#cat witch

It began on a humid Santa Carla night, the boardwalk alive with neon and screams, the air thick with the scent of salt and sweat. A Ragdoll cat with fur like pale moonlight and smoky dusk, slipped through the chaos unnoticed. Eyes blue like sharp sea glass, tracked the world from alleys and rooftops.

Then there they were.

The Lost Boys. Four vampires cloaked in leather and rebellion, their laughter sharp as shattered glass. They moved like predators, all swagger and hunger, their presence a magnet for trouble.

You'd always been drawn to chaos, and they were its living pulse. So with small paws padding against the floor you followed, silent as a whisper, into the sunken cave they called home.

The cave was a cathedral of decay—stalactites dripping like wax, fairy lights strung through the gloom, and the faint hum of the ocean beyond. You sauntered in just before dawn, weaving between scuffed boots and trailing coats, your tail a proud banner. Marko spotted you first, crouched near a pile of salvaged junk, his curls catching the firelight.

"Yo, check it—a cat?" His voice was half-laugh, half-awe like he'd stumbled on a treasure. He reached out, then froze when you hopped onto a jagged stone seat, claiming it like a throne.

Paul sprawled on a couch, flicked his hair back, and squinted. "No way a stray looks that good. Bet she's someone's pampered princess."

You ignored him, locking eyes with David.

He sat at the cave's heart, cigarette smoldering between gloved fingers, his platinum hair glowing under the dim light. Those icy eyes studied you, unreadable but intrigued. You didn't flinch, didn't blink—just leaped into his lap with liquid grace, curling into the folds of his coat. His hand hovered, then settled between your ears, stroking with a confidence that bordered on possession.

"She's got taste," he said, voice low, a smirk ghosting his lips.

That was the beginning.

You became their shadow, their constant. The cave wasn't complete without your soft paws padding across stone or your purring weight in someone's lap. They didn't question where you came from—strays were common in Santa Carla, even ones as flawless as you. To them, you were a mystery they didn't need to unravel. You were simply theirs.

Marko, the wildest of them, took to you like a kid with a new toy. He'd slip you scraps of rare steak, grinning as you nibbled with dainty precision. "No eating animals, got it?" he declared one night, pointing at the others like a general. "Noodle is crew now. No one touches her." The rule stuck, a rare thread of mercy in their blood-soaked world.

Dwayne persistantly quiet, became your sanctuary. At dawn, when the others grew restless, he'd sit with you on a ledge overlooking the sea, his leather jacket warm under your fur. He'd read from tattered novels—Poe, Shelley, Stoker—his voice a low rumble as you dozed on his chest. He called you Luna, a name whispered like a secret.

Paul, ever the showman, dubbed you Sugarfluff with a theatrical wink, snapping his fingers as you passed. "Look at you, stealing hearts like a pro," he'd tease, tossing you a lazy salute. You'd flick your tail, unimpressed, but his laughter was infectious.

David never named you. He didn't need to. His lap was your domain, his gloved hand your summons. You'd leap up without hesitation, claiming the space as if it had always been yours. He'd stroke your fur in silence, his touch both command and invitation. In those moments, you were his anchor, the one thing in his endless nights that didn't demand blood.

You weren't just a cat. You were their center, their unspoken vow. They didn't know you were listening, watching, choosing them as much as they chose you.

But secrets don't stay buried in a cave full of vampires.

It was a rare early return from the boardwalk, the boys bursting in with the scent of blood and salt on their coats. You thought you'd have hours alone, time to stretch into your true self. So you'd shifted, letting your feline form melt away. Human again, you lounged in David's chair, legs draped over the arm, the firelight casting shadows across your bare skin. One of their long coats—Marko's, by the smell of paint and leather—hung loosely over your shoulders, a makeshift robe.

The cave door swung open, and they stopped dead.

Four pairs of eyes—gold-flecked, predatory—locked onto you. The air thickened, heavy with shock and something darker.

Paul broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "Holy shit, Sugarfluff? You're—you're a babe?"

Marko's mouth hung open, his hand still clutching a half-eaten burger. "I fed you steak."

Dwayne's gaze was steady, assessing, but not hostile. "A shifter," he said, voice soft but certain, like he'd pieced it together in seconds. He'd heard about them in the native stories back when he was young.

David didn't move. His cigarette burned, forgotten in his hand, ash drifting to the floor. His eyes, cold and piercing, held yours—not with anger, but with something deeper, sharper. Ownership.

You rose slowly and deliberately, the coat slipping slightly to reveal the curve of your collarbone. "I've been around longer than you think," you said, voice smooth as velvet, carrying the same confidence you wore in fur. "I chose this place. Chose you."

The silence stretched, taut as a wire.

Then David stepped forward, closing the distance in three measured strides. His gloved hand brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering at your jaw. "You've been ours this whole time," he said, not a question but a claim, his voice low and final.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And you've been mine."

Marko let out a whoop, breaking the tension, his arm slung around your shoulders like you were already family. "Hell yeah, she stays! Shifter or not, she's one of us."

Paul grinned, leaning against the wall with a mock swoon. "A hot chick that's a cat? I'm in love. Sugarfluff's still my girl."

Dwayne's lips curved, a rare smile softening his edges. "You kept our secrets. You're family."

David's hand settled on your waist, his grip firm but not forceful. His eyes searched yours, and in them, you saw the weight of his decision—not just to let you stay but to bind you closer. "You're not going anywhere," he murmured, and the words were a promise, a chain, a vow.

Now, the cave feels alive in a new way. You shift freely, one moment a Ragdoll curling atop David's throne, the next a woman laughing in Paul's arms or trading quiet words with Dwayne by the fire. They still hunt and still revel in their immortal chaos, but they come back to you. Always to you.

You are their secret, their heart, their queen in fur and flesh. And in the shadowed depths of the cave, where the ocean whispers and the fire burns low, you know one truth above all: