite of Morticia in every way, which is why she knew no one could ever tie her back to the property.

She ditches the bike in a ditch and creeps along the edge of the fence, low to the ground. She is almost at the perimeter when a shadow blocks her path. 

Larissa Weems has always prided herself on being in control—of herself, of her school, of every room she enters, even you at times—but her hands are shaking as she fumbles for her phone, dialing Morticia’s number with a desperation that leaves her breathless.

She blames it on the cold, on the nerves that still prickle at the thought of Morticia’s voice, unyielding will. The phone rings, and rings, and on the third ring, she knows before it even connects that Morticia won’t pick up. She never does when it matters.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up—” Larissa hisses through clenched teeth, watching the driveway in her rearview mirror as the raven-haired girl disappears into the trees. Morticia’s voicemail chimes: “You’ve reached Morticia Addams. If it is about my children, call my crystal ball. For all other matters, call again at dusk. Ciao.”

“It is dusk, bitch!!” Larissa tosses her phone.

The message cuts off, and Larissa swears, jaw clenched so hard her teeth ache. She tries again, thumb trembling, but Morticia’s phone is already dead or turned off. Typical. The woman could fake her own death and make it look like a performance piece.

She throws the car into park and sits for a moment in the hush of the night, heartbeat pounding in her ears. She could just leave. Wash her hands of all this, let the Addamses be their own undoing.

But Wednesday—she’d never let Larissa live this down. It is not just Morticia she’s protecting. Never has been. Larissa knows Wednesday won’t tell on her but she’d always be in debt to this twisted fucking family. She’ll never escape, you’ll never escape either if she doesn’t do this.

She steps out, closes the door softly, and takes a moment to collect herself, smoothing the cuffs of her black coat, straightening her spine. She’s going to have to improvise, and that means using every advantage she has, even the ones that make her skin crawl. She pushes her hair back, looks up at the moon, and lets herself split.

It’s an old magic, one she swore off after Nevermore, but she is out of options. Her shadow lengthens, stretches, and the bone of her face grinds into a different elegance, more dangerous. She can feel Morticia’s lacquered nails at her fingertips, the familiar weight of the silk robe, the arch of the eyebrow only she ever got exactly right.

She hurries through the trees, shaping her walk to that slow, gliding prowl, the one that made the straight teachers at Nevermore uneasy and men at the town council meetings forget their speeches. She sees Wednesday before Wednesday sees her: a pale, determined streak at the property line, boots muddy, glove torn, eyes lit up with a fever that Larissa recognizes all too well.

Wednesday is so close, so terribly close to what waits at the house. Larissa can feel it pulsing, a sickly sweet presence just out of view, and she knows that if Wednesday steps over that line, everything changes.

She waits at the edge, hand poised on the gatepost, and calls out, because even now, even with all the lies, the bullshit, the pain, she has to at least try to save not just her but you too.

She can’t and won’t let Wednesday prematurely intervene, if she does, she knows for a fact that Morticia will surely move you to a different location and you’ll never be found.

“Darling, what are you doing here?” The voice comes out perfect: slow, dangerous, laced with the venom Morticia used when she wanted to draw blood. 

Wednesday breathes through the chill, eyes stinging, thumb absently tracing the phone in her palm. Her mother stands behind the gate. Or what appears to be her mother—Morticia’s profile crisped by headlights, bone-pale hand curved over the iron. 

Mother has never looked out of place until today, maybe it’s the strong winds blowing her hair and dress all over or maybe it’s just her—she’s set like a coffin nail in front of a house so blindingly normal it could have been ordered from a catalog. The sight of her is nearly comical. The wind catches her hair and throws it into the air, a black flag in a battle neither of them have the energy to finish.

Wednesday speaks, voice flat but sharp as broken glass. “You’ve been here since I left. Do you have a job, or have you resigned yourself to a life of stalking?”

Morticia’s lips twitch, then flatten. “My darling, if you had half the sense you pretend, you’d be in a car home by now.” Her voice is syrupy, the kind of threat disguised as endearment Wednesday has learned to slice through. “It’s going to storm.”

“Then let me inside.” Wednesday leans her full weight into the gate, not because she expects it to budge but because she wants to see her mother flinch.

A pause. The wind shifts, dragging loose petals through the gate’s slats. Morticia’s hands tighten, knuckles bloodless. “There’s nothing for you in here.”

“You’re lying.” The accusation floats between them, and Wednesday enjoys watching it land.

A muscle jumps in Morticia’s jaw. “If I am,” she says, “it’s only because you’ve made it necessary.”

Lightning cracks open the sky behind them, illuminating Morticia’s silhouette in harsh blue. Her hair fans out, haloed by static. For a second, Wednesday wants to believe her—wants to believe this is the same mother who let her dissect frogs in the kitchen, who taught her the poetry of taxidermy and heartbreak.

But something is different. The way Morticia stands, the way her eyes don’t meet Wednesday’s, the way she keeps shifting her weight from heel to heel like she’s desperate to run. 

Wednesday tucks the observation away, careful. “Why do you always meet me at the gate, mother? Are you afraid I’ll see something you don’t want me to?” Her voice has risen due to the loud wind.

Morticia snorts, but it sounds wrong, pitched too high. “You’ve always had a way of making everything about yourself, querida.”

“Everything is about me,” Wednesday says. “Isn’t that what you taught me?”

The wind spits a cluster of petals into her face. She doesn’t blink. Morticia draws herself up, smoothing her hair with a trembling hand—a movement Wednesday’s mind catalogs, slow and precise. Morticia Addams does not fidget. Not when she was served with divorce papers—which by the way did not stick, not at funerals, not even when Wednesday, at age seven, impaled a classmate with a dissecting needle. 

But here she is, smoothing and resmoothing her hair, eyes darting to the side.

“Let me in, or I’ll hop the fence like last time,” Wednesday says. She grips the gate and rattles it for effect.

“Do you enjoy the sound of your own petulance?” Morticia’s mouth is hard, but she’s sweating now, a bead sliding from her brow to the tip of her nose. The wind rakes both their hair into wild patterns; Wednesday’s stings her eyes, but Morticia’s—longer not quite as glossy—lashes and coils in the air like seaweed in a storm. Though the wind is doing a number on her mother, Morticia seems a bit out of control of herself.

It’s off. All of it is off.

Wednesday doesn’t say anything, only holds Morticia’s gaze for a silent ten-count. The wind bites cold enough to numb her lips. At last, Morticia looks away, staring through the house as if expecting a ghost to answer her.

“There’s nothing to see in here,” Morticia says, voice strangled by exhaustion. “Go home, Wednesday.”

“Not until you tell me what you’re hiding.” 

She steps close, so close their hands almost touch through the gate. Morticia leans back on her heels and almost, almost stumbles.

Wednesday files it away with all the other evidence.

She softens, just a little. “You’re not even mad this time. Usually by now you’d threaten to bury me in the garden.”

Morticia’s smile flickers, a cheap imitation of her old self. “Why waste the good soil?” She hesitates, and for a fraction of a second, something else—fear, maybe?—flares in her eyes.

Wednesday shoves her hands in her pockets. The clouds overhead bunch and darken, green-black and wet. “I already texted Father,” she says. “He’ll be here soon. If you want me gone, you’re going to have to drag me.”

This time Morticia doesn’t answer. She turns, hair lashing behind her, and walks with deliberate slowness down the drive toward the bottom house. Wednesday waits until she’s out of sight, then frowns at the gate, wondering where she’s going. Wednesday didn’t realize the yard took a downward slope. There’s a gap in the latch, just wide enough for her to slip a hairpin. She files that away too.

She scrolls her texts with one thumb.

ENID: u ok? how’s ur mom

WEDNESDAY: Decompensating.

ENID: want backup? I can break curfew.

WEDNESDAY: Negative. Something’s wrong. I just encountered Weems pretending to be my Mother. She’s in on whatever Mother’s doing.

She lets her phone drop back into her pocket and eyes the sky. Rain starts as a scatter of fat, cold drops, then escalates into a curtain so thick she can barely see her shoes. Somewhere up the road, the family hearse lumbers around the corner, headlights pale in the dusk. Thing comes back indeed confirming that that was not her mother.

The hearse parks at the mouth of the drive. Her father’s silhouette is visible, slumped, hat brim low over his face. The moment she gets in, she’ll have to field his questions, his nervous laughter, the steady hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t move.

She pushes off the gate and walks up the drive, moving parallel to the fence, slow, deliberate. She won’t break in yet. She’ll wait, watch, measure. That’s what her mother taught her.

Inside the bottom house, the storm’s fingers drum the windowpanes, relentless and loud. The interior is so clean it feels like a surgical theater. The living room is over-warmed, the air heavy with the smell of tea and vanilla. On the couch, Morticia Addams sprawls, so at home on the white cushions it’s almost obscene.

Her black hair drips over the back of the sofa, and you rest half across her chest, her nipple in your mouth for comfort—hers anyway, a blanket shared, her fingers drawing slow, hypnotic circles up your spine.

You can’t remember the last time you felt so falsely safe. Morticia reads aloud from a slim, black-bound book, voice low and hypnotic. Sometimes she stops to brush a strand of hair from your cheek, or just looks at you, eyes soft with something she’d call affection and you’d call addiction.

The front door slams. The wind roars through the foyer, scattering damp petals and debris across the immaculate tile.

You sit up fast, heart thumping. Morticia’s hand snags your wrist, gentle but iron. “Stay,” she murmurs.

