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Wednesday hated many things: pastels, Disney movies, unsolicited optimism, and people who said “living the dream” while actively making it everyone else’s a nightmare. Today, however, she decided to hate early morning shifts most of all.
Normally, she worked closing. Closing involved silence, dim lights, and the authority of locking doors in people’s faces. Opening, on the other hand, was chaos with a caffeine dependency.
Unfortunately, Alice had shattered her wrist under mysterious circumstances that had absolutely nothing to do with Wednesday.
Not at all.
Fine. Maybe she had pushed karma along. Just a nudge. A suggestion, really. But it was inevitable, considering Alice was a walking public nuisance with vocal fry, a martyr complex, and an allergy to accountability. The universe had merely corrected an imbalance through her.
Now, Wednesday was paying for it, covering not only Alice’s shifts but her normal closing shifts as well, for the foreseeable next two months, she was already a week in. A sentence crueler than any prison term, even if the paycheck was permissible.
It was bad enough that her stalker pitied her this week with a black envelope on her balcony. Inside were crime scene photos, the most recent man to ask her out. His car was wrecked and folded in on itself, placed side-by-side with Princess Diana’s accident. The note read simply:
“I’d wreck you like Diana.”
If it weren't for the crude pickup lines, she would've smiled.
Early morning tasks were simple enough. Items restocked methodically, aligning syrups, situating the register, wiping counters, mopping floors, and placing the pastries on display. She took sips of her quad espresso between tasks, letting the bitterness steady her nerves. It almost made things tolerable. Okay, that was in fact a lie.
Then she unlocked the door.
Blue-collar workers, Teachers, and Mothers clustered at the counter like carrion birds, squawking orders and glaring at her as if she were personally responsible for all of their suffering. She wasn’t but she could be. It was a pain without help, either but Wednesday endured.
She always did.
Rush hour eventually calmed, leaving behind crumbs, empty cups, and a lingering desire to commit arson. It was 7:12 when the bell rang. She briefly considered melting it with a blowtorch.
Tyler Galpin.
He came in every morning at exactly the same time. Wednesday noticed this because Tyler ordered an iced mocha, paid in exact change, and tipped as if he’d be shot if he went lower than 20%. He smiled, but it was more self-deprecating than cheerful.
“Same?” she asked, already pouring.
He nodded. “If that’s okay.”
“I suppose.”
He took his coffee and sat in the corner by the window. He didn’t stare at her the way other men did. He didn’t try to start conversations or comment on her appearance like it was public property. He simply existed in the space, quiet and watchful, eyes occasionally flicking up when she moved, then away again as if embarrassed to be caught wanting. She found him…sufferable. Which was saying something.
The biggest issue with her job was the men who continuously asked her out, regardless of age. They leaned across the counter, voices lowered conspiratorially. They complimented her eyes, her hair, her gothy vibe. One told her she should smile more. She told him she’d rather swallow broken glass. In fact, she did swallow broken glass later just to see him choke.
None of them took rejection too well. But none of them tried twice either. Except for her stalker.
Her first gift after all was memorable; a black box sat on her bed when she returned to her dorm. No sign of forced entry. Her window latch, she noticed distantly, was unlocked, probably Enid’s fault. Inside the box was a human tongue. Preserved. Carefully placed. The note was written in Old English calligraphy, elegant she supposed:
“No guillotine can take away the amount of head I’d give you.”
Beneath it, a sketched diagram of a guillotine, lovely, meticulous linework, accurate measurements, and mechanically sound.
Some mornings, after Tyler got his coffee, Wednesday would take her break sitting across from him at his booth and catch up on homework. She appreciated the efficiency of it being dead and that he never interrupted her. The time was well put to use, thoughts aligned, and assignments completed before the rest of the day had a chance to irritate her. The Weathervane was quieter then, the early rush burned out and the late morning crowd had not yet arrived.
As for Tyler, he simply stayed seated long enough to watch the minute hand creep toward the end of her shift. When she clocked out, he’d look up from his cup as she removed her apron and slipped into her Nevermore uniform, black, washed, and pressed before she headed out to her car and drove back to school.
He never commented, just pretended not to watch. That restraint pleased her
At school, her abilities were not obvious, nor did she advertise them. Wednesday disliked spectacle. Power was most effective when underestimated. Still, she knew what people thought when they looked at her. A creepy Victorian doll, porcelain skin with a glassy stare. They weren’t entirely wrong.
