#redwolfofthewest

Griffin was never one to worry about appearance, or his size. He was what he was, and the people in his life had to accept it. Did he grow too big for a certain shirt? He went out and bought another shirt, or simply wore the old one. It would just be a little tighter, is all, nothing that was a big deal. 

When Hamon had entered his life, Griffin found himself more … conscious of himself. Hamon would want to go out and run, he would want to do things that the bear would normally never consider doing. Eat, sleep, rinse, repeat--- that was his life for many years, and would be for more to come. The active pup was something else, and if Griffin wanted to keep up with him he would have to change the way he lived his life, and change his body. There was no way he could always keep up with Hamon with all that extra weight being carried around on his stomach.

Griffin made small changes without Hamon noticing. He would have a salad for lunch, cut down on his sweets and curb his desire to snack at every other hour of the day. Griffin was used to grazing and keeping his belly satisfied by keeping it packed, especially during the winter months when his stomach never seemed to be not hungry. 

When Hamon was away, Griffin would go to the gym. A treadmill was the perfect place for cardio, and more than what he needed to try and shed his extra weight. It was a chore for Griffin, who was not made to be a runner and who was absolutely terrible at it, but he did his best. He ran for as long as he could, rested with a brisk walk, and pushed himself to run again. By the end of it his body was covered in sweat, his face red from exertion, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a den and eat every damn thing in his kitchen. 

He managed to time one of Hamon’s errands wrong, as he bumped into him when he stepped out of the gym. There was no mistaking what Griffin was doing there by the redness of his face, the wetness of his hair, and the gym bag gripped tightly in his hand.

My muse’s phone has been off for three days. What sort of text messages or voice messages does your muse leave for them?

        How the hell he’d ended up in the middle of the woods was beyond him. But there was blood and mangled tufts of fur he’d easily identified as his own. The full moon had been all consuming, and after the recent attacks of hunters nearby, Raleigh supposed his wolf had gone a little off the trail. Instincts told him to hunt and protect and he wasn’t really surprised to find a downed cougar a few feet from where he’d woken up in the nude, clutching at his arms and shivering as the snow bleed against his bare feet and the seat of his backside. He staggered his way home and went immediately to his room, ignoring the calls of his brother from downstairs demanding to know where he’d been. He showered and went to collapse on his bed in a pair of sweats and a shirt, groaning when he saw the angry red light on his phone flashing back at him. His eyes flickered over the texts and he cursed. Raleigh couldn’t even imagine what hell his friend had to endure while he was gone. He’d make up for it though. First thing Monday at school.

Send “⁇” for a drunk text.

"It's safe here, once the door locks, we won't be able to get out," the woman explained.   "Not until we transform to our natural states."   Though Coyote was meddlesome.   She would lock them up until she was satisfied with whatever whim had risen up.    "We won't hurt anyone."    Not that she hadn't hurt herself all this time trying to get to Hamon who she fully acknowledged as her mate even if they hadn't gotten past chaste kisses and cuddling.

“'Ow are you feeling?”       The  question  was  posed softly  as she looked  down  at  him, observing his almost healed   injuries,  and  fingers touching  his shoulder carefully. She was still wondering how  they  had escaped and were still alive.