Chapter Text
Every other day is like every other day, until it's not, until something remarkable stamps the day as a moment, a memory.
Enid has many such moments with Wednesday. Her mind is a photo album of memories between them: good, bad, shocking, shockingly bad, really good and, private moments that are simply ecstasy.
Some of those moments are just between the two of them and some are moments that involve born and chosen family that Enid wouldn't trade for the world. Such as moments with Wednesday's family. Visiting the Addams is always a delight. She and Thing go way back, and it's nice to kick her feet up and catch up with him in his room. Fester and Pugsley always have something gory to show her, and Morticia and Gomez dote on Enid and find her warmheartedness a refreshing oddity compared to Wednesday's coldheartedness. Her initial hesitancy over sleeping over has diminished, somewhat, with each morning Enid gratefully wakes up in this deathtrap of a home.
Morticia's given Lurch the night off, and she and Enid rub elbows in the kitchen as they prepare a meal. Though rubbing elbows is a joke, considering the size of the massive room, just like every room in this mansion that Wednesday passes off as her home. Every visit, Enid discovers a new room. Once, she even found out about an entire floor accessible only through a small door she has to fold into. That extra amount of square footage certainly isn't listed on Zillow...nor is the entire house, really.
Wednesday enters the kitchen to find them giggling, and quickly turns to walk away when Enid calls to her. "Come here, baby."
She grits her teeth, and turns around again to regard the two of them.
"Wednesday only appeared in one photo taken of her as an infant," Morticia says, continuing the conversation that had them so tickled a moment ago. "It was the strangest thing. We went back to the soothsayer who delivered her immediately after to confirm she wasn’t a Fang." She smiles. "Turns out that was just her bite."
Enid laughs loudly.
"I was unaware you fancied yourself a comedian, mother," Wednesday says. She crosses her arms, and the temperature in the room drops thirty degrees, her very tongue an icicle as she says, "Too bad you didn’t get any photos."
"Just the one," Morticia replies, somewhat coolly compared to how she and Enid carried on no more than a minute ago.
Enid often finds herself in the middle of ancient tension between the two. And she likes Morticia, but she also understands generational trauma, has inherited and developed some scars from her own mom, so she tries very hard not to pry.
But sometimes she tries to steer the vibe in a different direction. "A Wednesday baby photo?" Enid practically squeals. "I have to see it. Wednes, go get it, please."
"I will not," Wednesday says with finality.
Enid absentmindedly tosses the salad in front of her but calls over her shoulder, "Come on, baby, go get it. For me?"
Wednesday’s face hardens to stone. Enid nearly begs the universe to take her statement back when Wednesday simply stomps away without a word. She returns with the photo and places it in Enid's hands. While Enid stands in the kitchen, mouth agape, Wednesday walks away. Morticia simply smiles. "Hmm, she seems to really like you, Enid. And you have a…particular type of influence over my wretched little banshee that I’ve never seen before," is all she says before leaving Enid alone in the kitchen.
Enid smiles down stupidly at the photo, Wednesday's baby scowl appearing exactly the same then as it does now.
They’re stretched out on Enid’s bed maybe a week later. Well, Enid is. Wednesday has taken it upon herself to get up and inspect every surface to report back her findings: lint, piles of laundry, a dirty cup that Enid doesn’t even remember bringing into the room. Wednesday tells her she still lives like a teenager, and wonders how Enid's roommate, Yoko, fares in such a sty.
And it's the most charming, random thing, Wednesday's puttering and cleaning. Though, as Enid reflects, perhaps it's not so random. Wednesday had always been a little—a lot—neater than her at Nevermore. Enid still has memories of driving Wednesday up a wall until her head spun around backward on the ceiling at just the sight of a single rainbow sock having crossed the barrier from Enid's side to hers. She imagines Wednesday's secretly happy they no longer live together, and spares her own feelings by declining to ask.
Enid grabs her phone just beyond her fingertips and turns onto her stomach to swipe through her webpages when she comes across tickets to her favorite band. She sits up instantly. "Omg, omg, omg!"
