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the full story will go live next month, but if that's simply too long to wait, head over to my [url=https://subscribestar.adult/Limewah]Subscribestar[/url] to read it, and other stories like it, before everyone else~!\n\n-----\n\n[url=http://www.postybirb.com]Posted using PostyBirb[/url]", "description_bbcode_parsed": "We're all perverts here.

This is just a preview; the full story will go live next month, but if that's simply too long to wait, head over to my Subscribestar to read it, and other stories like it, before everyone else~!

-----

Posted using PostyBirb", "writing": "The Vaudevillian Inn\n\nBy Limewah\n\nCommission for Pandamonium\n\n18+\n\nSNEAK PEEK\n\nBranson caught himself holding his breath for a moment, like he was about to dive into the sea. The beagle was young for a detective, bespectacled, with a coat that made his shoulders seem broader and his body seem bigger.\n\nHe was still working his way into the deeper parts of the boy's club. They still looked down on him, sneered and sniggered at him behind his back. \n\nSo he was shirking off his usual investigative duties - mostly petty theft- to look into something far more far reaching... not to mention dangerous. A vast network of smuggling all sorts of contraband... including `live stock'.\n\nThis included Detective Wylett, a veteran who Branson half looked up to, half despised. The old rabbit hadn't been spotted in weeks, his only paper trail being a crisply type-written resignation note, in some fancy, boutique font that most typewriters wouldn't have. A Liddell Tabulator to be precise.\n\nBranson had stolen the page, did some private analysis of the make and model... and that had lead him to the one owner of such a model, the boss of this establishment. \n\nHis expensive tastes definitely extended past writing equipment.\n\nBranson looked up at the crimson and gilt rococo facade of the Vaudevillian Inn. It was far brighter than all the other seedy dive bars, like a final glistening ember in a burnt piece of charcoal.\n\nSpeaking of burning things out, he was nearly done with his cigarette.\n\nNo more dawdling. He had a conspiracy to unearth.\n\nThe taste of tobacco lingered in his mouth as he stepped past the red and gilt Rococo threshold into the Vaudevillian Inn.\n\nThe dry chill of the late November night was left behind, and he was surrounded with a sauna-like fog.\n\nThe hot air fogged up his spectacles, and the thick toxicity of the dozens of well-loved cigars tickled at the back of his throat. No one paid him much heed, deep in their card games and conversations. \n\nBranson wondered if he might recognize any of his co-workers here; detectives were known to drink here now and again. It was a good spot for information, and a relatively civil spot. Even if he already knew he was going to stink of the smoke for the next day at least.\n\nLong brightly coloured bolts of canvas were draped from the ceiling, whites and blues and pinks stitched together and rising up towards a central point in the middle of the ceiling. It was like he'd somehow stepped out of the city entirely - from a seedy back-alley to an even seedier carnival tent.\n\nIt was almost as brightly coloured as the cat behind the bar. He looked like he should have been in a higher-class place, what with that purple top hat and pinstriped suit. His fur was bright pink, with yellow tiger-stripes.\n\nThe piercing headlight-yellow eyes and the wide pearlescent grin cut through that stifling sea of smoke.\n\nBranson felt like he'd been found out already. But he wasn't going to let that on. Straight over to the bar, get a drink, then strike up conversation with one of those lonely weedy guys in the corner snugs, who spoke to no-one and saw everything. \n\n``What can I do ya for?'' the cat had a raspy tenor tone, and sounded a little older than he looked. ``Nice coat, is it your dad's?''\n\n``Whiskey, neat,'' Branson said, gruffly.\n\n``Sure thing, pal!'' \n\nThere was something probing about the golden headlight gaze of the grinning cat; it rarely left contact with Branson's gaze as the drink was fixed... Bransons swore that the cat hadn't even blinked. ``I'm giving you some top-shelf stuff, but I'm charging you for the rotgut!''\n\n``Thanks,'' Branson grunted, leaving a fistful of dollar bills on the table before peeling away.\n\n``Mysterious type, huh? Well, have a good evenin' young man!''\n\nNaturally, he was not going to just leap into interrogating one of them. That lonely looking rabbit in the half-moon shaped corner booth looked like a safe bet. White furred once, now grey-furred. He was nursing a bottle of ale, so Branson took the liberty of bringing one over as well.\n\n``Mind if I join you?'' The dog asked.\n\n``Why, thank you, dear boy.'' The rabbit's voice was both raspy and plummy, with a fancy affectation that suggested his accent was the only thing left of his past glories; and he had no intention of letting it go. ``I have a very important date, but I suppose I could have some esteemed company until then, yes yes.''\n\nBranson smiled. This one was going to keep him occupied for the night, for sure.\n\nThe rabbit was quite loose-lipped, content to spill gossip on each and every patron like a high-society dandy. Very rich for Branson's blood, perhaps too rich.\n\nBut he was full of stories, and the rookie detective caught himself actually laughing - not humouring him, but genuinely amused. \n\nThree drinks later, he'd had his fill of conversation, plus the bar was beginning to thin out. Though the smoke had not gotten any less dense. \n\n``I think I'm gonna call it a night,'' Branson said as he looked out across the now quiet `tented' establishment.\n\nThe rabbit was resting against the booth, fast asleep, a slight stain of beer on his moustache. \n\n``You can let Mr Tweed doze!''\n\nBranson tensed and bared his teeth - out of instinct and paranoia. \n\nThe cat was looking down at him. He stuck out even more than he did behind the bar.\n\n``He's a good old friend of mine, I've got a nice bed in the back room for loyal customers like him.''\n\n``That's... nice,'' Branson said, standing up.\n\n``Have a good night?'' The cat seemed to be getting even further into the dog's personal space, even though Branson was pretty sure he wasn't moving.\n\n``I did, thank you.'' \n\nThe dog was trying not to look into the cat's piercing eyes. Like if he stared too long that the gleaming glare might steal his soul. He turned, only to feel a hand clap him on the shoulder - and with it, a scent of faintly sweet cologne.\n\n``You seem like a nice kid,'' the cat said, his voice mellifluous and subtly seductive. ``Come back again!''\n\nBranson's muzzle flickered into a brief smile, too brief for his conscious mind to notice it as he walked back out into the cold night.\n\nBut it left a little whisper in the back of his mind. A desire to return.\n\nHe would definitely be back. If only for more pleasant conversation.\n\n...And to continue his investigations.\n\nAnyway, he wasn't in any rush.\n\nHe didn't need to chase the truth out of the rabbit, it would be fine to tease it out over a few drinks, maybe even a cigar if he was feeling adventurous.\n\nTo read the rest now, Subscribe! \n\n HYPERLINK \"https://subscribestar.adult/Limewah\" \\n _blank https://subscribestar.adult/Limewah \n\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "The Vaudevillian Inn