She was a doll of sorts, just not the decorative kind.
More precisely, a voodoo doll.
Pain was a language she spoke fluently. When directed properly, it translated beautifully. Inflicted upon herself, it echoed unto her target. The trick was to not over do it. Excess was sloppy and sloppy invited consequences.
So when Xavier, persistent, sullen, and apparently incapable of learning, decided to ask her out again, Wednesday sighed internally and reached for her sewing kit. She smiled as she slid the blade carefully between her fingers, shallow but deliberate. Across the quad, Xavier dropped his pencil. His hand spasmed, knuckles whitening as he sucked in a sharp breath, face contorting in confusion and pain. He tried to pick the pencil back up. Failed. His fingers trembled uselessly.
Wednesday watched, serene. He’d be hard-pressed to doodle up another sketch of her for at least a week.
After nearly a fortnight of being overworked and seriously considering the legal ramifications of mass murder, her boss came in and informed her of a new employee who would help her with mornings. She’d have to train him, unfortunately but she’d have a minion to do her bidding. Possibly worth it as long as they are competent.
The following morning, Tyler walked in early to her place of work, looking unusually nervous, wearing the Weathervane Polo
“I see coffee has impacted your life so deeply that you’ve become a barista,” Wednesday said flatly.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that. I need the money and I like coffee.”
“Customer service is the tenth circle of hell.”
“Noted,” he said. “Duly noted.”
Tyler was made for customer service. It was genuinely unsettling how easily he transitioned from sullen, quietly observant regular to golden-retriever barista. His voice softened, his posture opened, and suddenly he was smiling at strangers as if they mattered. He was well-liked too, earning obscene tips from older women who suddenly needed extra foam and help carrying their drinks. Wednesday suspected it had less to do with his frappuccino technique and more to do with his biceps flexing every time he tamped espresso.
She found it distasteful. Effective but distasteful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took her the entirety of the car ride to work and half her morning shift to determine how to phrase a request politely enough to be socially acceptable. Damn Enid and her relentless insistence that tone mattered. Eventually, during a lull she approached him. She stared up at him with calculated intensity, waiting for the familiar flinch most people produced when subjected to her full attention.
Tyler didn’t flinch.
Of course he didn’t.
“Can I help you, Wednesday?” he asked, tone light, curious, and entirely unafraid.
“I require your assistance,” she said. “Specifically, covering two of my shifts. In exchange, I will cover two of yours. This is not a favor. It is a transaction.”
His mouth twitched, amused. He leaned against the counter, arms crossing comfortably. “Okay,” he said easily. “Which ones?”
“My Friday closing and Saturday morning,” she replied. “I have a fencing tournament out of state.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You fence?”
“Competitively,” she clarified.
“Nice,” he said, shrugging casually. “I can cover those.”
“If you’re apprehensive about closing,” she added, because Enid would insist, “I can walk you through the procedures. Lockup. Cashing out. Dealing with customers who pretend they don’t see the closed sign. It’s basically opening but in reverse.”
Tyler smiled wider at that, something sharp glinting briefly beneath the friendliness. “I think I can handle it.”
She studied him for a moment. Unbothered. Entirely too comfortable in her orbit. “Good,” Wednesday said finally. “Then we are agreed.”
As she turned to leave, she caught him watching her, not the performative interest he gave customers, but something quieter. Predatory, if she were being generous.
Wednesday felt a small, unexpected shiver creep up her spine, something she best not think about...ever.
Two weeks after she won the tournament, a long black box with a dead rose on top appeared at her window. Inside a sword. Well-crafted medieval replica, sharpened finely, balanced beautifully. The note, in that same careful calligraphy, read:
“King Arthur himself wouldn’t be able to pull my sword from your stone.”
She tested the weight. Excellent craftsmanship. It was mounted on the wall above her bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday was having the worst week.
Bianca had swapped the foils, an act of sabotage so petty it bordered on performance art. Her cello needed repairs, which meant a three-day wait, an eternity by any reasonable standard. Worse still, Alice had returned to morning shifts, which meant fewer hours and even fewer overlapping shifts with Tyler.
Not that it mattered.
It absolutely did not matter.
Still, he remained one of her more competent coworkers, which was a rare and fragile resource she resented losing.
Saturday arrived like an insult. A rare shared shift with Tyler and of course it couldn’t be allowed to pass without interference.
