#meanwolves

[rotworld]

Fitting the Collar

that weird guy from the club wants to go for a walk in the woods in werewolf territory. a continuation of sheep's clothing and savior.

->sawyer/reader/corbin. explicit; contains noncon, coercion, implied stalking, feral behavior, typical werewolf-pack human power imbalance, outdoor sex, thighfucking, knotting (doesn't actually happen but discussed in detail)

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WOLVES IN THESE WOODS screams the vandalized trail kiosk. These words are scrawled over a map of the mountain, each big red letter spray painted in so many thick, messy layers that they drip like blood. This eyesore greets you at the edge of the parking lot where gravel turns to dirt and sunlight strains through the leaves. It’s not news, to you or to anyone who’s lived near the mountains for any amount of time. Dogwalkers and families on bikes barely spare the sign a glance as they set off, because of course there are werewolves. They shop at the hardware store and sell produce at the farmer’s market. Once a year, they come to Eastridge City Hall to negotiate another year of peaceful cohabitation and give the local news something to catastrophize about.

And yet, the graffiti gives you pause. It’s probably just some mischief but it looks so dire, clashing with the rustic charm of the wooden kiosk and the tranquil beauty of the forest all around it. You tell yourself there’s nothing to worry about. You’ve seen werewolves before. But the fearful part of your brain that makes you flinch and look around nervously every time a twig snaps reminds you that this is different. You’ve seen them in town, in public, at gas stations and second-hand stores, one time at a coffee shop. You’re on their turf now. You glance back at your car, parked in the shade, and think about backing out. Texting an apology and an excuse, some last minute emergency that you can’t neglect.

“Hey, you made it!” You don’t see him coming because you’re watching the parking lot, not the trail. An arm slings around your shoulder, dragging you into a sideways hug. You’re startled and off-balance, too stunned to do anything about a relative stranger nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck with an uncomfortably deep inhale until it’s already over. He pulls away with one last stroke of his thumb against your cheek, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets and stands at a distance like it never happened. “I’m glad you came,” Corbin says. He looks like he’s been hiking without you, prickly seeds stuck to his jacket and mud caked to his boots. Those vicious markings littering his neck are on full display with his hair pulled back. You try not to look at them but your gaze is repeatedly drawn back down. Some of them look fresh, still puffy and irritated. “It wasn’t too hard to find, right?”

“No, it was fine,” you say, wondering for the hundredth time how he talked you into this. 

“Great! You’re gonna love this trail. It’s super easy, don’t worry. And we can go slow…” Something over your shoulder catches his eye and his brows furrow, his mouth pressing into a tight frown. “Well, that’s annoying. And covering up the map like that! Packless—” He cuts himself off abruptly, glancing at you with a sheepish smile like he said something you might find offensive. Strangest of all, he goes out of his way to take a picture of it, standing back with his phone raised so he can get the whole sign in frame. “Some people, right? Anyway, let’s get moving.” 

You remember the conversation that led to this outing. Idle chatter in a mall food court, held hostage out of polite obligation because he’d bought you lunch even when you insisted he didn’t have to. You smiled nervously while he went on and on about how nice the weather had been lately, how perfect it was for long walks in the woods and how all the best trails were in the next town over. You should’ve seen the invitation coming but instead you were thinking that it was weird, right, that this random guy had suddenly become such a big part of your life, weird that you kept running into each other when he didn’t even leave in Eastridge. 

You were relieved when he stopped showing up at Club Mountainview to tip you obscene amounts of money for serving him appetizers and occasionally refilling his water between drunk, demanding customers, but then he started showing up everywhere else. Not all the time, though. Not so often or so conspicuously that you could confidently call it stalking. Sometimes he comes into your favorite coffee shop just as you’re leaving and he doesn’t even wave. Sometimes he disappears for weeks at a time without explanation. But when you do talk, when he smiles at you and pulls you into his shamelessly intimate affection, rubbing his face in your hair or humming in contentment against your neck, something in you responds with embarrassing eagerness. Maybe you’ve just been too busy lately, starved for interaction. You can’t shake the feeling that he can see right through you. You never say much, but he seems to know you better than you know yourself.

“I appreciate you coming all this way. It doesn’t seem like you get a lot of time off,” Corbin says. The trail is wide enough that you can walk side by side with some room between you, but he sticks close. Your sleeves brush sometimes.

“I’m glad I did,” you tell him. “You weren’t kidding, it’s really nice out here.” 

His eyes light up, smile widening as though you complimented him instead. “It is, isn’t it?” 

The trail is a gentle winding path into the mountains full of birdsong and warm breeze. You see speckles of moss and wildflowers, a sea of swaying greenery that seems to go on forever. Corbin stops halfway across a bridge straddling a river and you clasp the railing beside him, watching the water stream white-capped over the rocks below. You linger for a while, enjoying the sound of the rapids and the occasional glimpse of a fish darting downstream. You catch him staring in the corner of your eye. He smiles, unashamed, and scoots closer. His shoulder rests against yours.

“This is wolf territory,” he says. His tone is strange and hard for you to identify. It’s not sad, exactly, but it’s stern. Solemn. Like he’s telling you something profound. “Do you know much about the pack that lives here?” 

He’s watching your expression carefully and trying to pretend he isn’t. The scrutiny makes you uncomfortable. You push back from the railing and he follows with a small frown but begins walking again, giving you more distance than he did before. “Not really,” you say, shrugging. “I don’t know much about werewolves in general.” 

It’s an odd question, you think, and it’s odder still when he hums in acknowledgement and drops the subject. You keep walking, keenly aware of his presence beside you. You’ve wondered for a while now if Corbin might be a werewolf. You’re sure he was with some when you first met. It wasn’t just that they were a little intense and eccentric. You felt cornered when they looked at you, a spark of fight-or-flight igniting in your chest. It was instinct. You sensed something wild and powerful, and you braced yourself to run if it bared its teeth.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks. The way he looks at you, the sly smile on his lips, makes it seem like he already knows.

You don’t want to ask. That would be rude, right? And what difference does it make? Werewolves haven’t been going around hunting and eating people for centuries, no matter what the tabloids say. “Just thinking,” you say. 

“Mhm? About what?” 

“Just…stuff.” Now he’s staring and not being subtle about it at all. You keep expecting him to trip but he keeps his eyes on you the whole time instead of on the path ahead without any trouble. Like he’s walked this trail a thousand times, you think. Like it’s second nature. “What do you do?” you ask, desperate for something else to talk about. 

“Like, for work?” His gaze wanders away for a moment and he tilts his head, his expression becoming amused and wistful. For such a simple question, he takes a long time considering his answer. “I guess it’s kind of like a human resources job.” He grins. You feel like there’s a joke you’re not getting. “Not the stuffy office kind. I work out here, actually.” 

“Out here?” you echo. “Like with the Parks and Rec service?” 

“With parts of it, yeah.” The path splits, a fork meandering into thicker brush and foliage. You’re not sure if it’s a proper trail or just a common footpath worn into the grass. It’s narrower, rougher and more uneven, carpeted in fallen leaves as though few people have been through to disturb them. There’s a tree right where the smaller path breaks off, a symbol carved into the bark. You don’t know what it is; a mishmash of jagged lines intersect with squiggling curves, gouged into the wood with something sharp. Corbin insists on going this way despite your reservations. “It’s part of the trail, I promise,” he assures you, his hand resting on your lower back with just the slightest pressure, urging you to keep moving. “Unless you’re tired and wanna go back?”

You wouldn’t mind seeing more of the trail, but you stare down the path with apprehension. You see it curves gently upwards as it goes, slowly ascending further into the mountains. “We could head back,” you say, but Corbin doesn’t let go. He keeps pushing, offering a reassuring smile.

“Can I show you one more thing?” he asks. “Just a little further. Then we can go.” Just like that time at the mall, you plan on refusing. The words are on the tip of your tongue but you can’t seem to get them out. There’s something about Corbin—not any particular thing he says or does, just the way he is. He stands close to you. He looks you in the eye. His hand rises from your back and slides up and down your arm instead, a soothing gesture that you find yourself embarrassingly reactive to, and then he takes your hand in his. “You’re afraid of wolves, aren’t you?” 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you answer. He just smiles. 

“It’s alright, I get it. They seem kind of scary, right? A lot stronger and faster than us. But y’know, they’re actually pretty gentle. I’ve been living and working with one of the local packs for a while now. They take good care of me.” 

“You live with them?” you ask, disbelieving. 

Corbin laughs. He takes your hand in both of his, rubbing his thumbs into your skin. “I want to show you something,” he says softly. “Please? I promise, you’re safe with me.” He does it again somehow; quells your worries and draws you closer, talking you into something you didn’t want to do. He keeps holding your hand when he starts walking, looking over his shoulder periodically to smile and tell you it’s not far now. You pass a fallen log with squirrels shuffling around inside, a wooden guardrail at the edge of a ravine, a hill dotted with wildflowers. The birds are louder here, the sunlight even softer where it manages to trickle through the trees. Corbin slows his pace when you almost trip and fall, the toe of your shoe catching on a tree root snaking across the path. He’s looking for something. He keeps talking, telling you the scientific names of everything you can see, but his gaze scans the forest as you walk. 

He must find it, because suddenly he stops and drags you to a halt beside him. You’re quickly ushered off the trail, dragged into a crouch beside Corbin behind a mossy boulder. He doesn’t respond to your nervous stammering except to press his finger to your lips with a mischievous smile. Then he points, over the boulder and up ahead. You don’t see anything. Corbin exhales sharply in amusement at your pinched, confused expression. He gets closer, an arm draped over your shoulders to pull you in as much as he can. He smells like these woods; earth and grass stains, sharply evergreen. His body heat warms your side. He points again. 

This time, you see it but only because it moves. There’s something out there. A blur. A shape. Brown, black and gray, drifting in the spaces between the trees. With a sudden surge of breathless panic, you realize those are wolves. Not one but several, moving with nearly silent, predatory grace. Their tails flick as they trot briskly through the dappled shade. You can tell they’re enormous, even from here, bigger than any dog you’ve ever seen. The one in the lead has thick, coal black fur, and it stops suddenly with a quiet bark. The others spread out in a semi-circle, ears pricked and attentive. 

Corbin squeezes your shoulder as if to remind you he’s there. He leans in, whispering into your ear. “Shepherds. They’re on patrol.” 

You’re not sure if you’re watching a meeting, an argument, or something else altogether. The wolf in charge chuffs and paws at the dirt, the others watching, tilting their heads. They seem to reach some kind of understanding because all but the leader start moving again. That one lingers, watching them leave. It sits in a sunbeam, its dark fur looking silky in the light. Then it lurches forward with a strained whimper like it’s going to be sick, foamy saliva dribbling from its open maw. You watch in speechless horror as the wolf’s fur starts to bulge and shiver like something is moving under its skin. Corbin’s grip on you tightens just as you tense, ready to run.

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “He’s just shifting. He has trouble with it sometimes.” 

You don’t want to watch this but you’re afraid to look away. The wolf curls around itself with limbs that are all wrong, too long and bending strangely. Its paws stretch and lengthen. Its snout shrinks. It groans and the sound is wet and throaty, its fur receding in patches that expose the shift of sinew in sudden, cracking snaps that hurt to hear. You see skin, slick and shining with sweat. You see fingers tipped with thick, black claws. The sound of bones popping in and out of sockets finally fades and you hear soft panting. The wolf is halfway to man. It goes no further. Still breathing heavily, he sits up and runs a hand through long, messy bangs the same dark color as the stubborn patches of fur still clinging to his limbs and back. He climbs to his feet and—

he’s naked. Completely head to toe naked, soft cock and heavy balls dangling between his legs. You think, for the second time, that you shouldn’t be seeing this, but Corbin still doesn’t let you get up. You find him watching you, studying your expression intently. Has he been doing that the whole time? 

“Corbin.” The werewolf’s voice is low, rough and growling. He’s looking right at the two of you like the boulder’s not even there. Corbin laughs. He lets you stand up when he does, but he keeps you trapped against his side. His hand slides from your shoulder to your waist. 

“Beta,” Corbin greets. He lifts his head and tilts it to the side, exposing his throat. The werewolf makes a sound in his throat, something like a dismissive grunt. “This is Sawyer,” he tells you, nodding to the wolf. “He’s not a shepherd anymore, but sometimes he goes with them—”

“Who is this?” Sawyer asks. He approaches slowly, almost cautiously, pointed ears twitching. 

Corbin tries to push you forward but you dig your heels in. “My friend—”

“Shouldn’t be here.” Sawyer’s eyes are like a wolf’s—no sclera, only inky black and golden-brown. You’re afraid to even breathe when his wide-eyed animalistic stare pins you in place. “You’re lucky I found you first, before this became a problem. No one’s thinking clearly this time of year.”

“My friend,” Corbin insists. “The one I told you about, from the club in Eastridge.” Sawyer’s gaze leaves you momentarily, meeting Corbin’s eyes instead. Corbin’s practically vibrating with excitement. His fingers tap a quick rhythm into your side. 

“Ah,” Sawyer says. He looks at you again, still frowning and pensive. “Should I go?” you ask nervously. 

“No.” Your heart skips a beat when Sawyer and Corbin answer in unison, the word pronounced as a firm growl. Corbin laughs. Sawyer doesn’t, shifting uncomfortably. His tail sways in a slow, uncertain wag. “No,” he repeats quietly. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m…cautious with outsiders.” 

You never expected to hear a werewolf sound so anxious and awkward. “It’s okay. I get it, I’m in your home.” 

“My home is open to you.” He looks off into the distance. It’s hard to deny that he’s handsome. He has unusual features, everything sharpened and wolf-like but still recognizably human. He’s taller than both you and Corbin, lithe and muscular, the story of a long, difficult life told across the many scars carved into his skin. His limbs are long, unnaturally so, like something didn’t settle where it was supposed to while he was shifting. 

“They’re a little nervous around werewolves,” Corbin chuckles, making your face fill with embarrassed heat. 

