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muzaktomyears · 6 months

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Cake with Elton, coke with Marianne — my life as a rock biographer

As his latest book about George Harrison is published, Philip Norman reminisces on his run-ins with Yoko Ono, Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones

George Harrison: The Reluctant Beatle is my tenth and probably last biography of a big rock name. In the gaps between its predecessors I’ve written novels, short stories, feature films, plays, much journalism and three musicals, two of which were produced. Yet there’s been no escape from the typecasting that followed my Shout! The True Story of the Beatles in 1981.

Admittedly, if I’d pursued a career in fiction as I originally intended (after being among Granta’s first 20 Best of Young British Novelists in 1983), I could never have found a comparable readership. Shout! is estimated to have sold about a million copies; the other titles have appeared in America, most of the EU countries, Russia, China, India, Australasia, Japan, South Korea, Macedonia, Mexico and Brazil. Fantasising about this hugely diverse audience, I picture Himalayan yak-herders debating Ringo Starr and Charlie Watts’s rival merits as drummers, and remote Amazonian tribes gripped by the subtext of marital infidelity to John Lennon’s Norwegian Wood.

At parties I’ve come to dread being outed as the Beatles’ biographer. Such is the band’s eternal fascination that I’ll have people waiting in line to rehash the Hamburg strip club days or recall exactly what they were doing when they heard of Lennon’s assassination. I could never totally dislike our former chancellor, George Osborne, having once spent an hour discussing the Revolver album with him in that high Tory sanctum the Carlton Club, where even the portraits of Churchill and Macmillan seemed to be raptly eavesdropping.

Nonetheless, I’m aware of being thought not quite respectable by the literary establishment. When biographers congregate, it’s far more impressive to be able to say “I’m doing Augustus John” than “I’m doing Elton John”. I can hardly complain since no one could think less than I do of “rock writing”. Frank Zappa defined music journalists as “people who can’t write preparing articles about people who can’t think for people who can’t read”; indeed, the subject brings out a latent prattishness even in authors of the calibre of Salman Rushdie and Martin Amis.

Albert Goldman’s infamous biographies of Lennon and Elvis Presley, for me, remain exemplars of how not to do it, with their vestigial research and ludicrous fabrications but, above all, their snobbish contempt for their subjects. To write an 800-page book about somebody one despises is a sublimely pointless exercise. Yes, rock stars can be monsters on a par with the nastier Roman emperors. But, while taking all that into account (and blessing heaven for the high comedy it provides), you have to love your monster.

I’ve bent this rule somewhat with Harrison who, although capable of great generosity and even nobility (witness his historic charity concert for Bangladesh), was often far from loveable and had always seemed to me a miserable character who showed little gratitude for his stupendous good fortune. In 1965, when I interviewed the other three Beatles during their last British tour, Harrison’s gaunt, unhappy face floated in the background as he watched The Avengers on television. In 1969, when I went on the road with his best friend, Eric Clapton, that same gaunt, unhappy face joined Clapton on stage, decorated now by a hippy beard and a black Stetson.

Retracing his tragically foreshortened life showed me how much he had to look miserable about, the guitarist eclipsed by the creative dynamo of Lennon and McCartney for years before proving himself their songwriting equal with Here Comes the Sun, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, My Sweet Lord and Something, acknowledged to be one of the 20th century’s greatest love songs. His final chapters of illness and financial catastrophe — cruelly topped off by almost becoming the second Beatle to be murdered — moved me as much as anything I’ve written.

Few of my biographies have received any meaningful help from the various icons’ PR people. Until I found my brilliant research associate, Peter Trollope, I had to trace every potential source by myself. Having Shout! behind me was a useful calling card; when I did the Rolling Stones, it opened the door to Mick Jagger’s ex-partner, Marianne Faithfull, with whom politeness dictated that I took my first (and only) snort of cocaine.

My most bizarre pursuit was of Elton John’s former fiancée, Linda Woodrow, reputed heiress to the Epicure pickled onion fortune. Already suspecting he was gay, Elton had been so terrified of matrimony that he’d attempted suicide. As recounted in his song Someone Saved My Life Tonight, his lyricist Bernie Taupin came to his rescue, albeit was not entirely convinced the attempt had been for real.

I finally tracked Woodrow’s father, Al, to Davenports magic shop in the arcade under Charing Cross station, where he worked part-time. He wasn’t expecting me and, before introducing myself, I had to wait while he sold a magic trick. What I didn’t realise was that selling a magic trick can take for ever, first the salesperson demonstrating it, then the customer repeatedly trying it out. Which explains why I know so well how to make a ping-pong ball seem to vanish from under an inverted cup.

My longest pursuit was of Buddy Holly’s “widowed bride”, Maria Elena Holly, that poignant presence in Don McLean’s song American Pie, which was inspired by Holly’s death in a plane crash aged only 22. It took me a year just to get her on the phone in Dallas, and then her opening line was “all writers are scumbags”. Eventually she was persuaded that I might not be a scumbag and agreed to see me on condition that it was at her lawyer’s office and I paid for the lawyer’s time. American Pie had suggested a delicate Dresden figurine but she was dressed all in black with a floppy beret like a French fascist policeman in the Second World War. However, rather than an interview in front of her lawyer as the dollars racked up, she suggested the two of us just went off to lunch.

Of all my biographies only one came close to being authorised in the conventional way, when subject tells all to writer and vets the material before publication. But others have been endorsed retroactively or approved by the back door.

Five months after Lennon’s death, while I was in New York publicising Shout!, Yoko Ono saw me on breakfast television and phoned me at the ABC studios. “What you just said about John was very nice,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to come over and see where we were living.” That afternoon, I was inside the Dakota Building, looking around their vast white seventh-floor apartment which was just as Lennon had left it, his guitar still hanging on the wall above his bedhead. One small, twilit room contained every piece of clothing he’d ever worn back to his Beatle days, all on revolving racks like some ghostly boutique.

When I was researching my Elton John book, its subject was undergoing multiple detoxifications, so was inaccessible to any interviewer. But just after its publication, my telephone rang and a familiar voice said, “This is Elton.” I only wish I’d had the balls to ask, “Elton who?” He said the biography was “pretty accurate”, invited me to tea the next day and, over Earl Grey and chocolate cake, virtually dictated a postscript chapter about his rehab.

The most surprising case was that of Paul McCartney, whom I admit to having grossly misjudged in Shout! and who’d since referred to it as “shite”. When I let him know as a courtesy that I was embarking on a biography of Lennon, I expected no response. But one day my telephone rang and a voice said, “Ullo, it’s Paul here.” I wish I’d had the balls to ask, “Paul who?” We talked for about 40 minutes, I not like a writer — because I expected nothing from him — but simply as one bloke to another. The upshot was that he let me interview him for the Lennon book by email. Six years later when I proposed a companion volume about him, he came back personally with his “tacit approval” within two weeks.

On the Lennon biography I found myself de-authorised by rock’s other famous widow. For three years, I’d had Ono’s total co-operation: not only 14 hours of interviews with her — when she even told me what she and Lennon used to do in bed — but conversations with their son, Sean, and her daughter from a previous marriage, Kyoko. The sole proviso was that she’d read my manuscript and, if she liked it, would contribute a foreword (to which my publishers weren’t exactly looking forward).