Enid showed up.
Not to be supportive. Not to say hello. Solely to torture her. She bounced up to the counter and ordered one of those aggressively colorful, sugar-laden abominations that could only loosely be classified as a beverage. It was less coffee and more a chemical experiment designed to see how much dye a human body could tolerate before rebelling.
Wednesday stared at the order slip, jaw tight.
Tyler, traitor that he was, did not intervene. He didn’t even offer to make it. He simply leaned against the counter, smiling faintly, watching the chaos unfold like a man who enjoyed witnessing cruelty for cruelty's sake. The sadist. She could even appreciate that facet of him if it wasn't being used against her.
Wednesday made the drink with visible disdain. She decided to take her break afterwards, citing mental distress. Sliding into the booth across from Enid, quad in hand.
“Next time you invite your furry nuisances into our shared living space,” Wednesday said calmly, “keep them on your side. They were on my bed. One of them spilled a drink on my Salem Witch Trials transcripts.”
Enid had the good sense to look abashed. Truly abashed. It was rare. “Sorry, bestie,” she said. “I can replace the book next month.”
“This isn’t about the book, Enid,” she said softly. “It’s about boundaries.” A beat. “And if mine are crossed again, I will have their pelts fashioned into rugs.”
Enid swallowed. “I totally one hundred percent understand.” Leaving a little while later after debating the pros and cons of heels for a date with Ajax. During a lull in customers, Tyler stepped up beside Wednesday as she wiped down the counter with more force than necessary.
“Is she normally,” he asked carefully, “that… colorful?”
Wednesday didn’t look up. “No,” she replied flatly. “Sometimes it’s worse.”
He hummed, thoughtful. And for reasons she refused to analyze, the week felt marginally less unbearable.
The next evening, another gift awaited her. A leather-bound copy of the Salem Witch Trials transcripts. Beautiful. The note inside read:
“I want you to squeeze the life out of me with those legs like it’s 1692 and I’m Giles Corey.”
She read the transcripts every night before bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December rolled around, and Alice mysteriously found herself with a broken leg. How it happened remained, tragically, a mystery.
Wednesday, however, was thriving with the extra shifts as she recently received a raise. In her opinion, a hammer seemed like the best course of action, though it is such a shame about Alice’s volleyball scholarship.
Unfortunately, Enid had opinions about methods and consequences, and as far as Enid was concerned, Wednesday could not “solve interpersonal problems with blunt force trauma by proxy.” Thus, instead of enjoying a quiet evening of writing, she found herself trussed into a short, skin-tight black velvet dress with festive lace Krampus tights.
The house party was already a teenage wasteland by the time they arrived. It was too loud, too warm, too many people. Music thumped through the walls, a migraine waiting to happen. Enid proved herself a liar within thirty seconds, abandoning Wednesday the moment she spotted Ajax, vanishing into the masses with a shouted “Don’t wait up!”
Wednesday hadn’t planned to.
Left to her own devices, she drifted along the edges of the room, cataloguing exits and locating alcohol. She caught glimpses of Tyler across the room, unexpected, but not unwelcome. He leaned against the kitchen counter, relaxed, laughing quietly at something someone said.
She made no move to interact.
Instead, she turned decisively in the opposite direction, intent on securing a drink.
In the corner of her eye, she registered details against her will. He was wearing that specific flannel. Black and white, with red thread woven through it. Not that she had favorites. Or noticed such things. His sleeves were rolled up; she did not care that his forearms were on display or that he was nearly in monochrome. She needed that drink immediately.
Wednesday almost escaped.
Almost.
Three drinks later, Enid intercepted her escape halfway out the door, grabbing her wrist and dragging her back toward the living room where a crowd had gathered, shrieking with excitement while names were written down and dropped into a hat.
“No,” Wednesday said flatly. “I refuse to participate.”
“Oh, c’mon, bestie,” Enid wheedled. “It’ll be fun.”
“In no reality,” Wednesday replied, “would seven minutes in heaven be fun for me. Seven minutes in hell, perhaps.”
Enid gasped theatrically. “Fine. I’m calling in my monthly favor from last month that I didn’t use.”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “I will not be held accountable for stabbing the drunk idiot who decides groping me is a good idea.”
“Fine!” Enid chirped. “No stabbing.”
