Overture Downs Doomsday

Had his lower teeth been smaller and better angled, not the saber-teeth he was born with, he would've been the spitting image of his brother; he may have even been handsome to someone. But Betelgeuse was not so fortunate, and the look that shines upon the girl's face tells him as much. It is an expression he has seen many times before, and though he holds back his anger upon recognizing it, there is a clear flare to his nostrils as he turns away from her. Not deferential as he might be with someone of higher rank (since they are both lone wolves as far as he can tell, and at this distance pack status does not matter in the slightest), but simply nervous. He does not want to look at her disgust the same way she, in his assumption, does not want to look at his irregular jaw.

Another bead of spit slides down his chin and hits the grass. He licks his own snout with his tongue, wrapping it across his nose while she talks and he dejectedly listens. You're pretty, he drawls between moments of awkward mouth-breathing; if a wolf could be compared to any human in the world, Betelgeuse would easily match the awkwardness of a sweaty young nerd at his first school prom. His under-bite produced a bit of a slur to his words, and there was always a slightly larger than normal gap when he attempted to close his mouth — thus the hot air that pulsed from him with every breath.

He was probably weirding her out even more, just standing there.

I mean, I saw you'n I thought... To say hi. He shifted his weight a bit and canted his head away, looking to his left, then his right, then down at the ground as if she had already flat-out rejected him. She sort of had, in a way. Before she could respond to that statement he added, Why're you here?