#anyway I need these characters to live the life I cannot because apparently I want to be ''fulfilled''

[notbecauseofvictories]

I never want to read about people having healthy, loving relationships in fiction. Not for any particularly noble or logical reason, I just hate it.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hi, big fan of your work in the whump community :3

Do you have any prompts/thoughts for one of my favorite phrases: "I thought you were dead" ?

thank you so much!!

dialogue prompts in responses to ❝I thought you were dead.❞

❝I’m not dead, babe. I just ghosted you.❞

❝cheating death is what I do for a living.❞

❝that was weeks ago/months ago. people change.❞

❝not dead. I am Death.❞

❝and it sucked. being on the verge of death. would not recommend.❞

❝that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I literally cannot die.❞

❝no, but you will be if you don’t start running.❞

❝a bullet to the heart can’t kill me. you, out of all people, should have known my heart has already been blackened and dried up a very long time ago.❞

❝surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me.❞ (the classic one, I couldn’t not add this.)

❝of course, you did. after all, it was you who tried to kill me.❞

❝darling, you’re going to have to try harder than that.❞

❝this is gonna sound crazy, but I am dead, and apparently I’m assigned to be your guardian angel now.❞

❝you know I’m not actually real, right?❞

❝no, you left me to die. I was just a survivor.❞

❝yeah, yeah, I heard that before.❞

❝I am.❞

❝did you really have so little faith in me?❞

❝me too! another thing we have in common.❞

❝I did, but it turned out death didn’t want me.❞

❝who’s going to look after you if I’m dead?❞

❝I’ll always come back to you.❞

❝dead? it was just a cut on a finger. stop being so dramatic.❞

❝sorry to disappoint.❞

❝boo.❞

❝you’ve made sure of that, haven’t you?❞

❝I’m stubborn just like that.❞

❝is it because I disappeared from your life for 20 years?❞

❝why? what happened? why would you think that?❞

❝oh, I am. and so are you. welcome to the land of the dead.❞

❝I’m a ghost, and I need your help.❞

❝I don’t have much time. you have to find my murderer.❞

❝I am. you’re just hallucinating.❞

❝if I am dead and you’re talking to me, doesn’t it mean you’re dead, too?❞

❝I’m not Dead. I’m (insert character’s name).❞

❝I did. I just crawled out of hell.❞

❝hell was boring anyway. so here I am.❞

❝you can’t get rid of me that easily.❞

❝nothing could kill me. not even death.❞

❝you know I’d never leave you.❞

❝God says it’s not my time.❞

❝well, this is awkward.❞

❝oh, I am. I’m here to take you with me.❞

❝did you cry?❞

❝did you mourn?❞

❝oh please, I was gone for less than an hour.❞

❝there’s been a misunderstanding. It wasn’t me who died.❞

❝I understand why you’d think that.❞

❝I can explain.❞

❝I am, and you will be just as dead as I am if you don’t turn around right now.❞

❝you’re not gonna believe what I saw on the other side.❞

❝why? you already replaced me?❞

❝I was hoping so too.❞

❝I really need to stop dying. let me tell you that shit is not fun.❞

❝I’m sorry if my survival is so inconvenient for you.❞

❝I have always been dead.❞

❝I died a long time ago, actually.❞

❝what are you going to do about that? try and kill me again? because it certainly didn’t work the first 6 times. but hey! maybe seventh time’s a charm!❞

❝I fooled you, didn’t I?❞

❝I’m not going anywhere.❞

❝I’m sorry. do I know you?❞

❝it’s a long story.❞

[pebblysand]

Hi!!

So I know you are french, and I have a (fun?maybe?) question. I don't know how old you were when you first read the hp books, but I was 12 and I read them in spanish, and a while ago we were watching this video with my mother about translating hp (she's a translator, it's our way to, you know, bond) and all the differences between the different languages, and one of the difficulties translating these books is that all the names have meanings, apparently👀 . So I thought "hey the spanish translation has all the original names!" And then I remebered CANUTO. You know who Canuto is? Padfoot. Yup. And canuto, where I live is like, slang? So my question is, are there names or charachters in french that when you think about them in your 30s 🤠 you think whaaaaaat?

I also remebered that Wednesday Adams is called Merlina, lol.

Anyway, I hope you had a fannnnntastic beginning of the year!!!

awwww thank you! hope you have a lovely beginning of the year too!

that is such a good question haha! for the record, i do want to say (this may be controversial) that for the most part, i think the french translator did an amazing job at 'translating' the names in HP. translating anything is such a difficult job (i, for one, am absolutely terrible at it) and doing it the right way for children's books that were so popular must have been so much pressure (especially in the later years). i know they get a lot of flack for doing it (a lot of people are always like "oh, you shouldn't have changed anything, etc.") but i think people need to remember that at the core, these are children's books where some of the characters are named Werewolf McWerewolf so foreign kids would of course need this context. especially since in the 90s/00s when the books were coming out, a lot fewer people spoke english (at least in france) than now. a lot of HP already inevitably gets lost in cultural translation (it took me a really long time, for instance, to understand how much HP touches on the UK's concept of social class and status), so i think anything you can do to mitigate other losses is very valuable.

having said that, the fact that tom riddle's middle name in french is ELVIS has scarred me for life and I JUST CANNOT. Elvis???????? Tom Elvis Jedusor?????

Jedusor (last name) is great because it's like being called Twistoffate which works really well for voldemort, but elvis kills me. and, i know why they did it, because in order for the CoS "reveal" to work you need different letters in each language. tom marvolo riddle makes "i am lord voldemort" and tom elvis jedusor makes "je suis voldemort" (i am voldemort), but COME ON.

ELVIS? 😅

[cryptidsnackpack]

okay this discussion is going to be SO LATE but i’m playing dream daddy (again) and i have ~thoughts~ about our friendly neighborhood youth pastor and his family.

so i’m going on dates with all the dad’s i haven’t in previous playthroughs. (i saw mat and damien and was like good day i do not need to peruse ANY other fathers today).

i’d never done joseph’s route before, bc he’s married duh and i have religious trauma. and he looks like every white man that is a problem. but this time around i wanted to watch the world burn and break that man. ANYWAY. he is- actually… delightful? and i love his dates?? i though that with (potential spoilers ahead i guess but this game is old af) his affair with Robert he would immediately start laying it on thick. but he just invites you to very fucking domestic events, and gets frazzled with basic intimacy.

so i GET that joseph cheated. i understand that a large part of mary’s drinking may be due to that. and i know the “good” ending is not really good at all, and pulls a weird moral gotcha on you. i am all for making players face the consequences of their actions in games but this one falls flat for a few reasons.

1. Joseph objectively isn’t a bad person. Yes he’s had an affair, yes he’s a youth pastor (okay only a little joking). BUT Joseph has his shit together for his 4 kids and i admire the FUCK out of him for it. As someone who was raised by alcoholic parents, seeing Mary’s attitude at her kids’ well being REALLY struck a chord with me. the game wants me to believe Joseph is the bad guy, but i’m watching his wife chug five bottles of wine while her toddler is missing AND SUPPOSED TO BE IN HER CARE. and then i see this dad who is trying, who is involved in community outreach, and keeps a stable home. also i see a lot of “well Joseph puts on an act to make Mary look bad in front of the neighbors”. I’m sorry??? he does not have to make Mary look bad, she does bad all on her own. the “wine mom” and “type a dad” schtick is so fucking heteronormative and played out, even for 2017 when the game was released. and hey maybe that was the point! but if it was, it wasn’t done well.

2. The worst parts of Mary’s character get glossed over in lieu of her being a “wine mom” stereotype. Maybe it’s because i’m an ex alcoholic myself, but i don’t have a lot of patience for the character and i know that. objectively i like Mary, i think she’s funny and tough. but she is a deadbeat fucking mom, and the game WHICH IS CENTERED LARGELY AROUND BEING A GOOD PARENT puts Mary on a pedestal that she doesn’t deserve to be on. would i get dinner with mary? hang out? go shopping?? fuck yeah. would i think, “this person who goes out every single night and flirts outrageously with everyone, ignoring their children and household responsibility for their husband” is a “good” person?? fucking hell no. i would not let that woman look after a hamster. let alone four children.

3. DIVORCE IS A VALID AND HEALTHY OPTION THAT SHOULD BE SHOWN MORE IN MEDIA. i cannot tell you how many nights i lay awake listening to my parents drunk and fighting and prayed (when i believed in prayer) that they would divorce. i WANTED my parents to divorce, because i, at the ripe age of 12 could see what apparently the adults could not. that these two people did not, and should not, be together. now that’s not saying that your “good” ending in joseph’s route should end in a typical romance. i don’t. what i mean is that two people should have come to the conclusion that they are doing irreparable damage to their family by staying together. and your character could have helped and supported in that decision. it is obvious that Mary is living a life she doesn’t want, and i do feel for her. BUT GET A DIVORCE THEN. I know the characters are married and staying together largely in part because of religion… but…. Joseph’s not “that” kind of christian? because i grew up in the church, i know the type. this guy ain’t it. So the “well divorce is a sin” for the character doesn’t work for me.

i love the game grumps and i LOVE this game, but this was an area where i feel like the characterization and “message” was a like clunky and more than hard to follow. i really felt like they missed the mark with this one, i mean hell just make the non-canon ending canon at this point. at least that would make more sense.

also this is not me saying that Mary should be responsible for all household duty bc she’s a woman or blah blah blah. but whether you wanted those kids or not, whether you want to be in that marriage or not, YOU made decisions. your kids didn’t choose to be born YOU did, so you need to step up and idk?? maybe not spend every night out at a bar with the local loner who boned your husband? also maybe your husband sought comfort in the arms of a relative stranger… for… a reason? not a morally sound or correct reason but we can maybe follow the dots.

[lia-land]

A Court of Wings and Ruin by Sarah J. Maas

4/5 stars

Spoilers*

I love that the acronym is ACOWAR.

This was a good book, but my hopes were insanely high after A Court of Mist and Fury. This had specific scenes that I enjoyed, like the solstice and the High Lord’s meeting, but I got bored with all the war talk. It’s kind of like Taylor Swift’s Folklore and Evermore albums. Folklore was an amazing album as a whole, and Evermore had a few amazing songs, in my opinion.

The entirety of Feyre’s time in the Spring court was really enjoyable to read about and was a very strong start to the book. All of those chapters were on par with ACOMAF for me. There’s a lot of character development apparent there and I enjoyed SJM’s writing style here im not telling the reader about Feyre’s plans until after she had succeeded. Nothing really caught my interest after that until the conversation in Tarquin’s office, and then the High Lord’s meeting.

The only thing I explicitly disliked was how none of the main characters died. This is not to say that I expect a character to die in every series, but when you have as many main characters as this series has had, it just seems too convenient that they all live. Not just that, but Amren and Rhys did die, only for both to be brought back to life. I have read the rest of the series and cannot see any reason for Amren to have needed to come back to life. The excuse for it was also very rushed over, with Rhys saying that he just found her in the Cauldron when he was dead himself and brought her back. Her death did not surprise me at all as it just made sense and I felt like it was coming, but her revival confused me. Maybe she will have a purpose in future SJM books, but it would have been far more impactful if she had died and remained dead. It might have felt less out of place if Rhys hadn’t also died and been revived a few pages later.

Regarding Rhys coming back to life, I wish there was more justification on why the other High Lords chose to revive him. I can’t see why Beron and Tamlin would ever agree to do so, regardless of diplomatic pressure. Tamlin, I could maybe justify with his love for Feyre being so great, but even then, his character did not seem like the type to make such a sacrifice. I see absolutely no reason for Beron to have given his power. There obviously must have been one and I hope we find out in future books, because as it is now, it just feels like a convenient thing that happened for the sake of a happy ending. Potentially, I can also see why it might have caused some sort of refugee crisis since Rhys didn’t have an heir, but as it’s explained in later books, the Cauldron in unpredictable in how it chooses the next High Lord, so sometimes it's not the son of the previous High Lord anyway. Based on that, I assume the Night Court wouldn’t have been left without a High Lord, so we’re back to square one.

Mor, in general, was a very disappointing character. What even is her power? Her character would have made more sense to me if she didn't had a power, because what was the point if we never see her use it anyway? To be fair, in this regard, all of the characters were disappointing in the sense that we don't actually see their full potential. Feyre, especially, had so much potential with the magic of all seven courts and if this war was not an occasion for her to take full advantage of those powers, then what is? I know we see Rhys' beast form which he says he only resorts to when needed, but I was just expecting more from all of them. This didn't bother me much since I wasn't that invested in the battle scenes anyway, to be honest, so it hasn't majorly affected my rating.

I don't know how I feel about the ending. 1. Rhys and Feyre flying off into the night was a bit cheesy, but I'll live. 2. The death pact. I have manyyyy thoughts on this decision. On one hand, I completely understand that they are two people in love and witnessed each other die and never wanted to feel that pain again, but they are rulers. It is irresponsible and somewhat selfish in so many ways for the only two rulers of a whole court to make that bargain when they had no heir. This causes a paradox because they can either 1. never have kids, and leave the fate of the Night Court uncertain if they both die unexpectedly at the same time or 2. have kids and both die at the same time, whether expectedly or unexpectedly, which can have drastic effects on the child. I wasn't surprised when Feyre proposed such a reckless pact, but Rhys is 536 years old and has been High Lord for at least two centuries and I like to think that if he had thought of it in full, he wouldn't have agreed. (Although this is backed up by the Evil!Rhys theory, which I love to entertain so I'll let it slide for now).

In my review of A Court of Mist and Fury, I mentioned how I thought Rhys’ trauma from Under the Mountain was overlooked and I was hoping it would be acknowledged more in this book, but instead, Lucien faces something similar and that gets overlooked as well. I suppose it is on par with how our society doesn’t always acknowledge men’s trauma, but it would have been significant to have seen some sort of conversation about it.

I'm so embarrassed to say that the Cauldron scares me as of this book. The whole thing with it 'noticing' Nesta and then stealing Elaine in the middle of the night while 'singing' creeped me out.

[possessionisamyth]

I agree on your post about fandom with Leon. I like him but the way fandom treats him and acts if he's the only character that has gone thru the most hell, it makes me not want to see him in any further content for awhile. Don't me get started on the shipping aspect of him whether it's self-shipping or his relationships with other characters.

I'd really love it if people who ship leon with themselves or reader or whatever would choose TWO ways to tag it as a group so I can block it en masse and not see their boring ass fantasies generated from character ai play out the same way 500x a day no matter how many variants of the tag I block.

Every time I think it might be a character analysis it's slapped with "He Wouldn't Fucking Say That" but for every sentence, and I get to decide whether I'm going to block or scroll faster.

Shipping aside(because woooo do aeon, cleon, and jilleon shippers love showing their misogyny as much as people who ship leon with other boring white men), seeing people baby him incessantly as if he's not a grown ass man is a different level of fury. Yes, his job fucking sucks. Yes, he was suckered into it. He's not special actually. How many people have the option to not work a shitty job for an uncomfortable period of time in their lives without suffering immediate financial consequences? I'll tell you who. Rich people. Who I don't respect anyways. You know who else has a shitty job? Literally the entire recurring cast of characters we see, majority of whom are women.

You know what usually makes a job shittier? Not having a dick. I cannot fucking imagine the hell that Jill, as much of a paragon in her field as Chris is, has to experience from the men higher ups questioning every single fucking decision she makes on top of dealing with bioweapon bullshit. Her only reprieve? Probably Chris or Barry stepping in for her to shut them up, and if not that, she can get some of that anger out through the gorey, visceral violence some people dream of having as an outlet when dealing with shitty customers in retail.

