#Fuzzball wc

[eggfeather]

fuzzball

[antfur]

Fuzzball

since it IS Fuzzball, you know i had to get sillay w his design. he kinda looks like a yorkie, which i think is rly funny.

you just know Jayfeather lives in fear that one day this delightful creature will return

[transmoonpaw]

what a little creature

[lemnnshark]

"Fuzzball is a little, fluffy, soft and thick-furred splotchy ginger tabby tom with yellow eyes."

[letyachan]

685+686+687+688+689.

[yumequeenbr]

237#fuzzball

[noryswarriorsdesigns]

a goofball!

[disgruntleddemon]

What did buster/rippletail (shadowclan) seen react fuzzball as? Did buster seen fuzzball as his sidekick or sibling figure or platonic friends or platonic partner or child figure? :]. I'm am so invested in your headcanon/alternative universe (au) story of buster. The way you interpret his story is just more interesting way more explainable and deep lore than the books.

hjkjhghj for some reason tumblr didn't show me the notification for this???

anyway,, thank you sm!!! i love coming up with hcs/aus, so i really appreciate it!!

i think Buster has a hard time fitting in with other kittypets. while this is the life he wants, sometimes it's hard to beat clan conditioning. and, growing up with a much tougher life, he often feels much older than kittypets, even if they're the same age.

he thinks Fuzzball is kind of annoying, but endearing with his earnestness. he often feels jealous of his naivete. while he can never forget clan trauma (like the df battle n stuff), or the horrors of the thing, he feels like he can live a bit vicariously through the kittypets, and Fuzzball especially.

it takes awhile, and help from cats like Zelda, Loki, and Velvet (cause i hc he's close to Velvet), but Fuzzball is eventually able to get Buster to let his guard down and just play. he doesn't like roughhousing, it's too close to fighting, but bouncing around a mouse toy, tag, just rolling around and being silly, etc, are all on the menu.

when Fuzzball brings back Alderheart's half remembered message, Buster gets super paranoid and doesn't leave his house for a few days. sure he misses and loves his family, but he can't face them like this.

Zelda and Loki explain a bit of what happened to Fuzzball since he's super confused, and made him promise never to bring it up. Fuzzball tries to make subtle encouraging comments to Buster, but they're pretty overt lmao. Buster often deals with a mixture of appreciation for the support, anxiety cause he doesn't wanna remember his past, and minor annoyance about it.

in the end tho, Buster does learn to trust and enjoy the company of neighborhood cats more and more <3

[warriors-pride]

Mousewhisker is aroace, multigender, marblic, and a trans man

Fuzzball is Diamondian, centrigender, and has tertiary attraction

Stemleaf is agender, demirose, and bi4bi

Briarlight is Pansexual, juxera, and idemromantic

Smudge is bipan, centrigender, and aroallo

Hazeltail is iliosexual, queerplatonic, and angled aroace

Rootspring is Stellian, alloace, maverique, and queerplatonic

Pebbleshine is reciprosexual, cupioromantic, and citrinian

All w/ Sorrelgaze art if possible!!

[ljesak]

[mist-dancing]

Okay okay, i am seeing alotta replies and now i’m curious

Doesn’t have to be canon, and it’s not “the best one” which ship is YOUR favourite.

[marmosetpaw]

[exocynraku]

velvet, fuzzball

[wicked-west-cats]

Originally from Boulderclan, Rabbitpelt left to join Viperclan after forming a close bond with Wolfstar when the two were apprentices. Soft and coddled by her mate, she rarely ventures far from camp and has taken up the role of a permanent queen to keep herself busy. Her gentle and kind hearted demeanor makes her an excellent foster queen to kits and midwife to other queens.

As he's gotten on in years, the clan has begun to consider Rabbitpelt as a mother to the entire clan. When not assisting the queens or kitsitting, you may also find him escorting the apothecaries and assisting with gathering herbs and moss. On rare occasions, Rabbitpelt is often the cat chosen to accompany those who must cross clan borders. This is both due to his reputation of being an overall good cat and his ability to diffuse conflict.

