#in thr margins of my notes

[genderkoolaid]

Kind of related to the 't makes you a mansplainer' thing I'm always amazed by thr difference in the way people perceive my music now. Pre t people thought it was cool that I played guitar but the second my voice started dropping and my beard started coming in people started getting annoyed by it. I started getting "no one wants to hear wonderwall" (I've never played that song) and "we don't need another man with an acoustic guitar". I don't even pass yet. That shift was instantaneous. And it's from the exact same people who thought it was cool before at a queer drop in center i go to, they used to turn down the music playing in the center because people were listening to me, going through my songbook and making requests. Now I'm lucky if I can play 1 song before someone tells me to stop because "no one wants to hear another man with an acoustic guitar"

It really hurts makes me want to quit playing.

Like I know t ruined my singing voice but damn, I just want to play my guitar I worked hard to teach myself to play.

Its so aggravating to me how cis, binary feminism has people treating trans men like we aren't an oppressed group. Erasing all of our unique experiences and struggles and perspectives to make us seem like Cis Men But Short And Weird. Your experience reminds me of people talking about how they went from being praised for being a woman in a male-dominated field to being ashamed of transitioning because they "failed" to "be a role model". In both cases, there's this assumption that trans men don't need support, that our accomplishments aren't hard-won, that we never struggle to make a place for ourselves in society. I mentioned in the notes of a post how we need a good word to describe being unfairly cast as an oppressor to cover up/ignore oppression (not just for transandrophobia but also antisemitism) because its so fucking concerning!! Its like people are specifically blinding themselves to trans men's transness and doing everything in their power to act like we're cis men. And its because thats basically what cis feminism does- there are only two roles, Woman (oppressed) and Man (oppressor), and by and large it only has two ways of reacting to trans men: either we're oppressed (by misogyny and nothing else) Women, or we're oppressors and Men. There isn't any way for us to place ourselves in this binary without harming ourselves. And so much of the time, this ideology ends up with us being punching bags for other people to take out their anger and trauma from cis men at an target they can have power over, while justifying it by saying that we're privileged men who need to suck it up and stop being so sensitive.

I'm going on a tangent but the point is: I'm mad as fuck that you are getting treated like this. I absolutely do want to hear more trans men playing acoustic guitar, because I never get to see trans men doing fucking anything! Being recognized as men and as equally male as cis men should not have to come at the cost of being recognized and supported like other marginalized genders. I'm so sorry you've had to go through that and I hope you are able to find people & a community that celebrates you and your talents like you deserve.

[butch-reidentified]

Your lack of self awareness about your own "dysphoria" is causing you to justify an extremely antifeminist industry and those profiting from selling marginalized women self-destruction. You have all the expected comorbidities (OCD/anorexia/body dysmorphia plus unresolved trauma from extreme homophobia) of someone in your position, shared with most female people who seek this surgery, and not someone with an implausible, never validated neurological disorder that coincidentally happens to map precisely onto misogynistic and homophobic ideas of the female body. Your "resolution" of symptoms is dependent on defending your decision and not the actual reality of the results. Your comorbid issues (especially OCD, which your wife is enabling) are obviously still raging through your life no matter what you say. It is a direct insult to every woman who feels violated by what happened to them to claim that not only are you one of the only people on the planet to truly need this surgery but that you read their stories of profoundly woman-hating trauma to convince yourself that you were a uniquely informed and more authentic candidate. P.S. I would "pull up" but I have a job instead of whatever grift you run. Good luck and hope you figure this out before too many other women see you as a role model.

LMAO this is so so amazing thank you. when I tell you this reads like TRA arguments... straight up making things up, projecting, absurdity, and ad hominem bs. delightful!

long post incoming but I am gonna break this down on a micro level bc I haven't talked about these topics in a minute + I'm high and it seems like fun, like a satisfying puzzle, kind of, to break this down into individual parts and address each part. Plus, asks like this provide opportunities to really dive into nuance and detail on several of one's ideas, experiences, and worldviews all in one place, which I've always enjoyed.

I am gonna preface by saying several parts of this are blatantly bad faith, and I am answering more for others to read than for anon. In particular, the claim that I said I am one of the few people who "truly NEED" this surgery. Given you clearly read at least some of my posts on dysphoria, certainly you saw that I repeatedly emphasized that I never have or will view this as a "need." It's also worth noting that most of my posts on this were written quite some time ago, and I don't remember everything I ever wrote on the topic off the top of my head, but I 150% do know myself and what thoughts and feelings I've had and which I've not had on the matter.

ok so first off, I have literally not ever ever even once encouraged anyone to pursue a single elective surgery & have very consistently done the opposite. just because I feel chill about my surgery personally does not mean that I support that industry, actually. in fact, if i knew everything i know about that industry now, I would not get the surgery... but that's a matter of choosing to boycott the industry, not a matter of how i feel personally about my individual experience. how I feel has literally nothing to do with my opinions/beliefs/values. I dont choose how I feel, but I fully choose my moral code.

in fact, my honesty about my story is not supporting that industry in a single way - it simply is not lying. people like you would have me lie to further a narrative rather than be genuine and candid, which puts us on the level with TRAs since that is precisely what they do. it comes down to this: you are asking me to either be silent about (lie by omission) or knowingly misrepresent (outright lie) my experiences because you lack the capacity for nuance to fit them into your narrative without harming the integrity of said narrative. But I don't under any circumstances do that, regardless of whether or not I agree with said narrative (and in this case, I very much do agree). If you cannot work the nuances of my lived experiences into your narrative about gender ideology and transition without it threatening the narrative that's on you; it's entirely possible to do. I'm not going to lie or censor myself just because you're limited in that way.

to be clear, my theory about neurological sex dysphoria is not "implausible;" it is also not something I'm insisting definitely is correct, or I would not call it a theory. And do you even have the qualifications to rule it such, knowing that I am a published neuro/neuropsych researcher (though now retired from that field because I recently found my truest passion)? However, it is not based on absolutely nothing. This answer is already waaay too long, bad habit of mine, but my #ntsd tag includes some posts that elaborate on this. The only thing I am going to specifically say on this matter is that having a processing disconnect (which has literally been visialized on fMRI) that caused my breasts to physically feel like a prosthetic attachment... is not "coincidentally mapping precisely onto misogynistic and homophobic ideas of the female body." This assertion doesn't even make sense in the context of everything I've said previously. I have never believed in the "body mapping" theory of dysphoria that you clearly are referring to by "mapping... onto the female body."

Additionally, I am not sure how you see logic in making this claim when misogynistic ideas of the female body are not known for being devoid of breasts. As I've said in practically every single post on this topic that I've made, I never went through a period of actually wanting to reject womanhood, be perceived socially as not-a-woman, or believing that womanhood and femininity were synonymous. That simply was not my motivation, and as I've said before, pain from chronic cysts was a large part of my decision. Lots of women on here have spoken about how they never went through those period either, yet I'm the only one I've seen get shit for it & get accused of thinking I'm better than other women for it. I never claimed or remotely implied that, and it has never in my life so much as occurred to me as even a hypothetical concept to feel superior about something like that. The only difference between me and most of the women on here who never went through those periods is that I had an elective mastectomy - but I did so while still entirely secure and at peace in my womanhood. Whether you find my truthful experience to be inconvenient or hurtful is entirely on you, not my responsibility to bury my own feelings and my own story for your comfort.