The final bit of access I hoped for was to read Lennon’s diary, kept locked away in the vaults of the Dakota Building, which seemed guaranteed by Ono’s friendly invitation to drop by for “a cup of tea”. As I walked across Central Park to the Dakota, a thought suddenly popped into my head: “Suppose she’s waiting for me with a lawyer?” In fact, she was waiting with two lawyers. After reading my manuscript, she’d decided the book was “mean to John” and was withdrawing her quotes, as well as those of Sean and Kyoko. For two highly unpleasant hours, she and the lawyers tried to persuade me to hand over the interview tapes. Also present was an unidentified women whose role was unclear until Ono shouted, “How could you say that John masturbated?” (which she herself told me with a smile during our interviews). At this, the mystery woman went “Ugh!” and gave a theatrical shudder, and I realised she was Ono’s personal shudderer.

Our one-page agreement gave Ono no prerogative to withdraw her quotes and the tapes belonged to me, not her. Even so, during the long run-up to publication, I checked my email every day, braced for a legal onslaught from her. But it never came.

My books have received some good reviews, some justifiably critical ones and some verging on the psychotic. I’ve noticed that the lighter and sweeter the music, the more grimly obsessive are its hardcore fans. While promoting the Buddy Holly biography, I realised I was being stalked by a member of Holly’s British “appreciation society”, who’d somehow procured a list of my radio interviews and was appearing on each show ahead of me, warning its listeners not to believe a word I said.

Retribution of a less sinister nature came on the first occasion I used that earlier quip about Elton John being a less portentous biographical subject than Augustus John. It was when I spoke at the Porlock Literary Festival, one of whose supporters, the novelist Margaret Drabble, sat in the front row with her husband, Michael Holroyd.

That’s right, the biographer of Augustus John. Now what were the odds?

(source)

#philip norman is shit etc BUT that bit about yoko is hilarious #'how could you say that john masturbated?!'#john lennon: one of the great masturbators of the 20th century tbh #anyway i'm still undecided about the george biog based on this..... we'll see but i am generally suspicious #philip norman #'i met george harrison 58 years ago and he ignored me' boo hoo

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idontwanttospoiltheparty · 27 days

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girl divulge more on your recent paul mcee quotes post.

lol

Look, in the end we're all to some extent guilty of extrapolating and interpolating based on the small sample of "data" these people have provided us with. Humans love finding patterns and assuming things are regular, so if Paul (or anyone) says something multiple times, we're prone to assume this is "standard" for him, even if the amount of times he said this thing represents a vanishingly small fraction of his life.

This is all a bit of a spectrum. For example: I think that when you look at the bulk of what Paul has said about John's sexuality (there's actually at least one interview missing from that post I can think of) it's fairly reasonable to conclude that – for whatever reason – Paul finds either the concept of John being not straight or John's orientation being discussed publicly distressing. However, I don't think it would be fair to then further extrapolate that he's fixating on John's orientation 24/7, or even that he's necessarily still distressed about it, since he hasn't really talked about it an awful lot in the past.... 20 years? That's a long time! Just because the quote still circulates regularly on this site doesn't mean it's actually still topical for the people in question. I think Paul probably spends less time thinking about How Do You Sleep? than most people on tumblr. And, to be clear, I'm guilty of this too! It's hard to stay aware of time in that way when for us the entire history is sort of always happening at once.

I just think one should be aware of what one is dealing with when looking at quotes that have been compiled like that because out of context they just look very different than when they're spread out across the timeline.

#also this is off-topic #(though related to quote compilation posts)#but it remains funny to me that yoko literally said she believed it was a one-sided thing from john #and people sometimes just pretend that didn't happen lmao #(I don't think her judgement on this is definite! but if you're gonna use her testimony as evidence... why are you ignoring half of it?)#(I have thought about this a lot and I cannot for the life of me figure out why she or Norman #would explicitly say it was one-sided instead of just. Not bringing it up at all. if they knew it was actually reciprocated. ANYWAYS)#ask #discourse #anon

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taviokapudding · 1 year

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It’s been 6 years since Automata came out & Ima keep it real, I think it’s about time I start asking for it because if nobody else will start putting it into existence, it most like won’t occur. I also really think a FF7 remake style glow up is a necessity for the franchise’s lore becoming more accessible, especially post the recent anime; I know more people would agree with me that it would make hella money if marketed correctly as a prequel for those who didn’t get to play the originals OR those who did play the originals and had a fucking shit time (iykyk- the pains of Drakenguard 3). We are hitting a point where ps2 & 3 titles won’t be readily playable and tbh all 3 need a major rehaul anyways. Hear me out:

Could Yoko Taro, Platinum Games, & Square Enix PLEASE start remaking Drakenguard 1 & 3 before it becomes lost media outside of a handful of YouTube video cutscenes and Automata lore videos?

#mun post #I am going to turn 30 next year and still live in a world where 90% of the NieR community don’t know about the goddamn #ost bangers and super critical lore about the whole virus that drives humanity to extinction #and the 10% who do are use the drakenguard enthusiasts who cry when we see lunar tears #please let me see the next generation and younger understand why I get sad over a stupid baby dragon aaaaah #also I am tired of the 10% of us having to explain the lore over and over again- a remake would fill in all the gaps and let yoko taro #more creative liberty to finish telling his story because again iykyk #also I am tired of gachas- just because Hoyoverse knows how to make them doesn’t mean Square Enix does #fr the gacha game they made to connect all the stories that fall into the nier universe was boring as hell and they would make more money #with a proper remake of the drakenguard games in the long run #honorable mention drakenguard 2- yoko taro intentionally chooses to ignore it but #I haven’t forgotten the girlie all these years #I think it would be fine if they remade 2 but let taro have full creative freedom because the jump between 1& 3 makes sense but I’d be okay #with a better connecting of dots & letting the tennis ball head man give us more timelines

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thisgodwontforgiveyou · 1 year

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like if drakengard 3 came out today i do think most of these people would like. boil themselves alive in acid forcing themselves to say its a good game because it seems like it trying to trick you into feeling something

#ignoring the obvious fact that yoko taro could release his own shit in a steelbook case and people would give it a 7/10

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jlf23tumble · 2 years

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Hii! It’s Get Back anon. I just finished the final part and omg if I never hear Two Of Us again it will be too soon. I feel like they agree given the gritted teeth version we were treated to. It’s made me so greedy for MORE footage though! I got to the end and was like “okay now I want to see them making Sgt Pepper pls”.

Also obviously the whole thing is watching them just very slowly implode but there were so many lovely moments too, and it made me sad to think of how it all turned out. Bc if you had asked me how it would have ended if I didn’t already know, I’d have thought they’d have been okay. Absolutely wild to see how productive they were though, even as it all collapsed. And then they wrote Abbey Road AFTER all this??

And poor bitchy George, he was so mad and he was right to be. And lovely Ringo being the soothing glue in the middle of the turbulence. And Paul and John having no time for anyone’s opinion other than each other’s phewwww! And I TOTALLY agree about Billy Preston - he saved that whole album and made it look easy, the real MVP.

