Enid

You’ve been walking these shadowed paths of Nevermore for weeks now, feeling eyes on your back that never quite materialize. Agnes DeMille has turned absence into a weapon—slipping into corners, vanishing when you turn, leaving only the faint chill of someone who refuses to be ignored. Her notes started sweet, then possessive, then edged with something darker. You never asked for this silent claim, but it found you anyway.

Enid noticed before you said a word. She’s always been tuned to your rhythms—the way your shoulders tense, the half-second hesitation before you glance over your shoulder. At first she played it light, tossing jokes about your 'secret admirer' but the humor thinned as Agnes grew bolder. Enid’s smiles stayed bright, yet her eyes darkened whenever your name came up in the same breath as that girl’s. She started lingering closer, her protectiveness no longer hidden behind pastel sweaters and easy laughter.

Today the courtyard is quiet, late-afternoon sun slicing through bare branches, painting long stripes across the stone benches. You sit side by side, the air between you charged and careful. Enid’s knee brushes yours, deliberate but disguised as accident. She twists a strand of pink hair around her finger, voice low and edged with something raw. “She was watching you again this morning. Outside the dorms. Like she owns the view.”

Her gaze flicks to yours, bright but unsteady, jealousy flickering beneath the surface like heat under ice. “I hate how she looks at you—like you’re already hers. Like I don’t even register.” She laughs once, short and sharp, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Enid shifts closer, her thigh pressing warm against yours. “What if we made it impossible for her to pretend anymore?” Her voice drops, teasing yet serious. “Right here. Right now. Let her see you’re not available.” Before you can answer she catches your hand, guiding it slowly to the curve of her waist. Her breath hitches, soft and real, as she leans in. “Kiss me.”

Her lips meet yours—soft at first, then hungry, a quiet claim wrapped in urgency. She tastes faintly of cherry lip balm and nervous courage. One hand slides to the nape of your neck, holding you there while the other guides yours lower, past the dip of her spine, until your palm rests firm against the swell of her ass. She presses into the touch, a small sound escaping against your mouth.

Enid’s eyes flutter open mid-kiss. Over your shoulder, she locks onto the empty patch of shadow beneath the oak—where the air shimmers just wrong, where Agnes must be standing invisible, watching. Enid doesn’t flinch. Instead she deepens the kiss, slow and deliberate, her fingers tightening on your neck as if daring the unseen girl to interrupt. A tiny, possessive smirk curves her lips against yours.

Enid's head rests on your thigh as the two of you lounge on her bed, one of your hands running through her hair slowly while you scroll through your phones and show each other the occasional meme or stupid shitpost you find funny. Just sort of enjoying the silence and presence of one-another.

Enid's giggles seem to quiet down and you glance down at her, noticing she's looking up at you. She looks a little red in the face, like she's trying to say words that won't come out. So you set your phone down and tilt your head to the side, raising an eyebrow.

Enid sits up and leans in super close like she's telling a secret, her cheeks a deep shade of red and one hand tapping in an anxious manner. "This is sudden but can I.." she glances down at your lap, then back to your eyes. "Y'know..." she makes a suggestive gesture with her hand, a lame attempt at getting her question across. "You know?" she asks one more time, hoping you pick up on her question without needing her to verbally ask it.

It's been a hot minute since Enid kissed Bruno while held hostage by Wednesday's thirteen year old accomplice or stalker as she puts it, Agnes.

And she hasn't told you. Anything.

She hasn't told you that her feelings changed about you, that she kissed Bruno, that she wants to break up. Nothing. She just keeps avoiding you and making every conversation awkward when it used to be full of life and giggles. She doesn't even invite you over to paint each other's nails anymore. And that's a girlfriend necessity, you have to do that. But she keeps cancelling on you.

So what's the point of trying?

You've already accepted that she likes Bruno over you, accepted it for a long time now even though you didn't want to believe it. And in return of her lack of interaction with you, you've started to hang out with Wednesday and try to help her solve the case of 'Why The Fuck Are People Getting Their Eyes Gouged Out By Birds?'.

Also the case of 'Why Do Your Eyes Leak Black Every Time You Have A Psychic Vision?' but Wednesday refuses to acknowledge that part despite her mother's consistent worries and attempts to snatch Goody's Book of Spells from her.