The figure in the entryway is Morticia, or an exact copy of what she would wear if she were put together instead of how she is now, except this one is drenched and gasping for air, mascara bleeding down her face. That Morticia pauses, taking in the scene—two bodies, one blanket, the genuine smiling like a snake from the OG Morticia.

You stare. Both Morticias stare back at each other.

“What the fuck,” you say, and it comes out louder than you mean.

Morticia on the couch grins, showing all her teeth. 

The other Morticia—her hair tangled, her composure cracked—clutches the doorframe and swallows, hard. You recognize her now. Larissa, unmasked by stress and adrenaline, strung out in Morticia’s skin.

The house smells like weed and vanilla candle wax and the aftermath of an anxious woman transforming back into herself. Larissa slams the bathroom door but not enough to be considered angry, just enough for privacy. The blue-white bathroom light leaks beneath the door.

For a few seconds, all you hear is the pulse of the living room's grand ceiling fan and the subtle, rubbery noises of shifting flesh and fabric. She’s never gotten used to the sound: like wet clay being pressed into a new mold, the slurps and tugs and popping cartilage. Even now, knowing exactly who is behind that door, she feels a glimmer of anticipation for what will walk out.

You peel herself off Morticia’s lap. The space between them is sticky with leftover sweat and the warm, spiced residue of Morticia’s hands. Her thighs shudder, not from the cold—this modern architectural marvel is always exactly seventy degrees—but from Morticia’s lingering grip as she lets you slide away.

Morticia’s eyes, always so onyx and sharp in public, are soft and a little unfocused. The smile she wears is the kind of crooked, private thing you once found irresistible, before you knew what it cost.

She’s still wearing your black t-shirt, which hangs off her like she’s trying on an old life and finding it only halfway suitable. Her hair is loose, curls unfurling into a wild, unstyled mess that hits her like a shadow.

The signature plum lips are gone, replaced by the pinkish natural tone of her mouth, made more human and less deadly by the shower you both shared. Morticia lets her head tip back against the sofa, gaze drifting upward as if she could see through the white-on-white ceiling to the sky outside.

The bathroom door creaks open with the sort of dramatic flair that only Larissa can manage even in defeat. Out comes Weems, now no longer Morticia, all six-foot-three of her encased in a threadbare wife-beater and what can only be described as the world’s shortest, most tragic pair of blue shorts.

Her skin still holds the pink flush from her shift, and her blonde hair, usually ice-sculpted and severe, is sticking out in every possible direction. Her face is bare except for a quick slash of color on her lips, a habit she can’t quite break even in captivity.

“Why does this always feel like the day after Christmas?” she says, not to anyone in particular. Then, louder: “Wednesday came. I had to pretend to be you so that I could get her to leave. If you’d just answer your damn phone for once—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, possibly because Morticia, who has not moved from the couch, is now tracing idle circles around the rim of her wine glass with a damp finger.

You fold into a corner of the couch, arms around your knees, wanting desperately to disappear into the upholstery. Watching these two circle each other has become her daily entertainment, the only unpredictable variable in a life designed to be all control. It’s almost like a play—Morticia the languid villainess, Larissa the exhausted caretaker, and you yourself, the macguffin everyone is obsessed with but rarely consults.

Morticia speaks, eventually, because she must: “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. But I trust your performance was…convincing?” Her voice is syrupy, slow, with just a drip of mockery. She turns her head, studying Larissa with that same disinterested appraisal she might use for a houseplant. “You didn’t overdo it this time, did you?”

Larissa plants herself in the threshold between hallway and living room, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter glass. “I didn’t have a choice. She had the badge, she had the attitude, and she almost had the damned nerve to come inside.”

“And what did you do?” Morticia asks, without looking up.

“I told her there was nothing to see.” Larissa winces at the memory. “She knows something’s off.”

“Of course she does,” Morticia purrs, and the purr is almost contented. “She’s my daughter.”

“Exactly my point, Morticia. She’s going to keep coming. She’s going to call the police—”

“She is the police, more or less. The force in this town is barely a glorified neighborhood watch. And I have friends.” Morticia’s lips twitch, and you get the sense that even the mention of friends is a veiled threat, as if the world is a chessboard and Morticia has memorized every move before anyone even picks up a piece. Then she confirms it, “How do you think I collected this delectable piece of… mmm,” She brushes your leg, struggling to find a word to describe her devotion, desire and obsession.

Larissa steps fully into the living room, trying to make her size count for something. You can see the muscles in her neck cord up. “You’re not listening. If Wednesday gets too close—if she so much as sniffs around this property—everything you’ve built comes undone. And if you won’t do anything to stop her, I will.”

Morticia laughs, a single note, low and dangerous. “Do you really think you’d win that battle, darling?”

“I think you’re underestimating her.”

“And you’re overestimating the cost of failure.” Morticia shifts, sitting up straighter, and fixes Larissa with the kind of gaze that could probably restart a stopped heart.  

“Don’t you remember what’s at stake?” Larissa’s eyes turn to you.

Larissa’s face goes tight, her mouth thinning into a straight line. The silence is ugly and alive, crawling along the walls. You sense the old argument surfacing, the one neither of them will ever say aloud.

You clear your throat, because sometimes being the pawn means you get to interrupt the game. “What did she want, exactly?” The question is small but necessary.

Larissa’s blue eyes cut to you again. “She said she was following up on a lead. Something about a journal she found in her Mother’s room. It had your initials inside.”

Morticia’s eyebrow arches, lazy and perfect. “Is that so? Our little Wednesday has become quite the detective.” As if Morticia didn’t already know this detail.

“She was always a detective,” Larissa says, rolling her eyes. “The difference is that now she has teeth.”

Morticia stands, not bothering to smooth the t-shirt or do anything about her wild hair. She wanders over to your end of the couch and sits on the arm, close enough for your shoulders to touch.

For a second, she just breathes in the scent of your hair, as if gathering resolve. “She’ll get bored soon enough. Or distracted. She’s a child, and children always move on to the next shiny object.”

Larissa shakes her head. “You don’t know her the way I do. She’s not a child. She’s obsessive, and she’s getting better at hiding it… after all, you’re her mother.”

Morticia ignores this, turning to you instead. “Do you want some wine, sweetheart? It’s not your favorite, but the selection here is…limited right now.”

Your mouth is dry. “Sure.”

Morticia pours, the sound of liquid hitting glass somehow magnified in the too-bright, too-clean room. She hands you the glass with a flourish, then leans against the arm of the sofa, legs draping across your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Larissa’s eyes narrow. “You’re not even going to take this seriously, are you?”

Morticia doesn’t bother to answer. Instead, she tips her own glass to her lips and, in a move so unlike her usual elegance, she chugs half of it in one go. When she sets the glass down, her eyes are glassy, rimmed with red. Larissa notices immediately.

“Are you high?” Larissa demands.

Morticia blinks slowly. “No.”

Larissa tilts her head.

Morticia doesn’t flinch but she exhales. “Yes, Larissa, I just smoked a fat ass blunt and you’re really fucking up my high.”

You nearly spit wine. Larissa sputters, caught between indignation and outright horror.

Morticia just beams, delighted at her own capacity for chaos. “What? It’s legal now. And frankly, after dealing with you and Wednesday, I deserve it.”

Larissa makes a noise, not quite a word. “This isn’t a joke. Wednesday will—”

Morticia cuts her off, voice suddenly dark. “I am aware of the stakes. If she gets too close, I’ll handle it. I always do. Besides, Wednesday doesn’t even know this house exists. When she’s around I stay around the front two houses. Never letting her know that this property even has a dip. It’s the way I designed it.”

The certainty in her voice makes your skin crawl. You wonder, for the hundredth time, if Morticia would burn the whole world down just to keep you here.

Larissa goes ghostly white realizing she’d in fact did not walk to the two houses in the front, she walked straight down the hill. She keeps the rest of her composure but her gears are turning.

Larissa, defeated, throws her arms up and storms back to the hallway, muttering about “children, goddamn children everywhere.” She slams the bathroom door again, hard enough this time for the walls to tremble.

Silence falls. Morticia’s legs are heavy on your lap. She draws slow circles on your knee, smiling to herself. The high has made her softer, but not less dangerous.

“I missed this,” Morticia says, her voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t know what to say, so you drink your wine and watch the sky turn bruised and gold through the picture window. You try not to think about Wednesday, or the journal, or the certainty that this can’t last. You try not to remember who you were before Morticia Addams decided to love you into submission.

“Gimme a kiss.” Morticia says puckering her lips to yours, kissing your lips before you could even pucker back fully.

After a minute, Morticia lifts her legs and stands, stretches, and pads down the hall, pausing at the bathroom door. She raps on it, hard. “Don’t take too long in there, Larissa. We’re family, whether you like it or not. We’re having family time tonight.”

From inside, a single, muffled scream of frustration. She knows what that will consist of. All three of you watching a movie, you falling asleep on Morticia’s chest, Morticia falling asleep shortly, then Larissa. Larissa waking up to you under the blanket giving Morticia head.

Morticia laughs, a sound that fills the house and leaves no room for hope.

You sit, and wait, and wonder if anyone will ever come for you

Chapter Text

The “family night” didn’t happen that night. It got postponed due to Morticia’s increased paranoia after her high wore off.

Two days later. You wake to sunlight slicing between blackout curtains, pooling on the hotel-quality sheets. Morning is always the same here: too bright, too quiet, and lined with the distant whine of an overclocked espresso machine.