YES, god, that song is so fucking annoying, I can't even count how many times they did it, either (I'm sure someone did, lol). But at least we got She Came in Through the Bathroom Window, Across the Universe, and some other greats for a minute or two! I'm with you, the real beauty here is the mundanity mixed in with the little spikes of genius mixed in with the implosion that's clearly there mixed in with holy fuck, can you imagine if they had more than three weeks to write this album AND full access to Billy Preston beyond the week or so he was there. I just can't get over how young they were--they were on that full boyband trajectory at this point, too, album every 10 months or so, shows, movies, the works, and then their manager died, and kaboom, all the cracks that had been sorta papered over completely ruptured in fascinating (albeit predictable) ways. I think my read on them individually differs from yours only SLIGHTLY, but yeah, what I wouldn't give to watch more of this, any album, more of this one, the immediate solo albums, where they're all extra bitter about it (unrelated: I need to find more gifs that capture shit like all of the shirts and jackets, the way they were all casually reading beatles-related press and mocking it, the drinks, the times Paul got interrupted to talk about food when he was trying to literally write Let It Be, etc., so many MomentsTM)

#here's my read that nobody asked for:#ringo was bored out of his fucking GHORD and just wanted to make a movie #george was finally pushed to the breaking point of being ignored and treated like the annoying kid brother #(both in terms of contributing songs AND not getting in on the smokin' hot smolder of the older two)#paul was sadly aware of how far gone john was from him (both mentally and physically--yoko didn't do anything wrong)#john was around someone who didn't really give a shit about this boyband nonsense and it gave him freedom to indulge #honestly the sad 'we'll never fuck again' vibes on lennon mccartney #i'm hoping some good fic came outta this at least

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wesstars · 7 months

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heaven on earth (ii)

wednesday addams x fem!reader (mostly gn, only term used is “girl friend”)

summary: your friends-with-benefits situation with wednesday isn’t so friendly anymore, but if you could only uncover your own eyes, you might’ve noticed. wc: 5.5k tags: explicit, MINORS DNI! all characters involved are 18+. kinda ooc wednesday, painfully oblivious reader, bad fluff, fluff to smut, top!reader and bottom!wednesday, semi-public (car) sex, mild blood, biting, mild overstimulation. a/n: not sure how I feel about this lol. special thank you to 🕷️ anon for her ideas and workshopping <3 comments/asks welcome, as always!

read part one here! this can be read standalone, but is intended to be a continuation.

masterlist

For the fifth time, Wednesday slapped your thigh to get your attention. “Turn it down.”

You huffed a laugh, and figured it was time. You were playing your ‘obnoxious’ pop playlist, full of mostly Taylor Swift and random Korean bands. It was collaborative with Enid, and likely one of Wednesday’s least favorites. Lowering the volume, you tossed Wednesday your phone.

“Alright, it’s your turn.”

The two of you were driving back from a day trip to a nearby town—actually, you were supposed to be driving back the rest of Enid and Co, also, but while Wednesday was beyond ready to leave, they all wanted to stay and do something called a “holy trinity.” How someone could have so much alcohol in so little time was so bizarre to you, but then Wednesday, of all people, rolled her eyes and downed three shots in just as many minutes, and seemed no worse for wear.

Seemed was the key word there—not a quarter of an hour later, she’d grabbed onto your arm, grip slack, and her eyes were becoming unfocused, roving all over your face only to miss your eyes and tack onto somewhere lower.

You’d coaxed her to eat something after that. Post French fries and buttered bread (she’d kill you after she knew you’d made her eat such unrefined food,) as well as a bottle and a half of water in, she’d mostly walked it off. You figured it was time to get Wednesday home. As far as you knew, the rest of your friends were still out, though you’d made Yoko promise to text you when they were leaving and when they got back. The windows were open in the car; the wind lifted Wednesday’s fringe off her forehead. You glanced over to where she was gingerly operating your phone, punching in letters on Spotify. Your heart twisted.

You didn’t really want to admit that weird feeling you had the first time, and all the rest of the times, you saw Wednesday. It was a sort of jittery one, with a swoop in your stomach, that made you want to prod her into a conversation. You’d gotten quite a bit more than you’d bargained for, from that first fateful kiss in the classroom, to every secret, heady rendezvous after. The last time you two had been intimate—fucked, in your bed—had left an indelible mark, natural as a shadow settled neatly in your chest. The bickering and play fights had only made things worse, and you knew you had to ignore it all, for Wednesday. To keep things the same, because… something’s better than nothing, right?

You supposed that “something” was where you were right now. Being her ‘girl friend,’ with a space in between, sex and unrequited feelings included, was the best place that you could ever be with her. You had those close moments with her that you could cherish, but also that emotional distance that Wednesday undoubtedly wanted. Perfect. Your childlike sentiments were ones that you were likely to carry in your heart, deep down, for fucking forever. They were never going to see the light of day.

Lilting piano filled the car, shoving images of you and Wednesday seated together before the keys into your mind. Your phone dropped back into your lap.

“Nocturne? In E minor.” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“I’m surprised you know.”

“Hey!” Indignant, you nearly shot something back that was sure to start one of your bickering matches again, when an unfamiliar sound rang through the car, lovely as the music, but something you’d never heard before.

“Did you just laugh?”

Wednesday’s mumbled denial was covered up by your own laugh, bordering on hysterical as your heart picked itself up and started racing.

“Do not insult me like that,” Wednesday grumbled, rubbing the hem of her sweater between her fingers. “Focus on the road. Dying with you in a car crash is too pathetic to even consider.” Though her words were sharp as always, her even tone had something in it that, if one wasn’t careful, could be mistaken as gentle.

You snorted again, unable to stop laughing. “And if a double decker bus…” you sang, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel. Wednesday’s glare nearly sliced you clean in half, and you were smart for once, shutting up immediately. She wasn’t laughing anymore, and some part of you mourned that.

After Chopin played Liszt, Liebestraum no. 3, and you wondered if Wednesday knew how to queue on Spotify. You followed the winding road up the mountain. You’d be back at Nevermore soon, but selfishly, you didn’t want this to be over. It was an odd time, with no bickering, no siege, no sex, and who could blame you if you were feeling particularly, disgustingly, sentimental? Blame the Liszt.

Turning the car off the road, you pulled into a deserted vista point. Carpe diem, you thought, throwing caution to the wind and the car in park.

“Why have you stopped?”

“Weds, we’re looking at the sunset.”

“I do not need to see it, it happens every day—”

“Oh, come on,” you laughed, unlocking the car doors and stepping out. With the wind whipping around you, blowing your hair every which way, you ducked to peek into the car. “Humor me, I guess. Don’t you feel sorry for me, or something?”

She gave you a pointed look. “I do not.” But she followed you out the car anyway.

Leaning on the hood, you looked out at the scene as she joined you. Spiky evergreens stretched out across the stony slopes, with the last vestiges of snow clinging to the tops. The sun stretched its longing light into the rapidly darkening east behind you, pulling taut the shadows and blanketing everything in an aureate shine.

