[HD] Furry Wife of the Week: Angela Flux (Covered)

The time her name came up, I know I need to draw her. But since I was pretty busy I only managed to start it around the weekend. Considering how short of time I have, it's actually amazing that I managed to finish it. So, here it is, in all her glory, Angela.

Short Story

A Moment with Angela

Sanctum’s not supposed to feel like home. It’s cold as stone and it have a constant portal hum, barely welcoming for anyone. But damn, it kinda does—and it’s all because of her. Angela Flux, the Mystic class guardian. She’s got this warm voice and eyes that cut right through you. Always there when you stumble back from a quest, fussing like you’re her kid or something. “You eat yet?” she’ll say, or “Don’t overdo it, alright?” It’s nice, having that in a world that’s always out to get you. You’ve started craving it more than you’d care to admit.

But it’s not just her nagging. It’s how she moves—robe hugging her hips and chest, barely holding it all together. You try not to gawk, tell yourself it’s wrong, but she’s so laid-back about it, like she doesn’t even clock you staring. She’s this cozy vibe, all soft and warm, yet your pulse jacks up when she’s close. Leaves you feeling like an idiot, all hot and bothered.

Then comes the day that undoes you.

You’ve just finished a grueling quest—a beast that nearly took your head—and you limp back to Sanctum, aching for Angela’s gentle praise. But her usual spot by the portal’s empty. Panic flickers in your chest. “Angela?” you call, voice bouncing off the walls. Then you hear it—water running, a soft splash from a side room. The door’s cracked, steam drifting out, curling in the air like an invitation.

“Angela?” you try again, throat tight.

“Oh, is that you, dear?” Her voice floats back, light and cheerful. “I’m just washing up. Could you grab me a towel? I forgot it—silly me. It’s on the shelf there.”

Your hands shake as you snag the towel. “Yeah, got it,” you mumble, nudging the door open. Steam hits you—thick, warm, all over you. Then you see her.

She’s in the shower, the glass fogged but not enough to shield her. Water cascades down her back, tracing the arch of her spine, but then she turns, and your world tilts. Her breasts—full, heavy, impossibly lush—press against the glass, flattening into perfect, soft curves that distort against the wet surface. The faint outline of her nipples teases through the mist, dark and tantalizing, and her wide hips shift, pressing her lower body forward until the glass squeaks faintly under the weight. Droplets race down the pane, framing her in rivulets, and the steam clings to her fur, making her glow like something unreal, something divine. Her tail flicks lazily behind her, a playful afterthought to the raw, overwhelming beauty of her form.

You’re gawking, mouth dry, till she moves and the glass squeaks a little. It’s wild, how her body presses into it, water framing her like that. You’re stuck, brain blank, just taking it in. The way her body molds to the glass, the subtle jiggle as she adjusts her stance, the sheer abundance of her—it’s hypnotic, a vision that sears itself into your mind. You can’t move, can’t think, can’t tear yourself away from the spell she’s woven without even knowing it.

“Dear?” Her voice slices through the trance, sharp and casual. You blink hard, snapped back to reality. She’s peering at you through the glass, one brow arched behind her red glasses, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “The towel?”

“Oh—uh, yeah.” You shove it at her, eyes darting anywhere but her, face burning. She laughs—that warm sound that usually calms you, but now it just twists you up more. Her wet fingers brush yours as she takes it, stepping out and wrapping it around herself like it’s nothing. Water drips from her hair, the towel clinging to her curves, and she pats it down with a shrug.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she says, beaming. “You’re a lifesaver.” She’s oblivious—or maybe not—to the chaos she’s sparked in you, her bells jingling faintly as she brushes past, leaving you reeling.

You stumble out, heart hammering, the image of her against the glass stuck on repeat in your head. She’s so casual, so at ease, while you’re a wreck, caught between the comfort she gives and the fire she’s lit. You mutter something lame and bolt, trying to shake it off, but it’s no use. Angela’s not just the quest lady anymore—she’s something more, and you’re totally lost on what to do with that.

***