#clawing at the walls. might have to make a quote board.

[shitpostingkats]

Going through a Category 5 Autism Event over riz gukgak, lads

[aggressive-positivity-network]

do any of the mercs play board games?

Mercopoly (Board Game

Headcanons)

Scout:

You think he has enough of an attention span to play something that doesn’t involve sweating out his energy drinks?

Hell no!

He gets very bored very quickly, especially with something complex like chess.

He’ll play cards sometimes, but only Crazy Eights and Go Fish - that’s all he knows how to play.

However, there is one true board game he plays occasionally: Candy Land.

It’s one of the few board games that you don’t really have to read the rules for, and there isn’t any writing on the cards.

However, he only asks to play it when he’s not feeling very well.

Medic even has a page in his medical journal for the mercs that says, and I quote:

“The Scout has an extremely short attention span, and if an activity isn’t active or immersive, he will not stay long. If at any point he chooses a sedentary activity, a check-up is in order.”

As sad as it is, a request to play Candyland is a good way to know if Scout needs a little extra reassurance or support.

By the end of the game, Scout usually feels more himself, whether he wins or not.

Engie is especially good with Scout when he’s this way, being the one of the most emotionally sensitive of the group. But he also knows Scout would never admit straight-away how he was feeling, so he usually has a more fun way of getting answers.

“You feelin’ more like a King Candy or a Lord Licorice?”

“...Fudge Monster.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah...”

Spy:

If you ask him, he will most likely go off on a tangent about chess, and how it’s a game of strategy, deception, and crushing your enemy with your wit.

He scoffs at any other game, and constantly makes fun of several of his more intelligent peers for finding interest in them.

“You are mercenaries. Blood-thirsty killers of men. And you are playing ‘Hungry, Hungry Hippos’ like a hoarde of kindergartners?”

But one thing he cannot resist is Sorry.

He considers it above normal board games because it has strategy - or at least that what he says.

He actually just likes it because it’s a game of revenge, which is like a drug to him.

He’s gotten so good at it that if he asks you to play Sorry with him, it’s almost guaranteed that he’s mad at you and just wants to let off some steam by giving you a horrendous loss. However, occasionally, he’s the one who loses.

Spy isn’t a poor sport, exactly - he’s too cultured for that - but sometimes his pride outweighs his manners and he convinces himself that the other player cheated through made up signs of deception.

He simply “allows” them to win because he “doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

But god help the unfortunate soul who decides to rub their win in his face.

Sniper had won five games in a row, and it was clear Spy was getting hot under the collar.

Sniper ended their games with a mischievous, “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.” and a small pat on his shoulder.

Spy immediately saw red, grabbed Sniper’s hand, and before the aussie knew it, he was against a concrete wall with a butterfly knife to his throat.

“I could kill you right now. Your final cry for Medic will be drowned in blood, and I would leave you here to die a painful, dramatic death. You’ll be replaced with a rusted trash can of a bot until they could grow another clone of you. Every memory will be gone. The team will be shrouded in grief, not because of losing you, but losing what the clone can never have. And I shall bide my time, ask the clone to play the same game, and kill them when they win. Another clone, another kill. And again. And again. And again. You think the Manns give a damn as long as their work is getting done? You will never be able to form a single thought before I spill your blood - caught in an eternal prisoner’s dilemma where you always lose.”

After gathering his bearings, Sniper finally spoke.

“Is this about your takeout?”

Spy scoffed.

“Do you really think - !”

“Tonight, my treat if you don’t kill me.”

Spy squinted.

“Egg rolls?”

“And an extra order of crab rangoon.”

“Your treat?”

“Yep.”

“How do I know you won’t poison me?”

“Chemical test before and after the food arrives.”

“How do I know Medic isn’t in on it?”

“Miss Pauling as a witness and Scout as an overseer. Pauling’s main objective is to keep us alive, and Scout can’t do bloody anything subtle, even if he wanted to. You can also play back the cameras in the lab, if the mood really struck ya.”

Spy held Sniper against the wall for a minute or two while he thought it all over, then let Sniper fall to the ground.

“I don’t need your sympathy, bushman. But you had better keep your end of the deal. I am the only backstabber around here.”

Demo:

Can’t even stay awake long enough to play most board games.

On the rare chance that he’s sober, he, Engie, and Medic like to play Monopoly.

Here’s the thing: you should never ask a drunkard, an engineer, and a sadist genius to play Monopoly together. It will not end well.

They have been playing the same game for years, with new rules in place and physical extensions to the board in order to try and end the game. Every other Friday, they take the weekend to try and finish it.

However, it all ends up fruitless.

Demo is usually the one keeping the peace, since he is the least competitive out of the three. That isn’t to say he isn’t clawing for the win as much as the other two, but he is definitely the least invested. He’s mostly staying out of principle.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, ‘s ta ne’er give up, e’en when the goin’s gettin’ tough. Roll the dice, doc.”

Despite his confidence, he’s not even sure what he would do if he or anyone else won. It would seem more like a relief than a celebration.

Medic:

He’s the one who started the Eternal Monopoly game, which has led to some theories that the game itself came straight from hell, and is one of the many punishments used on sinners. The box does smell a bit of brimstone…

He seems to enjoy the chaos that each round brings and the challenge of coming up with new rules to the game. To any outsider, his commentary and directions are complete nonsense.

“According to zhe ‘Calvinball Rule,’ as stated by Engineer, and the ‘Double Kill,’ as stated by myself, since the current time ends vis a three and ve all received at least two kills zhis veek, ve need to double every other roll and whomever loses zhe resulting game of ‘Bim Bum’ vill have to go to zhe Purple Jail.”

The rules and mechanics are like an unholy amalgamation of Monpoly, Sorry, chess, D&D, Bluff, and poker.

However, when Medic isn’t stapling pages of rules together, he likes to play a nice, relaxing game of checkers with Heavy.

Both of them are excellent checker players, but neither of them care who wins.

In fact, they usually talk over the game, taking the other player’s pieces as one of them shares a story from that day’s battle.

They’ve even played while Heavy was in surgery - leading to many unfortunate times when Medic had to fish a piece out of Heavy’s intestines.

One would think that a genius doctor would also have a passion for chess, but he expresses his disdain for it almost every time the checker board is brought out.

“Ach, people think chess is such an intelligent sport. Let me tell you, liebling, it is terribly overrated. If zhe devil can play chess, anyvun can. He might as vell just give souls avay, vis those shaky claws of his.”

Engineer:

Being the engineer, he is usually the one to add to the Eternal Monopoly.

Pieces, board extensions, cards, trivia - it gives him a nice break from all the weaponry.

He’s usually the one who remembers all the mechanics and rules, and serves as the judge if rules contradict each other.

“Alright, now let’s see here…we’ve got the Infinity Loop over here, but now you’ve got the Time Travel card…how many years? Infinite? Ho boy…looks like I’m gonna have to add a Hilbert’s Hotel square somewhere. Hold on…”

Despite his affinity for Eternal Monopoly, Engineer will play almost any board game. He learns new rules and figures quickly, and enjoys the challenges that brings.

However, if he’s particularly burnt out, he likes to take a break by playing Jenga. He and Spy have a friendly rivalry, since Engie can tell which blocks are supporting and Spy has quick fingers.

Spy, oddly, is a lot more amiable losing in Jenga - he knows Engie won’t think less of him - but Engineer hates when the bricks fall over. Not because it means he lost, but because, to him, it’s a failure on his part…even if it was someone else that knocked it over.

He’s made several blueprints for the perfect Jenga game, but has concluded that no human hand could put it into practice.

During one particularly bad day, Engie bumped the table, causing the whole column to come crashing down. Spy had already recovered from the noise, but Engie was still standing there, stone-faced.

His eyes were covered by his goggles, but it was clear he was crying.

Several of his machines had broken on the job, and to him, this was just another egregious mistake.

Spy carefully put the blocks back in the container, and Engie came to his senses.

“I’m real sorry, Spy. Maybe another time…?”

Spy only nodded. He was thinking.

The next time they played, Spy brought out a different container.

Instead of wood, the bricks seemed to be made of a sturdy foam.

“They fall a bit more…quietly,” Spy explained. He dropped one, and it only made a small bouncing sound. “Pyro uses these, but they allowed me to borrow it.”

Engie was a bit skeptical at first, since it was a new material, but he got the hang of it rather quickly. He was almost ecstatic the first time it fell - the blocks barely made any sound at all!

After a few games, Spy had to leave for an assignment. Engie put a hand on their arm.

“Thank ya, Spy. Maybe you ain’t the cold-blooded backstabber I thought you were.”

Spy chuckled, but said little else. He didn’t want to admit that noise sensitivity plagued him as well.

Pyro:

Pyro loves board games, and has quite the collection in their room.

Each plastic piece is at least a little melted, and all the boxes have two or three scorch marks.

Hungry Hungry Hippos, Candyland, and Uno are among her favorites.

He is an absolute beast at Uno, though.

They take each game very seriously, especially when they can convince the whole team to play.

As you can imagine, it’s pure chaos - it even led to a rule in the Merc Guidebook: “When playing Uno with three or more players with the inclusion of a Pyro, at least one Mann Co. representative and/or a mediating Medic must be present.”

Pyro has been known the hide cards, bribe players, or even try to set flame to competition. Playing Uno is almost like a mission, with weapon preparation and Spy posing as other players.

The mercs even have a betting stand that Sniper runs. All parties have lost a lot of money that way.

It’s pretty much the only time outside of battle that the team remembers how cruel and malicious Pyro can be.

Sniper:

Conventional board games aren’t exactly his forté, but he does enjoy a bit of cards every once in a while - Solitaire being his favorite.

He even has a pack of cards in his Sniper Square for that exact purpose. It allows him the pass the time without having to look away from his targets too often.

On occasion, he could be pressed to play poker, but only if the stakes weren’t monetary (i.e candy pieces, crackers, duties, etc.).

His favorite part of every match is shuffling the cards. Pretty much every merc could shuffle cards, but Sniper could make them almost float with how quick his fingers and wrists moved. He always began the game with a new trick he learned, which delighted his fellow players (usually Spy, Engineer, Medic, and Demo).

You could always tell if he had a busy day because he would avoid tricks with too much movement, which would be murder on his sore fingers and hands.

Pyro is currently learning card tricks from Sniper, and show off what they learn at the beginning of every Uno game.

Heavy:

He isn’t a huge fan of the bright, plastic-y board games that Pyro has, although he will play them if asked.

It’s mostly because of how complicated the rules are and the fact there are almost never a Russian translation for the directions.

He always prefers checkers, cards, or mancala, which he almost exclusively plays with Medic because he’s the only one who speaks fluent Russian.

Heavy can play a mean game of mancala, though, and it’s the only game he can beat Medic at.

Soldier:

The only games he will play are Battleship and Uno - but only after Miss Pauling convinced him it was “American enough” because the game had red, white, and blue cards.

He prefers the electronic Battleship because of the sound effects and voices. However, if it’s out of batteries, he’ll make his own sound effects.

Miss Pauling is the best at pretending to be a commander, so she’s usually the one playing with him - but, sometimes, Demo gets in on the action, too.

[shirtlesssammy]

6x22: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Then:

I will never forgive the show for this pain

Now:

Sam is running for his life and pops into a bar to escape the cops. Duma The bartender tells him to leave and grabs a bat, but Sam begs and she relents. She asks him his name, but he doesn’t remember. 

She tries helping him retrace his steps. He doesn’t remember anything before two cops finding him and him taking them down before running. She tells him that he needs to go to the doctor. He refuses. There’s somewhere he has to be --something he has to stop. 

Sam sees a HP Lovecraft book and has flashes of Bobby and the Nite Owl Hotel. The bartender makes one final push to take Sam to the hospital, but he needs to get to that hotel. She offers to drive. 

Once there, Sam instinctively knows to go to one room. They break in to find the room one giant murder board. She also finds his fake IDs.

Sam has another --longer-- flashback to Bobby, Dean, and him finding Eleanor in an alley, dying. She tells them they know how to crack Purgatory open. 

They plan on opening the door at noon --a solar eclipse. 

Cas flaps in and apologizes. 

Dean wants a fight, but Cas is beyond that. He tells them to go home and just let him stop Raphael. ”I wish it hadn't come to this. Well rest assured, when this is all over, I will save Sam, but only if you stand down.”

He then breaks Sam’s wall. 

In the present day, Sam remembers his name, and doesn’t want to tell Robin (she has a name!--had to look that up though) because it would be crazy. Sam remembers Bobby --but only finds his address. Robin decides it’s her time to bounce. Sam decides to drive his car --his car the Impala --his car-- to Sioux Falls. 

Robin tries stopping him from doing that though. He might not like what he finds. 

Sam’s spidey sense kicks in and he tackles Robin to the ground as the window to the Impala gets shot out. Sam gets back up again to see himself aiming a gun at him. 

Wherps. Sam’s actually comatose in the warded room in Bobby’s basement. Bobby comes in and they recap how royally boned they are. 

Dream Sam and Robin start driving. Robin starts freaking out about their situation. Dean flashes a light at Sam’s eyes, and suddenly it’s day in Sam’s world. “It was night, and now it’s day.” Robin is DONE. Sam hears a noise and convinces her to get back in the car. He grabs a shotgun and heads into the forest. His other self stalks him behind a tree. 

The other Sam breaks down what happened --and reveals that he’s Sam without a soul. He wants to take charge in Sam’s noggin. Sam takes off running and they engage in The Most Dangerous Game until our Sam outsmarts Soulless Sam and shoots him in the back. “If you think I’m bad, wait until you meet the other one,” Soulless Sam says, and dies. His essence is absorbed into Sam.

Sam returns to the car, with many memories restored.

For DAMN She’s Fine Science:

Unfortunately, one of the memories Sam retrieved was of a monster who was using her as a shield. Sam shot and killed her, Soulless Sammy style, to get her out of his way. RUDE. (I totally forgot about this during the later Amara soulless arcs - I don’t know why I keep trying to hold Sam up as this peak virtuous character?) Robin poofs away, having fulfilled her role as the ghost of Christmas past. 

At Bobby’s, Dean drinks and IS SAD. 

Balthazar flaps in to mock Dean and Bobby - but also reassure them that he’s still on their side. He hands over Cas’s whereabouts and flaps away. 

Meanwhile, Crowley hands over the Purgatory spell mix (a jar of blood) to Cas. 

Castiel looks contemplative, and quietly informs Crowley that he’s re-negotiating their agreement. He refuses to hand any souls over to Crowley. Cas advises Crowley to either flee or die. And I’M SORRY but I’m into it. Crowley zaps away. 

Sam sneaks his way into a seriously over-dramatically lit room. SAM, your mind XD. The drama llama who decorates with a hundred candles turns out to be none other than Sam Winchester, victim of hellish torture. 

For 80’s Angsty Music Video Science:

Dean leaves the address Balthazar gave them by Sam’s head and bids him farewell. Mournfully. Just before he departs, he gently lays a gun on Sammy’s bed right next to the note. DEAN WINCHESTER, that’s not safe gun handling. Smh

Sam’s goth self tells him that Tortured Sam has to be reabsorbed before Sam can wake up. Sam trades his gun for a knife - for extra drama apparently - then stabs himself and sucks in all that extra soul whammy. In the bunker, he flails dramatically on the cot. 

Balthazar flaps in to meet Cas, who is deeply concerned that Dean’s on his way. He notes that he’s been betrayed and orders Balthazar to root out the mole. Balthazar is a TERRIBLE LIAR the entire conversation. 

“I’m doing my best in impossible circumstances,” Cas says. Still, he’s being plotted against and he finds it super frustrating. Balthazar continues to bluster away, confident that he’s fooled his friend. Flapping behind a poorly dissembling Balthazar, Cas stabs him. Balthazar burns away. Noooooooo!

Dean and Bobby pull up to the building and find it’s fully guarded by angels. They’re grousing about their odds when a massive cloud of demons swoops in. The demons upend the Impala and assault the compound while Castiel pours over the spell. Crowley flaps in to meet Cas, who immediately moves to smite him.

“You can palm me all you want,” Crowley flirts, but he’s got a new BFF. Raphael flaps in. Crowley and Raphael chastise Cas for his power overreach. It looks like the end for our hero! Cas tosses the jar of Purgatory blood to Crowley and flaps away. 

Crowley and Raphael perform the Purgatory gateway spell. (Side note: hey, remember when Michael just snapped his fingers and made a door into Purgatory in the last season? Good times, good times.) Dean and Bobby claw their way out of the Impala and sneak into the ritual. Unfortunately for them, they’re found out immediately and flung across the room. 

A worse-for-wear Sam stumbles past the Impala, and then heads for Crowley’s lair.

Crowley finishes the spell with a flourish only for...nothing to happen. Cas flaps in holding a half-empty jar. He had the real blood all along! Castiel glows with power, and Rave!Cas is born? “They’re all inside me. Millions upon millions of souls.” Crowley flaps away, which is smart...because Cas snaps his finger and explodes Raphael. 

He smiles serenely at Dean and Bobby. Okay, just kidding. He ONLY has eyes for Dean, who counsels him to send the souls back to Purgatory before the eclipse window...er...eclipses. Castiel is not on board with this plan! He needs to visit holy rage upon Raphael’s followers in Heaven. 

“We were family once. I’d’ve died for you,” Dean tells him. “I’ve lost Lisa. I’ve lost Ben. Now I’ve lost Sam. Don’t make me lose you too.” Cas hears it and...tosses it aside. And then he tells Dean the REALLY BAD NEWS. They’re not family!

Oh, also, he’s declaring himself the new god and he’d really prefer their flannel-clad shoulders to be prostrate before him. We end on stacked zoom footage which reminds us that yes, Robert Singer sure did direct this episode. 

I Am Your Quotes Now:

I love what you've done with the place. It's very Beautiful Mind meets Se7en

I am all filled up on crazy for today

You will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you

 Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[justfandomwritings]

Like a Human (Erik Lensherr - Part One)

Pairing: Magneto/Erik Lensherr x Mutant!Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: none yet.... spoilers maybe? Do you have to warn for spoilers for movies that are old? This takes place entirely inside Days of Future Past

Summary: “Our roles are nothing more than how the times choose to cast us.” -Magneto

Notes: The summary is just an epigraph of a Magneto comics quote, but it does more to explain the inspiration of this fic than a proper summary would. This one goes out to some of the 38 Magneto fic requests I got when I put up a post asking for some.

Charles had wanted to go himself.

Charles knew the world Logan was going back to. He knew what he himself was going through, where Erik was, how Mystique thought. Had Charles gone, he needn’t worry about Logan convincing him of the future, pulling him from his despair, reuniting him with his abilities. Had Charles gone, he would have been in control of his own body. Breaking Erik out and stopping Mystique would have been far easier. 

It was with a heavy heart he admitted that Logan was best suited for the task at hand. The task before Logan was more monumental than he knew. 

The three of them, Charles, Erik, Logan, they were all very different men at the time.

There was no telling where Logan would wake up, what situation he was in, how far he would have to travel. He was no one to Charles, and Charles may as well have been no one to him. Logan would have to convince a total stranger he was time travelling to save the universe. Not to mention if the link broke too soon, they would be throwing a wild, unpredictable man into the heart of the action and could leave the situation far worse than they’d found it.

Charles was without his abilities, and he was a long way from getting them back. He was weak, depressed, and alone; even with Hank around, he was alone. He would need to be rescued from the brink in a way Charles wasn’t sure Logan would be capable of, not because Charles doubted Logan but because he doubted himself. Logan would turn up on his doorstep, and Charles wouldn’t know if he was lying or not. Charles would need to be convinced of everything, and even if Logan managed that Charles would be of almost no help whatsoever unless he stopped his treatment months before he ever had in this timeline. 

And Erik? Erik was miles away from Charles. He wasn’t just miles underground; they were miles apart emotionally. They blamed each other, hated each other. 

It had taken a miracle to get them speaking again. 

A miracle with a name.

“You’ll need help,” Charles voiced the thought before he could stop himself. “You can’t do this alone.”

Kitty sat up in her seat, back rigid as a board. “Charles,” her tone was warning again, “I can’t send you back. Even if I could send two people…”

“You won’t need to.” 

Charles wheeled his chair around to face the corner. Bedecked in all but his helmet, Magneto sat on the sill of one of the window, looking out into the blizzard without really seeing anything past the glass. “Erik,” Charles called to his friend.

Magneto didn’t turn at the name. He didn’t break the glaze that seemed to have washed over his face. Wherever he was, it wasn’t in the room. 

“June 1973.” 

The rest of the room was silent. They’d been bustling around. Iceman had been barricading the other entrances for what good it would do. Storm had been agitating the sky, bringing in mountains of snow for some kind of cover from the approaching army. Warpath sat at the doors, watching for anything that might be coming, and Kitty and Bishop had been explaining the process to an unflappable Wolverine. 

There was something about the way Charles spoke. Whenever he opened his mouth, they all stopped to listen. His words were for Magneto, but for some reason everyone felt the need to hear them.

Magneto turned his head, meeting Charles’s gaze. They sat like that for a moment, watching each other. Those who didn’t know them, would be forgiven for thinking that was all they were doing, but the subtle nods and gentle shakes of Charles’s head told the rest of the room that they were talking amongst themselves. 

Whatever they were discussing, it seemed to be frustrating the older mutant. Magneto’s face contorted in further discomfort at every hint of movement Charles made. They spoke without words, and Magneto clearly didn’t like where the conversation was heading.

Only Magneto seemed to know what Charles meant by telling Kitty, ‘You won’t need to.’ All the rest were baffled, not only at what Charles could be implying but at how Magneto had understood it instantly from nothing. 

They argued in silence, and it was unmistakably an argument. Magneto was more on edge with every moment that Charles stared. 

“She could help, Erik.” Charles pleaded quietly. “June 1973.”

There was another long pause as the men squared off, the other occupants waiting to see whose will would bend first. 

Magneto sighed and pushed to his feet. It seemed a sign of resignation. The desperation still touched his brow, but he was done debating. 

“After you find me,” Magneto addressed Wolverine, even though he still faced Charles, “Stop in London, on your way to Mystique.” 

“What’s in London?” Wolverine asked.

“A girl.” 

Not a very helpful explanation. There were many girls in London; Logan would even wager there were many mutant girls in London. “How will I find her?”

“You won’t.” Charles rolled back to Logan’s side with a sad smile. “She’ll find you.” 

