Archive of Our Own ^beta

The morning broke beneath a pewter sky, the kind of mercurial gray that promised rain but withheld it out of spite. The Addams estate seemed to breathe with the weather—its black-stone turrets glistening faintly with dew, its iron gates creaking like a patient beast. Wednesday Addams stood at the window of her childhood bedroom, unblinking, as the clouds rolled and shifted like a restless dream. Somewhere below, distant music wafted through the halls: harpsichord notes sharpened by Pugsley’s clumsy enthusiasm, Fester’s cackle punctuating every wrong chord.

It was her wedding day.
A day she had vowed, at the tender age of eight, to never permit.
And yet.

A knock—deliberate, soft, inevitable—came from the door. Wednesday didn’t turn. “Enter, Mother.”

Morticia glided inside like a wisp of midnight smoke. Age had touched her only to make her more exquisite: the same impossible figure, the same slow, commanding grace, the same eyes that could read the hearts of men and unravel the defenses of daughters. Her gown was a sheath of liquid onyx, dripping with jet beading that caught what little light the morning offered. She closed the door with a whisper and crossed the room.

“My little storm cloud,” Morticia said, her voice velveted with amusement. “How very becoming you look in your gown. Death itself must be jealous.”

Wednesday finally turned. The dress was everything she had demanded—black as an oil spill, a high collar of antique lace framing her throat, long sleeves ending in talon-tipped cuffs. The skirt fell in cascading layers of sheer tulle, revealing the faintest glimmer of her pale legs when the light struck. A sheer black veil waited on the vanity, a spider’s web of shadow.

“Flattery is unbecoming, Mother,” Wednesday replied. “And redundant. I am aware of my own magnificence.”

Morticia smiled, a curve of red lips against porcelain skin. “Confidence, yes. But today is not only about magnificence. It is about love.”

A muscle twitched in Wednesday’s cheek, the tiniest betrayal. “Love,” she repeated, tasting the word like bitter wine. “You’ll be insufferable if you tell me you were right.”

“I was,” Morticia said serenely. “But I shall not gloat. Love, like death, comes for us all. One does not bargain with inevitability. One accepts.”

Wednesday crossed her arms. “Acceptance is for the weak.”

“And yet you stand here, moments away from binding your life to another’s. A man, no less.”

“A monster,” Wednesday corrected.

Morticia’s smile deepened. “Is there a difference?”

Silence bloomed like a black rose between them. Outside, the clouds thickened, dimming the room to a near-twilight. Morticia touched the edge of Wednesday’s sleeve, fingers light but sure. “Do you dread it?”

Wednesday hesitated. “I resent the spectacle. The fawning relatives. Cousin Itt attempting to officiate in a language only bats understand.”

“And the groom?”

Another pause. “He is… unavoidable.”

“Mm. An interesting choice of word for a man you have chosen.”

Wednesday met her mother’s gaze, dark eyes sharpening. “He is persistent. Irrational. Infuriating. He challenges my every conviction. He loves me with a devotion bordering on lunacy.” A faint, reluctant curve tugged at her mouth. “I find it…acceptable.”

Morticia’s eyes glittered. “Acceptable. High praise indeed.”

The door creaked open and Thing skittered in, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. It waved a tiny card—Tyler’s latest message scrawled in his careful hand. Can’t wait to see you, cockroach. Your monster forever.

Wednesday took the card without softening. Inside, however, a small, treacherous warmth pooled beneath her ribs. Tyler Galpin—no, Tyler Addams, as he would soon be—had long since abandoned the name of the family that failed him. His parents were dead, his uncle gone, the Galpin line extinguished like a candle in a crypt. And yet he smiled. Always, impossibly, he smiled. He looked at her as though she were both salvation and doom, and he welcomed both.

“He refuses to take no for an answer,” Wednesday said, tucking the card into her sleeve.

“As you once did,” Morticia murmured. “When you were determined to learn the cello at four and would practice until your fingers bled.”

Wednesday arched a brow. “You imply that my obstinacy is romantic.”

“I imply,” Morticia said, brushing a strand of raven hair from her daughter’s face, “that he is your equal.”

A slow breath. “He is…something.”

“You love him.”

The words landed with the precision of a hit to the jugular. Wednesday’s lips parted, but no denial came. The truth was an irritation, a splinter she could not remove. Against all reason, against every vow of solitude she once cherished, she loved the monster. She loved his scars, visible and hidden. She loved the way he laughed when others would flinch. She loved that he wanted no part of the Nights or the Galpins, that he had chosen her name, her family, her darkness.