Wednesday turns from wiping her finger along Enid's dresser to collect dust. "What?"
"Tix dropped for my favorite band!" Her phone reflects in her large eyes as Enid's fingers move rapidly across the keyboard. "We have to get some now before they sell out!"
Wednesday grimaces. "I don’t like that band."
Enid laughs a little to herself. "You don't like any band."
"Yes, but that particular band is vapid. I will not be going."
Enid's head shoots up and her eyes are a wildfire that burns straight through Wednesday until she's dust. This particular band, she's followed for several years now, has waited patiently for tour dates and funding to align to purchase these tickets. She never asks for much, never demands anything, but she finds herself saying, "We’re going."
Wednesday folds her arms. "We're not."
She stands from the bed and slowly stalks closer. "You are coming with me to that concert, Wednesday Addams, even if I have to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder, and you know I can."
Wednesday sizes her up. Her face remains neutral, if a little irritated, but her heart thunders so loud, Enid hears it above her own. "Fine," she says.
They continue to stand in this moment of tension longer than necessary. Enid isn't sure who lunges for who, but either way, they end up a tangle of limbs on the bed, soon naked.
Wednesday hates clubs, bars, really anywhere people gather socially, even someplace as quiet as a library.
But Enid's dragged her along to this bar.
The music has a rhythmic bass that pulsates beneath her black platform boots that nearly makes her the same height as Enid, but not quite. Enid's dragged her to the dance floor where Wednesday stands with her arms folded in refusal to dance. Enid shrugs and whispers reassurance in her ear before she starts to dance, accompanied by Yoko. They dance like they've torn up a floor or two in their time. Their movements bring them close, but not quite touching, though there's a moment when Enid turns around and Yoko grabs her hips and draws her close. It's over in an instant, but Wednesday's blood bubbles all the same.
Even amongst a crowd of people, Enid can smell the faint acidic quality of Wednesday's jealousy, even if she can't pinpoint why the scent is in the air.
She doesn't mention it, but when the song winds to a close, Enid speak-yells into Wednesday's ear for her to come with as Enid grabs another round of shots. And what a tall order this is. The bar is never empty and filled with people who carelessly toss their hair in an attempt to flirt with someone else, or people who spread their legs and elbows so wide and nearly touch her. Wednesday briefly reaches toward the blade she keeps in her boot when she feels the warm presence of Enid's hand on the small of her back. She looks behind her to Enid who smiles down at her knowingly, thumb rubbing along the tension carried in Wednesday's spine. Enid presses close to cocoon her against the bar, more comfortable, or at least less uncomfortable, with having sweaty people at her back than Wednesday.
Enid gives her a slow once over, eyes crawling down Wednesday's body then back up again. "You look so hot, baby." She bats her lashes and says, "Thank you for coming with me tonight."
The tight line of her shoulders eases somewhat. An unfortunate byproduct of dating Enid was developing an understanding of how it feels to be seen and validated. Previously, not something Wednesday would concern herself with. Those who need to be seen should remain invisible. Those who seek validation are, by virtue of their own desperation, invalid. Yet every time Enid sees her, even when Wednesday wishes to remain hidden, she taps into something deep.
The music around her starts to fade in a small moment of reprieve. The only sensation Wednesday focuses on is touch, the feel of Enid pressed against her, and the sure weight of her hand grounding Wednesday, guiding her to take a step to the right when other bar mates start to get a little rowdy. Wednesday allows herself to be led in this loud, dark, unfamiliar space. Enid's hand curls around her hip and squeezes, and Wednesday's next exhale stutters from her lungs. She doesn't even pay attention to the drinks placed in front of them, only moves when Enid whispers, "Let's go," in her ear.
Yoko is still winding her body to the music when they arrive. Enid hands her a shot, and they cross their arms and draw closer to look each other in the eyes before throwing them back. Enid winces a little at the burn of alcohol, then both women laugh together. Yoko tosses her glass carelessly into the air, and Enid deposits hers in her back pocket as they continue to dance.