My lack of regret is not remotely "dependent on defending my decision." This is another statement that you would never make in a million years if you'd ever had one single irl conversation with me. I have no hesitation about admitting when I'm wrong. I do it /all/ the time. I don't have a pride issue, so "defending my decisions" is not something that matters to me. Again, you are projecting and you are assigning qualities to me without even the most basic knowledge of me as a person. I have not to date had a single human being on here miss quite this hard in an attempt to come at me. There's a lot about me, like anyone, that's ripe for completely justifiable criticism, and you've somehow managed to select some of the least applicable few assertions about me that you could find. Fact of the matter is I'm not prone to regret in the first place, and even factoring the dysphoria thing out of the conversation entirely, I genuinely like not having the inconvenience of large breasts and not having the pain of constant cysts, which i would still have if I'd gotten a reduction rather than mastectomy.

furthermore, you are making wildly unfounded claims. "lack of self awareness" lmfao this is pure gold. the people that hate me most in the entire world would laugh out loud if you tried to say that about me in front of them. I have plenty of flaws, plenty of areas I need to improve, but self-awareness is not one of those, not something I have ever in my entire life before this ask had a single soul give me constructive feedback about. so thanks for the novel experience, ig 🤷

I literally do not have a single one of the mental health issues you're claiming I do, nor do I have any unhealed trauma at all (and have not in a long time), as I've spoken about in-depth more than once, especially since my first ever Neuropsych research publication was on PTSD and I previously worked as a trauma therapist for patients with comorbid substance use disorders. I have a number of genetic physical health conditions, but my mental health is honestly excellent. Not to say I've just been totally cheerful my entire life, but at this point in my life, I have been healed long enough that it's almost surreal to look back on a time when I wasn't, and I am deeply happy with my career, my marriage, my relationships with my family and friends, my home and my pets, my hobbies... all of it. And I'm incredibly excited for the plans my wife and I have for our future.

The body dysmorphia claim is especially funny to me because one literally cannot possibly be any more neutral and at ease in their relationship with their body than this. I have said it several times on here, but I place as much value on my appearance now as I did when I was 4. Pretty much the only time I consider my appearance at all is to make sure I look professional and sharp for something like a business meeting. I talk about true body neutrality being attainable fairly often specifically because I've experienced it firsthand, so I know it can be done. I have a strict rule against speaking on shit I don't actually know.

but if you think that by reading my tumblr blog, you know my mind better than I do and better than medical professionals, that's just blatantly delusional and peak chronically online behavior. ESPECIALLY as someone who does not know me in any capacity. the audacity to make claims about not only me but also my WIFE, who you know nearly nothing about and does not even use this site.... it's genuinely mind-boggling for you to be running your mouth about some "lack of self awareness" shit given the content and tone of this ask.

same thing with you deciding you are able to speak for "every woman who feels violated by what happened to them." that is lack of self awareness and it is projection. your assertion that I read those women's painful stories of woman-hating trauma before having my surgery "to convince myself that I was a uniquely informed and more authentic candidate" is SUCH bullshit even you have to know you're lying. that comment is so bad faith it's a bit impressive, but mostly just disgusting on your part. I read detrans stories freely shared by both sexes on public platforms, with the specific intention of canceling my planned surgery the second I encountered one single thing I might have in common with those stories in terms of motivation to get the surgery. There is such a massive difference between trying to learn from others' mistakes and using others' trauma to validate your choices. You are lying if you try to act like I wasn't very clear about which one I did. I waited 5 or 6 years from when I learned that this surgery was even a thing to move forward. I waited until my prefrontal cortex was "done cooking" as the internet likes to say. I pursued multiple other treatment options, not one of which was "gender affirming" bc I did not buy into gender ideology back then, either. And I educated myself on the experiences of those who regretted it with the purpose of minimizing my risk of regret by NOT moving forward if I found that I related to any of the motivations that led them to pursue surgery and ultimately regret it. I was not blindly stubbornly committed to surgery; I was always very much open to canceling if it felt right. Yes, having chosen that process of literally informing myself DID make me uniquely informed... that doesn't mean i'm better than anyone else, though. it's just the reality of putting a half decade of work and analysis and thought into a decision that absolutely nobody pressured me into, compared to the pretty common experience of being misled by trans ideology and/or rushing into this surgery. I am very much aware that I'm not special or superior just because I am flat out lucky enough to have not had anyone trying to manipulate, mislead, rush, or pressure me to get surgery, and insanely lucky to have not had pain or complications from it. And yes, despite my unconventional path to surgery, I also know I am very lucky to not regret it. All the more reasons I don't promote it.

you have constructed an image of me, my wife, and my daily life in your mind based on reading my blog and absolutely nothing more than that. even if you are engaging negatively with that image, criticizing it/me, etc., this is a parasocial engagement by definition.

The above is exactly what you have done. Parasocial interactions don't have to be positive. You are deluding yourself if you truly, genuinely believe you have the remotest understanding of who I am or how I live.

out of curiosity, did you intentionally fail to mention that I had medical reasons for my mastectomy in addition to dysphoria? or did you just conveniently forget about that despite how frequently I've talked about it?

as an afterthought: the implication that unlike you, I don't have a job is fucking golden given that you've clearly been reading a LOT of my posts and I don't believe for one second that you simply missed all the posts where I've talked about the fact that we bought our own home at 24, the fact that my wife and I own our own business, and the extra shit I do just because. but if you like, we can compare our records of how much time per day and week spent on social media 💀

thank you for this ❤️❤️❤️

[gra-sonas]

Carina Adly MacKenzie is out as the showrunner of the CW's Roswell, New Mexico.

According to multiple insiders, the first-time showrunner's relationship with studio Warner Bros. Television had been strained for some time. One of the latest points of contention came late last month when MacKenzie, who created the soapy drama renewed for a third season in January, fired off a series of tweets. One source, in particular, says that Warner Bros. had to do "damage control" with a foreign distributor after MacKenzie accused ITV in the U.K. of homophobia, biphobia and bigotry for cutting selective sex scenes from her show.

   Really, really, REALLY upset to hear that @itv cut out a (pretty tame) love scene between two men and kept a (much more raunchy) heterosexual sex scene in their airing of an episode of #RoswellNM tonight. There are a lot of angry tears happening at my house tonight.    — carina adly mackenzie (@cadlymack) June 24, 2020

   It’s just blatant homophobia/biphobia/bigotry and I’m so, so sorry and so, so angry. Frankly I’d be fine never watching another straight white couple bone on TV EVER AGAIN.    — carina adly mackenzie (@cadlymack) June 24, 2020

A spokesperson for ITV2, the channel that aired the episode of Roswell in the U.K., disputes MacKenzie's characterization of the editing, however. "During our compliance process on episode two, we edited love scenes featuring the characters of Alex and Michael and Max and Jenna," said the rep. "Editing is only ever undertaken to ensure content is suitable for scheduling in a pre watershed time slot when younger age groups may be watching. Scenes involving sexual content were edited in keeping with the regulator, Ofcom's, guidelines."

