Wombles
My discord is: wombles.org
- Joined
- Oct 10, 2024
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Chapter one: boy and the frog
The classroom smelled of sharpened pencils and disinfectant. Miss voss clapped her hands, her voice slicing through the chatter. “Pair up! We’re doing Two Truths and a Lie—find someone new!”
Indigo froze. Around him, chairs screeched as students flocked to friends. A boy with gel-spiked hair fist-bumped his new desk partner. A girl twirled her hair around a glitter pen, already texting under the desk.
“You.” Miss Voss pointed at Indigo and a girl with a heart-shaped locket. “Pair Seven.”
The girl wrinkled her nose but slid into the desk next to him. “I’m Clara,” she said, not looking up from her manicure.
“Indigo.”
“Huh, like the color?”
Miss Voss circled the room. “Share your summer highlights!”
Clara went first. “One: I went to Cali. Two: My boyfriend’s, like, super tall and hot. Three: I hate pizza.” She smirked. “Guess the lie.”
Indigo knew the lie was Cali—she’d posted mall selfies all summer. But he mumbled, “The pizza one?”
“Duh. Everyone loves pizza.” She rolled her eyes. “Your turn.”
Indigo’s palms dampened the worksheet. “One: I… have a dog. Two: I went camping. Three: I like reading.”
Clara squinted. “The lie’s camping. You look like you’ve never seen sunlight.”
He stared at his shoes. The truth was, he’d lied twice. He didn’t have a dog. He didn’t like reading.
Across the room, a boy bragged about surfing in Portugal. A girl giggled about her “amazing” road trip. Indigo’s summer? Six weeks spent in the stagnant haze of summer—countless hours in his dim bedroom gormlessly watching anime and vigorously jerking off to porn. And when he had to clean he scrubbed the bathroom tiles loudly to drown out his parents’ fights.
Miss Voss tapped his desk. “Share with the class, Indigo!”
The room swiveled.
“Um. I… have a dog. A golden retriever.” His voice cracked. “And I, uh, went camping.”
Clara snorted. “Lame. His lie’s the dog. No way his parents let him have one.”
Laughter rippled. Indigo’s ears burned. He did want a dog.
Miss Voss moved on. “Next pair!”
The bell rang. Clara flounced off, locket glinting. “Your turn, Indi-gross.”
At lunch, he sat alone, peeling the label off his water bottle. Fragments of conversations drifted:
“My boyfriend’s taking me to the fair this weekend…”
“We rented a villa in Tuscany…”
Indigo’s worksheet lay crumpled in his bag. Under the icebreaker activity, he’d written:
1. Ate cereal.
2. Didn’t die.
3. Got the new gayStation 5.
--Next Lesson--
The classroom door creaked like a dying hinge. Indigo hovered in the threshold, his too-short sleeves exposing wrists raw from scrubbing. Twenty-three heads swiveled.
Miss Voss paused mid-sentence, her red pen hovering over attendance sheets. “Late on day one,” she said, not looking up. “Sit.”
Indigo’s desk was at the back, wedged between a radiator and a smirking boy. Whispers began as he shuffled down the aisle.
“Ugly and greasy. Ew!” hissed a girl with a high ponytail, loud enough for the room to hear. Her friend giggled into her hand. “Did he shower in fryer oil?”
A boy near the front wrinkled his nose. “Smells like wet dog. *Dead* wet dog.”
Indigo sank into his chair, shoulders hunched. The boy behind him—a freckled kid with a smirk—stretched his legs and kicked Indigo’s seat. Hard. The jolt knocked his pencil to the floor.
“Oops,” the boy drawled. A snicker rippled through the room.
Miss Voss glanced up, bored. “Quiet, people.”
Indigo bent to grab the pencil. His collar gaped, revealing a patch of eczema.
“Check his neck,” someone whispered. “Looks like dried cum.”
The freckled boy kicked his chair again. -Thud--. Indigo gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening.
“Open your textbooks to page six,” Miss Voss said, as if the room weren’t brimming with malice.
Indigo’s chair jerked a third time. He lurched forward, elbows slamming the desk. The class erupted in muffled laughter.
“Problem, Ia…” Miss Voss squinted at her sheet. “Indigo?”
“N-no,” he muttered.
The freckled boy leaned forward, breath hot on Indigo’s ear. “Pussy.”
By the end of class, Indigo’s spine had memorized the rhythm of those kicks. When the bell rang, he lingered until the room emptied. The impressions carved into his mind were not just from their words, but from their stares—the way their eyes scraped over him like broken glass.