You stare at the ceiling and listen for the vacuum running downstairs. The world is so orderly, so unyielding, you can almost believe you’re not a missing person, just someone who’s lost her way.

There’s a single white tulip in the vase on your bedside table. You know, by the way the stem slouches, that it’s been changed within the last hour. Routine when she’s here. The security measures are invisible to the eye—no visible locks, no bars on the windows, but you know what would happen if you tried the doors at night.

The house itself is a kind of prison: state-of-the-art, blindingly modern, with pale walls and a color palette lifted from a high-end dentist’s office. Everything is so clean it hurts.

You are not alone. You never are.

Larissa is already in the kitchen, one hand cradling a coffee mug, the other combing through the digital news on her tablet. Even in this off-brand captivity, she cuts a figure of poise and precision. Her hair’s platinum bob is softer these days, her face less shielded by foundation, but her eyes are still those unyielding shards of blue.

She doesn’t acknowledge your presence. She rarely does before caffeine. You try not to resent her for it.

You wonder, for the thousandth time, what Morticia would do if she found out about your little lapses of independence. You’ve been here almost seven months, and every morning is a chance for everything to go wrong.

You help yourself to cold milk and a bowl of cereal, noting the inventory of food has been restocked—someone, somewhere, is still handling the logistics, and it isn’t either of the women in this house.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling bold, you imagine there’s an entire network of people moving silently in the background, sustaining this artificial world. You even imagine Wednesday Addams, stoic and clever, somewhere in the periphery, mapping the pieces on the board.

Larissa’s hand pauses over her tablet. You can feel her gaze slide to you, two seconds longer than necessary. “You’re up early,” she says, voice even.

“I never sleep well.”

“Another nightmare?”

You shrug. Sometimes you think she wants you to be honest, other times you know she doesn’t. Today, it’s the latter, not while Morticia is lingering somewhere.

You risk a look at her. She’s tense, shoulders stiff, as if waiting for a blow. There’s something different about her this morning—her movements are clipped, her breathing shallow.

“Something happen?” you ask.

Larissa doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns off her tablet with a sharp flick of the wrist. She leans against the island, towering over you even in her sock feet. “You know what Morticia is, don’t you?”

You think about lying, but what’s the point? “I think so.”

“Good.” Larissa looks away, jaw working. “Don’t trust her. She’s more dangerous than she seems.”

“Yeah… I figured that with the way she’s been busting my ass for absolutely nothing for almost a year now.” You didn’t mean to be so sarcastic but you thought it was obvious.

A quiet falls between you, a cold, echoing silence. You remember when you first arrived—how Larissa would bark orders, never meet your eye, treat you like a pet project. Something changed after the second month. Maybe it was the way you clung to her sleeve during your first real panic attack, or maybe she simply got tired of pretending.

Larissa sets her mug in the sink. “She’ll be back by noon. You should get ready.”

You nod, nerves crawling.

The shower is a little too hot, the soap too floral. You linger, letting the water beat the back of your neck. In the foggy mirror, your face is unremarkable—no fresh bruises, no dramatic cheekbones or haunted eyes. You look like a before photo: plain, blank, someone whose life will start only after she’s rescued. But your body is a different story.

You towel off and dress in the clothes provided for you. Soft, nondescript. You used to resent the monotony, the lack of color, but now you know it’s camouflage. In this house, color is a liability.

You catch your reflection again and wonder if Morticia will notice the way your hands tremble. She always does. She notices everything.

Crazy bitch.

By the time Morticia arrives, the air in the house is thick with ozone. You can smell her perfume before you see her—a high, sharp scent like bruised lilies and expensive smoke. It’s a pretty smell.

The front door clicks open. You’re on the couch, feigning interest in a nature documentary, but you hear the familiar cadence of her heels on the tile. She appears in the archway like an apparition: tall, impossibly pale, dressed in a flowing wrap dress the color of tar. She’s smiling, but her eyes are black marbles, unreflective.

“Darling,” she coos. “You’re looking positively radiant.”

You look at Larissa. She’s retreated to the far side of the living room, arms folded, posture rigid. Morticia crosses to you and runs her fingers along your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“You missed me,” she says.

You don’t answer. She likes it better when you don’t… sometimes.

Morticia turns, eyes alight. “Larissa, you’re quiet today.”

Larissa’s voice is a perfect flatline. “I didn’t sleep well.”

Morticia moves to the kitchen, every step rehearsed. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? The flowers are so lovely this time of year. I thought we could spend the afternoon in the sunroom, if my favorite girls are amenable.”

She glances at you. “You’ll join us, won’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod, because what else is there to do?

The sunroom is Morticia’s invention—a glass box tacked onto the back of the house, filled with tropical plants and antique furniture. You take your seat on a chaise while Morticia pours three glasses of iced tea. Larissa declines hers, which Morticia doesn’t remark on but files away for later.

Morticia sits so close you can feel the static charge of her, the magnetic pull that made you fall into this mess in the first place. She speaks in a low, conspiratorial tone, as if you are sharing a joke no one else is smart enough to understand.

“Isn’t this better than anything else in the world?” she asks, sweeping a hand at the sunlight, the green leaves, you. “I could stay here forever.”

You say nothing. Morticia’s affection is never casual; it’s a trapdoor, and you never know when it’ll drop out from under you.

Larissa breaks in. “I’ve noticed that we’ve been running low on groceries a lot faster lately.”

Morticia tuts. “I’ve noticed. That can’t be right.”

“It is,” Larissa says, voice cool. “Someone’s been eating through the snacks at twice the rate.”

Morticia raises a brow. “Was it you, darling?” she asks, turning to you. “Have you developed a sudden fondness for gingersnaps?”

You manage a smile. “Maybe.”

She laughs, delighted. “Mommy’s girl. You’re so easy to tease.”

The conversation drifts to weather, to books, to a movie Morticia saw with “friends” last week. You know she means family, the ones she never mentions by name. 

Out of nowhere, Morticia asks, “Did you enjoy your walk last night, Larissa?”

Larissa stiffens. “I needed air.”

How did she know Larissa left you alone? She wasn’t even here.

Morticia smiles, slow and lazy. “Of course you did.” She draws circles on the armrest. “And did you happen to see anything interesting while you were out?”

Larissa hesitates. “No.”

Morticia’s eyes cut to you, then back to Larissa. “You know, I’ve always admired your loyalty, Larissa. It’s so rare these days.”

You see the tension ripple through Larissa, the way her jaw works, her knuckles whitening on the upholstery. Morticia’s smile never changes, but something cold slips into her voice.

“Loyalty,” she repeats. “It’s the only thing that matters in the end.”

You realize this is a performance, a script they’ve both learned by heart. You wonder which of them is more scared.

After lunch, Morticia retires to the upstairs bedroom for her nap. She invites you to join her, but you decline, citing a headache. Larissa gives you a nod of approval—she’s always happiest when you don’t go.

In the relative quiet, you watch from the window as the afternoon light slants across the yard. The flowers outside are a mockery of spring, too vivid for the time of year. You imagine the world on the other side of the white fence: your old life, the friends and routines you left behind.

You wonder, sometimes, if anyone is still looking for you… even if you are dead.

Inside the house, you’re watching a movie you’ve seen a dozen times, more for the comfort of white noise than anything else. Larissa joins you, folding herself into the armchair like she’s trying to disappear.

“Did you ever think you’d end up here?” she asks, breaking the silence.

You think about it. “I never thought I’d end up anywhere.”

She laughs, a single hard breath. “I used to think I could control everything. That if I played by the rules, nothing bad would ever happen.”

“What changed?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Then: “Morticia. She never plays by the rules. She makes them up as she goes.”

You shift, wary. “Are you scared of her?”

Larissa looks at you, the weight of seven months’ secrets in her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

You look down. “Yes.”

She leans forward. “I think we could run,” she whispers, so low you barely catch it. “If we planned it right.”

You freeze. It’s the first time she’s ever said it out loud.

You search her face for a joke, a trick, but she is deadly serious.

“I’m thinking about it,” you say.

“Good,” Larissa whispers. “Because I don’t think we have much time. Wednesday is getting entirely too close and it’ll cause Morticia to make a rash decision. Someone will get hurt.”

There’s a thump upstairs—Morticia, awake.

Larissa stands, smooths her pants, and gives you a quick, almost parental squeeze on the shoulder. “I’ll handle her. Get some rest.”

You watch her go, heart hammering.

In your room, you sit on the bed and count your breaths. The clock reads 10:23 p.m.

Larissa appears in your doorway. Her face is drained of color, her lips a bloodless line.

“She’s planning something,” she whispers.

“So are we,” you say.

Larissa nods. “Tomorrow night.”

You try to sleep, but the house never truly quiets. You lie awake, tracing escape routes on the ceiling, listening to the heartbeat of the house: Morticia’s footsteps, the hum of electronics, Larissa’s distant sighs.

You wonder if Wednesday will come back.

You wonder if you’ll be here when she does.

You drift to sleep with the taste of dread on your tongue, and the hope that tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow you run.

The next morning arrives with a sense of premeditated calm. You wake to the clinking of porcelain, the filtered aroma of coffee. Larissa is already at the table, her expression rehearsed to blankness, reading the paper. Morticia is nowhere in sight, she's in the restroom, but her presence pervades; you can feel her in the echo of high heels on tile, in the faintest lingering scent of her perfume.