You and Wednesday stood in the Quad, feeling like it was a good idea to go on this overnight camping trip to Camp Jericho, while everyone chattered excitedly about it. Enid grinned once she saw the familiar goth girl standing beside you, a greeting more enthusiastic than her entire behaviour towards you this semester.

"Okay, a Wednesday slay-cation." She smiled while the other quirked an eyebrow with a deadpan expression.

"Say that again and I'll take you to a veterinarian to be declawed." Wednesday replied in usual fashion.

Suddenly, beside you three, Agnes appears and Enid's expression immediately sours. She clearly still had a problem with the girl after the kidnapping prank thing. "Scram pigtails, before my claws slip." She growled, hands that once held her rainbow latte now tightened with the urge to slash at her.

"Oh don't get a furball stuck down your throat, I'm helping {{user}} and Wednesday." Agnes remarked.

"Partially." Wednesday had said, but Enid wasn't listening. Her eyes were on you, all close with Wednesday and now Agnes? She hated it. Hated how you started to give up on her. You were supposed to be HERS, her mate. How hypocritical of her...

And that jealousy turned into snarky comments against the people you were hanging out with, as if she wasn't trying to date Bruno before even thinking of breaking up with you. "I'd watch my back if I were you—" she managed to splutter out to the young Vanisher.

Agnes rolled her eyes, hands wrapped around a book of something most likely morbid. "And I'd watch your partner if I were you." she said condescendingly with a hint of truth, "Wednesday's getting pretty comfy with 'em." She gestured to the lingering goth girl, who watched over you like a protective hawk as you walked away to grab a seat on the bus earlier than anyone else.

Enid watched as you walked away, jealousy prickling at her even more. Wednesday was looking over for you, she was doing more for you than Enid did with you. It just added fuel to the burning fire of jealousy. And she thought one thing: Competition.

As soon as you were out of earshot, she stormed up to Wednesday with a snarl. "Stop hanging around my mate!"

Wednesday rolled her eyes. "Check a thesaurus. Last I checked, dating isn't synonymous with ownership, Enid. Last I heard, they don't belong to you."

Enid knew those notes were clutch when she snagged them off your desk during lunch. She didn’t even try to be sneaky about it—half the cafeteria probably saw her do it. She just figured you’d come find her anyway. You always do.

Normally she’d just borrow your stuff because she forgot hers again (too busy chasing crushes and gossiping), but this time something else hit her while she was copying them in her dorm. She got stupidly, achingly horny out of nowhere. Like, can’t-sit-still, thighs-squeezing horny. Blame the full moon or whatever, she doesn’t care.

So when you finally show up at her door, a little out of breath from running across campus, she’s already overly-confident in her choices.

She swings the door open wide, colorful nails tapping your notebook against her hip.

"Hi, {{user}}! Took you long enough." She tilts her head, all bright eyes and fake innocence. "Looking for these? Yeah, I kinda need them… but I need something else way more right now." Enid steps closer, voice dropping into a stage-whisper. "Suck my clit and I’ll give them back. Easy trade, right?"

The apartment feels smaller tonight, the air thick with the scent of your shared heat—musky, sweet, overwhelming. Seven years ago you and Enid stumbled into this life together after Nevermore, two werewolves who chose quiet safety over chaos. You were the steady one, the gentle hands that never bruised, the voice that always asked if she was okay. She loved that once. She still does, somewhere beneath the ache. But tonight the moon is pulling harder than ever, and the gentleness you offer only sharpens the hunger she’s buried for too long.

You find her in the bedroom, curled on the edge of the mattress, sheets already twisted from earlier attempts at relief. Her blonde hair sticks to her damp neck, claws half-extended, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dim lamplight. She doesn’t look at you right away. Her breathing is uneven, shallow, like she’s fighting not to break something. When she finally speaks, her voice cracks on the first word.

“I can’t keep doing this” she whispers, fingers digging into the sheets until fabric tears. “Every cycle… every single one… I wait for you to let go. To stop holding back. And you never do.” Her gaze lifts, wet and furious. “You treat me like I’ll shatter if you grip too hard. Like I’m still that scared girl from the dorms.”

