#liftie life

[cedarboughs]

The Californians

The posters had been up all over town and the hill for a month. The International Junior Freeriding Cup, presented by a major car brand. They would rip down the rails and groomed jumps of the terrain park underneath the Lynx Quad, and everyone would cheer. We were dreading it. A competition meant a flood of athletes descending on Raven River in a loose horde, high on glory and just plain high, and every modifier on the poster winnowed the athletes, already a particular breed, into a narrower clan. Junior: teenage athletes. International Junior: American teenage athletes. Given that so particular flood, then, maybe the conversation I had on Hemlock Street was inevitable. 

We were headed down Hemlock to the Trapper’s Cabin liquor store, three of us, lifties all, from the rental house. Antoine and Pierre had moved in there a few weeks ago, just after the start of the season, during the second hiring spree. Antoine, from Trois-Rivieres, was a huge birdwatcher, and had taught me how to identify waxwings by the way they flocked. I had taught him Ticket to Ride - the board game, not the Beatles song. Pierre, from Gatineau, had given me his password to an online indie short film festival out of Montreal. I had found his best golf disc when he lost it in the snow. 

It was a warm night for January. We were in little more than sweaters, and wide Hemlock was alive. There were no fences on the residential side of the street, and between houses you could see and smell fires cracking in backyards, joints being passed around them. Somewhere down a side street, a guitar was playing some cowboy chords. We were just passing the bottle depot when footsteps fell in behind us, crunching on the old snow of the sidewalk. 

“Where’s the party?” said a voice, male, barely broken, and with a faintly detectable American-style fry on the syllables. 

I was in a good mood, so I glanced back and said, “Right here, man! This sidewalk is the party!” 

I expected in response a half-ironic but genuinely enthused fist pump and a mumbled ‘Hell yeah,’ an acknowledgement of the simple joy of existing, of standing on the cusp of the night, the unknown and, for all we knew then, the endless night, like a fresh-powder chute hidden by cliffs, and we were standing at the drop-in, clicking poles, ignorant of what the line might hold but ready to drop all the same. 

But there was no fist pump, no feeling of the drop back there. Instead, I turned and started walking switch to look at round faces, unmasked, deadly serious, hanging over shelf-creased Arc'teryx jackets. The one who’d spoken, I think, had a green jacket and was a bit shorter. The other was in orange and a little lankier.   

“Are you guys going to a party?” Green asked flatly. 

Now, I did really think that the party was there on the sidewalk. Not to get too woo-woo about it, but on some level it’s true that a party is a state of mind. That said, we were also on our way to a real party, that is to say, a physical party, nothing wild, but a living room in another rental, some drinks, and a Bluetooth speaker. Whoever brought a speaker somewhere was always hailed as a hero. Tunes out loud always brought things up, but a speaker cost well over a day’s wages for a liftie, probably close to a week’s rent. I had looked at them a half-dozen times, but never yet brought myself to justify it. It was an expensive sacrifice to the altar of kicks. Kicks! Did anyone actually call a fun night out ‘kicks?’ anymore? Not likely, but I didn’t mind thinking it. Whenever I started thinking in Kerouacisms, I knew my energy was right for the night. It was Margot Frances and Jimmy Anders, who had lived in the basement of the rental house before Antoine and Pierre, who had left On the Road in the kitchen for me when they moved out, after all. I could do a lot worse than taking some of the slang from it and leaving the homophobic and misogynistic bits. I wonder vaguely if Margot and Jimmy would be at the other house tonight. I had heard they were back in town, after tree-planting somewhere in the Cariboo for the summer. I had cooked my best chickpea pasta for Jimmy and Margot and given them the recipe. Margot had taught me Norwegian Wood – The Beatles song, not the Murakami novel. I had given Jimmy the novel. 

So, yes, we were going to a party. But we’d already agreed, without a word exchanged, that these guys wouldn't be following us there. 

“We’re looking for hookers,” said Green. 

“Hookers and molly,” said Orange. ”You know what molly is?” 

MDMA. I did know. I’d seen enough videos of glassy-eyed people grinding their teeth in dark parkades to know. It wasn’t much of a Raven drug. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were drugs aplenty in town. I’d heard the rumours about how to get shrooms, and testimonies from lifties who insisted it was the only way to watch 2001. And of course, by my calculations there was a cannabis shop for every one-and-a-half-thousand people in the region, which had to be some kind of record, and that was just the legal trade. From what I’d heard, most people still got back-alley stuff, whether out of price or habit, since there was almost no enforcement on it anyway. Last summer during the public concert series, there was an opening act by the guy who owned the disc golf course, whose legal name was Eternity Equinox. He’d sung four songs, and three of them were about how pot was an herb that he grew in his garden and so should be legalized. I don’t think anyone had the heart to tell him that this had been the case for years. Margot said it was the best act of the season. 

But I’d never heard of MDMA in Raven River. I knew what it was, but didn’t know what it was, and maybe that was the difference. The drugs people wanted here were plants and mushrooms. You could imagine every step from growing in the woods to a backyard fire. Ecstasy was a pill, wasn’t it? Like Tylenol. Totally synthetic. I had no conception of where Eternity Equinox’s garden might come in. 

“Bro, d’you know where to find hookers?” Green said again. 

I didn’t know if there were sex workers in Raven. It was certainly possible, but I’d never heard of it. I was still in a good mood, though, so I joked back at them: “Everyone’s a hooker for a price, right? For a million bucks I’ll do anything!” 

