Private Territory ShadowClan momma told me all of this is just a place we have to settle for 𓍊𓋼𓆏𓋼𓍊 — tick

[F l e a p a w]

TRIGGER WARNING

Depressive Thoughts, Self Harm

-

The branch swung back at her fast—faster than she expected. Fleapaw tried to avoid it, twisting her body at the last second, but she was still too slow. The thin branch whipped across her face, a sharp sting blooming along her cheek. Punishment for her mistake.

Too slow, again.

She spat at the ground, her whiskers twitching as pain throbbed along her jaw. "Do better, Flea." She muttered under her breath. No excuses.

After a few beats, she swiped again, harder this time, sending the branch flying back—and immediately, it snapped forward in retaliation. She jumped back, but her paws slipped on the peat, throwing her off-balance just enough that the wood whipped her leg.

"Aaah—fuck! Ow dammit!"

Her breath sputters, pain blazing up her hindleg as she limps away from the blow. She flicked her leg out, shaking off the sting.

Flea sighed loudly, tail lashing. The frustration was smothering her, wrapping around her like fog. Why wasn't she ever good enough?

She didn't want to be out here, batting at branches like an idiot, getting her hide battered. But what else could she do? Possumgrin wasn't teaching her shit. He didn't care whether she woke tomorrow and he was one apprentice short or not. Fleapaw was starting to wonder if he ever planned to train her at all.

And she was running out of time.

But fine. Whatever. If he wanted to be like that, then she'd just… teach herself.

The marsh was just as good a training ground as any. Better even. The low-hanging branches forced her to stay quick, light on her paws. The mud made it harder to move, make her legs burn. That had to mean something. It was hard, and training was supposed to be hard, so maybe that meant she was getting stronger.

She'd been helpless the last time she fought—tossed aside like a rat. Not strong enough, not fast enough, not anything enough. The rest of ShadowClan treated her like fodder. Useless. Sacrificial.

Next time she fought, she would be better. They would see. She would make them.

Even if she had to do all of it alone. With a sharp inhale, she lashed out again, claws clipping the branch, sending it whipping back—

Right into her fucking face.

A brutal crack against her muzzle, followed by a burst of hot fresh pain. Fleapaw stumbled back into a puddle, hitting the ground. Cold water splashing up to drench her from nose to tail. Fleapaw grits her teeth, whiskers dripping, writhing in the mud as her face pulsed. She heaved, a tremor running through her soaked frame.

Why is this happening to me?

"Can't I catch a fuckin' BREAK!" She snarls, lashing out at the ground with her back legs. She wants to scream. The branches hurt, but the frustration was the worst part—it clawed at her ribs, raking all her guts into a pile—rearranging her from the inside out.

Her eyes fluttered, the marsh flickering back into view. A steady stream of blood trailed from her muzzle, dolloping the ground with flecks of red—from her nose? A cut? Oh, fuck it. Did it even matter?

Her chest was tight, like something was caged beneath her ribs, trying to tear its way out. A sharp sob forces through without warning, and she shoves her paws against her face, furiously scrubbing at wet eyes.

"Noo…"

Not this shit again.

Less than anything we dream on

FLEAPAW

7 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson

Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.

@Tickpaw

We'll continue to be disappointments

 

[Tickpaw]

TICK

What have they done to us?

Tickpaw hadn't been able to find his sister anywhere in camp. He'd run into Lost and Webpaw, chatted with them for a bit, but… no Flea. He'd spotted her lazy excuse of a mentor, Possumgrin, who, as usual, did nothing but deny his sister real training. But Fleapaw herself? Nowhere to be seen. Probably ushered her off again. His gaze had turned cold as he shot the tom a glare before moving on. When it became clear that camp held no trace of her, he finally slipped away, nose to the ground, following the all-too-familiar scent of his littermate.

Then he heard a sound.