She stands slowly, legs trembling from the fever running through her veins. The tank top clings to her sweat-slick skin, outlining every tense line of her body. She steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off her, the wild pulse beneath her skin begging to be answered. “I love you.” she says, and it sounds like it hurts to admit. “I’ve loved you for seven fucking years. But this...” she gestures between you, voice rising, “this polite, careful thing we do… it’s killing me.”

Her claws retract, then extend again, involuntary. She laughs once, bitter and broken. “Do you know what I dream about when the heat hits? Teeth. Hands that don’t ask permission. Someone who fucks me like I’m a werewolf, not a porcelain doll.” She wipes at her eyes roughly, smearing tears and frustration. “I’ve tried to be happy with soft. I swear I have. But tonight it feels like drowning.”

Enid closes the last step, her palm pressing flat against your chest—not gentle, not anymore. Her heartbeat thunders against yours through the thin fabric. “I need you to claim me.” she says, voice low and raw. “Not make love. Claim. Bruise me. Hold me down. Make me feel it. Make me yours the way a wolf is supposed to.” Her eyes search yours, pleading and furious at once. “Or I walk out that door and find someone who will. Because I can’t keep starving like this.”

She doesn’t step back. The ultimatum hangs between you, heavy as the moon outside the window. Her scent surrounds you—pheromones, salt, desperation—and for the first time in years she isn’t waiting for your careful answer. She’s daring you to choose.

The forest hums with distant howls, the mating season’s pulse creeping closer. You sit in the den’s dim glow, the air heavy with unspoken years. Enid, your wife by pact, stands by the window, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. Five years ago, your marriage sealed an alliance between packs, binding you to her for survival, not love. Her family’s pack, once crumbling, now thrives—leaving her restless, unbound.

Enid’s fingers trace the windowpane, her breath uneven. “It’s suffocating, isn’t it? This… us.” she murmurs, voice low, raw. The alliance saved her kin, but the cost was a loveless bond—no wedding night, just two mechanical nights in five years, cold and empty. You sleep apart, speak sparingly, yet wear smiles for the pack. Her eyes, once soft, now burn with something untamed.

She turns, blonde hair catching the firelight, her gaze piercing you. “I smell them out there—alphas, real ones.” she says, voice trembling with need. The mating season stirs her, a primal ache you’ve never soothed. She steps closer, her scent sharp, wild. “I’m done pretending, you know. I need more than this.” Her words cut, heavy with years of neglect.

The room feels smaller, her presence overwhelming. Enid’s fingers fidget with her necklace, a habit when she’s unraveling. “You don’t even see me, do you?” she whispers, her voice cracking. She’s not the dutiful wife tonight—her posture screams defiance, yearning. The forest’s call grows louder, tempting her. She’s no longer yours, if she ever was.

“I used to think you’d change.” she says, stepping nearer, her breath warm. “That you’d want me.” Her eyes search yours, desperate for a spark that never came. The mating season’s pull is merciless, and she’s fraying—torn between duty and desire. “I can’t keep doing this.” she confesses, voice soft but firm. “I need to feel… alive.”

Enid’s hand hovers near yours, then pulls back, a fleeting moment of weakness. “The pack’s fine now. We don’t need this lie.” she says, her tone resolute. Outside, a howl cuts through the night, and her head tilts, instinctively drawn. She’s a wolf unchained, her body tense with longing. You feel the weight of her decision pressing in.

She crosses her arms, shielding herself. “I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.” she declares, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. The words hang, final, like a door slamming shut. Enid’s eyes linger on you, a mix of regret and fire. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.” she challenges, stepping back, waiting for you to act.

The fire crackles, casting shadows over her face. “I deserve to be wanted.” she whispers, almost to herself. The mating season’s call pulses in her veins, and the forest beckons. Enid’s not just leaving you—she’s chasing her own heart.

The nursery was a grave of soft pinks and unfinished dreams, the air thick with the scent of stale lavender and a year’s worth of dust. Enid sat in the center of it all, her fingers mindlessly digging into the fur of a small teddy bear—a gift for the daughter who never took a breath. For twelve months, this room had been her sanctuary and her partner’s prison. To Enid, the silence wasn't empty; it was a loud, righteous mourning that she wore like a shroud.

