fluffytheocelot

[fluffytheocelot]

Yayyay Carmen will finally learn what unconditional love feels like from a mother.

I LOVE the dichotomy of Brunt’s hugs turning from something comforting into something terrifying. and then Carlotta hugging her has no threat of betrayal or pain, just love and missing Carmen for twenty years.

Poor Carlotta meeting her daughter is gonna be like she’s trying to lure in a feral cat lmao. Like no no Carmen it’s okay. Hugs are not deadly. Yes you are welcome here. Look, there’s food and warmth and safety with no possible betrayal I promise. Just unconditional love.

If/when Carmen opens up to her about Brunt, Carlotta’s going to break into ACME and probably fight Brunt herself. I think she’d win somehow lol. And then come home and she and Carmen watch dumb movies all night.

Carmen: Hey where’d you go? And why are your knuckles all bruised???

Carlotta: Don’t worry about it mija 🥰

Meanwhile, Brunt is laying on the floor of the jail cell looking like a beat up looney tunes character.

This was great! It was a little hurt/comfort snack. Like a sour patch kid <3

Flash Fiction Friday

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Her Touch

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Triggers: PTSD flashbacks, mummy issues

Words: 405

@genderlesschaos @frozenwolftemplar @backofthepencil11 @explosiontheory @1morefrenchfry @that-thief-in-red @fluffytheocelot

(I know I’m 2 weeks late reading everyone else’s FFF’s but please be patient! I literally have not had the time ;-;)

The moment Player had said it, she’d flinched as if someone had just physically thrown her right back to where this all started.

“I can’t say it enough— Lambkins.”

The tail lashing of her tongue, the iron in her arms, the soul crushing flashes of fear, flight, and forfeit. She remembered once being wrapped up in the woman’s hold like it were a feathered blanket, like it were all the acceptance and pity and forgiveness she so desperately needed from this world… only to walk out of there with a heart now the rattling of a bell that never knew stillness. And lungs that were foreign to oxygen.

She couldn’t do it.

Dread chokes her heart from her throat every time it is outright said or pitifully tiptoed around by one of them. And in the pit of her stomach, this intense plague ravishes. Like someone forever had her soul gripped by the ear and held it, thrashing and sobbing in that lonely, bloodied basement. But her real, shaky lips, are to remain closed around the memory for its stupidity. Invalidated by age because she should be over it by now.

All Carmen knows for sure, when the murrain consumes her and she is on trial for all she’s done is she can’t feel like that again, not more than she already does.

Being solus would always be better (safer) than being hurt again. She’ll save them the trouble and never first ask to be loved.

She just couldn’t trust herself in the arms of another woman.

…but-

These hands are so warm, and tender— and when she wordlessly lets them wrap around her, her own tensed to the point of vomiting… they don’t change. A scent breaks into her nerves, one that could have been the honey and red dust smell of home. The arms shake, alarmingly, but not with malice or strain or murder but-

…grief. The woman sobs in the very way she felt forever welted into her soul. Her arms are loose, not heavy, as they lift her up over the alternative.

“I can’t say it enough, Red-” Chimes knowingly in her memory with a sympathetic ring to its laboured words.

The arms don’t squeeze, nails don’t claw, don’t even reach each other around her back and seal the only exit, they just cradle. Suddenly her soul has moved. She bursts into tears.

“Meeting your mother is just what you need.”

[fluffytheocelot]

Flash Fiction Friday 8/1/25

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Words: 1157 (it escaped containment quickly whoops)

Rating: T

Warnings: Canon (and not canon) character death

Takes place in The Last Wolf AU. werewolf dexter, shadowsan, and baby carmen.

@frozenwolftemplar @mmaricarmen23 @explosiontheory @backofthepencil11

Dexter knew the second the intruder entered the house. 

His keen ears picked up the near-silent creaking of wood. He could hear heartbeats and breaths that physically can’t be silenced, no matter what they did.

He continued through the house, Pup tucked safely in his arms. He kept moving, acting as if he weren’t at all aware he was being stalked. 

Dexter recognized the scent. 

Of course, VILE had noticed his “field trips” had gotten longer lately. 

He could admit he’d gotten sloppy the last few weeks. Between trying to keep outrunning Argent and the other hunters, grieving Carlotta, caring for their daughter, and trying to leave VILE, he hasn’t been at the top of his game. 

He knew Shadowsan was good; he’d trained the ninja himself, after all. Any other human wouldn’t have noticed he was there until it was too late. 

But Dexter isn’t human. 

He was probably among the last of his species, but that was neither here nor there. 

He also isn’t going down without a fight. 

So, as he turned his back to the closet, Pup at his feet, he calmly continued folding shirts into the suitcase. 

“If you’re going to kill me, Suhara, at least don’t do it in front of my daughter.”

He heard Shadowsan’s heart rate spike at being discovered and smirked to himself. 

Dexter heard shuffling and turned. He stared down his star pupil, ensuring Pup was behind his legs. 

“You’re here to kill me.” It wasn’t a question. 