And don't even get me fucking started on Rebecca and Claire who don't have the mercy of that much of a reprieve! Both of them have to deal with politicians from multiple countries, majority men, also questioning and second guessing their every plan while they try to provide life-saving medicine and resources to people who need them. You know what Leon has to hear from politicians? Arrest or kill this guy and go home. Escort this person and go home. They dont' question his competency. I know for a fucking fact Claire and Rebecca get the third degree if they so much as even suggest a faster way to supply necessary footwork in order to rebuild a neighborhood or save lives, meanwhile Leon goes home and does, uh, fucking nothing until he's called onto the next job.

But oooohh ooohh woobie baby pookie puppy daddy waawaa googoo gaga leon kennedy has a dwinking pwoblem. He's soooo babygirl and needs to be cuddled and protected and loved because his job is sooooooo stressful, and he's a victim.

You know who's a fucking victim in this situation post RE2? Sherry goddamn Birkin who apparently has zero fucking contact with Leon for 15 whole years after the government snatched them. YOU KNOW? THE GUY WHO SAID HE'D KEEP AN EYE ON HER FOR CLAIRE. THAT ONE. Did I mention she is a sudden orphan after watching her mom die in front of her? Oh, and her upbringing can be considered questionable at best due to RE6 being a genuine shit show. Oh and she also let doctors experiment on her body in order to A)Fuck around with the G-Virus, and B) figure out cures and vaccines, WHICH MOST OF WERE MADE BY REBECCA ANYWAY WITHOUT HUMAN EXPERIMENTATION? So like!!!! If I want to separate it further by saying who has the worst shitty government job dealing with Umbrella after it's shut down, it still isn't fucking Leon! Can you imagine the hellscape assignments they send Sherry into with her super healing ability??????? I know they're worse because she can survive egregious injury without them using money to provide medical supplies! And you know governments everywhere love cutting corners when it comes to money.

But Leon is blonde ONCE, in ONE GAME, a good game yes but is apparently so iconic his pain magically takes precedent as the worst above everyone else's. And I hate that so fucking much because even Leon doesn't think this about himself! Leon literally doesn't think he has it the worst out of everyone! He just kinda wants to die sometimes which is not the same thing! Yet, the unfortunate amount of fans with little to no media literacy believe otherwise.

[plantpages]

Mid Year Book Tag

@ninja-muse left the tag open, so I’m taking advantage of it and doing this myself too to reflect a bit on stuff I’ve read so far this year

Best book you've read so far: Humankind: A Hopeful History by Rutger Bregman

Best sequel you've read so far: Chain of Thorns by Cassandra Clare

New Release you haven't read yet but want to: I don’t follow new releases a lot, but I just realised that In the Lives of Puppets by T.J. Klune is out already, so that for sure

Most anticipated release for the second half of the year: Well Heavenly Tyrant was apparently pushed back to next April so I tried to google if any authors I like had new books coming out this year and apparently there is one non-TSC fantasy book coming out from Cassandra Clare? So let’s say Sword Catcher, even though to be perfectly honest, I will probably wait for some reviews to come in before picking it up

Biggest Disappointment: Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo, which unfortunately just didn’t hit me like The Poet X did

Biggest Surprise: Educated by Tara Westover

Favorite new author: M.A. Carrick, which is actually two authors, but oh well

Newest Fictional Crush: Well I don’t crush, but I read One Last Stop together with a friend and lived vicariously through her crush on Jane Su, so I’m picking her

Newest Favorite Character: Jude St. Francis from A Little Life

Book that made you cry: A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

A Book that made you happy: L’habit ne fait pas le moineau (eng. The Car Share) by Zoe Brisby

Favorite Adaptation: I don’t think I’ve watched any this year? In the next half of the year there will be Heartstopper s2 and All the Light We Cannot See though

Prettiest Cover: Honestly none of the book covers I’ve read have been exceptionally to my liking, but I quite like the cover of Sea of Tranquility which I’m currently reading

A book you need to read before the end of the year: There are three books waiting on my shelf/e-reader, but I know I’ll get to those anyway, so I’m picking Hävitys: Tapauskertomus by Iida Rauma, because my whole family is currently raving about it

And since I wasn’t officially tagged, I won’t be tagging people either, but consider yourself tagged if you’re at all interested in doing this!

[vergess]

Curious question, how many Sherlock Holmes adaptations have you watched? Also, if you watched several , which one is your favorite?

Well, setting aside the Great Mouse Detective because it's unfair to compare other adaptations to something I loved as a child and thus can only view with perfect adoration in spite of any actual truths.

I am a tumblr user of repute, so I've of course seen the BBC's Sherlock. I think that A Study in Pink is the best episode in the show because the editing and cinematography are outstanding and serve the story beautifully. The writing is mediocre but competently sets expectations for the quality of the rest of the show. Then the second episode is so shockingly racist. So overall, it's bad, but influential in fandom whether we want it to be or not. I enjoyed it at the time, but as a more... like. Informed adult? It's bad. Don't bother.

A Study in Emerald. Short story by Neil Gaiman. Barely constitutes an adaptation, but we deserve to be reminded of good writing after that last one. It's available for free on Mr Gaiman's website, here:

Apparently there's a graphic novel version of Emerald, but I've not read it. Unless the graphic novel is just the fake newspaper on the website? Wikipedia was somewhat unclear.

Downey Jr movies: I love them. Absolutely horrible adaptations, but fucking amazing films. More fun than you're expecting. Highly recommended.

Elementary: Probably the best modern adaptation. Captures the serial spirit and commitment to Solving Mysteries Realistically of the original. However, I cannot watch it. The lead actor's performance is basically perfect for 'what would the Holmes character be like today' but I cannot stand it for some reason. I haaaaate watching him, and that makes this one hard for me. I recommend it highly anyway.

I watched two of the Basil Rathbone films to the point of nausea as a kid, but over exposure to the Worst Kinds Of White People in high school discussions of his body of films left a bitter taste for me. Because these films were an adaptation for an audience MUCH closer to the audience of the original stories, there is a period and character authenticity that just cannot be matched by anything else. Honestly, if you only ever watch one adaptation, it should be one of these. I say that in spite of these movies attracting the worst people on earth. There's a reason the 'generic' image of Holmes looks that way, and it's Basil Rathbone.

I've only seen the Peter Cushing movie, not the show. But, he's very much the performance I imagine in my head when reading the stories these days. My favourite live action Holmes actor, and a really top tier Watson. Definitely worth the time. I'm told the show is, um. Not so good on the Watson front.

I didn't like The Private Life of Holmes. I thought it sucked. I have no redeeming statements for it. It's objectively better that the 2010 BBC show, but I have nostalgia for that one's fandom. I just hate this one. It's bad!! Watch anything else. Watch the Great Mouse Detective, it has the same plot but it doesn't suck.

Young Sherlock Holmes is also a bad movie, but it's a bad Pixar Kids Movie so it's still perfectly competent for what it wants to be. If you need something to give a Holmes loving kid under 12 has 'seen them all' give them this. It's forgettable, and thus kids never really see it anymore.

I haven't seen Enola Holmes yet, but I'll probably get around to it. So I guess that's a tentative recommendation there.

The BBC radio drama Adventures of Holmes and its sequel Further Adventures of Holmes is REALLY FUCKING GOOD. If you like podcasts or audio books or stage plays, you have GOT to try these. The first half is a complete adaptation of every Holmes story, and the second half is professional fanfic of identical quality. I've never tried the American version and don't intend to.

I liked the 3 VHS tapes of the Granada tv series that I watched as a little kid, but I honestly couldn't tell you if they're good. I haven't watched any of it since I turned 9. A lot of people like them to the point of thinking Jeremy Brett is THE Holmes actor, so they had to be doing something right.

Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century and Case Closed are both like... impossible for me to parse as Holmes adaptations. Wikipedia says they are but like........ okay. I've seen them both and they are their own entities to me lol. Case Closed in particular is bomb as hell, highly recommended. But like... in a retro anime way, not a Holmes way.

Miss Sherlock has been good so far. I haven't watched enough to have a strong opinion beyond, like. Gay shit. As a Known Fagotte, I gotta say. They sure did cast very attractive actresses and leave all the homoeroticism in place. This, reasonably IMO, distracts me from having anything valuable to say.

The Star Trek TNG episodes with Data and Moriarty are obviously personal favourites. If you can suspend your disbelief enough to accept the god like powers of the holodeck, I think it's a really good time.

And the only one I can remember that wasn't on the Wikipedia list of adaptations is Slylock Fox. These are riddle comics for very young kids, like, ages 3-7. They're to help early readers learn new vocabulary and practice critical thinking. They were my very, very first Holmes media.

I. Hated. Those. Goddamn. Comics. I wanted to kill them. Not the characters or the author, but the comics themselves as a concept. I NEVER solved ANY of the fucking riddles, and to this DAY I will NEVER FORGET that latex paint dyes water and oil paint doesn't.

Probably good for kids who get bored in class a lot, but be ready for the rage.

[tothepointofinsanity]

If I may, have you ever heard or played the game Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice? Since it has heavy themes on mental health and psychosis in particular, I was wondering how you, someone with schizophrenia, thought of the game, or at least the concept. Not that you need to be interested in it, of course, I just found it fascinating myself.

Anyway, your art is so cool and subversive. It really fits the theme and tone of madoka, especially sayaka.

Ah, thank you for the detailed ask ^^.

Firstly, I think I should clarify that I am [not] an individual who experiences schizophrenia nor psychosis. The “schizo-” term I throw around so often refers to the cluster of personality disorders that I do experience/have. This chart is an oversimplified example of Cluster A personality disorders, which is known as the “eccentric and odd” group. These symptoms can go way beyond just the ones listed below given everyone has their own unique experiences to begin with. They also do not necessarily always manifest as a prerequisite or side to schizophrenia, but they can intersect. It’s hard to find more diagrams for Cluster A that aren’t immediately slotted in with the other clusters because of how idiosyncratic they are, in a sense.

Essentially, what all this means is that I do not experience the positive symptoms of schizophrenia (such as hallucinations) on a basis that can be considered obstructive and result in a dysfunctional interaction between me and Reality. However, the disorder is of the Self, and instead poses hindrance to how I perceive and engage with people living in Reality. Energy is spent preserving yourself and 95% of your time is spent daydreaming and crafting intricate fantasies. Self fulfilment feels like a bottomless need and priority [to me anyways, since other schizoids have other values]. Both negative and positive symptoms impair facets of the individual’s life, most notably socially and interpersonally.

Just wanted to put this out there since it means I cannot provide a valid comment on how the game’s personally shows psychosis. Because I do not have it. Apologies for the confusion and ramble on my end as well as possibly explaining something you might already know.

However, from an academic standpoint, I had looked into the game, and apparently the developers worked alongside neuroscientists, mental health practitioners and even real people with the condition to ensure accuracy of portrayal, which is appreciated. Too many companies tend to consult only professionals on these topics instead of, well, people who live with these conditions. The end product is always different when you actually talk to people with it, and based on the clips I watched, there is definitely good research devoted into its craft. The times where Senua struggles with the darkness and has her thoughts scrambled all over the place while voices instruct her to do things seems to be the hallmark of this. She also appears to undergo dissociative states, which is something I do not often see in games; that realistic overlap of symptoms that aren’t just, “oh my God the voices!” Ah. That’s cool, to see more games put effort in such time into researching psychological topics and issues instead of building it sloppily on stereotypes. I like it, and I have read comments of how the game’s portrayal of Senua’s mental health resonates with a handful of people. If people can find comfort in it, I would not have anything to complain anyways.

Hellblade reminds me of another game with a similar premise. Have you heard of Cry of Fear? If you enjoy games that are more psychological, CoF is an appropriate contender. More games about mental health struggles are always neat since they tend to be founded on different mechanics and playing experiences.

And thank you for the kind words about my art works! Sayaka is my favourite character, and I struggled a lot with trying to draw her at the start as well as finding a suitable art style. I’m glad a lot of people end up liking it. 🙇‍♂️

[aeoki]

Sandstorm - Pointless Death Game: Chapter 3

Location: Hotel Resort Characters: Yuuta, Adonis, Kouga & Rei

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ< That night. ES idol hotel poolside. >

Kouga: Hey, how long do we hafta keep this up!?

It’s already been a week – a week into the “SS” Qualifying Round, ya know? How long do we hafta be here doin’ nothin’!?

I’m startin’ to get pretty annoyed… This is nothin’ like the “SS” we imagined! Whoever’s responsible, get your ass out here!

Adonis: Stop howling like a dog that hasn’t gone on a walk for a day, Oogami.

Kouga: Whaa–

Wait, what? Why’d you gotta phrase it so harshly like that, Adonis? I guess I might’ve been shoutin’ ‘cause I was frustrated and takin’ my anger out.

Adonis: No, I’m sorry. I was copying Sakuma-senpai and trying to say something he might have said. But it’s hard to joke with someone without hurting them.

Yuuta: Ahaha. You figured Oogami-senpai might be feeling stressed because he can’t chat with Sakuma-senpai, so you copied him for Oogami-senpai’s sake, right? You’re so kind, Otogari-senpai~♪

Adonis: Still, if I hurt someone that way, you cannot call that kindness.

Kouga: Uhh… I-I guess I wasn’t really angry, ya know, Adonis?

Adonis: I don’t get angry often and even if I did, it’s hard for me to show it.

I’m aware it is one of my flaws. People fear the unknown. I too wish I could express my emotions as easily as Oogami does.

Kouga: Huh? You’re praisin’ me?

Adonis: I’ve always respected you and held you in admiration, Oogami.

Kouga: ………… *Nudges Yuuta’s side*

Yuuta: Ow! I know you’re over the moon right now, but I don’t think expressing that by being violent to others is the answer!

Process your own feelings in your own body

Kouga: Oh, shut up… Anyway, I’m just doin’ the same things in the same place, so I’m gettin’ depressed. Let me take my anger out on somethin’, alright?

Yuuta: No way~ You’re acting just like a domestic abuser boyfriend! Could you let out your stress by singing and dancing instead of using violence or going on a rampage?

Kouga: Like I’ve been sayin’, it’s ‘cause I can’t do that stuff right that it’s annoyin’ me!

Adonis: I’m worried about Hakaze-senpai and Hinata… Things are going well for them and they seem to have gotten used to life in the desert.

But compared to us, the conditions they’re under are far worse. The desert isn’t a place where humans can live.

I want to set them free immediately… But all we can do right now is upload videos and send the “Desert Coins” we earn over to them.

Kouga: Yeah. We’re uploading them under “2wink’s” name and we’re leaving the “Desert Coin” exchange to you.

But you’re handlin’ it properly, right, Yuuta?

Yuuta: Trust me. Unlike my brother, I do the things I need to do properly, you know~?

Kouga: Yeah. You’ve always been a real good kid, huh.

Yuuta: …………

Rei: “Adonis-kun.”

Adonis: ………?

Rei: “Try not to react in order to avoid the other’s attention and listen to what I have to say.”

“You can leave your responses to the minimum. Be careful your behaviour isn’t out of the ordinary.”

Adonis: “Understood.”

Rei: “Nonetheless, the reason why I’m communicating with you via sign language is because it’s getting stranger the more I observe from the sidelines…”

“We need to come up with a strategy so they don’t start thinking it’s strange there’s been some weird movement.”

