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woofwoofwolf · 1 year

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REPUTATION

Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Hobie masterlist: [link]

Summary: Hobie Brown has earned a reputation as one of the toughest punks around. As his new girlfriend you dont dare mess with it.

Notes: alt reader but make it pink and pastels, fem! Reader (she/her pronouns), hurt/comfort, reader has an anxiety/ panick attack, Hobie is a little clueless, new relationship, I'm neurodivergent and this is from my experiences in these settings, so can be read as an autistic reader, flip side to that, I've never actually experienced night life so it might be inaccurate,

Might still edit this lol

You tried to make yourself small in the corner of the dark and musty room. It felt as if that somehow made you stand out more. Which… It probably did… You were the only pastel soft looking thing in a sea of edgy spikes and leather, despite your attempt to tone yourself down. You were honored that Hobie had invited you to watch him play following your newly formed relationship. Last weekend, Hobie had dissipated all your insecurities with his soft kisses and raw words, but they were back full force this night.

It was obvious how respected Hobie was in his community from watching the crowd. It was overwhelming, but made sense all the same. Hobie had this amazing talent of accepting people wholeheartedly and, more importantly, knowing WHO to accept. He wouldn’t even want to give you a second of his time if you were any kind of fascist or creep. He made a great judge of character. He did his own thing, denying the leadership or icon role that would be forced upon him, but giving people hope nonetheless.

His music was…. A choice, but it set the people in the venue ablaze. You mostly loved watching him on his guitar, sweat dripping down from his arms and forehead, filling your cheeks and stomach with warmth. His voice grounded you in familiarity, a bright spot engulfed with the crowd of some scary looking people. You were sure they weren’t trying to intimidate you, Hobie had proved to you to not go by that stereotype, but their outfits were often as loud as their personalities. You weren’t much for the binge drinking that was going on and you had tiptoed away from a table of people that looked to be under the influence of something stronger. Other than that not a lot of people had bothered you.

You had come with Valerie, a female acquaintance of Hobie whom he had trusted to look after you. You could see her in the crowd keeping an eye on you, despite having urged her to pay you no mind and to go have fun. She came back to where you were any time some guy did approach you.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” They’d ask, before being shooed away by Valerie…

Oh god.

You were being a total killjoy to these people, weren’t you? It was too embarrassing. If people found out you were here for Hobie, they’d laugh you out of the building.

At that point, Hobie’s set ended. He was brilliant, pure adrenaline radiating off of him. He jumped off the banged up stage, being celebrated and hit on the back by the crowd as he made his way through. His eyes were searching for something, for you. When your eyes met, his lit up, while your gaze plummeted down, feet cemented to the ground.

You felt his large hand on your bicep and you flinched. “Ey, what’s wrong?” He said.

Shit. You didn’t mean to make him upset.

“You not feeling good?”

You shook your head. “You didn’t drink anything suspicious, did you?”

“She didn’t drink anything all night,” came the voice of Valerie. All of a sudden you were aware of all the worried eyes directed your way. You stood out way too much.

“Oh,” He sounded disappointed, it made your stomach turn. “Did you not have fun, darling?”

That was when the full on panic set in. You didn’t want his friends to know you were dating- what would happen to Hobie if they did?

“No, it was okay.” You said in a quick, high pitched voice, big tears beginning to fall down your face without warning. “Please let me go.” You tried to break free from his touch and run away, but he caught you quickly and walked you out of the event room, through the hallways towards one of the exits. You didn’t dare struggle, but couldn’t help squirming under his gentle grip as people stared and whispered. Valerie followed you two. It was a pleasant and unusually quiet night as you stepped out onto the curb

Once you stopped walking the tears flowed freely from your face and you did nothing but hiccup out apologies. Hobie’s warm eyes watched you full with worry. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. I’ll let you go if you want, I just can’t let you leave like this, okay?” He gently rubbed your right arm, leaving you space, but you subconsciously melted into him regardless, which seemed to reassure him just as much as it reassured you.

“Hobie you idiot,” Valerie said. She was leaning against the poster covered event door to make sure nobody would follow you through that exit. “Are you okay, (y/n)?” You nodded with a sob, another apology leaving your mouth.

“What the hell happened?” Hobie asked. “Did some bloke put his hands on you?”

“No,” you croaked. “No, Val kept an eye on me.”

“You shouldn’t have brought her here in the first place, you dumb git,” Val interjected. “This obviously wasn’t her scene.”

“No- that’s not it either, I, ehm,” your eyes darted from the ground to Valerie, feeling self conscious. She dramatically sighed.

“Fine. I get it, I’ll be inside if you need me.” She put her hand on the handle before pointing at you. “But I want to see you before you leave, okay? You were my responsibility tonight and I’m not letting you leave like such a mess.” You nodded, your whole face feeling hot. “And I’m still mad at you,” she said to Hobie before diving back into the building.

When the door shut, you separated from Hobie as he petted your head, moving his thumb down to your cheek, stroking it in an attempt to dry your tears. You closed your eyes and frowned.

“God, I’m so sorry, Hobie..”

Hobie shook his head. “Shit, I’m the one who should be sorry. I was too daft to notice this wasn’t your thing.”

“No!” You took his hand and squeezed it, looking into his deep brown eyes to convey your sincerity. “That’s not it. I loved watching you, you were .. SO breathtaking. I’m so thankful you wanted me here in the first place, seriously… I’m the one who’s problem, really,”

“What are you on about?”

“I- I can’t put your name to shame like this. I’m not- punk, I’m not cool- I totally humiliated you just now, I mean with your reputation-”

He let go of your hands and shook his hands in a dismissive motion. “Woah, woah, stop right there.” He let out a nervous airy laugh. You picked at your nails as he searched for words. “...I could NOT be arsed about something like that, alright?”

“But, people respect you and-”

“Nah-ah, no buts,” He caged you between himself and the wall “If my mates respect me less for who I love, then they’re not worth shit to me- get that through your thick skull,”

You could only sniff in response, still feeling bad about the whole ordeal. You were surprised when Hobie pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and held it there.

“’m sorry I didn’t check with you more if you were cool with being here,” He whispered into your hair. “I was just so excited to have you be watching me… I’ll do better next,”

You laughed. “I’ll do better too. Promise… and It was exciting for me too,” you could feel him grin against your head.

“Well, that sure is convenient for the both of us, innit?” He let you go and you felt your anxiety lifting. “Next time, if you still want to go to a show, let's go to one together, yeah? I won’t leave you on your own.”

You nodded. “And next time I’ll disguise myself and tell people that was your crazy ex.”

Hobie snorted. “Just tell em you were pissed and no one will care. C’mon, let's get Vals permission to leave and then I’ll keep you company tonight, yeah?”

————

Wait how did this turn into an hurt comfort fic? This was supposed to be a fluffy little drabble lol… I’m semi proud of this one ngl,, writing Hobie’s dialogue is HARD AS BALLS though. I tend to write very formal sounding dialogue, so a character like Hobie is difficult for me, even if he weren’t British. Plus I only know like,, old people British slang lmao. Like sure, I can google and stuff, but for example when you google slang for “happy” the word “chuffed” will come up. Like, Brits correct me if I’m wrong, but this mfer would NOT say “chuffed”?? like that sounds so old to me? (Istg if he says it in ATSV or BTSV I’m going to be so mad lol)

On that note- long shot- if someone who’s British would like to go over my dialogue sections and leave some suggestions, I would greatly appreciate it. Message me if you’re interested. Don’t feel pressured though, I love you guys all the same.

I did read this through multiple times, but not as thorough as I sometimes do. Let me know if there are any mistakes.

#hobie brown #spider punk #spiderverse #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #spiderpunk x reader #atsv #hobie brown x y/n #scenario #hobie brown x fem reader #hobie brown x autistic reader

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punkeropercyjackson · 7 months

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Hot take but Percy Jackson actually isn't anything like Harry Potter and the reason they're popularly compared is due to the mass mischaracterization and misenterpretation that leads to sanatization of Percy to turn him into a more standard protagonist despite the whole point his character being that he's NOT normal while Harry's is that he IS and that made him into a very bland and lowkey passive aggressive bigot that's an awful example for kids while Percy is the perfect role model.Like let's look them over.Percy:

Was born poor and never becomes rich

Is a child abuse victim with consistent trauma responses and unhealthy coping mechanisms all the way starting at The Lightning Thief

Beat up bullies as a kid,was targeted by them to begin with because he's neurodivergent and his teachers picked on him too

Has nothing but love and respect for his fellow minorities,women especially thanks to being a mama's boy with no positive older male figures in his life except Beckendorf

Is pessimistic,sardonic,anger issued,bad at socializing and gets embarrased to be overly open with his emotions but none of this turns him into a bad person but instead makes him realistic and relatable

And he's also kind,gentle,nurturing to the point of basically adopting younger demigods as his found siblings and pseudo-kids if they don't have positive adult figures in their lives already,encouraging,loyal to a literal fatal fault and has a distinctive and iconic sense of humor that never dosen't land

Didn't like Annabeth or Rachel for shallow reasons and instead for their personalities and only wasn't into Reyna because he was taken at the time and treats all three of them very nicely

Is an instigator who's driving point as our hero is taking down corrupted figures but also does activism for the lesser treated people in his world by helping out every time he gets a chance to,has one of his core trait's being that he's COMPLETELY devoid in power hunger and pretty arguably counts as an anarchist because of this

Relating to the sense of humor thing again,his whole PERSONALITY is distinctive-He's not just some fantasy protagonist,he's PERCY JACKSON.The name alone gives everybody who's read the books flashbacks to all his crazy ass shit(affectionate)and that's how you know you've got a well-written protagonist

And Percy is legitimately transfem-coded,because i've met so many trans women in the Pjo fandom and every single one of them without exception have said that she's a femme trans woman egg.This also applies to black/afrolatino folks and autistics in the fandom like me to a less near universal extent

While Harry:

Grew up middle class and then got riches out the ass when the series started

Is a very poor attempt at positive abuse survivor rep because he uses his mental health as an excuse to a huge dick with no consequences given to him afterward

Had no tormenters other than the Dursleys

A 'dosen't know better and refuses to learn' typa bigot with tons of passive aggressive remarks about girls and ableism and fatphobia thrown in too,not to mention racist moments like hating Dean for dating Ginny

Is the quintessential young male fantasy protagonist and this is exactly his problem because it makes him boring asf and we're dealing with so much fucking damage in the kids fantasy genre thanks to his musty ass

All his crushes were shallow(Only liked Cho for a pretty girljock and only noticed Ginny when she became one too and prioritizes looks and society's idea of 'coolness' on the other girls his age too like damn i wonder why he only ever saw Hermione as a sister,surely it can't be connected /s)

Never does actual justice fighting unless he's required to and don't tell me he shouldn't have needed to because this wasn't real life,it was a magics series so he should've fought evil on purpose like Percy did and so did Katniss Everdeen and the Pevensie Siblings and all the other actual good kids books protags.This genre is supposed to be a power fantasy for kids that they can be heroes too and Harry failed big time at his job just like he did at everything else

Again,he is VERY mediocre as a character but mediocrity sells and now we have a million clones of him instead of real mcs

Is part of exactly zero minorities,neither intentionally or accidentally,and that made him grow up to be a cop.Douchebag ass white straight boy Harry vs Autistic afrolatina transfemme slay Percy.No competition,Percy's punk so she'd kill Harry to earn her blue laces

And before Maraturds and Luke/gods stans get bold,you're literally him irl but worse besties♡

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ueinra · 1 year

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Another day another comic to talk about!