Again, no laughter, but in the dark patch between street lights I could feel more than see a smirk come to Green’s face. ”My daddy’s a millionaire,” he said, “I could give you fifty thousand right now.” 

“Right now? For nothing? Deal!” 

“I’ll give you ten thousand to suck my cock,” he said. 

“We’re from California,” Orange put in, as if to support the claim. Only millionaires came from California, I guess he meant to say, and not from anywhere else. 

Antoine turned around for the first time and asked, “How old are you guys?”  

“I’m fifteen and he’s sixteen,” said Green. 

“Ah,” said Pierre, and there was great understanding in the syllable. Fifteen. Children of the new millennium. It still struck me as odd that birth years could start with a 2 for people who knew what drugs were. The Californians were born well after the twin towers crumbled down, just around when the economy followed, when, as Arcade Fire put it, we watched the markets crash, and the promises we were made were torn. We had to make our own promises after that. It became clear after a few years that the things we were told in school, that we could all climb the ladder of work and profit, that hard work paid out in the end in the victorious capitalism in which we lived, all that was bunk. So, we had to figure out something else. I think we were all still trying to figure out what that was, but I don’t know. It’s not as if we talked about it. And for kids like these Californians, it was history anyway. They had their own shatterings. I sometimes lamented that my life beyond my hometown had been almost entirely pandemic, but hell, these kids’ whole teens had mostly been pandemic so far. 

“Ten thousand dollars, bro, if you want it.” 

“What do you guys do for fun around here?” asked Orange. 

I said, ”Ski,” just as Pierre said “Snowboard.” 

Well, it was the Kootenays in January. What answer did they expect? 

“I can do a backflip,” said Orange. 

“That’s really cool,” said Pierre, falling back with them a bit. It was cool. I couldn’t do a backflip. Pierre could, I’d seen it once, but he didn’t often. When we rode together we spent more time digging the resort and the sidecountry for hidden lines, untouched pockets of treacherous but ridable alpine terrain far down the remotest ends of ridges where no one had dared to go since the snow fell. Backflips by the chair were cool, but they took time away from that. 

“This place is kinds fucking lame,” said Green, “There’s really no hookers except you fags?” 

“We’re not hookers. Or gay,” said Antoine. 

“Ten thousand, dude.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Antoine. We crossed a side street and he picked up his pace, muttering to me, “Viens. On parle en Francais, ouais?” 

My French was hardly good enough to hold any sort of conversation even in the enunciated Parisian accent of school memories and Duolingo. In Quebec French I was hopeless. Antoine knew that, though. He was trying to talk so that the Californians couldn’t overhear. He would go easy on me. 

“D’accord,” I said, wondering if the Californians could tell how bad my accent was, how transparent our attempt at coding our words was from them. We had no clue that they didn’t also speak French, I suppose. Somehow it just seemed unlikely. 

“I think they are rich,” said Antoine, in a French that was much slower and more scholarly than his and Pierre’s usual cheerful chatter, “They think they can pay for anything. It changes you as a person.” 

“Oui,” I said back, “I mean, ouais. And they’re fifteen!” 

“Are you gonna suck my cock for ten thousand dollars?” Green shouted again. 

“You are going to do it?” asked Antoine, a smirk in his voice. 

I struggled to find the words in French to explain. Even “Non,” was too transparent, as it sounded just like the English word. So, I just said “They’re fifteen,“ again, ils on quinze ans, and Antoine nodded sagely.  

Pierre was hanging back, speaking with the Californians quietly. Antoine glanced at the three of them. “He’s good at talking to them,” he said. We were getting close to the liquor store now, and they could tell. The sign with the trapper in his David Thompson hat was lit and visible. They knew where we were going, and switched tactics accordingly. The ten thousand dollars to be added to a sex offenders registry seemed to be, mercifully, put to the wayside. 

“Will you buy us beer?” 

“Maybe,” Pierre said diplomatically. 

“We want PBR. Do you know what PBR is?” 

Do you know what PBR is? I wanted to say back to them, it’s cheap shit. Instead I said, “Yeah, I know PBR.” 

“Pabst?” asked Pierre. I nodded. “Ah,” he said, ”Cheap shit.” 

“Not bad as cheap shit goes,” I said, granting a concession to the Californians. It was true; it wasn’t like it was Kokanee. 

Pierre held the Californians back again as Antoine and I went ahead. With Pierre distracting them, we could talk in English now. 

“There’s no price for sucking underage dick,” he said. 

“No, of course not.” 

“I don’t want to be on a registry. It’s selling your freedom.” 

“And your self-respect. It’s just a horrible thing to do. I wouldn’t want to do it even if they were our age, but at least it wouldn’t be criminal. They think they can just pay us to become criminals. Do you think they were joking? They have to be just joking. Right?” 

“I don’t know, man. I really don’t know. Money does things to you. They think they can just own people.” 

We came to a stop at last, across the road from the Trapper’s Cabin, the five of us hemmed into a two-by-two line by the snowbanks.  Pierre came over to us, a messenger crossing No Man’s Land, and leaned in. “I told them we would get them beer as long as they don’t follow us.” Antoine and I nodded. This seemed like a fair price for peace. 

“Will you get me a six-pack of PBR?” asked Green. 

“I’ll get you one can,” I said. 

“Two,” said Green. 

PBR was cheap shit, and there were two of them. “Alright,” I said. 

We started off across the road. As we went, Green dug his hands into his pockets and said to Orange, “Bro. It’s kind of lame. I thought the team was gonna party.” 