The cafeteria’s roar chased Indigo down the stairwell—laughter like shattering porcelain, the screech of chairs. He ducked past the “STAFF ONLY” sign, into the boiler room’s throat.
Heat wrapped around him like a fever. The walls hummed. Somewhere, pipes coughed up rust.
Indigo slid down between the boiler and a tower of cluttered cleaning products. His lunch bag exhaled the scent of:
- A soggy ham sandwich (mayonnaise bleeding through bread)
- Warm Kool-Aid (punctured by his pencil case)
- A single melted biscuit, snapped in half during transit
As he chewed, his phone buzzed. A classmate had tagged him in a meme: a dissected frog with his face photo shopped on. Caption: Specimen: Uglyus maximus. 23 likes. “Seems like a preview of next class,” Indigo whispered.
A scrape of claws. Two golden orbs looked at him and a black cat slipped through the broken vent, drawn by the ham’s salty stink.
“fuck off ,” Indigo muttered—but broke off a corner of bread. The cat ate from his palm, purring like a sputtering engine.
Above them, carved into the walls were words written by those who treated this place like refuge or a bedroom:
- nigga nigga nigga the person who reads this is a 100 percent nigga
- STATON♡BECCA WAS HERE
- A swastika
After feeding the cat, Indigo trudged to biology class, his head bowed like a wilted flower.
The frog lay belly-up on the wax tray, its limbs pinned like a crime victim. Formaldehyde stung the air. Clara slammed her binder onto the lab table hard enough to make the specimen jar rattle.
“Perfect,” she muttered, glaring at the seating chart.
“Pair Nine: Clara & Indigo.”
Indigo hovered two steps away, shoulders hunched. His lab coat—threadbare at the elbows, borrowed from the lost-and-found bin—swallowed his frame.
Clara snapped on gloves with a theatrical shudder. “If you breathe on me, I’m swapping partners.”
Mr. Reeves droned about the “magnificence of amphibian anatomy” while Clara texted under the table:
Clara:[to Liam] Paired with the nasty thing. Pray for me.
Indigo reached for the scalpel. His fingernails were bitten raw.
“Ew, don’t just—ugh!” Clara recoiled as he made the first incision. “You’re mashing it! Do you suck at everything?”
The frog’s skin parted with a wet whisper. Yellow fat globules clung to the forceps.
Across the room, Liam fake-gagged. “Yo, Corpse boy found his calling!”
Laughter erupted. Clara twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Maybe he’s into this. You into dead things, Indi-gross?”
Indigo’s grip tightened on the probe. The frog’s heart—tiny, gray, stubborn—still clung to its ribcage.
Mr. Reeves sighed. “Focus on the specimen, Miss Duvall.”
Clara rolled her eyes and “accidentally” knocked the bile duct specimen onto Indigo’s lap. “Oops. Now you match.”
After class, Indigo scrubbed his hands until they burned. The bathroom door creaked open.
“Fuckin’ hate frogs,” Sig announced, kicking a stall. His bomber jacket smelled like weed and the dollar-store cologne he swore “hoes digged.”
Indigo shrugged. Water dripped from his chin.
Sig leaned in. “Clara’s obsessed with you.”
A snort.
“Deadass. She texts Liam about you more than she texts him about her.” Sig mimed jerking off. “Emotional masturbation.”
Indigo finally spoke: “She hates me.”
“Yeah. And my dad hates my mom. Still checks her phone when she showers without him.” Sig flicked a paper towel at him. “People fixate on broken* shit man.”
They walked out as the school’s voices quieted, the halls emptying into twilight.
Few disclaimers:
-One this was written by me I used grammarly to fix my autistic spelling mistakes and grammar. Otherwise it's my own work. I've been planning this for awhile:
looksmax.org
I gooned for alot and forgot but my nigga and brocel @sigmamogger. Reminded me and so I wrote also he's sig.
-this is probably not even 1/3 of chapter 1 but this is like a taster ill be introducing other .org users mentioned who wanted to be in it like in the past thread in this chapter or later.
-the story will get interesting a bit after I have to write normie shit before I add shit like the MC fucking around doing low inhib shit or wtvr
-if you're sill reading this ty if you have any ideas for me to use any character trait u want ur character to have reply in this message or dm me. I will add you.
Tagging brocels who replied the past thread and will all be future characters:
@sigmamogger
@staton
@superpsycho
@trench
@2025cel
The classroom smelled of sharpened pencils and disinfectant. Miss voss clapped her hands, her voice slicing through the chatter. “Pair up! We’re doing Two Truths and a Lie—find someone new!”
