#mostly between my partners but occasionally buddies it would be like telling ghost stories or road trips or a really badly planned dinner

[appri-dot]

I should draw a bunch of mutuals sonas together like a webcomic cast

[sevendeadlyvices]

Poker Buddies AU: Max and Memories Notes

Something I compiled for @i-cant-thinkof-anything-new Poker Buddies AU they have going. Now I used the Poker Night wiki to get this and I thought this would be helpful for any Sam and Max or Poker Night at the Inventory Fans in general. That and I have my own Poker Night At The Inventory AU and headcannons that I need to work on too. The first information is generally Max’s poker strategy in Poker Night At The Inventory:

When it comes to reading the opponent's strategies, Max's will prove to be a big problem. Due to his lack of knowledge on the subject, his poker strategy seems non-existent. His choice of whether to call, raise, or fold tends to come out of nowhere. Sometimes, Max will or will not have a good hand, so he will be very hard to read. His strategies are completely random; he might bluff, be cautious, or be aggressive. Sometimes he will just keep on betting or keep on folding.

I would call Max an unpredictable poker player at times. There’s this tell he has that if his left hand quivers, he’s bluffing, but other than that, you’re on your own with him. 

Next is his relationships with the characters of both Poker Nights:

Heavy: Max seems to have a good strong friendship with the Heavy, asking him about how his career is going and what kind of weapon he could recommend.

Strong Bad: Mostly casual, having the odd talk with Strong Bad when Max is compelled to tell some sort of story.

Tycho: His relationship with Tycho seems to be, again, a casual friendship. They share many of the same interests, although from time to time Max will be slightly put off by Tycho's odd behavior.

The Player: Max often thinks The Player plays too conservatively, especially when not calling a huge bet of Max's.

Sam: Max very much loves the big guy. Max is Sam's long-time partner, best friend, husband, and sidekick.

Brock Samson: Brock finds Max annoying like Claptrap, but also finds it much easier to ignore him, even when Max is physically attacking him. He also has some level of respect for the lagomorph for everything he and Sam overcame as members of the Freelance Police.

Claptrap: Much like Sam, Claptrap is a fan of Max for their games and comics. He seems closer to Max than Sam due to the fact that Max isn't as annoyed by him as Sam is. Max's love for violence makes the robot think he would fit in very well on Pandora. If Claptrap is knocked out before Sam, he will often sit next to Max for a while. Also, during a Showdown, Max will stand right next to Claptrap, wondering what the next card will be.

Ash Williams: Ash has considerable respect for Max and Sam's career and is otherwise "okay" with the lagomorph. However, Ash also displays a few moments of apprehension and even downright concern when Max' insanity acts up, usually in his theme eliminations.

GLaDOS: Max doesn't seem to mind the murderous AI as much as the other characters and occasionally joins in when she insults or annoys the other characters (primarily Sam).

This is from the wiki, so take this with a grain of salt.

And finally, with spoilers in the cut:

The Memories I would focus on for the Epic Texas Hold Em Matches! Note that it’s not all the conversations from both games, but here’s the ones I found so far that might be interesting to incorporate for the AU. I’ll bold the ones that would seem more angsty for the AU:

Max: I don't know a lot about card games, truth be told. But, I take it you're a little bit of a beginner, yes? Strong Bad: Are you talking to (pronounces it as moy) moi? Max: You betcha. You're as green as the bologna in Sam's mini-fridge. Strong Bad: (angrily) Shut up, Stitch. Max: (cheerily) It's OK. It just means you have to adopt a wanton strategy of wild deception. Strong Bad: Hmm... Not the woist idea I ever hoid. Max: (furrows brow) Get into their heads.

Max: You know what I love? Tycho: What's that? Max: Destroying wave after wave of the undead. Tycho: WORD UP! How do you roll? Max: With my trusty side arm of course. Tycho: I'm more of an auto-shotgun guy. Max: Oooh! Heavy: This is good weapon no? Max: Sam and I had to resign ourselves to pistols when our cleaning bill started going through the roof. Tycho: Yeah, its like ichor? Oxyclean ain't cuttin' it. Max: This pelt is dry clean only.

Tycho: Max, how'd you learn to play cards? Max: Funny you should ask! This one time, Sam and I were busting up a crime syndicate down in Atlantic City. A road job. Tycho: Indeed. Max: Yeah! So we're tailing this low level mafia bum for an hour and he pulls up outside a casino and before he can go in Sam says, "Well little buddy, we better nab this guy quicker than a Pittsburgh driver taking a left on a green in rush hour." I couldn't have agreed more. So I grab a tire iron out of the back seat, right, hop out of the Desoto, and pummel this guy like a piñata. Tycho: Yow! Max: Blindfold and all! Tycho: ...That doesn't really answer my question. Max: You asked me a question?

Tycho: Hey Max, how do you like being a freelance police officer? Max: It's the best. Tycho: I bet it is. Max: Oh, but that's not all I do. I'm also available for babysitting, bat mitzvahs and general shakedowns. You know anybody who needs work? Tycho: See, this why I think we get along. You're a Renaissance man. Max: You need anybody roughed up? Tycho: There's a bird at the pet store that's been giving me a little beak, yeah. Max: Oh ho, putting a wise acre in his place is my specialty!

Heavy: I will make hat from you, little bunny. Max: How 'bout I just sit on your head and shoot people? Heavy: (thinks about this) ...This is good idea.

Heavy: Tiny Heavy, who is your favorite to kill in war? Strong Bad: Hmm, in WAR? Probably those Green Helmets. You know, the guys who don't have any cool weapons or gimmicks, and come in a discount three-pack. Heavy: To kill spy is glorious thing! How about you, Max? You are killing type. Max: My favorite enemy? {gasps} That's like asking me to choose between my children! Heavy: {laughs heartily} You crack me up, little bunny!

Heavy: You look very familiar, bunny. Max: How closely do you follow the Manhattan crime blotter? Wait, you didn't go the Spiro Agnew School of the Arts, did you? Tycho: You attended? Didn't take you for the book learnin' type. Max: No, but Sam and I pinched their gym teacher in a black market jock strap ring in the 80's. I'd be surprised if any student didn't remember a dog choking out a large man with a unibrow.

Strong Bad: I don't trust you one bit, ra-bbit. Max: It's ok, I don't trust myself. Strong Bad: How do we know that you don't have a never ending stack of aces wherever you put your gun? Max: Well, you don't, but you're welcome to look!

Strong Bad: So... Max. You're like one of those (pronounces as poke mons) poke-mons, right? Max: (narrows eyes) My genus and phylum is a mystery to all mankind. Strong Bad: Because I'd love to see some prepubescent pointy-haired kid run in here and stick you inside of a baseball (laughs). (in a high pitched voice, with a smile) That would be hilarious. Max: Are you talking about the red-capped kidnapper who terrorized the fauna on the Upper West Side for months? Strong Bad: Maybe. Max: Because Sam, Flint, and I caught him trying to stuff a chimpanzee into his knapsack, and made him cry for his mommy.

Strong Bad: I wonder if this dump is haunted? Max: (cheerily) Ooh, I hope so. There's something about being able to terrorize a spectral being without it up and dying on you that (furrows eyebrows) I just love. Heavy: (sadly, lowers his head) I do not like ghost. Max: It's OK Mr. Weapons. I've got extensive experience with zombies and vampires. (points toward himself) I can handle a little ghost. Heavy: (with large eyes) You will take care of ghost for me? Max: (cheerily) You betcha. Heavy: (cheerily, nods his head) I like you, tiny rabbit.

(Brock) GLaDOS: Brock Samson is eliminated. Max: GERONIMO! (lands on Brock's head and starts to gnaw on it, to no effect) Die, die, die! Brock: (gets up) I'll be at the bar.

(Claptrap) GLaDOS: Claptrap is eliminated due to lack of funds. Max: Wet willy, wet willy! (sticks a finger in his mouth and inserts it into a hole in Claptrap's side) Claptrap: Hey! That's not my ear, it's my... (both are electrified and fall from chair)

(Ash) GLaDOS: Ashley Williams is eliminated. Ash gets up and reaches for his chainsaw, only to realize it's not there. Max is holding it, standing a foot or so behind him. Max: (grinning maliciously) Looking for something? (looks at Sam normally) Hey, check it out, Sam! I'm a tree surgeon! Sam: (whispering to Ash) He's not really a tree surgeon...! Ash looks worried. Max: (revs up chainsaw) Open wide and say "ah!" (chases Ash away)

[alphaofdarkness]

not me here for the oc ask ! can't wait to answer the ones you asked me, tomorrow i have my exam and then i shall live again haha ! but now i'll ask you 1, 2, 17, 18, 19, 20 and 31 — i know, it is a lot ( you don't have to do them all 💕) , but i really want to know something more about your wonderful babies and Dany ofc ! I missed her sm during this semi-hiatus 🤧💕💕💕 hope you're doing fine, sending you lots of love 💞💕💘

@carmenio Edgy!! 🥺 so happy to hear from you! ✨ I love these kinds of asks, especially on my many, many OC babies! I hope these answers are good and interesting to thee! I’ll present more info on Dany to some way, some how cause I love her 😭💖

I have gone and included the other questions you asked as well! 🤗 Let’s dive in! 😳

1. Gone and Answered Here ! UwU

2. Do you have a personal favorite among your OCs?

Personal favorite is often shown in the one I draw the most lol, which for a long time was Danielle LWW, but just because she was also my wolfsona at the time. After I made my own personal one I think I went onto Sam for a good while, also eventually going to Dany from Bsd!

So a tie between two beautiful girls, Sam is definitely my favorite LWW Oc, she is just precious and the one I hold the most and most always feel terrible and bad when I put her through it TM. 

Also Dany is my self insert, U//w//U, she has definitely allowed me to slowly self love and allow me to appreciate myself, especially the parts of me I didn’t think to much about or consider so appealing, I think? She has definitely been changing gradually into more of myself since I first came up with her almost 2 years ago! Watch me slowly knock her down to my height of 4′9″, let her have her 3 inches for another year maybe lol.

My dearest Atsushi agrees lol ✨🐯

17. Any OC OTPs? 

👀 lol yesss~ so many and so many crack ships too, which I'll answer next 😂

I’ll just go on and list them off, plenty more of them but~:

DanyJay

SoraYama

LidiaTom

AlikLucy

IsabelleKayla

AlexanderIsabelle

DarkwolfmonJatomon

JatamonRaiwolfmon

EarthamonHounmon

HumaamonWolverimon

And lastly TakaSam is the one I have definitely drawn and thought of the most! They are the top OTP and just best trope of Childhood Friends to Lovers trope, also filling in that trope of Oblivious to both of them but everyone else 🙄. While SoraYama may have been the OG Couple in my story, my love and warmth for TakaSam is unmatched TwT.

It is wild cause I always draw anguish between them as could-have-been-lovers-had-it-not-been-for-death, but recently been drawing them purely happy and content. Total sweethearts, the love everyone wants, excluding possibility of being old friends or not!

18. Any OC crackships?

L o l, I never seem to focus on the main couples because of this specific thing.

I’ll again just go off in list an maybe add a trope or something to get an idea of them:

DanyYama: Rivals, Constantly arguing, and can be petty as heck, but oh the potential and just possibility of opening up after the traumaTM 👀 also the couple that is always in your face about being in a relationship.

DanySora: Sparing partners, the sass and stubbornness, BiPan solidarity 👀

DanyLidia: Pure, wholesome, best friends and so much hugging and lifting from the tol to smol, the nature love vibes

SamJay: Wholesome, soft, healing together from traumaTM, protectiveness, also their Digimon were lovers and married in their previous life, what does that make us? 😳

SamDany: Mostly sibling-like relationship, but damn they have that Sun and Moon tropes?! How can you not possibly ship them!

SamLula: Shy and Confident, Bisexual/Lesbian solidarity 💕✨

JaySora: Opposite of the DanyYama tropes, why are our partners constantly arguing, can they please stop, pure and soft together.

DanyTaka: Digimon Au specifically, Oh you and I are the voice of the revolution? We are rallying up the troops together? Oh boi my Digimon feels love for yours, am I falling for you or are we falling together? Depression buddies but also each others hope and spirit boost ;;w;;

Any of the Warriors with the Sins: A whole lo t of mess, and just not healthy ... but I can already seen fandom people sayin g otherwise~

LustWrath: Spicy, no strings attached kind of deal.

WrathEnvy: ...Oof um, not healthy, kind of manipulative, we are devils there is nothing but toxic vibes.

PrideWrath: Rulers, King and Queen vibes, Yeah we are toxic for each other, f*** off.

19. Introduce an OC that means a lot to you (and explain why)

Definitely Darkwolfmon! I am sure I explained in the first question why, but again I consider her to be that other half of me, the part of me I never discovered or the parts that essentially fill in the gaps within me. She is my precious partner Digimon and has honestly come a long, long way since I first created her. I believe sometime in 2009-2010, so almost 11-12 years since. She was the first ever OC of mine and is one I hold closest too in my heart.

For the longest time, even too now, I have always wanted her to just manifest at my side. Go on this journey of life together. While she might not be physically here like my child-self would want, she is still in my stories, my imagination, my inspirational drive. I think that is definitely more than enough, I don't know where or who I would be without having created her. I probably wouldn’t have a whole tale of OC’s and stories to tell if it wasn't for her. 

I am more than grateful and thankful that I am who I am because of this lovely Oc of mine. I can only hope to have her at my side for the rest of my days!

20. Do any of your OCs sing? If they sing, care to share more details (headcanon voice, what kind of songs they like etc)?

Most, if not all, my OC’s can sing! Their voices and tones vary, to which I cannot give a straight answer on how I headcanon most of their voices right now ^^; I will say that Danielle has a British accent to her voice as well as Spanish speak, and Sora has a Russian accent to her voice, so may be just lightly deep, but not to much.

I will definitely go with my Bsd Oc/Self Insert Danielle Mika Mason, however! Because I have gone and done a thing on how she would speak in her Japanese and English Dub! Other than me also being her voice, her Japanese VA would be Yui Ishikawa, same VA of the queen herself, Mikasa 💕 English VA would be Barrett Wilbert Weed, with an English accent, good Veronica from the Heathers! You can have a listen to her here in this post! 

Dany is meek when it comes to her singing, she will often be caught humming and softly singing something, but quickly tends to stop around others. She is often back and forth with how she sounds and often shuts down when she hears someone she considers better than her. She just needs some encouragement and a gentle push from someone she really cares about. When she does feel the push and genuineness from someone she will sing her heart out. But of course prefers to sing for only that one special person~ can ya guess~ 🐯

31.  Pick one OC of yours and explain what their tumblr blog would be like (what they reblog, layout, anything really).

Oh boi! I literally have moodboards to add to this! I pick Samantha, or Sam! 

She would totes have a Tumblr blog, and Instagram! You always look forward to see what she post and just feel an instant calmness and warmth when you see it! She is always tagging her things appropriately, a soft and warm spring like layout that is shades of yellows, golds, orange, white; an occasional blue and teal as well! She would reblog anything of her aesthetic, golds, yellows, dance and ballet related things (may even post videos or poses of herself in practice and dance related things), cafe shops, sweets and desserts, warm night lights, cats, lots and lots of cats and felines of all shapes and sizes! Her best friend/boyfriend, Takaru always cameos in her stories and posts 💖

She would also reblog or spread awareness of any issues happening in the world, marking them and making her own voice heard as well. In spur moments, you may see her not tag things, but will likely go back to name things accordingly. She would also reblog anything of Bi Pride too!

28. Your most dangerous OC? 

Hmmm,,, my most dangerous Oc, I am taking the notion that they are just plain dangerous and likely of evil intent in their actions. Because plenty of my Oc’s on their own are dangerous in their own right, such as the Legendary Wolf Warriors, who have a great power at their paws. They can be destructive in their actions if they lose control or use it for the wrong intentions, which they wouldn't do of their free will. 

I will say Danielle and Sam are the strongest of the seven, because of their powers of Darkness and Light, respectively. Their souls created the others, so the other Warrior’s power does not match theirs. They can definitely be lethal together if used for the wrong reasons or if they are under the control of a Human or Deadly Sin.

Which leads me to say that the most dangerous of my OC’s with the worst intentions and evil thought processes that makes them dangerous is likely the Deadly Soul Sin Pride, or Mikka Penelope King/Pride as her solid name goes. 

She is definitely the most sinister of the seven sins, even worse than Wrath, who you may figure would be the worst. She has a calculating mind and is very precise in her actions and ways of manipulation. She has a poison within her veins that is just as deadly, capable of blinding others or even killing without remorse or care. While she may be a ghost like entity in my stories, a person/digimon holder in my Digimon College Au, she has enough power to influence people to fall under pride and vanity in the most dangerous level possible, heck even possess them if she wishes. That makes her stronger, as well as the other sins. Does not matter if she is dead or fades away for a while, her influence remains and if it does, than she can exist for a long as she desires.

48. OC who is a perfect cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure

Lol I saw cinnamon roll and instantly had a list of ocs ready, honestly any child OC I have is instantly a cinnamon roll and to good and put for this world, please treat them all kindly!

Current top Oc’s that come to mind are Haruko Mason-Nakajima, along with their nameless sister/pup! They are the sweetest babies ever and love them so much. Too good and pure, especially nameless pup with her love for tigers; she wants to grow up and be like her sibling and papa 🥺🥰  You can see the post on them here!

Next up is my precious flamey boi named Alik Azure Mizuhara! A next gen. LWW, son of Sora and Yamato! A little sightless boi with the softest heart and warmest empathy for others. Very much like his mother in likeness and pure curiosity of the world’s secrets and tales. His father worries for him a lot, but gradually learns to trust in his ability to guide himself. Don’t worry too much about him, he is very smart and knows how to care and guide himself!

Thank you so much for the time and questions you asked me Edgy! I had so much fun with these and gave me a chance to gush about my dearest OC’s! I do hope you find them of interest! 🤗🥺🥰

May your day be beautiful and amazing!! 🥰✨💖

[paintedbutton]

Black Widow

Sam seduces the man that shot her in the head. Russell tries not to ruin it for her by bursting out laughing. And that dress is so wrong on her but somehow weirdly attractive.

"We goin' over there or not?" Sam looked back from her perch against the balustrade. Russell couldn't see her eyes behind the cartoonish sunglasses she'd traded her usual pair for but he was pretty damn certain there was annoyance in them. They'd been in the Tops for hours now, first staking out the place, presenting Swank with enough evidence to be let into the boss's suite and down again to unveil what they'd found. Her last words to the man had been Don't, I'll handle this. And that brought them to their current place across the room from Benny and his goons, trying to look inconspicuous. Of course he was starting to think she was just a little scared to get this over with. Wasn't that just an interesting new side to her? "He's not gonna cap you again in a full casino, Sam." The satin of her dress swished as she turned around, momentarily distracting him. That had been the first surprise of the day: her standing in front of him suddenly half a head taller in heels and sudden cleavage in his vision, the cut of her black dress creating an illusion of curves where none had been just yesterday, hair unnaturally curled just so it would obscure the obvious scar on her forehead as well as half of her face. She hadn't been too put out when he burst out laughing about the absurdity of the whole thing. The Sam he knew was a woman of threadbare jeans and combat boots, and she proved it by unhappily stalking about, her face just short of a pout. The inability to see her eyes made that seem less threatening and more deliberate at least.

"Eyes up here, partner. Or eye. Whatever. And he might, it's his goddamn casino. Problem is: we can't just go and open fire on him." Okay, so the cleavage was a little distracting, sue him. He was only human. He pointedly stared at his own reflection in her exaggerated glasses, earning the ghost of a smirk.

"Could still take Swank up on his offer."

"All I need for him to do is to keep his boys in line when this goes south. Got enough damn holes in my head as it is." She fingered the place where he knew she'd secured her revolver through layers of skirt. "Shoulda stayed with the goddamn pants."

He leaned back against the banister pointedly looking her up and down. "I don't know, it's ... something."

"Jesus, I'm gonna shoot you before this is all over."

"Try me, partner." All amusement aside, she was right. If it came down to it, she wouldn't be the faster draw on anyone with all that fabric between her and the gun. Considering all he had was his combat knife, he couldn't really compensate either. Which left them with what exactly? She took a deep breath, grimacing at the way the movement was restricted, before squaring her shoulders. He might not be able to see her eyes but he knew her well enough by now to guess at the look of determination in them.

"Fuck it, I've bullshitted my way through worse. Let's go."

"Right behind you." He watched with interest as her before so ginger steps turned into a confident sway. It wasn't her usual swagger but something more ... feminine. Jesus, scrub that line of thought out quick. The goons let her through with little more than a leer in her direction but gave him dark glares as he followed in her shadow. He glared back, crossing his arms, but standing back. He was close enough to hear what was going down either way, it would have to be enough.

Sam's voice was the purr of a predator when she spoke. "Well, well, long time no see." Benny's eyes, predictably, started from the bottom, the smirk on his smarmy face showing no sign of recognition.

"Now, I don't know about that, doll, but - oh, shit. What in the goddamn -" The moment of realization, he had to admit, was kind of amusing, as was the sudden bout of sweating. He couldn't see Sam's face, though, no way he could tell if she gave him a signal unless she was already going for her gun. Damn, but he wasn't made for this bullshit. He was more in the honest business of shooting each other up front. "The gal that everyone saw go in the Lucky 38, that was you?"

"Got it in one. Figured I should come by and say hi, what with how much history we share and all. Course you weren't upstairs, so I had a nice little chat with your robot instead. Funny story, that."

"Woah, woah, slow down there, baby. Whatever you're here for, it ain't happening. I got four very good reasons packing enough heat for you to avoid making a bad move, so let's keep this smooth, alright?"

"Thanks for the clarification," she replied dryly. Russell couldn't quite keep the snort silent. "I'm just here for a nice little talk, Benny."

"What you came here for is to get clued in, baby. I can do that for you. Just ... somewhere more private-like. So what do you say you take a little trip to the presidential suite and I'll come by in, say, half an hour and answer any questions you got."

"What makes you think I'm here for answers?"

"The fact that you haven't gone off shooting just yet, for one."

"So I'm clever enough to figure it ain't worth it but stupid enough to fall for your private conversation? Sorry, buddy, I ain't biting."

"Now where does that leave us, baby? Because I don't see this ending well for you and your friend over there." Russell was attuned enough to her movements that he noticed the minute tensing of her muscles before her next words.

"Leaves us free to do something other than try to shoot each other, maybe? See, I can take getting outplayed. Hell, it's kind of ... appealing, occasionally, depending on the person. But you were gone so quick, you didn't even ask my name."

"... what are you getting at?" She moved into his personal space so easily, Russell was pretty sure everyone was surprised. Benny took an unconscious step back, staring down at her.

"You know, I've been dreamin' of it ever since," she purred. Russell blinked, startled. "I know it's wrong, with you shooting me and all, but I gotta admit ... I want you." Of all the things he'd expected today, this most definitely wasn't it. Benny, by the look of horror on his face, hadn't either. Russell collected his jaw off the floor, glad nobody was paying him any mind. Whatever game Sam was playing, he'd at least try not to ruin it for her.

"Did those bullets scramble your egg? Or have you always been a naughty broad?" She stepped forward again. This time he didn't retreat. Sam let her fingertips ghost over the material of his checkered suit.

"Maybe I've just got a thing for bad boys ... and you've really been downright awful."

"You're one sick pussycat, baby." Benny looked down at her hand. He never got back farther up than her breasts. "I don't even know what to call you."

"You really that surprised somebody would fall for you, despite all? I admire a man who does his own dirty work ... even if that dirty work might've been me. Might be me." That cock of her hip ... Russell looked up towards the ceiling. He'd seen that one before, when she persuaded that one guy to go back to whoring himself out. Still, it looked weirdly appealing.

"But ... how? This ain't forgiveness, baby, it's something ... wrong."

"It sure is healthier than painting the walls with each other's brains, isn't it? Thanks to you all everyone's calling me these days is 'the Courier'. Gotta say, it's getting in my blood. You're just really making me want to ... handle your package." He was probably drawing blood with how hard he was biting his lip. She'd gotten those words out smooth as anything but that miniscule pause was enough for Russell to know she was straining, badly. Mostly because this whole damn conversation was reaching the height of ridiculousness. When Benny sighed, it was a sigh of utter, amazed defeat.

"Alright, honey baby, this is all kinds of wrong. But if it's what you want ... to my suite it is. Thirteenth floor. Don't keep me waiting."

"Right behind you, stud," she purred. Benny turned to his goons, obviously for instructions, and Sam looked at him, dropping her sunglasses down enough that the message was clear. Don't ruin this! He trailed after her to the elevators, just barely holding it together, before Benny turned around, clearly annoyed.

"You want an audience for this, too, baby?"

"He's just doing his job, don't worry about it. You’ve made me a little more careful about traveling places alone. Might as well leave him as guard, we wouldn't want to be interrupted, right?" Admittedly, Russell was a little offended at the easy dismissal, false as it was. But his ego could wait until later, he doubted this would take long. Unless she planned to actually fuck Benny that is, which he highly doubted. Right?

 Upstairs, Russell was left staring at the door falling closed behind them. Five minutes, that's what Sam's last subtle hand gesture had indicated. Give me five minutes. That was something at least. He doubted he could ever look her in the face again if she really slept with that schmuck. Not without laughing hysterically at least. The gun shot sounded in less than three. He looked around, concerned, but nobody was around to bother checking in. Either Swank was coming through or Benny was really that stupid. He opened the door and closed it behind himself. When he found her, Sam was kneeling over Benny's body, rummaging through his pockets. There was blood splattered onto her chest and face. Close-up shot then. She looked vaguely disgusted at herself and the world.

"Hook, line and sinker," she mumbled, "I need a goddamn shower. Can you believe he actually told me he was going to 'show me the Tops'? Ugh." She pulled his gun out of its holster. "Long time no see, you useless piece of shit. Gonna find a nice place to put you, don't worry." Russell couldn't help it anymore, the laughter burst out of him all at once until he was in tears. Sam looked vaguely soured but equally admonished. She pulled the sunglasses off her face and pushed them in her hair. "Fuck off, it was the only thing I could think of."

"Seducing the guy who tried to murder you?!" It came out strained, between breaths of laughter.

"Glad you enjoyed the show."

"That was ... so fucking bad, Sam. Handling his package, really?"

"You go on laughing your ass off, I got what I came for. And we're never talking about this again. Ever."

"Whatever you say, chief."

[i-am-very-very-tired]