The next thing Wednesday knew, she was being shoved into a dark closet, the door slamming shut as Enid’s voice floated cheerfully through the wood.
“Good luck, bestie!”
The space was small. Claustrophobic and smelled of detergent. She stood perfectly still, counting her breaths, already composing a list of grievances.
Two minutes later, the door opened again. Another body was pushed inside and the door slammed shut.
Wednesday inhaled automatically. Coffee, fresh pine, and beneath it all, faint blood. She didn’t need further confirmation.
Of course it was Tyler.
She turned her head slightly, eyes adjusting, lips curving just enough to suggest amusement rather than surprise. Considering how murderous her stalker had been lately, Wednesday found herself vaguely and inconveniently wondering how long Tyler had left to live, especially given the situation they were currently trapped in.
Statistically speaking, proximity to her tended to shorten men’s life expectancy.
Tyler shifted beside her in the dark, the closet too small, the air too warm. She could hear the nerves in him before he spoke, his breath uneven, his voice tripping over itself.
“Uh—hey,” he said quietly. “We don’t have to do any—”
Wednesday would later blame the alcohol she’d consumed earlier. Just enough to make the thought of regret seem distant and theoretical. Before Tyler could finish the sentence, she shoved him back against the wall.
He let out a startled sound, hands coming up instinctively, catching at her waist as she rose onto her toes, pressing her smaller frame flush against his. Her mouth crashed against his, hungry and demanding. Her tongue sweeping past his lips. It was exploratory and nowhere near gentle.
For a heartbeat, he froze.
Then he responded, groaning into the kiss, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs and waist. He tasted faintly of mocha and whiskey. Her mind supplied the absurd thought that if this was to be his end, she could at least mark off some of the typical teenage activities for research. After all, dead pretty boys can't talk.
The darkness was maddening; she couldn’t see much. All she had were the sounds he made, the way her body tensed and arched under his hands. The wet heat of his mouth when she kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. His thumbs stroked upward, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and she gasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to bite his lower lip.
“Please.” He pleaded as he trailed kisses along her jawline, his hand slid higher.
He begged prettily enough as far as Wednesday was concerned, urging him on, curious to see what he'd do. Tyler wasted no time spinning them around, slamming her into the wall before dropping to his knees.
“Hold onto something,” he commanded as her legs were thrown over his shoulders in an impressive display of strength. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of her tights and panties, tugging them down just enough to shove his face in the apex of her thighs.
Wednesday blindly scrambled to grasp onto anything as she was lifted off the ground, settling for Tyler's curls. As she grasped onto them for dear life, he let out a throaty moan that had her soaked. His calloused hands parted her thighs wider with his shoulders, his breath fanning hot over her slick folds. His tongue darted out first, a tentative lick along the seam of her pussy, tasting the tangy wetness that had gathered there. An obscene sound came from Tyler as Wednesday’s hips jerked.
Emboldened by her response, his mouth was back on her in the next instant, his tongue flat and hot against her, lapping at her with long, slow strokes. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips rocking against his face. One of his hands slid up to hold her ass, fingers digging into the flesh to keep her steady. The first orgasm hit her like a wave, her back bowing.
Wednesday's free hand tangled in his hair again, pulling him closer as her body arched into his mouth. The alcohol blurred the edges of her denial, letting her grind against his face without shame.
Tyler hummed in response, the vibration rumbling through her core, making her clench around nothing. He slid two fingers in, stretching her, curling them upward to stroke that sensitive spot inside. Her walls fluttered against the intrusion, pulling him deeper as he pumped them slowly, matching the rhythm of his licks.
The closet felt smaller, hotter. The wet slurps of his mouth on her pussy, her ragged moans muffled against her bitten lip. He didn't rush, drawing it out, sucking her clit again while his fingers twisted inside her, building the tension until her legs shook uncontrollably on his shoulders, squeezing his head.
He felt her nearing the edge, her breath coming in short bursts, and doubled down, tongue lashing her clit in rapid flicks while adding a third finger to thrust alongside the first two. She came hard, pussy spasming around his digits, flooding his mouth with her release. Tyler lapped it all up greedily, not stopping until her tremors faded, her body slumping against the wall.
He pulled away, placing light kisses along her inner thighs as she caught her breath, “One more time,” he murmured against her thigh, ” You taste too good not to.” Pressing his face back up against her sex.
His tongue flicked against her clit, fast and relentless, his fingers pumping inside her, and she came again with a choked sob, her body clenching around three fingers, making it difficult to move them, her release coating his chin. He didn’t stop. Not until she was whimpering, oversensitive, her hands pushing weakly at his shoulders. Only then did he pull back,
The door banged loudly moments later as someone yelled “Time!” and walked away, uninterested in details.
Tyler slowly lowered her back onto her shaky legs, keeping a steady hand on her waist. Wednesday stepped back first, evening out her breath, rolling up her tights, smoothing her dress as if nothing unusual had occurred. She opened the door and walked out without looking at him; it'd be a weakness to do so.
What she didn’t see behind her, Tyler stayed in the dark for longer than necessary, fingers flexing where her waist had been, a smile stretched wide on his face still covered in her, slow and private. He hadn’t expected this but he would remember it.
Solstice came and with it a bigger package than normal.
A double shotgun. Holly stock. Krampus hand-carved and burnt into the finish. Black iron metalwork. The note was crude compared to the others, but consistent:
“I don’t care if you whip me I’d still bend you over and load you like a shotgun.”
Wednesday appreciated the craftsmanship, keeping it under her bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Winter meant confinement.
Which was unfortunate for Enid, who was forced to listen to Wednesday’s gramophone crooning out dark operas and somber classical pieces for hours as she wrote. Wednesday found it soothing. Enid found it psychologically aggressive. The begging started on the third day.
“Wednesday,” Enid pleaded from her bed, voice muffled by a pile of blankets, “I am begging you to play anything other than this—literally anything at all—”
“No,” Wednesday replied without looking up from her typewriter. “I don’t negotiate with suffering.”
The begging followed everywhere after that. Down the halls. Into the courtyard. Even to the Weathervane, where she perched dramatically at the counter like a woman on the brink of despair.
“Wednesday,” Enid tried again, clasping her hands. “I’m serious. Something different, anything different! And if you don’t have it, I’ll get it for you as a gift. I will legit buy it for you. No questions. No limits. Consider it a bribe. Please!”
Wednesday paused in making a matcha latte. “Your desperation is noted,” she said. “Unfortunately, it remains an inadequate incentive.”
Enid let her forehead thunk gently against the counter.
She hadn’t had much interaction with Tyler since the party. He gave no indication that he knew it was her in the closet that night, which allowed her to continue treating him as she always had, professionally, distantly. She couldn't afford to place him in another category due to his impending expiration date. More perplexing was the fact that he was still alive. Considering the recent enthusiasm of her stalker, this struck her as statistically improbable. She was contemplating this when Tyler inserted himself into the conversation.
“Have you tried podcasts?”
Wednesday turned slowly. “Define podcast.”
Enid’s reaction was immediate and violent. “Oh em gee, Tyler, no!” she shrieked. “That would make the problem worse.”
Tyler blinked. “Why? You said you wanted her to listen to something else. True crime seems like it’d be right up her alley.”
Wednesday’s head tilted. “What is true crime?”
“Oh,” Tyler said, warming to the subject, “it’s like—people talk in depth about murders and crimes. They break down what happened, why, and how the investigation went wrong. It’s kind of riveting if you like dissecting stuff like that.”
Fascinating. The word echoed pleasantly in her mind. Dissection appealed to her. So did incompetence. He also seemed to be interested in it as well, not that she’d ponder on that.
Enid deflated. “That’s all great, but Wednesday won’t get a phone. And they don’t exactly have podcasts on vinyl.”
“Oh,” Tyler said, considering this. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes,” Wednesday agreed. “It is.”
“Well,” Tyler added, brightening slightly, “have you tried metal?”
Enid stared at him, eyes wide in betrayal. Wednesday, however, filed the suggestion away for later. Winter, she decided, might yet prove productive.
The next gift was a set of records: Cannibalism of Victorian Prostitutes, A Trilogy, accompanied by:
“I want you to destroy your insides like Jack the Ripper did with his victims.”
She listened to them twice that week. Three times, if Enid hadn’t panicked over the graphic imagery.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday woke up to find the usual envelope, only this time on her nightstand.
She removed it carefully, fingers precise, jaw tight. Inside was a sketch, charcoal, meticulous, infuriatingly good. Her asleep, coffin pose, mouth slackened just enough to suggest vulnerability. Shadows rendered with the kind of intimacy that implied time. Beneath it, the normal calligraphy:
You’re a work of art. Now let me mount you on the wall.
