Wait imagine a goat/lamb darling kidnapped by the wolf pack tho🤤🤤🤤
Timid, shy little lamb, in the midst of the wolves.
Tender, trembling.
Caught somewhere between prey and mate.
Sharp smiles and claws, careful not to draw blood as they hold you, as they scent and mark you.
Theirs, theirs forever. A sad, scared little beast, but one they want nothing more than to spoil and care for.
Mason and Cyrus are nothing but kind and gentle, afraid of frightening you.
Ace and Mateo tease you mercilessly— and Hunter can’t help but join in. He can’t help it if your timid expressions are your cutest…
Hana tries to be sweet, but she doesn’t know her own strength— and you’re just so cute, so unbearably goddamn cute, she just wants to squeeze you and nibble at you just a little—
Content Info/Warnings: GN reader, reader is a bit shy and possibly experiencing some level of stockholm syndrome, jealousy and possessiveness, kidnapping/captivity, the werewolves have no real concept of personal space, food/eating, tiny mention of blood, possibly more. Ask to tag!
Word Count: 2,552
Thank you so much for the commission, [redacted]! This version of the story is anonymized for the comfort of my lovely Commissioner, who gave permission for all of you to enjoy this fic as well 🫶
If you’re interested in a commission, please feel free to DM me for more details!
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎ ── ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ ── ☁︎ ⋆₊⁺⋆ ☽ ⋆₊⁺⋆
“Hey.”
The word stirs you from a peaceful nap. You glare blearily up at Mason for waking you, wrinkling your nose and trying to pull the blankets up to cover your face. He huffs, though not without affection. The bed shifts with his weight as he sits next to you and rubs your shoulder.
“C’mon, s’time to get up. Got a surprise for you.”
Your heart thrums with excitement. You’ve learned to trust Mason’s surprises— he’ll bring you movies, soft blankets, trinkets he thinks you’d like to decorate your room with. Though you know these gifts are meant to buy your complacence, your affection, each one brings you warmth. Without Mason overtly asking anything in exchange for the gifts, unlike some of the other werewolves, it’s easier to pretend they’re given unselfishly.
So, when he moves again to pull down the blankets a bit, you let him. He points to the door, where a more formal outfit than you’re used to hangs from the door. The cut, the color… it’s gorgeous.
He stands to let you get up. You can feel his eyes on you, gauging your reaction as you run your fingers over the fabric. Mason doesn’t miss your quick grin.
“Also got you some shoes.” Mason sidles up next to you, dipping his head to draw your gaze to the floor, where the pair sits. “Go on, get ready.”
You blink at him, uncertainty plain in the way your fingers tighten, crinkling the fabric. Before you can muster the courage to ask for privacy, he’s stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. You let out a shuddering breath, steeling yourself. He’s not the type to pretend to give a privilege like that and take it away, you tell yourself. He begins to hum to himself quietly. Johnny Cash, maybe.
The clothes fit perfectly. You bite your lip, gently rapping on the door.
Mason cracks the door open, eyes widening as he takes you in with the full outfit, breath catching in his throat. He turns and coughs into his sleeve. His voice is gravelly, strained. “...You look nice.”
A little laugh escapes before you can help it. “What, cat got your tongue?”
He rubs a hand over his face, but doesn’t respond. Damn, if you’re not going to be the death of him. As soon as your confidence had come, it crumbles into a shy warmth under his gaze turning back to you. And slowly, carefully, as if worried he’ll suddenly change his mind, you cross that threshold you haven’t been allowed to for months. You stop just outside the doorway, almost at a loss for what to do next.
Your voice comes again, meek this time, “shouldn’t we leave a note? Everyone will be worried if they come to my room, and I’m not there…”
Mason’s eyebrows raise in surprise, settling down as his eyes crinkle with a warmth that sends your heart racing even faster. He rests a hand on your back. “S’okay. They already know.”
Mason leads you down the hallways of the lodge. To set your mind even more at ease, he brings you to the front desk, where the other werewolves are hanging out. Mateo sniffs and immediately looks up from painting Hana’s nails, shoving the brush back into the bottle and rushing over to you.
“You look stunning!” Mateo gushes, moving to adjust your neckline. His fingers flirt over your shoulder, playing with your hair.
Hunter and Cyrus put down their book and old Nintendo DE respectively. They and Hana watch from where they’re sitting. Ace saunters around the counter, openly looking you up and down.
He bumps Mateo out of the way with his shoulder, prompting a disgruntled “hey!”
Ace grabs your hand and presses a kiss to it. You feel him open his mouth to say something when Mason moves closer, rumbling low in his chest.
“Give them some space.”
Ace’s smirk dissolves into a baleful glare, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “Fine.”
His eyes slide back to you, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “Have fun if you can, with that old stuffy old coot.”
Mason scoffs, looping his arm with yours and damn near pulling you outside where his truck waits for you.
It’s overwhelming.
The outside world is so much more than you remembered. So much brighter, louder.
