#obey me tabby

[averageradstudent]

i wish satan was real so i could sit him in front of a computer with slime rancher turned on and see what happens

[hoodieimp]

Nothing grinds my gears more than people who insist that all cats are Smug Assholes just because they don't behave like dogs

(Spoiler alert: it's because they aren't dogs)

[faolanmoon120]

Cat Beel

[lis-likes-fics]

Spoiled Brat

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Reader Word Count: 4.2k words Warnings: Smut, p in v sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation, spanking, slight breeding kink, slight degradation (blink and you’ll miss it), language... A/N: I don’t know why this took me as long as it did but it’s finally here. I don’t know when I became a slut for Alfie Solomons, but I did, so enjoy this smut fic of him. Thank you.

Alfie Solomons was working late again at the distillery, burning away the hours of the evening as they faded into the late hours of the night. Alfie Solomons was working on some random paperwork he had no interest in as he ran his hand through his beard and grumbled about something trivial under his breath. Alfie Solomons was working away at God-knows-what while you slightly overstayed your welcome—although she insisted you hadn’t, even if her husband didn’t seem to agree—at your dear friend’s home. You left promptly, despite her invitation to stay and aggravate her husband even more (just for the fun of it, really).

You scratched her tabby cat behind the ears as he purred, resting its cheek in your hand and shutting his eyes. With a quick farewell to your friend, you were off onto the darkened street of Camden Town. Your heels clicked along the damp cobblestone as you wrapped your coat around your body. The moon was hardly present, a smile in the sky that showed little light to guide your way. You didn’t need it, you’d walked down that road a million times.

You could make out a few shadows in the dark, watching eyes that considered you for a moment before quickly looking away at the realization of who it was you actually were. They’d like to keep their heads fixed on their shoulders.

When you reached the building you knew all, you were greeted by the stragglers who usually stayed late, people who would also be leaving sooner than your husband. You regarded them with a little smile, and they returned it gratuitously.

You didn’t bother knocking on the door when you arrived at Alfie’s office. You twisted the handle and turned it open, stepping right through and hanging your coat and hat on the rack by the door. He didn’t have to look up to know it was you, as you were the only one who would ever think to let yourself in so boldly without permission from the big bad Alfie Solomons who kept a gun in his drawer next to the whiskey.

“Hello, love,” you greeted him warmly.

He grunted his reply at first before finally speaking after a prolonged silence. “How are you, dove?” he muttered, his face still stuck in the paperwork on his desk .

When you didn’t respond, he finally looked up at you. You stood in front of the door, your head tilted as you looked over at him through your lashes. He took in the sight of you and leaned back in his chair, watching your lashes flutter and your smile widen with a certain mischief he was all too familiar with in you.

“Uh, oh,” he said, setting his pen down and sliding his papers to the side. “She wants something.” His lips curled underneath his mustache with a grin he’d tried to keep away in the face of your pleading eyes.

“Alfie.” Your voice was small and gentle, raised a half step as you swayed a little with your hands behind your back. Your smile was that kind of smile meant to charm unsuspecting prey before they met their demise. Alfie knew it all too well, and has fallen victim to your hypnotic antics far too many times for his rough exterior and notorious reputation to handle.

He sighed deeply, holding his arms out wide to suggest one of his constricting bear hugs. “Come ‘ere, luv,” he requested. You gladly obey, walking over to him and taking your sweet time about it. You were just going to stand in front of him, tuck yourself between his legs and look down at him as he held your waist, but as soon as you were within arm’s reach, he pulled you down onto his lap and practically cradled you.

“Right, what is it?” he asked once you were situated, watching you with plenty of interest as his hand stroked along your back. You threw your arms around his neck, giving him your best puppy dog eyes—a look you and Cyril shared and only used for no good.

Then you bit your lip, and Alfie knew you meant only trouble.

“I’ve been thinking about things,” you began, trailing one hand to his chest and tapping your fingers there. He watched you like some sailor caught under a siren’s spell.

“What kinds of things?” he asked, humming deep in his chest. The sound buzzed underneath your hand, and he gave a little grin as he suggested, “Naughty?”

You chuckled lightly, “No.”

He huffed, his smile falling. “Right, then,” he said. “I dunno if I want to hear it now.”

You stifled your chuckle, granting him a large smile and using the full force of your pleading eyes. “Please?” you whispered, leaning in closer so your faces were hardly inches apart.

You were vividly aware of his finger tapping against your thigh as he held you in his lap. He gave in to your pleading with a sigh full of feigned exasperation. “Alright, alright,” he huffed. “Put them eyes away.”

You pressed your lips to his temple, buttering him up as you leaned your head on his shoulder and sighed. Alfie sighed, too. He knew every single one of your methods, and he still fell for them every single time.

"I know we already have Cyril," you began slowly, "and I love him to death, but I was just wondering… What if we…?"

"You want another dog, is it? Done." He looked at you, flashing a smile that had you rolling your eyes. He just shrugged. "See? Wasn't that 'ard."

You raised a brow at him, "I want a cat."

He stared at you for a moment, his brows furrowed slightly as he seemed to think over that. "Alright, forgive my language, luv, yeah, but that's a right fuckin' awful idea."

You looked back at him, your pout returning with a vengeance as you pushed your lip out, your brow crinkling. "Why?" you whined.

"We don't need no pussy cat," he shook his head, his hand patting against your ass as he smirked at you. "I'm fine with the one I've got."

"Alfie," you softly reprimand, the seriosity falling short with your giggle at his slightly crude joke.

He continued to refuse, much to your dismay. "It'll scratch everything up, break shit. Plus, they fuckin' smell like shit and they're jus' fuckin' mean."

You rolled your eyes, "No, they're not! I have a friend who has a cat, and he's brilliant!"

He lolled his head back dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so you've already been brainwashed, eh?"

You jutted your bottom lip out once more. "Alfie, please?" you begged.

Again, he shook his head, his word final as he pressed his finger against your bottom lip to push it back into place. "You can suck that lip back in, luv, 'cause it's still a no."

"I can take care of it," you pushed.

"I'll have Cyril take care of it."

"Alfie!" you scolded.

He shrugged remorselessly. "Yeah, no."

You pulled a desperate card that you knew had a very low chance at success.

"Don't you love me at all?"

Not only did it not work as Alfie fell completely silent, looking back at you with a face lacking any playfulness, but now you were sure you had gotten yourself in trouble. You hid your inhibitions.

"Right," he started out slowly, lifting a finger to point at you. "This is what we are not gonna do, yeah? We are not going to do that little manipulation thing you do, eh, like you're a pretty little pup who never gets what she wants." He popped the 'P' of pup, staring you down with an intensity that nearly had you shaking.

"You know what we're gonna do?" he asked. "We're gonna behave like a good little girl," he got in your face for the last few words, "and agree that we ain't gettin' no cat."

You slump, "But…"

He shakes his head, "No buts."

You huffed, removing your hands from around his neck as you moved to stand. As soon as you were lifting off of his lap, he pulled you down again by your waist and made you face him. It was the very last card you had as you forced a tear to slip down your cheek, staring at him with the biggest eyes you could manage and allowing your frown to deepen.

The way he stared at you was almost frightening. It was incredulous, almost frustrated as he watched you exaggerate your sorrow for being told a very simple 'no'.

"Right," he began, "I want that pout and that fake little tear off your little scrunched up face right now, or I'll wipe it off myself."

A tear fell down your other cheek, and you had to turn away to hide it from him. He grabbed your face by your cheeks, squishing them together to bring your attention back to him.

"You have to the count of three, luv," he warned, displaying his hand as he readied it to begin his slow countdown. "One."

Your expression did not shift, your pout remained and your two crocodile tears dropped from your chin.

"Right, then."

He did not finish his countdown. He grabbed you roughly, manhandling you onto his lap so that you were laying across his huge thighs. You yelped in surprise as you were folded over, your bottom on display for him.

He began lifting up your dress, adjusting everything to give him a clear view of your white, silk undergarments. Then he tore those off of you so he could see your precious ass.

"Since you want to behave like some spoiled brat," he said, "we're going to treat you like one."

He gave you no warning at all before his hand was coming down rather harshly on your ass. It burned, a bright pain blossoming over your skin and staining it with a deep shade that Alfie marveled at. A surprised cry slipped out of you. He grunted.

"There we go. Let's give you something to cry about, sweetheart."

And he did. Smack after smack, he painted your skin the darkest shades of red as the pain bloomed along your ass and thighs. You bit your lip and, until he reprimanded you for it, tried to muffle your cries.

There was a sick kind of pleasure you were getting out of this, the both of you. Being bent over his lap like this, scolded for not being "a good little girl", It was a type of pain that was twisting in your gut and leaking out of your cunt.

By the time the punishment came to an end, your face was streaming with real tears as he wrapped his hand around your throat and lifted you to see your face again. "Look at me," he directed. "Have you learned your lesson yet, luv?"

You nodded quickly, propping yourself up as best you could so you could obey his simple command. "Yes," you breathed. "Yes, sir."

He examined your face, flushed and stained with tears. "Nah," he shook his head. "Nah, I don't think you have." He dipped his hand between your thighs. He wasn't even touching your pussy, but he could feel the wetness spreading along the inside of your legs, warm and soaking.

You closed your eyes, suppressing a moan as you nodded your head again to convince him. "Please."

He bit his bottom lip for a moment, a wicked grin spreading over his face as he nodded slowly. "Yeah, see?" he whispered. "Still askin' for things."

You would have scoffed or called him out for tricking you if you were so fucking frustrated right now, in need of his thick fingers to finally stop teasing your sensitive thighs and bury themselves in your waiting cunt. "I'm sorry, Alfie."

His thumb swiped over your cheek as he nodded. "I know you are, luv, but I'm not through with you yet."

Before you had time to respond to his words, he leaned forward and swiped everything off his desks. Papers flew in the air, pens shot across the room, plastic and metal miscellaneous scattered over the freshly swept floors scratched up from previous beatings and scuffings of shoes.

He tucked his arm under your body and picked you up easily, his biceps flexing and bugling out of the rolled up sleeve of his white shirt. He dropped you onto the cold wood with less sympathy than if he were not as angry with you. The coolness of the desks seeped through your dress and threatened to bring your nipples to a harder peak as you grasp at the edge of it, chest heaving with the anticipation of what he’d do. There was a stretch of silence where you heard nothing but felt the security of your dress lessen.

Alfie took a hold of your waist, clutched your sides with a tightening and loosening grip, as if he was testing out your stability, your strength. He came to a determination, choosing to flip you over onto your back with a rough shove. You moaned lightly when the table dug into across your shoulder blades and he tutted.