“I just haven’t met very many,” you insist. Sawyer glances at you and you still can’t tell if he’s angry or not. You break eye contact and hear him take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

“You can look at me, if you’d like,” he offers. He tilts his head, a gesture that strikes you as very dog-like and endearing. “I prefer doing search and rescue in wolfskin, but some people are afraid of dogs. So I approach slowly. I lay down and let them get a good look at me first. It tends to help.” You try to insist that it’s not a problem, you’re not afraid of dogs, but Sawyer just shakes his head. “Come look. It doesn’t bother me. I know I’m a little strange compared to the others.” 

Corbin nudges you gently. You resist the first time, more weakly the second. The third soft push sends you a few steps forward. Sawyer doesn’t move, letting you come to him. You’re still nervous but Corbin encourages you with a nod and a grin. “He doesn’t bite. Not unless you’re really good, or really bad.” 

“Corbin,” Sawyer says, his tone almost scolding. He’s still not smiling, but maybe that’s just how he is. He looks calm, at least, no longer terse or frustrated. His posture is loose and open, arms at his sides and gaze casually wandering the woods, but his tail is moving faster now. Wagging, like a happy dog. It’s hard not to find him cute. The closer you get, the more details emerge. He has freckles on his shoulders. A habit of leaning, resting all of his weight on one leg or the other. Old scars, mostly on his chest and upper body, a few bald patches in the fur on his arms in jagged stripes. When you’re close enough to touch him, you notice he has scars on his face, too, mostly hidden by his unkempt hair. “You’re from Eastridge,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question, but you nod. “Corbin says you work at a…nightclub.” He says “nightclub” like it’s a city in a foreign country, some place he’s heard of but never seen. 

“Yeah, in the restaurant. I wait tables, nothing fancy.”

“Hm. Sounds unpleasant. Thankless.”

Thankless. Didn’t Corbin use the exact same word when you first met? “It can be sometimes,” you admit.

Sawyer looks at Corbin again. You get the feeling that they’re communicating somehow, sharing an understanding you’re not privy to. “Do you mind if I…greet you?” Sawyer asks. There’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before, some emotion he’s trying to mask. “The traditional way.” 

“Uh, I guess that’s fine?” You’ve barely finished speaking when he steps forward. Two long strides and he has you, his thumb on your chin tilting your head to the side. He has to bend slightly to bury his face in the side of your neck. He takes long, audible sniffs and rubs his face into your skin, one cheek and then the other. Your hands are on his shoulders but you don’t push him away because this is familiar, you realize. Corbin does this to you all the time. It’s a little more intense with Sawyer because he wants you as close as possible, right up against him so it’s impossible to ignore the twitching heat of his cock nestled against your abdomen. 

Sawyer makes a low, rumbling sound, something between a growl and a purr. “Mm. Hello,” he drawls. He sounds happy, almost intoxicated. He nuzzles into you again with a relieved sigh. “Sorry, again. Hard to tell at a distance. You smell trustworthy.” 

It’s such a strange thing to say that you can’t help but laugh. “What does that smell like?” you ask, nervous. Trying to pull away doesn’t get you anywhere. Sawyer’s arms are a vice around you and it’s a struggle just to turn far enough to look back at Corbin for help.

“Like me, basically,” Corbin says. He almost sounds smug. 

“Like him,” Sawyer agrees. He cups your face in his large, clawed hands and “greets” you again, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead. Your heart flutters when he noses along your jaw and under your chin, maneuvering you as he likes. He speaks in a low, steady murmur while he explains. “Some emotions come through, if they’re strong enough. Some intentions. What isn’t there also matters. No wolf blood. No gunpowder. No chemical accelerant. I can tell the difference, you know. Whether you were just filling up your car or if you’ve been…up to something. Especially out here.”

“Gunpowder?” you repeat, startled. “Accelerant? Wh—why—?”

“Hunters.” Corbin is closer than you remember him being. He stands right behind you, rubbing your shoulders. Trying to move away from Sawyer presses you against Corbin instead and he chuckles like you did something cute, nuzzling the back of your head. “The regular kind’s bad enough,” he mutters. “But the worst ones are infiltrators, acting like they want—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sawyer says sharply. You feel Corbin stiffen behind you. He bows his head meekly, kissing your shoulder. Sawyer takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He rubs his cheek against yours one more time and then he pulls back far enough to look you in the eye. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, his tone softening. “It was nice to meet you. I should…” He trails off. You watch the muscles in his throat tense and bob when he swallows. His gaze lowers to your lips, your neck, your chest. His cock twitches again. You feel it stiffening, filling with blood. 

“How do they smell?” Corbin asks. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers kneading their way into the waistband of your pants. 

Sawyer grips the back of your neck with sudden firmness. He makes that rumbling sound again in response to your frightened stammering, hushing you softly before he inhales against your throat. “Afraid,” he murmurs. “But not just afraid.” He rocks his hips, grinding his hot, hardening cock against your clothes. There’s not enough room to struggle. Trying to wiggle out from between them just makes them both close in harder, chest to chest with Sawyer while Corbin drapes himself against your back. 

“You’re okay,” Corbin coos, his gentle tone completely at odds with how roughly he grabs your wrists and yanks them behind your back. “Shhhh, no, you’re okay. He’s not gonna hurt you.” 

Sawyer tilts your head back and makes you look at him. Fight or flight fails you. You freeze in terror. Those haunting black and gold eyes don’t belong to a man but an animal, hungry and about to pounce. “Please let me go,” you beg him, your voice quivering. “Please, please don’t—” His hand wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t have to. The threat is there, his callused palm resting on your windpipe. Why didn’t you scream earlier? Why aren’t you screaming now? You can hear your own thudding pulse in your temples. “It’s okay,” Corbin whispers. “It’s all okay. You’re safe, and you’re so special and so loved. Do you want him?” You stammer out a refusal, pleas, scared sounds. Corbin chuckles and noses against your ear. “You can be honest. It’s okay if you do. Wolves want us, and we want them. That’s just how it is.”

Sawyer’s trying to undress you. He tugs at your pants but he stops when you make a shrill sound of panic and start to twist and fight. He seizes the back of your neck again, harder this time, and you go completely still when his teeth scrape the tender flesh of your throat. 

Corbin takes over for him. He holds both of your wrists in one hand, the other gradually exposing your hips to the cool air. “You’re being so good. That’s it. Deep breaths. He’s not mad at you. He wants you so much.” He’s hard, you realize. Fully hard and throbbing in his pants. Corbin’s breath hitches and he moans softly into your ear, getting off on all of this. “He’s gonna use your thighs,” Corbin whispers, low and excited. He gets your pants down just far enough to expose your sex and the swell of your ass, keeping your legs trapped. “Just your thighs. Don’t be scared. He’s gonna let you feel his knot.”

Sawyer growls. He grabs you by the hips and you feel his cock poking your inner thigh. He drags you into his movements, long, slow thrusts against your sex that make you whine. He’s still growing, still getting harder every time he pushes against you. His fat, flared tip narrows to a point, a pearl of precum beading right on top. He changes his angle to smear it into your skin, rubbing his tip back and forth against your sex until you’re both a sticky mess. His hands slip behind you, between your bare backside and Corbin’s clothed erection, groping your ass and kneading the cheeks apart. He gets your thighs open just enough to slip his cock between them, nestled right under your sex. You feel every inch of him when he moves back and forth. His shaft is long and thick, bulging along the bottom. 

You can’t remember when you started holding onto him, when Corbin let your wrists go, but Sawyer growls, “Good,” in a gravelly rumble that sends heat rushing between your legs. The praise startles you, makes your heart race faster. “So good, giving in like this. Your instincts know what to do.” He moves faster, harder. You hear your bodies together, skin to skin, the slap of his balls against your thighs every time your hips meet as if he’s really fucking you, as if you’ve taken him all the way to the base. Your sex throbs. Sawyer pants and grunts and ruts like an animal, needy like he’s been waiting for this all his life. You’re lightheaded with a heady mix of fear, shame and desire. He mouths at your pulse, hungrily lapping at your neck like he can taste how much you want him. 

“God, you’re a natural,” Corbin whispers. He’s still touching you, still humping your ass while Sawyer fucks your thighs. When did he get his pants off? You can feel the metal of his open zipper warming on the back of your legs, his cock sandwiched between your cheeks. “That’s it. Don’t think so much, just feel. Move with him. Just like that, sweetheart. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

You feel delirious, dizzy and burning. You’re really doing it, grinding back on a stranger, a werewolf, in the middle of the woods. It feels good to let go. To not worry or think or even decide what happens next, letting him guide you, letting Corbin tell you how perfect you are for it. You arch your back, pushing yourself into Sawyer’s steady thrusts and Corbin’s frantic grinding, hearing them both groan appreciatively. There’s something swollen at the base of Sawyer’s cock, an engorged, sensitive bulge that he loves to shove between your thighs and grind back and forth, shaking his hips so you feel just how big it is, hot and pulsing under your sex. 

“Squeeze your thighs together,” Sawyer says. His voice is low and broken, more growl than human speech. You do what he asks without hesitation. It feels good to trap his knot right under your sex and feel it throb against you. It feels even better when he hisses “yes, fuck, yes!” and ruts mindlessly, short jackhammering thrusts into the tight warmth of your thighs. “Good, so good. Sweet bunny,” he moans. He buries his face in your neck again, alternating between deep breaths and sloppy kisses with his sharp teeth threatening to break the skin. He says more but you can’t understand him with it all slurred and muffled, sounding like another language entirely.

“Fuck!” Corbin wraps his arms around you when he cums, clutching your waist. He presses against you everywhere he can reach, his chest to your back, his cheek against your shoulder, humping like a rabbit in heat. He babbles and whimpers as his thrusts go from fast and hard to long and trembling, cum splattering your hips and ass and dampening your shirt. “You’re so good, so sweet, want you again, wanna see you on alpha’s knot…” He’s determined to take you over the edge with him, groping and grabbing at you even while he’s still trembling and catching his breath. He nuzzles into your neck on the opposite side from Sawyer, kissing and licking, nipping the lobe of your ear. “You want that? You wanna get stretched on a werewolf knot? There’s nothing else like it. You’d be so fucking full. And our beta’s so big, he’d get nice and deep. You’d be stuffed…” He rubs your stomach. “All the way up to here,” he whispers.

Sawyer swivels his hips again, grinds his knot against your sex one more time, and that’s all it takes. You’re grateful when he surges forward and crushes your lips together, swallowing the embarrassingly loud sounds you make as you buck your hips and ride out your orgasm. You cling to him like you’re drowning, arms around his neck and moaning helplessly into his mouth. His claws dig into your ass and you wonder what this would feel like if those hard, grinding thrusts were inside of you instead, if his length was dragging on your inner walls and his tip was hammering your sweet spot, his knot popping into place. The heat and the friction build to maddening overstimulation and you’re whimpering, begging wordlessly for mercy. His tongue strokes yours and you’re drooling, slack-jawed and fucked senseless from nothing but this frantic, animalistic humping and Corbin’s voice in your ear. 

“You’re so cute,” he purrs. “It’s like you already know how to submit. Not so scared now, are you? No, you’re perfect. You’d take a knot so well. Fuck, I knew I was right about you.”

You don’t know when Sawyer cums. You don’t know much of anything but heat and sensation, pleasant friction and painful chafing, Sawyer’s tongue and teeth and claws. Eventually, his knot shrinks. His cock slips out from between your legs and you’re lowered gently to the forest floor, held between two spent, sweaty bodies. You feel sticky and disgusting. Someone strokes your hair and someone squeezes your hip and you aren’t sure who’s doing what, just that they’re there with you.

“Really wish you’d warned me first.” You can feel the vibration of Sawyer’s voice against your skin, a deep rumble. 

“If I did that, you’d just run and hide,” Corbin says quietly. One of them kisses the top of your head. “You and Linden have that in common.”

“Watch yourself, hrefn.” The words are playful. They shift around you. You hear a kiss exchanged, a soft sigh. “Are we bringing them up now?” 

“No. Gonna do it properly, next time. This was just a test. I had to make sure.” 

“Next time?” Sawyer asks, concerned. “I’m not the human expert, but…” 

“Well, I am. So trust me.” Corbin reacts immediately when you start squirming, trying to sit up. He helps you, steadying your shoulders. “Hey,” he coos. “Welcome back. Feeling alright?” 

You don’t say anything. The reality of what you just did—of what just happened to you—creeps in slowly. He tricked you. Pressured you into this. Kept pushing even when you didn’t want to, even when you were terrified. You tug your pants back on, wincing at all the cum sticking to your skin. Sawyer tries to touch your shoulder and you flinch, leaning away from him. His fingers twitch like he thinks of grabbing you, forcing you to show him your neck again, but he never does. He lowers his hand slowly and you let out a shaky breath. You only let Corbin pull you to your feet because your legs are shaking too badly to stand up alone. 

“Let’s get you back to your car,” he says sweetly. Like he didn’t just lure you into the woods to trap you between him and a werewolf. “I’ll be back in a bit, just gonna walk them down the trail.” 

“Mhm.” You don’t look at Sawyer but you feel him staring. His gaze burns into your back when you stumble away, clinging reluctantly to Corbin. You look back just once to make sure he doesn’t follow you. The trail is empty. There’s only trees and bushes and fallen leaves. Somehow, you still feel like you’re being watched all the way to the parking lot. 

“It was so nice to see you—”

You slam the door in Corbin’s face. He just smiles, stepping back as you hurriedly shove your keys in the ignition. You need to get out of here. Need a shower, need the safety of your home, need to throw a few things in a bag and find somewhere else to stay for a while. Corbin is still standing there at the start of the trail when you start driving. He waves at your rearview mirror and then he walks away. Not into the parking lot, but back up the trail. Into the woods and up the mountain. When he’s gone, all that’s left is the trail kiosk standing sentinel, casting its shadow across the trail.

WOLVES IN THESE WOODS, it says.

[carryonmywaywardbabes]

Mean wolves! I've actually only watched mean girls once and it was last year but I loved it! I'm really tired and besides working out a shit ton today it was a really good day #teenwolf #meangirls #meanwolves #theoraeken #peterhale #derekhale #jacksonwhittemore #stilesstilinski -K

[prosevspoetry]

GUISE.

GUISE.

WHAT IF FANFICTION HAD MADE: MEAN WOLVES.

"I don't know what you're talking about?" Allison said, quirking her left eyebrow up in a state of adorable confusion.

