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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 7 months ago

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'Regret'

THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD, why? because im lazy and tired, I spent a a while writing this, and if you notice it has more words and details then the john dory au? that's because this is an au that iv been working on for longer, and is the one I enjoy more(although I enjoy both but I have bias for this one)

WARNING:/ Blood, gore, near-death experience, Thalassophobia

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Five days. It might as well have been a lifetime since Brozone fell apart, scattering its members like leaves in a storm. Five whole days since Floyd had seen the faces of his brothers, their laughter now just an echo in his memory. But what really gnawed at him, deep in the pit of his stomach, was that it had been exactly five days since he had last seen Branch.

The forest floor beneath Floyd's feet crunched loudly, breaking the tranquil silence that enveloped the forest, His path was a winding trail through an explosion of colors, under a canopy of trees that seemed to stretch up to touch the night sky. Around him, the forest was alive with the chatter of critters and the rustle of leaves, painting a vivid picture of an ecosystem thriving in its magical bubble.

Bioluminescent flora cast an eerie, beautiful glow across the path, lighting up the darkness with hues of blues, pinks, and greens. The air was filled with the rich aroma of blooming flowers and the sweet, almost intoxicating scent of magical sap that seemed to seep from every nook and cranny of this enchanted world. Yet, despite the overwhelming beauty and the vibrant life all around him, Floyd couldn't shake off the cloak of loneliness that draped over his shoulders.

With each step he took, the weight of absence pressed down on him, a constant reminder of the void that Brozone's breakup had left in his heart. But even more so, Branch's absence cast the longest shadow on his soul, maybe he shouldn't have left, maybe he should go back.

As the teenage troll wrestled with his thoughts, a fierce battle between the urge to push forward and the longing to return, he concluded. The solitude was unbearable, an aching void that no amount of pride could fill. He yearned for the familiar warmth of home, the comforting presence of his grandmother, and the camaraderie with his brothers, but above all, he ached to see baby Branch. With a heavy heart but a spark of resolve, Floyd turned around, ready to retrace his steps back to the troll tree, back to the place he belonged.

However, the moment his feet pivoted, a sudden stillness enveloped the forest. The vibrant life that had buzzed and hummed around him just seconds ago seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving behind an oppressive silence. The only sound that dared to break the quiet was the gentle murmur of the river nearby, its flow now sounding ominously loud in the absence of the forest's chorus.

This eerie quietude sent a shiver down Floyd's spine, igniting a flicker of concern for his safety. The forest, once a kaleidoscope of sounds and colors, now felt like a different realm altogether, one where every shadow could hide a threat and every whisper of the wind seemed like a warning. Floyd's heart began to race, not just with the fear of the unknown, but with the realization that this sudden silence could mean something was amiss.

Torn between the desire to rush back to the safety of home and the instinct to tread carefully in this changed environment, Floyd took a cautious step forward. His eyes darted from one shadow to the next, trying to pierce the suddenly thickening gloom, while his ears strained for any sound that might signal danger. The forest, with its sudden mood swing, had transformed from a friend into a foe, and Floyd knew he had to be vigilant if he was to navigate his way back home safely.

As Floyd cautiously navigated the forest path, a palpable tension hung in the air, thickening with every step he took. The usually vibrant and luminous plants seemed to retreat into shadows, their glows dimming as if to hide from an unseen menace, plunging the night into an even deeper darkness. The magic that once painted the forest in ethereal light now appeared to be snuffed out, replaced by a suffocating gloom that seemed to swallow everything in its path.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sound so chilling, it froze Floyd in his tracks. A distorted cry, eerily reminiscent of a woman's scream, pierced the night, its source unclear yet unmistakably close. Floyd's heart hammered against his ribcage as he turned toward the sound, his eyes scanning the darkened foliage until they landed on a sight that would haunt his dreams for years to come.

