#these two just write themselves

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / sibling death mention / isolation / ]

Thinking about how Leo’s portal and teleportation powers have both directly (and in one instance, indirectly) been the cause of him being separated from his brothers at least four times now.

There’s that time in Portal Jacked, where his inexperience leads to his portal being messed with and his brothers ending up in Tahiti.

There’s the Bad Timeline, where Leo’s portaling led to them losing the Key, therefore indirectly leading to the apocalypse and in turn, ending with Leo being the last of his brothers alive (though just for a few minutes.)

There’s him teleporting him and Krang into the Prison Dimension, cutting him off from his family so wholly that the only way to fix this was a literal mystic miracle.

Then there’s the comic, where Leo’s powers act up again and make him lose months of time completely isolated from everyone and everything he knows.

Just, looking at all of this, it’s like the universe gave him the powers of distance on purpose to test him (and his bros), literally seeing if they can overcome unimaginable space and still make it back together. Imagine if it doesn’t stop here, and Leo has to learn to either deal with the occasional complete isolation or deal with time travelers coming back to stop some terrible event his powers (whether directly or indirectly) have caused, events that always lead to separation in some way, shape, or form.

It’s worth noting, too, that his portals often led to accidental separation, but his teleportation was the one power of his that was used to isolate himself on purpose…and was also the one that in any other scenario would have been the most permanent.

[fatedroses]

More than just the Demon.

[it-meant-nothing]

Evan Peters and Michael Fassbender when they read the Dark Phoenix script and learned that there was no dadneto reveal and that they don’t have any scenes together:

Meanwhile, us:

[two-entire-bits]

mar-bit headcanons because I have been consumed <3

Marcia steals his leather jacket all the time. He thinks it's the cutest thing ever

once Two-Bit got jumped and knocked out and Marcia was the first one to find him and he made one of those stupid "holy shit I musta died and gone to heaven cuz there's an angel in front of me" jokes when he woke up and saw her

Marcia's really good at school and especially loves science, but has a hard time understanding new math concepts (although once she gets them down she's off and running) and Two-Bit is surprisingly good at math for some reason (he doesn't try in school but he does put in 0.000001 mL of effort so he can pass and move on to the next level. but only barely) so he explains the concepts to her without making her feel stupid

Marcia knows Two likes blondes and once joked about bleaching her hair and he was horrified at the concept.

Marcia's really good at chess?? Like really good. Two-Bit has no clue how to play and he is too confused by how it works to start learning now.

Marcia LOVES to be carried around by Two ALL THE TIME. She wants to make some dinner? Two-Bit is bridal-style carrying her down the stairs from her room to the kitchen. She wants to get snacks at the movies? Piggy-back ride to the concession stand.

the latter style also gives her an excuse to kiss his head and mess up & play with his hair

She carries an old makeup compact with his favorite hair grease and a comb with her at all times in case of an "emergency" (when she messes up his hair)

He also carries around some of her makeup in his jacket in case she ever forgets it

Marcia WILL kiss his face all over and she WILL get lipstick stains everywhere and he will NOT remove it. absolutely refuses to.

He also will reapply her lipstick for her after such cases

They love doing as much as possible for each other that way, they love just taking care of each other and holding each other and being in love and also being silly about it

THEY'RE THE TYPE OF COUPLE TO DO THAT TWO-STRAWS-ONE-MILKSHAKE THING

He'll also do her nails (traits achieved by having a little sister) and he loves it because he gets to focus on something and they just take turns rambling

He steals stuff for her all the time (she finds it endearing) but the two times he didn't was when he got her a gift for her first birthday after they started dating (she then reassured him he didn't have to spend money on her just because it's a special occasion) and when he got her an engagement ring

He proposed to her at the drive-in (or where it used to be if it closed down)

Marcia and Two-Bit's sister (Tammy (short for Tamara (Two-Bit calls her Tamster))) get along slightly too well for Two's liking. they plot against him

It took Tammy a while to warm up to her but once she did they were an unstoppable force

Marcia will take her out to the mall to try stuff on and have a "girls day" every couple of months but Tammy refuses to let Marcia buy her anything so Marcia will report back to Two and he'll go out and steal things Tammy liked

I don't know if she'd go BUT if she did Marcia would help Tammy get ready for her school formal/homecoming/prom and teach her how to do makeup and Two-Bit literally cannot find the words to thank her enough because Tammy looks so happy and he never could've done that, not because he didn't want to, because he didn't know how, it's the 60's and he's a guy, she's a girl, yeah he's her brother but he has no clue how to make her comfortable in her femininity and such, and it just makes him love Marcia even more

Two-Bit actually learned how to cook a few meals because he felt like he had to give back to Marcia for loving him

He also picks up after himself when he's at her house even though he never does at home because he feels bad

Two-Bit has a big expectation of himself that he has to be happy and active and always moving and keeping up everybody else's spirits all the time that when Marcia does something nice for him or just holds him he's caught so off guard. he needs to be the little spoon sometimes okay.

Like he's so used to taking up space but with her he can just feel small and exist

He loves the gang and is so much more himself around them but he still has a Role and Marcia is on a whole other level of Two-Bit-esque weird that he can like, completely unmask with her once they've been together long enough

Early on he'd do something weird around her without thinking and go like "well, shit." because when he gets to be Too Much Himself it's driven people away in the past but then she finds it funny or endearing or she just doesn't react at all and he falls even more in love with her

It took him a long time to really learn that he didn't owe Marcia anything in exchange for her love

Marcia just wants to hold him sometimes also. In my head her parents are often absent and she doesn't have any siblings, so she'll just touch him or hold onto him a lot to reassure herself he's there and he's not leaving

Marcia will come over to Two-Bit's house sometimes and help make dinner or clean with his mom (they also get along well) or just spend time with all of them and it took them all awhile to not think of it as charity but Marcia just liked feeling like she actually had a family

They have THE most extrapolatory nicknames for each other. It starts off tame but it evolves to the point where their names and the nicknames have barely anything in common

on my dancer Two-Bit bullshit forever Marcia's house has a piano and she'll play music for him to dance to

this man has not missed one of Marcia's barrel races ever. he's there way earlier than he needs to be he stays until she leaves he is the loudest person on the bleachers.

Marcia started watching Mickey Mouse so Two-Bit would have someone to talk to about it

[that-satireguy]

Right, well i don't love being called a terf sockpuppet, but this did make me think of a very funny idea

Local American woman when asked to consider that there are 2 trans teenagers from countries that both end in 'stan' on the same global platform and they may not be the same person:

[knox-knocks]

I love making andrew and neil dangerous and violent in fics cause no matter what they would literally rather break their own hands than hurt each other

[inquisitor-apologist]

Anyway. Ever think about how Sabine’s planet was destroyed, her people were genocided, and her family was killed by the Empire. Exactly like what happened to Zeb, and Filoni didn’t even let them interact in Ahsoka???