Wednesday stared at the words until her vision sharpened instead of blurred. “This,” she said aloud to the empty room, “is unacceptable.”
She didn’t burn the sketch. Instead, she laid it flat on her desk and studied it, noting the angle. The height. The minuscule details of her bed and its surroundings.
Her irritation rose the more she looked. “I do not exist to be displayed,” she murmured. She’d bide her time; eventually, her stalker will have to slip up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Valentine’s Day, and Wednesday found the box just after midnight.
Impeccably wrapped, bow-tied with almost insulting care. Her stalker, as per usual, understood presentation.
Inside was a human heart dyed black. Fresh, she noted clinically. Still warm enough to suggest recently harvested. It sat nestled in silk. The note beneath it read:
“I’d like to give you my black heart, but since that might be inconvenient, I’ve brought you someone else’s.”
Wednesday exhaled slowly through her nose. “This,” she said to the night, “is excessive.”
Not the murder. That was banal. The assumption was the offense, that she would want a substitute, that she would accept an offering without question, that devotion excused previous violations of privacy, stalker or not. She lifted the heart from the box, weighing it in her hand like an object rather than a symbol. There was affection in the gesture, care.
Still unacceptable.
Wednesday retrieved a knife from her nightstand and returned to the balcony. With a single, decisive motion, she drove the blade through the heart, leaving it there, ruined and unmistakably rejected.
Then she turned the note over and wrote beneath it in her precise hand:
Reveal yourself or else.
She set the velvet box neatly beside the display, straightened the bow, and stepped back inside. For the second and final time since the gifts had begun, Wednesday wasn’t flattered.
She was annoyed. Thankfully, Enid was spending the night with Ajax rather than witnessing this.
He appeared at her window just past one in the morning. The latch clicked softly. At least he had the good sense to listen rather than evade.
Wednesday didn’t turn from where she sat at her desk, the typewriter paused mid-sentence, as the cold crept into the room along with him.
“You’re late,” she said. “And bleeding.”
“It’s not mine,” Tyler replied automatically, then winced as if realizing that was not, in fact, reassuring.
She finally looked at him. So it was him.
Wednesday had suspected for weeks. The timing, the relevance of the gifts, the dark humor. Seeing him there didn’t shock her, it clarified things. Irritation and something dangerously close to satisfaction curled together beneath her ribs.
He was perched half in, half out of the window like a gargoyle that hadn’t quite committed to the aesthetic. Black hoodie and a dark flannel layered underneath. His hands were empty. His eyes, however, were too bright, too earnest, tangled up in something that looked suspiciously like guilt.
“So,” Wednesday said lightly, arms folding as she rose to her feet, “you’re the one who’s been leaving gifts on my balcony. Quite polite for a stalker.”
Tyler swallowed. He had the decency to look embarrassed, eyes dropping, shoulders curling inward like a scolded dog that still expected praise. “I was trying to—” His voice trailed off, clearly trying to figure out what to say when his eyes flickered over to the balcony. “You stabbed it,” he said finally, voice low. Not accusatory, just hurt. “You didn’t even take it inside.”
“It was quite forward for someone unknown,” she replied. “And anonymous offerings imply cowardice.”
That made him look up, sad puppy eyes followed her.
Her eyes narrowed now, curious. “You brought me an official romantic declaration and still failed to introduce yourself properly. Intolerably rude.”
“I didn’t think you’d want—” Tyler stopped himself, jaw tightening like he’d bitten down on the wrong thought. He dragged a hand over his face, then dropped it, squaring his shoulders.
Wednesday gestured to the window, gaze unwavering. “You also broke into my room.”
“I climbed through a window with an unlocked latch,” he said automatically, then winced. “I just wanted to see if you’d notice. If you’d feel my presence. The sketch really bothered you, didn't it?” he frowned. “You didn’t seem happy to receive it.”
“You captured me unconscious,” she replied, setting aside the fact that he watched her receive that gift for later. “You escalated,” continuing, tone precise, surgical. “I do not appreciate such an invasion, especially without permission."
His gaze dropped, then lifted again, unashamed. “I liked you like that. Still. Untouchable. I could look as long as I wanted and you didn’t ask me to leave. But that was the first and only sketch of you sleeping.”
“But not the first time you watched me sleep.”
