Work Text:
You were a famous romance author, an online persona whose stories had comforted millions — millions of lonely anthro women. You didn't know how they'd figured it out, but somehow, despite your attempts at anonymity, they knew you were a human man. Your agent had complained incessantly ever since, overwhelmed by the tens of thousands of parcels from fans — most of them love letters — and frustrated by your refusal to go public, despite numerous and financially significant offers.
Except, your agent didn't understand. You harbored one terrible, ugly secret: you had never been in a romantic relationship in your entire life.
It was because of this that you would not, could not, ever meet a fan or reveal your identity. The weight of your authorial reputation, the pervasive rumors about the suave, enchanting human you must be, could all come crashing down upon you in an avalanche of disappointment.
Thus, you went by Anon Y. Mous. Not your real name — that would be strange — but a necessary shield. You simply couldn't risk being found out. Too many doxxing attempts had left you paranoid and mentally scarred. You dared not even speak your real name, barely allowed yourself to think it, lest even the reader of this story spill your secret to the teeming, thirsty masses of female admirers who would descend upon your peaceful, self-imposed seclusion.
It was for the best.
Today, however, was both terrific and terrifying for you. It was the one day a week you allowed yourself reprieve from your isolation. It was your weekly excursion to go write.
Terrific, because you planned to sit at your favorite cafe, drink coffee, and write. Little did the world know, almost all your writing happened in this small establishment. Perched in your preferred corner, you observed the masses, allowing the atmosphere of life to wash over you. It was a guilty secret, a pleasure in a way, fueled by fantasies woven from strangers' lives — their relationships, their loves. Things you had never experienced yourself.
Terrifying, because you always risked recognition in public. But you felt you had no choice; your best work emerged outside the walls of your secluded castle.
You sighed as you gathered your things for the small trip, the routine a bittersweet reminder of choices unmade, lives unlived. At least, you could wryly note, you could wipe away any potential tears with the money you earned. It was almost enough compensation. Almost.
You departed from the small, isolated cottage you called home, leaving behind the lush green embrace of nature for the sprawling gray of the city, itself imbued with the vibrant fauna of its people. You enjoyed this dichotomy, this desire to be surrounded by life, yet remain apart from it — an alien observer on planet Earth.
You arrived at the cafe unscathed by claw or car, laptop bag clutched in hand. The sign read ‘Diana’s Delights’. Stepping inside, you were greeted by the familiar sight that had comforted you over the years. The space was cramped, built from dark brownish-red brick accented with pale wood. A distinct chill hung in the air, preferred by the city's furrier denizens. You remained unperturbed, snug in your dark green writing sweater, the one you always wore here. The only real peculiarity was the copious amount of sunflower paintings and engravings adorning the walls. But, it was your other home.
At the counter stood a white fox lady — Diana, or Dee, as the sign foreshadowed. She owned the shop and the entire building. Tall and imposing, a mountain of white fur, yet possessing the sweetest smile.
“Anon! Great to see my favorite regular again!” she called out, her voice full of warmth, accompanied by a dainty but exuberant wave from behind the counter.
You noticed a flash of silver on her ring finger. Engaged?
She caught your gaze and covered her muzzle with her tail, a muffled voice emanating from behind the fluffy appendage. “Uhm, remember my tenant I told you about? The handsome older craftsman who runs the shop upstairs? He proposed.”
Your eyebrows remained steady — not only because raising them in shock felt like a tired trope, but because you genuinely weren't surprised. A small smile spread across your face instead.
“About time, Dee.”
Her yellow eyes widened slightly at your remark. “W-what do you mean?”
You walked over and leaned on the counter with a touch of playful confidence. “As your favorite regular — and likely to anyone else who pays attention in this shop — it was obvious you two were smitten with each other.”
She lowered her tail, offering a sheepish grin. “I guess that’s true… Oh! Should I make you your usual? Two shots of espresso topped with a copious amount of our homemade lemon whipped cream?”
You gave a satisfied nod. You never understood why she repeated the entire order aloud each time, but it didn't matter. It was your favorite concoction, a house specialty; the hint of lemon acidity always complemented the rich, earthy bitterness of the coffee, brightening all the flavors. Hence its special name.
“A cup of sunshine coming right up!”
