#what the fudge am I supposed to say lol

[whatiwillsay]

Hey Cam, could you provide more insight into spade-riddles and why we shouldn't trust them? I know you've touched on this before but I don't know where/when. Obviously I know they're harmful/a LSK shipper but I was looking through their first post on their riddle history (just for shits and gigs, no worries) and I was surprised by how many of them allude to insider info on Tay/future releases before the public had knowledge of them. What do you make of this? Or is she fudging the dates/lying?

sure babe here is a post detailing how spade-riddles fakes her insiders (there is hard conclusive proof in this post with receipts. one of her "insiders" came to me and detailed how they were a troll, gave me the "password" they used with her, and so i used the "password" to assume the role of insider and named the kaylor baby "isla" for my friend cara who likes that name, go search spade-riddles for the name isla lol now it's part of their network of theories)

here is a post detailing how she bullies, harasses, and outs people who disagree with her

but three babe like... let's talk

i am saying this so gently but surely you understand that if you say enough random noncommittal things in "riddle" form or like her most recent troll insider does, in weird fanfic prose, that it will appear like they had insider knowledge even if they didn't. taylor does so much, has so much art, has so many interviews and so many lyrics and public moments and outfits and personas that you could write any random bit of prose and get some kind of "hit" off it.

let's take an example of a spade riddle they considered to be a correct bit of info/tea shared or a "hit":

so on january 16th 2019 spade said "take a sip, you might just get lost in the clouds." and that was supposed to be a hint because there are clouds on the lover album cover and included in some of the imagery for the album (music videos, etc) but like... what taylor era doesn't mention clouds? clouds are mentioned on i know places and in the song carolina, and storms which of course always contain clouds are mentioned on MOST of her albums, and clouds are represented in a TON of her music videos (basically any of them with a sky!)

also "you just might get lost in the clouds" could mean ANYTHING. it could represent getting caught up in a media "storm" around taylor, it could mean "taylor is hiding what she's doing and you won't see it", it could have been an EXCELLENT clue for the lavender haze music video but that song didn't even exist when that riddle was written and obviously, the music video wasn't planned and storyboarded until years later so it can't be that.

and "take a sip" could have meant anything. taylor could have released drinking merch to go with false god, or a line of sippy cups lol, or could have used a turn of a phrase in an interview during the lover era like she could have said something about "drink the kool-aid" or "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink" and that could have been a "hit" for the "take a sip line"

even if clouds hadn't been featured on the album cover there's an infinite number of ways "taking a sip" and "getting lost in the clouds" could have been represented by taylor during the lover era. every music video she drinks in she is "taking a sip" and that happens all over her different eras before and after the lover era.

if there's an infinite slew of things that can happen that prove a prediction correct then it's not really a prediction it's just a random series of words thrown on a page that don't prove any type of insider connection.

here is what ACTUAL insider info looks like:

this is a hard, concrete, falsifiable claim. it can be proven correct or incorrect (it was correct because my insiders are good and legit lol). there is no gray area where it can be interpreted after the fact to be correct even if it was random words. it's just a hard claim and down the line, people will be able to see if it was true or not!

for something to be a true claim of insider info it has to be falsifiable or what good is it?

a real claim supported by insider info should have read something like this, "i have seen the cover art for ts7 and some of the aesthetics for the era and clouds are featured! namely on the album cover and in the first music video."

if they had said that then fuck yeah that's a hard claim that can either be proven true or false. they didn't say that. they mentioned drinking and getting lost in the clouds. anyway, i'm rambling but i hope i've illustrated the difference between trolling and randomly throwing out words and phrases so you can try and get a "hit" in the future.

for fun let's write a spade riddle/pumpkin insider claim and then over the next year (or maybe on the next album) i can promise you SOMETHING in a song lyric, mv, piece of album art, live performance, interview taylor has, clothing/jewelry she wears, merch will appear to prove this was some bit of insider tea but i'm just pulling this out of my ass rn.

"In the still of the dawn, the eye of the storm has passed and the sun dances with the birds"

boom i can promise you something will happen over the next year or two that makes it look like that was some kind of insider prediction because it's vague enough that a TON of stuff could be a hit for it.

the last thing i'll say is if you want to learn more about how seers and psychics troll their audiences just like spade-riddles does you should go listen to the episode i did this past summer on Nostradamus who was a famous seer from hundreds of years ago.

[studio-of-woof]

Hiiiiii back with more TADC Actor AU stuff this is moreso just some silly tidbits I thought about.

[Gloink Queen and The Fudge]

So GQ and Fudge were animatronics (mixed with CGI for certain scenes) that had people voice over them. Since some of the Murder Drones cast help out with technical stuff, Uzi decided to voice the Gloink Queen, and have the team edit it in post so it sounded more monstrous.

Uzi: “I AM GLOINKS. YOUUU WILL BE GLOINKS. GOD WILL BE GLLLLOINKS!”

N: “‘God will be gloinks’ how does Goose come up with this—“

Uzi: “Liam’s made me say wackier stuff on set this is nothing new to me.”

Another thing I thought about is the TADC toon cast posting behind the scenes stuff on apps like Twitter or something. Nothing spoiling anything too big just kinda to show what they’re working on. And probably post some videos of them goofing around on set.

JustTheRagdolly posted: We just got done with filming for the day and I had my arms stuck through my torso for like ten minutes, Jax was losing his shit, probably should’ve brought in the stunt double 😅

KingofChess posted: I ACCIDENTALLY HIT POMNI WITH AN ANCHOR ON SET I FEEL SO BAD.

JaxTheLuckyRabbit posted: Was in line to get some food when a kid approached me and asked if I was Bugs Bunny. I just replied with “I wish” lol

(RibbonReindeer posted a video):

“So something went a bit wrong-“

“[Wheezing] ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵇ��ᵒᵏᵉⁿ”

“I don’t know what happened but…”

(Camera moves to the Gloink Queen animatronic with it’s head detached)

“We were just filming and it- it’s head went POP and fell off.”

“(Uzi in the background doing the GQ voice) I HAVE BEEN DECAPITATED!”

“I think our session’s over for today.”

“We were at a dramatic part too and it just— [wheeeeeze] POPPED OFF!”

Another thing, Jax’s on set pranks. You know how during the Toy Story 2 bloopers, Woody played pranks on Buzz? It’s like that. Jax popping up in scenes he’s not supposed to be in, writing on stuff, purposely trying to make the other actors break character, etc.

“And… action!”

“Gotta say, this was a lot more anticlimactic than I was hoping it’d be.”

“What were you hoping for?”

(Pomni laughing behind the camera)

“… Pomni why are you laughing what happened-“

(Jax trying not to laugh)

“Why’re you-“

“Gangle- Gangle you might have something on your face there buddy.”

“Huh?”

(Gangle I takes out her phone and opens the camera to see she has two rings around her eyes left by the binoculars)

“OH- [laughing]”

“Jax was that your doing?”

“Maybe!”

“[Giggling] You son of a bitch-“

“Cut!”

“Take one, action.”

(Gummigoo looks over the still stood models of everyone in the Candy Canyon Kingdom… until the camera pans over to Jax standing in a T-Pose next to Looli’s model)

“[silent wheeze]”

“Hey man-“

“Why—“

“I’m just chillin’ man.”

“Cut!”

Miscellaneous blooper stuffs too:

“I’m sure that you’ve heard of your miss— oh jesus this dress-“

“You alright?”

“Yeah just tripped nothing to worry about.”

“… Why are you tryna cheer me up…? How does this benefit you at all?”

“… I… guess I just don’t want you to feel like you’re noth— I gotta sneeze ah fuck-“

“Oh my god.”

“A-ACHOO!”

“Ok ok we’re good.”

“[Laughing] WE WERE HAVING AN EMOTIONAL MOMENT!”

Once again this AU is too fun to write so I might also draw stuffs for it who knows.

[dnightshade0]

Voltron: fudge

Lance and his wife Elena were at Lance’s mom’s house visiting for a family get together. Everyone was talking and sharing cute and funny stories from when they were younger.

Lance’s sister Veronica began sharing the story of when they tried to sneak tastes of their mom’s fudge when she wasn’t looking.

Veronica: when we were little, mom was making hot fudge brownies. She had just got done mixing the coco powder in with the milk when the doorbell rang. She left to answer it. While she was gone, us kids snuck in and started eating the fudge. Only to blanch at the bitter taste.

Marco was like “eww gross! Why would momma make such awful tasting fudge?”

I was like “I don’t know but we better get out of here before we’re caught.”

Just as we were all about to leave, mom walks in.

She goes “what are you kids doing in here?”

We all respond “nothing!”

Mom says “were you kids sneaking a taste of the food I’m cooking.”

I go “no momma, we wouldn’t do that.”

Then Luis says “we were just… looking for you! Yeah, we wanted to know what you were making!”

Mom looks at us skeptically but answers.

“I’m making fudge brownies for dessert tonight. Now don’t you kids come back in here while I’m baking. I know how much you kids love chocolate and I don’t want you eating all my brownies and ruining you appetite.”

We go “awww!”

Mom says “get going! Chop! chop!”

We all start walking out of the kitchen. But just as we’re about to leave, Lance turns around and says.

“oh momma! I think You might want to throw out that fudge. I think it’s gone bad.”

When the story is over, everyone laughs. Luis is wiping a tear away, Marco is slapping his knee, Rachel is holding her belly in laughter. Even Elena is laughing her ass off. But Lance is not amused, instead, he is covering his face in embarrassment.

Rachel: hahaha we got in so much trouble! We were all mad at Lance for ratting us out.

Lance: omg! You guys are not going to let that go are you?! It was an honest mistake! I was trying to tell mom that the fudge was bad so she wouldn’t serve it to us after dinner! How was I supposed to know that she wasn’t done making it yet?!

Elena laughed even harder at that.

Elena: lol wow this totally beats my fudge story. Hehe

Rachel: what’s your fudge story?

Elena: well, a similar thing happened to me, except I didn’t try hiding my little crime.

Veronica: what do you mean?

Elena: you see, what happened was my mom was making a chocolate eclair cake. She was in the middle of making the fudge frosting when the phone rang. She left to go to her room to answer it and while she was gone, I saw the fudge and decided to sneak a taste.

The next sound my mom hears is me going “YUUUGGGHHH!!!”. She blinked in confusion as to what that was all about. Then I walk in, look at her and say “mom, that is the WORST fudge I’ve ever tasted!”

To which she gives me an unamused look and says “that’s cause I haven’t added the sugar yet.”

Everyone bursts out laughing.

Marco: omg! You actually outright confessed to stealing some fudge?! lol you and Lance are perfect together hahaha.

Rachel: you two are lousy at getting away with shit lol

Lance: I am not! I get away with plenty!

Momma: oh? And what exactly have you gotten away with?

Lance: uh…………… (0.0)lll

Momma: well?

Lance: will you excuse me. Suddenly I have to use the restroom!

Lance bolts out of the room. But as he’s leaving, his mom shouts.

Momma: don’t think you’re out of trouble Lance McClain! We are still gonna talk about this when you get back!

Elena: lol Lance wouldn’t last five minutes in an interrogation room. Especially if they bring you in Mrs. McClain haha.

Rachel: good cop, mom cop lmao XD

Days later, team voltron have a get together and Elena tells them about the funny fudge story conversation. Everyone laughs, except for Lance. He looks over at Keith who is laughing really hard.

Lance: what are you laughing about mullet? You find me getting interrogated by my mom amusing?

Keith: highly lol XD

Lance: oh really? Well consider this. If you think MY mom is good at getting information out of her kids. I imagine that YOUR mom must be REALLY good at getting information out of YOU. She is a blade after all. Her interrogation methods must be really hard core.

Keith stops laughing at this and looks over at his mom who smiles.

Krolia: well, he’s not wrong. I definitely have ways of getting YOU to talk lol.

Lance: speaking of which, have you told her about the time you almost got yourself killed pulling a kamikaze stunt? ^_^

Keith pales.

Krolia: he did what now?!

Keith: lance you son of a bit-

————————————————————————————-

A portion of this skit is actually a true story. The wife Elena’s fudge story is actually something that happened to me when I was younger. Up until that incident, I thought chocolate was naturally sweet. I had no idea that you had to add sugar to it.

[iamnmbr3]

What sin would dobby, hagrid, dumbledore, rita skeeter, and one of your choice?

Dobby

Why would you do this to me? You know Dobby has never done anything wrong in his life ever. But fine. We'll go with Gluttony for his insatiable desire to collect clothing. (Good for him tho. You keep on keeping on Dobby). Also Sloth because he got lazy partway through book 7 and took a long nap for the rest of the story; yes that IS what happened. Stop saying he's dead. He's fine!

Hagrid

Gluttony. I say this with love but the man's got a monster collecting problem. Do you realize the majority of the dangerous things in the Forbidden Forest are there because of him?

Dumbledore

How am I supposed to choose when my man Albus is out here doing a 7 sin sweep lol? I think I'll go with Pride due to his inability to humble himself enough to recognize flaws he criticizes in others in himself (and his seeming unwillingness to actually work on himself beyond sometimes being like 'yeah I did a bad thing. yeah I'll probably do it again because I haven't changed. Sucks for you huh? Sorry about that lol." He's constantly humble (and not so humble) bragging and talking himself up but also rags on Tom for calling himself special one (1) time. He shuts down Harry's concerns that Draco might be able to get around his security measures the night he leaves Hogwarts in book 6 and then what do you know? Harry was right. He is dismissive of the protections around the locket and that almost gets him and Harry killed right there in the cave. (Not to mention that a similar attitude is probably what led to him getting cursed by the ring Horcrux). He decries Fudge for not being able to swallow his pride and work with him or admit he is wrong but he also never makes much of an effort to swallow his own pride and accept a subordinate role to the Ministry or truly make an effort to work with them in any capacity other than as an equal or superior, even once Scrimgeour is in because yeah he gave up on seizing power, but he can only unbend so far - he's not going to actually submit to be ruled over. He also points to Tom's lack of true friends/equals as a sign of his evil nature (never mind that his social status would have made things difficult to him in his pre-Voldemort days) but uh...Albus? Where are your friends and equals? Etc. Etc.

Rita Skeeter

Greed. Her life motto is 'all your personal information are belong to me' lol. She never saw a piece of information she didn't covet. I will say at least in book 7 her Dumbledore book seemed reasonably well researched; in fact, given how much of it turned out to be true I'm now curious about what the real story about his discovery of the 12 uses of dragon's blood was.

Petunia Dursley

Envy. Just imagine an AU where Petunia wasn't consumed by her jealousy of her sister. Imagine an AU where they remained close and instead of being twisted by her bitterness she grew up into a decent human being. Imagine an AU where Harry grew up in a loving home.

Send me a character and I'll tell you what mortal sin they are.

[the-patchwork-girl-of-oz]

Chopper siblings au as random things my family has said:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Query (book Boq): you’re autistic.

Bee (musical Boq): Nick, am I autistic?

Nick: you’re probably all autistic including me.

————————————

Query: *drops fork*

Bee: you always drop things.

Query: bee, my headphones are dead and the next person who tries to argue with me goes with them.

Hickory: dang. That’s some dark sh!t

______________________

Hickory: where’d you get all that curly hair?

Ozzy (Movie Boq): your mom’s chest.

______________________

Bee: ehhhhh… *nibbles carrot* what the sigma, doc?

Query: YOU DID NOT.

Hickory: *transatlantic accent* darling, what the sigma?

————————————-

Query: *steals Bee’s hat*

Bee: GIVE IT BACK!!!! GIVE IT BACK!!!!

Query: you look like your name is Andy.

Bee: *looks at his reflection* I… I do look like my name is Andy. 😔

————————————-

Bee: I came to ask what’s it like to have boobs?

Hickory: what it’s like to have boobs???

Bee: yeah.

Hickory: …well I suppose I’d know wouldn’t I 💅

———————————-

Query: can you say f*ck?

Nick: fudge?

Query: I know you know!

Nick: what do I know???

Query: the f word!!

Nick, startled: farmer’s market?

(Query’s the only one in his family who’s not from a peice of children’s media lol TvT)

_______________________

Query: a guy called Bee a cvnt and said I was better so I yelled at him

Query (about bee and ozzy): if anyone breaks these sweet little boy’s hearts, I’ll break their heart!

Bee: I want pizza.

Ozzy: you’re literally eating pizza.

@just-some-guy-at-shiz

[dreamerchildunofficial]

hewwo? time's fucky between universes. you still up for doing the thing? did you change your mind and time loop several times afterwards?

[Dropping in to answer this ask real quick because I know it's been a bit lol They're still planning on going to Mt. Ebott!! I've just been really busy for the past more than a week now and haven't had a lot of time or energy to write or come on here to answer asks. I probably won't answer anything else today, but I did want to let y'all know I haven't forgotten about y'all, and I am working on the thing!! :D I don't know what in universe excuse I'm gonna give Frisk and Flowey for it taking so long since it is supposed to be a one to one match up with our time where 24 hours takes 24 hours our time and they loop once a day.

I guess I could fudge it and say that it's only been a couple of loops for them lol Anyway, looking forward to Frisk coming back and talking to you all soon!! :D ]

[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

get added to the bad habits tag list !

[yoonia]

I'm caught up with BMR and I've had a terrific afternoon thanks to you.

Firstly, please push for this entire universe to be published, it is so professionally written I kid you not. Like romance, history, supernatural, magic, evil tropes, drama, this universe has it all. I wish you the best for the publishing and hope it actually comes true for you💕

Oh so the agile fox is kind of a bridge between all the timelines according to that logic? Because there is a whole time skip in that as well... I want to know how you planned the release of which part comes first and which comes later because the plots are so intricately interwoven into the making of this massive war that's coming to ravage (hope not) their existence.

I gasped loudly at the rogue king being haerins shadow wolf and the name Titus.. I'm actually going to re read bear and bonds again (not bcz my jin biased brain needs it but... Okay it's bcz my jin biased brain needs it).

I'm very excited for alphas inferno.. Like that's an understatement I am so pumped after finishing chap 27 of BMR today to finally read what happens next. I'm guessing the next step would be finding the orginial children? And hanbin? Like they have to appear before the war starts 🤡 and not like the volturi who only enter at the scene🤡😂

The OC from BMR has gone to Namjoon's pack? With tae? So we can expect that she meets the rest of the crew already there? Unless I'm fudging up the time line of her arrival with that of yoongi and jin?

Another question about eternal sleep... Is it like a power saving mode 😂 (sorry) for the elders or are they on their way to die?

Thank you so much! I am crossing my fingers that I will be able to make it come true one day and publish this series somehow.

Yes, The Agile Fox serves as a bridge for the timeline, so will its counterpart (To Trap a Wolf) which is set after BMR and around the same time as Alpha's Inferno. I can't really say how I manage to weave these timelines together and decide which one goes first. I only started with Jimin's plot and a rough timeline of all the sequences and events happening in the entire universe and sort of used it to put things together. Let's just say that being able to make it all work has been a mix between a lot of work and some damn miracle 😂

Our next step in BMR is indeed finding the original children of the Lords, and Hanbin lol Jimin should've put a leash on the other General's kid cause they're not supposed to be separated, but him missing in action is going to be a great help too. So basically, no Volturi moment happening here since the kids are going to gather before the war 😂 (or maybe yes, a little, since not all kids have gathered yet heheheh)

no, you're not messing up the timeline there. Jin and Yoongi are already waiting at Tae and Joon's pack. you'll figure out how TAF and the next chapter will be connected to each other on the next chapter (or maybe the next one after, since I might be splitting this next chapter. it's gotten too long already T^T)

omg power saving mode might be the best way to explain eternal sleep tbh 😂😂so basically, when a Vampire goes into Eternal Sleep, they will enter a dormant state or a comatose state that is similar to death, and they could either pass on at the end on a slow process of dying (if they go into the Sleep while in the state of being severely wounded, dying from diseases, or like what the previous Lords' experienced, poisoned to the point they are unable to heal and what Jimin's Mom experienced when she was dying from her broken heart) or they could heal during the Sleep and later on be resurrected after hundreds of years (just like the Royal Vampire), which is similar to that power saving mode thing lol

[hpfannons]

Oh la la! Thats a fine choice of specimen. Thank you. :) lol. I only ask about the jealousy thing because I remember that Dick said one time that they only get to see him 2 months a year or something... I probably meant the batfam side i guess... lol but its good most Harry’s friend are okay or just roll with it... maybe I should asked some batfam moments during their stay in order hq... I really love that scene where Harry was on Dick’s lap and and the rest are just with them... I kinda want a scene with the same feeling...if you dont mind. xD thank you very much! glad to hear ur answer about fudge and umbridge. thank you so much... im really immersed in this au... looking forward to part 7. >_< thanks and stay safe y’all.

Glad you like my batfam! My best friend and I spent way too long going back and forth on people we could agree on for different characters (I think Tim and Alfred were the hardest… but it was years ago, so don’t quote me on that lol)

Sorry about the jealousy thing though, miscommunication on my part. I blame that for answering at 3 am on my phone XD

Yes, there is a lot of buried jealousy with the Batfam. Though surprisingly, most of it comes from Harry. That’s mostly because all these new family members come in while he’s at school, so it kind of feels like they’re all much more close knit with each other than with him because he’s not there for the large portion of the year.

They’re all happy to include him and catch him up with things he missed while he was at school… But there are some things you just have to be there in the moment for, because retelling the story just isn’t quite the same.

That’s not to say that the rest of the Batfam don’t have the same feelings as well, I think I’ve mentioned before that Tim and Harry especially are very close (actually best friends, on the same level as Harry and Ron) so Tim is definitely one of those people who feels Harry’s lost during the year the most.

Add on the fact it’s not really that easy to keep in touch with him while he’s at school, and it really is just hard on everyone.

As a side note, I fully believe the family would find some kind of way to make alterations to a communicator that will work at Hogwarts. Considering how many people who both use magic and have been involved with the Justice League in some way or the other, I find it hard to believe they haven’t found a work around for the whole magic screws with tech problem. At the very least, Harry would have a way to check his email from family, b/c making Headwig carry letters from Scotland to New Jersey and back is just cruel.

As far as the Batfam hanging out around 12 Grimmauld Place… They’re trying to be as non-confrontational as possible, even if there’s still some ruffled feathers from the first night. So the boys mostly go along with helping clean out the place under Molly’s orders - Jason was originally kind of prickly about it because he’s not a child (certainly not her child), so he found getting ordered around kind of insulting… Until his inner clean freak won out and yeah, this place does need a lot of work. Alfred has taught them all well, and it shows.

Tim mostly hauls himself up in the library when he can get away from clearing out pixies and de-gnoming the garden. He’s got like four notebooks full of information and Ron is a little shocked to find out Harry wasn’t kidding when he said Tim was worse than Percy and Hermione together when it came to information gathering.

Damian has less than stellar people skills at the best of times, and here he’s decided he doesn’t care very much for anybody over the age of seventeen (that’s not family anyway), so most of Dick’s time has been dedicated to keeping the youngest away from most of the Order. Not that he really blames him, Dick isn’t nearly as vocal about it as Damian, but he is also just completely done with all of them. He’s only playing nice because they’re here for Harry.

Bruce has also posted himself up in the library, reading everything he can get ahold of in regards to the history of the wizarding world trying to understand exactly what he’s son has gotten wrapped up in. Because lord knows nobody in this house is going to explain it to him… At this point he’s about one wrong comment away from telling them exactly where they can shove their ‘muggle’ excuses.

There was one notable evening though, when the boys as well as the Weasleys and Hermione were just hanging out in a parlor or sitting room or whatever it was supposed to be. Jason had been messing around with an old radio he found the other day and between him and Tim, they managed to get it working. The minute they recognized Britney Spears’s voice, there were four sets of eyes immediately on Dick who gave all of twenty seconds of resistance before he was up and dragging people along to dance with him. The impromptu party had ended up going on for hours, Tonks getting roped into the fun with them while Sirius and Remus smiled fondly from the doorway. Molly made a passing comment about bedtime, but didn’t argue back when that was quickly shot down by the other adults. Let the kids be kids while they could.

As far as soft moment’s for the Batfam… there are two that really come to mind, though they’re kind of sad though.

The first is really kind of short, but it’s after the battle of Hogwarts, and Harry’s come back from his final fight with Voldemort, and there’s just people everywhere in the great hall, but Harry knows exactly where he’s going. Bruce is standing to the side, watching while Jason’s getting patched up, and trying to keep an eye on his other kids as well. Everyone's a little banged up and bruised, but they’re all alive, and that’s the important part right now.

And then he sees Harry and there’s this almost tangible sense of relief because now all of his kids are present and accounted for, and Bruce feels like he can finally breathe again. And Harry just like collapses into Bruce who has to scramble a little bit to catch him, but then just stands there and holds him, because Harry is just completely exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. And all Bruce hears is “I want to go home Dad.”, and honest to god Batman almost starts crying in the middle of the great hall in front of everyone.

The other is after the Triwizard Tournament, and everything with Mad-Eye Crouch, when Harry’s in the hospital wing. Everyone’s standing around trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and Harry wakes up still kind of groggy from whatever Madam Pomfrey gave him to knock him out, and he ends up breaking down crying in front of everyone.

Dick doesn’t even hesitate, he’s on Harry before the first tear even really starts rolling and just tucks him into the crook of his neck and let’s him cry it out. Except Harry’s been traumatized and he’s like full-on sobbing, almost wailing, and that just stabs everyone straight through the heart. Tim’s next, doesn’t say anything, just sits down behind Harry and tucks himself up against his brother’s back. Damian and Jason join in as well, Damian sitting on Harry’s other side and just quietly putting his head on Harry’s shoulder; while Jason sit’s down a little farther away, reaching out to put a hand on the back of Harry’s neck. Bruce is standing on the other side of the bed, and just runs a hand through Harry’s hair while they let him get it out and calm down.

