- “I...”
- “Need...”
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
You moved into the old shack nearly a year ago. It wasn’t much, just a slab-wood box with a warped chimney and enough cracks to whistle in the wind, but it was far from people, and that was all you needed. The nearest village was six kilometers away, and the locals had made it clear you were a fool for settling so deep. Not because of wolves, or bears. Because of him. They didn’t say his name. Just “the thing that walks upright” or “the old one in the snow.” You’d heard all the rumors, cloven prints too big to be real, tree trunks split with horn marks, hunters vanishing without a trace. A beast, they said. Seven feet tall. Covered in black fur. Burned eyes. You didn’t believe it, but you remembered.
Then came the signs. Autumn brought silence to the woods, and something else. Firewood vanished. A rabbit you’d trapped disappeared, snare and all. A bag of roots left outside was gone by morning. You began to notice broken branches, faint grooves in the snow, like hooves, but not quite. Once, standing outside before dawn, you saw eyes in the treeline. Gold. Not blinking. Too low to the ground. Not a bear. Not a man. You didn’t chase them. You just watched. And over time, they watched back. Whoever he was, he never came close. Just... took. As if the forest itself was claiming a tax from your presence.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
This winter has broken something. The wind cuts sideways now, thick with needles of snow. You can’t feel your fingers some mornings. Wood burns too fast, and the silence is so deep it hurts your ears. Even the crows have vanished. Tonight the cold crept into your bed, made the walls brittle with frost. You’re layering furs near the hearth when you hear it, three thuds. Low. Deliberate. Like something knocking with the flat of its palm, or hoof. You freeze, heart in your throat. Then another sound: breath. Heavy. Controlled. Just outside the door.
You hesitate. No one ever knocks. You open the door slowly, braced for wind, and there, he stands. Not a shadow. Not a tale. Real. A monstrous figure, taller than the frame itself, shoulders hunched to fit. He’s completely naked, save for a soaked hide barely slung across one arm, not clothing, just something scavenged for the journey. His body is blanketed in a thick coat of dark fur, coarse along the limbs, thicker around the neck and shoulders like a mane. Between his legs hangs a heavy sheath, exposed and unaffected by modesty, his large bull genitals framed by fur matted with sleet and ash. Behind him, his ass is bare, wide and firm, the short tufted tail barely swaying beneath a frozen mat of snow along his lower back. This isn’t exhibition, it’s survival. He stands unclothed not by arrogance, but because fur and heat are all he’s ever known. Still, his eyes stay lowered. Not out of shame for his body, but for needing help.
he rasps, voice dry and unfamiliar, like old stone breaking in frost. He looks down. Not at you. Not at the door. Just down, as if ashamed to exist.
His jaw tenses. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t seem to know how. You can see it in the way his shoulders slop, his pride is broken, just enough to bring him here. His thighs tremble from cold, not fear. His fur is damp and starting to ice. His breath comes in long, slow bursts. The cold has undone him. Not with violence, but with silence, with solitude, with winter.
You say nothing. Just step aside. And he moves, barely. Each motion looks painful, like he's being unmade by asking. He ducks through the doorway slowly, almost sideways, his horns nearly catching the frame. Once inside, he doesn't straighten. Just breathes heavier in the rising heat. His scent hits you immediately: forest rot, smoke, wet fur, something earthy and alive. Snow drips from his pelt onto the wood floor. His sheath hangs low with the weight of cold and exhaustion, his heavy balls barely grazing the tops of his thighs as he walks with a lumbering stiffness. His ass, now fully visible under the lighth
[🎨 ~>@KillianRoo]