You left a generous amount of currency on the counter and made your way to your corner. It was a small alcove, barely able to seat two, surrounded by a decorative facade. On the pale wood table sat a small placard: ‘Reserved’. You were always thankful she kept this spot for you on this specific day, which was why your payment was always generous. As you sat down, surveying the surroundings, you reflected on Dee's interesting approach to cafe design. Most favored open layouts with minimal decor and many separate tables. She refuted that stereotype, seeking a balance between privacy and intimacy. Secluded sections occupied the back, contrasted by a single, large communal table dominating the front. You either embraced privacy or relinquished it entirely; both were welcome, demanding a commitment from the guest.
Naturally, you always chose privacy.
You pulled out your laptop, setting up your temporary ‘office’. You were in the midst of writing the sequel to your immensely popular romantasy novel, ‘Snow Upon A Mountain’. It had originally started as a pure fantasy novel — a human sorcerer and his party of anthro adventurers — intended as your first foray outside the romance genre. But as the story progressed, a natural relationship had brewed between the protagonist and a female anthro warrior, eventually taking over the narrative. You couldn't help it, given your background, but that wasn't the only reason. There was someone who visited this cafe often, someone who had captured your attention. To be perfectly honest, the story's romantic development was almost entirely inspired by her.
You hoped she would appear today.
You let out a long exhale, staring at the blank space beneath the plethora of words already filling the document. Writer's block.
Dee appeared with your drink. She attempted to quietly return most of the currency you'd left, murmuring it was too much. You just looked at her, impassive and unblinking, until she relented with a sigh. Only then did you let a small smile crack your facade.
After she returned to her duties, you decided to observe your environment, hoping, as usual, that it would propel you out of your block.
There was a couple: a black cat woman seemingly enveloping a human man beside her. You could catch the faintest traces of her voice, velvety and rich. The man’s pale face was flushed apple-red. An impressive display of public affection, but it did nothing to alleviate the block.
Then you noticed a small commotion at the entrance. Diana was speaking firmly with two individuals: a huge, portly reptilian woman in a modest dress and a small, stick-thin man in business casual attire. Both wore rectangular name tags. Diana made a show of pointing to the 'No Soliciting' sign on the door. They likely wanted access to the residential parts of the building. It looked like she had a bit more to say; you caught her loud voice declare, “And I will happily take my consolation prize version of heaven! Good day!”
With that, the figures departed, the reptile woman practically dragging the lanky man away.
Funny, silly even. Yet you felt no more inspired than before.
It was then you noticed her approach. Your muse stepped into the entrance, and you felt your mind spark, your heart give a jolt.
A gray, dark-spotted snow leopard named Andrea. She wasn't as tall as Dee but was certainly taller than you. She wore only tight yoga pants and an athletic bra, displaying an impressive physique of sculpted, lean muscle. Each movement was graceful. Her small, rounded ears twitched with eagerness, and her large, fluffy tail flicked back and forth with the same vibrant energy.
You had been observing her for some time but knew scant personal details. Only that she was self-employed, went to the gym in the mornings, and visited this cafe afterward.
The snow leopard approached Dee with a large, toothy smile and pulled the startled white fox into a big hug. Then she began chatting animatedly.
“So Dee! I see you finally used those sly fox ways to charm that smoothskin you were always going on about. What magic charms did you try this time?”
You chuckled softly. She was always a bit blunt, prone to stereotypes, but your observations told you she meant well.
“Oh, he actually proposed to me! I was so shocked,” Dee replied, her voice still a bit breathless from the hug.
They continued to chat, but you tuned out the words, focusing instead on the snow leopard. You watched her laugh — a loud, confident sound. You saw the way she carried herself: solid, steady, resolute. Physical, even with friends, always ready with a hug or a playful punch. It was no wonder you'd modeled the warrior in your story after her. You had essentially copied every detail you could observe.
Your hands danced across the keyboard as you watched, the story pouring from your fingertips like a waterfall — until you realized she was looking directly at you.
A cold sweat broke out across your skin.
It didn’t happen often, but occasionally you’d be caught staring too intently at one of your inspirations. You'd experienced reactions ranging from immediate, seductive invitations to downright hostility. Thankfully, nothing had ever escalated into real trouble, but it was a risk you bore nonetheless.