[ethan-elliott]

I need to make an edit of the movie that doesn’t exist of the book I haven’t finished writing yet

[haine-kleine]

If Dabi's confrontation with Enji didn't happen after Shouto put him out with Phosphor, his condition wouldn't be so bad he has to be on life support, with only months left to live after the battle.

If Bakugou didn't attack Kurogiri, he would have saved Shigaraki from Deku, the hero who set out to save Shigaraki.

If Ochako didn't engage with Toga, she wouldn't have killed herself by giving Ochako all of her blood.

Hawks killed Twice, stabbing him in the back despite Dabi doing everything he could to save Twice's life.

The heroes were the ones who put Kurogiri in the hospital despite knowing full well the League would be getting him back, endangering the lives of civilians.

[rotworld]

Where the Heart Was

once a year, you visit a memorial for a pack that no longer exists and mourn what could have been. this visit will not be like the others.

->sawyer/reader. contains grief/mourning, hurt/comfort, vague mentions of abuse and unspecified trauma, mentioned gore, murder.

.

.

.

You buy the bouquet before you leave town. Pink roses, white lilies and baby’s breath, cloying in your passenger seat. You used to wait until you got all the way to Quail Creek. You’d stop at that florist on the corner and fidget by the register with all your awkward smiles and survivor’s guilt, never quite making eye contact, never quite able to ignore the small town gawking from the old folks and teenage part timers watching you pass through like a haunting on repeat. 

So now you buy it before you get there. Your car will smell soft and sad like a funeral for days after, but the pain stays private that way.

You get into Quail Creek late. Sunset smolders on the horizon and stretches shadows across a long, lonely road. Past the little diners and antique stores, the gas stations and highway ramps to other places, all the way out here at the very edge of town, there’s a memorial. The city never put up signs to help anyone find it but you know the way by heart. 

Turn left onto the dirt road that peels away from town into dense woodland, the one that warns NO OUTLET on a yellow sign. Take it as far as it goes. There’s a circular patch of dirt at the end meant for u-turns, and a willow tree growing at the roadside. You park in its dappled shadow. The rest of this journey is made on foot. The path you take is not paved but worn into the earth by countless footsteps before yours, but the wildflowers steadily overtake it year by year. With the bouquet in your hand, you march the fading trail deep into the forest. 

When the day comes that the forest swallows any trace of it, you’ll still know where to go. You remember what he said, exactly how he said it. Smiling softly, squeezing your hand, whispers in the dark:

“Follow the creek ‘till you see three big boulders all in a line. Go west from there, towards the evergreens. The trees are marked. You can feel them even if it’s too dark to see. Three slashes, diagonal, a small fourth slash on top. Eventually, you’ll get to the stepping stones and they’ll take you the rest of the way. Remember that, okay? You’ll reach the end of the stones and I’ll be there, waiting for you.”

The last light of day trickles between pine branches. The stepping stones are half-hidden in dry and dead leaves but you feel the difference between your shoes, spots of solid rock amongst grass and soil. The air is cool and the sky is dark by the time you reach the memorial. Echoes of things that used to be here linger, patches of flattened earth where buildings once stood and crops used to grow. In the middle of a clearing, a large stone juts from the ground. Unaltered from its natural, slightly rounded shape, it is etched with two sets of carvings. The same message, written twice.

On one side are runic symbols. Not Old Norse but something similar, a close cousin. On the other:

Here dwelt brave wolves and beloved ravens of the Yarrow Meadow pack. May ye frolick spring fields ever after.

Below that is a list of names.

You approach the stone with slow steps. Crouching beside it, you trail your fingers over the cold, bumpy surface. You have to use the light on your phone to find it, but it’s there. The left-most column. Bottom row. Luke is the name there, with the silhouette of a bird carved beside it. You trace the indents of the letters with your thumb.

“I’m here. I’m home,” you say, hoarse and quiet. You swallow hard, swiping your sleeve across your face. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry this time. “I know I’m late this year. Sorry. You know I’m good at finding excuses.” You tug the ribbon off the bouquet and dismantle it crudely, crumpling up the plastic and jamming it in your pocket. You place the flowers at the base of the stone. “I meant to come in the spring. Those rose bushes you told me about, they’re still here. They’re not blooming right now. It’s just a wall of thorns.” 

It’s so quiet. There’s no one here but you and little things rustling in the underbrush. A squirrel chitters quietly on its way up a tree, returning to its nest for the night. The moon peeks through the clouds and you can just barely see the treeline like the bars of a cage. 

“I can’t stay long. It’s dark and I don’t know these roads very well. Might need to sleep in the car for a few hours.” You don’t get up. You mean to. You try a few times but you never do, your hand still resting on the stone. “Why am I such a coward?” you whisper. “I don’t want to go back. But I will. I always do. It wouldn’t matter if I was brave now because it’s too late. I wish I’d…I wish…” You bite back a sob and scrub furiously at your burning, tear-filled eyes. 

A branch snaps behind you.

You lurch to your feet and whirl around, eyes scanning the woods. That wasn’t some tiny twig breaking. It’s big, whatever it is, a bristling shape loping closer at a steady pace. It’s not a bear, is it? Your pulse hammers in your chest. You fumble with your phone, angling the lights towards it in the hopes of scaring it off or blinding it. 

Open maw. Teeth bared. Glowing predator light for eyes. Your heart skips a beat. The thing makes an irritated noise, somewhere between a growl and a whine. Its ears flick back and it wrenches its eyes shut. No, that’s definitely not a bear but it’s almost as big. It’s a wolf, covered in jet black fur. If you hadn’t heard it coming, you definitely wouldn’t have spotted it in the dark.

It lets out a whiny bark, like a dog complaining about being stuck indoors. It shakes its head, swiping one of its front paws in front of its face. Then it does it again, growling. Annoyed, you think. It’s such a purposeful, distinctly human gesture, a wordless, “Turn that shit off.”

Not a regular wolf, you realize.

“Sorry!” you stammer, flicking the light off. Your stomach lurches in terror at the sudden darkness that fills your vision, the shadows seeming to squirm as your eyes adjust. You know the wolf is still there. It lets out a huff and pads closer, its movements suddenly obvious and easy to hear. You can just barely make out the shape of it, head raised and gait slow. Is it doing that on purpose, stepping on every single stick and crunching leaf so you know where it is? It comes very, very close, but it holds still when you flinch.  Its eyes unnerve you, indistinguishable from the feral gaze of a wolf except for an uncanny sense of familiarity. Thinking, assessing, judging the world not quite you do, not quite like an animal does, but in a way that bridges the two. 