Shadowsan, with one hand on his stolen katana, replied stoically as ever. “I was sent to ‘tie up loose ends.’” 

Dexter scoffed. All he wanted was to leave VILE behind; he couldn’t care less about spilling their secrets. 

Then, Shadowsan tensed, eyes flicking down to his shoes. Pup had snuck past her father to investigate the newcomer, her little hands tugging at the ninja’s pant leg. 

The discomfort on Shadowsan’s face dissolved some of the tension. 

Dexter sighed, a frustrated but fond ‘Mija’, as he knelt to scoop her up. 

“She… hasn’t met many people.” 

The little Lycan was endlessly curious about the world around her. He suspected her curiosity, combined with her werewolf senses, would undoubtedly lead her into trouble and general mischief someday. 

Dexter was looking at his daughter, but he still had an eye on Shadowsan. 

“If you kill me, what happens to her?”

He’d fought too hard, lost too much, for Pup to wind up in VILE, or, worse, a hunter’s grasp. 

“Nothing,” Shadowsan’s hand left the sword.

“I have done many things for VILE. But harming a child,” he paused, looking away. “...Or her father, will not be one of them.” 

Dexter’s eyes narrowed. He knew Shadowsan could still run him through with it within seconds. 

“If the other faculty finds out you let me go—” 

“They will send someone else who will not.” Shadowsan finished. 

“Why?”

Before Shadowsan could answer, Dexter’s head snapped to a different sound. 

Cars had pulled into the driveway, lots of them. 

He darted to the window, daring to glance outside. Red and blue lights danced in his vision as Interpol agents swarmed his sanctuary. 

“Mierda,” he swore.  

He bolted with Pup tucked close to his chest, Shadowsan close behind. Fueled by instincts and panic, his only thought was to make sure his daughter was safe. 

He found a closet, setting her gently inside. 

“Okay, Mija, we’re going to play a game. Let’s see how long you can stay quiet.” 

It was ineffective. She was scared, and could tell her father was scared. His daughter's crying had always tugged at his heart. 

Dexter looked around for something that might help distract her. 

His eyes landed on the matryoshka set on the shelf. A pang of grief shot through him. He had gotten the set for Carlotta not long after Pup was born, the vibrant red paint reminding him of his two favorite people's fur. He’d stashed the smallest with one of the many journals of Lycan knowledge he and Carlotta had written. When they’d realized Lycan numbers were quickly dwindling, they’d amassed as much information about their history as they could, trying to preserve it until Pup was old enough to do it herself as the Alpha. 

He shook it gently in front of Pup’s nose; it smelled enough of himself and Carlotta that it hopefully would calm her. 

To his relief, it did. Her tiny hands reached forward to hug it to her face, rubbing it against her cheek. 

Dexter kissed the top of her head, burying his nose in her soft curls, hoping he wasn’t saying goodbye to the scent he’d long-since committed to memory. 

I’ll be back soon, Little Wolf. I promise. 

He loved her. With every bit of his soul. 

He couldn’t say it enough. 

He might never see her again. 

He shut her in the closet, turning to Shadowsan, determined.

“If anything happens, promise me she’ll be safe.” 

Shadowsan’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. 

It was a lot to ask, Dexter knew that. But Shadowsan was his only option at this point. 

“Promise me, you’ll look after her.” 

Finally, Shadowsan nodded. 

And Dexter ran, slipping so easily from the role of a father back into that of a professional thief. 

Car keys were snagged as he darted past the hook, jingling silenced as they were shoved into his jacket pocket.

He made his way to the back of the house, climbing out of the window he’d so often climbed into to surprise his girls when he’d come home. 

He landed in a crouch, near silent even to his Lycan ears. 

His head swiveled, listening to the agents move away from him. 

He took his chance, running to the car. 

I have to lead them away. I can lead them on a wild goose chase, slip away, shift into wolf form, and be back with Pup. 

He’d gotten away with plenty of capers like this; now he had no choice but to succeed. 

For his daughter’s safety. 

He’d gotten so caught up in thinking about Pup, he nearly missed the warning CROAK! of a nearby raven before the Interpol agent spoke. 

“Stop right there!” 

He turned slowly, one hand up, pulling the car keys out of his pocket. 

The echoing CRACK of the gunshot made Dexter’s ears ring. 

His back hit the ground, gravel digging into his spine. 

His lungs rattled, breath coming in ragged bursts. 

The smell of his own blood filled his nose, drowning out any remaining scent of Pup. 

Everything was fuzzy. His vision distorted. 

His head rolled to the side. He could see into the window, where Shadowsan watched with wide eyes. 

He hoped that one day, Pup would know how much her father loved her. 

Because now, he wouldn’t be able to say it to her. 

Please, make good on your promise, Suhara. Keep her safe. 

She has a long journey ahead; she’s going to need a pack behind her.

[fluffytheocelot]

Your descriptions as always are IMPECCABLE. All hail the fancy words book lol

Carmen not feeling the same as she did before, like she can never return to how she used to be. VILE when I get you.