He ran his fingers through his curls, a nervous tick of his, “No, it sorta became a nighttime ritual for when I couldn't sleep.” His head tilted as he looked at her consideringly, “So wait, if I get your permission, I can draw you again?”
“And the men?” she asked, tone deceptively mild as she chose to ignore his question. “The ones who stopped asking me out and disappeared."
That did it. He inhaled sharply, jaw setting firmly. “They didn’t deserve you. ”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I didn’t touch anyone who didn’t push,” he said, too quickly.
Wednesday. “So you decided exclusivity was your right.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I decided I didn’t want to share you. And anyone who tries to stand between us…” He swallowed, as if that could keep the snarl out of his voice, “…won’t last.”
His eyes roamed over her body. She could privately admit his territorial attitude was a fascinating quality.
“You kissed me,” he said, voice low, interrupting her thoughts. “In the closet.”
“I was intoxicated.”
“You knew it was me. I saw you smile,” he countered. “And you didn’t stop me. Didn’t pull away when my hands were all over you, when I had my tongue buried in your pussy, lapping up every drop so I wouldn’t drown.”
“I’ll admit,” Wednesday said at last, voice even, unembarrassed, “that I allowed myself to want you.”
Tyler stilled.
“And,” she continued, unfazed by the way his attention honed in, “I permitted you certain liberties out of curiosity.” Her gaze drifted briefly from his mouth to his hands. “I wanted to see what you would do if given the opportunity. You were…adequate.”
A pleased smile began to form despite his efforts to suppress it.
“At the time,” Wednesday went on, “I also assumed you were just another dead boy.” She watched him closely now. “Given my stalker’s particular fondness for murder and dismemberment.”
The silence that followed was thick. Something in Tyler’s expression broke open, not shock or anger, but relief. His breath left him in a slow exhale, shoulders loosening as he stepped into the room completely.
“I knew it,” he said softly, looking positively rapturous. "You wanted me.”
The word carried weight. “So you understand,” he continued, voice steadying as the hunger crept in, “that this doesn’t stop. Not if you send me away. Not if you tell me no.” His jaw tightened. He lifted his gaze back to hers, open and unflinching.
“I don’t care if you haven’t fully accepted us yet,” he said, slowly stalking up to her. “That you’re mine as much as I’m yours. I can be patient. I can be careful.” A pause, stopping right at the foot of her bed. “But you won't get rid of me.”
She considered him for a long moment, eyes cool and appraising. “At least you are honest, and I find I can respect such candor and persistence. It's rather intriguing how confident you are in your certainty that I could never be rid of you," she said at last, closing the final gap between them. “Fortunately for you, I accept your advances. However, be warned, once I decide something is worth keeping, I do not relinquish it.” Her mouth curved faintly. “Ever.”
His pupils blown wide now. "You're the only one for me, there will never be anyone else,” he murmured. “Let me prove it.”
“Very well,” her fingers curled lightly into his shirt. “Take it off,” she ordered.
He hurried to obey her orders, revealing golden skin covered in freckles and moles, lean and toned. She didn’t break eye contact as her hand drifted downwards, her fingers deftly undoing the button, followed by the zipper teeth parting.
His breath became ragged as her fingers wrapped around the base, bringing out his hardened cock, thick and flushed. She ran her thumb experimentally over the beads of precum already leaking from the tip. Tyler’s hips jerked involuntarily, a groan tearing from his throat.
She tilted her head watching his reactions, “Last chance,” she offered.
Tyler stared at her, his jaw set stubbornly as he shook his head, voice thinning at the edges. “You can hurt me. Cut me. Ruin me if you want.” His smile twitched, not soft, feral and determined.
She kept her face impassive as she let go of his cock and pushed him onto her bed. Climbing over him, she removed her nightgown, leaving her in nothing but black lace boyshorts. Perching on his lap like she owned him, after what she planned to do, she would. Her heat pressed against his cock as she moved on top of him.
“Try not to scream. Much.”
Wednesday reached for her toolkit with practiced calm, passionlessly she held the knife to her sternum.
“Wait—Wednesday—don’t—”
The knife never touched him.
It didn’t need to.
The moment it broke her skin, Tyler gasped, hands flying to his chest in confusion. The pain and pleasure that mixed on his face was enough for her to keep going. Her knife cut deep, all the way through the adipose tissue making a clean line down her sternum.