[blueblossem2]

[0nonjudgement0]

ꕥ Ring of Thorns ꕥ

Chapter 2: Go Back From Wence Ye’ Came! (Do You Remember That Movie Too?)

Masterlist // Chapter 1

WC: 815

CW: John Price is a shitty husband

It’s only 8:06 am when you wake up, meaning you won’t have to lie to any of the other women in your small town. Well, at least not about what time you woke up. Carefully, you touch the spot beside you. Its blankets have also been pulled down, and it’s warm. He slept on the same bed as you, but not with you. He probably joined long after you had gone to bed, and left long before you woke up. His duffle bag still lays where he put it last night.

It’s 10:30 am when you finish getting ready. “Getting ready” includes taking a shower, letting the water boil you for almost an hour, get out, pull and pluck at any hair, pimple, blackhead, or bump for another hour, do your hair, even if you’re not going out, and get dressed. 

It’s 10:45 am when you finish feeding the two cats and start breakfast when he comes downstairs, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, both being the same green as his military-issued clothing. It’s become a staple in his closet. He shaved too, probably in the guest bathroom. It had become his bathroom after he started a fight about how much stuff you had in the bathroom—“This is what you spend my fuckin’ money on?”

He had never noticed that it was all for him. The serums, the moisturizers, the shaving, all to make sure you stayed nice for him. It was pathetic, really. You never expected yourself to be so tied and dedicated to a man. 

He hadn’t—still didn’t—care. Shattering glass sounded a lot like gunshots. You still had a piece of glass stuck in your foot from cleaning it up, but it at least gave you something to do. It’s not like any of it hit you.

“Whatcha makin’?” he hums. You wait for the sweetheart to be tacked onto the end. It’s quiet enough to hear him scratching the coarse hair on his beard. 

The sweetheart doesn’t come.

“I’m not sure yet,” you reply, looking down at the singular sliver of butter sliding around in the pan. 

Another hum from him, more condescending. Your throat tightens. 

“Would you like some tea?” you offer.

“No, I’ll boil some. You make it too sweet every time,” he scolds, followed by the sound of  him rustling through the pantry and cabinets. That's what has replaced sweetheart.

Your heart squeezes, threatening to blow apart and lodge itself in every muscle fiber.

Excusing yourself to grab eggs from the chicken coop, you weep for a moment with the feathery animals as they worriedly cluck around you. Don’t weep, they pray. You don’t even have to give us carrot scraps.

It’s a silent breakfast. The omelets on each of your plates seemed to be the most interesting thing. Two-face and Dolly gather under the table, asking for a piece of bacon and a lick of cooked egg. They both migrate away from John when he shoos them away. You look down at the pair, their pleas quieting into solemn small talk, before looking up at John. He catches your eye, mid sip of orange juice. His movement doesn’t pause, following through with the swing of setting the glass back down. 

In another life, far from here, in central London, both of the fuzzballs would be climbing on him to lick at his beard to try and bargain for another piece after getting full plates. He’d sneak them more treats after. It was hard to believe that ever happened. 

It’s 11:45 am when you're washing dishes after breakfast that you give them each a full piece of bacon. The tears start before you can stop them when they both just stare and bat at it, Dolly giving a solemn mewl. I’m not hungry, she whispers. We already ate anyway, Two-face adds.

The rest of the day is a flurry of nothingness; pacing and fixing picture frames, folding blankets over and over, readjusting the rugs. John stays in his office, surrounded by the walls whispering  back his incessant murmurings. 

It’s 10:56 pm and you're refolding everything in your drawer, when a piece of indigo and sunshine peaks through from the bottom of one of the drawers. Pinching the pieces of lace together, folding the yellow over the midnight, turning light blue into magenta, all you can see are pansies. That's why he got you this set. 4th anniversary, covered in black and blue, hands frazzled to patch up the holes in the bruisingly bare fabric, as he called you his flower and peeled away your shame

He clears his throat behind you. Carefully, your feet shift to face him. His gaze lands on the set, then to your stomach, and thighs, the lingering cellulite and blemishes, the tissue made of lipids.

The set ends up crumpled in the very corner of your sock drawer again.