You pour yourself cereal and pretend to focus on the patterns the milk makes as it floods the bowl. Larissa glances at you from behind the print, her gaze a flicker of coded warning.

“You sleep better?” she asks, voice carefully casual.

You nod. “A little.”

She sets the paper down. “Morticia will want to see you. She mentioned a special evening. Family night.”

You take this in with an eye roll. “What’s the occasion?”

Larissa hesitates, something fragile in her silence. “She didn’t say.”

Morticia appears at the threshold, black dress swirling around her ankles, hair gleaming as if lit from within. She glides to your side, bends to press a cold kiss to your lips.

“Morning, my love,” she whispers, her words syrupy-slow. “Did you miss me while I slept?”

You nod your head, not sure what answer she wants today.

“Ah, and I’ve missed you. I dreamed of you, even. Pregnant, with my baby. Maybe soon we will try.” you choke. 

She straightens, locking eyes with Larissa. “Isn’t she beautiful today?”

Larissa’s lips curve in a tight, school-principal smile. “Always.”

Morticia claps her hands together. “Tonight, I want a proper family night. A movie, some snacks. Maybe even popcorn.” She turns to you, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. “Would you like that, sweetheart?”

You nod again, as you always do.

“Good.” Morticia lingers, her hand trailing down your back, the touch both electric and sickly. “We’ll make a memory.”

She disappears into her office, door clicking shut. You hear the muffled murmur of a call, probably to Jericho, probably with the other family she pretends not to have.

Larissa waits a moment, then lowers her voice. “She’s planning something.”

“So are we,” you say, eyes down.

Larissa leans close. “Tonight. After she sleeps. I’ll come for you.”

You risk a glance. Larissa’s face is all angles, determination etched in every line. “Do you think she suspects?”

Larissa shakes her head. “She’s too focused on the game. She thinks she’s won already.”

You nod, nerves curling in your stomach. “I hope you’re right.”

You spend the day in a haze. The house feels smaller, the air thinner. Morticia busies herself with little projects—arranging flowers, writing in a battered red journal, scrolling through photos on her phone. She hums to herself, a sound that used to soothe you and now only raises your hackles.

Lunch is a ritual: three plates, three glasses, three perfectly arranged sets of utensils. Morticia insists on seating you to her left, her hand resting on your thigh the entire meal. Larissa eats in silence, stabbing at her salad.

“Tell me a story,” Morticia says, tracing circles on your knee.

You search your memory, grasping at anything. “I used to have a cat named Cinnamon. He would sleep at the foot of my bed every night.”

Morticia’s eyes soften. “I’d like to have a cat here. Wouldn’t you, Larissa?”

Larissa keeps her eyes on her plate. “Cats shed. It would ruin the upholstery.”

Morticia laughs, head thrown back, and you see for a second the woman you fell for. Then her eyes land on you and the spell snaps.

“Tonight, darling,” she says, “we’ll be just like a real family. I want you to wear something nice for me. That pretty blue sweater you love.”

You nod, trying to keep your hands from shaking.

Across town, Wednesday Addams is planning.

She’s never been one for the sentimental, but there’s something in the air tonight, some tremor of anticipation. She has her backpack packed with the usual tools—flashlight, notebook, three lockpicks, and a pocketknife with a spider-shaped handle. She’s been mapping the neighborhood for weeks, watching her mother’s comings and goings, building a timeline. That last time she saw her mother though… she discovered more.

She knows Morticia is hiding something… you or your body. She just needs proof.

The Addams house is even darker than usual; Gomez is in the town, and her mother is “out with friends.”

Wednesday checks her phone: 11:03 p.m. She gives Enid a perfunctory wave and slips out the back, boots silent on the cold pavement. “Remember, have my father on speed dial.” 

She catches an Uber, the drive is fifteen minutes, using the time to rehearse her questions. She knows the property is heavily monitored, that even the landscaping is a kind of trap, designed to repel curiosity. What she didn’t expect, on her first surveillance run, was the hill.

Thanks to Thing’s walk she now knows about the four houses that are nearly identical from the road, but the two rear houses drop out of sight, the incline so steep that you could hide a second life at the bottom and no one would ever know. Wednesday finds this poetic also very fitting for Morticia.

She circles the block twice, waiting for the right moment.

The sun sets early; clouds crowd the horizon and cast the whole house in a violet gloom. Larissa disappears to “take a zoom call,” but you know she’s prepping for tonight, double-checking every camera angle, every lock. You change into the blue sweater, run your hands over the fabric, then catch yourself in the mirror and almost laugh—it looks more like a uniform than comfort.

Morticia finds you on the couch. She sits beside you, tucking your legs over hers. “Are you ready?”

You nod. “What are we watching?”

Morticia considers, her fingers combing gently through your hair. “I was thinking a classic. Drag Me To Hell. Isn’t that deliciously on-the-nose?”

‘Sure the fuck is.’ You force a smile. “Never seen it.”

“Oh, you’re in for a treat.”

She leads you to the home theater: massive screen, blackout curtains, surround sound. She settles on the couch, guiding you into her lap, her arms wrapped tight around you. She smells of wine and roses. Her heart beats a little too fast beneath your ear.

Larissa appears with the popcorn, face an immaculate mask. “Popcorn?”

Morticia waves her off. “Not for me. I want to savor the film.”

You tuck in, letting Morticia rock you gently as the previews roll. Thirty minutes into the movie, you feel the telltale heaviness in your eyes—the pressure of her hand on your head, the warmth of her chest. The world blurs; you fight it, but the pull is inexorable.

Morticia lifts her baggy t-shirt, she’s becoming quite fond of them after a shower, baring her breast with practiced indifference. She guides your mouth to her nipple, cupping your head with a tenderness that almost makes you cry. “Go on,” she murmurs. “You know it helps you sleep.”

You latch on, the gesture automatic after months of conditioning. Her skin is cool, the taste familiar. You nurse in silence, Morticia stroking your hair in long, hypnotic strokes. The movie drones on, the images washing over you in waves of color and sound. You feel Morticia’s breathing slow, her grip loosen.

Ten minutes later, you’re asleep. 

You wake to darkness and the faint, tinny echo of credits rolling. Morticia’s hand is still on your head, her chest rising and falling with each slow, heavy breath. You detach from her, gently, and her arm drapes over you, holding you close even in sleep. Her other hand, limp on the sofa, holds an empty glass—wine, probably, spiked with something extra.

Larissa appears at the edge of your vision, pale and silent.

“She’s out?” you whisper.

Larissa nods. She moves quickly, efficiently, pulling you to your feet and guiding you toward the bathroom.

“Go now, but go to the toilet first” she says, barely audible. “I’m sure you almost peed on her, like last time.”

“That was her fault for holding me down so tight.” You whispered.

You duck into the closest hallway bathroom, shutting the door quietly. You sit on the cold toilet and wait for your heart to slow while you pee.

When you open the door, Larissa is waiting. She presses a slip of paper into your hand.

“Front door. Code is 6266. Wait in the theater room until 2 a.m. I’ll come get you and I’ll distract her if she wakes.”

You unfold the note: “I’m sorry.” It’s written in Morticia’s favorite pen by Larissa.

Your hands shake, but you nod. “Thank you.”

Larissa’s face softens for a moment. She cups your cheek, her thumb gentle on your skin. “Don’t thank me yet. Just get out.”

You breathe, trying to remember the shape of hope.

You return to the theater room. Morticia is still slumped on the sofa, arms cradling the space where you’d been. She looks smaller in sleep, her black hair a mess against the pillow, her lips parted. You almost feel bad. Almost.

You sit on the edge of the sofa and wait for Larissa to return. The house is silent, except for the hum of the fridge and the soft click of a security camera rotating above the mantle.

Time crawls. You watch the digital clock on the wall: 1:14. 1:28. 1:46.

You remember the first night Morticia brought you here, the sheer force, then other nights when she was softer—how she’d kissed you so sweetly, told you how much she loved you, then locked you in the bedroom for three days. You’d screamed, at first. Cried yourself hoarse. Now you know better. Now you play along, biding your time.

Larissa slips into the room at 2:03. She stands by the door, arms folded.

“She’s sleeping deep… I think,” she whispers. “It should be safe.”

You gather your things Larissa purchased you—just a coat and a pair of all terrain boots, both white, both would be instantly dirty in the slushy yard. Larissa follows you to the kitchen.

She looks at you, eyes bright in the dim. “You know the code?”

“6266.”

“Good.” She hesitates, then puts both hands on your shoulders. “When you get out, run for the trees. There’s a path side of the front house on the left. It’s hidden, but you’ll find it. It’ll take you to the road. Pace yourself, this yard is steep.”

You nod.

Larissa leans in and presses her lips to your forehead then your lips. It’s not romantic, not exactly, but it’s the closest thing to love you’ve felt in months.

“I can’t stop her but I can hold her back as long as I can. Whatever you hear, don’t look back,” she whispers.

You step toward the door.

Wednesday waits until wee hours, when all finally seems still in the house, then approaches.

She keeps to the shadows, moving with the confidence of someone who has never been caught in her life. She slips past the front gate with minimal effort, rolling under the security camera’s blind spot. The houses loom above her, all glass and steel and imported stone, but the path down to the lower houses is unlit except for the moonlight, nearly invisible from the street.

She moves quickly, avoiding the crunch of gravel. When she reaches the edge of the drop, she stops and takes inventory from afar: all windows dark, except for a single blue flicker from the den. The security panel by the door is state-of-the-art, but nothing Wednesday can’t handle. She begins jogging to the house, careful of the snow.