This is a French Comic illustrated by Houy Raymond and published in 1953 by Vedette, It’s volume 5 of the "FanFan" Collection.

Oh wow The Conventionist! He looks so much younger here.

I think this is the only comic I've seen that has this chapter so far.

Look at my beautiful women, they look sooo well.

I love Javert's expression here but why does he look kinda sad.. since when does this **** have feelings??

The way he doesn't like the whole thing but accepts it at the end and gets his best nap.

Aww this is adorable and I like the colors, they are comfortable.

Yeah give me some Mabeuf moments with Marius!! always happy to see more of him. It's sad when one of the important characters is so forgotten.

THEODULE!!!!

He looks great as always and I love how this comic contains moments of him when his character is not important to the story lol

He has two moments, when he comes to visit his aunt and she asks him to spy on Marius and when she later introduces him to M. Gillenormand and he sits with him to listen to his empty talk.

Seriously just look at his face, I'm sure he regretted sitting with him.

Bless the illustrator for giving Montparnasse these lips and that elegant look.

and of course this moment when Valjean kicks his ass and gives him a fatherly admonition bc it’s ICONIC.

and here are my guys Les Amis who all look like they're wearing a liberty cap.

The way he stands on the table to prove how great Napoleon is ASDJFKASIKDASDF THIS IS SOOOO MARIUS.

I know that Azelma is younger than Cosette and Eponine but she looks like a baby here.

ok why are all the Thenardiers' children blond?? I want an explanation RIGHT NOW.

You don't know how much I love this moment. It's hard to explain. I just love them more than you can imagine.

The audacity he has to ask for water lol.. man ur a spy just shut up and stand there fr.

I can't believe they're still going to kill him after he showed them his chest.. It's Enjolras' chest PEOPLE.

The hilarious thing about this part is that Javert doesn’t seem interested in Valjean’s musty smell and makes him JUST SIT NEXT TO HIM.

and Hugo completes the story as if it’s a very normal thing.

Whatever the ending absolutely breaks my heart, but the way Cosette embraces and cares for her father warms my heart and I know it makes the ending ten times worse but... yeah.

#les miserables #les mis #the versions i have #Raymond comic #comics #my pics

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thedistortionsno1simp · 5 months

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Harry Potter but He's constantly wearing a suit of armour(for medical-magic reasons) and has C-PTSD(I can't even with this title)

(TW for body horror, and mention of child abuse) Soooo I had a lot of time on my hands and you know, as I do when I have daydreaming time, I started thinking about Harry Potter. Now I've read Harry Potter and I think the one thing that always frustrated me was his lack of personality. It always felt like characters were telling us who he was, instead of him *showing* us who he was. So I came up with more interesting versions of him as one does. And then today I came up with a version where the magic that struck him in childhood and was cast by musty dusty Moldemort didn't just leave a scar...oh no no no this was the worst of magic and it had been just left to stew in his body, a scar is too small. His ENTIRE BODY SLOWLY MELTED FROM THE INSIDE OUT AND PULSED WITH MAGIC in this little alternative universe I created. Now this left most of his body a mushy magical mess and now Dumbledore has to figure out what to do with this somehow still alive pile of flesh, magic and warped bone that was baby Harry. So he stuffed it in a suit of porcelain armour of course. This gave Harry's body a sense of structure but came off as a bit uncanny and couldn't pass for human. So most of his life before Hogwarts was spent in Dursley's closet but you know for slightly better reasons this time. This also give the Dursley kinda better reasons to be disgusted by him. He's allowed to go out at night when no one can see him though. He regularly goes to see Mr.Weasley to check on his armour, since Mr. Weasly is the one who designed it. This introduces him to Ron before Hogwarts and allows them to form a friendship. Once Harry gets into Hogwarts, he would have to slowly build up friendship and trust rather than the quick way it happened in the books cos he's slightly uncanny now to most people and I just find it more realistic. Here are some doodles I did on my phone to get an idea of what this Harry kinda looks like:

(The silly face was something he drew on for fun and friendliness purposes. The one on the right us to show what he looks like underneath)

Also the C-PTSD comes in with the Dursleys especially Vernon(I think that's his name) This would most likely be due to physical abuse that not even his son or wife would know about. Harry would push this all down and then from then on start being a happy go lucky guy who just pushes down every negative emotion and has terrible memory. And this would backfire on him in a key moment in the story. Why C-PTSD? Why so specific? Well bc it's the one I know how to write well, since I've researched on it a lot and have experienced symptoms of it. Also I think he should have some sort of mental scar after all that's he's been through

Other things that would probably change in this weird au :

James and Lily had a *terrible* relationship and James was secretly gay for Mr.Weasley just never had the guts to confess

Dark magic isn't a thing, there's just magic and some just happens to be able to kill you

Sirius x Lupin and Dumbledore x Snape are Canon in this au(Please don't come at me for Snape and Dumbledore, they are both adults)

Dumbledore ain't smart or wise, he's just a master of bullshit and Snape sees right through it(Snape tries to better him, whether it's working is a different story)

Ron x Harry does become a thing in this au but it's slow-burning in a way? Just know feelings are weird

Hermione is a ball of anxiety and burnt out gifted kid syndrome but she is still the only logical one in the iconic trio

The story's main theme would not be grief but rather trauma and more specifically on trauma, mental illness, autonomy and free will and how they relate.

Magic would be very, very dependent or have unwanted or different effects depending on the emotional state of the user at the time. Think magic bursting out during a panic attack or a water spell become an electrical and water spell due to the castor's overexcitement

Uhhhh this is just a silly au I wrote and I might refine it more in the future and you know seriously think about details like why Harry is living with the Dursleys still cos 'for safety'does not feel solid enough but then again it sounds like the kinda thing this Dumbledore would say.

If you read all of this thanks and goodbye

#writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #shitpost #fiction writing #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanart #doodle

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iara-sofia · 7 months

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Been gone for a year but who cares

Anyws here are my thoughts about the new LI season tempting fate charactersss

Frist af all let’s talk about the Mc

Finally do we have a mc that does looks good 😍

All the prior mcs were so ugly and musty

They could do better with the hair cus they all ugly

Just wished they’re were more hairstyles ment for people with textured hair or curly 😔

But anyws I do think this season is about the zodiacs cus why did have to many options for zodiacs signs tattoos

ummmmm who told this man to be this fineeee 😍😍

does seem like he’s gonna be the joker like Bobby

BUT nobody can be as iconic like Bobby

Just hope that Jin won’t become one of those characters that we can’t piar up with till the end like Ozzy and will

But I do got high hopes for jin

andddd lunaaa 😍😍

But tbh got nothing to say about her

o do think it’s funny that she owns a cat cafe

HENRIK 2.0

WHY DOES HE KINDA LOOK LIKE MY MANZ HENRIK

istg if he also got the dumb golden retriever vibe going on

but nobody can top my man henrik

UMM why does Sophie remind me of Hannah when she came back

does give of a type of mature vibe

hot nothing else to say that except she reminds me of glowed up Hannah

OACKLEY THE 6’3 FIREFIGHTER MAN

not my type but HES GOOD LOOKINGGHHHH

EMEL HELP

I can’t with her bangs 😭😭

CLAUDIA 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

APPARENTLY SHE FROM BRASIL

I love her

she looks so good

I just know she gonna be like our bestie in villa

I can’t add pictures of Theo but I don’t anything to say about him except that he kinda looks like Alex from the season prior

That all

#litg s8 #litg tempting fate #litg #love island the game #love island tempting fate #my thoughts #fusebox #fuseboxs smells

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seanpultz · 5 days

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The South Park Boys in The Haunted Mansion

As they approached the imposing structure of Gracey Mansion, the Gothic Revival Pointed-style villa looming in the heart of Walt Disney World's Magic Kingdom, Stan couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine. The mansion's resemblance to the iconic Joel Rathbone mansion, nestled in the upper Hudson River Valley of Albany, New York, added an eerie authenticity to the atmosphere. The four friends, Stan, Kyle, Eric, and Kenny, had been planning this trip for months, eager to explore the legendary Haunted Mansion attraction.

"You guys aren't seriously scared of a bunch of old animatronics, are you?" Cartman sneered, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he studied the mansion's intricate facade.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "No, but I've heard the ghost stories. Supposedly, it's haunted by real spirits."

"Pfft," Cartman retorted, "Real ghosts? That's as likely as me becoming President."

"Remember the time we went camping and you couldn't handle the fake ghost story, Kyle?" Stan quipped, a smirk playing on his lips.

Kyle shot him a glare. "That was different. This is Disney, not the woods."

Kenny, ever the optimist, piped up from beneath his hood, his muffled voice barely audible. "Maybe we'll finally get to see a ghost!"

As they ventured deeper into the mansion's shadowy embrace, the four friends couldn't ignore the chilling ambiance that seemed to thicken with every step. The overgrown garden path meandered past a tipped birdbath, its water stagnant and murky, reflecting the glow of the flickering gas lamps. Ahead, a black carriage, seemingly drawn by an invisible horse, stood still yet somehow menacing. The eerie silence was broken only by the mournful tune of the embossed musical instruments adorning a nearby crypt, playing a melody that sent shivers down their spines.

"Look at this," Kyle whispered, pointing to the crypt of Prudence Pock. "Words are appearing… they're moving!"

The letters on the tombstone shimmered into existence, spelling out a chilling verse: "Beneath this stone, a poetess lies, whose untimely end came as a surprise. Her pen now writes, though she is gone, forever spinning tales of the macabre and forlorn."

Stan, his skepticism wavering, gulped. "Okay, that's a bit… much."

"It's just a bunch of lights and gears," Cartman said, though his voice held a hint of doubt. "They probably have some kind of projector hidden around here."

Kenny nodded in agreement, though his eyes remained wide with wonder. The crypt of Captain Culpepper Clyne burped a geyser of water and bubbles, adding to the otherworldly scene. Despite the chills, the excitement grew within them as they approached the servant's entrance, the gateway to the unknown terrors awaiting inside the Haunted Mansion.

"Well, let's get this over with," Stan said, taking a deep breath and pushing open the heavy door. The creak echoed through the night, and as they stepped over the threshold, the warm, musty air of the mansion's interior enveloped them like a spectral embrace. The adventure was just beginning, and little did they know the real horrors that lay beyond the facade of this seemingly innocent theme park ride.

As they shuffled into the foyer, the somber notes of the pipe organ's "Grim Grinning Ghosts" filled the air, adding a sense of urgency to their steps. Stan's eyes were drawn to the picture above the crackling fireplace, where a handsome young man, likely the mansion's owner, stared back with an eerie smile that seemed to follow them across the room. "Great, just what we need," he murmured, "a haunted portrait to start things off."

"Dude, it's just a painting," Kyle said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. His gaze darted around the room, taking in the dusty chandeliers and the grand staircase that spiralled into the darkness above.

Cartman snickered. "You guys are such wusses. This is all just for show. They're not even trying to scare us."

Kenny, ever the silent observer, simply nodded, his eyes gleaming with excitement beneath the shadow of his hood. The portrait's eyes seemed to flicker with a mischievous glint, as if challenging their skepticism. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the floorboards, and the group could have sworn they heard the faintest whispers echoing from the depths of the mansion.

Suddenly a voice boomed out from the darkness: "When hinges creak in doorless chambers. When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker when the air is deathly still… That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."