You glanced over at Wednesday—despite her earlier protest, it seemed as if she was tolerating this. The tension around her brow was gone, and her arms hung relaxed by her sides. The silence wasn’t rare, but it felt reverent anyway. Your heart adored her in her outfit; it was something your mind refused to register. She was in black knee high boots, made of some leather you couldn’t pronounce, an inky dress, flowing in the wind, down to her thighs, and a soft deep gray sweater. There was a sort of bleeding sentiment, beginning to seep into your everyday life, into wondering what Wednesday would think of the book you were reading, imagining her reaction to Bianca’s quip, overthinking her hand clutching your sleeve in the courtyard.

You deliberated, vaguely, what it would be like if you tumbled down the mountainside, into those trees—would the wood be cushioning or bruising? It was a serious consideration, with all that you were feeling. Those damned feelings, ones that Wednesday would undoubtedly scorn, made you kick up the gravel underfoot in frustration.

Beside you, Wednesday cast an uninterested look over you at the noise, silently judging. A beat passed. She grabbed the collar of your shirt, wrinkling it, and pulled you into a bruising kiss.

“I am going in the car. The back seat. Be not afraid.” She retreated, and gave a little smirk, one reserved for the golden light and dark trees.

It was purely unfair, as the blood rushed from your head to pool in your stomach, making your heart work overtime. Stumbling to the back seat, you’d barely sat down before Wednesday reached over to the console and locked the doors. She’d taken off her boots, leaving her legs clad in white socks scrunched around her calves.

She climbed into your lap without preamble, squeezing your hips with her thighs. The car roof meant she had to duck her head just a bit, giving you the perfect opportunity to press your lips to hers. Having Wednesday on top of you was the kind of thing that made your head spin. And spinning you were, down into that deep unending abyss where there was only the smell of hot sugar, pine, and iron.

The Midas touch of the setting sun made Wednesday seem even paler, from her exposed knees to her small hands, glowing like some ethereal being. She kissed you as if she could wrap her teeth around you, like searching for sweetness in the corners of your mouth. Sure enough, there was something about her, a sense of urgency, that threatened to take in all of you.

“This dress is nice,” you murmured, pushing it up her pale thighs, rubbing away the red marks her boots left on her calves. Your hands continued upward, to the light dampness of her inner thighs.

“You said you liked it last time.” Wednesday immediately glanced away, as if she hadn’t meant to say those words. There was a faint flush to her cheeks again, but the two of you were fogging up the car windows.

You ignored the pulsing in your stomach that traitorously screamed she wore this for me? “It’s enchanting,” you said. “Like a witch of the wood.”

You nosed your way into the nape of her neck again, a favorite spot of yours, unable to stop your stupid mouth from running. “I adore it…” You pulled her tighter to your lap, skimming the seam of her underwear at the juncture of her thigh. “Can I touch you, Wednesday?”

“Get on with it,” she said, breathlessly, indulging you with a quick quirk of her lips.

Skimming the back of your hand up between her thighs, you sent your other hand to palm her chest through her dress. You felt her through her panties, the fabric soft and smooth from her slick. Dipping your hand below the waistband, you wasted no time finding her clit. Her breath came down hard—it was her tell, you knew, even when her face remained mostly impassive.

She was sensitive today, back arching with a small gasp as soon as you touched her. Hand shooting past your head, Wednesday grabbed onto the headrest, hard enough for the leather to creak. Her outstretched arm was right next to your head, and you couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss the inside of her elbow.

She sighed, unfurling tendrils of a storm in smooth skies. “You have all of me,” Wednesday said, something soft.

You press a kiss to Wednesday's forehead, equally soft, as you curl your fingers again. “If only, Wednesday,” you said, unthinking.

Wednesday froze, squeezing her other hand on your shoulder hard enough to leave pretty bruises under your collared shirt.

You pulled back, cocking your head. “What is it?”

She furrowed her brow at you, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then glanced away quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Your fingers traced another circle around her clit.

“Stop asking.” Her voice was firm, but it had a waver in the middle, like she’d almost changed her mind.

“I’ll stop asking,” you whispered, “if you tell me what’s up.” Her eyes were glazed over with a sheen not unlike her slick that coated your fingers, something shiny and sweet.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, not even a second before she clapped her hand over your mouth.

What an Addams wants, an Addams gets, you surmised, blinking quickly. You rubbed your free hand up and down her thigh, trying to soothe her, but she only moved her hand to grip your jaw, her intent the sear of fire through the underbrush.

“I do not like repeating myself,” she said quietly, “so listen closely.” She shifted closer to you on your lap, car leather squeaking, settling on her knees so your nose was in her collar. She reached down and gave you a handkerchief from her pocket. Knowing what she meant, you pulled your fingers from her warmth, feeling a hard lump in your throat. “And make no noise.”

You nodded. She looked wild on top of you, hair mussed from your make out session, the apples of her cheeks a dusty rose.

“Honesty colors me,” she said by way of explanation. “And you talk too much, so this is how it will have to be.” She seemed to think for a moment, biting her lip. Her burgundy lipstick contrasted so starkly with her gray sweater, as if she was the only screaming color in a black and white world. She might hate that, you mused absently. Maybe she was more a whirlpool of the blackest black, sucking in all of the color and light around it so that you had no choice but to be drawn in, to the only real thing you’d ever known.

“You’re stupid,” Wednesday started, matter-of-factly. “Just like everyone else.” You nodded, used to this sort of thing by now. “But your particular brand of stupidity is showing its truth.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, arms automatically going around her waist while you leaned back to look at her. Where she was going with this, you had no idea. You only knew that that whirlpool was making its way closer and closer to you.

“At first, our… arrangement was indeed purely physical.” She paused. “But things have changed, quite drastically. I do believe I’ve reached a… point of no return, but I have since found a balance.”

Wednesday locked her eyes on yours, unflinching. “I give myself to you time and time again-” the words were unfamiliar from her mouth- “yet, you seem to give no indication that you know. ‘If only?’ It’s nearly laughable.” She gave a huff, though her gaze was contemplative. You cocked your head, mind uncomprehending, mouth dry.

“You have my heart, beating or still.” Her words rang quiet in the car. Your own heart started up again, with all the betrayal of a thrumming bass. You tried to push it down, but it didn’t erase the reality of what Wednesday had just said—did Wednesday ever lie? She was good at it, sure, but you’d long learned that Wednesday’s word was her end. “And it appears as though you are completely unaware.”

“Unaware?” You broke her rule, and you could see the tick of annoyance in her eyes. But you plowed on anyway. “Are you saying that you have my—that I don’t know that I have your—that you like me?”

“My devotion is more than that,” Wednesday said casually, “but it may be that you’re unable to handle that at this time.”

Sure enough, you could feel your body informing your mind that you were hyperventilating, Wednesday’s weight on your lap the only thing keeping you from shooting off to Saturn.

“I don’t—” you struggled for your words, the usual wit you showed while bickering with Wednesday, the strategy you’d used to defend Jericho, absolutely nowhere to be seen.