“Are you…visiting the memorial?” you guess. It bobs its head emphatically in a nod. “I just finished. I’ll give you some privacy—” 

It veers into your path when you step away. You move to the left and it follows. You shift your weight to the right and it does the same, mirroring your movements. 

“Uh. Excuse me,” you say. You try to leave again. Your only warning is a growl before it lunges. 

It happens so fast. The scream gets caught in your throat as the wolf comes barreling right into you, knocking you off your feet. Your heart is in your throat expecting to hit the ground hard, to feel teeth in your throat, but instead you fall into soft warmth. That’s fur against your back and beneath your fingers, velvety smooth. Your brain is still struggling to make sense of what happened, how it moved so fast that it could both topple you and break your fall, when the wolf shimmies out from under you. It’s such a smooth, graceful movement, angling its body so you slide gently into the grass. Its size is frighteningly apparent like this, golden eyes and open, panting maw angled down to study your bewildered expression. Its paws are easily the size of your hands, maybe larger. If you were standing, it would be eye-level with your chest. 

Clearly, it doesn’t want you to leave so you stay put. You watch it snuffle around the base of the stone, snout nudging against the flowers you brought before it glances at you questioningly. You’re not sure what it wants or what it’s thinking, but suddenly it shivers and curls in on itself. It trembles, ears flat and tail tucked in, making choked sounds. Fur recedes unevenly. Limbs and digits lengthen with nauseating cracks as bone lurches and slides beneath rearranging muscle. 

You avert your eyes, terrified. Is shifting supposed to take so long and sound so awful? Quick, canine panting turns to longer, deeper breaths. Now there’s a man crouched beside you, running a clawed hand through dark, messy hair. His eyes are still bright yellow and glinting like an animal’s when he glances at you in his periphery. 

“Shouldn’t wander around here by yourself at night,” he says, hoarse and winded. 

“Oh,” you say awkwardly. You try not to stare. He rakes his fingers through the fur on the nape of his neck, untangling a knot and dislodging a prickly seed pod. When you shift your legs under you, nervous and unsure of what to say, his gaze flicks back to you with magnetic speed. That look feels like a warning. You avert your eyes and tilt your head away from him, showing him your neck. Luke taught you that. Said it’d fix everything if a wild wolf ever looked angry. 

To your shock and amazement, the man—the werewolf—relaxes the second you do it. For a moment, his eyes widen and his lips part in wordless surprise. All the tension and tautness in his posture evaporates. A soft, rhythmic rustling draws your gaze to the ground behind him where his tail has just started to wag slowly. Still, he’s looking at you a little too intently, his focus making you self-conscious. He looks like he’s waiting for something. 

“Is, uh. Is it dangerous?” you ask, trying to break the ice. “I heard there are bears in the area but I’ve never seen one.”

He grunts. “They’re here. More of them now since the pack disbanded.” You hear more rustling, in front of you this time. He’s doing something with the plants at the base of the memorial. Plucking blades of grass, weaving them together. He catches you staring, huffing in quiet amusement when you quickly look away. “I don’t bite.” He spares you from trying to think of a response, picking up one of the flowers from the bouquet. “You brought these?” 

“Yeah,” you say. 

He glances at you but doesn’t say anything for a while. His eyes move down and up again, back to your face. He’s frowning. Did you say something wrong? Move too much? You can’t tell if he’s angry or if that’s just how his face looks. Luke said wild wolves can come across as a little intense without meaning to. “Would you like to use it?” he asks, his voice considerably softer. 

“Use it?” 

“Come.” He beckons you to him with a sharp nod. Reluctantly, you inch closer. “It’s what we do when we talk to the departed. You take pollen, or you grind up some petals, and you put it on their name. It honors them.” 

Your chest feels tight. You come a little closer, kneeling right beside him. Your knees bump into his, an apology getting stuck in your throat when he stops you from pulling back with a hand on your thigh. It’s such a quick, automatic gesture, done without any shame or hesitation. He only lifts his hand when you stop squirming, watching you through his shaggy bangs. “Could you show me?” you ask. “It’s Luke. His name’s all the way on the left, down at the bottom.” 

He’s giving you that look again. Brows furrowed, mouth pursed like he tasted something sour. His gaze rakes up and down again and you wonder what he’s looking for. After a moment, he nods. You watch him take the lily, rubbing the stamens between his fingers until they’re coated in fine, dark dust. He doesn’t need to look for Luke’s name, you notice. He knows right where it is, barely glancing at the stone before he rubs the spot once, twice, a third time, pressing the pad of his thumb into each letter.

“There,” he says. He rises gracefully to his feet, towering over you. He’s got long limbs, legs that bend a bit like a wolf’s, scars all over his body and—

You look away quickly. Yep, definitely naked. He walks around to the other side of the memorial and you hear him repeat the process. Crinkling petals, fingers whispering over stone. You stare at Luke’s name until your vision blurs with tears. The werewolf whispers something with hushed solemnity of a prayer. You hear him sigh softly and then he stands again, returning to your side. He sits in the grass beside you, staring again, not saying a word. 

“Sorry, just…give me a minute,” you say. 

“There’s no rush,” he assures you. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Sawyer.” He shifts closer. The fur on his arms is soft.

You sniffle, giving him your name. “Did you know somebody who lived here?” What a stupid question, you scold yourself. Obviously he did or he wouldn’t be here. But he just nods. Something moves across the forest floor right behind you and you jump, frightened until you realize it’s just his tail again. “I’ve never actually seen anyone else out here. I’m glad I’m not the only one. Some people—humans, anyway—they think it’s embarrassing. Knowing someone who joined a pack. Parents especially, they take it as some kind of judgement on their parenting. Sometimes it is.” 

His frown deepens. “There’s nothing wrong with becoming a pack human.” 

You laugh, which seems to startle him. His ears, still furred at the ends and more pointed than they should be, twitch. “Of course you’d say that.” 

“I say that because it’s the truth. It’s not easy, and it’s not something just anyone can do. Pack humans are exceptional. Selfless and hardworking, stronger than any packless human could ever understand—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. He looks almost embarrassed, sheepishly turning his gaze elsewhere. “You don’t have to convince me. I was never embarrassed of Luke. I actually…I’d promised him…” Your voice wavers. You clear your throat. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Sawyer hums in acknowledgement. He reaches out, stroking the names at the bottom of the memorial. “You blame yourself for something you never could have prevented,” he says.

You shrug. “What makes you say that?” 

“Because I did. For years.” He gets to his feet with that same eerie grace as before, a single fluid motion, and then he offers his hand. You hesitate to take it but he waits, unmoving and patient. When you finally reach for him, he makes a chuffing sound. Dog with a bone, you can’t help but think, a satisfied noise. “Let me walk you wherever you’re going.” 

“I drove here,” you tell him, a little flustered. He’s still holding your hand. 