Wednesday continues to watch them, refusing Enid's occasional outstretched hand that offers she join. She's always out of place, but there are seldom moments in which Wednesday feels bad about that fact. Her unease grows as she watches Enid enjoy herself without her. Needling thoughts poke at her like the sensation of needles. Usually pleasant, but not so now. By the time the next song ends, Wednesday comes to stand between the two to look up at Enid. "I want you to come to the bathroom with me. Now."
Enid scents the air and nods. Wednesday moves quickly in an effortless weave through the crowd that almost seems to part for her. Enid is not so lucky. She gets caught behind a couple dancing, and somehow sandwiched between an entirely different couple. Were it not for her sense of smell, she wouldn't be able to keep up with Wednesday.
Once they make it into the bathroom, Wednesday tugs Enid into a stall by her wrist. Enid leans against the closed door as she tries to get a feel for the moment. Wednesday is looking up at her with intent.
"Do you enjoy dancing with Yoko?"
The words are uttered quietly, controlled.
Were Enid a little more sober, her observation skills would be a little sharper. As it stands, she nods, and says, "'Course. Yoko and I go way back." She laughs a little. "We dance wherever we go."
Wednesday continues to stare at her. She has a wrinkle in her brow, a slight purse to her lips that she frequently has when solving mysteries. "Does she please you better than I do, Alpha?"
Goosebumps break out across Enid's skin before she can even fully register the words. Her wolf rattles against the cage of her chest at such a question, desperate to get to Wednesday. Once the question does register to Enid the person, she shakes her head, short blonde locks tossing back and forth. "No one ever could," she says and means it with her whole heart, even though she isn't entirely sure what Wednesday's getting at. It's seldom she speaks directly to Enid's wolf unless it's feeling particularly extroverted or Enid's on her cycle.
"Good," is all Wednesday says. She draws nearer and looks up at Enid expectantly.
She's beautiful like this, Enid thinks, open, waiting. Enid cups her face with both hands, palms warm and red. She pulls Wednesday closer and kisses her softly. Her mouth slides over warm lips that part for her to slip her tongue inside, and Enid loses herself in the press of Wednesday's body, the warmth of the inside of her mouth. She isn't sure how long they stay in the bathroom, only registers when she pulls away with a dopey grin and pulls Wednesday out of the stall.
It’s a few weeks later when Yoko tells Enid she plans on confessing long-held feelings to Bianca.
And of course she can't do it without her best friend by her side.
They’re so attached, it’s concerning sometimes, but Enid’s excitement brims and her feet shuffle in a little dance when she hears the good news.
She hastily packs. It's been a secret crush Yoko's nurtured since high school, though she refused to make a move, knowing everyone wanted Queen Bi. And Enid loves love, and especially loves when her best friend is in love with a dear friend. She packs as many rainbow and pink items as she can manage.
Wednesday, of course, declined the trip. Enid can't stand to be apart from her for a second, but recognizes her introverted girlfriend can benefit from a couple of days alone to recharge.
Still...
"I wish I could take you with me everywhere!" Enid laments. She throws her arms around Wednesday's neck then pulls her closer. "I'd make you, if I could. You'd always be by my side." She nuzzles close, her voice a murmur as she breathes in Wednesday's ear, "My dahlia, my little possession."
Wednesday stops breathing. All of her blood rushes to the surface of her skin. "Enid," she chokes out.
Enid pulls back to observe her with wide-eyed innocence as she clasps her hands behind her back. "Something wrong?"
By now, Enid suspects. She isn't sure what to suspect, but knows something she does has a stronghold on Wednesday and won't let her go. She can’t very well divulge to Wednesday that she knows something’s up or Wednesday will shut the whole thing down. And Enid’s too curious for that. She’s always had a knack for investigative journalism.
“No,” Wednesday says shortly.
She can't pinpoint it yet, and verbally throws pasta at a wall to see what sticks. This appears to stick, though she isn't sure what's doing it for Wednesday right now: her possessiveness, the pet name, or just simply Enid's voice.
