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Her black hair spilled out over the pillow, dark and shiny and stunning, like an oil spill across pristine Alaskan waters. Her wide eyes were shut, and her hands were crossed against her chest; they rose and fell steadily with her breathing, which continued despite her immobility. Her corpselike pallor didn’t mean she’d shuffled off this mortal coil. It simply meant she was Wednesday Addams.
Agnes looked down at the girl she idolized above all others. Agnes DeMille, looking down at Wednesday Addams? The thought made her blush, or would have if she weren’t invisible. Of course she’d watched Wednesday sleep before, but she knew the old saying: Let sleeping Addamses lie.
Comatose Addamses were a different story, like Sleeping Beauty, or Misery. For days, the most powerful person in Agnes’s life had been completely, utterly powerless. She’d survived Tyler’s attack and her fall from the second story of Willow Hill with surprisingly little physical damage — “An Addams is hard to kill, unless they’re into it,” she’d heard Wednesday’s father Gomez explain to the chief surgeon — but she had yet to regain consciousness.
Now she required constant care. The doctors and nurses did their normie best, but let’s face it: Who knew better how to take care of this patient than Agnes did? Healing may have been the life’s work of the medical staff, but Wednesday Addams was hers.
So everyday, when the nurses weren’t looking, Agnes crept invisible into Wednesday’s room and tended to her needs.
Okay, to our needs.
Agnes was naked, as she usually was when her invisibility missions didn’t require reappearance. This eliminated any rustling caused by clothing, considerably raising her stealth level. Just as importantly, running around naked where she wasn’t supposed to was, as the vulgarians in the quad would say, hot as fuck.
She was straddling Wednesday’s waist, one bare knee propping her up on each side of the hospital bed. They’d dressed Wednesday in black pajamas with white trim, as they had ever since her unconscious body broke out into hives after coming in contact with a blue hospital gown. She looked dead. She looked beautiful. It was Agnes’s job, she’d decided, to keep her that way. Beautiful, she meant, not dead, though of course the latter would always be at Wednesday’s discretion. Agnes De Mille always aimed to please, and at a target’s center mass.
She took a deep breath, reached down, and plunged her hands into the raven tresses flowing from the right side of Wednesday’s head. It was Agnes who’d undone her braids, spreading her black hair across the pillow like so much orc blood. Now it was time to carefully, lovingly put back together what she’d undone.
Agnes reached over to the side table and picked up Wednesday’s hairbrush, which appeared to float in midair in her invisible hand. It was an antique, a Frump family heirloom Morticia had brought with her, and Agnes couldn’t help but admire its exquisite bone-white contours. It was said one of Morticia’s ancestors was a stylist of great renown in fin-de-siècle Paris, who’d spent his life perfecting the art of the hairbrush. When the family moved into the mortuary business, his daughter, who’d saved one of her father’s femurs from the City of Light’s dark subterranean catacombs as a keepsake, knew just what to make out of it.
The bone handle gripped firmly in her hand, Agnes gently pressed the brush’s bristles into Wednesday’s black sea of hair and stroked it, once, twice, three times. The thickness of her hair gave a slight tug against the brush as Agnes pulled it through, sending tiny little shockwaves of resistance through the bones of her fingers. Her brain tingled. She’d brushed her own hair countless times; how was there this new kaleidoscope of sensation to be found in brushing another’s?
But discovering Wednesday had been like opening a wunderkammer, Agnes reflected. Ancient manuscripts, wondrous inventions, human skulls of dubious provenance — anything she’d ever wanted could be found within Wednesday’s dark heart. She’d tried every route she could to get inside there, some more literal than others, but brushing the bedhead out of her limp and defenseless form made Agnes feel closer to her than ever before. This is where the real treasures were hidden.
She realized she was breathing heavy, in stops and starts, her heart quivering in her chest. Caring for the girl she loved was that overwhelming.