And once he’s down to hiccups and kind of stuttery breaths, Dumbledore says something about leaving him be, and if looks could kill… Jason’s still armed, and he almost, almost goes for the gun. Bruce head’s it off at the pass though, saying he’ll go with them to discuss things further and also inform the league about what’s happened, but the rest of the boys will be staying.

Madam Pomfry insists on dosing Harry again, and after some reassurances that his brother’s aren't going anywhere, they get him to drink the potion. That’s as far as they indulge the mediwitch though. Tim and Damian both try to settle down in the bed on either side of their brother, though after some jostling around and being unable to really fit two teenagers and a ten year old comfortably in a hospital cot; Dick and Jason move another bed over flush against Harry’s and Dick manages to coax Damian into it with him, as long as the younger is able to keep hold of Harry’s arm. Jason retakes the seat he’d pulled up to the bedside, kick’s his feet up on the cot and settles in to keep watch over the lot of them for the night. And that is exactly where and how Bruce finds them the next morning.

[littlemessyjessi]

“Chasing Jessi”:  A Sirius Black Story: Plus Size OC: Chapter 7: Tinkerbell & The Lost Boy

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Sirius Black Imagine Turned Story

Re-Written and Edit of an old story of mine I had on Mibba that deserved some more love and attention, lol.

Sirius Black x Jess Scamander (OC, OFC, PLUS SIZE OC, PLUS SIZE OFC)

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Sirius Black was lounging comfortably in his bunk. He hadn't even bothered to change out of the KISS shirt and black flannel pajama bottoms at this point. He was reading through a book that he'd borrowed from Jess. Contrary to popular belief... Sirius actually loved to read. 

He’d rather die than admit that but he’d learned from an early age that it could easily provide an escape from his horrible daily life. 

Again though, he’d rather die than admit and let someone see him doing it. 

He was up rather early on a Sunday morning- something that used to be obscenely out of character before he played Quidditch. Now, it seemed that his biological clock was against him. However, it proved rather useful when wanting the shower to yourself or getting to breakfast while everyone was still in bed.  He'd been to breakfast already and was currently just relaxing for he had been informed by a tired looking Lily Evans that Jess was not coming down for breakfast this morning. He had been slightly disappointed but guessed that it was because the two girls had been up late talking. He figured that girls did that just as much as boys did. Although, for Jess's sake he hoped not because James had nearly driven him mad last night by both talking about every detail of his and Lily's date and all but demanding the same from Sirius. Honestly, boys were just as bad as girls when it came to gossip. 

If not worse.  However, he supposed he could just try and read this ridiculous book of hers until she awoke. He had really just settled in and was beginning to immerse himself into this fantasy world when.... "Sirius!!!" His brows furrowed and he glanced over at Remus who was studying on the floor in front of his bunk but he only shrugged.

"Sirius! Ooof! Sorry! Sirius!" "What in the name of Merlin?" he pondered as he sat the book down and went to the door to see none other than his hyperactive girlfriend balancing a package on her hip and apologizing to a fourth year boy who went white as a ghost at the sight of her. "You're ...you're not supposed to be up here." the boy said. "Oh, I'm sorry." she said to him. "I'm just looking for Sirius. See, I have something I have to-" The boy was too shaken to speak. To be fair, she was still wearing her pajamas and he was a fourteen year old boy, most likely with a crush on her. And she was only wearing a big floppy yellow smiley face shirt and some rather short multi colored shorts. "Over here, love." Sirius smirk. She turned to face him with a relieved smile looking so odd with her floral cat ear headband and her big blue monster house shoes. "Thanks, anyway." she told the boy and gave him a one armed hug. Sirius almost snorted when the boy looked as if he may pass out. The poor boy probably didn't know whether he found her attractive, terrifying or strange....or all three. "What are you doing up here?" he asked her as she came to a stop in front of him, "And in your pajamas no less?" "I have something for you." she said simply but he smirked and she smacked him in the stomach, "Not that!" "Aw, and it's almost my birthday too." he moaned playfully and he opened the door and let her him. "Hello, Remus." she greeted the studious green eyed boy. "Oh, uh, hi Jess." he said a little surprised to see her there, especially in her pjs.  "Remus, she beats me." Sirius wailed dramatically. "She wounds me." "If it's to your pride..." he said. "I suggest she do it some more. Your head is far too big as it is." Jess grinned in victory. Sirius gasped, "Moony, old boy, I can't believe it! Everyone's mistreating me and it's almost my birthday!" "Sirius, if you don't come sit down, then I'm going to open your present." she informed him smartly. "Present?" he asked. "What present?" "This one." she said tapping the lid of the green box. "You got me a present?" he asked curiously taking a seat on the bunk as the box lay between them.  "No." she said. "Well, yes. I did. But this isn't it. This is from my mum and dad." "What?" he asked in disbelief. "From mum and dad." she repeated. "She sent a blasted howler as well. Damn near threatened my life if I opened it. So I'm guessing it's rather good and most likely involving food. Best open it sooner than later." Sirius' hands shook just a little as he pulled the box open and cringed as a howler floated out. It was that same familiar shape that he recognized as the ones Jess usually got. From previous experiences, he was expecting yelling but relaxed when he saw the letter transform and the dark wax sealed lips give him a smile. It began to speak in a soothing tone, "Hello, Dear. Happy Birthday! I do hope you have a good one this year and that you get this package in time. Jess mentioned that you had a particular liking for toffee and fudge so I do hope you like what's inside. She also mentioned that you loved music and so there is something extra special inside from my husband. He said that he wanted it to go someone who could appreciate her as he much as he did. I wasn't allowed to see so I'm trusting that it's appropriate and if it's it not, you'd best tell me so I can tan his hide! Everything is under the shrinking charm so all you need to do is use the Engorgio charm. If you have trouble with it, I would advise you to ask Lily rather than Jess. She means well but she tends to get terribly excited and...blow things up. We are so excited to see Jess making such lovely friends! She speaks very highly of you and bless your soul, you must be patient to deal with her antics! I do hope she isn't being too rough. Some of those pictures... Merlin, I feared she'd nearly kill you with that one on the broom. I've told her about that! Nevertheless, any friend of hers is a friend to us. Welcome to the family, sweet boy. Have a wonderful birthday, dear! May you have many more! P.S. Do not let my child con you out of your presents with her innocent face. I know that she 'seems' sweet but if you give in...you'll regret it. Trust me. Her father has been wrapped around her finger since she was six seconds old. " When the letter was finished it ripped itself up and turned to ash. Sirius was a little disappointed. It had been so nice...he had kind of wanted to keep it. He glanced up to find Remus looking at him curiously and Jess looking mildly offended. "She makes me sound like some kind of animal." she scoffed. "Well..." Remus smirked. "I'd say more reptilian. You do have a certain, what was it you called it Padfoot? Dragon lady...quality about you." "Remus Lupin!" she scolded him. "You are a booger head and I am not talking to you anymore!" "I have chocolate." he said lifting his brows at her and holding up a piece. "All is forgiven." she said racing over to join him. "So what did she get you?" she piped up from her spot with Remus on the floor. Sirius reached into the box to pull out a container and he smiled. "Toffee." he smiled. "Oooh!" she gushed and jumped on his bed. "That's mum homemade toffee! It's really good! She won a blue ribbons for it at the local Muggle fair!" He pulled another out and observed the white chunks with rainbow sprinkles. "Birthday cake fudge." he smiled as he read the label aloud. "It's really good." Jess nodded. "It tastes like white chocolate and cake batter. Mum makes it for Dad every year on his birthday. I bet she had to make two batches!" He pulled out a jar of something and for just a moment it made him think of firewhiskey but he smiled when he read the label. 'Sirius, dear, this is a new recipe I'm trying out. It's called Toffee Syrup. We like to put it in porridge, tea, pumpkin juice, coffee...come to think of it, anything really. I've added just a bit something special to this one. I'd love to hear what you think.' "Mum'll kill me for telling you this but it's really good you mix it with firewhiskey and put it over ice cream." Jess piped up and he lifted his brows at her. "And here I thought you were sweet and innocent." he commented. She laughed, "Sirius, we both know I'm far from either of those." He pulled out a black knitted hat. "Oh, Mum, doesn't want you to catch cold!" she wailed dramatically. "Don't cry on it." he teased. "But she stitched it with love, Sirius!" she wailed again. He resisted the urge to shove her off the bed when something caught his eye. A small black case and upon further inspection he realized that it was a guitar case. 'Engorgio.' he murmured and enlarged it before pulling the zipper open to reveal a beautiful black acoustic guitar. "Ophelia!" Jess squeaked. "What?" Sirius asked her. "It's Ophelia." she said. "It's Dad's guitar. He let me name her when I was a little girl." Sirius frowned, "Oh, maybe you should have it then." "Nah." she shook her head. "I'm rubbish at guitar. I'm a drums kind of girl...much to mum's dismay." She grinned wickedly and pretended to play the drums. 

She never failed to make him laugh.  He pulled it out and ran his hand over it before glancing into the case and seeing the matching strap and an envelope. He opened the envelope to reveal a small note and a silver chain with a matching guitar pick on the end. "Hello, Sirius. I hope you have a very Happy Birthday. Jess tells me that you love music along with many other things. She seems quite fond of you and speaks of you quite a lot. Which is considerably out of character for her. You have to understand that for the longest time when she wrote home...it was usually to tell us that Lily's eyebrows had grown back or that she'd was very close to finding redcap colony. Naturally, as her father, I was a little defensive about you at first. However, you seem like an alright lad and she seems to take a liking to you. Any man that will willingly let her braid rainbow colored yarn into their hair....well you're alright with me, kid. I hope you have a great birthday and you enjoy old Ophelia. P.S. If you press the guitar pick, you can record yourself. Comes in handy when you're working on songs. ' Sirius carefully sealed the letter back up and placed everything delicately back in the box. "Sirius?" Jess whispered. "You have really, really good parents." he said quietly. Remus quietly left the room, deciding it was best to give the two of them some time. "I know." she said softly. Sirius just nodded, still just slightly shaking until she placed her hand on his. "Maybe you can meet them sometime. You know, to properly welcome you to the family and all." she said. There was more to that statement than either of them were willing to talk about at that moment. Grey eyes caught green and they just stared for a moment. She decided to break the tension with some comedy. "Mum may be swayed by your charms but I will not being giving you your present from me until it's your actual birthday." she said. "You got me a present?" he questioned. "Yes, and I'm not telling so don't even try!" she scolded as she stuck her finger in his face. He smirked at her challenge as he carefully placed the box underneath his bed and grabbed her ankle. "Not even if I do...." he trailed off as he hovered above her neck. "This." She bit her lip when his lips caressed her skin. "No!" she cried out. "Don't use your tricks!" "How about here?" he asked kissing her nose. "Never." she whispered. "Alright." he said. "But I think I'll try one more." "I'll never surrender, Captain Hook!" she called out, grinning wickedly as she saw her book on his bed side table. "Now, now Tinkerbell. Let's not be rash." he teased. "Now give me some of that pixie dust." She erupted into a fit of giggles, "Sirius Black, Lord of the Cheeseballs!" He tickled her relentlessly, "Surrender!" "Never!" she said rolling out from underneath him and racing into the halls, "Lost Boys, unite! We have to defend ourselves against the terrible Captain Hook!" The muggleborns got it, thought it was weird, but go it. Everyone...just kind of wrote it off as Jess being Jess. And James Potter stood at the foot of stairs looking at his friend with an odd expression on his face. "What?" Sirius asked. James shook his head. "Nothing. It's just...you two are clearly into some weird things." he said. Sirius laughed and shoved his friend along into his room. The thing was...he didn't mind her little games. He loved them almost as much as he did her.

Chapter Six

Chapter Eight

Hello, loves! How do we feel about Sirius’ early bday present from Jess’ parents?  How are we liking their relationship so far?  

I’d love to what you think! Please feel free to hit up the ask box, blast the comment section or reblog with your thoughts and feelings! Next chappie coming soon!

All my love darlings!

Kenny

————————-

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Love, Kenny

[skrltwtch]

iMessed-Up

Prompt: Person A means to send a message to Person B saying, “I love your hair” but accidentally sends “I love you”. It turns out Person B loves them back. Not wanting to break the latter’s heart, Person A asks them out. They date for six months before Person A realises they’ve fallen head over heels for Person B. (Source of prompt in link at bottom of post.)

Word count: 1,430

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Y/N, 8:05 p.m.: Geoooooorge

George, 8:05 p.m.: Yes, hi it’s me.

George, 8:06 p.m.: What’s up?

George, 8:06 p.m.: Honestly, this doesn’t sound good.

Y/N, 8:06 p.m.: Shut

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: Up

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: I want to share pictures of last night

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: And …

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: I know you’re not on like, anything

Y/N, 8:08 p.m.: Weird flex, but okay [smirking face emoji]

George, 8:09 p.m.: It’s not weird.

George, 8:09 p.m.: Is it?

Y/N, 8:10 p.m.: Nope. It’s commendable, really

George, 8:11 p.m.: You can quit, you know.

Y/N, 8:12 p.m.: I can, but do I want to

George, 8:12 p.m.: [man shrugging emoji]

Y/N, 8:14 p.m.: Anyway, what I wanted to ask was — I wanted to run some pictures of last night by you because you’re not on anything and I don’t want to be that person who uploads terrible pictures of their friends, especially someone who can’t defend themselves

George, 8:15 p.m.: That’s … sweet.

George, 8:15 p.m.: Thank you.

George, 8:15 p.m.: But I’m certain I look good in all of them.

George, 8:15 p.m.:

Y/N, 8:16 p.m.: You’re grossly photogenic

Y/N, 8:16 p.m.: And I hate you

George, 8:16 p.m.: LOL.

Y/N, 8:18 p.m.: Ok, incoming pic spam. Don’t say I didn’t warn you

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: Pick three, please?

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: The best

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: Your favourites

George, 8:20 p.m.: Bring it on.

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:25 p.m.: I picked the best of the bunch. There were more

Y/N, 8:26 p.m.: Lots more

George, 8:28 p.m.: These look great.

George, 8:28 p.m.: You look great.

Y/N, 8:29 p.m.: [blushing emoji] [blowing a kiss emoji]

Y/N, 8:29 p.m.: Thank you!

Y/N, 8:30 p.m.: You look smashing, too

George, 8:30 p.m.: Thank you.

George, 8:31 p.m.: Um … I’d go with these.

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:33 p.m.: Yeah, I was thinking of those, too

George, 8:34 p.m.: Don’t we just look cute together?

Y/N, 8:34 p.m.: Absolutely

Y/N, 8:35 p.m.: Ok, I’ll share them — slap on a filter or two first — and I’ll show you the comments

Y/N, 8:36 p.m.: Like I always do [smiling emoji]

George, 8:37 p.m.: I bet most of it will be ‘Why isn’t George on here?’ and ‘That wanker George doesn’t know what he’s missing’.

Y/N, 8:38 p.m.: Eh, that’s about right

Y/N, 8:38 p.m.: But it is your choice

Y/N, 8:39 p.m.: Some people really could afford to not be on Instagram

Y/N, 8:39 p.m.: Not that you’re one of them. But I’m glad you let me post stuff of you

Y/N, 8:40 p.m.: Especially since, you know, you’re in movies now

George, 8:41 p.m.: That doesn’t mean anything will change.

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: I know

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: And I’m really happy for you

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: And proud of you

Y/N, 8:43 p.m.: I like this picture a lot

Y/N, 8:44 p.m.: You’re right. We do look cute together [smiling face with hearts emoji]

George, 8:45 p.m.: Have I ever been wrong?

Y/N, 8:46 p.m.: Shut up

Y/N, 8:46 p.m.: God, I love you

I put my phone down slowly, knowing that all I needed to do next was absolutely fucking nothing. Stupid fingers. Stupid, stupid fingers. I didn’t not love George. I loved him — as a friend. He was nice, and he was so lovely, and so sweet, but it never once crossed my mind that we could be … more than. I hadn’t even finished processing the fact that he’d still hang out, and want to hang out, with me and our other, childhood friends after having landed a couple of roles in which he received top billing. Damn it. ‘Your hair’ was how that sentence was supposed to end. Now I had no idea what kind of end I had sentenced our friendship to.

His sudden reticence after providing such swift responses wasn’t helping. He had read the message. For once I’d welcome the ominous pulsing three dots, just so I’d know he was still there and hadn’t — I couldn’t imagine how he might’ve reacted, and I didn’t know either what kind of reaction I wanted him to have. I did know that what I had to do next depended on his response. And damn it, I needed it now.

‘…’

Look at those dumb dots, bouncing away without a care in the world.

‘…’

Imagine being on the verge of an anxiety attack because of three damn dots. And because the connection between your brain and your fingers picked the best moment possible to fail you.

‘I love you, too.’

My face drained itself of all colour.

Be careful what you wish for, am I right?

He followed up with a heart emoji. No, two. No, three.

I screamed into the nearest pillow. He was serious. This was serious, because he tended to use emojis like they were rare, precious resources on which the world was running low.

I hadn’t a clue what to do. The state of things was undeniable: I was now living in a universe where I told my best friend I loved him when I didn’t, not in that way, and he told me he did, too, yes in that way. I needed counsel. And the one person I could turn to in times like this, and come away enlightened and empowered, was what I happened to need help with. Of course. There was no second best. There never was.

