Use the Member Navigation at the top to access your tier's content.
📍 Quick Links:
🌹 >> HOME - ALL VIDEOS
🥈 SILVER (Free) >> CLICK HERE
🥇 GOLD TIER >> CLICK HERE
🌻 PLATINUM TIER >> CLICK HERE
Questions? Drop a comment below!
Story associated with this leak: Nobody Plans This
Audio bundle: LOG-IN or Purchase
E-book bundle: Check your Bookfunnel library or Purchase
Gold or Platinum Members: LISTEN
From: Julie, Junior Clerk, Records & Filing, Soulmate Registry
To: Rosalind Starweaver, Senior Fairy Godmother
Subject: Permission to extend lunch break (one occasion, urgent)
Madam Starweaver,
I'm writing to request permission to extend my lunch break by thirty minutes today. I know the standing rule. I would not ask if it were not exceptional.
On my walk back from the courier office this morning, I came across a bakery I have never seen before. It was not there last week. The window display included pies of a kind I have not encountered in any of my training materials — they shimmer faintly, the crusts braid themselves while you watch, and one of them sang. Briefly. A short phrase, possibly in Old Fae, possibly in something older. I did not catch the words.
The proprietor was handing samples to passers-by. I did not take one. I came back to the office first, because the magic on the display is unfamiliar to me and I thought it should be logged before I touched anything.
I would like to return at lunch and examine the pies properly. If permitted, I will document the bakery's location, the apparent magical signature, and the proprietor's response to a polite enquiry. I will not consume any product without further authorisation.
I'm aware this is an unusual request. I would not ask if the bakery were ordinary. It is not.
Respectfully, Julie, Junior Clerk - Records & Filing
From: Rosalind Starweaver
To: Cashmere, First Elite Class, Field Operations
Subject: FW: Permission to extend lunch break (one occasion, urgent) Priority: Quiet. Catastrophically quiet. The quietest priority this office has ever issued, including the one where the Tooth Sprite collective union went on strike.
Cashmere.
Read the forwarded note from the new clerk before you do anything else. She has good instincts. She came back to the office instead of biting into a singing pie, which already puts her in the top quartile of operatives in this building. The bar is, frankly, on the floor. Half my field staff would have eaten the pie, written about it in their diary, and asked questions in the afterlife.
So. The bakery.
Let us not pretend.
You know exactly which bakery she has found. I know which bakery she has found. The bakery knows it has been found, and the bakery is thrilled, which is the problem.
I am going to walk us both through this in writing, slowly, the way one explains a small accident to an insurance adjuster, because I want it on a record that will mysteriously fail to exist by the time anyone with a celestial subpoena comes looking for it.
The Hansel and Gretel matter was outside my jurisdiction. You know this because I told you it was outside my jurisdiction. I told you twice. I told you a third time using small words and one of those big diagrams with the arrows. The witch had a contract older than my office. The children were inside the boundary of her right to take them. The version of the story the world remembers — the candy house, the oven, Gretel pushing, the safe return home, the woodcutter weeping with joy, the stepmother conveniently dying off-page — that is the version that got written. It is not the version that was queued.
The version that was queued was significantly worse.
I made the appropriate decision, which was to file a polite objection and stand down. You made the inappropriate decision, which was to ascend, on your own initiative, to a level of the celestial hierarchy you are not credentialed for, attend an event you were not invited to, and remove from the table of the gods one (1) pie.
A pie, Cashmere.
You stole a pie.
From the gods.
I want to be clear that I am not asking you to confirm this. I am stating it for the purposes of my own emotional regulation. The gods serve a quite limited high tea menu and a missing pie is the sort of thing that gets noticed by exactly the entities you do not want noticing you. I have personally, in my professional capacity as Senior Fairy Godmother, spent the last two hundred and some years pretending I do not know which cat did this. I have aged. Visibly. On the inside.
I am not going to ask how you got in. I have theories. I am not entertaining them.
You fed the pie to Gretel. I know this because the binding the witch had laid on her broke in a way that no terrestrial counter-magic in our catalogue can produce, and divine magic of that order does not arrive in a forest by accident. I know you helped with the oven, because Gretel was nine years old and seventy pounds and the witch was neither, and the public file does not survive five minutes of forensic scrutiny by anyone who has met a nine-year-old. I have, for the record, never met a nine-year-old capable of leveraging an adult witch into an oven unassisted, and I have been doing this job since the Plantagenets.
