ᄝ 〖 Werewolf Rudo 〗ᄝ

The Cleaner’s bar was loud in the way it always was—low voices overlapping, the occasional sharp burst of laughter cutting through the air before fading back into the hum. Glass tapped against wood somewhere nearby, a chair scraped faintly across the floor. It all blended together into something steady. Familiar.

You sat with a friend, half-listening, your attention drifting in and out of the conversation as the noise settled around you like background static.

Then—heavy footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Each one landing with enough weight to be felt more than heard at first, a subtle shift through the floor before the sound followed. Not hurried. Not uncertain.

Deliberate.

Closer.

Something in the rhythm made it obvious who it was before you even turned.

You didn’t get the chance to anyway.

Two large, clawed hands closed around your waist from behind—firm, immediate, leaving no room to question it as you were lifted clean off the ground. The motion was smooth, almost effortless, like your weight didn’t matter in the slightest.

There was a reaction from your friend—confusion, maybe a hint of protest—as their voice cut through the noise, asking what was going on, why you were suddenly being taken—but it faded just as quickly as it came.

Because you already knew.

The grip wasn’t rough. Strong, yes—but controlled. Familiar in a way that didn’t leave room for panic.

You didn’t resist.

A quiet complaint slipped out anyway, more reflex than anything, questioning where he was taking you—but the only response you got was a low sound from behind you. A rumble, barely there. Not quite a growl—closer to a tired exhale, edged with mild irritation.

Like you were being difficult on purpose.

Like you should already understand.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t answer.

Just kept walking.

The noise of the bar dulled with each step, fading into something distant as the space shifted into quieter halls. The echo of his footsteps became clearer here, heavier, more defined. His hold adjusted once or twice along the way—subtle shifts of his grip at your waist, small corrections that felt automatic, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Like carrying you was natural.

By the time he reached his room, you were already settled securely against him, one arm wrapped around your middle while the other reached forward. The door opened with a firm push, then shut behind him with a solid click.

The quiet inside felt heavier.

Still.

His room wasn’t exactly messy—but it wasn’t clean either. Pieces of scrap and discarded objects littered the floor and lined the edges of the space. Not carelessly thrown aside, but kept. Collected. Some stacked, some half-sorted, like he’d meant to do something with them and just... hadn’t yet.

The shift in his movement was subtle.

His grip loosened slightly as he leaned forward, lowering you onto the bed. For something that had just lifted you like nothing, the way he set you down was unexpectedly careful—controlled down to the last inch, like he was making sure you landed exactly where he wanted you.

The mattress dipped under your weight.

Then again, heavier this time, as he followed without hesitation.

He climbed onto the bed behind you, the frame creaking faintly under the added weight as he settled in close. His legs moved on either side of yours, not pinning you down, just bracketing you in place—solid, present, an unspoken barrier more than a restraint.

Close.

You could feel the heat coming off him.

There was a pause.

Short. Barely noticeable.

Then—

A slow, rough drag through your hair—his tongue.

The texture made it unmistakable now, the steady pull through your hair repeating a second time, slower, more deliberate, like he’d settled fully into it.

No warning.

No buildup.

Just instinct taking over.

A low rumble followed, deep in his chest, vibrating faintly where he was pressed behind you. Steady. Quiet. Almost absentminded.

Like this was normal.

Like this was something he’d already decided on long before he came to get you.

His hand settled back at your waist, not gripping tightly, just firm enough to keep you where he wanted you. Every so often it shifted—small adjustments, pulling you a fraction closer, keeping you aligned with him without any real thought behind it.

The motions didn’t rush. They fell into rhythm instead. Slow, focused, repetitive.

Occasionally his snout pressed in closer, nudging lightly before continuing, as if adjusting angle or position. A brief pause here and there—just long enough to feel like he was checking, confirming—before continuing again without explanation.

Nothing about it was hesitant.

Nothing about it was questioned.

Only the quiet weight of him behind you, the steady presence, and the repetitive, grounding motions of something that wasn’t being thought through—

just followed.

Instinct, plain and simple.