Jenna Ortega Imagines (2)

Marked in Darkness - W.A

Lunch at Nevermore was nothing short of torture for Wednesday Addams. Not because of the food — though she was convinced the gray mush they called "stew" might've once been alive — but because of the people. Too many voices, too much laughter, too many eyes that lingered too long where they didn't belong.

Especially today.

You had barely sat down with your tray when a girl from your Divination class plopped down next to Wednesday. Not across, not diagonally— next to. Too close.

"You're Wednesday, right?" The girl asked, her tone feather-light, falsely casual. "I've seen you around. You fence, don't you?"

Wednesday didn't lift her gaze from the novel she was dissecting with her eyes, though her fingers twitched around the spine. "I do many things that require precision and sharp edges."

The girl giggled, a sound that grated like chalk on slate. She leaned closer, so close her shoulder brushed Wednesday's, and whispered something meant to sound charming. You caught the way the girl's eyes lingered on her pale throat, the way she tilted her head like she was staking a claim.

Something inside you burned.

Wednesday finally closed her book with a snap. "I have no interest in flirtations that will inevitably end in heartbreak, bloodshed, or both." She pushed back from the table, collected her tray with unnerving calm, and walked out without so much as a glance at you.

But her silence told you enough.

-

The next night, your dorm room was cast in candlelight, the scent of wax and smoke curling lazily in the air. Wednesday stood in front of you, arms crossed, daring you with her eyes.

"You're upset." You said, softer than usual.

"I'm not upset. I'm plotting." She corrected, but her sharp edges softened the moment your hands slid around her waist. "That girl at lunch made an unforgivable mistake. She thought she could look at me as though I were... available. They should know my heart is already taken."

A smirk tugged at your lips. "And you want to make sure everyone knows it is?"

Wednesday tilted her head, raven-dark braids falling over her shoulders. "Exactly. Mark me."

The command sent a shiver down your spine. She didn't flinch when you leaned in, didn't pull away when your lips pressed to the pale column of her throat. She tilted her head back instead, exposing more skin, a silent surrender.

Your teeth grazed, your lips sucked, and in no time her throat bloomed with deep violet marks. She sighed — not a sound of weakness, but of grim satisfaction — as though each mark was proof, a brand of belonging. When you finally pulled back, her neck was a constellation of bruises.

But you weren't done. You kissed her mouth until your lipstick smeared across her pale skin, dark stains trailing from her jaw to the corner of her lips. Wednesday glanced into your small mirror, saw the mess you'd left, and smirked.

"Perfect."

-

The next day at lunch, the quad was louder than usual, but the moment Wednesday walked in, silence swept over clusters of tables like a ripple. Her pale throat was mottled with unmistakable bruises, black lipstick still smudged faintly against the corner of her mouth.

She carried her tray with her usual morbid grace, completely unaffected by the stares. If anything, she basked in them. When she sat beside you, she didn't so much as acknowledge the shocked whispers.

You tried not to smile too wide as you stabbed at your food. "You're enjoying this."

"I never enjoy." Wednesday corrected. She picked up her fork with meticulous poise, but the corner of her lips curved ever so slightly. "But I do find satisfaction in fear."

The girl — yesterday's mistake— passed by your table, her face paling as her gaze caught the constellation of hickeys branding Wednesday's throat. She opened her mouth, then thought better of it, and scurried away.

Wednesday's eyes flicked toward her, sharp and unyielding. "Good. She knows her place now."

You leaned in, your shoulder brushing hers. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"And you're messy." She said dryly, dabbing her napkin against the lipstick stain you'd left. "But your chaos serves a purpose."

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, drawing more stares, but you didn't care. Neither did Wednesday. She sat straighter, hickeys bold, lipstick stains shameless, as though each mark was a carefully crafted weapon in her arsenal.

By the time lunch ended, no one dared to look at her the way that girl had the day before. Everyone knew: Wednesday Addams was not available. She was yours.

And she wanted the whole school to choke on it.