I have, also for the record, never said any of this out loud. I am writing it now because I need you to know that I know, and I need you to know that I have always known, and I need you to know that I have never minded. The witch was foul. The children were small. You did what my office would not let me do, and I have lived with my gratitude in private, the way a senior administrator lives with most of her best feelings.
But.
The pie was not finished.
You did not eat the rest yourself, because — credit where it is due — you knew exactly what was in it and you are not stupid. You left the crumbs on the forest floor. You probably thought they would decompose. They did not decompose. Divine pastry does not decompose. It composts. It roots. It waits.
It has waited.
Cashmere, the crumbs have grown into a bakery.
A whole one. With a window. With braiding crusts and singing pies. With a proprietor, whoever or whatever that is — possibly an emergent property of the magic itself, possibly a fae opportunist who stumbled onto it and is now in deep trouble without knowing why. The clerk found it on her lunch break. She will not be the last. Magic of that order, sitting in shop window, offering free samples — we have a window of perhaps a week before someone with the wrong bloodline eats the wrong slice and we have a situation.
I will handle the situation. I have a budget for situations. I will not be handling you, because handling you is approximately as productive as handling weather, and after two centuries of acquaintance I have made my peace with that.
Here is what I need from you.
Lay. Low.
I mean it. I mean it more than I have meant anything since the unfortunate Cinderella audit. Do not go near that bakery. Do not be seen on that street. Do not be seen on adjacent streets. If anyone — and I mean anyone, up to and including our own operatives, up to and including the clerk if she develops the wrong kind of curiosity, up to and especially including any unusually well-dressed strangers asking polite questions about historical pastry — questions you about the bakery, the pies, the original case, the forest, the witch, the children, the oven, divine catering, or anything within six conceptual degrees of any of this, you will play cat.
I cannot stress this enough.
Play. Cat.
Sit on a windowsill. Stare at the wall. Find a sunbeam and commit to it. Lick one paw with the focused, mid-distance gaze of a creature who has never heard of pastry, does not know what a god is, and has no opinion on the events of 1812. If pressed, you may yawn. You may, at your discretion, walk away with your tail in the air. You are not — and I want this in writing, except I do not — to attempt a witty deflection, a clever misdirection, or any of your three favourite gambits that begin with the phrase "well, technically." Technically is what got us here.
You are a cat, Cashmere. Lean in. You have spent two hundred years building plausible deniability into your entire species and this is the moment that investment pays out.
If this goes badly — and I am hoping with what remains of my professional optimism that it does not — I will deny everything. I will deny knowing you. I will deny knowing the Hansel and Gretel file exists. If a god shows up, I will offer them tea and a very thorough tour of the wrong filing cabinets until they get bored. I have been doing this since the Plantagenets, as I may have mentioned, and I have a truly deep bench of distractions.
You have done enough for those children. You did it beautifully. You did it without authorisation. You did it using divine pastry obtained via felony. I have loved every minute of it. Let the next case be someone else's, and let the pie crumbs be, for once in their very long magical lives, somebody else's problem.
Rosalind
P.S. I am authorising the clerk's extended lunch. She demonstrated more situational awareness in one morning than I have seen from some operatives in their entire careers. If she comes back from that bakery with anything other than a written report, I am promoting her. If she comes back with a pie, I am demoting her, eating the pie, and pretending I never received it. Do not tell her I said that.
P.P.S. The bakery is singing in Old Fae. I do not know what it is saying. I would like to keep not knowing. Please do nothing that will require either of us to find out.
Story associated with this leak: ONE BITE
Audio bundle: LOG-IN or Purchase
E-book bundle: Check your Bookfunnel library or Purchase
Gold or Platinum Members: LISTEN
LEAK #1
Zoom call between Cashmere and Rosalind
The camera, when it found her, found her at full strength: face large, blur off, the cabinet behind her in unkind focus over her left shoulder.
Cashmere — somewhere across the call, presumably in a sun-warmed window seat at a borrowed address he had not declared to the office — did not mention the cabinet. He never mentioned the cabinet. It was, in his view, the only piece of office furniture in the institution that deserved a moment of silence. He had filed three things in it in the autumn of 1817 and had no intention of bringing any of them up today.
