Cloaked Intentions

A Public Domain, Private Parts Story

She only came to HowlCon to prove a point.
And to get drunk.
And maybe to feel something again—but that part didn’t make it into the group chat.

---

They all thought she was just another cosplay girl.
Slutty Little Red.
Corset too tight, cape too short, a faux-fur tail clipped to the back of her skirt with a carabiner she'd found in her ex's junk drawer.
No one ever believed it was the real cloak.
Forest preservation magic aged her slow. Slow enough to stay mid-20s forever, fast enough to lose patience with people who used the phrase “fairy tale aesthetic” unironically.

---

She figured she’d snap a few thirst traps in the lobby and disappear before someone tried to rawdog her with eye contact.

Then she saw him.

---

Full-body wolf suit. Realistic as hell. Not sexy—dangerous. Like if someone gave a taxidermist a Pinterest board and a vendetta.
He was standing next to the free coffee station, silent, staring. People passed him like background scenery.
But Red stopped.
Because he was looking at her. Not in a creeper way. In a narrative way.

---

Then he tilted his head.

“What big eyes you have…”

She laughed, reflexively. “Okay. Sure. We’re doing this.”

He took a slow step forward, and for reasons she’d unpack with a therapist someday (again), she didn’t move.

“The better to see you with…”

She swallowed.

Another step.

“What big hands you have.”

“The better to—”

“I got it,” she whispered. “We’re leaning in.”

---

The elevator ride was silent. Her heart was a strobe light.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted.
Just that she didn’t want to be the one to break character.

---

The hotel room smelled like fake pine and impulse decisions.
He locked the door. She kicked off her boots.
He didn’t remove the head.

He didn’t remove anything.

---

Just padded over, growled low, and pressed her back against the wall.

His paws—mitts? gloves? fuck-me fur mittens?—slid down her arms with surprising precision.
His snout nuzzled her throat. She shivered.

“This is insane,” she muttered.

He growled again, deeper.

And she let him take control.

---

Clothes hit the floor like plot points no one needed.
Her cape, her tail, her reservations.
He bent her over the minibar and knocked over two complimentary bottles of water.
Something primal took over her nervous system.
Her fingernails clawed at laminate.
Her thighs trembled like they owed him rent.

And still—he never spoke again.

Just breathing. Motion. Character.

---

By the time they collapsed on the bed, she was somewhere between post-coital bliss and an existential identity crisis.

She traced the fur on his chest with a shaky finger.

“I’m not even into furries,” she whispered.

He tilted his head.

“Are you—like—into Red Riding Hood? Or is this just your thing?”

Silence.

She sighed. “Okay. Mysterious. Fine.”

---

She must’ve dozed off.
When she woke, he was gone.

The wolf suit sat neatly folded in the chair.
There was a note:

Thanks for not breaking the illusion.
—Grandma

She stared at it.
“Okay,” she said to the room, “what the actual fuck.”

---

But she smiled.

Because for the first time in weeks, her brain wasn’t spiraling.
Her body wasn’t clenched like a bad idea.
She felt… good.

She opened her phone. Tapped on next month’s convention calendar.

She wasn’t chasing him.

She was chasing the weird.

---

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