Chapter Text
Silence.
Barring the rhythmic clicking of her typewriter signalling her remarkable writing progress, there’s nothing but silence: the perfect start of the weekend for Wednesday.
Alongside Enid’s departure earlier this morning, the silence is a welcome luxury that Wednesday hasn’t seen much of in the past few weeks. Now that they’re deep into their final year at Nevermore, students are either knuckling down on their studying—deeming the library no longer a suitable space for Wednesday's solituary needs—or reckless abandon of everything—a camp Enid has fallen into.
Which adds to the unpredictability of the things that fall out of Enid’s mouth.
“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just us and the girls for a whole weekend of pampering,” Enid had sang out in her initial invitation, as if Wednesday’s idea of fun may possibly involve anything to do with vapid social activities with peers she could not care less about.
Something akin to melancholy—a foreign feeling she seems to be feeling much more lately but she can’t quite put a finger as to why—lingers when Wednesday recalls the sad pout on Enid’s face with her response.
“Unfortunately, I will have to decline,” she had started with the full intention of telling Enid her true, unfiltered thoughts on the insipid trip. However, the pout that only grew with every word made Wednesday stop in her tracks and think of an excuse to cushion the blow.
In the end, Wednesday’s justification of already having plans to go back home to the Addams manor seemed to assuage the situation. And this morning, there was only the tiniest flicker of guilt that arose with Enid’s cheerful, “Say hi to your family for me!” as Wednesday feigned her own departure.
Albeit now, with how swimmingly her writing is going, Wednesday finds the guilt doused. What Enid doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Ideally, Wednesday would have no need for such dramatics, opting for Enid to leave first. However, Enid’s blathering over her upcoming trip, the chaotic whirlwind around their room with her last minute packing, and incessant questions over which dress she should wear and what color of nail paint she should bring proved too much of a headache for Wednesday.
All of which led to Wednesday’s interruption of, “Lurch is here for me,” followed by her leave with her empty backpack hanging off the back of her desk chair.
Wednesday gave it two hours in the woods—one of the few places of solitude left untouched—before carefully returning to the academy, thankfully finding their room cloaked in silence and no longer occupied by her rambunctious roommate.
The silence since then has instilled in Wednesday some sense of calmness that has yielded excellent results with her writing. She’s written more in the past half hour than she has in two months.
Nodding her head in good spirits, Wednesday is mid-sentence in her protagonist's examination of a butchered body when she hears the muffled voice of Enid’s outside in the hallway. Her fingers pause on the keys and she swivels around to stare at their closed door.
She thinks she must have imagined the voice at first—because Enid should be long on her way with her friends—but it becomes more and more audible along with the footsteps of Enid’s unmistakable gait.
Outside of Wednesday’s right eye, she berates herself when she catches the previously unnoticed red duffel on the floor near the foot of Enid’s bed.
She has not departed for her trip yet.
With her return to their room, if she sees Wednesday after her alleged collection from Lurch, the deception will be obvious. Perhaps if it were any other, Wednesday could spin another web of lies, but not with Enid. She had already been suspicious of Wednesday’s plans to begin with.
And by now, Wednesday knows the reprimand that awaits her in exposing the truth. But worse yet, there’s also a tiny part of her that doesn’t want to see the hurt or wounded look on Enid’s face from her deception.
Feeling the dread rise as Enid’s voice grows louder, Wednesday immediately springs up from her chair to act on her only path forward.
Hide.
Wednesday quickly heads to the balcony but stops shy of the door.
She can’t go out there.
If Enid locks the door before she leaves, Wednesday will be trapped there all weekend. And it’s too high a jump for any living being to survive.
Wednesday chides herself for having chastized Enid multiple times before to verify their balcony door is closed and locked before leaving the room for an extended period of time. It came following the one time Enid hadn’t, and a flock of birds had flown in and made a mess of everything. Now, however, Wednesday would gladly take that risk.
The jingle of keys just outside reminds Wednesday she doesn’t have much time left before her lie is exposed.
Looking back into the room, she hurries over to her bed. She kneels to the side and lifts up her comforter to slide underneath the bed frame, only to be faced with boxes upon boxes. She forgot she had stored her taxidermy collection there just last week.
Cursing, she attempts to push them in as far as possible, but even so, there is not nearly enough room for her to slot in.
The sound of clattering behind her makes her drop the comforter.