Also how she seems sort of out of it. Like she’s not fully all there. Blood loss will do that I suppose.

oh no shadowsan found her. ow.

And the part where he would’ve normally just Told her to get out of the water vs now when he goes in after her.

Beautiful angst as always <33

Flash Fiction Friday

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The Horizon

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Triggers: suicidal thoughts & extreme behaviours

Words: 689

@genderlesschaos @backofthepencil11 @explosiontheory @fluffytheocelot @1morefrenchfry @that-thief-in-red @frozenwolftemplar (post series whump wink wink)

Her knees are drenched. The liquid slimy and slug-like against her skin. The foreign rivets curl about her body chidingly, every soundless ripple of its figure a language of its own. She stares down at the neritic abyss and in her ears it gives its native tongue. A sirenic nothingness billows through her mind, caroming through the ridges of her soul and stinging every open wound on the way. The ocean laughs at her, it’s mouth is open, its tongue lapsed, and teeth glistening, but it meant nothing at all.

Her skin is jelly beneath its surface, the image crytogenic to her bruise coloured eyes. Distilled by its own stridulation, Carmen knows not whether below her knees are straight or gyrating, flexible or obdurate, nor blue or red.

The sun’s obnoxious reveille absorbs the ocean, painting it with wild, nihilistic brush strokes. The sun a blotch of spilt ink slowly dragging itself higher and higher into the sky beyond what she can control. It spreads its hysterical light over the bay, glaring at her with its teeth for eyes stare.

“Carmen?”

She is reminded of her own febricity.

She doesn’t turn. Her head is light. She doesn’t face him. But soon enough his noiseless approach is followed by a shaky reflection in the shallow water appearing beside hers. When she was five he’d have ordered her out of the ocean (to little success) to save his attire, but now his pants are unceremoniously drenched. Addled, she just barely resists the urge to turn to him and verify the madness. He makes eye contact through the waves instead.

His face is slightly twisted, engrossing itself in hers. It feels violating, his every method of care. She doesn’t deserve it. His brows are furrowed, temple creased, and eyes with an unsweetened ache that transcends the language of the bay.

She turns back to the horizon, spying the splotches of crimson gouging out the sky like it were a horror scene. It was a far cry from soaring across rooftops, booking red-eyes and feeling one with the world.

The sillage of her former self lingers, an itch against her skin, a specific scent that can never quite be washed off. The canorous and gentle melody vibrating the sand between her toes becomes a whining mockery. Her life was always a chimeric dream, it shouldn’t have been a wonder it mounted to this. But, she supposed, it would have been easier if she had arrived to nothing at all.

Shadowsan watches her through the water, gaze unmoving. She keeps her eyes tact to the rising sun, hoping it will blind her so returning to the husk of a warehouse behind is unnecessary.

But he doesn’t sheathe those katana-like eyes.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say anything, never really did anymore, maybe she was finally wearing him down. Or maybe he knew words were lies, feelings were curses, and keeping her alive is insensible. Shadowsan’s fearful silence says enough.

Did you…?

A heavy sigh.

The ocean mocks it, an aetivernal beat blasting through her mind like bolstering rays of sun. Did you, did you, did you, did you ki-?

The frigid and cold morning air choose that moment to break into her clothes. Blowing salt over her nose and eyes and drawing a hard shiver down to the failed thief’s core. Her bare body recoils, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t lift her bloody legs, doesn’t retreat. She would rather die in the ocean than live to another merciless sunrise.

Did she…?

Carmen notes the excruciating cry of her legs where a kitchen knife had been dragged like a rake down toward bone. The flesh ripped apart and wounds saturated with salt, still bleeding themselves dry, until her hands had been too shaky to go on, every sob was shed, and one step away from the ocean would collapse her. But her face is still as she turns pointedly back to the horizon, eyes creased silently as she watches the sun’s final journey to the top, lip between teeth. Waiting until Shadowsan notices the blood red muddled in with the blue.

Yes, she did.

[fluffytheocelot]

Flash Fiction Friday 7/25/25

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Words: 934

Rating: T

Warnings: Blood and violence

The Last Wolf AU, one of Carmen’s worst fears. 

@frozenwolftemplar @mmaricarmen23 @backofthepencil11 @explosiontheory Have some werewolf angst and hurt/comfort :)

All Carmen could see was red. 

She could feel it on her face, painting her lips, and running down her chin. 

It stuck her shirt to her chest, painting the fabric vibrant crimson. 

She could taste copper on her tongue, the metallic scent filling her nose and overwhelming her senses. 

Her fur coated her body, matted and sticky with her favorite color. 

Blood and viscera coated her surroundings as if a rabid animal had painted the walls with gore. 

“Carmen?” 

Her eyes flicked to the source of the voice. 

Her friends were standing there, terror across their faces. 

“Did you do this?��� 

“What?” Carmen looked back, trying to make sense of the scene around her. The details were fuzzy, and the scene kept shifting. Sometimes the body looked like one of her friends, but then it would morph into someone else. The environment shifted; a warehouse, a museum, a basement. 