You looked up at him through hooded eyes, waiting for Alfie to make his next move as he stood over you, thinking, calculating. He nodded a little, quiet and staring. When he finally moved, his hands came up to clutch around your dress as he slipped it off your body and discarded it on the floor like trash. At least he hadn’t torn it, he liked doing that.

Layer by layer, he yanked your clothes away until you were so completely bare before him. He admired you for a moment, just staring, thinking. “Right,” he mumbled under his breath, just another grumble of a word spoken into the air. He bent down, taking your face in his strong hand and clutching, your lips scrunching into a pout. “Since you want a pussy cat so bad,” he said, his eye contact searing, “why don’t I just pay some attention to yours? That should cancel out, eh?”

He didn’t leave time for you to respond before he was finally pressing his lips to your bare chest. Your back arched into him and a stifled moan wormed its way from your throat. His kisses traveled sparingly down to your soaked cunt. He hummed, a deep sound that rumbled in his chest. A surprised yelp cut through the air when his hand came down on your folds, a loud smack accompanying the quick movement as your body jolted.

“Alfie,” you breathed.

He looked at you quickly, “Right, did I say you could fuckin’ speak, girl?” You shook your head, laying your head back on the desk a moment before meeting his gaze again. “That’s what I thought. Do yourself a favor and shut your mouth unless you’ve a pretty little moan for me. Alright?” You nodded quickly and he nodded back.

He gripped your thighs, kneading the flesh and spreading it wide. He blew some against your folds, testing your sensitivity and smiling to himself when your legs twitched. He leaned forward and pushed your chest back down when your back arched at his warm lips wrapping around your cunt. His hot tongue laved over your folds, licking up the arousal that coated your flesh and working his tongue into your hole.

You bit your lip as you moaned, eyes screwed shut as your mouth fell open. He worked you up and kept you there, making you climb higher and higher as he brought you to the cusp of pleasure. Your little mewls and moans were music to him, and you sang the most beautiful songs to him as he grunted into you. You made a mess of him with nothing but your slick arousal, riding his face as best he could when his strong arms held you down so easily.

And when you came, you did so with the broken moan of his name, gasping and clenching and arching your back off the table. But he didn't stop, even as you tangled your hands in his hair, he didn't stop. His insistent tongue continued to lick and his talented lips continued to suck.

You were reduced to a mess of tears and slick and rambling cries. You were so sensitive, the overstimulation was too much to handle as he tortured you.

He pulled back finally, granting you mercy as he watched you, face drenched, beard sticky with your cum. His kiss-swollen lips smiled as he loomed over you. "Oh, look at that," he marveled. "Now those are some fuckin' tears, right. Some big fuckin' tears."

You panted as you tried to catch your breath, ignoring the tears that tickled down the side of your face. "I'll be good," you whispered. "I promise, I'll be good."

He leaned forward and kissed your lips, you could taste yourself off him. "I'm sure you will, luv. I'm sure you will," he said. "But I am gonna give you some more, alright? Jus' in case." You whimpered pathetically, watching him descend your body one more to press his tongue against your oversensitive clit.

And you cried and moaned and promised you loved him until he finally let up and granted you pity. He kissed up your body again until he reached your lips. "There, there, sweetie," he cooed, moving hair from your face with a smile. "Alright, look at me. Beautiful, luv."

He kissed your cheek and dipped down to your ear, his voice deep and quiet and rumbling in his chest. "Now," he spoke, sending shivers down your spine, "I'm gonna fuck ya, and I want to hear your pretty little moans. How about that? Can you do that?"

You nodded quickly, anything to please him. "Yes, sir," you gasped. "Yes."

"Good," he smiled, straightening his spine again as he pulled himself out of his pants, hard and thick and red. "Right, spread your legs for me."

He set his hand on your thigh, squeezing and pushing it aside to open you up. Still breathless, you yelped as he pulled you a little closer to the edge. He licked his lips, lightly smacking his hand against the wet juncture between your thighs.

When he entered you, you gasped. Your mouth fell open and your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his cock, thick and throbbing, filled you inch by beautiful inch. "Alfie!" you moaned, reaching up to grasp his shoulders roughly.

When he was fully seated within you, he lingered there for a moment as he let out a heavy sigh. "Beautiful. So tight, luv," he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as a slight ramble fell from his lips. "That's a good girl."

After making you wait too long, he began to move again. His cock slid in and out of you in long, slow strokes as he filled you to the brim. You bit down on your bottom lip, your eyes closing as you breathed a heavy sigh.

His grip on your waist tightened as he eased himself in and out of you. A groan rumbled in his chest as he sighed. He was hardly slow or gentle as he rocked in and out of your squeezing cunt. He was paced, although his rough thrusts were not forgiving, and they left you pleading for more. You threw your head back as a stifled moan caught in your throat, and your hands shot up to wrap around his neck to hold him closer.

He pulled your arms away from him, and you whimpered pathetically when his cock slipped out of you. He grabbed you harshly, flipping you over the desk to lay on your stomach as he thrust back into you again. The new angle had completely different sensations rushing through you, and you welcomed them with desperate moans.

Alfie nudged your legs apart, spreading you wide for him as he continued to fuck you, building in speed as his rough thrusts filled you with him. The pleasure echoed off your bones just as your sounds echoed off the walls of the office. Your open mouth was unrestrained with noise of lust and passion.

The arousal was leaking down your legs, painting the insides of your thighs like a canvas, offering a generous lather of paint to the space. His cock spearing into you made the dirtiest sounds—skin on skin, wet against wet. Your mouth fell open and you let out breathless cries accompanied with their own pleasure tears.

He bent down over your back, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck as he whispered into your ear at the sound of your whimpers. “Oh, is it too much for you, eh? You can’t take it?” he mocked. You responded with another pathetic moan. “That’s jus’ too bad, innit? You’re gonna have to, treacle.”

He seemed to go rougher after that, holding you close as he fucked into you from behind. You couldn’t control the obscene sounds falling from your lips. It was a mixture of “Alfie, Alfie, Alfie!” and open-mouthed moans that tore from your throat with the rhythm of the snap of his hips.

You were getting so close, driven to insanity by the passionate rock of his cock inside you. Your pussy fluttered as you grew nearer and nearer to your release. You could tell he was going to reach his peak too, with the way his moans become just a little bit louder, his thrusts become just a little bit more erratic.

“Alfie,” you gasped. “Alfie, please. Gonna cum!”

He sniffed, a little preoccupied but completely engrossed in your pleasure. “Yeah? You gonna cum all over my cock, luv? You gonna let me cum inside of ya and fill you up with our baby?” he whispered into your ear. A higher pitched moan squeezed out of you then, and he feels you clamp down around him. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Like the idea of being bred by me, eh?”

You spoke between gasping breaths and a quivering smile. “I’m surprised,” a breath, “you haven’t done it already–Ah!” He interrupted you with yet another rough thrust. “Husband, I’m gonna cum.”

He reached around you, his fingers finding your pussy and shifting until he reached your clit. With an expert hand, he rubbed your clit and had you seeing stars. “Smart mouth,” he commented, shaking his head with a soft tut. A knot built in your gut until you couldn’t hold it anymore as your silent moans caught in your throat. “Go on, luv. Cum for me.”

As your orgasm came crashing down on you, it was loud and hard and you felt like you might have blacked out for a couple seconds as your body was overcome with this beautiful intoxication. You screamed his name, gripping the edge of the desk and burying your face in your arms.

Alfie groaned as you clenched around his cock, squeezing harder and harder until he couldn’t hold back anymore as well. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close to him as he seated himself as deep as he could, coming deep within your hot pussy. “Fuck,” he groaned deeply in your ear, his voice a consuming rasp that prolongs your own mind-numbing release.

By the time you were both coming down, your body was limp against the now warm wood of the desk as you laid there, trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure sparking in your muscles. Alfie let out a deep breath and pulled out of you, looking down as the mixture of cum slipped down your thigh from your sopping cunt. He groaned deeply in his throat before finally wrapping his arm around you once more to ease you up.

He sat heavily in his chair, sighing loudly as he pulled you into his lap to rest against his chest. You nuzzled your face in his neck, wrapping your loose arms around him as you caught back up to reality. You both sat in silence as he rubbed gentle circles into your back, whispering soft praises and shushing you gently.

After a beat of silence, he sighed and pursed his lips as he thought to himself. Then he gave in.

“You can get a cat,” he relented. You pulled away from the comfort of his neck, your arms still wrapped around him as your face lit up with elation. He was quick to add his condition, “But if it doesn’t behave, I’ll have Cyril eat it, yeah?”

You gave him a bright smile, one of those looks that reminded him why you were his wife. “Thank you! I love you, Alfie!” you exclaimed, holding him again as you pepper his face in excited kisses.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

Alfie Solomons, one of the most dangerous men in London, proudly allowed his wife to cover him in kisses. Alfie Solomons, a Jewish gang leader, preened under the attention of his lover as he held her close to him, cradling her with all the affection in his heart. Alfie Solomons, a man from Camden Town, smiled like a lovesick fool as he and his wife shared one of those “I’d give you the world” kisses before they would depart to finally go home in the late hours of the night to make love again before retiring to bed and beginning another day of business and pleasure.

Peaky Blinders taglist: ... Tag yourself here...

[dinoshimaaa]

Cabo

You and Ajax make dinner at nine PM together. (fluff, modern au)

masterpost - sher's bday

tag: @souglias

(this is a repost of an older work that didn't make it in tags lol)

-

You register the warmth around you when you open your eyes, finding it to be both familiar and expected. The man squished between you and the backrest of the couch is still fast asleep, soft snoring in your ears slowly falling into the same rhythm as your heartbeat. Romeo, the orange tabby (and the undoubted king of the household) stays curled up between you and Ajax, but his eyes blink periodically, having woken up just before you did.

The phone reveals the time to be six in the evening when you extend your arm to check it. Turning back towards Ajax, you lightly pat his chest, “Wake up. We need to prepare dinner soon.”

“Mmh,” his chest rumbles, and his hold around your waist tightens. “Not now.”

“I’m hungry.”

Ajax’s eyes open. He stares at you for a second. Then he smiles and closes his eyes again. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m not,” you sigh and it comes out as laughter.

“Go back to sleep,” he shifts his head down, nose pressing into your neck. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Romeo might be hungry, though.” As if to prove you wrong, the orange tabby jumps down from the couch and nonchalantly pads towards the bedroom, possibly to hop on your bed and mess up the sheets before bedtime. The two of you watch him as he does so, and once he is out of sight, you face each other again. “Or maybe not.”

“See? No one to worry about,” he hums and gently pulls your head beneath his cheek. “Stay.”

You obey. Sleep catches you in its grasp once again, and the next time you wake up it is past nine. Your stomach is definitely growling by then, and Romeo is also pawing at the couch, upset that he has yet to receive his feast (canned tuna) for the night.

