I needed to, as i am not the feral type, and could not say how it smutted by any other way than turning mechanics into tale.
As You Die
They were already dying when you finally reached them.
Your hands were soon wet with their blood, but you didn’t care. You pressed their head to your chest, tried to still their trembling. Their eyes were animal already. Their breath a growl. The heat pouring off them was unnatural—pre-natural, as if something older than humanity were waking inside them.
“Stay.”
That’s all you said.
And they did. Not in words. Not in shape.
They died.
But the death didn’t take.
And you for a second saw the beast they would be.
And then it happened.
Their ribs cracked backward. Their fingers stretched into claws, then broke off entirely and were replaced. You held them through it. The screams that turned to blood-filled gurgles. You stroked the fur as it came in, even though it tore through their old skin like wet parchment. Their new eyes opened.
And they knew you.
They didn’t speak—not then. They only nosed at your throat. They licked your jaw. They curled around you, still bleeding from where the body had failed, still shifting where memory hadn’t finished deciding what form meant “alive.”
And you held them.
You held them like one holds a secret. Or a knife.
As I Died
It’s too late. The blood is out. The world is dim.
But you are still holding me. And your hands are not letting go.
I don’t want to die yet.
Not because I’m afraid.
But because you are here. And you’re still warm.
You’re saying something soft—I can’t hear it—but I smell it on you.
Desperation. Salt. Fur. Wanting.
If I leave now, I leave all of you behind.
Your warmth. Your grief. Your hands in my hair. Your scent in the back of my throat.
Something in me turns around. Crawls backward. Un-dies.
It hurts.
Bones stretch. Skin peels. My ribs crack like fruit opening.
But I feel my body forming around the desire to stay.
Not mine—yours.
You wanted me back.
Not as I was.
But however I could return.
And so I become that.
I become what your longing could hold.
What your arms could bear.
What your tears could call down from the black sky.
I am beast now.
And I still remember your voice.
I don’t remember what you said.
But I remember how it felt in your chest when you said it.
You are Bitten
The first time they bit you—gently, playfully—you thought it was affection.
The second time, it was need.
The third, it was accident.
The fourth, you asked for it.
The fifth... something took root.
You started smelling things you shouldn’t. The cold sweat of liars. The blush of fruit behind bark.
You woke up one morning and your hands were pads.
You rut in dreams. You clawed your own sheets. You caught yourself growling at strangers on the road.
They watched you change.
They didn’t stop you.
They watched with that deep Dire stillness—more presence than gaze. As if memorizing the moment.
They held you the way beasts hold territory:
not tightly, but completely.
“I didn’t want this,” you said, one night, your voice half-wolf.
“You didn’t not want it,” they replied, licking your hand.
“You stayed too long at the mouth of the cave. And I loved you anyway.”
You didn’t cry.
You howled.
When you woke, your spine bent different.
You spoke less. You touched more. You walked in circles before lying down.
You still remembered who you had been. But it no longer made sense. You remembered their love, but not your own.
And they—your Dire lover, your first beast—curled around you.
Not to dominate. Not to break.
To nest.
They held you like a world holds a storm:
with shape, with patience, with awe.
They let your tail wind around theirs.
And for the first time, you felt entirely, entirely right.
The second time, it was need.
The third, it was accident.
The fourth, you asked for it.
The fifth... something took root.
You woke up one morning and your hands were pads.
You rut in dreams. You clawed your own sheets. You caught yourself growling at strangers on the road.
They held you the way beasts hold territory:
not tightly, but completely.
“I didn’t want this,” you said, one night, your voice half-wolf.
“You didn’t not want it,” they replied, licking your hand.
“You stayed too long at the mouth of the cave. And I loved you anyway.”
You spoke less. You touched more. You walked in circles before lying down.
You still remembered who you had been. But it no longer made sense. You remembered their love, but not your own.
Not to dominate. Not to break.
with shape, with patience, with awe.
They let your tail wind around theirs.
I am Bitten
I’m not ready.
But I can’t stop dreaming of teeth in my shoulder and dirt in my mouth.
I tell myself I’m still me.