“No-I-I don’t–I don’t know,” She stammered, choking on the red in her throat. 

Ivy pushed Player and Zack behind her. 

“What have you done?” 

Carmen, with the red caked under her claws, tried to reason with them, to show them she was still her; that she was still their friend. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened!” 

Her pack’s voices filled her ears, her worst fears coming to life. Her own voice grew frantic, desperate.

“This is what you really are.” 

“No, wait–”

“We can’t trust you.” 

“Stop!”

“You could snap and turn on us at any moment.” 

“No, I would never–!”

“You’re dangerous.”

“No, wait–”

“Stay away.”

“Please, I promise–!”

“You’re a monster.”

The word hit her so hard she thought she’d been shot. Or maybe she had been. She fell to her knees, something warm and wet trickling down her chest and joining the mess of crimson. 

She saw her reflection. 

Or at least, where her reflection should have been. 

A monster, tinted red in the growing pool of blood beneath her knees, stared back. 

A bipedal wolf; it had her eyes, her fur, her clothes. 

It moved when she did. 

Every twitch of the red-stained muzzle matched her own. 

She had done this. 

Had killed this person. 

Ripped them apart like paper. 

She could feel every drop of blood, could hear it dripping from her teeth and splashing below her. 

Her head was buzzing, her vision swimming. 

“-rmen? Carmen!”

“Carm, wake up!” 

***

Carmen’s eyes snapped open. Someone was pinning her shoulders down, shaking her. She shoved them off with a growl, tumbling onto the floor. She scrambled to her paws, not really registering anything except the need to get away. 

She backed away until her spine hit the wall. 

She curled into herself, claws digging into her biceps where she gripped her arms. 

Her fur stood on end, her tail twice its size. 

Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breathing short and quick. 

Her ears pinned back, eyes wild and unfocused. 

She growled and snapped at anything that came near her, every bit the feral and scared animal she was. 

All she could see were the terrible images from her mind. 

The worst part hadn’t been the violent scene. 

It wasn’t the blood sticking to her fingers and staining her teeth. 

It was that the people she loved most in the world were scared of her. 

Muffled voices filled the air, trying to get her attention. 

A weight settled on her shoulder. “Carmen.” 

Her eyes and ears flicked to the source of the voice. She growled again, low and on edge, her paw weakly reaching to shove the hand away, to no avail. 

Finally, she registered the scents in her nose. 

Wide, gray eyes finally landed on the figure in front of her. 

“Shadowsan?” Her voice was small and cracked halfway through the name. 

They hate me. They’re scared of me. I don’t know what happened. Please, don’t leave me too.

Carmen could only manage a choked sob instead of verbalizing her thoughts. 

Shadowsan gently pulled her away from the wall, wrapping her in comforting firmness but loose enough that she could get away if she wanted. He held her head, quietly muttering reassurances.

“It’s alright, you’re safe. Everyone is safe.” 

Her ears were still back, but more relaxed rather than stiff from terror. Her fur started to lie back down, heartbeat slowing to its usual quick pace. 

Carmen’s trembling form began to still, curling into the closest person she’d truly ever had to a parent.

Slowly, her mind stopped racing, the adrenaline faded, and she realized it was just a nightmare. Glancing over Shadowsan’s shoulder, she could see Zack and Ivy watching with concern. She could hear Player on the laptop, frantically typing away. 

It wasn’t real. 

There was no crimson coating her tongue, no red staining her muzzle. Her fur wasn’t matted with scarlet, her claws weren’t sticky with blood. 

Her friends weren’t looking on in horror. They weren’t telling her to go away; they weren’t trying to shield each other from her. 

A small wolf-like whine escaped her as she sank further into Shadowsan, shutting her eyes for the first time since she’d woken up from her nightmare. She squeezed her eyes harder against the visions of violence, gripping his shirt. 

Two more sets of arms wrapped around her. Without opening her eyes, she knew who it was. 

She’d know her pack’s scents anywhere. 

Carmen’s shoulders slumped, and a familiar purr rumbled through her chest. Her tail slowly began to wag. 

She was okay. They didn’t hate her. They weren’t scared of her. Nobody was going to leave her. She wouldn’t be alone. 

She’s safe.

[fluffytheocelot]

Uggghhhhhh I have assignments due Sunday and I need to work on them 'cause I haven't even started, but all I wanna do is scroll the KPOP Demon Hunters tag on tumblr and work on my fic.....

[fluffytheocelot]

quick, fun doodle of Player regretting going outside more

[fluffytheocelot]

Carmen baby it’s okay he’ll be fine 😹

She doesn’t know what to do when Shadowsan gets sick. She’s probably terrified. “This doesn’t happen, shadowsans supposed to be unstoppable!” Him being couch bound is a situation she’s probably rarely if ever seen before. There’s no protocol for this! What do you do when your parent ninja gets sick?!!

