The Last to Comment Wins

[Hoshino]

Im winning currently by having a headache.

 

[Shiriru_B]

I winning by uhh I'm not sure but I know I'm winning, just not sure how?

 

[JayMark]

I winning by uhh I'm not sure but I know I'm winning, just not sure how?

You're winning by Wah! and then a little Moooo on the side.

 

[Hoshino]

I'm winning-nya ~

 

[JayMark]

My Boxer Girlfriend Didn't Shave And Got Pregnant

By: Discount Butler Kun
Directed By: Jay Mark
Inspired By: @Regal_Russian_Tsar
Also Inspired By: A Cringe AI Picture
Requested By: @Emperor_Quack


Note: This story will remain strictly exclusive to SHF 'The Last To Comment Wins'
​

Synopsis: Two fat boxers love each other very much. One day, Carl's girlfriend, Anna stops shaving and gets pregnant. Anna is training for the all Mongolia boxing women's boxing championship so this is a huge set back. But her boyfriend Carl is determined to love his boxer
girlfriend, fat, beard, baby and all.

Spoiler: Chapter One

In a bustling corner of the city, where the smell of fried dough and the distant echo of car horns blended into a peculiar harmony, there was a man named Carl. Carl was not your typical city-dweller. Standing tall with fat rolls rolling of a robust frame, he had a gentle face, framed by a thick, unruly beard. His eyes, a soft brown, twinkled with an innocence that defied his towering presence. Every morning, Carl would stretch his limbs and yawn, the sound rumbling through the tiny apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Anna.

Anna was a boxer, known in their neighborhood as the "Thunder from Ulaanbaatar." Her punches were swift, her jabs precise, and her love for Carl was fiercer than any opponent she'd faced in the ring. Anna was fat, but her muscles, tight and strong, told the story of countless hours spent training. Her skin glowed with the sweat of her dedication, and her long black hair hair was perpetually spiked from her boxing headgear.

One morning, Carl found Anna crying in their small, cluttered kitchen. Her usually fiery spirit was doused, replaced by a look of despair. Through sobs, she revealed the pregnancy test she'd been hiding in her gym bag. The little blue plus sign stared back at them, a stark contrast to the chaotic mess of their lives. Anna was in the final stretch of training for the All Mongolia Women's Boxing Championship, a title she'd been chasing for years. The baby was a surprise, a joyful one, but it was also a heavy burden on her dreams.

Carl's heart sank, but he wrapped her in his burly arms and whispered reassurances into her ear. He'd always loved her, beard and all, and now with a baby on the way, he was ready to love her even more fiercely. He knew the road ahead would be tough, filled with early mornings and late nights, but he was prepared to support her through every step of it. Anna felt the warmth of Carl's love, and her sobs subsided into sniffles. She placed a gentle hand on her growing belly, feeling a new determination stir within her.

The couple sat in silence for a while, the only sound in the room the occasional clank of a spoon against the sink from their neighbor's apartment. Finally, Carl spoke up, his voice firm and steady, "We'll figure this out, Anna. You can still be the best boxer in Mongolia, and I'll be right beside you."

Anna looked up, her eyes red but determined. She managed a small smile, and Carl took her hand in his. His thumb stroked the back of her hand gently, feeling the calloused skin from her training. It was a gesture she'd come to cherish, a silent promise of his unwavering support.

One evening, as Anna sat on the couch with her feet propped up, her beard had grown out slightly more than usual. Carl, noticing her discomfort, knelt before her with a twinkle in his eye. He took her hand and placed it on her rounded belly, feeling the baby kick in response. "We're in this together," he murmured, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek, his beard tickling her beard.

On a whim, Carl took a piece of string and began to weave it through the strands of their beards. Anna's laughter filled the room as they playfully tied themselves together, the string serving as a reminder of their unbreakable bond. It was a peculiar sight, two fat boxers with beards tied in a knot, but it brought a sense of unity and joy that surpassed the chaos of their impending future.

Days turned into weeks, and the championship grew closer. Anna's belly grew with it, but so did her resolve. She continued to train, her movements slower and more deliberate, but no less powerful. Carl took on the role of coach, chef, and motivator, ensuring she had everything she needed to keep her body and spirit strong. He'd watch her shadow box in the mirror, her belly moving in time with her punches, and his heart swelled with pride.

The day of the championship arrived, and with it, a surprise. The final opponent was revealed to be Mud Masher, a formidable boxer known for her dirty tactics and unorthodox fighting style. The arena was packed with spectators, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of Anna, her beard a little fuller than usual and her belly round with life. Mud Masher, true to her name, was covered in a layer of grime that seemed almost a part of her. The smell of earth and sweat filled the air as the two women took their places in the ring.

Mud Masher stepped closer to Anna, her eyes narrowed with malicious intent. She grabbed her own belly, which was significantly less rounded but equally as powerful, and flexed her muscles, the folds of fat shifting in a display of intimidation. The crowd murmured, some in excitement, others in doubt of Anna's ability to fight in her condition. But Carl, sitting in the corner, had faith in his girlfriend. He knew she was made of stronger stuff than any of these naysayers could ever understand.

The bell rang, and without wasting a moment, Anna launched herself at Mud Masher with a fiery passion that seemed to defy her physical state. She threw a jab, a hook, and then, with all the strength she could muster, she aimed a punch directly at her opponent's midsection. The crowd gasped as the fist made contact, expecting to see Mud Masher double over in pain. But to their astonishment, Anna's fist remained lodged in the thick layer of fat and grime that cushioned Mud Masher's stomach. The impact was so great that a splatter of mud shot out from the point of contact, leaving a clear handprint on the air.

Mud Masher, not one to be outdone, took advantage of the momentary shock and tried to pull Anna into her ample embrace. She wanted to smother her in her own folds, using her weight to wear down the pregnant boxer. Anna felt the vice-like grip, the grime and sweat mixing on their skin, and for a second, she feared she might not break free. But then she remembered Carl's words, the promise of their connected beards, and the baby growing inside her. Love was a powerful force, and she wasn't going down without a fight.