"You're a regulation hottie," Erica replied, taking a look at her thumb cuticle. 

Allison didn't know what to say to that. She looked at Stiles with a quick chirp of wat and he had continued to gaze with slight judgment, "Own it."

MY MIND IS ROLLING.

LYDIA QUEEN BEE.

DATING SCOTT.

SAFJLASFJLAKSFLASKFAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

[rotworld]

12: Cruelty

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you've heard that there are werewolves who kidnap humans, set them loose in the wilderness and hunt them down to claim them as beloved pack humans. you think that's wonderful. you wish those were the kinds of werewolves who'd found you instead.

->original work. explicit; contains graphic descriptions of violence, non-con, gore, torture, hard vore, feral behavior, conditioning, implied captivity, dom/sub dynamic, mentions of knotting.

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It starts so soft and faraway. 

A whisper. A warble, like the song of a bird. But it grows and it strengthens, becoming clearer. Louder. Closer. “No,” you hear over rustling grass and snapping branches. “No!” over the heavy, thrashing drag of something fighting for its life. “No! No!” sobbed and shrieked and ignored. Dead leaves crunch beneath a scuffle, a quick, futile struggle. Growls and laughter. Cloth shredding. Belt buckles clinking and zippers hissing. “No! No! NO! NO NO NO NO!” 

The alpha holds your gaze. He sits on the big sectional sofa in the den, legs spread apart, an arm slung over the backrest. There’s nothing genetic about leading a pack but he matches the stereotype with his broad, muscular shoulders and thick arms, looming somehow even when he’s sitting down. He watches every quivering move you make, every wince and fidget and nervous glance around the room while a woman screams right outside. You hear her get loose; the shocked, tremulous gasp of unexpected freedom, her racing footfalls down the dirt path. And then the wheeze, the frustrated cry when she’s caught again and dragged back over the rough, gritty ground and tossed at the pack’s feet where they jeer and howl in delight. 

They’ll keep doing it, over and over again. Hold her down with a weak, clumsy grip that just begs to be broken, and then catch her before she’s gone ten steps. They’ll do it until she learns or she can’t run anymore.

“What am I going to do with you?” the alpha drawls. His hand drums along the back of the couch, the rhythm crisp and loud from his thick fingers and sharp nails. He’s scowling and it tugs at the scars on the side of his face—on his chin and the corner of his mouth, crooked across the bridge of nose, curling around one eye. The woman tries to run again. Gets caught again. Screams in fear and rage and helplessness, again. His stare is constant. Scrutinizing. Searching for something. “What happened?” he asks. 

You stare at the floor. At the dappled fur rug. At wooden table legs. He’s still wearing his work boots, brown leather and black rubber soles with dirt flecking the toes. “I…” You swallow hard. Your voice is hoarse and shaky. “Um. I don’t…I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know,” he repeats, his flat tone telling you that was the wrong answer.

“I should’ve been watching her,” you say quickly. “I didn’t. And that was wrong. And it’s my fault.” 

The alpha glances pointedly at the backpack on the table between you, gray and waterproof with all the compartments unzipped. There’s enough food in there for several days with careful rationing. A change of clothes. A water bottle. A pocket knife. “How long, exactly, were you not watching her?” he asks. 

Your face heats and your pace quickens. His voice is the usual deep, quiet rumble. His posture is loose, sprawled and relaxed. But his gaze is piercing. His eyes are a bright, frosty blue like a frozen lake, tracking even the smallest moves you make. He would lunge if you turned your back to him right now. “She might’ve been sneaking out,” you admit. 

“Might’ve?” he echoes with dry amusement. “That’s Clive’s bag.”

“No,” you hear, soft and broken. There’s a snarl. A rumbling growl. A howl and then a chorus of them. And then the sound you were dreading most, wet and crunching, the shrill screech of unthinking agony. He keeps you pinned under his gaze as the sickening sounds outside swell to a terrifying cacophony of frenzied beasts and squealing prey. Claws rake through flesh and teeth sink into soft tissue. Blood spills across the grass. You can hear them biting and chewing and tearing her apart one red, oozing mouthful at a time. Pleasured grunts and slick, rhythmic slapping tell you they’re in the thick of hunting lust, fucking their fists and rubbing their stiff, knot-engorged cocks against any wound they can reach. 

“Strip,” the alpha orders. Your hands are shaking but you obey without hesitation, shirt and pants and everything discarded on the floor. It makes the leather collar around your neck feel especially noticeable, like a brand on your skin. You stand there trembling, wishing desperately for silence. All you can hear is the wretched, gurgling moans of an animal dying and the pack, ravenous in every way. Grunts and snarls and the awful ripping-tearing of meat caught between two maws, bestial groans and the slap of skin on skin. 

The alpha’s eyes rake up and down your body. He tugs down the zipper of his pants and frees his hardening cock, stroking it slowly.

“Come,” he says. You lower your gaze when you get closer, standing between his open legs. Another mistake. One of his large hands grips your face, squeezing your jaw. He makes you look him in the eye. “What do you think you deserve?” 

“Punishment,” you whisper. 

“Punishment?” He turns your face towards the window beside him. You can’t see anything but a mass of shadows shifting, contorting, rutting. You hear a strangled whine. “Like that? Huh? That kind of punishment?” 

“No, alpha,” you whimper. “No, no, no, not that, I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I’m sorry—” 

“This is your mess,” the alpha says, dangerously calm and quiet. “She was your responsibility.”

“I’m sorry!” You’re sobbing. You can’t stop yourself. “I’m sorry, alpha, I’m sorry!” 

The corner of his lips twitch, a snarl barely suppressed. He can smell the tang of your fear and the sharp salt of your tears. It makes him stroke himself faster, his cock jutting thick and hard in his fist. “You make this hard, hrefn,” he murmurs. “You’re my favorite. Always have been. But this is about the worst thing you could’ve done, short of making a run for it yourself.” His thumb strokes your cheek, catching a tear as it slips from the corner of your eye. “I’m not sure I can just let this go.” 

You both hear the footsteps coming but the alpha hears them first. His head cocks to the side, gaze wandering as he follows something moving outside. A shape darts past the windows. A four-legged gait lightens to two, creaking up the cabin steps. The front door squeals open and slams shut. Someone ambles down the hall, humming under their breath. A sharp knock at the door to the den makes you flinch. 

“Did you start without me?” It’s Maddox, your beta. Your breathing gets faster and shakier. The alpha rests a hand between your neck and shoulder, squeezing hard in warning. He looks you in the eye again and you might as well be shackled to the spot.

“Come in,” he says. You hear the door open and then a soft, amused exhale. The door shuts. Locks. Footsteps cross the room and stop right behind you. “The others?” 

“Where they’re supposed to be,” Maddox says. He must’ve checked on the other pack humans. That’s his job, after all. Some packs would refer to his role as “head shepherd.” 

Your pack calls him a “bitch-breaker.”

“Did they know anything?” the alpha asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Although they didn’t seem all that surprised, either. May I?” 

The alpha grunts and lets you go. You’re tapped on the shoulder from behind, urged to turn around. You don’t want to but the longer you stall, the worse this will be. Hesitantly, you look away from the alpha. Maddox has just shifted, naked from head to toe with all of his curling, runic tattoos on display around his arms and legs. Shaggy brown hair hangs over his shoulders and claw marks, healed pale and jagged, slash across his chest. One of his old wounds is not like the others. It’s a starburst in one of his pectorals. A knife wound, small and unremarkable in the mass of his other battle scars.

That was you, what feels like a lifetime ago. That was your last act of defiance.

“Hello, hrefn,” he says, smiling wryly. You nod meekly. He chuckles, stroking your head in soft pets. “You poor thing. Has alpha asked you lots of questions?” 

“Hardly,” the alpha mutters. “Didn’t get much further than what happened. Said they weren’t watching close enough.” 

Maddox hums in acknowledgement. “Is that true? You weren’t watching the new pack human?” 

“I…” You whimper. “I tried—”

“Sit,” he snaps. 

You drop to your knees on the floor. He closes what little distance remains between you, putting you eye-level with his soft cock. Maddox grips himself by the base with one hand, pumping leisurely. His other hand grabs the back of your head. You open your mouth without being told. 

“I won’t pretend to be shocked,” Maddox says quietly, speaking to the alpha over your head. “Any human Heath picks is always trouble. Just getting her to follow simple commands was like pulling teeth.” He drags his fingers over your scalp as a reward for easy submission, how eagerly you lick and suck his hardening flesh. 

“How do you feel about training another hrefn?” the alpha asks. 

You whimper around Maddox’s cock, peering up at him pleadingly. You massage his thighs and take all of him into your mouth, running your tongue along the underside of his shaft. “I’d rather not,” he admits. “You need just the right human for it. None of the others are a good fit, and it’d take some time even if they were. And besides, this one’s new. Barely had a chance to even settle into the role.” He glances down at you, thrusting slowly into your mouth. You moan around him and he smiles. He suddenly snags a fistful of your hair and drags you off of his cock, pulling hard enough to make you arch your back and crane your neck at an uncomfortable angle. “Do you deserve another chance?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, quick and desperate. “I do.” 

Maddox tilts his head. “Really? It doesn’t seem like you do.” 

“I do,” you insist, your voice pitched with terror. “Please—” 

He forces you back down. Now fully hard, he slams into the back of your throat and your fingers dig into his hips as you try not to choke. He doesn’t thrust. He just holds you there, face buried in curls of pubic hair and his firm abdomen, mouth full of his cock, until you stop fighting and steady your breathing through your nose. Just as you start to relax again, he grabs your head with both hands and fucks your mouth with hard, fast thrusts that make your jaw ache.

“If you had to guess,” the alpha says, “what happened here?” 

Maddox makes a wolf sound, a feral growling noise that nearly ignites your fight-or-flight. He shoves his whole length down your throat and holds you still again making slight, grinding motions with his hips that mercilessly tease your gag reflex. “They’re tired, probably,” he says. “I caught them being a little too lenient right after the new one got here so we’ve had some remedial lessons. Might’ve gotten a little overeager, kept them up too late.” 

“You? Overeager?” the alpha drawls. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls out, glistening strings of saliva and sticky precum connecting his cock to your lips and tongue. “And you were too scared to tell me, weren’t you? You thought it would sound like a bad excuse.” You nod weakly, your face slick with tears. 

The alpha lets out an amused huff. “So this is partially your fault.”

“Maybe a little. But it’s a good lesson for everyone, isn’t it?” Maddox slips a hand beneath your chin, wiping your swollen, slick lips with his thumb. “Next time, tell me,” he says sternly. “I need to know if you’re nodding off at midday. Managing pack humans is my job, too.” You nod again, sagging with relief. Maddox smiles again and taps your cheek. “Open.” 

You wrap your hand around the twitching bulge of his knot while his fist pumps his cock in short, quick strokes. He never takes his eyes off of you while he pleasures himself. With the threat of death lifted, you find yourself squeezing your thighs together, wanting desperately to touch yourself. Maddox has made sure that the mere sight of a werewolf knot is enough to send blood rushing between your legs. The weight of it against your palm is even more arousing. All you can think about is how satisfying it would feel inside you. 

“Good,” Maddox growls when he cums. He covers your face in it, pumping thick, white spurts over your cheeks and into your waiting mouth. “Good hrefn. Fuck, you’re so good.” He doesn’t have to ask you to suck his tip and lick up the last few drops. The alpha finishes on your back with a muted grunt. You squirm when he smears it into your skin with his hands, callused palms massaging his scent into your neck and shoulders. “Look at you. You want it so bad you’re shaking,” Maddox purrs. He wipes a glob of cum out of your eyelashes with a chuckle. “You can have my knot later since you’ll be staying with me tonight. I think we need another remedial lesson.” 

“Don’t let this happen again,” the alpha warns him.

Maddox laughs and promises it won’t. He helps you stand, cooing at the way you wobble with your knees sore and stinging. He tells you to get your clothes but not to get dressed. You won’t be needing them for the rest of the night. The alpha dismisses you both with a curt nod and Maddox’s arm slings over your shoulder, guiding you out of the den.

He steers you to the side rather than straight down the path. Your stomach lurches. You know where you’re going when you see bits of torn clothing and blood on the floor. The pack has scattered; all that remains are their leftovers. You wouldn’t recognize her if someone asked you who she was. There’s just not enough left, all the bits and pieces scattered across the ground. All the bones are covered in stringy, fleshy bits, saliva and teeth marks. 

“It’s funny,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Clive’s pretty careful with his bag. She’d have to have broken a window or busted down the door to get it. Or known someone with a key.”

Your heart sinks. Maddox bends slightly so you’re closer to eye level, leaning in beside you. He smiles, squeezing your shoulder.

“If you ever do something like this again,” he whispers, “I won’t let the pack have you. I’ll take you out here myself. I’ll knot your fucking throat and break your jaw, and then I’ll snap your femurs. I’ll eat you alive, hrefn, but not like they do. I’ll make it last until sunrise. Do you understand?” You nod quickly. Maddox scoffs, unconvinced, but pets you a few times. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite,” he says.

You nod again, pushing against his hand eagerly like an excited dog, and it makes him laugh. You smile at him and press against his side. You try desperately not to cry.

[rotworld]

Do the meanwolves (especially the alphas and betas and corbin) have specific preferences for their / a potential partner(s)?

 i try to avoid specific preferences for characters in keeping with the spirit of a reader insert. i can say some general stuff for the sake of matchmaking, but the idea here is that you are desirable to any character who shows up on this blog.

the “traditional ideal” for pack humans and the most likely to get targeted are people who work customer service jobs. this is mostly about who’s easiest to convince or kidnap, but there is a pervasive superstition among wild wolves that humans who work customer service are more submissive. they’re big on hierarchy and believe humans naturally go at the bottom of that hierarchy, so of course obedience and submission are something they all gravitate towards, but they’re just as happy to train that into someone as they are to find someone who’s already like that.

lance is complicated and i’m not sure he really knows what he wants. at the very least, he likes extreme submission and demonstrations of trust and vulnerability.

blake thinks of himself as a caretaker so he’s extra excited if you play into that and seem/act helpless or dependent on him.

vanagandr is probably more open to “feistiness” than some wolves. he’s very secure in his position as alpha so a little defiance doesn’t bother him. he’s the type to enjoy brat taming.

sawyer is also complicated and he’s really slow to trust or open up to people. he’s very physical and prefers not to talk if he doesn’t have to, so being okay with that will help.

corbin completely buys into the werewolf ideal of “submissive customer service workers” so this is his type lmao if he sees you meekly suffering at minimum wage and thinks you’re cute, he’s already texting vanagandr about bringing someone new home.