I spent a week swiping across London, Berlin, and Stockholm in search of new sights and city secrets known only to locals. But I ended up discovering a kind of romance I couldn't find at home. by Allison P. Davis London Jet lag and lukewarm offers. I’d been counting on Paul, a scuzzy-but-still-sexy manager of a music club in Shoreditch, to meet up with me on my first night in London. I’d been talking to him for a week, after I’d used the Passport option on Tinder to help plan my trip. Who needs guidebooks or Google when you can swipe before you go? (In addition to Paul, I’d also lined up a man in Berlin who knew where to find the best weed in Germany, as well as an artist in Stockholm who wanted to give me a museum tour and then draw me.) Unfortunately, Paul was “working late,” and asked me to come over to his flat to “smoke some weed and cuddle,” because obviously, I’d boarded a transatlantic flight to entertain the same lukewarm offers I did back in Brooklyn. As a result, I spent the first few hours of my London stay in the hotel restaurant trying to figure out what, exactly, to say to people in order to get them to meet up with me right away, on a Monday night. (“Sex?” usually works, but it wasn’t the desired rendezvous I was going for this evening.) I’ve used Tinder on and off since its second month of existence and I’ve never mastered the opening line. Come across too cheesy and nobody answers. Maybe it’s just me, but all of my opening lines—from pithy to perverted to pictorial—are usually a fast track to deafening silence and the occasional “unmatch.” I tried several: “Hi!” “Hello there!” “What’s Gucci?” “Help! I’m trapped on the London Eye and have no idea what to do!” And my go-to: waving-hand Emoji. My goal wasn’t to get laid—I was more curious to see what Tinder could offer a single traveling woman besides just convenient sex. There was an architect who didn’t respond to my “Looking for a tour guide, what should I do today?” Some other dude responded to my “You look fun, where should I go tonight?” with, “I don’t know, Soho?” A few people initiated with similarly bad lines like “:Emoji flower: :Emoji flower: :Emoji flower: here, I got you some flowers because you’re pretty!” I responded with “Would rather have an :Emoji beer:” which deftly ended the conversation. The sun was setting and I hadn’t done anything with my first day in London but nurse coffees in the lobby and swipe. And then I got a message from Adam.* “Where are you staying in London?” he asked. I told him the Ace Hotel Shoreditch, and he gave me a list of bars to visit and walks to take in the neighborhood. He lived nearby. He offered to escort me on any of these excursions. He was free that very night, right after work. I wasn’t exactly attracted to Adam, but I needed to get out of the hotel and do something. “And what do you do here? Working or studying?” I told him I was a writer, and he asked what I was writing about. “I’m writing about using Tinder. Do you still want to meet?” Silence for about twenty minutes—another conversation killer, I suppose. “I can meet in thirty minutes, but I haven’t shaved. And don’t use my real name, please.” I heard a story once about a coworker of a friend of a friend (so many degrees of separation that it might actually be an urban legend) who routinely went to Paris for work. Every time she went, she was so busy with market appointments that she rarely left her hotel room and never got to see the city. Around the third trip, her coworkers were so sick of watching her waste her days working and her nights eating room service, that they forced her to fire up Tinder, and found her a Frenchman who was willing to take her around the city for a day. A day turned into one, into two, then into three. Which eventually resulted in a New York visit a month later. It didn’t work out—he wanted to spend his entire trip inside her apartment watching Lord of the Rings instead of exploring the city—but that story illustrates why people use Tinder, even against their better judgment: rumored potential. This is despite the fact that it sometimes seems like there's one positive experience for every five hundred disturbing ones. As with all things Tinder-related, I tend to keep my expectations low. My experiences vacillate between easily accessible sex, hilariously bad dates (the stories we tell ourselves in order to keep from weeping into large pizzas on Sunday nights) and depressingly mediocre ones. I’ve also used it in travel situations—once in Costa Rica where the town was so small I ran out of people to swipe in twenty minutes. And most recently during a stint in L.A., where my bio read, “Here for a month, help me find the good tacos?” because I assumed the forced short-term dating would appeal to more men. What most of them found appealing was the chance to assert knowledge of any kind. After four weeks, I'd had few dates, but had eaten a lot of really excellent tacos. My goal wasn’t to get laid (though if the opportunity arose. . .)—I was more curious to see what Tinder could offer a single traveling woman besides just convenient sex. If I was lucky, maybe I’d have a good conversation with someone I would never otherwise have met, a meal at a restaurant I would have overlooked, in a neighborhood I might have neglected to visit, or a buddy to show me some wild underground party that I never would have been cool enough to discover—basically facilitating the other chief travel fantasy, experiencing a city as if it were your own. Tindering in the U.K. was exactly like Tindering in the U.S. except, like all things British vs American, it was slightly better mannered, and I didn’t recognize all the slang. Adam, true to his word, hadn’t shaved. He was also in a stained hoodie, a sign of low expectations—we matched in that respect—and he apologized for his appearance all through cocktails at Happiness Forgets, a highly rated basement cocktail bar that I’d passed three times without realizing it. We’d talked for hours—about his business (a bike shop with a second location on the way), about our love lives (he was recently out of a relationship, particularly liked meeting travelers), and about our sex lives. Adam was a perfectly satisfactory dinner companion, if not a bit damp and blandly lecherous (he revealed he had looked at my Instagram before we met and “really liked the photos of me in a bathing suit.”) And now, standing on the street corner, it was unclear how I was going to walk away from this without an awkward shutdown. “You know,” he said leaning in very close, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand, “if this were a date”—I’d been very clear that this was not—“if this were a date, at this point, after some nice drinks, a nice dinner, and you, a beautiful girl with your nice hotel room, I think this night would end with an invitation up.” I mumbled something about jetlag, early mornings, hairy legs that hadn’t been shaved since September, whatever it took, and it took a lot. “All right, well no romantic stuff, then? I don’t need to do the gentlemanly thing and walk you back to your hotel?” Before I could respond, he offered me a quick farewell, hopped on his bike, and rode off into the rainy night. On the flight over, an attractive drummer in a touring jazz band slid into the seat next