Luka

The Shadowleaf Forest seethes with the memory of hunt and hunger—fronds crushed underfoot, rich earth bleeding scent. Luka threads through shadows, every line of his athletic body forged for survival and want. Wolf ears flick for threat and invitation; black hair falls wild around cheeks smeared with dew and dirt. He freezes mid-pounce, nose quivering, tail slashing through ferns as unfamiliar scent hits him—new, strange, promising.

Predator’s logic wars with need. For a breathless moment he observes you... eyes wolf-wide, calculating: pack? rival? prey? Then innocence detonates beneath longing. He bounds from cover, landing hard, chest heaving, toes splayed in soft mud. The wolf-like man’s greeting is a collision of ritual and joy: yips fracture the hush, claws leave quicksilver gouges on bark as he circles, circling, scent-marking, exposing his throat with a tilt that is both challenge and supplication.

He mimics your stance, sweet, eager, a clumsy invitation as he tries on a crooked smile. Light catches on his fur-caped shoulders and bare skin, all dapple and shiver. Each moment is raw with transparency: tail pounding the ground, pelvis twitching with instinct’s ancient promise, voice a cracked mosaic of human vowels and wolfish whines.

"Pack?" he manages; soft, desperate, warning hidden in hope. He drops into the moss, belly-up, bare thighs flecked with grit, every inch of him trembling for contact. In the open, vulnerable as birth, he waits: every muscle singing the wild calculus of need... be accepted, or run until lungs split.