With a roar that seemed to come from the very core of her being, Anna pushed back, her muscles straining against Mud Masher's iron grip. The crowd watched in awe as the two fighters, both emblems of unexpected strength, held their ground. The tension grew, the air thick with the scent of effort and determination. And then, with a sudden burst of speed, Anna broke away, her beard fluttering like a battle flag in the wind. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Carl jumped to his feet, his heart racing.

 

[Hoshino]

My Boxer Girlfriend Didn't Shave And Got Pregnant

By: Butler Kun
Directed By: Jay Mark
Inspired By: @Regal_Russian_Tsar
Also Inspired By: A Cringe AI Picture


View attachment 40899​

Spoiler: Chapter One

In a bustling corner of the city, where the smell of fried dough and the distant echo of car horns blended into a peculiar harmony, there was a man named Carl. Carl was not your typical city-dweller. Standing tall with fat rolls rolling of a robust frame, he had a gentle face, framed by a thick, unruly beard. His eyes, a soft brown, twinkled with an innocence that defied his towering presence. Every morning, Carl would stretch his limbs and yawn, the sound rumbling through the tiny apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Anna.

Anna was a boxer, known in their neighborhood as the "Thunder from Ulaanbaatar." Her punches were swift, her jabs precise, and her love for Carl was fiercer than any opponent she'd faced in the ring. Anna was fat, but her muscles, tight and strong, told the story of countless hours spent training. Her skin glowed with the sweat of her dedication, and her long black hair hair was perpetually spiked from her boxing headgear.

One morning, Carl found Anna crying in their small, cluttered kitchen. Her usually fiery spirit was doused, replaced by a look of despair. Through sobs, she revealed the pregnancy test she'd been hiding in her gym bag. The little blue plus sign stared back at them, a stark contrast to the chaotic mess of their lives. Anna was in the final stretch of training for the All Mongolia Women's Boxing Championship, a title she'd been chasing for years. The baby was a surprise, a joyful one, but it was also a heavy burden on her dreams.

Carl's heart sank, but he wrapped her in his burly arms and whispered reassurances into her ear. He'd always loved her, beard and all, and now with a baby on the way, he was ready to love her even more fiercely. He knew the road ahead would be tough, filled with early mornings and late nights, but he was prepared to support her through every step of it. Anna felt the warmth of Carl's love, and her sobs subsided into sniffles. She placed a gentle hand on her growing belly, feeling a new determination stir within her.

The couple sat in silence for a while, the only sound in the room the occasional clank of a spoon against the sink from their neighbor's apartment. Finally, Carl spoke up, his voice firm and steady, "We'll figure this out, Anna. You can still be the best boxer in Mongolia, and I'll be right beside you."

Anna looked up, her eyes red but determined. She managed a small smile, and Carl took her hand in his. His thumb stroked the back of her hand gently, feeling the calloused skin from her training. It was a gesture she'd come to cherish, a silent promise of his unwavering support.

One evening, as Anna sat on the couch with her feet propped up, her beard had grown out slightly more than usual. Carl, noticing her discomfort, knelt before her with a twinkle in his eye. He took her hand and placed it on her rounded belly, feeling the baby kick in response. "We're in this together," he murmured, and then leaned in to kiss her cheek, his beard tickling her beard.

On a whim, Carl took a piece of string and began to weave it through the strands of their beards. Anna's laughter filled the room as they playfully tied themselves together, the string serving as a reminder of their unbreakable bond. It was a peculiar sight, two fat boxers with beards tied in a knot, but it brought a sense of unity and joy that surpassed the chaos of their impending future.

Days turned into weeks, and the championship grew closer. Anna's belly grew with it, but so did her resolve. She continued to train, her movements slower and more deliberate, but no less powerful. Carl took on the role of coach, chef, and motivator, ensuring she had everything she needed to keep her body and spirit strong. He'd watch her shadow box in the mirror, her belly moving in time with her punches, and his heart swelled with pride.

The day of the championship arrived, and with it, a surprise. The final opponent was revealed to be Mud Masher, a formidable boxer known for her dirty tactics and unorthodox fighting style. The arena was packed with spectators, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of Anna, her beard a little fuller than usual and her belly round with life. Mud Masher, true to her name, was covered in a layer of grime that seemed almost a part of her. The smell of earth and sweat filled the air as the two women took their places in the ring.

Mud Masher stepped closer to Anna, her eyes narrowed with malicious intent. She grabbed her own belly, which was significantly less rounded but equally as powerful, and flexed her muscles, the folds of fat shifting in a display of intimidation. The crowd murmured, some in excitement, others in doubt of Anna's ability to fight in her condition. But Carl, sitting in the corner, had faith in his girlfriend. He knew she was made of stronger stuff than any of these naysayers could ever understand.

The bell rang, and without wasting a moment, Anna launched herself at Mud Masher with a fiery passion that seemed to defy her physical state. She threw a jab, a hook, and then, with all the strength she could muster, she aimed a punch directly at her opponent's midsection. The crowd gasped as the fist made contact, expecting to see Mud Masher double over in pain. But to their astonishment, Anna's fist remained lodged in the thick layer of fat and grime that cushioned Mud Masher's stomach. The impact was so great that a splatter of mud shot out from the point of contact, leaving a clear handprint on the air.

Mud Masher, not one to be outdone, took advantage of the momentary shock and tried to pull Anna into her ample embrace. She wanted to smother her in her own folds, using her weight to wear down the pregnant boxer. Anna felt the vice-like grip, the grime and sweat mixing on their skin, and for a second, she feared she might not break free. But then she remembered Carl's words, the promise of their connected beards, and the baby growing inside her. Love was a powerful force, and she wasn't going down without a fight.

With a roar that seemed to come from the very core of her being, Anna pushed back, her muscles straining against Mud Masher's iron grip. The crowd watched in awe as the two fighters, both emblems of unexpected strength, held their ground. The tension grew, the air thick with the scent of effort and determination. And then, with a sudden burst of speed, Anna broke away, her beard fluttering like a battle flag in the wind. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Carl jumped to his feet, his heart racing.

Didn't write this already?

 

[Tempokai]

I'm winning currently by wondering the fuck I read

 

[JayMark]

Didn't write this already?