A sharp, cracking whip of noise. His ears flicked up. His pace quickened. Was she in danger? His heart stammered against his ribs as his body moved on instinct, breaking into a full sprint. Hackles bristling. Teeth baring. Muscles coiling, ready to lunge at whoever had dared bring harm to his sister... Not on his watch. He burst through the undergrowth, claws digging into the dirt as he skidded to a halt, expecting a fight, a foe to sink his teeth into.

Instead, his gaze landed on her.

Fleapaw.

Crumpled on the ground. Crying.

All aggression drained from him in an instant, his stiff posture melting into something else entirely. Worry. His breath caught as he stepped forward, slow and careful, lowering his head to gently nudge her ear. " Flea…? " His voice was quieter now, laced with concern. His frown deepened.

" What's going on? What happened? Who hurt you? "

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[F l e a p a w]

TRIGGER WARNING

Depressive Thoughts, Body Dismorphia

-

The muck beneath her is cold and wet. Fleapaw sobs through clenched teeth, her breath shuddering as she struggles to scoop her frustration back into the box she's kept locked up for so long. But it's like trying to hold water in her paws, slipping through her grasp no matter how many times she tries. And the more she tries to contain it, the worse she feels, the more frustrated she is.

Her body—weak, useless thing that it is. It doesn't listen. Fleapaw wishes she could strip herself down, hollow herself out, carve away the parts she hates and reshape them into something better. An empty wish. She knows there is no changing who she is, not without the part that is her going away. Still, she clings to that desire as tightly as she can.

Her breath flutters—short, sharp gasps. The air clawed at its throat like some kind of small animal.

She's so tangled in the storm of her own mind that she doesn't hear him approach. His touch startles her, and she pulls away sharply. Her eyes are wild as she looks back but soften once she realizes who it is. Frantically, she wipes at her face, as if he hadn't already seen. "No one." The words are sharper than she means them to be.

She sniffs hard, but it sends fresh throbs of pain through her nose. Blood trickles down her chin in a stream, making ripples in the puddle at her paws. Fleapaw sucks a quivering breath, forcing herself upright, even as her body sways with the effort. "I—I'm fine." She grunts. I have to be.

She's supposed to be tough. Someone they can rely on. Now they have mentors of their own, and the idea of them growing without her… If she gets left behind… If one day they don't need her anymore… Even to imagine it now, it makes her feel so very small.

"I was just—training." Flea steadies herself, already setting her sights back on the thin branch that pokes out of the ground. It's easier that way. If he leaves her alone, then she can pretend that things are the way they've always been.

"Just go back to camp, okay?"

Less than anything we dream on

FLEAPAW

7 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson

Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.

@Tickpaw

We'll continue to be disappointments

 

[Tickpaw]

TICK

Well, hold on, my darling, this mess was yours now your mess is mine

His sister was sobbing. Not the quiet kind, not the soft sniffles or silent tears, this was the kind of crying that shook a cat to their core. The kind that had been held in for far too long, building and building until it tore through her like a storm. Heavy, wrecking sobs that racked her entire frame, threatening to pull her apart at the seams. She tried to hide it. But there was nothing to hide. He had already seen, already felt it, and he thought no less of her for it. Tickpaw simply leaned in, brushing his cheek against hers in quiet reassurance before gently rasping his tongue over the wound on her face, ridding it of blood. Tangy. Familiar.

" You're not. " His voice was soft but firm. " And that's okay. Nothing wrong with not being okay… just so long as you get back up on your paws and throw 'em a glare. " He studied her, tilting his head slightly. Something was eating at her. Gnawing at her. It wasn't just the wound, it ran deeper than that. She was holding something in, bottling it up, carrying it alone. Training…

Tickpaw scoffed, rolling his eyes before bumping into her with a huff. " No chance, furball. You're stuck with me. Remember? Always and forever. Your mess is my mess. " His hackles lifted slightly as he met her gaze, narrowing his orange eyes. " Who hurt you? " His voice was lower now, edged with something sharper. " And I don't mean the wound on your face. I mean the one I can't see. Who hurt you? What happened? "

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