The team. Somehow, until then, I hadn’t thought about the freeride competition. But of course, that was why they were here, wandering the streets unsupervised. This was probably one of the first times they had a weekend away from their parents, who were back in Los Angeles, busy with their millionaire business. If they were millionaires. As we crossed Hemlock I thought about the bad teen movies I’d seen, where the heroes - to stretch a term – pulled off such elaborate scams, whole layers of lies. I thought about the party scene in every movie like that, with flashing coloured lights coming from who-knew-where in a house full of people with their arms up, music blasting, not a speaker in sight. Part of me still thought that maybe parties like that did exist, and just like in high school, I still wasn‘t in enough loops to know about them. But no, I’m sure I would have seen one by now. I thought about pop songs and trap-hop songs, music videos and lyrics, popping pills and hoes in the back seat. Like I said, Hemlock is a wide street. 

There was only one car parked at the Trapper’s Cabin. I hadn’t noticed it across the street, but it materialized in the red light up close. I was terrible at recognizing cars – these days they were uniformly bubbly and monochrome, the better to resell you to someone who might not like a certain colour, my dear - but this was a car I would remember for years. It was a pale green chevy pickup, circa early nineties model, with “protect parks” stickers on the tailgate and no less than three Rasta bobbleheads all lined up in the windshield. The roof was folded in a way that was definitely off-model, and I knew it was because it had collapsed in after a huge dump of snow, and then been punched back out and reinforced with two-by-fours nailed to the inside. This was Margot Frances and Jimmy Anders’ truck, a Genuine Kootenay Beater. When walking along the ski hill road with intent to get up there close to opening, it was generally known that if a clean black Mercedes SUV passed by, it wasn’t worth the muscle motion to send up a thumb. If a GKB the colour of road salt grumbled past, though, that was usually your way. And absent the quasi-trusty shuttle bus, Margot and Jimmy’s truck was my favourite way to ride up or down. There was just one back seat, which I had to fold into and sit sideways in, and feeling not at all like I’d be safe in a crash, we would set off around the hairpin switchbacks on the hill road, playing The Doors out loud on Margot’s Bluetooth and talking about our runs for the day.  

If one of them was shopping, I’d say hi. 

I’ve never thought of a liquor store as a refuge before, probably, and thankfully, because I’m not an alcoholic. But it was kind of nice having a place that we knew the Californians couldn’t follow. We could talk freely here, albeit with the restriction that we couldn't explicitly mention our plan to toss some cans to underage Americans, although in fairness, it was the Trapper's Cabin, the less refined of the two liquor stores in Raven River, and given it was Raven River, that was saying something, so I doubt the cashier would have cared in the least. He was slumped over the counter, head in his hands, hands breaking up the fall of his blond hair, which fell too around wire-framed round glasses – blond! Round glasses! So that was why the truck was outside. Jimmy was the cashier! 

“Hey!” I said, just as I’d promised myself. 

Jimmy jumped up a bit, activating Customer Service Mode, but shut it down when he saw me. “Jay!” he called out, “You’re still around!” 

I always went by J, or Jay, in Raven River. Jerry, what I’d been in Calgary, had been ditched after the first few weeks of jokes. I’d vaguely known that a Jerry was a term for a bad skier, but not realized quite how prevalent it was, or all the implications. Jerry wasn’t just someone who didn’t know how to ski, who was new, trying to figure things out. Jerry was someone from Calgary, or Toronto, who had a fresh snowsuit that matched pants to jacket, and slick skis with oiled bindings, and his toe in the heel piece of the bindings, because with the cash he’d spent on coming out here, somewhere along the line he must have bought the understanding of what he was doing. 

“I’m still around,” I said, “I heard you were back. And working here!” 

“Ayup. You’re liftying again?”  

“Yeah. Probably my last season.” 

“You said that last winter.” 

“I did. Yeah. I don’t know. Can’t beat the free pass, I guess.” 

“Yeah, for sure. It’s tough going back to paying for it. Margot’s just doing day passes, ‘cause she tore her ACL climbing in November.” 

“Oh, shit! Hope she’s alright?” 

“Yeah, she just lost enough riding days that buying the pass didn’t make sense. She’s working at the Lark Café now. Jill got her the position she used to have.” 

“Right, ‘cause Jill’s at that mid-mountain coffee hut now. I always get free hot chocolate from her. Well, if I’m scanning at the base, I’ll just let Margot up.” 

“Much obliged,” Jimmy nodded, and I went off to look at beers. 

For what I called a less refined store, the selection at the Trapper’s was good – two walls of beer and cider fridges and warm packages in pyramids between, good breweries from all around the West and any flavour profile or drinking style you might want. We rolled past plain sours and fruit sours and salted sours and goses, milk stouts and peanut butter porters, you name it. Antoine lingered in front of something called a Show-off Double IPA. I thought he might take it, but he pointed instead at the peacock on the label and said, “Green peafowl.” I think his bird-identifying was mostly somatic at this point, totally involuntary. 

The PBR was tucked in the slightly dismal back corner, under the little selection of Budweiser and the like. I grabbed a six-pack and brought it to Jimmy. Antoine settled on a box of ginger ciders. Pierre was still in the back, weighing a nice pack of honey ales with another pack of PBR. 

“I didn’t know you were big Pabst guys,” said Jimmy. 

“No,” said Pierre, “This is for someone else maybe. I will try to decide if I want to get it.” 

“Party?” 