She paused, watching him exhale sharply through his nose, knuckles white as they clenched the sheets. His cock twitched creating such a delicious friction that she rocked her hips, dragging her wet heat down his length, the fabric damp and sticking to her folds.
Little gasps escaped her lips, “Not enough,” she reached between her legs, pushing the lace aside and wrapped her fingers around him.
Shifting, rising up on her knees just enough to line him up. Tyler’s breath stuttered as he felt the wet heat of her, the way her folds parted around the head of his cock. She sank down on just the tip, her inner walls clenching around him, so tight it made her vision blur.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging in. “Keep going.”
She made another long incision, dragging the knife slowly across her chest as she sank down another few inches, her body stretching around him, the resistance delicious. He whined, his hips jerking up despite himself, impaling her further on his length.
He bore the pain beautifully, begging for more, refusing to look away as he bottomed out inside her, the tip of his cock brushing against her cervix. The knife made its final cut against her skin, precise and deep. She looked down at him, curls mussed, dark eyes looking up at her in adoration and lust, his chest mimicking her wounds perfectly.
She began peeling back the layers of skin, muscle tissue, and fat. Revealing the ribcage underneath.
Finally moving to touch him, Tyler was hot beneath her, pressing himself into every touch. He looked down to see himself mirrored in her grotesque self-mutilation, his eyes widened in lust and awe. With a steady hand on his chest, she began carving Wednesday, right into the bone.
She pressed the knife into his hand. “If you’re going to claim me, do it properly.”
He wasted no time taking the knife, pressing kisses to her blood-soaked fingers as he retrieved it. Wednesday leaned forward to give him better access, was caught unaware as his cock pressed into a spot she'd never been able to reach before, paired with Tyler’s hands on her as he willingly engraved his name upon her very bones. It was pure ecstasy as she clenched and shuddered around him.
“You're incredible,” he breathed, his thumb brushing against the bone.
Tyler pulled her shaking body down flush against him, their blood mingling. He held her close, rocking into her deeper and deeper, his voice soft and coaxing in her ear, “Shhh, I’ve got you,” brushing her bangs from her eyes. “You've trusted me with your little black heart,” placing a light kiss on her temple, ”you can trust this and let go.”
He ground her down on his cock, tilting her hips just in that perfect angle, sinking his teeth into her neck, causing her to shatter once more. The orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing, her walls clamping down around his cock as pleasure detonated behind her eyelids.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps as the waves of ecstasy slowly ebbed, leaving her limp and trembling atop him. Tyler's arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close, his cock still buried deep inside her, pulsing and spent.
He lapped at the fresh bite mark on her neck, tasting the metallic tang of her blood. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her up for a deep kiss, their tongues tangling with the remnants of her blood. Breaking the kiss, she noticed his irises had gone slightly yellow.
Slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Tyler's chest rose and fell beneath her, his heartbeat steady but his wounds, her gaze dropping to his chest, still open, the blood congealing and some tissue already knitting itself together. Then, looking to her own already closed, no scarring, nonexistent. As she lifted her hips, his cock slipped free with a wet pop, seed spilling out to trail down her inner thighs.
Sitting upright, she reached for the medical kit. Wordlessly, Wednesday stitched him back together with a tenderness not normally displayed, fingers deft, gauzed and bandaged with utmost care. He watched her with unguarded devotion, like this was the most spiritual thing he’d ever experienced. She cleaned the blood and cum off both of them, then slid into bed beside him, their bodies entwining naturally. His hands roamed her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine. They lay there in the dark for a while, breathing in sync.
“I gotta admit I was worried you’d be angry about the tongue as well,” Tyler said quietly.
She tilted her head up just enough to look at him. “The first time you broke in?”
“Walked in, the window was unlocked,” he corrected. “There’s a distinction.”
“It was Joel Glicker's,” he added, tone almost casual. “Your first kiss.”
Her brow furrowed. She hadn’t realized she’d ever mentioned that out loud near him, the only time was with Enid in their room…
“I didn’t want to share the taste of you with anyone else,” he continued, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Not even in memory.”
“That heart,” she said. “Explain.”
“Xavier’s,” Tyler answered without hesitation. “He kept offering it to you. I simply made the gesture literal.”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her gently, possessively. The logic was deeply unsound. Unhinged. And yet Wednesday found herself melting, just slightly, into the certainty of his devotion.