—

You pause before the keypad. Your hands shake so badly you have to press the numbers carefully not to trigger the alarm. The light flashes green, and you hear the subtle click of the deadbolt disengaging.

You take a single look back, swinging the door open, breathless and run into the night without a thought.

The cold is immediate, a slap to the face. You stagger forward, half-blind, the snow crunching under your feet. You risk a glance behind: the house is a warm, glowing jewel in the dark, but the windows are still.

You make it to the hedgerow. You duck, weaving through the thick tangle of branches. There’s the house, just as Larissa said, it’s far as fuck though, its windows shuttered, its back patio dusted with frost.

You think see the path—more of a rut, really—cutting through the brush.

You’re running, now, heart in your throat.

And then you hear the scream.

Morticia’s voice is unmistakable, slicing the night like a razor. “LARISSA!”

Your muscles lock mid-stride as stadium-bright security lights on all of the houses snap on, bathing the snow in harsh white. You blink against the sudden glare, momentarily blinded. This is new—you've never made it this far before to even trigger this security measure.

When your vision clears, you catch movement at the window: Morticia, her silhouette framed against the glass, hair in disarray, feet moving with such force you can almost feel the vibration through the frozen ground.

You turn back and keep running.

You hear distant commotion behind you from the house, then the slamming of the front door. You slip, stand up and run, lungs burning, shoes slick with mud and melt.

The path opens onto a wide clearing, the edges ringed with spindly trees. You stop, gasping, and look back.

You can see her—Morticia, black silk robe fluttering in the wind, so angry she’s damn near leaving red streaks in the snow. She’s coming for you, and she’s not alone.

Behind her, Larissa is running after her, trying to stop her. The two get into a momentary tussle until Morticia breaks loose, and you hear Larissa yell, “Run, Y/N!”

You look ahead and begin running, you see a shadow and it’s Wednesday running towards the house, you lock gazes across the cold distance, she turns before her mother sees her. This is all she needed to see, she turns back and runs the same direction as you, you going ahead of you.

For a second, nothing moves for either of you. It’s you, she found you, alive, not dead. You’re rather clean, in a white coat, it’s open and flapping in the wind with clean clothes and you seem well kept despite your tear stricken face running.

Then Morticia screams, a sound so raw and furious it chills your bones.

You run faster.

Chapter Text

You slip once, knee slamming into a frozen mound of earth. You bite your tongue to keep from crying out. Blood fills your mouth and you swallow it, a coppery jolt of reality. You push off the ground, hands and knees, and keep going.

There’s a thicket at the property’s edge. You dive into it, the branches clawing at your sweater, snagging your hair, and for a second you’re convinced you won’t make it—then you burst through, tumbling onto the back driveway.

And there she is.

You see Wednesday standing dead center in the driveway, a beam of moonlight glinting off the slick black of her braids, her face a calm, impassive mask that feels alien in the charged air. Her left hand rests in her coat pocket, but her right grips a flashlight, angled down to illuminate nothing but grimy ice at your feet.

She looks as if she’s been waiting her entire life for this exact moment—suspended between one world and the next, her eyes sharp and impossible to read. Her gaze slides over you with recognition, as if you’re just another piece in some elaborate puzzle only she knows the shape of. It isn’t until you stagger into her circle of light, legs shaking with fatigue and terror, that Wednesday’s expression flickers from bland apathy to razor-sharp wit.

The ground shifts beneath you as you hit the edge of the driveway, lungs screaming for air. You skid to a stop—your boots doing little to keep you from sliding across the ice. The cold burns your cheeks and throat, your hands numb, but you raise them anyway—palms open and trembling, a universal plea for mercy. 

“Help,” you choke out, salt and mucus clogging your nose. You double over, dizzy, pain sparking behind your eyes with every heartbeat.

Wednesday arches a single eyebrow, the slow, deliberate movement of someone already bored with melodrama. “Did you bring company?” Her voice is as flat as a tombstone’s face. A flicker of interest crosses her features, gone as quickly as it came, leaving only the barest smirk. Before you can answer, the night fractures and Wednesday sees a flash of black.

Morticia explodes from the shadows, barely visible until she’s already clutching your throat with shocking, inhuman strength. You spin backward, boots scraping across the icy concrete, and your head collides with the driveway’s edge in a white-hot burst of pain. The world flickers between black and blue. All you can register is Morticia’s grip crushing your windpipe, the sickly-sweet tang of her perfume, the weight of her body pinning you down.

Her face hovers inches from yours, lips peeled back in a snarl, eyes glittering like obsidian. Her breath is cold and fast, flecks of saliva spattering your cheeks. “You,” she hisses, voice trembling with something that might be love—or hate. “You are not leaving me.”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. You claw at her wrists, feeling the delicate bones shift beneath your fingers, but Morticia only squeezes tighter, her nails biting into the tender flesh under your jaw. The world contracts to a pinpoint—her face, her breath, her hands, the unyielding pressure closing in from all sides.

Then Larissa is there. You don’t see her approach, don’t even hear the engine until the tires squeal on the ice. Morticia’s car skids onto the drive, slamming into park with a grinding crash. Larissa is out of the car before it stops, long coat billowing behind her like a dark flag. In three desperate strides she reaches Morticia, grabs her shoulders, and tugs with all the force of someone who has nothing left to lose.

Morticia doesn’t budge. Both arms and now both legs wrap you tight, anchoring you to her. Larissa pulls one way, Morticia another, and you feel yourself sliding on the icy concrete, under the two women in a sadistic ritual. Panting, swearing, the wet gasps of someone dying on their feet fill the air.

Above the chaos, Wednesday’s voice rings out. “You’re making quite the spectacle. Should I call the police, or would you prefer a family therapist?”

“Get off her! Let go!” Larissa shouts, nails digging into Morticia’s arm until blood wells, but Morticia only holds on tighter—she is hurricane, undertow, midnight current dragging you down.

In that instant, Morticia’s eyes flick to Wednesday. A flash of calculation, something wounded and ancient, before Morticia reaches into her robe and withdraws a compact matte-black gun. She levels it at Wednesday, finger half-cocked on the trigger.

“You wanted honesty, Wednesday?” Morticia’s voice drops to a deceptively calm, almost sweet tone. “This is the truest version of myself. Are you delighted, dear?”

Wednesday remains statuesque, but you see the tension coil beneath her stillness. The flashlight beam wobbles, throwing cruel shadows across Morticia’s face. Larissa freezes, hands still locked on Morticia; you hang under them, a hostage in a war of obsession.

Morticia leans close, the cold metal pressed against your temple. She whispers in your ear, voice silk and venom both: “I cheated on your father. I kidnapped her. I’ve hurt people. But I would do it a thousand times over if it means she stays mine.” Her lips brush your ear—an almost loving caress that makes bile rise in your throat.

She stands, hauling you up as a shield, her body a barrier between Wednesday and Larissa. You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the warm trickle between your legs—another layer of humiliation in this nightmare.

Larissa is crying openly now. “Please, Wednesday—just go. She’ll kill her. She’ll kill us all.”

Wednesday doesn’t blink. Her hands slip into her coat pockets, fingers flexing against something unseen.

Morticia lifts her chin and addresses Wednesday. “If you don’t leave, I will shoot her. Is that what you want, darling? To see me erase the one thing in this world that makes me feel alive? You can’t imagine what I’d be like without her.”

The threat hangs in the icy air like a curse.

Your mind is fog. You know Morticia is bleeding, your face is slick with tears and snot, and your hands tremble so violently you can’t keep them down. You try to find Larissa’s eyes, but Morticia jerks your head back, forcing your gaze upward to the roiling clouds.

“Look at me,” Morticia whispers, quiet but deadly. “Look at me, and tell me you love me—and this all stops.”

Your voice is gone, erased by months of terror, years of yearning, the metallic taste of blood.

Wednesday shifts her weight. The silence grows heavier. Three statues on a stage, waiting for the final act.

Then you hear it: a car engine. Faint at first, then growing, headlights swinging across the icy yard. Morticia’s grip tightens, dragging you backward toward the house, one arm locked around your neck, the other gun aimed at your head.

The car pulls up. Gomez steps out, face pale with confusion and fear, hands raised. His eyes take in the tableau: you in Morticia’s vise, Morticia holding a gun to your head, Larissa wild-eyed on the periphery.

Morticia’s voice rises in a tremulous song. “See, darling? The family is all here.” She laughs, then sobs, pressing the gun harder against your temple until you scream.

Gomez edges forward, voice calm, desperate. “Tish, let’s talk. We can fix—”

“No,” Morticia cuts him off, a dismissive gesture. “You don’t get to fix this.”

Larissa lunges—but Morticia sees her coming. She swings the gun in a vicious arc, catching Larissa across the jaw. Larissa crumples into the snow. 

The blow with the gun lands on Larissa’s jaw with a wet, sickening crack, as if she’s breaking a wishbone. You watch in horror as Larissa crumples in a heap, her knees folding in slow, surreal increments, her face slack and briefly expressionless before the pain arrives, rippling through her features with a childlike shock.

At the same instant, Morticia fires upward, the gunshot splitting the world in half: the sound is thunder in your chest, an electric shock splitting your eardrums, and the air—already tense with the stench of ozone and desperation—turns to black powder and ringing silence.

You don’t even think. You react, pivoting instinctively, and wrap your arms around Morticia’s petite, trembling frame. She’s so much smaller than you, yet somehow the epicenter of every force in this universe—her body radiates a heat that burns through the cold, through your coat, through your skin, as if she’s pure energy.