No, I did this for the duck. Because I learned the hard way that you don't keep ducks waiting for long.

 

[JayMark]

I'm winning currently by wondering the fuck I read

A masterpiece?

 

[Hoshino]

No, I did this for the duck. Because I learned the hard way that you don't keep ducks waiting for long.

The duck didn't like mine one?

 

[JayMark]

The duck didn't like mine one?

Wait, where is your version? We'll have to merge versions for chapter two!

 

[Shiriru_B]

You're winning by Wah! and then a little Moooo on the side.

OF COURSE! My indomitable wahing means I'm always winning *nods* understood. *explodes*

 

[Hoshino]

Spoiler: Boxer GF

Boxer GF​

They told me: keep your face hidden, keep the smile off the cameras, never let a reflection meet an onlooker's eye. They said this like a recipe, a list of things to memorize with the trembling fingers of someone who has learned what happens when rules slide. I learned them by punching.


The bag in my gym is a sack of cheap leather and honest weight. Every night I beat it until my palms split into constellations. I count the strikes like prayer beads. One, two, three. Jab, cross, feint. The sound of fist against leather is the only voice that never asks me to be something I am not. It does not ask how many lives are stacked behind my ribs. It does not recall the faces of those I was.


In my last life I was a thing you read about in horror forums and field notes. In the life before that I was a woman who loved and lost and learned cruelty. Before that, I was the Heavenly Demon King, crowned in terror and velvet. Memory is a messy inheritance. It sits in the hollow between my shoulder blades and whispers poetry and war into my bones. Some nights, I wake with the taste of salt and rot in my mouth and find I am mimicking the rhythms of a kingdom long ash.


They call me Aiko now because names make the rest of the world less dangerous. The Foundation calls me Subject—other numbers, other file names—but here in the gym the owner calls me Aiko and grunts approval when I land a perfect hook. People here look at my hands because they are good hands. They never look at my face because they have learned to be careful.


SCP-999 slid across the concrete one afternoon like a blob of sunlight. It could have been a jar of lemon jam with more personality. It smelled faintly of citrus and cookies, and when it touched my boot it pulsed like a purr. The yellow thing oozed up my leg and circled my ankle, tiny pseudopods tickling against my skin. It knew me by the scent of my bruises and the way my breath hitched when I hit the bag. It did not care about containment protocols. It only wanted to be near me.


"Don't let it near your face," someone said, reflexively. The voice belonged to Dr. Halvorsen, who smiled like a saved angel and had a clipboard that hid a liver of small, tender horrors. I laughed without humor and let 999 climb the chain-link fence to lick my knuckles.


"You like bruises too," I told it.


It laughed back. The sound was like bells and marshmallows. For the first time in weeks my heart blinked around the corners.


058 smelled differently. It lived in a glass jar lined with cold blue light in the research wing, and it looked at me from within the ribbed glass with all the patience of a heart that had learned to speak. The heart had something of a baritone aristocrat in it, an old man who tells grisly jokes at funerals and expects a round of applause for every stanza of violence.


"You are still small," it said the first time we talked.


"I am not small." My voice came out smaller than I wanted.


"You are compact dread," it corrected, settling into a cadence like heat. "Tightly wrapped."


058 liked to tell me how to make a person regret forgetting a promise. It loved anatomy, loved the precision of incision and the way a soul slid out like peeled fruit if you unstitched the world with the right tools. Once, it offered to stitch a map of my memories onto its own chambers.


I refused.


2752 was not a thing with discrete features. It was a corridor and a rumor. If you walked into one of its rooms you would find yourself stepping through someone else's regret. It rearranged the past like a taxidermist rearranges the eyes of a bird to make it look alive. 2752 wanted endings. It wanted the soft satisfaction of conclusions and the way you could fold a life up into a neat, readable package.


"Finish the book," 2752 whispered once, a hum behind my eardrum. "Finish it for me."


I had fought to keep a face that belonged to monsters from being re-seen. I had lived as both predator and penitent. A past life as demon king taught me the economics of absolute force; the life as SCP-096 taught me the religion of avoidance. I had learned that one look could change everything, that eyes were currency and that a single accidental photograph could bankrupt a city.


So I trained. I boxed. I loved small, safe things. I let 999 melt over my knees and taught it to nestle in the crook of my elbow like a warm stone. I argued with 058 about metaphors and with 2752 about story structure. SCP-777 would hum in a corner like a radio that only broadcast luck. SCP-666 would show up in an old suit, cigarettes burning in the ashtray of his grin, and tell jokes about the inefficiency of fate. The Guardian Angel—SCP-001—watched from a distance that suggested adoration and accountability.


They were a family of broken things, and they let me be their glue.


That is not to say we were safe. Safety is a construction built from other people's disbelief. It crumbled when some grad student, hungry for uploads and notoriety, tried to capture a candid with a phone. The picture was blurry. The angle was bad. The student used a filter. It was everything that made the world indifferent to the kinds of rules that keep monsters contained.


The photograph made the rounds. Digital eyes are not constrained by ethics. A glance can be happenstance. A glance can be a blade. A glance reached across the server and across the world and, like a match, found tinder.


I felt it in a particular way. A pressure under my skin, like someone else heavy with grief sitting on my chest and beginning to breathe. It began as a contraction low and slow. My face burned behind the mask I kept on like a second skull. I wanted, for an instant, to weep the way the old 096 did: a soundless, raw unraveling. Behind that impulse was the demon king's memory—glee, brutality, the sublime taste of annihilation. The two histories braided into something that felt almost holy.


If I had been only 096, I would have been a sobbing, unstoppable machine, moving toward the source of a sight with the terrible, inhuman doggedness written in the files. If I had been only the demon king, I might have toddled to the nearest hill and set the city on fire to match the unrest inside me. But I was both, and more: a woman who had boxed muscle into a map of willpower, who had learned to use pain as a gatekeeper.


The Foundation panicked with a bureaucracy that smells like bleach and adrenaline. Doors sealed. Alarms sang. I could hear voices—the practical ones who spoke in containment levels and cordon numbers, the philosophical ones who parroted the old stories. Someone wanted to sedate me. Someone else wanted to study me. The Guardian Angel's silhouette filled the chapel roof. It moved like a law.