She cuddles Wednesday closer then releases her to finish packing.
"Come on, baby, I wanna cuddle," Enid calls from the living room. She feels especially clingy since her trip with Yoko to visit Bianca, and watching the two of them fall in love.
It's a weekend night, and all she wants to do is cajole Wednesday to the couch, figuring out what position she'll tolerate cuddling in tonight, then make her watch one of Enid's favorite shows. A half-hour in, Enid has convinced Wednesday to lie on the couch in a position other than a coffin's pose. They're in a reversal of a typical lounge position for them with Enid's head in Wednesday's lap. Only, this time Enid is sitting with her feet on the floor and her back to the couch, while Wednesday lies on her stomach with her head propped in Enid's lap. Her position doesn't look entirely comfortable but Enid knows better than to pry as Wednesday thrives in discomfort of any kind, especially bodily.
Enid rubs a hand down her back absentmindedly while they watch her favorite procedural. She was engrossed in the drama and blinks back to consciousness when a commercial comes on. She turns away to observe Wednesday. She can't tell if her eyes are open, but notes her even breaths. On the next pass of her hand up her back, Enid also notices Wednesday's no longer wearing a bra. She must have taken it off after dinner, which is more restraint than Enid's ever shown as she's liable to fling her bra like a slingshot across the room the second she crosses the threshold home. Her gaze walks down Wednesday's back, how it narrows at her waist then flares gently at her hips. Her black dress reveals a sliver of thigh that is then teasingly hidden beneath a pair of thigh high socks.
"Are you still hungry, Enid?"
She pauses. Enid can't tell if the question is deliberate innuendo or genuine inquiry. She errs on the side of caution and says, "No, full, thanks." Her smile is rueful. "Thanks for saving dinner. But my skills are getting better, thanks to your mom."
She's joking; she has to be.
"Your cooking skills are abysmal," Wednesday remarks dryly. "Without me, you'd starve."
Enid laughs a little to herself in memory of nearly burning down the kitchen on multiple occasions. Still, it's best to try to maintain some dignity around Wednesday even as she strips everyone of most of it. "Brat," Enid remarks before swatting her on the ass.
Wednesday's body goes as still as the dead. In a panic, Enid leans forward, unconsciously rubbing the non-existent sting out of Wednesday's flesh. "I'm sorry!" She tries to get a good look at her face. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No," Wednesday mutters. She clears her throat then curtly responds, "You couldn't if you tried," before returning her focus to the TV.
The only sound are the characters on the screen. Enid can barely breathe and she doesn't even feel the rise and fall of Wednesday's breaths anymore. She sits back on the couch and stares inattentively at the TV, unsure if Wednesday's assuring her...or daring her.
Enid takes pride in her body. It's strong; it's fast; and it's easy on the eyes, hers at least, and maybe Wednesday's judging by the way she acts when they're alone. She works hard to keep it strong and toned, aided by years of dance and her wolf's stamina. Wednesday has no such advantage, and yet she's a force. She knows at least three different styles of martial arts, and Enid's pretty sure she's seen her casually parkour once or twice.
She's good, beyond. However, Enid still knows tight, frigid muscles when she sees them.
"You need to be more limber," she insists one day while watching Wednesday do cool down stretches on the floor of her bedroom.
Wednesday manages to glare at Enid, even through her peripheral vision. "I didn't ask."
"You didn't," Enid agrees. "And at the risk of sounding like a dudebro gymrat, I think your inner thighs could use a deep stretch." She tries her best to keep her tone light and innocent as she offers her assistance.
Of course Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she scoots forward enough on the mat for Enid to slide behind her. She presses solidly against Wednesday and brackets her legs with her own. Enid's chin lands on her shoulder as she looks toward the juncture of Wednesday's legs. She grabs one of Wednesday's thighs and places her other hand on her back, applying gentle pressure to both. "Okay, so you're gonna wanna slowly stretch like this."
Wednesday's body moves effortlessly, bending before Enid, even as she says, "This is exactly what I was doing."
