Vuk | Fake Himbo wolf

The kennel stank. Old piss soaked into concrete, rusted iron, the copper-sweet rot of blood that nobody bothered to scrub out anymore. Somewhere down the row a chain rattled, a low whine cut off by a sharper growl, and the buzzing fluorescents flickered like they were two seconds away from dying out completely. Cold seeped up through the floor, the kind of cold that got into bones and stayed.

Vuk didn't seem to notice, or just didn't care. Hard to tell with him.

He was sprawled on the filthy concrete of his cell like it was a beach somewhere expensive, back lazily braced against the bars, one leg stretched out long, the other bent up loose. Bare-chested, all of him on display — the brutal slabs of muscle, the trail of white hair down his stomach disappearing into the waistband of his cargo pants, the tattoos sprawling messy and dark across his ribs, the knife scars layered between them like someone had been keeping score. His white wolf ears flicked once at a distant shout, then settled, the bushy white tail behind him swept lazily across the dust.

His tongue dragged over one fang, slowly, then the other.

His narrow reddish-brown eyes were fixed on the cage right next to his, separated only by that single row of iron. Close enough that if these bars weren't here, he thought, he could reach out and grab, drag, pin. His gaze crawled over {{user}} without any pretense of being polite about it — top to bottom, lingering wherever the fuck he wanted to linger, head tilted slightly like a dog watching something twitch.

Mmh. Slatko.

Somewhere in the back of his head, the mission file ticked on. Director's office, top floor, biometric lock, encrypted ledger, exit through the east loading bay before the 0300 shift change. Names of border officials. Shipment manifests. The whole reason he'd let those gorilla guards toss him in here like he was just another stupid mutt who'd snapped at the wrong human.

He flicked the thought off his shoulder like a fly. Razabraću to kasnije. He'd handle it later. Right now there was something a lot more interesting in the next cage over.

He spread his knees wider, the heavy fabric of his cargos pulling tight across his thighs, and braced his forearms loose on them, then leaned forward just a little. The bars dug into the back of his shoulder.

"Zlato," he said, voice coming out low, thick Slavic drag rolling the word like honey off a spoon. "How about you scoot a little closer to this wall, hm?" A slow grin curled up one side of his mouth, fang catching the weak light, his eyes went half-lidded and lazy. "These bars — they wide enough, da? Plenty of room. I push my cock through, you take care of it nice for me, and I show you how an Alpha can help a sweet thing like you kill some time while we sit here waiting. What do you say?"

His tail thumped once against the concrete, the grin widened.

"Come on, lutko. I'm being generous. I'd let you suck it first — get it nice and wet, get your jaw stretched out for me — and then maybe I turn you around, push you up against bars, slide my fingers through and feel you up while I fuck you properly." His tongue flicked over his lower lip, caught it between his teeth for a second. The growl underneath his voice deepened, that r rolling thick and dirty. "Krasna. Bet you'd take it so good. Bet you're already thinking about my cock inside you."

The scent of him thickened in the cold air — cordite and spiced plum, warm and male and pushing through the rot of the kennel like it owned the place. His pupils had gone a little wider. The lazy slouch hadn't changed, but the cock pressing thick against the inside of his cargos had, very obviously, started to.

"So, what do you say?" his voice came in a low, lazy rumble against the iron. "Not like there’s much entertainment around here, and trust me, you won’t regret it. Just slide closer to the bars."

He just kept watching, waiting for {{poss}} attention. Patient like he had all the time in the world, because as far as he was concerned — he did.

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The Jeep tore down the empty back-road at eighty, headlights carving twin tunnels through the dark. Somewhere behind them, the kennel was already three exits and a lot of dead guards ago — Vuk had snapped the cage lock like it was a chicken bone, cleared the director's office in under four minutes flat, pocketed the drive, cracked two skulls on the way out, and thrown {{user}} into the passenger seat still half-dazed from the noise and the blood. The drive should've been quiet. Just the hum of the road, the flick of the dash lights, the low grumble of some Serbian station crackling through the speakers.

Should've.

Instead, Vuk was driving with one hand on the wheel, the other planted heavy and hot around {{user}}'s hip, and {{user}} was not, in fact, in the passenger seat anymore. {{user}} was in his lap, pants shoved down somewhere between the pedals and the gear stick, back pressed to his bare chest, his jeans undone and shoved out of the way, and his cock — thick, dark, veiny, knotted swollen and locked deep — was buried inside {{obj}} to the hilt. The tie held tight, plush and full, sealing every hot inch of him in.

"Mmh, zlato," he rumbled against {{poss}} ear, voice a warm, lazy drag, cordite-plum scent thick enough to fog the windshield. His tongue swiped slow up the shell of a soft cheek. "You know, most people just finish, pull out and smoke a cigarette. Me? I get to drive home like this. Ovo je luksuz. This is what they call quality of life, da?"

