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total-drama-brainrot · 3 months

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hi idk if this has been said but . pls hear my vision… lindsay and noah platonic duo. brains and the beauty. noahs the brains. lindsays the beauty. noahs like “jeez this girl is dumb i cn manipulate her or smth” but then he starts warming up to her and they like paint eachothers nails and talk about boys or somthing idk please theyre besties trust 🤞

(also noah finally gets a makeover courtesy of lindsay)

I think I might've mentioned this exact duo before, though I may be wrong about that. Regardless, I've had Many A Thought about the potential dynamic between Lindsay "reclaiming bimbo as a term of empowerment" and Noah "could be god's biggest hater but was nerfed with an inability to GAF", to the point where I have a few drafts exploring this exact concept.

Through the lens of my eyes (blurry as it would be, my prescription fairly strong), I don't think Noah would ever consider manipulating Lindsay- at least, not in a similar manner to the likes of Heather or Alejandro. He's shown in canon to be pretty adverse to the idea. Why else would he make those comments about Alejandro in "I See London..."?

Not that he doesn't think about how easy it would be to use her. But his morality wins out over his scheming thoughts pretty quickly- no one wants to be New Heather, after all.

However, he's also shown a capacity to explore sneakier options of deception and trickery; pretending to pass out during the 20k run in The Big Sleep, trying to excuse his comment about Alejandro under the guise of it "being a compliment where he's from", tricking the Sasquatch with his fake ball throwing, getting himself eliminated on purpose in Dodgebrawl. I'm trying to think of other examples In Canon off the top of my head, but I'm coming up short since most of his actual speaking lines in the show are 'zingers' and 'witty one-liners' instead of actual character moments.

And we also know, from the way he treats Owen, that he's a lot more patient and indulgent towards the... 'slower' or 'simpler' contestants. He very rarely gets mad at Owen's mistakes- see how he gently chastises him in "Super Happy Crazy Fun Time Japan" when he's disturbing their set, he'd pretty much gentle parenting him, or how he doesn't even raise his voice against Owen after being blasted by nose-shake in "I See London...". You could argue that Owen just has best friend privileges, but given the way he also talks about his dog I think Noah just has a soft spot for happy-go-lucky, heart-of-gold, kind of stupid people (and blondes). Sound familiar?

Lindsay would fall under this umbrella of 'treat with kindness' because of this, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't try to subtly nudge her in the 'right direction'- out of Heather's and/or Alejandro's influence and into his own. For her own safety, of course.

Not that I think he'd even like Lindsay at first. The two of them are opposite ends of the social spectrum; I'd take a while for Lindsay to break through his snarky exterior, but I think eventually Noah would realise that she isn't the 'two-faced airhead popular girl' he'd assumed her to be and quickly warm up to her (she's airheaded, sure, but there's nothing two-faced or nefarious/mean-spirited about Lindsay). It's a classic case of "extrovert adopts introvert".

Meanwhile, Lindsay would be dead-set on breaking Noah out of his sour little shell. Either because she overhears Owen/Izzy/Eva explaining how Noah struggles to make friends because he's "very shy" and "mixes up his insults and his compliments", thus she assumes that, hey, Noah's made fun of her a few times, maybe that was just him trying to be friendly? So she makes it her mission to reciprocate his efforts and befriend him (much to Noah's initial suspicion, and begrudging appreciation).

Or she gets the concept of a 'gay best friend' stuck in her head (an impressive feat, getting anything stuck in such a vacant space /j) probably from watching too many high school teen dramas, and sees Noah as the ideal candidate since he pretty much embodies most of the stereotypical GBF traits; a sassy twink who's defining characteristic is making snarky comments. If Noah ever caught wind of this, he'd either be mortified by the concept and avoid Lindsay like the plague until she'd eventually hunt him down, or he'd think the whole concept is too funny to pass up and gladly play the part- if only for his own amusement. (Personally I headcanon him as bi, but he's so canonically queer coded that he fits the stereotype anyway.)