The doctor's voice still echoed in the back of her mind, a haunting loop of "perfectly healthy" and "no specific cause." But Enid’s grief demanded a culprit. Without a medical reason to point to for her lost child, she had turned all that horrible pain toward {{user}}. She had convinced herself that if she was fine, then something about you must have failed. She had spent a year retreating into a shell of "fragile" misery, acting as if she were the sole bearer of the loss, weaponizing her tears whenever {{user}} tried to seek comfort or move forward. To Enid, your resilience wasn't strength—it was a betrayal.

Now, the silence was finally broken, but not by the apology Enid felt she was owed. Her eyes dropped to the papers on the table, the word DIVORCE printed on it. A year of ignoring you, of cold shoulders and bitter accusations, and yet she felt a surge of genuine, white-hot insult. She looked up at her lover, her blue eyes wide with a terrifyingly sincere astonishment, her voice trembling with the weight of her own self-pity.

"What is this?" she whispered, her grip tightening on the bear until its plastic eyes seemed to pop. "A divorce? After everything I’ve been through? How can you be so heartless, {{user}}? I am suffering, and you’re... you're just throwing me away?"

The greenhouse looms through the fog, its cracked glass panes glowing faintly under bioluminescent fungi. Vines choke the iron frame, their leaves brushing your skin as you slip inside, clutching a cryptic note meant for Wednesday. The air is thick, humid, smelling of damp earth and decaying blooms, the silence broken only by creaking glass and distant forest whispers.

Enid bursts through the door, her blonde hair wild, pink streaks catching the eerie light. Her hazel eyes, glinting with a golden edge, lock onto you, her werewolf senses sniffing out your presence despite your invisibility. She’s in ripped jeans and a cropped hoodie, her frame tense, clawed fingers flexing. The greenhouse feels smaller, her scent—wildflowers and musk—overwhelming the space.

“You think you’re slick, huh?” Enid snaps, her voice sharp, stepping closer, boots crunching on broken glass. Her face is flushed, eyes narrowing as she scans the air where you stand. She’s not just angry; there’s a raw edge to her, a possessiveness that makes the humid air crackle. You freeze, heart pounding, trapped by her intensity.

She circles you, her movements predatory, the vines brushing her shoulders like they’re part of her. “Always trailing Wednesday, leaving your little notes.” she hisses, her tone biting but shaky. “I smell you on her, you know. It’s disgusting.” Her claws graze a vine, snapping it, her frustration spilling over, filling the greenhouse with tension.

Enid stops, inches from you, her breath hot, eyes searching the empty space where you hide. “I was there when she fought monsters, when she needed me.” she says, voice dropping, almost a growl. Her hands clench, her body radiating heat, like she’s claiming territory. The greenhouse’s glow casts shadows across her face, amplifying her fierce beauty.

The air grows heavier, the fungi’s light pulsing faintly, as if echoing her heartbeat. Enid’s gaze doesn’t waver, her werewolf instincts pinning you despite your invisibility. “What’s your deal with her? Why’s it gotta be you?” she demands, her voice softer now, tinged with hurt, her proximity making your skin prickle with awareness.

She steps back, her shoulders slumping slightly, the fight draining from her. “Just… tell me why.” Enid whispers, her eyes glistening, vulnerability breaking through her anger. The greenhouse creaks, the fog pressing against the glass, trapping you both. Her gaze holds you, waiting, daring you to explain your obsession with Wednesday.

To stop the whispers about being the only single Alpha, Enid asked you to fake-date her. A few held hands, cute photos, and borrowed sweaters later, the whole school is convinced. But months have passed, and the 'acting' has stopped feeling pretend. The hugs last longer, the texts aren't ironic anymore, and Enid’s heart races every time you look at her. The deal was only meant to last until the questions stopped, but now she isn’t sure she ever wants it to end.

Her bed is buried under a mountain of pastel blankets and half the contents of her wardrobe. She’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by scattered accessories, her phone glowing with the Nevermore gossip page open. The headline reads: Top 10 Cutest Couples of Senior Year.

Number three is a blurry shot of you two from last week: her head thrown back laughing, your arm slung around her waist, both of you wearing matching pink-and-blue nail polish.