For two-plus years, MacKenzie had co-run Roswell with Christopher Hollier (The Originals, Once Upon a Time) but was the show's sole creator and its chief creative voice. During her time on the show, she is said to have fostered a working environment that some say was rife with tension. Among the issues, according to those insiders, is that MacKenzie would spend an unusual amount of time on the set in New Mexico, away from the show's Los Angeles-based writers' room — a move that was said to frustrate some of the writers.

Showrunners typically spend the bulk of their time during the writing process in the room (or at least they did pre-COVID) and though Hollier was technically in charge in MacKenzie's absence, some point to the fact that MacKenzie did a lot of re-writing and often turned scripts in late as proof the show may have been run more smoothly were she around in person more. Sources note that the situation improved some in the second season when the writers' room was given more lead time before production started.

There was also said to be friction at times between MacKenzie and some of the actors, including series star Jeanine Mason. Multiple sources say that Warner Bros. HR looked into the matter last year. The results of that probe, which MacKenzie, Mason and Warner Bros. all declined to comment on, are not clear but what is known is that MacKenzie was able to continue running the show.

In a statement to The Hollywood Reporter, a Warner Bros. TV spokesperson would say only, "Carina Adly MacKenzie has departed as executive producer/co-showrunner of Roswell, New Mexico. The third season of the series will return to The CW as part of the network’s 2021 midseason lineup."

MacKenzie, for her part, told THR: "I have made the difficult decision to resign from my role on Roswell, New Mexico. I do not take this decision lightly, but ultimately due to fundamental differences, I must depart and entrust Roswell, New Mexico to capable hands. I am so proud of what we built over the last two years, and I believe in the heart and soul of the show: asking tough questions, striving to make the world better, amplifying marginalized voices, and fighting the good fight."

Her departure comes just as writing for the upcoming third season is beginning. Roswell, a steady enough performer for the CW, follows the daughter of undocumented immigrants (Mason) as she discovers her teenage crush is an alien who's kept his unearthly abilities a secret. Warner Bros. is likely to make a formal announcement about a succession plan in the coming weeks, though co-showrunner Hollier is expected to stay on and take full responsibility for the show.

MacKenzie, a former TV journalist who wrote about The Vampire Diaries at the now defunct Zap2It.com, transitioned to a career as a TV writer after the show's creator Julie Plec took her under her wing. MacKenzie started as a writers' assistant on Vampire Diaries spinoff The Originals, quickly rising through the ranks to become a writer and story editor on the series. Her credits also include an episode of The Flash. In April 2018, she inked her own two-year development deal with Warner Bros. TV. Sources say she is no longer under a deal with the studio.

~ Hollywood Reporter

[sky-scribbles]

Have ~1500 words of post-Heartbreak Chargestep sadness. m!Ortega x nb!Sidestep. Retribution spoilers.

[Text messages sent from the phone of Ricardo Ortega to a phone in the possession of infiltration unit CCT-525. To be provided to those responsible for CCT-525’s reconditioning.]

[Sent the evening after Sidestep’s funeral]

 Hey

This is probably a really bad idea. And not just because I’m still awful at texting, shut up. 

They say you should never text your ex, but there’s no advice for texting someone who’s dead. Someone who meant the world to you.  Reaching for someone I’ve already lost, someone I’ve just buried... that’s hardly anyone’s idea of moving on and letting go.

But you’re dead. You can’t say anything back that could hurt me. And even if you could, you couldn’t say anything that hurts me more than you being gone.

So, yeah. To hell with it.

To hell with moving on and to hell with letting go. To to hell with looking after myself. I don’t want to feel better and I don’t want to let you go because this? This grief?

It’s all I have left of you.

It’s with me all the time. I can’t forget it for more than a few minutes before I get this little nudge against my mind, like, haven’t I forgotten something? And then I remember that you’re gone and it hits me again. You hit me again.

You won’t stop

I keep seeing you fall and I keep feeling it happen all over again

I feel you die a hundred times every day and every time I’m left alive.

I should want it to stop. But I don’t. Because then I have to keep living and then I’ll change. I changed when Hood died and now I’ll change again. I won’t be the person you knew anymore, and I want to be your version of me forever, because then part of me will still be you. You’ll still be here.

And you’ll recognise me if you come back.

Because that’s why I’m really doing this, isn’t it? I keep thinking you’re going to send something back, any second now. I never saw a body, and you always had a backup plan, a way out.

Please send something back

I miss you so much and you deserved more than this

Please

Please

[Sent a week after the previous]

Hey, Wren.

I keep thinking about what you’d say if you could respond to these. Probably ‘fuck off, Ortega. You got me killed.’

Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Writing that, I got this little voice in my head, saying you wouldn’t feel that way about me. That you wouldn’t blame me. Am I texting a dead person because I want to give myself absolution?  Am I really that selfish?

But that’s just it. It’s not about me and who I am. It’s about you and Themmy, and about who you were, because you deserved better. You deserved someone who wouldn’t make those bad calls.

You deserved to live.

You were so young and you were so good. So real. You had this awkward little smile that I couldn’t see without feeling like the whole world had got a little bit kinder. I can still remember the way you laughed, and… no one’s ever going to laugh like that again.

All of that’s gone. All of you is gone, and I’m sitting here texting you to make myself feel better, or to punish myself, when everything that was beautiful about you doesn’t exist in the world anymore? I’m not even crying for you, I’m crying for myself.

So, because you can’t say it, I will. Fuck off, Ortega. You got them killed.

[Sent two weeks after the previous]

I don’t want to keep going back to that tower

Not in my head. Not in my dreams. No more.

Make it stop

MAKE IT STOP

[Sent three hours after the previous]

Hey wrenbird

So first of all I’m drunk right now an t his is going to be a mess

I know I said is houldn’t send any more of these to you but I was thinking about you tonight. I mean I think about you all the time. But tonight it was too much and I went out and hit the bear and now I’m home and thr getting drunk thing didn’t work because in thinking of you more

The Bar. I hit the bar. Fuck autocorre t

Anyway I kept thinking about how once iwould have got less drunk k and probably flirted wih someone there or so.ething. But I can’t do that anymore and I don’t even want to because he only person I actually want isyou

I just want to have you here an I want to hold you

I want to be able to kiss you one more time and see your face. You know I can renember where all your moles and little scars were? and I remember how warm you were hose times we did missions tgether overnight and selpt in shifts? You were so warm

I want you back. So much

Because I love you

I love you

I love you and I never said it and I don’t think you knw and now is when I sa it? Drun k texting you when your fucking dead and I’m finally fuck ig brave enough to say it?