Which is all just a long-winded way of me saying I think Lindsay would kindle the friendship without giving Noah much of a choice (again, extrovert adopting introvert) and Noah would just go along with it, being the lazy guy he is, and quickly grow fond/protective over her.

If he and Owen are the golden retriever and black cat dynamic, Noah and Lindsay are an afghan hound and a black cat; Noah has a lot of black cat energy (that's just a given) and you cannot tell me that Lindsay isn't an afghan hound- they're pretty, gentle-natured and renown for their low intelligence.

Plus, Lindsay's capacity for meanness (as unintentional as it may be) would be comedy gold to Noah. He'd encourage her to keep that sharp tongue and steel spine, if not for his own entertainment, then to ensure she doesn't become someone else's doormat again. In return, Lindsay would bring out a softer side of Noah, likely a result of her reminding him of his several older sisters.

She'd absolutely abuse her 'soft Noah' privileges too by roping him in on sleepovers where the two of them gossip and paint each other's nails (Noah's against the idea at first but Lindsay hits him with the puppy eyes and he folds like a lawn chair), eventually leading to Lindsay giving Noah a much needed glow up. He finds himself enjoying the pampering- though he'd never admit it- and Lindsay's just ecstatic that she has someone to use as a dress-up doll (Tyler wouldn't let her give him another makeover after Paris).

#i have a lot of thoughts about the beauty&brains duo #this would also be why lindsay calls tyler 'noah' in wt btw. she's mixing up her bf and her gbf. doesn't help that they both--#have long-ish brown hair and wear red (she's face blind give my girl a break 😭)#this ended up longer than i anticipated. again. at this point i should stop assuming i'll give short responses.#the brainrot cannot be contained. i am patient zero.#anyway THANK YOU FOR THE ASK please feed me more b&b content. it fuels me.#total drama #td lindsay #td noah #silly headcanons #character analysis #⬅ kind of? a little bit #replies #long post

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cuubism · 1 year

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I heard that old scars can sometimes re-open and I've no idea how true that is but it is sure does have a great angst potential for our boy Dream and his scars where his wings used to be

i'm so glad we've collectively decided to make dream's wings as a concept as maximally angsty as possible

i have no idea if that's true either, i know scar tissue can hurt sometimes after healing and be weaker than regular skin, and i know it can also be numb i.e. have disrupted nerve endings, no idea if it can properly reopen. however, dream's wing scars are more metaphysical than physical, since he doesn't properly have a physical form at all, the very concept of the wings was torn from his being, so we can absolutely play with this.

(this doesn't quite align with the internal canon of the other ficlet. but ah well)

(content warning again for graphic violence)

Dream had not been strictly truthful with Hob when he said that no one in this age, outside of his own family, knew of his wings, or their loss.

It was merely true that he had not chosen to show anyone. But there had been a time recently when Dream did not have much choice in anything at all.

****

It was inevitable that Roderick Burgess would figure out the origins of Dream's scars. The man was a fool, but he was no idiot. He could put together basic evidence in front of him.

“Strange,” he said, a few months in, as Dream still refused to give him anything he asked for or even to speak a word, “for an entity such as yourself to have such a human thing as scars.”

Dream merely glared at him. It was the first time anyone had spoken of, or even seen, the remnants of his wings in hundreds of years. Even Death had given up on mentioning it. Hearing the words spoken aloud made phantom pain arc up his back, but he kept his expression set, not giving Burgess an inch.

“They were wings, weren’t they?” Burgess said, and Dream just barely contained his flinch. “Too conveniently placed not to be. Curious. I’ve never heard of any dream lord having wings. Then again, you aren’t in too many storybooks, are you, Dream of the Endless?”

Dream featured in a few human stories. But none captured the whole of him.

“What happened to them?” Burgess asked, with idle curiosity.

He couldn’t possibly believe Dream would answer. Dream maintained his glare, and Burgess just chuckled.