[rotworld]

The Oldest Dance

you knew a werewolf when you were younger. your lives went in different directions, but you find yourself suddenly reunited under the worst possible circumstances.

->explicit. contains kidnapping, drugging, power imbalance, mentions of noncon and conditioning, biting, feral behavior, mild gore.

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You’ve never seen so many stars before.

The thought strikes you only after the sharp burn of adrenaline dies to a simmer. Fear curdles into exhaustion. Time gets fuzzy. Between the hairpin turns of the road and the lush sea of furs and bedding all around you, there’s no way to get your footing or your bearings. You test the rope around your wrists again and there’s no give, no weakness, just an unpleasant, stinging friction where they’ve been chafing your skin. You hear the rumble of the engine, the scrape of tires over dirt, branches dragging like nails across the windows. You can barely see a thing, and it’s not just your blurry, swimming vision, the exhaustion clinging stubbornly to your eyes. It’s dark here and dark outside, the whole world just a mass of merging shadows. 

And the stars…you must not be in town anymore. Not even close to it.

There’s nowhere to go but you still fight to sit up, to get to your knees at least. It’s not a dip in the road or a sudden turn that throws you off balance this time. Someone grabs the back of your neck and shoves you down again. That large, callused hand could almost wrap all the way around your throat if it wanted, but it settles on your nape, squeezing with the gentle but firm chiding of an animal scruffing its young. 

“First one’s awake,” you hear.

There’s a sharp, amused exhale from the front seats, driver’s side. “The one who barely touched their drink, I’m guessing. You got a grip on them?” 

“Yeah. It’s fine, they’re still groggy.” 

You run your hands through the blankets, hoping you look confused instead of searching, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Wool. Flannel. A zipper? Someone curled up on their side, breathing softly. Your elbow bumps into a warm body beside you, a bony shoulder exposed by a sagging, oversized sweater. They mutter in their sleep. The hand on the back of your neck eases when you settle and don’t try to get up again, but it stays, thumb gently stroking. It takes everything you have to keep your breathing calm and even.

Three of you back here, you count. Captives. The other two still out cold. And four of them. Two in the front and two in the back, keeping watch.

“Should only be a half hour or so for the rest, as long as you didn’t give them too much.” You recognize the voice from the passenger seat. He was at the club. Smaller guy, not huge like the one kneeling next to you. Dark hair. Dazzling smile. And touchy, always trying to get in your space, talking a little too close for comfort. It all starts coming back in a slow trickle. Right. The club. And that guy, Corbin, you’ve seen him a few times before, thought he was a little weird but he always seemed to know when to back off. So how…why…?

“Wish we could’ve taken the fourth one, too,” the guy holding you down says wistfully. His hand rubs up and down your back in a soothing, absentminded motion. “Such pretty eyes, and a sweet scent.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from the other guy in the back, a hulking figure sitting against the wall further from you. “Bigger hunts are always more fun,” he murmurs.

“Aww, I know,” Corbin coos. “But trust me, they weren’t a good match. These three, on the other hand? They’re perfect.” There’s a glimmer of light in the front seat—the glare of a cell phone illuminating part of Corbin’s jaw. It’s nearly blinding after your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it suddenly occurs to you why you can’t see anything. Not the men, not much more than lumpy silhouettes, not any trees distinct from the moving shadows beyond the windows; nothing but stars. 

They’re not using headlights. These are wolves.

You surge up in a panic, scrabbling blindly for the doors. It’s probably not a good idea—even if they’re miraculously unlocked, you won’t accomplish much more than tumbling out in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe skin yourself on the road in the process—but your terror is louder than your rational thinking. You fight the hands that grab you, screaming, clawing, biting like an animal, thrashing with all your strength. It takes both of them to pin you back down and you savor that even through the humiliating briefness of your rebellion, wrestled onto your stomach with a hand shoving your head down into the blankets.

You don’t expect him to bite you and that drags a shrill but short noise out of you. You’re not ready for what it feels like, the weight of him across your back and the crunch of his teeth sinking in, a hot gush of blood dribbling past his snarling lips. It hurts like hell and it doesn’t stop. Every time you squirm, every panicked jerk and attempted wriggling movement, makes him growl against your skin. He holds your hands down with his much larger, much stronger ones, fingers pinning yours on either side of your head, and that’s when you finally give in. You aren’t punished for the last nervous shiver that travels down your spine, or the whimper that slips out when he loosens his jaw and pulls away, strings of saliva and sticky blood slicking your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good human. Stay down.” The gentleness of his fingers stroking your scalp makes a sob build in your throat. 

“You got it?” the driver asks.

“Yeah, sorry, I got it. Tried to keep the bite light, but they wouldn’t submit. Might leave a mark.” He traces his thumb over the throbbing wound he left behind, ragged and still bleeding. 

Corbin chuckles. “It’s fine, I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.” You can’t see him clearly but you can tell he’s turned around, leaning slightly around his seat to peer into the back. You can feel his gaze burning into you. “I won’t tell you not to fight. I hope you do,” he says, lowering his voice slightly. Talking to you rather than about you, you realize. “I chose you because I knew you would. It’s a good thing. Good for the pack. Eventually, you’ll learn how to pick your battles.” 

“Fuck you,” you say, embarrassed by how shaky and hoarse you sound. 

You can’t see what kind of expression he has, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’ll thank me someday.” 

It doesn’t take long for the other two to wake after all the commotion. One just stares in silent shock and disbelief. The other starts to cry. The other wolf in the back pulls them into his lap and nuzzles his face against their cheek and neck, as though they want anything to do with him. He grunts unhappily when they cry harder and shove him away. You can just make out a chorus of howls over the sound of the engine. The wolf who bit you starts stroking your back again, a melodic hum rumbling in his chest. 

“The heartland joining us tonight?” the driver asks.

Corbin hums softly. “They’re abstaining. A few might come to watch.” 

“Ah, that’s a shame. I hoped one of these might be a good fit.” 

“Linden needs an absolutely perfect match. It’s my next project.” 

You don’t catch what else they say because those quiet, miserable sobs turn to heartwrenching wailing. The other person in the back starts to plead for their life. The wolf closest to them strokes their cheek. “You’re not going to die,” he murmurs. “Hush. It’ll all make sense soon.” 

The van slows, relief and terror warring in your heart. You can run—and go where? You don’t know where you are, don’t know the way back to town. Outrunning a werewolf is a tall order under the best circumstances. You’re on their turf, in the dark; you don’t stand a chance. Doesn’t matter. You have to try. The road gets rougher, the foliage thicker like grasping hands. The van rolls to a slow, grinding stop and the engine dies. You’re surprised nobody tries to restrain you before the locks disengage and the back doors are thrown open, but it doesn’t take long to see why.

You’re deep in the woods. The full moon drapes a thin, silver gleam over the silhouettes of shifting figures, animal eyes shining in the dark. There must be dozens of them—thirty, maybe forty wolves, all sniffing the air, growling and pacing impatiently. More are still coming, slipping through the trees in the shape of both humans and beasts. You’re completely surrounded. They form a wide circle around the van, all eyes trained on you and the other two petrified people huddled at your back. You can hear them talking to each other, their voices half-feral with barks and growls.

“Three? Just three?��� 

“Three’s a lot for the off-season.”

“All awake, too. Afraid and alert. Gonna be a good hunt.” 

“And look at that one in front, bristling like that. Think they’ll bite back?” 

Laughter. Your stomach churns. One of the wolves gets out of the van while the other leans in close at your side, the two of them gradually easing you out and onto your feet. A door slams. The wolf who was driving gets out, stretches his legs. You see him kick off his shoes and shed his shirt, tossing his clothes into the driver’s seat before he suddenly falls down on all fours and shifts into a wolf. The change is nearly instant, a chorus of unpleasant, bone-cracking sounds, his skin engulfed in dark fur. Corbin wanders into view, glancing at the three of you with an expression of infuriating tranquility. 

Golden light flickers in the corner of your vision. The crowd parts and the man who steps forward makes the wolves you’ve seen so far seem small and delicate in comparison. Massive and towering over all the rest, his chest bare and broad, muscled shoulders adorned with tattoos, he comes forward with a lantern in his hand and a sharp grin on his face. The others all have that intimidating air about them but this one truly looks like a werewolf, overwhelming and wild. His sharp gaze flicks to each of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as, one by one, he looks you in the eyes and speaks your names. 

“Welcome, chosen,” he says. “My name is Vanagandr, and this is Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is eager to meet you. Are you well?”

It takes you a moment to understand this is a serious, genuine question. He waits patiently for an answer, studying each of you in turn. “Are we well?” you repeat in disbelief. “Are you for real?” 

To your dismay, he finds your anger harmless and amusing, a soft chuff of laughter escaping his lips. “Let me rephrase. Do you feel sick or hungover? Any injuries, particularly to the legs or feet? Be honest. We have a medic.” 

The two cowering behind you don’t say a word, too afraid to even lift their gazes. One of them is shaking, clinging to your shoulder. Still, Vanagandr waits, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on. Eventually, one of them shakes their head. The other mutters a quiet, “I’m fine.” The wolves around you stare and point openly, muttering to one another about which one of you smells the best, which one looks the softest, the most defiant, the most fun to train. 

“I was bitten,” you mutter.

He doesn’t wait for you to show him, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning you in place. His hand is large, his nails sharp like claws. He traces the teeth marks in your neck and growls softly. The wolf who bit you stiffens and turns his head. Baring his throat, you realize.

It’s then that you see Corbin slink closer, pressing himself against the enormous wolf’s side. “It wasn’t his fault,” he says in a soft, demure tone, his head bowed so he looks up at Vanagandr through his thick lashes. “He couldn’t let up because they wouldn’t submit. It took a little while.”

“I figured as much,” Vaganadr chuckles. He rubs his face against Corbin’s neck and jaw, a gesture that strikes you as odd, affectionate, and a touch possessive. “Go on. Your alpha’s looking for you.” At that, Corbin’s eyes light up and he slips away with one last lingering touch to Vanagandr’s shoulder, but he doesn’t rush to leave. He meanders through the crowd of wolves and the others greet him with the same eager affection, grabbing him, passing him amongst themselves like a toy to sniff and touch and grope shamelessly. The display unsettles you and in your haste to find somewhere else to look, you see something that makes your heart skip a beat.

A small group has just arrived. These wolves are younger, noticeably nervous and fidgeting. They’re led by a wolf who looks like he got stuck in the middle of shifting, limbs long and furred, hands and feet tipped with claws, a bushy tail swishing behind him. He’s talking to them in a low, gravelly voice, something about herding and not rushing, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters except for one wolf who stands out from the rest. Not because he does anything unusual. Not because he’s particularly big or intimidating looking—he always was bigger than you but here, he’s average. Right at home. 

You know that wolf. You recognize the scars slashed from his hairline to his jaw, long, jagged lines clawed across the left side of his face. You remember that nervous little twitch of the nose whenever he ran into something new, some situation that made him nervous. He’s grown his hair out longer, let it spill over his shoulders and down his back in thick, black waves, but you know it’s him. The fearful expression on his face transforms into full-blown panic when your eyes meet.

“Flint?” All you can manage is a strangled whisper but you know he hears you. An unhappy, dog-like whine rises in his throat. “Flint? What—why are you here?” You aren’t thinking when you push your way towards him. No one is stopping you but you barely notice, don’t even hesitate to wonder why. You shoulder through the crowd, ignoring the whispers, the uneasy glances, Vanagandr gone completely still and silent behind you.

Flint lowers his gaze, staring at the grass by your feet. You’re further from the lantern and the shadows are thick, his face half-hidden in flickering, lurching darkness, but you can hear him panting the way he always would when he felt overwhelmed. Your name comes out in a needy whine, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “No…no, no, no, not yet…” He has trouble getting the words out, and even more trouble trying to look you in the eye. His voice is exactly the way you remember, low and rough and painfully quiet, like he’s afraid to speak any louder than a rumbling whisper. “I’m not—I’m not ready, I can’t…”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they kidnap you, too?” you ask, your voice raising with anger the more you speak. You know next to nothing about wild wolves, but you know Flint is meek and easy to boss around, the kind of person who got picked on by other wolves when you were younger. The tall werewolf, the one who looks caught between human and animal, steps closer as though he means to separate you. “Don’t touch him!” you snap. He looks down at you, an expression of muted surprise smoothing into understanding. 

“Corbin,” he says quietly. The smaller man rushes over, now carrying the lantern Vanagandr held earlier. “You two. Follow.” He doesn’t tell you where he’s taking you. He just starts walking. You’re startled that Flint obeys without question, keeping his head down. Corbin grabs your forearm and drags you along, frowning at your attempts to squirm free and pry his fingers off. 

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Remember what I said before about picking your battles?” he asks. You’re suddenly aware of just how quiet the clearing has become, all eyes on you. Vanagandr watches you very carefully, his gaze hardened and threatening. You glance ahead where the tall werewolf has stopped moving, looking back over his shoulder. 

Flint is hunched next to him, head down, whimpering. The wolf has a hand on his forearm, gripping hard enough to leave marks. You take a deep breath. Fine. You can play along for now. You’ll do anything for Flint’s sake. 

*

Wolves have their own gods. 

Flint knew that when he was little, of course, but it was a vague sort of awareness. Hearsay, rather than knowledge. Wolves, he was surely told at some point, have many faiths and traditions depending on where they live or where they come from. But these things are distant for city wolves, even shameful at times. Why stick out any more than you already, unavoidably do? His family had distanced themselves from any sort of archaic, wild customs long before even his parents were born. When he followed the family tree as far back as it went, tracing those ancient scribbles on the old, yellowed parchment kept hidden in his father’s lockbox, he found strange symbols and names he wasn’t sure how to pronounce. The word ulfhednar was written in thick, black ink.