I’m sorry I letyou die. I’m sorry I pretty much killed you.

I’m so sorry

[Sent a week after the previous]

Hey, Wren.

So, yeah, that was a mess all right. If there’s an afterlife, I hope you got a good laugh at my drunken inability to handle a keypad. Not that I can ever handle one even when I haven’t been drinking.

Seriously. You don’t want to know how long it takes me to write these.

Anyway, thought I’d let you now that I cleared out your apartment out today. Took a while to get the paperwork through, since I couldn’t find any next of kin. It’s the Free Zone, though. Not many questions got asked.

I’d seen your place before, but taking a real look around… it was like you were ready to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Maybe you were. It was so bare, like a shelter, not a home. I wish I’d done more to make you feel like it was safe to put down roots. Like you belonged.

Part of me wanted to hold onto everything there, but that felt creepy, so in the end I just kept some of your books.

I'm probably going to stay up all night reading them. Maybe I can feel a little closer to you by holding things you held. Reading words you loved. I don't know if you'd want me to hold onto them, but you’ve written little notes in the margins, and left coffee stains on the pages and creases on the spines. I guess it feels like these these pages are the only place where you let your roots dig deep, and I can still find you there.

I’ve been selfish far too often when it comes to you. But I really, really want to hold onto these. So I hope you can forgive me for being selfish, just one more time.

[Sent one year after the previous]

Hey, little bird.

Here’s a cheerful sentence: I’m sitting next to your grave right now. I took some flowers, because tradition, and some birdseed and coffee, because I knew that’s what you’d really appreciate. I’m watching the sparrows going nuts over the food while I write this.

I hope you’re getting some rest. I miss you. I love you.

And no, I’m not okay, not really. I mean, I grew a mustache and you’re not even here to make fun of it.

I’ve stopped hoping for a response when I send these. I guess that part of me that was holding on… it finally got the message. You’re not coming back. And that's such a lonely thing to know. Maybe that’s why I was sending these, all along, so I could keep you with me. I could pretend that I didn't have to face that loneliness.

But, hey. I’m sitting here watching the pigeons and sparrows have a great time, and I guess that’s happening because of you. I did that because of you, because it would have made you happy. I keep doing things because I think they’re what you would have done, I see things you would have liked and I smile. Every thought and want and hope I have comes back to you in the end, and it hurts, but it fills a space in the world that shouldn’t be left empty.

All those beautiful things about you? I guess I can make sure the world still has a trace of them. Because you’re with me. You’re in me.

I guess you could get into my mind after all, huh?

Sleep well, wrenbird.

<3

[sassycassie-s-series]

All My Fault 29

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC, BatFam - Damian Wayne/Batman

Rating: PG/K+

Notes: (Masterlist) Holy cow I intend to have fun with these quick updates. Love y’all!

Tag List (Open): @batboys-and-other-messes @haylo4ever @lostredrobin @na-n-na @probsjosh @spooder-moon @welovegroot

Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13, Ch 14, Ch 15, Ch 16, Ch 17, Ch 18, Ch 19, Ch 20, Ch 21, Ch 22, Ch 23, Ch 24, Ch 25, Ch 26, Ch 27, Ch 28

^^^^^

“—then Abigail just tripped over her little shoes and went tumbling down the hill!” Lily exclaimed, clutching at her chest. “Thankfully it was just a tiny little hill and she’s tough as nails what with her older brother picking on her all the time but I was so worried!”

The rest of my high school friends all murmured agreements around the table.

They’d been talking about nothing but their kids for nearly an hour.

And I understood that, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t helping me feel better about being trapped in the future. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been there for all of this. That I had less life experience than they did. I knew that they didn’t hold it against me—it wasn’t my fault—but part of me wished I’d refused Damian’s offer to bring me to the future to say goodbye to Dick, Jason, Tim, and Bruce so that I’d (hopefully) still be there for my friends.

I was relieved, though, that they were talking about their kids because it meant they weren’t asking me questions about what happened to me. Questions I’d have to lie about.

So I listened. And I laughed. And I listened more. I got to know their kids through their words.

The thing about my friends from high school was we had all been loyal to each other no matter what. I didn’t feel a single condescending vibe from any of them that I was still practically a child to them after they all grew up and had kids and got married. The one that got her doctorate, Sasha, was out-of-state working so she couldn’t make it to lunch.

I looked around. The women around me were women. They weren’t the girls I played Dungeons and Dragons with in Breanne’s basement. They were still my friends and I knew they still loved me but I could sense a bit of our dynamic being thrown off. Sasha and Breanne were the only ones in the group older than me back when everything about ages made sense, but I’d always been the responsible one of the group. Now I was surrounded by responsible mothers who were all older than me. Leaving me the youngest again by a huge margin.

“Y’alright, Nor-nor?” Amy, who had been my absolute best friend since I was a very young child, asked.

I nodded. “Fine. Just… just thinking,” I said.

“About?” Kaitlin pressed.

“Everything’s changed. I missed so much. I'm listening to all this and I wasn’t here for any of it and this isn’t right!” My eyes started to well up. I blinked tears out of my vision, letting them fall down my cheeks and wiping them off impatiently. “I was supposed to be here for this. I was supposed to be your kids’ fun aunt who spoiled them rotten. The way we used to dream about, remember? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Oh sweetie!” Kaitlin exclaimed, wrapping her arms around me and putting her chin on top of my head. “We still love you. We don’t blame you for anything that happened. None of this is your fault.”

I sniffed. “I know,” I said. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t Damian’s either. It was those stupid Time Bombs’ fault for trapping me in the future by shutting the timeways. “I just… feel like I failed you guys.”

“Nora Jaqueline McCloud!” I heard several of my friends all say together.

I forgot they knew my middle name.

“Don’t you dare say that!” Kaitlin ordered. “You didn’t fail any of us. You had no control over what happened. And look. You’re here now. So none of it matters, you hear?” She grabbed my shoulders and made me look at her. “You’re still an honorary godmother to both June and Matthew—” Her two kids. “—so I don’t want to hear you saying you don’t belong among us anymore, okay?”

Spoken like a true mother. “Okay,” I said.

She hugged me again. “Good. Because we’re your friends and you’re our friend—no matter how much younger than us you are now.”

“Thanks Kat.”

“Of course, Nor-nor.”

The waiter came and brought back our bill receipts—that we’d all requested separately, heaven help the wait-staff—and quietly approached me. “Pardon me, miss,” he said, softly so none of my friends (who had gone back to talking about their kids) could hear him.

“Hmm?” I asked.

“I believe you tipped wrong,” he said, opening the folder that had my receipt and the cash I’d put in for a tip in it.

I glanced down. “No. No I meant to do that,” I said, noting that nothing was missing.

“Miss, that’s a one-thousand-percent tip,” he said.

I nodded. “I know. I also know that the waiters pool their tips at the end of the day and distribute it as evenly as they can. Waiting staffs don’t get nearly enough to live on anyway so I always give what I can. And my lunch wasn’t very expensive so I felt like I ought to tip high because of all the trouble you went to in order to serve me.”