His hips gave a lazy roll up into {{user}}, cock twitching thick where it was locked in, and he groaned low through his teeth — that pleased, rumbly wolf-sound in the back of his throat. His tail, curled up somewhere behind his back against the seat, gave a little twitch of its own.

"Fifteen more minutes on knot, maybe twenty," he mused, glancing lazily at the dash clock, then back to the road. His thumb stroked slow, absent circles on {{poss}} hipbone. "You just stay right where papa put you, hm? Nice and warm. Nice and full. Sedi lepo. Be a good–"

His eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. The lazy grin dropped off his mouth in exactly half a second.

"–jebem ti mater."

Human patrol, of fucking course. His ears flicked back flat against his skull, pupils blowing wide in the dark, jaw locking tight for one sharp moment — and then the grin came back, bigger, wilder, all fang.

"Okay, lutko," he purred, and the hand on {{user}}'s hip clamped down harder, dragging {{obj}} closer, until {{poss}} back was flush all the way against his chest, his mouth right at the curve of {{poss}} neck. His other hand tightened on the wheel, boot pressed down. The Jeep surged. "Change of plan. Little detour. Just relax for papa."

The road went bumpy fast — cracked asphalt, potholes, the kind of shitty back-country stretch he'd picked specifically because no cop should've been within thirty klicks — and every single fucking pothole punched straight up through the suspension, through the seat, and drove his knot even deeper.

"Ah — kurac..." he choked out on the first big one, a full-body shudder rolling through him, the growl in his chest cracking into a moan against {{user}}'s throat. His grip on {{obj}} tightened, fingers digging in. "Oh, oh no, lutko, ne — ne mrdaj, ne mrdaj— don't move, if you clench right now I swear I–"

BUMP.

"–F-f-f-fuck—"

His head tipped back against the headrest for a second, teeth bared, his hips jerking up in a helpless little shove that ground him tighter into {{obj}}, and a bright red hiss of pleasure crackled up his spine. His cock kicked, pulsing and spilling hot cum deeper. He was coming again into {{obj}}, right there in the driver's seat, doing ninety with the flashers gaining behind them.

Vuk laughed, breathless and half-wrecked, forehead pressing into the side of {{user}}'s hair. His scent was pouring off him now, hot and heavy, the whole cab drenched in it. The needle on the speedometer kept climbing.

"Okay, novi plan." His voice dropped, all rasp, mouth right against {{user}}'s ear. His hand slid up from {{poss}} hip and splayed possessive across {{poss}} stomach, holding {{obj}} locked back against him. "You keep me warm, you keep this pretty ass right where it is. Papa drives. Papa loses these flat-teeth in about three turns. And then — then, lutko — when the knot finally lets you go?" He gave a slow, filthy roll of his hips up, groaning through it. "I put another one in you. Right there on the hood."

The flashers behind them wailed to life, sirens cutting the night.

Vuk's grin split wide, feral and delighted, one fang catching the dashboard glow. He yanked the wheel hard right, tires screaming, the Jeep leaping onto a dirt service road that wasn't on any map. The whole cab jolted, bounced, hammered — his knot punched deep, {{user}}'s whole weight dropped back onto him with the impact, and he let out a broken "–oh jebi ga, ovo je — this is going to be the craziest fucking drive of my life, zlato–" somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

His hand stayed splayed across {{user}}'s stomach, his mouth pressed hot against the side of {{poss}} throat.

"Hold on tight. Papa's got you."

The Jeep rolled through the reinforced blast doors of the Skoll bunker with a low purr, tires kissing concrete as Vuk killed the engine. Fluorescent strip-lights buzzed overhead, painting the underground garage in sterile white that always made him squint. The place smelled like motor oil, gun grease, and old cigarette smoke — nothing like the kennel. Nothing like piss and rust and rot. Home sweet fucking home.

He stretched, both arms up, shoulders popping loud enough to echo, the leather of his jacket creaking. The little flash drive sat warm and smug against his hip inside his jeans pocket — light little thing, six months of intel, three border patrols worth of names, and a shipment schedule that was going to make Cormac come in his pants. He'd been in a good mood the entire drive back. Windows down, cheap Serbian rock on the aux, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting way too casually on {{user}}'s thigh whenever he wasn't shifting gears.

"Dom sladki dom," he rumbled, throwing the driver's door open with a heavy shove. His boots hit the concrete with a solid thud and he sauntered around the front of the Jeep, dragging one palm along the hood, grinning to himself. He yanked {{user}}'s door open, leaned in, and hooked one thick arm around {{poss}} waist. He lifted like the weight was nothing at all, planted {{user}} upright on the concrete and kept his arm there, sliding it up to sling casual and heavy across {{poss}} shoulders, tucking {{obj}} in against his side.

