If You Woe Her || Wednesday Addams & Enid Sinclair

In the forsaken bowels of Nevermore Academy’s abandoned crypt wing, where the air hung heavy with the musty rot of forgotten graves and the distant drip of water echoed like the slow bleed of a fresh wound, Wednesday Addams lurked in the shadows like a venomous spider awaiting its prey. The chamber was a sepulchre of depravity, a mausoleum of Victorian decay: iron chains dangling from the vaulted ceiling, flickering torches casting elongated shadows that danced like tormented souls, and a massive stone altar repurposed as a bed, shrouded in black lace like a funeral veil, and walls adorned with portraits of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow every sinful twitch, stained with the ghosts of ancient rituals.

Wednesday, with her porcelain skin as pale as a fresh grave, her raven-black hair in tight, severe pigtails that framed a face of exquisite malice, exuded an aura of delicious menace. Her obsidian eyes gleamed with the promise of exquisite torment, lips painted the colour of congealed blood, and her lithe, predatory frame was clad in a black sweater and skirt of midnight silk that clung to her like a second skin, accentuating the subtle curves she wielded like weapons, hinting at the lean strength beneath, honed by years of fencing and an obsessive mastery of the cello. Those fingers, calloused and precise, could extract mournful screams from strings or, as she’d discovered in her darkest fantasies, unravel a soul with equal finesse. She was a virgin, untouched by any hand but her own, yet her mind was a labyrinth of twisted desires, each more exquisite than the last.

Enid Sinclair, her roommate and antithesis, the unwitting lamb to Wednesday’s slaughter, was a profane intrusion of light in this abyss. Her multicoloured hair cascaded in chaotic waves, framing a face too vibrant, too fragile—blue eyes wide with innocent terror, full lips trembling in anticipation of the unknown. Her curvaceous body, clad in a sheer pink nightie that mocked modesty, heaved with every breath: heavy breasts straining the lace, nipples visible as hardened peaks begging for torment, hips flaring into an ass that invited bruising grips. Enid’s virginity was a fragile veil, her dreams plagued by Wednesday’s cold spectre, yet she remained blissfully ignorant of the abyss yawning before her. The storm outside howled like the damned, lightning illuminating the crypt in strobes that revealed the hunger in Wednesday’s gaze.

They were utterly alone, the academy emptied like a plague-ravaged tomb. A storm raged outside, thunder rattling the manor’s bones, the air thick with the scent of rain and something far more primal. Wednesday sat at her desk, fingers idly tracing the edge of a dagger, her cello abandoned in the corner after a session that left her vibrating with unspent energy. Enid, sprawled on her bed, was scrolling on her phone, the glow illuminating her flushed cheeks, knees drawn up, her nightie riding high to expose the pale vulnerability of her thighs.

“Your incessant optimism is a blight upon this hallowed decay,” Wednesday intoned, her voice a silken noose, laced with the Addams lineage of morbid elegance.