You hold her as if bracing for an earthquake, as if you might be able to smother the violence in her bones with the pressure of your own body. Gomez ducks low, arms over his head, while Larissa—still on the ground, hands pressed to her face—flinches without moving, the whites of her eyes bright and huge in the darkness.

The gunshot’s echo has barely died when Morticia realizes you’re holding her. She seems momentarily confused, as if she’d forgotten you were there, and then a wild, radiant smile breaks across her face. She turns in your arms, tucks herself against your chest, and hugs you back, fiercely but with a sickly tenderness that makes your stomach clench.

“Tell me, my love,” she whispers, her voice barely more than a dry rattle. “Tell mommy that you love her. I need you to.” She’s shaking so hard that her teeth chatter, but her hands are steady as they trace slow circles along your spine, her nails biting through the fabric.

You try to speak, but your mouth only opens and closes, soundless, the words trapped behind the fear and the snot and the metallic taste of blood. You can feel the muzzle of the gun digging into your ribs, the cold of it, Morticia’s hand flexing around the grip as she clings to you with all the suffocating need of a drowning woman.

Before you can muster a reply, Gomez does. His voice cuts through the air, careful and deliberate, each word placed with the precision of a bomb technician. “Tish,” he says, “we can make this all go away if you just let her go. This doesn’t have to end like this.”

Morticia’s head turns just enough to look at him; her body remains locked to yours, her cheek pressed to your hair, her tears soaking through to your scalp. “But I love her,” she whispers and then sobs, “I love her!” the words barely human, as if ripped from the marrow of her bones. Her nose beginning to get stuffy like yours.

For a moment, you think she might collapse from the force of her own misery. Gomez softens, his posture open, hands raised in the classic pose of negotiation. He tells her, quietly, that it’s okay to love you, but not like this—not with a gun, not with blood on her hands. He reminds her that she could go to prison, that her life could be over, that Wednesday would be alone.

Morticia doesn’t appear to hear him. She holds you tighter, swaying now, and buries her face in your neck. “I can’t,” she chokes, “I can’t let go. Not after everything.” Her breath is hot and feral in your ear, and her tears burn like battery acid. The gun digs deeper into your side, and you realize she’s clutching it not as a weapon but as a last anchor to sanity.

You feel another presence in the circle. Larissa, face bloodied, is upright again, standing on the ice, her eyes fixed on Morticia. She’s calculating, you can see it; even concussed, she’s measuring the distance, the angles, the flickering shadow of Morticia’s right hand. Larissa is a tactician. She’s not out of this yet.

It’s so cold now you can see everyone’s breath, even Wednesday’s—she stands at the edge of the driveway, a silent and statuesque witness, her gaze flicking from face to face, her expression a mask of intellectual curiosity and faint disappointment. But Morticia’s body, pressed against yours, is a furnace. Her adrenaline has turned her into a heat source that consumes you both.

Morticia’s voice rises again, and this time it surprises you—she’s not talking to you, but to Gomez, her words a tangled thread of love and accusation. “I am in love with you, Gomez, but you know what I am. You always have. There’s a part of me that only she understands.” She kisses your neck, gentle and ruined. “I need her. I need her like I need to breathe. I can’t let her go.”

You shudder, and she raises her head to look at you, her mascara running in gothic rivers down her face. “Tell me you love me, cara mia,” she says, and before you can recoil she presses her lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, infinitely gentle, completely at odds with the violence of the last hour. It’s the same way she kissed you when you were younger, when you thought you loved her, when the world was still a place you wanted to live in. For a split second, you want to kiss her back. Maybe you even do. But then the taste of gunpowder and bile and terror floods your mouth.

You pull away and say, “You kidnapped me, beat me, raped me. I could never love you the way I once did.”

The words are a grenade. She stops swaying. Morticia’s face contorts, the fissures of heartbreak and rage spiderwebbing through her features. For a moment, she is silent, and then she explodes.

She howls and tries to drag you to the ground, but Gomez—sensing something—lunges and tackles her, pulling her bodily off of you. In the confusion, the gun goes flying, arcing into the darkness. Morticia thrashes, all lithe muscle and insane fury; Gomez, larger but older, struggles to keep her pinned. Larissa, seeing her chance, launches herself forward and kicks the gun across the ice, sending it skittering towards Wednesday.

Wednesday stoops and plucks it off the ground in one fluid motion. She doesn’t even look at it at first, just weighs it in her palm, her face unreadable.

On the driveway, Gomez and Morticia are locked in a grotesque waltz. She claws at his face, his neck; he grunts and tries to hold her wrists but she is relentless, her legs kicking, her teeth snapping inches from his ear. You watch in a daze as Morticia nearly manages to buck him off despite his superior size—her strength is monstrous, unearthly, as if she’s running on pure, unfiltered passion and hate.

“Don’t go,” she screams, not sure to whom she’s speaking. “Don’t leave me, don’t—Get the fuck off of me, Gomez!!” She stretches his name, clearly getting tired of fighting him.

“No,” Gomez shouts, voice breaking. “Tish, it’s over.”

Larissa snatches you up by the arm, pulling you away from the melee. Her hands are slick with blood—hers and probably yours, too. She doesn’t say anything, just hauls you toward the running car, not even caring that it’s Morticia’s, not even checking to see if you’re intact.

Behind you, Morticia’s shrieks are losing coherence, dissolving into wordless, animal moans. She’s sobbing now, all the breath gone from her body, and Gomez is holding her, both of them collapsed in the snow, as if he’s the last lifeline she has left. Wednesday, meanwhile, watches with cold detachment, the gun dangling from her fingers like a prop in an amateur play. Her eyes flicker to you, and there’s a peculiar sadness there—almost pity.

You can’t process any of this. Your body is moving on instinct, your mind a cinder block tied to a rope and thrown into a black lake.

As Larissa jams her finger in the push to start, Gomez shouts after you, “Promise me!” You turn and look back.

“Promise me, that you’ll keep her name out of this, and I’ll make sure you live comfortably… both of you.” You look at Larissa and the back at him and a begging, sobbing Morticia, you nod.

“Take her and go! Get out of here now!” Gomez shouts.

Larissa slams the door and floors the gas. The tires spin on the ice before catching, and the car fishtails across the driveway, shuddering with every bump. You look out the back window and see Morticia on her knees, hands outstretched, mouth open in a silent wail. She looks like a ruined woman, her black robe spread around her in the snow, her face a mask of grief and rage and utter, absolute loss.

“She’s going to come after us,” you say, your voice trembling.

“Yeah,” Larissa agrees, not looking at you. “But not tonight.”

The world blurs past, streetlights rattling overhead, your blood still pounding in your head. Your hands are shaking so badly you can barely unbuckle your seatbelt when Larissa pulls off the road at the edge of the woods.

Larissa wipes her mouth, and for a moment you think she’s going to throw up, but she just laughs—a harsh, brittle sound. “You’re going to be okay, I hope to see you again, Y/N.” she says, though neither of you believes it.

You stumble out of the car.

She drives off.

You don’t remember walking from the car to the edge of town, but you must have. Your feet are wet, your lungs burn, and you still taste blood when you lick your lips. It’s only when you see the green glow of the Jericho police station sign that reality flickers back on: you’re alive, you’re free, you’re walking through the double doors under the humming lights like a ghost who doesn’t remember her own death. 

Inside it’s warmer than you expect, drowning you in a sterile artificial glow that makes you feel like your skin’s about to peel off. The world has gone grainy at the edges—every movement is both too loud and far away, like you’re watching your own life through a cracked security camera. The dispatcher at the front desk—middle-aged, hair in a rigid helmet of honey-blonde—looks up from her screen and stares at you, her face draining of color so fast you wonder if she’s going to faint. 

She doesn’t, though. Instead, her hand flies to her mouth and she blurts out a series of frantic ten-codes into the radio, her voice cycling from disbelief to panic to military-grade efficiency in seconds. You hear the echo of your own name—your full name—followed by a chorus of shouts and the thunder of boots on linoleum. Three officers round the corner, hands hovering near their weapons, eyes flicking between your face and the bloody crust on your shirt and the bruises around your wrists. 

One of them, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a brown strip of hair at her temple, approaches with exaggerated caution. Her gold badge reads Lt. J. Romero. You think she says, “You’re safe now,” but her voice is muffled by the roaring in your skull. Someone else is shouting for Detective Harris. Someone else is dialing for an ambulance. Your knees buckle, and you’re instantly surrounded by bodies—maybe you’re on the floor, maybe you’re still standing, but either way you’re not alone anymore.

You sit in a haze on a cracked vinyl chair in the station’s lobby, every surface thrumming with fluorescent hum. There’s a poster with your instagram photo and the word MISSING in block letters. You wonder if they’ll ever take it down, or if they’ll leave it up for the next version of you that walks through these doors.

The EMTs arrive in a tornado of latex gloves and clipped urgency. They take your pulse, your blood pressure, ask you questions you can’t answer, shining a penlight into your eyes. There are forms to fill out, names to confirm, insurance cards you don’t have. You try to tell them that you’re fine, that you just want to go home, but the words collapse into each other and you’re already being loaded onto a gurney, rolling backwards through the lobby, past the dispatcher who’s still staring at you with something like awe.