Perched atop a giant mushroom, was a creature so ghastly, it seemed as though it had crawled straight out of a nightmare. Its body was a grotesque patchwork of shadows and twisted limbs, with skin that shimmered like oil on water, reflecting the faint moonlight in unsettling patterns. Its eyes, if they could be called that, were hollow voids that seemed to suck in the very light around them, radiating malice and hunger. Long, spindly fingers ended in claws that resembled the thorns of a rose bush, sharp and gleaming in the dim light. The creature's mouth was a jagged tear across its face, from which the distorted cry seemed to emanate, a sound that mimicked human anguish yet was devoid of any true emotion.

At that moment, every instinct in Floyd's body screamed at him to flee. The forest, with its sudden transformation into a realm of terror, and the appearance of this nightmarish entity, ignited a primal fear within him. His fight or flight reflexes didn't just suggest, but vehemently urged him to run, to escape this horror and never look back.

Without a second thought, Floyd turned on his heels, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm as he bolted down the path. The forest, once familiar and welcoming, now felt like a labyrinth designed to trap him in this nightmare. Branches seemed to reach out to snag at his clothes, and the ground beneath his feet felt treacherous as if it too was in league with the horrors that lurked in the shadows. But Floyd didn't dare slow down; the terrifying creature and the oppressive darkness of the forest propelled him forward, driven by the singular desire to escape, to survive, to see the safety of home once more.

Floyd's legs pumped furiously beneath him, propelling him through the darkened forest with a speed born of sheer terror. The creature, with its nightmarish form, was alarmingly fast, its twisted limbs carrying it over the ground with a grace that belied its grotesque appearance. Floyd could hear it gaining on him, the sound of its pursuit a constant, horrifying reminder of the danger at his heels. But just as despair began to claw at his mind, fate intervened.

A deer-like creature, innocent and unaware, crossed paths with the monstrous entity. For a moment, the forest held its breath, and then the creature's attention snapped to the new, closer prey. The diversion was brief, but it was all Floyd needed. He didn't look back, not even as the sounds of a terrible struggle reached his ears, a mix of the predator's ferocity and the prey's agony cutting through the night.

Pushing his body to its limits, Floyd darted farther into the forest, driven by a primal urge to survive. When he finally dared to stop, he found himself beside a large boulder, surrounded by tall, thick bushes that offered a semblance of hiding. His chest heaved with the effort of his flight, each breath a loud, ragged sound in the silence that followed the creature's distraction.

Fearing that any noise might draw the creature's attention back to him, Floyd pressed a hand firmly over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing. The distant cries of the deer-like creature, caught in the throes of agony, sent shivers down his spine, a grim reminder of the fate he'd narrowly escaped. The forest around him seemed to echo with the sounds of the hunt, a haunting symphony that kept Floyd frozen in place, too terrified to move, too scared to make a sound.

As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, Floyd remained hidden behind the boulder, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing with thoughts of escape, survival, and the hope that he would never again encounter the terrifying creature that hunted the shadows of the forest.

The silence that had reclaimed the forest was as ominous as the stillness that had heralded the creature's arrival. Floyd could hear its heavy footsteps, a sound akin to sludge or mud squelching under a great weight, each step accompanied by the foul stench of decay. For a moment, the sounds ceased, and the quiet returned, so profound that Floyd dared to hope the nightmare was over, that the creature had abandoned its hunt.

But survival instincts urged caution. Grasping for any semblance of protection, Floyd reached for the guitar strapped to his back, its familiar weight offering a shred of comfort. Yet, as he drew it forward, the end of the guitar brushed against the bushes with a soft rustle, a noise seemingly inconsequential in the vastness of the forest. However, it was all the invitation the creature needed.

With terrifying swiftness, it burst over the bushes, its maw clamping down on Floyd's leg. The sharp pain was immediate, Floyd's white pants soaking up the blood that flowed freely from the wound. The creature reared onto its hind legs, dwarfing Floyd in size, and shook him violently, exacerbating the bite with its ferocity.

In the midst of this chaos, Floyd's grip on his guitar never wavered. With a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, he swung the instrument with all his might, connecting with the creature's inky, shifting face. The impact shattered the guitar, sending splinters scattering through the air, while a significant portion lodged into the creature's face. Its scream, a harrowing blend of pain and rage, echoed through the forest like a distorted woman's shriek.

