Wenclair One-Shots

Wolves Howl At the Moon; Darkness Simmer In the Sun

Summary:

On which Wednesday observes a sleeping Enid in the sunlight; as opposed to Enid watching a comatose Wednesday in the moonlight.

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Sunlight trickled through the curtains of Enid's bedroom, bleeding through with lines of golden yellow. They traced along Wednesday's lifeless flesh, kissing along her faint frame. The massive comforter practically swallowed Wednesday, trapping in two bodies' worth of heat for eight hours. It was toasty underneath it. The normal may find comfort in its embrace, content in diving deeper into dreamland. Wednesday found it overbearing, stirring her from Death's kiss.

Her eyes snapped open, void of any emotion. The view of Enid lay before her, sleeping contently. Wednesday blinked the remaining essence of sleep from her eyes, pushing the comforter off her bare body. The cool air felt refreshing on her heated skin.

Wednesday's mind had to do a reset to remember where she was. San Francisco. Spend a week in sunny California. She was promised dreary and drizzle, the sun said otherwise. The smell of the sea, the bustle of Chinatown, walking on the pier, Enid holding her hand, watching a movie in her room, Enid on top of her, skin against skin, slow kisses, gentle caresses, moonlight basking into blonde hair, softness, warmth, sensations foreign but not unwelcomed, eyes drifting off to sleep, and now sunlight blinding her eyes.

Enid slept next to her on her stomach with her back towards the psychic. Pink lines etched on her back, a few dotted red blemishes on her fair skin, Wednesday recalled the weight of the werewolf on top of her. Her toned body rocked into her, hands holding her down, wavy hair tickling her nose, the sounds of whimpers, wetness coating Enid's lips, a pressure that made her feel full, a release that sent sparkling stars to glitter the edge of her vision, words of comfort and affirmations, warmth, the smell of Enid's natural scent...

Wednesday took the time to process what happened last night, every second and detail burned into her mind's eye. The memories created a few hours ago danced in her head. The dark-haired woman could feel the ghost of pleasure stirring back to life.

Enid's fingers exploring her body, Enid's lips kissing every inch of skin, Enid's nose poking into her hair...

La petite mort, "the little death", was an expression that her mother used to describe what it meant when you found your true love. The person will push you into Death's claws before pulling you back, tormenting your very soul until you relinquish it. You had to put your trust in them, thrust your heart into their very palms, and let them guide you to salvation.

There was a difference between being stabbed in an ancient tomb, bleeding out, dying, and letting Enid control your dying breath as she ravished you; one had a ghost of your ancestor possessing your body to bring you back to life and the other was hovering upon the tongue of a blood moon werewolf.

Wednesday found herself deciding that her interest in experiencing both deaths has been fulfilled and that she preferred la petite mort. But that was a secret she would tell no one.

The sunlight captured the rise and fall of Enid's back, her skin glowed underneath its rays. Wednesday observed the arch of her spine, the muscles she had developed after her wolf puberty, and the way her back dimples peeked over the comforter. Wednesday reached out, a palm hovering over Enid's skin, feeling the heat radiate with a hum.