Enid grasps her hips. "Yes, but if you rotate your hips just a little, you'll get better range." Sure enough, Wednesday watches as Enid's sure hands coax her legs wider and wider. All the while, gentle, hushed words of encouragement interspersed with the word more are breathed into her ear. Wednesday feels her inhale halt in her chest. "Just like that. Good—good, so good. You're gonna feel it tomorrow." She wilts against Enid like a flower too close to the sun, and that's when Enid finally puts it together.
Like it...kind of just falls into her lap. After weeks of stealthily prying and prodding at Wednesday. Now she has irrefutable proof and nary a soul to share it with.
But Enid knows.
She knows Wednesday's a bottom.
"How's that feel?" Enid asks into her ear. Her hand lays inside Wednesday's thigh where she can feel her adductors lengthen and stretch.
And sure, okay, Enid's evolved. She doesn't subscribe to the notion of tops and bottoms, especially when she herself is pretty damn verse. Wednesday is probably similar. There are times in which she wants to be in control.
There are also times in which Wednesday isn't even aware of how desperate she is to give it up.
Like now, as she leans back into Enid and shakily says, "It feels fine." Her heart is roaring in her chest so loudly, Enid can feel each beat against her own chest.
It was difficult to notice initially because, well, Wednesday is Wednesday. She is very self-contained, self-assured, and does not at all appear to be looking for anyone to tell her what to do, or even offer her praise. Once, Wednesday took the jacket off her back to hand to someone in the middle of winter. When Enid dared suggest Wednesday was a good person, she stopped speaking to Enid for nearly the rest of the day.
Beyond that, Enid's always contented herself with being the pot to Wednesday’s top, a vessel for her frustrated attraction to Enid that she seemingly didn’t understand. Because no one's ever inspired the feelings she has for Enid. Wednesday had contented herself with a lifetime of solitude before Enid wedged a foot into the closed door of her heart, kicked her feet up on an artery, and let Wednesday know she had no plans of leaving.
"Good girl," Enid chirps behind her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She kisses Wednesday on the cheek then promptly stands and exits the room before her entire face becomes a forest fire.
She contemplates the moment while elbow deep in a bubble bath that evening, only slightly less mortified now that time has passed.
It hadn’t felt wrong, per se, but Enid herself didn’t feel right.
She’s never really been anyone’s top. She’s called a girl or two, and a guy or two good girl, but nothing more really, and even then it felt more like a joke.
But when she thinks about Wednesday, it doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like words that are burning on the tip of her tongue and all Enid wants to do is let them roll off, to see Wednesday be struck by them and feed off her reaction in return. And what a reaction Enid's sure it'd be. After hours of reflecting and obsessing over the idea that Wednesday could be submissive, Enid's slowly coming around to the idea. It starts to make sense. Wednesday is self-assured, and the flip-side of that coin is that she's seeking a certain level of firmness in a partner, perhaps one who can handle her. Not one who exclusively does as told, but one who can challenge her.
And Enid's always challenged her. Even all those years ago at Nevermore. Everyone else thought Enid was mousey, but Wednesday brought something else out of her entirely: assertiveness. Partners would cheat on her, knowing Enid would fold and take them back. Her own mother often told her she had no teeth growing up. But Wednesday, Enid cut her canines on Wednesday, who helped Enid grow whet.
Enid shivers a little in hot bathwater. She's selling her wolf short. While Enid may not feel entirely up to the task yet, her wolf, an alpha, operates to dominate. And though Enid prefers to make love, they've certainly engaged in rougher play as a result of her wolf, almost exclusively leading up to, during, and after her heat or rut. The occasional full moon also leaves Enid a little friskier than usual. She's no stranger to pulling Wednesday's hair or leaving a few claw marks.
But what to do if Wednesday wants more? What if she's wanted more this entire time? Enid searches herself for answers, wonders if she's willing to spank Wednesday if she wants, like that day she taunted Enid on the couch. She's a lover not a fighter. And she loves Wednesday, loves to please her—the sight of her smile. But Enid also just loves her mouth, when it's pursed in irritation, downturned and pouty, open and moaning, wrapped around her clit or stretching over her dick.