“Why does he need her?” The question came from Kitty. It was probably one Logan should have asked, but in truth it hadn’t occurred to him. 

Magneto walked over and shared a long side-eyed look with Charles, as if they hadn’t whispered in front everyone enough that night.

Charles answered, hedging on how to explain without giving Logan too much. “She may well be one of the greatest mutants to ever live. If you find her, she could save you all.”  

Magneto’s lips twitched up, only slightly, into a sneer. “She’s more than that,” he argued before turning to Logan. “She’s my wife, or at least she will be.” 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you Logan?” 

The man came running up to their group while they exited the plane. 

Logan paused on the steps as the man approached Hank at the bottom of the stairs. 

Hank glanced back up the steps towards the rest of the group, clearly pleading for help, for how to respond.

“I’m Logan,” Logan pushed by Magneto and made his way down to join the worried Hank.

“Of course you are. I should’ve known.” 

The frazzled young man, clad in a jacket that labelled him ‘landing crew’, was clearly flustered. He fumbled around, patting over his chest and down to the pockets of his jeans. 

“Here,” He tucked two fingers into his back pocket and produced a piece of paper. “She told me to give you this message.”

“She?” Logan snatched the paper from the man’s hand and unfolded it quickly.

‘It’s rude to yank things from another person’s hand, Logan. Do apologize to Tim, but make it quick. You need to meet me at the address on the back as soon as you can.” 

“How did she…” Logan froze. He read the words twice, mumbling them under his breath to make sure he got them right. “I-I’m sorry,” Logan half-heartedly said to the man, side stepping past him onto the tarmac, “but we have to go.”

“Yes, she said that too,” The younger man pointed into the distance where a black van was speeding off the road towards their chosen hangar. “That’s for you.” 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The van pulled to a stop in front of a block apartments not far from the airport.

“Third floor,” The driver didn’t bother to turn around but instead pointed up at the building just behind his parking spot. 

“Do we even know who this woman is?” Magneto growled as he slipped out of the car.

Logan eyed the peeling yellow facade of the apartment complex. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide the claws that were slowly beginning to push out of his skin. “I think I have an idea,” or at least he had the start of one, and it was not at all an idea he liked.

Charles, Hank, and Magneto filed along after Logan through a heavy metal door, which the metal wielder pulled closed behind the group.

They slogged up to the third floor where Logan glanced down at the paper the airport employee had handed him. “317.” 

“This way,” Charles pointed out a sign and headed off away from the landing. 

Apartment 317 was six doors down on the left. It was the only number placard that hadn’t been defaced with some form of graffiti or stolen all together. The otherwise dingy hallway was slightly brighter in front of the door, underneath the only bulb that was actually shining as opposed to flickering out its last burst light. 

This was the sort of place Logan was used to before he met Charles Xavier. Shady tennants, dirty floors, questionable facilities. This was the sort of place most mutants were used to outside of the school. Even, apparently, the incredibly powerful ones.

Charles lifted his hand, but before he could knock a voice inside shouted, “It’s open!” He hesitated for a moment before he tested the knob.

The door swung wide on an incredibly bare apartment that looked just as old and lackluster as the hall outside, albeit far cleaner. 

There was nothing more to the room than an oversized couch shoved against the opposite side of the room and two doorways, both open, on the right-hand wall.

The old wooden floorboards squeaked in protest when the men stepped over them to enter the living room. 

“In here,” A voice called from one of the open doors.

Logan caught Charles by the shoulder as he made for the voice. “Behind me,” Logan whispered, stepping ahead of his would-be mentor.

Logan led Magneto followed by Hank and Charles into the room from which the voice had come. 

Instantly, the smell of food overwhelmed them.

The kitchen was similarly bare to the living room. A stove, an oven, a fridge, and a hodgepodge of mismatched counters took up most of the tiny room. There was only just enough space for the rickety round table and the five chairs shoved under its lip. A door against the back wall, no doubt, couldn’t be opened without entirely removing the nearest seat from the room.

In amongst the shabby appliances was the back of a young woman. She moved busily between two burners on the stove and the plates and utensils cluttering the table. As they entered, she turned and deposited a healthy portion of eggs on each of the four plates. 

Her eyes didn’t even look up at their approach. It wasn’t like she could’ve missed them. The floor groaned and creaked with every move made by any of the men, a built in alarm against intruders if there ever was one.

“That really wasn’t necessary Logan,” The woman didn’t bother to check who was in the doorway and continued cooking. “I don’t bare Charles any ill will.”

Seeing there wasn’t an immediate or hostile threat, Charles took an uncertain step around his new found bodyguard and asked, rather skeptically, “Then do you mind telling us what we’re doing here?”

“Well,” The woman picked up a pan and began dispensing bacon onto three of the plates, “You’re in London because Charlie wanted Logan to come and find me, and Erik told him where to look.” She dropped the empty pan back on the stove. “And you’re in my apartment,” speaking absently, she fiddled with the knobs to turn off the burner, “because I know none of you have eaten since you broke Erik here out of his cell.” 

The woman in question wiped her hands clean on a dish rag before finally turning to properly face the group of men for the first time.

She was pretty. Most people would even call her beautiful. Though, she was by no means otherworldly as Logan had been expecting; there was nothing about her appearance that conveyed to him that she was a mutant of any real power. 

Logan wasn’t particularly enchanted by her voice or drawn in by any of her features. Sure, she had a kind smile and an even complexion, lips colored a shade of red that could go from sophisticated to sinful in a heartbeat. But she was just a woman, a beautiful young woman, a seemingly normal one at that. She looked human.

“Telepath?” Charles asked, moving cautiously towards the nearest chair. “How else could you know where we just came from?”

The woman laughed, though it wasn’t a very hearty sound. It tinkled half-heartedly then died in the air. “If I was a telepath, I would’ve had to read your mind across the Atlantic for Tim to be waiting for your plane to land.” 

“Then what are you?” Hank asked.

He and Erik both moved to join Charles at the table. Their steps were both slow, cautious. Neither of them trusted this woman, and while Hank’s expression seemed worried and concerned, Erik’s was deadly.

“A mutant, like all of you.” She chirped. 

“And do you have a name?” Erik stood behind the seat he’d claimed. 

Something told Logan he was waiting for everyone else to sit down, waiting for everyone to be well within range of the metal knives their host had placed on the table. 

“(Y/n),” The woman slumped into the chair without a plate in front of it and motioned to the empty chair. “Do join us Logan. You’re not actually worried about me killing you. We both know poison couldn’t do the trick.”

“No,” Logan agreed, taking one deliberate step after another, “But I’m pretty sure you can.” 

A smirk tugged the edge of (Y/n)’s lip, but it was gone as quick as it appeared, and Logan took his seat. 

“Bold assumption,” She mused, “Would it settle you at all to know I have no intention of hurting any of you?” 

“No, not even if I believed you.”

“Fair enough,” She shrugged.

With the rest of the table occupied, Erik took the final chair at the woman’s side and an uncomfortable silence settled over them.

No one made a move to eat, and no one seemed to know what to say to fill the silence.

No one except (Y/n), perhaps. She lounged comfortably in her chair, pushing it up on the back two legs. There was a content grin on her face, and she was inspecting her nails with a deep interest that Logan was fairly sure was fake. Something in her expression told Logan that she was amused by all of this. A glint in her eyes as they scanned over her fingers, an arch of her brow. 

Over the years, Logan had, out of necessity, gotten good at reading people, and he didn’t need any powers to do it. She was enjoying this, he could tell. How uncomfortable she made Erik and Charles, she was revelling in it. 

“I know who you are.” Logan pressed her. They didn’t have the time for these games, or at least he didn’t think they did.

Her eyes flitted up to him quickly. “Well obviously,” she hummed, “you wouldn’t be here if they didn’t send you.” 

Logan leaned in, hovering over his plate on the table, as if getting closer would help get his point across. “I know who you are, what you did. Erik told me everything.” 

There was a loud bang as the front two legs of her chair came crashing to the floor. Even as she brought herself crashing back to earth, (Y/n)’s expression didn’t change. Her features froze as they were before. The life didn’t leave her eyes, but it seemed, for a moment, to pause its merriment. 

“Then he really must be in dire straits.” Her tone had cooled off, slipped into an emotionless droan of words. 

“Would you mind,” Charles cut in, “explaining it to the rest of us?”

(Y/n) trailed her eyes over Charles, “It’s sad you have to ask.” (Y/n) let her sentence hang in the air with genuine grief before she pushed to her feet.

Charles, likewise, looked down, pained.  

“Eat while I talk. This will take some time, and we don’t want to waste a moment.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) returned to the table with a paper and pen and set it out before the men who were hesitantly chewing down breakfast. 

“So,” She drew two parallel lines coming up from the bottom of the paper, “Think of time as a road, and we, the universe, are a car.” A boxlike shape joined her sketch between the lines. “The road is one way, and while we’re on it, we have to be moving forward.”

As she talked, (Y/n) began to add roads, branches coming off every inch on both sides of her original path. “Everyone, young and old, is inside the car and has a hand on the wheel.” Some took steep angles away from her first road; others ran virtually parallel to it; others still branched off from the branches she was adding. She was, slowly but surely, making a web of lines across the page. “And every time any of us make a decision, we turn the wheel.” 

She traced an arrow from the car up one of the roads running parallel to it. “Most decisions have little effect on the world beyond the person who’s made them. We’re so close to where we were before that when we look out the window the scenery and direction haven’t changed, and none of us can tell the difference.”

(Y/n) continued  arrow, this time following a branch off the parallel that took a far steeper angle. “Other decisions, turns of the wheel, change the world so emphatically that everyone feels the effects, and our course is forever altered.”

(Y/n) went back to doodling in lines, slowly filling up the bottom of the page as she carried on. “Every turn off the first road is a decision someone made, and every decision someone makes results in a turn. The only question is how drastically it removes us from where we began.”

Ceasing her doodles for a moment, (Y/n) drew their attention by circling three times around a section of road she had just added, two parallel roads in the bottom corner, both taking a sharp curve away and off the edge of the page. 

“There are, however, some things that are beyond decision. Bends in the road, as it were. Things that, by virtue of being on the road we are on, will happen; things no one decided and no decision can avoid. Call it karma or fate, whatever suits you, but they’re there. Some of them are small, only happening on a few paths we create. Others are so colossal,” (Y/n) vigorously shaded in a strip of paper an inch above the end of her highest road, “that by virtue of moving forward in time, we will encounter them, and they will happen. The difference between a bend around a hill, only taken by roads that come at it from a certain angle, or the inevitable need of a bridge crossing over a river.” 

(Y/n) drew in a road, a bridge presumably, going over the shaded strip and continuing up to the end of the page. 

Her pen ran off the top of the page, and with it she went silent, and a long moment passed as she stared at it, unseeing.

She hadn’t looked up or ceased once during her entire explanation, not as they ate, not even when Hank let out an audible huff.

“This is an interesting theory of time, but what does it have to do with why the future sent us here?” Hank pressed. There was a subtle inflection to the way he said the word theory. He was far too kind to call anyone wrong to their face, but Hank was a scientist in heart and in mind. He didn’t generally stand for rambling misinformation. 

(Y/n) returned his expectant look with an equally expectant smile, as if she’d already known the answer to his question before he even thought to ask it. “Darling, I’m the map.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Time on Part Two…. Coming Soon

Taglist

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse /  @geeksareunique / @deathbyarabbit​ / @spilltheearlgrey / @ryanbarnesrogers / @bloodorangemoonlight​

Marvel Taglist:

@the-high-queen / @iamverity / @darktownairspeed / @radicalstars​ / @hermione-is-my-queen 

[idanwyn-et-al]

Duets and Dastardly Deeds: A Harbor Herald Exclusive!

[The Palazzo Aldenard, Mist.]

Good day, lovely readers! It is daytime where you are, perhaps, yes? Or perhaps the stars have begun their slow scrawl across the darkened bowl of the heavens, the sun a memory to be gossiped about while Her Radiance is raising crops and crisping skins on the other side of our own star. Whatever light is creeping across your parquet floor, your larboard, your patch of forest, I hope to find you in good health and with a hankering to read about a most curious concert that took place at the Palazzo Aldenard’s Opera House a few days past.

This concert hall is well-known to many, but I confess, lovely readers, that it was this reporter’s first chance to visit the venerable venue for herself, and it did not disappoint. A crewmate of mine (ah yes, yours truly is a captain now, of her very own definitely-haunted ship; quite the tale of an unlikely inheritance, and utterly better-suited for another column entirely) and I took our seats, sharing uisghe and waiting for the show to begin. As this reporter is a long time fan of Savo’s (she is indirectly responsible for a prison sentence I served some years back, another story best shared over a plate of steak frites and a gallon of stout), I knew that her gnarled, underfed-despite-everyone’s-best-efforts paw brings a twist to every show, and inspires the audience to loosen up when confronted with the unexpected. Little did I know how much of a twist this show would wring itself into, like a wet rag squeezing water over still-smoldering embers! However, I am getting ahead of myself, lovelies. 

The evening began with a dueling duet; T’ahlia and D’ahlia! D’ahlia played classical piano with poise and elegance, fingers running over the keys nimbly. T’ahlia echoed and responded with her ceruleum guitar, sending reverbs into the rafters. Still, D’ahlia was dauntless, playing the act of straight man to the showy comedy of T’ahlia’s riffs. Both showcased skill and playfulness with ease, getting things off to a joyful start.

The duo was joined by Hani Dan’na, singing a song about lost relationships. Resigned, lovely lyrics left many an eye wet; surely, it was the profusion of springtime blossoms outside that caused such a thing. Surely, that.

Lionnellais Deveraux and Rythas Brynelle next took the stage, a pas de deux in lyrical form about looking at oneself in the looking glass and resolving to change. The two tall, lithe performers did, indeed, seem to be looking into a mirror as their eyes met and their melodic runs tumbled into harmonies. To this reporter, they seemed to encapsulate the desire to make today the first day of the rest of their lives---to use a quote oft-seen in cross-stitch on one’s grandmama’s wall---but were almost daring the other to be the first to change.

Aero, a new performer to this reporter and many others in the audience, was as forthright about being high on Shroud mushrooms as he was about body positivity; he performed entirely in the nude, and one was certainly larger than the other (pupils, I mean. Pupils!).  Savo provided riffs on her famed ten-stringed viol, and the pair brought levity to the stage. I do believe in a thing called love, even if it comes at the cost of Keepers of the Moon dragging you out into the woods and making you question all you’ve ever known. 

Zanin Briggs and Rythas continued in this vein with the next piece; it seems they, too, are reluctant-yet-indulgent caretakers of Savo and Fheyla. Family may make you question everything, dear readers, but if they lead you to great adventures, things like fleas, questionable manners, and spotty hygiene can be overlooked. 

A pair of mysterious Elezen women took the boards with a back-to-back set filled with as much fire as a bellyful of my late Papa’s famous uisghe. Injecting the room with a raw-hearted, toothy roar of lyrics meant to ignite the still-simmering resentment in Ishgard, these mysterious performers dressed to impress did just that! Yes, dear readers, although word out of those stony, snowcapped spires is that the Lord Commander has done his level best to close the gap between high and lowborn, it seems a thousand years of rigid social structures and war leave those still in the social depths wondering when their voices will really be heard. It was then when this reporter began to notice something of a theme throughout the night’s performances; unease, discontent, loss, building into...

FIRE! You read that right, faithful readers; a fire erupted backstage, and we were all summarily evacuated to the lawn for half a bell’s time. Take heart; the Palazzo’s staff were professional, efficient, and informative. I have now learned that if one must shout fire at a crowded theater, this is the theater in which to do so, lovelies. Once the blaze was contained, the show did indeed go on; and that, I believe, is my quota of cliched phrases for this article.

Once we had all filed back in---neatly and in single file, I assure you---Lionnellais and Rythas welcomed the audience back with a jaunty tune with the refrain “Under Censure”. This reporter must confess that the untimely fire combined with the lyrics that speak of restraints fraying under pressure had her wondering a great many things. Still, just as the show went on, so, too, must this article. 

T’ahlia returned to the stage with an acoustic guitar, and was joined by Hesper of Trinity. The pair sang a soulful duet about an “army of two” that would stand against all odds and defy the world. Your faithful reporter was very much lost in her own thoughts and suppositions, but was briefly brought back to attention by the songstress Sif, who joined T’ahlia for the next piece. This one spoke of T’ahlia’s conflicted feelings of yearning and betrayal directed at her mother, a woman of the Shroud who did her best for the young Miqo’te and yet left her wanting. The duo of Sif and T’ahlia singing call-and-response that melded into soulful, wistful harmonies drew the audience in and included us in such tender, bittersweet recollections.

As their last chords were still lingering like dark tea on the sides of the tongue, we were all drawn to our feet by an upbeat, glittering tune about calling on shinobi when in need! True to the legacy of those infamous assassins, the stage effects were superb; one might even believe that said shinobi were hiding in plain sight, deploying mudra and shadow-smoke to great effect amongst the waving glow wands of the enthused crowd. This reporter could not help but muse over how some of the other performers might, indeed, be inspired to hire a shinobi for their current troubles that simmered along the floorboards along with the occasional puff of singed scenery.

T’ahlia and Dane Escherra brought us all back to those melancholy undercurrents, with the latter offering soulful vocals recounting being a wartime prostitute. They fight like men, die like boys, and the women are expected to pretend it doesn’t affect them, offer themselves up as trophies. It was a simple yet poignant view into a world that many would rather pretend does not exist; this reporter, for one, was more interested in the stories of these women than the wars that raged around them.

Oh, dear readers, how I do eat up the ilms of column space on this one! The final two acts followed the evening’s emotional hills and vales, leaving us on a hill of humor. Zeraia Reynard crooned and Savo clawed tunes about male Seekers of the Sun, and...well, the lyrics are not entirely fit for print, but in the interest of public health (and allowing for poetic embellishment), this reporter must firmly suggest that all those who have enjoyed sexual relations with male Seekers of the Sun be tested for diseases at your local chirurgeon. E’rin Rae’s finale piece, in which she joined the dogpile (catpile) upon male Seekers, was a humorous lament about how they all seem to prefer the same sex, and how she has resigned herself to this fact. 

Though this sennight’s issue has been dedicated to my personal review of this revue, I must let you all in on a little secret; the fire that occurred backstage is quite suspicious, and this reporter will be writing another article or two as she investigates it. In the next sennight’s issue, please look forward to a collection of thoughts, statements, and observations by those that attended the show. In the meantime, I wish you all health and happiness, and would highly recommend the Palazzo Aldenard for its fine facility and superb entertainers.

Song and Scandal,

Idanwyn Lluanswys

Harbor Herald Food and Lifestyle Columnist

((tagging @palazzoaldenard​ , @savothesewercat​ , @rythasbrenelle​ , @fheylahaken​ , @whitherwanderer​ ! Please tag others, I am sleepy and forgetful. Thank you for the excellent show, and please stay tuned as Idanwyn does her best to investigate! I also enjoy going to concerts, restaurants, and other such fun social events to write articles, so message me here or on discord at #esper3592 if you’ve got something fun coming up!))

[daughterofposeidon25]

DaughterOfPoseidon Favorites

My hero academia-Kiribaku

🔴 = NSFW

Please read at your own risk. Carefully read tags and enjoy!

A Name That You'll Remember by Heronfem

Kirishima Eijirou is a Hero. Bakugou Katsuki... is not. Trapped in his toxic workplace and increasingly desperate to get out, Red Riot's days are only brightened by a new villain known as Caution, who's not exactly villainous and keeps accidentally doing good deeds. But when a real villain appears, a threat from the past that demands that Red Riot make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the public safe, Bakugou is forced into saving the day... and eventually, Red Riot himself.

Part 1 of Won't Go Quietly

Freshly Ground Coffee by arxaris

Bakugou had been going to BeansPot Coffe for a long time. A hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in the middle of the city, the place was a wonderfully well-kept secret – at least in Bakugou’s opinion. And that’s exactly how he liked it. Coffee with a side of quiet, blissful anonymity had become his favorite way to start his work day. Which was why he was instantly on guard when he walked in one morning to see a new face standing behind the counter. Well, actually, first he saw his hair.

Stop-sign red and styled up into spikes, it looked ridiculous against the cream-colored walls of the shop. Between that and the way-too-wide smile that stretched across his face, he was almost hard to look at directly.

Too goddamn bright for this early in the morning.

Or, pro-hero Ground Zero had a morning routine that he liked perfectly fine, thank you very much. That is, until a bright-eyed new barista showed up to throw a wrench in it, one caramel latte at a time.

sparks by helwolves 🔴

“I’m just really happy,” Eijirou says. He sighs shakily and then all but collapses onto Katsuki, burying his face against the vulnerable spot at the base of his throat. “Ah, you smell so good,” he says, trailing off into a soft growl. “They say that means you’ll be really compatible with your rider, you know... Is it the same for men?”

Alternately: "they can't show us Bakugou riding a dragon that might be Kirishima and NOT expect me to want him to fuck it."

Part 1 of sparks, etc.

Blood of my Hand by PurplePersnickety

Eijirou is a half dragon, stuck in a cage, unable to shift from his human form. Then a bad-tempered barbarian arrives on the scene, Eijirou makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and he learns that finding a missing friend of his might just tie into the fate of the world.

Katsuki is a mountain clan outcast, and if he ever wants to return then he must meet the demands of the Queen and bring back the head of a dragon. Then Katsuki meets the most irritating lizard, makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and learns that- wait? The world? Oh fuck.

quote love unquote by newamsterdam

Sero nods. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, really,” he says. “We want you to date Bakugou, for the sake of his reputation with the press. Some public appearances, a few ‘candid’ photos. For at least a couple of months.”

“Bakugou sent you to ask me to date him?” Kirishima asks, baffled.

“Of course not. We, his people, are asking you to date him. He’s going to have to get on board, if he wants his career to survive. And in the bargain, Riot will get all sorts of publicity, because their lyricist will be dating one of the industry’s hottest stars. A win for everyone.”

When Kirishima Eijirou's band hits the big time, he's not prepared for his newfound fame. He's even less prepared to meet the actor he's been crushing on for years, or to start dating him as a publicity stunt. The closer Kirishima gets to Bakugou Katsuki, the more he realizes he's in over his head. But it's hard to stop, once his heart is in it.

A Dragon's Hoard by chezka

There was a lizard in Kirishima’s room.

A scaley, clawed, fanged lizard. A fifty centimeters long, red, winged lizard.