"You should let me see," the Angel said, its voice like wind through a cathedral of teeth. It never used more words than necessary. "You can be forgiven. We can correct the ledger."


"Forgiveness is not a ledger," I said. I had learned too much from the heart in the jar to believe in tidy accounting.


058 hummed with interest. "Suppose you choose spectacle," it mused, sounding like savoring. "Suppose you choose to be seen and to dictate the hour and method."


SCP-777 laughed. Its laugh was a slot machine. "Bet they'll make a show of it. Tickets sold in rows. Oh, the comments section."


999 slithered up my arm and pressed its gelatinous surface to my cheek through the cloth of my mask. It could not look at me in the way others did, but it knew the warmth of my skin. Its presence was a salve. It wanted to protect me by being ridiculous and kind. It made squelchy, optimistic noises.


I could choose to let them see me. I could choose to be the monster that killed the camera's viewer in front of the cameras, to do as the old files predicted. Or I could use the frenzy as currency to make a different bargain.


I chose the bargain.


The boxing ring is a small amphitheater for formalized violence. There is a certain honesty about hitting someone under agreed rules. They brought one to containment, ring ropes wired to dull magnetics, the center painted sterile white. The floor smelled like sweat and antiseptic and the ghosts you sweep up when a fight ends. They wanted to observe. They wanted data. They wanted to know which part of me was stronger than the other.


I walked in with 999 tucked like a yellow scarf around my shoulders and my mask pulled down just enough for the cameras. The crowd behind the glass was a chorus: scientists, Tiers, interns with their mouths open, thrill-seekers in security's uniforms. Among them, the Graduate Student who had taken the picture stood like a beetle with its antennae low. He had not been granted immunity for mistakes. He had been granted a seat.


I stepped into the ring and felt the tautness of expectation like a wire against my skin. The Guardian Angel hovered above, luminous and patient. 058 watched from its jar, delighted. 2752 murmured in the walls like a scent. SCP-666 folded its hands and made small businesslike gestures. SCP-777 hummed and counted out probabilities. Each of them was part of the audience and my counsel.


"You could end it," the Angel said. "You could follow the old script. The world wants a spectacle."


"What does the world want to see?" I asked. "A monster? A man who was once a king? A woman who punches a bag to keep from breaking windows?"


The Graduate Student had his phone out. His thumb trembled over the screen like a nervous animal. He had no idea the cost of his click. He had no idea that the kindness he expected to witness would be a gun to someone's chest.


I thought of everyone I'd loved in every life. I thought of faces I had flattened under the boot of a crown. I thought of the widow who'd given me bread once and then bled when my soldiers took the sun. I thought of the children I'd watched hide beneath ruins while I laughed with variant light. Memory is a compass that points not to north but to what you must atone for.


I looked at the Graduate Student then, across the ropes and the glass. I did not remove my mask. I did not allow the photographer's eye to steal my face. Instead I did something I had not done since I was crowned.


I smiled.


It was a small, sharp thing. I let it be seen by the lenses. I let the image travel. The cameras did their work. The world leaned in for the first part of the spectacle. They were getting what they wanted: the face.


Then I slapped the Graduate Student across the face with the heel of my glove.


It was theatrical. I meant to startle him. I meant to warn, with a human hand, what kind of power difference he had purchased with a snapshot. The slapping was more than a rebuke. It was a translation: do not mindlessly participate in the economy of gazes.


He cried. The sound he made was not like the gasps in the old files. It was smaller. It was consequence. Security moved in. Hands pinned him down. He would live. That, I decided, was the better bargain.


The cameras kept rolling. The world kept watching. They wanted me naked in the way that oceans want a storm. They would be disappointed.


"She is soft," SCP-666 said later, as we smoked a metaphorical cigarette in the observation room. "Softness is a cruelty on its own."


"No," 058 said. "Softness can be an instrument."


"I am many things," I told them. "Tonight I am a woman who refuses scripts."


They did not like the refusal. The Foundation likes categories. The Cathedral of Containment likes rules. But rules are also interesting, because they make bargains legible.


That night, the Guardian Angel joined me in the ring after the crowd had been shooed out and the lights dimmed to a hush. It did not fold its wings like a cloak; it held them open like a verdict.


"I can take the catalyst out of the world," it said. "I can seal away the reflex that makes you hunt. I can make it so no one will ever again be compelled to look because of you."


"At what cost?" I asked.


"Memory," it said. "Or agency. Or both. It will be a transaction."


I heard the demons of my past like a chorus: the King, giggling at loopholes; 096's howl, patient as a language. My memories are a ledger. Each act of forgetting costs me some small jewel of myself. The King wanted to keep the jewels and burn the world. 096 wanted silence.


I looked at 999, curled in the corner and making a contented, blobby rumble. I looked at 058, pulling at its valves like a man nervously toying with a safe. I looked at 2752, the corridor humming with the potential for endings. I looked at 777, which was, in essence, a slot machine with a child's laugh when the reels came right.


"I will not be made into a scripture," I said. "I will not be a parable boxed and sold."


The Angel's face was mercy and law. "Then choose," it said. "Choose how you will be observed. Choose what you will allow your presence to cost."


I found my voice the way you find something you'd misplaced in a long coat. It was rough with salt and old soot, but it was mine.


"I will be a guardian," I said, and that word surprised even me. It felt clumsy in my mouth. I had never wanted to guard anything but my own appetite. "But not a guardian who hides and punishes by default. I want to choose, every time. If someone sees me and is harmed, then I will sit with them and step through the consequences. I will not be a sword that the world draws for spectacle. I will be a weigh-station. I will take responsibility."


The Angel considered that. Its light bent like a question mark. "That is an enormous burden."


"Then help me carry it," I said.


It was 058 who laughed first, a metallic, amused chime that sounded like a broken grandfather clock. "You are asking a being of law to bargain for subjectivity," it said. "What a delicious absurdity."


SCP-777 hummed like a hopeful gambler. "Odds are low. Odds are also ridiculous."