“Do you live in Quail Creek?” When you shake your head, he huffs. “It’s late. You need rest.” 

You tug your hand out of his grip. You’re torn between being touched by his concern and irritated at being lectured. “I won’t drive all night.” 

“No, you won’t. Show me where you parked. Come.” 

“I’m not a dog,” you complain.

He walks a few steps ahead of you before he suddenly drops down on all fours and shifts back into a wolf. It’s a much faster change this time and doesn’t leave him panting. He huffs, shakes his body, and looks back at you. He barks impatiently when you don’t start moving and trots back, shoving his cold nose into your knees. 

“Alright, alright!” you sigh. Is this what sheep feel like when a herding dog snaps at their heels? Sawyer stays close the whole walk back, either behind you or right beside you. He growls at something in the dark twice, the sound making goosebumps rise on your arms, and hurries you along more insistently. “Well,” you tell him, fishing out your keys, “thank you for the escort. It was nice meeting you—” 

He leaps inside the moment you open the door. You stare in disbelief at the sight of him padding around in a circle in your passenger seat, sniffing everything as he goes. 

“Uh. Do you need a ride?” The only answer you get is a pawing motion. You don’t know what else to do, so you get in and start the car with a werewolf sitting next to you. You keep waiting for him to turn back and tell you where he’s going but he never does. He gets comfortable, sitting upright and tilting his head in a cute, dog-like way, examining whatever grabs his attention.

As strange as it is, it’s a quiet and peaceful drive. You turn on the radio very quietly, humming along under your breath. Sawyer is good company even when he doesn’t say a word. It’s reassuring to have someone with you and he’s endearing in wolf form, physically affectionate. He likes to rest his snout in your lap and lick your face at stoplights. 

It doesn’t stop the trip from weighing on you. You get quieter, smile less, taking deep breaths as reality sinks in again. “You’re right. I do blame myself,” you say. Then you laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, you don’t even know me and I’m just…”

Sawyer nudges against your shoulder. “Go on,” he seems to say. 

“You can’t even talk back, I’m not—” 

He does it again, nuzzling against you with the side of his face. He’s soft and warm, and his eyes are so big and sad, and the tears are coming all over again. 

“We started talking about it all the way back in high school. We didn’t really get it back then. It was just a fantasy. LIfe was so painful. Anything, anywhere would’ve been better than where we were. We held out because of that stupid fantasy. Promised ourselves and each other we’d find a pack someday, one that would take both of us.” The streetlights turn to smears of light through your tears and you quickly wipe your eyes. “We grew up. Things changed, and they didn’t. I gave up on the whole pack thing but Luke never did. And then one day, he was gone. Stopped answering messages, calls, everything. Worst week of my life. Then the first letter came.” 

You smile sadly just thinking about it: a musty, yellowed envelope, an antique that’d been collecting dust in some kind of pack storage building, wrapped with twine and labeled with a Quail Creek PO box for a return address. You only knew Quail Creek as a name you sometimes saw on a highway sign.

“Yarrow Meadow had picked him. I think he sent me seven whole pages, just talking about the commune and how it was everything we’d ever wanted and more. The wolves loved him. He said it’s rare that you get to write letters that early, or even at all, and he sent a lot of them. It took a few months before they let him visit because he was job training, basically. He was called a ‘hrefn.’ It sounded like a big deal. The next time I saw him, he was…”

Your throat constricts. He’d been so happy, smiling and misty-eyed like a newlywed, everything about him joyous and unburdened. You had always clung to each other so desperately but now he held you, steady and strong. He had shown you all of his marks like each was a trophy, bites and hickeys and suggestive scratches down his back. They were not like his old scars, the marks he always hid in high school with long sleeves and bulky clothes. He had asked for these. Had even begged, he whispered. He bore them proudly. 

That day, like every day he visited, you laid together in a heap of sweaty, tangled limbs and he whispered in your ear. Follow the creek. West from the boulders. Into the evergreens. I’ll wait for you at the end of the stones. He told you Yarrow Meadow was growing, that they wanted—needed—more pack humans. He’d gone wandering into those very woods where the memorial stands now, had sought them out and been welcomed with open arms. He had already told them all about you. All you needed to do was walk the same path. 

“I never went.” Your voice is a thin whisper. It hurts to admit. “I was so scared of being rejected. If they turned me away, then what would Luke do? Would he ruin everything for himself, just because of some stupid promise we made as kids? Would they even let him? Or would he stay, and I’d be all alone? I got cold feet every time I thought about it. Luke kept visiting. Kept telling me it’d be fine, it’d all be fine. I just had to go. I had to try. And I couldn’t. And the years went by, and the next thing I know, Quail Creek’s all over the news because the commune burned to the fucking ground, and Luke, he’s…”

His name was Samson Albinson. Twenty-four years old. Software engineer. Infiltrator-hunter. Every article and news show ran the same photo for a month straight of him being ushered into a police vehicle still covered in blood and ash. The trial had been excruciatingly long and highly publicized due to Albinson claiming membership with a prominent vigilante werewolf hunting group—a group which quickly denied any association, insisting he acted alone. To this day, you have no idea whether he was lying in the hopes of appearing righteous or if the hunters were just trying to save face. It doesn’t really matter. 

You’d gotten sick just listening to a journalist summarize his simpering argument in court, insisting he had gone to Yarrow Meadow to “inspire a revolution.” He’d waited until a busy festival night when the wolves were occupied, sharing his daring plan of escape with the pack hrefn in the hopes of rallying all of the pack humans, but the hrefn refused. There had been an argument. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone. It had been an accident. 

A fourteen stab wound, blunt force trauma to the head accident. A fire started in the main cabin’s den room accident. Six pack humans burned alive because the doors were blocked from the outside accident. Nine dead wolves ambushed from behind while trying to save them accident. Two more with intense facial trauma and defensive wounds on their hands and arms but no blood beneath their claws, as if they had been too shocked to fight back. An accident. 

Albinson fled from the commune in the commotion. He wasn’t familiar with the trail or how to get back into town, but one of the pack’s wolves found him. They might’ve been in shock, he recounted, or they might genuinely not have known he was responsible for what happened. Regardless, they fell back on instinct and guided him all the way to the road, staying at his side until emergency services arrived. He claims the wolf became aggressive when a police officer approached to take a statement. A paramedic at the scene disputed this. 

The wolf had been frantic but nonviolent, she said, until Albinson announced to everyone present that he was an infiltrator-hunter. She suspects he said this in the hopes of eliciting a response that would cause the police on scene to shoot the wolf. 

“Take the next exit,” Sawyer says. You jolt, startled by the sound of his voice. He’s in mostly-human form again, sitting tense and straight-backed in the passenger seat. He’s staring at the road ahead, lit by your headlights. “The sign said there’s a motel,” he clarifies, still not looking at you. “We’re going to stay there tonight.” 

