Chapter Text
Obey, Little Wolf
Enid Sinclair was pacing again.
Not just pacing—snarling. Not quite loud, not enough to alert Weems or anyone else still wandering the halls of Nevermore this late in the semester. But enough to pull Wednesday Addams from her typewriter mid-sentence, hands poised above the keys, eyes narrowing.
“She said I’m an embarrassment,” Enid spat, her words half-choked. “That I should ‘dial down the freak stuff’ before I come home for break. Again.”
Claws clicked against the dorm floor. Her tail—unmistakably fluffy, currently bristling—twitched in erratic bursts. Her fangs had nicked her lip, but she didn’t seem to notice the blood. Or maybe she did. Maybe she wanted the sting.
Wednesday closed her typewriter. Gently. Purposefully.
“I warned you not to answer your mother’s calls,” she said, voice cool as glass, slicing through Enid’s spiraling panic.
Enid turned, wild-eyed. “So what, I just block her forever?”
“Yes.”
The wolf huffed. “Not everyone has a family who encourages homicide, Wednesday.”
“No,” she agreed. “But some of us are smart enough to recognize when love comes laced with poison.”
Enid’s breath hitched. Her claws scratched at her own arm now, drawing faint red lines in skin already marked by years of trying to be enough.
“Stop,” Wednesday ordered.
“I can’t.” Enid’s voice cracked. “It’s like something’s crawling under my skin. I can’t calm down, I can’t shift, I—I feel wrong.”
There it was. The tipping point. Not rage. Not rebellion.
Fear.
Wednesday stood, her movements precise. Controlled. She crossed the room, not in haste but in command, every step declaring: you are mine to calm. Mine to steady.
“Down,” she said.
Enid blinked. “What?”
Wednesday’s tone didn’t shift.
“On your knees. Hands behind your back.”
Enid’s heart stuttered. Her pupils dilated. But she obeyed.
It was instinct. Pack, submission, need.
Wednesday circled behind her slowly, then opened a small drawer in her nightstand. Inside: something black, velvet-lined. Something they'd discussed, once, in quiet hypotheticals.
She held it up—a collar, sleek black leather with a silver moon charm.
Enid didn’t speak. She just exhaled, trembling, and tipped her head forward.
When Wednesday buckled it around her throat, it wasn’t ownership—it was protection. Ritual. An anchor.
“Good girl,” Wednesday murmured.
Enid whimpered. Her wolf whined. But the shaking slowed.
“You forget who you are when you let them speak too loudly,” Wednesday said. “You are not weak. You are not wrong. You are not theirs.”
She walked back around, crouching low, eye-level with Enid. One gloved finger lifted her chin.
“You are mine. And I do not allow what is mine to be insulted.”
A tear rolled down Enid’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. She didn’t need to.
Wednesday did.
“Breathe for me,” she instructed.
In. Out. Steady.
“Good.”
Enid’s voice was small, hoarse. “You make it easier.”
“I don’t make it easy,” Wednesday corrected. “I make it real.”
There was silence, thick with trust.
Then, finally, Enid leaned forward and rested her head against Wednesday’s thigh, breathing in the scent of ink, leather, and graveyard lilacs. Her claws retracted. Her tail settled.
Wednesday placed a hand in her hair, firm and slow.
“Obey, little wolf,” she said softly, “and you will never lose yourself again.”
And for the first time that night, Enid believed her.