“Shoot,” she hears from behind the— thankfully—still-closed door.
There’s a jingling scraping against the floor which tells Wednesday Enid most likely dropped her keys—a common occurrence with how scatterbrained she sometimes is—which gives her a few more seconds to breathe.
And to think.
Think.
Mind scrambling, Wednesday looks around the room but there’s nowhere else she can go.
Their room is already small as is—made seemingly smaller with Enid’s hoarding of worthless things she finds of sentimental value—and her own space has always been on the minimalistic side with little furniture.
There’s no room under her armchair and hiding behind the armchair or underneath her desk is nonsensical; a child’s idea of a good hiding place which obscures nothing.
On Enid’s side of the room, there’s surely enough clutter but nothing large enough to cover an entire human being, as small as Wednesday is.
The idea of hiding in Enid’s pile of plushies in the corner seems too comical; as if Enid wouldn’t be able to notice Wednesday’s face sticking out amongst a sea of teddies.
Wednesday flinches as she hears the key slot in and the latch unlock.
Panicking, she gives the room another scan and spots one final place but falters.
However, there’s no more time for hesitation as the door handle turns.
Wednesday dives headfirst under Enid’s bed.
As much as Wednesday would like to place the blame onto others, this time, she finds the fault lies purely on herself—for both her initial lie and now her moronic concealment. However, moronic as it may be, there was no other place to conceal herself.
Wednesday crinkles her nose and resists the urge to let out a cough from the dust—she makes a mental note to request Enid be a tad more thorough in her cleaning. Her skin crawls with the feel of the dust and dirt against her in the dark. She’s glad she had enough foresight to turn around to lie on her back after her dive because the thought of pressing her face against the grimy floor gives her shudders. She knows she will need a long shower after.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like there was much stored under Enid’s bed besides an empty suitcase, a woven box of Enid’s crocheting supplies—both of which are now pushed flush against the wall by Wednesday’s feet—and a single shoebox—now located near Wednesday’s face. Though there’s enough space for her to not feel claustrophobic, she doesn’t want to risk attracting attention to her with any more movement other than turning her head.
She keeps her head facing away from the wall and keeps watch as the door slowly opens.
Beyond the box partially blocking her view, Wednesday sees Enid’s feet shuffle into the room, with the door closing shut behind her. She’s cheerfully humming a tune—Wednesday despises how she recognizes it as the obnoxious kpop song Enid is currently fixated on—and most likely messaging someone on her phone from the rapid haptic feedback Wednesday can hear.
Wednesday holds her breath when Enid’s phone falls from her grip and lands on the rug by the side of the bed, a mere five inches away from her own face.
“Oh fudge,” she hears Enid mutter before she picks her phone up again with a quick swipe off of the rug.
Slowly, Wednesday lets out her breath when it's clear she has gone undetected with Enid continuing her humming and plopping herself onto her bed. The bed springs creak quietly under her weight.
Reflexively, Wednesday presses herself closer against the floor despite logically knowing the bed is strong enough and won’t collapse. It would be mortifying for Wednesday’s body to be discovered had Enid’s bed frame failed, crushing her to death.
With that thought, Wednesday can only hope Enid’s return is not a prolonged stay. However, when Enid takes her shoes off to lie down fully on the bed, it’s clear she has no plans to leave so soon.
Unreasonable irritation—because Enid has as much right as she does to occupy their room—flares up within Wednesday wondering why Enid is suddenly back in their room.
Had she also lied about her weekend trip?
Were her preparations all an elaborate ruse?
Presumably, Enid has packed from how full her bag had looked, nearly bursting from the seams. However, compared to Wednesday’s own feigning, if there was falsification on Enid's side, it’s certainly thorough. Packing aside, she had gone into detail—to Wednesday’s demise—over the schedule she and Yoko had put together.
And such a subterfuge would be very out of character for Enid.
No, Wednesday is certain Enid hadn’t lied. There must be a reason for her delayed departure.
Wednesday is pulled out of her thoughts when there’s a sudden blast of sound from above, presumably from Enid’s phone. The audio switches between music and chatter every so often, the pattern sounding familiar enough for Wednesday to imagine Enid’s typical lounging; lying on her side in bed and idly scrolling through her phone and watching videos to pass time.
Wednesday mourns for the time she’s lost for her writing. She knows that Enid’s episodes with her scrolling can—and do, at times—last for hours. It seems Enid may not be leaving for her trip quite just yet if she’s settled in comfortably.