Ajax reluctantly joins you in the kitchen minutes after you pull out of his slackened grip. Wordlessly, he grabs the chopping board, but stills when he sees the instant ramen cups in your hands.

“It’s late,” you answer to his disapproving glance, “I don’t know about you, Gordon Ramsey, but I’d rather settle for a quick meal tonight than a full course meal I have to wait an hour for.”

“It’s bad for your health,” he walks over and presses his lips to your hair, “I literally cook quality meals for you for free. Do you have any idea how much Kaeya pays me to do that for him?”

You shrug. “You can do that tomorrow. I’m hungry now.”

Ajax grumbles and places the cutting board back to where it was. Then, he takes the ramen cups from your hands and pours just-boiled water into them in your stead. When he’s done, he sits next to you on the kitchen island and the both of you stare at the ramen cups.

“Romeo hasn’t eaten,” you break the comfortable silence. “Get the tuna for him.”

“Let’s get married.” Ajax replies. You turn to him with a deadpan look.

“We’re already as domestic as we can be,” he smiles and tilts his head. “We sleep in the same bed and house, I cook and clean for you, and you repay me with kisses and cuddles. Getting married won’t make a difference.”

“Romeo still hasn’t eaten.”

“I’m being serious,” his voice drops to a whisper now, and his eyes drop to your left hand. You are very aware of the heavy gaze on the empty fourth finger. “There’s no one else I’d rather wake up from a nap at nine PM and cook bland instant ramen and neglect our hungry cat because we were too busy bickering in the kitchen over dinner choices… with.”

The fatigue has gotten up to him, you think. You blame his abrupt decision on the sleep-lidded eyes and tousled ginger hair and his unsound mind still filled with fantasies from his slumber. You want to scold him about how important of a decision marriage is and why he shouldn’t carelessly throw the word around like he’s suggesting a movie night. You want to smack him head from the back for joking around and getting your hopes high for a split second.

And yet Ajax is never one to make hasty decisions with zero thought. Shyly, his eyes flit up to meet yours and the sincerity in them makes your heart skip a beat.

“I’ll buy you a ring.” he nervously adds, which is uncharacteristic of him. “Soon. I’ll buy your dream dress, book your dream location, and give you your dream wedding. All you have to do is say yes.”

He doesn’t need to prove himself with material worths, and you want to let him know that. You love him just as much as he loves you and possibly way more. Shifting your hand to link with his and squeeze it, you watch the way his eyes soften.

Ajax caresses your left ring finger. You give him the answer he is waiting for.

“Feed Romeo the tuna,” you answer, with all honesty, “And I’ll say yes.”

Your orange tabby has never had a better dinner before today.

[silvereternitywrites]

My Monarch!

Prompt: Ever since first contact, many alien races have considered humans to be primitive, to the point where we are seen as intelligent animals over our own race. Because of this, many aliens have humans as pets. You are the pampered pet of a very rich alien monarch. Prompt Source: userSuperaptorminion ; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

Most of the time, my life is fantastic- there's a pretty big faction of us, though no one seems to agree on a name except "species traitors". I, however, am of the opinion that if I can live a life of pampered luxury, with no responsibilities, every need taken care of and the only thing asked for in exchange occasional companionship, give me the fucking collar. Fuck capitalism, fuck the grind, fuck all of that shit from back on Earth.

Some kind of Monarch bought me, too, so when I grabbed my mates of choice by the hand and bared my teeth, they laughed, called me cute, and bought them too.

They haven't the slightest clue that we aren't tame, aren't 'just copying them'; like a housecat back home. Sure, you know that your Pomeranian or fat tabby is capable of killing you, if pressed, but you never expect it, because if you treat them well, why would they?

I don't love the Monarch, not really- not like some of the other pet humans do, at any rate. I appreciate that they tend my every need and those of my mates, I pay them with cuddles for providing treatment for my mate's chronic conditions and making them able to pursue what gives them joy again, I tolerate their checks of my own person for such issues (and don't hold it against them when my mates rat out my old injuries), and I enjoy my life of ease. I speak their language- all of us do, because honestly it's funny to watch them lose their shit every time we say intelligible words to them.

Today, however, a threat came to my Monarch- and my Monarch is folding, fearing for the safety of their people and us, the pets, since the challenger is not one of the ones who thinks we are "cute".

This is not acceptable. You see, my Monarch is mine.

Sacrificing themselves for the good of their people is very well and good- but no one is allowed to steal what is mine away from me.

So it is without preamble that I get off my cushion, where I spend most days absorbed in books or writing my own, pressing a button on my wristlet to send a pre-established signal to my mates. One is down in the combat arena, as they always are this time of day, training now that their body obeys them again; the other has been studying intergalactic law, including treaties and declarations of war. In our own language, I consult with them first; I am the culture expert between us, so we have a fairly well-rounded plan when I reach into the side compartment of my Monarch's throne, remove the blaster there, flick it to 'lethal', and shoot all three aliens at the front of the enemy formation.

The clamor and the screaming is enough to give me a migraine, so I am scowling when I step forth, in front of my Monarch, and give them the same hand signal they give me when they want me to move- pointing, paired with a word. They sit.

I turn to the enemy formation, which has sloppily formed up again, though the front three spots, reserved for the leaders, are left conspicuously empty. Good- they had no contingency for if they fell, and no designated people to step into their roles, and without that being pre-established, their culture did not allow for a common soldier to seize command.

It DID allow for 'theft' of the battalion by a conquering commander, though.

"You answer to me now, by right of conquest," I snapped out in their own tongue, prepared to be challenged. The galaxy at large saw us as pets, or PESTS, not as people- someone would challenge that I had the right to claim by conquest at all.

They looked among each other- which was their right to do, to confer if they wanted to challenge whoever had taken out their commanders- before one stepped forward, and I kept my body loose, balanced on the balls of my feet like my mate taught me, but no challenge had been called so I kept still. This one must have been a former commander- a right hand, certainly, because despite not really being able to judge age on their species this soldier was thick with scarring, and though their march never fell out of step, there was the slightest of limps in one of their four legs.

That one knelt down, folded hands on knees, and bent forward, baring the back of their neck in the sign of obedience.

"We are conquered. We answer you."

Oh good.

"I live the life of a Queen, given everything my heart desires, tended to by my mates of choice, given entertainment, food, leisure, and all the time I require to enjoy all of these things. I will not have need of a battalion often- and you are soldiers, loyal and true, battle-tested and strong, so I would not insult you by setting you free. But I have no wish to go out and conquer more, and would not hold a good soldier back from serving honorably elsewhere, for all I can offer is drills and defense should enemies come to invade my holdings, which is rare. If any wish to leave, they are free to find a battalion that fits them better," I told them in my best formal tones. After all, conquering them for my own was only the first step- and if they wouldn't be content to stay, there was no point in keeping them, fostering resentment all along the way.

"A Queen should have guards," the Lieutenant answered, just as formally. "And should a soldier cease to function well as a guard, they may serve perhaps elsewhere."

"As they should, in accordance with their most skilled performance ability," I replied.

"I will stay. My battalion will follow, until they are drawn elsewhere."

"Then be welcome to my service. Your right and left hands?"

Two younger ones with impeccable posture stepped forth, bowed their heads, and held position in the traditional commander's triangle.

"Then it is done. Tend your wounded, honor your dead, then the hale are to report to the combat arena- that is where my right hand trains, and they will know best how to schedule rotations for guard posts. They are my shape and limb arrangement, but with a darker carapace and with the strength of a Soldier apparent in their limbs. My left hand is my shape and limb arrangement as well, but of the same carapace color, and poison-warning blue headfur. His tongue is as dangerous as his color suggests."

My new Commander dipped his head deferentially as he rose to his feet and started directing the battalion. "Understood, my Queen."

Ah. The hazards of using 'queen' with an insectoid species.

Everything settled, I turned my blaster back to stun, put the safety on, and put it in the cubby before climbing up into my Monarch's lap and laying full-body against them in the way they understood meant "I desire my hair and back petted and scratched, NOW".

"I think perhaps our opinion of human pets may be outdated," they said, even as they provided the scratches.

I smiled. "Not really. I'm just a felidae-type human. I don't tolerate people messing with what belongs to me. That includes you. That's how it works, with cats. You don't own us- we own you."

my Monarch looked a little alarmed at that.

I just laughed, and said a joke I knew they would never get until they met an Earth cat: "Meow."

[viriborne]

PART: TWO

YEAHHHH FIRST THREE DONE!! Alright so this is part one of my Obey Me Warrior Cats AU!! Yes, absolutely insane mash of fandoms, I know, but I have a wc brain worm rn. I'll edit this post later and add links to my other designs I make for this au when I post them :>

Mouringstar (formerly Morningstar) was a "clan" leader who created his own clan in opposition to the persecution of his sister for falling in love with a cat outside of the clans (rouge, loner, kittypet idfk yet). Attempted insurrection and regicide on his former clan leader, got him and every cat involved in the insurrection (his brothers and sister) killed in a violent battle. Got sent to cat hell for it. His sister was resurrected (a la Cinderpelt/heart) so she could live out her life with her mate and avoid suffering in the Dark Forrest like her brothers. Mc is born a kittypet and is definitely not weirdly related to the brothers' sister like in the game yayyyyy

I'll likely be making the cat representing Mc to be a Tennessee Rex or some other kind of Rex. Idk I wanna keep the kind-of curly wool sheep have in the design without like... literally making them a sheep lol.

Anyways; Mammon is a tabby blue Abyssinian cat, Leviathan is a Sphynx, and Lucifer is just some black long-haired mutt.

[mercury-and-scry]

[Image ID:

a digital reference sheet filled with art for an Obey Me MC. She is slim with fair skin, long brown hair tied in a ponytail, and red glasses. She has obvious scarring around her throat and brands with the brother’s demon symbols on her arms. On the left is a full body drawing of her in the RAD school uniform, smirking off to the side. A red speech bubble next to her reads “!!!” There are three labels pointing to her. One points to her brands and says “BRANDS: made from demon pacts,” one points to her throat and says “SCARS: left over from Belphagor’s attack” and the last one points to her shoulder and reads “SPECIAL SKILL: LILITH’S CHAMPION: Once an ordinary, magic-less human, the spirit of dead angel Lilith has become her patron. Lilith grants her intense magical power and the ability to forge pacts with powerful demons, as long as she uses this magic to fulfil Lilith’s wishes.” 