Hands trembling, she laid the brush aside and began her next task. She grabbed the hair to her left and divided it into three sheaves, which she proceeded to coil around one another. Left over center. Right over center. Left over center. Right over center. The rhythm of the braiding was mesmeric, as was the sight of Wednesday’s once-wild hair regaining its usual rigidity. The plaits of the braid coiled around one another like three black mambas, or the heads of King Ghidorah after a particularly unpleasant battle with Godzilla.
Agnes reached up to her mouth and pulled free one of the black hair ties she’d been holding in her teeth. She wrapped it around the end of Wednesday’s enormously long right braid like an expert — which, after braiding her own hair in imitation for however many months, she was.
“There,” she whispered. “You’re all bound up again. Like you like it.”
She then set to work on the opposite side, repeating the procedure. With each twist of the braid she would let the individual rivulet of Wednesday’s hair slide over the palm of her hand, luxuriating in its smooth, slightly oily texture. Weaving the braid reminded her of sneaking into the witches’ dorms to watch them cast spells, drawing the magic from the air like strands from a loom. Nine times out of ten the result was turning a broomstick into a rudimentary fuck machine, but still, the principle seemed sound. Through the work of your hands you took an inchoate nothing and turned it into an immensely pleasurable something.
It was finished. The second hair tie sealed the braid like a final nail in a coffin. She, Agnes DeMille, had made Wednesday Addams whole again.
But wait! At the rear of Wednesday’s center part stood an unruly twist of hair. Pulled in neither direction by the braids, it stood straight up,
Agnes opened her invisible mouth and allowed a strand of saliva to drool over her bottom lip and descend to Wednesday’s head below. Her spit caught the cowlick near the base, weighing it down. Imperceptible to the naked eye and naked as the day she was born, Agnes reached out a thumb and smoothed the stray hairs down, using her own spit as styling gel.
A hot, wet, sticky feeling rose inside Agnes, cresting like a wave. It hit her so hard she had to lean forward, bracing herself with one arm, her small breasts dangling a few inches above Wednesday’s inexpressive face. It was time. Time to make herself feel whole again. And there was only one way to do that.
Agnes lifted her right leg up and swung it over to the left side of Wednesday’s body, then scuttled off the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor and she walked invisibly to the room’s quote-unquote closet, where the garments Wednesday had come in wearing hung fresh and clean in plastic wrapping. Agnes tore them free carelessly, knowing she was far too meticulous to forget cleaning it up later. Right now, she wanted to touch what had touched Wednesday’s body.
She took inventory in reverse. The shiny black bubble jacket. The black hoodie. The long-sleeved black t-shirt, emblazoned with Thee Psychick Cross. Black and white striped track pants, black snaps running up the side of the left leg.
She looked at the floor of the close to see what was folded and stored beneath where the rest of the clothes hung. Black socks with white stripes. Black creepers. And — Agnes paused; she had to brace herself for this — black fullback panties and a black sports bra.
Normally, Agnes liked to save the best — a rich dessert, a decapitation, whatever the case — for last. But the immutable laws of getting dressed applied to everybody but superheroes: You put the underwear on first.
Still, even there she had some leeway. Agnes reached down and plucked Wednesday’s sports bra from the pile of neatly folded items beneath her outerwear. She slid her arms through the straps and pulled it down over her budding breasts; the black fabric vanished the moment it hit her skin, ensconced in the invisibility field her Outcast powers generated. But Agnes could see herself clearly when she looked down, her expanse of pale, freckled skin broken only by the dark of the lingerie and the orange of her bush.
This, of course, was next on her agenda. She picked up Wednesday’s panties, held them up, and examined them, turning them from front to back and peering inside to get as clear a view as possible. Aside from some tan stains — happens to the best of us, Wednesday — they were smooth and unblemished. Agnes stooped down and slid first one foot, then the other through the legs of Wednesday’s underwear. She shivered involuntarily once again as she felt the fabric slide up her calves, the backs of her knees, her thighs, before settling snugly around her ass and hips and mound.
“Uhh!” she grunted, before slapping a hand across her own mouth. But she couldn’t possibly have helped it. Feeling the same fabric against her cunt that Wednesday felt across her own was too powerful a sensation for Agnes to contain.