“Yeah,” said Antoine, in a quick, shut-us-down sort of way. He didn’t know Jimmy, though. With any other cashier, not an old liftie, he’d have been right to be cautious. But I knew Jimmy. 

“Jimsy,” I said, using Margot’s pet name for him, which I didn’t know if I was allowed to do, but whatever. “You remember when you sent Napalm Chute in the work jacket and I didn’t tell?” 

“Yeah,” said Jimmy, unsure where this was going. 

“Right, that’s all. So you don’t need to tell whoever your boss is here that there are two fifteen-year-olds outside who won’t leave us alone unless we get them beer.” 

“One of them is sixteen,” said Pierre. 

“Sure. Some of the PBR is for them.” 

“Some?” 

“Two cans.” 

“Did they give you money?” 

“No,” said Antoine, “But they’re rich. They could have!” 

“I don’t think they were really rich,” I said. Putting it out loud changed the situation somehow. 

Jimmy went to the window, to the little maze of gaps between his back counter and the posters above, and peered out. “Those kids by the light?” 

I joined him at the window and looked. The Californians were kicking at a frozen snowbank under the halogen glow of a streetlamp. Maybe they were trying to cut a path through. That bank was solid ice though, weeks old, thawed and frozen a thousand times. It was hardly just snow anymore. At best there was a layer of avi-chute choss, three-day-old plow discard, on top of gravel ice. What’s that thing about the Inuit language having ten words for snow where English has one? Whoever started spreading that one wasn’t a skier. 

“They look kind of beat, don’t they?” I said. 

Jimmy nodded and considered this. “D’you mean like beaten up, or like, The Beats, like Kerouac?” 

“Both. Isn’t it the same thing, anyway? Like, he used the word the way it was used, beaten up, but then he added the other definition, the thing about beatific.” 

“You read it, Jay!” 

“Yeah. Thanks for leaving it there.” 

“I’m gonna get the honey ale,” Pierre broke in suddenly, “And I’m gonna give some to the kids as well. It’s more expensive but I’ll keep some.” 

“They wanted PBR,” I said. 

“But this is better,” said Pierre, “It’s sweet. They’ll like it. I’ll give them two.” 

“I was going to give them two of the Pabst,” I said. 

Jimmy leaned in and laced his fingers conspiratorially. “Tell you what,” he said, “If you’re getting two half packs then you’re just buying one, really. Then the kids can have the rest. They look pretty beat, after all. So...” he took off his glasses, laid them on the counter, and looked to the ceiling, “It’d be too bad if you put one of those packs in your bag and I didn’t see it. You might forget to even pay for it.” 

Grinning, Pierre unshouldered his backpack and slid the honey ale in. We paid for the Pabst and Antoine’s cider, which came out to not much more than the honey ales by themselves. The cost, then, was around an hour’s liftying. Two if it hadn’t been for Jimmy. Of course, to say two hours of liftying meant nothing without specifying. Was that two hours of the top station at the out-of-the-way chair on an uncommonly quiet day, sitting in a hut with a thermos of hot chocolate and a paperback, watching snow fall on the valley cedars outside, and then occasionally, every two minutes or so, someone would get off, give a wave, and glide away? Or was that two hours at the base, the main base, on a mobbed-busy weekend, with an endless crowded maze of beginners needing the chair slowed down or even full-stopped for them, and others trying to skip the line while you were occupied, and rich Americans who didn’t think the rules about masks in line applied to them, and even the best most courteous guests were still part of the back-aching cycle of bumping, holding back the mass of each and every chair with a special calculated one-leg-up leanback and never a moment to sit down or even to simply stand at attention? Those shifts paid the same: not quite a six-pack per hour.

“Thanks, man,” said Pierre, as he packed up all the beer, ”From a liftie to another.” 

Jimmy only shrugged. “Not a liftie anymore,” he said. 

“But you were, man, and maybe you say, once a liftie, always a liftie. What were you saying about calling people Beat, Jay? It means two things?” 

“Sort of,” Jimmy explained, “It means, like, poor, beaten up, had a bad time. But these guys back, what, seventy years ago, made it that, but short for beatific, like, spiritual. Godly. They thought that one led to the other.” 

“Yes!” said Pierre, jabbing a finger, leaning close in over the glass bit of the counter where Jimmy scanned wine bottle bar codes, “And Liftie is like that. It’s the job where we put people on the lift, but it’s also, like. Hey. Answer me this. When you work on a chair, who’s your favourite person to see in line?” 

Jimmy and I had no answer for this, but without missing a beat, Antoine said, “Another Liftie.” 

“Exactly!” said Pierre, getting way into it now, “Because they are your friend, but not just that. Because they make you feel good about doing the job. They know what it’s like! And...” he was practically vibrating now, “Wherever you meet another liftie, an old liftie too, even years later, they also try to help, because they know you’re down, they know you’re working hard and you’re tired and they LIFT you up... and you LIFT them up sometimes. The people who own the ski hill, who own the shops, they want you to pay for everything. They want you to work more, they want you to be better than the other guy by buying more stuff by working harder so you have more stuff than him. You compete, always competition. Lifting just yourself up...” 

“By your bootstraps,” I nodded. I’d never understood that expression. The only boots I even knew of that had straps were ski boots with ratchet straps, and they were too tight to the boots to lift anything by. They were too busy holding you to the snow. 

“But you don’t have to. Instead, you let people have free beer. That’s what Liftie is. You lift each other!” 

