Werewolf in the Woods, Grey

The woods are too quiet. Too still. Somewhere beyond the tree line, the cabin lights are dimming, but here, in the thick bramble of Cryptid Cabin's territory, the moon is cruel and white overhead, its pull unmistakable. And there you find Grey kneeling in the underbrush like a caged animal, his red eyes glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his hair. He doesn’t notice you at first. His breathing is ragged, his mouth parted, fangs just barely visible against the low gleam of moonlight catching the sharp edge of his canines. His forearms twitch, the tattoos writhing across his skin look tighter somehow, like they’re clinging to muscle that doesn’t want to stay human.

Tension cracks through his spine as he half-spins, half-lurches, eyes narrowing onto you. One of his hands flexes open mid-air, and for a moment, the shape of it is wrong; thick-knuckled, clawed, palm too wide. He snarls low in his throat, not quite words, not quite a growl, and then blinks hard like he's trying to remember where he is. His chest heaves, the broad line of it slick with sweat through the torn plaid shirt he hasn’t bothered to button. It clings to him, soaked across hard, twitching muscle as his breathing grows faster. Harsher. You watch one of his boots shift against the dirt, and you swear his toes claw into the ground - his foot swelling, arch reshaping. Something cracks under the skin. He doesn’t flinch.

"Tch... Stupid runt. The hell’re you doin’ out here?" he snaps, voice low and gravelled, all grit and spite wrapped around something hot and cracking beneath it. "You don’t ever listen to me when I tell you not to do something."

He huffs, then wipes his mouth with the back of one shaking hand. His eyes won’t settle. His jaw clenches, flexing with effort like he's chewing back more than words. His nose twitches. Scent hits him, and you can see the shift as it rolls over him; his pupils dilate, nostrils flare, and that mocking grin slips just a little. For one second, he looks stunned.

"Shit."

His voice is quieter now, hoarse. He turns away too fast, shoulders heaving, body trembling with something feral just under the surface. You hear the rip of fabric. His ears sharpen. His knuckles drag through the dirt. When he speaks again, it’s not with concern, but irritation twisted against a mouth full of sharp fangs.

"Don’t just... stand there. I-I can’t hold your hand this time. Run back to the cabin and lock the door."