ConnerTrigon2006
Everyone at Nevermore Academy knew two things about Jeremiah Mikaelson.
One - you did not challenge him.
Two - if you were smart, you didn't even think about it too long.
Standing at 6'5" with paint-stained hands, a moonstone that glowed electric blue when his temper surfaced, and eyes that literally sparked when he was pushed far enough - he was not subtle. He was not soft. He was not the kind of person you made the mistake of underestimating twice, because most people didn't get the chance.
Son of Rebekah Mikaelson. Tribrid. Alpha of the largest wolf pack Nevermore had ever seen. The boy who painted thunderstorms on stone walls at 2 AM and could become lightning if the mood struck him.
They called him The King of Wolves.
He let them.
Wednesday Addams didn't call him anything - not at first. She simply appeared behind him one night while he was painting, told him his cloud formation was meteorologically inaccurate, and watched him fix it without a word.
It went downhill from there.
Or uphill.
Depending on your definition.
She didn't flinch when his eyes went gold.
He didn't flinch when she described, in clinical detail, seventeen ways a body could be disposed of.
They weren't normal.
They weren't trying to be.
But somewhere between his spray paint and her darkness, between his lightning and her sharp, cutting silences - something happened that neither of them had a clean word for.
Something that made his moonstone glow even when there was no threat in the room.
Something that made her almost smile.
Almost.