But this was a necessary moment. It blew Agnes’s brain past any sense of propriety, past anything beneath the insatiable need to feel more of…whatever that was.
Agnes, whose voyeuristic intention had led her, well secluded, to see all that went on behind Nevermore’s closed doors — she was experiencing something she’d never felt before. It only increased as she pulled Wednesday’s black socks over her toes, coated in the same vantablack polish she’d painstakingly painted on Wednesday’s fingers and toes the day before. She felt the fabric slide up the curve of her heel and ankle, to the meat of her calf.
Next she grabbed Wednesday’s track pants, clasping them shut around her own long legs one pair of black snaps at a time. The long-sleeve tee, sliding along the bare expanses of her arms and waist. The jacket, a new skin like vinyl, deluxe and delightful. Finally, the black creepers which increased Wednesday’s height artificially but reflected her gothness accurately.
Everything Agnes had put on was drawn instantly into her invisibility field. A sort of sixth sense gave Agnes the ability to perceive herself even when invisible, but she needed a full body view. Standing before the full-body mirror mounted to the back of the standing closet’s fake-wood door, Agnes revealed herself.
If it weren’t for the red hair, she’d have sworn Wednesday Addams stood before her.
With a ferocity that surprised even her, Agnes sprang back onto the bed, straddling Wednesday again, but with her right knee between the comatose girls legs. She laid herself flat, pressing her pelvis against Wednesday’s right hip.
Then, dressed in the same clothes Wednesday had been wearing when she was flung through a window to the ground below, Agnes began to hump Wednesday’s leg.
The pleasure was instantaneous and huge. She’d been primed for it, ready for it, receptive to it from the moment she walked naked into that hospital room. For weeks now, she had made herself of use to Wednesday Addams. Now it was time for Wednesday Addams to be of use to her.
But more than that, it was the thrill of wearing Wednesday’s clothes that got to her. No — she was wearing Wednesday’s skin. She was, at last, the woman she’d long wanted to be, even if no one else could see it. The euphoria that hit her then was so sharp and annihilating she barely knew who she was anymore.
Agnes bucked her hips rhythmically, frantically against Wednesday’s insensate form. She kissed the sleeping girl’s cheeks and lips and eyelids, licking her neck, her nose, her hairline. Grabbing one of Wednesday’s braids, she shoved it down her pants and pressed the end of it against her labia, tucking it inside her vagina, which was pracitcally gooey with lust.
Wednesday, of course, didn’t — couldn’t — move at all.
The thought sent Agnes over the edge. She bit her left knuckle to stifle her climax, hard enough to draw blood that would baffle the night shift when they came to change the pillowcases. Her body spasmed and undulated uncontrollably against the girl beneath her — the girl whose clothes she was wearing, snug against her orgasming body.
Agnes came out of her post-coital bliss only when she heard the pat-pat of a nurse’s sneakers treading up the hall. She sank off the bed, but rather than take off Wednesday’s clothes and hurriedly put them away, she slid beneath the hospital bed and laid there, face up. She crossed her arms in imitation of Wednesday, trying to feel as much like her as possible, even as she still felt the reverberations from the orgasm she’d extracted from Wednesday’s unconscious body.
Glancing to her left, she noticed that one of Wednesday’s braids had fallen off the bed to dangle downward. It was the one she’d masturbated with. Even now, it would be slick and pungent with her vaginal lubrication.
A quick check indicated the nurse had her back turned. Agnes grabbed the errant braid, put the end in her mouth, and sucked on the black hair, tasting her own cunt. She let go as quickly as possible, just in time for the nurse to turn back.
The nurse paused, her scrubs and sneakers close enough for the invisible Agnes to reach out and touch. “Ah, Miss Addams,” she sighed. “Every patient of mine should be so lucky to have family and friends as devoted as yours.”
Lady, thought Agnes as she watched the nurse leave the room, closing the door behind her, you have no idea.