to mine and immediately started flirting with me. “I hope you weren’t planning on going to sleep anytime soon, you should stay up and keep me company,” he said with a nudge. Getting picked up on the flight was sort of a Halley’s Comet of travel stories, so I was flattered—though less flattered at around hour two of him telling me how pretty I was while hogging the armrest and tapping my headphones every time he wanted to speak to me, which was frequent. Was this—fending off mildly flattering, mostly annoying advancements from men who I really didn’t want to sleep with—a sign of things to come? My second day in London, after I added “Brooklyn writer in town for a few days. Looking for places to eat, bars to dance in, and non-homicidal tour guides,” to my bio (normally, it reads “Looking for a partner in crime, you should be willing to help me hide the body.” ( I know.), it was raining notifications. I had hope. I Tindered my way through a Pop Art exhibit at the Tate Modern, shopping at Dover Street Market, and afternoon tea at Rochelle Canteen, but it was really all for nothing. By 6 p.m., I had a list of restaurants to try from Hamish, a chef who couldn’t meet, a follow-up from Adam (“I’ve never seen a room at the Ace....”), and an offer from Agoraphobic Paul to come over and “have a joint and a cuddle.” I’d confirmed a walking tour of Greenwich from Max, who ghosted. And I’d been stood up by Amit, who had offered to show me the non-touristy gems of Covent Garden, which I didn’t even want to do anyway, and so felt triply offended when he didn’t bother to let me know he wasn’t showing up. And then it happened. “Netflix and chill” happened. Someone asked me to Netflix and chill. To save my evening, I took myself to a Hamish-recommended restaurant and then for drinks at the hotel bar, where I chatted with a middle-aged Irish businessman. Then, having taken myself on such a nice date, I decided to extend an invitation to myself to go back to my hotel room by myself to “Netflix and chill,” with myself, when I got a message from Agoraphobic Paul letting me know he was off work. He offered to send an Uber to pick me up and deliver me to his “messy” apartment. I was mopey, but not that mopey, so I countered: “I’ll send a car to you. Why waste a hotel room?” The result of my counteroffer is between me, that dude, God, and the housekeeper. Awesome. I’d taken a transatlantic flight to discover that Tindering in the U.K. was exactly like Tindering in the U.S. except, like all things British vs. American, it was slightly better mannered, and I didn’t recognize all the slang. Brooklyn But wait—some context. Let me tell you a bit about my experience using dating apps here in Brooklyn, U.S.A., where I live. I use them all—Tinder, chiefly, but also Hinge, Bumble, Happn, Desperat*n ( I made that one up) 3nder, Flattr—and they are all swipes to nowhere. In boom times I experience a weak trickle of men; during drought, it’s like I’m in the dating version of The Martian—except Matt Damon did eventually receive messages from humans. And yes, while I said I wasn’t interested in using Tinder solely to find some lovin’ while I traveled, I obviously didn’t want to feel exempt from the possibility of finding my very own whirlwind romance. I’m human and I watch rom-coms. In my non-nomadic life, I usually do feel exempt from the same sorts of romantic experiences I hear about from people I know. It just seems so much easier for other people, because despite meeting all the baseline requirements for datability—no extreme body odor, I don’t kill small animals for fun and entertainment, I have great taste in music, know how to cook, am not a vegan—I barely date, even with every swipe-app in the app store loaded into my arsenal. Because in addition to all those things—clean, non-murderous, fun—I am a black woman, and here’s the unfortunate truth about being a black woman dating in America right now: we are considered the most undatable demographic. I am a black woman, and here’s the unfortunate truth about being a black woman dating in America right now: we are considered the most undatable demographic. In 2009, OkCupid crunched their data and released a pretty eye-opening report on race and dating in the States. After looking at who receives the most messages on the site, it is evident that love is not colorblind, race really does matter when it comes to love and dating, and attraction is driven by an unconscious racial bias (or even racism). When given the choice, people still prefer to be in relationships with people from their racial group. They broke down the numbers and found that Asian and white women receive the most messages, while Asian men and black women (Hi! That’s me!) receive the least messages of anybody, and practically nobody responds to their messages if they dare initiate a conversation. And it hasn’t gotten any better. In 2014, OkCupid looked at 25 million accounts active from 2009 to 2014 and found that ethnic preference is even more of a factor now. In other words, it’s actually gotten worse. And I get that online dating, well, really all dating, offers some form of suck for every single person who chooses to do it. I also know that perhaps the “black women are going to die alone” crisis is not so dire as we’ve been told—marriage rates are down regardless of race. But that’s the prevalent narrative right now, the one that’s beaten into my head every time I fire up Tinder. As a result, the more times I open my Tinder or OkCupid and see no matches or messages, the more messages I send that don’t get a reply, the more dates I go on in which I’m offered a fetishistic overture or told I’ve been asked out to “complete the rainbow” (a thing I’ve heard because people are monsters) or “tap my big booty,” (monsters), the more “undatable” becomes a core belief. Last year, I read an article about this group Black Girls Travel that organizes trips for women of color to encourage them to visit different countries. There was a quote from the founder, pulled from a YouTube video in which she said, “I have done a lot of research and talked to a lot of women in this country, and what I’m hearing is: You can’t find dates, you can’t find mates, you can’t find husbands.” She then encourages women to consider leaving the country to get a taste of love. (BGT even has a special tour of Italy, “Bella Italia,” that was organized on the principle that Italian men love black women. Not exactly a hook-up tour, but not exactly not one either.) And there are a whole bunch of articles that support this idea—that “plenty of fish” only applies to international waters, all with headlines like “Finding the Swirl in Sweden,” or “Is Europe the Promised Land for Black Women Looking for Love?” At the time, I found this ridiculous, absurd, more depressing than uplifting. The fact that I am considered so undesirable that I have to flee my homeland just to find someone to date me was total bullshit, I thought. It can’t really be so drastically different anywhere else. And then I went to Berlin. Berlin When it rains, it pours. In Berlin there were lunch conversations and walks around museums and late-night drinks and Afghani restaurants in dodgy parts of the city that will be very cool in five years. There were more Tinder messages than I’d seen in four