A dragon, there was a dragon in the middle of the floor of Kirishima’s room.

Bakugou blinked slowly, a hand curled around the door’s handle and one foot still out in the hallways. He looked at the dragon, the dragon looked back at him.

“What the fuck,” Bakugou whispered.

take your broken wings and fly by bwyn

Rifts—man, he hates these things. They look misty, but are dry; they look hot, but feel cold as a winter chill. They’re the exact opposite of what his eyes assume. It’s like some sort of sensory illusion. To top it all off, if he thinks about them too long, the space behind his eyes starts to throb. Not worth it.

The hawk takes off without prompting the closer Eijirou gets. Goosebumps prickle across his skin at the waft of cool air.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” grunts Eijirou as his skin goes hard around his hands.

Part 1 of Tales from the Rift

The Beauty of a Beast by starofjems

Once upon a time a lonely beast lived in a manor deep in the forest. He dreamed of the day his true love appeared to break his curse... When a beauty finally appears in his life, it is not quite as he imagined. For who could have thought a beauty would be more of a beast.

Or

The beauty and the beast AU nobody asked for but here it is.

Broomsticks by ComiclzWrites 🔴

Local witch Bakugo Katsuki doesn't have many friends and he'd like to keep it that way but the shop that he gets all his ingredients from has a new delivery boy that might just work his way into Bakugo's fiery little heart.

AKA: Bakugo Katuski is a witch, Kirishima Eijirou is his delivery boy, and this is the story of how they fell in love.

Broken Bridges by DeathBelle 🔴

After years of working abroad, Kirishima moves back to Japan to open his own agency, and things seem to be going well. There’s plenty of work, he gains popularity quickly, and it’s a relief to be back in his home country. Everything is perfect, until he runs into Bakugou on the scene of a villain attack.

Bakugou had been his best friend at U.A., but the two of them haven’t spoken for years. That had been Bakugou’s decision, not Kirishima’s, and he's still a little hurt by it. Regardless, it’s easy to put that aside in favor of rekindling his friendship with Bakugou. They fall back into a routine and it’s as if nothing has changed; including Kirishima’s old feelings for his best friend. When a new pair of villains starts picking off heroes one by one, Kirishima feels that he and Bakugou are the best heroes to take the case. All the extra time they spend together hunting villains is great, except Kirishima feels like his heart is being ripped out every time Bakugou looks at him.

Kneel by deviance 🔴

“Bakugou?”

Bakugou shuffled on his feet, hovering over Kirishima and looking at the ground with stormy eyes. He glanced up to glare at Kirishima, a silent dare to call him out on his odd behavior no doubt. Kirishima forced himself not to tense. Whatever Bakugou wanted, he was about to show him and Kirishima had to get this right. Bakugou was all about showing and not telling.

Kirishima nearly bit his tongue to keep in a squawk of surprise when Bakugou suddenly dropped to his knees next to him, shuffling forward until he could press his forehead to his thigh and hide his face against Kirishima's leg. Kirishima opened his mouth, questions on the tip of his tongue, and he barely managed to catch them before they could be given voice. Bakugou was trembling minutely, his entire frame so tense his muscles were twitching under Kirishima's gaze.

“Just. Don't say anything,” Bakugou muttered, hands clenching in his lap tightly. “Please,” he whispered, a short choked sound.

The Lost Continent by cattchi, paglykos 🔴

Kirishima Eijirou is from a noble family of pirate exterminators. Bakugou Katsuki is rising as one of the most fearsome pirates on the seas.

When a trade goes awry, Kirishima finds himself cast among Bakugou's crew, having to learn the ropes and the sea as they chase after All Might's infamous hidden treasure.

Of Ghosts and other Inaccurate Things by chezka

A week before the sports festival found Bakugou walking back home in the late afternoon, sunset light making his scowl even more menacing and drawing a long shadow right in front of him.

Someone was walking by his side.

There was no second shadow on the floor beside his own to confirm this, but if he kept his focus on the street ahead and carefully avoided trying to look to his left, he could consistently make out black hair swishing in the wind and strong arms leading to hands sunk in pants’ pockets. The edges were blurry, but there was definitely someone at his side.

Tell Me I'm Yours by arxaris 🔴

Bakugou was going a little crazy. He could grudgingly admit that it was at least in part his own fault; moving in with his best friend maybe hadn’t been the best idea. At first, it sounded great. The rent would be cheaper, grocery shopping and cooking for two would be way more convenient, and it would be easier for the two of them to hang out. The only thing was, Bakugou forgot to consider how the joys of moving in with his aforementioned best friend might be dampened by the fact that he was madly in love with him.

Alternatively: Kirishima Eijirou is a goddamn tease and there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing.

Part 1 of tell me i'm yours

Fire in the Storm by Vagabond for Shippeh 🔴

Bakugo Katsuki is a stubborn bastard and does what you should never do: splits the party. He gets caught in a rainstorm and seeks shelter in a cave which yields an interesting discovery in the form of a shape-changing stranger.

Or: Kirishima is a dragon, and Bakugo seeks shelter in his lair.

i'm going to the forest to kick my own ass by WannabeMarySue

“What the fuck,” he mutters, quietly but with feeling.

He stomps over and picks it up. Emotional Intelligence for Dummies glares up at him in garish yellow font.

“What the fuck,” he repeats, louder and with more feeling.

(or, todoroki tries to play a prank, but jokes on him, because bakugou is fueled by complex emotions like Anger and Winning).

Kitsune Bakugo and Oni Kiri (Inu x Boku SS AU) by ComiclzWrites 🔴

The Maison de Ayakashi is a high security apartment building where humans with demon or yōkai ancestors reside, each guarded by their own Secret Service bodyguard. Bakugo stuck with the ancestor of the Kitsune has been moved into the apartment as his parents last ditch effort to fix his aggressive personality; his hired bodyguard Kirishima the ancestor of the Oni seems determined to turn his world upside-down.

Everglow by Maplefudge

Eijirou and Katsuki are known to be a formidable duo, one being a dragon shifter, the other a powerful human with explosive magic. They work together as if it's second nature, and the nations know their names. However, it hasn’t always been like that.

aka

The story of how Eijirou and Katsuki accidentally formed a life bond with each other and ended up as reluctant partners.

'Cause the Dark's Not Taking Prisoners Tonight by imatrisarahtops

“Are those soba noodles?” Kirishima asked.

Again Bakugou’s only reply was a grunt. He offered no further explanation—not that Kirishima honestly expected one—as though making soba noodles from scratch at half past four in the morning wasn’t at all a bizarre occurrence and made complete and total sense. For a fleeting moment, Kirishima even wondered if maybe he was the odd one here. Besides, he’d already decided it was generally not in his best interest to question these types of things with Bakugou, especially when it was something essentially harmless.

When Kirishima has a nightmare and is unable to fall back asleep, he accepts defeat and decides to study in the common area of the dorms. What he doesn't expect to find is Bakugou, also very much awake, and Kirishima can't help but think that maybe they're both having the same problems with sleeping. If he's worried, it's just because they're friends. (Right?)

Cranky-rishima by PurplePersnickety

"Oh, I just fell out of bed," Kirishima said, almost airily. He put one hand to the back of his neck. "But I'm good."

Katsuki squinted at him. "No you're not."

Kirishima's expression fell, and he looked down at the hand not on his neck. His fingers were trembling and he closed his hand up into a fist. "No, I'm not. Fuck it."

Part 1 of Nightmares Aren't Explodable

Engraved in your Mind by Hejter

Bakugou Katsuki lost his ability to recognize faces, so he didn’t know any of the people who stared at him, but he knew what dread looks like when he sees it, and as he looked around the crowd, every single person had exactly that written all over their face.

He looked down at the guy who was still on the ground, part of his uniform’s shirt burnt, his wounded face covered by his hands and his hair smoking slightly.

Katsuki glanced at his hands and finally realized something.

or

Kacchan is still a stubborn prick while suffering from face blindness. Also, quirk discrimination is a thing.

alternatively-

New quirk, who dis

The Weight of Your Hand by kamin

That night, to the citizens, the explosions were a jolt of fear at every blast, but to the heroes and the students of UA, they were punches and swings, fierce fighting and loud strength. The explosions were the pulse of the battle, and the power of a boy that would never back down.

One after another, explosions set a chorus through the shuddering city.

And then, suddenly—the explosions stopped.

(In which Bakugou’s kidnapping goes a little differently, and just a few seconds could change so much.)

Obsidian by PullingAllMighters

Bakugou Katsuki's a dangerous guy, even without his unnatural, fae-given magic. Used and scorned as evil everywhere he goes for having powers he didn't ask for, Bakugou wanders the world as a rogue nova, hunting beasts and criminals for survival. It's too bad that the real villains didn't take it well that he's not joining their side. But now they've framed it so he's a mass murderer, making all the other magicked humans like him look bad. Hunted and ever the loner, Bakugou meets Kirishima, a dragon who's also alone and outcast, who vows to protect him until they can either clear his name, or get far enough away that it doesn't matter.

Not that Bakugou needs him. Bakugou Katsuki doesn't need anyone, especially not some broken dragon who can't even fly.

You Got Me Bewitched, I Am Under Your Spell by 🔴 Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

“Uh… hello?” Kirishima calls, his deep voice echoing in the room.

The witch doesn’t answer.

Not one to be discouraged by silence, even if that silence is scary as hell, Kirishima steels his nerves and steps over the threshold.

THAT the male notices. He immediately stops grinding, his head tilting to an almost forty five degree angle. It’s almost cat like. It’s absolutely eerie. He hmphs, before he calls out, “Leave.” He grabs a fistful of sour smelling leaves off the plant in front of him and drops them into his bowl.

What?! No way! Kirishima advances further, the doorway creaking under his feet. He won’t take that for an answer. “I need your help?” Frick. Why did that sound like a question when it should have been a statement?

The witch doesn’t look up again, but he swears the male rolls his eyes. “Leave. Now.”

The witch is gorgeous.

I'll Save You Myself by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

After Kirishima saves Bakugou from the League of Villains he can't let go of his hand. He's been holding it for hours, but his fingers are cement. Unbreakable.

Otherwise called: Fuck Eijirou, I'm The One Who Got Kidnapped, Why The Hell Are You Leaking All Over Me? And... Why Does My Heart Feel Like Its Going To Throw-up? By: Bakugou Katsuki

The Extra's Club by Sonamae

Toru is a bright ray of sunshine! At least she pretends to be. Right up until Bakugo Katsuki catches her crying in the kitchen.

Life's a Drag(on) by PurplePersnickety

"Sparky," Katsuki turned and laid a hand on Kaminari's shoulder. "I need you to know that the position of Best Man at our wedding is between you and a fucking dragon, so start psyching yourself up to fight for it."

"A what?" Kaminari repeated faintly.

Bakugou Katsuki currently experiences three major problems with his life:

1. He helped a dragon with a broken leg once and now it keeps showing up outside his house all the time. 2. He has a huge hopeless crush on the guy with the red hair and the freaky teeth who just moved into the village. 3. He has no idea what to do about either of the above.

Burden of Proof by kytrin, Mslead 🔴

All it took was one bad day. Eijiro Kirishima was slotted to be one of UA's finest detectives before he was framed for a crime he didn't commit. Now he was used to people keeping him at arms length even after he scraped the remains of his reputation back together as a private investigator. When an old serial killer returns from the past, he finds himself in the center of a case darker and more dangerous than he could have ever anticipated. Teaming up with an angry homicide detective with ties to the killer, together they are forced to rely on one another as they face old and new enemies alike rising from the shadows.

All That Glitters Is Gold by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism 🔴

Kirishima has been enamoured with the boy next door since he met him deep in the woods by his house as a kid.

Other than the fact that Bakugou never leaves the forest, won't voice his name, is nimble like a cat, and sometimes disappears into thin air, he's a normal kid just like Kiri!

Oh... and he's goregous.

And he just keeps getting prettier as time goes on.

No Secrets to Success by kingdoms

“Hey!” Kirishima says brightly, stepping sideways to be directly in the guy’s path. “I know you!”

“Fuck off,” the guy snarls, pushing past him and barely slowing down.

Kirishima is forced to start his first semester at UA two months late. Somehow he still meets Bakugou Katsuki, makes the most of those two months, and gains a tutor, a best friend, and an exciting way to scandalize his new peers. Canon AU where Kirishima and Bakugou become friends before Kirishima meets the rest of Class 1-A.

Smoke, Spice, and Everything Nice by let_me_wander 🔴

Bakugou Katsuki is a half-incubus and knows how to play the game: to find the perfect target, enchant them, and finally feed off of them. As long as certain conditions are met, no one can refuse him. Until Kirishima Eijirou.

Looks like Bakugou will have to seduce him the old fashioned way. Unless, of course, Kirishima wins him over first.

Oh My Gods by Synnie 🔴

Kirishima is overjoyed when he learns his fields have been blessed by the Harvest God, Crimson. When Bakugo, God of War, helps himself to the Harvest God's offerings, Kirishima learns a blessing from a god is also an open invitation for other gods to wreak havoc in his otherwise quiet life.

But when the gods are betrayed by one of their own, Kirishima finds himself caught up in the intrigue. All he wanted was to go back to the life he knew. But will that be enough for him now that he's tasted so much more?

Fire and the Flood by Maplefudge 🔴

Kirishima's good at massages and Bakugou's bad at feelings (they both are).

You Feel Like God Inside That Gold by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

When Kirishima figured out he was gay, he’d been pretty sure that the obsession his fellow male classmates had with boobs would not be an issue in his life.

He could get distracted by nice muscles or a great smile or many other things. He was an easily distracted guy! But those things were easy to keep blinders on for, he could keep from getting too distracted.

He hadn’t exactly planned on Bakugou.

Built to Fall by bigstupidjellyfish 🔴

nothing like an aftermath of a bad break up years later 

let me love you by arxaris 🔴

Kirishima’s liked Bakugou for years and years and never thought he’d even have a chance. Bakugou could easily become a runway model if he ever decided that’s what he wanted, while Kirishima is... well, just Kirishima.

There’s no denying he’s strong, but not in the graceful and beautiful way that Bakugou is. He’s got rolls no matter what he does, more body hair than he could ever hope to manage, and thighs that seem to constantly stretch his jeans at the seams no matter how big he buys them.

Yet, somehow within the span of the last hour, Kirishima’s gone from calling Bakugou ‘bro’ in their shared kitchen to lying underneath him in bed with Bakugou’s lean thigh pressed confidently between his thick ones.

So, yeah, forgive Kirishima if he’s freaking out a bit.

beautiful creatures by gothgirlclub 🔴

Caught in the middle of a morning accident, provisionally licensed Bakugou and Kirishima help take down the villain, only to fall victim to it’s quirk after taking it down.

So it’s really not their fault when they decide to play around with their new body parts, figuring out that scratching beneath the ears really was nice and that knots were annoying if your boyfriend got especially sleepy after sex.

alpha x alpha by Nutella0Mutt 🔴

If they had one dollar every time someone said it wasn’t possible, and to give it up, they'd be fucking billionaires.

Nobody thinks they'll work. It's unnatural, illogical, and against biology. Bakugou and Kirishima have one motto: fuck the haters.

It Will Find You Here by arxaris 🔴

Katsuki’s life was falling apart. He had always known what he wanted. He had his life and career completely planned out. He’d accounted for every detail and every potential obstacle. Except for one. He was not prepared in the slightest to be six years into his carefully constructed life plan, extremely successful, and suddenly so goddamned miserable that he couldn’t make it through a day of work.

He was fine. He really just needed some fucking time, space, and air to breathe. So, he loaded up his backpack and left Japan, hoping that a bit of time off and travel might help him get over this bullshit and on with the plan. However, a few weeks into his trip he met a meddlesome redhead in the Thai islands who threatened to disrupt his universe in the worst ways imaginable: by making him fall in love, and by breaking the news that Katsuki couldn’t outrun himself.

Burger Kings by plantegg

Bakugou does something illegal. Kirishima finds out and makes him take him out to dinner to keep him quiet.

That's All You Ever Have to Say by arxaris 🔴

Maybe a sane person wouldn’t put up with it. They’d probably call the whole thing unhealthy, say that Bakugou should learn to express his feelings. People have suggested to Kirishima in the past that he put his foot down and demand they talk about things. They’ve gritted their teeth as they told him Bakugou was playing games with him, looked at him with pity as if they were cluing him into something everyone knew but him, something truly awful. But of course Kirishima knew. How could he not? Katsuki wasn’t just playing games with him. They were playing games together.

And Kirishima was positively addicted to them.

Rutting For You by FoolishFortuna 🔴

Kirishima’s scent washed over him as the redhead moved to slide into bed and Katsuki found his mouth watering. For fuck sake, why was his body being such an asshole all of a sudden? He swallowed.

“Uh, Bakugou?” Eijirou's voice was quiet, almost rough, “You're putting out a pretty strong scent.” There was a tone to his best friend's voice that he'd never heard before, and it sent a shiver through Katsuki as he fisted the duvet in his hand tighter and ground his teeth.

His gums ached.

“Its nothing, shut up.” He focused on getting his pheromones under control quickly. Fuck, he really wanted to bite something. Something that smelled like Eijirou. He swallowed another mouthful of saliva.

“Do you-” Kiri swallowed as well, “d’you wanna just sleep up here?”

Why Don't We Dance a While? by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

They were supposed to be directly fighting each other but with one of them playing a villain, encouraged to fight dirty and think on their feet to fight against an unlikely team-up. It was supposed to test the solo “villain’s” ability to think on their feet and anticipate while the team was being evaluated on their ability to adapt to on the fly quirk combinations and unlikely situations. Some of them, like Momo and Sato and Aoyama, struggled a bit more than others with the villain role.

Others were shockingly good at it. Ochako had been having a blast the entire time, Iida continued to excel, and Tokoyami had played up his own more spooky allure.

Kirishima was among one of the good ones.

Something Warm by let_me_wander

When an annoying customer with ridiculous hair starts frequenting the coffee shop Bakugou works at in the weeks before Christmas, he doesn't think much of it. Until it becomes all he can think about.

Awkward flirting, the first snow, a rock show, and probably way too much coffee.

[atths--twice]

Rm9.... was an episode I really liked. I know a lot of people didn’t like it because of the lack of dialogue, but I liked the fact that they don’t NEED to speak to be out and about. It was different, but it was good. Them out on a date was so adorable. Her laughing at his blobfish meal and taking a picture of it... God, I love flirty and fun Scully so much. She’s just so adorbs. 

Here we go...

Chapter Thirty Seven 

All a Buzz

After the catastrophe in Rm9.... Scully and Mulder take care of things at the house before heading to breakfast. Discussions are had, temporary decisions are made, and things begin to move forward. 

February 2018

The water was warm as Scully washed her hands in the diner bathroom. She looked in the mirror and smiled at her reflection. This night had been … well, to say insane was an understatement. A car ride from hell, a possessed room vacuum, her bedroom exploding, being chased by drones, and being shot at by printed 3-D bullets.

All because of a tip, or lack of one, she thought, shaking her head as she dried her hands and left the bathroom. Mulder was still sitting at the bar, looking at his phone when she returned. As she walked up, he turned to her with a smile, standing as he slipped his phone in his back pocket and drank down the last bit of his coffee.

“You ready?” he asked, and she nodded her head. Heading out of the diner, he held the door open for her as they walked to his car. She was tired, but oddly incredibly happy and unable to stop smiling, even after all that had happened.

Late last night, after they walked out of that warehouse, they trudged back to her place to inspect the damage the explosion caused. Not too surprisingly, no emergency services were present. The calls they tried to place before fleeing had not gone through, and the alarm system was operating with a mind of its own. None of her neighbors had appeared to be bothered enough to call it in either. More evidence that the world was slowly shrinking into its own worries and concerns.

Glass was everywhere, and they both sighed as they looked at it. Black scorch marks and areas of still smoldering smoke from the explosive ball of fire were on the carpet, walls, her bed, and dresser. There was even some damage in the bathroom, making the entire space unlivable. She was, however, thankful that the damage had at least been contained to that area versus the entire house.

Mulder looked at her, and she sighed again. Walking past the smoldering piece of metal that was once the floor vacuum, Scully walked into the kitchen and grabbed the fire extinguisher. She handed it to Mulder when she heard him behind her, and she began searching for the broom she could not find earlier.

When she finally found it on the back porch, she and Mulder worked to clean up the glass, putting it directly into one of her outdoor trash cans. The whole process took a lot longer than they had anticipated since glass had found its way into the small crevices and areas they would not normally have looked, but they eventually got it done. They even boxed the vacuum back up after they sprayed it with the fire extinguisher.

By the time they finished, the sun was coming up, making it easier for Scully to take pictures to document the damage for insurance purposes. She looked at Mulder as he stood outside, looking at the hole the shattered window left behind.

“So, what do we do about this?” he asked, opening his hands wide, gesturing to it. “Do you have any large pieces of plywood to cover this? Big pieces of plastic or anything like that?”

“Yeah, I have plywood in the garage,” she said, rolling her eyes, taking the last picture and putting her phone away.

“Well, this house is super fancy, who knows what you’ve got hidden away here,” he said stepping through the frame and back into the house. “Ooh, I’m not going to run into a Jabberwock, am I?” He grinned at her, and she rolled her eyes again.

“That’s what you might find going through the looking glass, Mulder, not a broken window pane frame,” she said, shaking her head.

“Points awarded for not insisting, incorrectly, that it’s called a Jabberwocky,” he said dryly.

“‘The Jabberwocky’ is a poem written by Lewis Carroll, Mulder, about the Jabberwock. ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch! ’” She quoted and he stared at her in fascinated amazement.

“God, Scully,” he stated, shaking his head and stepping past her. “How do you make a children’s poem so fucking hot? Between your device you had on you earlier and this … how’s a guy supposed to not be aroused? Jesus Christ …”

She laughed as she watched him walk out of the room and out of sight. He obviously needed a minute, and she would give it to him. She heard him sighing loudly, causing her to giggle quietly. After a few minutes had passed he walked back into the bedroom and stared at her.

“So, what do we do about the window? Have you called someone?” he asked, and she nodded.

“He’ll be here by 7, so less than an hour from now,” she said as he sighed and nodded his head, looking around the room.

“When he gets  here, do you wanna go get something to eat?” he asked. “From a real restaurant with real chefs. No more of this automation bullshit. I’m starving.”

“Starving?” she teased him, and he shrugged.