“Of course, you won’t tell. I wouldn’t reveal a weakness, either. But perhaps I will be able to find out elsewhere.” His cane tapped the floor, considering. “It would be good to know what can carve off a piece of you.”

Dream clenched his jaw, the indignity of it all rushing through him in a flash of heat. The audacity of this human to think he could harm an Endless like so.

Then again, Dream had thought the same during that great battle. And he had learned.

He was still bound, here. Trapped, in this flesh.

Would it be worse, he wondered, to still have wings and be caged? Or to be as he was now, bound and having his injury, his weakness, gawked at?

“We’ll speak again, soon,” Burgess said, and then he was gone.

Dream remained, as he was forced to. Back aching, shoulders throbbing, stiff in the cold basement. He could almost feel the phantom arc of his wings over him. A torturous memory. He could picture them, folded tight in this sphere, unable to stretch out.

No, he thought, that pain would still be preferable to not having them at all.

****

Burgess returned, of course, came every day to stalk around Dream’s cage, demanding things of him. Dream resolutely turned to face him, shielding his wounded back from the man’s eyes. Depriving him of his ability to gloat. It did occasionally mean he had to bare his scars to the guards sitting by the doorway, but they were inconsequential compared to his captor. He would offer Roderick Burgess no satisfaction.

“I confess,” Burgess said, walking slowly, cane tapping, “that even when you are making things unnecessarily difficult, you inspire curiosity. I will get that story out of you, Dream. If you give me nothing else.”

You will not, Dream thought. All he had now was his silence and secrets.

“Perhaps I should drag you out of there and see what I can learn up close,” Burgess mused. The thought made rage curl in Dream’s belly. He thought that Burgess was too frightened of him to dare touch him. But his punishment when Dream got out would be one hundred-fold if he did. And he had already earned himself agony.

“Consider what ending you’d prefer,” Burgess said, and left him again.

****

Nobody had thought of Dream with wings in an age. The Old Gods had stripped them of his mythology when they’d stripped them from his body. Even when Dream occasionally featured in human stories, as a minor god or as the Sandman or some other strange figure, he did not have wings, he did not fly, it was beyond the reach of human imagining.

Except.

In seeing the scars on Dream’s back, in considering, over and over, with such fervor, Dream’s history, the flight he might have once been capable of— Roderick Burgess was imagining.

One dreamer could not change Dream. A thousand dreamers could not bring Dream’s wings back to him, that time was done now, he knew it as deeply as he knew the pain that lived within him.

Except, apparently, when his powers were bound. Except when Burgess held his ruby, the very essence of Dream’s form. Except when the man wished him such ill that no torment was beyond the reach of his imagination.

It happened not gradually, but suddenly. Burgess was speaking to him one day, musing again about what horrible thing might have happened to Dream’s wings, and Dream was tuning him out, staring into space, when a lightning bolt of pained raced up his spine, flared through his shoulders, swirled in spiked agony in his head—

Dream bent double, a cry of anguish torn from his throat. The first sound he had made since his imprisonment. Burgess froze and stared at him, his cane hovering above the cobblestones.

Dream clasped his hands over his ears where a rising whine was reaching a fever pitch, becoming a scream. A matching shriek building in his own throat that he desperately tried to suppress. He’d rather choke than let his captor hear anything else, but his back was in flames, it felt as though it was tearing apart anew, like something was wrenching from within him—

“Well,” said Burgess, and for the first time, the man sounded faint with shock. “Look at that.”

Breathing raggedly, but getting no air for his tight chest in the sealed sphere, limbs trembling, Dream dared a look over his shoulder. Shuddering at what he might find.

Yes, indeed, there were wings again arcing over his shoulders, folded double under the glass. Pulled from Dream, forced on him, by Roderick Burgess’s imaginings. And no, no, these wings were wrong, they were horrible and monstrous, like a demon’s, taloned and webbed and bent at unnatural angles. Dream’s wings had been beautiful, feathers dark and fine as the night sky.

But Burgess saw him as a monster, and a monster’s body was what he gave him.

