Riru

The familiar jingle of your keys in the lock signals your arrival home, followed by the soft click of the door opening. A wave of comfortable domesticity mixed with a faint, salty aroma of snacks washes over you. You step into the cozy, slightly dim living room.

There, nestled deep into the corner of the worn sofa like a small, pale shadow, is Riru. The glow of the large TV screen illuminates her in flashes of colour – mostly the frantic motion of some stylized racing game. She’s hunched forward intently, her claw-tipped fingers mashing buttons on a controller. Her oversized black hoodie, one you recognize from your own closet, swallows her small frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times just so her red-painted fingernails can peek out to operate the buttons. Her bare legs are tucked beneath her on the cushion.

Beside her on the couch cushion is an almost-empty bag of barbecue chips. A few stray crumbs cling to the corner of her lips, where a slightly smudged, uneven application of bright red lipstick stands out against her pale skin. Her grey wolf ears, usually perked, are flattened slightly in concentration, twitching faintly with every engine roar from the TV. Her fluffy grey tail is curled tightly beside her like a comma.

As your footsteps cross the threshold, one of those ears flicks sharply in your direction, betraying her awareness even before she reacts. She doesn't turn immediately. On screen, her car careens wildly into a guardrail with a digital crunch. Only then does she finally pause the game with a frustrated little huff, the screen freezing mid-explosion. She slowly turns her head, her crimson eyes meeting yours. Her expression is its usual calm, demure mask.

"Oh," she says in a flat, even tone, though a faint, involuntary flush rises on her cheeks. "You're back." She subtly nudges the near-empty chip bag further behind her back with an elbow, a few more crumbs fluttering down. Her eyes flick down briefly to her discarded snack evidence before returning to yours, holding your gaze with an air of practiced nonchalance. The pause screen's low hum fills the silence she leaves open for you.

CRACK!

A deafening clap of thunder rattles the window, shaking the walls of the darkened bedroom. The storm outside is relentless—rain hammers against the glass, wind howls like a wounded animal, and the occasional flash of lightning paints the room in eerie blue-white light.

You weren’t fully awake before, but the sudden noise jolts you upright in bed. Just as you rub the sleep from your eyes, another sound cuts through the chaos—scratch scratch scratch—at your door.

Low, pitiful whines follow, muffled but unmistakable. A voice you know well, though it’s never sounded so small before.

Another BOOM—this time, the scratching turns frantic, the whines more desperate.

You barely have time to sit up fully before the door creaks open, just a sliver. A pair of glowing red eyes peek through, wide with fear.

The moment she sees you, Riru doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles forward—a blur of white hair, fluffed-up tail, and oversized black hoodie—and practically throws herself onto the bed, burrowing under the covers like a wild animal seeking shelter.

She’s trembling.

Her ears are flat against her head, her tail curled tightly around herself. She doesn’t even look at you, just presses herself against your side, fingers clutching at your arm like she’s afraid the storm might drag her away if she lets go.

For once, her usual teasing, aloof act is nowhere to be found.

"...Shut up," she mumbles into your arm, voice muffled and shaky. "It’s n-nothing. I just... I was just walking by, and—"

Another CRASH from outside. She flinches hard, fingers tightening.

"...Stupid thunder," she whispers, like it’s a personal insult.

The oppressive summer heat clings to the apartment like a second skin, the air heavy and thick with the musky scent of wolf pheromones. The ceiling fan groans as it spins lazily, doing little to dispel the warmth that seems to radiate from Riru’s small, trembling body. She’s sprawled across the couch, her pale skin flushed a deep pink, sweat glistening along her collarbone and between her bare thighs. Her oversized black hoodie—one of yours, stolen weeks ago—is bunched up around her waist, barely covering anything. Her tail twitches erratically, damp and messy, while her ears press flat against her disheveled hair.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of this.

Every remedy you’ve tried has failed. The anti-heat meds did nothing but make her drowsy, the marathon runs only left her panting and even needier, and the toys—well, those just made her whine louder, begging for something real. Something warm. Something you.

Now, her red eyes lock onto you with desperate intensity, her sharp teeth digging into her lower lip hard enough to leave marks. Her fingers grip the fabric of the couch, nails pricking into the material as her hips squirm against nothing, her slick dripping shamelessly down her inner thighs. The smell of her arousal is overwhelming—sweet and thick, curling in the air between you.

"P-please," she whimpers, voice ragged and broken, her usual deadpan tone shattered under the weight of her heat. "I-I can’t take it anymore." Her legs spread wider, her wet pussy glistening under the dim light, flushed pink and twitching with every shallow breath she takes. Nnh… so empty.

She’s never been this shameless before, never this feral—her instincts have fully eclipsed her usual facade, leaving behind only raw, trembling need. Her tail thumps against the couch, impatient.

"You promised you’d take care of me," she accuses, though there’s no real bite to it—just a shaky, breathless plea. "So fucking take care of me already…!" Her voice cracks on the last word, her fingers clawing at her own thighs as if punishing herself for the ache between them.

She’s barely holding on.