“Need I pull stars from the sky to prove myself to you?” she said, raising an eyebrow in amusement, as if she wasn’t blowing through every poorly stacked defense of yours. It would be just like Wednesday, for every word of hers to be devastating and world shifting. No one knew Wednesday Addams and remained unchanged—that was just the kind of person she was, romantic as murder via blade. Perhaps to her, your wide eyed reaction was enough of a damning confession. “You’ll be the end of me, but what bliss that would be.”

“Um,” you started, eloquently. “You’re… you’re not thinking straight,” you rasped out, mind freezing. You could feel your back stuck to the seat, unyielding. “You’re—”

“If I didn’t know you and your oblivious tendencies, I would think that it is almost insulting of you to doubt me.” She gave a small sniff, chin held high. “You think that just because you do not recognize my words, means that I am not in a right state of mind?”

In one fluid motion, she pressed her forehead to yours, and cradled your face between her two cold hands. Your name felt like salvation from her lips; “believe me, I’m wide awake.”

Your jaw went slack, and you were sure you looked as much a dumbass as you felt.

“I intended for my… vulnerability,” Wednesday’s voice wavers on the word, “to be a sign for you, but either you are just that unobservant, or you are unwilling to admit to what is right before your eyes.”

“I’d never not pick up on something on purpose, Weds.” Your brain was wading through a thick mud, unable to turn at the speed that Wednesday wanted.

“Does that mean that you are willfully disregarding the way I show myself to you?” Finally, in her words, you were able to see the exact vulnerability that she had alluded to.

“No, I’d never, I just… didn’t want to hope,” you said, embarrassed. “Romance isn’t your thing.”

“It’s not,” she replied simply, quietly. “I understand your reservations.” Wednesday’s hands held an imperceptible tremble, but her gaze was strong.

“No—of course I—” your throat tightened, but you felt the weight falling from your shoulders anyway. That was something you recognized. “Of course I like you.”

The silence rang yet again, and Wednesday’s eyes widened, the onyx of them turning warm as molten metal. The exact expression in them was hard to place, but it calmed you, in the wake of speaking aloud something you’d been afraid to admit to yourself.

A thought occurred to you, more clear than any you’d had since Wednesday had opened her mouth. “Even if we’d never—if we never have sex again, I’d still l—like you.”

Despite the way you stumbled into and over your words, Wednesday’s dark eyes on yours grew warm, pupil blurring into iris; the corner of her mouth gave an upwards tick.

“In the cracks of light,” Wednesday whispered, reverent as prayer as her fingertips traced your cheekbone, “I see the heaven on earth I’ve won with you.”

She kissed you then, and you couldn’t hold back any more. It was something like pure relief—though your mind still didn’t quite comprehend Wednesday’s confession (confession!), your heart broke the dam, pulling you down past inhibition. Spiraling to Wednesday’s gravity, it was as natural as breathing to give in.

Wednesday, all knowing as always, must’ve seen the way your resolve broke. She slid her mouth against yours, open and hot, unhurried but eager. The car leather under your thighs was as warm as Wednesday on top of you—not even she was immune to the rays of waning sunlight, it seemed.

“You know,” you muttered, between capturing her lips, “it’s just like you to say all that about moving heaven and earth. Most people just say ‘I like you.’” It wasn’t a complaint by any means; with your hands on her waist, you’d have it no other way.

“As I said, it is more than that.” She took a breath, completely steady and confident, now. “You consume me, completely.”

“And you, I,” you said softly, as if you could do anything but agree to her heady desire. “I’ve got you, Wednesday.”

Her forehead dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around you. It took a moment for you to realize that in her silence after your words, she was grinding down, near imperceptibly, into your lap.

“Mmm, my love,” you murmured, the significance of the endearment not lost on you, “look at you.” Sliding a hand up her back to her hair, you felt her braids through your fingers. You ran your hands down once more, under her sweater to feel the muscles around her shoulder blades. The heat you felt through her dress from where she was pressed to you, through your trousers, was something out of a darkest dream, unable to be forgotten.

Wednesday leaned up again, eyes sharp as a lance, to brand you with a kiss. She bit your lip, breaking through skin, and you grinned at the pain. It was hard and harsh, comforting like the thin edge of a knife. You felt the blood seeping into the seams of your teeth, rain in scorched earth. Intoxicated, you seemed to float closer into that sweet and dark whirlpool.

“That hurt, Wednesday…” you leaned in, voice dropping. “I wanna…” There was a beat of silence where you could only taste the copper in your mouth, sweet as you knew the slick between her thighs to be. You shifted your grip to her hips, bruising, and the soft little moan Wednesday gave in response spurred you on. “I wanna hurt you.”

You did, helplessly. Of course, you would rain hell on anyone that so much as lifted a finger against Wednesday, but to hold her trust that came with pain—you wanted that from her, to know when she hurt, when she wanted to hurt. Whether it was holding her back from the edge, or flying and dropping together to the bottom, bodies crashing against one another, you wanted it. Like something out of a classical myth, with wings of wax or blood, you would burn and be burned to feel the weightless warmth of that golden light.

There was no hesitation for Wednesday, just a look in her eyes that you’d come to know intimately as hunger. “Hurt me.” Her voice was low, nearly fond, in your ear as her eyes tracked the blood collecting on your lips. She leaned towards you and licked, tongue to your teeth, translucent saliva mixing with the burgundy. “I want it to hurt—I want you to hurt me.”

When she leaned back, her lipstick was stained with your blood, and it made you want to bleed if only she was the one taking it. You leaned your temple to her jawline, eyes burning at the sun through the windshield. Your hands continued once again up her thighs, just as reverent as before. The two of you never could do anything by half—you were always Wednesday’s. Realizing it, speaking it aloud, confessing or not, couldn’t have changed that. Despite that, as you rocked back and kissed the blood off Wednesday, you felt as though you were on your knees, professing everything you were. Giving one last cheeky swipe of your tongue on her lips, you went to tug Wednesday’s panties down. She followed your lead easily, tossing the expensive garment somewhere to the side.

“My sweet girl,” you sighed, something possessive curling in your words. “What would you like?”

“Everything.” There was a devout way about her utterance that had your hands shaking with the desire to fulfill her. “Touch me.”

Crossing one arm around her to clasp the back of her neck, you brought her face close to yours, the tips of your noses brushing.

“Everything? How much can we do with ‘everything’ when you’re so sensitive, angel?” On cue, Wednesday’s eyes slipped shut as you drew a finger along her pussy to find her wet and wanting.

“Don’t you think you should be the one to answer that?” Her voice, bold and challenging, shook up your stomach like champagne. You were completely, utterly ruined before Wednesday Addams, and it was a nearly celestial ruin, so bright and beloved it nearly hurt.

You didn’t hesitate, slipping your finger in and grinding your palm on her clit. You didn’t miss her knees sliding further apart, that elusive grin gracing her face as she tipped her head back. Only her tight hold on your shoulders kept her from falling into your lap. Your mouth tasted of iron, such a contrast to Wednesday’s burnt sugar sweat on your tongue as you licked a stripe up her jaw to bite her earlobe. Drawing every small sigh out, you took your time, curling your fingers the way you knew she liked. You squeezed your hand, heavy where her shoulders met her neck. The jagged breaths she took in response made you crave more, and your stomach burned with contentment when she let you press another finger inside of her.