"Who said that?" Kyle's voice cracked as the portrait of the handsome young man above the fireplace began to morph before their very eyes. The once charming smile twisted into a macabre grin, revealing rotted teeth and sunken eyes. The skin on the man's face sloughed off, exposing the decay beneath, much like the disturbing transformation of Dorian Gray.

The corpse in the portrait cackled, and with a dramatic flourish, the wall beside it slid open, revealing an octagonal chamber bathed in an eerie green light.

Stan's eyes widened as the reality of the situation set in. "Is this… real?"

Cartman scoffed. "It's just a cool special effect. I bet the ride's going to start any second now."

But even as he spoke, the walls of the octagonal room began to close in, the paintings on the walls coming to life. The bearded gentleman's document fluttered, the young lady's parasol twirled, the old woman's rose wilted, and the man in the bowler hat tipped his hat to them in a grotesque greeting. The friends exchanged nervous glances, realizing that perhaps this wasn't just another day at the theme park.

"Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion." The voice boomed out. "I am your host, your Ghost Host. Our tour begins here in this gallery. Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state. Kindly step all the way in please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now."

"Holy crap!" Kyle exclaimed as the room stretched, the paintings morphing into grisly scenes. "This isn't your average Disney magic!"

"Told you it was going to be good," Cartman said, a smug grin spreading across his face.

Stan's eyes darted around, trying to process the macabre images. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis." The Ghost Host said ominously. "Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination — hmm? And consider this dismaying observation, This chamber has no windows and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out!" The Ghost Host unleashed a bone chilling laugh which reverberated throughout the room. Our heroes had all eyes glued to the ceiling. "Of course, there’s always my way."

The lights blinked out, plunging the room into an abyss of darkness, and a deafening crack of thunder echoed above. For a split second, the flicker of lightning illuminated the grinning skull of the Ghost Host dangling from the rafters, his eyes burning with a malevolent light. The boys' screams pierced the air as the sight seared itself into their retinas. A blood-curdling shriek followed, so shrill and piercing that it seemed to shake the very foundation of the mansion. The sound of bones snapping like dry twigs filled the room, and then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the cacophony ceased. The lights stuttered back to life, and the skeletal corpse had vanished. In its stead, a wall had slid open, revealing a narrow, shadowy corridor that beckoned them deeper into the mansion's bowels. The four friends exchanged horrified glances, their hearts hammering in their chests. "Well, that was… unexpected," Stan managed to croak out, his voice trembling.

"Come on," Cartman said, his bravado somewhat shaken but still intact. "Let's go see what kind of shit they've got in store for us next."

Kyle took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Remember, guys, it's all just a show."

Kenny nodded, his eyes wide but gleaming with excitement beneath his hood. "Yeah, let's do this."

"Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely," The Ghost Host said apologetically with a slight touch of mirth. "The real chills come later. Now, as they say, ‘look alive,’ and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

They stepped into the passageway, the chilling laugh of the Ghost Host trailing after them, a sinister promise of what was to come. The air grew colder, the walls seemingly closing in around them, and the floor beneath their feet grew slick with a mysterious, unseen substance. The Haunted Mansion had officially begun, and the true test of their courage was about to unfold.

The boys continued down the dimly lit hallway, the cobweb-covered portraits leering at them as they approached the boarding area for the Doom Buggies. The carts looked eerily inviting, almost too well-maintained for the dilapidated setting. "And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural," the Ghost Host announced, his voice now coming from a disembodied speaker above them. "Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. And watch your children, please."

"Guys, are we really doing this?" Stan asked, glancing back at the others, his voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.

"Come on, Stan," Kyle said with a nudge. "You're not scared, are you, fat ass?"

"Scared? Me?" Cartman scoffed, climbing into his Doom Buggy. "This is gonna be a walk in the park."

Kenny, ever unfazed, simply hopped into his seat, his muffled voice offering a reassuring, "This is gonna be epic."

"Do not pull down on the safety bar, please." The Ghost Host continued. "I will lower it for you. And heed this warning: the spirits will materialize only if you remain quietly seated at all times."

The safety bar is lowered keeping them in place.

The Doom Buggy jolted into motion, sending the four friends hurtling down the steep stairwell. They gripped the bars tightly as the floating candelabra hovered ominously above them, casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls. "Holy shit, this is intense!" Kyle shouted, his eyes wide with amazement.

"You're telling me!" Stan agreed, his voice strained.

As they emerged into the hallway, the two windows to their left framed the tumultuous night outside, each flash of lightning revealing a new, ghastly scene. On their right, the four paintings transformed with every strike, the figures within them twisting and contorting into monstrous forms.

"Look at that tiger, dude!" Cartman pointed, his eyes gleaming with excitement as the woman's portrait morphed into the snarling creature.

"And the ship!" Kenny's muffled voice filled with awe as the sloop became a ghostly vessel adrift in a storm.

"And Medusa!" Stan exclaimed, his heart racing as the image of the serene woman in the Greek temple morphed into the terrifying Gorgon.

The skeletal knight in the painting let out a silent, bone-chilling scream, his jaws snapping open and shut with every flash of lightning. The four friends stared in wonder and horror, realizing that the Haunted Mansion had far exceeded their expectations. As their carts rolled further into the mansion's dark embrace, they knew that their wildest nightmares were about to come to life.

"Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please." The Ghost Host continued. "We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

Leaving the hallway, the Doom Buggies glided into an expansive rectangular library, its walls groaning with the weight of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with hundreds of ancient tomes. The air was thick with the scent of dust and parchment, and the only illumination came from the flickering candles that adorned the shelves, casting eerie shadows across the room. Phantom hands danced along the spines of the books, pulling out titles after title with a ghostly finesse that had the boys' eyes darting back and forth in amazement. An empty chair in the corner rocked back and forth, as if an invisible reader had just stood, leaving their book behind. A ladder on a track slid back and forth, as if being used by a spectral librarian in search of the perfect macabre tale.

"Our library is well stocked with priceless first editions, only ghost stories, of course," The Ghost Host's disembodied voice boomed, a touch of pride in his tone. "And marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

The boys stared in wonder at the busts that seemed to follow their every move with unblinking eyes. The atmosphere grew heavier with each creaking step their carts took, the tension palpable as the whispers grew louder.

"Guys, this is… this is actually pretty cool," Stan admitted, his voice betraying a hint of admiration for the intricate detail of the room.

"Cool? This is badass!" Cartman exclaimed, his fear momentarily forgotten in the face of the attraction's impressive spectacle.

Kyle's gaze darted around, his curiosity piqued. "How do they do this? It's like the books are actually flying!"

But Kenny, ever the thrill-seeker, was all in. His muffled voice emerged from the shadows of his hood, filled with excitement. "This is so much better than I thought it would be!"

Leaving the library behind, the Doom Buggies rolled into the opulent Music Room, where an invisible maestro played a haunting Rachmaninoff-style arrangement of "Grim Grinning Ghosts" on the grand piano. The instrument's keys depressed and raised without a soul in sight, the ghostly tune resonating throughout the chamber. The curtains billowed dramatically as the storm outside grew more intense, casting wild, dancing shadows on the walls.

"Look, it's like the ghost is playing a concert for us!" Kyle exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Yeah, but why does it sound like my mom playing the piano?" Cartman quipped, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his bones.

"I guess they really went all out for the ghostly vibe," Stan murmured, his gaze fixed on the shadowy figure of the phantom pianist.

Kenny nodded, his voice muffled but filled with excitement. "It's like we're in a real haunted house!"

The Ghost Host's voice filled the room once more, the speakers hidden in the ornate decor. "They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion. A ghostly retreat, if you will. And, by the way, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there's room for a thousand. Any volunteers?"

The friends exchanged glances, the gravity of the invitation not lost on them. The air grew colder, the shadows darker, and the music grew more sinister, as if the very walls were alive with the spirits of the deceased, watching them, waiting for their response.

Stan, his voice shaking slightly, spoke up, "I think we're good, thanks."

The room plunged into darkness once again, the cackles of the Ghost Host echoing as their carts moved onward, leaving the eerie symphony behind. The four friends knew that the Haunted Mansion was just beginning to reveal its secrets, and they were about to become part of the grim grinning ghosts' never-ending masquerade.

"Well, if you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour." The Ghost Host continued. "A charming "ghostess" will be on hand to take your application."

The Doom Buggies lurched forward, and the boys found themselves in the dizzying main stairwell of the Haunted Mansion. The stairs twisted and turned in every conceivable direction, as if drawn from the mind of M.C. Escher himself. Stan's eyes widened in amazement, trying to make sense of the impossible geometry. "How do they even walk on these?"

Kyle nodded in agreement. "It's like they're defying gravity."

"Totally sick," Kenny murmured, his eyes scanning the floor, where the glowing ectoplasmic footprints of the mansion's spectral inhabitants danced and intertwined.

"Guys, check it out!" Cartman pointed upwards. The stairs above them were occupied by a motley crew of ghosts, ascending and descending in a bizarre, gravity-defying waltz. "These are the cool kind of ghosts, not the lame ones that just go 'Boo'."

Kyle's eyes were glued to the ghostly figures. "I can't believe they figured out how to make stairs do that!"

"It's like we're in a real-life game of 'Creepy Crawly Chaos'," Cartman exclaimed, his voice rising with excitement.

As the Doom Buggies rounded the corner, the friends were plunged into absolute darkness. The only light came from the glowing, blinking eyes that suddenly materialized on the wallpaper, forming a disturbing pattern that seemed to pulse with an eerie life of its own. The Ghost Host's disembodied voice filled the space, sounding more amused than ever. "We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills."

Stan swallowed hard, his heart racing as the eyes grew closer, merging into the wallpaper's sinister design. "This is messed up," he whispered.

"It's just a trick of the light," Kyle said, though his voice wavered slightly.

"Yeah, sure," Cartman agreed, trying to sound unfazed. "They probably just painted those on."

The Doom Buggies emerged into the second floor's seemingly endless hallway, lined with ominous doors that seemed to stretch into infinity. A solitary candelabra danced in the middle of the corridor, casting its flickering light across the walls. Stan's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the floating candelabra. "Guys, did you see that?" he whispered, his voice a mix of awe and fear.

Kyle nodded, his gaze fixed on the eerie apparition. "It's like we're in a real-life version of 'The Haunting of Hill House'."

"Shh, listen!" The Ghost Host's urgent whisper cut through the tension. A mournful wail, like the cry of a banshee, grew louder as the candelabra drew closer. The friends leaned in, their breaths shallow and their hearts pounding. The keening grew more intense, resonating through the very fabric of the mansion, and the candles on the walls flickered wildly in response.

"What the hell was that?" Cartman's voice cracked, his bravado momentarily forgotten.

Kenny leaned forward in his seat, his muffled "Whoa," echoing the excitement building in the pit of his stomach.

"Whoa, guys, check out the raven!" Kyle whispered, his eyes wide with fascination.

"And that coffin," Stan added, his voice hushed with a mix of dread and excitement. The skeletal hands inside the casket clawed at the wood, the muffled pleas for escape growing more insistent. "Is that… real?"

"It's just a robot," Cartman said, trying to sound confident despite the horror etched on his friends' faces. "They're just trying to scare us."

But even as the words left his mouth, the raven let out a piercing caw, shattering the illusion of calm. The hands in the coffin grew more frantic, the pleas turning to anguished screams that seemed to resonate in their very bones. The mood grew heavier, the air thick with the scent of decay and the oppressive weight of the unseen spirits that surrounded them. Kenny leaned back in his Doom Buggy, his eyes glued to the desperate spectacle, his muffled voice filled with a strange kind of admiration. "This is… intense."