Besides her is a label reading “PROPS” under which is a red shoulder bag, an iPod Shuffle, a melon bun, a carton of strawberry milk, a purse, and a ritualistic looking knife. Below that is a torso shot of her, wearing an orange and white sweatshirt and frowning at her phone in her hand, which has a case resembling a brown tabby cat. A yellow speech bubble reads “...” Underneath are three artworks for songs with a label reading “MUSIC” - “Ghost Rule” by Deco*27 featuring Hatsune Miku, “All Eyes On Me” by OR30, and “Childish War” by Giga-P and Reol, featuring Kagamine Rin and Len. Finally, there is a small box to the side in which is written “SHE/HER”, the asexual flag, and the Scorpio star sign symbol.

End ID]

this is your official warning I’m the kind of person who gets into anime dating sims sometimes. have an MC 

[grossrottie]

can you share some of your TigerFire hc's? I'm really desperate for new content for this ship.

Of course!!!! Ty for the ask!! c:

I’m not sure what kind of hc’s you want, so here’s a lil rambling that is a lot longer than I anticipated oOPS

Tigerclaw didn’t like Firepaw at first. He thought Thunderclan would be weakened if the other clans found out they fostered a kittypet, much less *invite one in*.

Firepaw was stunned speechless when he spotted the huge tabby tom dwarfing all the other cats in the Thunderclan camp. His fur was so thick and well groomed, and his muscles rippled beneath his pelt with every step he took. His eyes were so beautiful and—Oh shoot, he was looking this way!

Tigerclaw caught Firepaw staring and glared at him, which caused Firepaw to avert his gaze and blush.

The next few moons were full of Firepaw’s training, his transition into the clan, and making eyes at Tigerclaw when he wasn’t looking. Tigerclaw would catch him from time to time and wasn’t sure exactly *why* Firepaw was so nosy in his business. He suspected that Firepaw distrusted him or was influenced by Ravenpaw’s fear of his own mentor.

Firepaw confessed his feelings a few moons before he became a warrior. Tigerclaw was stunned, definitely, and he also suspected that Firepaw was simply having a dumb little kittypet crush. He grumbled something akin to “Put focus into being a warrior instead of being a smitten fool, and *maybe* I’ll grow to respect you.”

Firepaw heard this and was thrilled. If he grew strong and was a loyal member of Thunderclan, then Tigerclaw might return his feelings!!

(Tigerclaw seriously didn’t think Firepaw was invested in this little crush, so he brushed off the situation and forgot about it. Firepaw didn’t.)

Then, at Firepaw’s warrior ceremony, the flame furred tom bumped noses with Tigerclaw and softly murmured “Do you respect me now?”

Tigerclaw made a face, unsure of Fireheart’s meaning. “I respect all Thunderclan warriors.” He replied vaguely.

Fireheart beamed. Throughout his vigil, his mind wandered to the brown tabby warrior. Surely that meant that Tigerclaw would return his feelings, right? He clearly indicated that he respected Fireheart now.

(Oh, the miscommunication.)

So for quite a while after Fireheart becomes a warrior and gains his full name, he is under the impression that Tigerclaw and him had discussed his ‘crush’, and that Tigerclaw is well aware of it. Fireheart tries to be a great warrior, he fights and hunts and obeys his senior warriors, but still, as the moons pass, Tigerclaw doesn’t initiate anything. Sure, he invites Fireheart on patrols, but he never gives Fireheart more than a sideways glance.

Tigerclaw has no clue that Fireheart expects anything from him. He assumes that Fireheart is satisfied with being a warrior and earning respect.

So therefore a *second* confession is in order.

More heartfelt than the first one, more mature, but just as clumsy.

About six moons after he became a warrior and this one-sided dance truly began, Fireheart finally manages to go on a hunting patrol with just Tigerclaw, and he confronts him. Was he not a good enough clan cat? Was it because he wasn’t clan-born? Was Tigerclaw just stringing him along? Was there something he did wrong? Was there—

“You *still* have a thing for me?” Tigerclaw asks, bewildered. He was *sure* it was just a kitten crush, had he been wrong to assume?

Fireheart stares up at him, seemingly baffled by the shocked response. “Yes?!” He exclaims, his tail bushing out to twice its size. “Of course I do!”

Tigerclaw gapes for a split second before schooling his expression. Why would Fireheart have a crush on *him* of all cats? He is silent, quickly flicking through his memories of Fireheart’s behaviour in the past moons. Sure enough, the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes “Oh Starclan, I must be oblivious.”

He stammers for a second.

Fireheart waits impatiently, almost standing on his toes in his anticipation of Tigerclaw’s response.

“…”

“…”

“So…” Tigerclaw clears his throat, floundering for something to say.

Fireheart butts in, saving Tigerclaw the stress of words. “Do you want to go on a hunting patrol tomorrow?”

Tigerclaw hesitates, meets Fireheart’s gaze, and sees that the ginger tabby’s expression is hopeful and forgiving, not hurt or offended.

“Yes. That might be nice.”

[j3st3r-luvr]

I’m bored so here’s what I think each non 50 blessings hotline Miami characters mask would be.

Biker- ik he is in 50B but if he did choose a traditional mask I’m 100% sure it would be a peacock. For one thing it’s a very elegant bird and would serve as a great foil to jackets rooster mask. For one a male peacock has very vibrant colors that match bikers (pink jacket can metaphorically match the flashy eye-feathers a peacock has). This would also complement bikers “guns blazing” play style. Showcasing how he’s more willing to question his part in 50Bs plot rather than put his head down and mindlessly obey their will (kinda like a chicken would). Bonus points for also mirroring the “cock joke” with richards mask. (Figure it out yourself)

Next is beard- a cat. Not a big cat but a regular orange tabby. Not only does he have chill “leave me be and I’ll be V. Cuddly vibes” like a cat but I 100% believe he would let a stray cat crash and live In his gas station. He’s just chill like a house cat and I respect that about him.

Evan wright- a vulture Lol. This one kinda explains itself, with some of mannys dialogue about “the press being vultures” aswell as Evan sniffing around dead bodies as opposed to killing the Russians himself. Not much else to say.

Onto the funny thicc skin man himself

Manny pardo- I’m more of the opinion that if he did have a mask, it would be a puppet mask (basically just phantoms face in mask form). Not only does him being a puppet suit him, with his actions mearly puppeting the fame of the masked maniac, he’s also a very hollow man. He chases fame to fill the void (it never works though). But if I 100% had to pick an animal it would be a German shepherd. Not only are they the dogs favored by the police but they also parallel the dogs used by the Russians. This club as a possible reference to manny being in kahoots with the son.

Speaking of which for the son- I’m torn between a panther or a shark mask. But Leaning towards a shark. As we can see he owns his own pet shark (I always assumed one given to him by his father) and I could definitely see his personality being compared to a sharks whole aesthetic. But a panther mask could work better as a reference to his fathers legacy. Aswell as showing how he lives in the shadows of his dad. Always wanting to win his approval but never getting it due to his death. All in all I’m more fond of the shark, as it is a mask not already in game (apposed to the panther) and it goes to show more of the son’s personality aswell as being his own thing not too connected to his dad.

Onto the henchman- he would be an eel all the way. A small fish with big Dreams only able to succeed at them by stealing the sons profits/hard work. He’s slippery and didn’t make too much of an impact outside of his bosses escapades. (No hate to the guy but he is unmotivated to work for what he wants. Floating in the middle rather than choosing his own destiny)

And for fun here’s a some bonus masks

Daniels- gives me big polar bear vibes. (An no not because he fat)

Barnes- coyote. I know it’s not a wolf but at least one of the “ghost wolves” had to be a canine.

[djtheabishai]

Wanna RP (Role Play) Sometime?

Just putting this out there! I LOVE to RP and this offer NEVER expires!

I role play Warriors, Creepypasta, Five Nights at Freddy's, Random, Obey Me!, Harry Potter and whatever else that'll come to mind later.

I AM over the age of 18 so I don't mind 18+ rp, but I won't do that with 17-. Just PLEASE let me know your age so I can do some tone down some things

I don't mind if your ocs a furry, a MLP pony, ect, that's your character and I'll rp with you regardless.

Please keep in mind, I don't mind sexual content, rape scenes (though I do not stand for it in real life, rp is different) or pictures of whatever to show me what you're character looks like as long as it's not a porn pic of a minor.

I do have a habit of swearing, even using the F word and I don't go to church, so I'll put the lord's name into my swears. If you're not into one or both, please let me know and I'll try my best to not include it.

If you have any questions, feel free to comment or sent me a note or message.

Please, Please, PLEASE!! don't play as my characters unless I say it's ok. My characters have different personalities, motives and drives. If you want to play as my characters, please ask if you can and I say you can, expect me to give you a list of how they are like. Don't butcher them to your liking unless I say so.

I know I sound nit picky, but do you like it when others play your characters without concent and make them into something their not?

If you wanna stop role playing, please tell me. Don't just ditch out. It makes me worried that something happened to you when you stop responding within a few days. Especially when you're ... doubting life...

I have a Quotev (Message), Discord (Own sever that has to be created) and DeviantArt (Notes) if you don't feel like RPing on Tumbler.

Quotev: https://www.quotev.com/RAK285

Discord: Froststar (has a picture of Lexi (Black and brown tabby with a purple and blue bandana around her neck)

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/dizzy-sight

I do have ships. Like if you follow me, you know I'm a Simebarb fan, so if you aren't interested in one or both, I'll be putting Simeon and Barbatos together unless you want to due a poly relationship with them. I will not pair the brothers nor pair Simeon with Lucifer and I won't pair Barbatos with Solomon and Diavolo either however considering how they're family in a way. I WILL NOT be pairing Luke with anyone besides an oc of his own age, and even then, it's more of a kid crush.

If you have any more questions, feel free to ask in the comments or message me.

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Behind The Scenes (short story)

A white-and-grey blur flew through the forest. Breaths came out quickly and painfully as a tom ran, ran, and kept running, his paws burning and bleeding from his abuse and his mind too filled with the images of his two friends strewn dead on the forest floor to notice the pain.

He took no notice of roots that grabbed at his toes, or the trees he just barely managed to dodge. A dark grey-and-black she-cat came into view ahead, and only then the tom stopped, skidding the earth and halting a whisker from the unblinking she-cat.

“Plague!” he rasped, barely able to even say it. 

“Bhoota,” Plague responded with a lifted brow. “What is wrong with you? Where are Zar and Nishi?”

“Th-they’re…”

“Spit it out!”

“They’re dead!” Bhoota gasped. 

Plague stiffened. Bhoota shrank back at the shrill growl that rose in her throat. “Two higher-ups died while you had the honour to hunt with them, and you live?”

“It’s not..! That’s not what…-we were attacked!”

Plague stepped close. When she was so near that he could see his petrified face reflected in her angry eyes, she peered down. Eyes snapping attentively, she stomped down one paw on his foot. With the other, she hooked a piece of fur with her claw out of beneath his own. 