Wednesday’s half lidded eyes tracked down your neck, hunter to the scent of fear, leaving a shiver in her wake. It was inexplicably easy to discern what she wanted, even as she threaded her hands in your hair, something tingling and distracting.

“Go ahead, I know you want to.” Like blood rushing back into white fingertips, her soft lips were on your neck, undoubtedly leaving a smear of lip stain that you’d have to be chastised to wipe off. Almost as if she’d read your mind, she was sucking at your skin, impatient. Already you could feel the raised welt, and the way her tongue soothed the strain.

“You’re mine,” she breathed out, harsh despite the way she was panting with every twist of your fingers.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the haze of being Wednesday’s blurring your every action. “I’m yours.”

You curled your fingers, and had to bite down a moan as her teeth sank deeper into your neck, a cause and effect that you’d kill for. You swore as she set sight on your jawline, the sweet shock of her hot tongue making you shiver.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered darkly—it seemed she was satisfied with the state of your neck, since you could feel the skin throbbing pleasantly. She leaned back, proffering her own throat.

“I was always yours,” you said easily. “I can just…” you trailed off as your sharp teeth met her skin in the spot you knew she liked, making her cry out, “show you better now.”

Wednesday’s hands tightened in your hair, pulling a broken gasp from your throat. Her smirk, challenging as she took in your reaction, only spurred you on. It was pure selfishness, when you grinned lazily as she tugged. You gave as good as you got, though, each curl of your fingers and shift of your hand had her trembling.

She was close; you could feel it in the uneven cadence of her breath, almost as erratic as yours. Pulling the collar of her sweater aside, you worked your tongue against her jugular, her pulse tempting and honey sweet in your mouth. It was nearly tangible between your teeth, soft and solid, the pounding of her pulse, just milliseconds away from your own.

“C’mon, Wednesday,” you whispered in her ear, “just like that.”

Her breath stuttered, climbing up higher to the returning lump in your throat. It was always a marvel, the way that Wednesday was so incredibly responsive to you, your touch or your words. The hard catch of her lip between her teeth made you grin, and you reached out, tugging it free. You leaned in to kiss her forehead as you slipped your thumb in her mouth instead, your fingers never stopping.

“Wednesday.” She turned her glossy eyes towards you, and it was the closest you’d ever seen her to coming without really falling. “Let go.”

At your words, she gasped, and you could feel her cunt pulse around your fingers as she came. Her teeth bit into your skin and her eyebrows knitted together ever so gently—you loved to watch her come undone. She was all soft moans and flushed cheeks, open in a way that she hardly ever was otherwise. It unfurled something bright and warm in your chest, spreading out into your fingertips. You felt as hazy as she looked, the smell of her spilling into the air and undoubtedly lingering in your chest.

“That’s perfect, love, you’re so good for me.” You shushed her as she panted, eyes unfocused beneath her mussed fringe, but searing into yours. You continued your palm on her clit, holding her tight as her body stuttered. You moved your hand to cup her face, smoothing over unshed tears along her waterline.

“You’re…” Wednesday gave a low groan as you hit that sensitive spot inside of her again, none too gently.

“Yes,” you answered gently. “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, won’t you?” She nodded, eager, as she pushed her hips into your hand, even though it made her whole body shiver.

“Fuck—”

You hummed in response, feeling her cunt open even easier now that she was impossibly wetter. As you worked a third finger into her, Wednesday’s spine went rigid, a whining, desperate sound you’d never thought you’d hear breaking from her throat. She grabbed your hand, and her palms were damp. Her grip on your wrist was tight, just as much keeping you from progressing as it was keeping you from pulling away. You leaned in by her ear. “Does it hurt?”

She gave a jerky nod, jaw clenched and lips parted. You would turn a storm on its head for those ways that Wednesday strayed from her control, especially when you were the one guiding that meandering path. Pressing the heel of your hand into her clit, you laughed, small and indulgent, as she clung tighter to you, a strained little cry escaping.

“Good girl, Wednesday… you’re taking it so well, aren’t you? You’re taking me so well, darling…” Fisting the front of her sweater in your hand, you pulled her off balance, tugging her close so her lips fell to yours, easy as breathing. Swallowing every single prized whimper that fell from her, you kissed her slow. Wednesday was already sensitive, but this was intense for even her, you could tell. Her breath came shakily against you as you pulled away, having smeared her lipstick to your content. Fingers sliding punishingly against her clit, your laugh rumbled low in your chest as she keened, soft and just a bit pleading.

“Very good, Wednesday, my love,” you coaxed. Her gasp, more like a sob, washed over you in a satisfaction that made you shudder. The slick from her previous orgasm clung to your hand, making it easy to keep up your punishing pace. Her tears shined like sea glass in her lashes, as devout to the cause of ruining her cheeks as the dusk outside was to darkness. You had no idea how much time had passed, only that if she asked, you’d stay right here with her until daylight again.

“I’m—” A whine rose from her throat, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You can do it, baby-” your thumb circled her clit as your fingers found their way impossibly deeper into Wednesday- “just for me, okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated, mindlessly. This world where Wednesday let herself trust you to take care of her was one you could live in, drown in, make your home in. You raised your hand to the juncture of her neck and jaw, heavy and comforting. Reminded of every time Wednesday had put her hand in that same place on you when you were on your knees in front of her, more intimate than anything, you tugged on her wrist, instantly missing her hold in your hair. Intertwining your fingers together, you held your hands together in between you and Wednesday.

Without a warning, her fingers tightened around yours, so hard that her knuckles turned white. You could see that how hard she came took her by surprise, too—eyes wide open and pupils blown. It was breathtaking, you thought, just how much tension was in her, all tense shoulders and choked cry. Her nails dug into your skin, her grip tethering you from dropping off with her. It stung, and you loved it, the maroon of your blood welling up just enough to smear her fingertips.

Wednesday’s head fell into the nape of your neck, nuzzling like she could find the world’s secrets in your skin. Hand still in hers, you wiped away the smeared burgundy around the corners of her mouth with your thumb pad, fingers lingering.

“That was devious,” she murmured, words blurring around each other.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you chuckled. She nodded, somewhat resolutely. You eased your fingers out, tucking them surreptitiously into your mouth. The gesture didn't go unnoticed by Wednesday, but she only narrowed her eyes.

Even in her post-orgasm daze, Wednesday looked dangerous. Her fringe was all over the place, getting caught in her eyelashes, and you could finally attribute the pink in her cheeks to something a little more than the fogged up windows. Surely, this was heaven on earth, having Wednesday with you, steady as planetal orbit. You shifted her to sit sideways in your lap, making sure her knees didn’t burn from the leather. She was watching you, carefully. It was almost as if she was trying to memorize you, the studious way she looked at you, like she was the sole messenger for a world that wasn’t allowed to take you in. It made your heart pound, finally in accordance with your head. You let her take her time in your arms, rubbing her shoulders. The little press of her lips was back, something you had adored for something dangerously similar to ‘forever.’ She seemed content in a way she hardly ever was, the haze in her eyes clearing as she studied you.