As the Doom Buggy rolled backward, the friends found themselves in a corridor that seemed to have come straight from their darkest nightmares. The walls closed in around them, the air thick with the sounds of otherworldly distress. "What the…?" Kyle's voice trailed off as they took in the breathing doors and the cacophony of supernatural sounds.

"It's just Disney magic," Cartman said, though his knuckles were white from gripping the safety bar.

Stan's eyes widened as he stared at the twisted faces in the family portraits. "This is messed up, even for a theme park."

"Yeah, it's like they're trying to scare us for real," Kyle whispered, his gaze fixed on the writhing shadows that danced across the walls.

The grandfather clock loomed ahead, its hands spinning in reverse, the chime of thirteen echoing through the corridor like a funeral knell. A shadowy claw reached out from behind it, briefly touching the clock face before retreating into the gloom. Kenny's muffled gasp was the only sound as they all stared at the eerie sight.

Entering the shadowy séance room, the friends' Doom Buggies circled a large table adorned with mystical artifacts, the raven perched stoically on the chair's back watching them with glowing eyes. The crystal ball at the center began to glow eerily, and the image of a ghostly, floating head appeared within. The spectral visage of Madame Leota chanted her incantation, her voice a mix of soothing and foreboding.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat," she called out, her ethereal form spinning in the crystal sphere.

"Madame Leota, cool!" Kyle whispered, his voice betraying a hint of fear.

"Call in the spirits, wherever they're at!" she continued, her eyes seeming to bore into their very souls.

Stan's grip tightened on the safety bar. "I didn't sign up for this," he murmured, his skepticism forgotten in the face of the disturbingly lifelike apparition.

The raven cawed, and the room grew colder, the air thick with the presence of the otherworldly. The walls around them began to pulse with a soft, glowing light, revealing the silhouettes of dancing spirits that grew more vivid with each beat of the heart.

"Rap on a table," Leota's voice grew more insistent, "it's time to respond."

The table in the center of the circle began to tremble, and a soft knocking echoed through the room. The friends exchanged nervous glances, the reality of the situation setting in. This was no mere illusion; the Haunted Mansion was alive with the spirits of the departed.

"Send us a message from somewhere beyond," Leota's chant grew louder, the knocking turning into a cacophony of spectral voices. The air grew colder, the shadows longer, and the friends could feel the eyes of the ghosts upon them. The raven cawed once more, and the lights flickered, as if in response to the witch's call.

Kenny's muffled "Whoa" was the only sound in the room as the table began to levitate, the crystal ball spinning wildly. The walls around them pulsed with the rhythm of unseen spirits, and the air grew thick with anticipation.

"Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine! Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond, let there be music from regions beyond! Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell, give us a hint, by ringing a bell!"

Suddenly The Ghost Host spoke: "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

"Look, guys!" Stan whispered urgently, pointing to the ghostly gathering below. The balcony they found themselves on overlooked a grand hall where the afterlife's most extravagant party was in full swing. The room buzzed with the energy of a hundred invisible strings being plucked at once, and the sound of laughter and music filled the air. The sight was both mesmerizing and terrifying, as the transparent spirits moved in a dance of unearthly grace.

"This is epic!" Cartman exclaimed, his earlier skepticism replaced with wide-eyed wonder.

Kyle leaned over the railing, his eyes glued to the birthday bash. "How do they do that?" he murmured as the orange-haired ghost's breath extinguished the candles, only for the other ghosts to vanish in a puff of smoke, reappearing as they reignited.

"It's like we're in the middle of a ghostly masquerade ball," Stan said, his voice filled with a mix of amazement and fear.

Kenny, his eyes gleaming with excitement, nodded fervently. "Yeah, and check out the duelists!"

Indeed, the duelists had emerged from their painted prisons, pistols in hand, their eyes burning with spectral fire as they took aim and fired at each other. The reports of the guns echoed through the room, leaving trails of smoke that mingled with the stormy night air that swept in through the shattered windows. The cloaked figures that flitted by were a stark contrast to the elegance of the waltzing spirits, their shadowy forms a reminder of the darker corners of the afterlife.

The friends watched as the celebration grew more frenetic, the music more haunting, and the ghosts more tangible. The organist's fingers danced over the keys, conjuring a symphony of the damned from the very pipes themselves. The Haunted Mansion had come to life before their eyes, and for a brief moment, they were not mere observers but guests in this macabre soiree.

"Come on, we've got to keep moving," Stan said, his voice a mix of excitement and trepidation.

Kyle nodded, his gaze lingering on the rocking chair. "But what if… what if we're missing the best part?"

Cartman's bravado returned with a snort. "The best part's going to be when we tell everyone back home about this. Now, let's get going before these ghosts decide to make us part of the show."

The Doom Buggies jolted forward, carrying them away from the spectral revelry and deeper into the mansion's secrets. The Haunted Mansion had already proven to be more than they bargained for, and the adventure was far from over.

The Doom Buggies jolted forward once more, carrying the boys into the dimly lit attic, where the air was thick with the scent of dust and the sound of a beating heart grew louder with each passing moment. The wedding paraphernalia scattered around the room sent a shiver down their spines, especially the five paintings of Constance Hatchaway with her various grooms, their heads disappearing and reappearing in an unnerving dance of matrimonial horror. The sinister rendition of "The Wedding March" grew clearer as they approached the broken-down piano, the invisible pianist's shadow playing the keys with a chilling precision.

"Guys, this is messed up," Kyle murmured, his eyes glued to the eerie scene unfolding before them.

"Totally," Cartman agreed, his smugness forgotten in the face of the disturbing display.

The ghostly figure of Constance Hatchaway materialized before them, her laugh sending chills down their backs as she recited the twisted vows. Each time she spoke of "death do us part," the spectral hatchet in her hand gleamed menacingly. Stan, Kyle, Eric, and Kenny watched in horror as the bride's madness unfolded before their eyes.

"We've got to get out of here," Stan whispered urgently, his grip tightening on the safety bar.

As if on cue, the Doom Buggies lurched towards the open window, offering a glimpse of escape. They didn't need to be told twice. With a collective gasp, they plunged through the window and into the night, leaving the chilling laughter of Constance and the haunted attic behind them.

As the Doom Buggies descended the stairs, the four friends couldn't help but feel the gravity of their situation. The graveyard scene unfolded around them, a symphony of spectral sights and sounds that seemed to pulse with the very essence of the afterlife. The caretaker and his petrified pooch stared at them, frozen in fear, as the air grew colder and the spirits grew bolder. The music grew louder, a cacophony of ghostly instruments that seemed to play just for them.

"Look, guys, it's the Phantom of the Opera!" Kyle exclaimed, pointing to the left.

"And that's a… a… skeletal wolf?" Cartman's voice trailed off as he took in the grisly sight of the creature howling at the moon.

The laughter of ghosts and the chilling melody of their instruments filled the air, and the five Singing Busts ahead of them grew clearer with each passing moment. Their vivid, expressive faces sang out in harmony, their tunes weaving a spell that both charmed and unsettled the boys.

"This is insane," Stan murmured, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and amazement.

Kenny nodded in silent agreement, his muffled voice lost in the chorus of the night.

The mood grew more whimsical as they approached the group of ghosts around the hearse, sipping tea and watching the performance with ghostly decorum. The Mummy's futile attempts to converse with the deaf spirit nearby brought a brief moment of levity to the otherwise macabre scene. The Phantoms' haunting aria reverberated through the graveyard, the Beheaded Knight and his companions joining in the ghostly concert.

And then, the raven cawed once more, drawing their attention to the Mausoleum's entrance. The ominous bird perched on the doorframe, its eyes gleaming with a knowing twinkle. The Doom Buggy's path led straight into the darkened maw of the tomb, and as they passed beneath the raven's vigilant gaze, the friends could almost feel the weight of the mansion's secrets pressing down on them. The adventure had taken a turn for the surreal, and they were about to plunge even deeper into the Haunted Mansion's embrace.

Then a familiar voice is heard, "Ah, there you are!" It was The Ghost Host. "And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention."

"Beware of Hitchhiking Ghosts!"

"Look out!" Kyle yelped as the Doom Buggy approached the trio of spirits, the Traveler with his carpet bag, the Skeleton with his bony grin, and the Prisoner with his shackles rattling ominously. They had materialized at the side of the path, thumbs up and eyes gleaming with mischief. The Ghost Host's words sent a jolt of terror through the group.

"What's he talking about?" Stan's voice was tight with fear as he stared at the wall of mirrors ahead.

As their Doom Buggy passed through, the reflection revealed that the Hitchhikers had indeed found their way into the carts, their ghostly forms now seated alongside them. The Traveler's skeletal hand was poised on the steering wheel of Stan's car, the Skeleton was in the backseat with Kyle, and the Prisoner had made himself comfortable next to Kenny, who stifled a muffled yelp.

"They've picked us!" Cartman's eyes grew wide with a mix of excitement and horror. "We're going to be haunted!"

The Hitchhikers' laughter grew louder in the confined space, bouncing off the mirrored walls and echoing through the corridor. The Ghost Host's chuckle grew fainter as the Doom Buggies sped away from the graveyard, plunging into the unknown darkness that awaited them. The air grew colder, the ghosts' whispers grew clearer, and the friends realized that their night at the Haunted Mansion had taken a very real, very terrifying turn.

"They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!" The Ghost Host stated.

The sight of Little Leota standing atop the crypt's ledge, her small, glowing figure stark against the blackness of the chamber, brought a collective gasp from the four friends. “Hurry back. Be sure to bring your death certificate, if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements now! We've been dying… to have you…". Her haunting words sent a chill through their bones as they realized the gravity of their situation. "Stan, what the hell is happening?" Kyle's voice was shaky, his eyes wide with fear.

Stan, usually the calm one, was at a loss for words. The ghostly scene unfolding before them was unlike anything they had ever encountered in their hometown of South Park. "I… I don't know," he murmured, his eyes flicking to the safety bar that had just been raised. The Hitchhiking Ghosts' laughter grew more sinister, their eyes following the friends' every move in the mirrors that lined the walls.

"Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!" Laughed The Ghost Host.

The Ghost Host's laughter trailed off as the Doom Buggies came to a halt, and the safety bar lifted with a metallic clank. Stan, Kyle, Eric, and Kenny stumbled out of the vehicles, their hearts racing. "A ghost is coming home with me?" Cartman squealed, his bravado slipping away.

"You heard the man," Kyle whispered, his eyes darting around the room. "We've got to get out of here before they follow us."

Stan nodded, his mind racing. "We stick together, okay?"

They bolted through the exit, the Hitchhiking Ghosts' laughter echoing through the mansion's halls. The mansion's doors swung open, revealing the welcoming lights of the theme park outside, a stark contrast to the gloom they had just left. They stepped into the warm embrace of reality, the ghosts' mirth fading behind them.

But as they turned to face each other, a chilling realization dawned on them. The Hitchhikers hadn't disappeared with the illusion of the mansion. The Traveler's hand remained clutching Stan's shoulder, the Skeleton's skull leered at Kyle from over his own, and the Prisoner's shackles rattled against Kenny's side. The friends exchanged horrified glances. The Haunted Mansion's curse had followed them out into the night, and it was clear that their adventure was far from over.

#walt disney world #the haunted mansion #south park #stan marsh #kyle broflovski #eric cartman #kenny mccormick

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imagination-confusion · 1 year

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I just had an idea for a Warrior Cats fanfiction.

In a world of Warriors, Bumblestar, the leader of Sunclan, welcomes a pregnant rogue she-cat named Bug into the camp. Bug and the deputy, Coyotesnap hate each other.