Plague’s voice was a dangerous rumble. “Did one of these attackers happen to have the same tan fur as Zar?” she questioned.

Bhoota’s heart leaped up into his throat. “No! No! That was just an accident–the clearing was small and there was little room–it was just an accident, I swear!” 

“You better return to the group,” Plague responded with a cold, even tone. “Face their families and tell them your excuses. Then it’ll be decided what will happen to you. 

Shivering so hard that Bhoota couldn’t breath nor walk properly, Bhoota obeyed. He wondered as he tried not to hyperventilate if he should make a break for it and run. But even through his panic, he knew that Plague would be faster, and she would surely kill him if he tried to get away. Either way, it didn’t feel like his fate had a hopeful future.

=======================

--Hey, what is this attack about? Oh..right...

Plague and her group were close enough for her to be affected by Myrtle, right? It’s not too hard to believe that the three toms they encountered had belonged to that group.

--Zar was the tan tom with darker paws and face. He was the leader of the hunting party, though he and Nishi are the same rank, as they are brothers. Speaking of, Nishi was a dark brown tabby, and as stated, Bhoota is a grey-and-white tom.

--All three toms are named after spirits! Bhoota is a ghost, usually of a deceased person, who cannot move on due to having unfinished business. Zar is a demon spirit that possesses the living and causes discomfort and illness. A zar-ritual is what an excorsism is sometimes called. I cannot find a good source for what a Nishi is. Also know that I’m summing up and this changes from culture to culture.

If Elemental will allow me some speculation, I think that the group Plague belonged to named their members and kits based on things that cause fear. No, they don’t know what a Zar is, but they have seen Twolegs speaking the strange word (cats are seen to at least understand some of the noises Twolegs make) and notice their fear scent and fear-like behaviour when they say it.

Scary things like Badger and Shrapnel aren’t tough or scary enough, it has to be big things, like a Plague (that they probably do understand) or things that cause even the massive strange creatures fear.

@elementaldeityoffood

[suck-on-a-fire-ball]

The writer of this letter was clearly excited; the letters almost seem to bounce off the page, at times. There is a small drawing in the upper, right corner: A stick figure is holding a book in its hand. Above it, is a bubble of text: ”The owner of this object has stubbed a toe, and likes wearing orange underwear…” Next to it, another stick figure is standing, rolling its eyes, saying ”You were supposed to tell me about the weapon she created! What kind of a psychic are you?!”. At the bottom of the page, someone has tried to draw a tabby. It looks like a constipated badger...

Hello again, Anders!

Thank you so much for your letter! I was in a fairly dark place mentally when I received it, and it immediately made me feel better. So many new thoughts! It’s also a great relief to know that you have found safe ways of exchanging these letters. I admit I was worried, what with Kirkwall being the way it is.

I’ll save Atlantis for next time, as that is going to be a long story and I want to do it justice. It may, however, relate to many of the things I’ll be bringing up in this letter. You brought up many fascinating things that I can’t wait to dive into! First of all, I want to respond to a couple of things you mentioned. I’m afraid you are right regarding how we found some of the medical knowledge we have today. I’ll tell you more if you like, but I should warn you that it’s depressing. And yes, a heart treatment similar to what you suggested does exist here, but it took us quite some time to figure it out! About the electricity in our brains – sometimes it’s impossible to help or save people here, too, even if we can tell that their brains show signs of activity. Please don’t be upset that you, as you put it, may have let some patients die. With your healing abilities you most likely save lives that we wouldn’t be able to!

You asked if there are any rules limiting the creations of AI, and truth be told it is being discussed a great deal. Some say that we would have to find a way to program ethics into the AI, so they don’t hurt people. But, as you pointed out, whose ethical opinions should be accomodated? One possibility could be to program a variety of ”Asimov’s three laws of robotics” into them, although that too would be problematic. These three laws were invented by a scientist and fiction author (Asimov) many years ago. They are more or less as follows:

1. A robot may not harm a human.

2. A robot must obey all humans, unless doing so conflicts with the first law.

3. A robot must protect its own existance, provided that doesn’t conflict with law 1 or 2.

I suppose they would just be a foundation on which to build, for there are many things that could go wrong! Still... I’d like a world in which we work together with the AI, on equal terms. They shouldn’t have to be servants or slaves.

The witch hunts and executions… yes, they were terrifying. In so many ways. I hope it never goes that far in your society! From what I understand, it’s bad enough as it is. If fear of magic wasn’t constantly being encouraged, I think your society would benefit a lot! Being aware of risks is one thing, fearmongering another. But I don’t need to tell you that! There are actually those here who say that they can do magic; summon spirits or demons, manipulate energy, curse or heal others… It doesn’t seem, however, that they can do anything even close to what mages are capable of in your society. No fire balls or lightning bolts! Nevertheless, there are phenomena here that sound like magic to me. If even five percent of the personal accounts I have heard or read are true, and don’t have another explanation, there is definitely something interesting going on!

First off, we have what we call telekinesis or psychokinesis - the ability to move objects with one’s mind. Perhaps I’m wrong, but isn’t this what you call force magic? It isn’t common here, but some people claim to have done it on purpose, while others seem to have this happen to them involuntarily. It’s supposedly more usual among young people about the age of 11-12, especially girls. At what age does magic manifest in your society?

Then we have telepathy, or mind-to-mind communication. Some are also supposedly capable of communicating with animals this way. In our society, a medium contacts spirits, or the souls of the departed, while a psychic may claim to be able to see the future, ”read” the minds of others/ feel their emotions, remote view through time and space, hold an object in their hand and tell you about the person it belongs to or its history (psychometry), seeing auras, astral project… Any or all of those things. These abilities are referred to as ESP (Extra Sensory Perception), and whether they exist or not is often debated. It’s of course difficult to know whether a person is a genuine medium/psychic, or not. And the source matters – just as you said. What spirit is this medium in contact with, and what is it’s intention? (I do hope you meet that tabby one day, by the way! They are so lovely…!) As for guardian spirits, I personally believe that we all have them and that they may be souls we have known and loved (in this life or another, as I am a believer in reincarnation). Or perhaps other benevolent spirits. Sadly, I have never seen my spirit guide.

Some of our scientists believe that there are many dimensions, or realities, parallel with each other. They can, for example, exist in the same place but be seperated by time. To me it sounds almost as though there are a form of membranes between them. Or a kind of veil. We are unable to see or hear the other realities most of the time. It is claimed by some, however, that there are portals or openings in certain places - and those places are often ripe with strange phenomena, some of which appear to be paranormal. Do you think the Fade could be what we would refer to as another, parallel dimension? It could perhaps, if so, be that we are drawing on power from another place. But I wonder if maybe it is within us, somehow, like electricity. What do you think?

I can understand why you’d take comfort in Andraste. She sounds kind. Caring. Similar to Jesus, in a way.

I would love to hear about your thoughts and experiences regarding all this! Please be safe, my friend, and pet the cats from me! It’s really too bad people can’t purr, come to think of it...

AidanTheCryptid

The author of this letter (first of all adores all the little figures you draw on your letters) has once more sent you a crumpled bunch of papers he attempted to smooth out with his hands, only to have some of the ink smudge – aka, the second page (bottom half of this letter) is a little difficult to read despite him trying to fill out the letters again. The wrinkly letters have been neatly folded into a fancy envelope, which has the Hawke crest on it again.

A little note has been added for you that reads: “Pardon my friend’s abhorrent manners, I’ve sprayed the papers with some of mother's perfume for you so it wouldn’t smell of healing draughts (those make me sick to the stomach and I didn’t want you to go through that) – Hawke”.

At the top of the letter, Anders has drawn a cat in the same style as yours – not intentionally. He’s a healer, not an artist.

Hello, my friend @aidanthecryptid (have I ever mentioned how I adore your name?),

I am sorry to hear that you were not feeling good mentally last time. Knowing these letters help you oh so much was incentive for me to write this response quicker. I hope by the end of this that I managed to do so too. Scribbles have been inserted at a later point here, with ink of a slightly different colour, reading: (I needed to move my clinic, things have been hectic… Kirkwall is getting less safe each day. I am sorry this letter reached you so late, my friend! A close friend of mine has helped me send this to you with swift mail only nobles get access to.)

It’s fun to hear that we have so many future things to talk about! In a world ever changing, and ever dangerous, it’s nice to know that I have two familiarities grounding me in life. Our letters. And cats.

In the future, when we get the change, I would love to hear more about Atlantis and even the heritage of your anatomy studies. It is okay if it is a little depressing, there are plenty of heritages in Thedas that are depressing – sometimes the depressing heritages are the ones worth continuing to discuss so we never forget and never repeat prior mistakes!

Thank you for your kind words. Saving people is one of my priorities in life, and even thinking I might have doomed people to their death (people that weren’t Templars, mind you) was quite painful. Does it beat my love for cats? No. But it definitely nudges it.

I’ve read through this Asimov’s three laws, and I find them quite intriguing. Perhaps I find them the most intriguing from a point of view of fear – I don’t condone slavery, in any form, however these three laws seem… ruthless. Perhaps specifically the second one. If a robot needs to defend itself, it is not allowed to do so if a human is attempting to hurt it? If a robot disagrees with a human’s moral standards, then it is not allowed to do anything about it? That is scary. Then again, they sound like a power capable of destroying humans easily, so rules need to exist… Still, living alongside them requires trust. I agree, they should not have to be slaves or servants, these rules need tweaking before robots are created! Let’s hope AI will not walk among you before a trust is built.

I think the notion of trust is lacking in our society concerning magic too. As you say in relation to witch hunts (although how far away aren’t we from that with the way Templars drag mages out of their homes…), fearmongering is never a solution, nor is it a proper way to control a people. Far too often have those with agency over others used fear to stay in control. What purpose is there to fearmongering? If your power is no longer needed, have you not succeeded in reaching a goal for your people? Why cling to power through fear? Help your people in some other way… Though, I digress, and I apologise. The second my brain even hears a whisper of mage rights, I go on rants. I haven’t had the time to write much on my manifesto as of late, and the words are itching to be written down!

Nevermind that. You write of interesting things in your society! For a place that says magic does not exist, you sure have quite a lot of mysterious “unexplainable” things happening! If the people you speak of tap further into these abilities, you would have full blown mages, I have no doubt of that!

Magic appears in each person at different ages here in Thedas, and with various degrees of intensity. For some it appears at age 4, for some at ages 12. I had a friend who had magic manifest to him at an early age, only for him to never be able to fully tap into his mana, leaving him rather useless at the Tower in relation to magical lessons. He ended up becoming very good at potion making instead though, which one can do without magic. I wonder what happened to him… whether he is still alive…

And, to answer your question, that sounds exactly like force magic! I have a friend in Kirkwall who is very keen on Force Magic. He has adapted it to be strong enough to push people away from friends in a battle. Saved my life quite a few times! Although, he does prefer punching with his hand. These people you speak of, they talk about their Force Magic openly? Without repercussions?

