What color would Pangur be if she wasn't an albino?
she would’ve been……*drumroll*…… white!
the white-masking gene (W) is dominant in cats, meaning you have to get a recessive w from each parent in order to express other colours. both her parents were blue-eyed whites, and they produced a litter of ~5 normal white kittens and 2 albinos, one of which was Pangur
below is a pic of Pangur & a couple littermates (she’s at the back)
International Turtle and Tortoise Week 2017, Day 3 (Days 1 and 2)
Kids, you can join in the shell-ebration, too! No one is too young to learn about how awesome we turtles and tortoises are—or to start learning about how important it is to recycle and not litter! Make sure your trash doesn’t end up in the homes of turtles like the stunning yellow-blotched sawback or the adorable spotted turtle!
The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made her face her choice alone. But not in this one. She would ride to war and I would follow, even into death.
(just an AU inside my head where Clarke remains in Polis by Lexa’s side and Titus doesn’t think he knows best. Pike doesn’t abide by Lexa’s orders and Skaikru attacks the blockade. War seems inevitable …)
Arrow/LOT fic: time’s right but the clock’s wrong (O/F, OTA, 1/1)
If you like melodrama and darkness, have I got the fic for you.
Seriously though, I don’t know what the fuck this is. TW for blood and canon character death. Oliver/Felicity, OTA, Mature. Alternate ending to LOT 2x16. Title from Dessa’s “Warsaw.”
When Felicity comes to, she’s angry and scared and completely confused.
The last thing she remembers, she’d been captured and was on her knees in front of the man she’d vowed to kill. She’d been fighting pain in her legs, in her chest, wiping blood from her face, and then the lights had gone out, and she was back in the lair.
But the lair the way it used to be, before it all went so wrong.
And not only that, but that bastard Mick Rory was there holding her arm, telling her to take it easy, to look up, and that woman Sara, the one who was going to kill her, was holding the other arm, looking guilty and uncertain.
Struggling is involuntary, all instinct and reflex built over months of fending for herself, but she’s never really had the skills to make a difference. It’s a cruel irony that all her heroes are gone and that simple, useless Felicity remains.
“What the hell?”
She knows that voice. All the molecules in her body freeze at once; it doesn’t make sense, because the owner of that voice is gone, has been gone for over a year.
But it is him, somehow. “John?” she asks, not recognizing her own voice, weighed down with grief and disbelief.
John has his gun up, but he drops it immediately when he gets a good look at her, and his face goes blank. “Felicity? What…what happened to you?”