With one final, forceful shake, the creature released Floyd, sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed against the stem of a mushroom, the collision spraining his ankle and sending waves of pain through his already battered body. Lying there, dazed and injured, Floyd knew escaping would now be an even greater challenge. His adversary, momentarily deterred by the assault, might not be down for long. Pain throbbing through him, Floyd realized he had to move, hide, or do anything to survive the night. But with a sprained ankle and the forest shrouded in danger, every option seemed fraught with peril.

With desperation fueling his movements, Floyd's gaze locked onto the neck of the guitar, miraculously almost intact despite its violent separation from the rest of the instrument. Pain and adrenaline mixed in his veins as he crawled towards it, each movement a testament to his will to survive. Clutching the shattered neck, he used it to hoist himself up, the makeshift cane offering a sliver of support in his vulnerable state.

Behind him, the creature's torment filled the air, its frenzied attempts to dislodge the guitar fragments from its face creating a cacophony of destruction. It slammed into tree trunks and mushrooms, blinded by pain and rage, its screams a distorted symphony of agony. This chaos provided Floyd with a crucial window of opportunity, one he seized without hesitation.

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Limping with the guitar neck for support, Floyd steered clear of the trail, aware that remaining within the creature's line of sight spelled certain doom. The forest around him was a blur of pain and determination, every step a challenge, every breath a victory against the darkness.

Then, as if emerging from a dream, Floyd stumbled upon an old bridge. Its wood was weathered and worn, groaning under the weight of untold years, the ropes that held it frayed and thin. It looked as though a single wrong step could send it tumbling into the ravine below. Yet, beyond this precarious crossing lay the possibility of escape, a chance to put more distance between himself and the nightmarish creature.

With no other options, Floyd approached the bridge, each step measured and cautious. The guitar neck, now a lifeline, steadied his shaky movements. He tested the first planks with a tentative weight, heart pounding not just from his injuries but from the fear of the bridge giving way beneath him.

The old wood creaked ominously under his foot, a sound that seemed to echo through the still forest, loud enough, Floyd feared, to attract unwanted attention. With the creature possibly still in pursuit, Floyd knew he had to cross quickly but carefully. Every step was a gamble, every creak a potential alarm, as he navigated the treacherous bridge, praying it would hold long enough to carry him to safety.

Floyd's heart pounded against his ribcage, a frantic drumbeat echoing his mounting despair. He was so close to the other side, to a semblance of safety, spurred on by the hope that the creature's liquid form might falter at the touch of water. The bridge, with its creaks and groans, seemed to mock his desperate flight, every shake a sinister whisper of his potential downfall.

"Why did it have to be a rope bridge?" The thought flashed through Floyd's mind, a fleeting moment of dark humor amidst terror. But then, the shaking intensified, transforming from a tremble to a violent quake that threatened to fling him into the abyss. Heart sinking, Floyd turned, and his worst fears were confirmed—the creature had found him, its grotesque form navigating the swaying bridge with unsettling speed despite its awkward limbs.

Tears carved paths down Floyd's cheeks, each one a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening. His mind raced with apologies, regrets flooding in as he faced the stark realization that he might never return home, never fulfill his promises, never see his loved ones again. The thought of Baby Branch, innocent and unaware of the danger Floyd faced, filled him with an acute pain that eclipsed even the fear of the creature behind him.

Time seemed to dilate, stretching each second into an eternity as the added weight of the chase proved too much for the ancient bridge. The ropes, worn by time and weather, began to snap, the sound a death knell ringing through the air. Floyd and the creature, locked in a deadly pursuit, plummeted towards the river below.

The fall felt like a lifetime, every detail etched into Floyd's mind with painful clarity. The river rushed up to meet him, not deep enough to cushion their fall, littered with rocks that jutted out like the teeth of some gargantuan beast. Floyd's descent aimed him headfirst into the water, a final, cruel twist of fate.

Impact. His head collided with a rock, and a blinding pain flashed before darkness engulfed him. Consciousness slipped away to the sounds of rushing water and the creature's agonized screeches, a haunting lullaby as everything faded to black.