“Unlike you, Scully, I wasn’t able to eat my dinner. All I’ve had since then is cold toaster pastries, and seeing as how you’ve offered no refreshments, I’m ready for some breakfast. Eggs and toast, some bacon. Mmm …” he moaned, closing his eyes.

“I have fruit in the fridge and there are some crackers in the kitchen cabinet next to the microwave. They have rosemary in them,” she offered, and he gave her a look of disgust. She rolled her eyes and smiled, shrugging her shoulders at him.

He grabbed two dining room chairs and brought them into the hallway to keep an eye on the place as they waited for the guy to arrive. She touched his shoulder as she went to the kitchen to cut up the strawberries she had in the fridge. She knew he would not refuse them if she offered them to him. Coming back a few minutes later, she handed him the bowl and sat down. Just as she suspected, he began to shovel them in his mouth.

She sat next to him and he offered her the bowl and she took one, eating it slowly. “Christ, Scully, come on …” he groaned, shaking his head. She laughed and took the next strawberry, eating it normally, his eyes cautiously turned away from her.

Twenty minutes later the guy showed up and Scully explained to him what happened. He whistled at the sight of the burnt room and shook his head, commenting that she was lucky to have gotten out unscathed. She nodded and thought how lucky she truly was, how close it was once again. They left for breakfast shortly after, another truck pulling up to help with the job at hand.

Now, finished with their meal prepared by real people, they were headed back to her place to check how things were progressing and to see what else needed doing. She still needed to call Alan and let him know what happened. Thinking about it made her sigh and hang her head. Mulder glanced over at her, and she sighed again.

“Not looking forward to explaining to Alan what happened,” she said, looking at him and he nodded.

“So, you’ll need to replace the carpet, fix the walls, replace items, check for any internal damage to that house,” he said, unlocking the doors so they could get in the car. They buckled their seat belts, and he put his hand on the back of her seat as he backed out of their parking spot. Putting both hands on the wheel, he headed toward her place. “So, you have all that to deal with, and you can’t possibly stay there of course. What’s your plan?”

She looked at him, smiling at what he was not saying. He shrugged, glancing at her before turning his eyes back to the road. “Once I know exactly what needs to be done at the house, I’ll make a decision,” she told him and he nodded.

“Well, just know that-”

“I know, Mulder,” she said covering his hand with her own. He grasped her hand and nodded again.

At the house, they found men pulling up carpet, the furniture placed outside in order to get the job done. Scully sighed as she began to go through the drawers of the dresser to see if anything was salvageable. Mulder asked where her suitcase was and went to get it for her when she said the guest room.

He came back with the suitcase and trash bags. “Just in case you need it,” he said. “I’m going to check the room some more.” She nodded, and he walked away.

Some of her clothing was fine and some had been singed through the wood. She put the clothes she would keep in the suitcase while with a heavy heart she tossed out her other things. Everything she packed would need a wash, but at least she had some clothing.

Mulder came back with a bag full of her toiletries and she smiled her thanks. “Do you have another bag? I’ll start loading up shoes,” he said and she stopped him briefly with a squeeze of his hand. He nodded and went to find the other bags in the guest room.

An hour and a half later, they had loaded up her car with items she would need. Some clothes, shoes, coats, toiletries, electronics, and other items. She called Alan and left a message to get in touch with her as soon as possible. Part of her was grateful she missed him, while the other part dreaded his return phone call.

The foreman in charge, Gary, said it would be a few weeks of work, at least, as they needed to check for major damage. Scully nodded and sighed, afraid that was going to be the answer.

“We’ll do what we can today and then board up the window. That glass has to be specially ordered,” Gary said with a sympathetic smile.

“Of course it does,” Scully sighed and then smiled slightly at him. “Thank you, Gary.” He nodded and headed back inside.

“Well, this seems fitting,” she said, putting her hands in her pockets. “Honestly, I’m surprised one of our places never blew up at some point in the past.” She laughed and he smiled.

“So many other things happened, just not that,” he nodded and put his hands in his pockets too, his eyes asking questions his mouth was not voicing.

“Mulder,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Scully,” he shook his head at her with a small smile. “It’s … you do what you want, whatever makes you most comfortable. I … it’s your decision and … the room is there if you want it, but I understand.”

She smiled and stepped closer to him, searching his face. “Thank you, Mulder,” she said quietly, her hands moving to hold his face. He leaned in and kissed her softly, his hands moving to her waist. She pulled back and sighed. “I’m going to go to a hotel. I … I think that would be best.” He stared at her and nodded, a small sad smile on his face.

Stepping back, he put his hands in his pockets again. “You want me to follow you? Help you unload the car?”

“No,” she answered. “I’ll be okay.”

He nodded and shuffled his feet around. “Well … then I should probably head home, make sure the onslaught of drones didn’t destroy the house. Maybe get some sleep,” he said with a shrug and smiled again, but she knew it was forced. She sighed, and he touched her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Stepping back, he smiled again and this time it almost reached his eyes. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. Next time, I get to pick the restaurant, and maybe we can avoid this kind of fiasco.”

“Oh, this was my fault?” she asked, waving her arm toward the house, her eyebrows raised.

“You suggested the sushi place,” he responded with a shrug.

“And you didn’t tip, which set off this whole chain reaction.”

“Tip a place that gave me a disgusting smelling blobfish?!” he said taking his hands from his pockets and raising his arms in an exasperated stance. “How was I to know those goddamn robots were going to freak the fuck out?”

“And damn near kill me?” she said with a pointed look, causing him to hang his head. Lifting his head, he sighed, and she began to laugh. He shook his head, and she laughed harder.

“It’s a strange thing to laugh about, Scully,” he said and she laughed harder, the night finally catching up to her making her feel punch-drunk. “Go get some sleep.” He nodded, and she tried to sober up enough to say goodbye to him, but she failed. He waved to her as he got in his car, and she waved back.

Standing there alone, she looked around at the house again and sighed. Staying there had been fun, and she loved the comforts it afforded. Now she was going to be in a hotel for who knew how long. She easily could have gone back to the house with Mulder, stayed in the guest room again, but she knew how that would end. No chance would she be able to resist joining him in their bed this time. No chance.

She sighed as she looked at her burnt bedroom furniture sitting outside before getting in her car. The past couple of months had been wonderful, but even the amount of amazing sex they were having did not make a relationship. They were, and always would be, friends before everything else and right now, that was how it felt … kind of. Not ‘friends with benefits’ because that would never be who they were. Their attraction and desire for one another was far too strong for that. But right now … it felt like they were treading water, standing still, and waiting for something to happen.

Her phone beeped and she picked it up, finding a message from Mulder.

Hope purple is okay. Also, I thought you could do with an upgrade.

She frowned as she read it and then her cheeks flamed as the screenshot of an order he placed popped up. A new personal massager had been ordered and would be sent to the house. His house … their house. God, she hated the uncertainty she felt about it.

In no way am I trying to persuade you to change your mind, but just letting you know it will be here. Fully charged and ready for any activities you wish to use it for. ; )

Her pulse raced as she thought of the last time her old one was used, before it had been tossed away. She remembered the feel of it against her aroused flesh, the way it was dragged across her hot skin, the vibrations of it making her moan and shake, when it was placed exactly where she wanted and needed it.

“I love watching you come,” Mulder had whispered to her as he turned it up higher and she broke with a cry, clutching at his arm, spots dancing in front of her eyes.  

The scent of chlorine from their tryst in the hot tub, had invaded her senses as she came down and pulled his hand away from her, the sensations too intense. In the fumble of limbs, it must have gotten knocked from his hand and fallen under the bed. There it had remained, forgotten, as she had not been in need of it recently.

Looking at her messages again, she zoomed in more closely at the order form, mainly the timestamp on it. He ordered it when they were in the diner, while she was in the bathroom it seemed, but he said nothing until now. God, she loved him.

Shaking her head, she typed out a response, her cheeks flushed and a huge smile on her face.

Purple will be most welcome. And an upgrade with a couple new speed settings? Keep it charged up, and I’ll be sure to stop by and find out what all the BUZZ is about.

Sending it to him, she set the phone in the cup holder and put the keys in the ignition and started the car. Glancing down when she heard a beep, she grinned at the three words she saw as she put the car in drive.

Jesus Christ, Scully …

[plantfeed]

        ok turns out i am 100% that dumbass bitch who still aint posted my intro on main....... so for reference.....  hello! im nora ( she / her ). im a 24 year old creative writing graduate currently residing in sheffield, south yorkshire. when i’m not hunched over a keyboard writing, i enjoy independent cinema, chinese food, and big nights out that i’ll remember only in fleeting snapshots. i currently work as a barmaid and a tutor for a filmmaking project.  

without further ado, here is my interpretation on the skeleton ‘ophelia’, a development of a character who’s been brewing at the back of my mind for absolutely AGES now so thank u for giving me the push to actually flesh her out. 

ive included a full biography, but please feel free 2 skip to bullet points if TLDR because it is LOOONG..... and im so happy 2 be here.... new home.... chefs kiss.... yes lov u all

IN CHARACTER.

skeleton: ophelia name: theresa rigby. (goes by diminutives tess, tessa, tea or thea. the only time she’s theresa is when she’s in trouble.) age: 21, born july 10 (cancer) faceclaim: diana silvers. gender: cis-female. pronouns: she/her degree: comparative literature & ancient history (joint honours)

INTRO.

trigger warnings.

loss of a parent. missing person / disappearance. drugs and alcohol reliance. death.

BIOGRAPHY.

i. narragansett, rhode island.

              1999, an Austrian sunrise, it is the year of the Water Monkey.  A water baby, first screams under the surface, the catch of it gargled in your throat. A birth mark the size and shape of a door handle pressed into your pelvis like a lover’s badge. Born like a clenched fist. Annie always wished you’d be more like an open palm. You still carry that tension with you, an unreadable kind of silence when you slink around the edge of a room or perch on an arm rest like a bird about to startle and fly off. Nobody knows a thing about you and you like it that way. Conceived in the winter, some of that coldness still lingers in you. 

              The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought you were a blessing — Bet’s soul reincarnate, the same pale face they’d seen as they’d signed her into the pick ‘n’ mix family. You were given her clothes, her room, even her middle name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Four boys, a dead sister, and you who — with your birdlike features and unrelenting eyes — was merely a walking ghost. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage; these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own lest you disturb the lingering presence of Bet. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

              Your mothers met at an undergraduate socialist meeting when the fall semester fell into winter, Kath in a mustard coloured beret, Annie in a blood-orange duffle coat, a philosophy major and an art historian respectively. Your childhood was a montage of potato printing eels onto the walls of a Rhode Island boarding house next to the sea. Five children — some adopted, some surrogate — a permanent rotation of rooms and always a handful of lodgers to foot the bill. Travelling salesmen, students on gap years and tinkers in search of odd-jobs became a flipbook of faces etched into your memories like fleeting figures in the wings of a theatre; you sketch them into the body of your work. They become the characters to haunt the pages of your notebooks, stashed beneath floorboards lest they fall into too-hungry flour-caked fingers, scones baking in the oven two floors below. A house that seemed to physically inhale every time a new body entered it, tall and thin, too small to house all that weight. The gaps beneath the floorboards are the only spaces that feel like your own, untouched by a girl who’s shadow you were born in. In your diary, you scribble her name until it tears through the pages thinking that if you wish hard enough, you’ll make yourself her. It’s never enough.

              At twelve, you lose Annie to a boating accident. You lose a piece of yourself with her and stop wearing yellow. Grief makes a better writer out of you though it sounds selfish to admit it. Kath remarries the following spring, a man named Peter. He is ordinary in all the ways Annie was magical and when he sits in your mother’s chair you feel yourself slip out of your skin and into the body of a raven cawing in the woods, scratching at the dustmites. You try to teach yourself how to be a girl, though you’ve always felt more like a wild thing crouched in the attic window of the lighthouse, screaming at the crash of the waves. You wanted to love the sea as closely as it owned you. In the sea you were rewritten into a tide, into a shell, into the swell of a rockpool around the body of a crab. You wanted to be like the ocean —a tangible, changeling thing —making paper boats and setting them out to sea, wishing you could shrink yourself into one, sail away. For a while, you toy with the idea of starving yourself into something the size and shape of an eel; of growing gills in the night and darting into the ebbing current. They’d think you crazy if you told them.

ii. concord, massachusetts. 

              You butt heads with Kath on a daily basis. She tells you you resent her for moving on with her life when you seem unable to move on with yours. That maybe a clean break would be best for all the family. A fresh start. A change of scene. You lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for an hour until your mouth feels raw, like running a cheesegrater down the inside of your throat. The following September, they send you to boarding school, two suitcases and an armful of Annie’s jumpers. Kath has decided they don’t compliment her skin tone, and she’s not twenty-five or studying philosophy any more. New England becomes the best decision for you that your family have ever made. You thrive on the independence of living in a dormitory on a corridor of Alison’s and Margaret’s and Ruth’s. From the names on their doors, you paint them into people in your head, red-haired Ruth who collects birth stones and can count to twenty in Mandarin. They turn out to be nothing like the versions of them you’ve spun. You love them anyway, their rough-softness, the scuffed knee thrill of growing up half-wild. There’s a brightness in their girlhood that you try to capture in your words. 

              Though you never quite find yourself settling into a group, Dr. Franklin becomes the anchor to which you tether yourself to, a little girl leeching onto her Literature professor for a sense of stability in a tempestuous world. The others might think it sad, but she sees something in you — an inner restlessness, a need to analyse and observe and contain everything within poetry and prose — that reminds her of herself at your age. You begin one-to-one sessions after the school day has closed, whisper about Proust and O’Hara over frothed lattes in a campus-run coffee shop, ink blots on the pages of dog-eared copies she’s gifted to you on an indefinite loan. Sometimes, you think you love her. You run your fingers over the buttons of her typewriter, close your eyes, and imagine yourself pulling on her skin like a new coat.

              The woods become your saviour. In Narragansett you never knew woods, only harboursides, seafood restaurants, the smell of the ocean breeze and a lighthouse calling you home. You learn to love the smell of the earth after rain. The feeling of soil between your toes. The sense of belonging you feel trailing through the woods in stark white nightgown, twigs catching on the mud-stained hem. Massachusetts becomes a place of revision. You remake yourself as a fawn, elegance in your limbs and hunger in your heart. You learn how to write yourself into being. There’s a violence in your grace — simultaneously glass and the hammer that shatters it — and despite the ethereal way you move it’s the leonine stature of a tigress, claws bared, teeth sharpened into fangs, but a smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Lady Macbeth was always your favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines. There’s something dark in her that resonates with you, the way when a pimple appears you have to squeeze it until it bleeds. You tell yourself that everybody has a morbid fascination. 

              Each night you take a torch, a book and a bottle of Merlot, and you wile away the hours reading in the woods. At home, sleep never came easy to you. You’d pace the floorboards counting sheep and wake having barely slept a blink. This, on the other hand, seems useful, though when you’re never asleep, you’re never quite awake, floating through the school day like a ghost, part removed, the dark circles pulling your eyes to a close. It’s a tiredness you carry in every aspect of your life, limbs heavier than usual, pen slower when it grazes the page. Soon you start taking tablets each night. Two white ones, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. For the first time, you begin to dream.

              When February rolls around you take your exams. Pass with the grace of a swan in everything except AP Calculus. You say you’ll try again next semester, but you don’t. You apply for Yale, Cambridge, Harvard, Columbia, Ashcroft. You wait. And wait. And wait until it feels like your skin has shed itself since the letters left your hands, before an envelope comes marked Theresa. No one ever calls you that name. Right from the start it’s been Tea, Tess, Thea, common names in your house as fickle as the tide that swallows it. Billy’s never been a William, and Sebastian sounds all wrong. You can scarcely remember what Brodie’s short for. Rejection after rejection until Ashcroft answers the call, a cawing in the dark of a wasteland you’ve not yet walked. You’ll read literature, follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg who you clumsily try to quote as you bid the girls goodbye, a bonfire and the smell of cinnamon whiskey. 

iii. ashcroft university, edinburgh. 

              You’d read of a boy who went missing there. It happened in the woods. Seventy years and all they’d found was an emptied bottle of wine and one shoe. Newspapers claimed involvement in an elite society, perhaps a hazing gone wrong, and you imagine them burrowed in underground tunnels wearing wellington boots and tweed. This is what draws you to Ashcroft ; to Imperium. It’s not so much the mystery of it —you’ve never seen yourself as a Nancy Drew — but more the idea of living in a place where people can disappear. That’s always been an idle fantasy of yours. One day, you wonder if you’ll write yourself out of the world and into the pages of a book, nestled between a title and contents page.  

              From Concord to Boston, then a ten-hour flight ; for the first time in months, you sleep through the night. A line break cancels your train and you have to take a replacement bus service instead. By the time you reach the school, the open day is almost over. You feel it at the gates, like a tingle on the back of your neck, something crawling down your spine. It only grows as you close in on it. It feels like it knows your own heartbeat. You’ve never known a building to have so much soul. You imagine yourself walking the cobblestones on the quad each day, climbing the steps to a dormitory, sprawled on a library table, scribbling frantically, willing the clock hands backwards. It’s a life you want to lead.

              In a matter of months, Ashcroft has become not only your home but your life. You are utterly consumed by it. You meet Lysander at a poetry reading. You recite Shelley. He recites Keats. He compliments you on the steadiness of your voice, clear as a bell. A voice for the stage. You tell him your father had a powerful voice. It’s a lie. You’ve never had a father, but it’s fun to imagine one slouched on the couch, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He invites you to dinner the following week. Grilled sea bass and risotto. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve become a vegetarian, swallow each mouthful with your pride. You try out for the orchestra, though your hands shake a little too much and you hear more from the inside of your own head than the keys. You leave without waiting on an answer. It’s too contained for you, anyway. You need something more chaotic, like jazz. You wish for chaos, so Imperium opens it jaws and swallows you whole. They like you because of your voice, a voice that speaks scarcely more than a low whisper in life, but when written wins you a Bysshe-Shelley Prize. In poetry, you give that voice to the voiceless ; bring dead girls buried in the woods out of the ground and into being, like soil in your hands. A voice like that is a powerful thing to have in your ranks. It becomes every page in your diary, every catch of your skirt on a tree branch, every rap of your fingertips against the desktop, imperium, imperium, imperium.

              You’ve never been able to do things by halves — you always let them consume you. One glass becomes a bottle. One paragraph becomes scrawling until sunrise. Obsession takes its form in Hamlet, strong in all the ways you appear weak. You like the smell of his breath when he tells you to stub out your cigarette. That’ll kill you one day, he says. I know, you reply, and your pretty lips curl upwards. One drunken night, you fall into his bed and imagine stitching yourself into his sheets so you can sleep with him every night. Tongues on your thighs like a voice in your throat. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Never been held like this before. Like you’re not glass, but something material and robust. You like the way his hands feel under your skin. Perhaps you’ll keep him there like a splinter. Tall for your age but thin as a rail, he makes you feel like more than an eel of a girl. You like the way he catches on your spindly elbows where others have snagged leaving trails of cotton. At first, it’s only physical, but you get greedy and want more. You’re not sure when a love of beauty became something more than skin deep. You’re not sure if you even loved him until he’d stopped loving you. In October, you find the body. The day all the clocks stop ticking. The day something inside of you snaps like the branch of an elm.

              You become a cocoon, velvet ribbons in your hair and rope around your throat. Or maybe it’s lace, and you’re only imagining it that way. You drink wine, stumble blind-drunk through the woods, lose textbooks to nature and curse when you can’t find them the following morning. Most nights, you appear like a ghost in the wood, a linen nightdress with mud clinging to it’s hem and feet laden in soil. You’re not sure if it’s conscious at this point, or mindless sleepwalking. Everything you do feels like sleepwalking these days. Shadows move in the corners of your eyes at night and you turn to the tarot cards for answers. They tell you only of that which you already know. Death. The Hanged Man. High Priestess. You think of Octavia, of Lysander, and of you pulled like a ragdoll between them, with the intuition that comes from living by the sea but without the evidence to execute it. The pills have stopped working. You wake in sweats, guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach. In a therapist’s waiting room, you watch as a girl scratches the skin off her own arm.

              Soon news of your occultist proclivities becomes gossip on everyone’s tongue. Witch becomes a synonym for your name, and one you’ll happily wear like a noose until you’ve stolen Lysander from the drop. Finding the truth becomes the only thing keeping you sane, runes scrawled on the walls of a dormitory where pages of novels are tacked up like wallpaper. And still, you can’t shake the fact that she hasn’t come to you when the others who scarcely believe in such phantomed are rattled by her ghost on a nightly basis. Competing and girlhood go hand in hand, but the longer it gets, the more it feels like she knows your desperation to absolve Lysander isn’t entirely selfless. Perhaps she saw you lingering in doorways, waiting in the wings for him to change his mind and tell you it was you all along. Or maybe the sight of her corpse is making you search for answers in places they don’t exist. You’re hanging on my a single thread, one glimpse away from fleeing to the woods to plant yourself into the earth.

              The snow is crisp on the November ground when you learn to love melancholy like a dance you were taught as a child. You think it adds depth to being a writer. How can a person write about pain if they live in a state of blissful oblivion? You tell yourself that all of the best writers were depressed; Plath, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Rice. If you say their names each morning, followed by your own, perhaps you’ll become one of them. 

BULLET POINT SUMMARY.

here is a bullet point summary of theresa, as i understand my writing can get a little dense.

Mother always said that people who grow up near water are different to other people. That there’s something more primal in their bones. A kind of knowing.

In Theresa, the knowing is a kind of silence. She’s always struggled with verbal communication, and it’s rare that she can ever let herself go in a conversation. She’s the one on the outskirts of the group, only speaking up to deliver a poignant metaphor, before fading off again. On a good day she’ll ramble, perhaps, on morbid longings and fascinations, but it’s like she’s always skipping around words she can’t quite pinpoint. 

Writing’s different. When she’s writing, she feels like all the dead souls of Emily Bronte and Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are all rising up from their graves to possess her. It is, perhaps, a rather egotistical thought -- but it makes her feel less alone. Like writing isn’t so much a solitary pursuit as it is a reigniting of what’s been lost, a way of listening to the dead. She’s militant in the way she writes, has been for as long as she can remember -- every night when the clock strikes twelve. Even if she’s rolling on mandy in an abandoned warehouse or dropping acid in a shipyard with her toes in the sand, she’ll start scribbling at twilight, for as long as she can. Back home, there weren’t too many bars that allowed underage kids, and the ones that did would nail your phone to the wall like you’re living in the eighties, so they made their own fun getting high in places long since infested with rats on baggies bought cheap in the back of the dry-cleaners shop.

