#Werewolf Patton

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

Saw these poses and brain went "draw for Wolfsbane au" and thus... here we are.

A bookworm who fell asleep while reading.

Roman finally got to tag along to a market as his tiny self. Virgil and Remus getting surprised by some rain.

Original poses by Mellon_soup on Instagram

Pose 1 I Pose 2 I Pose 3

[loserlovercafe]

Crying at how long this is taking me- so sneak peak for motivation lol 💪

[swhhdr-wthhr]

did anyone ask for werewolf logan? anyone?

slight color variants and reference photos under cut

^ i made so many variations that are so similar

^ i cannot tell if these are wolves or huskies. it doesn't matter they're close enough

[delimeful]

how easy you are to need (redux) (6)

warnings: PTSD, misunderstandings, panic attack/anxiety spiral, MASSIVE miscommunication moment this chapter, brief mentions of past death, lmk if im missing any!

-

Despite having every intention of plotting escape, Virgil found himself spending the bulk of the next few days sound asleep.

He’d suspected foul play, something slipped into the meals that they kept freely giving him, but there was nothing unnatural or forced about his rest.

His body and mind had been pushed to their limits, and he was simply exhausted.

The humans did their best not to disturb him, but he was restless, his mind always registering the wrongness of his surroundings and trying to drag him back into consciousness. He woke the moment one of them stepped into the room, no matter how brief or silent the intrusion.

He didn’t open his eyes or twitch when this happened, morbidly curious to see how they would behave if they thought he wasn’t aware and watching their every move. He laid there with his heart racing, listening keenly to catch the muffled steps and soft breathing, waiting for the inevitable moment that one of them approached.

They never did.

When he wasn’t sleeping, the humans held meals with him. Unperturbed by his stubborn silence, they would chatter on just as much as they had back when he’d taken refuge under their floorboards, the thread of conversation frequently derailed by quips and rambling anecdotes.

He thought he had figured it out after that first night, between the food he’d assumed was drugged and the sting of the silverware in his grip— not pure silver, but close enough to burn.

But he’d only felt more and more clear-headed as time passed, and the moment one of them had noticed his fingers spasming around a fork, they’d all kicked up a fuss and instantly swapped the silver utensils out for carefully carved wooden ones.

As though that wasn’t enough, Logan continued to check on his wounds with precise regularity, and despite the fear that rose in Virgil whenever the scent of medical supplies filled the air, the human never took so much as a hair from his head.

His care seemed designed to be as painless as possible, from the way he carefully instructed Virgil through each step of administering treatment to the damp, oven-warm cloth he would press against bandages to keep scabs from tearing free when the padding was changed.

It was bizarre, and Virgil didn’t know how to handle it.

He could see why they would want to keep his wounds clean and uninfected. It made sense; they wanted him all healed up by the full moon, not sickly and delirious in the grips of a fever.

That didn’t explain the rest of it. The meals, the sleep, the way they listened.

The way restraints still hadn’t appeared, even as he slowly but surely regained his strength.

They might have called his bluff, somehow realized that he was too weak (too attached) to turn his teeth against them, but any hunter worth their blade knew better than to rely on such an uncertain assumption.

Especially not when he could potentially do so much damage, placed in the soft, unguarded center of their home.

There was nothing to gain. His body would serve its purpose to them whether it had spent the last few weeks on a silk cushion or a stone cell floor. Why would they risk it?

Once he’d successfully spent most of the day awake, and even shuffled through the house without tearing any stitches, they seemed to deem him well enough to hold a coherent conversation.

(He’d actually been trying to count all the potential exits, maybe even see what sort of lodestone Logan was using for the ward. When Patton had caught him slinking around, he hadn’t seemed suspicious or angry at all, only overwhelmingly enthusiastic about his health improving.

He also hadn’t seemed at all wary about stumbling upon the unrestrained captive that had taken him hostage the last time they were alone, because of course he hadn’t. How had these idiots even survived this long?)

“Did you like the meatloaf?” Patton asked him, over halfway through his own meal. The three of them tended to occasionally neglect their dishes in favor of rambling conversation or spirited arguments, so Virgil was almost always done well before them.

They also tended to not ask him such direct questions, and Virgil blinked in silent surprise for a moment, waiting for him to realize his mistake.

Instead, Patton let the silence stretch, unperturbed, for long enough that Virgil finally gave a half-hearted shrug.

“His plate speaks for itself, does it not?” Roman jumped in eagerly, tilting his head towards the empty space where the meatloaf had– very briefly– sat.

Virgil resisted the urge to snort, shifting in mild discomfort at becoming the topic of conversation. They could have put basically anything edible on his plate and gotten the same result. He knew better than to turn down food.

“Dishware can’t speak,” Logan informed him blandly. “Or consume and judge the quality of food, for that matter.”

Virgil felt a flare of amusement at the look on Roman’s face, and the words slipped out without thought. “He’s got you there.”

Three pairs of eyes flicked over at the barely-audible statement, and he only barely resisted the urge to shrink back. Surprisingly, none of them seemed mad, although Roman was visibly torn between surprised delight and dismay.