Bug made it clear that she and her kits are leaving the clan as soon as her kits can safely leave. However, when the medicine cat delivers a prophecy, it suddenly becomes a problem. The situation shifts to: "Hey, umm… we've changed our mind. Give us your children so they can save our religion."

The story is just following Bug and Moth and their kits as they just try and escape the lands and just being followed by these guys hellbent on trying to fulfill this prophecy that sounds batshit insane.

Bug and Moth are like real icons and just trying to be good parents and trying to provide what's best for their family and getting away from this absolute nonsense. Moth takes one of lives of Bumblestar when he finally confronts them.

Dunno what happens next, haven't gone that far yet.

Here's like a passage I made for the story on the whim.

___

The night was shrouded in darkness as Bug shifted restlessly in her makeshift nest of leaves and moss. Sleep had eluded her, her senses on high alert in the unfamiliar territory they had sought refuge in. A rustling of leaves and the distant sound of approaching paws snapped her into full awareness.

Coyotesnap's voice, carried by the wind, reached her ears, accompanied by the thudding of multiple sets of footsteps. Bug's heart raced as she sat up, her instincts screaming at her to flee. She pressed her ear against the ground, hoping to discern their direction.

The sound grew louder, the realization that the clan's pursuit was drawing near forcing Bug into action. She turned to Moth, her voice urgent. "Moth, we need to move. Now!"

Moth with his eyes wide with concern nodded as he gathered their kits close. They moved swiftly through the undergrowth, their steps cautious as they snuck away. The distant voices of Sunclan warriors grew louder, urging them to push on.

As they ran, Bug's heart pounded in her chest, the terror of being caught urging her forward. The scent of the clan's trackers grew stronger, they were closing in. Just as the sounds of pursuit seemed to echo all around them, Bug spotted a dilapidated barn in the distance.

Without hesitation, Bug led her family to the shelter of the barn, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She pushed open the creaky door, revealing a dim interior filled with bales of hay. With a sense of urgency, they slipped inside, their scents masked by the musty smell of the barn.

Bug and Moth huddled close with their kits, the tension in the air almost suffocating. They listened as the sounds of pursuit drew nearer, the thudding footsteps and hushed voices echoing through the night. The adrenaline coursing through Bug's veins was matched only by her determination to keep her family safe.

The sound of Sunclan's warriors reached a crescendo, and Bug's heart raced as she imagined them closing in on their hiding spot. She pressed her muzzle against Moth's fur, her voice a whisper. Urging her family to stay quiet.

They held their breath as the sounds of footsteps and voices seemed to surround the barn. Bug's ears strained, her heart pounding in her chest, willing the clan cats to move on and leave them in peace.

After what felt like an eternity, the sounds began to recede, the thudding footsteps growing fainter with each passing moment. Bug's grip on her kits tightened, her body still tense with anticipation. It wasn't until the night grew still and silent that she dared to let out a sigh of relief.

"They're gone," Moth's voice was a mix of relief and exhaustion, his body sagging against Bug's.

Bug nodded, her heart slowly returning to a more steady rhythm. She gazed down at her kits, their eyes wide with fear.

"We'll stay here for now," Bug murmured, her voice a soothing lullaby to her kits. "When the time is right, we'll find a new and safe place."

As the moon cast its gentle glow through the cracks in the barn, Bug, Moth, and their kits huddled together in the hay. Bug finally finding rest in knowing her family is safe for the time being.

Unaware of the turmoil and trouble within Sunclan causing a crack to show in it's once prosperous unity and peace.

#ramblings #kit makes text posts #fanfiction idea #warrior cats ocs #warrior cats

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rwateringcan03 · 2 months

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Can I rq a IT tword fic any lee(s) and ler(s) thanks!

So i left this one in my inbox for months because i couldnt think of an idea 😭 anyways, here it is, and sorry for the wait!

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As the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing the small town of Derry, Maine, in hues of soft orange and fading pink, the three familiar figures gathered in Eddie Kaspbrak's cluttered basement. The musty smell of old books mingled with the faint scent of popcorn, remnants of their previous movie marathon, which had left the remnants of half-eaten snacks strewn about the room. Eddie sat cross-legged on the worn carpet, a slight furrow knitted his brow as he half-heartedly fiddled with a toy in his hands.

Beverly Marsh, her radiant auburn hair cascading in waves, reclined comfortably against the wall. She wore a simple yet stylish outfit—an oversized sweater tucked into high-waisted jeans—that spoke to both her effortless charm and understated confidence.

Sitting across from them was Richie Tozier, ever boisterous and animated. His glasses perched crookedly on his nose, their lenses reflecting the dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He leaned back casually, legs stretched out in front of him, teasingly wiggling his fingers in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “So, what’s next, huh? Horror flick? Or do we move on to the more riveting subject of Eddie’s love life?” he quipped, amusement dancing in his tone.

Eddie rolled his eyes, cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment, “Shut up, Richie! My love life is none of your business.” He tossed the toy at Richie, who deftly caught it and laughed. Beverly chuckled, relishing the iconic banter between the two boys.

Beverly's eyes sparkled with a playful idea. “Richie,” she began, tilting her head and leaning forward, “you know what you really deserve?” Without waiting for his response, she suddenly lunged at him, her hands reaching for his sides, fingers splaying out to tickle him playfully. Bev had known Richie was ticklish for months now. Even the slightest touch to his sides or stomach would make the boy giggle.

And now, she was about to confirm it.

Caught off guard, Richie burst into laughter, a high-pitched sound that bounced off the basement walls. “Ah- WhAHAT THE HELL, BEV!” he cried, squirming away. But her hands were quicker; she seized his waist, gently digging her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, his laughter infectious as Richie wriggled helplessly.

“Come on, admit it—you're ticklish!” she teased, her playful competitiveness shining through as she kept her relentless assault, fingers dancing along ribs and sides, careful not to be too harsh but enough to send waves of laughter erupting from Richie.

Eddie, witnessing this playful attack, couldn’t help but join in. “Oh, I can help with that!” he exclaimed, his voice trailing off into laughter as he joined Beverly, diving into the fray. He reached for Richie’s other side, his fingers moving deftly and quickly along the soft fabric of Richie’s shirt. “You’re going down, Tozier!”

"NOAHAHHA- NOT FAIR!" Richie wheezed between gasps of laughter, his vitality as remarkable as ever as he bucked and twisted, trying to evade their persistent fingers.

"Life's not fair, Rich,” Eddie grinned, leaning forward, his fingers now targeting the most sensitive spots he could find. With each little giggle and squeal, the basement was filled with a symphony of joy, a poignant reminder of their childhood innocence amidst the chaotic world beyond. They seemed lost in time, a bubble of warmth and camaraderie enveloping them like a familiar embrace.

"HAHAH- OHOKAY! OKAY!” Richie finally cried out amidst his laughter, “ENOUGH!"

But neither Eddie nor Beverly seemed particularly inclined to relent; they exchanged an impish glance, each savoring the carefree moment that was fleeting.

Beverly took advantage of Richie's momentary pause to quickly wrap her arms around his sides, immobilizing him slightly while Eddie tickled at his sides, creating a beautiful chaos of sound—Richie's laughter resonating with the walls like music.

“Admit it, you’re ticklish, aren’t you?” Beverly teased again, her laughter blending with Eddie’s as she leaned in closer, their expressions bright with joy and mischief.

“FIHIHINE! FINE! IM TICKLISH!" Richie gasped between laughs, surrendering amidst the violent shaking of his body in response to their playful torture.

Eventually, they relented, pulling away slightly but still encircling him, their camaraderie enveloping the space. There was an assurance in their bond, an understanding that they were invincible together, even when the world outside threatened to tear them apart.

Breathless, they reclined back onto the floor, the lingering laughter slowly fading into gentle giggles. The room felt warm, safe, the shadows outside the windows more distant than ever.

And Richie was left a giggly puddle on the floor.

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listwjanka · 1 month

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Dig Deeper

When I was a young boy, I had a tough time making friends. Mother always said that it's important to have friends, but the other children swerved around me like I was roadkill.

I think they suspected something. Like, children are attuned to the spirit world, it's always in the movies. The kids get possessed by ghosts and demons because they're more sensitive to it, like dogs are. I think they sensed that I have no soul.

As far back as I can remember, it's always been just mother and I. Once or twice I asked about my father and she grounded me. She didn't usually drink alcohol, but she did whenever the topic came up. It's not something she ever talked to me about, like she thought I wouldn't be able to tell that she was drunk during her prayers or that I wouldn't see the bottles. Her big, wet doe eyes would always cloud over when she was drunk, like an unlit room. Maybe she just didn't care if I knew.

We lived in a two bedroom house, slightly off the end of the road. It broke the symmetry of the neighbourhood. Mother said it was because the house was older than the rest of the street, that she'd inherited it from her mother who inherited it from her father and so on.

Once I had a classmate over for a school project - always hated those - and he was a huge bitch about it. He kept asking if it was my grandma's house, complained about the musty smell and how the Holy Marys were all staring at him. It's true, there were a lot of portraits, statuettes, icons and such of Holy Mary around the house, on desks, shelves, walls. If you took a piss on the floor, a stray droplet would inevitably hit some sort of catholic iconography, that's how many there were. That and crosses, rosemaries and books and bibles too old for me to care about. I asked him if there's houses without all this stuff. He looked at me really weird, I can still remember that, and just put his head down to work on his part of the project.

His father was waiting in the parking lot for the entirety of his stay.

While we did have television at home, I couldn't always watch because of mother. Usually I was only able to catch the night program when she was asleep. So most of the time I would be out back in the woods.

The town was like a secluded island surrounded by a wooden ocean. There was a highway that ran straight by, but it didn't make much of a dent in the forest's density. If you had a really bad sense of direction, you could easily get lost there.

I have a lot of memories of that forest.

When I was eight, I caught Mrs. Martens, my PE teacher, having sex with an older student. He was one of those stupid high school meatheads so I didn't think much about it. I don't know how old Ms. Martens was at the time, all adults are really fucking old when you're eight. I knew to hide behind a tree and not draw any attention to myself, so I just stood there unblinking until they were finished.

The same year I found a whole deer skeleton. I don't know how I missed it before, but it laid in perfect serenity on autmun leaves. Its bones were clean-picked and slightly green from moss or lichen that had begun to grow as nature worked to reclaim its due. The hooves though, the hooves still had a ring of that soft, yet firm fur around them.

When my fingers touched that fur, I felt an intense longing, strong enough to etch itself into my brain, a mark fresh even all those years later. To touch something that had long since died, but was still tethered to the world of the living, by the faintest of threads - how death impresses itself upon the living, how it impressed on me, and let me feel something for once. I felt a fire behind my eyes.

I mentioned the deer skeleton at school. I was so enamoured with my find that my bet was, surely the other kids would be too.

Most were grossed out that I'd touched the hooves and even took one home. They started screeching when I showed them that I had it in my pocket.

Others were less squeamish and liked the story and my souvenir, but insisted that I probably put the hooves in my mouth and licked the bones because my family is poor, whatever sense that was to make. When I asked why I would do that, one of the boys stepped forward, knocked on my forehead and asked "Anyone home? How are you this ret***d?"

So I didn't show anybody my skeleton, but the school called my mother to voice their concerns over my behaviour. At home, she made me throw the hoof into the garbage and beat me with a belt until we were both crying.