When he repeated the word to his parents, they looked at him like he’d dragged a human corpse through the front door and dropped it at their feet. “It’s an old, awful thing that you shouldn’t tell anyone,” his mother warned. And that was that. For years, he went on thinking there was something wrong with him, some secret shame he’d unknowingly inherited. It isn’t until much later—until Hoarfrost Falls—that he finds out the truth. Ulfhednar is not a dirty word, but it is something city wolves don’t talk about.

That, and gods. They don’t talk about those either. Not the old ones like the Poised Fang, god of the perfect strike. Some have forgotten and some no longer understand. Sawyer taught him all about that. Sawyer, who leads the three of them now—him and the hrefn and you, he can hardly believe it, you where he least expects to see you, exactly the wrong place and exactly the wrong time. He hadn’t even planned on being there. He was still too new to take part in the claiming chase, still too uncomfortable with the realities of acquiring pack humans to even watch.

Sawyer had insisted. He was kind about it. He had waited until the evening lessons were over to pull Flint aside, dusk simmering like dying embers along the horizon. Flint’s peers had all come from loose, disorganized city packs. Like him, they had dulled senses and smothered instincts. Their shifts were slow and uncomfortable because they’d all learned to do it quietly, stifling the popping of their joints and the rearranging of their bones in a way that left them winded when it was over. 

There was comfort and camaraderie in being new and terrible at everything together, but Flint knew he was falling behind. The others were just as clueless but twice as eager, embracing each new facet of wild pack life while Flint was still reeling. He didn’t think they were judging him for it—he desperately hoped not—but he wasn’t sure. He was used to being an outcast. His whole life, he’d been the obvious werewolf in a room full of humans. He was tall, strongly built, his limbs thick with muscle, his nails constantly needing to be filed down as they grew quicker and sharper than he could keep up with. He’d tried joining packs before. Things always started well and soured quickly. City wolves would look at him and assume he was something wild, and as soon as they realized he wasn’t, he’d start getting pushed around and singled out. He didn’t like making a fuss so he just did what he was told and kept his head down.

But you—you would fight for him. You always did. You’d find out, no matter how hard he tried to keep these things quiet, and you’d tell him you were going to his next pack meeting. You’d be the smallest one in the room between all those werewolves, and you’d still march right up to whatever loudmouth was calling themselves alpha and tear them a new one. You’d demand all of his stuff back if anything had been taken and placed in communal storage—family heirlooms, usually, fur-lined coats and old quilts. Sometimes you’d manage to get a few of his membership fees reimbursed by citing breaches of contract, listing all the ways his pack had failed to behave like his pack.

You’d gotten hurt doing that, just once. It was the last pack he’d tried joining, the last desperate attempt to find belonging. The alpha had claimed his car as a pack asset and taken his keys, and you’d marched in there and refused to leave until they were put in your hand. Yelling had turned to shoving and someone had bitten you. Flint is ashamed to admit that he can’t fully remember everything that happened, only that he woke up in wolfskin, lying on the tile floor of his shower. You were kneeling next to him beneath the spray of warm water and running your fingers through his fur, wet, partially shredded clothes hanging off your body. Blood swirled down the drain.

“Not mine,” you assured him. “Not all yours, either, but don’t move around too much.” 

He thinks about that all the time. He dreams about it. Curled up with his head in your lap and your hands running up and down his body, your touch soothing and affectionate. That’s what he was thinking of earlier tonight when Sawyer stopped him as the others ran off to gossip excitedly with their elders about the new pack humans coming up the mountain. Sawyer led him down a trail that wandered away from the commune’s structures, deeper into the woods.

Flint smelled it before he saw it; perspiration. Excitement. Arousal. A human and a werewolf. The end of a chase. They were up ahead, tucked away in a grove of crooked, towering oak trees. The human was making soft, scared sounds as she was forced down to her knees and made to present herself in proper submission, but she smelled eager and Flint saw a smile before her head was shoved down into the leaves. The wolf growled playfully when he mounted her, nuzzling against the nape of her neck. He whispered something in Old Wolven Norse; a term of endearment, Flint guessed, from the tone.

It felt wrong to stand there and watch. They’d come here to be alone, hadn’t they? But Sawyer looked at him sharply when Flint glanced back the way they’d come. They were going to talk here? In earshot of another wolf and his human as they joined in bliss, rutting on the forest floor? Sawyer did nothing without a reason. There was something Flint was meant to see here, something he was supposed to learn. 

“You don’t want to watch tonight’s claiming,” Sawyer said quietly. “I think you should.” 

Flint said nothing. He couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was too focused on the human’s alluring scent, their needy whimpers and squirming as the wolf took them. Would…would you look like that, under him? Would you be so open, so sweet? So much had gone unsaid between the two of you before. You weren’t together. You’d never broached the subject, even though he could smell your interest in him. He hadn’t wanted to push, terrified of scaring you away. 

“Flint.” Sawyer was studying his face in the subtle way wolves did, a sidelong glance whenever he let his guard down. “Something’s on your mind.” 

Flint swallowed. He could feel himself reacting to the couple in front of him, the tender flesh at the base of his cock where his knot swells up pulsing gently, and he was ashamed. “I’m thinking about studying a different trade,” he admitted. 

Sawyer said nothing. Flint found himself looking desperately at his face, searching for signs of anger or disappointment, and found him completely unreadable. Sawyer was stone-faced and taciturn most of the time. Flint had to take a deep breath, relax himself, and remember to look elsewhere for answers. Sawyer’s scent was…calm. His tail was still, slightly raised in curiosity but there was no evidence of aggression or displeasure in his posture. He tilted his head slightly and avoided direct eye contact, looking in Flint’s general direction rather than right at him, trying not to make him feel threatened. 

Emboldened, Flint continued. “It’s not your fault, it’s all me. You’ve done so much for me since I got here. You’re always patient with me no matter what I screw up. I know I can tell you things and you’ll listen. It’s just…I don’t think I can do this. I wouldn’t be a good shepherd.”

Sawyer grunted. It was more of a wolf sound than a human one, a chiding growl and a resigned huff all in one. “You’re the only one who decides your path. But if you want my opinion, I disagree. You’d make an exceptional shepherd.”

Flint shook his head. “I could never hurt them. I can’t wrap my head around it. The whole claiming thing, the biting, the…”

“Fucking?” Sawyer said it so easily. 

“We’re forcing them, aren’t we? They don’t want it.”

“They do. They just don’t know it yet.” Sawyer had barely taken his eyes off the wolf and the human since they’d arrived, something nostalgic and bittersweet in his gaze. He nodded to the two of them, the human writhing in mindless pleasure and the wolf pounding her breathless, groaning into the flesh of her shoulder. “They’re no different from us. Strip the wild out of them and they become caged, miserable animals. Here, they learn to heed their instincts again.”

Flint knew that. He’d been taught all of this before. Alpha Druian told him that most humans lived in societies of suffering, and Flint knew he was right because he’d seen it himself, had lived in it for most of his life. Taking pack humans, teaching them everything they’d forgotten after centuries of isolating themselves from wolves—it was all natural and beautiful. It was the steps in between that he had trouble rationalizing; the claiming and the training. The fear and the pain, how new humans shivered at the sight of him and whimpered when he came too close. He was told that this, too, was perfectly normal, a necessary and expected part of the process. 

He heard a quiet chuckle. A smile tugged at the corner of Sawyer’s lips. “This is why you’d be so good at it,” he said. “I stopped shepherding a long time ago, but those instincts never go away. I know what to look for. All that thinking and worrying, that’s what we’re best at. The pack’s most tenderhearted are the ones who should be closest to our humans. Confidence is important. Being able to make difficult choices and administer discipline, that’s also important. But you have to care, more than anything. You have to want what’s best for them.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he hadn’t said anything. Sawyer had simply stood beside him as the shadows grew and the sky darkened, night draping across the mountain. They watched the wolf bring the human to climax once, twice, a third time shuddering and wailing as her toes curled, the wolf’s hands roaming her sensitive body. When he finally spilled inside her, he sank his teeth into her neck. The spot was already marked and the precise way he angled his head, tonguing at the indentations before biting down, told Flint that was his mark. His human. A bond, renewed and made even stronger. He thought of you again and realized he was fully hard.

And now—here you are. He’s not ready. He can’t meet your worried gaze. Sawyer leads the way to the guest house, a large cabin where friends and allies stay while visiting the territory. Neutral, scentless ground. You’re wary, probably because you can’t see very well. Corbin sets the lantern down on a table but the light is dim, unable to crawl into all the cozy nooks and crannies in the spacious common area. Flint is happy that you go to him, sticking close to his side, but he doesn’t like how stiff and standoffish you are. He risks inching closer, pressing himself against you—and he smells another wolf on you. Saliva. Blood. A bite? Without thinking, he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, nostrils flaring at the sight of the wound.

“I’m sorry, Flint. I had no idea,” Corbin says softly. “The bite happened on the way here. It was intended to force submission.” He reaches out, trying to offer comfort. You slap his hand away. Flint’s hand twitches at his side, instincts warring within him. He wants to soothe you. Wants to scold you. Wants to protect you. Wants to protect Corbin. Paralyzed by indecision, he does nothing. Corbin’s attention shifts from Flint to you, his expression thoughtful. Part of Flint lurches in fear at the thought of Corbin getting his hands on you. Training you, the way he helps Druian train all the new arrivals. He sees that eager look in Corbin’s eyes, the way his gaze roams. He’s sizing you up. Finding weaknesses. Memorizing all of your movements, conscious and unconscious, how you carry yourself, how long you can look him in the eye.

Another part of him, deeply buried, considers it with alarming calmness. Before Hoarfrost Falls, he’d blame those thoughts on his “inner wolf,” but Sawyer has cautioned him against that kind of mental partitioning. “Don’t cut yourself into pieces,” he’d say. He is a wolf and a man and the melding of those things, all together, all at once. He is the clear-headed human understanding that you have every right and reason to be terrified right now, and he is also the feverish need to wrap around you in wolfskin as though his closeness can take all of your worries away.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Corbin says. An absurd statement, intended to be disarming. You make a sound that’s not quite a laugh, sharp and guarded, not taking the bait. Flint is proud—excited—for reasons he is afraid to identify. “I’m serious. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I know how it looks from your perspective, but—” 

“You slipped something in my drink,” you say, accusing. “You kidnapped me, and two other people.” 

“‘Kidnapped’ is a really loaded word.” 

“Sit.” Sawyer’s voice comes from the far end of the room, by the windows. He’s got the long, draping curtains pulled shut to hide your view of the woods, just in case the chase comes this way. Corbin drops where he’s standing, immediately settling onto the soft rug. Flint seats himself on the couch, dismayed when you don’t follow his lead. You’re still standing, looking Sawyer in the eye and glaring hatefully. Flint understands suddenly what’s happening here, why you’re not just uneasy but furious. 

“It’s not like that,” he tries to tell you, tugging at your hand. “This pack, they’re not like the others.”

“That’s what you always say. And then they boss you around and take advantage of you,” you mutter. And that’s true. He would always say that everything’s fine. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of his problems, and he didn’t want you getting hurt trying to defend him. It was all backwards. He was supposed to protect you. The ulfhednar didn’t just have pack humans, they had human allies, human trade partners, human settlements within their territory they defended from harm. 

And yet, here you are with another wolf’s bite on your neck. Here he is, failing you again.

“Sit down, human,” Sawyer repeats. “You want an explanation. I’ll give it to you.”

“Are you the alpha?” you ask.

“Beta. Sit, please.” 

Flint lets out a shaky, relieved breath when you finally obey, sinking onto the cushion beside him. Sawyer makes his approach slow and indirect, pacing, pretending to fuss over the decor. He straightens out a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and returns a book left on the table to its proper shelf. It works. You don’t relax completely but you follow his movements with your eyes, curiosity rounding the edges of your annoyance. You try to hide it when Sawyer finishes his minor adjustments and comes to stand in front of you, towering over Corbin beside him, but your sweetening scent gives you away.

Flint knows he should let the pack beta speak, but the guilt is eating him alive. “This is my fault,” he blurts out. You look at him the same, soft way you always have. 

“That’s not true,” Corbin insists. “It’s mine. I should’ve been more thorough—”

Sawyer growls quietly. “It’s nobody’s fault.” He mutters in Old Wolven Norse, “It’s fate. Keep your fangs poised.” 

Flint’s heart skips a beat. He can’t. He can’t do this. He’s not ready. He feels a whine building in his throat and bites it back, embarrassed by how readily his feelings show. He’s always been bad at keeping growls and barks out of his speech, especially when he’s particularly nervous or excited, overwhelmed by emotion. Sawyer glances at him, holds eye contact for a meaningful moment, before he returns his attention to you.

“This is Hoarfrost Falls. We’re what you would call a ‘wild pack,’ although we welcome wolves of other backgrounds if they’re willing to make the lifestyle adjustment. My name is Sawyer. You’ve met Corbin, our hrefn—”

“Your what?” you say.

Sawyer visibly bristles at the interruption but doesn’t comment on it. He runs his hand through Corbin’s hair and Corbin melts under the attention, nuzzling his face into the dark, thick fur on Sawyer’s thigh. “It’s his rank,” Sawyer says, pausing to consider his word choice. “He’s a pack human with authority over our other pack humans.”

“Pack humans? That’s a real thing?” You sound horrified. You’re looking at Corbin like he’s something wounded on the side of the road. 

“It’s real. It’s why you were brought here. Normally, you’d be enjoying your initiation right now, but I pulled you out for the pack’s safety.”

“The pack’s safety?” you echo, disbelieving. “How are you the ones in danger?”

Sawyer says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at Flint, and Flint looks anywhere else, and you know. You remember. He’s territorial. Obsessed, people used to say, as if they’d never yearned for a human before. City wolves like to pretend they don’t have instincts. He tried to pretend, too. But any little thing could happen—you could scrape your knee on the pavement, or someone could raise their voice a little too loud while talking to you—and he’d feel himself growling, bristling, ready to fight and die for you. 

When he saw you earlier tonight, knowing what would happen, imagining you stumbling afraid through the woods with some other wolf lunging and pinning you and leaving marks, he felt that reckless urge rise up like an inferno beneath his skin. He’d nearly thrown himself at Alpha Vanagandr—would’ve, if Sawyer and the others hadn’t talked him down. 