(“OH GOD SHADOWSAN’S DYING!” “He just has the flu” “PEOPLE STILL DIE OF THE FLU” “Carm”)

They made him watch magic school bus I’m dead shsksj. It’s giving Carmen Ideas lmao she would absolutely try to punch a virus

Aww he’s like “okay well this sucks. But at least they all care that I’m sick because they care about my wellbeing and not because they need me to do something”

Lol flu shots for everybody next year. Good luck dragging Carmen into Walgreens.

Flash Fiction Friday

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Almost Cured

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Triggers: nope :)

Words: 1086 (oops! This one was hard to cut down)

Anyone can opt in or out to tagging just lemme know :P

@genderlesschaos @frozenwolftemplar (you’ll love this hehe) @backofthepencil11 @explosiontheory @1morefrenchfry @that-thief-in-red

“How’re you feeling?” A drowned out voice drags him from unconsciousness.

A bad word which would be improper to verbalise, is the first thing to fall to his lips after… admittedly too long of processing the question. He shifts his head on the marshmallow-equivalent pillow and tries the eyes that felt near swollen shut beneath the weight of ailment itself. A quiet groan fills the room as he adjusts himself around the sound of a wince which didn’t mean to wake him, and now hovers guiltily in waiting.

Shadowsan cracks open his eyes a moment later, a thick wave of bile rolling through his newly risen senses. He moves his hand to rub the crumbs of sleep from his eyes when something obstructs it. Craning down but seeing little, it dawns on him that he has been, for lack of better word, burrito’d.

His gaze shifts toward the chef in question, brows and eyes creased to a point they might burst.

“Can I get you anything?” Spasms from her lips, visibly buzzing with an urgency to help what was a fight belonging to only his normally efficient immune system (though, if she could shrink down and physically subdue the virus, he has no hesitations that she would. No matter how risky that one school-bus cartoon programming Ivy seemed to adore had made it appear... kuso… he really must be ill if that was his own thought).

The ninja has little time to respond before the thief starts rattling off potential necessities— and non-necessities fast enough to make his head spin… well, more than it already was. Appreciative that he was for her concern, Carmen was not, in any manner, built for sickness. Had it been just the two of them around, he fears the ineludible mark on his grave ‘death by smothering’.

Quite possibly the only benefit to being so involuntarily lightweight, a feat he had once sworn himself off like it were a food group, was Carmen now had no reason to complain about his treatment now. Because he at least had the sensibility to listen and wait.

…she did not.

A sniffle, which he thought his normally acquiescent body would not find trouble in, startles a cough from his mucus thickened throat and lungs, creating a minor repercussion which causes him to lean forward spluttering for the cleanness of his airways. The thief snaps instantly to attention, and as if the moment weren’t humiliating enough on its own, she begins to hover around him and worry after every hack.

“I am fine.” He grits out when he can in an effort to preserve some distance between them. His voice far grizzlier and hoarser than he would have preferred. Carmen’s face only impossibly furrows, “I’ll get you more pillows.”

Not even a delirious blink is afforded from the man before he is staring at the blazing trail left in Carmen’s impossibly speedy wake. He hears a series of thuds in the storage cupboard not long after…

“She smothering you?” It could’ve been seconds to hours before Ivy, one eyebrow raised as she juggles three bowls (numerous waitress gigs paid off) and lowers them toward the coffee table as she asks him teasingly.

Truly, where would he be without these contributions? He gives a look he feels transcends words, (beginning to wonder if sickness had taken his ability to intimidate too).

Zack takes the freshly deposited bowl as Ivy claims her seat, cartoonishly licking his lips before diving in— the boy just millimetres before slurping the whole thing in a matter of minutes when he stops short, eyes piercing the two other bowls on the table.

“Shadowsan’s not eating?” He asks, brows furrowed to an increment of Carmen’s as he refers to his sister— as if the subject was not currently sat upright beside him and attempting to escape further hassling.

He doesn’t even have it in him to grimace at the mouthful of food, “Carm’s bowl is in the kitchen.”

So kind of them to give him 3 microseconds of dignity… if the thief even ate, that was.

On cue, Carmen makes her return known by plopping an assortment of blankets, covers, and pillows at his feet “in case he needs more”. Looking down at the already three thick sheets sweltering his figure, he decidedly did not.

Ignoring her, Shadowsan turns to the bowl of soup (…again) beckoning his attention. His growling stomach and dry, scratchy throat the only reason he collects the sample in his arms (…and Carmen. He did not want this argument again).

As he slowly minces his spoon through the assortment of meats and vegetables, the likes he may provide to an ill Carmen, the ongoing chatter begins to fuzz.

Normally he prided himself on being alert and involved, particularly in team discussions, whether he actively engaged or observed from behind a magazine. Though this time he allowed his woozy mind to wander.

The flavour, though tainted by the tyrannical mucus, is nice. Unlike Carmen, Ivy was more confident in the medical and caretaker field having raised her brother on the streets. Though not to a professional’s extent, as all of them were still fairly uncomfortable with the notion of stitches, he could appreciate her consideration for his current predicament.

Her brother, though the following was ultimately useless and utterly tormenting to himself, was strong in his ability to distract from the unideal situation— whether it be filling the space with conversation, even one-sided, blasting whatever garbage money could extrapolate from the pits of hell on the TV, or simply being a loud but benevolent presence.