Theresa’s always felt more able to relate to dead people than to living ones. That might sound depressing, but she doesn’t think so. Death has never been far from her. She grew up in the room of a foster sister who had died the previous winter. She lost her mother to a boating accident at twelve years old. She lost Octavia last year, found her body in the woods, and was thankful that she -- and not someone else -- had seen her crumpled like a fawn. Because even though it clings to her and burrows under her skin, she knows how to drown it out now. In words. In wine. In pills crushed against the veneer of a sink and snorted through a twenty-dollar bill. She’s getting good at losing herself completely. Theresa herself feels like a girl half-dead, like something ghostly, trapped between two planes. Which is why it hurts so much that she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost. She’s supposed to be the special one. The one who’s vision isn’t clouded by idle dogmatism. The one who believes in all that fate, juju, third eye stuff that the others seem to scoff at. It feels like a personal attack. Like somehow, in keeping hidden, she’s blaming Theresa for her death.

Theresa is the month of November. There’s something mysterious about it, something cold. It’s on the cusp of the end of the year, but it doesn’t quite reach it. I feel like that’s what Theresa’s like. Always reaching for the apples that are just out of her grasp, or perhaps, reaching for apples which aren’t even there. 

She knows grief like an old friend, but somehow, she still doesn’t trust it. When she was twelve years old she lost one of her mothers. Annie was always the brighter of her parents, and Tessa never really believed that someone so full of life could just disappear. Her soul had to be somewhere. When Kath remarried, Theresa never forgave her. Between grief and anger, their relationship became fractious, and Kath decided to send her to boarding school. She went to a New England college where she learned art, history, literature, english, athletics, the sciences and the classics. Boarding school was probably the best decision for Theresa that Kath had ever made. She became fascinated with the girls around her, so feral and wild in their girlhood. She fell in love with another girl more than once. She fell in love with the freedom of New England, of being in the woods, of a gaggle of girls with bottles of wine sat around a campfire, scared half to death that the matron would find them.

But death’s never far from her. She’s been searching for Annie in the linebreaks between poems, in the chaos of clutter under her bed, under lace and linen in her underwear drawer, but somehow she can never quite find her and never give up.  Finding Annie was perhaps the reason she came to Ashcroft at all. She intended to go to Columbia, read Literature, and clumsily follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg. But Annie had spoken of Edinburgh with such a childlike awe.

Lysander was the first of the society she met, at a poetry reading in the autumn of her first semester. He brought her into the club because he saw something in her, an otherworldliness, a still but powerful voice. Her eyes saw more than they let on, always glinting at something more. She thinks her closeness with Lysander is the reason she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost, and now Hamlet’s out of the picture she’s starting to think she might love Lysander. Or maybe she just needs to be loved by someone, and absolving him of blame is the key.

She was never really sure how she felt about Octavia. One moment they were friends, the next they were rivals. It was something like love and hate combined, but perhaps that’s just the curse of being a woman. A fierce sense of competition in everything you do, even if it’s just competing for air.

She likes old French music, European cinema, art that doesn’t come in her mother tongue. She’s always thought English pointless. The French say things so much better.

Her favourite TV show is Twin Peaks. She likes the absurdist truth in it, the style, the colour, the oddness. She likes the mystery of it all. She loved the woods in New England and it reminds her of that. A kind of home away from home. Tea brings a pocked dictaphone out with her, for she’s so often absent-minded that she misses half the day. That way, she can replay conversations, the sound of a bird in flight, the particular inflection in the voice of someone she loves. She’s obsessive when it comes to lovers. She doesn’t want to be loved -- she wants to be respected, understood, devoured. She thinks love is a kind of mutual lying.

She finds truth in the unusual. In tarot cards and horoscopes, in the position of the planets through a thrifted telescope. She’s a night owl, never in bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. She visits the woods each night to write until her fingers ache. Sometimes with wine, sometimes with mushrooms, sometimes with a tab against the flat of her tongue, imagining herself to be Alice in Wonderland. She feels like she’s getting close to the truth, but maybe she’s just closer to losing her mind.

LETTER TO OCTAVIA.

My dearest O,

I wish I could find an adequate way to write you an epitaph. You saw a poet where everyone else saw a foolish dreamer and yet you’re the only one I can’t put into words. But in truth, there is no word large enough to contain you. You were the ellipsis I was always looking to conclude, and it’s so like you to steal even that from me. Some days, I think I could love you.  

Please know that death cannot touch girls like us. That you’re more than just skin, teeth and bone. Death itself has you only on a short-term loan. As Thomas puts so eloquently, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thank you for filling me with life. I’ll see you in the next one.

Tea.

anything else?

mock blog.

 pinterest 

wanted plots.

someone who theresa knows purely from seeing them at the library. recently, she hasn’t been visiting as often. she’s less in the world and more in her head. her schoolwork is suffering. someone who feels this absence like a missing tooth.

unlikely bc ashcroft is in scotland but if they’re from rhode island maybe distant relatives.... ophelia / theresa is adopted so could work regardless of heritage. her family lived in narragansett, but she went to boarding school in vermont. could have met if ur character is new england based??? maybe

give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties bcos this baby is not alright. she drinks at least one glass of wine every night. sometimes a bottle. she’s always a little bit high or a little bit weary with a comedown. she can’t seem to keep her feet on the ground.

theresa was pretty numb after finding the body, as you would be. she stayed in her room listening to enya for three days straight and just eating cereal straight out the box. then thalia broke up with her and that fuckin shook her too, and now she just thinks she’s unlovable. she’s always been pretty bad at sleeping but now she just wanders about in her white nightdress looking for a door with light spilling beneath it so that maybe she can find someone who’ll hold her for the night and make her feel like she’s still alive

she’s currently hooking up with a lot of people. a lot of very detached sex, so if she has any sort of close connection with your character this might not work. could be good for angst or awkwardness though, or she cld get like.... super attached after a one night stand and complicate the shit out of everything. theresa’s kind of obsessive when it comes to her affections, she loves with her whole heart or not at all

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life jesus 

honestly everything just give me all the plots

[tothedarkdarkseas]

2Doc Week 2019, 6/6: Birthday

Really wanted to contribute something before the week was over and scrambled to put this together! This is a little day 5, but mostly day 6. Apologies for being a bit short and probably shaky quality! And apologies for… not breaking canon exactly, but bending it. (This assumes that the car from Saturnz Barz was transported back to London before Murdoc’s incarceration, which seems like more effort than they’d probably make.)

Warnings: Smokes ‘n swears, and one UK-specific traveller slur. Moderate angst, but by my standards I’d say this is actually pretty tender.

AO3 Link

Everybody cool down, ev—

Pause. Select channel 3, playback 80%.

—rybody see yourself. Everybody on time, on t—

Pause. 78%.

Murdoc’s sat at the near-buckling desk in his bedroom, overloaded with sound equipment and empty cans, papers and postage cluttered under his laptop. The corkboard hanging in front is stuffed to capacity, with the overflow beginning to pour from the walls to the desk to the floor. It’s not a proper studio, not even close, but it’s got what he needs for now: a mixer open with the recent touring tracklist queued up. He slows the bass track, clips notes, tries to match Ace’s recording more to his own pacing and it just doesn’t work. Accounting for his style throws everyone else’s rhythm off; he’d heard it in every city for that last leg and he hears it now. His mouth sinks at the edges as he bumps it down and plays it again.

There’s an unsubtle shuffling behind him, has been for a minute or two, but he doesn’t bother turning to greet Stuart. He can feel him idling in the doorway and reckons that’s on purpose. It’s gone on past seven now with no “best wishes” or formalities, and Murdoc thinks he’d do well to keep skirting it ‘til midnight. He doesn’t exactly want a conversation, not about them, not today. He doesn’t want a pardon for the day’s sake, doesn’t want an obligation to it from Stu.

He doesn’t really want a birthday.

Stu’s hands fall on his shoulders, almost big enough for the tips of his outstretched fingers to meet over Murdoc’s sternum. His breath is hot and foul against the side of his face.

“Hey.” The stink of sweat is practically steaming off him, and Murdoc’s throat tightens. “Got you something.”

He smirks as he leans his head further on his shoulder, reveling in that awful balmy feeling of skin on sweat-slick skin. “You can leave it in the back.”

Stu huffs a nasally laugh right in his ear and pushes off him, muttering something under his breath. Turning to face him properly, Murdoc notes his reddish face and neck, his unwashed hair, his white tank gone yellow around the edges and stained, overwide jeans.

“Look at you. Is your prezzy coming in my room at night good an' dirty?” He lets his mouth hang open just enough to see him tongue at the back of his teeth in consideration. “S’not the worst you could do.”

Stu cranes his neck and juts his jaw forward, clearly fancying himself a real stud. “I’ve been working on your caddy.”

Murdoc’s brow tics as he pulls a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lights it, his eyes still stuck on the discolored spots beneath Stu’s bony collar.

“Pikey drove up in a brand new Cadillac?”

“Yeah, balls to you,” he quotes back. “Can’t really leave it to sit pretty this long without some engine problems. I cleared out the coolants and the oil, checked the spark plugs, swapped out the coils for smoother suspension in the rear.”

“Mm, now say you stuck your fingers in the tailpipe,” Murdoc mutters around his cigarette.

Stu grins. “You’ve got a little corrosion on one of the belts. I’ll have to fetch another in the morning, I haven’t got a replacement.”

He doesn’t entirely understand the point of this, hasn’t got much need for the car to run in London, but telling his bandmates to fuck off for making efforts is something he’s made efforts himself not to do recently. It’s good that it’s something small and familiar; he’d rather this than something heavier hanging over his head.

“Awful rugged of you. Tell me we’re on the part where I say I’m strapped and ask if there’s any other way I can repay you.”

Stu ignores him and nicks the cigarette from his mouth, then presses it to his own and burns it down, down, down. He stares indiscreetly at his laptop screen and ashes into an old cider can. Murdoc wordlessly minimizes the mixer.

“I’ll fetch a belt in the city tomorrow, was heading out anyway. I rang in an appointment at Snippers ‘round eleven.”

Murdoc pauses his crafty maneuver to grab his fag back and sizes him up. Stu’s shaggy hair hangs nearly to his nape, thinning and unflatteringly wet, the one-time shock of blue faded with sparse silver strands throughout. He’s always been a man who cared for his appearance, but he typically favored looking like he didn’t; either Russ or Stu himself have cut his hair as long as he’s been living outside his mum’s house. He frowns in suspicion.

“Just decided you’d pop in for a trim?”

Stu toes off his trainers, shrugging distractedly. “Yeah.”

“Are you going somewhere?” He hesitates. “Am I going somewhere?”

Stu starts to strip off his jeans, the seams worn to nothing and the waist at least a full size too big, nearly falling to his thighs as soon as the belt’s off. The denim pools on top of his flat socked feet and he keeps silent as he kicks them off, then digs through the wash pile and rummages out a bright red pair of joggers to replace them. Murdoc watches without comment, dread pooling in him. Stuart sits on the bed to keep from toppling as he stretches back past his shoulders and pulls his shirt up over his head, inelegant, the cigarette still dangling between his lips.

He thumbs the damp fabric in his lap, then tosses it aside and sits up a bit taller.

“I don’t know, figured I’d ask first. Maybe somewhere quiet for a bit, somewhere in the countryside. Maybe…” He works his jaw, eyes hooded and downcast, looking at the space between Murdoc’s out-turned ankles more than Murdoc himself. “Maybe someplace in the Cotswolds or somethin’. Or a girlie bar in Soho, topless one. I’d like to look sharp either way.”

Murdoc sits stock-still. He watches Stu smoke and swears he can hear ticking from the space between them.

“…You don’t have to do that.”

“Funny thing about me, I don’t have to do much of anything. ‘Hafta’ wasn’t really the point.”

Murdoc brings a thumb to his lip, tries for indifference as he prods a cracking spot with his nail and makes the split worse. “Can’t imagine there’s much to the synth scene in Gloucestershire.”

“Think I can pull through. It’s not forever, s’just a holiday.”

He fights the urge to look behind him at the corkboard, pinned from corner to corner with tickets and magazine clippings and a single seaside postcard. If he tries he can still remember the shadow of flat palm leaves against a blinding afternoon sky, the taste of rum and seabreeze, the lap of easy waves over soft, warm sand. He remembers the way Stuart laughed, dizzy and near-drowning and too drunk to know it.

But when he looks at it now, that’s not what comes to mind. He thinks of the beach and he hears crashing, and then gunshots, and then nothing. He smells dissolving cellophane and rot, the biting ocean air acrid and chemical and clawing up his nostrils into his brain. He sees pink.

He sees a sprawling, melding, mile-deep labyrinth of pink.

Stu eyes him and takes another pull of smoke.

“You could stand a cut yourself. Your flop’s starting to flip.” He makes a swooping gesture with the cigarette down his forehead.

Murdoc palms his fringe down while he studies Stuart.

“I’m about 20 years past my sell by date, s’not gonna make a difference—”

“Well I’m not,” Stu interrupts. “I’m not, alright? Halfway isn’t the ‘too late’ mark for me.”

For all his supposed cool, Murdoc can’t help but see the exhausted folds above and below his eyes and the red lines lingering across his forehead.

“The fuck’s that even mean, why’m I counting your marks?”

“It means it’s not about you.”

“On my birthday, my present’s not about me? It’s about you?” He almost laughs despite himself. “Now that sounds more like you, Stuart.”

“Your present was me fixing the bloody car you left rusting while you were banged up. The holiday’d be for me.” He’s as near to a hiss as the smoke will let him go.

Murdoc tries to keep straight-faced as he swallows, feeling his tongue and all his excuses too acutely. “Why?”

“Because it’s not staring at another pissing wall in another pissing studio in another pissing country, it’s… you know, it’s quaint. It’s just picturesque bollocks and I really shouldn’t have to explain why regular people might enjoy that.”

“Fuck’re you even saying, Stu? Had a poor time out in Cali, so we should just… what? Run off in a sodding lobby painting? I don’t—” his stomach twists, and he tilts his head nearer to the board. “C’mon. I don’t get that.”

“And I don’t get that,” Stu replies, eyeing the postcard without pretense. “If it makes it easier, I don’t bloody well care whether you’re up at night; point is that I didn’t get to keep it. You owe me that much.”

He sounds harsh, but he doesn’t look it. He just looks tired. Stu leans over and stubs the already burnt-out cigarette on the rug. He rubs his hands over his face, scrubs his dirty fingers against his eyelids and the bridge of his nose.

“M’sorry. It’s—it’s been a long year for me too, Murdoc.”

“Thought you said Hollywood was alright,” he says, knowing it doesn’t help.

Stuart runs his knobby fingers through his hair. Murdoc knows he tries to hide it by keeping his bangs long and scattered, but pushed back like this, it’s clear to see how far his hairline’s receded. Slick with sweat and with grime, it looks like his hair’s being weighted down, just slipping further back on his skull so the ends can pool at his nape. He’s still handsome, of course—still something half-divine in Murdoc’s eyes—but he’s looking his age now.

“A trim would do you good,” Murdoc offers quietly.

“Yeah. I think it would.” He hasn’t got the energy to pull a face, to look like anything but what he is. “I think it might do you good too.”

Murdoc drops his head forward and swipes at his upper lip, back throbbing from his confinement at this desk. He wants to do better this time, but it’s clearer to him than anyone how wrongly the better Murdoc fits with what Stu’s made.

He feels how Stu’s worn eyes stay on him.

“Look, this doesn’t have to mean anythin’ with bells and whistles. It just means I’d like to take a drive and I’d like to stand on a hill and drink whatever shite they peddle, fucking toffee ale or summin'. I’d like to have a different sort of day.”

“It means you want to go inland,” he murmurs like he’s got a right to think it.

Stuart exhales loudly, his already sunken chest deflating further.

“It means I know that you…” Murdoc glances up to catch how he looks at him with a muddled sorriness, an acknowledgment without a reward. “It means I know. And it means the knowing’s fine, alright? I’d just like to see something different. Or at the very least I’d like to see some tits.”

“Go back to the mechanic talk and you can see some right now.” They share a small smile. Murdoc wets his lips, tries to stay present. “Y’really think she’s up for a drive? Car’s older than I am.”

“You doubting these hands?” He spreads them wide and gives his knuckles a cheeky crack, then jokingly winces.

“Only entirely.”

Stu braces against his knees and lumbers to his feet, gaze never wavering as he crosses the distance to Murdoc. He stands in front of him, all peaks and angles and towering shapes, sweat dried to his skin. He just watches him, no posing and no pleading, just stays there with his bare torso level to the other’s face.

After a moment Murdoc reaches out to twist his fingers in his waistband, bunching the red between his wrists and pulling him close. Stu lifts a hand to the back of his head to grab a handful of thick, choppy hair and crane his neck back. He stares at Murdoc’s chin against his navel for another beat before bending, kissing Murdoc hard and brief.

Their hands keep their place after they separate.

Every word that occurs to him to say feels like running, or wallowing, or something devaluing to what Stu’s willing to let them be. It all just feels too big—feels like more than it needs to be, like it makes it matter less.

“Yeah,” is the best he can manage.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[alcheminary]

uhhhhh yeaaaaaah I’ve got an order for some edwin featuring parental roy and riza, hold the royai?

merry new year, @bifullmetal, I’m your secret santa for 2018!! I’m sorry this is late, I was held up by some travel plans that popped off a little earlier than I thought they would

you asked for basically anything, so my plan going in here was to deliver a wintery and modern spin on the classic mermaid au fic. of course it ran away from me, so now you get a wip of a fic, and that just seems like a bum present so I draw art to make up for that, and gosh dude I just hope you like it

thanks to @fullmetalsecretsanta for putting this event together for 2018, you guys are awesome, for sure

anyway, here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter!

(edit: sorry for the extra late posting, I saved this to my drafts again on accident which is kind of the most embarrassing mistake I could possibly make)

“The Sea Bleeds Blue” Chapter 1 (prototype)

“... the man is reported to have been under the influence of alcohol during the time of his encounter…”

The tiny little TV blares throughout the house from its perch on the kitchen counter, a feat much more impressive in possibly any other structure that isn’t a cramped beach house. Like, seriously cramped. The kind of cramped where you can barely lay flat across the floor without hitting a wall.

It’s not like Winry Rockbell hates her grandma’s beach house. In a way, she gets it. You get older, your health starts to go, the warm weather is easy on your joints and the air is just so much easier to breathe compared to city smog. And everyone else your age has the same idea, too. When you have a nest egg and no other obligations, why not? Why not just live at the beach, wake up every morning to the soothing ebb of waves, sip your coffee on a porch overlooking the scenery, be a family vacation destination in and of yourself, and just wait to die?

That’s her whole bugbear with the thing actually, now that she thinks about it. People come to the beach to die.

She blinks hard, reaches for her wire cutters, and tries not to think about it much more than that.

“... officials like park ranger Jean Havoc however say the injuries are more likely to have been caused by a particularly territorial sea lion,” the newscaster on the TV continues, her voice tinny and distorted by the on-board speakers. Honestly, she could fix those if Gran would let her...

“He might’ve been feedin’ ‘em, harassin’ ‘em… Sea lions ain’t known to be gracious about their personal space, so all it takes is one loud, persistent jerkwad to ruin their whole day. Heck, mine too! Hahaha.”

“The man was admitted to the hospital this morning, and is expected to make a full recovery…”

Paninya scoffs, loud enough to startle Winry just as she’s threading the headlight through its socket. Luckily a less delicate part of this process. “Sea lion my butt. I’ve bounced frisbees off those things and they haven’t moved.”

She pauses as she considers that image. “Please tell me you don’t make field goals out of sea lions on purpose.”

“Of course not! They’re just… big. And bouncy. And all over? You can’t go down the boardwalk without tripping on them. Like, seriously, is there like a sea lion sanctuary nearby or something? Don’t they migrate?” Paninya asks, her nose scrunching up.

“Uh, I think Mr. Hughes might—”

“No, wait, that’s beside the point,” she interrupts. “And the point here is that I’m not buying what that park ranger is selling.” Her deep brown eyes watch Winry expectantly.

Winry puts down the wires she was futzing with and turns to give her a long-suffering smile, resigning herself to the next few minutes being completely unproductive. “Alright, detective, give me the scoop. What’s really going on in Brightly Cove?”

Paninya always gets this wild grin on her face when she does this. The corner of her smile lifts up just so, her eyes glint, and she squares her shoulders like she’s the hardboiled crime noir star the situation needs.

“Okay, so,” she starts, “You saw the gashes on the guy, right?”

Winry shrugs. “A little bit.”

“Okay, well, they’re completely inconsistent with a sea lion attack. We’d be looking for bites and puncture wounds, and he got approximately uhh, NONE of those. So either sea lions have mutated to have razor sharp claws in the past week, or it wasn’t a sea lion and the park ranger is bullshitting us to cover up what it REALLY was.”

“Right, I’m following so far.”

“So, let’s set the scene.” She stands up to stalk around the incredibly small kitchen table toward Winry. “You’re a dumb tourist that came to the beach in the winter. You’ve brought a brand new jet ski with you, completely oblivious that the water is way too cold for that right now. Because you’re a dumb tourist.”

Winry takes the cue. “I’m a savvy tourist because I’ve arrived when no one is here and none of the shops are open! Locals LOVE my business! Sure hope nothing happens to me without any lifeguards!”

“You’re out on the water when you get caught… in a current! Waves come and pummel you towards the shore, one by one! Before you know it you’re smashed up against the rocks,  no shore to save you. You’re stuck.”

She musters the most dramatic slump over the back of the chair that she can manage. “Woe is the fate of a tourist such as I.”

“But wait!” Paninya raises a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from some kind of indoor sun. “What’s that coming toward you? It couldn’t be, is it a person, come to save you in your darkest hour? But then it comes closer, and you realize fate has never been so kind… because there, in the distance… is…“ She leans in close to Winry with a grave look.

“Is…?”

“Bigfoot with a machete.”

“Bigfoot with a—?!” Winry sputters, pushing Paninya away as she absolutely howls with laughter. “Your idea of a more likely culprit than a sea lion is Bigfoot with a machete?!”