years of usage from people who actually wanted to meet up within a reasonable amount of time. I don’t think I spoke to anyone unless it was through my smartphone, and I definitely was getting “text neck” from stooping my head to read all of my incoming messages. And so many of them began with “You’re gorgeous!” and other things I realize I love hearing. I’m not even bragging—I mean, I am, but leave me alone. This was a rare and delightful experience for me, don’t ruin it. Because Berliners as a people are culturally nach unten zu ficken, there was Florian, who, in addition to recommending I go to the Helmut Newton museum, assured me he was “big for a German,” (don’t insult your people, Florian); a couple who propositioned me for a threesome; Philip, who could never meet but sent me a text every day to see if I was properly touring Berlin and make some suggestions about where to eat. He was like an on-demand travel guide—at one point his itinerary included mutual masturbation via iMessage, which I declined. This is going to sound weird, but none of it felt disrespectful or fetishizing. I got the sense that these guys would perv on anyone, and in some way, being included in all the brat-talk felt like the real definition of dating equality. I met up with Simon, a carpenter who loved to skateboard and spoke very rusty English to complement my nonexistent German. When we arrived at the bar, the place was closed for a premiere party, to which I assumed he’d been invited. We exchanged hellos, then I charged the door. He assumed I was adventurous, and we spent 20 minutes with me trying to crash the party and him trying to get me to stop trying to crash the party. It was a great icebreaker—because dating with a language barrier renders you almost personality-less. Maybe Simon was funny, maybe he was brilliant, but because he could only speak English at a second-grade level, it was hard to pick up on the nuances. This awkward moment was sort of like Esperanto; even without a common language, we could still have a few hours of fun in a smoky bar in Kreuzberg. Also, listing all the reasons you find someone attractive is a good way to bridge the gap between cultures—Simon had difficulty with a lot of words, but his English was just good enough that he could find several ways to compliment my looks. And, unfortunately, offend me. At around beer number two, as I was telling Simon about my brothers, he asked if they “wore saggy pants, like thugs.” I tried to explain why I was leaving in anger. “Allison, you’re mad? I can fix, let me fix,” he said. He then held out his face waiting for me to kiss him, lips pursed, eyes open, nodding to indicate that I should put my face on his. While I was processing what the hell he was expecting, he went in for the kill, and then messaged me about eight times the next day, hoping we could meet again. I would not consider Simon a success. But Kim was. I liked him for abstract reasons, like the way he got really, genuinely excited when he told me about swimming with sharks while working as a diving instructor in Indonesia before starting graduate school, his long messy hair, and his big broad smile that matched his big broad shoulders. We shared hours of great conversation and a lot of cheap beer, and when he walked me back to the Metro, it took about eight of my steps to match one of his long, serious strides. The next afternoon, he sent me a text apologizing for having to leave so early that morning—he was traveling—and reminded me to sample the local specialty, currywurst, which he meant literally and not in the Florian sense, I think, though I would have welcomed the innuendo. Stockholm Best date ever? Maybe it was the residual shine of confidence from my Berlin experience, but I got my swirl on in Stockholm. It was like Stockholm was my own personal boyfriend store and it was stocked with Viking men available for me to pick off the shelves and take to various bars and restaurants. I was, as Beyoncé says, feelin’ myself in Sweden, which gave me the confidence to walk out on two shitty dates, because who has time for Merton, an obnoxiously wealthy banker who was obsessed with Southern hip-hop and asked me to twerk for him, and Omar, who didn’t notice me notice him remove his wedding ring while I went to get our coffees. In international markets, my stock was a hot-seller—I wasn’t letting just anyone buy in. I wish I could explain what was going on, exactly. Part of it was me: my abundance of dates no longer made me the downtrodden singer of the can’t-get-a-date blues—subconsciously, knowing you are wanted makes you behave in a different, more appealing way. Also, I suspect traveling forces you to be freer and lighter and more willing to take risks in general. And I know racism exists in Sweden and Germany, but it’s a different sort of systemic racism, I guess. In a Buzzfeed article about Tinder and racial preference, Anne Helen Peterson notes that race is also seen as a marker for class, which also plays into rejection—that wasn’t really a factor in Stockholm. Neither were the average and accepted American standards of beauty, even though Sweden is the origin point for the All-American Blonde Hair, Blue Eyes thing. It didn’t seem to matter that I was several standard deviations away from that. Being black didn’t have the same connotation as it does back home. I never really felt fetishized, I never got the “I’ve never seen a black woman, let me touch your hair” vibe, it was more just like, “Hi, attractive person, let’s do this.” I never got the “I’ve never seen a black woman, let me touch your hair” vibe, it was more just like, “Hi, attractive person, let’s do this.” Whatever was in the water, it resulted in what I can say was the best date of my life. When I am old and boring, I will look back on this night and think: “I ruled.” Odel*, a bassist in a band, invited me to get drinks and then come to his gig at Debaser, a popular venue in Hornstull. He failed to mention that his band was opening for a sold-out show for the famous indie darling Bob Hund, so the night which I assumed would be me pretending to like some crappy band at a dank music venue turned into drinking free beers backstage and making out with Odel in the wings. It was great. So great, in fact, that I almost missed my flight back to the States the next morning. If I had, no big deal. I was prepared to move to Stockholm anyway. Brooklyn In conclusion: I am not invisible. In the same way some people travel to help inspire a creative bout, or to reassess their lives, or to get in touch with their spirituality, it turns out my week abroad unexpectedly turned into a sort of sexual sabbatical—a way to remind myself that I am fuckable—not invisible, not exempt from a narrative of desire just because OkCupid data indicated that I am in the least desirable group of daters. After eleven dates in three cities over a week, I’m still e-mailing Odel and Kim and have stopped bothering to use dating apps in the U.S. It’s nowhere near as magical. Though I fully intend to re-download it when I head to South America this spring. Allison P. Davis lives in Brooklyn. Her writing has appeared in New York, Wired, GW, Elle, and on The Cut, where she’s a Senior Writer. Unfortunately, she has downloaded Tinder again. *Name has been changed.