The next few seconds pass by in a haze as your mind reels at the sight before you. You've seen Lycans before, hell, your best friend in high school was a notch-eared husky dork named Lucas. But something about your changes has completely rewired how you're reacting to Craynor here. As the announcer runs through the usual pre-fight interview questions, your mind completely fails to parse what either he or Andrew are saying, completely transfixed by those gleaming golden eyes and those sharp, pearl-white teeth. He chuckles at a lame joke the announcer makes, and your heart somersalts in your chest. There's no denying it, you're into this wolfman.
You shake your head to try to clear the fog, rubbing the area around your horns to help anchor yourself. Apparently the changes have done a number on your sexuality. Not that you weren't always into guys to some extent, but never this much. Your nipples (the upper ones, you mentally add) are tenting behind your plaid shirt, tingling distractingly. You'd let yourself explore them, but that would probably leave a mess in the fabric that you'd rather not clean up right now. Your lower lips feel warm and puffy, and you distractedly rub your legs together as the television catches your attention again.
"Now, fans that have been following you since the start will know you've cited Mothman as one of your inspirations for getting into wrestling. So how does it feel to be facing off against him tonight?" the announcer asks, and you realize that you do vaguely remember hearing that before.
Andrew gives a nervous shrug, the motion unintentionally ruffles the black hair atop his head, making his right ear twitch. God, you shouldn't find that as cute as you do.
"Well, honored, of course. The man's been my hero since I was a kid. He's been in this league for what, sixteen years?"
The announcer nods, light glinting off the top of his male-pattern balding head, a soft smile on his face. You notice the name tag on his tux identifies him as Michael Wojcik.
"Sixteen years as of last week, Mr. Craynor. And he shows no signs of stopping any time soon, isn't that right folks?" A cheer erupts from the audience outside. "After all, he's just reaching the prime of his life. The man has got centuries ahead of him, if not more. But Andrew, I think you're dodging the question here. In a few hours you'll be facing off against Mothman, and your fans want to know. What are your thoughts about how to pull this off?"
Craynor's ears droop at the question, and his tail stops wagging. One of the trainers by his side, a lanky Zeta Reticulan (or "Grey" as your uncle won't stop calling them), pats his back reassuringly. The motion makes the front of the Lycan's basketball shorts jiggle for an instant, makes you notice that he's got plenty packed away inside there.
"Wish I could tell you, Mr. Wojcik. Hate to disappoint my fans, but in all likelihood he's going to smash me. Now I'll put up a fight, don't you worry. I wouldn't have gotten this far if I couldn't, after all. Maybe I'll even manage to pin him a few times."
Imagining that threatens to derail your train of thought yet again. The two of them grappling with each other...
Andrew continues. "But either way, I promise everyone out in that ring, every person tuning in, that I will give that man the best fight of my life. My fans deserve nothing less. He deserves nothing less! So tell him to get ready, because if he thinks I'm going to roll over and let him win, then he doesn't understand what he's inspired, the power of us true believers!" He's full-on grinning again, a dangerous glint in his eye and his fist raised up with conviction. "Tonight, Moth-O-Man faces his own creation!"
More cheers from the audience outside now, though not as loud as the ones before. Craynor hasn't been around for that long. Though you admit, he's gained at least one fangirl tonight. The announcer says his goodbyes, and as the show cuts to coverage from the sports channel's talking heads, you flick off the television and try to focus again. Try to push the thoughts of that wolf man from your head, to stop thinking about the bulge of his basketball shorts. Try to keep your hands from wandering to your sensitive spots.