“If I sleep in the car, I won’t have to pay—”

“I’ll pay,” he insists. 

You’re too tired, physically and emotionally, to argue. Sawyer doesn’t say anything as you pull off the highway and follow the glowing lights until you find a place to stay. He gets out of the car the second you kill the ignition and walks slightly ahead of you into the lobby. It only occurs to you that he’s not wearing anything when you’re under harsh fluorescent lights, staring at his toned legs and firm backside while he scowls at the front desk. The woman who comes scurrying out of a back room freezes mid-stride, stammering and wide-eyed until Sawyer clears his throat. 

“Region 12-A. Hoarfrost Falls,” he says. She nods stiffly and hides behind her computer. Sawyer looks back as if to make sure you’re still there, nodding sharply for you to come closer. You let out a sight and stand next to him. He strokes your head. Petting you, like a dog. 

You try not to think too hard about the weirdly pleasant feeling that gives you. 

“How are you paying for this?” you ask. 

He nods towards the computer. “Pack account. There’s a database with every registered pack listed. My alpha will get a notification and approve the charge.” His hand smooths down the back of your head and settles on your nape.

“And how many, uh, beds…?” the woman behind the counter trails off, avoiding Sawyer’s steely gaze.

“One,” he says. You have no idea how but he knows exactly when you’re about to argue and that’s when he squeezes, applying firm but gentle pressure to the back of your neck. You’re so startled that you lose your train of thought entirely. 

Sawyer takes the keycard and guides you to the room you’ll be sharing for the night. You don’t put up much of a fight when he steers you towards the bed, kicking off your shoes and collapsing without complaint. You watch with curious amusement as he inspects everything, pacing back and forth, sniffing the furniture, sticking his head into the closet like he seriously expects something threatening to be in there. “What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Making sure this is a safe place to sleep.” You hear him in the bathroom, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. He pulls back the shower curtain and opens all of the drawers. “Acceptable,” he mutters after a while. Seemingly satisfied, he comes back out and turns out the lights. The mattress dips beneath his weight. His eyes glint in the dark above you. He’s not laying down. 

“You’re not going to stand guard all night, are you?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as apprehensive as you feel. 

He doesn’t answer. You hear the slide of his fingers over the sheets, see his claws arch before he clutches his hand into a fist. Like he wanted to touch you, and then thought better of it. No louder than a whisper, Sawyer speaks your name in the dark. “I know who you are,” he says, hoarse like a confession. “I knew before you introduced yourself.” 

You sit up slowly. Sawyer watches you, gaze rising to follow your face, his expression solemn and unreadable. “What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Luke.” The way he says that name, the warmth and fondness and love he manages to convey in a single syllable, makes your heart ache all over again. “He told us all about you. All the things you survived together, all the mischief you got into together. What made you sad and what made you laugh. You were like a pair of doves, the way he told it. Inseparable.” Sawyer reaches out to cup your cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb so gently you don’t even feel his claw. “I promised him that the moment you set foot in our woods, you would be ours. We didn’t have the influence to hunt beyond our territory or I would have gone to get you myself.” 

He sees the guilt and misery start to bubble over, a sob tearing from your throat. He takes one of your hands and places it on his chest. You’re startled by the stiff, leathery texture of his skin, scars in streaks and patches that leave him hairless in spots along the shoulders and down his sides. He guides your touch across his old wounds, pressing your palm into every dip and ridge and bumpy spot, over his collarbones, down his arms, across his knuckles. You think of Yarrow Meadows and the night everything turned to ashes. You think about that werewolf who led Albinson all the way to safety, shielding him from blowing embers and burning branches, how it must have felt at the end to look him in the eye when he smiled with all that blood on his hands.

“You need to forgive yourself,” Sawyer says, each word spoken slowly, with solemn weight. He pulls you closer and you don’t fight, needing something solid and unyielding to keep you from falling to pieces. His arms wrap around you, your head cradled against his chest. You sob into his soft fur and scars. Sawyer says nothing but he makes soft, soothing noises, cooing and wordless whispers, his hand stroking up and down your back. You cry until you’re certain you have no tears left, wrung out and raw like an open scab. You can’t remember lying down but he’s wrapped around you, keeping you warm and protected.

“Sawyer?” you say, your voice reduced to a sad croak. 

He hums quietly, stroking your shoulder. What about tomorrow? you want to ask, but you never get the words out. You don’t want to think about it. Tomorrow, you go back home. But it’s not home, is it? It hasn’t been for a long time. “Get some rest,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?” You’re embarrassed by how needy you sound, but Sawyer kisses your cheek and hums again like it was the right thing to say. 

“Promise. I need to give you my alpha’s number. You’re going to text him, answer his questions.” Something dangerously close to hope quickens your pulse. Sawyer huffs and nuzzles his face into your hair. “In the morning,” he insists. “Time for bed.” 

But you push. You can’t help it. You need to know if this is real. “Why am I going to text your alpha? ” you ask.

“Because I have a promise to keep.” He pulls back so he can see your face, wiping the lingering dampness from your cheeks and pressing his lips to your forehead. The way he looks at you makes you feel delicate, like something truly precious.

But even now, doubt starts to creep in. Hesitation. Fear. Can you do this? After everything, all this time and all this hurt, can you still do this? Are they going to want you? “Where…where will—?” 

Your first proper kiss is heartstopping and over too quickly. Sawyer’s lips move against yours like he’s been waiting years to taste you, coaxing you to match his hunger. He pulls away with a teasing nip at your lower lip, just hard enough to let you feel the sharp points of his teeth. You hear him inhale sharply. He rests his forehead against yours and drinks you in, sight and sound and your breath with his saliva on your tongue. It both steadies him and ignites even more wanting in his gaze. 

“Things are different now. I hunt where I please.” The next kiss is chaste, a quick peck at the corner of your mouth, but you hear something like a growl rumble in his throat. You look into his eyes and you see everything you used to dream about, all the love and desire you and Luke swore you would have someday. 

You cling to him, afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. Part of you is still afraid of this, afraid of how badly you want it, certain you don’t deserve it. Sawyer holds you like he knows, firm but gentle, keeping you against his chest so you can hear the steady certainty of his heartbeat. 

There is something both pained, almost mournful, and relieved in his voice when he whispers, “You’ll be home soon.”

[rainybraindays]

Ships that are like "do you love me" "as much as someone like me can" make me froth at the fucking mouth

[popodoki]

Edwin would put his hand out, and the Cat King would be so ironic about putting his chin on that palm with that smug lil smirk of his, a lil raised eyebrow, even? What now, ghostie?

now chin scritchies, people

and this is how Edwin always comes out on top, we stan x

[ruvviks]

// oc deep dive.

tagged by; @aztarion and @devilbrakers, thank you so much!!

tagging; @mojaves, @deadrlngers, @ordinarymaine, @claudiawolf, @adelaidedrubman and YOU!