Adonis: “All right.”

Oogami, Yuuta, I have a suggestion.

Kouga: Huuh?

Yuuta: What is it, Otogari-senpai?

Adonis: Hm. Uploading the same sort of videos won’t gain us any more views, so I’d like to try something new for our next video. 

Kouga: Oh, it’s rare for ya to be suggestin’ stuff like this.

Adonis: Is it? Maybe it’s because Hakaze-senpai isn’t here and Sakuma-senpai is silent.

All I can do is speak their share too, so that’s probably why that sort of behaviour is more apparent.

Kouga: Well, you’re always way too quiet! You should be more assertive – you’re an idol, right?

Adonis: Right, I’m aware that is one of my flaws as an idol.

That’s why in order to overcome that, I’d like to try a new kind of performance.

Kouga: Hmm? I don’t really get it but I guess it’s fine?

You’re always taggin’ along to whatever I wanna do, so let’s do what you wanna do for a change.

Yuuta: …Is it okay for me to take part in this new performance idea of yours?

Adonis: ? Of course.

Kouga: Yeah. We’re in the same boat now – if I see ya slackin’, I’m gonna send ya flyin’.

Yuuta: …I see. Well, you two are always like that, huh.

Rei: …………

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂ Next Chapter →

[heretherebedork]

Same anon: yes, why make it an issue if it's not going anywhere. You articulated that really well. There are better ways (on hand even!) to set up an actual conflict (of interest) that can drive the narrative. Like this it feels like the showrunners started boiling water to just let it fizzle out. The only reason I'm glad for the lightweight excuse is that if Trauma were behind all this, it would have made the protag very unlikable and the narrative weak- in an unintended way by the showrunners.

Oh, in my last message I didn't mean to suggest that Trauma for either the protagonist (the soju-rep) or his love interest (the chef) would make them inherently unlikebale. Or that having unlikeable characters is Bad and Cannot Be. It's clear though that the way the show set up the narrative and the characters isn't pursuing that. I don't get the feeling the protag is supposed to be unlikeable - rather the opposite. I'm fighting the character limit of the anon inbox here, hope you get my drift

That is true. I just wish it had been an actual conviction of his and not... whatever this is? A momentary issue that doesn't matter? Something that was a problem for no reason at all?

At least trauma could ave made it more of a fight and more of a struggle for the idea of not drinking.

But having the show set this up as a huge conflict at first (how many times did Ki Hoon fight to not have alcohol in his shop!? He kicked out customers, went against his friend, refused to budge, kicked Ji Yu out for asking for it and then, this time, just... yup! Soju! That's totes fine!

dfd I really dislike that. Because I was interested in solving the conflict and they solved it by... not having it anymore, I guess.

I dunno, I think trauma could have worked if it was something he was truly trying to work past and that seeing Ji Yu able to live his life while drinking might have helped him and could have been about helping Ji Yu learn to balance his life better because he wants to be better as he starts to care for Ki Hoon...

But now, what should we expect? Ki Hoon isn't going to start drinking when he's that much of a lightweight and Ji Yu has no reason to stop overdrinking so much it affects his work because Ki Hoon's no-drinking isn't about him and no longer holds any weight because apparently he doesn't care anymore?

I seriously just... I was expecting something from Ki Hoon when Ji Yu pulled out the free soju and having him just being totally silent and apparently okay with it confused me so much. Like, I felt like I'd missed something somehow.

Anyway, I got the second message and I get it! As I said, i don't need trauma and the narrative of trauma seemed unlikely. It's just frustrating that the narrative turned into nothing instead of just... anything at all.

[snowycorvid]

OH MY GOD???? BRO OK SO LIKE I JUST RECENTLY FOUND UR DAMN FIC AND LET ME TELL YOU I CAN'T BELIVE I DIDNT FIND IT SOONER??? LIKE??? ITS ABSOLUTELY STUNING AND I JUST WANT TO LET YOU KNOW HOW MUCH LOVE I NEED TO GIVE IT. I LITERALLY FOUND IT 2 DAYS AGO AND COULD NOT STOP MYSELF FROM READING THE ENTIRE THING. I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN GONE FOR A WHILE NOW BUT HELLO?? YOU DESEVRE IT AFTER PUMPING THAT MASTERPICE OUT IN A SINGLE MONTH??? ok my bad let me reel it back a little but oh my god dude it's like I'm combusting into flames in a good way??? exploding should probably be the right wording actually Anyways!! I cannot express to you how grateful I am of how good this is?? the story plot is 10/10. (I would say something abt a particular character but yk spoilers and whatnot BUT NOTHING bad at all, it just was quite literally gut wrenching) The writing? we've already established this, it's actually so good I'm going to eat it like a four-course meal 10/10. the characterization and just the way you so nicely write everyone so clearly? BEAUTIFUL LIKE WHAT??? ACTUALLY BAFFLING HOW SATISFYLING GOOD IT IS??? 10000/10. AND NOT TO FORGET THE UNIQUENESS TO THE STORY IN THE FIRST PLACE?? never in my life have I read someone write this concept of y/n's identity. AND FOR IT TO BE Y/N IN THE FIRST PLACE?? like for being an input character to project onto ITS SO WELL WIRTTEN ITS LIKE HARD TO PUT INTO WORDS BUT ITS SO CREATIVE ON YOUR END. AND AGAIN, TO YOUR WRITING, IM SORRY BUT IT JUST FEELS SO??? ALIVE?? LIKE THE DESCRIPITIONS, THE INTERACTIONS, THE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS EVERYTHING IS EXPRESSED SO WELL. anyways!! this is a lot of words but you definitely deserve the love like 10,000% because my god. I just wanted to let you know that its amazing its so hard to even explain how good it is in words. I genuinely hope life is treating you well as of late and if its not I hope it gets better!!!!! -your favorite, 🍎 (Literally though thank you I cannot stress this enough, and if anything, you're MY favorite like oh my god)

Sobbing reading this thank you!!! I keep meaning to sit down and finish re-reading everything so I can try to pick writing back up + go through and fix the formatting/a few typos along the way, but life has been a little hectic and I've been super focused on some other personal projects, but 4x2 has not left my brain, lives there rent free. It's super weird to me to think that one of the last times I was working on it was last year....

One day. One day we will see Y/N and our silly backseat captain return for more chaos and shenanigans and blatant lack of self preservation but at least they know they have none. I projected too hard onto Y/N and apparently that's resonating with people, lmao!! <3 <3 Thank you again for the plethora of kind words, they will live rent free in my head with the bits and pieces of the plot I'm still juggling like our beloved bouncy ball.

[damien-mlm]

if you asked them, they'd deny it all

DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT

HEAVY VENT, talking about some of my past mentions of child abuse, CSA, suicide and self harm I cannot stress this enough, do NOT read if you feel like you can't I will never hold it against you if you don't read this, I promise I just really need to get this out there

Not fiction, real life events

Let me preface this with the fact I've been trying to open up about myself, and I'm drunk at the moment

This is hideous, this is your last warning

Fuck, how should I even begin

There’s so much

Back in August, I first started to write out fiction as a coping mechanism

Making up angsty and gut-wrenching stories, putting my characters through hell

I put a little bit of me in each one of those

And I still haven’t told the whole story yet

Back then, I also said this

And it still stands

I’m tired of being tired

And I was almost gone in September

Only a handful of people know this, not even my parents know

Not that they would care enough to help, anyway

I’ve been on the edge of this cliff many times

Each time I was pulled away, either forcefully, or by sweet words that meant nothing in the end

Performative kindness, only meant to be seen by others, never to be actually executed when truly needed

I’m not worth their kindness, I never was

My whole existence was a whim

My mother wanted to get showered in praise and attention

My father wanted to prove himself as a man

That was it, that’s all they wanted

I was just a byproduct of it

And when it wasn’t what they thought it would be, they hated me for it

I had ruined their lives by existing, and they made sure I knew

What fucks me up the most is that, thanks to PTSD and C-PTSD, I barely remember anything

I just have bits and pieces, and they are all a fucking nightmare

It’s impossible for me to form a timeline of the events, it’s all jumbled and mixed together

In the two poems I wrote, I mentioned this

I wasn’t lying

And it fucks me up because I feel like I can’t even trust myself

The typical “Are you sure that’s how it happened?” “I don’t remember it like that” “Maybe you are misremembering things” get so much more painful because of this

No, I’m not sure

I don’t know anything

My life is a lie

But then, where do all the nightmares, all the flashbacks, come from?

Where do the scars come from?

Where does that involuntary fear response to their presence come from?

I’m so sorry

I dragged you all into this bullshit

I’m not special

I know I’m not the only one who’s suffering

I feel like I’m being selfish

I shouldn’t be here

I should’ve died back when I first tried to

13 years ago

That should’ve been it

So that nobody else had to witness this fucking wreck

I don’t even know why I’m around anymore

I said it was so that nobody would hurt over my departure, and that still stands

But maybe there’s something else?

I’m not sure if it’s spite, or hope

And I’m still afraid of actually telling what I do remember

I don’t want pity

I want understanding

I want to be loved and cared for

For who I am

For what I am

Not for who I was supposed to be

Not for what I was supposed to accomplish

To be loved for me

For being

I’ve been writing this for about an hour, and I've barely said anything at all

Don’t be scared now, I’m not ending myself tonight, I know I sound extremely ominous, but I promise you I won’t do that

I always say it’s a long story and I never actually tell it

I did mention I came to be as a whim

That wasn’t a lie

What’s baffling to me is how long it took me to actually find out

December 25th, 2018

I got to know the true reason why my parents had split up

I was 1 year old, so I had no notion of this, thank fucking god

But apparently, my mom couldn’t stand the fact my dad gave me, a baby who needed help to survive, more attention than her

So, she asked for a divorce and kept me

It sounds fucking ridiculous, I know

And I wouldn’t have believed it if I wasn’t me

But I am me, and I know how much she loathed me for years

I just never knew why

Turns out it was just for being a human with needs

It made so much sense to me

And to my dad, well I ruined his marriage, I was the reason why the love of his life had left him

And he might deny it, but I know he still resents me for it

Everything about him tells me he does

Both of them placed the blame on me

Not only for this but for everything that came after it

It’s all my fault, my doing, my mistake

When my other relatives would whisper about them, it was my fault

I wasn’t a good kid

I cried too much, I was too loud

I was too dramatic

I was too much

And now I’m not enough

And I don’t think I’ll ever be

It’s hard to talk about this when it’s all mixed up

Most of it is gone

But I remember a few things

I remember my mom accidentally burning my arms with her cigs too many times for it to be accidental at all

At one point, I just stopped trying to get close to her

I remember my dad making fun of the way I cried, calling me a Disney princess in the way I sobbed as a kid

I remember this was in front of other adults too, whenever I went to him for comfort

I remember I grabbed a knife and slashed my bedsheets once; I was too small, and I didn’t know how to express my own anguish

And my mom made me sew it back up and use it still

I remember I moved the living room chairs to make a bed for my plush dog as a kid

And my mom woke up from her nap and was enraged by the mess I had done

She slapped me so hard I fell back, turning, and hit my head on the edge of the wall

I had a huge bruised bump on my forehead

“If anybody asks, you tripped” she said

She must have learned that from one of her boyfriends, and I know exactly which one

This man was so vile, I hope I never have to see his face in front of mine again

Because I’m still forced to see him now and then

Flashbacks are involuntary, after all

He was abusive towards us both

That sick piece of shit

He took my innocence away from me

Stole it away for reasons I still can’t understand

I’m sorry to be so crude about it

But there are certain positions I just cannot do

They just take me back to that moment

“There’s a big man behind me, doing this to me

And there is nothing I can do to stop him”

It is the best way I can describe it without actually saying it

First time I tried to tell my mom about this, she said

“Yeah, maybe”

That’s all

I mean, what did I even expect?

I can’t place dates, but I’m pretty sure all this happened between the ages of 7 and 10

I started hurting myself at 11, back then I was convinced I deserved the pain

I was a bad kid

I deserved it

I got found out at 12 and everything went to shit, as if it wasn’t enough already

I got sent to a psychiatrist, and the lad said I needed anti-depressants

My mother refused

She had a better idea

To avoid me cutting myself, she would strip every single ounce of privacy I had

No room I was in was to have its door closed

No, not even the bathroom

Specially the bathroom

She would stand on the doorway and watch me intently as I did what I had to do

And when I showered, the curtain had to remain open too

That’s not all, but it’s all I can say for now

I don’t have the strength to keep writing right now

I won’t be sleeping tonight; I opened a bottle of wine and I have to clean this fucking house before it’s too late

My dad will come over tomorrow around noon to check on my progress, he said so on a voice message

I wish I wasn’t here

I wish I wasn’t

[daddyd0nt]

i disagree that art can do "real" hurt. Other than upsetting you, art cannot hurt you. it doesn't have hands to touch you with. You aren't in a Clockwork Orange contraption with your eyes help open so you cannot look away if something is upsetting to you. part of being an adult is being responsible for your own consumption of media, if you seek out things you know will upset you then you are participating in a form of self harm.

Some people don't want influence, they just want to express something and sometimes that something is yucky. I don't think the gross men drawing lolicon have anything to say other than "it is okay to fuck her because shes really a 9999 year old dragon" they aren't thinking past their own dicks but if you support art and free speech that needs to be allowed. People need to have the right to be disgusting, to be upsetting, to be gross, to say or draw things that the rest of us would rather not think about or interact with. Again, that is where your responsibility for your own media consumption as an adult comes into play.

You generally don't see certain things unless you go out of your way to look for them. Ive been on tumblr 6 years on this account and only once was I shown loli (against my will, it was sent to me after i specifically asked not to see it, which is when it becomes not okay and a violation, I did not consent to see that and in fact openly and clearly asked not to be shown it and it was sent to me anyway with the intention of upsetting me out of defending my point about free speech by that crusty Menalez girl because the boundaries of CSA survivors don't matter if they disagree with you apparently).

Not to mention legislating obscenity both gives CSAM viewers a softer charge to plea down to and silences survivors from telling our stories in a completely open way. It totally sucks and I hate it but I can choose what I do and do not consume, and I choose not to consume things that make me feel angry or disgusted like art of young-looking characters or stories involving minors because as a CSA survivor that is upsetting to me. So I don't look at it, and therefor it doesn't get my attention or outrage clout and as far as Im concerned might as well not exist in the sense that i can live my life without being forced to interact with it.

Im interested to see your story, btw, love linking up with other writers to share work. My own novel was inspired by my own history of SA so there is both SA and CSA involved because SA and its implications on gender identity are central to the theme of my novel but every uncomfortable scene serves a purpose and it is splatterpunk/extreme horror so it supposed to be vey upsetting and hard to read. But as somebody who writes work with the intention in mind that this is a challenge to make the most disturbing story i can write, the only tricks I leave out of my bag 99% of the time is violence against women or animals (even though there is a fair deal of animal violence in my novel, but within the context it is foreshadowing). But like I said Id be very interested in looking at your writing if you are open to sharing it.