I sighed; my phone felt like a brick in my hand. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t break his heart. I didn’t want to. I’d never dream of it. But would leading him on amount to the same thing? I had seen and read plenty of stories in many forms of media about people who’d chosen to tell or fudge the truth in similar situations, and guess what? Neither course of action culminated in happy endings. If there were any that didn’t make it to online forums about laughable or cringe-worthy attempts at backpedalling, I wasn’t aware.

I needed space. I needed time. To think. I needed to see him. His presence would be calming, even if he’d caused this state of emergency in the first place. I’d know what to do when I see his face — in person, because the sight of his contact picture on my phone and the photos I’d filled our chat with were, for some reason, sending all the circuits in my brain crashing into one another.

I released the breath I’d been holding since the third heart emoji made it from his phone to mine.

I sent him a heart emoji, and I asked him out.

Not like, you know, on a date.

Just out.

✦✧✦✧

I pulled my chair closer to his, leaned into his shoulder, and shoved my phone in front of him. ‘Look at this,’ I said, ‘this’ being a photo of us on our most recent date: our third visit to the Barbican Conservatory after my blunder — one of the classics, just next to getting involved in a land war with Asia — saw us fancying ourselves as a couple.

‘That’s us?’ said George. He took my phone and stared at the picture. ‘We’re fucking adorable.’

It could be the 7,827th time he’d say that about us, and my stomach would still find itself host to a kaleidoscope of butterflies. I’d come to love the idea of an ‘us’. And so did everyone in our social circles, apparently, some well before George and me being an ‘us’ turned out to be one of the rare positive outcomes of me being an arse. He didn’t know about that, and he’d never know about that. I wasn’t in the business of being cruel — I’d clearly never been. Hell, after a certain point, I started to count my blessings daily that I took this gamble: it wasn’t long before I found myself falling head over feet for him. I remembered berating myself once for not seeing this sooner.

‘Everyone agrees,’ I said. ‘Read the comments.’

‘I am,’ he said. ‘It never fails to amuse me how people make such a big deal about me not being on Instagram or whatever. I’m perfectly fine raking in social clout by proxy.’ He took a sip of his salted caramel mocha. ‘Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be on social media now, not when I’m about to start this new project. I think it could be big.’ His fingers interlocked themselves with mine.

‘Of course it’ll be big. It’s with Sam Mendes.’ I grinned. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I said into his ear.

He leaned in to thank me with a peck on my cheek. That simple act warmed me up better than my pumpkin spice latte.

He passed me back my phone, after which I went back to mindlessly scrolling through my profile, a careful curation of photos of us, food, my outfits, my cat, and just about everything else. It didn’t take me long to reach the catalyst of our relationship: an innocent wefie at Columbia Road Flower Market, where I’d spotted the most beautiful peonies and couldn’t pass up the chance for a commemoration of my latest purchase with my favourite person in the world. My heart swelled. The one visible comment on the photo, made judiciously by a friend, read, ‘Fucking hell, get together already, you two. And tell George his hair’s out of control’.

I put my phone face down on the table and turned to George. ‘I love you,’ I said, ‘and your hair.’

[safflowerseason]

veep rewatch - 3.02

Season Three, Episode Two - The Choice

aka - The One Where Dan Gets Seasick 

(It seems like a good time to begin this series again...)

Gary, to himself in the mirror: …When did you get your dad’s face?

LOL at Dan telling Richard not to be cute. 

Gary: Ma’am, instead of doing all this pre-campaigning, sometime in the next 24 hours, you grab a mic, you say, "I'm Selina Meyer and I'm running for President of the United States!” *beat* Selina: I’m just gonna use the bathroom really quick.

Kelly: This definitely does not do video. Amy: Then what were you doing?!  (I just think it’s hilarious the way Anna Chlumsky delivers this little line…that perfect outraged bemusement.)

Hahahaha Dan gets so seasick. He’s so terrible I don’t even feel sorry for him. (This also means his S2 line about power-boating on Lake Erie is now irrelevant, which is fine because I think this is a more hilarious canon fact about Dan.) 

Wendy, about Jonah: Look who I found in a basket on our front door. 

What the hell is Jonah wearing in this scene. What is that terrible cardigan. What is that T-shirt he is wearing underneath. What.

Criminal: Hey, I voted for you! Selina: Thank you very much, sir! But I’m afraid you have to go to prison!

The chaotic scene on the boat, with everyone yelling and speaking over one another about POTUS’s announcement is quite well done, reminiscent of the scene in the kitchen during Helsinki (another great Selina-Amy-Gary-Dan group scene.) 

Ben: Ma'am, I swear to God, we all thought he was gonna just eat some shrimp, rattle off a few platitudes, go home, watch Full Metal Jacket for the millionth time and fall asleep.

Amy: Has POTUS gone nuts? We can’t have a crazy president.  Gary: In Italy they do.  (Heh.)

Selina: I can't identify myself as a woman! People can't know that! Men hate that. And women who hate women hate that, which, I believe, is most women, don't you agree with that? 

Dan: I swear to God, I felt better on the fucking boat.

Dan: And as vice president, here's your choice, two doors, pro-choice, pro-life. That’s it. Selina:…Is there a third door?  Amy: What, like a woman's door?  Dan *scornful*: A back door? No.

Lots of little physical comedy bits in this episode…Dan being sick on the boat, Selina and the bathroom door, Richard and Kelli getting tangled up in the phone lines….Most of these bits require really coordinated dialogue as well, characters speaking over one another at the exact right moment…I feel like this kind of really specific and technical scene work went away in the later seasons, in favor of the characters just screaming outsized insults at one another. Which is a bit sad, because these scenes are so superbly done, and all of the actors involved really get to show off their technical skills as well as their mastery of the dialogue. 

There’s an argument to be made that the premise of this episode is not super realistic. I suppose it’s plausible that a lame-duck outwardly liberal but still old-white-male POTUS might reveal he has a more conservative view on the timeline for abortion. What’s less plausible is that Selina’s response requires completely rethinking her views on the topic, or that she’s run for high constitutional office in the United States without articulating a clear stance on the issue. The whole “what’s Selina’s position?!” drama is a bit over-blown. Why doesn’t she just reaffirm whatever her stance is? (I guess that is kind of what she ends up doing, by rehashing the book). And the notion that she could reverse her previous position to something more conservative that aligns with POTUS’s views does not actually make any sense politically, considering Selina’s party and her hopes for the future…like presumably POTUS has also pissed off other members of his liberal party? And he’s a lame duck POTUS anyway. Who cares? 

However, I think this is an example where it’s fine that a show about politics does not hold up to perfect realist scrutiny, because it still makes for a great episode of television where we see Selina really wrestle with her identity as Veep and as a female politician, and we get to dive deep into the stakes of a “controversial” political issue (in quotations because it shouldn’t be controversial) and watch how the team deals with it. 

Jonah: I’m going to be updating more than I'm actually dating…which is a shitload. I think in the BMTL universe, Jonah resurrects Ryantology and his unhinged videos are part of how he wins the presidency. This kind of aggressive-direct-to-the-people-straight-talk-cut-through-the-bullshit rhetoric is exactly how Trump appeals to his base (even though it’s not at all true that it’s “real”), and is certainly more interesting politically than Jonah advancing as a politician because he’s racist and sexist and hates vaccines. 

Kent and Sue begin their hilariously robotic flirting in this episode. 

Selina’s got so many great lines in this scene about gender politics and the politics of abortion, all of which I would put on a coffee mug or a t-shirt.  “Get the government out of my fucking snatch.” “If men got pregnant, you could get an abortion at an ATM.” “As a woman, I am not gonna put in a fuckin’ sentence ‘As a woman…’ I am not putting my eggs in that basket.” “This is about access to safe abortions for vulnerable women.”

Read alongside one another, these lines illustrate how conflicted she is, not about abortion, but about her identity as a female politician and in turn, how that identity is perceived by the public to influence her political choices and views. She doesn’t want to be a labeled as a feminist political warrior, but she is still clearly passionate enough about women’s issues enough to try and figure out a way to articulate her views without sacrificing her political future—a future that depends on the support of old, white men. 

Costume-wise, Amy stands out among the ensemble in another turquoise green dress (I am very into her snakesin heels). This one is a wrap dress that is a bit darker than her dress for Mike’s wedding. Selina is wearing a black top and a red skirt, in a not-so-subtle nod to her struggle over what to say in public about abortion. Dan’s and Mike’s ties both have red in them. Unusually, nothing in Amy’s outfit really links her to Selina or to Dan.

Selina: Well, he fucking fudged it. Now we know he’s running for President, that stupid bastard. 