The world outside is a shock of cold and sirens. The ambulance is womb-warm and full of antiseptic, and you clutch the thin blanket they give you like a lifeline. The EMT—her name is Noreen, according to her tag—tries not to look at your wounds, but she can’t help it. You see her eyes skitter over the bruising, the old and new, the split lip, the gash on your scalp you didn’t even know you had.

At the hospital they process you like luggage. Strip, examine, swab. The nurse’s gloved hands are gentle but clinical, her mouth set in a line that says she’s seen worse. You lie under white sheets while the doctor barks words like “assault,” “kidnapping,” and “sexual trauma” into his dictaphone. They catalog everything: the crescent-shaped nail imprints on your thighs, the ligature marks on your wrists, the black-and-blue map of your body. You want to tell them that it’s not as bad as it looks, but the pain sharpens every time you breathe.

Detective Harris shows up before the morphine hits. He’s younger than you expected, no-nonsense, with a voice like gravel and a forehead already creased with worry lines. He brings a notebook and a hard plastic chair, which he sets right beside your bed. His first questions are softballs: “Can you tell me your name? Do you remember what happened?” You do, but you don’t. You remember the inside of Morticia’s house, the smell of her perfume, the whisper of her hair across your face. You remember the walls painted black and the velvet sheets and her voice, always her voice, winding around your brain like a vine.

You shake your head and say you don’t know who took you. You say it was a man. You’re not sure if Harris believes you, but he writes it down anyway. You watch the words form on the page in smeary ink: “victim states abductor was male.” You want to laugh, but you don’t.

The nurse returns to draw blood, and you stare at the tiled ceiling, its pattern repeating like the days you spent in captivity. You wonder if anyone will ever see the real story—the one where you and Morticia were in love, or something like it, and now it’s over and you’re supposed to be grateful. The one where you made her pick, and she picked wrong, and now you’re here, and she’s out there, and nobody knows anything.

Romero and Harris step outside your room to confer in the hallway, but the walls are thin and you hear everything.

“She’s lying,” Harris says, and Romero sighs, the sound of it heavy and maternal.

“I know. But she’s not ready yet.”

“Did you see the bruises?” Harris asks.

“That’s not from one hit. That’s weeks maybe months.”

“She’s been missing for months,” Romero says. “God knows what she went through.”

“She was probably raped,” Harris mutters, but Romero shakes her head.

“No semen. Either it’s too old, or…” She trails off, and they both glance through the window at you.

“Or it was objects or another a woman,” Harris finishes. “Check her old girlfriends.”

Romero nods, and you close your eyes.

You’re discharged at sunrise, bandaged and battered but alive. The nurses give you a set of donated scrubs to wear home—too big, but soft—and a plastic bag with your ruined clothes. You sit outside the ER entrance, breathing in air that tastes like freedom and hospital exhaust, until a battered Buick pulls to the curb and the driver rolls down the window.

It’s Zeke. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, beard a scrim of grey, eyes red as raw meat. He gets out, circles the car, and stands in front of you with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, like he’s afraid to touch you, or maybe afraid you’re not really there.

“Hey, oh my gosh,” he says, voice breaking on the second word. He tries to smile, but his face won’t quite cooperate.

You want to hug him, but you don’t trust your own body right now, so you just nod. “Hey yourself.”

He wordlessly opens the passenger door and you slide in, wincing at every movement. The warmth of the car makes your wounds throb, but you’re grateful for it. Zeke drives without speaking, knuckles white on the wheel, glancing over at you every few seconds like he’s checking for signs of expiration.

You’re halfway home before he finally speaks. “I saw the news,” he says. “They said you were dead.”

You shrug. “I was. Almost.”

He swallows hard, the silence stretching out between you. “You tell the cops anything?” 

“Not really.” 

Zeke nods, seems to relax a fraction, but you feel his eyes on you, measuring, cataloguing the person you’ve become in the time you were gone. You both know the police aren’t going to find anything. Morticia’s world is sealed tight, and your part in it—a secret so heavy it nearly drowned you—will wash away in the next rain. 

When you get home, there’s a casserole on the porch and a stack of envelopes shoved in the doorjamb. Zeke sweeps the food aside and unlocks the door with a practiced hand. Inside, nothing has changed—the same beige furniture, the same thrift store lamps, the same threadbare carpet—but you feel like an intruder, a refugee stumbling into a life that doesn’t belong to you anymore.

Your room is just as you left it. The bed is made, the window cracked open a finger’s width, the air stale with the perfume of absence. You sit on the edge of the mattress and let the numbness creep back in. Zeke stands in the doorway, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something. When you don’t, he sighs and disappears into the kitchen. You hear the kettle click on, the refrigerator door slam, the scrape of a chair on linoleum. 

You stare at the ceiling, tracing the hairline cracks that branch out like rivers on a map. You think about Morticia, about her hands and her voice and the way she made you feel both precious and poisoned at the same time. You think about the gun, the way it felt against your ribs, the heat of her body pressed to yours. You wonder if she’s thinking about you, or if she’s already moved on, sunk her teeth into someone else. 

You drift in and out of sleep for hours, waking each time to the growl of Zeke’s voice in the next room talking on the phone.

You keep your head down for the next two weeks after the hospital, learning to live with the prickle of eyes on you whenever you step outside the apartment.

The people in your building look at you differently now—some with pity, some with suspicion, a few with the clinical interest of people who watch true crime documentaries before bed.

You avoid them all. Even Zeke, who spent the first three days hovering like a worried stork, eventually gives up and goes back to work, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the stack of unopened mail on the kitchen table.

You exist in a strange limbo, sleeping in fits and starts, showering only when the memory of Morticia’s touch becomes so vivid you can smell her ghost on your skin. You eat what you can keep down—toast, black coffee, the occasional banana—but mostly you stare at the wall, counting the cracks.

You want to text Larissa or Wednesday, but you don’t know what you’d say. You want to scream at Morticia, or maybe run back to her, but both impulses dissolve into the same pit of shame and longing. You wonder if she’s watching you. Sometimes, at night, you feel her eyes on the back of your neck, as if the air itself is a conduit for her attention.

You don’t tell the police anything. You keep your promise to Gomez, because you know what’s at stake if you don’t. You don’t need reminders; you see the threat in every unfamiliar car that drives past the apartment, in every wrong number that echoes through the phone. You tell yourself you’re safe, but you know better.

On the fourteenth morning, you open the door to find a letter taped to the outside. Your name is written in blue ink, the handwriting slanted and unmistakable. You rip it open with trembling fingers.

The letter is short. It’s from Gomez, though he signs it only with the initial “G.”

You’re to go downtown, to a bank you’ve never heard of, and ask for a safety deposit box under the name “Miss V.” There’s a key taped to the bottom of the page. The instructions are precise, bordering on obsessive. Gomez’s way of communicating has always been equal parts elegance and paranoia. You’re not to tell anyone, not even Zeke. Especially not Zeke.

You go, because you know you don’t have a choice.

The bank is old, the marble floor scuffed and yellowed, the teller’s smile brittle. You recite the instructions in your head until it feels like the words are carved into your mouth. The box is bigger than you expected. Inside, you find an envelope filled with cash—ten thousand dollars, in neat stacks of twenties and fifties. There’s also a disposable phone, still in its plastic packaging, and a note that says: Keep up appearances. You will get more in a month. Don’t disappoint us. -G

The money is clean, neither new nor old, with nothing to tie it back to the Addamses or to you. You pocket the phone, close the box, and leave the bank with your head down, the envelope pressed against your chest like a second heart.

You know what it means. It’s hush money, but it’s also a leash. You’re not sure which is worse.

You take a cab home, even though it’s only six blocks, because you can’t shake the feeling that someone is following you. At every stoplight, you check the rearview mirror for familiar faces, searching for Morticia’s silhouette in the glass. You think you see her, once, walking with a man in a charcoal suit, but when you look again, she’s gone.

You don’t tell Zeke about the money. You stash the cash in a shoebox under your bed, along with the burner phone and the instructions. You delete the email account Gomez used to contact you, burn the letter in the kitchen sink, and scrub the ash from your hands until your knuckles almost bleed.

You try to convince yourself that you’re free now. That you can start over.

But Zeke won’t let it go. He keeps asking you about the details of your abduction, keeps pushing you for names, for descriptions, for anything that will help him make sense of what happened. Every night at dinner, he circles back to it, gently at first, then with more urgency as the days go by.

“I just want to help,” he says, poking at his homemade chili with a plastic spoon. “I just want to understand what you went through.”

You keep your eyes on your own bowl. “There’s nothing to understand.”

“That’s bullshit,” Zeke snaps. “People don’t just disappear for months and come back with—” He gestures at your arms, your face, your body, as if the scars are some kind of accusation.

You push your chair back from the table. “Drop it, Zeke.”

He tries to apologize, but the conversation always ends the same way: you leaving the room, him staring after you, helpless.

You start going for walks at night, just to get away from him. You walk the perimeter of your neighborhood, counting the streetlights, the cracks in the sidewalk, the number of steps it takes to get from the corner store to your building. Sometimes you see couples holding hands, or old men walking dogs, but mostly the streets are empty. You feel invisible, and you like it that way.

One night, you walk past a bar and see a woman inside who looks exactly like Morticia. Same long black hair, same elegant posture, same predatory smile. You freeze, your heart pounding against your ribs, but when you blink, she’s gone.

You start sleeping with a knife under your pillow.

The dreams get worse. Sometimes you relive the last night at Morticia’s house, the way she pressed the gun against your head and whispered sweetness into your ear. Sometimes you dream that she’s waiting for you at the foot of your bed, her dress pooling on the floor like a spreading bruise. She always calls you Wildflower. You always wake up gasping, clutching at the sheets.