Exhaling through her nose in exasperation, Wednesday knows her fate is sealed and that she is destined to remain as is for a while.
Wednesday tunes out the noise from the phone as well as Enid’s quiet laughter and other such reactions. Instead, Wednesday attempts to not let the inspiration from her writing completely leave her mind and continues to brainstorm and ideate in her head, thinking she can get a headstart on her next chapter’s plot before putting them into words after Enid has finally left.
Trying to not be distracted by everything—the sheer ridiculousness of the situation of hiding under Enid’s bed, more of Enid’s tiresome kpop humming, her laughter that sends a rumble through the mattress, or her turning in bed due to her state of restlessness—Wednesday does fairly well in her ideation. She’s thinking at what point she should insert her Chekhov’s gun to create a sense of suspense and tighten up her storytelling when she feels her right leg cramp up. Though she may be able to shift it into a more comfortable position with the audio from Enid’s phone covering the sound of the movement, she doesn’t want to risk it.
Trying to massage her leg as quietly as possible, Wednesday nearly jumps when the blaring audio is abruptly cut short and there’s suddenly silence in the room. A thud from above sounds like Enid has discarded her phone on the bed.
Pain in her leg forgotten, Wednesday perks up, hoping it means Enid is finally ready to depart for her trip.
However, there’s no movement from Enid.
And then, the humming is back.
Wednesday grits her teeth in frustration and fights the urge to drive her head straight into the bed frame. How the girl can not be bored of the song yet, Wednesday will never know. To Wednesday’s misfortunate—on top of everything else—the vexing humming continues on for a while, with Enid repeating only the chorus of the song over and over.
Again.
And again.
Just when Wednesday feels like she can’t take yet another iteration of the blasted hook and that maybe she should cut her losses short and reveal herself—nothing is worth this torture—the humming quietens down to nothing and Enid clears her throat.
Immediately vigilant, Wednesday listens closely for the next few moments but all she can make out is a rustling as Enid shuffles above. Staying rigidly still, Wednesday remains further alert to any other sounds but there’s only Enid’s quiet breathing.
It takes a few minutes—Wednesday thinks, she has no idea on the exact time span since her imprisonment—but eventually, Wednesday hears Enid’s breathing slow down.
Something close to elation hits Wednesday. Enid must be drifting off to sleep.
Not the best of the situation, Wednesday thinks. However, she can make use of this. Enid has always been a deep sleeper, having no issue with sleeping through Wednesday’s late-night typewriting and never stirring even when Wednesday returns to their room past midnight. Once she’s asleep, it’ll provide an ample opportunity for Wednesday to make her escape.
Usually, it doesn’t take long for Enid to fall fast asleep so it shouldn’t be long before—
Suddenly, there’s a soft gasp from above.
Wednesday stares up at the wooden slots in confusion.
The series of unsteady sighs that follow are unfamiliar to her ears and the bed creaks with more rustling as Enid lets out a sharp breath.
Now filled with concern, Wednesday wonders if the reason why Enid hadn’t left for her trip is because she’s unwell.
Guilt takes hold of Wednesday, thinking of her lie. If Enid is feeling under the weather, and she thinks she is alone this weekend, then—
A breathy moan cuts the rest of Wednesday’s thoughts short.
Oh no.
Realization hits Wednesday upon the third moan.
No, Enid is far from feeling unwell. As a matter of fact, she’s—
“Uhn—!”
The sheer shock incapacitates Wednesday as she can do nothing but listen to the lip-bitten groans echoing in the room, barely masked by the creaking of the bedsprings.
She closes her eyes tightly.
This cannot be real.
This must be a dream.
A nightmare conjured up by her sick, twisted mind somehow.
But Wednesday knows.
She knows it can only all be real because there is no way for these…lustful exclamations to be manifested by herself. After all, she has no possible references to draw from.
Because Wednesday herself, in her 18 years of age, not only remains a virgin, but a highly inexperienced one. Inexperienced to the point where it may be considered laughable to her peers—not that it concerns Wednesday at all.
And so…how could Wednesday possibly materialize something like this in her mind?
Especially from Enid.
Her roommate of three years.
The same one currently letting out subdued shuddering moans mere inches away from her.
Wednesday tries to block out the sounds but she can feel the heat in the tips of her ears.
And it’s all so odd.