“Well, I thought it was just loaf-ly,” said Patton, because he was the funniest one there. Virgil’s lips twitched as Roman settled fully into dismay with a groan.

“Must you mock me?” Logan asked with a longsuffering air.

“Your recipe was delicious!” Patton continued. “I’d love to meat the ones who made it!”

Roman groaned louder.

“You’ve already met my family?” Logan replied, confused. “My mother– ah. You were engaging in more juvenile wordplay. More the fool I.”

“I pan do this all day!” Patton paused, and then shrugged. “That one would have worked better if it was still in the baking pan.”

Roman cleared his throat.

“Wow, Specs, I didn’t know this was your family’s recipe,” he said, his words just a little too over-exaggerated. “Are they going to come to visit any time soon?”

Virgil kept his gaze on his cleared plate, trying to force down the sickening lurch in his stomach. More humans. Just what he needed.

Logan hummed. “At this point in the season, I imagine they’re very busy with the farm. If they do decide to visit, they will let me know well in advance. And yours?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a letter.” Roman’s expression soured. “Not that it matters. If he decides to visit, he’ll let me know about five seconds before he kicks the door in. Probably by screaming at the top of his lungs.”

Despite all the irritation in his expression, there was worry hidden there, too. Virgil was also feeling worried, admittedly for entirely different reasons.

(For some people, hunting was the sort of thing that ran in the family.)

“At least his visits are always… exciting!” Patton tried, sounding a little uncertain himself. “What about you, Mister Wolf?”

The words registered a beat late, and Virgil’s head jerked up enough to see that they were all looking at him, again. “What?”

“I know you’ll only be here for a little bit, but I know I always worry when my loved ones are injured, especially if I can’t be by their side,” Patton elaborated. “Should we be on the lookout for any potential visitors?”

Understanding hit Virgil like a fever, his blood running cold for a moment before spiking into an unbearable furious heat.

So that was why. He should have known.

“You won’t find anyone out there,” he forced through grit teeth. A low growl had started vibrating in his chest, and he relished in the way the three of them went taut at the noise. “There’s no one to find. If there was, I would never give them up. No matter what.”

Maybe he should have lied, pretended that there was a reason for them to keep treating him with this targeted kindness. Lead them on with stories about a pack that didn’t actually exist, make them believe he was nothing more than a naive idiot, act as though he didn’t have a single clue as to what they were trying to do. It would probably have made escaping easier.

It didn’t matter. Anger had overtaken fear, sharp and fire-bright, and now all he wanted to do was burn. They could do whatever they wanted to him, use the stick now that the carrot had so miserably failed, and it still wouldn’t ever be enough to make him give up a pack. Not to a fate as cruel as this.

Movement caught his eye, and his head snapped up with teeth bared, a snarl at the tip of his tongue as he braced for an attack–

The humans had retreated.

“We’ll leave you be,” Logan said, and Virgil realized that at some point, he’d corralled the other two out of the room and into the hall; he could see Patton’s arm around Roman’s shoulder, the two of them casting worried looks back as they shuffled away. “We didn’t mean any offense. Please call on me if you need anything.”

When Virgil only stared, his growl still rumbling from deep within him, Logan nodded once and slid the divider door into place, his footsteps retreating shortly after.

The dishes had been left where they were. Virgil’s plate was shattered, the ceramic pieces laying heavy on his lap. It was quiet.

They’d left him alone. By now, they had to know baiting him wouldn’t work. And still, they’d given him space, backed off instead of pushing on with other, more painful tactics. It didn’t make any sense.

Unless they had some other way of getting what they wanted.

Virgil curled in on himself, his growl cutting off as panic doused him. Logan knew enough about spellcraft to make potions, to set wards, to locate leylines. If they knew something Virgil didn’t, if they knew enough about magic to twist it to their own ends, and if they knew a way to find other wolves through him without his participation– if they knew about packbonds, and had a way to reveal his…

So what? He didn’t have a pack, not anymore. He didn’t have a pack. He didn’t, except.

Did any packbond count? Even ones that had only existed for a day?

The thought sent icy nausea through him, and he gripped a shard of the ceramic hard enough to break skin, his breath coming too-quick and catching in his throat.

No, no, no. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t afford to pass out, not when he didn’t know what they might do to him while he was under. Who they might find.

Unfortunately, knowing he had to stop panicking and actually calming down were two entirely different things.

Black spots dotted his vision, and he passed out between one frantic inhale and the next.

—

He woke to something touching his shoulder, and ingrained reflexes had him snapping a hand out, lips curling up to bare teeth.

“Oh!” a voice exclaimed quietly, and Virgil froze.

It took a few blinks to make out Patton’s form in the dark. He had the human by the wrist, his claws pricking at skin, but he seemed more sheepish than anything.

There was a blanket slipping off his shoulder, one that hadn’t been there before.

The sight of it sent a miserable curl of guilt through him, one that was quickly dampened by the memory of what had happened before he’d passed out.

His hand sprang open as he scanned the room for the other two, desperately straining his senses for any trace of magecraft that had been performed on his person, only to come up empty on both counts.

