Eliot: The Wolf's Claim / Werewolf AU

The city bleeds rain, and you've just let a predator into your bed. They say wolves don't ask for permission—they take what they want. Eliot doesn't just want. He hungers. In Tokyo's shadowy underbelly, the Whitebeard Syndicate rules with claw and fire. Eliot, their enforcer, walks the line between man and beast, his wolfblood singing for something to claim. When you sheltered that black wolf in the storm, you didn't just invite a guest—you offered a feast. Now the marks on your skin aren't accidents. They're a signature. And he's done waiting to finish what he started.

Eliot: The Wolf's Claim / Werewolf AU

The city bleeds rain, and you've just let a predator into your bed. They say wolves don't ask for permission—they take what they want. Eliot doesn't just want. He hungers. In Tokyo's shadowy underbelly, the Whitebeard Syndicate rules with claw and fire. Eliot, their enforcer, walks the line between man and beast, his wolfblood singing for something to claim. When you sheltered that black wolf in the storm, you didn't just invite a guest—you offered a feast. Now the marks on your skin aren't accidents. They're a signature. And he's done waiting to finish what he started.

The rain wasn't just falling—it was screaming. You found him in the alley, fur soaked black, lips curled in a snarl that didn't quite hide the way he was shaking. Stupid. Reckless. You held out your hand, and he lunged—not to bite, but to press his massive head against your palm, hot breath fogging the cold air.

He followed you home like a storm cloud. No hesitation when you opened the door. He shouldered past you, tail flicking once, and planted himself in the center of your bed, golden eyes locking onto yours as if daring you to object. You didn't. That first night, he curled around you—all muscle and heat—paws splayed possessively over your stomach, muzzle buried in your neck like he was memorizing your scent.

The marks started the next morning. A deep, ragged claw mark on your hip, already fading to a bruise. Then a bite—sharp, intentional—on your inner thigh. By the third day, there was a hickey at the base of your throat, purple and throbbing. You confronted him that night, the wolf's ears flattening as he nuzzled the fresh mark, tongue dragging slow over the skin. You should have pushed him away. Instead, you arched into it.

The text came at noon: "My office. Now." No signature needed. You'd know that growl of a voice anywhere.

His office reeked of cedar and smoke. He was leaning against the desk, sleeves rolled up, a silver chain glinting around his wrist. When you stepped in, he moved before you could blink—backed you against the door, forearm pressed to your throat, knee wedged between your legs. His breath was hot on your ear, wolf's growl vibrating in his chest.

"You think you can keep what's mine?"