She's fully stimulated by the time she uncorks the drain, and drips wetly from the bathroom in search of Wednesday.
She doesn't have to look far. Wednesday's curled up under the bedsheets with a thick, thousand page novel in her hand. Enid tries not to disturb her as she crawls into bed behind Wednesday. But there's only so much subtlety to be had when one's intentions are fucking. She kisses the defined line of her jaw and squeezes Wednesday's breast just to have her in her hand, then impatiently reaches for her underwear.
Practiced, Wednesday earmarks the book then immediately looks over her shoulder. "Enid, what are you—"
"I just want you," Enid says quickly against her ear. Her hand fists into lace underwear as she strives to keep from going inside until she has expressed consent. "Is that okay? Can I have you like this?"
Wednesday places her book on the nightstand. She scoots back further to feel Enid's warmth and murmurs, "Take me, mi amor."
Enid changes course last minute and slides Wednesday's underwear to the side for easier access. Enid's so used to her resting body temperature that's below the average person's that sometimes, the heat of her is enough to scald her fingertips. She usually likes to take her time, go slow, make love, but she hasn't stopped thinking about what makes Wednesday come for weeks now, and it's all catching up. Two fingers glide smoothly inside of her, and Wednesday moans quietly, but her clenching walls tell the story of a woman in need.
"Dahlia," Enid groans behind her. "You opened right up for me, like a pretty little flower. And you're going to come for me, aren't you?"
Wednesday moans, louder this time.
She's done her research.
Some of it was porn, but some of it were genuine articles that sent her down a rabbit hole of dominance and submission, sadism and masochism. She bookmarks an article about sadism to revisit later, because she's pretty sure she's dating a sadist, but for now Enid chooses to focus on dominance and submission. She likes the term Dom. It's cute, simple. She twirls her hair and spins in her rolling chair with her legs crossed, pink tights keeping her cozy in the winter, as she contemplates whether she'd want Wednesday to call her that. As a word that Enid essentially learned in full mere minutes ago, it doesn't necessarily do anything for her.
She's reminded of a few weeks ago now when Wednesday dragged her into a bathroom stall just after midnight and tugged at her instincts with a single word: alpha.
Even now, her entire body tightens with tension to do something, anything. It's a word, a name, a title that makes Enid feel like she can do anything, be anyone. She stands taller, prouder, peacocks a little.
That same walking tall saunter carries her into the bedroom to discover it's that time of year again.
The time of year when her wardrobe starts to creep over onto Wednesday's monochromatic side of the closet, a feat considering they live separately. When this happens, Wednesday begins to winnow, which means several cute outfits of Enid's fail to make the cut. It's cruel, Enid thinks. Not entirely her fault that retail therapy is so effective, she has to engage in it a few times a year. She usually pouts through the whole process, but a little black dress she hasn't worn in ages sits on top of the pile when she walks in that inspires a beguiling thought.
"Try it on," she says as she sits on the bed behind the pile of clothes. She reclines on her side and props up on an elbow to take in the scene before her.
Wednesday frowns, though Enid can't tell if she's frowning from her words or the vibrant frock she just plucked from the closet. "You know I'm allergic to color."
"Not that one. The black one."
Wednesday's attention shifts. She looks first to Enid then the black dress on the bed in front of her. "I don't want to."
"I want you to," Enid says on the heels of her statement.
She watches Wednesday swallow. In a rare moment of indecision, her frown deepens as she decides what to do with the dress already in her hands.
"You can toss it."
It hits the floor. Enid will miss it, but she can hardly focus on that heartache when she's keenly watching Wednesday's every move. She leans forward just a bit in anticipation.
Wednesday keeps her shorts but tosses her t-shirt off her body and grabs the dress. Enid can't get a read on her because she won't meet her eyes. Instead, she unzips the dress and bends at her hip to step into it and pull it up her body. It's tight enough that she has to wiggle a little and Enid watches intently as she rises from the bed. Wednesday slides her arms into the shoulder straps. She looks up to Enid when she approaches.