By Limewah

Commission for Pandamonium

18+

SNEAK PEEK

Branson caught himself holding his breath for a moment, like he was about to dive into the sea.  The beagle was young for a detective, bespectacled, with a coat that made his shoulders seem broader and his body seem bigger.

He was still working his way into the deeper parts of the boy's club. They still looked down on him, sneered and sniggered at him behind his back.

So he was shirking off his usual investigative duties - mostly petty theft- to look into something far more far reaching... not to mention dangerous. A vast network of smuggling all sorts of contraband... including `live stock'.

This included Detective Wylett, a veteran who Branson half looked up to, half despised. The old rabbit hadn't been spotted in weeks, his only paper trail being a crisply type-written resignation note, in some fancy, boutique font that most typewriters wouldn't have. A Liddell Tabulator to be precise.

Branson had stolen the page, did some private analysis of the make and model... and that had lead him to the one owner of such a model, the boss of this establishment.

His expensive tastes definitely extended past writing equipment.

Branson looked up at the crimson and gilt rococo facade of the Vaudevillian Inn. It was far brighter than all the other seedy dive bars, like a final glistening ember in a burnt piece of charcoal.

Speaking of burning things out, he was nearly done with his cigarette.

No more dawdling. He had a conspiracy to unearth.

The taste of tobacco lingered in his mouth as he stepped past the red and gilt Rococo threshold into the Vaudevillian Inn.

The dry chill of the late November night was left behind, and he was surrounded with a sauna-like fog.

The hot air fogged up his spectacles, and the thick toxicity of the dozens of well-loved cigars tickled at the back of his throat. No one paid him much heed, deep in their card games and conversations.