Dan’s meltdown is very well done by Reid Scott. This season, he really brings out Dan’s more intense side, highlighting his obsessive and neurotic qualities that we don’t normally see (because Dan keeps them buried) and adding this slightly unhinged edge to the character. At the same time, he emphasizes how Dan struggles to keep up the usual facade that everything is easy for him. In the previous episode, we even saw a flash of Dan’s crazy eyes. I simply don’t understand how Mandel watched Dan’s arc in S3 and came to the conclusion that this character didn’t really care about anything except money and sex. All Dan cares about in this season is winning, to the point where he actually self-destructs. It will be really fun to observe how the writers and RS play out Dan’s journey with this rewatch. 

Amy to Dan: Go home. Take an Ambien. Take fifty!

Ben: I’m going home, and if anyone needs me…I don’t care.

Poor Gary in this episode. He fails so hard at trying to be an actual political strategist. 

Dan: Hey you, Ugly Betty, give me that burrito! Jonah: Don’t just give it to him, dude!

“This is what happens when you fuck with my office!” Dan literally is seconds from beating up Jonah in this scene…his dangerous side on full display here. Part of me wishes we saw more of this super macho physical enforcer Dan, but at the same time, I do think it’s a bit jarring compared to Veep’s regular tone as a show. (It also makes you wonder what Dan’s breaking point is, when it comes to physical violence.)

Selina: Well, I said nothing…a big, fat, morbidly obese nothing.

[fuck-customers]

I Hate the New Walfart Store Manager

Warning Long Rant: I am so angry with the new Store Manager at Walfart. I’m a Sales Rep for Moreos and Blitz Crackers company and have a supercenter as one of my stores on my territory. It’s my highest volume store but I’ve lost sales since he came because he doesn’t believe his store can make as much money compared to just pushing Walfart products. And with the holidays he took off 2 of my 4x4 displays (1 of which is supposed to be MANDATORY but he doesn’t care) to push their crap. I’m trying to get one back out but he said “It has to be 100% Holiday” so I show him it’s got Winter Moreos, White Fudge (seasonal), Saltine Crackers (Cold weather seller WITH COUPONS) and ROLL BACK Family Size Crackers. But he says “No it’s not 100% Holiday! Only holiday will sell!” And I’m just wtf???? So I have this holiday product sitting in the back room taking up space and not selling because this dumbass won’t let me get it out on the sales floor. He wanted me to empty out the displays (including the mandatory one) and send them back to the company and I was like heck no!

And not only am I dealing with that crap but… THEY TOOK ALL OF MY BACKSTOCK OUT OF MY DESIGNATED AREA TO PUT THEIR CRAP. So I have 3 pallets of backstock (2 which would go to the 4x4s if they hadn’t pulled the displays off without telling me) and he has the audacity to say “Why do you have so many pallets?” Well, Sir Dumbass, it all fit in my designated spot until you had your people pull everything out. And I bring extra items so we don’t have holes in the aisle because… Guess what… COOKIES AND CRACKERS SELL DURING THE HOLIDAYS.

I get it, he came from a store that was in a poorer area but my store is in a richer area where people WANT namebrand products so my stuff SELLS. (Also my sales rep coworker who works at his old store said the store sales are BETTER since he left)

Like my one 4x4 display was originally in dairy filled with all of our cookies Moreos and Ahoy Chips to go with MILK because the previous Store Manager KNEW how to INCREASE sales.

What does he replace my cookie display with? TORTILLAS. He moved them from the cheese area to replace my cookie display…. Really????

And the thing is, all of his lower managements and workers HATE him because he has such a Napoleon Complex (he’s really short and I feel like his attitude is to also compensate for it) and they all make fun of him for being incompetent and do their own decisions unless they absolutely need his permission.

Like in the beginning they implemented this new program where we use the Walfart ordering system for our products so I had to make sure the counts were right… Well Sir Dumbass wouldn’t approve counts to be changed ??? Also, he tried to require vendors be there when the delivery gets there or else it gets refused (sometimes deliveries are at 2am-4am I had to go at 4am once I was not happy) but all the vendors complained and got that stupid rule removed because the receivers were refusing product like he asked and the whole beer and soda aisle was almost empty because of it. It was ridiculous…

TL;DR: New Dumbass Walfart Store Manager thinks that vendor items don’t contribute to store sales and only pushes Walfart products. Meanwhile, his coworkers under him do their own thing because they know he’s incompetent and doesn’t know what he’s doing. The holidays have been hell because he took my displays off the floor and took over my designated backstock area. I’m losing sales from my #1 account because of him. I’ve come close to losing my job wanting to tell him off for being so dumb lol

[canaryatlaw]

alright, well today was pretty good. I set my alarm for 10 am but ended up waking up at like 9:16 am and couldn’t fall back asleep despite my best efforts, which is the second time this week that’s happened, so I don’t know what’s up with that, but I guess it’s not a totally negative thing if it means I won’t spend *so* much time sleeping, lol. I waited till 10 am to text Jess about brunch since I knew she had a thing, and she didn’t answer for a while but at like 10:30 she responded and we made plans to get brunch at the vegetarian place, which we proceeded to then do. It started raining while we were in the restaurant, so we ended up having to walk back through the rain. My apartment is a lot closer so I didn’t get *that* wet (like I changed my clothes after but I wasn’t soaking wet) but Jess’ apartment is like a ten minute walk so I imagine she got pretty wet. I offered to let her use my umbrella but she didn’t want it because she’s weird like that, so I didn’t use it for my short walk home in solidarity, or something like that. Once I got home I did some web-sleuthing regarding making macarons on rainy days, since I decided last night I wanted to make some today, but now that it was raining I knew days with rain/humidity are supposed to not be good conditions to make them in. I had somewhat mixed answers on whether it’s worth trying or will just be an absolute disaster no matter what, so I decided to hold off. I ended up watching the first half of the two episode Blindspot finale I missed like two weeks ago before deciding to take a break to bake. I looked through some other recipes and ended up deciding on a “magic cake” which is this cool thing that separates into three levels while it cooks (the science behind it is actually fairly simple, but the result is still cool) with a like fudge-like layer on bottom, custard in the middle, and an airy type cake on top, it’s really good and fairly easy to make so I decided to go with that. Did that for a while and then while it was cooking (it takes like 50 minutes so I had some time) I tackled the growing mess in the kitchen, it wasn’t too bad because I did do most of the dishes that were left over from me cooking on Wednesday, so I just had some accumulated plates since then and a few pots, not bad. After that was out of the oven it had to cool, so I went on my computer for a while while listening to podcasts and such. had dinner, at some point after that Jess wanted to get ice cream so I met up with her and we walked down to the ice cream shop. we tend to avoid the rush by like, minutes, and it did in fact get much busier after we had gotten our ice cream. They had Blue Moon AND Superman, which are the ice cream flavors I’ve been considering trying to duplicate at home, so we both ended up getting a scoop of each in a waffle cone, because two scoops in a sugar cone is just overwhelming and too difficult to eat without it melting lol. So we sat and talked mostly about crazy kpop stans from a variety of different groups that are all apparently losing their minds right now. it’s very interesting to see discussions about culture playing out on an international stage and just how opinions and norms can differ so much between countries and cultures. Anyway. Once we finished our ice cream we returned to our apartments, and I watched the second episode of the Blindspot finale, and (spoilers ahead) oh SHIT did that go to hell quickly. I was pretty surprised when they announced very late in the season that they would be getting another season, because I was fairly convinced they were going to end it at this season, but I guess that was not the plan they had. I mean, I know we’re working off “tv death rules” here ofc and technically we didn’t *see* any of them die, but it’s gonna be hella hard to claim they *all* made it out alive when we literally saw a drone strike the house we just established they were all (except Jane) in and it proceeded to explode, so.....I’m definitely not saying I expect them to actually have killed ALL of them, but I think it’s plausible that at least some will not be returning (Zapata and Reade would be my guesses, I think if they were gonna have people survive it would make the most sense for it to be Weller and Patterson). Or I guess next season is just going to be the Jane and Rich Dotcom try to take back the FBI by themselves show, which sounds....odd, to say the least. Oh well. Once that was over I switched over to the news for a little bit before deciding to shower and get ready for bed since I’m definitely going to church tomorrow even if I have to force myself out of bed, and now I’m here, so maximizing sleep here would be the key. And on that note, it’s definitely time for sleep now. Goodnight lovelies. Hope you had an awesome Saturday.

[bmpmp3]

rainyluneblogs replied to your photoset “I’m lowkey weirdly drawn to Star-Crossed Myth despite only playing...”