"everyone watches porn its fine!" no. they dont. some of us dont like watching women being beaten up, pressured into oral and humiliated under the guise that its only for sexual pleasure (when its really just to satisfy the scarily common fantasy men have to oppress, abuse and violate women sexually) while also supporting an industry that profits off incest, pedophilia, racism and misogyny. it should be common fucking sense that watching porn isnt normal

[seasonsbloom]

bad habit (hangman)

read part ii, read part iii

pairing ; hangman x female!reader

synopsis ; the moment you meet hangman, you know you hate him. and then suddenly, you're not so sure anymore.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “when you look like me, you don’t really need any lines.”

wc ; 15k

warnings ; angst, explicit language, mentions of previous character death (reader’s mother dies of cancer), mentions of sexual activity, (some) explicit sexual activity, horrible dirty talk, age gap, hangman is sort of an asshole but not really, inexperienced reader

note ; i cannot believe i am posting this, it is so LONG and i am so embarrassed... at first it was just supposed to be pwp and then it suddenly had a LOT of plot and backstory and then i was at 15k and hadn't even really gotten to the smut part yet and now... i'm thinking... part 2? maybe? let me know if you're interested lol. anyways... first fic... yay?

Fightertown is all sand, suntan lotion, and contrails crisscrossing like latticework across the endless stretch of baby blue that is the Californian sky.

At first, you don’t know how to handle it. You’re from Seattle, which means an average of 156 rainy days a year, and here it feels like the only water you’re ever gonna feel again is the Pacific Ocean and the layers of sweat drying sticky on your skin when you wake up every day. You’re too stingy on your electrical bills to leave the fan spinning circles that herd stale air through your room all night, and it gives you a stuffy nose anyways, so you just suffer through it. Then, in the morning, you spend ten minutes standing under ice-cold water until your teeth chatter with enough force to hurt your jaw, only to forget once more what it feels like not to be hot minutes later.

Penny says you’ll get used to it eventually. But, two months in, you’re wondering if maybe she’s wrong.

“‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,/ Men were deceivers ever,-’” you read from the book in front of you. “‘One foot in sea and one on shore,/ To one thing constant never.’ Now, what does Shakespeare mean by that?” 

Amelia is starting to look like she’d rather be anywhere else. You’ve been at it for about 55 minutes, meaning you’ve got approximately 5 more left for today’s session. Usually, you’d call it quits by now and let her enjoy the remainder of her afternoon because she looks tired enough to fall asleep right here at the dinner table, but you don’t want to leave yet. You’d like to think it’s because you’re a sensible teacher. Most likely, though, it’s because the Benjamin residence is airconditioned, and Penny keeps that shit racked up to a moderate 71 degrees all day, and apparently, you’re a selfish bitch who will put her own need for heat relief before her student’s need for a reprieve from Shakespeare.

Which, like. Semantics.

“I don’t know,” Amelia says, chin resting in the open palm of her hand. She probably would know if she’d listened at all, but you’re pretty sure her mind is as much on the popsicles in the fridge as her eyes are on the clock on the wall.

“It means men are moody assholes who can’t stay faithful,” Penny says as she steps into the living room, ignoring her daughter’s scandalized Mom! “Pretty self-aware for the 16th century, don’t you think?”

You hum. “Pretty true, too.”

Penny laughs. “Don’t you know it? Take it as a life lesson, Amelia.” Then she extends something wrapped in colorful plastic in your direction. “Fudgesicle?”

Maybe some part of you should feel bad about exploiting the Benjamins for their aircon and free ice cream, but you’re sort of past that point.

“Thanks.” You take the fudgesicle and start unwrapping it without any further ado.

“Mom,” Amelia, her phone in one hand and her own ice cream in the other, asks as she gets up, “can I go upstairs now?”

“Ask your tutor,” Penny responds with a thumb pointed in your direction.

You shrug, preoccupied mainly with the flavor of chocolate and fudge melting on your tongue. Your bank account doesn’t really allow for luxuries like popsicles anymore, but, God, this must be heaven.

“Yeah, we’re pretty much done with Shakespeare today. Go over those pentameters again before the test, okay?”

“Sure.” Amelia smiles at you, already halfway to the door. “Thanks. See you next week.”

You wave at her turned back, and wait until she’s disappeared before you say, “She’s a good kid.”

Penny snorts. “A little glued to her phone, maybe.”

“I think that’s sorta par for the course.”

“Not very good with Shakespeare, either.”

“Now that’s definitely par for the course with a fifteen-year-old. Be glad they aren’t reading Hamlet.”

Penny laughs. She sinks into one of the unoccupied chairs at the dining table and stretches her legs out with a sigh. She’s already switched her usual cotton shorts for jeans which tells you she’s about to head over to her bar for the rest of the night.

“I guess I should count my blessings,” she says. “At her age, I’d already hijacked two planes with two different pilots.”

Penny’s stories about her teenage transgressions are always enough to make you feel stuck somewhere between awe and profound jealousy. Your own life is downright dull in comparison.

Then again, your life - and especially the romantic aspects of it - are downright dull compared to most things.

“You must have given your parents gray hairs,” you say, packing up your pencil and notebook in your tote bag. It’s not easy with only one free hand, but somehow you manage without leaving a trail of chocolate across Penny’s tabletop.

“I sure hope so.” 

You’re down to the part of your Fudgsicle where the wooden stick pokes out of the ice cream, and try to avoid licking at it accidentally. You hate the feeling of the wood against your tongue, but the whole thing is a bit difficult, as you’re also trying to eat at a pace you know will give you a stomach ache later.

You have to get out of here before Penny sinks her talons into you and…

“You should come by the Hard Deck today,” she says, and you bite back a groan.

Too late.

“I can’t,” you say semi-automatically, “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Roughly a month ago, you pinned a sheet of paper to the bulletin board at the gas station where you’ve been picking shifts up since you arrived in town, advertising Tutoring for English, Grades 1 to 12. Penny was the only person who answered. Since then, you’ve been coming to the house once a week to tutor Amelia and, unofficially, to be lectured by Penny on all the joys life has to offer.

Her words, not yours.

“No, you don’t. You never work Sundays,” Penny shoots back immediately. Then, at your frown, she just shrugs. “You can’t lie to me, sweetie. I used to do it professionally. It takes one to know one.”

You sigh. “I don’t know that I feel like going out tonight.”

“You’ll feel like it once you’re actually out.”

Having finished your fudgesicle, you place the stick carefully in the wrapper before getting up. You reach across the tabletop and heft up your complete edition of Shakespeare’s plays. The thing is thick enough that you like to keep it by your bedside, just in case you ever wake up to an intruder in your apartment. It definitely doubles as a defensive weapon.

Penny lets out the long-suffering sigh of someone over going through the interminable motions of this spiel the two of you have inadvertently established. “What are you going to do then, tonight?” she asks. “Eat Cup Noodles and read Shakespeare?”

You can feel your face heating up. That really had been the plan.

“Jane Austen, actually,” you mumble without looking at her, clutching the book to your chest like a shield.

“Just… come down tonight, yeah? It’ll do you good to see some people. You’re twenty-three, sweetie. You shouldn’t be sitting around all on your own,” she says gently. “Please?”

The thing about Penny is that beneath her cool-girl veneer, beneath the tough-as-steel attitude of a bar owner, beneath the badass single mom allures, she’s really, really kind. It lets her get away with stuff that would be unacceptable coming from anybody else, but it also means she’s coming from a place of love, most of the time. 

You know this. Which is why the next thing you ask is, “Does your bar have aircon?”

+

The dress was a mistake.

You know it the moment you step out of your Uber. It’s too short, so you just know you’ll be spending the rest of the night tugging at the hem every few minutes. It’s also low in the back where the tightly tied straps of the halter-neck slap against your shoulders, and that means everyone can probably see the patch of acne your dermatologist promised would subside after puberty. Turns out, all men really do is lie. So you’re also going to have to find a wall to perch against and maintain that position until it’s socially acceptable to leave without Penny being angry with you.

In short: you’re deeply uncomfortable.

You don’t even remember why you picked this out earlier, let alone why you bought it in the first place. A mixture of misplaced bravado and alcohol on a night of online shopping, probably. It’s just that there’s this thing you sometimes get, this peculiar tug in your stomach, this strange desire to be seen at the same time that you’re terrified. You want to be invisible, but sometimes you think you’ll die if you don’t get any attention.

Maybe you just want people to perceive you, but without any of the negative consequences that might come with it.

That’s not how the world works, though, a voice at the back of your head tells you that sounds so much like Penny it scares you.

You spend a good five minutes idling by the parked cars, turning your keys over and over and over in your hands. You have half a mind just to go back home.

The Hard Deck is spilling buttery yellow light into the darkness of the night, and people migrate to it like moths to a lamp. You can hear the music and the chattering of voices even from where you’re standing in the gravel parking lot. It’s the sort of thing that should probably make you excited, but instead, you feel the familiar swoop of anxiety in the pit of your stomach.

Ridiculous, you scold yourself. You can’t honestly be afraid of a night in a bar.

Even past ten o’clock, with the sun set beyond the horizon in a display of pinks and oranges and blues so ostentatious it bordered on smugness - like the sky was saying, hey, look what I can do! - it’s still too hot. You can feel pearls of sweat beading in the nape of your neck, the tops of your thighs, the peak of your hairline. If you don’t go in now, the make-up you spent an embarrassingly long time perfecting will melt down your face in a puddle of mascara and lipgloss.

I’ll just stay for a while, you think. I’ll let Penny make me a pink and fruity cocktail, and then I’m going home in an hour. It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay.

You’re really trying to hype yourself up as you climb the few steps to the front porch. A few people are milling about here, nursing beers, a couple making out towards the railing where the light doesn’t reach.

Inside, the air smells like sweat and beer and good times. There really is air conditioning, but it doesn’t do too much to dispel the heat of too many people pressing into too little space. People crowd towards the bar, a throng of them, as they nudge and poke to beat each other to the next drink order. It’s mostly people from the Army base, you realize, a little taken aback. A sea of short hair and tan uniforms, beers in hands, and smiles on faces. The jukebox is playing a Springsteen tune.

You’re distracted enough that when somebody bumps into you, you let out an actual yelp and almost lose your footing.

Large hands come up to steady you by the elbows. “Sorry, sweetheart,” someone says from behind you.

You turn on your heel quickly. The guy is beautiful, because of course he is. The sort of beautiful you can recognize even when you get only a glimpse of his jaw and shoulders. Tall, tan, fit.

Your heart skips a beat.

He’s also not looking at you at all, hands already gone from you, neck craned to presumably look for someone in the sea of people.

“Didn’t see you there,” he says, and then he’s strutting away from you just as quickly as he’d come.

And, okay… ouch.

Now you regret wanting to be invisible earlier. Turns out the actual thing does not feel good. Not one bit.

A pit opens up in your stomach, and you need to swallow down whatever emotion is rising in your throat. You have the sudden, embarrassing, debilitating urge to cry.

Then somebody calls your name across the room. It’s Penny, waving at you from behind the bar with a massive grin on her face, and you could fall to your knees with relief.

You push your way through the crowd, fighting elbows and knees until, finally, your palms hit the wooden counter. It’s sticky beneath your fingers. You cringe.

“You made it!” Penny cheers. She draws a perfect glass of beer from the tap even as she talks to you.

You’re reluctantly impressed.

“Yay!” you agree, miming sad little jazz hands.

Penny laughs, never one to let even the most pitiful excuse of a joke pass her by. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I did promise,” you say. You didn’t mean for it to come out as defensive as it does.

Penny shakes her head, still smiling. She deposits the beers in the waiting hands of a Navy pilot, then turns to you. “I don’t doubt your integrity, sweetie. Just your commitment to having fun.”

“Yeah,” you agree, slowly letting your gaze wander over the overstuffed bar. “Fun.”

This time, Penny actually snorts. “Just have a drink, yeah? Relax.”

People have been telling you to relax for years now. You’re too tense, you’re too uptight, you gotta loosen up a little. They did it in high school. They did it when you were studying for an English degree in college you haven’t used even once in the year since your graduation. Hell, you’re pretty sure somebody did it when you were still showing up to kindergarten Halloween costume contests dressed up as a Math teacher while everybody else was a Power Ranger or a Princess.

It’s just a little difficult to relax when all you’ve got is childhood trauma, an apartment you can’t afford, friends you don’t talk to anymore, and student loans to pay off until the end of your life.

“I haven’t been relaxed a day in my life,” you say drily.

You can’t be sure because she’s turning to fill a row of shot glasses lined up neatly on the countertop, but you’re almost positive Penny is rolling her eyes.

“I could help you relax.” You know it’s the guy from earlier before you even turn to confirm your suspicion. He’s sidled up behind you, leaning half over your shoulder. This time, he glances down at you and has the audacity to send you a wink. “I’ve been told I’m quite good at that.”

Now that you know he’s a total sleaze, you feel better about how he ignored you earlier.

“Seriously?” you say. “Has that line ever worked for you?”

A grin spreads over his features. You realize he has an incredibly punchable face.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “when you look like me, you don’t really need any lines.”

You bristle. A remark you hope will be scathing builds up on the tip of your tongue, but you’re interrupted before you can let it loose.

“Hangman.” You’re seriously confused by the tone of genuine affection in Penny’s voice. What the hell is that about? “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a round of beers.” He lets his eyes drift down to you again, and his grin grows impossibly wider. “Plus whatever the little lady’s having. You can put it on my tab.”

Little lady. You’re about to vomit on the countertop. You’re definitely not feeling a strange tightening sensation in your stomach. Nope, no way.

“No, thank you,” you say pointedly. “I can pay for my own drinks.”

Never mind you know for a fact you have about ten dollars left in your wallet.

“Come on,” the guy says, nudging you a little where he’s still hovering over you. He’s so goddamn close. You can feel the heat he radiates, can smell the scent of his aftershave, something spicy yet sweet. When he speaks, his chest rumbles with the sound inches behind you. “See it as an apology for knocking into you earlier.”

So he does remember. You’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse.

Penny is watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow and a twinkle of something you can’t name in her eyes. It’s enough to inspire actual fear in you.

“Let me guess…” The guy pretends to think about it for a moment or two. “You want something pink and fruity, yeah?”

You can’t believe it’s that easy for him to read you, can’t believe the way it has instant, white-hot shame flashing through you. Now you really want to punch him.

Shoulders actually, genuinely shaking with all the anger piling up inside of you, you turn to face Penny. “Scotch,” you say. “Neat.”

Penny is staring at the two of you as if she’s watching a tennis match. Then, you become suddenly and uncomfortably aware of a bar full of people tailgating behind you, waiting their turn to order their drink.

While you’re starting to feel your skin itch with all the attention, the guy seems to have no qualms. His finger appears in your field of vision as he points at you. “You heard the little lady, Penny. One scotch. Neat.”

He over-pronounces the word, the t crisp and sharp, mocking you, and you grab the countertop hard enough your knuckles protrude white beneath the skin.

Penny shrugs and reaches beneath the bar to retrieve a glass and a bottle of scotch. Then, as if calling back to some inside joke, she says, “You got it, Hangman.”

That stuns you.

“Your name is Hangman?” you ask, and you can’t keep the genuine disbelief out of your voice. “What, did your parents hate you? What the fuck kinda name is that?”

He raises an eyebrow, but the smirk remains unrattled. “You got a pretty dirty mouth, huh, sweetheart?” 

“I can curse as much as I like, thank you very much.”

He hums, says, “We’ll see about that.” 

And when you look over your shoulder, you find him staring at your lips.

You whip back around, elbows squished between your body and the bar, heart beating a hundred miles a minute. Blindly, you stare straight ahead, through the open back doors, to where the moonlight reflects off ocean waves. Something is itching beneath your skin now. You have to calm down before you blow your fuse.

“Hangman,” he explains after a moment of silence, “is my callsign.”