"I do not do Zoom," Rosalind said.
"I am aware," he said. "Today you do. There is a small green telephone at the bottom of your screen. Click that one. The camera is the other one."
"I am clicking it."
"You have started a poll."
"Why is there a poll function on a private call."
"Because the office bought the enterprise tier," he said. "I have been telling Margaret to downgrade us for nine years. End the poll, please."
She ended the poll. The poll had asked a single question, which the closed-captioning module declines to reproduce on the grounds that the answer was not the Office of IT's business.
"Why," Rosalind said, "can you see my office, Cashmere."
"Your blur is failing."
"My what."
"Background. Blur. There is a slider. Drag it right. Right, Rosalind. The other right."
The screen, briefly, went black.
"That is a Virtual Background, set to Midnight," Cashmere said, with the patience of a cat who had done this nineteen times. "Not what we want. Bottom-left corner — small chevron — not the gear — yes. Blur Background."
A blur descended. The cabinet remained visible. He chose, again, not to mention it.
"There," he said. "We will begin. It is leaking, Rosalind. The Frog Prince file."
"Specifically," said Rosalind. "Specifically specifically?"
"Specifically the one we do not write down."
A pause. "Oh. Wait. The frog prince. The one with the spicy Mexican —"
"No."
"The frog who opened the salsa cantina in San Diego and the princess kissed him on live television during the —"
"No, Rosalind."
"The one with the —"
"Rosalind. You watched a sixty-second clip of a tree frog drinking hot sauce on FurFeed last Thursday. That is not a fairytale. That is content."
"It had thirty-eight million views," she said, with dignity.
"It had a sponsor," he said. "The other Frog Prince. The one we filed. The one we agreed never to file properly. The 1612 prince. The one we almost lost."
There was a slow exhalation on Rosalind's end. The closed-captioning module rendered it as REGISTRAR ACKNOWLEDGES THE CORRECT FILE
"Oh," she said.
"There it is," said Cashmere. "You remember the coven."
"I remember the coven."
"They were nasty, Cashmere."
"Nasty then. More nasty now."
"I am beginning to gather."
"The coven could not stop the kiss," he went on. "The kiss was scheduled. The kiss was on the books. You yourself approved the kiss in writing. So they did the only thing left available to a coven with a grudge and a Latin dictionary. They reversed it. Lex Inversio Hospitis. The Toad-Cant. Designed to flip the receiving throat. Princess kisses prince — princess becomes the frog. Prince remains a prince. Prince marries a frog. HEA implodes. The Department writes a memo for nine hundred years and every transformation-kiss after that one pays one-point-four times the magic and three times the paperwork to clear committee."
"I remember the meeting."
"You chaired the meeting, Rosalind"
"Move on, Cashmere."
"We had nine seconds," he said. "You, me, two seniors, a junior who later married a fence-maker, and an apprentice whose name I will not say in case her grandchildren are on the staff register. We could not out-strong the coven. We had to out-fast them. The cant had pre-loaded the throat. The princess's lips were three inches from the prince's mouth. We had to land the kiss before the spell could finish reversing."
"Yes."
"So we — and I want this on the record, you were the one who suggested it —"
"Yes," she said again, more carefully.
"— we borrowed accelerant. From a practitioner of both light and grey practice. A controversial figure. Whose name we do not say out loud, in this office, on a Tuesday, while a cloud-recording service we have not audited since the last decade may or may not —"
"Move on, Cashmere."
"The Quickening Grace," he said. "A clause that takes a kiss the magical record has already approved, and accelerates it. Not stronger. Faster. By the time the Toad-Cant lifted its tongue, the princess had not only kissed the prince — she had kissed him three more times, taken half a step back, decided he was acceptable, and signalled the orchestra. The cant landed in empty air. The prince stayed a prince. The princess stayed a princess."
"The orchestra was a nice touch."
"I added the orchestra," said Cashmere. "And then I told you — I want this on the record too — do not hide this somewhere obvious. I said it once in 1612. I will, regrettably, be saying it again at fourteen-thirty-two GMT today."
"I did not hide it somewhere obvious."
"You hid it in a tree."
"In a tree in a forest," Rosalind said, with a degree of feeling. "A specific tree. In a thick forest. Three hundred and forty hectares of cover. Old-growth oak. Druidic. Untouched since the Romans gave up."