After that, I stayed away from the forest for a long while and stopped talking to any classmates for good. There was this impassable barrier that everyone felt, but could not break through. Some of my teachers would, every once in a while over the years, gently knock from the other side and talk at me about someone who could help me. When I refused, they would call my mother, who refused treatment much less calmly.

When I was 11, mother began taking me to church more often, until we went nearly every day there was service. I never quite got the hang of it or understood what I was supposed to do or feel and just followed mother's motions. She kept insisting that we were going to save my soul, but I had no idea how repeating the same few dozens of verses every day would heal me from the inside.

There was this part of the service where congregation members were to stand up, go to the front and accept the body of Christ, rather a stale, tasteless waffle. You had to do it in a specific way and I didn't care to learn. I don't know or care if I laid my hands wrong, knelt wrong or said the wrong things, either way, the pastor started whispering to my mother after services.

He would say things like "The boy is simple" or "I believe his soul is gravely ill" and my mother would stand there with white knuckles and tears in her eyes, struggling to speak.

We talked less and less the more services we attended together. When I was 13, she stopped making me go. The other boys were preparing for confirmation.

Now it wasn't just my classmates treating me like a leper - it seemed as though ever since my voice had cracked and my limbs elongated like unfurled colons, adults eyed me with hesitation, their words and movements calculated as though handling a snake.

Mother would lock the door when I came home from school. I wouldn't stay home long anyway and retreat back to my childhood sanctuary: the woods.

I'd always bring a pocket knife to take home any souvenirs, any gifts that Nature would give to keep me company. The deer skeleton was long rotten away, but plenty of other friends took its place.

At age 14 around spring, I found a small pond full of frog spawn. The frogs themselves had long left their offspring to fend for themselves. The spawn felt good in my hands and I started crushing the eggs like bubble wrap.

If anyone asked me why, I wouldn't know how to answer. It just happened. Every pop made my bloodflow more audible to my ears. For the first time in years, I could feel the strength in my fingers, the pressure in my eyeballs, the heat of my guts. I wondered how much life was in those tiny gooey balls. Whether my squeezing the wet contents out of them let me absorb their energy. Whether those still-developing creatures felt anything at all. Would they feel anything later? How much sentience could I ascribe to the goop in my hands?

That summer I went to hunt frogs. I saw and understood that they ran away from me, perceiving me as a considerable threat - much like the humans in my life. But they weren't strong enough to fight back and were easily skewered by my pocket knife.

Frogs have such big, lively eyes. People would sometimes tell me my eyes were lifeless and dull. In movies, people would say "There's no life behind his eyes." when describing bad guys or demonic possessions. Maybe, I thought, maybe. Maybe if I dug a little, I could find their souls.

Mother always spoke of souls, so matter-of-factly that it did not cross my mind to doubt her. Until I knew better, I figured souls were much like the other organs - and that they must be quite small, because I never found them in the biology books at the school library.

A frog is much larger than a tadpole or an embryo, I figured, so their soul should be visible somehow. Perhaps it would be small and hard like a seed. Maybe it was more all-encompassing, but very thin like a stretched patch of skin on the inside.

I remembered those frog dissection classes from movies and improvised my own. Its guts weren't nearly as colourful as textbook illustrations had me assume. There were some orange cords nestled in its insides by the leg, an olive-green organ reminiscent of a pinecone seed and what I assume was punctured lungs. The sight made me think of strange european dishes that I saw on the TV sometimes.

Since the body was too tattered to tell much from its shredded insides, I spent the rest of the afternoon hunting for frogs - but I would not find salvation in their tiny corded guts that day. There was no shining pearl, no glowing patch, no tiny seed out of place. Try how I might, I did no find their souls.

The next day, however, something unusual happened: At school, my teachers would comment on my "rosier complexion", how there was a spring in my step, a light in my eyes. I was taken aback - indeed, I was in a much better mood than usual after yesterday's efforts.

After what happened with the deer skeleton, I chose my words more carefully to avoid trouble and said, yes, I had a lot of fun working with my hands yesterday. I said I'd been woodcarving.

The teachers seemed pleased with my inexplicable shift in demeanour. Their words rolled around in my head like lost marbles - there was no space for pleasantries in my insides. No suitable place to stow away marbles behind lightless eyeballs.

I began thinking. Maybe, a frog's soul is fluid? Or maybe it's microscopically small and absorbed into my skin through the fingertips while I was carefully pulling muscle from bone in my search. Maybe, I'd made their life, mine.

It was an invigorating thought. I looked around me and noticed hair fractures developing in the barrier that had barred me from the others for all these years. Maybe I had to work hard, much, much harder than others had to, to break through.

I did take up wood carving. My first attempts weren't good. Then I took one of the myriad of crosses from our house and started mimicking its grooves and cuts, however crudely. I left the finished cross and the emaciated, wooden Jesus nailed to it wrapped in linen for my mother to find.

When she did find it that evening, instead of bolting right away into her bedroom, she sat still at the kitchen table, holding the gift so delicately as if it were a premature stillborn, sobbing quietly. I knelt next to her and she gently ran her fingers through my hair. Her big, wet eyes didn't dare meet mine.

Still, I didn't give up on finding the soul, but I started searching larger animals. I was on to something. The fractures in my barrier were nearly thick enough to break it and I could nearly taste the crisp air of the outside world.

When I couldn't find it in a rat, I searched through a bunny.

When I didn't find it in a bunny, I dug through a cat.

When the cat's body bore no fruit, I set eyes on Prometheus.

Prometheus was a large, black mutt, some sort of sheepdog with big, sharp eyes. He was smarter than his two trash owners combined, so luring him was no easy task. Fortunately for me, he'd also just barely stopped being a puppy and wasn't quite as serious as his older peers.

If any animal in the vicinity had a soul that could be seen with one's bare eyes, it was Prometheus.

I'm sure he was a fighter, a brave boy, but anyone struck with a hardwood plank to the head wouldn't have much time to recover from the impact. He didn't have the chance to make much noise. The woods were silent that night.

Sometimes, I do wish he'd managed to run away - and I don't want to go into any more details out of respect - but as my gloved hands carefully mapped out Prometheus' viscera, his sacrifice was well worth it.

Right there, on his left kidney, was a splendidly white growth, the likes of which I'd never seen in the schoolbooks. In the beam of my flashlight, it seemed to still be alive, to pulsate. It was the size of a rosemary pearl, firm to the touch and still warm, exuding a mist in the cool night air.

Prometheus' soul.

Awestruck, I reverently cut out the kidney and carefully placed it in a ziploc bag. Weeping in total silence, I stared into the great dome of stars above and felt how each and every twinkling light above was the eyes of God looking at me with great love and benevolence. I searched and found. A bloodied lamb, its wool now washed by God's gentle hands, held in a warm carress. You did it. I'm so, so proud of you.

As luck would have it, when Prometheus was found, it seemed that some woodland animals had gotten to him. The hunter said his innards were fully consumed by the time he found the dog and the soft belly flesh torn and gnawed on. God was looking out for me that night, I knew it.

Our school had a Thanksgiving festival that year and I carved wolf and dog figurines out of wood for the occassion. Surprisingly, they sold very well and were well-received. Mother's parish seemed especially taken with my effort - or rather, me. I was ecstatic about my findings and radiated religious enthusiasm. I listened ravenously to their retellings of biblical tales of men who braved great despair and made great sacrifices, only to emerge holy in the eyes of God. I saw myself in those men and could not help but choke up with them over God's boundless grace. For once, mother's eyes weren't so sad but betrayed a great happiness in their hazel warmth and radiance.

I felt connected.

Then Mrs. Martens came over.

She hadn't been my PE teacher in seven years and I had not paid any attention to her in just as long. Her auburn locks were now slightly streaked with silver and she wore a smile that didn't quite reach the rest of her thin face. She said my name as if it were a spell.

"We're so happy to see you getting on with our flock now, dear. Your mother's always been so worried about you, but turns out you're just an artist!"

She leaned in closer. Too close.

"I won't fuck you, Mrs. Martens."

The crowd around the stand fell dead silent. The only sound was the rush of blood in my skull.

I'd never seen someone turn so sickly pale so quickly. The white of her bulging, veiny eyeballs reminded me of the surface of Prometheus' soul.

She started staggering and stammering about how she didn't understand and didn't know what I was talking about. So I explained how seven years ago, she had a student raw her against an oak tree. How she yowled like an alley cat as a boy half her age fucked her from behind and how she sardonically implored him to stay quiet afterwards. How I thought it was disgusting and how I didn't want her near me, lest she touch me like she did with him.

There was a great chaos afterwards and a lot of it is a blur to me. I remember mother grabbing me ere anyone else could, dragged me home and barricaded the door with a musty sofa. We'd never run so fast and I'd never heard her scream like this before.

She screeched about baseless accusations and embarrassment and how she could never show her face outside again. I was deeply confused - wasn't it proper to be honest? Didn't Mrs. Mathers defy God by forsaking her husband, shouldn't her sinfulness be known?

Mother was frothing at her thin-lipped mouth, her skin red and blotchy from the blood pressure building just behind her skin.

"You RE*****D! You GODLESS FREAK! STOP PUTTING HIS NAME IN YOUR MOUTH! YOU'VE RUINED ME! RUINED MY LIFE!"

It hurt. She was very wrong, but it still hurt. I explained how God favoured me. How I found Prometheus' soul in his guts after believing and searching for so long!

Mother stared at me with an ineffale fire behind her eyes, an intensity defying that of anyone I'd ever seen: "You blithering moron; animals don't have souls."

She had to be wrong. Her words split my insides. Was that true? What was I missing? I'd found his soul, right? It was a soul, right? Could I actually make sure? Was I sure? Are you sure?

In those torturous moments, I begged God for guidance - and He answered me with mother's burning stare. Her big, soulful eyes, coals burning in sockets.

I understood that I needed to search once more.

The pocket knife wouldn't cut it this time.

#my writing

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daffydancer · 6 months

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LET ME BREAK IT DOWN. no one in this musty choir room compares to my megawatt star power.

daffydancer is a senior citizen rp blog for brittany s pierce !!

written by kq, 28 y/o, est, she / her — discord available to mutuals!

rules under the cut 🦄🦄🦄

HOWDY hi there!! i’m kq! i’m 28, live in est, and use she / her pronouns! i've had this blog for 84 years and i'm mainly only over here to party with the besties but if u like what u see i can party with you too!

ACTIVITY i am not fast. i’ve taken a bit of a break from rp, but have a lot of different blogs. i tend to go where i have the most muse and can sometimes disappear for a bit. i try to pop in and reblog musings / silly things in the interim, though. my discord is always available for mutuals!! just ask!!

FORMATTING its all about the vibes ... ive got no icons ive got no cares im just a girl!! i use small text and sometimes i put links in when i underline because i think its funny thank u!

GENERAL this blog is multi-verse, multi-ship, multi-everything! unless we’ve discussed overlapping plot lines with a whole bunch of muses, it’s safe to assume that my interactions with your character and my interactions with another are happening in completely different timelines! also, please don’t godmod!! little things that move along the thread are fine, but please try not to assume my character has done/will do anything in particular, in it!

TRIGGERS / SENSITIVE SUBJECTS as a general rule, i will always be trying to tag or avoid common triggers! my formats for tagging are ‘trigger cw //’ and ‘trigger tw//’. i will always try to do both and i always look for people’s triggers in their rules, but please don’t hesitate to let me know if i’ve forgotten a tag. as for myself, i have a weird teeth related trigger! it doesn’t need to be tagged, but if you could avoid talking to me directly about dental things it would be greatly appreciated! also, as a rule i don’t do smut! it’s just not my thing!