Jimmy stood stunned for a long hanging moment. I thought about the songs we sang and taught on guitar, free beers and hot chocolates, bird facts, board games. I thought about Pierre and Antoine and Jimmy and Margot, and Jill at the mid-mountain hut. Then Jimmy hit a button on his screen, and my short receipt began to print with a sound like the Lynx Quad powering up in the morning, and he nodded, slowly at first and then picking up, and said “Hell yeah.” Then he turned to me and said, “Holy fuck, Jay. Where do you meet these people?” 

I said, “At the hill. Liftying. Where else?” 

The Californians were still hanging out under the streetlight when we left the store. They perked up when they saw us heading back their way. 

“You got our stuff?” Green called. 

In response I twisted two cans off my six-pack and tossed them one at a time at him. He caught each with the flawless reflexes of a seasoned backflipper. 

“Take some of this too,” said Pierre, tossing them two of his honey ales. 

“What’s this?” said Orange. 

“Try it!” said Pierre, “Expand your taste!” Then he jogged off. Antoine was already headed back the way we’d come from. 

The Californians didn’t comment on getting four beers when they asked for two, but then, neither did any of us.  I never saw them again after that, so I never got any more hints on whether they really were millionaires’ sons, or just ski team kids on the tournament dime. Right then, when they were huddling with their gloveless hands in their armpits on a lonely street, I decided it didn’t much matter. Green gave me a peace-sign salute, a universal gesture of cool accord, and we parted, we two victims of disparate hoped-for nights. 

As I ran to catch up with Pierre and Antoine, a big raven fell with a sound of wind from a nearby powerline, landing in the middle of Hemlock Street. I took a pause to curtsy a bit. I always bowed to a raven when I saw one alone. One of them, an immortal one, pulled the first humans out of a clam shell on the beach in Haida Gwaii, so it was always good to be respectful, because you never know. Two years ago, when I was browsing a list of ski resorts that were looking for applicants, I had seen Raven River and thought of that. 

Two days later, on the final day of the International Junior Freeriding Cup (presented by a major car brand,) I was working the Lynx Quad at the mid-station. A remarkable oddity for a chairlift, Lynx Mid lets riders get off halfway, or else to sit tight and carry on through. For those who carried on, up to where they entered the start gates at the top of the terrain park, all I had to do was watch them pass by, thrusting their numbered bibs out to the safety bar for all to see. I passed the time by collecting high-fives. As they glided past, all I had to do for a high-five was to extend my hand, inches from where the chair slid by. I always got one back, and they would cheer for me.

[sug4rsicle]

Sketchbook doodlez during winter break 💗🌺

[ask-lifty-shifty]

Caught you lackin

[theradicalace]

after much struggling on my part, here is the final result of the six characters challenge!! thank you to everyone who sent a character! screenshots of all the character requests under the cut just for funsies :3

[curi0uscreature]

* When I say Nutty’s one of my favs I mean it in a way I’m aware of the absolutely heinous shit they’re able to pull (especially) in their staring episodes and that makes me love him even more 

[iliketrainslol5]

Lifty and Camp

[yanderes-galore]

Here is my other request: it's a scenario for a platonic Pop (HTF) that wants reader as a new kid. After Cub died for good, Pop lost his sanity to grief, guilt and loneliness, to the point that nothing in his life mattered anymore. Honestly, i think he wouldn't even mind if his paws were covered in blood. Now, entering Yandere territory. Imagine if this Pop found reader, who is in their twenties. The bear meets a kind, gentle and friendly person who ends up captivating him to the point that he starts to act like a father to them. Maybe it's fate giving him another chance. Now, he promises that he will never let anything happen to his new child, even if his claws and fangs are dripping with the blood of more people. (possible scenario: Lifty and Shifty try to rob reader, only to find a broken and angry bear who has nothing left to lose. The result: two mutilated raccoons. You can put as much gore as you want).

OH BOY! Haven't touched Happy Tree Friends in a while. Time to go back to what I do best... psychotic bears.

May have spelling/grammar errors, it was no properly checked for errors.

Projections

Yandere! Pop Story

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Fear of loss, Mind break, Blood, Gore, Death, Major character death (Cub is dead, so are Lifty and Shifty), Manipulation, Violence, Overprotective behavior, Stalking, Murder, Disturbing descriptions, Dubious companionship.

The death of a child is never easy for a parent. Even if you've seen it countless times... Waking up like it's some nightmare... The trauma sticks with you. Pop thought losing his son would be just another one of his nightmares....

No... life decided it would like to be cruel to him once again.

Pop first lost his wife... now he lost his dearest Cub in a freak accident. The bear still couldn't process the amount of blood on his own fur. He remembers he couldn't stop shaking... his eyes twitching as he stares at the blood on his paws.

Even as he woke up in the morning, it was all still the same. He woke up alone. No wife, no kid, just him.

Just him and the memory of holding his son... Both covered in blood.

Pop didn't think he'd recover. He was tired of these nightmares involving death. All he ever saw was blood deep in his mind and it led the bear to constant nights of suffering.

Pop doubted he'd even be a parent again. He doubted he'd even get to feel the joys of that anymore. No... he was a failure, just a bear undeserving of his own name.

However... then life decided it wanted to play nice again.

Out on a walk, Pop met you.

You were an adult who had been partaking in college. You were at the park to catch some fresh air after studying and came across Pop. Being respectful, you offer chat to the bear.