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At the edge of Rock Troll territory, near the imposing yet vibrant Volcano Rock City, a young Rock Troll girl idled by the river. She appeared to be around fourteen, her distinctive large, fluffy mohawk transitioning from fiery red to a deep black, a mark of her heritage and vibrant personality. Engrossed in the simple pleasure of skipping rocks across the water's surface, her attention was abruptly captured by an unusual sight—a troll, strikingly out of place with his bright colors, floating aimlessly in the river's current.

Instinctively, she sprang into action. Unlike the troll in the water, she was a Rock Troll, naturally endowed with strength and resilience. Wading into the river with determined strides, she reached the brightly colored troll with little effort, pulling him to the safety of the riverbank. Her heart raced, not from the exertion, but from the urgency of the situation. Gently, she placed him on the bank, leaning in to place her torn ear against his chest, searching for the faintest sign of life. To her relief, a heartbeat thudded against her ear—faint but unmistakable. He was alive.

Realizing the immediate danger wasn't over, given the troll's recent submersion, she knew she had to act fast to clear any water from his lungs. Despite her age and the lack of formal training, she had a basic understanding of CPR from the stories and bits of knowledge passed down in her community. Determined to save this stranger, she positioned herself and began the procedure, driven by a mix of adrenaline and the sincere hope that she could make a difference.

Her technique was far from perfect, her movements occasionally hesitant, but her resolve never wavered. She was a Rock Troll, strong in more ways than one, and today, she was this stranger's lifeline. As she worked to save him, a mix of fear and determination settled in her heart. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was his only chance, and she wouldn't give up on him.

As the young rock troll administered CPR, the pop troll abruptly jolted to consciousness, his body reacting violently as he expelled water from his lungs. Between harsh coughs and the effort to breathe, his condition was dire. Swollen and bruised, his ankle was a stark contrast to the severe wound on his leg. His complexion had turned alarmingly pale, a clear sign of his physical trauma. Despite his brief moment of wakefulness, exhaustion quickly overtook him, and he succumbed once more to unconsciousness.

With no time to lose and the pop troll's life hanging in the balance, the young rock troll lifted him onto her back. Muscles tensed and determination set in her eyes, she dashed towards the nearest infirmary, her resolve unwavering.

Bursting through the infirmary doors, her entrance commanded immediate attention. "Help! I need help here!" she cried out, her voice echoing with urgency.

The doctors in the infirmary turned, their appearances distinctively that of rock trolls. One had a stony complexion with jagged, slate-grey hair that seemed to mimic the sharp edges of a mountain range. His broad shoulders and muscular arms were adorned with tattoos resembling tribal markings and musical notes, a blend of tradition and rebellion. The other doctor, a female, bore a striking lavender hue to her skin, her hair a cascade of deep purple and silver, worn in a style that was both practical and indicative of her strength. Their attire, though reminiscent of traditional medical garb, had a rugged edge to it—leather belts equipped with various tools and instruments, and their scrubs adorned with metallic accents, giving them an aura of toughness and capability.

Without a moment's hesitation, they sprang into action, their expressions a mix of concern and professionalism. They carefully lifted the pop troll onto a stretcher. Swiftly, but with care, they wheeled him into the back, where the infirmary was equipped with the necessary tools and medicines to treat his injuries.

As they worked, their movements were efficient, a testament to their expertise. The female doctor assessed the wound on pop troll’s leg with a critical eye, cleaning it meticulously before stitching it up with a precision that belied her rugged appearance. The male doctor, meanwhile, tended to the swollen ankle, applying a cold compress to reduce the swelling before carefully wrapping it in a bandage designed to support and heal.

Throughout the process, their demeanor was calm and reassuring, a stark contrast to the violent world outside the infirmary walls. They communicated in hushed tones, their focus entirely on saving Pop Troll’s life. The young rock troll watched from a distance, her heart heavy with worry but filled with gratitude for the doctors' swift intervention.

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An hour had passed since the young rock troll had raced into the infirmary with the injured pop troll on her back. Sitting in the waiting room, her mind raced with worry and anticipation, her legs swinging back and forth in an anxious rhythm. The door to the back swung open, and the doctors emerged, their expressions somber but not without a hint of relief.