“It’s clear to me that you’re Flint’s. His…friend,” Sawyer amends, seeing your expression pinch in confusion. “I don’t know much about you. He doesn’t like talking about his old life and I don’t like to dredge it up more than necessary.”

Flint bows his head, feeling guilty again. “I left someone behind.” That’s all he could bring himself to say when the subject came up. It wasn’t entirely true; you’d both gone your separate ways. But he’d left first—decided to try his luck with distant family in another city, relatives his parents rarely spoke to. You’d tried to keep in touch but things had fizzled out. You were both busy with your own lives and your talks became less frequent. You left messages for each other on occasion; pictures from you, embarrassingly long and heartfelt texts that felt more like letters from him. He wanted you to know he was okay. He was strong and capable, and you didn’t have to worry.

“So can we go?” you ask.

The corner of Sawyer’s mouth twitches, the movement very quick and very slight but unmistakably a suppressed snarl. “We?” he repeats stiffly.

“I’m not leaving without Flint.”

Flint feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin, terrified by your open defiance and how you won’t drop your gaze, even more afraid that he’ll lose control himself at any moment. He trusts his mentor but Sawyer has a reputation. He forgets to go easy on pack humans sometimes. He can be harsh, less forgiving of trespasses, dangerously aggressive in the heat of the moment. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sawyer comes any closer. Flint knows there’s an old, awful story behind all his scars carving through the thick wolf fur he can’t fully retract. It’s not always easy to tell what’ll set him off.

It’s just as hard to predict what he’ll laugh off and deem unthreatening. Flint sags in relief when Sawyer lets out an amused huff, his posture loosening somewhat. Whatever he was looking for, whatever it is that reminds him of his scars, he doesn’t find it in you. If anything, he looks a little fond of you. “You’d better stay put,” Sawyer says. “The claiming hunt isn’t over. Won’t be for a little while. No one would purposefully antagonize Flint, but nobody is thinking clearly during a chase, either. Do you want something to eat or drink?” You glare at him. “Suit yourself. I have to speak with the alpha about this. Corbin, you’re dismissed. Let’s give them some space.” 

Corbin never takes his eyes off you as he gets to his feet, returning your scowl with a sweet smile. “It was so nice to meet you,” he purrs. 

Your frown deepens. “Feeling’s not mutual.” 

“Mm. Give it time.” He winks before Sawyer herds him out the door with a playful growl.

Sawyer pauses on the porch, looking back at you with a sharp gaze. “Stay,” he rumbles. He smirks. You think he’s making fun of you, but his gaze shifts to Flint just briefly. Flint’s heart skips a beat. 

Because Sawyer does nothing without a reason. All of that, every little thing, had a purpose. Getting you accustomed to hearing commands. Keeping his distance to put you at ease. Bringing Corbin along showed you that the pack keeps humans, that they’re fed, cared for, permitted some mischief from time to time. Giving you an order he knows you won’t follow wasn’t for you, though. That was for Flint. Because Flint is a shepherd, and when you disobey, it’s his responsibility to do something about it.

Your shoulders sag, a long sigh slipping out when the guest house door slams shut. The silence that follows is deafening. It’s just the two of you now. You and Flint. His hands shake. He tries to take deep breaths to calm himself but every inhale is full of your scent, the sharpness of your sweat and worry. He’s not ready. He’s petrified. What is he supposed to do now? What is he supposed to say? He wants to tell you so many things but the words won’t come. They never do. You’ve always understood what he tries to say, even when he can’t say it, but you don’t understand the situation you’re in now.

“Come on,” you say. “He’s probably bringing the alpha back with him. We have to hurry.” You rub your face on a few blankets and pillows—decoys. He recognizes this trick. You’ll take those with you when you run, toss them around to hide your trail. Then you rush to the kitchen and he follows nervously, reminded of a dozen other messes you’ve gotten him out of before. You turn on the sink and lather up the strongest-smelling soap you can find in the cupboards, scrubbing your face, your neck, your wrists, any exposed skin. Your natural scent isn’t gone but it’s smothered in earthy musk because all of the pack’s homemade soaps smell like the woods. Clever. Worryingly so.

“They didn’t…kidnap me,” he admits. “I chose to come here.”

You pause to look at him, your stony focus softening with sympathy. “Yeah? I bet it wasn’t what you thought it’d be,” you say. 

You’re right. Just not the way you think you are. “This isn’t like before. They’re different. The alpha is good. I know it seems strange. They’re not like the packs we’re used to. But—” 

“Flint.” You look up at him and his voice catches in his throat. “Come here. Your turn.” 

He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t encourage this any further. He has to be honest with you, has to make you understand. “It’s not safe out there,” he says weakly. “Sawyer wasn’t lying about the chase. It gets…intense. If anybody catches your scent—”

“They won’t,” you insist. You take one of his hands in his and his resolve crumbles bit by bit, eroded by the tender smoothing motions of your fingers over his palm and knuckles and joints. He’s thinking about that shower you took together years ago. The warmth. The safety. The certainty that he was home at last, pack or no pack, that he had everything he wanted. Hoarfrost Falls is where he belongs, but something has been missing all this time, something important. He can’t help it. When you tug on his arm, he kneels, letting you smooth your hands over his face and neck, shutting his eyes and savoring your touch. 

He’s not ready. But Sawyer told him he doesn’t have to be. Now and then, when the other lessons are done, they sit under the moon and talk about gods. “The Poised Fang is old. Very, very old,” Sawyer told him. “In his time, wolves had no names. Humans were prey. Smart, vicious prey, worthy of respect. The hunt is the oldest dance, and he is the best dancer. There are others who came after—gods of hearth-keeping and shepherding. But when you see a human—your human—you call on the Poised Fang first. That’s why we have that saying in Old Wolven. ‘Keep your fangs poised.’ It’s an invocation. Do you know the key to hunting humans?”

Flint hadn’t known. The topic made him squeamish. But Sawyer reassured him they meant it differently now. That the Poised Fang, timeless and eternal, was pleased that the hunt continued, even if its end had changed.

“The key is patience. It’s not strength. Not readiness. Patience. You’ll see this firsthand someday. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to wait. The moment will come.” 

Flint opens his eyes and you’re staring at him, your palms framing his face. He nuzzles against your touch and you blink, startled, pulling away. It makes him want to growl but he holds it in. “We should get going,” you tell him. You’re embarrassed. He can smell it. You shouldn’t be. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. He wishes the two of you had talked about it before—all of it. Your feelings. His instincts. The desire to hold you close and leave you drenched in his scent. The throbbing need to sink his teeth into your neck. 

“It’s a long way to the nearest town,” he tells you, his voice low but steady. “Hours. Too far on foot, for you.” 

“Shit. They didn’t take your keys, did they? Guess we could steal theirs.” You laugh. Flint smiles. He’s not ready. He’s a storm inside, hope and fear and revulsion all crashing against one another. Some part of him has always known he would come back for you, but he wanted more time. More certainty. Then again, hasn’t he already had all the time he needs? Nobody knows you better. You peer through the front windows, then the back. 

“Is there a river nearby?” you wonder aloud. “It rained the other day. Should be able to cover our scent with mud, if we have to.” 

Flint inches closer. Afraid. Excited. He’s panting. He can’t help it. The truth is that he’s going to have to hurt you. Just a little. Just enough. You’re going to scream and cry and it’s going to feel like a knife in the heart, but he knows you’ll feel even worse. And that’s okay, he tells himself. That’s normal. Natural. Part of the process. Like when you were children, and he got a splinter stuck in his paw, and you sat him down with a pair of tweezers and scratched under his chin while he whined. He didn’t want you to touch it but you insisted. It had to come out. It would hurt just a tiny bit one last time, and then it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s just like that. 

“Look!” you’d said, pointing up at a tree. “Squirrel!” 

He knew, logically, that you were just trying to distract him. But he’d perked up anyway, took his eyes off of you, and then it was done. Over in a blink. It’s just like that, he tells himself. He whispers a prayer in Old Wolven Norse to the Poised Fang, begging to know if prey can ever forgive the predator for the sharpness of his teeth.

“I love you,” he says. 

You freeze. Your palm hovers over the door handle. Looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth parted in shock, a question starts forming on your lips. And like the oldest of his gods stalking a primeval forest, Flint does not waste the moment. 

[rotworld]

What happens if two packs are accidentally eyeing the same human?? Is it something that could even happen???

I can’t get enough of these guys lolol thanks for sharing your stories with us 💖💖

this does happen sometimes! most wild packs give each other plenty of space so matters of territory and jurisdiction are usually unambiguous, but things can get fuzzy on the boundaries between neighboring territories or when an allied pack is invited to visit or stay for a while. it’s pretty likely that if multiple packs are eyeing the same human, they know because they’ll spend some time following them around and eventually spot other wolves doing the same thing. at that point, how they handle it depends on how good the relationship is between the packs involved. a tense or distant relationship usually means showing deference to whoever’s territory the human lives/works/spends more time in. if they’re not in anyone’s territory, it’s a race. whoever acts first and successfully captures them gets to keep them.

but packs that share boundaries or make invitations tend to have good relationships with each other. the most common thing in this case is to make a friendly competition out of it.

each pack will pick one of their members (usually a shepherd or hrefn) to act as a representative. each representative takes turns approaching the human. the details of the contest depend on where the human spends their time. if they like bars or clubs, the goal is to seduce them. if they prefer coffee shops, the objective might be to make conversation and get their number. if they have a long commute, they’ll wait somewhere along their route and try to get them to pull over. if they never leave the house, they’ll show up at their door and try to convince the human to let them in. there are lots of variations! the idea is that the human is “choosing” their pack, and that “choice” means there’s no ill will between the packs involved because it’s not up to them. 

if the human doesn’t choose anyone and there’s no winner, they reschedule to try again with different representatives and a different challenge. rejection doesn’t bother them at all! it just makes the prey more enticing.

[rotworld]

Human's Best Friend

your friend's dog runs off during a hike, so you go to the nearby ranger station for help. a werewolf shows up.

->contains mild feral behavior.

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The Summitville Ranger Station’s front door has four deep gouges slashed across its surface.

The sight of them stops you in your tracks. They’re huge. You lay your hand over the damage and each jagged line is thicker than your fingers. They start just beneath the glass pane in the top half of the door and slither down diagonally in the echo of a single vicious movement. You find yourself glancing around, checking over your shoulder and peering into the woods to appease the panicked insistence of your hindbrain that you’re being watched. 

You probably are. This is wild wolf territory, after all. You know because the locals aren’t shy about telling people, the gas station attendant you saw half an hour ago absently mentioning there’s not just one but two packs in the area. So maybe that’s what this is, you reason. Some kind of territory marking thing, a message from one pack to another. That makes sense and helps ease the petrified terror that’s tying your stomach in knots. You’ll be fine, probably won’t even see them. You’re sure they’re busy doing…whatever it is that wild wolves do.

You suddenly remember a conversation you had on the way into town. Sitting in the passenger seat of your friend’s car with no cell service and a road atlas stretched across your lap, her dog Molly nudging her damp nose against one of your hands from the backseat, you’d stared at the little marker for Summitville on the map. “Why does that name ring a bell?” you wondered aloud. Your friend shrugged. Because she’d mentioned it before, she figured. She liked the trails out there, how remote and private it felt when you went deep enough. Maybe that was part of it.

But you remember now. You’d seen it in the news. Summitville has an unusually high number of disappearances for a city its size. All of the towns around here do. 

The lights are on but nobody’s home in the ranger’s station. It’s spacious and mostly empty, a few chairs and end tables clustered in the back behind an unoccupied welcome desk. A stack of wildlife books and tourist pamphlets gather dust in an antique cabinet. Old photographs hang on the walls, cloudy sepia snapshots of rivers and rock formations. You call out tentatively, the floorboards creaking beneath your hesitant footsteps. No one answers. You’re considering your options when you hear something outside. Quiet and distant, muffled through the wooden walls, it’s still unmistakable—a howl.

And then another. And then another, this one far closer than the others. You hear footsteps, but they’re all wrong. A heavy, four-legged trot creeps around the side of the ranger station before changing abruptly into a two-legged gait. You see dark fur in one window—flesh in the next. The door creaks open and your blood runs cold. Standing there, blocking your only exit with narrowed eyes and a sharp-toothed snarl, is a werewolf. 

It looks like he got stuck while shifting. His limbs are unnaturally long, thick with muscle and covered in black fur, each digit tipped with large claws. But the rest of him, head to hips, is all skin. Scars of all shapes and sizes cover his body, most of the hardened, puckered flesh littering his shoulders and chest. His hair is the same pitch black color as his fur, spilling long and wild down his back. His ears are a strange mix of traits, positioned where a human’s would be but with pointed ends covered in dark fuzz. In the same moment that you notice his shaggy tail, you realize he’s completely naked. Your eyes dart back up to his face. He’s glaring. He doesn’t say a word. You start to panic when he takes a step closer, stammering apologies.

“I’m just—I’m looking for a park ranger,” you manage to tell him. This doesn’t seem to help. He tilts his head slightly and you have no idea what the gesture is supposed to mean, what he wants from you. His eyes are gold and the way he looks at you is feral, assessing something you can’t even guess at. “I need help,” you say. Your breath hitches when he comes further into the ranger station but he leaves you alone, passing you for the desk. You watch in confusion as he starts rummaging through the drawers, clearly looking for something. Eventually, he produces a legal pad and a well-chewed pencil, and then he’s staring at you again. He looks absolutely bizarre, leaning an elbow against the desk casually with a tiny pencil clutched in his furred claws. His tail flicks in what looks like impatience. He clears his throat in a pointed manner.

“Oh,” you say, all of your breath rushing out in a sound of surprise and embarrassment. You’re an idiot. He’s the ranger. “I’m, uh. I’m looking for a dog. My friend’s dog, actually. She’s some kind of poodle mix, I think, with curly brown fur and a red harness. Her name’s Molly, it’s on her collar. I don’t know the trail very well, but we were down by the creek when she wandered off, just past the wooden bridge. My friend’s still there in case she comes back.”