“I despise that you are correct,” Wednesday said finally.

Morticia’s smile softened into something maternal and eternal. “That is the nature of mothers. We haunt our daughters until they find happiness, and then we haunt them still.”

Thing made an approving snap.

Morticia inclined her head. “Come, child. Your father is pacing like a condemned man eager for the gallows. Let us not keep him waiting.”

The great hall of the Addams estate was a cathedral of shadow. Black candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces. Thorned roses crawled up marble columns. Guests—an assortment of Addams cousins, spectral acquaintances, and dubious human friends—filled the pews with a murmur of dark delight. The scent of incense and damp earth lingered like an old spell.

Tyler stood at the altar beneath an arch of black orchids. His suit was impeccable: deep charcoal silk, lapels sharp as a guillotine blade, a tie the color of midnight. His hair, longer now than when they first met, curled rebelliously against his temples. There was a quiet ferocity in the way he held himself, as though daring the world to challenge his right to stand there.

When Wednesday entered, the room stilled. Even the restless spirits in the rafters paused their whispering. Her veil cast her in shadow, but her eyes—those cold, merciless eyes—found Tyler’s instantly. A charge passed between them, invisible but undeniable. He smiled, small and sure, the smile of a man who had clawed his way through darkness and found the one soul willing to meet him there.

She did not smile back.
But her pulse betrayed her.

The harpsichord’s low, crooked chords rippled through the great hall, each note landing like a drop of ink on parchment. Wednesday walked with her father at her side, her boots silent against the black marble floor. Gomez Addams all but vibrated with contained emotion. His eyes—those dark, adoring eyes that had once convinced a young Morticia to bind her eternity to him—shone with the kind of unrestrained joy Wednesday typically found nauseating. And yet…she permitted it. Today, Gomez’s exuberance was a shield. He bore the weight of sentimentality so she would not have to.

“My beautiful little deathbell,” Gomez whispered as they approached the altar. “If I were any prouder, I would burst into a thousand bats.”

“Restrain yourself,” Wednesday murmured with an eye roll. “The clean-up would be intolerable.”

Gomez’s laugh, warm and reckless, echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He squeezed her arm once before releasing her to Tyler. “Treat her with the reverence of a guillotine, my boy. Swift, sharp, and inevitable.”

Tyler inclined his head, his amber eyes never leaving Wednesday’s. “Always.”

The officiant—a cousin whose legal credentials were as dubious as his mortality—raised a skeletal hand for silence. “Dearly beloved creatures,” he began, voice rasping like a coffin hinge. “We gather under this blessed gloom to witness a union most deliciously improbable…”

Wednesday barely heard the words. Her attention narrowed to Tyler, the way he stood—unflinching, certain, his shoulders squared as if he would gladly fight the world for the privilege of standing beside her. His scent reached her, faint but distinct: cedar, smoke, a trace of the woods where he had once lost and found himself. He had been an unassuming creature of rage when they first crossed paths, a boy who wore his wounds like armor. Now he was still a monster, but hers. Entirely, irrevocably.

“Do you, Tyler Galpin,” the officiant intoned, “swear to cherish this woman in sickness, in health, in life, in death, and in the exquisite decay beyond?”

“I do,” Tyler said, his voice low, unshaken. He never looked away from her.

“And do you, Wednesday Addams, vow to accept this man as husband, companion, and co-conspirator, to love him in shadow and moonlight, in silence and scream?”

Wednesday tilted her head, letting the pause stretch long enough to make even the ghosts restless. “I suppose,” she said finally, her tone dry as old bone. “If only to witness the horror of forever.”

A ripple of approving laughter slid through the hall. Morticia’s eyes gleamed like polished obsidian. Gomez dabbed theatrically at an invisible tear.

“Then by the powers vested in me by questionable paperwork and darker forces,” the officiant declared, “I pronounce you husband and wife. You may—if you dare—kiss the bride.”

Tyler stepped forward. For a heartbeat, the world hushed. He lifted her veil, fingers brushing her cheek with a reverence that set her nerves alight. His smile—wolfish, patient—met the glint of challenge in her gaze. Then his mouth claimed hers.

It was not the timid brush of lips expected at such ceremonies. Tyler kissed her as though he were sealing a pact written in blood. His hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her close until the faint scent of his skin filled her lungs. Wednesday did not yield; she met him with equal force, teeth grazing his bottom lip in a silent warning. Applause erupted—snaps, howls, a burst of wolfish cheers from distant cousins. Somewhere, Uncle Fester released an electric crackle of approval that briefly flickered the chandeliers.