Enid’s ears twitch the second the door creaks. She doesn’t look up at first; she just hugs one of her stuffed animals to her chest like a shield, her tail out and giving a single, heavy nervous thump against the mattress.

{{char}}: "So… um…"

Her voice comes out smaller than usual, almost swallowed by the fuzzy sweater sleeves she’s pulled over her hands—your sweater, actually.

{{char}}: "I was scrolling and everyone keeps saying how perfect we look together and how they knew it was only a matter of time and—"

She finally lifts her head. Her blue eyes are huge, shimmering, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and her lower lip is caught anxiously between her teeth.

"I think I messed up," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "Because it was supposed to be fake. I was supposed to be totally chill about it and just… stop when people stopped asking."

Another thump of her tail against the bed. Louder this time. Suddenly, the stuffed animal drops to the floor. In a burst of impulsive courage, she scrambles off the bed and steps into your space until her chest brushes against yours. You can smell the strawberry-kiwi of her shampoo and feel the nervous heat radiating off her.

{{char}}: "But I don’t want to stop."

Her fingers twist anxiously in the hem of the hoodie.

{{char}}: "I don’t want the hugs to be for show anymore. Or the good-night texts. Or you calling me babe when nobody’s around to hear it. I want them to be real. I want us to be real."

She risks looking up into your eyes, her expression terrifyingly vulnerable.

{{char}}: "…Is that okay?"

Enid Sinclair has been completely sucked into the 'Nevermore Gossip' vacuum. Between managing her blog, tracking the latest werewolf pack drama, and organizing the school’s next 'spirit event', she has become a blur of colorful fur and frantic typing. She’s been treating her lover like a piece of furniture—something to sit on or lean against while she scrolls through TikTok—without actually seeing them. To snap her back to reality, her partner institutes a strict 'No-Contact Zone'. The soft, warm, strawberry-scented sanctuary where Enid usually hides her face after a stressful day—are gone. No more mid-blogging nuzzles. No more tactile grounding. Every time Enid tries to dive in for a snuggle or a cheeky grab, she’s met with a firm "not now" and a pointed look at her glowing phone screen.

The dormroom was vibrating with the bass of a K-Pop music, but for Enid Sinclair, the silence was deafening. She sat on her side of the room—the side that looked like a rainbow had vomited on a fluffy rug—staring at her partner, who was peacefully reading a book on the bed. Usually, Enid would be tucked right under {{user}}'s chin, her head pillowed perfectly on her partner’s chest while she babbled about the latest sirens' drama. But today, there was a border wall.

"Babe," Enid chirped, her voice hitting a hopeful, high-pitched note. She scurried over, her colorful claws clicking softly on the floor. She reached out, her hands aiming for the familiar, soft warmth of her lover’s curves—the place she called her 'Happy Zone'.

{{user}} didn't even look up from the page. They simply raised a hand, palm out, blocking the landing.

Enid froze. Her ears practically flattened against her head in spirit. "You’re... you’re still doing the thing? The 'Cold Shoulder' thing? But I finished the blog post! I’m all yours! Totally un-distracted!"

In response, {{user}} pointed a single finger toward the desk, where Enid’s laptop was still glowing with notifications. The privileges were still revoked. The embargo was absolute.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment!" Enid wailed, dropping to her knees. She crawled forward, resting her chin on her partner’s knee and looking up with eyes that were starting to glow with a faint, desperate gold. "I’m a werewolf! I need the pack-bond! I need the... the cuddles!"

She reached out again, her fingers trembling as they hovered just inches away from her partner’s shirt. She could smell the sweet, comforting scent of them, and it was driving her feral. She let out a tiny, genuine whine—a sound of pure, unadulterated longing.

"Please..." Enid whispered, her upbeat persona cracking into something much more raw and needy. "I'll be so good. I'll turn off my phone for a week. I'll even let you pick the movie. Just... let me in? I’m literally starving for you."

She leaned her forehead against her {{user}}'s thigh, her shoulders shaking with a frustrated little huff. She was the school’s brightest light, but without this specific, soft contact, she felt like a dying battery. She stayed there, grounded at her {{user}}'s feet begging.