The werewolf scribbles something so illegible you have no idea if it’s English or not. “Do you…” He pauses to cough and clear his throat again. His voice is gravelly like he rarely uses it. When he speaks again, it’s clearer but still hoarse and quiet. “Do you have something of Molly’s? A toy, or…” He gestures vaguely. You don’t understand why it matters, but he’s staring intently at the scarf balled up in your fist. It’s your friend’s. Can he tell? Does its scent clash with yours or something?

“Oh, uh, would this help?” you ask, handing the scarf to him. “My friend was wearing it, but Molly likes it a lot. She’s always rubbing her face on it.” 

The werewolf lifts it to his face and you hear him sniffing rapidly like a dog tracking a lost treat across the floor. It’s weird, and a little cute. His nose twitches. He seems put off somehow, his face scrunching up in distaste. Your friend’s perfume, maybe. You’ve heard that kind of stuff is a little strong for werewolves. You’re less frightened the next time you hear someone walking up to the ranger station, the sound of boots crunching the dirt loud and sharp with the door left wide open. The werewolves tail wags with slow anticipation, his eyes flicking to a spot over your shoulder. You turn around and go completely still, seized by primal terror.

 It’s a man. A big one. He’s so tall he has to duck to fit through the doorway. Something bothers you, and not just the obvious threat of his overwhelming size. It’s the way he walks. Just like the werewolf behind the desk, there’s something fluid and effortlessly graceful about his entire body, purpose in every movement. He doesn’t make any noise, you realize. The floor seems to groan and creak whenever you breathe, but it’s silent under his feet as he meanders over to the desk. It’s shocking that you might not have heard him coming if you hadn’t looked, given his size and apparent age. He’s older than the other one, you’d guess somewhere in his fifties. You’re acutely aware of just how much he towers over you as he passes. 

“Everything alright?” he asks. You nod meekly and his lips curl at that, a hint of a smile on his face before he wipes it away. Like the other werewolf, he’s grown his hair out long, tying some of it back in a messy bun and letting the rest hang loose. He glances briefly over the notepad and nods to himself. “Don’t worry, Sawyer’s my best tracker,” he reassures you. The other wolf, Sawyer, merely grunts, but his tail swishes at the praise. 

“Be back soon,” Sawyer mutters. He bumps against the other wolf when he leaves, but the gesture seems playful or at least friendly. They growl softly at each other, Sawyer’s tail slapping against the larger wolf’s leg before he suddenly drops to all fours and shifts. He’s engulfed by fur in seconds, ears lengthening, legs changing shape. You’re still stunned when he lops out the door and disappears.

“Here for a hike?”

That leaves you with the larger one who takes up a spot behind the desk with an easy smile. “Yeah, kinda,” you say. “My friend’s pretty outdoorsy. We’re not from here but we don’t live too far away, so she comes here a lot.” 

“This is excellent territory,” the werewolf agrees, nodding. “Quiet. Good hunting. Less light pollution. Humans like it, too.” He rests his arms on the counter, showing off full tattoo sleeves. You see curling, interlocking symbols and animals, the skeletal grin of a deer skull poking out beneath one sleeve. “Vanagandr,” he says, holding out his hand. You smile, appreciating his friendliness. 

Then you take his hand and your smile falters. You feel small and vulnerable, seeing how much his massive fist dwarfs your hand, engulfing your fingers easily. You think about the door.

He tilts his head the way Sawyer did earlier, examining you. “None of us where you’re from, I take it. Just puppies who forgot how to hunt.” The way he says “puppies” almost sounds derogatory. “Sorry if Sawyer gave you a fright. He’s had it rough with humans.”

“It’s fine, he just startled me a little,” you admit. “I didn’t expect him to be, uh…”

Vanagandr nods solemnly and makes a deep, rumbling sound. “Mmm. It’s a stress response. Shifting is emotional as well as physical. Going through something painful can make it more difficult.” You just nod, unwilling to correct him, but he seems to pick up on your hesitation anyway. A grin slowly stretches across his face. “Ahh. That’s not what you meant, is it? Nothing to be embarrassed about, I know it’s strange to you.” 

He drops the subject in favor of smalltalk, asking about where you’re from, what you do, how you like Summitville’s trails. You find yourself asking questions in return, cautiously at first, more eagerly when he seems endeared by curiosity. Yes, his pack really does handle search and rescue for all of the towns in their territory. No, they don’t get paid for it, at least not with money—they prefer food and supplies. He’s got an old family name that gets handed down through the generations to eldest sons and relatives still living in Norway and Sweden. He mentions he’s the pack alpha so offhandedly that you almost miss it.

He perks up like someone called his name. You listen, but you don’t hear anything. A full minute passes before you can make out something jingling—the little metal heart on Molly’s collar with her name and your friend’s contact information. You’re caught somewhere between relief and disbelief when Sawyer comes prancing back into the ranger station, still a wolf, with Molly hot on his heels, her muddy leash dragging behind her. She looks like a puppy next to him, a little brown ball of fluff against Sawyer’s dark fur. She’s got prickly seeds and twigs stuck in her coat but otherwise seems unbothered by her journey into the woods, more interested in yipping and batting at Sawyer than paying you any attention. Sawyer turns around and snaps his teeth but the gesture is playful, his tail wagging as he bows low and lets Molly pounce on him.

This is, in fact, the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You’re debating whether it would be wildly inappropriate to take a picture, only to hear a mechanical click behind you—Vanagandr winks, his phone balanced somewhat discreetly on the counter. 

“Go find your friend and give her the good news,” he says, waving you off. You’re fighting a broad smile when you leave, hurrying down the trail. She’s never going to believe this!

Vanagandr watches you go with his chin resting against his palm. Sawyer barks at him. “Can’t delete it ‘till I get their number,” Vanagandr says slyly. “Should’ve seen ‘em earlier. They were so embarrassed you weren’t wearing anything. Fuck, humans are cute.” 

Molly tires herself out and slumps against Sawyer’s front paws. He curls up next to her, nosing against her head. He lets out a keening sound, a whining howl. “Mm, yeah. It was a nice scent,” Vangandr says, chuckling. He texts Linden, lets him know the search is over. He sends the picture of Sawyer, too, because you’re in it, half-turned and grinning in delight. He remembers how small your hand was in his, rumbling happily. 

Linden sends one word back in response: No.

Killjoy, Vanagandr thinks, pocketing his phone. He didn’t mean anything serious by it. You’re skittish and fun to tease, things that get him going. He watches Molly doze on the floor, curled up in the space between Sawyer’s paws. He frowns. How long has it been now? Five years? Six? He sniffs his palm, inhaling the faintest traces of your scent. He misses that—a human, safe and sound in his den. The loud, obvious patter of their clumsy steps, how they fit so perfectly against his body like the half he didn’t know he was missing. 

How much worse is that ache for Linden? How desperately does he maintain his distance from the pack humans he treats these days, wanting so badly yet denying himself? 

He feels eyes on him. Sawyer watches silently as emotions flicker across his face. Vanagandr sighs heavily. “One of these days,” he murmurs. 

He’s all smiles when you come back with another human, watching you fuss over Molly. Sawyer slinks off without a proper goodbye, unwilling to pretend. But Vanagandr stays, deflects your thanks and enjoys your company as long as he can have it. He hugs you both. Squeezes tightly, lingers with his arms around you, recommends a place to eat in town. It was like this, once. Humans, sweet and happy, wrapped in his scent. It will be this way again. He lets you go even though he doesn’t want to. He buries his face against the side of your neck and gives you a small piece of him to carry home, even though you don’t know and it means nothing to you.One of these days, he tells himself resolutely, standing in the ranger’s station all alone.

[rotworld]

We know that in the Mean Wolves universe there are new clans that are made up of city wolves, they'd be more street smart, would they be inclined to stake out AA meetings and abortion clinics with the intention of getting the desperate and vulnerable?

city wolf packs don’t actually keep pack humans. the practice is already extremely controversial, and packs that live in an urban area or around a lot of humans are under a lot more scrutiny than wild wolf packs are. 

hypothetically, if you had a pack made up entirely of former city wolves that decided to shift to a wild lifestyle, they would be a lot more savvy about human behavior. they probably would be pretty insidious about who they target and where, although if they’re overzealous about targeting people in town and get caught doing it, they could be in serious trouble. the pack humans we’ve seen tend to follow a certain pattern: they come from (or are taken from) small or rural towns near wild wolf territory, often with some kind of agreement with locals and law enforcement to look the other way.

so i guess the answer is potentially yes, but only if it’s a small town aa meeting and the pack lives in the woods just outside the city limits lol

[rotworld]

[Re: 2 wolf packs after same human] Not OP ask, but now I just imagine a comedy of errors as the most oblivious human alive catches the eye of 2 packs who continually tries to entice them but fails. 😂 Or a human who has no idea of wolf packs, but is intuitive/clever about dodging their requests w/o being too rude or obvious. Among the different packs, which is known has the most patience or creativity in luring their targeted human? 👀

it occurred to me as i was typing up the last answer that with a sufficiently shy or cautious person, this could go on for a while lmao 

hoarfrost falls does better in terms of patience. they have more members so they can afford to spend more time pursuing a pack human. their leadership is older and less impulsive, the idea of “waiting for the perfect strike” is something all new members are taught so they can absolutely play the long game. their weakness is creativity. all they want to do is outdoor scenarios because they’d rather not go into town lol which might sound surprising, considering corbin does so much of his scouting that way, but i can see corbin really disliking these kinds of competitions. he doesn’t have enough control of the situation to enjoy it and he really wouldn’t handle rejection well. he’s used to “hunting” in a very specific way, wearing down someone’s guard gradually over hours or even days of repeated visits if that’s what it takes. just having a few minutes to shoot his shot and not being able to try again right away, especially if he could lose them to someone else right after, would upset him way too much so he probably wouldn’t volunteer. 

shelter mountain isn��t in a position to do competitions for long with so few members and so little experience, but if they ever do, blake is their secret weapon. he’d be good at coming up with different approaches and he’d be equally comfortable with indoor and outdoor contests. i think he’d also have a really high success rate compared to anyone else, even in hoarfrost falls. he’s patient and he never shows his hand too early. even corbin can be overeager and overbearing in a way that might alarm someone who’s already suspicious, especially since being fully trained means he has some werewolf behaviors. but blake is a former city wolf. he knows what humans are like, how to make them comfortable and how to completely blend in. even someone who’s heard rumors about werewolves kidnapping people might look right at him and assume they don’t have to worry.

[rotworld]

Is there anything about human culture/society that is bizarre to wild wolves? Besides the things that have already been addressed like one night stands lol.

living alone is practically unheard of. this might even be something wild wolves look for in potential pack humans and not just for pragmatic “easier to kidnap” reasons, they sincerely don’t believe a human can live somewhere by themselves and be happy that way. similarly, “privacy” and why humans mention it so much is a bit of a mystery. they’re not big on personal space, they don’t knock before opening doors, and they don’t get why that bothers some of their pack humans. if you insist on changing clothes or undressing somewhere they can’t see, they interpret it as a lack of trust. 

more traditional packs are a little suspicious of things (clothing, furniture, food, etc) that are “too far removed” from whoever made it. they always prefer to make their own things or trade handcrafted goods with other packs. buying something at the store is sometimes necessary but they dislike it because they don’t know who made whatever they’re buying. restaurants are acceptable because the person who made the food is at least in the building, they could hypothetically meet the chef so it seems “safer.” they don’t enjoy shopping unless it’s at a craft fair or with small online sellers, and they don’t gift objects that feel “too removed” (the most distant they’d be willing to go is something they got second-hand from a person they know, who provided the name of the person who originally made it). lance is young enough that this bothers him a lot less, but even he has a strong preference for making things himself or getting them from someone else who did.

[rotworld]

Haha but what would happen if one of the werewolves, shut off from human culture&civilization met a person that dressed in a very "non-average way" while round and about? Would they just stare?? Help😭😭😭

wild wolves probably get thrown off now and then by even the mildest alternative fashion lol definitely some curious staring but not for too long, to some extent they expect humans to dress differently.

[rotworld]

Sheep's Clothing

you live and work in eastridge. the mountains are close enough to see but not so close that you worry much about those werewolf rumors. tonight, though? you're worried.

->contains workplace harassment, feral behavior, a few mentions of vomit and vaguely sinister behavior.

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You deserve hazard pay for the things you see and unwillingly experience during weekend shifts at Club Mountainview. There’s a lot of noise, a lot of insufferable behavior from shitfaced and entitled patrons, and a lot of vomit. Whoever decided that Eastridge’s most popular nightlife attraction needed a restaurant is a genius and a misanthrope. The food is overpriced but nobody cares after a few shots and some uncoordinated flailing on the dancefloor. Taking orders has made you an expert at lipreading and interpreting inebriated miming, a necessity to understand anything over nonstop synth melodies and pounding bass. You smile through a lot of bullshit because the people who don’t forget to tip entirely make the whole night worthwhile.

For some reason, tonight is extra bad. The girls at table four manage to spill not one, not two, but all five of their drinks, leaving ice, broken glass and a sticky, sugary alcohol mess all over the booth seats and floor. You have to call in one of the bouncers when a drunken brawl breaks out in the party room over mozzarella sticks and a chair is lobbed at your head. A guy argues with you about his mini tacos never arriving despite your insistence that he ate them ten minutes ago, and then he pukes on your shoes.

“It’s the full moon,” Donna grumbles. She was already at the bar when you got there, head resting against her hand and eyes bloodshot. A few long, blonde strands of hair escape from her ponytail and she’s forever pushing them behind her ear before they fall loose again. “Makes people act weird. All our worst shifts are during full moons.” 

“Full moon, huh?” you mutter, rubbing your temples to soothe an oncoming headache. The bar’s design straddles a cave and cabin concept, the back wall textured like stone and the counter a natural-edged slab of wood with a glassy finish. It’s the only place where your eyes and ears can rest, far enough from the dancefloor that the noise is tolerable and the lights soft and steady, firelight orange instead of flashing neon. 

“Rough one tonight, huh?” you hear. A glass of water slides across the bar and you find Irving’s sauntered over to chat while he works. He moves like a well-oiled machine, hands quick and graceful as he juggles empty glasses, mixes drinks and pours ice. “I hear there was a bit of a scuffle in the party room earlier. Glad you two got out unscathed,” he says conversationally, wearing his perpetual charismatic, glad-to-be-here smile. You have no idea how he maintains it this late into his shift.