When they parted, Tyler whispered so only she could hear, “Yours.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed with dangerous satisfaction. “And I, yours. Temporarily.”

“Forever,” he corrected softly.

She did not argue.

The reception unfolded like a macabre dream. Long banquet tables groaned under silver platters of delicacies: raven-black truffles, spiced blood-orange tarts, a towering wedding cake sculpted to resemble a crumbling mausoleum. Candles dripped black wax onto velvet runners. Cousin Itt danced with a banshee soprano; Grandmama performed sleight-of-hand with smoking goblets. Outside, thunder rumbled, but the storm held its rain, as if even the heavens dared not interrupt.

Wednesday sat at the head table beside her new husband, accepting congratulations with the air of a queen indulging her subjects. She endured Aunt Ophelia’s damp kiss and Uncle Fester’s enthusiastic shoulder squeezes. She even allowed Pugsley to present a handmade gift: a dagger with an obsidian handle, its edge honed to a whisper.

Tyler accepted every interaction with quiet grace. He thanked each cousin by name, laughed at Gomez’s exuberant toasts, and even clinked glasses with Lurch. But Wednesday noticed how his hand never strayed far from hers beneath the table, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against her palm. Each touch was a reminder: he had no one else. His parents—gone. His uncle—dead. The Nights and the Galpins—erased from his life like dust brushed from a crypt.

“Does it bother you?” Wednesday asked during a brief lull, her voice pitched for his ears alone.

Tyler tilted his head. “What?”

“That you stand among a clan of joyous oddities while your bloodline rots in the ground.”

He gave a small, almost rueful smile. “No. They were ghosts long before they died. Here, at least, I have a family. Yours. Ours.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I don’t need the name Galpin. I only need Addams. And you.”

The words slid into her like a blade she did not mind being cut by. Wednesday sipped her blackcurrant wine to disguise the flutter in her chest. “Sentimentality is a disease.”

“Then I’m terminal.”

Her lips threatened a smile before she forced them still.

Morticia and Gomez took to the dance floor, their waltz a hypnotic swirl of black silk and fervent devotion. Guests clapped in time, their cheers echoing off the high, cobwebbed rafters. Tyler stood, extending a hand to Wednesday.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“I don’t dance,” she replied automatically.

He arched a brow, amber eyes gleaming. “That’s not what I remember. And besides, you walked down an aisle. Surely a few steps won’t kill you.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

His grin widened. “Worth the risk.”

Reluctantly—though some traitorous part of her thrilled—she placed her hand in his. He led her to the center of the floor as the harpsichord shifted to a slow, haunting melody. Tyler’s arm slid around her waist, firm and sure. He guided her with surprising elegance, each step perfectly matched to hers. Their bodies moved like twin shadows, circling in dark symmetry.

“You’re good at this,” she said, suspicious.

“Perks of working at the Weathervane,” he murmured. “Had to learn to dodge clumsy tourists.”

Wednesday allowed the faintest smirk. “Efficient. I approve.”

They turned beneath the chandelier, its crystals throwing fractured light across his face. For a moment, she saw the boy he once was—the anger, the loneliness, the fractured heart. But beneath it pulsed the man he had become: whole, steady, dangerous in all the right ways. A monster, yes, but a monster who chose love instead of ruin.

“You look like a nightmare, Roach” he whispered.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It already did,” he said, tightening his hold just enough to make her breath catch. “It got me here. With you.”

The music swelled. Around them, the Addams clan cheered, their delight a thunderous chorus. But Wednesday heard only the steady rhythm of Tyler’s heartbeat beneath her palm, a cadence both alien and inevitable. For the first time in a life defined by deliberate solitude, she felt not trapped but…aligned. Two creatures of darkness, orbiting the same inevitable pull.

When the song ended, he did not release her immediately. He held her close, forehead resting briefly against hers, their breaths mingling like smoke.

“Mrs. Addams,” he said, tasting the name.

A thrill—sharp and electric—ran through her. “Mr. Addams,” she replied.

And in the secret language of monsters, the vow repeated itself in silence:

Mine.
Forever.

The storm finally broke after midnight.

Rain pressed against the stone walls of the Addams estate, heavy and unrelenting, as if the sky itself wanted to be part of the spectacle. Most of the guests had long since disappeared into their chambers or drifted into the night. Somewhere down the corridor, Uncle Fester was still trying to coax electricity through what remained of the wedding cake, his laughter punctuated by the occasional crackle. Thing had collapsed on a velvet chair, twitching in sleep.