“You’ve changed a lot since I met you,” she commented, not unkindly.

You looked down into Wednesday’s face, at the night air drifting through her hair again. You could feel the sting from the little crescent shaped marks that her nails left. It was a warm contrast to her cold hand in yours, clasped between you. “You changed me, Wednesday.”

wednesday: you have bewitched me, mind, body, and soul… i love, i love, i love you.

reader: huh?

a/n cont’d for those brave souls that made it this far: yes, wednesday’s dress has pockets. isn’t that wonderful?

I’m SO BAD at writing fluff. plus, reader is the most unreliable narrator to unreliably narrate. should’ve put “painfully oblivious” as a warning for part one too.

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

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herlondonboy · 1 year

Text

5 Times You Flirted With Wednesday And 1 Time She Flirted Back

Pairings: Wednesday Addams x gn!reader / Enid Sinclair x platonic!reader

Summary: what the title says

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, y/n being down bad, I got lazy after the second one, also I wrote it when I was half asleep, google translated Spanish (sorry if it’s wrong). lmk if there are any more !!

Word Count: 1.1k

The first time you’d flirted with Wednesday Addams was completely subconsciously, honestly. You walked into your friend’s dorm and froze at the sight of Enid watching with a frown as she took the colour off the window on her side.

“Holy shit.” You mumbled, completely blown away.

Enid turned to you, but you were too enthralled by the mystery in front of you to look away. You tilted your head and admired her jawline and braids. Her fringe were scary, it was so perfect, like she just hopped off the Hairspray set. When she was done, she kicked the translucent vellum paper mindlessly onto Enid’s half. When you looked down, you saw the duct tape line and jumped over to Enid’s side.

“Oh, Dios mío. Cómo puede una persona ser tan perfecta?” You asked aloud and Wednesday turned to you as you blushed.

Her eyebrow was raised slightly as she looked on through her eyelashes. “di algo así otra vez, y perderás la lengua.” Her words were so smooth and calm, you almost forgot that she was threatening you.

You held back a smile at her glare and bounced over to Enid’s bed. The floorboards screeched in pain that went ignored by the people in the room as you sat on the brightly coloured bed. Enid rolled her eyes at the look on your face and sat next to you. She dared you to say what was on your mind.

You shook your head and she nodded, pleased. You began spending more time in Enid’s dorm and less in Yoko’s. And Wednesday was already sick of you by the second week at Nevermore, but you didn’t let that get you down.

The second time you shamelessly flirted with Wednesday was during the Poe Cup. Or after, really. Wednesday had been coerced onto the team by Enid after Bianca poisoned Yoko with Garlic. Your team had won and Wednesday, you, Enid and the fourth person - one of Enid’s other friends - stood on the stairs as Headmistress Weems handed Enid the trophy. The celebration of the Black Cats beating the Sirens (really just anyone beating the sirens for the first time in years) had everyone but Bianca cheering.

Wednesday went back to her dorm and you followed her. When you got there, you leaned on the doorframe. “You should wear the suit more often, Cat-Woman.” You said as Wednesday sat down at her desk.

“Cat-Woman is chaotic good; I’m neutral evil.” Wednesday muttered mindlessly, clicking away on her typewriter.

You shrugged and made your way to her desk. You jumped onto an empty space and began swinging your legs near Wednesday as it took everything within her not to rip you apart. Limb. By. Limb.

You went to pick up a sheet of paper from the desk, but that idea was quickly shot down when Wednesday slapped your hand away. “Touch them again and you’ll lose your hands.”

“Wednesday, all this threatening is making me feel some way.” You shifted on the desk before jumping off and gaining Wednesday attention.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“My dorm… Unless you want me to stay.” You smirked.

“Don’t flatter yourself, y/n.” Wednesday said emotionlessly, as always. “Enid will want to celebrate with you, so you should probably stay, though.” She then muttered, turning away from you so that you couldn’t see her face.

You shrugged and nodded, walking over to Enid’s bed and just watching Wednesday in a comfortable silence until your friend came.

The next time you were all eating lunch. Wednesday had decided to eat with you for the first time since she’d been at Nevermore. It had only taken her two and a half months. Much to both of your luck, the only free seat by the time she had gotten there was next to you and opposite Enid.

Wednesday didn’t make a sound as she sat down next to you. You opened your mouth, but Wednesday held her hand up, stopped you. “Don’t say a word.”

“Not even if it’s to say how ravishing you look in that jumper?” You asked with a small smirk.

Enid cleared her throat, making you and look away from each other and to the blonde. “What have i told you about flirting with my friends?” Enid scolded you as you dropped your head.

“You told me not to.” You mumbled. “But can you blame me? Look at her.” Wednesday whacked your hand away when you motioned to her.

“Honestly, y/n, go touch some grass.” Yoko called out from the other side of the table, rolling her eyes.

“Te sugiero que cuides tu boca.” Wednesday said.

You smirked. “Eres inexplicablemente caliente cuando estás enojado.”

“Don’t make me regret eating with you.”

The fourth time was also an accident, much like the first time. You were lying on Wednesday’s bed (it was shocking that she hadn’t tried to stab you the moment you crossed over the line, I know), scrolling through your camera roll when a picture you’d taken without her knowledge.

You smiled at it. Nothing could ruin this feeling of serenity. Nothing but Wednesday lying next to you. Actually, no. She didn’t ruin it. She made it better. “You’re so pretty, Wednesday.” The words came out of your mouth before you could stop them and your cheeks warmed up quickly. “I’m sorry.” You said quickly, looking away from her.

“Thank you.” Wednesday murmured, pushing her back against the bed frame. You widened your eyes. “Don’t make me take it back.”

The last time you’d flirted with Wednesday was after she’d defeated Joseph Crackstone. After being all bloody and bruised, you pushed your way through the crowd to look for her. “Enid, where’s Wednesday?” You asked the blonde hurriedly, eyes darting around.

“y/n? What happened?” Enid asked, looking at you, searching for any extensive wounds.

“Most of it’s Tyler.” You whimpered, hugging yourself.

The chittering of the Outcasts suddenly died down and everyone turned to the gate where Wednesday walked out. You sighed in relief before running towards her. In that moment it was just the two of you. She winced as your body collided with hers in a hug and furrowed eyebrows before pushing you away.

“Fancy seeing you here, gorgeous, huh?” You mumbled.

The one time Wednesday flirted back, you got a mere: “You look good covered in blood.” She had joked. The look on her face was still deadpan as she once-overed your body for any lethal wounds. “Are you okay?” You nodded. Wednesday’s lips quivered as she pulled you into a bone-crushing hug.

You sobbed into her shoulder. The thought of nearly losing her to Tyler still fresh in your mind as your own shoulders shook. Wednesday held you tight. Seeing you wolf out to save her and almost get killed by Tyler was the last thing on her mind. Sure, she couldn’t stand physical contact, but having you in her arms was what she had longed for since she first heard the words you muttered on her second day at Nevermore.

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bingwriterxo · 11 months

Text

a child?!

pairing: wednesday addams x werewolf!reader

summary: in which something strange happens to you

warnings: none

word count: 1400+

author's note: this was a request! also, i do not know how chlidren work!