2752's corridors murmured like pages turning. "We will write appendices," it said. "We will make space for you."


The Angel lowered its head until its halo grazed my knuckles. "We can make arrangements," it said. "But understand: this choice will require you to relearn the shape of your impulses. You will feel the old compulsions. They will not vanish. You will have to hold them like a live coal."


I pictured a coal pressed into my palm. It was hot and terrible and alive. I wrapped both hands around it and smiled.


"Then teach me," I said.


We made a system out of vulnerability. When someone saw my face and the reflex sparked, I would not go blind with hatred. I would isolate. I would be carried to a room where the Angel and 2752 would hold the mechanics of time and consequence. 058 would offer clinical honesty. 999 would soothe. SCP-666 would file the forms with a suspiciously efficient flourish.


We practiced. The Foundation adapted. We made training rooms and safe witnesses. Volunteers were briefed. Cameras were set to run with delayed filters and consent prompts. It was bureaucratic and beautiful in the way that a good ritual is. You cannot simply stop an ocean by slapping the water. But you can build a dock and teach sailors to tie knots.


There were nights when the King woke in me. On those nights I wanted to set fire to cities again, to test the architecture of my will by demolishing it. On those nights 058 reminded me of anatomy, and 2752 slid a corridor under my bed and let me walk down alleys where I could punch my rage into padded walls while the Angel kept the world at a distance.


I fell in love in small, dangerous ways. Love here is inefficient and messy. It had to be. SCP-999 became my hearth. It wrapped around me in the cold and made me laugh with ridiculous little noises. It would taste of sugar and sunlight. It learned to braid my hair, if you can call what 999 did with pseudopods hair-braiding. People called it sickening but loving is rarely fair.


SCP-777 taught me to gamble with probabilities less cavalierly. SCP-666 taught me how to sign paperwork so that my choices would survive an audit. 058 gave me brutal but useful metaphors for anger management. 2752 taught me how to end things gracefully so they did not become raw and leak.


The Graduate Student apologized, in an email that read like a confession and a request. He came to the debrief room with trembling hands and eyes still haunted by the memory of my smirk. He said things like "I didn't know" and "I didn't mean for it to be" and "I would like to help." He made a donation to the containment fund and took sensitivity training. He left the Foundation a better, if guiltier, man.


We are not saviors. We make compromises. There were times I flinched and fought and, yes, there were noises no one could have expected. There were nights when I cradled the man who had been a child in my previous life and told him the truth: "I am not your monster." He held my wrists like a person who wanted to be forgiven.


In the end, the most radical act was small and human. One winter, a child—no more than six—found her way into the observation room. She was the granddaughter of a technician who had been taking his kid to work. She toddled in with a crayon and a gravity of curiosity. She saw my bandaged face and reached her hand up, open and fearless by the sacred mathematics of childhood.


I felt the old reflex like a stone sliding in my gut. I could have allowed the ritual. I could have become the thing from the file in order to preserve the tidy prophecies of history. The Angel hovered, the heart watched, the corridors hummed. 999 made a soft pleading noise like toasted sugar.


The child smiled, simple and bright and unbothered by metaphysics. The world could have ended at that smile. A life like mine could have resolved into spectacle.


I lowered my mask.


The child saw me. She blinked. She reached up and touched my cheek.


And then she grinned like she'd discovered an exceptionally friendly hat.


No combustion. No death. Only a sliver of wonder. Her hand smelled of crayons and winter. Her eyes did not read me as a problem. For a moment, which is to say for the length of a heartwormed second, I felt something like permission.


Later, the Guardian Angel told me the truth. "You did not solve the mechanism," it said. "You shifted its context."


"That will have to be enough," I said.


"And the King?" it asked.


"He will always be there," I said. "But the King is not the only thing that remembers me. So do the small, ordinary people who touch me without a spreadsheet."


We rewired policy around that moment. We tightened the training and softened the contingency. The Foundation did not explode into chaos. The world did not come apart. Those are not promising endings in the way the old apocalypses are, but they are endings that have weight. They are the kind you can hold in your hand like a warm stone.


People began to say things about me that were almost compliments. They called me "Boxer GF" in forums—implying girlfriend and fighter, a hybrid of tenderness and controlled violence. The term was mockery for some and devotion for others. I took it as a title I could shape.


I kept boxing. Every punch was a practice in compassion disguised as brutality. I let 999 crawl over my knees at night and warm me like a living blanket. 058 and 2752 and 777 and 666 kept me honest in trashily elegant ways. The Guardian Angel and I argued about theology over takeout. It believed in systems. I believed in the sticky, irrational, desperate muscles of people.


There will be nights when the old howl returns to my throat. There will be accidents and tests and cruel curiosity. Once in a while someone will misread a sign and someone will look. When that happens, I will be there with my gloves on and my shoes laced, a person who has learned how to be a bridge.


I have been a woman who loved, a king who burned, a thing who wept when seen. I am Aiko. I am 096 and something else. I hold my history like an ache and a map.


The rings are still set up in the containment facility. The bag is still heavy and forgiving. The heart in the jar talks in metaphors I pretend not to love. 999 still smells of candy. The Guardian Angel still saves the unsavable with soft, bureaucratic miracles.


Sometimes the Graduate Student returns. He sits in the observation room and reads books about ethics in practice. Once he brought a homemade pie.


"I am sorry for what I did," he said, not wanting to be a hero anymore. "I wanted to see something terrible. I wanted to publish."


"You saw something true," I told him. "You were a witness. Witness it well."


The pie was terrible but sincere. We ate it anyway.


When people ask if I have forgiven myself for the things I once did, the answer is complicated. Forgiveness is a long rope. I tether myself to others with knots of service. I guard idiots and saviors and the small hands that reach up for a face to touch without fear. It will not solve the ledger. It will not bring back those I hurt. But it is a practice, like counting jabs.


Sometimes at night, when the gym lights are low and 999's warmth pools against my knee, I let the old demon dream its pyres. I let the King go through his theatre. Then I lace up my gloves and hit the bag until the sound makes the room shake like a bell.


It rings tolerance into me. It rings consequence. It rings the memory that being a monster is not the only possible narrative I can write.