That clarifies just about nothing to you. “Callsign?” you repeat. “What are you, a phone sex operator?”

It was supposed to be an insult, but he throws his head back, laughing like you made the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Then he leans forward, all the way into your personal space, chest pressing to your back, shoulders brushing yours, his breath hot against the shell of your ear as he says, “If you want me to talk dirty to you, sweetheart, all you need to do is ask.”

It sort of wipes your mind clean. No thoughts, only your body reacting - stomach tightening, hairs standing on end, a shiver down your spine. Penny sets the scotch down in front of you, then breezes off to serve some other customers. You barely even see her. Your breaths are coming a little faster, your heart is beating a little harder.

Then he straightens up again, all points of contact suddenly gone. If you weren’t sandwiched between him and the bar with nowhere to go, you think you might tip over backward. It’s all so sudden it leaves you dizzy.

He chuckles, and you hold your ground. Refuse to look at him. If he has picked up on just how rattled he’s got you, you’d rather at least not know about it.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a phone sex operator,” Hangman says. “I’m a fighter pilot. More dangerous, just as sexy.”

You twist around to get a better look at him. Then, for the first time, you take note of the khaki uniform. Nobody, you think, absolutely nobody, should be able to make that color work for them. And yet somehow, it brings out the green in his eyes.

“Bigger environmental footprint.”

It’s pretty weak, admittedly, but this whole night has spiraled into a realm you didn’t plan for so quickly that you can’t come up with anything else. As a result, you’re uncharacteristically out of your depth.

“Bigger everything,” he shoots back, raising a single eyebrow in challenge.

You don’t know how to counter that, so you take a sip of your scotch and then have to concentrate way too hard not to spit it right back out. The first time you ever tasted alcohol, you snuck a gulp from your dad’s class of Whiskey on the rocks. This is almost as vile, if not worse. Years of consuming margaritas exclusively seem to have dialed your tolerance for straight, hard liquor down to a solid zero. 

“You still sure about that drink?” Hangman asks. The amusement is so evident in the upward turn of his mouth that it makes you want to kick his teeth in or hide behind the counter with Penny. One of the two, just as long as you don’t have to keep looking at him. “I’ll buy you something else. Maybe Penny serves juice boxes.”

Just to spite him, you down the whole thing in a single, long drink.

It burns a trail of fire down your esophagus, and you have to fight a coughing fit so violent you’re not sure you aren’t about to choke. Big mistake, definitely. Huge.

You try your best to keep your face neutral, but your muscles aren’t cooperating. At least if Hangman’s smirk is anything to go by, he’s definitely called your bluff.

“Well, you took that like a trooper,” he says drily. 

Anger lodges in your throat.

“You must be the most insufferable pilot in the whole Navy,” you tell him, hoping all the distaste you feel for Hangman translates into your voice.

Not that it matters. He seems to be one of those guys so infatuated with themselves that everything just rolls off their shoulders, like water off a duck’s back.

“I like to think so,” he says amicably. “I excel at most things I try. Always strive for excellence.”

You’ve never considered yourself a particularly violent person, but you’re pretty sure you would have broken his nose right then and there if it hadn’t been for Penny choosing that exact moment to swoop in.

“Here are your drinks, Hangman.” She places them on the countertop, then jabs a thumb towards the back of the bar. Her voice goes a little pointed as she says, “I think your friends miss you.”

He doesn’t look annoyed to be interrupted, and you can’t believe it, but it puts a little dent in your pride. 

Just how stupid am I? you ask yourself, making a point to face away from him again.

Hangman twists his upper body to reach around you, somehow balancing three bottles in each hand, clamped between his fingers like he’s the alcoholic version of Edward Scissorhands. For a moment, you’re completely enveloped by him, in his arms, and it’s too much, definitely too much, goes straight to your head. You can smell him again, the aftershave and the body spray and the sweat, and as his chest presses flush to your back, you swear you can feel the beat of his heart against all that bare skin exposed by the dress.

“You ever need some help relaxing,” he says into your ear, and for an instant, you feel the ghost of his lips tracing against your ear lobe, “you just ask, yeah, sweetheart?”

And then he’s gone, leaving you clutching at the bar desperately. Your legs feel like jello, ready to give out beneath the weight of your body.

What the fuck just happened? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is still completely, absolutely blank.

Penny pops up out of nowhere like a meerkat. Something on her face tells you you’d better run for cover right now unless you want to get wrapped up in one of her schemes, but you’re rooted to the spot.

“So…” she drawls, and the grin blooming on her face is downright devious. “Hangman, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, rummaging through your purse just to have something to steady the tremors in your hands.

“He was so coming onto you.”

“He was not.”

“Oh, yeah, he totally was. That was aggressive even for Hangman standards, and, lord, that’s saying something.”

“Can I get, like… a glass of water?”

Penny ignores you. “You should totally go for it.”

She nods her head in the direction he disappeared, and you can’t help but follow with your eyes. A group of Navy pilots is shooting pool in the back towards the opened doors. Even among all the uniforms, Hangman sticks out to you - blond hair, tan skin, smirk you want to slap right off his face. He’s laughing at something the only woman in the group said - a real, full-bellied laugh - and then, out of the blue, as if he can feel your gaze, looks right up at you. 

Across the chaos of the bar, across the scattered tables, across the people swaying to the ABBA song playing from the jukebox, across the raised beer bottles and lowering shot glasses, he sends you a wink.

Feeling caught, you turn away instantly. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

“No way,” you say. It doesn’t come out as firm as you want it to, your voice wavering, and you have half a mind to ask for a bucket of ice to thrust your head into. Maybe that could clear the cobwebs.

Penny laughs. “You sure, honey? You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”

“I’m sure I do,” you agree. “From anger. I’ve never met somebody that obnoxious.”

It’s pretty clear you’re grasping at straws here.

“I’ve known him since he was a student at Top Gun. He’s a good guy,” Penny says. “Deep down.”

“How deep are we talking? Like Mariana Trench? Center of the earth?”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Come on. Stop thinking so much. Go and have some fun.”

You point at the sign hanging above her bar, the one she’s so proud of she has mentioned it to you several times. “I thought you were supposed to help out when somebody disrespects a lady in here.”

It makes her laugh, a genuine laugh full of amusement and affection that bursts out from deep in her belly. She pets your hand gently.

“You can handle yourself. I know it for a fact.” The smile goes from genuine to mischievous. “Besides… you could stand to be disrespected a little. In the bedroom.”

You gape at her retreating back for a moment.

Then you drop your face into your hands and mutter to yourself, “Oh, God.”

Again… what the fuck just happened?

+

“Hangman asked me to give him your number.”

Penny doesn’t even wait until the end of the lesson this time.

You’re at the Benjamin dining table, watching over Amelia’s shoulder as she writes a short paragraph on misogynistic themes in Much Ado About Nothing. All the ice cubes in your water glass have melted, and the condensation leaves rings on the tabletop and damp against your palms.

When you glance up from Amelia’s work, her mother is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded in front of her chest. She’s grinning. You look back at the notebook and pretend your heart hasn’t just started racing.

Amelia, whose pen has stilled, asks, “What’s a hangman?”

“Who,” Penny corrects. “He’s a guy interested in your tutor.”

“There’s only one c in unnecessary,” you say. “A shirt has one collar, two sleeves.”

Amelia doesn’t seem to have heard you. “Oh my god,” she says. “Is he cute?”

“Very,” Penny answers at the same time that you grit out, “Not at all.”

“Is he a pilot, too?” Amelia asks, shooting her mother a look you don’t miss.

For all that she is just a teenager with all the eccentricities and dramatics that entails, Amelia has what some would call an old soul. She’s always looking out for her mother, always thinking things through to the bitter ends that Penny would rather look at through the lenses of her perpetual rose-colored glasses.

It reminds you of yourself, and sometimes you want to hug Amelia, hold her, tell her she doesn’t need to take on all these battles. That she deserves to be a child, should revel in it for as long as she can. You don’t want her to end up like you, all this baggage and no one to help you carry it.

“Of course.” Penny, unperturbed, pushes into the room and pulls out a chair for herself. “Nobody can resist those Military men.”

You hide your snort behind a coughing fit just so you don’t give Penny the satisfaction of thinking she’s actually funny. She doesn’t deserve that.

“When did you meet him?”

“Saturday, at your mom’s bar,” you explain, pulling her notebook towards you. “And we didn’t meet. He almost knocked me over and then proceeded to mock me for ten minutes. Not exactly romantic.”

Penny rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. He was flirting with her like crazy.”

You pretend to be busy scanning over Amelia’s writing, but you don’t register much past the words Hero and Claudio.

“Which one is Hangman again?” Amelia asks. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

“The blond one.”

“Oh, with the green eyes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wait, he’s so cute.”

You groan and drop your head onto the tabletop.

So yeah, maybe there are people out there with real problems. People that are starving or people that have lost their homes. Compare your situation to them, and your toil will seem like nothing. All that is true. But right now, at this moment, you can’t imagine a fate worse than having both Benjamin women pouncing on you like this.

“Don’t be so dramatic, sweetie.” Penny pats the top of your head like you’re a small dog. A miniature poodle or something. “If anything, Hangman will be a good time.”

You turn your head so your cheek is pressed against the wood of the table and glare at her. “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this in front of your teenage daughter.”

“This isn’t the worst conversation she’s had in front of me,” Amelia says. She’s doodling something in the top corner of her essay. At your skeptical look, she shrugs. “Mom gets chatty when she’s drunk.”

“What I’m saying,” Penny continues, voice rising just a little, “is that you won’t regret giving Hangman your number. You need to loosen up a little.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t notice that innuendo,” you mumble under your breath, then sit back up abruptly. “Absolutely no way. He’s not getting my number.”

“I think it would be cool if you had a boyfriend,” Amelia interjects.

“You and me both, baby,” Penny agrees, leaning across the table to take a sip of Amelia’s sugar-free Mountain Dew.

You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“I’m perfectly fine being single.”

Amelia grimaces. “You literally know half of Much Ado About Nothing by heart.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Penny reassures quickly and gives her daughter a placating look. “Just that you might have a bit too much time on your hands.”

“That’s not true. I work six days a week.”

“Exactly!” Penny smiles from ear to ear. It’s almost angelic, that smile. You can’t believe there’s an actual demon hiding behind it. “Which is why I should give Hangman your number. You have to have some fun at least one day a week.”

“I agree,” Amelia says.

“Am I still getting paid for this?” you ask, glancing at your phone to get the time. “Does this stay on the clock?”

Penny doesn’t answer your question. “I just think anybody in Fightertown needs to go on at least one date with a Navy pilot. It’s a rite of passage, really.”

“Aren’t there any other eligible pilots around then? Somebody nice? Literally anybody else?”

Penny’s smile turns soft. “You’re not seriously trying to convince me you’d be content with a nice guy, are you?”

That gives you pause. “What’s wrong with nice guys?”

“Absolutely nothing. Just… I don’t think nice is what you need at all, sweetie.”

You exhale loudly and then sit up, shaking away the strands of hair plastered to your cheek. “I don’t think I could stand being around Hangman either.”

“I’m not saying you should get married to the guy,” Penny acquiesces, “just… go on one date.”

You think about it for a moment. Think about dressing up in your prettiest dress, waiting outside your shitty apartment complex for Hangman to pick you up. Would he wear his uniform again or civilian clothes? You imagine him in jeans and a t-shirt, a hoodie for when it gets colder, the way the fabric would hug his broad shoulders. Would he take you to a restaurant or to the movies? No, Hangman seems like the type of guy to take you somewhere he can show off, you decide, to go bowling or surfing or something equally embarrassing for you, gratifying for him. You think about sharing a bottle of beer on the beach, the ocean spreading far and wide and blue in front of you, waves cresting, the moon gleaming, his warm hand on your back, his voice so close to your ear. Think of drawing him closer, his breath on your mouth, his touch on your hips…

You shake your head to banish the thoughts.

No way, you think, and something inside of you flutters with the sudden fear of it all, no way I can do this.

“I don’t think so, Penny,” you say. Your voice has gone quiet, dispassionate but firm, and you know Penny will know not to push further. “We should get finished with this lesson.”

Penny is quiet for so long that you know she’s swallowing down words. So you make it a point not to look at her. 

There’s a fear inside of you, a fear that stands in doorways and won’t let you pass. A fear that blocks the pathways of your life. You’ve been static for so long now that you don’t know how to shake it. Sometimes you don’t even know if you want to.

There’s something reassuring about not moving. It means you won’t get lost.

Finally, Penny sighs. “Alright,” she says, rapping her knuckles against the tabletop. “Be good, you two.”

You concentrate on the words blurring and sliding off the page in front of you and ignore the insistent, nagging voice at the back of your head chanting coward coward coward.

+

It’s Friday, but you’re not feeling at all inclined to thank God for it.

The gas station is deserted, which, in your humble opinion, is much worse than when it’s busy. Because no costumers mean nothing to do and nothing to do means nothing to occupy your mind with, and nothing to occupy your mind with means thinking, thinking, thinking.

You’re like a broken record - getting halfway through a thought before you circle back to the beginning, endless loops cartwheeling around and around.

It goes: Penny, Amelia, Hangman, Saturdays at the Hard Deck, Arizona Ice Tea spill in aisle four, Hangman, Hangman, Hangman… record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding, replaying.

You’re so bored you’ve counted all the ceiling tiles four times. On the radio, they’re talking about the weather. The slushie machine is spinning cherry-colored ice with little, gurgling sounds.

The bell chimes, and you barely look up from your phone screen. A few lowered voices, the sound of laughter, and shuffling feet on linoleum floors as the group approaches the glass walls behind which row after row of drinks stands huddled can to can in the blessed cool. You blow a strand of hair out of your eyes.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

And you must have done something really horrible in a past life - there’s no other explanation for why the universe keeps doing this to you.

Hangman is leaning against the counter, one elbow braced on the top, the other arm lifting to flick his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. He’s smirking, and the expression has become so familiar already that you think it might be melded with his face. You pretend not to notice the sleeve of his uniform straining against his bicep.

“Are you stalking me?” you ask.

“Definitely not.” Stepping away from the counter, he lifts a sixpack into the air. “I’m buying beer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You got any ID?”

It punches a laugh out of him, and you don’t like it. You weren’t aiming to amuse him - you want to annoy him. You want to make his skin crawl the way he does to you. You want to slip inside his mind and burrow there, stay there, get lodged there. A splinter in his finger. A thorn in his side.

The intensity of it scares you, and when you reach for your water bottle, playing with the cap, your hands are shaking.

He reaches into his pocket and gets out his wallet. The picture on his driver’s license is old; He’s younger in it but no less handsome. His hair is just as blond, his eyes just as green. There's nothing ridiculous about it, unlike the botched photo you took at the DMV years ago.

You glance at his date of birth belatedly, almost like an afterthought, then do the mental math quickly. Not because you think he isn’t old enough to buy the beer. Just to find out how big the gap between him and you is.

Seven years. Seven years… you don’t know what that means. You don’t know why you care.

“Alright.” You move to ring up the sixpack, but he shakes his head.

“Waiting for my friends,” he explains with a thumb thrown over his shoulder.

“You have friends?”

He laughs again. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” you mutter and, resolved not to engage with him any further, pick your phone back up and settle in against the shelf of cigarettes behind you to ignore him.

He is having none of it, and you’re not even surprised.

“I liked the dress better, but those shorts aren’t half bad either.”

