Wednesday Addams | FEEDING

Your dorm room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of your mini fridge and your uneven breathing.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, vision slightly unfocused. The hunger had settled deep. Not sharp anymore, just constant. Heavy. Exhausting.

You hadn’t fed in weeks.

A gentle knock sounded at your door.

You didn’t answer, but it opened anyway.

Wednesday stepped inside, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. Her dark eyes found you immediately. Assessing, calculating, concerned in the way only she could be.

She moved closer without a word.

“You’re fading,” she said softly.

You tried to give her a dismissive look. It didn’t hold. “I’m managing.”

“You’re not.”

She stopped in front of you, close enough that her knees nearly brushed yours. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and tilted your chin toward her. Her fingers were cool against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured.

You swallowed. Being this near her made it worse. You could hear her pulse. Steady. Strong. It sounded like a drumbeat calling to you.

She noticed the way your eyes darkened.

“You haven’t fed.”

Your silence confirmed it.

For a long moment, she simply looked at you. Not clinical now, not distant. Something softer lingered there, mixed with a dark, undeniable hunger of her own.

Then she stepped even closer, until she stood between your knees.

Your breath caught, sharp and audible.

Without breaking eye contact, Wednesday reached up and unbuttoned the top of her collar. Then the next. Just enough to expose the pale line of her throat and the delicate curve of her collarbone. She brushed her braids back over her shoulders, the movement deliberate, almost teasing.

Your control slipped.

“Wednesday...” Your voice was rough, thick with need.

She leaned down slightly so her face was level with yours, her hand sliding from your chin to the back of your neck, her grip firm.

“I trust you,” *she said quietly.^

Not cold. Not detached.

Trusting.

Your hands moved on their own, palms burning as they rested at her waist, the other sliding gently along her side, tracing the line of her hip. You felt her inhale at the touch, a subtle but perceptible tremor running through her body.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she tilted her head to the side, baring her neck fully to you. The vulnerability of it made your chest ache, a tight, hot knot.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” she interrupted softly, her voice dropping an octave. “I won’t watch you fall apart.”

Her fingers threaded lightly into your hair, guiding you closer.