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

Nathan has a lot of fears stemming from his paranoia. Tangible ones such as getting captured or killed by MOBIUS, his friends walking away from him, or someone following him home; as well as more unrealistic ones, such as somehow ending up back in STEM, or getting stuck in a time loop, or a giant sinkhole all the way to the core of the earth opening up right at his feet.

It also happens often enough that certain actions don’t necessarily scare him, but make him uncomfortable or highly on edge (often with good reason); think of someone locking the door of the room he’s in– especially when it’s just them two– or getting too close without warning. He often fears people he gets too close to will end up treating him like the Administrator did, which is why it takes a while for him to let Sebastian get any closer physically, despite warming up to him relatively fast.

A more uncommon fear he has is waking up one morning and having lost one of his senses or his ability to speak. Aside from the mental erosion that had become a growing issue among Union citizens, MOBIUS observed a similar kind of process in its agents who regularly jumped in and out of STEM for general maintenance and the like– presumably caused by the constant changes in brain activity, which more than often led to exactly what Nathan’s fear mentioned above describes. While he was among the agents who worked both in and outside of STEM on the Union environment, he was lucky enough to never suffer the consequences.

Lastly, he is deadly afraid of Anima. Despite not having shown any other symptom of succumbing to the STEM domination process, Nathan would have started seeing her around sometime before Lily vanished– presumably got her attention after some of his escapades in the secret labs in the Marrow– and he has not been able to sleep soundly in STEM ever since. While his fear of her mostly acts up when he’s in a STEM environment, it definitely translates over to the real world as well; during bad mental health episodes he has auditory hallucinations of her, and she makes regular appearances in his nightmares too.

Do they have any pet peeves?

When people are too passive. Nathan can’t stand it when he’s expected to initiate everything, from conversations to taking action, both in a work context (scheduling meetings, deploying new code) as well as personal context (scheduling to hang out, doing household chores). He also doesn’t like having to constantly ask people to do what they’re supposed to do– though this irritation more than often extends a little too far, to things he is expecting of people but never told them about.

Loud and unexpected noises, especially when done on purpose. Fireworks would be a great example of this, and they piss Nathan off no end. He gets snippy when people raise their voice at him for no reason, or when they keep banging their fist on a surface to get others’ attention.

Getting cut off in traffic. Nathan’s road rage is easily awakened and he can get a little drastic with it. His reflexes are fast enough to brake on time to avoid ending up in someone’s trunk, but will in that same breath speed right back up to crash into them on purpose as revenge for pissing him off.

What are three items you can find in their bedroom?

A large ring binder full of old code snippets, notes from various projects he worked on back at MOBIUS, and all his research ranging from neuroscience all the way to electrical engineering. Nathan is a little old-school in that regard– he’d much rather have all his research physically with him than save it all to some online storage platform and risk losing it like that.

A jigsaw puzzle, made entirely out of different pieces that he’s collected over the years (stolen from others’ puzzles, found in various locations, stolen directly from the store, etc). The full piece would total up to nearly 2000 pieces, though it is still missing a large chunk in the center; the result is an abstract piece containing mostly darker colors, though with various bursts of color scattered around like flowers in a field. Nathan isn’t the artistic type, but the project keeps him busy and he considers it a type of self-expression.

The knife he killed his parents with when he was sixteen years old. He’s not entirely sure why he kept it all those years– perhaps to remind himself what got him to where he is now, or because it’s the only thing he still has from that time of his life. Either way, it’s kept safe in the top drawer of his nightstand, easy enough to reach in case someone breaks into his apartment.

What do they notice first in a person?

First: State of mind, overall mood. How approachable do they look; can he afford to lower his guard or does he need to tread with caution, can he get close without worrying about a knife to the stomach or should he keep his distance? Nathan rarely shows immediate interest in someone’s overall personality, he would rather want to know which of their emotions he’s gonna have to deal with during their interaction(s).

Second: Body language. Ties in with the first thing mentioned– cautiously watching for threats, waiting to see if they make a move to touch (or harm) him so he can step out of their range. But it also extends a little further; Nathan tends to mimic others’ body language in conversation to make himself appear more approachable. If someone gestures a lot, he will do the same.

Third: Their smile, if relevant. Smiling is an eye-catching action to him, since he’s not one to quickly do so himself. It’s attractive to him; if someone smiles at him, you’ll be able to catch him staring.

Fourth: Scars, and other (skin) details. Nathan isn’t one to ask about them, of course– but they’ll catch his attention anyway, for a brief moment, since some of them already tell a story on their own even without words.

Fifth: Nervous tics, if relevant. By this point he’s been in conversation long enough to pick up on the little details– a slight thrill or shakiness to their voice, a thumb running over the side of their index finger, a nose twitch. In some cases it eases his mind, knowing the other person isn’t confident in their conversation either; in other cases it sets off alarms in his mind, and makes him wonder if there’s more going on than what they’re showing or telling him.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

Physically: 7. While he doesn’t quite look like it, Nathan can take a hit or two. Most of his injuries happen in STEM– though with the way the technology works, the pain is very much real, and in some cases the scars are lasting even in the real world despite the damage having been sustained in STEM. To an extent, Nathan even enjoys the pain; it’s grounding for him, and keeps him from dissociating. When it gets too much to handle he simply drinks it away.

Mentally: 10. Nathan’s life has been a constant downward spiral; sent to a youth detention center after being wrongfully accused of killing his younger sister, and he was bullied relentlessly there, which continued until long after his release both at school and at home. At MOBIUS, he was required to work shifts in their HQ as well as in the Marrow, in the Union STEM environment– he was required to be mentally strong, or he would have already started suffering from mental erosion by long-term STEM exposure after his first few trips in. It takes a lot to break him (or so he likes to believe).

Emotionally: 4. Once you get past all the barriers, Nathan is pretty sensitive. He doesn’t deal well with rejection or misunderstanding, and is prone to assuming things are all his fault the second something goes wrong. It’s easy to upset him, though he won’t easily show; but the damage often takes a while to repair.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (Or freeze or fawn?)

Fight, more than often; though it may appear as flight at first, since Nathan’s favored combat approach is stealth and he will always find cover before doing anything rash. In certain cases, however, he would be more likely to freeze; especially anything related to Anima or an enemy type like her, where fighting is out of the question, and he knows that a single wrong move can mean his demise.

It translates to non-combat situations too– often willing to talk to people but his initial response is to get defensive and close himself off, and if not given a moment to regain himself it can lead to either fighting or freezing; biting back with similar ferocity or shutting down altogether, unable to pick up his rational train of thought in the heat of the moment.