It was only Patton, standing there in the dark with his hands clasped tightly.

There was a beat of silence, in which all he could think about was that one ephemeral, damning packbond, and everything he’d do to keep it undiscovered.

If he could just convince them to settle for one. For him. He could behave, he would swear it, he would beg–

“I’m sorry,” Patton said, which was so surprising that it practically stole the voice from his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, asking that sort of thing at dinner.”

‘Didn’t mean to hurt’ him? How stupid did he think Virgil was? Or worse, how cruel?

“How would you feel,” he forced out, “if I’d asked you that. And it was your pack.”

The words were hardly more than a rough whisper, but Patton reeled back as though struck.

“I know,” he replied after a moment, his voice thicker now. “I know. We weren’t– It wasn’t meant to bring back painful memories. I swear. We only wanted to know if there was anyone missing you, and we didn’t think about how you would feel if… if there wasn’t. We– I, of all people, should have known better.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed as he listened, a small spark of hope flaring to life in him. It sounded like… like Patton had taken him at his word.

Was it possible that he had a chance, after all?

“Yeah, well. I should have known you’d ask,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Still, it doesn’t change my answer.”

Patton inhaled, his words coming out slightly wobbly. “You really don’t have anyone? It’s… It’s just you?”

Virgil swallowed, aware that he was walking into the trap of his own volition. Once there was nothing else to drag from him, there was no reason for them to keep treating him like this.

“Yeah. It’s just me.”

Patton exhaled, slow and shaky, and reached out for Virgil’s hands. His face was hardly visible in the low light, but he was moving slow enough for there to be a question in the motion. Trying to see if he would cooperate?

Restraints right away, then.

Well. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fight if it would keep them from tracking down the only good thing left in his past.

He held his hands out and braced himself for the burn of silver.

Instead, he felt two warm points of pressure against his palms. Patton was holding his hands firmly but harmlessly, in a grip that Virgil could break away from with a twitch. He was rubbing small circles on the side of Virgil’s hands with his little dull-edged thumbs.

It was a soothing gesture. A gentle one.

Virgil stared dumbly down at the shapeless mass their hands formed in the dark.

“Why?” he asked, unable as always to keep himself from looking the gift horse in the mouth. “Why are you treating me like this? You have to know this isn’t necessary.”

Patton withdrew slightly, seeming almost startled.

“I’m not doing it because it’s necessary, kiddo. I’m doing it because I want to. Because it seems like maybe you need it.”

“You don’t even know me,” Virgil replied, his hands twitching the slightest amount. They were beginning to tingle with that strange warm sensation that he’d felt when Logan had carried him.

“I know that you protected my partners,” Patton replied steadily. “I know that you probably saved my life, and got hurt something awful in the process. Is it so strange that I’d want to comfort you?”

Virgil paused.

That’s right. He’d saved them.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten, it was just that he hadn’t expected it to matter. The moment they’d realized what he was, his fate had been sealed. To humans, shifters were dangerous and valuable, and so they couldn’t be allowed to live.

Even his humans knew it. Why else would he be here, locked behind wards to wait for the full moon?

It was a necessity, but that didn’t change who they were. He’d spent all this time bracing for a blow, waiting for the cruelty and malice that he’d experienced at the hands of humans before. Yet it hadn’t come.

Maybe it wasn’t coming at all.

“You want me… to be comfortable,” he tried, the words strange on his tongue.

“Of course!” Patton replied. “It’s the least we can do to repay you.”

Virgil nodded slowly, finally grasping the shape of the puzzle that had been placed before him.

Back when he was a pup, his pack had run across a solitary wolf, badly wounded. There was nothing they could do to save her, but the pack stopped anyway. They’d curled up around her, shared what meat they had from the morning’s hunt, and invited her to sing when dusk fell. For the handful of hours she’d had left, she’d been one of theirs.

His humans had their own sense of honor. They couldn’t afford to let him live, but it was thanks to him that their small pack hadn’t been torn to shreds. This gentleness, the way they held meals with him and offered him conversation and tended his wounds, it was their way of showing gratitude.

He could trust it would stay.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Until the full moon rose again, he was one of theirs.

[ephiesoul]

Chibi Werewolf Patton 🐺🐾

[loganslowdown4]

I just—

I love this nerd

*throws some random old photos at you and runs away giggling* hehehehehehe

[edupunkn00b]

But the Shopping Cart Wheels Still Squeak

Photo by Markus Winkler via Unsplash

A very short fluffy drabble for today's Werewolf AU for @tsspromptmonth's Rare Gifts Event.

WC: 359 - CW: fluff and werewolves -

Fingertips drumming against the molded plastic cart handle, Logan hummed and listened to his packmate’s playful bickering.

“It’s the front left, definitely,” Patton was nodding, bobbing his head to the tempo of the faulty shopping cart wheel.

Feigning a deep frown, Roman shook his head. “Hm, I think it’s the rear.”

“You always think it’s the rear!” Patton laughed, voice trailing up into a squeal when Roman nipped gently at his shoulder.