You look down at your work uniform of white denim shorts and a hideously orange vest with your name tag pinned to the chest. It is a downgrade from Saturday’s outfit, that’s for sure, but you haven’t settled on how you feel that he remembers it yet.

“I didn’t think you noticed my dress,” you say.

“Sweetheart, you’d have to be an idiot not to notice that dress.”

It has you lifting an eyebrow, seeing an in. “Oh, so you admit you’re an idiot then? Since you ran into me and all?”

His smirk goes just a fraction wider. “Maybe I did it on purpose.”

“You run into girls on purpose often?”

“Only the real pretty ones.”

It makes your head spin because… things like this just don’t happen to you. Not with guys like Hangman, at least. And it’s not even because you think you’re ugly or unappealing. Rationally you know you’re not. It’s just that he’s so… he’s so…

“What, am I so handsome you’re speechless?”

He’s so goddamn insufferable.

“You torturing this poor girl, Hang?” 

You recognize the woman from last Saturday, her sharp cheekbones, the glossy hair sleeked back into an army-mandated but nonetheless impressive coil at the back of her neck. She’s pushed her sunglasses up to the top of her head, which already makes her less of a show-off than Hangman by a mile. The smile she gives you is genuine and warm, and you feel yourself relax.

Anything’s better than being alone with Hangman.

“Oh, hardly.” Hangman shuffles to the side to let the woman heave another six-pack onto the counter. “If anything, she’s the one torturing me.”

There’s a literal ball of fire in your stomach, radiating heat all the way up to your cheeks. You must be looking like a deer caught in headlights right now.

The woman purses her lips. There’s so much derision in this one minuscule expression that it has actual jealousy jolting through you. Man, if only you could look at Hangman like that, you might actually make some sort of impact on him.

“Stop lying, man.” The woman rolls her eyes and then shares a look with you, something conspiratorial, something long-suffering only women can share in the presence of a man severely overestimating his own desirability. “She’ll punch you before she lets you take her out.”

Hangman shrugs. “Fine with me. It’s a fine line between love and hate.”

“What the fuck,” you mumble and busy yourself with the register.

“Is he bothering ladies again?” Two other men in Navy uniforms step up. One, tall, dark-skinned, mustachioed, dumps a whole armful of snacks on the counter, then grins at you a little sheepishly. 

“Always,” the woman answers without missing a beat.

Hangman says, “I’m not bothering her if she enjoys it.”

You’re almost entirely positive that he winked at you again, but you make it a point not to look up and start scanning items instead. 

“You guys need any bags?”

“That’s alright,” the woman answers.

They chat among themselves as you ring them up, but you can feel Hangman’s eyes on you the whole time. It’s enough to make you feeble, clumsy, and try your best not to drop anything.

You don’t know what compels you to say something. By all means, you should stay quiet. Let him leave. Never think about it again.

Instead, you pick up a bag of flaming hot Cheetos and say, as casually as you can manage, “Are you having a party?”

“Bonfire,” Hangman corrects. His elbow is still balanced on the counter, all that tanned skin, and you let your eyes follow the trail of his arm, up to his chest where his name tag spells SERESIN, all in capital letters. You pause there, staring at the name. “On the beach.”

You think that’s going to be it, that you’re going to ring him up and send him home. You’ll bite your tongue bloody before you say another word.

But then he continues, “You should come.”

He hasn’t been exactly subtle in his flirting, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does, enough to stun you. Maybe it’s just your lack of self-confidence, but such a blatant invitation to spend an evening not just with him but with all his friends, makes your brain short-circuit.

“I have to work,” you answer almost automatically, brain operating completely on auto-pilot.

He lifts his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “After work, then.”

You open your mouth but can’t come up with another excuse, so you just settle on, “Your total is 42,98.”

You think he will fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, only one side of his mouth lifting, and gets his card from his pocket.

“I’ll pay,” he says.

When you accept his card, you take painfully meticulous care not to let your fingers brush against his.

The woman watches the whole exchange, and as you glance at her, something unreadable, some tiny flicker of emotion crosses her face before a genuine, slight smile replaces it.

Hangman stores his wallet in his pocket and starts collecting snacks in both arms, as do the other two men. You watch it all with a strange feeling fluttering in your chest, something that grows in your throat, threatening to choke you.

You wonder what it would be like to live in the moment, to stop thinking of consequences, stop weighting every decision with scales, overthinking every issue until you’ve looked at it from every angle and still haven’t found a single solution. You wonder what it would be like to throw your hands up in the air, say fuck it, who cares, wait for the end of your shift and drive down to that beach, get drunk on the beer you sold to the most obnoxious pilot in the history of the Navy, to take him home later and then have him inevitably never call you or text you or even speak to you again.

You wonder what it would be like not to feel the weight of the world drag you down, down, down.

“See you around, sweetheart,” Hangman says, smirking, pushing his aviators back up the bridge of his nose until the green eyes disappear behind the dark shades, until he’s obstructed from view. Until he becomes once more just a guy you pass on shopping streets, too beautiful to be real, too beautiful to ever talk to you. He turns towards the door, the other two in tow.

If he looks back, you think, torn between wishing and dreading, if he looks back, I’ll go.

He doesn’t look back.

Only the woman hangs back, looking at you with the same expression you can’t make light of. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.

“He’s not giving you too much trouble, is he?” she asks after a moment.

Her voice is different now, less harsh somehow. Softer.

You can’t even imagine what it must be like to try and make it as a woman in a world that’s still as obviously run by men as the army. You suppose there’s some amount of adjustment involved, some posturing. A shell as thick as armor.

“It’s… it’s fine. He’s harmless.” You’re surprised at your own words but not as surprised as you are to find that you actually mean them.

No part of you feels threatened by Hangman; no part of you feels unsafe or intimidated. You’ve been hit on by enough sleazy men in bars to know that that’s a rarity.

“He can be a lot, sometimes.”

You snort. “I can tell. If anyone’s in danger here, though, it’s him.”

She raises an eyebrow, and her sunglasses, still pushed into her hair, climb with the movement. “How so?”

“If he keeps going as he has been, I’ll punch him in the face.”

She grins and says, “I don’t doubt it.”

It’s nice. Pleasant. Easy.

You can’t remember the last time you spoke to somebody close to your own age like this, almost like you’re friends. At the realization, your heart gives a painful pang.

“I’m Phoenix, by the way,” she says, offering you a hand across the counter.

You take it without hesitation and smile at her as you tell her your name.

She nods. “We usually hang around the Hard Deck on Saturdays if you ever want to come by.”

“Oh,” you say, “Thank you.”

It’s a genuine offer, you can tell. She doesn’t strike you as somebody who says things she doesn’t mean, and that’s why it’s special to you.

She nods again, says goodbye, and pushes off the counter.

By the door, she pauses suddenly. Then, with one hand already on the handle, she glances back at you.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Phoenix says, face gentle, and you don’t need to ask who she’s talking about. “He’s just… he’s just Hangman. He acts like an asshole, but he’s a softie on the inside.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, unsure how to answer.

Phoenix shrugs. “I just thought you should know,” she says.

The bell above the door rings as she steps outside. A gust of warm wind blows in. The aircon groans once and pumps more stale, cool air into the room. The radio is stuck on a Katy Perry song. You tap your fingers against the countertop in a rhythmless pattern, squeeze your eyes shut, and think of the long, long stretch of nothingness that extends before you.

+

Three months ago, you packed your life into a car.

It had never been part of the plan. Because that was a thing you used to have, once upon a time - a plan. You knew exactly what you wanted, from the job to the dog breed to the car. There was a house down the road from your parents, a house with a blue door and a white fence, and a tire swing dangling from the branches of an old, twisting willow tree, and you had known you’d buy it one day since you were five.

When you were eight, you used to run past that house every day to catch the school bus, thinking what it would be like to be up on that swing, kicking your legs and soaring higher, higher, higher, up into the blue of the sky. When you were fifteen, you wondered what it would be like to live in a house with two stories, a house where things wouldn’t be cramped, where you didn’t have to spend fifteen minutes waiting for the only bathroom to be free, where you didn’t hit your elbows and knees and shins and toes on all the nooks and crannies and rusting nails protruding from wood. Finally, when you were twenty, you wondered what it would be like to come home from work to a husband who loved you and kids who smiled at you.

So you used to have a plan. Go to college, get a job, grow up, get married, buy that house. You used to have things figured out.

And then your mother died.

You remember watching her as she began to fade, as she went translucent like the paper she used to wrap your sandwiches in. As cancer dissected her, flayed her open, ate away her edges, a little more each day. As she went from vibrant colors to shades of gray, film history reversing itself. You remember when it got so bad, you left college to go back home, to sit by her bedside every day, to feed her by the spoon as she had once fed you, to read to her from the books you had once studied in 8 am classes, from Bronte and Joyce and Fitzgerald.

One morning you walked into her room, expecting to see her awake, and found that she’d gone cold in the night instead. To this day, you’ll never forget how that felt - the grief of it, instant and cleaving you in two, the panic of practicality, of not knowing what to do or who to call. And then the relief, that horrible, warped thing that welled up inside of you, that you still can’t forgive yourself for, because at least it was finally over, all that suffering and all that waiting around for the inevitable.

It was a small funeral. Your parents divorced years ago, back in the cartoon and apple juice days of your life, and your father was clumsy as always, a stranger in the face of the familiarity you’d shared with your mother. Just a touch of his fingertips to your shoulder at an open grave, a downward twist to his mouth, whispering sorry, kiddo, before he disappeared back into the lovely townhouse with his new family and the younger, more agreeable versions of you, the children he’d actually wanted. Back to sending you a birthday card a week late or a month late or not at all and never calling and never visiting and scheduling Facetime calls he forgot about in favor of dance recitals or school plays.

So then you were alone. Resoundingly. Irrevocably.

You finished college in a daze, graduated just because you had gotten halfway there, and dropping out seemed like a bigger hassle than finishing. Found yourself with a degree you no longer remembered what you had wanted to do with in the first place and all those crippling student loans. 

That house with the blue door and the white fence and the tire swing on the willow tree had lost its meaning. Your plan had turned to dust and slipped through your fingers, had been buried right alongside your mother.

So you sold your mother’s place (because who wants a house full of ghosts anyway, a house where each room reminds you of something that will spend the rest of your life missing from you) and got in your car, and you drove. You drove along the coast, through the thick trees of Washington, past the streams of Oregon, through the deserts of California, and when your car finally broke down in Fightertown, you said, fuck it, whatever, might as well, other places suck too. And you stayed.

It has remained the only time in your life you have ever acted on impulse, ever let your heart decide instead of your head, and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision.

You spend your days now trying to scrape together enough money to pay for your electricity bills and your rent and your gas. Just enough to get a frozen yogurt every once in a while. Just enough money so you don’t have to think about money all the time, counting it, saving it, missing it.

It’s sad, you think, when you’re alone at night, spread-eagle on your bed, limbs dangling off the sides of the mattress, staring up at the water stain spreading like a plume of smoke across your ceiling. A sad, little life with no direction.

You’re wallowing, and you know you are. Your penchant for dramatics is getting the best of you.

Most days, it’s not so bad. You like Penny, and you like Amelia, and the other day you went to see a movie at the theater, and that was nice. You like your books and your music and the Reese’s peanut butter cups you buy with your employee discount at the gas station. You like the beach, the taste of salt on your lips, and how the sun feels on the tip of your nose.

So most days, it’s not so bad. And then sometimes, it is.

Then it settles around like a dark cloud, like a fear you just can’t shake. That nagging anxiety in the pit of your stomach that seems to have no cause and no solution gnaws at you, yaps around your ankles, sinks its fangs into you, and won’t let go.

That’s when you curl into bed (but not under the covers because it’s still California and still too hot and still too expensive to keep the fan spinning) and blink into the nothingness and don’t move. And that’s when you dream, or else the dread of it all will swallow you whole and never spit you out again.

So you tell yourself that’s why you’re here again, at the Hard Deck, for the second week in a row, choosing to spend your Saturday with a bunch of sweaty drunk people instead of a family-size pizza. It’s just because you want to avoid the maelstrom of your mind.

It’s definitely not because you couldn’t stand the echoing loneliness of your shitty apartment anymore. It’s definitely not because Phoenix invited you and just seemed so goddamn nice. And it’s most definitely, a 100 percent certainly, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die, not because of Hangman. 

You’ll go to your grave swearing that.

When you shuffle into the bar, Penny stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. It’s early enough that there’s still space to move.

“What the hell?” she says, abandoning her task completely in favor of turning to gawk at you. “What are you doing here?”

You shrug your shoulders, trying for nonchalance even as you feel like there are tiny bugs wriggling beneath your skin. Too many eyes on you. “I was craving a drink.”

Penny raises an eyebrow in what you recognize as the international sign of not convincing enough.

“Who the hell are you,” she asks, “and what have you done with my daughter’s tutor?”

Ducking your head, you clumsily climb onto one of the barstools and fold your arms on the counter. Then you try to look around the bar as inconspicuously as possible.

“He’s not here yet,” Penny says.

“Huh?” Feeling caught, you busy yourself with adjusting the hem of your skirt, so it covers as much thigh space as possible. “What?”

Penny doesn’t even pretend to buy it for your benefit. “Hangman,” she says. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

You stiffen, alarm bells going off in your head. If she can read you this easily…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Oh, come on, sweetie.” She pats your hand in a gesture you can’t describe as anything but pacifying. “It’s alright.”

Your face feels hot. “It’s not like that,” you say, but even you can tell it’s a feeble attempt at an argument.

Penny chuckles. It’s not a mean sound, quite the opposite, actually, but it still makes your heart sink an inch or two.

“There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone, you know?”

That has you bristling. “I’m not attracted to him,” you protest. “I hate him.”

Utterly unbothered by the note of distress that has snuck its way into your voice, Penny shakes her head, an affectionate smile playing about her mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of hate-fucking either.”

The gasp her words elicit from you is downright scandalized. You throw a furtive look at the patrons around you to make sure nobody heard, but that just makes Penny’s smile grow.

At least one of you is having fun.

“I’m not going to hate fuck anybody,” you say and then immediately wish your voice had sounded more firm. Less squeaky.

Penny shrugs. “Alright. It’s a fine line between love and hate anyway.”

“Why does everybody keep telling me that?” you whisper.

Either Penny doesn’t think that worthy of an answer, or she didn’t hear you. Which is fine either way. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway.

“So what do you want to drink, then?” Penny asks, finally seeming to decide to indulge you just a little.

Finally you perk up. “Can you make me a Mojito?”

You spend the better part of an hour sitting at the bar, telling yourself you’re definitely not waiting around for him. You’re only here to get drunk.

But the longer you sit alone, watching people around you enjoying themselves, watching as the chatter goes from quiet to deafening, as the place fills up with a steady stream of patrons, the worse of an idea the whole thing seems like. You can’t remember what provoked you to come in the first place for the life of you.

Suddenly, your bed, a gaping, looming lion’s mouth earlier, seems like the most inviting place in the world.

“Penny,” you call, leaning across the counter and waving your hand to get her attention. “Can I just pay, please?”

“You’re going home?”

“I… yeah. I think so.”

With the way Penny is frowning at you, you can tell she isn’t too pleased, but she doesn’t fight you on it.

“I’ll let you go home, but you’re not paying,” she says.

“Penny, you already pay me. You don’t need to let me drink here for free, too.”

She chuckles. “Oh, I’m not. Hangman said to put anything you drink on his tab if you ever show up again.”