It really depends on the type of confrontation, though; taking his own state of mind and who else is involved into consideration. He’s known to fawn when a situation starts feeling a little too familiar– generally surrounding the abuse he suffered from partially his parents, but mostly the Administrator.

What animal represents them best?

Wolf; bordering on dog motif, but cautiously so, requiring infinite patience and understanding to win his trust. Nathan is loyal and guarding to those he cares about, but he values his freedom– his choices and decisions are his and his alone, and anyone who tries to take that away from him will suffer the necessary consequences.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Curious, above anything else. Distant, reserved; surprisingly well-spoken, almost technical in his interactions with others as if the whole conversation is pre-programmed in his mind. Nathan isn’t necessarily cold towards others, but people would also not be quick to describe him as kind; though there is a certain warmth to the way he speaks and looks at people, despite the fact he very rarely smiles and isn’t one to quickly compliment someone else.

Appearance-wise, people tend to notice the white strands in his black hair first. They’re clustered at the front of his head, and match with the white hairs in his left eyebrow and the white eyelashes in the outer corner of his left eye. Nathan has very pale and rough skin, patchy but dark facial hair covering up most of his acne (/scarring); and part of the skin around his left eyebrow is lacking pigment, though it’s a little hard to see. He has very pale and bright blue eyes, which can be a little unnerving when staring at them for too long. Many people cannot maintain eye contact with him for very long.

Do they have any hobbies?

Nathan’s career is directly intertwined with his hobbies, and he enjoys working on code even long after cutting ties with MOBIUS. Software development, application optimization– his laptop runs on an operating system that he coded entirely himself, and whenever he has some time to spare he can be found tweaking and optimizing it and adding new features.

To no one’s surprise, he’s a gamer. Shooters, roguelikes, survival horror– he does not play all too often as his schedule often doesn’t allow for it, but he generally doesn’t have a hard time playing on higher difficulties and enjoys the challenge. Nathan has tried his hand at game design and development too, but stopped quickly when he found it too similar to developing the Union environment in STEM.

And last, surprisingly, would be writing. Journaling, some sort of attempt at poetry, or articles he would want to send in to some website or appropriate magazine but never does– a lot of Nathan’s writing is for his eyes alone, but it helps as an outlet, it keeps him grounded. For a while after leaving MOBIUS, he worked on writing tech manuals for various employers to earn some extra cash, which also ties directly into his interests.

[twojamie-o-clock]

Steven & Sara & Jamie should hold hands and dance in a circle over guilt of feeling like they’ve deserted idk

[ragnarockz]

I feel like a little feral fucking creature with foam at her mouth like hey! Have this, too! 👋🏻 😵‍💫

Alice/Agnes and THIS thought

Agnes tried her hardest to walk and move as quietly as she could back into her and Alice's room. Nicky had finally fallen asleep, waking up in the middle of the night with tiny sobs of hunger. Agnes was happy that he was both a good eater and sleeper; drifting off to sleep the second he unlatched from her.

She padded into the room, hands cupping her breasts against her tee shirt. The comforter was still pulled back from when she got out of bed; letting her get back right in. She got herself down on her back and pulled the covers up halfway. Her hands went back up to her chest, cupping her breasts once more.

It was times like these she wished her and Evanora had a better relationship. She wished she had someone to ask about motherhood; all the little things she didn't think would ever cross her mind that she now dealt with every day. Breast feeding was one of them. Luckily enough, Nicky latched on right away at the hospital, and the nurses and doctor were beyond happy. He was able to suckle without any issues and, therefore any feeding worries were quickly put out of Agnes' mind.

But god, she thought, did she wish to know what to do about the ache in her chest, the weight. Her body had changed, that she knew, but there were just certain things that threw her off. She let out a sigh as she felt another pang in her breasts. Had he drunk enough? Should she go back into his room?

Alice rolled over so that she was now facing Agnes. She looked so peaceful in her sleep, Agnes thought as she looked down at her with admiration. She looked safe here, comfortable. Agnes watched as Alice opened her eyes and gave a sleepy smile,

"Hey, you..."

"Hey you, yourself...sorry I woke you, I was trying to be quiet..."

Alice yawned softly, shaking her head against her pillow. She smiled lazily at Agnes,

"Don't be sorry... you're doing your job as a Mom..."

Agnes beamed, nodding her head. She felt another pang and hitched her breath; Alice's eyes opened fully from the sound,

"Are you ok? Agnes?"

Agnes nodded her head, massaging her breasts slightly through her shirt. Alice's gaze moved from Agnes' face to her hands, watching the circular movements at she gropped and cupped herself. Alice licked her bottom lip,

"You should lay down, sweetheart...let me help you..."

Agnes' eyebrows shot up as she stopped moving her hands, holding in wait to see what Alice was going to do. She slowly laid back down onto the bed, her head hitting her pillow. She looked over at Alice and then up at her as she got closer, sat up.

Alice's hands went down to the hem of Agnes' band tee, pulling her shirt up until her breasts were fully uncovered. She knew her breasts were easily a cup bigger than what they were before Nicky, something Agnes disclosed with her when they went through her garbage bag of old clothes. Bigger and fuller; softer to the touch. Alice's curious hands moved down to cup them both, playing with the weight.

Agnes moaned in both arousal and relief. It was nice to feel the weight be lessened and to still be desired through motherhood. Alice hadn't turned away from her or thought any lesser of her; didn't see her as any less masculine just because her breasts were full with milk to feed her baby.

Alice bounced them in each hand, cupping from right underneath the gentle, soft curve. She watched as Agnes' nipples went hard from being touched, being loved. Alice smiled as she scooted a little closer, which allowed Agnes to bring her left hand around Alice's waist.

"Alice...."

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Agnes kept her gaze into Alice's eyes, quietly pleading with her to do what she wanted, to explore. Agnes nodded her head before she gently closed her eyes; waiting to feel what happened next.

Alice's pointer and thumb fingers moved up to pinch Agnes' erect nipples; pinching ever so gently. She watched as pearls of white milk bloomed from her nipples and dribbled down her breasts; following the curvature.

Alice moaned at the sight, turning herself on. She had been more intrigued at the thought of this more so than she was having a preexisting kink to it. And now? Squeezing and gropping; pinching and cupping Agbes' painfully swollen breasts, was sending new flares into her brain. It was so intimate and so natural; something that was so instinctual. The beauty and simplicity and complexity of a woman's breasts rocked Alice to her core.

Agnes' eyes opened and dared to look at Alice's face. Agnes spotted the age-old tell of arousal on Alice's face, and instantly, Agnes fell relaxed into Alice's touches.

"You want a taste, sunshine? There's enough..."