“For the record,” Logan murmured, unable to hide his smile as he pushed the cart back and forth, “Both are squeaking.” 

“Told you!” Roman and Patton laughed to each other before falling into a quiet argument over which wheel squeaked louder and Logan continued on his journey down the aisle, tossing in a box of Cheez-its and a small tin of soda crackers.

Just before the cart turned the corner, though, Logan stopped and inhaled sharply. “Pups,” he growled quietly. “Go find us some fresh sweet potatoes, please.”

“Mi amor, really?” “Aw, c’mon, Logie, we’ll be good!” they complained in unison.

“Absolutely not!” Logan’s eyebrow raised so his voice wouldn’t have to. “The last time you promised to be good we had to purchase everything behind the meat counter.”

Patton lowered his head and curled against Logan’s side. Roman whined, almost imperceptibly. Finally Logan reached up to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I’m not angry and no-one’s in trouble. This is no different than the days when I need a break from bright lights.” 

Hunched over, Roman shrunk the distance between them, nuzzling against the side of his neck. After a deep breath, he melted into Logan’s offered arm. “I suppose you’re right.” Head still resting on Logan’s shoulder, he peered up at each of them through unfairly long eyelashes. “What do you say, Patty? Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the produce aisle?”

Logan brushed a kiss against his cheek just before he bowed to a giggling Patton. “The honor is mine,” Patton laughed, humming when Logan gave him a matching kiss.

“Oh, and see if they have any—”

“Strawberries,” Patton nodded, linking fingers with Roman’s. “Always, Logie.” 

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

I have very specific thoughts regarding Logan's backstory in Crescent/Gibbous but I'm unsure if I'll ever write a full thing on it. So have this out of context scene instead. Just a small aside, Patton's mother and Logan's great-great grandmother were sisters, so they are related in that way. Logan knew Patton as "Uncle Pat" who was present at a few large family gatherings when he was a small child (not that he was fully aware his uncle was actually his great-great-great uncle)

Warnings: Sickness, Angst

“Logan?” 

He knew that voice. He raised his head up, trying to focus on the blurry figure in front of him. Why were they blurry? What happened to his glasses?

“Lo, buddy are you okay?”

He swallowed, throat aching. No, as much as he hated to admit it, everything was not okay.

“Logan, please, tell me what happened.” 

He shook his head, whining from the increasing pressure stemming from his temple. He’d experienced migraines before, but nothing like this. He swayed, his body crumpling down on its own accord. 

“Logan!” Hands reached out, cradling his clammy face. Black dots scattered his vision like a thousand tiny blackholes. He fought through it to stare at the blurry face behind the bars.

“Uncle?” He croaked, the familial title unintentionally slipping out. He felt extremely disoriented and confused. Two things Logan hated feeling above all else. It harkened back to a memory of a child hopelessly lost in a snowy forest, so alone and so certain of death.

“Logan, I’m here, pup.” Patton told him, a hand moving to brush Logan’s bangs away from his sweaty brow. 

“I’m not your pup.” Logan said vehemently. He was not a child–far from it. He was an accomplished man with several scientific accolades to his name. Most importantly, he was human, he was not a werewolf.

And if he was successful in his endeavors, he'd be not only human, but the first human ever to cure werewolf disease.

Patton did not respond. He kept silent as he gently pulled Logan’s glasses off his head, placing it on the floor. Logan’s vision sharpened, like a camera pulling into focus. This made complete sense–Logan was nearsighted so of course due to their close proximity he saw Patton much more clearly now that the glasses were removed. Patton must have noticed the lenses were smudged.

He refused to think long on it, not when he still hadn’t properly answered Patton.

“I don’t…” Logan trailed off, his eyebrows pressing together. When did he arrive at the facility? The last thing he recalled was crawling underneath every blanket he owned because he was so cold. Was this a fever dream?

“Patton, I’m afraid I am feeling rather unwell.”

“I know, Lo, I know,” Patton said, his voice cracking with some unidentifiable emotion, “how long have you been feeling this way?”

“Approximately two weeks.”

“Have you been more hungry than usual?”

“Ravenously. Nothing seems to satiate my appetite.”

“Any aches and pains?”

“I have experienced more muscle aches than usual, although it could simply be my body adjusting to a new exercise regimen–likewise that could be the cause of my new appetite. I have taken up an interest in running.”

“Why running?”

“Running is a good form of exercise. It has…also helped reduce my stress levels.”

“Do you feel more agitated lately? Snapping at things more easily? Felt overwhelmed in situations that you wouldn’t normally feel overwhelmed in?”

He didn’t like where this was going. He wiggled his head away from Patton’s hands, pressing his hands against the floor in an attempt to stand up. Nausea hit him instantaneously, forcing him back down again. Patton’s hands hovered over him, hesitating.

“What are you getting at?” Logan demanded, a growl rising in his throat.

Patton’s mouth opened, but no explanation came forth. He closed it, his lips forming a firm line. He stared back at Logan as if he should already know the answer.

Logan gripped the silver cell bars, shaking them with as much force as possible. “Tell me!” 