That gives you pause, your stomach tightening. “I can’t accept that,” you say, and your voice comes out strangely choked.

“Oh, but you can.”

It’s Hangman, because of course it is. He seems to have an uncanny ability to show up whenever you do so much as think of him. Like he can sense any mention of his name even from miles away. His ego is certainly big enough.

Grinning, he claims the empty space at the bar next to you, leaning his back against it with both elbows braced on the wood. “I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I let a girl as pretty as you pay for her own drinks, now would I?”

“Gentleman,” you repeat under your breath. “We’re just saying whatever now, huh?”

He ignores that, twisting around instead to chirp, “Penny, darling, light of my life, will you get her another… what is that, a virgin Mojito?”

You wish you could come up with something witty, but you’re distracted by the long, long stretch of his legs, and all that comes out is, “I drink them with alcohol, actually.”

“Really? Is it only scotch you have trouble with then?”

Now this reminds you just why you hate this guy. Who cares if he’s handsome? Who cares if your heart starts cartwheeling every time he smirks at you? He’s a certified, purebred bastard, and you’re seriously considering if the satisfaction of breaking his nose would be worth the inevitable lawsuit.

“I don’t need you to pay for my drink,” you say, voice firm this time.

“I know,” he counters, still smiling, “but I’m pretty sure the Navy pays me better than whatever you’re making at that gas station, so I don’t mind. Just stop being difficult and let me pay for whatever you order.” 

The anger settles in your throat, already familiar. It’s difficult to keep it down, to keep your head from exploding.

“Fine,” you grit out from between clenched teeth. Then you turn away. “Penny? One round for everybody. It’s on him.”

The smile slides off Hangman’s face, his expression morphing into something stunned. For a moment, he actually looks impressed.

Then he laughs and shakes his head. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was something like begrudging admiration flickering across the planes of his face.

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll hand it to you, sweetheart. That was well played.”

He gives Penny the okay, smirk once more firmly in place. And you, triumph so short-lived that it dies inside you like a pathetic little candle snuffed out by a typhoon, consider letting loose a long, echoing screech. 

Is there anything that will break that steely resolve of arrogance he carries everywhere he goes?

Penny rings the bell, and the answering cheer almost pops your eardrums. You turn away from Hangman before you do resort to violence and drain the last of your cocktail in a single sip.

“I’m going home,” you say and hop off the barstool. It brings you inevitably closer to Hangman, your thighs brushing his, and you pretend not to notice.

“So soon?” he asks, and you don’t need to turn to know he has raised one eyebrow. “I only just got here.”

“Hence my leaving,” you counter drily.

“And here I was thinking you wore this dress for me.”

He doesn’t touch you, but for a moment his fingers hook into the soft pink fabric of your dress, where it flares out around your hips. It’s enough to send a shiver down your back.

The worst part of it all, you think, is that he isn’t wrong. You upended the contents of your wardrobe earlier tonight until every available surface in your room - from the bed to the chair to the floor - was covered in clothes you deemed just not right. This number - flimsy, tight, low in the chest but a little more modest where the hem hits almost halfway down your thighs - was buried at the back of your closet, practically forgotten and with the price tag still on. Even as you laughed at how ridiculous you were being, part of you hoped he might notice.

And now that he has, you’re wishing you could rewind time and exchange the infernal thing for sweatpants and an old flannel.

“You’re way too full of yourself,” you tell him.

“So I’ve been told.” He gives you another once over, and suddenly you feel as if you’re standing naked in the middle of this bar. “This one’s spectacular, too, sweetheart, but I still maintain that first dress was my favorite.”

Somewhere between flattered and fed-up, you shoulder your purse. “Goodbye, Hangman.”

“Oh, come on.” He steps to block your path but makes no further move to touch you. “Have another drink with me.”

You’re about to protest when a gentle hand lands on your shoulder.

“You really need to learn how to take no for an answer, Bagman,” Phoenix says. “The lady’s not interested.”

You can feel the smile spreading on your face. Just in time, you think.

Ignoring Hangman completely, she turns to you. “You wanna shoot some pool with my friends and me?”

You glance at Hangman from the corner of your eye, unsure whether you hope she counts him among those friends or not. Then you nod because Phoenix is still nice, and you don’t actually want to go home to your empty apartment, and playing pool sounds fun just about now.

“Sure. Why not?”

As Phoenix leads you toward the tables in the back, you feel Hangman’s eyes on you like hot irons.

+

You’re five drinks in by the time you give up on pool.

“God,” you whine, lowering your cue. “I suck at this.”

“I’d disagree,” Payback says, staring down at the green felt of the table like he might be about to cry, “but I think you’re right.”

“Hey, we’re supposed to be on the same team!”

He grins. “Sorry, but my mother didn’t raise me to be a liar.”

There’s a warmth flooding your chest, something liquid and light. It might be the alcohol or the unfamiliar levity of it all. You’re more used to intense fits of worrying and anxiety than laughter with people you met only about an hour ago but still almost feel like friends.

“Want me to teach you, sweetheart?” 

Hangman’s sitting on a barstool not far away, nursing his beer. He’s been staring at you since you started the game, and maybe it's part of the reason your cue stick kept going in directions you didn’t mean for it to. Now you can just hear the smirk in his voice.

If you were less drunk, you’d come up with a witty response. But, as it stands, you just say, “No.”

Hangman ignores you. You can feel him behind you even before he steps up, your fingers tensing around your cue, your whole body locking up as if in anticipation, as if in dread. And then he’s there, solid and warm behind you, fingers curling around your arm and moving it backward.

The place he touches you seems to tingle.

“Like this,” he says, voice low and chest rumbling with the sound. He’s speaking right into your ear again, and suddenly it’s impossible to talk, to think, to breathe.

He brings you into position with one hand on your waist, and you can’t believe it, but he’s practically bending you over that pool table in the middle of that bar, and you’re just letting him. His hips press into your own, an insistent weight that makes your head spin, makes you feel like you’re about to slide right off the face of the earth. The table's edge cuts into your abdomen, but you barely even feel it. You can’t register anything past the feeling of his skin gliding against your own as he lets his free hand wander slowly, slowly, down the expanse of your arm.

“Now, just gently…” He guides your arm backward as he speaks, his voice right in your ear, right in your head, his breath against your cheek, the side of your mouth, and you’re dizzy, can’t even see the ball that’s right in front of you, have no idea what he wants you to shoot at. “... thrust.”

The ball lands in the pocket with a resounding thunk.

For a moment, you just blink at where it disappeared.

“Good girl,” Hangman says, so quietly that only you can hear, fingers squeezing just once where he still holds you by the hip, and then he steps away.

It sends a jolt of molten heat through you. Your knees, which felt wobbly before, threaten to buckle. You just stay there for a moment, frozen, bent over that table, feeling like the earth beneath your feet is rolling in waves. A sound escapes you, something from low in your throat that gets swallowed up in the bar's noise - all the chatter and the music and the sounds of the engines running in the parking lot.

And then it’s an ice-cold panic that has you scrambling, standing upright, stepping away from the table, turning towards the group of people around you, and pretending you’re not trembling all over, that your panties aren’t soaked through.

“I’m done, I think.” You raise your cue above your head like a sports trophy. Your voice is remarkably firm for how frail you feel. “Who wants to take over for me?”

There’s a shuffle as a few of the guys whose names you can’t remember start fighting each other for your spot on Payback’s team. You give up after a while and just drop the cue. Somebody catches it before it can clatter to the ground, and you turn your back on them.

Tugging at the folds of your skirt, you try desperately to regain control. The evening is slipping through your fingers like wet rope. You feel unmoored.

Phoenix, grinning from her perch against the jukebox, offers you a swig from her beer bottle. “I think you weren’t too bad.”

“Well, I did keep forgetting if I was supposed to hit the stripes or the solids, so, like….” you admit, accepting the bottle and taking a tentative sip. Maybe this will help calm you. The taste hits your tongue, and you grimace. “Ew. I don’t get how you guys drink this.”

Phoenix laughs at you. “It takes practice.”

“I don’t wanna practice that,” you say. “I’ll just get another Mojito, I think.”

You’re not going to survive this night unless you have another drink. Hell, you might not survive this night even if you have another drink.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this confused. Your mind is a thicket of thorns that bite your skin at any move.

Hangman leans forward in his seat until he’s in your field of vision. His eyebrows are furrowed in a way you haven’t seen before, but beneath them, his eyes glint. It hits you suddenly that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on you.

You consider getting that cue stick back and whacking him over the head with it.

“You sure you want another one, sweetheart?”

You frown and say, more forcefully than necessary, “Why? You don’t wanna pay for it?”

“Oh, I’ll pay for it,” he says. “I’m just thinking somebody will have to carry you home if you have another one.”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t love to carry her home,” Coyote chimes in, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows. At least you think that’s Coyote. Things are starting to go a little blurry.

As you approach the bar, you say, a bite to your words, “I’ll make your dreams come true, then.” 

Penny is busy at the opposite end, so you order from a girl who seems a lot less interested in serving you than the group of aviators currently trying to get her attention. Which you can’t really blame her for.

From behind you, maybe-Coyote keeps going, “You should make some of his other dreams come true, too.”

Phoenix lands a well-placed elbow between his ribs. “Shut up, man. You’re being creepy.”

“I don’t sleep with drunk women,” Hangman says as the bartender deposits a dispassionately assembled Mojito in front of you. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman.”

Your snort is decidedly unladylike, but you couldn’t care less. You’re so far gone. 

“You keep saying that, but I haven’t seen you act like one even once.” Then, as an afterthought, you add, “Also, I’m not drunk.”

You pull your drink towards you, the glass cold with the ice cubes swimming in it, and promptly spill a healthy stream across your own arm and the bartop.

“Sure you’re not,” Hangman agrees smoothly. He procures a stack of paper napkins from somewhere and starts dabbing at your elbow, soaking up the worst of it. You stare at his movement with your head spinning. Why is he being nice? “I’m not a gentleman in the bedroom, though, I’ll have you know.”

He winks at you, and that’s more like the nefarious Hangman you know. It lets you relax a little.

“Christ.” Phoenix looks like she might hurl. “You want to lay it on any thicker, Hang?”

He just shrugs, so casual about it all. You wonder if he’s ever been rattled by anything. If he’s ever felt as out of his depth as you do every time he enters a room. 

“Who doesn’t like it a little rough in the bedroom, Phoenix?”

You can’t believe he said that to her. Part of you expects Phoenix to roll her eyes and give him a piece of her mind, but she just grins, shaking her head.

“Me, actually,” she says. “Just leaves you sore. I prefer it slow.”

“Slow?” Hangman repeats. “You and Rooster would be a match made in heaven. Masters of the geriatric pace.”

“Who’s Rooster?” you ask, wondering if Hangman is trying to set Phoenix up with someone running a poultry farm.

Nobody answers your question.

“It’s been my experience,” Phoenix says, “that most guys only like it rough cause they have no idea how else to do it.”

Coyote laughs at that. It’s obviously meant to taunt Hangman, but he doesn’t react much beyond a tiny upward twitch of his mouth.

You’re left wondering if these are normal conversations people have with their friends. Are you just a prude? You feel like you’re going insane.

And then Bob, who has been quietly snacking on peanuts for most of the night, pipes up, “I think it just depends on your partner. You gotta listen to them.”

Hangman stares at him like he’s just revealed he likes to take his clothes off and perform an Irish jig on top of an aircraft every Sunday. “Am I just supposed to believe you’ve had sex with multiple partners?”

Before you can stop yourself, you slap Hangman’s chest. Admittedly, both the alcohol and the way your head is still reeling have the move lacking any real vigor, but it still leaves you a little stunned at yourself.

“Don’t be mean,” you say. His chest feels very firm beneath your palm, muscles hard and heartbeat steady. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve burned yourself.

Hangman is grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t like it when I’m mean.”

That almost makes you choke on your Mojito. 

“Right,” Coyote says. His teeth gleam white when he smirks at you. “So, how do you like it?”

You freeze. Your mind stumbles, then short-circuits.

“Oh, god, boys. Just leave her alone,” Phoenix sighs. She gets up to sling an arm over your shoulder. It’s a reassuring presence by your side, one that makes you feel a little less like you’re about to levitate off the face of the earth. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

Hangman is staring right at you. He’s still smiling, but something in his eyes has shifted.

You can’t look away from him. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“I… I don’t…” you falter.

Across the distance between you, Hangman raises an eyebrow. “What are you, like a virgin?”

It hits you square in the chest.

You know you need to laugh it off, know you need to counter with another quip, another insult, another jab, but your mind is blank. Time seems to freeze for a moment. You can’t breathe.

Your eyes burn, and you realize with a sudden, horrible lurch that you’re going to cry, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Several emotions pass over Hangman’s face in quick succession. The glint is gone from his eyes now, replaced by something like genuine guilt. That’s how you know he was just joking around, but it doesn’t soften the blow at all.

Anger, humiliation, and, worst of all, the remnants of your earlier desire pump through your veins. You feel weak and tired and helpless. A snowglobe shattered on the floor. All of it hits you at once.

You’re painfully aware of all the eyes on you. You’re painfully aware you haven’t said a single thing in way too long.

Hangman says your name, his tone caught somewhere between concern and apology.

I can’t, you think. I just… can’t.

So you turn on your heel and all but sprint for the open doors.

Out back, the air has cooled down to a more bearable temperature, but it does nothing to calm you. Your skin feels several sizes too small, the world is tilting a little bit to the left, as if everything’s written in cursive. In your ears, your blood rushes like a roar.

You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life.

A few tiki torches light a path from the Hard Deck’s back entrance towards the sand of the beach. You follow almost blindly, stumbling down the two steps. The ocean stretches endless and dark blue in front of you. Your sandals fill with sand that scrapes against the soles of your feet.

You walk a few steps until you reach a weathered tool shed with the blue paint eroded by years of wind and salt spray. Only when you’ve found shelter behind it, when you know you’re hidden from view, do you allow yourself to cry.

They’re bitter tears. You’re embarrassed about your display earlier, about letting Hangman get to you, embarrassed because everybody saw. Embarrassed that you didn’t deny it when it isn’t even really true, not technically. Embarrassed that you’re twenty-three and practically a virgin, embarrassed that it matters to you. It shouldn’t matter.

Virginity is a social construct, you remind yourself, and then you just cry harder.

Most of all, you’re embarrassed because you want Hangman. 

It’s the first time you admit it, even to yourself, and the truth of it settles heavy in your stomach. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted someone as much as you want him, and you don’t even like the man. 

It’s ridiculous, humiliating, mortifying, and suddenly you wish you had stayed home tonight, had never come here in the first place.

And then he says your name.

The moonlight paints his hair a blueish shade of silver. He looks impossibly handsome, standing just a step or two away from you with his hands in his pockets, backlit by the flickering of the torches.

Immediately you straighten up and rub your cheeks to get rid of the tears. Your fingers come away stained black with the remnants of your mascara.

For a moment, you and Hangman just stare at each other. The distance between you gapes like an open wound, like a canyon, like an ocean.

Finally, he asks, “You okay?”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod.

He looks torn. His jaw moves as he grinds his teeth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You don’t have to ask him to clarify. You know exactly what he means.

“I don’t know you,” you say quietly.

He makes a strange, strangled sound at the back of his throat, then buries his face in his hands for a second. When he re-emerges, he looks honestly distressed.

“If I had known,” he says softly, “I would have stopped being so aggressive.”