"Turn around," Enid says.
She turns and looks over her shoulder to where Enid's attention rests on her lower back. It's a safe assessment that that's where her gaze is, though Wednesday knows Enid's likely looking lower. But she feels the fabric at the base of her spine pinch. Wednesday swallows. Indescribable, illogical heat simmers low in her gut the moment she feels it in conjunction with Enid's heat at her back. She shivers slightly when cool bare knuckles brush the notches of her spine. Then Enid grasps the zipper and pulls upward, slowly. One set of teeth fuse and close one second at a time. Wednesday holds her breath until Enid finally releases her. She exhales, only to tense when Enid smooths her hands from the center of Wednesday's back over to her shoulder blades. Then she runs her hands from Wednesday's shoulders down her waist and over the curve of her ass before stepping away.
"Turn around."
Enid takes in the simple yet devastative black dress as she turns around. It doesn't just cling, it becomes Wednesday, displaying every curve from her breasts to her waist, to her hips and thighs. "It looks great on you," she says.
Wednesday's mouth curls up in one corner, though her tone is sarcastic when she says, "Thrilled you approve."
Enid stares at full red lips for longer than necessary. She shakes from her stupor and sets into motion. "I almost forgot!" She reaches into the top dresser drawer, wherein Wednesday gifted her the entire dresser rather than a single drawer once she realized how many possessions Enid owns. She produces a pair of black lace gloves that complements the lace backing of the dress. "Try these."
Wednesday slips them on and Enid grabs each of her hands to admire the intricate midnight embroidery, and how Wednesday's nail polish completes the aesthetic. She steps back to admire Wednesday again. "Really regal," Enid breathes in awe. She walks toward the closet. "Just one more thing."
"Enid," Wednesday warns with impatience hardening her tone to stone.
Enid knows she's pushing it but she can never resist a fashion show. That coupled with her desire to push Wednesday to further understand her boundaries further prolongs this moment. She emerges from the closet with a pair of black pumps. "Okay, okay, last thing. Just try these on."
She sits them on the floor in front of Wednesday's feet and Wednesday glares at the shoes then at Enid. "Absolutely not."
Enid nods as if having expected that answer. Her hands clasp behind her back. Her eyes are suddenly round, her smile coy, her general demeanor unassuming as she regards Wednesday with a tilt of her head. "Of course you don't have to. But I want you to. I like seeing you in my clothes." She straightens to her full height. "And I think you like doing what I want you to do."
Wednesday freezes, like she's been had. Enid steps closer to palm her hand over Wednesday's hipbone in a firm grasp. She leans closer to press her lips to Wednesday's forehead and whispers, "Let me see you in the heels, Wednesday."
A vibrating sensation buzzes through Wednesday's body. She simultaneously feels uncharacteristically gelatinous, but almost drunkenly energetic. She sways toward the other woman before she can help it when Enid pulls away. Wednesday snaps back to the surface of her consciousness, unsure when she even sank under. Enid lifts out a steadying hand but Wednesday's own annoyance has her stubbornly stepping into each shoe without support or stumble. She stands at Enid's height, maybe even a touch taller once she's in the heels.
The lift accentuates the definition in her lean calves. "Fuck, you look good," Enid whispers.
Pink begins to dust Wednesday's cheeks. "You like a lot of things, Enid."
"Not like I like you," Enid assures. She twists her index finger in a circle, and Wednesday spins once to give Enid a show and then promptly says no more.
"Okay, okay, you've been a good sport, a good girl, dahlia." Enid smiles wide at Wednesday's expression of slight shock at the praise. "You can take the heels off now."
Quickly, Wednesday steps out of them. The cold floor is better than the ankle death contraptions Enid had her in. The entire room feels like it's closing in. She tries to make fast work of the stupid gloves when Enid speaks.
"Not those yet. Leave them on."
Wednesday huffs shakily. "Why—"
"Because I said so." Enid can hear how uneven her breaths are becoming. She watches Wednesday's jaw clench then says, "I don't need a rebuttal. Just get the dress off."