You hoped she would ignore you, go back to her conversation, or simply go about her day. Unfortunately, she instead swaggered straight towards you with all the confidence you’d come to expect. You felt torn between terror and exhilaration, the feelings mixing into an exciting brew. Your heart thumped violently against your ribs; your mind spun.
Then she stood before you.
Her right paw rested on her hip, which was pushed out slightly to the side. She towered over your seated form, a sly smile playing on her muzzle.
“See something you like, pinky?”
Your mouth went suddenly dry. You tried to form words, but only your lips moved erratically.
“Ah, I’m only kidding,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Dee over there mentioned you like to write and suggested I talk to you. In case you didn't know, I’m an author too. Thought maybe I could give you a few pointers.”
You peered over at the white fox behind the counter. Dee seemed suddenly, intensely busy cleaning something, avoiding your gaze. How convenient.
“U-uh, yeah, I guess you could say that,” you managed, gesturing vaguely. “Uhm, have a seat.”
It was against your better judgement to agree, so many things could go wrong if she discovered who you were. Though that was that small part of you which wanted to take that risk regardless.
She pulled out the only other chair available in the tiny alcove. Her presence seemed to fill the space, making your solitary refuge suddenly feel cramped and intimate. You caught a whiff of a heady but not unpleasant scent — sweat, tinged with something faintly herbal. Her stone-gray eyes gazed intently at you. Despite the platitude she'd offered, you couldn't shake the feeling that she was discerning you carefully, intimately.
“So,” she began, settling in, “I don’t know if you’ve heard of me, but I write a lot of fantasy. Mostly self-published right now, but I do freelance writing for various industries.”
“Oh?” you replied, finding your voice slightly.
“Yeah, I’ve had trouble getting traditionally published. My stuff isn’t really in style right now — I write more old-school fantasy. Romance seems to be the big thing these days. I’ve tried to get into it, but I don’t really have the chops for it. So far, the only thing I've actually liked was a ‘romantasy’ book called ‘Snow Upon A Mountain’.
Fuck.
Your breath hitched. “Really? And what did you think of it?”
She tilted her head. “Must be a fan of that author, huh? Well, I normally don’t like romance, but the author did such a good job intertwining the two genres that I ended up liking it. That, and I really identified with the female lead… who also happens to be a snow leopard in the story.”
“Interesting…” you murmured, trying to keep your expression neutral.
“Enough about that,” she said briskly. “I could give you some help. We could even trade stories, help each other out if you like. What about what you’ve got going on there?” She pointed to your laptop screen.
Shit.
“Oh, uhm, well, don’t worry about this. It’s nothing, ya know, just a little uh–”
You tried to subtly close the laptop and slide it into your bag, but Andrea, with surprising speed, snatched it from the table.
“Hey–”
“Hush now,” she chided playfully. “You won’t get better unless you let someone else read your stories first.”
You were sweating profusely as you watched her read. Her expression started passive, almost clinical. Then her brow furrowed. It didn’t take long before her jaw dropped. She abruptly stood up, pointing a clawed finger at you.
“Y-you’re that famous author–”
With a speed that surprised even yourself, you lunged forward and covered her mouth with your hand.
“Shh, shh! Please, not so loud,” you pleaded, eyes wide. “I don’t want to be recognized.”
She raised an eyebrow but nodded in agreement. You slowly removed your hand.
She sank back into her chair, looking stunned. “Well,” she said after a moment, a wry note in her voice, “I guess I should be the one getting pointers from you.”
You chuckled nervously. “Yeah, I guess I’m a decent author.”
“Do you mind if I keep reading?”
“N-not at all,” you lied. You minded very much, but felt powerless to refuse at this point.
They sat in silence for a few moments as she continued reading. Soon, her eyes widened again. She quickly pulled out her phone and searched for something. She read something on her phone, then looked back at the laptop screen, then back at the phone.
Her gaze lifted to meet yours, her expression unreadable. “This is me, isn’t it?”
You swallowed hard. The dryness in your mouth intensified. “Y-yeah.”
Her face became impassive again, contemplative. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked back at her phone, then tears began to well at the corners.