Oh Maker, telepathy? I would not openly admit I am scared of any magic (aside from, perhaps, certain kinds of blood magic) but telepathy? I don’t want people to know what I am thinking of them. Specifically if said person has a nice… behind… Once more I am surprised by the amount of magical attributes many of your people claim to have, and yet magic is not a subject of discussion amongst your leaders? Oh how such a thing sounds like such… freedom. I could open a clinic and heal those in need of it, those who believe in me, with my magic without fear of being found. I could openly move objects around with my magic without hermetically sealing each and every window shutter first. Amazing!

Though, you touch upon an important point too. How safe is this freedom? If people do not take it seriously, do people stay safe? Are there books to guide those who need it? Are there teachers you can find easily? Schools? Spirits can easily claim to be someone when in reality they are demons. One needs to know how to walk the path in order to not stray into the dark forest.

And do not fret, my friend! Spirit guides will reveal themselves when they feel it is right. Sometimes they also reveal themselves in your surroundings rather than directly (of course, I speak now of our teachings, I do not know how it is in your part of the world). They can also appear in dreams when we walk the Fade (or wherever your mind takes you). Look for signs. Look for what your eyes are drawn to, look at what symbols you see each day. A cat? A crow? Multiple people wearing a red scarf? And think of what you remember from your dreams. Your spirit guide might already have revealed itself to you but you have not noticed it yet.

Your scientists believe in multiple layers of the Fade? Interesting… Would that entail there are multiple… aspects of me?

In regards to your questions, yes. I believe the Fade could be what your scientists have found, or seen. I believe the… “portals” your people speak of could be where the Veil is thin. Strange occurrences appear in places where the Veil is thin. Demons can pour out, spirits or other creatures too, and they can attempt to manipulate their surroundings the way they are used to in the Fade, only for it to not be possible. Instead, things are flown around. They get upset, scared, or angry that their surroundings are not what they are used to, and they lash out. Sometimes, demons pour out purposefully to find a willing host so they can stay. What, exactly, is alluring about the mortal world is something I do not understand just yet.

Whether these dimensions, the Fade, can exist within us…? This is an interesting concept. Perhaps it is a bit of both? Perhaps where we go when we dream, whether you are a mage or not, is a part of the Fade which our souls are connected to. Perhaps this within us is an internalisation of the connection we have to the Fade, creating an entire world within ourselves? Or, perhaps, it is simply a connection in the form of a leash which we follow to the Fade when we dream, and follow back out when we wake? I do not know. I know I can tap into a pool of mana, which in turn is the Fade, or dangerously close to the Veil at the very least. It feels as though that exists within me. But I can also feel it outside of me. It is a comforting thought nevertheless, no? To both not know for certain and be able to believe something that puts us at ease, and to be aware that there is something that potentially connects all on this world… Something that connects us, and shows us that despite differences of culture or otherwise, we all belong together.

Perhaps, that is sometimes more comforting than my belief in Andraste.

I will admit, my thoughts were all over the place. You bring such interesting subjects to the table! Your world is a wonder, truly, and so different from mine with SO much unexplored still! It is new, filled with mysteries and close to breakthroughs. Hearing of your world is fascinating, and I hope I can offer some interesting thoughts to you too.

I have let a certain tabby (yes! I found a tabby down here! And he lets me pet him) sign off this letter for you. He says hello (I think, I can’t do telepathy the way some of your people can!). He is purring very contentedly as I write this last paragraph, though if I purr back, he gives me a strange look. If even cats look at us strangely when we purr, perhaps that’s why we don’t.

Yours truly, Anders.

Below Anders’ name is a blob of snot (not intentionally put there by a kitty sniffing the paper) and a cat’s paw print!

DA letters guidelines Scroll through other letters here Buy me a coffee here

[dinoshimaaa]

Cabo

You and Ajax make dinner at nine PM together. (fluff, modern au)

masterpost - sher's bday

tag: @souglias

-

You register the warmth around you when you open your eyes, finding it to be both familiar and expected. The man squished between you and the backrest of the couch is still fast asleep, soft snoring in your ears slowly falling into the same rhythm as your heartbeat. Romeo, the orange tabby (and the undoubted king of the household) stays curled up between you and Ajax, but his eyes blink periodically, having woken up just before you did.

The phone reveals the time to be six in the evening when you extend your arm to check it. Turning back towards Ajax, you lightly pat his chest, “Wake up. We need to prepare dinner soon.”

“Mmh,” his chest rumbles, and his hold around your waist tightens. “Not now.”

“I’m hungry.”

Ajax’s eyes open. He stares at you for a second. Then he smiles and closes his eyes again. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m not,” you sigh and it comes out as laughter.

“Go back to sleep,” he shifts his head down, nose pressing into your neck. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Romeo might be hungry, though.” As if to prove you wrong, the orange tabby jumps down from the couch and nonchalantly pads towards the bedroom, possibly to hop on your bed and mess up the sheets before bedtime. The two of you watch him as he does so, and once he is out of sight, you face each other again. “Or maybe not.”

“See? No one to worry about,” he hums and gently pulls your head beneath his cheek. “Stay.”

You obey. Sleep catches you in its grasp once again, and the next time you wake up it is past nine. Your stomach is definitely growling by then, and Romeo is also pawing at the couch, upset that he has yet to receive his feast (canned tuna) for the night.

Ajax reluctantly joins you in the kitchen minutes after you pull out of his slackened grip. Wordlessly, he grabs the chopping board, but stills when he sees the instant ramen cups in your hands.

“It’s late,” you answer to his disapproving glance, “I don’t know about you, Gordon Ramsey, but I’d rather settle for a quick meal tonight than a full course meal I have to wait an hour for.”

“It’s bad for your health,” he walks over and presses his lips to your hair, “I literally cook quality meals for you for free. Do you have any idea how much Kaeya pays me to do that for him?”

You shrug. “You can do that tomorrow. I’m hungry now.”

Ajax grumbles and places the cutting board back to where it was. Then, he takes the ramen cups from your hands and pours just-boiled water into them in your stead. When he’s done, he sits next to you on the kitchen island and the both of you stare at the ramen cups.

“Romeo hasn’t eaten,” you break the comfortable silence. “Get the tuna for him.”

“Let’s get married.” Ajax replies. You turn to him with a deadpan look.

“We’re already as domestic as we can be,” he smiles and tilts his head. “We sleep in the same bed and house, I cook and clean for you, and you repay me with kisses and cuddles. Getting married won’t make a difference.”

“Romeo still hasn’t eaten.”

“I’m being serious,” his voice drops to a whisper now, and his eyes drop to your left hand. You are very aware of the heavy gaze on the empty fourth finger. “There’s no one else I’d rather wake up from a nap at nine PM and cook bland instant ramen and neglect our hungry cat because we were too busy bickering in the kitchen over dinner choices… with.”

The fatigue has gotten up to him, you think. You blame his abrupt decision on the sleep-lidded eyes and tousled ginger hair and his unsound mind still filled with fantasies from his slumber. You want to scold him about how important of a decision marriage is and why he shouldn’t carelessly throw the word around like he’s suggesting a movie night. You want to smack him head from the back for joking around and getting your hopes high for a split second.

And yet Ajax is never one to make hasty decisions with zero thought. Shyly, his eyes flit up to meet yours and the sincerity in them makes your heart skip a beat.

“I’ll buy you a ring.” he nervously adds, which is uncharacteristic of him. “Soon. I’ll buy your dream dress, book your dream location, and give you your dream wedding. All you have to do is say yes.”

He doesn’t need to prove himself with material worths, and you want to let him know that. You love him just as much as he loves you and possibly way more. Shifting your hand to link with his and squeeze it, you watch the way his eyes soften.

Ajax caresses your left ring finger. You give him the answer he is waiting for.

“Feed Romeo the tuna,” you answer, with all honesty, “And I’ll say yes.”

Your orange tabby has never had a better dinner before today.

[stickstone]

alright i managed to transcribe the segment of onestar’s confession that was read on the website, whole thing is under the cut

“Onepaw, Tansypaw, wake up!”

Onepaw opened his eyes in gray dawn light. Above his head, clouds surged across the sky, driven by a blistering wind. The weather was still cold from new leaf, and threatening rain.

He was curled up in the apprentices den, a sheltered spot between two large boulders. His den mates were sleeping around him in a furry huddle.

“Come on!” Wrenflight was perched on one of the boulders, gazing down into the den, “You’re going to do the dawn patrol with me and Deadfoot. Onepaw, give Tansypaw a prod, will you?”

Onepaw obeyed, poking Tansypaw in the belly with one forepaw. The tabby apprentice let out a long, soft growl and wrapped her tail over her ears. Onepaw had to give her another, harder prod before she looked up.

“Why did you have to go and wake me up?” She asked crossly, “I was having a lovely dream about a big bowl full of fish and cream.”

Onepaw didn’t like the sound of that. It had been nearly a moon since the two kittypets had become apprentices, but he didn’t think that Tansypaw was settling in well. Is she really committed to WindClan if she’s dreaming about twoleg food?

Wrenflight twitched her whiskers in annoyance, but her voice was calm as she said “Well I’m sorry there’s no cream here. And if you want fish, you’ll have to go to RiverClan. Right now, we’re going to do the dawn patrol, and by the time we get back there will be plenty of prey on the fresh kill pile.”

“But I’m hungry now,” Tansypaw muttered, struggling to her paws, “And I’m fed up with rabbit, rabbit, rabbit every day!”

Wrenflight leaped down from the boulder and disappeared as if she hadn’t heard that. Onepaw hoped she hadn’t.

Side by side, he and Tansypaw headed out into the camp, where Deadfoot and Wrenflight were waiting, then followed their two mentors toward the border.

Wrenflight looked back over her shoulder. “Tansypaw, we’re unlikely to see cats from any other clans. But if we do, stay out of sight.”

“Yes Wrenflight,” Tansypaw meowed. She plodded along beside Onepaw, her head and tail drooping, the wind buffeting her fur. “Being an apprentice is just stupid,” she grumbled.

[lykegenia]

Like Glitter And Gold Ch.8

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Relationships: Nate Sewell x F!Detective Rating: T

Read on AO3

--

The rest of Unit Bravo have already arrived at the station by the time Leah pulls into the parking bay with Nate. Having waited for an Agency team to arrive to secure the boat and box up Russell’s stash of artefacts for cataloguing, a good chunk of the afternoon is now gone, the blustery sunshine of earlier in the day clouded over and spotting with rain as they bundle through the main doors.