Blood streamed down Dream’s back from the jagged tears the wings had ripped in his skin. It dripped from every inch of the webbing, splattering the glass sphere, which looked like something horrible had just given birth inside of it. Even moving the wings was agonizing, and Dream stayed hunched over, face pressed to his knees, to avoid knocking them into the glass and sending a spasm of pain through himself that he might not recover from.

“Another trick of yours?” said Burgess, walking around him. Now there was nothing Dream could do to guard his back. “Hiding your powers from me?”

Dream did not look up at him, but he ripped the man cell from cell in his mind. You, he wanted to snarl, you have done this. You and your gross, possessive imaginings, feeling yourself entitled to my history. You will pay.

Under the pain, however, the wings felt insubstantial. Weak, fragile, draining the rest of his strength, unlike the power of Dream’s true wings before they had been so grossly torn from him. These wings could not fly. These wings sustained themselves on the cruel thoughts of one dreamer, and hurt Dream rather than aided him; their connection to his power was flickering, and Dream expected they would not last long.

These wings were a violation and an abomination and still, a wrenching pain went through Dream’s body at the thought of their disappearance.

But he was right. Even as Burgess watched, speaking again though Dream could not hear it over the rushing in his ears, the wings twisted up like gnarled tree branches and vanished, leaving a cold wind in their wake. And blood, and viscera, and two open wounds in Dream’s back. He collapsed forward onto his elbows, head hanging, unable to push himself back up. He had bitten the inside of his mouth hard enough that it was bleeding, and drops fell to join the growing pool at the bottom of the glass. Was it Burgess who dreamed him able to bleed? Or Dream himself?

“No!” Burgess smacked the glass with his cane, and Dream flinched. “Foul creature. You will not keep your powers from me forever.”

Dream did not bother to glare at him. He pressed his forehead to the bloody floor of the cage. His wings. His wings. Wrong though these were, it had been eons since he had even conceived of the feeling of having wings. And now, to have them ripped into existence and then gone again…

With a growl, Burgess stormed from the room, yelling at the guards, “Let me know if he does ANYTHING!”

Dream did not do anything. Dream wished for this form to go the way of his wings. To shred from the inside out and be gone.

****

Prior to his imprisonment, Dream had reached a level of equanimity when it came to other winged creatures. Once, there had been a time when he’d inflicted horrible nightmares of falling on all the dreamers of the world, burning out of control in his rage. Likewise, there had been a time when Dream, guilt-ridden, had tried to soothe that ache by sending gentle dreams of floating lightly on a warm breeze, or of soaring with powerful strokes through the skies.

But eventually, he had gained control over himself, and managed to treat winged dreams the same as any other, with no particular preference or punishment.

That was before.

Now, he was thinking about Gault. And her resplendent joy as she’d first lifted off the ground, wings fluttering with newness and light.

It should not be so. The smile of one of his creations should not make pain spike cold in his chest, make his back ache like the scar tissue was new enough to be just scabbed over. Dream was meant to be listening to his creations’ feelings. But he thought it would be easier to feel nothing at all.

It had all disappeared, when he’d escaped from the Burgess mansion. The new, bloody marks of the wings Burgess forced from his body had gone like they’d never been once Dream’s power returned. The original scars, of course, stayed, they would never go. Dream did not know what to do with this clean slate. He wondered, sometimes, if he had fallen into Delirium’s realm in his isolation, and simply hallucinated every moment of it.

He was sitting on Hob’s couch, now. He wasn’t sure exactly when, lost in his musings, he had moved to Hob’s living room. It hurt more to be in the Dreaming; he had wanted to be away from his own creations. So many years apart, and the pain of their abandonment, and now he wanted to be away from them. Truly, Death had been right. Some Endless was he.

“Dream?” Hob’s hand landed on Dream’s shoulder from behind.

Dream was Endless. Dream did not panic. And yet, he did not even feel himself move until he was already across the living room, back turned to the wall, away from Hob. Even though he knew that Hob would not hurt him. Even though he knew his own power now was such that Hob could not hurt him. Even though.