Wednesday doesn’t consider herself a prude—she’s used to the far from family-friendly amorous declarations and displays from her parents—yet…
Why is her heart racing from the wet smack of Enid’s tongue against her lips?
Why can she feel the uncomfortable foreign heat rising through her body with every thick pant that escapes Enid?
Why is Wednesday so…
Intrigued?
It’s not only odd but confusing. She’s never held any importance or interest in such things.
Despite her on-and-off relationship—of sorts—with Tyler, they’ve never gone further than a chaste kiss on the lips. Wednesday has never wanted any more and he’s never pushed—he knows better than to do so.
However, now…before she can stop herself, her mind drifts and wonders…
To elicit such sounds…
Looking up at the threadbare bottom side of the mattress, Wednesday almost wishes she could see—
The strength of the thought hits her and shocks her to her core. Swallowing hard, she refuses to let her mind delve into such details about Enid and tightly squeezes her eyes shut thinking of anything else.
Anything, but the heavy panting of Enid.
Her calculus test; the one she took last week and had failed to get the last three questions right.
Anything, but the hard moan coming from Enid’s throat.
The book she’s currently reading; about the famine and the impact of it even five decades later.
Anything, but Enid’s delicate cries and the gentle rocking of the mattress.
The—
“Ah…!”
Wednesday can’t think anymore.
She can’t think of anything else, not when Enid consumes her mind.
Then, just when Wednesday feels a sensation spread throughout her own body—like something is coming and she can’t stop it—everything unexpectedly stops.
The bed is suddenly still and there’s only the slightly shaky breathing of Enid against the otherwise quiet.
Holding herself rigid, Wednesday feels her heartbeat against her ears and lets out a breath of relief.
It’s over.
She made it—though she can’t quite fathom what making it means.
Wednesday waits in anticipation for either Enid to leave the room or nod off to sleep, but is stricken with terror when she sees the emergence of Enid’s hand reaching for her below the bed.
She’d been discovered.
Her apologies are on the tip of her tongue when Enid reaches for her but in all honesty, Wednesday doesn’t know what to say past, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Because how can one possibly apologize for being a voyeur, as unintended as it may have been?
However, before Enid’s hand reaches Wednesday, it changes course and wraps around the box by Wednesday’s face instead. The bed shifts as both her hand and the box disappear completely from Wednesday's view.
Blinking thrice in quick succession, Wednesday’s heart pounds as she tries to take in what just happened.
She’d not been found out?
At least, not yet?
She’s interrupted by sounds of clunking and thudding above her.
Trying to make sense of what’s now happening, the click and squelch leaves an unsettling feeling in Wednesday.
And the feeling only gets worse when she hears a soft hiss from Enid and the wet and slick sound that follows.
The figurative thin, fraying rope that had held Wednesday up from plummeting to her death finally snaps with Enid’s first guttural moan that comes deep from her throat.
“Uhn—!”
It’s depraved.
“Ohh…!”
Madness.
“Ah…!”
It must be karma.
“Haa—!”
Punishment for all the wrongdoing Wednesday has ever caused.
“Uhh—!”
In every single one of her past lives.
Wednesday does her best to ignore the muffled cries—with her eyes shut, teeth gritted, fists clenched—but what started out as gentle and slow rocking has now escalated into the rhythmic harsh pounding and combination of sounds that Wednesday can’t even think of how to describe besides wet and slippery and…wet.
It’s painful for Wednesday to feel her vocabulary be reduced to one of a child’s but she can’t seem to think through her haze.
The air around her feels too suffocating.
Her sweat drips down the side of her face.
Her body burns.
And her shirt feels too constricted with how fast her heart is beating.
But most of all…
Out of everything…
It’s all so undeniably hot.
A different kind of horror fills Wednesday when she understands the unfamiliar feeling that stirs in her belly; the bolt that strikes right between her legs.
Arousal.
Enid’s whimpers and cries never stop, despite Wednesday's pleas to the heavens or hells above and below.
Her voice is raw.
It’s hot and sweet and utterly…
Feminine.
Which is all bizarre to Wednesday.
Because she knows Enid is a girly girl. Enid likes make-up, dresses, shopping, flowers…pink. She’s slender and delicate, smooth and soft.
Wednesday detests all societal expectations and conformation, but it’s true that Enid is the epitome of all things associated with traditional femininity—the classical femininity that clashes against Wednesday’s own less typically accepted type.