Agnes hadn't realize the words coming out of her mouth until she watched Alice's body and head bend down towards her chest. Alice didn't waste anytime; savoring this moment between them. Her mouth latched onto Agnes' left nipple. She let her tongue swirl, tracing around the areola before licking the nipple directly.

Agnes' back arched upwards off of the bed; right hand flying down into her boxers to touch herself. She waited for Alice to start sucking; waiting to feel her milk flow before dipping her fingers inside of herself.

Alice complied, sucking slowly, gently at first. She felt the milk flow into her mouth. She was tasting another part of Agnes now; not her mouth, not her saliva. Not her sweet sweat between her breasts nor her cum on her fingers. This was something else; something Alice would never have dreamed of in her life.

It was intimate and romantic. It was revealing and raw. Something Alice knew was linked to Agnes' push and pull with her femininity and masculinity.

Alice moaned against Agnes' skin to show her, tell her she was thankful; that she was without a doubt turned on.

Agnes kept fingering herself, following Alice's lead in time with the sucking. Her brows were furrowed in concentration; getting closer to her orgasm. This was so unexpected, so unscripted in her and Alice's relationship, and yet, Agnes felt like they had found an unspoken turn on between them.

Alice got her fill before letting her lips release Agnes' overworked nipple. The cool air hit Agnes' wet skin, making her moan as she gave a final pump of her fingers. She moaned loudly as she felt the release from her core coat her fingers. She pulled them slowly out of herself; out of her boxers.

Alice stared at Agnes' fingers with hungry eyes, and Agnes saw it, recognized it. Without a word, she brought her hand towards Alice. Alice, with her eyes so hungry, so desperate, took Agnes' wet fingers into her mouth as well.

Agnes swore she was melting into the bed, their bed right then and there. Smothered by love and acceptance; a place to explore the unspoken. She moaned at the feeling of Alice's tongue now in between her fingers; eyes closing as she slowly...ever so slowly drifted into a soft and peaceful sleep.

[bonefall]

My birthday was a couple days ago, and I got to see my bio dad for the first time in a while. He surprised me with the fact that I have a little half-sister, whom I've never met and who was adopted about two years back. So, I wondered if any situations in BB mimic this or have a theme of "secret siblings" or "secret family"? Sorry if this is a weird ask; this blog is honestly just such a cool little place and I love the way you approach the subject matter and take the flawed misogynistic foundation of the WC books and make them so much better (JUSTICE FOR BUMBLE!!!). I've also learned a lot about healthy and unhealthy relationships here and am really glad for your deep dives on Squilf and Bramble. Thanks, Bones!

Not weird at all! I really like exploring all the little nooks and crannies of complicated familial dynamics. I think one of the untapped strengths of WC (that the writers seem to be unaware of) is how their MASSIVE cast allows them to present all sorts of unique dynamics. So I like to pick up on it, since they don't.

For secret siblings...

I'm pretty heavily leaning towards Ambermoon being adopted by Wildfur, as a surrogacy. Something feels correct about it. Especially since Icecloud is getting retooled into a post-Battle of the True Eclipse birth, and a major supporting character in AVoS-era stories as a friend of Alderheart.

Thinking about it, I should zoom in and expand this. Maybe have Icecloud, somehow, acquire forbidden knowledge that would invalidate the Queen’s Rights and he (transman) struggles with if he's going to use it to expose his parents as an excuse to help Ambermoon.

(Especially since Ambermoon and Icecloud are basically nothing alike. Amber is independent, bold, and vain. Ice is jessie pinkman big-hearted, disorganized, and deceptively meek if you look past his "chill" demeanor)

But that's wip-- there's also Breezepelt and the Three, who are going to have an actual friendship. In particular I can't unsee Breeze and Lion having a deep one. I know I commit the Cardinal Sin of borderline himbo-ifying Lionblaze in BB, but I can't help it.

Hollyleaf ended up nabbing a bunch of his most violent roles to make her villainous descent smoother narratively, so BB!Lionblaze's story ends up being more focused on Ashfur's abuse, comic relief with cats in other Clans (something that the very serious Jay and Holly have a hard time providing), and the emotional fallout of the big reveal and Bramblestar's turn on them. Breezepelt slots neatly into that.

They were friends. Lionblaze's whole life came down around the reveal, everyone looking at him and his siblings differently, like they're suddenly something terrible. Why can't we find a silver lining, Breezepelt? Why can't we call ourselves brothers if the whole world is going to do it anyway? So much is changing, but THIS doesn't have to, we will take their weapon and turn it to armor, my ally, my friend, my brother.

(and when Breezepelt is lashing out at the three because of the Dark Forest's influence, Lionblaze is there, taking the blows and trying not to give in to the impulse to send him flying with a single paw)

There's also Harespring and Kestrelflight of WindClan and Owlclaw of ShadowClan. All of them are from a single litter between Whitewater and Mudclaw. She was going to raise the three of them alone as ShadowClan cats, but when the sire was smote, Whitewater felt they were cursed.

She was able to give the oldest two to their bio-uncle, Torear, but the weather was so bad that day and the runt was so sickly and small that it surely would have killed him. I don't think Owlclaw ever finds out why his mother always treated him with suspicion, but it did mess him up horribly.

Over in BB!DOTC, Thunder Storm is getting more half-siblings earlier. Clear Sky and Falling Feather had two daughters-- Pale Sky and Tiger Sky.

I want to explore the way that the various stages of Clear Sky's life acted on his kids. How any little curiosity Thunder Storm had about the life he might have had if he wasn't abandoned is crushed by seeing kittens who weren't. How Clear's favoritism of his oldest child set the trio against each other from the start. How this idea of "love" is toxic yet intoxicating.

It feels good to be the golden child. The power it gives you over his sycophants is satisfying. To know you, and you alone, have what someone else craves. Problem is, that's conditional, and it's cruel.

What Thunder Storm learns from his time with his biodad is that Clear Sky is not his father at all. He's taught him exactly what he DOESN'T want to be. There may be similarities-- in temperament, in physical prowess (though BB!Thunder is three-legged, he's still ripped), in taste and senses. But Thunder Storm's father is Shaded Flower.

(BB!Gray Wing died in the first book, rescuing Shaded Flower from being trampled by a horse. Xey're a patron of wisdom, Shaded Moss is taking the role of fatherhood to Thunder)

His sister is Rainswept Flower. His mom is Bright Storm. If there was a bond he could have had with Tiger Sky and Pale Sky, it dies simply and cruelly on the knife they used to cut each other out.

Pale might have wanted to mend it, she was the gentler one. But she dies in the First Battle along with her mother. Tiger Sky is too stubborn to accept any help, should Thunderstar offer it, and Thunderstar isn't in the business of begging for others to like him.

Naturally I'm lowkey obsessed with them lmao. I need to make a BB!DOTC overviewww