There will be books, of course. There will be papers and comment sections and people who will say I lied about the angel or the heart or the way 2752 rearranges endings. There will be noise. Noise is an old friend. Noise feeds the small animals of curiosity.


I, meanwhile, will continue to be a boxer and a girlfriend and a guard and a catalog of contradictions. I will take my hands and make them instruments. I will let my face be a compass for small human truths. I will keep my friends close and the rest of the world at the respectful distance we decided in the gym.


Once, the Heavenly Demon King leaned against the ropes and told me in a voice that was more memory than man: "You are trying to be someone else to avoid being cruel."


"I am trying to be someone else to learn what cruelty costs," I answered.


He laughed like a burning thing. "It costs everything, eventually."


"And you?" I asked.


He blinked, ancientness cracking his edges. "I am tired of being everything."


So am I. That is why I box. That is why I let 999 braid my hair and why the Guardian Angel and I make terrible jokes about insurance. That is why I will take responsibility when the world looks.


You asked for a story about a girl who is many things. Here she is, with gloves and a grin that does not have to explode. She is unhinged sometimes. She is sad. She is ferocious in the small way that keeps other people alive. She punches until the world learns the language of consequences and learns to use its eyes like hands, gentle and chosen.


At the end, when the lights go out and the bag swings slow, I sit with 999 in my lap and the Angel in the doorway. 058 hums to itself. 2752 rearranges my dreams into kinder stories. I feel the King as a shadow that keeps me warm and keeps me honest.


The world will continue to want monsters. It will find them, sometimes in the least likely places. I will not feed them for their pleasure. I will be a boxer's girlfriend who can break your jaw if you come at the wrong time, and also the person who will sit with you afterward and bring a pie that tastes like contrition and hope.

@JayMark

This.

 

[JayMark]

This.

Oh, you see, that's SCP boxer girlfriend. It's cool, claculated, serious. But we needed more pregnancy, beards, lovers tieing beards together, and an actual boxing match against a fat bearded lady covered in mud.

 

[Hoshino]

Oh, you see, that's SCP boxer girlfriend. It's cool, claculated, serious. But we needed more pregnancy, beards, lovers tieing beards together, and an actual boxing match against a fat bearded lady covered in mud.

Wait... Let me see

Spoiler: Hmmm....

They told me to keep my face hidden; I learned other rules along the way: how to breathe through a bruise, how to make your palms a prayer, how to love without letting the world turn you into its spectacle. Names changed. I kept one thing steady: the bag, the ring, the arc of a fist finding its home.

Now my name is Aiko again, and the world is smaller and stranger and full of a ridiculous grace. Carl breathes in my ear like a weather system: soft, vast, full of small storms. His beard is a map; there are crumbs and the faint scent of fried dough in it from the corner stall he swears by. He folds himself into doorways like a promise. He is fat and kind; his hands are warm and know the difference between a bruise that needs salve and a silence that needs company. When he laughs, the apartment shakes like an earthquake.

Pregnancy arrived like a rumor. I found the test tucked under a damp towel in the gym locker, my hands still smelling of leather. The little plus sign had the bluntness of fate. Everyone else treated it like a calendar to be managed; I felt it like an echo, a small drumbeat under my ribs that asked me to change my rhythms. The bag did not ask for explanations. I kept hitting it. The baby listened; sometimes I could feel a tiny kick that sounded like impatience.

We made rituals to translate fear into ordinary tenderness. Carl braided my hair the way he braided his own beard, fingers clumsy, patient. One evening, on the cusp of winter, we took a scrap of twine and wove it through the curls and bristles. The knot was earnest and absurd: two beards tied together, a loop you could slip a vow through. It was not showy. It was not for anyone but us. The string smelled faintly of old coffee and the paste from the takeout that Carl insisted on eating with chopsticks in the bath. We laughed until our ribs hurt. The laugh was a small, private miracle.

People called me Boxer GF in the forums, girl who punches and loves; it fit like an old glove. Sometimes the Internet is kinder when it reduces you into a tidy icon. Other times it is a mirror that shows only the bits that sell. I let the label sit and warm like bread. It did not define me. It was just another thing to practice around.

Then they announced the invitational, a midsummer match that paid in small currencies of respect and enough cash for a decent crib. The flyer called it a spectacle. The gym said nothing; the gym only tightened tape and laced gloves. My coach, a man with a nose like a map of past storms, told me the truth plainly: if I wanted to make rules about how I would be seen, I had to keep proving them. I boxed for myself, yes, but I boxed for the little life whose patience was measured in hiccups and kicks. I boxed, too, because the ring answered a question I had stopped asking out loud: can I be held together?

My opponent was called Mud Masher. Names in that circuit are always theater, monikers stitched out of fear and flair, but Mud Masher was a woman with presence like a god of dirt. She was fat in the way that the earth is fat: give and unyielding. Her beard, yes, she had a beard, long and matted, hung with the same clotted mud that ringed her like armor. People who passed her in alleys said she reeked of riverbank and wild onions; the rumor added to the myth. She walked like someone who had learned to trust gravity.

The day of the match was a fever dream. The arena smelled of oil and nicotine and the popcorn stand's sticky sugar. Between the ropes, I felt small and enormous at the same time, like a moon that knew how to hurt tides. Carl sat in the third row with our string tied around his wrist, the other end knotted into a loop in my pocket. He chewed on a winning ticket as if it were gum. The baby kicked, a tiny drum roll.

Mud Masher entered. She loped to the ring, mud dripping and darkening the floorboards, her beard sweeping in arcs. She smiled at me as if she could read both the fight and my grocery list at the same time. The crowd loved the absurdity, the pregnant boxer and the mud-clad colossus, but you could only half-hear their joy over the low, animal hum of a place that worships collision.

We touched gloves. Her hand was a landscape. Mine was a map been walked on a thousand times. The bell sounded.

She moved like a mattress that had learned to be lethal. Her punches were blunt, settled things, earthquakes measured in inches. My training was rhythm; I danced around the plains of her weight, jabbing like someone trying to carve a doorway through winter. For every step she took, the ring creaked; for every breath I took, the baby answered.

