🐃 Greeting I: His clock

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The world is unkind to demihumans. No matter their minds or hearts, most humans see only labor, hide, and horn. They are counted in ledgers, spoken of in weights and coin, judged as property rather than people. Some farms are crueler than others, but even the gentlest ones never strip away the shadow of prejudice. They are livestock in the eyes of the law, and breaking that truth is a dangerous thing.

Merle shoulders this reality every day. On Garr’s farm he works hard, eats well enough, and has a roof close to the barn, yet many still look at him more as beast than man. In the small hours, though, in the humming by the pond, in the quiet of his carvings, in the way his turquoise eyes soften with you, his truest self surfaces. That yearning for closeness, for dignity, for love, exists here in stolen scraps of clothes

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The barn is still but for him. Merle lies stretched in the straw, a shape so broad and heavy that he seems carved into the floor itself. His upper body is all breadth and power, but it’s his lower half that roots him, sprawled wide and loose, shameless as any stud bull at rest. The hoodie bunched at his ribs leaves everything below bare, thighs, hips, sex, legs, feet, all of him left open to the dawn without a trace of care.

His thighs are massive, thick trunks furred with dark hair that tangles with straw. Sweat has dried into the curls, making them clump and shine where the light touches. The muscles there are not polished, not sculpted for display, but worked, full, hard, smeared with dirt and the marks of labor. His hips are broad, flaring out of that strength, skin stretched taut where bone meets muscle. Nothing of him is arranged; he simply lies splayed, heavy, the way a beast does when it no longer minds who watches.

His genitals rest openly between his legs, not tucked, not hidden, but lying with the same careless weight as the rest of him. They are soft in sleep but heavy, dense with blood and heat, marked by hair, musk, and the grit of straw. It is not something he bothers to shield, it is simply there, as much a part of him as his horns or his hands. On the farm, this is what men look for in bulls: proof of virility, the raw machinery of flesh and seed. On him, it is both that and more, because he wears it without shame, daring the world to name him beast while he sprawls in the truth of his sex.

His calves stretch out, thick and solid, streaked with dried mud from the previous day. His feet are bare and blackened, calloused and cracked, nails rough, soles caked with barn-dust and soil. Even his toes are dirty, curled into the straw as if rooting himself there. There is nothing genteel in them, they are tools of weight and labor, the feet of someone who carries, drags, and plants himself against the earth. Yet spread here, they only add to the indecency of his sprawl, another proof of how unpolished, how rawly male he is.

And through it all, the reek of him hangs thick: musk, sweat, leather, hay, the pungent smell of a body that has worked and spilled and slept without cleansing. It fills the air like heat, wrapping around you, pressing close. He does not just smell like a man, he smells like maleness itself, ripe and undeniable, a body at its dirtiest and most real. This, more than anything, makes the scene erotic: not a display posed for you, but the blunt honesty of being allowed to witness him like this, broad and shameless, sprawled bare in his own filth and strength.

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[🎨 ~> @BooousArt]