“Miss—”

“Don’t worry, kid,” I said, noting that the waiter was definitely younger than me. “It’s not that big a deal on my end. Please just accept it and leave it.”

“Uh—of course,” he said. “Here’s your card and your receipt.”

I accepted both. “Thank you!” I said brightly, putting both in my wallet. The waiter left.

“What was that about?” Amy asked.

I shrugged. “I did something nice,” I said.

She tilted her head. “How much did you tip?”

“Musta been hefty if he tried to stop her,” Breanne reasoned.

“C’mon, Nor-nor,” Kaitlin prompted. “How much?”

“A hundred and fifty dollars,” I said.

Eyebrows went up. “You gave a hundred-fifty-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar lunch?” Lily asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s one-thousand-percent!” Amy said.

“Mmhmm,” I said. “Listen. Wait-staffs are criminally overworked and underpaid. They deal with a lot of crappy customers and I do what I can when I can.”

My friends all smiled and passed around words of agreement. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned.

Damian stood there. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I’ll be waiting right outside in the car.”

“Be right out,” I said. “We’re just finishing up.”

He nodded and slipped through the restaurant before disappearing.

“Who was that?” Lily demanded once Damian was gone.

“Damian,” I said. “My godfather’s son.” I didn’t like to say Wayne out loud because it always attracted attention.

“That’s Damian Wayne? He grew up into quite a looker, didn’t he?” Lily said.

“Mmhmm!” Kaitlin agreed. “How old is he now?”

“Uh… he’s my age. Or… I guess… I'm his age. Now. Twenty-one. We’re both twenty-one,” I said.

My friends all shared playful looks I recognized—mostly on my brothers.

“So. When’s the wedding?” Kaitlin teased.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

“C’mon, McCloud!” Amy joked. “He was totally diggin’ you! And you were totally diggin’ him!”

“He literally said he was waiting for me outside,” I said. “He gave me a ride here while he went to a meeting and he’s my ride home.”

“Right—because he totally didn’t glance over his shoulder at you several times while he was leaving. Nor did you follow him with your eyes till he was out the door,” Amy continued.

“Guys. Damian and I… it’s not like that. And it’s more complicated than that.”

“So un-complicate it, Nor-nor,” Kaitlin said.

“Thanks for meeting me for lunch, guys, really,” I said, getting to my feet and grabbing my purse and sweater. “I had a great time. Let me know when you can do it again. I'm glad we got to do this.” I went around the table and gave them quick hugs before heading out the door. They knew me. They wouldn’t be offended that I didn’t stick around for their teasing.

Out in the parking lot, I caught sight of Damian’s nice Audi.

Mostly because Damian was leaning against the side of the front with his arms folded in a smedium green T-shirt that was just a tad too tight for his muscles. “Afternoon,” he greeted, pushing off the side of his car without the use of his arms and opening my door for me.

“Hi,” I replied as I ducked into his car. He shut the door behind me and circled around to get in the driver’s seat. “You know I could have driven myself.”

“Tt. Yes, but Todd isn’t the only one who enjoys driving with you.”

“I think you guys all like to see how nervous I get when y’all do reckless stuff like take corners too tight,” I joked.

“Or we just enjoy your company,” Damian reasoned.

I ducked my head awkwardly. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I shook my head. “You have impeccable timing, by the way. Did you bug my purse or something?”

“Tt. Didn’t need to. You left your spare comm-link in it.”

I sighed in frustration. “Of course I did,” I muttered. Damian chuckled. Neither of us brought up the fact that he must have, then, heard what my friends said about him—and him and me—after he left. But I could tell he was thinking about it too because we both shot each other tiny little peeks out of the corners of our eyes.

In those peeks was a silent agreement not to mention it.

^^^^^

“Damian? Damian! Damian?!” I called, bolting up the stairs and out of the Batcave, rushing around the mansion looking for him. I ignored the fact that I was still in my Cloudburst suit in the open. I needed to find Damian. Immediately. “DAMIAN!”

“You okay Cloudy?” Dick asked as I crossed into the main parlor.

“Where’s Damian?” I demanded.

Dick shrugged. “Haven’t seen him, kiddo. Sorry.”

I ran out of the parlor. “DAAAMMMIIIAAANNN!”

Strong hands caught my shoulders. “McCloud! What’s the matter?” the Batman in question demanded, pushing me just enough away from him to see my face.

I lifted my hands and put them both on the sides of his face, just to make sure it was really him.

Then I realized what I was doing and dropped them. “I, uh, I just had a really bad feeling that something was going to happen to you,” I said.

Damian scrunched his eyebrows. “Why? Who threatened me?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Scare—Scarecrow,” I said. “I was out on patrol and we got into a fight. I didn’t even know he was out of Arkham. He said…” I took a deep, shuddering breath. “He said that I better enjoy my time patrolling with you while it lasted because it wouldn’t last much longer. That soon one of us would be too afraid to even set foot on Gotham’s streets again, and he didn’t think it was going to be me. I knocked him out and rushed home to make sure he hadn’t come to inject you with his toxin or anything.”

Damian pushed my hair out of my face after I was done frantically explaining. “McCloud. It’s alright. I'm fine. Crane was just trying to frighten you and get under your skin. Don’t let him,” he said softly. He caught a few stray strands of hair and tucked them behind my ear. “Are you alright now? Crane doesn’t know who I am under the cowl. He can’t hurt me as Damian Wayne.” A small smirk pulled up his lips. “H*&%, he can barely hurt me as Batman when he’s lucky.” He pulled me into a hug. “It’s alright, Cloudburst. Everything is fine.” He put his hand on the back of my head. “Go shower and change. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

“Right. Thanks. ‘Night Damian.”

“Goodnight, McCloud.”

———

Next

[boueibu-valentines]

The risk-benefit analysis of butterflies

Creator: Creo @queenofthefaces Recipient: @kira-7 Title: The risk-benefit analysis of butterflies Characters/Pairing: IoRyuu Summary: Io Naruko is successful. Unbelievably successful…but success doesn’t necessarily equal happiness. He attends a play in a rinky old theater on a whim, and the talented pink-haired actor playing Hamlet takes his breath away. Who knew he could find everything he ever needed in an old ticket stub and a risk? Comment: This is my gift for kira-7 for the boueibu valentines event!! I hope you like it! It’s been so long since I’ve written for this fandom ;;w;;

On Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736794

____________

He was successful. Unbelievably successful. He earned master’s degrees in economics and business finance. He became CEO of his company when he was only 20. He was incredibly wealthy, known for his competent, frugal nature—but also for his frequent philanthropy. His reputation was sparkling. He stayed out of politics and away from scandals. He lived alone in a neat, functional condo and drove a neat, functional car to work.

He had everything he needed.

But Io Naruko wasn’t happy.