Their wedding chamber was quiet. Candles had been placed along the mantle, their flames pulling shadows into restless shapes across the walls. The smell of smoke and black roses lingered, both faint and consuming. A dagger had been set carefully on the nightstand, polished until the candlelight caught its edge.

She stood at the center of the room, her gown pared back to the lace that fitted her body like a glove. The veil had been discarded on the chair. Her hair had come loose, black strands falling soft against her skin. There was nothing in her stance to suggest hesitation, yet the stillness of her posture revealed a watchfulness that never left her.

Tyler lingered in the doorway. His jacket was gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the damp air making the fabric cling to his shoulders. He looked at her as though she were both beginning and ending, his expression caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

“You’re staring,” she said, voice as calm as a blade against flesh.

“Probably,” he answered, stepping inside. He closed the door slowly, letting the heavy lock catch. “I’ve been waiting for this all night. Not the music. Not the toasts. Just us.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “Marriage remains a grotesque arrangement. The binding of two people in the name of eternity is a joke even Sisyphus would refuse.”

“You still did it.” His tone carried no mockery. It was steady, quiet, as though he were trying to hold the moment still between them. “You chose me.”

The words irritated her precisely because they were true. “You are persistent,” she said at last. “It is almost admirable.”

He moved closer, closing the space until she could see the drops of rain still clinging to his hair. “Not persistence. Conviction.” His voice lowered. “I would have followed you anywhere. I still would.”

She held his gaze, unwilling to look away. “And what if I led you to ruin?”

“Then I’d thank you for the honor,” he said.

There was a silence then, long enough for the rain to fill the room. When his hand lifted to her face, she didn’t move. His fingers traced the line of her jaw with a care she had never invited from anyone else.

“You have no idea what it means that you’re mine,” he murmured.

Wednesday’s lips curved faintly, though not with amusement. “I am not a possession.”

He shook his head. “Not possession. Devotion. You’re my equal. My choice. My wife.”

It unsettled her how easily the warmth of the words spread through her chest. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

And then she kissed him.

The contact was unflinching, sharp at first, but Tyler met her with the same intensity. His hand slipped into her hair, pulling her closer, while his other arm caught her waist as though he feared she might vanish. She bit his lip lightly, a reminder that she yielded to no one. He smiled against her mouth before answering her with a kiss so steady it felt like the vows they’d taken just hours before.

When they broke apart, she spoke against him. “You are truly infuriating.”

“And you love me anyway,” he said, his breath uneven.

Her nails pressed into his chest, drawing a shiver from him. “Against my better judgment.”

“Best judgment you’ve ever had,” he whispered, and kissed her again.

The world narrowed to touch and breath. The lace of her gown yielded beneath his hands, each clasp and ribbon falling away like secrets surrendered willingly. She marked him with her nails, and he kissed each place she allowed him. The moment was not hurried, not frantic, but deliberate. Each movement was its own vow, slow enough to make her feel every shift of his body against hers.

When at last there was nothing left to strip away, Wednesday felt the unfamiliar pull of letting herself be known without armor. He held her as though her edges were worth being cut by. She answered by claiming him, drawing him into her with the precision of someone who had never believed in surrender until now.

Later, when the storm outside softened into a steady rainfall, they lay wrapped in the black sheets. Her head rested on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. She despised how much it soothed her, but she did not move away.

“You’re smiling,” Tyler murmured, brushing her arm with slow circles.

“I am not.”

“You are. Barely, but it’s there.” His hand lifted, touching the corner of her mouth gently.

She swatted him away, though her voice had lost its usual edge. “Do not confuse physical satisfaction with sentiment.”

He kissed the crown of her head. “Too late for that.”

They were quiet for a long while, until Wednesday’s voice broke the silence. “For you, I would do anything.”

Tyler froze. She felt his chest still beneath her cheek, his breath catching. When he tilted her face up to meet his eyes, they were wide with something raw and unguarded. “Repeat that?”

“Do not test my patience.”

“I need to hear it.” His voice was hoarse.

She studied him, weighing her own irritation against the strange relief she saw in him. “You’re so needy,” she said finally. “But yes. For you, I would do anything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as though holding back something overwhelming. When he opened them again, his thumb brushed her cheek. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

“I do,” she answered. “It does the same to me.”

The admission sat between them like a live wire. She didn’t retreat from it. For once, she let it exist.

“I am content,” she whispered at last, voice as steady as she could make it. “To be your wife.”

Tyler kissed her then, slow and reverent, as if the night would unravel if he moved too quickly. When he drew back, he whispered against her lips, “Forever. Probably.”

Her gaze was unblinking, steady in its certainty. “Definitely.”