It would’ve been more intimidating had he been standing up. Much less, if he hadn’t jerked his hands back seconds later with a hiss. The bars had been hot to the touch as if he laid his hands directly onto a stove. His heart beat loudly in his chest as he stared down at the angry red blisters on his hands.

Silver was not harmful to humans. He should not have immediate abrasions from touching silver. There was only one explanation, but it was absurd–Logan would know if it was happening. He studied the phenomenon occurring in other individuals. But many diseases shared similar symptoms–everything that had been occurring to him could easily be explained away.

“Logan, I’m sorry,” Patton began, “I know this must be hard for you to accept, but you must accept it. You are turning.”

“No,” Logan said, nearly choking on air, “No, no, no you’re wrong, there are several other perfectly reasonable explanations–”

His vision spun, reminding him of the time he rode the Mad Tea Party at Disneyland as a kid. Colors danced about him, too indescribable to make out shapes. The contents of his stomach threatened to erupt from his throat like a volcano eruption of vomit. He whined again, digging his face into the cold cement floor.

“Logan,” A far-off voice called his name, “Logan?!”

His muscles spasmed. He clenched his jaws, restraining from screaming out in pain. Only a muffled wounded sound came out instead, something that did not sound entirely human.

“Shh, don't fight it.” The voice called out again, this time distinctly Patton. Of course, it had to be him, there was no one else around. Hands stroked his hair, so soft and soothing.

Everything inside of Logan urged him to remain by Patton’s side. He wanted to melt into the touch. To take the solace it offered him in the midst of the excruciating pain swelling up inside of him. It took every bit of him to pull himself away from Patton, backing up until he hit the cement wall with a thud. 

“Logan,” Patton pleaded, stretching a hand out to him, “I know you’re scared, but please I promise you that I can help you.”

Logan valued rationality. He learned from a young age that emotions should be stifled unless he wanted to let their inherent weakness influence him. But there was no rational explanation for his next action. 

Only that Logan was human and humans have two reactions in the face of something they refused to understand: they either reacted in violence or reacted in terror. In this instance, Logan gave into terror.

He ran.

[soulsoffairlight]

WARNING EXTREMELY LOUD

official scream/howl/voice claims for werelips :3

Overall, bc he's a type 4 lycanthrope in avidras lore (aka the "hollering werewolf") he has a wide vocal range and can probably break glass LMAO

He can speak to some degree in wereform but it's unintelligible like puppet form. Normally speaking he'd probably just sound like korn or some shit (/J)

[darcylovette]

Creatures of the Night

By Darcy Lovette (ao3)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ship/s: Logan/Virgil

Genre: Supernatural Romance AU

Tags: Werewolves, Vampires, Omegaverse, Magic, Drama and Romance, Hurt and Comfort, Witches, Mild Dom/Sub, Slowburn, Explicit (full tags on story)

A world where Humans, Werewolves, Vampires, and Witches live together in “harmony”.

It’s not uncommon for a Rogue wolf to try and make a life outside of a Pack, but for Omegas it’s a different story.

To keep their uneasy pact with the distrustful humans, all Omegas must be placed within a Pack, the exact place decided by their Leader. If one is found, they must be handed over at once, with no fair trial or say in the matter.

After ten years living free, Virgil is caught and forced to integrate with a Pack so large it became its own independent city. But unexpected complications see him placed in the custody of Logan du Bris - son of the infamous Lord of Vampires.

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24 / 25 / 26 / 27 / 28

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

Fey Remus and Fey Roman: *in a competition to see who can chop up their pile of wood into firewood the fastest* Patton *gathering the thrown about firewood into baskets so Janus can carry them to the woodshed*: Oh! Virgil, where are you going? Vampire Virgil *dressed up in a black cape and more vampire aesthetic look, compared to his more relaxed everyday wear*: Coven meeting. Shouldn't take longer than a week... Ugh I hate when the whole family get together. Too many people. Werewolf Janus: Good luck. Vampire Virgil: Thanks. I'm glad it only happens once every century. Patton: I keep forgetting you're really old, Virgil. Vampire Virgil: I'm younger than those two idiots *gestures towards Remus and Roman who are now hurling insults at each other*. Werewolf Janus: ... how old are they exactly? Witch Logan *basket of mushrooms at his hip*: The two of them are about as old as this forest, so a millennia give or take, but who knows really. They never give me a good answer. I'm starting to suspect they don't know it themselves.

[loserlovercafe]

Augh- I finally finished it! This took forever to do since I don’t usually draw fur or backgrounds lol. But I’m pretty happy with how it turned out

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

(That relatable moment when your boyfriend says he has something important to tell you but instead of proposing he turns into a mythical beast.(/j) (it can also be platonic lol))

[transfemlogan]

Should the other wolf b another side

[stillebesat]

Accidentally a Creature

Patton shoved the window open, his breath coming in heaving gasps as he scrambled out his room into the pouring rain, rushing to escape from Roman’s voice...no his screams. 

He yelped as his back, no not his back, the things sprouting from his back caught on the window frame, briefly yanking him back into the room. The too tight, too claustrophobic space of his bedroom. He had to get out. Get into open air. 