It wasn’t something he thought about often, or so he told himself. The sharp longing in his chest came and went more often than he was comfortable admitting—when he saw happy families as he drove to work, when his subordinates took time off for weddings and honeymoons, when he laid in bed at night—alone, staring at his ceiling in the dim light of the moon, filtering through his cheap, paper curtains.

He wasn’t happy, but he told himself he was fine. Content, even. Or at the very least, he wasn’t miserable—neutral, maybe.

At this moment, however, he wasn’t thinking about that at all. Instead, Io was irritably glancing down at his wristwatch, and wondering how his careful planning could’ve fallen apart so spectacularly.

Well. He was being hyperbolic. He was irritable, though.

Io was currently sat in an uncomfortable, cramped theater chair, trying not to glance at the state of the seats around him—the fabric was dingy, stained, torn in places. It sent a shiver of disgust skittering over his skin. But he paid for his ticket.

His ticket to…Io checked his stub…to Hamlet. Io was at a production of Hamlet. The reason? He had a client who adored theater, and Io, knowing nothing about the subject, decided it would be useful to attend a show. The ticket was cheap, the show wasn’t long, and the little theater was on his way home from work. He’d never seen the place before, and marveled at the thought, thinking it a nice surprise before he walked into the building. It was falling apart, that was for sure. And even still, as Io looked around him, the seats were almost bare, a few scattered pockets of people. Io thought, cynically, they were only there to support their struggling actor friends. He might have been the only one there without a connection to any of the cast.

The show was running fifteen minutes late, and counting. Io was punctual, scheduled, and he wasn’t going to spend his once-in-a-blue-moon day off sitting around in a dark, ratty theater with a spring digging into his lower back through his seat.

Except he was. Because he paid for his ticket.

Io crossed his arms. He was just about to take out his tablet again when a spotlight suddenly shined onto the stage. It blinked to life, and a young actor emerged from the curtains and welcomed the audience.

There was light, polite applause as the curtains opened.

Io sunk into his seat, prepared to continue to regret his decision.

He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t know his opinion could’ve changed so quickly.

Io wasn’t expecting to be interested in the show, but then—their Hamlet took the stage, and Io was enthralled by his performance. Io found it difficult to relate to people in his daily life, but this actor, in a run-down old theater, actually made Io feel for him, for his character. The actor’s passion seeped into his every movement as he dominated the stage with his presence. His expressions, his voice—it all felt genuine in a way Io didn’t think he could appreciate.

They ran the show without intermission, and Io sat at the edge of his seat, completely invested. The other actors were good, but Io kept searching for, waiting for Hamlet when he wasn’t on stage.

By the end of the play, Io just barely restrained himself from leaping to his feet as he applauded. The cast members were all grinning ear-to-ear, despite the low turnout, despite the condition of their theater. Hamlet stood at the center, bowing deeply alongside his castmates. His character melted from his shoulders, and all Io could see was exuberance in the eyes of a talented young man.

The actors filtered off backstage, and Io wondered if he could stay behind and…and talk. Tell Hamlet how moving his performance was, how something warm and bright had stirred in Io’s chest for the first time in a long time.

Then, however, Io’s phone rang.

He swore under his breath—completely unprofessional—when he realized he had to leave. There wasn’t a playbill, so Io couldn’t even get Hamlet’s name. He left the theater with a glance over his shoulder, hoping to see movement from behind the curtain, if, by chance, he could catch the actor as he left.

Io’s phone buzzed against his palm.

No luck. Io left to his car, disappointment curdling in his stomach.

—

The next day, he found himself distracted at work for the first time in his career.

His mind kept drifting as his pen skittered across his mountain of paperwork. He kept thinking about that actor—the vibrance in his expressions, the way his voice carried so confidently. The theater didn’t make a lot of money—Io checked—so the actor was…wasting his talents, wasn’t he? The risk-benefits were lopsided…but he looked so happy up on that stage. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Someone knocked on Io’s door, and he realized with a start he’d been daydreaming, doodling stars and swirls at the edge of his papers. Io sat up straight, taking his elbows from off his desk (unprofessional!) and called out.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Io pushed aside the doodles in his margins.

—

He took a lunch break for the first time, too.

Io usually ate in his office, with his cost-efficient packed lunch. He often worked while he ate, or simply forgot to eat. It saved time, it boosted his productivity.

It wasn’t for today.

Io felt the eyes on him as he strode out of his office.

“Sir, is there something wrong?” A manager was waiting for en elevator when she saw Io’s approach. Her voice was concerned. Io realized what he must’ve looked like: the elusive, work-minded boss leaving his office in a hurry.

“No, nothing is wrong. I am just…going out for lunch, today.” Io stepped into the elevator, fighting to keep the flush from his face. He was acting out of character, he knew, but that wasn’t stopping him. “Thank you for your concern, Kurokawa.”

The manager looked surprised—whether her shock was towards Io’s strange behavior, or the fact that he remembered her name (he remembered all of their names, of course), Io couldn’t tell.

His pulse skipped in his chest as he walked to his car, his gait uneven as he rushed across the parking lot in his almost-too-tight dress shoes.

Io drove back down to the theater. He didn’t even know if it would still be open. He….he forgot to check. But there he was, standing in front of its humble double-doors.

When he entered this second time, Io saw the little theater in a new light. No longer was he focused on peeling paint, or off-color support beams. This time, Io took note of how clean the lobby was—no dust, no trash.

There was no one at the front desk. Io thought he should leave, but even as he was thinking about going, his feet were walking him in the opposite direction, through the doors to the main auditorium.

Io saw movement—but it didn’t belong to who he was looking for. Instead, there was an older man, the actor who played Claudius, holding a broom as he maneuvered through the seats.

“Hello, son.” Claudius looked up when he heard the door open. “What do you need?” His voice was kind. And at his question, a million and one answers swam through his head.

He needed to find Hamlet. He needed to show his appreciation for the play. He needed to unwind the tense tangles of his muscles from sitting at his desk all day. He needed to call his mother. He needed to splurge on shoes that fit him, and on a coffee machine that worked more than half the time. He needed a friend.

“I…I don’t know.” Was his spoken response.  

“That’s alright, son; I don’t think any of us know what we need.”

“I—I mean…” Io tried to compose himself, all of a sudden feeling very, very young. “I came to a play, yesterday. I…it was very good.” Io cleared his throat, his face burning. He could talk the Queen of England into selling him Buckingham Palace, but at this moment, all his carefully selected words evaporated into smoke. “Very moving.” Io finished lamely.

Claudius just smiled. He was so different from the character he played, genuinely open and trusting.

“We’re doing Hamlet again, next week,” Claudius said, the invitation clear in his voice.

“I…” The memory of a broad smile, and earnest brown eyes flitted in Io’s mind. “Okay.” Io nodded quickly, almost breathless.

He scurried out of the theater.

As he sat in the driver’s side of his parked car, Io gripped the wheel, hands shaking.

He…he was excited. He had something to look forward to.

Next week. Okay.

He was going to see Hamlet next week.

Io walked into the office smiling.