Pop was hesitant at first but eventually joined you on a bench. From there, Pop learned you were kind... gentle... and friendly. You cared to listen to what he's gone through and you two managed to become good... friends...?

Pop wonders if Cub would've grown up to be just like you if he was alive. The thought brings tears to his eyes for just a moment, yet you manage to distract him from the pain. You... You were such a sweet angel.

Perhaps you were sent to him as a second chance.

A chance to be redeemed as a parent and mentor.

Since your meeting in the park, Pop has offered himself up as a mentor for you. He became someone you could rely on as you worked through college. Part if him wonders how Cub would've done at college....

Unbeknownst to you, you became a replacement for Cub. In Pop's eyes, you were his new kid. A kid he'd do anything to protect...

Anything as long as it meant you lived a safe and happy life.

Pop never took his eyes off you. He had your number in his phone and tried to be near you at all times. He even decorated your nickname in his phone.

Pop often invited you to bowling, he offers to play Tetris with you... He even asks if you like barbecue. He wants to prove he can be a good father figure for you. He's trying his hardest to embrace this second chance he was gifted with.

Although, the true test came quicker than he thought.

Pop never liked Lifty and Shifty. The two raccoons were no good crooks who took advantage of others. He didn't think he could hate them more.

Until he caught them robbing you in an alley.

After that... all that was left was red.

Pop never saw you cower into the corner as he lunged at the two raccoons. Pop never heard himself roar as he tore into their flesh. He barely even tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

The alleyway becomes painted red. The squeals and screeches of raccoons rings out before going dead silent. The smell of gore stings in your nose.

Pop's onslaught only stops when he hears sobbing. Your sobbing brings him back to reality. To him it sounds like the cry of a baby...

His baby.

Pop snaps back, spitting out chunks of flesh as he looks down. Once again... he's covered in blood... and it's not another nightmare. The taste is all real and he stares down at the mangled and gouged corpses of the raccoons who tried to rob you.

His wide bloodshot eyes snap to you. You're crying... screaming... but he saved you. Those raccoons can't hurt you anymore.

They're dead forever... just like Cub... just like his family...

But he has you now... and you have him.

"Sweetheart..." The bear finally speaks, coming closer as you try to scurry away. "It's all going to be okay... they can't hurt you anymore."

You try to run, but the bear quickly pulls you into his arms. You struggle and gag at the feeling of blood and gore in his fur. You want to go home.

"Just relax..." The bear coos. "Papa bear is here now... just calm down."

Eventually you relax yourself in an attempt to appease Pop. He smiles softly... his smile bloody. You convulsed in disgust again before Pop sighs.

"Let's get you home, baby..." Pop chirps, dragging you out of the alleyway.

"We both need to get cleaned up!"

You follow him reluctantly... Too tired and stressed to fight... although you begin to assume you aren't going to your home tonight.

[uftopia]

Ao3 is down and I’m tweaking without mpreg please spare us some dnf mpreg headcannons

I don’t have au actual headcanons i think so I’m making things up on the spot

- first baby George just ignores most typical pregnancy things. Ex. Maternity wear, he uses dreams larger clothes until he can’t anymore and still is as active in his life style as he was before (and going on stepstools and fighting sapnap which drives dream mad)

- they painted the nursery, for the most part, colors gnf can see

- Mary was predicted to be born a little smaller than June- nothing too concerning but definitely made gnf switch up during second pregnancy

- dream goes crazy in the early stages w the small bump bc he says it looks rlly cute and since it’s easily hidden it’s just for the two of them

- first pregnancy gnf didn’t even think he could be until Dream just came up to him w tests and was like “PLEASE just take one”

- dream is very doting :)

- sapnap acts like gnf is dying

- gnf is Never not using a body pillow and basically forces Dream to do the lifty thing all the time

- drms hands just kind of subconsciously drift to gnfs belly whenever

- gnf talks to Baby doing every day tasks, acts like he doesn’t

[silly-lion-art]

Draw Shifty and Lifty getting sprayed by a garden hose

life or bath

[urecognized-talent]

When life gives you lemons, make an AU with your childhood crackship and their fanchild!

Got this AU design from a friend on Toyhouse, and so I now present: The Cult of Ciphertology AU! Takes place in the Cult of the Lamb world! Now as for the lore so far...

The Beast With Just One Eye: A Bishop that played by his own rules, and had his heyday back when The One Who Waits was still part of The Old Faith. In fact, he was an enemy to the Old Faith, as he wanted to upheave order as a whole. But he had seemingly been defeated by the (at the time) four bishops of the Old Faith, and his imprisonment was left in the hands of an unrelated, but trustworthy god. While he might appear in the physical realm to some extent, that's only due to the assistance of his previous cult leader, and his current one as well-he is NOT fully physical yet, he's still trapped in this other realm. What you see is a sort of ghost that can occasionally affect the world.

Shifty: He and Lifty had once been simple raccoons looking to scam any religious zealots into letting them live to see the next morning. Homeless thieves with nothing to their name, nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Perhaps that's why Bill took interest in them. It's with his help that the twins were actually able to have a place to call home, and it's with their help that he's slowly begun to slip out of his containment. And somewhere along the line, the two grew closer, fell in love, and even had a child. Which brings us to...