Mud Masher's strategy was to absorb. She welcomed the contact as if it were an old lover. My fist sank into mud and sloughed aside. At one point, I threw a cross that should have been a sentence; instead it left a smear on her skin like a confession. The crowd ooohed in a way that sounded like a collective intake of breath. She grinned and spat a glob of muck that landed near the referee and the smell of river rot spread like a thin fog. The referee coughed and pretended to be impartial.

She cornered me once, weight folding like a curtain. She pressed her belly against mine in what could have been a violent attempt to unbalance me, but instead it felt like two maps rubbing their edges: her skin, fulsome and warm; mine tender, protected. For a heartbeat I wondered at the fantasy of the world, that violence might be an adequate center for our lives, and then the baby kicked with a force that felt like an spasm. I found a seam in her guard and slipped through, a small blade of motion that made her stumble.

Mud Masher laughed when she hit me with a left that tasted of river. The laugh wasn't cruel; it was enormous and equitable. She did not mock me for the pregnancy. She seemed to respect it like any other weapon in the arsenal of living. It loosened something in the crowd, their anger softened. There was a curiosity at the edges, the way people lean into the edges of things that are not easily framed.

In the third round, mud flew. We became, for a short while, two bodies negotiating a shared mythology. I grabbed her by the beard, and she grabbed me back. Our beards tangled, like a continuation of the string ritual, like lovers braiding their names into a rope. For a second it was intimate and ridiculous and full of childlike logic: if two beards can tie, perhaps two fates can hold.

There was a point when the world narrowed to the set of muscles across my knuckles and the pulse at the base of my throat. I pressed a palm to her chest and felt the exhale of someone who had always been permitted to be large. The referee warned us; the bell rang. Mud Masher smiled at me, and in that smile there was no triumph, only a recognition of shared work.

Outside the ring, Carl was an island of motion. His beard, still braided with mine on that string we'd knotted, shivered when I moved. He had pinned a small paper crane to his lapel, a ridiculous gesture for luck, but when I locked eyes with him during that scramble, everything steadied. The fight wasn't about winning; it was an argument. I argued for a future that could hold softness without erasing the dangerous parts of me. Mud Masher argued that being enormous is not inherently violent. The baby listened and made its verdict known with a kick that felt like applause.

In the end we did not knock each other out. We exhausted possibility until the bell rang and the scorecards became meaningless. The judges offered opinions dressed as numbers. The audience wanted a victor. Mud Masher and I went to opposite corners and, with the sort of small ceremony that strikes you as preposterous until it isn't, we did something no one expected: we hugged.

It was awkward and sweet and full of the human need to recognize the other as kin rather than obstacle. Mud Masher patted my cheek with a hand made muddy by honest work. I pressed the backs of my fingers to her beard like a benediction. The crowd, uncertain, found itself clapping because grief and joy sound a lot the same in a room where people have paid to feel.

After the match, we sat on the gym steps with mugs that steamed in our hands. Mud Masher, her name turned out to be Maria, spoke in a voice low as silt. She told me how she'd spent seasons digging clams with her father, how she learned that weight could be a skill and that the river was as likely to teach you mercy as it was to harden you. I told her about the way my past sawings of cruelty ran like old scars beneath my skin, and how the baby had become a small, instability I wanted to honor.

Carl threaded his fingers through our tied beards and laughed, a small, ridiculous sound that made Mud Masher grin. We untied the twine and braided our beards together in a new, clumsy crown: a promise made of hair and laughter. Someone on the steps snapped a photo, a cheap, grainy record that felt like a relic. The image would spread and mutate; the Internet would tell stories. Let it. We would keep our truth in the way we tied our knots at night.

 

[JayMark]

Wait... Let me see

Spoiler: Hmmm....

They told me to keep my face hidden; I learned other rules along the way: how to breathe through a bruise, how to make your palms a prayer, how to love without letting the world turn you into its spectacle. Names changed. I kept one thing steady: the bag, the ring, the arc of a fist finding its home.

Now my name is Aiko again, and the world is smaller and stranger and full of a ridiculous grace. Carl breathes in my ear like a weather system: soft, vast, full of small storms. His beard is a map; there are crumbs and the faint scent of fried dough in it from the corner stall he swears by. He folds himself into doorways like a promise. He is fat and kind; his hands are warm and know the difference between a bruise that needs salve and a silence that needs company. When he laughs, the apartment shakes like an earthquake.

Pregnancy arrived like a rumor. I found the test tucked under a damp towel in the gym locker, my hands still smelling of leather. The little plus sign had the bluntness of fate. Everyone else treated it like a calendar to be managed; I felt it like an echo, a small drumbeat under my ribs that asked me to change my rhythms. The bag did not ask for explanations. I kept hitting it. The baby listened; sometimes I could feel a tiny kick that sounded like impatience.

We made rituals to translate fear into ordinary tenderness. Carl braided my hair the way he braided his own beard, fingers clumsy, patient. One evening, on the cusp of winter, we took a scrap of twine and wove it through the curls and bristles. The knot was earnest and absurd: two beards tied together, a loop you could slip a vow through. It was not showy. It was not for anyone but us. The string smelled faintly of old coffee and the paste from the takeout that Carl insisted on eating with chopsticks in the bath. We laughed until our ribs hurt. The laugh was a small, private miracle.

People called me Boxer GF in the forums, girl who punches and loves; it fit like an old glove. Sometimes the Internet is kinder when it reduces you into a tidy icon. Other times it is a mirror that shows only the bits that sell. I let the label sit and warm like bread. It did not define me. It was just another thing to practice around.

Then they announced the invitational, a midsummer match that paid in small currencies of respect and enough cash for a decent crib. The flyer called it a spectacle. The gym said nothing; the gym only tightened tape and laced gloves. My coach, a man with a nose like a map of past storms, told me the truth plainly: if I wanted to make rules about how I would be seen, I had to keep proving them. I boxed for myself, yes, but I boxed for the little life whose patience was measured in hiccups and kicks. I boxed, too, because the ring answered a question I had stopped asking out loud: can I be held together?