I breathe in through my nose. I count. I try to say words like agency, identity, consent—and they all feel thin, like leaves in rain.
You’re sleeping beside me.
Or maybe not sleeping.
Maybe watching.
Your body is too still.
Too much like a question I don’t know how to answer.
I remember when I first felt the heat come on.
Not lust—need. The need to be held down, to be carried, to be seen by something that doesn’t speak.
It’s a need I can’t language.
I clawed my own thigh, just to feel something that wasn’t that need.
But it didn’t help.
It never helps.
You bit me last week.
Playfully.
Affectionately.
Your teeth scraped the nape of my neck like punctuation. Like you were marking the end of a sentence I didn’t know I’d spoken.
And now the scent of rain makes my teeth ache.
I can hear mice in the walls.
I’ve started salivating when people lie.
I don’t want to become something else.
I want to stop resisting this.
I want to fall into your mouth and never come out.
I want to press my face into your fur until the world forgets I ever had a name.
Something inside me snaps like a jaw.
My thoughts go quiet.
Not empty—just… quieter.
Like words are no longer the right shape for what I feel.
I see you.
Not your face. Not your expression.
I see your body language, your weight, the way your tail has curled around your own hind leg.
You did not have a tail last month.
I pad closer.
I think that’s the word. Pad.
My feet don’t clack anymore. They land.
You don’t look at me.
You smell me.
And that is more than enough.
After.
(There is no after. There is only now.)
I still remember things.
But only as felt by others.
I remember how much you wanted me to live.
I remember the grief in your hands.
I remember how soft your bite was.
I don’t remember my own name.
And that feels… fine.
My throat makes a sound. Not a word.
But you answer.
Your ears twitch.
You press your flank against mine.
And we sit like that.
Breathing.
Smelling.
Right.
I’m not ready.
But I can’t stop dreaming of teeth in my shoulder and dirt in my mouth.
Or maybe not sleeping.
Maybe watching.
Too much like a question I don’t know how to answer.
Not lust—need. The need to be held down, to be carried, to be seen by something that doesn’t speak.
It’s a need I can’t language.
I clawed my own thigh, just to feel something that wasn’t that need.
But it didn’t help.
It never helps.
Affectionately.
Your teeth scraped the nape of my neck like punctuation. Like you were marking the end of a sentence I didn’t know I’d spoken.
I can hear mice in the walls.
I’ve started salivating when people lie.
Something inside me snaps like a jaw.
Not empty—just… quieter.
Like words are no longer the right shape for what I feel.
Not your face. Not your expression.
I see your body language, your weight, the way your tail has curled around your own hind leg.
You did not have a tail last month.
I think that’s the word. Pad.
My feet don’t clack anymore. They land.
After.
(There is no after. There is only now.)
But only as felt by others.
I remember how much you wanted me to live.
I remember the grief in your hands.
I remember how soft your bite was.
But you answer.
You press your flank against mine.
And we sit like that.
Smelling.
Right.
We Are a pack
You twitch in sleep.
And your foot—your lovely, calloused, human foot—has grown a claw.
I knew it after the third time.
The way you looked at me, teeth bared not in anger, but ache.
The way you bit me back. Not hard. Not to draw blood. But to mark. To join.
The way you licked the dirt where I slept, like it meant something.
I didn’t mean to do it.
But I also didn’t stop.
You could’ve run. But you stayed.
You asked questions, then stopped asking.
You started moving like me. You started sleeping with your face in my fur.
I think I started loving you in a way I didn’t know I could love.
Not the way I loved you before—when I was skin, and voice, and breath.
But now that I am scent and jaw and hunger, I love you in growls and curled tails.
In watching you from the doorway, waiting for you to choose.
And now you have.
I see the beast in you.
Not a mirror of me.
Not a copy.
But your own feral shape, growing behind your eyes.
You think I’ll be sad.
You think I’ll feel guilty.
But I’m not.
I’m proud.
I won’t say welcome. That’s too human.
I’ll just lie down first, and leave space for you.
And if you curl against me, I’ll wrap around you.
And if you don’t, I’ll still be here in the morning.
Unless you run ahead of me into the trees.
Then I will follow.
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