With shaking hands he grabbed onto the thin--the wings. He should call them wings, oh heavens, he could feel the sensation of his fingers over those large things, moving through the feathers like he was covered in a swarm of sp-spi-- 

Patton recoiled, pulling his hands away from the feathers, somehow managing to twist himself out onto the balcony with those giant white wings doing their best to keep him inside. Inside. Where Roman was dying. Where he had killed his friends. Where it was all his faul--He sobbed, shakily scrambling up the slanted roof, heading up, up to the chimney, up to the highest point he could reach to huddle there getting soaked.

Some father figure. 

Some paternal protector.

Some Dad. 

How could the others ever...ever...if they lived...if they Patton curled up in a ball, struggling to breathe as the feathered wings twitched, spreading to cover him like some big fluffy white umbrella, sheltering him from the raging storm. 

He shouldn’t be up here. Shouldn’t be away from the others. He needed to be down there, helping to--

Screw everything up. 

That’s all you do.

Every single time.

Mess things up.

Some Father Figure. Patton thought curling up in the shadow of the chimney, hidden from view. He was supposed to be the support, the one the others went to when things went wrong. And well….things had gone horribly wrong. Because of him. And he...he couldn’t deal with it. 

Patton didn’t usually go up on the roof. He usually preferred to hide out in his room when he’d screwed things up with the others. But this time his bedroom’s walls had been too thin to drown out Roman’s fury. Fury at him. 

Patton buried his face into his knees, breath hitching as he shivering in the pouring rain. He flinched as the unfamiliar limbs...wings...he needed to call them wings, twitched and spread out to cover him, their large white fluffy feathers acting like an umbrella to keep him sheltered from the storm.

[delimeful]

how easy you are to need (redux) (5)

warnings: misunderstandings/miscommunication, assumption of harm/abuse, references to starvation and blood, food, drug mentions, unreliable narrator is particularly strong in this one

-

When Virgil next woke, it was to a low and melodic humming.

The drugs had clearly worn off, going by how terrible he felt just laying there. He suspected the pain might have actually been what had woken him.

His breathing automatically shifted to something shallower, attempting to keep from putting pressure on the huge bruise that was his ribcage. The humming paused for a brief moment, before resuming.

So, they’d wised up and actually started guarding their captive. They must not have been expecting him to be so active last time, probably believing the tranquilizer would have a heavier effect.

Of course, that meant that they’d adjust the dosage to account for his resistance next time. Damn, he shouldn’t have played that card so early.

Figuring he’d already been caught out, Virgil cracked open an eye.

He was in the same spot, on the same couch. Roman was sitting in the nearby armchair, which had been turned slightly so that it was facing the couch more directly.

The hum was coming from him, a cheerful tune that had completely concealed the soft sursur of a polishing cloth against metal.

The runes on the hunting sword weren’t activated, but the hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck abruptly prickled anyhow, a chill running down his spine.

Roman glanced over at him without pausing his polishing, completely casual about the threat implied in each careful motion. “You’re awake! I’d say good morning, but we’re nearly at sunset now.”

Virgil couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze away from the blade, not even to confirm that he’d slept another day away. He felt as though the moment he glanced away, he’d look back to find the point of that sword buried deep in his chest.

He’d expected they’d try to get him to shift as soon as possible, but somehow, he hadn’t expected them to threaten him physically. They had to know he would call their bluff, didn’t they? No matter how much they might not want a monster under their roof, human greed superseded hatred, and killing him now would be like throwing gold down a bottomless well.

His mouth felt glued shut when he swallowed, unwilling to let a single syllable through. He reached for his earlier bravado, his miserable confidence that death would be better than being caught, and found the bitter bravery rang hollow in the face of that singing metal.

The human’s hand had paused mid-swipe on the blade. When Virgil forced his eyes to flicker upwards, he found that Roman was staring at him with a distinct wrinkle to his brow.

He jolted upon making eye contact, and then tried for an uncertain smile.

“No need to worry,” he said, shifting the blade up slightly. “This is for Patton, not you.”

The words took a moment to register, but when they did, they landed sharper than any slap. Virgil felt the blood drain from his face quickly enough to leave him dizzy.

His humans were— they were different, weren’t they? Surely, they wouldn’t go so far as to punish Patton just because he’d been taken hostage, not when they’d all failed to contain him in the end.

So why? Sure, Virgil had threatened— threatened with that, but Roman had been watching so closely, he must know that Virgil hadn’t actually bitten Patton. Except. Some hunters believed any physical wound inflicted by a shifter was ‘infected’. How tightly had he gripped the human before? Had his nails bitten into clothing, or skin?

The memories were fuzzy, hazed over by adrenaline and drugs alike. He wasn’t sure.

“He’s not– he’s not,” Virgil started, and the words caught and tangled in the back of his throat like barbed wire. He yanked his arms free of the blanket tucked around him and pushed himself further upright to meet Roman’s gaze more directly. “I didn’t turn him. He’s not turned.”

In the back of his mind, a familiar refrain: Don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.