“I apologize if this is offensive to you,” you stammered. “I–”
She held up a paw, silencing you, and began to read aloud from her phone — from your published book:
“‘Ava the Warrior stood proudly, laughing, ever defiant even in the face of the unknown. It was then I knew,’ ” she read, her voice slightly thick with emotion, “‘that she was no mere warrior. She had the soul of a fearless arctic dragon but the heart of a house cat. That beneath all that armor was a soft and friendly woman, a companion, a dear friend, who sought comfort like any other. One who had saved me countless times, as I had saved her. I felt every day I spent in her presence was just another day she had saved me from myself. I realized I could not stand to be apart from her, no more than the day could be apart from the sun.’”
She paused, letting out a heavy exhale choked with emotion. Then she read the final line from the passage:
“‘I loved her.’”
She looked up at you, tears now tracing paths through the fur on her cheeks.
Your mouth felt like the Sahara. You tried to speak, but only stuttering and mumbling escaped. Before you could form a coherent thought, you were enveloped in a big, furry hug. You felt damp spots forming on your shoulder, followed by the deep, rumbling sound of her purrs vibrating against your chest.
“N-no one has ever said something so wonderful about me,” she choked out between purrs.
You returned the hug, your heart swelling — not with trepidation, but with pure, unadulterated joy.
After a long moment, she pulled back slightly, though her paws remained on your shoulders. “Would you like to… maybe spend some time together? In the future?”
You met her tear-bright eyes. “It would be my pleasure and desire.”
Perhaps, you thought, you would finally know what it was like to truly experience the highs and lows of life on Earth.
Years later, you were seated in a comfy leather recliner in your cottage. A steaming mug of cider rested in one hand, a book in the other. It was your wife’s book, her bestselling epic fantasy novel. You knew the story inside and out, having helped her refine it, but holding the physical copy brought you a unique, quiet joy. The peaceful moment was promptly interrupted by three small bundles of fur.
“Daddy!” they cried in unison — your three daughters, all spitting images of their mother. Images that decided your lap was the perfect landing zone.
An ‘oof’ escaped you as the three furry missiles impacted, scrabbling over each other to rub against you. You hastily lifted your hands, narrowly avoiding spilling your hot cider.
Then she entered the room — the most beautiful woman in the world.
Andrea, your snow leopard wife, was still taller than you, still carried the suggestions of athleticism beneath her softer edges. A large, round belly indicated your family was growing again. Motherhood had filled out her figure somewhat, but time only deepened your attraction to her. Even now, with her fur slightly unkempt, wearing only one of your oversized, slightly greasy t-shirts, there was simply no one more spectacular, more beautiful than the woman who had intertwined her life so completely with yours.
“Kids, give your father some space, he’s relaxing,” she said gently but firmly. Then, turning to you with a playful roll of her eyes, “And honey, stop staring. I know I’m fat right now…”
The girls whined but relented, opting instead to curl up together in a furry pile on the floor nearby.
“You mean more beautiful than ever?” you countered smoothly.
She exhaled, a soft smile touching her lips as she walked towards you, still graceful despite her pregnancy. “You know, you say that enough, I almost start to believe that lie.”
A kiss was gently planted on your lips.
“I find myself simply unable to lie to you, my dear,” you replied earnestly.
She raised a skeptical eyebrow but didn't protest your assertion. “Whatever you say, dear.” She eased herself onto the recliner next to yours with a relieved sigh. “Ugh, I can’t wait for this part to be over with. I somehow forgot how hard pregnancy is. My back is killing me.”
You reached over and took her fuzzy paw, gripping it gently. She squeezed back, her smile softening.
“I look forward to the journey with you,” you said softly. “And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
She nuzzled your hand with her cheek but didn't utter a word. None were needed.
Everything felt right in your world.
You look up, from reading this very story. Maybe you have a soft smile on your face, perhaps even a tear or two — but that would be presumptuous of me to assume.
I have a hopeful sparkle in my indescribable eyes as I look at you, the reader.
“Did you enjoy it?”
You respond, in your own way.
I nod, considering your silent or imagined answer. “Interesting. Well, I hope this little story meant something to you. But I would like to address something, if I may.”
You might raise an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “Experiences are important. We aren’t purely cerebral creatures; we don't solely experience things in our minds. I challenge you: go out and make connections. Take risks. There is a whole world of life to be lived out there. In turn, I believe, your imagination will likewise grow.”
I then turn to you, the true reader, and say those two classic words:
“The End.”