—

Io saw Hamlet, and then waited an agonizing month before he was able to attend their next show. It was another Shakespeare production, likely so they could reuse the props and costumes. This time it was A Midsummer’s Night Dream. This time, Hamlet played Puck, and though Io didn’t know the actor at all—he somehow felt the mischievous spark in the actor’s eye fit much more than Hamlet’s tragedy.  

Io saw all three performances of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, one after the other, each week. With each performance, Io caught something he hadn’t before, saw how the actors changed up their reactions. They breathed life into the play, and each incarnation was a different being. It took Io’s breath away to see.

Between the last performance of A Midsummer’s Night Dream and the preparation for the next play, Io scoured the internet for any scrap of information he could find about the theater. He found a few mediocre Yelp reviews, a blog post talking about a production from three years prior, and the theater’s official website.

Io began following the theater’s website almost religiously. The site, unlike the building itself, was sleek, and modern. Io wondered if one of the young actors designed it.

The site was scant for information. It gave a brief overview of the theater’s history, the premiere date of the next show, and a gallery of pictures. The quality of the photos varied—some were professional, while others were obviously taken with a cellphone from an audience seat. Io saw the actor—Hamlet, Puck—in some of the photos, dressed in costume, still shining with that passion, with that shine in his eye Io had come to admire.

The next show was Little Women. Io had searched up the brief synopsis out of curiosity when he saw it announced on the website. It was a play with a small cast. Io wondered who would be on stage when he went to see it.

Occasionally, Io would look at the funds set aside for play tickets and hear a scolding voice in his head admonish him for wasting his money. After all, the theater-loving client Io had gone to the original play for wasn’t interested in chat when they’d had the opportunity to meet. Io wasn’t going to the theater for…for any good reason, anymore.

But then, he’d remember the thump of his chest, the anticipation thrumming in his veins, and he’d push his guilty conscience down.

—

Io sat in his seat, with the spring digging into his back, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

He gasped when he saw the actor—Hamlet, Puck—taking on this new role. He played the outspoken, willful Jo. He worked the stage as beautifully as he always had, pulling Io in and making Io understand what his character was going through. As Jo, he glided across the stage in his layers of heavy skirts, with grace and power and a barely restrained sense of urgency, of desperation, indicative of Jo’s bold character. Io was completely immersed in the story, in the way Jo had sold the character.

As the cast took their bows, Io realized, once again, how talented this actor was. After all, he’d had Io convinced he was a teenage girl, despite so obviously being a man. Looking at him now, even as he stood in costume, Io could see the strong line of his jaw, the long curl of his fingers, the bony wrists peeking out from his long sleeves. His hair fell in shiny, fuchsia-pink layers down against the nape of his neck. His bangs softened his face, but he was still unmistakably masculine, even as his lips curled into a playful grin as his costar spun him around on stage, his skirts flaring up in a wave of fabric. The image of him up there, his hair a mess from his abandoned bonnet, skirts flying around him, an exhilarated look in his eyes.

In eyes that had, suddenly, met Io’s.

Io’s heart skipped a beat.

The actor held his gaze, inquisitive, playful, for a heartstopping moment—before he was pulled away by a cast member. Io watched him go, and only barely noticed how he looked back at Io as he was hidden away by the curtain.

Io checked his phone, and his tablet…halfheartedly, because his eyes kept glancing up towards the stage. Cast members were slowly filtering out, but not the one Io was…well, the actor Io was looking for.

Io stood, ready to make his way to the door. He straightened out his jacket, made sure he didn’t leave anything behind, and all-in-all wasted just a few more seconds before he turned to the door.

“Wait!”

Io stopped in his tracks. His chest filled with something warm, tentative.

He turned around, and…well, he couldn’t describe what it was like. There was the actor—Hamlet, Puck, Jo, except also, none of them, just himself—bounding towards Io.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. He held out a hand. “I’m Ryuu.”

Io took the hand on instinct, his voice struggling from where it was stuck in his throat.

“Naruko—Io Naruko.”

Io looked at him, and repeated the name, Ryuu, Ryuu, Ryuu, over and over, seeing how it fit to the face he’d come to know over the past few months.

It fit well.

“I noticed you coming to our shows, so, like, thanks for that! Really! It’s nice seeing someone who likes us—even when we totally flub lines and whatever.” Ryuu laughed, open and just a little self conscious.

“Y-yes!” Io replied, too quickly, “I’m not…I’m not a theater person, but…these shows are…” Io glanced at Ryuu, hesitating, distracted. He cleared his throat. “…They’re great.”

“You’re not a theater person?” Ryuu asked, his eyebrow quirking up. “I wouldn’t have guessed! I’m glad you like the shows, dude!”

Io felt the need to say something—anything—rise in his chest, but he couldn’t find the words. He fumbled for something, fiddling with his wristwatch.

Ryuu filled the gap for him. After a moment’s hesitation, he said:

“Do you want to, like, hang out or something?”

“What?” Io knew his bewilderment was clear on his face.

“I just thought you seem like an interesting guy, Io.” Ryuu shrugged.

“I have work tomorrow—” Io almost rejected him, out of habit. “But I’m free this weekend, if you want to, do…something.”

“Sweet!” Ryuu took out his phone. The case was hot pink, and the little charms hanging off of it rang like bells. “Do you want to exchange numbers, then?”

Io fumbled with his briefcase, pulling out his phone. His contact list was full of clients, work associates—but then Ryuu put his name in, with a “( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/ “ emoticon next to it.

“Cool!” Ryuu exchanged phones with Io. “I’ll text you, dude! I have to get home, now, but it was really nice meeting you, Io!”

And then, in a flurry, Ryuu was gone. Io held his phone to his chest, Ryuu’s voice echoing Io’s name, again and again.

—

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

hey dude!! check out this cool butterfly thing!!

Io blinked. For a second, he was confused—before he realized. He’d given his number to Ryuu, and now Ryuu was texting him screenshots from the website of a butterfly pavilion. Io glanced around his office, even though he was clearly alone, before texting back.

Io

I know of it.

He more than knew of it; his contributions practically built it. His name was front and center amongst the plaques of donators. He didn’t say any of that, though.

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

omg ur one of those people who texts all proper and stuff

LOL!!

ANYWAYS I was wonderinf if youd like to go

Despite his donations, Io never personally visited the pavilion. He quickly pulled up ticket prices on his computer, scanning the costs, weighing the risks—

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

its cool if u dont!!

I just always wanted to go and I thought

well!!

perfect time to try!!

Io looked down at his phone.

Io

When would you like to go?

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

Really?? dude!! I’m SO glad you want to go!!

I don’t really care when tho, just anytime after 10 is good :D

Io

I bought us tickets for 2PM

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

WOAH!! You didn’t have to do that for me!

but thanks :)

—

Io’s workday was suddenly…much more vibrant. Since giving his number to Ryuu, he found the other enjoyed sending inane, chatty texts about whatever crossed his mind. Io didn’t mind, of course—on the contrary, he couldn’t stop smiling at his phone, even if he was concerned Ryuu spent too much time glued to his. He didn’t hesitate telling Ryuu this, either, and he didn’t even mind when the response was a cheeky “:P”.