Music crackles over the old radio, sunshine streams in from the windows, the old road making the ride bumpy.
It’s strange, you muse. Just a few months ago, you’d had a whole life outside of this town, the pack that had claimed you as theirs. As ephemeral as a desert mirage– the more you chase the memory, the further away it feels.
Mason’s pinkie nudges yours on the center console. You risk a glance over at him. His eyes are fixed on the road, but there’s a ruddy tint across his cheek, spreading to the tip of his ear. His left hand flexes around the steering wheel. You look away before he can meet your gaze.
The town is closer than you remembered, too. It’s not long before you’re driving down the town’s main road, taking in all the picturesque buildings that had drawn you in last year, all of the flowers and people emerging for the spring.
Mason pulls into the parking lot of a cute little building and pauses, hands flexing around the steering wheel. With a steadying breath, Mason hops out of the truck and walks around to open the door for you. His hand finds its way to your back as soon as he shuts the door behind you.
The two of you walk into the building— a restaurant, judging by the host that greets you. Curious eyes follow you as the host leads you to a table for two. Mason feels it too, his hold around you tightening until it’s time to pull out the chair for you.
Mason sits in front of you, crossing his arms and surveying the restaurant. He’s cleaned up as much as he can, with his shaved face and the nicest shirt he owns, but there’s still hints of that rugged, wild nature of his that puts him at odds with the rich tablecloth and fine silverware between you. You can’t help but smile a little at the thought.
The waiter comes to take your drink orders, looking to Mason first, who only nods at you to go first. Mason nods in approval as you say what you want, eyes fixed on yours even as the waiter turns to him and asks what he’ll be having.
“A whiskey on the rocks.”
The waiter nods and bounces back to the kitchen. The conversation dies down, Mason watching as you pore over the menu. The amount of choices is simply incredible. You clear your throat, raising your eyes to catch another glance at Mason, only to meet his gaze again. Had he even looked away…?
“What are you going to get?”
“Steak.” He tilts his head. “How about you? What’re you hungry for?”
“I’m not sure yet...”
The waiter comes back over just in time to clear the silence. Mason’s lip curls in a small smile at the way your eyes light up at your drink. Mason gives the waiter his order first, giving you a moment to enjoy your drink. When the waiter turns to you, their eyes and Mason’s practically boring into you, you suddenly feel a bit shy. Mason senses your hesitation, and orders for you. He chooses something you’ll like without a second thought, as if some of your preferences come as easily to him as breathing.
Not your preference for freedom, though. You shove the thought down.
As you wait for your food, you slowly grow more comfortable, loosening up and beginning to chat with Mason. He seems to loosen up a bit too, eyes crinkling when you laugh at the bits of dry humor he sprinkles into the conversation.
The waiter comes out with two plates, smoothly laying them in front of you and Mason. The waiter looks proud of themself, giving a little bow, leaning a little closer to you than you expected. “Enjoy~!”
Mason takes in a sharp breath, letting it out slowly as the waiter nods to him as well. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he watches the waiter flounce back to the kitchen.
Your eyes flick from him to your food, catching on his steak. As he cuts into it, it begins to damn near bleed. Your stomach knots at the sight, torn between a hunger of your own, and the reminder that you could just as easily be the next thing on his plate.
“You want a bite of mine, darl?”
You shake your head, hurrying to eat a bite of your own food. Mason watches you again, that wolfish stare picking apart your every reaction as always. You and Mason make small conversation between bites. You manage to draw out more stories from his day job, from what it’s like to help manage the lodge.
Mason finishes his meal first, leaning back in his seat.
You pause between bites, feeling the full weight of his gaze again. It makes your skin feel hot, almost too tight. Does he even realize how heavy his stare is… what he does to you? You’re not totally sure what it is you feel when he looks at you. Desire? Fear? Your heart skitters like a scared little rabbit almost every time, but it’s not… entirely unpleasant.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
“Mm?” Mason tilts his head in acknowledgment. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, darling.”
You finish your meal too, and Mason is quick to lay some cash on the table and offer his hand as you stand.
”C’mon.”
Mason’s grip is tight as you walk past the families and other couples dining, feeling their gazes now too. Some of them wave at the sheriff, prompting tight smiles and curt nods. Even as you exit the restaurant, and try to make a joke to break that strange tension, he remains silent. It’s like a summer thunderstorm, those moods. Roiling over in what seems like the blink of an eye.
Once you get to the truck, you take in a deep breath and one more moment to look around. There’s a twinge in your chest. The need to cement the memory of those blooming flowers, the faint murmurs of music and other people talking from the restaurant.
Mason shuts the door for you, careful to avoid closing it on your clothes.
The truck ride is quiet too. Perhaps Mason forgot to turn the music back on, or perhaps he just needed the silence. You want to say something, to ease the tension rolling off him in waves, but your throat feels tight, your tongue leaden. Mason glances over at you. His hand comes to rest on your thigh, thumb running back and forth gently as if in apology.
He only relaxes as the town falls away into the rear view mirror, and then disappears. Mason drives past the lodge, squeezing your thigh reassuringly when you give a questioning look.