“Detective,” Adam greets without preamble. “Did you have a successful morning?”

She shoots him a wry smile. “You could say that. Some answers, and a whole load of new questions.”

“We can start with the answers,” he says, but Nate interrupts.

“Where’s Mason?”

“He said he had a report to write,” Felix says from the borrowed chair he’s pulled up by Tina’s desk. “But we all know he’s using the excuse to spend time with the kittens where we can’t see him.”

“Who wouldn’t want to spend time with them?” Tina cries. “They’re so cute! Leah, have you seen these?”

“They have names now!” Felix adds helpfully.

Without waiting for a response, he jumps out of his seat and bounds across the room to hold up his phone. A muscle ticks in Adam’s jaw, disapproving of more than just the younger agent’s burst of preternatural speed, but does nothing to actively discourage the behaviour.

“We called the black and white one Lucky,” Felix informs them, swiping to a photo of the little runt asleep on his back with his front paws tucked up to his chin.

Beside Leah, Nate chuckles at the image, the sound a low rumble in her ear as he uses the excuse to lean close. She can feel his body light and electric against her back, one hand resting on the curve above her waist, and even if there’s no intent to the gesture she’s sure he can feel the way her heartbeat spikes. Luckily, Felix seems too absorbed in swiping through the dozens of photos crowding his phone to notice her distraction. After Lucky sleeping, sitting, loafing, and sleeping again, he swipes to a photo of the two splashed tabbies, their baby blue eyes wide with curiosity as they huddle together in a mess of blankets.

“These two are Strawberry and Shortcake,” he says, flicking through more pictures. “You can tell them apart because Strawberry has the patch above her eye. And then this is Van Helsing.”

Nate coughs. “Van Helsing?”

The little orange ringleader stares up from the phone screen, velvet paws planted on the carpet, intent on the end of string that dangles just out of shot.

“That’s an… interesting choice,” Leah says. Her gaze flashes to Tina, who holds her palms up in surrender and mouths it wasn’t me! before going back to her screen.

“My Insta followers thought of it,” Felix explains. “I asked them to come up with something vampire related – you know, for reasons. Adam doesn’t like it, obviously.”

“No, I do not,” the team leader agrees, and jerks his head towards Leah’s office. “If we could return to the case?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Felix slips his phone into a pocket and obeys the directive, mollified only by the commiserating look Tina throws his way. Leah is about to follow when the far door squeaks open and Verda appears clutching a manilla folder to his chest. He looks like he hasn’t slept. His clothes areas put-together as ever, but the heavy bags beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders are easy enough for anyone to read.

“I thought I heard you back,” he says. “I have some new evidence for you, and the lab called back with a print match on the sports bag. They must be having a slow day.” His eyes dart to Nate, then to the silhouettes blocked against the interior windows of her office.

“Thanks, I’ll check it out.” She tilts her head. “You alright?”

He blinks. “Nothing to worry about. Do either of you want anything from Haley’s while I’m there?”

With a quick shake of her head, and an instruction to Tina to run a background check on both Harrises, Leah completes the party in her office and closes the door behind her. Nate is already making himself useful attaching printouts of the GPS history of Russell’s boat to the board, but he catches her gaze as she steps up beside him, passes her a smile she can’t help but return.

“You two are adorable,” Felix interrupts, holding his chin in his hands.

Her face heats. “Did you guys find anything on patrol?”

“No sign of Trappers, or rogues,” Adam says. “So far. It would be unwise to rule them out completely.”

“That’s fair, but it’s still a dead end for now.” She crosses to the desk and slaps Verda’s folder down over the keyboard. “We, on the other hand, have had more success. It looks likely that Walter Greene’s money was being used to fund a salvage operation for sunken treasure.”

“Really?” Felix asks. “Cool.”

“He would have done well to tell you that when you visited him yesterday,” Adam notes with a scowl.

She shrugs. “I’m not surprised he didn’t. Not sharing what he’s up to also means he doesn’t have to share any profits.”

“Maritime salvage law can have – ah – muddied waters, let’s say,” Nate adds. “The ownership of the cargo could be too easily disputed if people knew it was there.”

“I can’t believe you just made a pun!” Felix cries. “Do we know what the treasure is? Is it gold?”

“The equipment on Russell’s boat did look pretty heavy duty.”

Adam huffs. “This is all irrelevant unless it can be tied to a motive for murder.”

He’s right, though so far the sunken treasure is squatting in the middle of the case like a toad in a fairy tale, defying all attempts to get past it. As she gazes at the murder board, the possibilities nag at her, twisting this way and that to fit into the facts they have so far. Maybe Russell found what he was looking for, and Walter didn’t want to share his profits – or Russell didn’t find anything and didn’t want to pay back the loan – or did find something and decided he wanted a bigger cut. The problem with all of these ideas is squaring away the fact that the treasure is still missing, if it exists at all, and without it there’s no profit in Russell’s death. And then there’s the way the body was found, still with the murder weapon in place, out in the open where it was guaranteed to get the attention of the police. Walter Greene and his lackeys would never be so sloppy.

“We’ll table it,” she says. “Unless…”

Adam lifts an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Verda never fails to disappoint. The first thing to meet Leah’s gaze as she flips open the folder is a close-up photo of an uneven bruise on Russell’s torso. Next to it, a note in the examiner’s neat handwriting indicates that it was taken using a filter to enhance the details. Impression of a ring found on several contusions across subject’s body, concentrated around the midsection and one along the jaw. Minimal defensive wounds. Normal human rate of healing suggests injuries are at least two weeks old.

“How fast do selkies heal?” she asks.

“Faster than humans,” Nate supplies. “Not as fast as vampires.”

“They’re more resilient than humans too. It takes more to hurt them.”

Felix is the one who asks her why.

“Someone gave our victim a going over in the very recent past. Someone with a ring.” She holds the photo out to show them. “One of Walter Greene’s henchmen was wearing a ring yesterday.”

Nate moves closer, a frown knotted between his brows. “If you’re going to go back there, Leah, you should take one of us with you.”

“I’ll go,” Adam decides. “You need to help catalogue all those artefacts the Detective found, to see if they have any relevance.”

For a moment, it looks like there’ll be an argument, but with one last worried glance, Nate swallows back his reply and nods.

“You can’t keep our Detective to yourself all day, Natey,” Felix teases.

“I wasn’t trying to!”

Leah, still looking at the folder, ignores the banter as best she can. “We also have a name and address for the person who dumped the kittens. They’re still potentially our best witness.”

“Then that will be our first destination.” Adam is already moving. “You two should return to the warehouse.”

“Are you sure –”

“But I wanted to –”

“There will be no debate,” Adam snaps. “Detective, shall we?”

She’s glad she didn’t take her coat off. With an apologetic look back at the other two, she follows the commanding agent to the front of the building, already fishing in her pocket for Nessie’s keys.

He gives her a stern look. “I will drive.”

“You have something against my car?” she asks sweetly.

“It’s a death trap, and it’s tiny,” he retorts. “And it doesn’t have air conditioning.”

“Can I choose the music, at least?”

“Detective, please.”

With a loud and very obvious click of her tongue, she follows him out. “Worth a shot.”

--

After relaying the address for Adam to punch into the sat nav, the rest of the journey passes in silence, though that hardly counts as a bad thing. It’s refreshing not being expected to make conversation. When they finally pull up in front of a bland semi-detached house in what passes for Wayhaven’s suburbs a few miles from the old wharf, they share a look that says he’s as unimpressed with their environs as she is. A line of leggy, parched shrubs overgrown with grass line the wall beneath the front window, the PVC window frames in good enough repair but grimy with dirt.

Leah leads the way up the garden path, alert for any movement inside that might suggest an attempted escape.

“Bloody hell,” she complains as she knocks on the door, “could you try to look less like a government agent?”

“I’m not an agent for the government,” Adam replies, sullen, his folded arms bulging the fabric of his t-shirt.

“It’s not a distinction most people –”

“Hello?”

She turns a friendly smile on the man clutching the edge of the door. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, rather scrawny, a balding IT type with a trimmed brown beard and wire glasses that frame dark brown eyes.

“Martin Johnston?” she checks, and holds up her badge. “I’m Detective Kingston, this is Adam du Mortain.”

The man has already flinched away as if to shut the door, but she stamps her foot down across the threshold before he can follow through.

“We were hoping for a few minutes of your time?”

“Are you from the government?” he asks.

“No,” Adam answers with a pointed glance sideways. “We are not.”

Leah tilts a polite smile at him. “Why would you ask that?”

“No reason.”

“May we come in?” she asks, with yet another smile. “You’re not paying to heat the street, after all.”

Martin glances over his shoulder. “No, I’m… No.” He swallows. “I’m – I’m very busy – with work – I don’t have time to –”

With a chirp, a tabby-and-white cat dashes out from between his legs and runs straight to Adam, then halts and sniffs the air with a plaintive meow, tail lashing. He frowns as he crouches down to offer his hand in greeting, and when the creature butts its head against his knuckles, purring like an engine, he lets out a hum that positively radiates displeasure.

“This cat recently given birth,” he says as he picks her up.

Their witness flinches again. “It’s not my cat.”

“But she ran out of your house,” Adam points out. Somehow, having his arms full of a madly purring cat that’s enjoying a scratch on the chin only makes him more intimidating.

“Uh… A friend of mine left her here while she’s away.”

“Well, I’m sure that friend wouldn’t want her getting run over,” Leah says. “We can bring her back into the house for you.”

“No!” Martin yelps. “You can’t come in!”

He tries to shut the door again but Leah is quicker and jams her foot properly in the doorway, glad of the heavy-soled boots he wears for work.

“I don’t like being heavy-handed, Mr Johnston,” she warns, leaning closer, “but I have a sports bag of abandoned kittens with rocks in the bottom and your name and fingerprints all over it, and now a nursing cat associated with your property, all within spitting distance of a murder scene.” She looms in, lowers her voice to a pitch little more than a growl. “You saw something the night you went to drown them, and I want to know what it is, otherwise I will make sure you’re brought up on animal cruelty charges, obstructing an investigation, and anything else I can make stick. Do you understand?”

Martin’s gaze flickers between Leah and the burly, glaring figure at her back, the fear in his eyes a palpable thing. And then, at long last, his shoulders slump. “You won’t believe me.”

��What did you see?” she presses.

He breaks. He reels back, running one hand through his thinning hair as he holds open the door and leads them into the living room. Adam still has hold of the cat, who seems to find the curl of his massive arms a suitable cushion, and he takes a perch on the edge of the worn sofa as their witness flops into the mismatched armchair opposite.

“It was dark.” He falters. “I…”

“Tell us from the beginning,” Adam instructs.