VERY IMPORTANT!! there are few things that i vibe with less than i vibe with people being mean. on a small scale, i don’t post hate, i don’t send hate, and i don’t like to see hate. on a larger scale, i don’t tolerate racism, homophobia, transphobia, or anti semitism. if i see people posting things with an obvious malicious intent, i steer clear, unfollow, or block.

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total-drama-atlas · 1 year

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Episode seven timeeee

I’m still mad MK got booted so early

Okay yeah I like the new Chris. The voice fits. Is it the iconic original? No, but it’s really good.

The intro still sucks tho

Zee spitting his soda all over chase >>>

Priya is such a character I love her

Wayne and Raj are so sweet I love them I would die for them

This moment would be a lot more enjoyable if it quit BUFFERING SO MUCH

“The shark??? Did he make out with the shark too?? No, he just doesn’t want to tell me about the kiss… DOES HE THINK I WONT SUPPORT HIM??? I GOTTA SHOW HIM HOW SUPPORTIVE I AM WITHOUT BEING WEIRD ABOUT IT!!” wayne my beloved

the merger in ep7???? that’s just wild, that makes the accomplishment of making it to the merge… less of an accomplishment.

“So only ONE of you can win immunity.” “That’s fine. There’s only one of me 💅”

I think I’m going to like Julia as the new Heather.

“Like you, Ripper, this challenge is very simple.” “AWESOME” he’s so dumb but not in the endearing way Wayne and raj are idiots.

okay maybe ripper does have some comedic potential

WHAT WAS THAT CLOSEUP ON THE BIRDS LEGS 💀

when I was a kid I told my mom I wanted a pet bird and she told me about a guy in Florida who had a pet cassowary that attacked him and killed him and it was really gross and gory. Idk if it’s true but that did not stifle my desire for weird pets

i feel bad for zee that he has the hiccups this ep :( he doesn’t deserve that

“Just because no one’s ever called me smart doesn’t mean I am.”

Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia i love you Julia I lo

I love bowie guys

“Hey not so bright guy that no one wants” perfect description of chase

WHAT WAS THAT GROWL THIJG CHASE DID WTF

Wayne is so sweet you guys 🥺🥺

“You’re my only equal” “jk he’s like three levels below me”

RAJ BLUSHING IS SO CUTE OMGGGG

Emma just walking away to give Bowie and Raj alone time was so real of her

“sorry if I made you uncomfortable or anything-“ “stop, i really liked kissing your face” why did he phrase it like that and why was it so funny

THEIR SECOND KISS GDHSJAJAJA THEYRE SO CUTE

Julia’s scheming is so funny because Chase is so dumb that he actually thinks calling out Emma’s supposed backne is going to get her back

I LOVE HOW EXCITED EMMA IS FOR BOWIE AND RAJ

i feel like Emma and Wayne could bond over it too. Besties perhaps

I love her white girl dancing I gotta go find that poll

i couldn’t find it if someone finds it please rb this w the link tahnksss

Emma reminiscing about her and chase… i don’t like it. Girl run!!

Emma and chase were on different teams?? Wdym she always votes for him? She hasn’t had a chance to? It’s just- you’d really think you’d work harder to get it right

td characters with a normal amount of fingers is weird bro

Rajie runnnn

Millie hun she said to BOLT

MILLIE YOU DO NOT DESERVE PRIYA, FIRST YOU LIE ABOUT VOTING WITH HER, THEN ISE HER TO STAY IN, THEN LET HER SAVE YOUR LITERAL LIFE ONLY TO BASICALLY SAY YOU WOULDNT DO THE SAME FOR HER

that took an interesting turn WHY IS ZEE RIZZING UP A BIRD AND WHY IS IT WORKING

okay hold on the baby bird is so cute 🥺

PRIYA DESERVES SO MUCH BETTER

you know i bet the hockey bros would be somewhat more compelling if I knew anything about hockey

WAYNE AND RAJ ARE SO WHOLESOME I LOVE THEM THEYRE SO BABYGIRL

Zee is so funny “I’m not ready for a family :/”

chase i hate you i hate you I ha

bro you had better not give her the half you dropped. you had better not try to give her that i swe

jerkface

Emma why did you kiss him he’s so crusty musty dusty

Bowie only showing concern for Raj when both Raj and Wayne are really messed up

i hope Wayne and Raj stay in the game I love them sm

I also like how this season Chef actually is the one explaining each character’s possible reasons for getting eliminated. Chris and Chef share the work a lot better now and tahts good.

The way everyone goes “WHAT” and did the head turn- that was perfect

NOOOOOOOOPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOIOOOOOOOO

NOT THE HOCKEY BROS

NOT WAYNER AND RAJIE

NOOOO

IM SO UPSET

“My dad used to drop me and my three brothers all the time! And two of us are fine!” honey I don’t think you’re one of those two…

I wish they’d bring the ship back :(

I liked the ep until chemma and then wayner and rajie left :( i loved them sm

#total drama #tdi #total drama island 2023 #total drama island #total drama spoilers #td #td spoilers #tdi 2023 #total drama reboot #tdi23

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drstdxtr · 2 years

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2 idiots stuck in a cave, jokes ensue

Caesar and Joseph were currently trapped in one of Lisa Lisa's horrible traps again. It was dark and damp and musty. They were stuck in this cave-like place, with little food, light and space. The only food they had was the rations they were given that was supposed to last them for 48 hours. It had been well over 12 hours. The only light they had was coming up from way above them. Way above them. The only space they had was this small cave and the even smaller corridor going up. Much to the fear of Joseph, it looked like only one of them would be able to climb out at a time. To add onto the issues with the space the cave has a decent amount of stalactites with the occasional smaller stalagmite. To the left of the cave was an underground lake. It was relatively small but the rushing water did not help with Joseph's anxiety.

Joseph looked over at his blonde lover. He seemed relatively calm and calculated. He also was noticeably in intense thought, which Joseph admired. How he could think his way out of the worst things was admirable. Joseph however, was not as calm or composed as the Italian sitting across from him. He was nervous and scared. He tried not to show it though, for fear that Caesar would think of him to be tactless. He thought about what he could do but this was no Hell Climb Pillar. There was no oil to use Hamon on. From Joseph's point of view, there was really no way out of here. Has Lisa Lisa gone insane? Was she just trying to kill them?

They hadn't been in there for as long as it seemed, with Joseph getting more restless and concerned by the passing hour. He was trying to format plans to no avail. Caesar seemed to notice this and carefully gave the brunette a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Look, mio caro, we’ll be fine. I’ll figure out a way to get us out of here.” Joseph swooned at the casual Italian pet name and his fears were temporarily halted. “How about this; since we’re stuck here and probably will still be in a while, we can joke around a bit.” Joseph perked up at that, he really did hate the drab, dark and dreary atmosphere this place provided. “I probably won’t be able to think of a solid fool proof plan if all I do is keep thinking after all.” Joseph nodded, it was important to take breaks. Even in situations like these. Okay maybe especially in situations like these. “You know,” Joseph started, fully prepared to get in the first laugh, “I’m quite grateful for you throwing out such a suggestion.” Caesar nodded, prepared to go on a rant before Joseph shushed him. Joseph then continued, “I mean, have you ever heard of a more iconic duo than my crippling fear of abandonment and my anxiety?” Caesar sighed, clearly not amused. “Have you ever heard of us?” Joseph was a little taken aback. He blushed and looked away. “Not fair, making things wholesome so quickly!” The brunette stuck his tongue out playfully at the blonde. Caesar just playfully rolls his eyes. His expression then turned serious, “You know it was a mistake for us to anger Lisa Lisa like that.”. Joseph nodded but was still in a playful mood. “A mistake we’re going to laugh about one day!” He said, trying to be enthusiastic as possible. Caesar deadpanned, “But not today.” Joseph kept roughly the same amount of enthusiasm “You’re right, today’s going to be a mess and so is tomorrow at this rate.” Caesar looked a little shocked. “You’re… right?” He seemed hesitant in asking such a thing, like he couldn’t believe Joseph said it. “That’s an unusual phrase for you tesoro. Did you just learn that?” Joseph playfully glared at Caesar and lightly shoved him, careful to not get him injured. All of a sudden, Joseph lit up. He had an idea. Now he just needed to convince his partner. “You love me, right Caesar?” The blonde being mentioned looked a little unnerved, before sighing. “Normally, I’d say yes without hesitation Joseph, but I feel like this is going somewhere and I don’t like it.” The brunette grinned a wicked grin, “I think I know a way of getting us out of here!” The blonde tilted his head slightly, confused. “And just how did you come up with that?” Joseph laughed and grinned more before revealing his plan. Even if it didn’t work, at least Joseph had Caesar. That was all that mattered for now.

#joseph joestar #caesar anthonio zeppeli #caejose #lisa lisa #battle tendency #cross posted on ao3

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fredheads · 2 years

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Fredsythe + 1 or 8 for the fic prompts 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

of course i chose sweater weather look at my icon...

Fall comes in fast that year, cool rainy weather sweeping in to replace the September sun before the high school’s been back in session for a month. There’s a definite chill in the air when they walk home, the whisper of more rain always on the horizon.

FP’s never been the type to dress for the weather - he wears his leather jacket or letterman all freezing winter and well into the summer heat, shivering in sneakers and bare ears when it snows and sweating in the sun. He’s been known to wear sleeveless shirts in late, chilly fall, or cover his bruises with long sleeves when it’s ninety degrees in the shade. He has no rainjacket or any kind of snow gear to ease the changing of the seasons; indeed he has very few clothes at all, which explains most of the disparity. It’s not hard to be dressed poorly when your whole wardrobe for all four seasons fits in a duffel bag.

Tonight, though, he’s warm in an old, stretched-out man’s sweater from Goodwill that’s two or three sizes too big for him. He has three of these in his closet, all secondhand and thin from overuse. FP’s never owned anything that wasn’t worn and mended, but he cherishes these specifically for their derelict appearance. Gladys teases him frequently that he’s trying to look more like Kurt Cobain. Maybe there’s a grain of truth in that, but there’s another association that’s more precious to him:

They remind him of his mom.

Linda used to dress in sweaters just like these when FP was growing up. He remembers how the sleeves were always too long for her, how she would let him fidget with the worn collars when she held him on her lap. When she’d died, senior had tossed them and the rest of her clothes without a second thought. It was too much to hope that they had found their way into Riverdale’s thrift store inventory - it was more than likely that those memories of his childhood were laying buried wherever the landfill trash from almost ten years ago ended up.

But either way, when he’d come across this one in the belly of the thrift store a year ago, he’d almost cried from the memory. Fred had been with him, and FP remembers him half-heartedly warning him about how thin the fabric was before he must have seen the look in FP’s eyes. Fred had fallen silent and paid the dollar for it without a second thought, and on the way home FP had explained it to him as best he could without crying harder. This was something he had retained from his childhood; boys didn’t cry. Certainly not over something like a sweater.

When they’d reached the corner where they usually parted ways, Fred had pulled it out of the bag and over FP’s head, even though it still smelled like the musty store. FP, predictably, had been in a T-Shirt that was much too light for the weather, but the sweater was just right.

“You look good in it,” Fred had said, just that, a little smile on his face and love in his eyes. And FP had worn it almost the entire year since, drifting back to the thrift store now and again to see if anything similar ever showed up, eventually taking home two cousins to the original. The sweater was now more worn than ever, with holes at the collar and hem, but FP just grew more and more attached to it. Fred and FP traded clothes freely, everything from hoodies to gym socks to boxer shorts, but Fred had never asked for one of those sweaters. FP would have lent them freely - there was nothing in the world so valuable to him as Fred - and surely Fred knew that, but he still didn’t ask. That was just how Fred was.