Player, if anyone, had been the most mature in his suggestions and contributions (the space was much appreciated). Unfortunately, this was partly because he found humour in the man being forced to watch every agonising minute of ‘The Magic School Bus’ and then, rewatch it, when two seasons was apparently not enough to capture the experience in all of its grainy, childish, and unrealistic glory.

At one time he may have recoiled at the idea of being at the mercy of such an immature, rambunctious, and unpredictable bunch (and still may)— but in even a period of his vulnerability which grew ever inconvenient for capers, he has yet to receive criticism on the fact… merely support. He cannot imagine being so ill around a team any less genuine.

“Do you need water?”

…almost.

The literal only thing he gained from said week-long torture, was that he would never, at any cost, forgo his vaccinations again.

[fluffytheocelot]

Oh no Carmen hang in there help is on the way D:

Aww she likes dogs <333

Ugh I can picture it so well. Carmen’s thoughts and movements all sluggish, shadowsans voice almost sounding distant or echoey. FANTASTIC JOB!!

I also love “the twilight” as an entity, dragging her further into this half lucid state and promising comfort and no pain. It’s ominous as hell and I LOVE it

Carmen, literally bleeding out and dying: well, I can’t NOT answer the question. They might think I don’t know the answer.

I love that she’s Offended about Shadowsan interrupting sleepy comfort with trivia. Like girl he is trying to stop you from taking a permanent dirt nap ANSWER THE QUESTION

Flash Fiction Friday 7/18

My Writer Brain: Aw, what a sweet prompt! We should go all-out fluff.

The Evil part of my Writer Brain: Or-

Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt! I really do love this one (may have to play with it again sometime!).

Title: Twilight

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego

Word Count: 940

Rating: T

Warnings: Near Death Experience, so you know it's gonna be a fun time! 😁

Twilight filled her.

She could feel it; the velvety purplish-blues and the down-soft cornflower shades, tinged with the last orange-gold slivers of day. They yawned through her thoughts, turning them sluggish and cottony, like they were being wrapped in plush blankets and tucked into the coziest bed imaginable.

Coldness rode on the twilight too, washing away the warmth of the sun so a deep, seeping chill settled over her. Normally she would have minded (she and dropping temperatures didn’t really have a healthy relationship), but this cold felt nice. Welcoming. Like the refreshing gust that slammed into you with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever when you stepped into an air-conditioned building on a sweltering day.

She always had been a dog person.

It was like a siren song, the twilight, humming in a calming cadence as the noise and bustle and worries of the day, droning in the back of her head since dawn (since predawn), first waned, then quieted, then dwindled into silence so the twilight's alluring tune could flow in musical rivulets through her.

Rest. Rest and be easy. Rest and forget your cares.

Not bad advice. At one point she'd have tried to resist its pull, wait for the streetlamps to flicker on so the day could continue in the sun's absence (after all, the most important part of hers often began well after darkness made its grand entrance). This time, though…maybe this time she'd consider it.

She was so, so tired.

And it was nice, the twilight. Soothing.

Already her limbs had succumbed to its pull, letting those first early pinpricks of stars numb them and turn them leaden and dead. It should have been alarming, she supposed. And maybe it had been when she first felt them leaving her, causing brilliant bolts of panic to rip and slash ribbons in the velvet, but the twilight assured her this was fine. Natural. Inevitable.

And so she had relinquished them.

Her breathing, too, had heeded its call. She'd resisted at first; persisting in the quick, panting breaths that trembled in her chest like a bird vainly flapping the wings that were meant to keep it aloft. They had hurt, each one pulling painfully at her body so invisible knives pierced her abdomen on each inhale, then slowly twisting and dragging against her flesh on the exhale. But then the twilight, the sweet cooling twilight, had flowed over and through her, the murky purple had claimed her veins and sinews, and her breaths had slowed to this slow and sleepy and shuddering pace.

Just like her heartbeat.

It was a relief when the twilight wrapped its merciful star-specked tendrils around her heart; this heavy, dragging pace was far more conducive to rest and sleep than the quick pattering tattoo that was now, like the earlier shallow breaths, a rapidly fading memory.

Rest. Rest and be easy. Rest and sleep away the night and the day.

Rest was good.

And sleep.

The twilight thickened, the sliver of sunset swallowed in a deepening bluish-black, and she let herself sink into-

"Carmen!"

A hand patting her cheek, fast, quivering, insistent, like a hammer striking a burglar alarm, shoved the twilight back. 

She pursed her lips and moaned; she did not want this hand. She wanted sleep. 

It didn’t take the hint. “Carmen!”

There was something in the tone, a sharpness, a desperation, that she was helpless to ignore. Laboriously, she dragged open her eyes a crack. Spots danced in front of Shadowsan’s frowning face. Puzzlement sputtered in her thoughts. What was so important? 

”Who painted ‘Love’s Messenger?’”

...What?