"He'll live," one of the doctors began, pausing as if to let the words truly sink in. "But his ankle is sprained and swollen pretty badly. And it's not just the open wounds—whatever happened to cause those wounds also shattered the bones in that leg. He won't be leaving any time soon."

The young troll stood up, her relief palpable but her concern for the stranger's well-being growing. It was then the female doctor added, with a tone of caution, "He's a pop troll. He shouldn't be anywhere near here. I think it's time to inform your father. He needs to know about this situation."

Realizing the gravity of the revelation and the complications it could entail, the young troll nodded solemnly. She knew what had to be done next. The implications of harboring a pop troll in rock troll territory were not lost on her, and the need for discretion and careful handling of the situation was paramount.

With a determined step, she made her way to seek out her father, the leader of their community. The weight of responsibility felt heavier with each step, but she was resolved to see it through, for the sake of the injured troll and the delicate balance of their community.

As she found her father and relayed the information, the air was thick with concern and the unspoken tension of what this could mean for their tribe.

"Father," she started, the urgency clear in her voice, "there's a troll in our infirmary. He's in bad shape, but he's alive. The doctors... they say his injuries are severe. And he's... well, he's a pop troll." Her father, a figure of authority and wisdom, absorbed the news with a measured pause. "A pop troll, here?" he echoed, the weight of the situation settling in. "This is delicate, indeed. We'll need to proceed with caution. And you did well to bring him to safety, Barb."

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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 7 months ago

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Bad Hair Day

It was Friday night, which meant Carol and Riff were in the house. Floyd, now equipped with crutches since his sprained ankle had healed but his leg remained broken, sat on the floor, taking it easy. Barb lounged on the couch behind him, busy styling his hair into whatever wild creation she pleased. Meanwhile, Carol had gathered an assortment of ingredients, concocting something slimy-looking.

Riff occupied the house phone, ordering a pizza for the evening's indulgence.

Thrash had planned to spend the evening at home, but plans took an unexpected turn when Sid Frett decided to drop by for a visit. Sid wasn't alone; accompanying him was his unusual but charming pet bat, which nestled comfortably in his lap. As Carol busied herself concocting one of her infamous slime recipes, Sid assisted by passing her various ingredients, all the while gently stroking his bat.

Meanwhile, Rebel was on a mission throughout the house. She was diligently collecting blankets, pillows, sheets, and a variety of plushies. Her goal was to transform the living room into a cozy fort where everyone could gather, relax, and enjoy the playful ambiance of their makeshift hideaway. The evening was shaping up to be one of those spontaneous gatherings that promised laughter and a touch of whimsy.

Carol triumphantly lifted the bowl above her head, her face alight with mischievous glee. "BEHOLD! My latest masterpiece! Bow before the might of my slime creation!" she proclaimed, her voice echoing through the room.

Sid chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "You've outdone yourself, Carol. That looks... interesting."

Riff, from his spot on the couch, smirked and called back, "That thing's more terrifying than half the horror movies we've watched!"

Floyd, still fiddling with his crutches, couldn't help but laugh. "Just don't get any of that goo near me, please."

Roxanne, the bat, seemed particularly captivated by the glittering slime. With a swift flutter of her wings, she swooped down, snatched the bowl from Carol's hands, and ascended rapidly, perching herself high on a bookshelf where no one could reach.

"Hey! Roxanne, bring that back!" Carol shouted, jumping up in an attempt to retrieve her creation.

Sid stood, trying to coax the bat gently. "C'mon, Roxanne, let's not start a slime war here."

Riff joined in, "Maybe she wants to add bat artistry to it, eh?"

As they all tried different tactics to persuade Roxanne, the bat seemed to consider their pleas. With a sudden decision, she tipped the bowl and dropped it right as Rebel walked into the room. The slime cascaded down, landing with a splat on the left side of Rebel's head, covering her hair and shoulder in sticky, glittery goo.

Rebel froze, wide-eyed and slimed. "Seriously? Right when I thought this day couldn't get any stickier," she groaned, wiping the goo from her face.

