Chapter Text
The Uber ride back to Nevermore was suspiciously quiet. Enid kept glancing at her phone, then at Wednesday, then back at her phone like it might explode if she looked away for too long. Wednesday, still in the black suit from the test shoot because the agency had insisted he keep it (“For portfolio purposes, Mr. Addams”), sat with perfect posture, scrolling through new emails.
“You have that face again,” Enid said finally.
“Which face?”
“The ‘I’m about to cause problems on purpose’ face.”
He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “The editorial shoot is tomorrow. They want the full package—high fashion, dramatic lighting, the works. Apparently my measurements and bone structure are ‘editorial catnip.’ Their words, not mine.”
Enid made a noise that was half squeak, half dying animal. “Tomorrow? Like, actual magazine pages? Which one?”
“Vogue Hommes, I believe. Among others. They’re fighting over slots. The pay is… substantial.”
“How substantial?”
He named a figure that made Enid’s eyes cross.
“That’s more than my dad makes in a year. Wednesday. Babe. You’re going to be on actual Vogue and you’re still wearing Ajax’s shorts under that suit, aren’t you?”
“Obviously.”
She buried her face in her hands and laughed until she cried. Wednesday patted her head once, almost gently. “Try not to faint during the actual shoot. I’d hate to explain to the photographer why my girlfriend is unconscious on set.”
“Girlfriend,” Enid repeated, peeking through her fingers. “You said it so casually. In that voice. I’m going to combust.”
“Please don’t. Dry cleaning the suit would be expensive.”
The next morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. A black SUV from the agency picked them up at the gates of Nevermore at dawn. The driver, a middle-aged man who had clearly seen some things, did a double take when Wednesday climbed in wearing the borrowed compression shirt and cargo pants that still somehow looked illegally good on him.
Enid, vibrating with excitement in a cute pink sweater and skirt combo, clutched her phone like a lifeline. “I’m live-documenting this for posterity. And my followers. Mostly my followers.”
“Try not to get us sued,” Wednesday said, buckling in.
The studio was in New York, a sleek industrial space with white cycloramas, massive softboxes, and racks of clothing that probably cost more than most people’s houses. The creative director—a sharp woman named Margot with a severe bob and an even sharper gaze—took one look at Wednesday and clasped her hands like she was praying.
“Sweet suffering Christ. You’re real.”
“I assure you I am,” he replied dryly.
They whisked him into hair and makeup. The makeup artist kept muttering “cheekbones illegal” under her breath while Enid sat in the corner filming everything and narrating in a hushed, reverent tone like she was at the Super Bowl.
When Wednesday emerged in the first look—a tailored black coat with dramatic shoulders over nothing but bare skin and low-slung trousers—the entire room went silent except for one intern who dropped a light stand with a crash.
He stepped onto the set like he owned it. Which, in a way, he did now. The photographer, a legendary Italian man named Luca, circled him like a shark.
“Give me brooding. Give me ‘I will end your bloodline but make it fashion.’”
Wednesday tilted his head, fixed the camera with the exact expression he used when plotting murder, and the shutter started going wild.
Click. Click. Clickclickclick.
“Magnifico!”
They changed him into a sheer black shirt that clung to every new muscle, then a full Victorian-inspired coat that made him look like he’d stepped out of a gothic fever dream. Enid was openly fanning herself by look four.
At one point they had him lying on a marble slab like a corpse (his idea), hands folded over his chest, eyes open and staring directly into the lens with dead intensity. Luca nearly wept with joy.
During a brief break, Enid cornered him behind a clothing rack. “You’re too hot. This is a public safety issue. I’m filing a complaint with the Geneva Convention.”
“Flattering. Hand me that vest.”
She did, then immediately regretted it because watching him button it up was a religious experience. “How are you so good at this? You’ve never modeled before.”
“Posture is posture. Suffering is suffering. Fashion is merely suffering with better lighting.” He adjusted his cuffs. “Also, I enjoy making people lose brain cells in real time. It’s efficient.”
The shoot wrapped six hours later. Margot pulled Wednesday aside while Enid was busy getting free swag from the stylist.