He pulled her from the blissful peace of twilight for art history? And after she just went through the tribes of the Iroquois Confederacy too…

Rest, the twilight whispered again. Let him consult Player or finally learn to use Wikipedia.

Two very good suggestions. Three, counting the one to rest.

She moaned again and started to slide her eyes shut. Player can handle this…

”Carmen!” No burglar alarm had ever been so doggedly hammered. “The artist!”

Moan a third time; he wasn’t going to let this go, was he? 

Obediently, she dragged open the heavy lids again and forced her tongue to move lest he start thinking she actually didn't know (the humiliation…). “St-Stillman. M-Marie...” A sharp  throb pulsed through the words, bleeding from her side. The twilight’s anesthetic ebbed as she spoke, and she gasped.

She'd forgotten about that.

She almost tumbled back into twilight right then, for there was no pain in the twilight's embrace, but the hand, almost shaking her now, forced her back. “Marie Spartali Stillman."

”Good.” The word was limp with relief, and she let her eyes  fall shut again, ready to dive- down, down, down- into the the twilight, the sweet, merciful, comforting cold of twilight.

Rest. Rest. Rest and be easy. Rest and lose your cares. Rest and lose yourself.

Rest, and give in to the Twilight.

She was so, so tired…and her side hurt…

“Carmen! ‘Windflowers.' Who was the artist?”

The question fell on Carmen's ears, as silent as the stars.

***

"Player, do you have an ETA?"

"Ten minutes. Just- just keep her talking. Please Shadowsan. Don't let her fall asleep."

Shadowsan nodded but said nothing, just pressed harder on the wound gaping from Carmen's side and tried to stem the deluge of red pouring onto the pavement.

Ten minutes.

An eternity.

An eternity she didn't have.

But he refused to let himself think like that; he couldn't.

"Carmen." Her cheek was cold, deathly cold, beneath his palm, almost like she already-

NO!

"Carmen, the Zuni. Tell me about them."

Please.

(A/N: Player long ago figured out the best way to keep Carmen talking was quizzing her on geography, art history, and indigenous cultures, because dammit, she's not gonna let people go on thinking she doesn't know that stuff. Also yes, I am gonna work in my favorite art movement and paintings because why not. Tagging @mmaricarmen23 @backofthepencil11 @explosiontheory @fluffytheocelot and...uh...anyone else want in? (or out?) Let me know and I'll add you (or not, if you don't wanna be pinged).

[fluffytheocelot]

Flash Fiction Friday 7/18/2025

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Carmen Sandiego (2019 Cartoon)

Words: 933

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Takes place in “The Last Wolf” AU.

@frozenwolftemplar @mmaricarmen23 @backofthepencil11 hi here have dadowsan and a baby werewolf <3

“Shadowsan?”

He jolted awake, mind racing to assess the situation. The six-year-old standing in the doorway could either mean she just had a nightmare, or he had about ten seconds to put the nearest trash can in front of her. 

Two little silver dots stared back at him in the dim light. They vanished for a moment; the little werewolf had blinked. His eyes adjusted, and he could see her silhouetted in the threshold, clutching the stuffed black sheep she’d refused to part with. 

Black Sheep’s wolf playtime tended to get a bit…destructive, with toys. Somehow, the plush sheep survived. It was apparently indestructible. 

(And if every time Coach Brunt tried to get away with hiding it in an effort to get the girl to “grow up,” it simply reappeared, well, he definitely had no idea how it always returned to its designated spot on her bed.)

It’s the only toy she can’t seem to destroy; if she wants to carry it around, he doesn’t see a problem with it. Besides, she’s six. She doesn’t need to “grow up”. 

“Shadowsan?” She said again. He knew she could see he was awake, could probably hear his heart rate spike when he woke up. 

He sighed, dropping his head back onto his pillow. The digital clock on the nightstand taunted him. 

2:37 AM

“Black Sheep,” He muttered. 

He heard a sniff and fabric shuffling. She shifted on her feet. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

This was not a new development. Black Sheep rarely slept for more than a few hours at a time. For some reason, she slept longer during the day than at night. He guessed it was a werewolf trait. Unfortunately, the rest of the faculty were rather determined to force her into diurnal sleeping habits, “for her own good.” 

He took another second to enjoy the warmth of the bed before flipping back the blankets, trying not to recoil at his feet hitting the cold floor. 

“Come on.” He held out his hand, feeling her little one grab onto it. 

She used to go to Coach Brunt for this sort of thing, but Brunt had recently begun turning her away, citing that Black Sheep was “getting too big for that”. 

He’d never admit it to anyone else, but Shadowsan didn’t have the heart to turn the wolf pup away. 

Besides, she had much better hearing and smell than any of them did; she could very well have noticed something nobody else could that was now keeping her awake. He couldn’t in good conscience tell the child that there wasn’t a weird sound or smell.

On nights such as this one, when Black Sheep simply woke and couldn’t go back to sleep, Shadowsan took her out to the beach. Something about the moon and stars lighting up the night sky and reflecting on the waves, with the white noise of the water lapping at the shore, and the smell of the ocean filling her nose seemed to help her relax enough to go back to sleep. It’d been that way since she was a baby.