Branson wondered if he might recognize any of his co-workers here; detectives were known to drink here now and again. It was a good spot for information, and a relatively civil spot. Even if he already knew he was going to stink of the smoke for the next day at least.

Long brightly coloured bolts of canvas were draped from the ceiling, whites and blues and pinks stitched together and rising up towards a central point in the middle of the ceiling.  It was like he'd somehow stepped out of the city entirely - from a seedy back-alley to an even seedier carnival tent.

It was almost as brightly coloured as the cat behind the bar. He looked like he should have been in a higher-class place, what with that purple top hat and pinstriped suit. His fur was bright pink, with yellow tiger-stripes.

The piercing headlight-yellow eyes and the wide pearlescent grin cut through that stifling sea of smoke.

Branson felt like he'd been found out already.  But he wasn't going to let that on. Straight over to the bar, get a drink, then strike up conversation with one of those lonely weedy guys in the corner snugs, who spoke to no-one and saw everything.

``What can I do ya for?'' the cat had a raspy tenor tone, and sounded a little older than he looked.  ``Nice coat, is it your dad's?''

``Whiskey, neat,'' Branson said, gruffly.

``Sure thing, pal!''

There was something probing about the golden headlight gaze of the grinning cat; it rarely left contact with Branson's gaze as the drink was fixed... Bransons swore that the cat hadn't even blinked. ``I'm giving you some top-shelf stuff, but I'm charging you for the rotgut!''

``Thanks,'' Branson grunted, leaving a fistful of dollar bills on the table before peeling away.

``Mysterious type, huh? Well, have a good evenin' young man!''

Naturally, he was not going to just leap into interrogating one of them. That lonely looking rabbit in the half-moon shaped corner booth looked like a safe bet. White furred once, now grey-furred. He was nursing a bottle of ale, so Branson took the liberty of bringing one over as well.

``Mind if I join you?'' The dog asked.

``Why, thank you, dear boy.'' The rabbit's voice was both raspy and plummy, with a fancy affectation that suggested his accent was the only thing left of his past glories; and he had no intention of letting it go. ``I have a very important date, but I suppose I could have some esteemed company until then, yes yes.''

Branson smiled. This one was going to keep him occupied for the night, for sure.

The rabbit was quite loose-lipped, content to spill gossip on each and every patron like a high-society dandy. Very rich for Branson's blood, perhaps too rich.

But he was full of stories, and the rookie detective caught himself actually laughing - not humouring him, but genuinely amused.

Three drinks later, he'd had his fill of conversation, plus the bar was beginning to thin out. Though the smoke had not gotten any less dense.

``I think I'm gonna call it a night,'' Branson said as he looked out across the now quiet `tented' establishment.

The rabbit was resting against the booth, fast asleep, a slight stain of beer on his moustache.

``You can let Mr Tweed doze!''

Branson tensed and bared his teeth - out of instinct and paranoia.

The cat was looking down at him. He stuck out even more than he did behind the bar.

``He's a good old friend of mine, I've got a nice bed in the back room for loyal customers like him.''

``That's... nice,'' Branson said, standing up.

``Have a good night?'' The cat seemed to be getting even further into the dog's personal space, even though Branson was pretty sure he wasn't moving.

``I did, thank you.''

The dog was trying not to look into the cat's piercing eyes. Like if he stared too long that the gleaming glare might steal his soul. He turned, only to feel a hand clap him on the shoulder - and with it, a scent of faintly sweet cologne.

``You seem like a nice kid,'' the cat said, his voice mellifluous and subtly seductive. ``Come back again!''

Branson's muzzle flickered into a brief smile, too brief for his conscious mind to notice it as he walked back out into the cold night.

But it left a little whisper in the back of his mind. A desire to return.

He would definitely be back. If only for more pleasant conversation.

...And to continue his investigations.

Anyway, he wasn't in any rush.

He didn't need to chase the truth out of the rabbit, it would be fine to tease it out over a few drinks, maybe even a cigar if he was feeling adventurous.

To read the rest now, Subscribe!

  HYPERLINK "https://subscribestar.adult/Limewah"; \\n _blank https://subscribestar.adult/Limewah  

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