“You’re so fucking lucky to be on that side of the bar,” Donna grumbles. 

“It’s not exactly a walk in the park back here either. I’m not sure I’ll have a barback for much longer, Tim looks about ready to quit. Someone threw a drink at him earlier.” Tim, the new hire sheepishly collecting empty glasses at the other end of the bar, is staring forlornly at Irving like a castaway watching a ship leave him behind. 

Donna insists, “Full moon.”

“That sounds more like a werewolf thing,” you say.

Irving shakes his head. “That’s a myth, actually. Moon phases don’t do anything to them. You know what, though, this is their hunting season.” 

You stare at him, waiting for him to laugh or say he was just kidding. He doesn’t. “Hunting season?” you echo, morbidly curious.

He rests a forearm across the bar counter, leaning in a little and lowering his voice. “Mhm. Late spring to early summer. They’re opportunistic, but this is the only time of year that they’re actively on the prowl. Did you know that the majority of people who go missing in the mountains around here disappear sometime in April or May? You two should be careful, actually, I hear they’ve got a thing for overworked waitstaff.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Donna says.

“I’m serious! My girlfriend told me—”

“Your werewolf girlfriend who nobody’s ever met and only visits when we’re all conveniently too busy to meet her, right?” 

“Tale as old as time,” Irving sighs. He gives you a wink before he drifts back to the other end of the bar. You linger for a little longer, nursing your water. That must’ve been a joke, right? You’ve never heard of a “hunting season,” but you don’t know enough about werewolves to be sure. You’ve never met one. Then again, people say it’s hard to tell. Your gaze wanders the club scanning the dancefloor crowd, the groups chatting further down the bar or squeezed around booths, the loners leaning against the wall. Would you even know one if you saw one?

Donna heads back to the trenches first when she spots a couple wander in and you’re not far behind. Right on time, too, because a huge group just walked in and meandered over after looking around all starstruck and delirious like they’ve never been in a club before. You do a quick headcount as they make their way to the restaurant seating area. Eight, nine, ten guys—you hope it’s not another bachelor party. 

“Welcome to the Mountainview Club Kitchen—” Your throat tightens before you finish the sentence. They’re all looking at you. Which shouldn’t be weird, you were trying to get their attention. But the second you spoke up, all of them went from distracted and overly interested in the decor to laser-focused on you and only you. That still doesn’t seem sufficient to explain the cold grasp of heart-stopping terror keeping you frozen in place. You don’t feel like you’re talking to customers at work, you feel like you’re standing in the woods late at night and something big, powerful and hungry just stepped into your path.

Cornered. That’s what you’re feeling. Like a trapped animal. Like a rabbit chased by…

No way, you think. You quickly plaster on a smile. “Uh. Welcome! You’ll have to give me a second to check how many tables we’ve got open right now, I can push a few together for you if there’s enough.” 

“Don’t sweat it, I’m the only one eating.” One of them waves off the others with a chuckle. “Go on, get out there and mingle. I’ll hold down the fort, yeah? You guys are guests tonight so it’s my treat if you want anything.” He looks normal. They all do. Not really dressed for clubbing but nothing that weird, lots of tank tops, denim and well-worn sneakers. The group disperses without a word to you or each other, leaving you alone with the friendliest one. 

You search him for anything amiss, anything that screams “werewolf” and come up empty. He’s just a guy. Black jacket, band t-shirt, jeans with ragged knees. Not unusually tall or tough-looking, honestly a little on the scrawny side, dark hair that curtains his face and feathers around his shoulders. Were you just imagining that feeling earlier? He sticks his hands in his pockets and tilts his head slightly, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Something on my face?” he drawls. Shit, you’re staring. You try to play it off as spacing out and lead him to a table, wrestling with paranoia. You’re relieved when he starts scrutinizing the menu instead. 

“This is new, isn’t it?” he asks absently. “There wasn’t a restaurant last time I came here. I guess it’s been a while.”

“It opened a few months back,” you tell him. “Are you a regular?” 

“Eh, not really. I’m here like once a year.” 

Always around the same time? you wonder. Right around April or May? You scold yourself. Irving loves fucking with people, that’s all that was. And even if he wasn’t, a nightclub doesn’t really seem like prime werewolf hunting territory. “Can I get you started with something to drink?” 

“Just water, thanks. What’s good here?” He rests his chin against his palm while you try to think of a recommendation, smiling up at you. “I’m Corbin, by the way.” His eyes flick to your name tag and he reads it in a slow, teasing drawl. “So. You local? Live in Eastridge?” 

“Uh, yeah,” you say, utterly blindsided. “Uh. All of the appetizers are pretty good, and the tomato soup comes with this really good bread—” 

“Corbin.” You nearly jump out of your skin when one of the other guys seems to appear out of thin air, suddenly standing beside you. Sure, it’s hard to hear much of anything with the music, but he’s right there and he’s not exactly small. You aren’t sure how he snuck up on you. “Purple or green?”

Corbin tilts his head, glancing at something past the guy. You follow his gaze and see some of the people he came in with chatting up some college kids on the dancefloor. One’s in a sequined purple dress and the other’s wearing a green t-shirt. Corbin’s face scrunches up in distaste. “Neither,” he says. The other guy nods slowly like he’s just heard something truly profound and walks off. You have no idea what to make of the exchange and Corbin doesn’t let you dwell on it. “Is it always this busy?” he asks.

You shrug. “On the weekends, mostly.”

He hums, lips pursed and brows furrowed like you’ve just told him something heartbreaking. “Is it hard? A job like this? Seems pretty thankless.”

“A job’s a job,” you say with a tight smile. 

“It doesn’t have to be like that, y’know. There are places that would appreciate you so much more than this.” The discomfort must show on your face because his expression softens a little, less of a smirk and more of a sad smile. His voice gets softer and softer and you have to lean in to hear him clearly. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m just being nosy. But the thing is, I’ve got a good intuition. I can tell when people are…dissatisfied. Unhappy with their lives. You laugh it off, but it’s getting to you; how effortless it is for these people to hurt you. How brittle the bonds between humans are.” He pauses for just a moment and then he’s full of boisterous energy again, grinning. “Tomato soup, huh? Could I get that, and maybe the mozzarella sticks? Oh, and the wings too! They’d probably like that.”

“Sure,” you say weakly. You’re not entirely aware of your movements, running on autopilot to take the menu from him with numb fingers and put in his order. Why do you feel so shaken up? This is obviously a shitty place to work, anyone could see that. But it was more than that. The way he said it, the way he looked at you—like he knew you. Really knew you, the way strangers aren’t supposed to.

You try to shrug it off, make your rounds to other tables, but he’s on your mind all night. You bring him water and he takes it before you set it down. The pads of his fingers caress the back of your hand and slip away slowly, hesitantly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Thank you,” he says, his smile affecting you in embarrassing ways. You run to the bathroom and splash cold water on your face, trying to shock yourself out of whatever weird, emotional haze you’re in. 

Corbin is thankfully distracted when you come back with his appetizers. Someone else from his group swings by the table with his arm around a younger guy. “Oh, you’re on summer break? What’s your major?” Corbin asks. You don’t linger but you catch bits of conversation, enough to hear that the guy Corbin came with barely says a word. Is he the wingman for all of his socially awkward friends? You look around and see the others scattered around, a couple perched at the bar with a woman giggling between them, a few lurking around the dancefloor. One makes eye contact with you halfway across the club and your heart skips a beat. 

You’re getting that feeling again—the prickling on the back of your neck. The primal sense that there’s danger lurking somewhere nearby, hungry eyes raking across your skin. 

Corbin’s friends and their hookups drift by the table frequently. Every time you glance over, someone new is hovering next to him or sliding into an open chair with their plus one chatting happily. You’re not really surprised. There’s something magnetic about him, an effortless charm in his open, welcoming body language, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only two people in the world. Strangely, none of them stay long. People cycle in and out until you’re sure his whole friend group has stopped by at least twice, sometimes snagging something from an appetizer plate, but they don’t stick around.

Eventually, someone else entirely—a club regular, not someone Corbin came with—snags the chair across from him. They’re flirting and he’s apparently not interested, hardly looking at them, humming or muttering disinterested, one-word answers to their questions. You come back with his tomato soup just in time to see the interloper storm off, tears in their eyes. Corbin watches them go, leaning against the table with his lips curled in a snarl. “Packless,” he mutters, the word rolling off his tongue in disgust. He stiffens up when he notices you standing there, plastering on a smile. “Oh, that looks so good! Thank you!”

“Enjoy,” you manage to say, struggling to make sense of what you just saw. Corbin isn’t looking at the food, even when you set it down in front of him. 

“Why don’t you sit with me? I wanna talk more,” he says, nodding to the chair beside him. 

You laugh nervously. “I really can’t.” 

“Aw. Not even for a little bit?” You’re a little surprised but nonetheless grateful he doesn’t push. Instead, he pulls a hair tie out of his pocket to keep the long strands falling around his shoulders from falling into his food. “Sorry, sorry. I’m doing it again. It’s my intuition, y’know? I feel like we’re both missing out if we don’t get to know each other! But no worries, I know you’re on the clock.” He tosses the long strands of his ponytail behind his back and smiles at you.

Your heart drops into your stomach. You didn’t notice it before with his hair hanging around his neck, but he’s absolutely covered in painful-looking marks. Some are old, puckered scars and some are fresher, scabs and scrapes and flushed half-moons. They’re littered across both sides of his neck and even more disappear beneath the neckline of his shirt. There’s no mistaking them for anything else—those are bites. Big, human-sized bites, left by teeth too sharp to be a human’s. Your gaze darts back to his face and you know he caught you staring. 

He looks euphoric, eyes half-lidded and smile dreamy, like you’re fulfilling some exhibitionistic fantasy. 

“C…can I get you anything else?” you force yourself to ask.

He’s not discreet when he looks you up and down, gaze lingering on your hips, trailing slowly up your chest and eventually returning to your eyes. He licks his lips. “Nah,” he says, grinning. “I’m good for tonight.” 

You know he watches you for the rest of your shift. No matter where you go, you feel him staring. You want nothing more than to avoid him until he leaves but you don’t want him to complain about being neglected, eventually circling back to refill his water and take his empty plates. You don’t make eye contact and he doesn’t strike up a conversation. He pays his bill without anything weird happening until he hands you an insane tip, a few big bills rivaling your paycheck.

“We’re kindred spirits, y’know,” he says, looking satisfied by your wordless shock. “But you’re stuck in this awful world where nobody’s taking care of you right. So I’ll just have to do it myself until…” He never finishes the sentence, smile widening when you look at him questioningly. “Take a picture with me!” he says. You don’t argue. You’re so tired, so exhausted from all the mixed signals, and you’ve decided he’s ultimately harmless. Weird as hell and uncomfortably perceptive but harmless, and if he tips like this, you’ll give him all the pictures he wants.

Corbin pulls you down into the chair beside him with an arm around your shoulder and holds out his phone for a selfie. You fully intend to look at the camera but your eyes are pulled slightly off center by the sight of his bites displayed on the screen. It comes out awkward. Your smile is half-hearted and Corbin’s not quite looking at the camera either, his gaze focused on you with an uncomfortably fond smile stretched across his face.

[rotworld]

I got curious: would any packs let their humans contact their loved ones just to let them know they’re safe and well if the human asked??? Like,,, after they’ve accepting their new way of life lol or would they be very against it???

unfortunately no, they don’t tend to allow this. even if the pack human is fully trained, their family is unpredictable. what if they demand that the pack human is returned home or try to come get them? what if they threaten to get the human authorities involved or, out of desperation, vigilante werewolf hunters? for the pack, it's safer and easier if new pack humans have all of their previous ties neatly severed.

[rotworld]

If the pack human has feelings for Lance, would Max be able to pick up on it? Would he use it for his training or otherwise encourage it? Would he snitch and tell Lance about it?

oh max would figure it out pretty fast lol he would do everything he can to foster those feelings and use them in training, reminding them that it’ll make the alpha so happy and so impressed with them if they keep working hard and learning everything he’s trying to teach them. there wouldn’t be any need to tell lance, he already knows. he already “knows” even if the pack human isn’t infatuated with him because he’s simply decided they are.

[rotworld]

Meanwolves: A Quick Reference Guide

Intro to the Setting and Terminology

Shelter Mountain

Alpha: Lance

Beta: Blake

Shepherds: Max, Sully

Other important members: Basil (tech support)

A small, fledgling pack, still learning the finer points of keeping pack humans. Many members are younger (early to mid 20s) and were outcasts in their original home/pack. The commune is fully “modernized” with a handful of computers and one television, as well as internet access. Shelter Mountain is commonly seen at nearby craft fairs selling baked goods, furniture and handicrafts. Among their human neighbors, they have a fearsome reputation due to the ruthlessness of their alpha and their strong ties to a more powerful pack.

Hoarfrost Falls

Alpha (heartland): Vanagandr

Beta (heartland): Sawyer

Medic: Linden

Alpha (regional): Druian

Other Important Members: Flint (shepherd in training), Corbin (hrefn)

A large, established pack whose territory encompasses a mountain range and several neighboring human cities. Its history and founding members are tied to the ulfhednar, werewolves who fought alongside vikings, and so ulfhednar beliefs and traditions are still practiced in Hoarfrost Falls. The pack is generally wary of technology but members in leadership positions are permitted cell phones. While mostly self-sufficient, they make occasional appearances at craft fairs to sell or trade excess produce and other goods. The pack maintains a tense but stable relationship with neighboring human governments by offering its services for a variety of odd jobs, such as search and rescue, conservation, and bounty hunting.

Hoarfrost Falls is an unusually large territory for a single pack to hold. Its alpha, Vanagandr, maintains and defends the territory by dividing it into numerous smaller “regions.” Each region of the territory is home to a sub-pack, and each sub-pack is governed by its own regional alpha and beta. All regional leaders are subordinate to Vanagandr, who presides both over the pack as a whole and more directly over his own pocket of Hoarfrost Falls’ territory, a region commonly referred to as “the heartland.”