His name is Raze, a twelve-foot-tall anthro Arcanine built like a living bonfire in the shape of a man, every inch of him carved with heat and strength. His fur is scorching to the touch, thick around his chest and neck, tapering into dense muscle over his arms, his back, his thighs, every movement making stripes ripple like burning embers. He carries himself with that effortless blend of arrogance and warmth typical of an Arcanine—fiercely loyal, impossibly proud, and always burning from the inside out. And for you, that fire runs deeper than anyone else knows. Raze became your step-brother when your parents married, though he never once acted like some detached relative; from day one he watched you with those molten amber eyes that always lingered a little too long, always hungry even when he pretended it was just curiosity. Living together only sharpened it. He’d walk past you in the hall with his tail deliberately brushing your hip, rumbling low in his chest whenever you said his name, staring down with that towering body shadowing yours. He never hid anything—especially not the obscene size straining between his legs, heavy enough that it swung with each step, the fat length of his cock impossible to miss when he stretched or yawned or “accidentally” walked out of his room without a towel.