You don’t know how to tell him that that’s the opposite of what you want. You don’t know how to tell him that you don’t know what you want.

You don’t know how to tell him that you know exactly what you want.

Everything’s a mess.

Shrugging, you say, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” he repeats, disbelief in his voice. “Of course it matters. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

That makes you frown.

“I didn’t say you make me uncomfortable.”

Aggravated, sure. Annoyed, wound-up, frustrated. All of that. But uncomfortable? Never.

That gives him pause, but only for a moment. He goes on, “I shouldn’t have… it was too much. I’m sorry.”

You can’t explain any of this, but you want to. You wish you could just make him understand, but you can’t even make sense of yourself.

Your insides are all tangled.

“It’s not like… it’s not like I’ve never done anything,” you rush to explain. “I did sleep with someone when I was sixteen, but I just… and then there was always so much other stuff that I didn’t have time to date, and then other stuff happened, and I didn’t even want to date, so I just….”

At the look he gives you, you trail off.

“So you’re not a virgin, then?”

“Not… technically,” you confirm, then cringe at how ridiculous it all sounds.

He just stares at you.

“It… what does it even matter?” Suddenly, you’re angry. “Even if I was a virgin, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it. And it’s none of your business. Why do you even care?”

One of Hangman’s eyebrows raises. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin,” he says, voice perfectly calm. “I care that you’re comfortable.”

That staggers you. “I… why?”

He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Because I happen to like you.”

Now you’re the one staring. 

That can’t be right. Hangman’s not supposed to like you, not when you’ve just established that you can’t stand him. Not when you’ve spent every night since you’ve met him listing all the reasons why you need to stay as far away from him as possible.

When you don’t answer, he starts talking again. “Why didn’t you just say you’re not a virgin in there?” he asks, jerking his head back in the general direction of the Hard Deck.

You shrug and look away. “I’m not… experienced.”

He waits for you to continue.

“It was just once, with my first boyfriend, and it wasn’t… I didn’t… well, after it was over, I never wanted to do it again.”

Hangman’s expression is unreadable. The breeze picks up, and you shiver, crossing your arms over your abdomen. 

“I’m not…” You swallow. “I’m not confident. I can’t talk about it the way you guys do. So easily.”

He looks at you for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard. “I’ll stop, then. This was too much. I’m sorry.”

But there’s something there, in the words. A challenge. He’s giving you a way out at the same time as he’s giving you an in.

The way he’s looking at you seems to say, Ball’s in your court now, sweetheart.

In your life, you’ve always taken the familiar path. You thought things through thoroughly, made decisions with your head and not your heart. You liked to be safe, too scared to step out of your comfort zone. And so the house with the blue door stayed a dream, one that eventually moved so far out of reach it lost any appeal it ever had.

But then you think of your life stuffed into a car. Arriving in an unfamiliar city and deciding to stay. Diving headfirst into the unknown.

If you have done it once, you tell yourself, there’s no reason you can’t do it again.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you say, voice quiet, hands shaking. “I like it.”

It might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Being honest. Here in this moment, with him, bathed in moonlight that dips the worlds in shades of mercury.

It’s almost impossible to get the words out, and then they dangle awkwardly in the air between you. You feel exposed, stripped, flayed open in front of this man who is practically a stranger to you.

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely even hear the roar of the ocean.

And then Hangman steps closer to you, bridging that distance. His features are dipped in half-shadows, but you see his eyes flickering down to your lips.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“When I saw you for the first time,” he says, and his voice is husky, low, “in that little dress… I wanted to bend you over the bar and fuck you right there. With everyone watching.”

It knocks the air out of you. You let out a choked sound that might be the beginning of a gasp. A jolt goes through the core of you.

He comes even closer, and, instinctively, you stumble backward. He crowds you against the wall of the shed. The wood is rough and cold where it presses against your back.

The stupid nametag is right in front of you then, and it occurs to you suddenly that you don’t even know his first name.

“Look at me,” he says.

In spite of yourself, you listen immediately. There’s something in his voice, not just demanding but commandeering. You don’t think you could disobey him even if you wanted to.

And Hangman’s so close now. Close enough that you can see the specks of gold swimming in his eyes, close enough that you could probably see yourself reflected in them if it wasn’t so dark.

One of his hands is braced against the wood by your head, palm down, and the other goes to cup your cheek. Fingertips trace across the jut of your cheekbone, down, down, down over the planes of your face, avoiding your mouth to ghost toward your chin and then the line of your throat.

You don’t dare breathe.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly.

It’s such a stark contrast to his earlier words, so crude, that it leaves you light-headed.

You can smell him; over the lingering ashes of burnt-down bonfires, over the salt of the ocean, there’s the scent of his aftershave. Cinnamon and spice. You think you could get drunk on that smell.

“Hangman…” you whisper because you can’t think of something else to say for the life of you.

He shakes his head, tuts gently. “My name’s Jake.”

“Jake,” you repeat. It’s like you’re in a daze, dumb with the intensity of it all. If this night is giving you anything, it’s a severe case of whiplash.

He hums in response, eyelids going heavy. Lets his fingers trail from your throat, where your pulse is beating like a sledgehammer, down your chest, between your breasts, over the flimsy fabric of your dress. He pauses on your stomach, lets his fingers spread out like a starfish, and just watches for a moment as his hand moves with each breath you take.

When he speaks, his voice sounds almost pensive. “Has anybody ever made you come?”

The sound you make is much too close to a whimper for your own comfort. Involuntarily, your thighs clench together, and you realize faintly just how wet you really are, the skin just below the lines of your panties sticking together.

You don’t need to look at Hangman to know that he’s noticed your reaction.

“It… no,” you admit hesitantly. You’re going to spontaneously combust, you just know it. “Just… myself.”

He grins at that, but it’s not a mean expression. “So you touch yourself?”

It’s so hard to swallow. Even harder to talk, to find words, even to form a coherent thought.

Jake leans closer still, so close his breath traces across your face. “Answer me.”

“Sometimes.” Your voice has gone so quiet you’re sure he wouldn’t have heard you if he wasn’t standing so close to you. Like he wants to climb into your skin.

You’re becoming painfully aware of all the points where he isn’t touching you. A minuscule but safe distance between your hips, your faces, your chests. That arm curving around you, braced against the wall. No point of contact except for the large hand on your abdomen.

You shudder.

“What do you think about? When you touch yourself, what do you think about?”

The muscles in his arm flex, straining against the fabric of his uniform, veins protruding blue through the skin, and it shouldn’t be this hot, but it is. You’re on fire and he isn’t even touching you, not really, but you’ve never been so turned on in your life, wound so tightly, a kite dancing higher and higher into the sky.

You shake your head quickly, unsure if it’s supposed to be an answer or just a way to get rid of the fog that’s descended on you.

Jake’s hand wanders a little lower, almost imperceptibly, just about half an inch, but you think your heart almost fails you.

“I…” you swallow again. Your mouth is dry, and your palms are sweating. Your core pulses with the sort of desire that’s impossible to ignore. “I don’t know. I don’t…”

God, if only you could be casual about this sort of thing. You wish you could say something sexy, something teasing, something that would make Jake feel even a fraction of what he’s making you feel. But you’re just you. Inexperienced, unsure even of what you want.

You choke up, and, to your mortification, tears pool in your eyes again.

“Shh,” Jake immediately shushes you, and his face is almost tender. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll give you something to think about.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, blinking up at him.

And then it’s back, that signature Hangman smirk, the same one you’ve wanted to slap off his face so many times, only it’s making you weak in the knees now, makes your lips part, makes you wish he would just touch you already.

“I’m not going to kiss you tonight.”

It’s almost shameful how quickly you try to protest, really. If it hadn’t been for those five and a half Mojitos, you would have stuck your head into the sand right here.

Hangman laughs at you, the sound just a little mean. “You’re much too drunk, sweetheart.”

You suppose it doesn’t make much sense to argue. Now that you think about it, you really are drunk. The fuzzy, warm sort of drunk. Just on the right side of intoxicated, where everything feels packed in cotton, and nothing feels impossible.

Even that someone like Hangman might want to dirty talk to you behind the Hard Deck’s tool shed.

“Can you do something for me?” Jake asks.

You can just bite down on the anything that threatens to spill from your mouth the moment he’s uttered the question, and, god, what’s wrong with you? This is getting out of hand.

Dumbfounded, you nod silently.

He leans impossibly closer, his nose trailing along your jawline, and whispers, “The next time you touch yourself… When you’re alone, I want you to lie down on your bed. I want you to spread your legs, and I want you to touch your pretty little pussy for me.”

You clench your eyes shut, breath stuck somewhere in your throat, as Jake’s hand lifts from your stomach. He takes a fistful of your skirt and pulls it up, using his other hand to hold it away from your body. The cool breeze caresses your legs, but that’s not why you shiver.

His fingers slide along the inside of your thigh, from kneecap up to the very tops of them. You can’t breathe, can’t blink, can’t do anything but stand there and hope you won’t dissolve into a puddle.

“And when you fuck yourself,” he whispers, “I want you to think of me.” 

And then he touches his fingers to your core, over the lace of your panties.

If you weren’t so far gone, you think you’d never forgive yourself for your reaction. 

You all but squeak, back arching off the wall, pushing yourself into his palm, mouth dropping open as pure heat spreads through you, like an ache, like a tightening at your very center.

“Jesus,” Jake says, and his voice sounds breathless. “You’ve soaked these through, sweetheart.”

It’s the first indication that he’s affected by this, too, that you’re not the only one impacted, and somehow that’s enough to make you want him even more.

You wonder what it would be like to get him off. What he would look like, sound like. Taste like.

Your exhale is a tiny, shuddering thing. 

“Can you do that for me?” he wants to know. “Touch yourself for me like I asked?”

“I…” You think you would have agreed if he had asked you to lasso him down the moon.

Anything you say, Hangman. Anything you want. Just keep touching me. Please.

“Yes,” you agree. “Yeah, I… okay.”

“Good girl,” he says. His lips press to the side of your throat just once, right where your pulse is pumping at a rapid pace.

And then he steps away, fingers gone from your panties, mouth gone from your neck.

The loss of him leaves you reeling, dizzy, plastered to the wall like roadkill.

Even Hangman looks a little disheveled, but it's minimal comfort.

Again, you feel on the verge of tears.

Hangman clears his throat and asks, “Do you have a ride home?”

It takes an uncomfortable amount of time for the question to even register. You just stare at him at first, blinking owlishly. 

You barely even remember your own name. How are you supposed to answer this?

“I… Uber,” you say.

It’s not even a complete sentence, no verb at all, but it seems enough for Hangman. 

He nods once. Then he takes a moment just to watch you.

Finally, he says, “I changed my mind about the dress.” 

He takes a step back to admire you head to toe. As he looks at you, the torches reflect in his eyes until it looks like they’re gleaming. You’ve never felt so exposed in your life, and it makes you squirm.

You’re still so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been, and you’d do anything for him to touch you. Slide his fingers into you and fuck you right here, behind Penny’s bar, out on the beach where anyone might see. Think you might just die if he doesn’t.

Jake reaches once more for the skirt of your dress, but this time he doesn’t pull it up. Instead, he just lets his fingers dance through the folds once, the touch featherlight. Just a whisper of his digits across your thigh. You barely feel it.

You’re going to shake apart right here and now.

“I think this is my favorite after all,” he says, grins that Hangman grin, and then he’s gone.

You’re left leaning against the shed, breathless, panting, head and heart a mess. Alone, as you stare out at the white foam cresting on the waves, wondering what the fuck just happened.

read part ii

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[lynxtopia]

Might as well, now I've been prompted (thank you so much graahhhh !!!).

Not very much art stuff because I need to dig it up from somewhere, but have some screenshots of little doodles I have.

Anyway, I have an OC site which is designated as 2164, a number I plucked out of the air at random about 2-3 years ago. Some of the characters are more fleshed out (whether it be through age of existence or merely my preference/plot armour lol) than others, but they have an equal amount of story between the lot.

CI are also heavily involved and their current Engineer (who I'll get to later (next post, sorry.) ) is called... Charles Charles... ?

The one in the ID back up there is Vera, a traded employee, who was brought over in exchange for a piece of 2164's security force, because the other site was struggling, immensely. She's got a pretty hostile energy about her and has a tendency to lash out at people she's either not close to or outrank (maybe an abuse of her powers) and is overall paranoid about the site's... well, interesting state. The CI live in their sewers, they're in the middle of nowhere and nearly all the employees live on site in constant danger of attack. Oh and there's the so-called emergency nuke in the underground.

Oh, she's also formerly Internal Security.

She is transferred during a time of panic and anxiety, a new SCP had been assigned to the site and it was so poorly researched they had to bring on another few researchers from universities globally to try and fix the problem, which is where we bump into our next character: (Nearly) Dr. Heartwood.

A doctor... in training. She was supposed to be helping the MDs but was transferred to the Scientist Unit after the Site Personnel realised she knew a bit too much. She's referred to as Doctor, even though she hasn't earned her doctorate yet, but, there's time for that, somehow. She's a bit all over the place, really. She typically sticks to less dangerous tests although was eventually forced by old Prof. Bianchi to do some stuff on the new arrival, just to see what would happen.

So this SCP itself is like a 10x10 metre metal box with two large blue double doors like the entrance to a gym hall or a town hall etc. a bit like fire escape doors. Catch is, each door takes you to a new place and it takes hours, possibly even days to return to the outside. It was discovered in the woods and unluckily for them, one member of the public knows about it and they haven't been able to track her down.

Anywho, Heartwood is slightly terrified of half of the D-Class on site, especially "Foxface" or D-1262, who literally cannot remove the fox mask from her face. Bianchi, Powers and Long (some other researcher guys) have talked about it and were thinking of classifying Foxface as an anomaly, but eventually decided against because they came to the conclusion it was just superglue. (But who knows.)

The mask is also one of many reasons she is not currently dead. She was sent to be tested on SCP-096 but came back unscathed due to her inability to actually view him.

It's not clear why she was sent to the foundation, although records suggest she was gained via vaguely unethical methods.

(There's also two other main CDs, Volkova and O'Ryan, but I have no art so they can wait lol.)

Moving onto the MTF, we have M. Lovell, a slightly sheltered guy who just wants to at least try. Apparently he thought it was the military and ended up getting drafted for Epsillon-11.

He's the middle guy.

Typically, as the newbie, he's sent in head first into everything the site deals with, whether it be the CI or a breached SCP or even just some random case in the Medical Sector.

He's also nearly cost himself his life numerous times before, such as by forgetting to equip his scramblers one time, or going into 049's enclosure and getting whacked with a stick.

There's also this fellow, a bit of an idiot and let's the L-3 Keycard power get to his head a bit more frequently than anyone would like. Most of his days off are spent either getting drunk or... actually I don't think he has hobbies.

There's also Chevalier, who was former Security at the site (she "left due to unforseen circumstances") and for some reason owned a piece of uniform with the word "SWAG" on the back. Nobody has any idea where that thing came from nor are they going to try and find out.

At the end of this, with a horribly doodled thing, we have our unethical, unnamed, Medical Department staff member. She's the one doing a tiktok dance whilst an innocent D-Class is dying of 409 in the background. Also, surprisingly, the best at most things in the department (self-proclaimed.).

And I think that's all for now, until I dig up some old character art, this is all I have to infodump (with images) for now.

Thank you!

Oh the urge to infodump about SCP OCs is strong.

I'll do it later though.