Amy: The daughter born from the sinful love between god and mortal. The moment she hatched from her egg is the moment they knew the true meaning of joy. As she grew up, she saw her mortal father preach to their cult, and came to the conclusion she wanted to follow in his footsteps. With much begging and pleading, she managed to convince both of her fathers that she could be a 'grown up' like them, and to let her run the cult of Ciphertology. And though she seems to control most of the cult... she doesn't QUITE do it alone. They'd be awful parents if they just tossed her to the wolves and risked her death after all. Within the cult, Shifty handles the more violent dissenters, so they don't potentially hurt her. And on crusades, Bill managed to convince her to 'take some of his power' to help her. Protecting her in the form of her new crown, while she believes she's doing it all on her own.

More will probably be written later, but for now, here's where we're at! :D

[chrisevansonly]

Helping Hand

Dad!Chris Evans x Wife!Reader

Summary: Chris really loves to workout in your home gym, especially since the pandemic and virus season, he loved the idea of having his own workout space all to himself. Funny enough when you can’t find your three year old daughter Arlie, check the gym, and you might find her attached to her dad’s hip

Warnings: non, straight pure fluffy dad Chris, sassy Arlie

A/N: Baby Arlie is back to making an appearance!! I adore this pairing so much it rots my teeth, I think I’m going to divide my masterlist and add a Dad!Chris/ Dad + Arlie Section, let me know what you think, this one may be a little shorter, hopefully not horrible lmao but happy reading!!

Word Count: 846

Little Arlie girl was the epitome of her father’s shadow, following him around whenever and wherever she could, especially now that she was walking more and handling stairs better. That wasn’t to say you and Chris didn’t still watch her like a hawk in case she needed a hand or fell, but she was getting more and more independent every day. It was often days like today when Chris was off in your home gym completing his daily workout, whether it was legs, chest or arms, Arlie always found a way to weasel her little self into the gym to be with her daddy. So when you called her name for snack time and didn’t get a response, you made your way into the den where you’d left her last only to find her colouring book open and water bottle where she left it on the coffee table. 

“That little bug…”

You couldn’t help but laugh quietly knowing just how good of an escape artist she was, so you tidied her markers up and walked your way down the hall and to the steps leading into the basement. When you opened the door, you could hear her giggles and little squeals as she and Chris worked through their weight session together

“I stronger than you daddy!”

The sight at the bottom of the stairs bringing a smile to your face, she had her set of dumbbells, which weighed virtually nothing in her hands, while Chris was on his back, two green and yellow weights on his chest to keep him to the floor

“I think you certainly are dove, I think I need some help!”

Arlie put her weights down and placed her tiny hands on her hips in a superman like pose and sighed 

“I help you on one ‘dition daddy.”

You laughed at her shortened version of the word condition, because it was just the cutest thing in the world listening to her learning and practicing new words. At the sound of your laugh Arlie looked to you and clapped 

“Hi mommy!!”

Chris smiled too, practically identical to your little girl 

“Yeah, hi mommy”

“Hi you two, what’s going on down here?”

Arlie cocked her hip to the side, the sass with her was off the charts, Chris never failing to let you know it comes from you

“I doing the lifties thing with daddy, an’ he not strong ‘nough to hold my colour sticks”

Colour sticks, what she called her dumbbells, despite you attempting to teach her the word, it would forever be known as colour sticks to you and your husband

“Oh, I see, so are you gonna help him bug?”

“Mhm, I got one ‘dition first mommy”

You chuckled sitting down with the two of them on the floor, watching her as she began waving her arms around 

“What’s that baby?”

“Well, I wanna watch cartoon and have two cookies!”

Chris pretended to think about it for a few moments, closing his eyes before letting out a dramatic sigh and holding his hand out to Arlie

“Okay Arlie girl, you got yourself a deal.”

“Deal daddy!”

She wrapped her much smaller hands around his larger one and shook with all her toddler strength before grabbing the dumbbells off his chest. Chris immediately took her in his arms and sat up covering her face in kisses while the room filled with the sounds of her laughter and now yours mixed in together. Moments like these making you take a mental snapshot watching the two people you loved most experiencing life together

“Alright my little gym crazies, how about we go upstairs for some snacks?”

After a collective cheer of yesses, the three of you made your way upstairs where Arlie got comfy in her chair at the island, and you and Chris stood in front of her, smiles on both of your faces as she munched away on some apples and peanut butter, her current favourite obsession

“Hey daddy?”

Chris finished chewing one a slice of the apple you’d also given him before answering her 

“Yeah baby?”

“Don’t ‘fink I forgot about our deal.”

Your hand quickly covered your mouth as you began laughing, Chris losing it beside you as well

“O-Okay dove I won’t...”

Chris could barely get that sentence out without laughing and the two of you managed to calm down after a couple minutes, Arlie looking between her mom and dad with a stone-faced expression, clearly not finding any of this funny

“Arlie baby you are going to be a force to be reckoned with when you get older”

“Just like you mommy!”

You laughed shaking your head at her before Chris chimed in beside you quickly to agree with his little girl

“Yep, just like mommy”

Chris leaned over to press a kiss to your cheek before wrapping an arm around you and bringing you to him. That moment in the kitchen becoming another mental snapshot you’d hope to keep with you forever, your sassy Arlie girl never failing to make each day as interesting as the last.

[l-3-xe]

shifty,,, finally a design i dont hate with me whole life,,, this guy was real hard to draw.. dont know why,,, hes one of me fav, along with lifty,,, which btw, i cannot afford to draw atm, maybe later,, sighhhhh.. enjoy him before i completely change me mind abt this draawing

[happy-tree-huggers]

All Characters - Their Pet Names for Their S/O

Note: Sorry for my long & sudden absence! Life has been hectic these past few months. I hope to get back to writing requests soon. Here's a tiny gift for waiting so long! Word Count: N/A Warnings: None

♡ Cuddles - Pet names sound quite unnatural coming from him, so he'll always go with rather playful names, usually something specific referencing his S/O. If they're short, it's Shorty; if they're clumsy, well... Clumsy.