FP does have one of Fred’s own hoodies on his bedroom floor - an RHS Athletics one with Andrews on the sleeve. He has one of his own too - currently somewhere at Fred’s house, probably stuffed into the closet where Fred’s zillions of other hoodies and shirts are threatening to burst the closet at the seams.

Fred has a wardrobe that changes with the seasons: baseball tees in spring that show off his newly well-defined arm muscles, cut-off denim shorts and cropped T-shirts in summer that drive FP to throes of sexual frustration for those long weeks at the end of the school year, and from fall into winter he favours oversized hoodies and fluffy crewnecks that hang on his small body like a tent. He looks so unbearably cute in them that FP can no more concentrate throughout their shared classes in the fall than he can when Fred’s bare back is exposed to him all June.

That’s what he’s wearing when he knocks on FP’s door in the middle of that rainy fall night. It’s well past Fred’s usual curfew, so his best friend is the last person FP expects to see when he peers through the crack of the door out into the rain. It’s not pouring, but it’s damp, small cold droplets falling out of the dark sky with enough persistence to get the trees and eaves dripping. Fred also owns at least two raincoats, so he’s not sure why his friend’s just in his big crewneck sweater, the shoulders and sleeves damp and his hair soaked down to his head.

He knows there’s something wrong right away. Fred comes in and doesn’t say anything, just stands in FP’s kitchen like he’s somehow an unwelcome guest. He has his shoulders hunched and his eyes cast down, looking like a kitten that had had water thrown at it. His sweatshirt sleeves hang all the way past his hands, and he’s playing with his fingers almost nervously, though the actual gesture is lost somewhere in his sleeves. FP’s holding him immediately, hands on Fred’s shoulders, which are almost buried under the fabric of his sweater.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” FP asks immediately, worry making his voice harsh and clear.

“I just needed to see you.” Fred’s voice is too soft, his eyes red from crying when he glances up into FP’s face. He’s shivering from the cold, and sniffling like his nose is running. He blinks furiously, lips trembling. “I wanted to see you.”

“In the middle of the night?” FP prompts gently, eyes travelling instinctively down Fred’s body to see if he’s hurt. He can’t tell if he’s hiding anything below the oversized sweater, but there’s at least no sign of blood or broken bones. Fred looks back down at his soaked feet, letting FP see how wet his brown hair is. It’s dripping, and there’s a stripe of darker fabric running down the back of his sweater from the collar.

He mumbles something to the floor, and FP catches the words my dad.

“Your dad?” he prompts, gently using his fingers to tip Fred’s head back up so he can look him in the eye. Fred sucks in a gulp of air, his pale cheeks now taking on a pink tinge from the change in temperature.

“We had a fight.” Fred’s pale little hand comes up to rub a tear off his face with his knuckle, the skin ice cold when it brushes FP’s wrist. His voice is teary and fragile as a sheet of stained glass. “It’s just s-stupid, I’m sorry.”

“About me?” FP asks quietly, already anticipating the answer. Artie Andrews made no secret of the fact that he thought Fred could have found a better best friend, though he was at least decent enough never to say it to FP’s face. But FP could feel the way Artie’s eyes swept his leather jacket, painting him with the same brush as the rest of the Southside. FP can’t fully blame him. He’s never really felt good enough to be Fred’s best friend either. Fred says nothing, and FP prompts him gently. “Fred?”

“No.” Fred’s eyes are filling up with tears again, looking straight at FP at last, and the raw, honest, grief in them makes FP feel like he’s being ripped apart from the inside. Fred had the sweetest face he’d ever met, and the flipside of that was that whenever he got upset, it was like watching a little kid find out there was no Santa Claus. “Not you. About me.”

Fred pulls out of FP’s grip and starts pacing the kitchen, shoulders tightening towards his ears again. His lips are pressed tight together, and FP recognizes the look of someone who’s trying desperately not to cry. He feels himself relaxing somewhat, though his stomach still clenches to see Fred so obviously distressed. But at least FP knows what’s going on. Or he has a good enough guess.

“I’m never going to be good enough,” Fred whimpers coherently in the middle of his pacing and muttering, confirming FP’s read of the situation. He’s leaving a small river of water on the shitty trailer linoeleum as he walks back and forth, sniffling and wiping his nose and face briskly with one of his too-long sleeves. FP’s heart sinks more and more as he watches him.

He knows how viciously Fred holds himself up to an impossible standard, set already high by Artie and his brother and higher still by his own insecurity. FP knows that deep in Fred’s heart, whatever he says in fits of rebellion, he has a desperate need to be accepted by his father and himself.

On very rare occasions, watching Fred suffer under these self-imposed pressures, FP feels a fleeting sort of relief that the bar was set so low for him. It sucked to have everyone - yourself included - think you were a piece of shit, but at least he’d accepted long ago that torturing himself wouldn’t change the outcome.

“He wants me to be perfect,” Fred whispers, hiccuping in the middle. He had slid neatly from self-pity to rage and now back again, the puddle of water growing under his feet. His face crumples when his eyes land on FP, and he finally stops pacing. “I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been through so much, and I’m just-” He gestures with one floppy, too-long sleeve, his face falling even further. “I’m sorry, FP-”

FP crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around Fred in a tight hug. Fred freezes in surprise, and then returns the hug tenfold, squeezing FP’s back furiously. Protectiveness explodes in FP’s mind like fireworks as the cold rain from his best friend’s clothes soaks into his front.

Fred’s his best friend and his sweetheart, and he’d hurt anyone, any day, who let him think he was less than wonderful. But something about Fred in that sweater makes him seem a thousand times more vulnerable, until FP can hardly bear to uncurl his arms from around Fred’s skinny frame. It feels like a betrayal worse than death to let go. Maybe it’s because he hates to think of Fred feeling cold, maybe it’s because he looks so small when he’s drowning in his big sweaters, or when his body seems all the smaller and bonier when you have to search for it through all that fabric. He feels like he’s holding something incredibly delicate and precious, and it’s an effort to release him.

FP puts his hands on either side of Fred’s face, holding his frozen cheeks.

“Come with me,” he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Fred’s right, that FP is usually the one in the position of asking for help, and usually in much more dire circumstances. But the flip side of that is that FP knows exactly what Fred would do when someone showed up bedraggled and crying at his door, aching for a love that felt impossible to get.

He leads Fred into the bedroom, stopping to grab his bath towel from the bathroom door. FP pushes Fred down onto the bed, then gets down on his knees and unlaces both of Fred’s dripping wet Nike sneakers, easing them off his soaked feet. Fred hasn’t made a move to use the towel that FP had dropped in his lap, so FP gets up and rubs his hair briskly with it until it’s a bird’s nest of damp brown waves. He combs his fingers playfully through it, pushing it back from Fred’s face so he can see his eyes.

“I’ve got dry clothes,” he promises, rummaging through his falling-apart dresser until he comes up with two thick pairs of holey socks, an undershirt, sweatpants, and underwear. He changes Fred’s socks first, then helps him pull his huge blue sweater up off over his head. It comes off attached to his soaked T-shirt, and even his narrow bare chest is damp with rain. Fred stands obediently and helps FP change his lower half, though his fingers stay just loose and clumsy enough that he doesn’t entirely take over. FP glances at the closet and sees what he’s looking for immediately: another one of his cherished Goodwill sweaters hanging near the front.

He slips it over Fred’s head, helping him slide his arms clumsily through the sleeves. The worn fabric clings to his body in a way the thicker sweater had only obscured, bringing attention to his bony elbows and shoulders. FP would have given him the one he was wearing, but it’s a little damp from their hug, and he doesn’t want him to catch cold. He pulls the hem down firmly and glances around the floor until he locates the school sweatshirt that had crossed his mind earlier - it’s the warmest and newest piece of clothing he owns.

It’s not Fred’s, he realizes, as he pulls it out of the mess on the floor - they must have switched back at some point unknown to him, so he’s holding his own. He can tell even without checking the sleeve, because of the size. Their school initials are printed on the front in the shape of a football, his name and number embroidered on the sleeves in blue and gold. Fred had always loved that sweater, and it’s still plush inside from newness, the fleece not yet worn flat. When he gets it over Fred’s head, he feels something in him relax at last. If nothing else, he can keep Fred warm. Warm and safe.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, very close to his best friend, so that their thighs are almost on top of one another. Fred’s staring at his hands, which sit limply in his lap, and FP leans in and kisses him gently on the temple before standing up.

Fred speaks up at once, his voice worried. “Where-”

“I’m going to be right back,” FP promises.

He all but runs to the soggy kitchen, boiling a kettle of water and digging his hairdryer out of the bathroom cabinet while he waits. When the kettle finally boils, he starts making a cup of hot cocoa so hurriedly that hot chocolate sloshes over the sides, blistering his fingers. When he re-enters his room, Fred’s still sitting on the end of the bed, wrapping himself up in FP’s sweatshirt and pulling the sleeves over his hands.

“I made this for you,” FP offers, holding out the mug of cocoa until Fred takes it. Fred looks into the mug and smiles slightly when he sees what’s inside. While he’s drinking, FP plugs in the hairdryer and blasts Fred’s wet hair with it, lifting it through his fingers so that it dries evenly without burning his scalp. Little by little he feels Fred coming back to him, breathing more normally, his shoulders loosening, as though he’s actually defrosting him from ice.

When FP crosses to the foot of the bed again, Fred looks up at him with eyes that have a spark back in them. He’s not quite smiling, but there’s such a tender, affectionate look on his face that FP suddenly feels a little shy. He’d rather this expression than Fred’s sadness, of course, but even after all this time he wonders if he’ll ever get used to being on the receiving end of that naked affection. Fred holds out his cup, lukewarm and half-empty, and FP takes it gently out of his fingers.

“All done?” he asks, and when Fred nods he sets it aside on the nighttable and climbs onto the bed to smother him in an ferociously tight embrace. FP pulls them both gently down onto the mattress, squeezing Fred tightly and securely in his arms. Fred ducks his head into the hollow of FP’s neck, his hair, still warm from the blowdrier, tickling FP’s throat. FP kisses him on the head and snuggles him like his life depends on it.

“You are good enough,” he whispers ferociously in his ear, a lump rising unexpectedly in his throat. He hugs Fred tighter, trying not squeeze the tears out of his eyes, though Fred can’t see him. “You are wonderful, okay? You are incredible. You are perfect to me.”

Fred says something very soft that’s lost in the space between FP’s shirt collar and skin. FP readjusts just enough so that he can lay with his forehead pressing against Fred’s forehead, looking right into his big brown eyes.

“What was that, mumbles?” he asks softly, tracing the downy curve of Fred’s cheekbone with his finger.

Fred’s lips curve into a smile. “You know,” he replies softly. FP thinks he does.

FP rubs his back as Fred’s eyes close against the pillow, drawing the comforter up over both of them to keep him warm. He links their legs together below the sheets and watches as Fred’s eyes flutter closed. His muscles loosen under the pressure of FP’s arm until he’s relaxed, but FP doesn’t release him from his warm embrace. The urge to take care of him is like a physical fire burning in his chest, and he thinks he could happily hold him in this nest of blankets for the rest of his life.

Maybe there’s a little bit of his mother in him after all.

#fp jones #fred andrews #fredsythe #riverdale #parentdale

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