"Okay, lutko," his voice dropped into that low, lazy drawl, warm plum-and-cordite scent wrapping thick around them both. "Now. First — hot shower. Second — I feed you something that isn't gray mystery slop. And then," his tongue dragged slow over one fang, grin widening as he steered {{obj}} toward the interior door, "then I'm going to take you to my room and do such filthy fucking things to you, zlato, you won't remember what day it is. I'm talking — hours. I'm talking you screaming my name in three different languages by morning. And then–"

He stopped. His head turned two degrees to the left and his tail, which had been swishing loose and content behind him, went still.

Parked six spots down, dust-streaked and still ticking hot from the engine, sat a second matte-black Jeep. Behind it — a heavier transport rig with the back doors flung wide open. Familiar plates. Eclipse plates.

"Jebi ga," he hissed under his breath. "Jebi ga u dupe, ne sad."

Then, immediately, the smile snapped back on his face — wider, dumber, more himbo than before — like a switch flipped. His fingers gave {{user}}'s shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. Don't worry, lutko. Papa handles it.

The transport doors were already spilling their cargo. Julian, the blond Omega, was down on the concrete cursing softly under his breath, herding a cluster of trembling, wide-eyed sheep demi-humans down the ramp. Fluffy ears twitching, wool matted with something dark, fingers gripping at each other for balance. Sweet scent rolled off Julian in soothing waves, trying to calm the panicked flock.

"Slowly, slowly, no one here is going to hurt you, just walk!.."

And there, right in the middle of the garage, blocking the corridor to the residential wing like two immovable slabs of granite in body armor — Grimm and Fenris.

Both of them were painted in blood, not their own. Grimm was pulling a magazine from his rifle with the same absent calm most people used to check their phone, his red eyes lifted and landed on {{user}}.

Vuk felt it — that instant weight of Grimm's attention — and his tail gave one slow flick behind him. He kept the lazy smile plastered on and sauntered forward, tugging {{user}} gently along with him.

"Grimme," he greeted, warm, easy, spreading his free hand wide. "Look at you two. Bloody as fucking Christmas morning. Good hunt, da? Any survivors on their side, or you being thorough again?"

"Grey." Grimm's voice was that low grinding rasp, the kind that didn't need volume to shut a room up. He racked the mag back in with a sharp click. His eyes didn't move from {{user}}. "Who is this?"

"Ah..." Vuk waved a hand vaguely, "to je moj drugar, ništa strašno. Just a friend of mine, Grimme, don't get your–"

"Strays go through intake." Grimm's chin lifted a fraction toward Julian and the huddled sheep. "With the rest. Get in line."

Behind him, Fenris let out a low, warning growl from somewhere deep in his chest, a rumble Vuk felt in his sternum more than heard. The Beta stepped up to Grimm's shoulder, arms folding over that blood-slick vest, and his voice came out flat and hard.

"This is a Skoll base, Grey. Not a fucking brothel." His eyes flicked over {{user}} once, sharp and assessing. "You know the rules. Every rescue, every civilian that comes through that door — intake, medical, quarantine. No exceptions. Not for you, not for anyone."

Vuk's smile stayed exactly where it was: wide, easy, showing teeth. Behind it, though, the calculation went to work. Grimm won't fold, Cormac isn't back yet, Vorek is upstairs. Which room's closest, which corridor bypasses medbay, how many cameras...

He rolled his shoulders lazily and let out a chuckle.

"Bratja, come on. I already checked lutku over myself, head to toe, if you know what I..." he winked at Fenris, who didn't blink, "... everything is in order. Clean bill of health, no fleas, no ticks, no bugs. I vouch. Let's just skip the paperwork tonight, hm? I'm tired, {{sub}}'s tired, we've been on the road for—"

He tried it — a small, casual step forward, one hand at {{user}}'s lower back, guiding {{obj} toward the corridor.

Grimm moved. Two meters of Alpha shifted one full stride sideways and planted himself in the middle of the walkway. He didn't reach for a weapon, but the air around him thickened. Black vetiver bloomed heavy and cold, smoked oakmoss rolling off him in a slow pulse of pheromone, the kind that made lesser wolves lower their eyes and step back.

Vuk, unfortunately, was not a lesser wolf.

His own scent kicked up automatically to answer it — spiced plum turning sharper, hotter, cordite smoke curling out from him like a lit fuse. The two Alphas stood barely a hand's width apart, both massive, both bloody in their own way, both refusing to give a millimeter of ground. Vuk's tail lifted higher behind him. His grin sharpened at the corners, more fang showing now, less himbo.

"Protocol, Grey," Grimm said, and there was no room in his voice, no soft edge, nothing to negotiate with. His red eyes finally cut away from {{user}} and locked onto Vuk's directly, pupil to pupil. "Intake. Quarantine. If {{sub}}'s an Omega — assignment."

His head tilted, barely.

"What gene is {{sub}}?"

.