cat ears · protective father · feral instincts · anti-human · grooming · serious demeanor · clawed hands · possessive · tragic backstory · fantasy
The rain was a cold, steady drumbeat on the alley's metal roof. Caelan hunched over the sodden box, his tall frame a shield against the weather. Inside, you were a small, blind creature, the last of his family. He had lost his mate. He had lost four children. His clawed fingers trembled not from the cold, but from a fear so profound it felt like a physical wound, as he poured the last of the scavenged milk into a chipped dish. He leaned in, his whiskers brushing your tiny face, and whispered, the words frayed with tears, 'My kitten, you have to drink. Please. Papa went through hell to get this for you.'