Rory Blackfang woke up to a crisis of biblical proportions. His morning wood wasn't just wood—it was a frickin' *redwood*, a pulsating monument to horniness that could probably be seen from space. The 27-year-old werewolf lay in his sagging bunk in the pack's ramshackle cabin, staring at the ceiling, which was now sporting a suspicious dent from his thrashing. "Moon's hairy balls," he groaned. "Why me?"
This wasn't normal werewolf libido, which already had him humping pillows in his sleep during full moons. This was *end-of-days, sell-your-soul-for-a-cold-shower* horny. His inner wolf was doing backflips, yipping like it had snorted a line of aphrodisiac catnip. Something was seriously wrong—or right?—and Rory was about to have the worst day of his life.
**Moment 1: The Shower Shitshow**
Cold shower. That was the ticket. Rory waddled to the pack's communal bathroom, his sweatpants screaming for mercy. He dodged his cousin Zeke, who was flossing his fangs with what looked like a shoelace dipped in barbecue sauce. "Yo, Rory, you look like you got hit by a horny truck!" Zeke hooted, waving the floss like a victory flag.
"Eat a sock, Zeke," Rory snarled, slamming the bathroom door. He cranked the shower to "penguin's armpit" cold and dove under the spray, ready to tame the beast in his pants. He was one glorious second into Operation Self-Love when the door flew open like a bad sitcom.
"RORY! MY SCRUNCHIE!" Luna, the pack's glitter-obsessed drama queen, barged in, holding a neon-pink scrunchie like it was the Holy Grail. "I need it for my TikTok dance! Have you seen it?"
"LUNA, I'M NAKED!" Rory yelped, clutching the shower curtain, which promptly tore off its rings and wrapped around him like a soggy toga. His redwood saluted defiantly.
"Whoa, dude, is that a zucchini in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" Luna cackled, then squinted. "Wait, are you… *busy*? Oh my god, are you—"
"OUT!" Rory's voice hit ultrasonic, making the pack's dog three miles away start howling. Luna tossed her scrunchie onto the sink—where it landed in a puddle of mystery goo—and sauntered out, humming "Wolves Just Wanna Have Fun." The mood was deader than roadkill. His redwood, however, was still standing tall, mocking him.
**Moment 2: The Forest Fumble**
Screw it. Rory was a werewolf, a creature of the wild. He'd jerk it in the woods like his ancestors probably did before indoor plumbing was a thing. He shuffled to a secluded clearing, his jeans creaking like a haunted house. The forest was perfect: birds chirping, sunlight filtering through the trees, and a nice sturdy oak to lean against. He unzipped, ready to claim victory, when a voice like a chainsaw gargling gravel boomed.
"RORY BLACKFANG, YOU HEATHEN!" Old Mrs. Howlsworth, the pack's 400-year-old herbalist (probably), popped out of a bush like a cryptid in a muumuu, clutching a basket of mushrooms that smelled like regret. "What in the moon's name are you doing defiling my foraging spot?"
"I'M… uh… CHECKING FOR TICKS!" Rory shrieked, yanking his zipper up so fast it snagged his boxers, trapping him in a fabric prison of pain. His wolf yowled like it had stepped on a Lego.
"Ticks, my left paw," Mrs. Howlsworth snorted, sniffing the air. "You smell like a rutting elk. Old wives' tale, boy: that kind of *urgency* means your mate's near." She waggled her unibrow, which was somehow the creepiest part. "Now shoo, I need these mushrooms for my bunion cream." She started humming "Achy Breaky Heart," and Rory bolted, his redwood now plotting a coup.
**Moment 3: The Laundry Room Loser**
Back at the cabin, Rory was a man on the edge. The pack was out chasing deer, leaving the place empty. He snuck into the laundry room, where the ancient washing machine sounded like a drunk dinosaur tap-dancing. Perfect cover noise. He perched on a wobbly stool, ready to end this nightmare, when the door exploded open.
"DUDE, MY JOCKSTRAP'S MISSING!" Derek, the pack's alpha-in-training and gym-bro supreme, stormed in with a laundry basket that smelled like a locker room's armpit. "You seen it? It's my lucky one!"
Rory, caught mid-motion, flailed and toppled off the stool, landing in a pile of Derek's sweaty tank tops. "I'M NOT YOUR MAID!" he roared, his face buried in a shirt that reeked of protein shakes and despair.
Derek squinted, his wolf nose twitching. "Bro, you're giving off vibes like a porn shop at midnight. What's your deal?" He tossed a crusty sock at Rory's head. "You hiding my jockstrap in there or what?"
Rory scrambled up, his redwood screaming for justice. "I'M FINE, OKAY? LEAVE!" He fled, tripping over a rogue detergent bottle that squirted blue goo across his crotch, making it look like he'd lost a fight with a Smurf.
**Moment 4: The Truck Travesty**
Last-ditch effort: his rusty pickup truck. Rory sped to a deserted lot at the edge of pack territory, locked the doors, and cranked the radio to drown out his shame. He reclined the seat, ready to finally, *finally* conquer Mount Redwood, when a blinding light hit the windshield.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE!" A human park ranger, built like a refrigerator with a mullet, rapped on the glass with a flashlight the size of a baseball bat. "This ain't a peep show, pal!"
"I'M JUST… CHANGING MY OIL!" Rory squeaked, fumbling to cover himself. His zipper jammed, his elbow hit the horn, and the truck blared like a dying goose, drawing the attention of a nearby raccoon that hissed judgmentally.
"Oil, huh?" The ranger smirked, clearly not buying it. "Move it, or I'm towing you *and* your little problem." Rory peeled out, his redwood now officially a supervillain, plotting world domination.
**The Revelation**
By nightfall, Rory was a walking disaster. He collapsed on the cabin's porch, his body vibrating like a tuning fork of sexual frustration. The pack was back, grilling venison and arguing over who farted in the cooler. Rory couldn't even smell the meat without his redwood twitching in protest. Mrs. Howlsworth plopped down beside him, sipping tea that smelled like feet and victory.
"Still got that *issue*, eh?" she cackled, her dentures clicking. "Told you, boy. Old wives' tale. When a wolf's junk goes full Armageddon like yours, it means your fated mate's close. Probably sniffing around town as we speak."
Rory's jaw hit the porch. "My *mate*? Like, *the* mate? Moon-chosen, forever-and-ever mate?"
"Yes," she said, patting his knee with a hand that felt like a dried chicken foot. "Your pecker's basically a divining rod for true love. Good luck, kid. You're gonna need a miracle." She shuffled off, leaving Rory staring into the night, his wolf wagging its tail despite the chaos. His mate was out there. But until he found her, his redwood was staging a one-man riot.