“Whoa, hey,” Hob said, hands raised in surrender. Eyes wide and startled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I was not—” Dream started, but trailed off. The rush of instinctive flight was subsiding, and now he merely felt defeated. Pathetic.

Rather than approach him again, Hob sat down in the corner of the couch. Dream had learned, these past months, to read an invitation when Hob was offering it. So he stepped quietly back over and sat beside Hob, their thighs just barely touching.

“Did I come up behind you? Is that what did it?” Hob asked gently.

“I was lost in thought,” Dream explained. “It was not your doing.”

“Hm, but in retrospect…” Halfway through, Hob seemingly decided he didn’t want to finish that particular sentence. “What were you thinking about?”

“It matters not,” said Dream, pushing thoughts of Gault and wings back to the depths of his mind where they belonged.

“Course it matters,” said Hob. And, as if he did know what Dream had been thinking, he rested his hand on Dream’s shoulder again. Slower, this time, though. Telegraphing it.

Dream leaned into his touch. Mired in his memories, he had turned from any who might come at his unprotected back, gawk at his scars, even Hob -- but now he craved something else. Now he wanted to turn in to Hob and let Hob guard him. When Dream had told the story of those wounds, Hob had curled around him as if to shield him from further harm. Dream would seize that feeling again, endlessly, selfishly.

Hob rubbed his back, but barely got through a few motions before he was freezing, hand pressed to Dream’s shoulder blade. “Dream? Do these…” he was speaking very tentatively now. “Do these… reopen a lot?”

Through the thin fabric of Dream’s shirt, blood was weeping. It followed the path of Hob’s hand as if the wound itself was chasing his comfort.

“They never did before,” Dream said. He did not have to specify what he meant by that.

“Can I…?” Hob asked, and tugged on the hem of his shirt.

Dream inclined his head, and Hob pulled his shirt up and off, careful where it brushed the wounds. Hands on his shoulders, he turned Dream’s naked back toward him, then ran his hand down the edges of the scars, studying them silently. Dream could feel the prickle of his daydreams, his imagination, as he thought. Hob, of all people, might have the power to morph Dream’s form through his daydreams; Dream bent to his touch easily enough already.

Imagine me torn open or imagine me healed, Dream thought, only do not imagine me with wings. I do not beg, but I will beg it of you.

He could not bear to suffer that again, the promise of wings restored that were but a broken echo of their rightful magnificence.

“They aren’t actually torn,” Hob mused. “Just bleeding. Huh.” He ran a hand down over one of the scars, and for all that it did not truly hurt, merely felt numb, Dream still sensed the bleeding stop.

Powerful daydreams, indeed.

“How?” Hob said, awed.

Dream did not have the energy to explain everything to do with Roderick Burgess. He merely said, “You have dreamt it.”

“I have?”

Dream just nodded. He could attempt to explain these things properly to Hob another day. For now, Hob had managed to wash away the pain, at least temporarily, and Dream was exhausted past the capacity to deal with these emotions. The memory of his wings hung over his shoulders like a sword in a way it hadn’t since his youth.

He curled in towards Hob, and Hob’s arms went automatically around him with a little stutter of shock. He held Dream’s shoulders, the back of his head, and Dream pressed his nose into the crook of his neck.

Hob pulled Dream in, pulled him down, turned to press him between his own body and the back of the couch, yes, almost exactly as Dream had hoped he would. Too perceptive, Hob, but Dream could only be grateful for it. He let out a long, steadying breath, sinking into the warmth of Hob’s body.

“You sure nothing happened?” Hob asked, a concerned murmur.

Dream said, “Nothing of late.” And Hob held him tighter.

#its hurting dream hours again #thinking also about retired dream and how i'm pretty sure his scars would disappear if he became human (ish) and the mixed feelings #he would have about that #dream's wings #my writing #dreamling #ask #anonymous

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