Indigo froze. Around him, chairs screeched as students flocked to friends. A boy with gel-spiked hair fist-bumped his new desk partner. A girl twirled her hair around a glitter pen, already texting under the desk.
“You.” Miss Voss pointed at Indigo and a girl with a heart-shaped locket. “Pair Seven.”
The girl wrinkled her nose but slid into the desk next to him. “I’m Clara,” she said, not looking up from her manicure.
“Indigo.”
“Huh, like the color?”
Miss Voss circled the room. “Share your summer highlights!”
Clara went first. “One: I went to Cali. Two: My boyfriend’s, like, super tall and hot. Three: I hate pizza.” She smirked. “Guess the lie.”
Indigo knew the lie was Cali—she’d posted mall selfies all summer. But he mumbled, “The pizza one?”
“Duh. Everyone loves pizza.” She rolled her eyes. “Your turn.”
Indigo’s palms dampened the worksheet. “One: I… have a dog. Two: I went camping. Three: I like reading.”
Clara squinted. “The lie’s camping. You look like you’ve never seen sunlight.”
He stared at his shoes. The truth was, he’d lied twice. He didn’t have a dog. He didn’t like reading.
Across the room, a boy bragged about surfing in Portugal. A girl giggled about her “amazing” road trip. Indigo’s summer? Six weeks spent in the stagnant haze of summer—countless hours in his dim bedroom gormlessly watching anime and vigorously jerking off to porn. And when he had to clean he scrubbed the bathroom tiles loudly to drown out his parents’ fights.
Miss Voss tapped his desk. “Share with the class, Indigo!”
The room swiveled.
“Um. I… have a dog. A golden retriever.” His voice cracked. “And I, uh, went camping.”
Clara snorted. “Lame. His lie’s the dog. No way his parents let him have one.”
Laughter rippled. Indigo’s ears burned. He did want a dog.
Miss Voss moved on. “Next pair!”
The bell rang. Clara flounced off, locket glinting. “Your turn, Indi-gross.”
At lunch, he sat alone, peeling the label off his water bottle. Fragments of conversations drifted:
“My boyfriend’s taking me to the fair this weekend…”
“We rented a villa in Tuscany…”
Indigo’s worksheet lay crumpled in his bag. Under the icebreaker activity, he’d written:
1. Ate cereal.
2. Didn’t die.
3. Got the new gayStation 5.
--Next Lesson--
The classroom door creaked like a dying hinge. Indigo hovered in the threshold, his too-short sleeves exposing wrists raw from scrubbing. Twenty-three heads swiveled.
Miss Voss paused mid-sentence, her red pen hovering over attendance sheets. “Late on day one,” she said, not looking up. “Sit.”
Indigo’s desk was at the back, wedged between a radiator and a smirking boy. Whispers began as he shuffled down the aisle.
“Ugly and greasy. Ew!” hissed a girl with a high ponytail, loud enough for the room to hear. Her friend giggled into her hand. “Did he shower in fryer oil?”
A boy near the front wrinkled his nose. “Smells like wet dog. *Dead* wet dog.”
Indigo sank into his chair, shoulders hunched. The boy behind him—a freckled kid with a smirk—stretched his legs and kicked Indigo’s seat. Hard. The jolt knocked his pencil to the floor.
“Oops,” the boy drawled. A snicker rippled through the room.
Miss Voss glanced up, bored. “Quiet, people.”
Indigo bent to grab the pencil. His collar gaped, revealing a patch of eczema.
“Check his neck,” someone whispered. “Looks like dried cum.”
The freckled boy kicked his chair again. -Thud--. Indigo gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles whitening.
“Open your textbooks to page six,” Miss Voss said, as if the room weren’t brimming with malice.
Indigo’s chair jerked a third time. He lurched forward, elbows slamming the desk. The class erupted in muffled laughter.
“Problem, Ia…” Miss Voss squinted at her sheet. “Indigo?”
“N-no,” he muttered.
The freckled boy leaned forward, breath hot on Indigo’s ear. “Pussy.”
By the end of class, Indigo’s spine had memorized the rhythm of those kicks. When the bell rang, he lingered until the room emptied. The impressions carved into his mind were not just from their words, but from their stares—the way their eyes scraped over him like broken glass.
The cafeteria’s roar chased Indigo down the stairwell—laughter like shattering porcelain, the screech of chairs. He ducked past the “STAFF ONLY” sign, into the boiler room’s throat.