“Uh, yeah?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Come on Winry. The gashes. The rocks. The collectible shot glass he leaves at the scene of every crime. It’s totally Bigfoot’s m.o.”

Winry turns back to the mess of robotics on the table. “I’m done with you. Completely done. I’m kicking you out.”

“What? Noooo, come oooon, I’ve got nothing else to do today! I’m gonna be so bored, Winry, pleeease,” Paninya whines, flopping bonelessly onto the table with her best puppy-dog eyes. Winry is mostly unaffected.

“Why not just go hang out with Lan Fan?” she asks. “She puts up with you way more than I do.”

“Can’t. She’s out with her grandpa ‘scoring sweet holiday deals’ at the outlets.” The complaint comes with air quotes. “Besides, you’ve been talking about how cool this project is gonna be for like, mooonths. I can’t miss it after that kind of hype.”

“I have kind of been taunting you with it, haven’t I?” Winry sighs, curling a loose wire around her finger. “Tell you what. If you can be quiet and not so… Paninya the amazing living distraction on me, then I’ll let you come with me later to do the experiment.” Paninya’s whole disposition perks up like a labradoodle. “But! That means no distractions.”

“Aye captain, no distractions,” Paninya promises with a little salute.

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

Several hours in that ramshackle beach house kitchen, crammed around a table and dutifully trying to keep potato chip crumbs from invading her whole zone (which, to Paninya’s credit, does not technically count as a distraction), and it’s finally complete. Just in time for low tide, too. The thing she’s been dreaming of doing for months, the senior project that will launch her college applications from drab to fab, the thing that will get her out of this backwater beach town for good...

“Okay, so. No more secrets. Tell me what your project is, Win,” Paninya demands, handing her a roll up cord out of the backpack they brought with them. Winry beams at her.

“Wwwweeell, do you remember those guys from like, San Fran who started building an aquatic robot to explore a hole that was rumored to have treasure at the bottom?”

Paninya pulls out a half-eaten bag of Ruffles from the backpack. “No, but that sounds completely rad. Is that your project? Oh shit, are we gonna find treasure?”

“Probably not,” Winry casually admits, ignoring the way Paninya deflates. “But the robot, yeah. The one they built was a world-wide collaboration across the internet. They had a goal, and people would test their builds by building one of their own, tweak it, and report their findings on those tweaks. It was super cool.”

“Yeah, cool for nerds maybe…” Paninya mumbles around a chip.

“SO,” she presses on, “I built one of my own. With some tweaks. You know, in the spirit of the thing. Now I just need to test it out, record my success, and write a whole essay on it.”

“Which is why we’re in the spooky cave that you can only get to at low tide and has a mysterious bottomless pit in it? So you can see if your ‘bot dives or fries?”

“Yep!” Winry answers cheerfully. “And why not just use Ling’s pool to do this instead? My legs don’t get good traction in here. I almost slipped earlier. I almost died.”

“Because Ling’s pool isn’t saltwater, and you’re fine.”

“Wow. Cold. Is this what a shitload of free time your senior year does to you, or is it just the overachieving itself?”

“Both,” Winry chirps, and plugs the cord into the tablet. She moves to plug in the other end into the robot itself, but frowns. The waterproof chassis doesn’t look right, like it settled in transport, skewing the whole design just slightly enough that it kind of worries her. Just that tiny bit of pressure on the cable could knock it out with the right bump, or damage the whole port.

Oh well. That’s why a scout’s always prepared, right? She pulls a knife out of her pocket and carefully shaves the plastic away to make room. And just like that, the plug fits like a charm. Nice and snug.

She turns to Paninya, and nods. “It’s show time.”

“Wait, waaaait,” Paninya stops her, waving a cheese-dusted hand around as the other reaches into the backpack. “It’s bad luck to sail a ship without a name. Got one?”

“Uh… I’ve just been calling it Divebot mark 1?” she offers.

Paninya stops digging through the supplies to stare. “Come on, Win. I’ve taught you to ‘yes and’ better than that.”

“Ugh, fine, okay. Um… Divey Jones?”

“Better.” Paninya reveals a can of ginger ale, and at Winry’s own disbelieving stare, shrugs. “It’s not like I have champagne, dude. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Gently, Winry eases the newly christened Divey Jones into the pool of water in front of them at the same time Paninya starts vigorously shaking the can. It floats on top of the surface, gently bobbing, and Winry tosses a grin at Paninya. First success: buoyancy. Next: video feed.

She boots up the tablet, jailbroken to run an open framework because nobody wants you to sandbox their stuff anymore, and opens the custom app she programmed just for this project. One part video capture, one part robot controller. It saved her the parts cost of making a controller, but also? It’s just a little more impressive for whoever looks over her work. Look, she can engineer hardware and software!

When the window prompt comes up to sync the devices, she starts to get jittery. It was one thing to test out at the house, where everything seemed to work just fine, but this was it. This was what either made her winter break a vacation or a mad dash to troubleshoot whatever could have possibly gone wrong in her schematics. The only thing separating her from either possibility was the flip of a switch.

She picks Divey back up from the water, turns it over, and flips it from “off” to “on”.

Immediately, it begins whirring to life, humming in her hand as the battery does its work. She picks up the tablet and pulls out a notepad lined with little squares to check off as she goes through the boot up process: Video feed online? Check. Headlights? Check. A quick figure eight around the little pool confirms that the fins and motors are working, and she checks that off as well.

It’s time for the big moment. She and Paninya nod at each other.

She deflates the swim bladder a little bit, and as Divey Jones begins to sink into the black abyss, Paninya opens the can of ginger ale to a satisfying arc of spray across the cavern, whooping and laughing at the mess it makes. “Bon voyage!!” she calls down the hole, and Winry shakes her head, smiling and turning her attention to guiding the robot on its way.

The “bottomless pit” is an old volcanic magma tube of some sort, five feet in diameter at the top but quickly narrowing as you go down, and filled with water that pours into the cave at every high tide. The cave that contains it is only accessible on foot during low tide, and you have to be careful not to get caught in the cave during high tide. There’s a ton of warnings on a sign outside that attempt to dissuade tourists from trying to camp out in it, and for good reason.

She got stuck in here at high tide once, when she was a kid. Blacked out and woke up to an ambulance and her grandma freaking out. Couldn’t step foot into the place for a few years after that, partly because of trauma, and partly because the park rangers have tightened up their watch on the place ever since.

So. She and Paninya aren’t really supposed to be here. But, you know. It’s for science.

Paninya leans her head on Winry’s shoulder and watches the video feed on the tablet, the only indicator of where the robot is now that it’s turned a corner out of sight. She presses a chip to Winry’s lips, who mindlessly opens her mouth to accept it she’s so focused.

“How deep is this thing, anyway?” Paninya asks after a few more moments of watching video of dark gray rock walls float by.

“Hopefully less than fifty feet? The cable isn’t any longer than that.”

“Yeah, and you’re almost out of rope,” Paninya observes, looking at the coil beside them that grows thinner and thinner as the robot dives onward. “So now might be a good time to say you see the bottom.”

“Well, I don’t see anythi… wait.” Winry leans forward, bringing the tablet screen up to her face, her brow furrowing. There’s a small irregularity in the tunnels further down where it opens up a bit more. It’s like… what it looks like when an octopus camouflages itself against a rock. But the video on Divey’s tiny little camera is so grainy… and it looks so, so much bigger than an octopus.

Paninya leans in closer. “What? What do you see?”

“I… don’t know?” she answers honestly, and then something really startles her. “Oh fuck, it moved. It just moved—”

“What moved? Where am I looking?”

“Right here!” She points at the screen, at the tiny mass of pixels that is growing and changing and moving, even as the robot sits still, and she doesn’t know what it is. A thought occurs somewhere in her head that maybe she should start backing Divey up, but before she can do anything the mass surges forward in a terrifying blur and the feed cuts to static.

“Divey, no!!” Paninya squeals, and Winry nearly tosses the tablet across the room. But she’s cool. She keeps her cool. She’s smarter than to throw away the one thing containing most of the several past months of work.

“What the hell could…” She stops, the zippy sound of cord sliding across rock catching her off guard. That pitiful coil of cord that was slowly disappearing into the abyss with Divey is disappearing so much faster now, and with the tablet still connected to it.

“Winry, Winry Winry Winry, the tablet, you’ve gotta let go of the tablet—” Paninya babbles, scrambling to get onto her feet, and Winry doesn’t even think this time. She fumbles for the knife at her side, and in one swift motion, severs the line, just in time for the newly frayed end to get sucked into the hole like spaghetti.

Her mouth is dry as she looks up at Paninya.

“Run.”

[housebeleren]

War of the Spark New Commanders

It’s now that time. Time to figure out if I feel like turning any of these new Legendary Creatures into Commander decks. And since the *ahem* Rules Committee decided not to allow Planeswalkers as generals, I’ll have to be content with just the creatures. (I mean, c’mon. Really?!)

With that, let’s get started. There are some goodies to review.

Let’s start with Dragon Daddy Niv. Honestly, I’m really digging this design. He’s a 5 color general, but actually makes use of those 5 colors unlike certain other generals I can mention. *coughNajeelacough* This design also makes you have to think about deck design in a very interesting way, since you’re incentivized to put as many 2 color cards in the deck as possible. I went right ahead and put him at the helm of my Superfriends deck, because he’s a pretty strict upgrade over Jodah. And I typically draw 2-3 cards off casting him in that deck, so I feel pretty good about that choice. Overall, I really love the design for Niv-Mizzet Reborn, and I can imagine a wide range of decks being built for him.

Okay, now let’s get this out of the way, because this is obviously the Legend that got the most initial attention for EDH, and rightfully so. This is fantastic new design space for Boros, which is a notoriously difficult color combination in the format. And the possibilities are endless. Sure, you can throw all kinds of cantrips at Feather and dig deep into your deck, but there’s also fun stuff you can do with cards like Aurelia’s Fury, that can target multiple targets. And forget about it once you have Zada on the field. Then it just gets insane. I look forward to seeing all the different options people come up with, and I’m also just happy that Feather finally got a card.

Aside from being some absolutely gorgeous art, Roalesk packs a lot of action for 5 mana. For one, he’s huge just on his own. But the fact that he can spread the love on ETB and when he dies is just fantastic. That said, I definitely see Roalesk as a supporting player, and not so much as a lead. He’s a great inclusion in Ezuri, Claw of Progress decks, and I can also see builds of Atraxa being very interested. That deck has access to numerous ways to retrigger both the ETB & death abilities, so this could be a powerful proliferate engine if done right. Every general needs a lieutenant, right?

I like Storrev. I really do. I truly wish there was a format that really wanted this. But, alas, in Commander we have Meren of Clan Nel Toth, and I just don’t think Storrev is going to supplant her anytime soon. Maybe some Meren or Karador decks will find space for her as some added redundancy, but I’m not holding my breath. (Which is good, because a Zombie Elf Wizard is likely to beat me at a breath-holding contest.)

Another absolutely gorgeous piece of artwork, our final Gold Legend is... wolf tribal? Huh, I guess that’s a thing? This is definitely a Standard card, and I don’t really see this making any waves in EDH unless they come out with a ton of sweet wolves in the upcoming sets. I will say, between Tolsimir & Arlinn, this does give me some optimism that there will be wolves in the Fall set. Because wolves tribal in Standard is totally a deck I would play.

Alright, let’s tackle the gods next. Oketra, while an absolute monster of a beating in Limited, and a Standard powerhouse, doesn’t strike me as all that potent as a Commander on her own. Now, will Varina decks potentially be interested in this? Why, yes they will. And potentially any other creature-heavy go-wide decks might be down. But Oketra is definitely built for the 99.

Blue mages everywhere collectively nerdgasmed when Kefnet was previewed. I think there’s no doubt that Kefnet will likely have the largest impact on Commander from cards in this set. There’s already talk of him supplanting Teferi as the mono-Blue general of choice for CEDH, and that’s no easy feat. But honestly, this is exactly what every Blue deck wants to do! I’ve already slot him directly into my Aminatou deck manipulation build, where he goes infinite with her plus any extra turn spell. As the headliner or in the chorus, Kefnet is going to be an EDH staple for years to come. And that’s to say nothing of the impact he’ll have on Standard.

I’m glad not all of the gods are instant hits. Bontu is great, make no mistake. And there will definitely be Big Black decks that want this. But I don’t think she’s going to be an auto-include, and I also don’t think there are many good reasons to run her as the Commander of a deck over some of the better mono-Black options. Bontu is a clear role player in several builds. I, for one, will probably slot her right away into my Gisa & Geralf deck. And I suspect many will do the same.

Doing this slightly out of order, which is difficult because one compulsion is telling me to keep all the God-Eternals together, while another compulsion is telling me to do all 5 gods in color order. It’s rough up in here.

I guess every family needs a disappointing sibling, right? It’s crazy to think that a card like this could be a “disappointment,” but in the world of EDH, this reads like a mediocre Craterhoof impersonation. I’d honestly rather run End-Raze Forerunners more often than this, because the Trample is just so. relevant. I think there’s potential for Standard, and he’s undoubtedly a bomb in Limited, but that’s about the long & the short of it, from what I can see.

Ilharg is fun, and totally reminds me of Etali, Primal Storm, except for the part that they’re not actually that much alike. Okay, they are both 6/6 mono-Red Legendary creatures with an attack trigger, so that’s kinda similar. That said, I think Ilharg really wants to be a supporting cast member in a multicolor deck, with Green in it at the very least. You really want to power out huge creatures with ETBs with this guy. Again, Craterhoof comes to mind. It’s like that card is good or something.

Let’s keep going on this mono-Red train. New Neheb is fun, and a nice callback to the previous version. That said, I do think Neheb, the Eternal is probably a stronger general, as this version has the potential to get brick-walled by good blockers. Basically, the likelihood for this Neheb to fail seems greater than I’d like. Who knows, though. I could be wrong, and Dreadhorde Neheb could be the new hotness.

The string of “not quite as good as their previous versions” continues. Again, I do kinda love this design. But it’s really hard to compete with Double Trouble Krenko from before. Maybe they want to be in the same deck? But even that seems like a bit of a stretch.

Tomik is family and we never turn our backs on family, hon! You ride that gargoyle off into the sunset, you fabulous queen you. Also, I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s a bit on the nose to have the confirmed gay (and suspected top) and-I-quote “tie it into knots”? I mean, I could’ve told you Ral was into some kinky shit just from looking at him (e-stim much?), but apparently they’re just super about this life on Ravnica and I am here for it hennnnnny. 

Oh, the card. Yeah, stick to Legacy with this one. If your playgroup is literally all Frog Monsters & DaddyCats, sure. Knock yourself out. Or maybe Tomik will do it for you? Maybe if you beg good.

I always wondered how they would make a Fblthp card, and well... now I know. The little guy’s actually pretty good, doing his best Elvish Visionary impersonation, only better, because if he gets super duper lost, he finds himself an extra card on the way. Sure, yes, he combos with Proteus Staff in a deck with no creatures as a strange build-your-own Divination on a literal stick. But honestly, that’s not enough reason to run him as your Commander. Prove me wrong, bitches. Because, honestly? I’d love to see that.

The unfortunate thing is that, as much as I was happy to see a Massacre Girl card, it’s really unfortunate that there’s no Hekara in this set, given the role she played in the novel. (And the fact that miss not-Hekara here didn’t appear at all.) It just underscores how many missed opportunities there were in the coordination between the novel & the set. 

Anyway, not-Hekara is a super cool design, and will often be a pretty clean board wipe on a stick. Honestly... I could see her having a place in some Black decks that want this effect often, since recurring your board wipe over and over is a pretty strong line of play. It’s Staxy, but I’m kinda okay with that. Not a slam dunk, but a definite option for decks that want her.

Aaaaaand lastly, the goodest of boys is... a good boy. That’s about it. He’s fantastic in Limited, and I highly recommend playing him often, and with great enthusiasm. But yeah, there’s not really any EDH potential here, except maybe in the strangest of jank Ezuri decks. And that’s a stretch, for sure. If it doubled the counters, then I could see it more, because that would get out of hand really quickly.

So that’s basically it. All the Legendary Creatures of War of the Spark. Who are you running in your Commander decks?

[vieuxnoyesrp]

Candice. From the get-go, it was clear that you’d done your homework in terms of reading into our story and taking note of the expectations we have of our players as admins. We appreciate this, and the thoughtful touch it lent to your application. Aside from this, it was your sample para that won us over. You nailed Hayley’s colloquialisms and kept her down-to-earth and realistic; without power-playing her in any way. You weren’t too heavy-handed with her legendary claim-to-fame from the show either - which is important to us since Hayley is still very much at the beginning of her journey in our verse, and trying to come to terms with who she is, and all that is expected of her in this role.  We want to keep her challenged, flawed and human. Your portrayal convinced us that you are capable of bringing all these layers forward in our ambitious and mercurial she-wolf. All in all, we’re excited to have you on-board!

Candice, thank you very much for applying. As for Hayley…

            ⚜ ~ WELCOME TO VIEUX NOYÉS!!! ~ ⚜

Wondering what to do next? Click here and let the good times roll!

⚜ Roleplayer: Candice

⤜ Name/alias: Candice/Candy ⤜ Pronouns: She/Her ⤜ Age: 24 y/o ⤜ Timezone: EST (Eastern Standard) ⤜ Activity: A solid 7/8, more activity on weekends or evenings. I will hiatus if I need time to study for a test or something and note any lapse in activity prior to my time off. I did mention to the mods that I usually take a day or two in the week to hone in on studying only, due to this being my last year, so those will be sent accordingly. I noted you take communication seriously, and I’m thankful for that because I love to keep that consistent <3 ⤜ Best form of contact: This account or skype at hayleymarshxll ⤜ Any Triggers? Not that I can think of? I’m pretty masochistic with my characters so I can’t be squeamish lol ⤜ How did you find Vieux Noyés? The RP tags. It’s been around for awhile, and I’ve lurked but haven’t felt my writing is strong enough to match everyone else’s so I’ve been working on it and testing it to get the right voice. *fingers crossed* i found it! ⤜ What drew you to the RP? The players and the attention the mods give. RP’s only survive because of the people in it, and this one seems pretty well stocked. ⤜ What is one subplot/element from the Plot page that you are particularly looking forward to seeing in this roleplay? Witch showdowns of course, and werewolf battles, and Mikaelson drama, and literally everything.

⚜ Desired Character: Hayley Marshll

⤜ Why do you want this character?

I’ve spent a lot of time finding my voice with her character since she first appeared opposite Tyler Lockwood in TVD. I’ve played her on RP boards and indie but I’ve yet to set her into an RP setting with set plots and plot drops. I want to see how much I can advance her character for this roleplay and keep her ties going! I think her rise to Queen has been fraught with tension, mostly of her own fruition from what I’ve noticed, and that seems very Hayley with her always trying to find her right footing while her tongue whips before she can think it over. She is headstrong, but she is loyal and understanding of what her pack needs. I think that needs to be played on more here, because her pack and other wolves are literally what gave Hayley life; it’s the only thing she lives for. Her one true connection to her past is in her claws, she might as well tear shit up for a cause if she has em.

⤜ What are your future plans for this character?

I want to see her fight Kali and show her who the true Queen is. Sure Kali might be stronger and wiser for her rugged ways, but Hayley is street smart as hell. She might clean up better, but salt’s been poured in her wounds too. I want to see her advance, as many roleplayers want, but more as a self advancement than an outright, here’s my crown bow down ideal. I think her growth by adding friends into the mix, or allies in the beginning because *walls up*, will really help Hayley to take help when it’s offered. She needs to hold fast to her humanity, it’s what keeps the wolves following her.

I don’t know if it’s been done yet, but further discovery of her roots would be fun to play out. I love Hayley finding bits of her legacy throughout interactions and such. Like Marcel, finding out he saved her shifted Hayley’s world on its axis. If someone so notoriously following in Mikaelson footsteps could save HER, then what he could he do as an ally?

⤜ Put yourself in your character’s shoes. Give us a few lines to describe a day in the life of your character… Where do they live? Where and how do they spend their time? (feel free to refer to our locations page that can be found in the navigation)

If whiskey were a woman, it’d be Hayley Marshall; from her leather jacket and messy hair to her combat boots. Everything about her screams bayou and perseverance, so it only shows how much she’s worked to survive and thrive to where she’s currently at in New Orleans. The Labonair legacy hangs heavy on her head, but she holds it high, and bites the blood from her tongue as she walks through the city finding allies and loopholes left and right. She is always playing the political game, not as well as Jackson seems to believe, but she does have a good hand for it. She’s persuasive, rugged but knowledgeable, and that’s where allies find her best.

Residing in the bayou affords Hayley the ‘comforts’ of home; though many would not choose a dilapidated shack, for her its perfect. Just needs some TLC she’s more than willing to give it because it means more than just four walls to her, it’s a fresh start, it’s family, it’s heritage, it’s her roots, and she’s not giving that up to anybody. She takes care of her people, of her pack, and ensures that young ones are trained under the King & Queen’s tutelage, sparring as much as she can when she’s not sipping whiskey at Rosseau’s or rustling a few feathers in the city streets.

⤜ Give us three headcanons regarding your character of choice. (If your character is from one of the tv shows, please come up with a headcanon that is not explicitly stated on the show, but is rather based on your own imagination.)

There are times where Hayley wonders if she is more tied to the moon than reality. Her emotions change from waning to waxing as if in sequence with the days her body would change from human to wolf during her initial transition. She can feel it coat her skin and speak to her on the nights of full moons; on the nights her people would be human for only 24 hours before another moon kissed their skin and made their fur stand at attention. She follows it through the woods, and through her choices knowing that any given day will start anew as soon as the moon sleeps and the sun rises.

She keeps a journal of writings, not of her own, it was given to her by Elijah after he saved her from near death following her first kill. It’s simply quotes, scrawled in his own hand, but they’re ones of warriors, of great leaders through history, and when time allows, she’ll pick it up and remind herself that all great warriors were once simple followers that chose to use their voice to direct the winds of change in their favor. Perhaps Hayley will be able to direct the use of the moon to do hers.

She carries an open heart and an open mind that’s covered in rose red vines. She is guarded, ideally so, but once she lets you in, she cares for you as part of her pack; no matter the species. She’s been through a lot, so walking into her life comes with thorns, but those thorns turn to roses if treated properly. She treats every move with care, but keeps an open mind for those it could affect in the long run, choosing to take care is what makes her a good queen; it’s her foresight into battle, I suppose.