There’s a momentary struggle, and a fearful glance at the cat. “I… like to go for walks at night, to clear my head, you know?” It’s an obvious, inelegant lie, but she lets it go. “Sometimes I go to the docks.”

“And two nights ago?” Adam prompts. “What time were you there?”

Martin shrugs. “About midnight, or slightly later maybe? I wasn’t thinking about checking my phone. I heard a door open, then someone spoke, and then… it sounded like a struggle, something got kicked over, and there was a – almost a scream, but gasping, you know?”

“The voice you heard,” Leah asks, “what did it sound like?”

“It was a man, or at least, I thought it was. God.” Here he stops, drags a hand down in his face. “When I got closer to see what was going on, the light from the door –” His eyes narrow. “You are from the government, aren’t you? You’re here as a cover up, to silence me!”

Before he can do more than stagger upright, Adam is across the room, laying a hand on his arm. “Please calm down, Mr Johnston,” he says, in the same slow, deliberate voice he used on Garrett Hayes’ mother. “Tell us what you saw.”

Martin’s voice flattens, the inflection gone. “It was a monster, there was smoke coming off it, and it was struggling with someone behind it but it couldn’t turn around.”

“Can you describe the other person?” Leah asks, biting back disapproval at the use of pheromones.

“All I saw were these huge black eyes and bared teeth – grey skin.” He shakes his head. “I got out of there as fast as I could.”

Leah and Adam share a glance as Martin drops his head into his hands.

“That’s useful information,” she says, cold. “Now about that sports bag…”

“Wait, don’t I get some sort of deal, or something?” he wails. “You said I helped!”

“You were going to toss that bag off the end of the dock,” she snarls. “Those kittens were zipped up, trapped. They never stood a chance.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” His eyes go wide, pleading. “I’m sorry. My useless ex didn’t tell me the cat was pregnant when she dumped her here. What was I supposed to do with kittens?”

“Most people don’t choose drowning them as a first option,” she snaps. “Stand up.”

Still under the influence of the pheromones, he complies, says nothing as she recites his rights and places the handcuffs around his wrists. When she walks him out to the SUV she gives him a brief warning look before depositing him on the back seat and stepping up beside Adam, who for the lack of anything more suitable has secured the cat in the equipment store in the boot.

“If you swing by the station and drop me off, I can get him processed while you take mama back to her babies,” she suggests, then spies his phone. “Who are you calling?”

“The Agency has a unit to take care of this,” he replies, features set.

“What do you mean, ‘take care’?”

“They will extract the memories of Russell Seakirk and erase them.” As if it’s obvious. As if it’s normal.

She folds her arms. “What if he’s needed to testify?”

“It is clear that whoever the murderer is, they are a supernatural or are aware that supernaturals exist.” He stares her down. “Ordinary measures will not work here, Detective. Will you still have enough evidence to press charges for the kittens?”

Trying to ignore the familiar feeling of having a case wrenched from her grasp, she turns and leans against the car. “I can ask the vet to do a DNA test to confirm the kittens belong to this cat, and if it comes back positive, combined with his prints on the bag and the fact that we found her in his house, it’s a solid case.”

“Good.” He nods, but his brow furrows as if he’s struggling with something. “I understand your hesitation in this, but this is the cost of keeping both supernaturals and humans safe.”

She scowls. “Let’s just get on with it. The sooner we drop him off, the sooner we can go piss off Walter Greene.”

--

Walter Greene is not in his office.

Expecting him to be there was probably a longshot, given that it’s past five and the Agency SUV is about as subtle as a brick through a window, but even though his secretary has clearly had practice dodging investigators for the big man, the combination of Leah’s badge and Adam’s sheer size flusters him enough to mention that his boss is out to dinner with the mayor. From there, it’s just a quick phone call to Douglas to find out his father’s schedule, and they’re off along the darkening country roads to the fancy golf club patronised by all the big city’s biggest fish.

By the time they get there night has truly fallen, though the spotlights beaming up beneath the immaculate topiary do their best to compensate. The whole place reeks of elitism – not the self-assured disdain of old money, but the neurotic overbearance of those fighting for a seat at the same table. From the purse in Adam’s lips, he doesn’t think much of the gilt wood panelling or the beige tartan carpet either, though the server at the front desk is polite enough and leads them through to the clubhouse’s dining room with little fuss.

Perhaps she just knows a losing battle when she sees one.

“Ah, Detective Kingston – and Commanding Agent du Mortain!” The mayor waves them over from the far corner, the broad, genuine smile on his aged face. “How wonderful to see you both – and how is your mother? I mean Agent Kingston, of course,” he adds, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I hope she’s aware of all the fine work you do for our town.”

“Work is why we’re here, I’m afraid,” Leah answers, declining the chair the server pulls out for her.

“Ah, the murder, no doubt.” The mayor eyes the manilla folder in her hands. “Dreadful business. Well, anything I can do to help, I’m at your disposal.”

“We’re grateful,” Adam bites out. “Agent Kingston appreciates the accommodations you have made for the Agency.”

The mayor’s smile falters at the brusque tone, but he recovers valiantly. “And I’m sure you know Walter Greene, one of our foremost backers for the new development on Briars Lane.”

“We were actually hoping to borrow Mr Greene for a moment or two,” Leah says.

The businessman narrows his gaze at her. “I’m not sure what use I could possibly be to you, Detective.”

“Walter, be reasonable,” the mayor scolds, like his business partner is a misbehaving toddler. “It’s not like our young detective is here to arrest you – is it?”

“Not at all,” she tells him, her smile forced.

“We have some follow up questions about the statement he gave us yesterday,” Adam supplies. The deflection comes with surprising ease, the formal language like a soundbite from some crime show.

She shakes the thought away. “It should only take a few moments.”

“Well, I see no reason not to cooperate,” the mayor decides. “It’s not like your crab salad will scuttle off your plate if you leave it unattended for a few minutes, eh?”

With a terse smile Walter Greene sets his napkin on the tablecloth and rises from his chair. He’s about two inches shorter than Adam, but stretches himself outwards like a bullfrog as he leads them to a quiet corner of the lobby.

“I see you brought a bodyguard this time, Detective,” he notes. “I do hope our last interview didn’t leave you too rattled?”

“Do you have a problem with my colleague?” she replies.

Said colleague is probably flexing his muscles behind her back, given the flicker in Walter’s regard.

He snorts, bull-like. “What is this about?”

“Your goons beat up Russell Seakirk shortly before his death, and I want to know why.”

“What fanciful –”

But she’s ready for him, slips one of Verda’s photos out of the folder and shoves it under his nose.

“Seakirk was a supernatural,” she bites out. “No ordinary human could have made these marks, especially not when the symbol in the middle of that bruise is so unusual.”

“Did he ask for more money?” Adam presses, when the only response is a clench of the jaw.

“Maybe he refused to share the findings of his little expeditions with you,” she suggests. “I know he was looking for something in the lake, and that he either found it or was very close.”

“And we also know that whoever killed him knew what he was.”

The last nudge from Adam does it. With a roll of his eyes, Walter steps closer so his voice won’t carry. “As I already informed Detective Kingston, I am a businessman. It does not do to destroy the things that make me money.” He swallows. “There were rumours that Seakirk had found… what he was looking for, and others that he was planning to abscond with it, without providing me with what was contracted. If – when my associates went to remind him of his obligations – he got aggressive, they were perfectly within their rights to defend themselves.”

“By beating him half to death?” Leah checks.

“My associates cannot help it if a selkie isn’t built to take the same hits as a minotaur,” he retorts.

She decides to change tack. “Did he ever show signs of reneging before this?”

“No,” comes the answer, as if it’s mildly interesting. “This was a recent change in attitude. I couldn’t say why. And if you want more proof that I am not the murderer you seek, you should know I had a meeting scheduled with him for the morning after he was killed – you can check with my secretary.”

“What was the meeting about?” Adam asks.

“The return on my investment.” He leans back, tugs on his suit jacket to straighten it. “You guessed correctly, Detective. He found what he was looking for. And now, I think you’ve trespassed on my patience long enough. If you have any more questions, you’ll have to ask my lawyer. Good evening.”

He pushes past them, though carefully enough to avoid making a scene, and as he rounds the corner back into the dining room Leah blows a breath through her cheeks and sinks against the wall. There’s a raised eyebrow from Adam. She wafts it away with the case folder and pushes herself back up, eager to get away from this stuffy place with its pretentious lack of taste.

“I guess that officially makes that a dead end,” she says when they finally step outside.

“It confirms that something changed just before Seakirk’s death,” he replies.

“True.” She shrugs her coat tighter to keep out the chill. “You’re getting better at this, you know. Investigating. It’s almost like you’re a different person to when we first met.”

“Your praise is touching.”

She answers the stubborn quirk of his mouth with a grin, but it falls quickly as her mind turns back to the case.

“What is it?” he asks.

“There’s something about this treasure that’s not adding up. There’s nothing except that journal to say there’s anything valuable down there.” She shrugs. “Maybe he found out it wasn’t real after all and tried to escape, or maybe he knew it already and this whole thing was a con from the start, and that’s what got him killed.”

“Perhaps,” Adam allows. “Perhaps the treasure means nothing to the case.”

They reach the SUV, parked just beyond the reach of the clubhouse lights.

“It means something,” she insists. “Too many things keep coming back to it.”

Or perhaps it’s just her. As she sinks into the passenger seat and clips the seatbelt into place, doubt winds in like ivy to smother the certainty of her assumptions. At the first mention of sunken treasure, she tried to ignore the spark of excitement that lit in the pit of her stomach, the hope that the case would turn out like one of the adventure stories she read as a kid, even though every part of it – the journal, the legend, the mob boss, fucking selkies – seemed too perfect to be real. The sceptical, calculating, adult part of her brain should be keeping a tighter grip on reality.

And yet, between moonlighting for a supernatural Agency and having weird, mutated blood that makes her extra delicious, any standard definition of reality is so far out of sight that a mysterious sunken treasure at the bottom of a perfectly ordinary lake seems the least outlandish feature of the last few days.

“Will you drop me off at the station?” she asks, to stop the chase of her thoughts. “My car’s still there and I have to write up the interviews from today while they’re still fresh.”

Adam doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Of course. Will you be coming to the warehouse when you’re done?”

“Mm – If I don’t finish too late.”

Really, there’s a headache starting behind her eyes, and it’s joining battle with the leaden, drowsy feeling that always steals across her when she’s in a car at night and someone else is driving. The steady pulse of the road markings as they’re eaten up by the windshield has a hypnotic effect, the drone of the tyres and the engine a low vibration beneath her skin. She shifts in the seat and blinks hard to banish the itch in her eyes, but it doesn’t get her far. The yawn still comes. It looks like dinner with Nate will have to be put off yet another night.