My opponent was called Mud Masher. Names in that circuit are always theater, monikers stitched out of fear and flair, but Mud Masher was a woman with presence like a god of dirt. She was fat in the way that the earth is fat: give and unyielding. Her beard, yes, she had a beard, long and matted, hung with the same clotted mud that ringed her like armor. People who passed her in alleys said she reeked of riverbank and wild onions; the rumor added to the myth. She walked like someone who had learned to trust gravity.

The day of the match was a fever dream. The arena smelled of oil and nicotine and the popcorn stand's sticky sugar. Between the ropes, I felt small and enormous at the same time, like a moon that knew how to hurt tides. Carl sat in the third row with our string tied around his wrist, the other end knotted into a loop in my pocket. He chewed on a winning ticket as if it were gum. The baby kicked, a tiny drum roll.

Mud Masher entered. She loped to the ring, mud dripping and darkening the floorboards, her beard sweeping in arcs. She smiled at me as if she could read both the fight and my grocery list at the same time. The crowd loved the absurdity, the pregnant boxer and the mud-clad colossus, but you could only half-hear their joy over the low, animal hum of a place that worships collision.

We touched gloves. Her hand was a landscape. Mine was a map been walked on a thousand times. The bell sounded.

She moved like a mattress that had learned to be lethal. Her punches were blunt, settled things, earthquakes measured in inches. My training was rhythm; I danced around the plains of her weight, jabbing like someone trying to carve a doorway through winter. For every step she took, the ring creaked; for every breath I took, the baby answered.

Mud Masher's strategy was to absorb. She welcomed the contact as if it were an old lover. My fist sank into mud and sloughed aside. At one point, I threw a cross that should have been a sentence; instead it left a smear on her skin like a confession. The crowd ooohed in a way that sounded like a collective intake of breath. She grinned and spat a glob of muck that landed near the referee and the smell of river rot spread like a thin fog. The referee coughed and pretended to be impartial.

She cornered me once, weight folding like a curtain. She pressed her belly against mine in what could have been a violent attempt to unbalance me, but instead it felt like two maps rubbing their edges: her skin, fulsome and warm; mine tender, protected. For a heartbeat I wondered at the fantasy of the world, that violence might be an adequate center for our lives, and then the baby kicked with a force that felt like an spasm. I found a seam in her guard and slipped through, a small blade of motion that made her stumble.

Mud Masher laughed when she hit me with a left that tasted of river. The laugh wasn't cruel; it was enormous and equitable. She did not mock me for the pregnancy. She seemed to respect it like any other weapon in the arsenal of living. It loosened something in the crowd, their anger softened. There was a curiosity at the edges, the way people lean into the edges of things that are not easily framed.

In the third round, mud flew. We became, for a short while, two bodies negotiating a shared mythology. I grabbed her by the beard, and she grabbed me back. Our beards tangled, like a continuation of the string ritual, like lovers braiding their names into a rope. For a second it was intimate and ridiculous and full of childlike logic: if two beards can tie, perhaps two fates can hold.

There was a point when the world narrowed to the set of muscles across my knuckles and the pulse at the base of my throat. I pressed a palm to her chest and felt the exhale of someone who had always been permitted to be large. The referee warned us; the bell rang. Mud Masher smiled at me, and in that smile there was no triumph, only a recognition of shared work.

Outside the ring, Carl was an island of motion. His beard, still braided with mine on that string we'd knotted, shivered when I moved. He had pinned a small paper crane to his lapel, a ridiculous gesture for luck, but when I locked eyes with him during that scramble, everything steadied. The fight wasn't about winning; it was an argument. I argued for a future that could hold softness without erasing the dangerous parts of me. Mud Masher argued that being enormous is not inherently violent. The baby listened and made its verdict known with a kick that felt like applause.

In the end we did not knock each other out. We exhausted possibility until the bell rang and the scorecards became meaningless. The judges offered opinions dressed as numbers. The audience wanted a victor. Mud Masher and I went to opposite corners and, with the sort of small ceremony that strikes you as preposterous until it isn't, we did something no one expected: we hugged.

It was awkward and sweet and full of the human need to recognize the other as kin rather than obstacle. Mud Masher patted my cheek with a hand made muddy by honest work. I pressed the backs of my fingers to her beard like a benediction. The crowd, uncertain, found itself clapping because grief and joy sound a lot the same in a room where people have paid to feel.

After the match, we sat on the gym steps with mugs that steamed in our hands. Mud Masher, her name turned out to be Maria, spoke in a voice low as silt. She told me how she'd spent seasons digging clams with her father, how she learned that weight could be a skill and that the river was as likely to teach you mercy as it was to harden you. I told her about the way my past sawings of cruelty ran like old scars beneath my skin, and how the baby had become a small, instability I wanted to honor.

Carl threaded his fingers through our tied beards and laughed, a small, ridiculous sound that made Mud Masher grin. We untied the twine and braided our beards together in a new, clumsy crown: a promise made of hair and laughter. Someone on the steps snapped a photo, a cheap, grainy record that felt like a relic. The image would spread and mutate; the Internet would tell stories. Let it. We would keep our truth in the way we tied our knots at night.

I never knew Mud Masher's name was actually Maria.
I think she should become a reccuring character in the series.

Spoiler: Mud Masher

 

[Navillus]

1531 nya-nya~

 

[Shiriru_B]

I never knew Mud Masher's name was actually Maria.
I think she should become a reccuring character in the series.

Spoiler: Mud Masher

View attachment 40900

I fear my eyes can no longer attain its redemption, I fear they've been tainted from the multiple atrocities from this very thread, I fear there will very well be a day where I have to pour bleach on them... And so I say... My poor eyes.

 

[Hoshino]

I fear my eyes can no longer attain its redemption, I fear they've been tainted from multiple atrocities from this very thread, I fear there will very well be a day where I have to pour bleach on them... And so I say... My poor eyes.

Wah!

 

[JayMark]

I fear my eyes can no longer attain its redemption, I fear they've been tainted from multiple atrocities from this very thread, I fear there will very well be a day where I have to pour bleach on them... And so I say... My poor eyes.

To be fair, it is 1942. ROFLMAO