⤜ What are some plots you’d like to explore with your character? 

I want to explore any plots set forward that I feel make sense with her character (like from previous roleplayers). I want to see her develop with the wolves of all packs, with the witches if she has a friend there, and even the human faction. Hayley is only as good as her allies and the knowledge they give to her, she can’t be everywhere all the time, so it helps her to know who she can trust and with what.

⤜ Para sample:

(Retained for privacy.)

⤜ Would you like to be considered for another character if not accepted as your primary choice? (If yes, name the character.) It would depend on who you think I’d fit, or who is needed I suppose. ⤜ Have you read the rules?: Sure have! ⤜ Anything else? Not that I can think of! Thank you for reading & reviewing my app!

[thesexymexysideblog]

If There Never Was A Ladybug

The fiend in black. The shadowed menace. The dark vigilante. Those were some of the press's favorite names for him, though none of them came close to the name he wanted for himself: Chat Noir. He had been protecting the city of Paris for the last six months - not without struggle, he wouldn't deny that - but every newspaper in print and online agreed that he needed to leave the Akumas to the real authorities. According to them, all he brought with him was bad luck and more destruction. They blamed him for the monsters that would roam through the streets every day, failing to notice that he showed up after that started happening. To be fair, Master Fu had warned him. Without a Ladybug to restore everything with her Lucky Charm, Paris had to deal with the aftermath of every attack while he wiped out the Akuma butterfly with his cataclysm. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Chat Noir squinted at a clock on a nearby bank. He was going to be late. Again. That blogger had been trying to pin him for an interview for weeks, and every time, an Akuma battle or last-minute demand from his father delayed him and he showed up to find her far gone. He didn't have that excuse this time around, since the city was quiet now, laying sleepily in a fog that even his luminescent eyes had difficulty seeing through, and he hadn't heard from his father all day. Chat Noir filed away his father's stern profile from his mind. His superhero persona wasn't supposed to worry about his civilian life. The cold air whistled in his ears and blew his blond bangs back as he vaulted himself from rooftop to rooftop with his baton. Finally, he stopped on a building right by the river when he saw a black-haired woman sitting on a bench. She was fiddling with an audio recorder.

Biting back a grin, he watched her for a moment. He always liked this reporter. Well, reporter being a relative term. She co-authored "The BlogNoir," the only site that gave him positive publicity despite - or perhaps because of - its informal standing. For a blog, he thought it had an amazing amount of accurate coverage: quotes from eyewitnesses, live video recordings of battles, clean shots of him mid-heroism. Chat Noir's tail flicked at the thought. It was nice to have someone out there willing to stroke his ego. Goodness knew he needed it. The noir-bloggers were the only ones that Chat Noir had ever been willing to stick around with and talk to after an Akuma fight. Drove the "serious" reporters crazy. Touching down at last, Chat Noir tried to sneak up on her, but she turned around with a smirk.

"Evening, Mr. Noir," she greeted.

"Miss Dupain-Cheng," he replied, returning his baton to its holder and bowing so low his nose nearly touched the ground.

Marinette smiled teasingly as she swiped through her tablet. "Glad you found time to squeeze me into your schedule." Chat Noir's ears drooped. "Have a seat."

Chat Noir perched on the arm rest opposite her and propped his elbow. Marinette turned on the recorder.

"So, why did you become Chat Noir?" she asked.

His eyes flashed. "To impress the ladies. Like yourself."

He could see her resist an eye roll. "Chat Noir."

Chat Noir grinned. "It started with the first Akuma, Stoneheart. A kid named Ivan got upset about this girl - I know the feeling - and that left him vulnerable to Hawkmoth's influence. Suddenly other Akuma victims were popping up left and right and the police were having a hard time keeping them under control. I knew I had to do something about it…"

Chat Noir continued, leaving out the details about his ring, his Kwami, and Master Fu as he talked about the first time he fought an Akuma. He could tell that Marinette noticed the gaps about his origin story, but he dodged the few attempts she made to address them. Despite this, she looked pleased at the end of their interview.

"Alya is going to be thrilled," she said as she put her things in her satchel. "She's sorry she couldn't come today. One-year anniversary with her boyfriend."

Chat Noir raised his eyebrows. "So I suppose you didn't have a boyfriend to keep you busy too?"

"No, but that is not an invitation for you to become mine."

She knew him too well. Chat Noir chuckled.

"Tell Alya thanks for all the work she's done to try to make me look better," he said.

Her blue eyes softened. "You deserve affirmation every once in a while." She frowned. "People are so ungrateful."

"Don't worry about it, m'lady," Chat Noir replied, swooping in to kiss her hand. "Care for a lift home?"

She watched him spin his baton with his hand, his ring flashing in the lamplight, and shook her head.

"Until next time then," he said.

Extending his baton two stories high, he dangled at the top, checked to see if she was watching, and then shot off with a twirl before landing on a rooftop. His enhanced hearing caught her saying "Show-off" before he propelled himself again. Awaiting him was a full night of possibilities: more research with Master Fu, extra studying for his next exam, an eight-hour sleep for the first time in a week —

A scream pierced the air and his tail shot up straight. He hurried back to the bench where he took his interview, and he found a giant gorilla with Marinette clutched in one fist as it used the other fist to pound his chest. "Let's see who thinks King Kong is a lame villain now!" he roared. Chat Noir rolled his eyes. These Akumas were getting more ridiculous by the day. Once his baton thumped it in the chest, the Akuma turned its snarling face towards him and bellowed, "Chat Noir, hand over your Miraculous!"

"Like hell, fur ball," Chat Noir replied. "Let the lady go."

The Akuma grinned. "She's part of the plan."

Leaping up, the Akuma swatted Chat Noir aside as it bounded towards the Eiffel Tower. Meanwhile, Chat Noir smacked against the concrete and groaned, but the next moment he was chasing after the monster. Chat Noir skidded to a halt at the base of the tower, where the Akuma had already climbed to the top. He glanced at his hand, but Paris didn't need to add 'Destruction of the Eiffel Tower' to their long list of complaints about him. With the way that oversized gorilla was swinging on the needle tip, however, it looked like that might happen anyway. Chat Noir ran up the tower, his claws barely making contact against the metal as he moved higher and higher until he saw Marinette - who was still pushing against the gorilla's grip with all her might. She spotted him.

"The Akuma's in his necklace!" she shouted.

The gorilla kicked, but Chat Noir dodged, weaving through the metal bars of the tower until he crept up behind it. The Akuma sensed him. SLAM! Pinned between the metal and the Akuma's broad back, Chat Noir choked for air as the Akuma rumbled with laughter.

"Still think Chat Noir can save you?" asked the Akuma, presumably addressing Marinette.

A hacking and spitting sound interrupted the Akuma's laughter, and suddenly Chat Noir found the pressure gone and the massive black figure hurtling toward the ground - its screams colliding with Marinette's. Chat Noir threw himself off the tower and landed on the gorilla's back. Halfway down the tower. He hooked his arm around the Akuma's neck and extended his baton. A quarter way left. The baton wedged itself between the gaps in the tower. Almost at the ground. As Chat Noir held onto the baton and the Akuma held onto Chat Noir, the baton curved with a creak and then flung them up. Chat Noir managed to land back on the baton, but the Akuma fell the remaining distance. As it crashed, it released Marinette, who flew in the air for a sickening second before landing on the ground.

"No!" Chat Noir screamed, yanking out the baton and running to the reporter's side.

He pressed his finger to her neck, and her eyes fluttered open. Chat Noir sighed in relief. When he heard the Akuma groaning, his ears perked and he marched to its side. Snatching the necklace, Chat Noir stomped it on the ground so that the pendant split in two, and the black and purple butterfly was swallowed in his cataclysm grasp. He found satisfaction watching the evil insect crumble to gray dust. The so-called King Kong dissolved into a scrawny teenage boy with straight jet-black hair and a T-shirt with a roaring gorilla on it.

"Where am I?" asked the boy.

Normally Chat would kneel down, clap the Akuma victim's shoulder, and explain how Hawk Moth had taken advantage of their emotions but that they were safe now and did they want a hot chocolate? Today, Chat Noir scooped up the dazed reporter and replied brusquely, "Hawk Moth akumatized you." The boy's eyes trailed to Marinette, and he pushed his hair back as his eyes widened.

"Did I do that to her?" asked the boy in a wavering voice.

Chat Noir gripped her tighter and almost shot a snarky reply, but he caught himself.

"It's not your fault," he said in a softer tone. "Do you need an escort home?"

The boy shook his head. "Go take care of her."

Chat Noir didn't need to be told twice; he shot into the late night sky with Marinette cradled against his breast.

When Marinette opened her eyes, she discovered she was in a room alone. The room had dark brown beams and white walls with a strip of pink wallpaper with painted flowers at the top. At first she thought she was on a bed, but her low perspective made her realize she was lying on a thick white mat. She touched a bandage on her slightly throbbing forehead. Sitting up, Marinette noticed potted green plants, a small gong, and ink paintings hanging on the wall in unrolled scrolls. Her eyes kept wandering until they landed on a desk and bulletin board, which was plastered with newspaper clippings, yellow post-its, photographs, and red strings connecting them all.

Half of the board was covered with articles about ancient artifacts, Chinese legends, old jewelry, and, weirdly, ladybugs. At the center was a fuzzy black-and-white picture of a pair of spotted earrings. A photograph at the center of the other half of the board made Marinette approach; it featured a blond woman with a sharp pointed chin, narrow nose, and almond-shaped green eyes as she stood in front of a field on a cloudy day. Marinette was about to touch the photo when someone cleared their throat. She whipped around to see Chat Noir. He had pulled his face into an uncharacteristic frown, crossed his arms, and glared at her with his unsettling feline eyes.

"I see you're awake," he said, "and snooping."

Marinette huffed. "Where were you, hm?"

"I was feeding - " Chat Noir stopped himself. "My cat."

"You have a cat? That's ironic."

"Yeah."

Chat Noir brushed past her, took off the picture of the woman, and stuffed it in his pocket. Marinette had a feeling it would be pointless to ask who she was.

"Why am I here?" asked Marinette.

"You took a hit, and I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said.

"Why not take me to a hospital?"

"My friend is an excellent healer. But he doesn't know I'm Chat Noir, so you need to get out of here."

"So this is his place," Marinette said, sliding her finger along the edge of the desk and stopping when she noticed a post-it with a note written in Chinese. She had not grown up bilingual like her mother, but she was able to to decipher a warning about the bathroom plumbing, signed off with the name "Fu." Chat Noir clasped her wrist.

"I rent this room from my friend," he said. He held up a blindfold. "I'll take you home, but you can't know where this place is."

"I already know," said Marinette, shaking free of his grasp. "That note from Fu?" Marinette pointed to the post-it. "It's Mr. Fu, the Chinese healer. I've heard of this place from my mom."

"You speak Chinese?" Chat Noir said with wide eyes.

"I'm half-Chinese, and my mom wanted me to stay in touch with that side of my heritage," she replied. "I'm surprised you can speak it."

"One of the many things my father taught me to create the perfect son."

Chat Noir blinked and stepped back, like he hadn't meant to say that aloud. "Please, don't tell anyone. Don't tell Alya."

"Of course not!" exclaimed Marinette. "Hawk Moth can't know where you are. But I want to help you. That woman. I can help you find her."

Chat Noir clenched his jaw. "I don't need help."

"What about those earrings?" Marinette piped up, realizing she hit the wrong nerve. "You have so much on your plate with the Akumas, I can help you track them down."

"What's in it for you?"

Marinette huffed. "I've been saying nothing but good things about you on my blog when everyone else is trashing you. I love Paris, I want to protect Paris!"

"Sorry," said Chat Noir, lunging forward and wrapping her eyes with the blindfold. She struggled until he pushed a pressure point and she knew no more.

The next morning, Master Fu was sipping on a cup of coffee. He had fetched it from a bakery, whose high caliber made it worth the trek across town when his bad back would allow it. Their macaroons were to die for. Just when he started nibbling on his first macaroon, someone banged on the door and said in Chinese: "Master Fu, let me in!" Grabbing the cane and huffing, Master Fu waddled to the door, which he opened to allow a black and yellow streak inside. A panting Chat Noir pressed himself against the opposite wall, but a moment later swirl of green magic replaced him with a young man in a fitted black T-shirt and skinny jeans. Plagg gave Adrien a cross look when he emerged from the ring.

"There's a woman following me," Adrien explained in a rush. "One of the noir-bloggers! Keep her off my tail."

Even when he was stressed that boy couldn't resist a pun. Adrien flung himself into the other room and locked the door; almost as soon as he did, another person knocked on the door. When he answered, Master Fu was greeted by the beautiful young woman whom Adrien had brought to him yesterday to heal her from the Akuma-inflicted injuries. She looked around Adrien's age and had curious eyes and bluish black hair in a loose topknot. She tightened her grip on the collar of her trench coat.

"Hello, Mr. Fu," she said. "I'm looking for Ch- um, someone who rents a room from you."

Master Fu scratched his goatee. "Do you have a name?"

"Er - no."

"I'm afraid I can only let friends in to visit my renter. Privacy policy."

"I understand." The woman perked up. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? I'm Marinette Dupain-Cheng."

The last name sounded familiar, beyond the blog that she wrote, but Master Fu couldn't think of why as he shook her hand. The woman worried her bottom lip.

"Listen, if could please give your renter this - " Marinette offered an envelope. "And tell him I really need to talk to him and that there's no need to be so stubborn because I swear all I want to do and all I've been doing is help save the - " Marinette stopped herself. "I mean just, just tell him to call me. Marinette Dupain-Cheng."

As soon as Master Fu shut the door, Adrien poked out with a ruffled head of hair and Plagg floating lazily above his shoulder.

"What did she say?" Adrien asked.

"She said to give you this," answered a smiling Master Fu as he handed Adrien the envelope. "And to stop being stubborn and to call her." At Adrien's put-out expression, Master Fu's grin grew wider. "Does my pupil have a new girlfriend?"

"No!" he replied hotly.

Adrien ripped open the envelope and found a print-out of the bog post about his interview with a selfie of him and Marinette at the top.

"A Fireside Chat with the Midnight Hero," drawled Plagg. "What a stupid title. There's not even a fire."

"She punned," thought Adrien.

The paper had a little note on the bottom. Master Fu and Plagg looked over his shoulder. The note said the following:

Dear Chat Noir,

It took me a lot of phone calls but I think I know woman who can help you find whatever it is you're looking for. Xijia Wong is a historian and jewelry collector in Beijing. Bit of a recluse, but I have her number if you want a hold of her.

Let me know,

Marinette

"I remember her now!" Master Fu cried, startling Adrien. "Her parents own the bakery I love. She saved me from a car that would have run me over, and she spilled some of the macaroons from the bakery. First time I tried them."

"A car almost ran you over? Are you okay?"

"Oh, it was years ago." Master Fu looked at Adrien. "I'll tell you what, if the Ladybug miraculous had not already been lost, I would have given it to her on the spot." Adrien grinned and opened his mouth. "Pun not intended, Adrien."

Adrien snapped his lips shut and pondered for a moment. "So you think she can be trusted?"

"Well, she hasn't given your location away so far, has she?"

When Marinette answered a call in the middle of making dinner, a male voice said: "You have yourself a deal, Dupain-Cheng. Louvre at midnight?"

She beamed. "Please, call me Marinette."

"Then call me Chat."

[palominopup]

A Destiel Short Story.

His right wrist was broken and his left eye was swollen shut. The stench of the garbage cans that lined the alley was not helping the nausea rolling over him from the knee to his balls. He’d picked the wrong guys to hustle. How could he have known the two college kids were on the football team and that half the offensive line was waiting to help their comrades? Dean could have held his own with three or maybe even four of them, but seven wasn’t a lucky number for him. Especially after the few shots of whiskey he’d downed before challenging them to a game of pool. Slowed his reflexes a bit.

“Cas, I know you’re still pissed at me, but I could use your help,” Dean murmured into the filthy concrete. God, he hurt.

The rustle of wings informed him that his angel had arrived. Dean’s one good eye focused on a pair of black dress shoes and the hem of Cas’ signature slacks. The angel’s customary salutation of ‘Hello, Dean’ was conspicuously absent. Dean used his good hand to press himself into an awkward pushup. He gathered his knees under him and swayed at the pain. He looked up. Cas’ face was a blur. A feeling of déjà vu hit him. A few years had passed, but the memory was vivid. He’d been in the same position. On his knees in front of Cas. “I need you,” he said, aiming for the brand of sarcastic humor that was his trademark.

“Don’t.” The word was so cold and so sharp, Dean actually winced and hung his head. He felt the warmth of Cas’ touch and the pain disappeared so fast, his body felt electrified. With both eyes functioning now, Dean looked up again. Cas wasn’t looking at him. And why would he? Dean had fucked up their friendship, just like he fucked up every other good thing that ever happened to him. The only difference is that this one hurt worse. This was an ache he’d carried inside of him since that night. Shit, was it only a month? Seemed like a lifetime.

“Cas, I…” But he was gone. Dean blinked. “Yeah, well, fuck you, Asshole.” Dean got to his feet and grimaced at the state of his clothes. He was gross.

The ride back to the bunker was made with music pounding so loud, Dean couldn’t think. Mission accomplished.

He thanked everything holy that Sam wasn’t awake. He turned on the shower and waited until steam billowed out before stepping under the hot spray. He stared down at his feet and watched the water swirl down the drain. Fuck him. He’d tried to apologize and Cas knew how hard that shit was for him to do. Motherfucker wouldn’t even acknowledge it.

Dean slapped the tiled walls with his hand. It stung. He’d fucked up and now, Cas couldn’t stand to be around him.

It had been a simple salt and burn. Cas had tagged along because…well, Dean didn’t know why, but he didn’t question it. He loved having Cas with him…uh…them. On the way back, Sam and the angel were discussing something intellectual and Dean had tuned them out. They’d stopped at a Gas & Sip to fill up and grab a couple of sodas and that’s when it happened. The clerk was flirting with Cas. It was fucking obnoxious. Then Cas smiled at him…the smile usually reserved for Dean. The words spewed out of his mouth. He’d called the guy a faggot and a few other choice things and threatened to beat the shit out of him. Sam and Cas were both staring at him like he was a fucking creature from outer space. Cas slammed out of the store, Sam was busy apologizing for Dean and Dean stormed out after Cas.

He caught up with him midway between the first row of gas pumps and the Impala. He’d grabbed the angel’s arm and Cas had rounded on him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Come on, Cas…that guy was…”

“A faggot…yes, I got that. I had no idea you were that intolerant.”

“I’m not intolerant. Jesus, Cas, he was…”

“He was attracted to me, Dean. And maybe I was attracted to him too. Guess that makes me a faggot too.”

Too stunned to speak, Dean stood in the flickering fluorescent glow from the station’s lights. Cas must have taken his silence as agreement, because he got this look on his face and disappeared. Just fuckin’ disappeared.

“What the hell was that all about, Dean? The guy in there thinks you’re a homophobic asshole. Where’s Cas?”

Dean didn’t bother answering. He got into the car and slammed the door. A full minute later, he knew because he was counting the seconds, Sam opened the passenger side and folded his long frame into the seat. “Where’s Cas?” He repeated softly.

“Gone.” He’d gotten a serious bitchface for the obvious answer. He thought he heard a muttered ‘Stupid bastard’, but he couldn’t be sure because he’d cranked up the volume and Back in Black boomed out of the speakers.

Dean, in his infinite wisdom, decided to let Cas cool off a few days. Sam wasn’t speaking to him and that was fine. When a week came and went without a word from the angel, Dean finally had enough. He locked his bedroom door and sat on the bed. “Cas, hey, can we talk?”

Nothing.

“I know you can hear me. I’m sorry…alright?”

The radio silence went on for days. Sam kept giving him pitying looks that drove Dean to drink. And drink he did. It was supposed to keep him from thinking. It didn’t.

Cas was his. He wasn’t supposed to be attracted to anyone else. Not that Dean wanted…that. Because he didn’t. They were just friends.

Everyone has a breaking point and Sam’s came a month after the ‘incident’. He cornered Dean in his room, blocking his escape with his Sasquatch body. “Cas deserves to find someone, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, guess he’s off doing that, huh? He sure as hell hasn’t been around here lately.” Dean’s fists were clinched at his side and he felt his nails biting into the flesh of his palms.

“Oh…wow…you’re…you were jealous.”

Dean managed a bark of laughter. “Jealous? Yeah, right.” Only he had been. He’d seen Cas’ smile directed at someone else and he’d gotten so damn angry.

“Cas has loved you for…for fucking ever, Dean. And you give him nothing in return. Is it so hard for you to believe he would try to move on? Maybe find someone who would return his feelings?”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam. Just shut up,” Dean snarled and shoved Sam out of the way. And that’s how he found himself just this side of drunk and hustling boys a hell of a lot bigger than him.

Cas might have loved him. He’d proved it enough times over the years. Dean just didn’t want to see it. John Winchester would roll over in his proverbial grave if he know Dean had those kinds of thoughts about a man. Yes, Cas might have loved him, but he sure as hell didn’t now.

Dean shut the water off and grabbed a towel. He quickly dried off and wrapped it around his waist. In his haste to get clean, he’d forgotten to bring his robe or even a pair of underwear with him. On the way to his room, he paused at the door to Cas’ room. He’d cleaned out the room himself, adding a couple of cheap particle-board bookcases from Walmart. He’d even picked up a blue bedspread. It had meant a lot to Cas…having his own room…knowing he had a home with them.

He pushed open the door and flipped the light switch. The bookcases were filled with books…mostly old, dusty tomes, but some paperbacks were shoved between them. Vonnegut, Cussler, even a Stephen King. Dean trailed a finger over the spines. There were other things on the selves. A jar of honey Dean had picked up at a roadside stand. A framed picture. How had Dean never seen it? He picked it up. The frame was cheap. The photo was of the two of them leaning on the Impala. It was the day they dropped Claire off at Jody’s place. Claire must have taken it. The breeze ruffled Cas’ hair and Dean was looking at him like he hung the moon. “Cas…please.” He bent his head and prayed for one more chance.

The air around him crackled with static and the smell of ozone filled his nostrils. Cas stared at the picture in Dean’s hands, but didn’t speak.