Heat wrapped around him like a fever. The walls hummed. Somewhere, pipes coughed up rust.
Indigo slid down between the boiler and a tower of cluttered cleaning products. His lunch bag exhaled the scent of:
- A soggy ham sandwich (mayonnaise bleeding through bread)
- Warm Kool-Aid (punctured by his pencil case)
- A single melted biscuit, snapped in half during transit
As he chewed, his phone buzzed. A classmate had tagged him in a meme: a dissected frog with his face photo shopped on. Caption: Specimen: Uglyus maximus. 23 likes. “Seems like a preview of next class,” Indigo whispered.
A scrape of claws. Two golden orbs looked at him and a black cat slipped through the broken vent, drawn by the ham’s salty stink.
“fuck off ,” Indigo muttered—but broke off a corner of bread. The cat ate from his palm, purring like a sputtering engine.
Above them, carved into the walls were words written by those who treated this place like refuge or a bedroom:
- nigga nigga nigga the person who reads this is a 100 percent nigga
- STATON♡BECCA WAS HERE
- A swastika
After feeding the cat, Indigo trudged to biology class, his head bowed like a wilted flower.
The frog lay belly-up on the wax tray, its limbs pinned like a crime victim. Formaldehyde stung the air. Clara slammed her binder onto the lab table hard enough to make the specimen jar rattle.
“Perfect,” she muttered, glaring at the seating chart.
“Pair Nine: Clara & Indigo.”
Indigo hovered two steps away, shoulders hunched. His lab coat—threadbare at the elbows, borrowed from the lost-and-found bin—swallowed his frame.
Clara snapped on gloves with a theatrical shudder. “If you breathe on me, I’m swapping partners.”
Mr. Reeves droned about the “magnificence of amphibian anatomy” while Clara texted under the table:
Clara:[to Liam] Paired with the nasty thing. Pray for me.
Indigo reached for the scalpel. His fingernails were bitten raw.
“Ew, don’t just—ugh!” Clara recoiled as he made the first incision. “You’re mashing it! Do you suck at everything?”
The frog’s skin parted with a wet whisper. Yellow fat globules clung to the forceps.
Across the room, Liam fake-gagged. “Yo, Corpse boy found his calling!”
Laughter erupted. Clara twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Maybe he’s into this. You into dead things, Indi-gross?”
Indigo’s grip tightened on the probe. The frog’s heart—tiny, gray, stubborn—still clung to its ribcage.
Mr. Reeves sighed. “Focus on the specimen, Miss Duvall.”
Clara rolled her eyes and “accidentally” knocked the bile duct specimen onto Indigo’s lap. “Oops. Now you match.”
After class, Indigo scrubbed his hands until they burned. The bathroom door creaked open.
“Fuckin’ hate frogs,” Sig announced, kicking a stall. His bomber jacket smelled like weed and the dollar-store cologne he swore “hoes digged.”
Indigo shrugged. Water dripped from his chin.
Sig leaned in. “Clara’s obsessed with you.”
A snort.
“Deadass. She texts Liam about you more than she texts him about her.” Sig mimed jerking off. “Emotional masturbation.”
Indigo finally spoke: “She hates me.”
“Yeah. And my dad hates my mom. Still checks her phone when she showers without him.” Sig flicked a paper towel at him. “People fixate on broken* shit man.”
They walked out as the school’s voices quieted, the halls emptying into twilight.
Few disclaimers:
-One this was written by me I used grammarly to fix my autistic spelling mistakes and grammar. Otherwise it's my own work. I've been planning this for awhile:
Im going to be making a incel 200 page story tag/reply if you want to be a character in it
I've already thought of a couple ideas as well as the fact that it won't be the retarded violent and weird story that mainstream media have associated with the BP/lookism, case in point the new shitty show adolescence. I can add a few of you guys in it as the incel main characters...
looksmax.org
I gooned for alot and forgot but my nigga and brocel @sigmamogger. Reminded me and so I wrote also he's sig.
-this is probably not even 1/3 of chapter 1 but this is like a taster ill be introducing other .org users mentioned who wanted to be in it like in the past thread in this chapter or later.
-the story will get interesting a bit after I have to write normie shit before I add shit like the MC fucking around doing low inhib shit or wtvr
-if you're sill reading this ty if you have any ideas for me to use any character trait u want ur character to have reply in this message or dm me. I will add you.
Tagging brocels who replied the past thread and will all be future characters:
@sigmamogger
@staton
@superpsycho
@trench
@2025cel
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