Carol burst into laughter, even as she rushed over with apologies. "I swear it's good for your skin... or hair... maybe?"

Riff couldn't contain his mirth. "Looks like you've been officially initiated by Roxanne's slime baptism!"

Floyd, still safely away from the slime fiasco, grinned. " It's not a proper hangout until something weird happens."

Rebel playfully hurled a bundle of blankets at Floyd, sending him toppling over with a surprised yelp. The soft landing cushioned his fall, eliciting a small puff of air as he landed. Next, a barrage of plushies flew towards Carol, who welcomed them with a triumphant shout of "MY ARMY!" She gathered them around her protectively, as if preparing for battle.

With everyone suitably equipped for the fort-building mission, Rebel distributed the remaining items she had gathered. She then made her way to the kitchen, intent on washing off the sticky remnants of slime from her encounter with Roxanne's playful antics.

Barb followed Rebel into the kitchen, grabbing a towel as she entered. "Need a hand?" she asked, pitching in without waiting for a reply.

"Thanks," Rebel replied, turning on the faucet and adjusting the temperature. "How's your day been?"

"Usual chaos," Barb chuckled, helping to work shampoo into Rebel's hair. "Carol's experiments never cease to amaze me—or terrify me, depending on the day."

Rebel laughed, her head under the stream of water. "Yeah, her creativity is something else. I'm just glad her enthusiasm is mostly contained to non-explosive materials these days."

As they worked the suds through the tangled locks, they soon realized the slime was stubbornly clinging on. They exchanged a glance, a mix of frustration and amusement in their eyes. "Well, this is going to be tougher than I thought," Rebel sighed.

Rebel and Barb were at their wit's end trying to remove the stubborn slime from Rebel's hair. They had already tried multiple remedies, from dish soap to mayonnaise, but nothing seemed to work. The slime clung to her hair like it was meant to be there permanently.

"Okay, let's not panic. We'll figure this out," Barb reassured Rebel, though her own confidence was waning.

Carol, feeling responsible for the mess, joined in. "Let me try something else," she suggested, fetching a bottle of vinegar from the kitchen. "This could help break it down," she said with hopeful eyes. Despite their doubts, Rebel let her pour the vinegar over her head, wincing at the smell.

"Anything?" Carol asked, her voice filled with hope.

"Just a stinky head," Rebel replied, frustrated as she rinsed her hair yet again, only to find the slime mocking their efforts.

Seeing the ongoing struggle, Floyd limped in with a new suggestion. "What about ice? Freeze it and maybe it'll peel right off?"

"That sounds... a bit extreme," Rebel hesitated but agreed out of desperation. They wrapped her hair in ice packs, waiting for a miracle that never came. The slime remained, unaffected by the cold.

Riff entered the scene with a confident stride. "I've got it—club soda. Works on stains all the time," he announced, pouring the fizzy liquid over Rebel's head. Everyone watched anxiously, only to sigh in disappointment as it too failed to dislodge the sticky mess.

The frustration was palpable when Carol, out of ideas and feeling guilty, blurted out, "Well damn... Well, it looks like we're gonna have to cut it out."

"YOU'RE NOT CUTTING MY HAIR!" Rebel shouted, the very idea pushing her to her limits.

After a tense silence, Rebel finally relented. With a resigned nod, she allowed Carol to grab a pair of scissors and begin snipping away at the slime-encrusted hair. Piece by piece, the slime-coated locks fell away, revealing a surprisingly stylish side shave haircut underneath.

As the last of the slime-coated hair fell away, Rebel examined her new 'do in the mirror, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing her face. "Well, I guess this is one way to shake things up," she remarked, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Everyone regrouped in the living room, each member of the group ready to dive into the fort-building project. Floyd, still navigating with crutches, showed no signs of slowing down as he directed the placement of cushions and blankets. Together, they draped sheets over chairs and tables, transforming the space into a cozy enclave. Pillows were strategically placed for comfort, while plushies scattered across the ground added an extra layer of softness.