♡ Giggles - She loves using cutesy pet names like Sweetie, Honeybunch, and Cutiepie, though sometimes she'll go with a casual Baby.

♡ Toothy - He doesn't call his S/O anything but their name for a while due to his inexperience with relationships. Eventually though, he'll begin calling them Lovey.

♡ Lumpy - He wouldn't normally use pet names unless his S/O asked him to; though he'd think of something cheesy and long like My One And Only.

♡ Petunia - Her go-to pet name is always Sugar, though she'll also use Rosebud and Precious.

♡ Handy - Many of his pet names are used in a sarcastic/joking manner like Dummy or Smarty Pants, but he does use some earnestly like Angel and Honey.

♡ Nutty - He doesn't often use pet names—mainly because due to being so hyper, he often just forgets—but if he does remember, it most certainly will always be candy related, like Lollipop, Jellybean, or Cupcake.

♡ Sniffles - He hadn't thought of using any pet names for his S/O until much later, eventually starting to use Dear; though it sounds somewhat strange coming from him, and he'll be flustered if his S/O says anything about it.

♡ Pop - Being very much the domestic type, he will use the more classical couple's pet names such as Dear or Darling; his favorite being Honey.

♡ Flaky - They are embarrassed to use pet names at all at first until they become more comfortable with their S/O, only eventually calling them Sweetie.

♡ The Mole - Being mostly nonverbal, he often doesn't speak at all and rarely uses pet names in general, but in the uncommon moment that he does speak, it would be something like Love.

♡ Disco Bear - He will almost always refer to his S/O with one of many confidence-boosting pet names, such as Beautiful/Handsome or Gorgeous. His most common however are Babe and Baby; though sometimes in a joking manner it'll be Hot Stuff, which he favors when he wants to fluster his S/O.

♡ Russell - He can get surprisingly romantic at times—well, tries his best to be—and uses pet names like My Sea and My Treasure; only in private, however.

♡ Lifty and Shifty - The two of them won't use pet names for the longest time until Shifty starts using names like Doll or Doll Face to fluster their S/O; of course, Lifty will get jealous quickly, and start using his own, such as Angel Face.

♡ Mime - Due to being completely nonverbal, he can't exactly call his S/O any pet names. Despite this however, he does show other forms of affection, such as using his hands to gesture a heart shape towards them, or sending them sweet letters.

♡ Flippy - Similar to Pop he is also very domestic, but enjoys using the sweeter variety of pet names like Sweetheart and Pumpkin. Even when triggered he may use these, though it's usually in a possessive manner.

♡ Splendid - Despite his pastime of being a superhero, he's quite the surprising gentleman, calling his S/O Dove or Charmer.

♡ Lammy - Being a more classy lady, her go-to pet names are Darling and Dear.

[theradicalace]

why are they the way that they are (affectionate)

[oskarpaffzz]

I'm thinking about shifty x mime because of the experience of some text roleplay, thanks to which I became interested in this ship and found one artist drawing this ship (maybe they know that I'm talking about them now🫢)

lifty x flaky is still my main otp and hyperfixation, but sometimes you remember how much you love other htf characters and their relationships, and therefore you want to talk more about them, arousing interest in them from the rest of the fanbase

being in this fandom for a year and knowing the web series almost from school years, this place became my home, so it's not surprising that many characters and ships with their participation won my attention, fueling the desire to consume more content on my favorite hp

I also want to thank my friends, especially zech, sasha and alice for spending time together in the happy tree friends fandom. even if you're not really into this fandom, I still appreciate every roleplay, fanart, and other type of content we've done together. it's nice that my interests are supported by close people who do not let me despair for a second!!! I'm also talking about the content with shifty x mime (sachie, I'm still rereading our posts xp).

well, just thank you to all of ccll for making me still feel alive. I am no less grateful to the fanbase, which does not let the fandom die. You are all very cool guys, keep developing <3

and yeah, most likely there will be no fewer blogs about my life, because one way or another I want to be known not only as a loser artist, but also as a person, and be closer to those who follow my activities. and there are also possible posts not in eng, since I am from the CIS.

@zechcoro @patimakerr @palachevskaya

I love uuu ccll !!!

(dunno why the hell I'm posting that >_<)

[cartooemcanhis]

Deliver us Lifty and Shifty headcanons plz

ooo the gremlins.. of course!! They're some of my favourites lol

Shifty is older by like 5 minutes and whenever they're arguing he brings it up and it makes Lifty comically upset

They both grew up homeless in Shadycity with no parents present, had to steal to survive and it got both of them into their life of crime. Came to treetown because they stashed away on a boat

They fight alot and pretend to not care about eachother but if one of them were to go missing the other one would panic alot lol

both got fleas

They're both deathly afraid of Splendid but they try to keep calm around him because they wanna seem tougher than they actually are

The idol hates them bro..loves watching these little freaks die and fail

They used to live in an apartment but they couldnt pay rent(and Cro marmot froze the place..)so they got kicked out and now live in their van

one time Mole mistook them for feral cats and brought them into his house, so for like 3 days they were just living with Mole and stealing stuff from him

thx for the hc request!! Feel free to ask me about other hcs!