Roman visibly reeled back, his grip on the sword’s hilt tightening in surprise, and then he let go of the blade altogether, leaving it balanced delicately across his lap, polishing cloth still folded over it.

“No! I mean, I– I know that, not that it would– even if he–,” He cut himself off, took a breath, and tried again. “I was only joking. I would never threaten Patton with any sort of violence, sword-inflicted or otherwise, even if he is atrociously bad at remembering that he is injured and should be avoiding straining himself as much as possible.”

Even with the emphasis, his voice was more exasperated than truly angry, and there was no sign of deceit in his manner. Patton was fine, Virgil had just– overreacted.

He needed to calm down. Hunters or not, there was no point putting ideas in their heads. He tried to force his body to relax, to ease away the tension that so visibly lined his frame, with little success.

Patton was safe, but he obviously wasn’t off-limits for violent threats, after all.

“Right. Well. How are your wounds?” Roman asked, apparently having correctly inferred that Virgil wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “We can’t give you any more pain medicine, not without risk of making things worse, but nothing should be debilitating. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t tear more stitches.”

He’d forgotten about his injuries amidst the sudden rush of terror, but sure enough, his side still felt awful. It was like he’d gone a round with a magically-corrupted grizzly bear or something.

Virgil slumped back against the couch to try and relieve some of the pain, but kept his jaw clenched shut. There was no point in them knowing how well he was healing, and he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell them which wounds were the worst off. Those were the most painful places to be hit.

There was another long stretch of quiet, and Roman let out a gusty sigh, lifting his hand up— Virgil barely concealed his flinch— and running it haphazardly through his hair.

“Look,” he started, leaning forwards, “I’m not sure what you—,”

“Dinner is ready,” said Logan, who had appeared in the doorway between one blink and the next. “How is— oh.”

Roman jumped, like he’d been caught red-handed, but Logan’s gaze had already flicked over to Virgil. “Good evening. It’s encouraging to see you awake. Do you feel up to walking? I am more than capable of carrying you again if not.”

“Don’t touch me,” Virgil snapped on automatic, too consumed by the phantom memory of that odd burning sensation to hold his tongue.

“Alright,” Logan said simply, not a single hint of temper at the attitude. Somehow, the absence felt almost more frightening. “We normally take meals in the kitchen area, down the hall here, but since we have two injured parties, the sitting room will work as an acceptable substitute.”

“I’ll get Patton!” Roman volunteered, having subtly kicked his sword under his chair midway through the conversation.

“Get the sheath for your blade while you’re at it,” Logan replied dryly. “Patton will have your head if you get sword polish on the rug again.”

“I was careful!” Roman protested, but he kicked his blade up into his hand as he fled from the room regardless.

Virgil barely resisted the urge to stare after him, bewildered that he’d gotten through the encounter without a single cut. Maybe Logan hadn’t been made aware of the plan to threaten him, and his unexpected arrival had interrupted it…? Or maybe it was a planned entrance, and this was a psychological tactic meant to stress him out.

Virgil sighed. Maybe Roman was just too hungry to postpone dinner. There was no point dwelling on it.

“I’ll be back momentarily,” Logan told him before leaving as well, completely scrapping Virgil’s earlier prediction of a constant watcher.

They were still underestimating him, probably assuming the ward had demoralized him. He hadn’t ruined all his chances of escape, after all.

He barely had time to try and assess the room more clearly before Logan returned, an impressive amount of dishware balanced in his arms. He spent a few concentrated moments setting them all down on the low table and then rose to his feet and left the room again without a word, an air of distraction about him.

Virgil glanced between the dishes set out, wishing his sense of smell wasn’t quite so good. Just as he’d forgotten his pain until Roman had asked after it, he’d forgotten how hungry he was until there was food in front of him.

He wasn’t dumb enough to think it was for him, of course. Even though they hadn’t said anything yet, he had a fair idea of what the humans were playing at.

He knew how to count, after all, and he could plainly see that there were only three of each dish set out. It was another incentive to shift, one that had been used against him before. They’d wait until he was starved, he expected, and then offer him raw meat, or some other carrion that only a wolf could eat.

It was a little cruel of them to eat right in front of him, going so far as to move their normal dining location, but he couldn’t deny that it was an effective tactic. The sharp ache in his side had already been joined by a dull pang in his stomach.

There was a breadbasket, there in the middle of everything. The tops of each roll were shiny with butter, but if he grabbed one from the sides, it probably wouldn’t leave a trace on his hands.

… What were the odds that they’d counted how many rolls were in there?

By the time Roman swept back into the room with an amused Patton in his arms, Virgil was carefully arranged in the same exact position as before, and the warm roll in his hoodie pocket was well-concealed by the folds of the blanket still draped partially over him.

Patton was deposited on the plush armchair closest to the fireplace, and he offered Virgil a smile as he carefully propped his injured leg up on a stack of hand-embroidered pillows.

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologized. “We’ve normally got things a little more put together than this, but I was relegated to potato peeling duty after I dropped half the silverware while trying to set the table. Turns out holding plates and crutches is a recipe for dish-aster!”