“Sam said you deserved someone to…to…return you feelings.” Cas’ expression remained stoic. Dean took a deep breath. “You know me, Cas. I’m not homophobic. Love is love, man.” The angel remained still as a statue except for a flicker of something in those beautiful, blue eyes. “I know it’s too late for me to…you know…but if you want…that gas station isn’t that far away. You could still see if…”

“This emotion I feel...it is confusing and unwanted,” Cas said softly. Dean didn’t realize how badly he missed hearing that deep, gravelly voice until that instant. “It was nice to have someone look at me and find something they…like. I…Claire said that I should try dating.” His use of the unfamiliar word would have been humorous if it hadn’t cut Dean to the bone. He’d talked to Claire. Why hadn’t he come to Dean? Oh, yeah, because Dean was the sorry motherfucker that Cas thought didn’t return his feelings. “I’ve heard songs say to find someone else if you can’t be with…the person you want.”

“If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with,” Dean quoted the old Crosby, Stills and Nash song. Cas reached out and took the picture from Dean. He looked down at it for a few moments before putting it back on the shelf.

“I value your friendship, Dean. I hope that my attraction towards the same sex doesn’t…”

“Damn it, Cas. Don’t you dare bump me into the friend zone…not now. Not when I’ve finally got my head out of my ass.” Dean raked his hands through his hair and realized he was still wearing just a towel. Not the ideal attire for a serious conversation. “You want to know the truth about that night in the Gas & Sip? I was jealous. Okay? The way he was flirting with you and you…you smiled at him. You gave him the smile that somehow manages to turn me on every fuckin’ time you do it. And the thought of you and him…” Dean thought back to that moment. How it felt like something inside him was clawing its way out. “Fuck…” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have only said these words to two people in my entire life. My mom and Sam.” Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I love you, Cas.”

“Dean…” Dean held up his hands, keeping his eyes tightly shut. He didn’t want to see Cas’ face when he said it was too late for his declaration.

“No…it’s cool. I get that you need to move on…spread your wings.” Dean laughed and noted the touch of hysteria in the sound. “Sorry, bad pun.” He felt Cas’ fingertips on his lips and he opened startled eyes. Somehow, Cas had closed the distance between them. Their eyes met and held.

“I have loved you a long time, Dean. At first, I could not identify what I was feeling. When I finally understood, I didn’t think it could ever be reciprocated. You liked only women.”

“About that…” Dean started, his skin heating. “I’ve had thoughts about men…I mean, before you came strutting in that barn like a bad-assed motherfucker…” The memory flashed through Dean’s mind and he remembered how damn hot Cas looked. “Back when I was younger, but Dad…Dad would have beaten the shit out of me. Hell, he’d probably sent me to one of those camps where they electrocute you until you promise to only have sexy thoughts about the opposite sex forever and ever, amen. I’ve done a lot of window shopping, Cas, but I’ve never strolled into the shop and wanted to buy something.”

Cas was blinking at him in obvious confusion. Maybe the shop analogy wasn’t the best way to explain his latent bisexual urges. “I don’t understand that…”

“Reference,” Dean finished for him and giggled. He hadn’t heard Cas complain about not understanding something ever since Metatron installed eons of pop culture in Cas’ brain. “I’m just trying to tell you that I haven’t ever…had…sex…with a dude, but I’d love to practice…you know…until I get it right.”

And there it was. That smile. The soft curve of his upper lip, slightly higher on the right side, making it a bit lopsided. “I believe we can practice together, Dean.”

“Cool. Yeah, uhm.” Dean’s palms were suddenly sweaty. He hoped Cas didn’t want to practice now, because Dean was scared shitless. He would like to kiss those lips…but first… “Cas, would you like to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Cas’ brow furrowed. “A date, Cas. I’m asking you on a date.”

“A date,” Cas repeated and the soft smile morphed into a grin. “Yes, I’d like that, Dean.”

“Great…well, I’ll just…I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Night, Cas.” Dean moved around Cas and stopped at the doorway.

“Goodnight, Dean.” He made it to his room and managed to shut the door before the fist pump and the odd dance that made the towel fall to the floor.

He had a date…with Cas…with the man he was madly, crazy stupid in love with. Sam was going to freak. Dean frowned. Probably not. Sam would just roll his eyes and say ‘about time’. Dean crashed onto his bed and grinned. Yep, about time.

[preciousmetals0]

Relishing Relief: Fastenal Your Seatbelts

Relishing Relief: Fastenal Your Seatbelts:

How Do You Spell Relief?

And they’re off!

The first (annual?) U.S. quarantined corporate earnings season kicked off this morning, and investors loved the red-hot rally action.

It was 2% to 3% gains across the board as the market opened. Wall Street finally has concrete data on how the pandemic has affected American businesses.

JPMorgan Chase & Co. (NYSE: JPM), Fastenal Co. (Nasdaq: FAST) and Johnson & Johnson (NYSE: JNJ) all beat analysts’ quarterly projections … as if to say: “See? Things aren’t as bad as they seem!”

I mean, why should you worry? The market just logged its biggest weekly rally in four decades!

President Trump is pulling together a pandemic council to speed up reopening the U.S. economy. States are banding together to work on their own economic reopening plans. COVID-19 cases have stabilized and should soon start to decline.

If market activity is anything to go by (and the market is never wrong, right?), we’re all worried about nothing.

The Takeaway:

Wait … hold up. Nothing to worry about? Who is this, and what have you done with Mr. Great Stuff?

Sorry, dear readers. The bourbon is running low, the coffee is gone and we’re almost out of milk. I know I should drink water, but we’re out of Bud Light and White Claw, too. All I had left was Kool-Aid.

It won’t happen again.

Promise.

All right, where to begin?

How about last week’s relief rally? The rally that every “market bull worth his salt” is crowing about right now.

There’s a funny thing about that rally. It was indeed a relief rally … but not the kind you might think of.

The only investors relieved were short sellers. It was what market technicians call a “short squeeze in negative momentum.”

Now, what that means is that short sellers saw a massive profit opportunity — i.e., repurchasing their short positions at low, low prices and banking the returns. That rally fuel has now dried up, according to Rebecca Cheong, UBS Securities’ head of Americas equity derivatives strategy.

“Recent factor moves are more in-line with past fake rallies than final recovery,” Cheong wrote. “We expect short-covering is likely over … Positioning risk is now more vulnerable to long reduction.”

OK, so we have a plausible reason for last week’s massive rally. The question is … why last week?

The short answer: corporate earnings.

Earnings season brings volatility and unknown outcomes. If you read through today’s quarterly reports from JPMorgan, Fastenal and the like, you’ll notice that the overall top-line figures were better than expected. Hence, today’s rally.

But while these headline figures promote a feeling that everything’s OK, there are much more concerning issues lying just beneath the surface.  (We’ll get to those in a minute.)

Suffice it to say that short sellers wanted nothing to do with this earnings-induced volatility and banked profits early, leading to last week’s mother-of-all short squeezes.

As earnings season lumbers on, many of these shorts may wish they had held their positions a little while longer. After all, you get cherry-picked earnings info in headlines from the major financial publications. (Did you see Conn’s Inc.’s (Nasdaq: CONN) earnings report mentioned anywhere? I didn’t think so.)

So, what’s a non-Kool-Aid drinker to do at a time like this?

Well … there’s a better way to play earnings season — no matter what ungodly results come from the earnings confessional — and one earnings strategy blows me away every time.

Earlier this year, one of Banyan Hill’s teams closed out a four-day gain in Tesla Inc. (Nasdaq: TSLA) for 438%. And in 2018, its strategy was responsible for the biggest individual trade at our company in the last five years — a 526% gain on Caterpillar Inc. (NYSE: CAT) in three months!

Let’s be honest, the markets are rough right now for all of us…

We’re set for a catastrophic earnings season — the grandpappy of corporate earnings calamities, if you will. Instead of running for the hills, this trading research team is eyeing new “Quick Hit” trades as we speak — err, type?

Click here to hear about a better way to play earnings season.

Good: Chasing Profits

The major earnings headline today was from JPMorgan Chase, and it comes with a few provisos … a couple of quid pro quos…

The banking behemoth reported earnings of $0.78 per share, whiffing the consensus estimate for $1.84 per share. Revenue held up, however, arriving at $29.07 billion and beating expectations.

There are two key points to note here. First, JPMorgan’s earnings missed because the company set aside $6.8 billion in credit reserves. In short, the bank expects an influx of credit defaults across its lending businesses.

And there will be more default prep to come, according to Chief Financial Officer  Jennifer Piepszak. In a conference call with investors, Piepszak said that JPMorgan could be forced to add billions more to its credit reserves to stave off defaults. This is a smart move by JPMorgan, but it’s a very negative sign for the U.S. economy.

Second, revenue remained strong because of a record 32% jump in trading revenue. JPMorgan clearly has the right outlook on the market and trades. What is that market outlook? A “bad recession” and financial crisis like 2008.

Today, JPM stock was pounded because the company told the truth. I like the company’s honesty and its trading performance, but exposure to rising credit defaults will keep JPM shares on the back burner for now.

Better: Fastenal Your Seatbelts

If the case for a bull market rebound has a poster boy today, it’s Fastenal.

Fastenal makes industrial and construction fasteners, and industrials have supposedly been hit hard during the economic shutdown. However, the company beat Wall Street’s first-quarter earnings and revenue estimates, leading many to speculate that the pandemic’s impact on businesses has been exaggerated.

FAST shares rallied more than 6% on the news.

However, if you read past the headline figures, you find interesting data. Specifically, Fastenal’s earnings release noted: “The second half of March saw activity levels weaken significantly in response to societal actions meant to address the coronavirus pandemic.”

Digging deeper reveals that gross margins dipped, and sales growth slowed significantly. The biggest red flag in my book, however, is the fact that Fastenal didn’t provide guidance for the rest of the year.

Conveniently, Fastenal doesn’t typically provide guidance. So, I can’t really complain too much here about the company’s lack of transparency. But,  I think you can see, Fastenal isn’t the herald of market bullishness that today’s market headlines make it out to be.

Best: Island in the Stream…

…that’s what Roku Inc. (Nasdaq: ROKU) is.

There’s no one in between you and your streaming content with Roku, since the company’s platform is content agnostic. And after the company lifted its first-quarter guidance this morning, how can we be wrong … to … um … recommend the shares? (Weakest lyrical reference ever. Sorry, Dolly.)

Here’s the deal: Roku lifted revenue guidance and projected a 3-million-account net increase for the first quarter — bringing the company to 39.8 million active users. Furthermore, Roku said it anticipates streaming hours to increase by 49% year over year for the period.

With everyone stuck at home these days, Roku is really starting to shine. Now, the company did withdraw its full-year outlook due to the pandemic, but I believe it’s being conservative.

After all, Roku has the leading home-streaming hardware platform on the market. It’s the reason why Great Stuff has recommended buying ROKU shares since May 2019.

It doesn’t matter which streaming service you use — it all works on Roku. Plus, Roku’s streaming devices are among the most affordable on the market, meaning it will remain a leader even throughout an economic downturn — especially when cord cutting picks up as consumers look to cut costs.

I tell you, the past few weeks, scammers have risen from the woodwork quicker than you can scream “stimulus check!”

Along with the hordes of rampant robocallers and salivating solicitors have come mighty myths. As always, Great Stuff is here to help you tell truth from fiction … or at least debunk what nonsense people post online.

If you have questions on your stimulus check — or know anyone who’s easily fooled by pranks, scams and gags — today’s Quote of the Week is for you, courtesy of CNBC’s Make It.

CNBC’s article busts seven different myths that you might’ve seen slithering their way across social media. (Surely not by word of mouth … you aren’t breaking social distancing, are you?)

I highly recommend you read through the entire piece … but here’s the skinny in the meantime:

“The stimulus checks are not taxable income.”

“Assuming all of the information on your tax returns is correct, you will not repay the check next tax season.”

“If the IRS has your direct deposit banking information, then you should receive your payment in the next few weeks, according to the agency.”

“There is nothing most people need to do to receive a check.”

“With a few exceptions, as long as you have a Social Security number and meet the income eligibility requirements, you will receive a check.”

“Everyone who is eligible will receive a check. If you haven’t filed for 2019 yet, then the IRS will use your 2018 return to estimate your credit.”

“The IRS will not ask for money back.”

Seven myth-defying quotes in one Quote of the Week? Now that’s Great Stuff.

Seriously: If any of these myths made you think, “Oh, I know Bethany would fall for that…” then you need to forward this email to her pronto! Jeez, c’mon, Bethany…

Great Stuff: Won’t Get Fooled Again

It’s almost that time again! You know the drill, you “Marco,” I “Polo!”

Just two nights and a wake-up … and it’ll be time for this week’s edition of Reader Feedback. Have you written in yet? No? It only takes a sec to drop us a line at GreatStuffToday@BanyanHill.com.

I’ve seen a sea of new names in the inbox this week, so if you’re just now tuning into Great Stuff, welcome aboard!

Many readers also wrote in with thoughts (read: rants) on reopening the U.S. economy. No matter your viewpoint on these viral times, all I can say is keep your emails coming!

Write to us anytime day or night (we’ve got nothing but time these days) with whatever’s on your mind … be it the market’s fake-outs, this upcoming earnings season or what keeps you occupied during quarantine.

In the meantime, don’t forget to check out Great Stuff on social media. If you can’t get enough meme-y market goodness, follow Great Stuff on Facebook and Twitter.

Until next time, be Great!

Regards,

Joseph Hargett

Editor, Great Stuff

[goldira01]

How Do You Spell Relief?

And they’re off!

The first (annual?) U.S. quarantined corporate earnings season kicked off this morning, and investors loved the red-hot rally action.

It was 2% to 3% gains across the board as the market opened. Wall Street finally has concrete data on how the pandemic has affected American businesses.

JPMorgan Chase & Co. (NYSE: JPM), Fastenal Co. (Nasdaq: FAST) and Johnson & Johnson (NYSE: JNJ) all beat analysts’ quarterly projections … as if to say: “See? Things aren’t as bad as they seem!”

I mean, why should you worry? The market just logged its biggest weekly rally in four decades!

President Trump is pulling together a pandemic council to speed up reopening the U.S. economy. States are banding together to work on their own economic reopening plans. COVID-19 cases have stabilized and should soon start to decline.

If market activity is anything to go by (and the market is never wrong, right?), we’re all worried about nothing.

The Takeaway:

Wait … hold up. Nothing to worry about? Who is this, and what have you done with Mr. Great Stuff?

Sorry, dear readers. The bourbon is running low, the coffee is gone and we’re almost out of milk. I know I should drink water, but we’re out of Bud Light and White Claw, too. All I had left was Kool-Aid.

It won’t happen again.

Promise.

All right, where to begin?

How about last week’s relief rally? The rally that every “market bull worth his salt” is crowing about right now.

There’s a funny thing about that rally. It was indeed a relief rally … but not the kind you might think of.

The only investors relieved were short sellers. It was what market technicians call a “short squeeze in negative momentum.”

Now, what that means is that short sellers saw a massive profit opportunity — i.e., repurchasing their short positions at low, low prices and banking the returns. That rally fuel has now dried up, according to Rebecca Cheong, UBS Securities’ head of Americas equity derivatives strategy.

“Recent factor moves are more in-line with past fake rallies than final recovery,” Cheong wrote. “We expect short-covering is likely over … Positioning risk is now more vulnerable to long reduction.”

OK, so we have a plausible reason for last week’s massive rally. The question is … why last week?

The short answer: corporate earnings.

Earnings season brings volatility and unknown outcomes. If you read through today’s quarterly reports from JPMorgan, Fastenal and the like, you’ll notice that the overall top-line figures were better than expected. Hence, today’s rally.

But while these headline figures promote a feeling that everything’s OK, there are much more concerning issues lying just beneath the surface.  (We’ll get to those in a minute.)

Suffice it to say that short sellers wanted nothing to do with this earnings-induced volatility and banked profits early, leading to last week’s mother-of-all short squeezes.

As earnings season lumbers on, many of these shorts may wish they had held their positions a little while longer. After all, you get cherry-picked earnings info in headlines from the major financial publications. (Did you see Conn’s Inc.’s (Nasdaq: CONN) earnings report mentioned anywhere? I didn’t think so.)

So, what’s a non-Kool-Aid drinker to do at a time like this?

Well … there’s a better way to play earnings season — no matter what ungodly results come from the earnings confessional — and one earnings strategy blows me away every time.

Earlier this year, one of Banyan Hill’s teams closed out a four-day gain in Tesla Inc. (Nasdaq: TSLA) for 438%. And in 2018, its strategy was responsible for the biggest individual trade at our company in the last five years — a 526% gain on Caterpillar Inc. (NYSE: CAT) in three months!

Let’s be honest, the markets are rough right now for all of us…

We’re set for a catastrophic earnings season — the grandpappy of corporate earnings calamities, if you will. Instead of running for the hills, this trading research team is eyeing new “Quick Hit” trades as we speak — err, type?

Click here to hear about a better way to play earnings season.

Good: Chasing Profits

The major earnings headline today was from JPMorgan Chase, and it comes with a few provisos … a couple of quid pro quos…

The banking behemoth reported earnings of $0.78 per share, whiffing the consensus estimate for $1.84 per share. Revenue held up, however, arriving at $29.07 billion and beating expectations.

There are two key points to note here. First, JPMorgan’s earnings missed because the company set aside $6.8 billion in credit reserves. In short, the bank expects an influx of credit defaults across its lending businesses.

And there will be more default prep to come, according to Chief Financial Officer  Jennifer Piepszak. In a conference call with investors, Piepszak said that JPMorgan could be forced to add billions more to its credit reserves to stave off defaults. This is a smart move by JPMorgan, but it’s a very negative sign for the U.S. economy.

Second, revenue remained strong because of a record 32% jump in trading revenue. JPMorgan clearly has the right outlook on the market and trades. What is that market outlook? A “bad recession” and financial crisis like 2008.

Today, JPM stock was pounded because the company told the truth. I like the company’s honesty and its trading performance, but exposure to rising credit defaults will keep JPM shares on the back burner for now.

Better: Fastenal Your Seatbelts

If the case for a bull market rebound has a poster boy today, it’s Fastenal.

Fastenal makes industrial and construction fasteners, and industrials have supposedly been hit hard during the economic shutdown. However, the company beat Wall Street’s first-quarter earnings and revenue estimates, leading many to speculate that the pandemic’s impact on businesses has been exaggerated.

FAST shares rallied more than 6% on the news.

However, if you read past the headline figures, you find interesting data. Specifically, Fastenal’s earnings release noted: “The second half of March saw activity levels weaken significantly in response to societal actions meant to address the coronavirus pandemic.”

Digging deeper reveals that gross margins dipped, and sales growth slowed significantly. The biggest red flag in my book, however, is the fact that Fastenal didn’t provide guidance for the rest of the year.

Conveniently, Fastenal doesn’t typically provide guidance. So, I can’t really complain too much here about the company’s lack of transparency. But,  I think you can see, Fastenal isn’t the herald of market bullishness that today’s market headlines make it out to be.

Best: Island in the Stream…

…that’s what Roku Inc. (Nasdaq: ROKU) is.

There’s no one in between you and your streaming content with Roku, since the company’s platform is content agnostic. And after the company lifted its first-quarter guidance this morning, how can we be wrong … to … um … recommend the shares? (Weakest lyrical reference ever. Sorry, Dolly.)

Here’s the deal: Roku lifted revenue guidance and projected a 3-million-account net increase for the first quarter — bringing the company to 39.8 million active users. Furthermore, Roku said it anticipates streaming hours to increase by 49% year over year for the period.

With everyone stuck at home these days, Roku is really starting to shine. Now, the company did withdraw its full-year outlook due to the pandemic, but I believe it’s being conservative.

After all, Roku has the leading home-streaming hardware platform on the market. It’s the reason why Great Stuff has recommended buying ROKU shares since May 2019.

It doesn’t matter which streaming service you use — it all works on Roku. Plus, Roku’s streaming devices are among the most affordable on the market, meaning it will remain a leader even throughout an economic downturn — especially when cord cutting picks up as consumers look to cut costs.

I tell you, the past few weeks, scammers have risen from the woodwork quicker than you can scream “stimulus check!”

Along with the hordes of rampant robocallers and salivating solicitors have come mighty myths. As always, Great Stuff is here to help you tell truth from fiction … or at least debunk what nonsense people post online.

If you have questions on your stimulus check — or know anyone who’s easily fooled by pranks, scams and gags — today’s Quote of the Week is for you, courtesy of CNBC’s Make It.

CNBC’s article busts seven different myths that you might’ve seen slithering their way across social media. (Surely not by word of mouth … you aren’t breaking social distancing, are you?)

I highly recommend you read through the entire piece … but here’s the skinny in the meantime:

“The stimulus checks are not taxable income.”

“Assuming all of the information on your tax returns is correct, you will not repay the check next tax season.”

“If the IRS has your direct deposit banking information, then you should receive your payment in the next few weeks, according to the agency.”

“There is nothing most people need to do to receive a check.”

“With a few exceptions, as long as you have a Social Security number and meet the income eligibility requirements, you will receive a check.”

“Everyone who is eligible will receive a check. If you haven’t filed for 2019 yet, then the IRS will use your 2018 return to estimate your credit.”

“The IRS will not ask for money back.”

Seven myth-defying quotes in one Quote of the Week? Now that’s Great Stuff.

Seriously: If any of these myths made you think, “Oh, I know Bethany would fall for that…” then you need to forward this email to her pronto! Jeez, c’mon, Bethany…

Great Stuff: Won’t Get Fooled Again

It’s almost that time again! You know the drill, you “Marco,” I “Polo!”

Just two nights and a wake-up … and it’ll be time for this week’s edition of Reader Feedback. Have you written in yet? No? It only takes a sec to drop us a line at GreatStuffToday@BanyanHill.com.

I’ve seen a sea of new names in the inbox this week, so if you’re just now tuning into Great Stuff, welcome aboard!

Many readers also wrote in with thoughts (read: rants) on reopening the U.S. economy. No matter your viewpoint on these viral times, all I can say is keep your emails coming!

Write to us anytime day or night (we’ve got nothing but time these days) with whatever’s on your mind … be it the market’s fake-outs, this upcoming earnings season or what keeps you occupied during quarantine.

In the meantime, don’t forget to check out Great Stuff on social media. If you can’t get enough meme-y market goodness, follow Great Stuff on Facebook and Twitter.

Until next time, be Great!

Regards,

Joseph Hargett

Editor, Great Stuff