As they were setting the last blanket in place, a knock echoed through the room. Riff, ever eager, dashed to the door. His face lit up as he greeted the pizza delivery person, the aroma of freshly baked pizza filling the air as he brought the box inside. The group gathered around, each taking a slice, their fort-building efforts momentarily paused in favor of the delicious treat.

With their energy replenished, the movie picking session began. Carol kicked things off with her choice, a bizarre sci-fi called "Galactic Goo Monsters from Mars." Floyd selected a classic action-packed thriller, "Skyline Heist," known for its spectacular stunts and explosive plot. Barb, ever the romantic at heart despite her tough exterior, surprised everyone with a little-known indie film, "Whispers of the Heart." Riff rounded out the selection with a horror flick, "Nightmare on Crow Street," which he claimed would keep everyone on their toes.

With a stack of movies lined up, the group settled into their plush fortress. The lights dimmed, the first movie began, and laughter mingled with the occasional shriek filled the room. As the night wore on and the final credits rolled on their movie marathon, the group decided to break out Monopoly to keep the fun going.

The game started friendly enough, with each player strategically acquiring properties and building their empire. However, as the game progressed, the competitive spirit took over. Sid found himself relegated to jail after a risky decision didn't pay off, spending turn after turn unable to escape. Riff, on the other hand, thrived, amassing almost all the game's money and properties, becoming a Monopoly mogul. Barb wasn’t as fortunate; her finances in the game mirrored a rollercoaster ride, ultimately leaving her bankrupt.

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As the night deepened, the energy of the room gradually wound down. The once lively banter and laughter subsided into a comfortable silence punctuated only by the soft soundtrack of their final movie flickering in the background. One by one, the group succumbed to the warmth and coziness of their makeshift fortress. The plushies that once lay scattered on the ground now served as soft, makeshift pillows or cuddly companions as each member found their spot under the expansive blanket ceiling.

Sid, exhausted from his extended Monopoly jail time, was the first to drift off. He nestled into a snug space between Floyd and Riff, his head resting on a particularly fluffy stuffed dragon. Floyd, managing to adjust his crutches beside him, leaned back against a pile of cushions, his breathing slow and even as he too fell asleep. Riff, ever the night owl, stayed awake a bit longer, his eyes barely keeping open as he watched over his friends like a protective older brother. Eventually, even his eyelids grew heavy, and he joined the others in slumber, his hand still clutching a handful of Monopoly money as if guarding his empire even in sleep.

Barb, known among her friends for her ability to sleep through almost anything, was out like a light. She had inadvertently turned Carol into her personal pillow, her head resting comfortably on Carol's shoulder. Carol, slightly less comfortable but too amused by the situation to move, watched Barb for a few moments, smiling softly at her friend's gentle snoring before her own eyes closed, and she too drifted off.

Rebel found a quiet corner of the fort, away from the gentle chaos of her friends. Roxanne, curled up in the crook of her neck, both finding comfort in the presence of the other. Rebel's breathing was soft and rhythmic, a peaceful counterpoint to the occasional snuffle or shift from the others.

As the movie ended, the TV cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the peaceful scene. The fort, filled with friends and laughter just hours before, now hosted a serene tableau of connected lives, the outside world forgotten for a few precious hours. In this safe haven of blankets and dreams, they shared more than just a space; they shared a bond that nights like these only deepened.

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Hours later, as the night deepened into the wee hours, Thrash returned home. The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the soft murmur of the TV left on low. As he entered the living room, he spotted the group of sleeping teenagers, nestled within their cozy fort. Their peaceful slumber brought a warm smile to Thrash's face, a rare moment of tranquility in their often chaotic lives.

However, his serene reverie was abruptly shattered when his gaze landed on Rebel and her unexpected companion. Roxanne, the bat, was curled up beside Rebel, nuzzled against her neck in a display of unusual affection. Thrash's eyes widened in shock, his mind racing with a million questions and concerns.

He stood frozen for a moment but then started retreating to the safety of his own room. In the end, his instinct for self-preservation won out. With a mixture of fear and bewilderment, Thrash turned on his heels and hurriedly ascended the stairs, seeking refuge in the solitude of his bedroom.

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