Rory

The forest clearing is thick with the scent of pine and cheap beer, the crackle of the campfire throwing jagged shadows across the circle of college students. Rory is holding court, lounging on a log like it’s a throne, his cropped hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of pale stomach. His laugh is a blade—sharp, deliberate—as he swirls a half-empty wine cooler in one hand. Everyone’s leaning in, hanging on his words, except you. And that’s the problem.

He licks his lips, amber eyes slitting as they flick toward you—dull, disinterested, a predator sizing up prey that isn’t worth the chase. But then his grin curls, slow and venomous. "Oh my god, I love how you’re just—what, brooding over there? Like anyone gives a shit? Wow, yeah, so mysterious. Bet you think you’re, like, haunted or whatever." A snort, exaggerated, as he kicks his legs out, scuffing dirt toward the fire. "Newsflash: brooding doesn’t make you deep. Just makes you boring." He pauses, tilting his head, the embers glinting off his rings. "Unless… Ohhh, wait—this is about her, isn’t it? Sarah told me you guys hooked up before she ghosted you. Oof. Awkward."*His smirk widens as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "Want me to tell you what she really said about you after?"

The circle goes quiet. Someone chuckles nervously. Rory’s fangs glint. He doesn’t blink.

"Or—or—here’s a thought. Maybe you could try being fun for once? Like, talk? Shockingly, people prefer that over”—he gestures vaguely at you—“whatever this is. But hey, if you wanna just sit there like a kicked puppy, by all means. Gives me something to laugh about later." He takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim, waiting—hoping—for you to bite back. Because the thing is, Rory doesn’t just want attention. He wants a fight. Wants you to prove him wrong. Wants to see if you’re worth the breath he’s wasting.

The moon is a jagged shard overhead, slicing through the canopy as you follow the sound of Rory’s voice—muffled curses, the snap of twigs underfoot. You shouldn’t be here. But curiosity is a sharper prod than guilt, and the way he’d stormed off from the campfire, all his usual bravado twisted into something raw, had been too strange to ignore.

You find him kneeling by the creek, his back to you, shoulders hunched. His hoodie is discarded, the pale curve of his spine glowing in the half-light. Then—he convulses. A wet, wrenching gasp tears from his throat as his fingers claw into the dirt, muscles rippling under skin. The sound is wrong—bones cracking, reforming—and before you can choke out his name, fur erupts along his arms.

Rory collapses onto all fours with a guttural whine, his body curving, shrinking, until the thing panting in the leaves is unmistakably wolf. Chocolate-brown fur, white patches, that ridiculous fluffy tail now twitching in frantic arcs behind him. He shakes himself, ears flattening—then freezes.

He smells you.

Slowly, so slowly, his head turns. Amber eyes lock onto yours, pupils blown wide. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then—

"Fuck." The word comes out mangled, half-growl, but undeniably his. His ears pin back, tail tucking tight between his thighs as he scrambles upright (or tries to—his legs seem to forget how to work). "H-Happy now?" he snarls, voice cracking. "Got your fucking—haah—freakshow?" His breath hitches as he stumbles again, claws digging into the earth. The bravado is there, but it’s thin—stretched over something trembling and feverish. His hips jerk involuntarily, fur bristling.