“The pay for this editorial alone is fifty thousand. Up front. They’re rushing it into print. You’re going to break the internet, darling.”
Wednesday didn’t blink. “Acceptable.”
She laughed like he’d told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. “You’re going to be huge. We already have three more bookings this month. And—between us—some acting inquiries have come in after your test tapes from last week went viral in the industry.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Good.”
Back at Nevermore that evening, the chaos resumed.
Enid had posted a single behind-the-scenes clip: Wednesday in the sheer shirt, slowly rolling up his sleeves while maintaining eye contact with the camera. It hit one million views in under two hours. The comments were a war crime.
@enidssinclair: HE’S MINE BACK OFF
@nevermorethirsttrap: daddy addams arc is the best thing to happen to humanity
@ajaxwhosajax: bros I’m not even gay but I’m reconsidering my entire life
Wednesday ignored all of it and sat at Enid’s desk with her laptop, reviewing self-tape sides that had flooded his inbox.
“You’re actually auditioning?” Enid asked, flopping onto the bed beside him.
“I enjoy new methods of psychological warfare. Acting seems efficient.” He scrolled through the scripts. “This one wants a tortured anti-hero. Typecasting, really.”
He set up Enid’s ring light, adjusted the camera angle with clinical precision, and ran lines for three different roles in succession.
First: a brooding assassin. Wednesday delivered the monologue with such chilling sincerity that Enid got actual chills.
Second: a morally gray CEO. He smirked once, halfway through, and Enid had to pause the recording to breathe into a paper bag.
Third: a romantic lead in a dark fantasy series. He read the love confession scene with the same tone he used when discussing medieval torture devices. It somehow worked. Horrifyingly well.
After the third tape, he sent them off without fanfare.
“Done.”
Enid stared at him. “You’re going to book all of them. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Perhaps. Now come here. You’ve been admirably restrained all day.”
She squeaked as he pulled her into his lap like she weighed nothing. “This body is unfair. I demand compensation.”
“You may collect interest later,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple that was almost soft. Almost.
Two days later, the editorial dropped online early.
Nevermore exploded.
Literally, in the case of one overexcited siren who accidentally shattered three windows with her scream.
Wednesday walked to class in a new black trench coat that had arrived with the rest of his wardrobe. The hallway parted like the Red Sea. Someone dropped their books. Another person walked straight into a wall.
Yoko, leaning against her locker, whistled low. “Jesus, Addams. You’re weaponized now.”
“Thank you.”
Enid bounced up beside him, linking their arms. “He’s booked another shoot already. And three auditions got back to him overnight. One of them offered a chemistry read with an actual A-list actress.”
“Which one?” Yoko asked.
Wednesday shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’ll survive.”
The final blow came during lunch.
Wednesday’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then actually smiled—the small, terrifying one that usually preceded someone losing a limb.
“What?” Enid asked immediately.
“I’ve been offered the lead in a prestige limited series. Dark psychological thriller. They want me to read for the role of a brilliant but deeply disturbed young man who—” he paused, checking the email, “—‘embodies quiet violence and magnetic danger.’”
Enid stared. “You’re going to be on television. Actual television. People are going to see your face on billboards.”
“Unfortunate for them.”
He stood up, six-foot-three of pure chaos in perfectly tailored clothing, and offered her his hand. “Shall we? I believe I have a meeting with Weems about adjusting my class schedule around potential filming.”
As they walked out, the entire cafeteria watched them go. Someone started slow-clapping. It spread like wildfire until the whole room was applauding the new and improved Wednesday Addams.
He didn’t acknowledge it. Just kept walking, Enid tucked against his side, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary, the cream, and the entire dairy industry.
In the distance, faint chanting could be heard from the quad.
“Daddy Addams! Daddy Addams!”
Wednesday sighed, almost fondly. “This week is going to be interminable.”
Enid grinned up at him. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He looked down at her, the new height making the angle ridiculous and perfect all at once. “Perhaps a tolerable amount.”
She laughed, bright and unstoppable, and he let the sound settle in his chest like a particularly pleasing scream.
God, he really could get used to this body.