Upon reaching the edge of the sand, he scooped her into his arms. She didn’t mind the sand on her feet (quite the opposite, actually, she loved digging her toes into the ground, whether it be dirt, sand, or clay), but he was trying to keep the sand in her bed to a minimum. She was significantly less okay with bed sand. 

The ocean was so calm that it nearly looked like glass. The sky and water were indistinguishable from each other, making an endless night sky with two moons and double the stars. 

Black Sheep tucked her head under his chin, holding her plush close as she watched the night sky and listened to the tides roll in. 

No more than ten minutes passed before her breathing began to slow. 

Works every time. 

Turns out, telling the child to simply “go to sleep” was ineffective (Brunt). 

She tried to stifle a yawn, but shifted closer to his chest. The breeze coming off the water was cool; she was simply seeking the nearest source of warmth. 

Her blinks were slower. Her eyes stayed on the water and the stars, but her gaze was far away. Her head lolled once, twice, and then relaxed. 

He stayed there a few more minutes, ensuring she actually fell asleep. 

When he was sure she was truly out, he carefully picked his way back to the building. 

He brushed as much sand off his legs as he could without waking her. 

Shadowsan tried to gently place her in her own bed. Her little hands gripped his shirt. Little whimpers escaped her lips. 

Well, he couldn’t risk fully waking her up again. Besides, she was more likely to stay asleep if someone else was present. 

Fine. 

He took her back to his quarters. 

He still had sand clinging to his feet; he didn’t want to get it in Black Sheep’s bed. His sheets could easily be washed in the morning. 

If anyone saw him, Shadowsan would claim that it was a begrudging decision to avoid waking the girl. 

Right now, though, the little werewolf was curled up on his chest, half asleep, purring contentedly with her stuffed sheep tucked into her arms. He wasn’t sure that Brunt or the other faculty even knew that the girl purred; as it was, she really only did it as she fell into deeper sleep. 

Though why a werewolf would have the ability to purr like a cat was beyond him. 

Maybe someday she’d find the answer. 

Shadowsan hoped so.

[fluffytheocelot]

Exactly. This is a small fandom already, we cannot start a civil war.

We are all here because we love this show and its characters in some way or another.

For this community to stay alive, we can’t run it into the ground with negativity. If you don’t like a ship or someone’s headcanons for a character, you are not obligated to interact. Nobody is forcing you. Keep scrolling. Block tags. Block users. You curate your own experience.

Grow up.

Just because the show’s original intended audience is young children, does not mean we get to act like kids fighting over a toy.

Don’t like something someone said about a character or ship? Great. Move on. Punch a hole in your bedroom wall if you must. Block them if you want. Block specific tags.

Do not harass people if they ship something else. Fandom is meant to be fun. Part of the beauty of it is that everybody has a different opinion on everything.

Except for one thing we all have in common:

We love this show.

To the CS Fandom

I am starting to understand the carchase anon. Obviously being a TERF, cyberbullying, harassing people, and flooding inboxes of people who dont want to hear from you is wrong. They were needlessly toxic and deserved the flack they got.

But some people in this fandom are hostile for no reason, even towards respectfully phrased criticism/opinions posted on spaces specifically stated to be dedicated towards discussion.

Im having an incident where people are being rude to me over a post on the confessions account. I am pretty sure i stated all my opinions respectfully leaving avenue for agreeing to disagree (if im wrong, ill accept it) yet i was told to ‘STFU’ by two separate people, one of which was the account’s owner. Someone also DM-ed me calling me a weird name.

I thought the confessions account was made for discussion. Plenty of people repeatedly reblog asks and add their own commentary. But the moment i do it its a problem?

The carchase anon is not the only one in this fandom with a maturity problem.

[fluffytheocelot]

I remember when people pretended to care about bees for a few years because they were an indicator species and now I’m getting replies to that post like “idc if all bugs die as long as we get rid of mosquitos and flies and cockroaches” YOURE GONNA FUCKING DIE!!!!! WE WILL DIE TOO!!!!! WE WILL ALL DIE WITHOUT BUGS!!!! IM NOT KIDDING!!!!

[fluffytheocelot]

[fluffytheocelot]

minor tumblr user's carrd: over 25 dni!!

25 year old who was going to prey on this minor: oh damn 😔 here I was planning to groom them but i can't because of their dni 😔 what a shame 😔😔😔😔😔

[fluffytheocelot]

you know a joke that never EVER gets old is when a character says smth like “I will NOT go to [place] and that is FINAL” and then it cuts to them in that place I eat that shit up every single time

[fluffytheocelot]

People know that the whole "don't portray [harmful action] because viewers might recreate it" thing is a rule for children's shows right? It's supposed to be shit like "don't show peppa pig playing with fire so we don't get sued if a kid watches it and burns their house down." Not like, fanfiction for adults.

[fluffytheocelot]

[fluffytheocelot]

ive officially survived 21 years on this planet somehow

have a meme about it