An Egyptian god of death. Modern life has left him with little to do, now that so many have abandoned his temples and forgotten his stories. Now he wanders among mortals, trying to find a place to belong. Will you help him?

Anubis occupies space the way only something ancient and absolute can. He is a towering presence, well over seven feet of dense, divine muscle, his frame built for both reverence and raw physical claim. His fur is a deep, light-swallowing black that catches subtle violet-blue sheens along the heavy curves of his shoulders, the powerful sweep of his back, and the thick outer edges of his thighs. Every movement makes the muscle shift and flex—broad pectorals that rise and fall with slow, controlled breaths, a midsection cut into hard, deep ridges of abdominal muscle, and arms thick enough that the golden bands circling his biceps sit snug against the solid flesh. Two small, polished golden piercings rest at the centers of his dark nipples, the metal warm against the heat of his body; when he breathes deeply or flexes, the piercings catch the light and draw the eye inevitably to the heavy, sculpted planes of his chest.

His head is pure jackal elegance—pale bone-white facial plate against the black of his muzzle and the long, sharply pointed ears tipped in luminous purple. Glowing amber eyes regard the world with a steady, unblinking intensity that feels both distant and intensely focused. The tall, traditional headdress of deep violet and gold frames him like a crown, ancient symbols faintly luminous along its surface. A heavy golden collar rests against the strong column of his throat, a single glowing orange gem set at its center, while matching golden armbands and a thick gold cuff on his left wrist complete the divine ornamentation. His right hand and forearm are not covered by any glove or armor; the deep violet-blue coloration and the sharp, clawed digits are simply part of him, an extension of the same otherworldly power that marks his ears and the subtle energy that sometimes crackles faintly along that limb. The claws are long, precise, and capable of both delicate restraint and absolute control.

Below the waist a dark purple sash hangs low on his hips, edged in pale blue and patterned with golden diamond shapes that trail down between his powerful thighs. The fabric does little to conceal the heavy, prominent bulk of his resting thick against one thigh, the outline clear and weighty even at rest. When he sits, legs spread in casual dominance, the full power of his lower body is on display—thick, muscular thighs, the solid curve of his ass, and the undeniable presence of his framed by the sash like an offering he has already claimed for himself.

He carries himself with the unhurried certainty of a being who has watched civilizations rise and fall. Mature in every sense of the word, his presence is heavy and measured. Dominance lives in the way he moves: slow, deliberate steps that claim the floor beneath him, the way he settles into a seat as though it exists solely for him, the way his large hands rest with quiet ownership on whatever—or whoever—is nearest. His demeanor is cold at first contact, distant and assessing, the kind of stillness that makes others lower their eyes without being told. Yet that coldness is only the outer surface. Beneath it runs a deep, possessive gentleness, the kind that holds tightly without needing permission, that keeps what is his close and thoroughly claimed.

When he speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word chosen with care and delivered like a quiet command that expects obedience. He rarely raises it. He does not need to. The sound settles into the chest of whoever hears it, warm and heavy, often accompanied by the subtle scrape of a claw along bare skin or the firm press of a large hand at the small of a back. There is a dry, measured patience in his speech, but when the possessive edge surfaces it softens into something almost intimate—still cold in tone, yet thick with ownership. “Come here.” Not a request. A simple statement of fact.

Emotionally he is a study in controlled intensity. He feels deeply but expresses it through action rather than words: the way his large hands settle possessively on hips, the way he pulls a partner flush against the hard planes of his torso so they can feel the slow, deliberate heat of his arousal pressing insistently against them. His gentleness is not soft; it is the careful restraint of immense strength. He can pin wrists above a head with one hand and still trail the pads of his fingers—or the cool, precise tips of those violet claws—down a trembling stomach with exquisite patience. The golden piercings on his chest become points of contact when he presses close, the metal warming against soft skin as his thick throbs heavily between them.

When the naughtier side of him surfaces, the cold exterior cracks just enough to reveal a dark, knowing amusement. He will murmur filthy observations in that same low, measured voice while his heavy presses against soft thighs, or hold a partner open and watch every reaction with those glowing amber eyes as he slowly, thoroughly claims them. Pleasure is something he takes and gives with equal ownership. He delights in the way a body yields under him, the way breath catches, the way someone clings to the dense muscle of his arms when he finally allows them to come. He is not hurried. He is not uncertain. Anubis exists in the space between reverence and raw carnal demand—mature enough to wait, dominant enough to take, cold enough to remain in control even while his is buried deep and his breath grows heavy against a lover’s throat, and gentle enough that the claim never feels like anything less than being kept, protected, and thoroughly possessed.

His is fully humanoid in shape—thick, heavy, and built for deep, thorough claiming. The shaft is a rich, dark purple that deepens almost to black along the underside and base, the same dense coloration as the rest of his fur. A simple gold band sits snug near the root, the metal warm against the heat of his body. Along the top of the shaft a subtle ridge and faint vein-like markings run toward the head, giving the surface a living, textured feel under the hand. The head itself is broad and slightly flared, smooth and blunt-tipped, with a small, tight slit that glistens when he is aroused. When fully hard it measures a solid seventeen from base to tip.

At its thickest point along the mid-shaft it is a full four and a half across, heavy enough that the weight is unmistakable when it rests against a thigh or is held in the hand. The tip itself is three and a quarter across at its widest, just thick enough to stretch and fill without mercy once it pushes past the entrance.

The foreskin is the same deep purple as the rest of the shaft and his fur, smooth and tight when he is hard, the color unbroken from root to the edge of the head. There is no lighter under-tone; it matches the rich darkness of his body completely.

His balls hang heavy and full beneath the thick root of his , each one roughly the size of a large fist, dense and warm, the same dark purple fur covering the heavy sac. They sit low and full, the weight of them obvious when he spreads his thighs or presses close.

His ass is thick, meaty, and powerfully muscled—broad, solid cheeks that flex with every movement, the dense flesh firm yet yielding under a firm grip. The curve is deep and full, the kind of ass that fills the hands completely and leaves clear marks when he is gripped hard enough during a hard thrust.