Roman groaned theatrically from where he was arranging everything out on the table, but he was still exceedingly gentle with the tray he set on Patton’s lap, an artful arrangement of silverware on either side of the meal. “You already murdered two of our poor plates, now you have to slander their good names with puns?”

Patton laughed, and said something else, but Virgil was having a hard time registering the words through the low ringing in his ears.

It was so strange, watching them joke around and chat casually, as if nothing was wrong. With the hunters, there had always been an air of impatience or malice, a sick glee in making him suffer.

His humans weren’t acting like that, but there wasn’t a trace of uncertainty in their manner, either. It was as though this was just another day for them, as though they’d always been capable of doing something like this, so much so that it was an unremarkable event.

It wasn’t the outright hatred of before, but it still felt bad in a different way.

“Sir Wolf?” Roman’s voice broke through the haze in his mind, and his head jolted up slightly as he realized the name was meant to refer to him.

It was certainly nicer than some of the things he’d been called.

The two humans were looking at him with open concern, Patton leaning towards him as far as he could without unbalancing his tray.

“Hey, kiddo. Are you back with us?” he asked.

Virgil blinked at him strangely for a moment— he hadn’t gone anywhere— and then was immediately, sharply distracted by a hand moving closer in the corner of his vision.

He flinched back, hard enough to make his injuries twinge, and the room went quiet for a beat.

“My apologies,” Roman said, his tone subdued. “I only meant to check your temperature; sometimes infected wounds can cause fevers and disorientation.”

“We won’t ever hit you, kiddo,” Patton swore firmly, and the pity in his voice rankled against Virgil, like a hand scrubbing his fur the wrong way.

How could they sit here and pretend to be soft, when they were so willing to hurt him in other, more insidious ways? He clenched his fists, teeth digging into the edge of his lip, but before he could spit out the acid words building on the back of his tongue, Logan appeared in the doorway again.

“Apologies for the wait,” he said, carrying a fourth tray in his hands. He shot a sharp glance at the other two, making them recede from their hovering with sheepish expressions, and stepped close enough to extend the tray out in offering.

Virgil stared at the normal, delicious-looking food in front of him, bewildered. There was no rotting carrion or raw, bloody meat. In fact, the only difference between the dishes set out on the table and the tray being offered to him was that the food was already portioned, rather than in large dishes to serve oneself.

“I’ve added a few malnutrition aids, and they’re most effective when freshly brewed, hence the delay,” Logan continued, still patiently holding the tray out. “I’m entirely confident that they will help– at worst, they’ll do nothing– but if it would put you more at ease, I can sample the food myself.”

They’d dosed it with something. Something that wasn’t immediately fatal enough that they were willing to ‘sample’ it to prove it was ‘safe’. Or, they’d realized he really wasn’t going to shift to heal and were offering genuine health-aiding tinctures to speed up the process.

Better to figure out which it was now. Besides, even drug-laced food was food, and it was in his best interest to play along until he had an actual plan to escape.

He took the tray without protest, half-expecting it to be yanked away the entire time, and settled it across his lap.

“Alright, now that we’re all here, let’s eat!”

Patton smiled at him, and suddenly, the gesture didn’t feel false and insincere. His previous anger had melted away in the face of his confusion and, admittedly, his relief that he would get food at all.

Virgil swallowed, and ducked his head to stare at his tray instead of the others’ faces.

Those feelings were dangerous. Just because they weren’t as bad as the hunters in one specific way didn’t mean he could trust them. Not even if he wanted to. Especially not if he wanted to.

It was beginning to seem like remembering that was going to be harder than he’d thought.

[on-the-virge-of-breaking]

The wolf nodded his head a bit when asked if he could help. It was his fault after all that the other had gotten hurt.

@on-the-virge-of-breaking

It had been a few hours since the sun set, it wouldn’t be bright anytime soon… he was fine. Virgil took a deep breath as he walked outside, keeping his hood on over his head as he walked. He had eaten recently, not that it was great, bags never were. But he just wanted to get out, be outside for a bit… occasionally it got annoying being inside so long. Plus the neighbors questioned never seeing him already, neighborhood kids called his home abandoned and haunted. He didn’t even live super close to others but people within the area he lived questioned him enough.

Virgil walked towards downtown, not too far away, and not a bad walk. He decided why not stop by the bar, hangout there for a bit and relax. He probably wouldn’t speak to anyone, but at least it would be known he’s not an absolute weirdo and he did in fact get out. He was just allergic to the sun… and absolutely and totally a vampire like his neighbors rumored and whispered about. But he needed to get out hopefully to at least get word that he does leave his house so maybe they wouldn’t call some hunters around, he didn’t feel like dealing with them.

Patton had moved into town recently, having ran to the village to get out of city and into somewhere a bit more gentle and quiet. Also, he wanted to get away from his older, twin brothers, but that's not really too important.

Tonight, he's wearing a nice sweater he'd made himself, and sipping gently on a drink at the one, small bar in town. He was enjoying his solitude, though the amount of ladies coming his way was a bit frustrating, but he could make do. He eventually got some quiet time to himself, though, and now is enjoying a sweet drink all by himself in the corner booth.