The road opens up to a grassy clearing, surrounded by trees and beyond them, the silhouettes of mountains. They rise sharp and white as fangs against the start of sunset. Mason carefully maneuvers the truck, sidling into the clearing and backing up slowly to an old tree stump.
Mason hops out and walks around to open the door for you. You slide your hand into his. He leads you to the back of the truck, pulling up the cover to reveal blankets, pillows, and a little picnic basket. You fight a smile, recognizing it as Hana’s from the little plastic butterflies hot glued all over it.
Mason continues to hold your hand as you step up onto the tree stump, then up onto the bed of the truck. He pulls himself up beside you, and settles to sit up against the cab of the truck. He opens the basket, revealing some bottles of soda, cider, and beer, and some small sweets he hoped you’d like.
The sunset bathes the clearing in a golden light. Crickets hum, and a warm breeze tickles your skin. You try a bite of one of the little desserts— some of the other werewolves’ attempts at a petit four, you think— and he grabs a beer.
Mason lets you steer the conversation, as he usually does, humming in response as you talk more about what you’d thought of the restaurant, what you think of the books Hunter and Cyrus have brought you, anything else that’s been on your mind lately. The dusk descends ever-more rapidly, it seems, the breeze turning colder as the evening wears on.
A comfortable silence settles over the both of you for a time. You let your gaze slide to Mason, admiring him in the waning light. He’s all rough edges worn soft with time, not unlike the mountains that cradle you and that sleepy little town to the south. Something wild and rugged lays at the hearts of both, drawing you in like a moth to the flame.
His gaze has long since moved from vigilantly scanning the edge of the forest, to staring up at the stars wistfully.
It’s a strange expression on him. You run the back of your hand against his, smiling at the way he instinctively lifts your hand close and turns his face to press a kiss to your knuckles. His stubble scratches your skin and makes you wrinkle your nose playfully— he’d been perfectly clean-shaven when he’d woken you up! You wonder if that’s a werewolf trait, or if he’d have been like that as a human too.
“What are you thinking about?”
”You,” he sighs, lips still pressed to your hand. His brows furrow, eyes sliding shut. “The others.”
You laugh. “What, worried they’re going to burn the place down by accident while we’re out here?”
Mason snorts, shaking his head and moving to wrap his arm around your shoulder and pull you into him. “You’d be surprised.”
The small smile you’d pulled from him soon falls back into that faraway, pensive expression. He breathes in deeply, steadying himself. “Truth is… I don’t like the way they were looking at you… y’know, back at the restaurant.”
Trepidation scours your skin like another gust of wind, raising goosebumps in its wake. Sure, you’d felt a few curious stares, maybe admiring or judging, but… surely it was normal for a small town, where everybody knows everybody, to be curious about their Sheriff’s new companion… “What d’you mean?”
Mason tilts his head, brow furrowed and hand tightening on your arm. His eyes search yours. There’s a fire there, a steeliness, something that steals your breath and fills your stomach with butterflies, anxious and anticipating. Eventually he relents with a sigh, letting his eyes slide closed.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
A wry chuckle fans over your lips, broad hand coming up to cup your face. A calloused thumb brushes over your cheekbone, pressing into the skin a bit too firmly. Mason’s nose brushes yours, salt-and-pepper lashes fluttering over his cheekbones filling your vision as your own eyes slide shut.
Not that Ace isn’t already a menace, but towards an afab darling on their period??? Ace would be the WORST. Like, sure, he brings you all the food you’re craving, and watches whatever movies you wanna watch even if they don’t interest him in the slightest, but he’s also calling you his ketchup packet to piss you off and being even more of a horndog than usual bc yes. menstruation/blood in general is one of his kinks
Okay, werewolves... Which werewolf would like it if the reader would start treating them like a literal dog?
A literal dog, hmmm?
Cyrus. He’s so down bad and mentally unwell that you could treat him like an actual dog and he would be grateful for it, as if that is more than he even deserves. Be that as it may, he can’t help whining and crying if you try to make him sleep in a dog bed on the floor instead of curling up next to you at night.
Hana. Not as ready as Cyrus— she’d never thought of something like that before meeting you, much less daydreamed about it like he had. But she can’t deny the allure of being your puppy. Being wanted, petted, spoiled. It’s almost frightening how safe she feels, letting her thoughts slip away to be a good girl for you.
Just a few months ago, you’d had a whole life outside of this town, the pack that had claimed you as theirs. As ephemeral as a desert mirage– the more you chase the memory, the further away it feels.
Mason’s pinkie nudges yours on the center console.
Do the werewolf pack play-fight in their human forms like wolves?
Yes, they do~ I’d say Hana, Mateo, and Ace playfight the most, with Hunter being the next most frequent playfighter. Cyrus and Mason playfight the least— they have to be in a particularly playful mood first, and Cyrus is a bit delicate compared to the other wolves, so he’s not as eager to fight, playfully or otherwise.