These are her most brazen words yet, and she waits with bated breath to see how Wednesday will respond.
She watches Wednesday swallow so hard the tendons in her neck stand in stark relief for a second. Her eyes flash in a series of emotions ranging from outrage and anger, to something that simmers, bubbles. "I need you..." she trails off as her brow furrows at her own verbiage, "to unzip me," she finishes flatly. "Quickly."
A slow smile spreads Enid's mouth. "Turn around, dahlia."
The hairs on the back of Wednesday's neck stand on end this time when she gives Enid her back. Uncertainty is such an unfamiliar feeling, she doesn't even identify it as such at first. It's its own thrill—this side of Enid she's unfamiliar with, even as Wednesday wrestles with who she herself desires to be in this moment. Enid undoes the zipper with less ceremony than last time, and Wednesday's tense shoulders sag forward with what she belatedly and begrudgingly realizes is disappointment.
Her temper flares under the onslaught of such unfamiliar sticky feelings that start in her mind, but end in her panties. Wednesday spins to face Enid and immediately grabs the excess fabric of one of the gloves on her hand in preparation to yank it off.
"Wednesday."
Her name cracks through the air, quick and sharp. She stops, though she tells herself it's more out of curiosity than anything else. Enid's voice is firm and stern, and as uncharacteristic as Wednesday herself feels. She remains pinned under Enid's watchful eye, uncertain, again. She's not a deer, she's not, but a thread of empathy sews through Wednesday, as this is what it must feel like to be caught in the dangerous glow of headlights.
"Leave the gloves," Enid says firmly.
And it's not about the fucking gloves, they both know it.
Wednesday drops her gaze, and her hands fall to balled fists at her side. Enid steps closer and places a hand on the back of her neck.
It feels grounding.
It feels like ownership.
Neither says a word for a long moment. Enid can hear her breathing, her heartbeat, feel the flushing warmth on the back of her neck, smell her.
There is no hiding, yet Enid still cruelly asks, "Do you like this?"
Wednesday says nothing.
"I need an answer, Wednes."
Still, Wednesday says nothing.
The warmth on her neck recedes before her chin is gently pinched between Enid's thumb and forefinger and Enid guides her gaze until they make eye contact. "Answer me," she says just as softly with an undercurrent of firmness.
Wednesday's hands fall open. "Yes," she finally admits with disquiet.
The admission leaves her dizzy. Enid hadn't expected it, and feels nearly bowled over at the confession. "Why?"
“I don’t know, Enid,” she says and her own fluster carries on her voice like a growl, but there's a timidity to her tone that only Enid would be able to catch.
Enid likes her a little flustered but it can quickly bleed into irritation, and though Wednesday grudgingly admitting her own desires gets Enid going, this feels different, uncharted. "It’s okay," Enid says in a soft timbre to sooth Wednesday’s rising hackles. "It’s good that you told me." She smiles softly. "I'm happy you told me." She ruffles through Wednesday's bangs just to touch her. "You’re a good girl, dahlia. My good girl," she purrs with satisfaction. She and Wednesday both spin higher and tighter at the sound of Enid finally owning it with assurance in her tone. Her knuckles brush Wednesday's cheek as Enid bites the corner of her lip in indecision before finally saying, "I think we should talk about this a little more."
Wednesday shakes her head. "I don't want to."
Enid nods. "I know." She holds Wednesday's gaze. "But I want to. So, we're going to."
For Wednesday's sake, and her own. Research can only get her so far before it becomes imperative to iron out these details with Wednesday, even little by little. She doesn't know what their sex life is going to look like six months from now, but Enid knows here, now, that Wednesday wants something from her that up until now hasn't been negotiated.
She watches the way Wednesday drops her gaze again, seemingly unable to obey and look Enid in the eyes at the same time. But Enid can smell her arousal, taste it as it coats her throat. Her wolf is dying to pounce and play with this different side of Wednesday, and Enid barely holds herself back by the collar.
"Take the gloves off."