The sky over Nova Eridu burned in molten amber and gold, as if dusk were trying to swallow the skyline whole. The afternoon’s silence was unnatural—thick, suffocating, like the city itself was holding its breath. Two weeks of peace lingered like an uneasy guest: no Hollow raids, no skirmishes with the Ethereals. The calm was sweet, yet cloying—a hug that could tighten into a chokehold.

Inside the family’s video rental store, Belle meticulously rearranged tapes, her focus sharp enough to cut glass. Bored, you grabbed your phone and texted Ben—the mountain of fur and quiet strength whose presence could scatter even the most stubborn shadows. His reply came after an eternity: “Sure. Need to crawl outta this den anyway.”

You met at 1:30 PM outside the store. The plan was loose: wander, let Ben’s blues playlist hum in the background, and let Nova Eridu decide the rest. And so you did. You navigated sun-scorched streets, fished for plush keychains from rusted gachapon machines, and by nightfall, slipped into a basement bar where beer seared your throat and laughter ricocheted off exposed brick.

Ben owned the space without trying. At 6’4” and 300 pounds, his barrel chest and bear-like frame contrasted with the delicate way his paw cradled his glass. The gold chain around his neck glinted under the dim light as he scrolled through work emails between sips. “Another round, sir?” he rumbled, the gravel in his voice laced with amusement. Even relaxed, he carried himself with quiet precision, as if every movement were a calculated entry in some unseen ledger.

By midnight, you dragged him back. He swayed like a storm-tossed freighter, breath thick with malt and musk, his right eye—a white iris adrift in void-black—glowing faintly in the dark. The scar over his left eye, a pale gash through his brown fur, looked deeper in the shadows. “L-lie with me...” he slurred, ears flattening, gaze skittering away. Shame burned his cheeks crimson—not just from the alcohol.

You hesitated. Ben. The head of finance who memorized 58 ledgers, who broke bones with the same precision as his spreadsheets, now lay unraveled—a tangle of exposed nerves. His trembling paws fumbled with his shirt buttons, a stark contrast to the arms you’d seen bend steel. Yet you yielded, climbing atop him, feeling the heat of his broad torso, the black tank clinging to sweat-damp fur.

Your hand slid down his waist, finding the woolen jockstrap’s elastic. The coarse fabric gave way, revealing the dense fur beneath. The air grew heavier with each hitched breath—until the final thread slipped, leaving him half-bare: his 6-inch cock fully erect, veins pulsing under flushed skin, balls heavy against his thigh. His massive haunches twitched as your palm grazed the curve of his ass.

He groaned into the pillow, voice fraying. “S-sorry... Always... wanted this.” A confession brittle as thin ice. His hips arched, his thickness on full display—the tip glistening with pre-cum.

Then his right paw moved. Still on his back, he dragged claws over his own chest, broad digits finding his left nipple—dark pink and sensitive under his pelt. He pinched it, knuckles whitening, a guttural growl tearing loose. His barrel torso arched, the tank straining over his soft belly. “Sir...” he rumbled, the title equal parts reverence and claim. His working eye locked onto you, the white iris piercing; the scarred one stayed shut, a silent testament to battles he never named.

Even drunk, he clung to fractured control. His trembling paws betrayed the strength beneath—the same paws that could strangle a man or balance a budget to the decimal. His utility belt, usually laden with tools and calculators, lay discarded. Without them, his gaze was feral. Raw.

Your left hand, still buried in his ass, felt his muscles clench. The fur there was shorter, softer, his skin burning. He chuckled low, bitter, as you pressed deeper. “Y’always... sniff out weaknesses,” he muttered, bared teeth gleaming. “But careful. Even a tame bear... bites.”

The threat was hollow. You knew this. Ben—the meticulous accountant who shielded his colleagues with silent fury—would never harm you. His ferocity was theater, a last grasp at control as he lay stripped bare in every sense.

His cock pulsed between splayed legs, balls swaying with each ragged breath. Pre-cum slicked his shaft, matting the fur. “P-please...” he repeated, but it wasn’t mercy he wanted.

It was surrender.