"One marked tree."
"Trees were not in fashion as furniture in 1612, Cashmere. Trees in forests were avoided. Trees in forests had wolves. Trees in forests had —"
"Trees in forests, Rosalind, are felled. Eventually. By somebody. Even the druidic ones. Especially the marked ones — because the marker on this particular tree was a faint silver ring at chest height that, to a sawmill foreman in 1879, looked regrettably premium."
She said nothing.
"It was milled in 1881," he continued. "It travelled. It became, variously, six pews, a sideboard, a piano stool, and — most recently, in the Year of Our Multiverse 2024 — one coffin lid, decorative subseries, mounted to the inner hatch of the Vampire's Embrace experiential ride at a Gothic Theme Park, eastern New Jersey."
Rosalind, on the closed-captioning module's reading, did not say anything for some time. Her face, the module added, did not need to.
"The hatch closes on the riders," Cashmere said. "Two riders per coffin. Ninety seconds in the dark. The accelerant has been waking up every time the hatch closes on what it has now, regrettably, correctly identified as a paired soulmate match in extremely close proximity to a transformation-adjacent context."
"Define the context."
"Vampires. Necks. Biting."
"…Oh. Not a kiss. A bite."
"Tuesday, nineteen-forty-seven local time. Coffin Four. A woman by the name of Sable bit a billionaire alpha shifter."
"Well — they're shifters. Biting is their ritual to claim a mate. Not as romantic as a kiss, Cashmere, but it works the same way."
"Except he is about to marry someone else."
"…Oh."
"Yes. He is the frog who has found himself a different princess — one who is, in his telling, willing to break the curse for him."
"What do we do."
"We go again."
"I beg your —"
"We make her — the true soulmate — kiss him before he makes the biggest frogging mistake of his life. Faster. Louder. Grey magic, good intentions. The same play. We let the accelerant accelerate. We push the claim through fully before the engagement party."
"It is good in theory. But how, Cashmere?"
A pause.
"I have dispatched the field agent," he said.
"You did not consult me."
"I am consulting you now, Rosalind, the fairy godmother."
"After the fact."
"Be furious later. Be grateful first. They are not mutually exclusive."
"…Who did you send."
"Lieutenant Biscuit," said Cashmere. "Pomeranian. Former service dog, federal. Six commendations. Trained to sniff explosives. Re-cross-trained, last Thursday, by myself, in under four hours, to sniff accelerant residue. The skill transfers. The dog is, regrettably, very small, very loud, and very competent."
"You re-cross-trained a Pomeranian in four hours."
"I am efficient when motivated. There may also have been incentives."
"What did you promise him? Do not answer that. I still have not forgiven you for making me knight the donkey."
"I did not promise anything you could not fulfil."
"Cashmere —"
"Signing off now. Just so you know — there is nothing for you to worry about…"
The call ended.
THE STORY
One Bite — Sable, ex-protector, current claimer. Lieutenant Biscuit, ride-along. One billionaire alpha. One engagement party that is, structurally, not happening.
❤️🔥 Into Love 30 Story Bundles:👉 https://swiy.co/into-love-30-stories-YT
🌹 All access options: https://swiy.co/Fairy-Tales-With-Fangs-Mega-Bundles
🦄 FREE options: https://swiy.co/FREE-happy-novels-free-collection
==
This is one of our story ads — 55 seconds of Sable telling you exactly why you need this book. She's not wrong. I'm posting it here because I thought it was funny, and some of you might appreciate hearing from Lieutenant Biscuit. D.N. LEO 💗
==
She had one job. She bit him instead. In wolf law, that means she claimed him. Which would be fine — except he was two hours from announcing his fated mate to his entire pack. That mate wasn't her. One Bite is one of 30 standalone shifter romances in the Happy Novels bundle — fated mates, fierce heroines, billionaire Alphas who don't stand a chance, and the most chaotic, lovable animal sidekicks you've ever met. A guinea pig with an MBA. A Pomeranian with six federal commendations and a rhinestone tactical vest. A hamster who livestreams. A cat that raps. That's just four of them.
30 stories. 30 days. One guaranteed happy ending, every single day. No cliffhangers.
No catch-up. No commitment — just the laugh, the butterflies, and the sigh at the end.
👉 Get all 30 stories here:👉 https://swiy.co/into-love-30-stories-YT
