- Feb 18, 2023
- 381
- 55
- 28
anger makes you stupid . stupid gets you killed .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
Duskpool exhaled a drawn-out breath, wooly tail sweeping forward to curl around his bulky frame, pine needles, and other miscellaneous objects sticking out haphazardly. He’d begun the painstaking task of plucking them out, tongue rasping over a particularly rough patch of fur and teeth nipping at foreign objects, pulling them out with a few quick tugs, collecting a small pile beside him when another settled beside him, whether they were brushing pelts or a whisker length away, the smokey warrior didn’t take any notice.
His mind buzzed, conflict raging war within his head, expression unhelpfully blank, neutral save for the occasional wrinkle of his nose and burning molten twitching every so often when he tugged at his fur a bit too harshly. He stared at the object of annoyance, tail twitching faintly against his flank before billowing out beside him, wooly fur splayed out against the ground.
Mason’s situation was troublesome, drawing an entirely new sense of hopelessness. He wasn’t able to do much, not now, but it made his jaw ache, numb to the pressure, tongue pressing against clenched teeth. Those kits will need clan names, something Duskpool was at a loss. He hadn’t been part of the naming decision when his mate had been alive, curled in their make-shift nest in an old upwalker garden, whispers of the future, the smokey warrior had let his late wife do the naming, otherwise, they would have had a little radish running around, not that he wasn’t terrible, having suggested Lostmoon and Jaggedstorm, before ultimately thinking of Softdawn for Yukio, long gone from this world alongside his adoptive brother and mate.
He breathed, chest rattling with a deep inhale, and exhale, flank rising with the motion. “Ain’t had much good at namin’ youngsters, my late wife did most of the namin’.” He snorted in bittersweet amusement. Duskpool rarely talked about his wife, long dead and gone from this world, just like Shiori’s littermates, three daughters, gone before they could see the world. “What would ya name yer own small fry?” He spoke, biting the bullet, thoughts straying to the few names he’d thought of with Mason in mind.
He gradually returned to rasping a tongue over another patch of fur, this time his bad shoulder, nose wrinkling in muffled annoyance when Duskpool admitted defeat, choosing another patch—away from his shoulder, easing the trickling discomfort for another day.
His mind buzzed, conflict raging war within his head, expression unhelpfully blank, neutral save for the occasional wrinkle of his nose and burning molten twitching every so often when he tugged at his fur a bit too harshly. He stared at the object of annoyance, tail twitching faintly against his flank before billowing out beside him, wooly fur splayed out against the ground.
Mason’s situation was troublesome, drawing an entirely new sense of hopelessness. He wasn’t able to do much, not now, but it made his jaw ache, numb to the pressure, tongue pressing against clenched teeth. Those kits will need clan names, something Duskpool was at a loss. He hadn’t been part of the naming decision when his mate had been alive, curled in their make-shift nest in an old upwalker garden, whispers of the future, the smokey warrior had let his late wife do the naming, otherwise, they would have had a little radish running around, not that he wasn’t terrible, having suggested Lostmoon and Jaggedstorm, before ultimately thinking of Softdawn for Yukio, long gone from this world alongside his adoptive brother and mate.
He breathed, chest rattling with a deep inhale, and exhale, flank rising with the motion. “Ain’t had much good at namin’ youngsters, my late wife did most of the namin’.” He snorted in bittersweet amusement. Duskpool rarely talked about his wife, long dead and gone from this world, just like Shiori’s littermates, three daughters, gone before they could see the world. “What would ya name yer own small fry?” He spoke, biting the bullet, thoughts straying to the few names he’d thought of with Mason in mind.
He gradually returned to rasping a tongue over another patch of fur, this time his bad shoulder, nose wrinkling in muffled annoyance when Duskpool admitted defeat, choosing another patch—away from his shoulder, easing the trickling discomfort for another day.
thought speech
