Bramblepoint And who's the boss?

Before his run-in with the white wolf, Cicero did not remember being afraid. He did not fear death, nor pain — Cicero did not know if it was because he was wired differently, but he had always enjoyed the sensation of pain, even as a small pup — and he had never thought that there would be anything to fear in his life. Perhaps he had feared losing Damien, and perhaps it was that fear that drove him, but as the other male sprang into action and jumped in front of his face, quick and energetic, Cicero felt protective and, somewhere deep down, afraid of what might come, of the tiny chance that something he did not wish for might happen. It was strange, for before the white wolf Cicero had never feared being seduced by others, had never feared having to face Damien and tell the love of his life that he had given in to lust. He had never seen it as a bad thing. He wondered why, then, he felt so dirty now.

Thatcher, then. "Cicero," said Cicero, never hiding his name. If he didn't outright tell them, they would find out sooner or later, anyway, what with the way he spoke. Others had always found his manner of speaking strange, but ever since Sheogorath had started rearing its ugly head, Cicero was glad to have his speech to remind him who he was. Cicero. Cicero relaxed, realising that the male seemed only playful, not a threat to him. "Thatch is surely a cheerful fellow, is he not?" Cicero noted as he watched the energetic and playful male in front of him. He considered asking what he was doing here or if he had any information on neighbouring packs — he didn't smell part of any, though — but for now, he would just throw himself at the conversation and see where it would go.