Enid lives in the category of girls that most men seek and are attracted to—the exact type trusted to proudly show off to parents. She’s sociable, polite, likeable and would most definitely make an ever faithful, doting wife.
But somehow, as much as Wednesday knows how girly Enid is, the intensity of just how feminine her impassioned voice is, floors her.
Her moans, though ragged and piercing, are thoroughly soft and feminine.
And it all makes Wednesday feel so—
“...fuck—”
The voice is so quiet Wednesday could barely hear it over the sound of her blood rushing through her ears. And she is certain she had imagined it because Enid hardly ever truly curses. She’s one more-so who uses minced oaths, as absurd as Wednesday—and everyone else—had thought it to be.
“...fuck me—!”
Wednesday’s heart stops.
This time her voice is much more audible, making it no mistake that the words had truly come out of Enid’s own lips.
“Please fuck me—! Fuck…please!”
Wednesday tries to keep her breathing under control as her face scorches.
“Uhnn…fuck me harder—!”
Wednesday can’t stop her hands from trembling with the vulgarity of the words.
Enid, for all that she is, has always been loud in her own way. She’s boisterous with a vivacious personality that refuses to be doused by anything or anyone. Wednesday has long since grown used to her voice echoing throughout the halls of Nevermore and her unrestrained screeching whenever she experiences a minor inconvenience such as chipping the paint on one of her nails.
But right now, right here…
Listening to the pure, unbridled filth effortlessly flowing out…
She starts to wonder just how much of Enid she really knows.
And how much more she would like to discover about her.
The unanticipated thought stupefies her.
And Wednesday can only hold her arms tightly against her sides, clench her legs together and stare wide-eyed at the squeaking mattress bouncing roughly against the bed frame right above her.
The sloppy and obscene noises get faster along with the deep throaty moans until—finally—there’s one last slick and sopping sound before it’s followed by an incredible warbled moan and the mattress shakes under Enid’s collapsed weight.
Enid, while not completely inexperienced like Wednesday—she had always shared too much of the details on her relationship with Ajax—Wednesday knows, is still a virgin.
“It was weird and kinda gross,” she recalls Enid casually saying after a particularly intense make-out session where she had experienced her first direct contact with a peen—in Enid’s own words.
Back then, Wednesday—used to Enid’s rambling and accounts of things Wednesday cared little about—had not paid her words much mind.
But now, as she lies there listening to Enid’s contentful sighs and shallow breathing, Wednesday deliberates for the first time just how much this side of Enid Ajax had seen before their break up.
And it adds a different kind of heat to the blaze in Wednesday’s body.
The buzzing against the mattress strikes fear in Wednesday’s chest, thinking her heart simply cannot withstand another round of listening to Enid’s…physical activities. However, when Enid speaks, Wednesday feels the slightest bit of reprieve.
“Hey! You ready?”
Surprisingly, Enid’s voice is as per usual, holding nothing to signify that she had been doing…what she had just been doing. It astounds Wednesday that she could be so…normal after her long session of self-pleasure.
Even Wednesday thinks she wouldn’t be able to control her voice if she had to speak now. And she was on the other side of the bed.
“Yeah, give me 10,” she hears Enid say. “I just wanna take a quick shower before we hit the road. Alrighty, see you outside!”
Wednesday bristles when Enid’s feet land on the floor by the side of the bed and brings a clamber of items onto the rug.
The last thing Wednesday expects—not that any of this had been expected—is to be hit face to face with the sight in front of her and the strong waft of artificial strawberry, as well as another unplaceable scent—something more pungent—permeate her nostrils.
“Ah, crud,” Enid says to herself before quickly picking everything back up into her arms.
Though Wednesday had only seen a flash of it, she knows it’s an image she will never, ever forget.
Humming the same song on her way out, the room is deathly silent as the door clicks shut.
Wednesday finally allows herself to let out deep, staggering breaths and without looking back, immediately gets the hell out of there.
She doesn’t wait for her thudding heart to calm down as she hurries out of their room and down the stairwell—nearly tripping on the final two steps in her haste—and out through the main doors, into the biting cold that does nothing to chill her heated skin.
All thoughts of continuing her writing goes out of the window for the rest of the weekend. And in its place, she’s plagued with the tangy strawberry scent, the erotic sounds of Enid, and the image of the glistening hot pink phallic object burnt deep into her memory.