@shadowfairyy this loooks sick as hell?????? how did you do that effect please teach me your ways

adjsjsj thank u for asking i spent way longer than needed on those effects and I am ITCHING to TELL MY TALE OF TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

okay to preface this: there is Absolutely a better, more efficient way to do this, maybe with something like after effects? i don’t have that ‘cause its a trillion dollars but there’s probably alternatives but also I was Too Lazy to learn something new but not too lazy to spend 2 hours tryna fudge it with my trusty drawing program clip studio paint and also a copy of photoshop

so like..,, i drew the drawing right? the bishounen freaking out in the foreground, the space-y background in the..background (i used some default pastel type brushes just really big and some constellation brush i got off clip studio assets and just went ham qwq i have no restraint with fun brushes im like an 8 year old with kid pix)  i used one of my many, many glittery effect brushes to make slap some on a layer between the background and foreground and also on a layer on top of it all, this brush was like, glowing shards? random glowing shapes, i thought it looked neat, i got it off clip studio assets but if you use another program you can probably find similar brushes or resources for other programs~ or if you really wanted you could draw it all in yerself lol I gave a little buffer space all around the drawing, so like theres this blank space surrounding it where the shards keep going, this was so when they move they dont get cut off lol

what i did was i opened it in photoshop to make an animation (still havent learned the clip studio animation features lol, i think fire alpaca has some pretty good animation stuff tho so thats an alternative!) and like so each frame i just shifted the glowing shard layers up or down (i made the two layers go in different directions ‘cause i thought it looked cool) by one single arrow key press each frame i did it manually sobs 15 frames each colour so it wasnt too bad here’s what the timeline looks like!

so yeah theres definitely better ways to do that but this...is what i did

for the transition frams between colours i just used a motion blur effect, i think both clip studio and photoshop have it, sai probably has it too? i remember gimp having it, not sure about fire alpaca its been a minute since i used that one but yeah just a motion blur lol

he must go.... his planet needs him

the framerate was consistent throughout, i think it might be like 12fps? 30fps? i chose no delay for the timing on photoshop I don’t know what that is in real person words and then i just cropped out that buffer space i added earlier~ and BAM it was done

the actual full sized gif file was wayyy bigger than the one i uploaded to tumblr so i made it like a quarter of the size but if you wanna watch yer internet Beg For Mercy as it attempts to load a 25mb gif here’s the link to it on my dA~

OH i almost forgot, in the background glowing shard layer, I went at some of the shards with an airbrush shaped eraser tool with the opacity real low so I could make some of the shards look like theyre fading into the distance atmospheric perspective babey

if you wanna try something similar I’d recommend not being like me and instead learning some kinda aftereffects type program or something BUT if yer determined all you need is yer draiwng program of choice and access to a copy of photoshop OR oorRR this might be even more tedious but you could use just firealpaca and alpacadouga ‘cause its free and really good in my opinion (i used to use it before i got csp), or if you wanna use a different drawing program that doesnt have an export each layer as a separate image button theres this little free tool i like called grimace for exporting a bunch of images from one psd that i adore, its supposed to be for visual novel assets but I use it for all kinds of things now lol

i guess the moral here is you can do all kinds of professional looking stuff with just what you got on hand or maybe some little freeware things (and a few hours) if yer determined enough qwq the other moral is that im crazy 

[two-friends-read-hp]

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

CHAPTER TWELVE: The Mirror of Erised

Has everyone always pronounced ‘Erised’ as aer-e-said? Am I the only one who used to read it as ae-rye-z-ed

Lol yes the iconic bewitching of snowballs by the weasley twins so that they bounced off of Voldemort’s actual face

Has anyone really ever taunted someone for not having a family? Like in real life? Has anyone ever laughed at someone for being an orphan? Malfoy is terrible, not only because that’s not something to make fun of but also because at this point he’s REACHIN. Like don’t even bother making fun of someone if the taunts aren’t even good… Also the fact that they’re in poor taste.

Aww it’s cool that Ron and his brothers were staying, I’d like to think that Ron’s mum intentionally planned their trip to Romania, now that she knows how much closer Ron and Harry have gotten; I suppose even if she didn’t, she’d have invited him over for Christmas anyways

I love how they just told Hagrid their plans to find out who Nicholas Flamel was without a second thought… like: oh yes we’re doing this fun project on the side thanks to YOU! Just TRY and stop us, we dare you

Aw yeah Hermione’s parents are dentists! I forgot about that mundane fact lol… they must be excellent and really successful, considering Hermione’s habits, or they’re just completely normal… you know what would be great? A short story about having a magical daughter and trying to make sure she doesn’t get too many cavities. OH actually that reminds me of Willy Wonka’s dad! I don’t think her parents are that strict though… I’d like to see that lol

Aw Harry’s happy he got presents! Also ‘What did you expect, turnips?’ is funny I’ll give Ron that

What message did Harry send the Dursleys that they had to acknowledge they received?

Also the fact that they sent him a fifty pence piece and Harry thought that was ‘friendly’. A FIFTY PENCE PIECE. WHAT CAN YOU BUY FOR FIFTY PENCE? EVEN BACK THEN?

Of course fudge is tasty, its FUDGE. Unless you don’t like chocolate, I don’t see why it wouldn’t ever be tasty!

Lol Hermione gave Ron some Every Flavour Beans, which he doesn’t even like that much

Jeez thanks Dumbledore for being annoyingly vague… I get that you don’t want to freak Harry out or make Ron jealous of him or something, but I feel like just explaining to him that you were a friend of his parents, which is truthfully one of the reasons you had the cloak to begin with would have helped somewhat… why was Dumbledore so obsessed with this idea of distancing himself from Harry again? Like why not be a mentor right from the get-go? It’s not as if it would have changed Harry’s reputation at all, he’s still famous and talked about all over school, I’m sure the fact that Dumbledore was his mentor wouldn’t really have raised any eyebrows, considering Harry’s situation

OH that’s right he didn’t want to get to close to Harry because of that whole PLAN he had that he was suspecting he would need to put into effect; So essentially he was being selfish lol

Look, I love Fred and George’s jokes… I mean Gred and Forge’s jokes

Ok I’m sorry but buttered peas?? Boiled potatoes?? Not to knock roasted turkey dinners, but the gravy is literally the only thing on this list of supposed ‘delicious food’ that has ANY taste, I’m sorry

Ok when he said wizard crackers I thought he meant like, crackers that go with cheese, I was like: what is so exciting about that? Wizard crackers or not lol

OH MY GOD HAGRID KISSED MCGONAGALL ON THE CHEEK AND SHE BLUSHED?? AND GIGGLED??? I DO NOT REMEMBER THAT

Also McGonagall wearing a top hat is an image I didn’t know I wanted to see lol

Ew why would anyone ever want to grow their own warts? Disguise purposes I guess

Hey even if Mrs Norris is going to eat the white mice, she deserves a christmas dinner ok?

Jeez strange things must be happening to these portraits so often… I wonder what secrets they hold?

Woow Harry was lucky there wasn’t any enchantment or anything that stopped him from going through to the restricted section of the library… unless the invisibility cloak protected him from them

How sad is it that, the first time he sees his parents is not in a photograph, but in a magical mirror that shows you your heart’s desire, also the fact that he didn’t even recognise them at first

I know that seeing his parents made him happy, and the thought that they’re only in the mirror is depressing, but true; the reason I’m saying this is because I’ve never fully understood this until now… I assumed that what he was doing wasn’t really that bad, he just wants to see his parents right? Like looking at a photograph… I didn’t realise he imagined them to be there right at that moment, and going there was like bringing them back to life for him, which isn’t true… It’s sad to think about, but that’s just life sometimes… some pills are hard to swallow. When I said I learn something new every time I read these books, I forgot how true a statement that was.

Interesting how contrasting Harry and Ron are in terms of their family, Harry in this moment so desperately wants to know his family, whereas Ron, so desperately, doesn’t want to be overshadowed by his enormous family. The grass is always greener on the other side I guess.

I wonder what inspired Rowling to create this mirror, it’s so reflective (get it) of how your thoughts can consume you if you let them, whether you’re thinking good things about yourself or bad, like this mirror they may or may not hold some truth and believing and obsessing about them can be harmful for you, like Dumbledore said in reference to the mirror: believing in them, “...will give us neither knowledge or truth…” I can fully understand how men have wasted away before this mirror because of how entranced they became by what they saw, especially if they didn’t know if what it showed them was real or at all possible

Honestly right on the nose: “It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live”

Ah yes the biggest lie in the world, “a pair of thick woollen socks”

Can you imagine Dumbledore’s panic? UHHH I? OH I UMM… SOCKS! YES I SEE MYSELF HOLDING SOCKS! OFF TO BED WITH YOU NOW SPIT SPOT

Honestly though he’s right… nobody gives me socks anymore, except my mum of course

Very mature of Harry to realise that it was a very personal question to ask, I definitely wouldn’t have thought that

Honestly this is one of my favourite chapters, more so because of how sad I always feel for Harry, I love how this chapter makes me feel things lol

Chapter 13