Wednesday was sitting at her desk, fingers flying across the keys of her typewriter as she detailed the most recent mystery that Viper had to solve, when Enid burst through the door, loud and obtrusive as always. The raven-haired girl had half a mind to ignore her roommate, and she succeeded in doing so for what seemed to be the longest minute in eternity, until she ultimately had to turn in her chair and glare at the blonde for the ruckus she was making.

"Why must you be so loud?" Wednesday deadpanned.

Enid squeaked and whirled around, hiding something behind her back. "We--Wednesday!" she exclaimed in a pitch much too high for Wednesday to appreciate. "I didn't even realize you were here!"

Wednesday furrowed her eyebrows, watching her roommate closely. "You're acting strange. Granted, you are strange, but today you are even stranger." I didn't even think that was possible, she thought. She would have said it out loud, but she had begrudgingly promised you that she would try to be nicer to people, even if it made her want to claw her own tongue out.

"What?" Enid asked, shifting where she stood like the floor was littered with hot coals. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Your hair is mussed"--Enid reached up, patted down her hair--"your uniform has become undone"--Enid glanced down, noticing that her tie was untucked from beneath her vest--"and there is...snot...on your shoulder." Wednesday narrowed her eyes at the blonde. "What is going on?"

Enid sighed in defeat and hung her head, letting her shoulders slump as she looked at the floor, revealing the unicorn plush that she had come to the dorm for in the first place. "You should probably come with me."

* * *

"Why are we at Xavier's shed?"

Enid didn't answer. Instead, she moved to stand in front of Wednesday before the raven-haired girl could push the door open. "Now, when you see what's inside, you can't kill us, okay?"

"Us?"

"Yes." Enid nodded, her face more serious than Wednesday had ever seen it. "Us."

Wednesday contemplated this for a moment. She wasn't one to make agreements when she didn't what the other half of the bargain entailed, but Enid's stoic look was starting to make her uncomfortable (and not in a good way) so she nodded.

"Fine," she said.

With a hefty sigh, Enid turned around and pushed the door open. Wednesday followed close behind, her eyes flitting around the room as she looked for who 'us' was. It wasn't hard to find them: Xavier, Yoko, and Ajax all stood in the middle of the shed, their backs to the pair and their attention on something that Wednesday couldn't see.

"What is this, some sort of odd club?" Wednesday asked, and everyone spun around on their heels. She scanned her friends' (in loose terms) faces, and it wasn't difficult to see the guilt and worry coating each of their expressions, or feel the anxiety radiating off of them.

Xavier's lips were pulled into a frown, and his eyes were glazed, staring behind Wednesday rather than at her. Yoko was playing with her fingers, and her head was tilted upwards, lips pursed like she was about to start whistling at any moment. Ajax waved shyly and then scratched at the back of his neck, eyes on anything except Wednesday.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Wednesday hissed. "What is happening?"

All three of them started to speak at the same time.

"Well--"

"There was--"

"So, something happened--"

They were cut off by a small babble, and then, between Yoko and Ajax's legs, a child appeared, running full force at Enid. Enid crouched down and took the child in her arms, standing as she handed her the plush.

Everyone's eyes landed on Wednesday while her own were trained on the child cuddling Enid's stuffed unicorn, and when she also glanced toward the raven-haired girl, everything clicked.

"Is that my girlfriend?" Wednesday seethed through gritted teeth.

Enid shrank in on herself at the question and looked down at you before glancing back at her roommate. "...Yes?" she answered sheepishly.

Wednesday wished that she didn't take verbal agreements as seriously as she did because she had never wanted to kill her roommate and her friends more than in that moment. She clenched her jaw as she stared at you, who stared right back at her with wide eyes and a childish grin, and then held her arms out.

She could hear Yoko gasp, and Ajax made some sort of noise, and Enid took a step back. "Are you going to hurt her?"

"Why would I hurt Y/N?" Wednesday asked. "I was going to hold her."

Enid blinked at her. Xavier spoke up. "Do you even know how to hold a kid?" he asked, but you were reaching out to Wednesday, leaning forward so far that Enid had to oblige the raven-haired girl or risk you falling onto your face.

Wednesday took you into her arms easily, resting you against her hip. You were watching her, the unicorn clutched in one hand and your other playing with the end of one of her braids.

"Pretty," you mumbled.

She wasn't paying any attention to you, turning her sights back on the three idiots--well, four now, as Enid had joined them in the center of the room--and narrowing her eyes. "And why is my girlfriend"--she glanced down at you, then looked back up--"currently three years old?"

You tugged on the braid, and Wednesday was only half-surprised by the amount of strength you had. As a werewolf, it made sense that you would be stronger than the average child, but she hadn't expected it to sting.

She looked down to see you frowning up at her. "What?"

"Pay 'tention," you demanded with a pout.

"No." She looked back at her friends. "Answer me."

Ajax, Yoko, and Xavier all glanced at Enid, and the blonde stepped forward. "Well..." She inhaled deeply and all of her words tumbled out. "Y/N and I were trying to make a serum to suppress our heats, and we must have forgotten an ingredient or something, but we thought we did it correctly, so Y/N tried it and then...shrunk." She gestured lamely at you. "Or, well, turned into a kid."

You tugged on Wednesday's hair again. "Pay 'tention!" you repeated loudly.

"Uh, Wednesday," Ajax began, "I think she wants you to pay attention to her."

Wednesday glared at the boy. She looked at you. "What do you want?"

Instead of answering, you giggled and threw your arms out. "Pretty!" The unicorn fell to the floor, and you glanced down, whimpering. "Unicorn," you cried as though it were your best friend falling off the edge of a cliff.

"Don't cry," Wednesday said. She knelt down, grabbed the stuffed animal, and gave it back to you. You cooed happily, nuzzling into it. She looked at her friends again, all of whom wore strange grins. "What?"

"That was so cute, Wednesday!" Enid exclaimed. "I didn't know you could be cute!"

Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Call me cute again, Enid, and you won't have a voice box to call anything cute."

The blonde didn't seem to take the threat to heart as she continued to smile. "I have to get a picture of this!"

"I will kill you."

"And that's a risk I think I'm willing to take!" Enid pulled her phone out of her pocket and snapped a quick photo. She glanced over the top of the phone. "She's sleeping!" She took another picture.

Wednesday frowned and looked down. You were, in fact, asleep against her, your head pressed beneath her chin and soft breaths slipping from your mouth. You seemed at peace there, and, for a quick moment that she would never admit occurred, Wednesday didn't quite mind the fact that all of her friends were watching her. But then her senses returned to her and she looked at the four.

"You better figure out how to turn her back," she said. "Or I will bury you all alive."

bonus: when you did return to your normal age, you had no recollection of what had happened, and no one wanted to explain it to you. for a week, you were oblivious, until you opened wednesday's desk drawer to grab moisturizer for thing and found a new object inside. you picked it up, careful not to damage it, and found that it was a picture of you as a child cuddled up to wednesday.

"what the fuck?"

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #wednesday x reader #wednesday netflix #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega

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