You try therapy, once. The counselor is a woman in her fifties, with a soft voice and an office filled with houseplants. She asks you about your childhood, your relationships, your trauma. You tell her the bare minimum. She keeps using the word “safe space,” as if saying it enough times will make you believe it. You don’t go back.

One afternoon, you get a package in the mail. It’s addressed to you, no return address, postmarked from out of state. Inside is an envelope filled with cash—another ten thousand, just like before.

Tucked inside is a Polaroid of you and Morticia, taken in the garden behind her house. You don’t remember the photo being taken, but you remember the clothes you were wearing, the way her arm curled possessively around your waist. On the back, in Morticia’s handwriting: I miss you. -M

You burn the photo, but keep the cash.

You start to plan your escape.

It takes two weeks to get everything in order. You buy a fake passport, book a one-way bus ticket to Vancouver, and pack everything you own into a single duffel bag. Zeke is at work when you leave.

You write him a note—sorry, can’t do this anymore, don’t try to find me—and tape it to the fridge. It’s fucked up and you know it but your trauma and his won’t mix any further. And the constant pushing…

The bus ride north is a blur of forests and gas stations and bad coffee. You keep your head down, your hoodie pulled tight around your face. You don’t talk to anyone. At the border, the customs agent glances at your ID, asks a few questions, then waves you through. You don’t breathe until you’re five miles inside Canada.

You rent a room in a cheap apartment near the university. The landlord doesn’t ask questions, and you pay in cash. You get a job at a coffee shop, pouring lattes for students and insomniac writers. It’s boring and repetitive but safe, and you like it that way.

For the first time in months, nobody knows who you are.

You meet a girl at work. Her name is Desiree. She’s tall, with a halo of curly hair and a laugh that feels like sunlight. She’s the first person who makes you feel seen, not as a victim but as a person. You start hanging out after shifts, making fun of the customers, watching old movies in her tiny studio. You don’t tell her about Morticia, or about what happened before. You just let her be the blank page you need.

Three months pass. You move in with Desiree. Life settles into something almost normal.

Then, one night, you close up the coffee shop late. You’re humming “Wildflower” by Billie Eilish—a song you loved until that day—when you see a shadow flicker past the frosted glass of the front door. You freeze, muscles tensing, all your old instincts snapping back to life.

You lock the door, double-check the windows, and turn off the lights. You stand there for a moment, heart hammering, then tell yourself it’s nothing. Just nerves.

You walk home, hugging your jacket tight around your body, your mind replaying the glimpse of the shadow over and over. When you get to your building, you stand outside for a full two minutes, scanning the street. No one is there.

You let yourself in, lock the door behind you, and call Desiree. She answers on the second ring, voice sleepy and warm

“Hey, babe,” she says. “What’s up?

“Are you sleeping at Angel’s tonight?” you ask, your voice thin and stretched as a violin string. 

There’s a pause, and on the other end Desiree’s breath hitches before she answers, “Yeah, babe. Why?” Her tone sharpens, instantly alert. “You okay?” 

You hesitate, caught between the urge to protect her from your own spiraling and the desperate need for an anchor. “I don’t know,” you say, and the words come out in a rush. “I just—I’ve been having this god-awful feeling. Like someone’s watching me.” You grip the phone so tightly your knuckles feel ready to split. 

Desiree doesn’t laugh it off. She never does. “Tell me what happened.” Her voice is the only thing holding you to the present. 

For the first time, you obey. Not just the sanitized version, not the vague references you hand out to therapists or the cops or Zeke. You tell her everything. You tell her about the almost year you spent as Morticia’s captive, every sickening detail you’ve never spoken aloud. The suffocating darkness, the precise schedule of your punishments, the way Morticia stroked your hair with one hand and held a gun to your skull with the other.

You tell her about the way Morticia’s perfume would choke the air, the way her lips would brush your ear as she whispered, “Wildflower, you’re mine forever.” You even tell her about the hush money, and how you kept the cash. You even send her links to the articles of you being missing and declared dead.

You’re sobbing by the end of it, knees pulled up to your chest on the tiled kitchen floor. You don’t remember collapsing, only that you can’t seem to get back up now. The phone is slick in your palm, your breath coming in jagged, wet gasps.

“Oh my god,” Desiree says. There’s a rustling on the other end, then Angel’s voice, low and urgent, crackling through the earpiece. Desiree must have put you on speaker.

“We’re coming to you,” Angel says. “Just hang on, okay?”

“No, please,” you protest, even as you crave the comfort. “It’s late. You don’t have to—”

But Desiree cuts you off. “We’re on our way. Angel’s driving.” You hear the clatter of keys, the grind of the apartment door. “Stay on the line with me, babe. Just keep talking.”

You’re not sure how long you stay rooted in place, the phone pressed to your ear like a talisman, listening to the sound of Desiree’s voice as she narrates every mile of their drive. You feel a little safer with each highway exit, each update that brings them closer. You keep the lights off, except for a single lamp over the sink that casts strange shadows on the ceiling. You do what Desiree tells you: you make tea, you lock the doors again, you check the windows. She even convinces you to draw a bath, so you’ll have a reason to get up, to move your body instead of curling in on yourself.

You try to ignore the way your reflection looks back at you in the bathroom mirror, all wild eyes and salt-stained cheeks. You try to ignore the way Morticia’s name seems to pulse inside your skull with every heartbeat.

For a moment, you think you might be okay. The water is warm, the steam thick and comforting. You let your head loll back, the world narrowing to just you, the tub, and the low murmur of Desiree’s voice still on speaker from your phone’s perch on the sink. You know Desiree is worried, you hear it in the careful way she talks, but you also hear the steady thrum of her love and you let yourself lean into it. 

You don’t hear the crash at first. Just the abrupt silence, then Desiree’s panicked voice: “Babe? Can you hear me? Something happened. Angel—Angel, are you okay?” There’s a low groan, the sound of glass skittering over asphalt. It takes you a second to realize what’s happened. They’ve been in an accident. The line goes dead, and you’re left alone with the hiss of cooling bathwater and the sudden, absolute certainty that tonight is not going to end well.

For a while, you can’t move. Paralyzed, you just sit, letting the water turn cold and your skin prune. You want to call Desiree back, but your hands shake too much. You want to call the police, but you don’t know what you’d even tell them: “My ex-kidnapper might be stalking me, and my only friends just skidded off the road on their way to save me.” Instead, you clutch your phone and stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing open at any moment.

It doesn’t. Not yet.

You eventually force yourself out of the tub, wrapping your body in a towel and shivering as you stumble down the hall to your bedroom. You dress yourself on autopilot, every sense tuned to the possibility of approaching footsteps, the scrape of leather soles on linoleum. When you finally sit on your bed, you unlock your phone and see three texts from Desiree: 

9:49 PM: “We’re okay. Just a fender bender. Waiting for tow.”
9:50 PM: “Don’t freak out. We’re coming as soon as we can.”
10:12 PM: “I love you. Lock the doors.”

You read and re-read the last message, holding onto it like it’s the only thing real.

You decide you need to sleep, even though you know you won’t. You double-check the deadbolt, wedge a chair beneath the doorknob. You put the knife under your pillow, just in case. When you finally close your eyes, you think you hear the soft click of high heels echoing in the hallway, but you convince yourself it’s just the tap of water in the pipes.

You wake to darkness, your phone dead and cold against your chest. The apartment is unnatural in its quiet, as if the air itself has thickened into a warning. You reach for the lamp but it doesn’t flick on. Power’s out. You fumble for your phone charger but remember it doesn’t matter; without power, the phone is just a useless rectangle.

You sit in the dark for a moment, listening to your own heartbeat, when you hear it: a deliberate, measured tapping just outside your door. Not the bumbling shuffle of a neighbor, but something—someone—waiting.

You hold your breath. The tapping stops. You dare to peek through the peephole and see nothing, but you can feel it: something on the other side, the way an animal senses a predator in the dark. You back away, retracing your steps into the bathroom, where you slam the door and lock it.

There’s a moment of absolute silence, and then, impossibly, the doorknob rattles. Once, twice, then a slow, steady pressure as if whoever is on the other side knows exactly what they’re doing. You brace your back against the tub, heart jackhammering.

Then you hear a familiar voice, low and coiling by the bathroom door: “Cara Mia? Open the door.”

It’s Morticia. You know it before she even says the name she gave you.

You freeze, every muscle seizing. You want to scream or run, but you’re trapped. You see the shadow of her heels under the door, the flick of her dress as she paces.

She doesn’t knock again. Instead, you hear the soft rustle of something metallic, the unmistakable click of a lockpick. The door swings open with slow, surgical precision.

Morticia stands there in a new black dress—same style, hair glossy and straight, lips painted a plum so dark it’s almost blue. She looks exactly as she did in your nightmares. Her smile is too wide. Her eyes are glittering.

“Hello, darling,” she purrs.

You lunge for the knife you stashed beneath the sink, but Morticia is faster. You don’t even see her move; you just feel the sharp sting in your neck, the electric snap of a taser, and then your whole body folds in on itself, paralyzed and useless.

You crumple to the tile, spasming, the world narrowing to a pinhole as Morticia leans down and strokes your cheek with the back of her hand.

“You shouldn’t have left me,” she whispers, voice like honey laced with strychnine.

Then darkness swallows you whole.