And somehow, texting Ryuu brightened not only Io’s mood, but the mood of his company, too. Io found himself venturing out of his office more often, smiling at his coworkers, stopping to chat a little more. He found himself seeking contact in a way he hadn’t realized he missed.

His work was still spectacular, of course. Io just…took some breaks from it every once in a while, stretched his legs, used the new coffeemaker in the break room.

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

do u want to meet me there or should I pick u up or are u picking me up or…?

Io

I can pick you up, if that’s no bother.

I’ll be getting off work soon, anyways.

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

chill

I’ll be getting out of rehearsal, so u can jus pick me up at the theater :p

Io walked out to his car. He caught his own reflection in the rear view mirror: his work suit, his tie, his uncomfortable shoes. He sighed.

Io

Do you mind if I stopped by my house to change? It won’t take me long.

Ryuu ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/

Tht’s totally fine!!

Io drove home, quickly, and threw open his closet. Good lord…he hadn’t dressed casually for an embarrassingly long time. Io always liked dressing nice, even in high school—where other students tried to break dress code, Io found comfort in the uniform.

He found an old pair of darkwash jeans in the back of his closet, thankfully, and paired them with a white button-up shirt and a light, casual brown cardigan, and some brown loafers. They were on sale, and much, much more comfortable than his work shoes.

Io went back to his car, somehow feeling both overdressed and underdressed.

He drove up to the theater, seeing Ryuu chatting with a pair of girls. Ryuu was dressed well, from what Io could tell, though Io didn’t need to know fashion to at least have an opinion (he liked it). Ryuu had a fitted, black v-neck shirt, dark maroon skinny jeans with rips in the knees, short black boots, and a black and white checkered shirt tied around his waist.

Ryuu saw his car driving up and waved, quickly saying goodbye to the girls he was talking to before jogging up to the passenger side of Io’s car.

Io didn’t remember the last time someone sat in that seat. Usually, it was occupied by Io’s briefcase, or his lunch.

“Hey, what’s up?” Ryuu slid into the car easily.

Io didn’t know how to respond.

“My stocks are up today,” Io blurted. He was expecting laughter, or boredom. What normal twenty-something talked about stocks?

“Stocks?” Ryuu asked, curious, “You know, I just realized I have no idea what your job is—though I figured it was something, like, official, with all your nice suits and stuff.”

“I, yes, you could say that.” Usually, Io would be ready to preen, show off his success. But for some reason, he felt…nervous, around Ryuu. Ryuu, who texted him about cute pens from dollar stores and gleefully performed plays at a run-down theater like it was his life calling.

“Me, though? I’m just a manager at Pizza Hut. It’s not the best job in the world, but it helps pay for classes and stuff.”

“You’re in school? What are you studying?”

“Not sure yet, honestly. I, uh, had to take a gap to save up, and I hadn’t even decided in that time, so, here I am, undeclared major.” Ryuu chuckled nervously. “I need to make a choice, though. Nana wouldn’t be happy if I spent all that time just to not graduate with something.” Ryuu laughed. He talked about his Nana, before, in their texts. “Just a few days ago she sat me down and told me she’d be happy if I had a degree in horse cosmetology—just as long as I had a degree!”

Io couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, and from the corner of his eye, Ryuu beamed at him as if he’d done something amazing.

—

When they arrived at the pavilion, Io realized, with stark clarity—he hardly knew anything about Ryuu, aside from little snippets, and yet, they still somehow eased together as if they’d been best friends for years. Io wondered if that was just Ryuu’s personality, if he meshed with everyone, like the social butterfly he was.

Io laughed quietly at his own pun. Ryuu, of course, noticed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Ah,” Io blushed, “It’s nothing. It’s silly…”

“Of course it’s silly! It made you laugh!” Ryuu stopped them next to a big bush of pink flowers. Butterflies fluttered around him, landing in his hair, only making Io giggle more. “Oh now you have to tell me—c’mon, Io!”

“Fine, fine…” Io braced himself. “I just thought, you’re like a social butterfly, and, you know, here we are, and here you are.” Io gestured to where the butterflies had settled in Ryuu’s hair.

Ryuu looked up, but of course, he couldn’t see on top of his own head. He smiled.

“You’re right; that is pretty silly.” Ryuu held a butterfly on his finger. He reached forward to place it on Io’s shoulder. “But I like silly! Say cheese!“

Before he knew it, Ryuu had taken out his phone and snapped a picture of him, unsuspecting.

“Now take one of me!” Ryuu pushed his phone into Io’s hands. The butterfly on Io’s shoulder flew away, but Io didn’t really notice.

It turned out, Ryuu loved taking pictures, lots and lots of pictures. It shouldn’t have been surprising, in hindsight. The pictures of Io Naruko tripled in that one day, not that he minded, not when Ryuu was so excited to show him the filter apps he had. Io wasn’t impressed by having dog ears, suddenly, but Ryuu found it hilarious, so Io let it slide.

Eventually they exited the pavilion, only after some workers coaxed the butterflies away from Ryuu with sugar water.

“I think they like my shampoo,” Ryuu said as they walked out. The pavilion was at the edge of a park, and Ryuu just…started walking. And Io walked with him. “That was really fun!”

“Yeah…it was.” Io couldn’t keep the smile from his voice.

He and Ryuu kept chatting, or, well, Ryuu mostly. Io added to the conversation much less, but still.

After a while, Ryuu saw something.

“Oh, dude! Ice-cream!” Ryuu started walking towards the ice-cream truck. “Let’s go get some!”

Io followed, a little more cautious. His eyes narrowed at the prices.

“These are…overpriced,” Io muttered.

“Yeah, well, you’re just getting one, right? It’s not that big of a deal.” Ryuu stood in line, Io hanging behind, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I mean—there’s…it’s useless, isn’t it? It’s expensive for no reason.”

“Dude, it isn’t useless.” Ryuu stopped looking at the menu, and instead looked Io in the eye, innocent, honest. “It’s not useless if it makes you happy, right?”

Happy. The statement was so…so simple. And all of a sudden, Io realized he hadn’t been taking his own happiness into account in his calculations. That’s why his condo had lamps he had to hit to make turn on, and sheets with holes in the corners, and that’s why his shoes didn’t fit quite right, and why he always declined invitations to his coworkers’ parties. Io hadn’t taken his own feelings into account in a long time. Not since he went back to the theater, since he kept going back to the theater even when seeing plays had no benefit to his work. Since he texted Ryuu in between lulls at work, and left his office to chat with Kurokawa and Takamatsu and whoever else he found loitering in the breakroom.

Io just stared at Ryuu. Oblivious Ryuu, who had no idea he just shattered Io’s entire world.

Io ordered a cookies and cream ice-cream bar.

—

“You want to go hang out at my place?” Ryuu asked. They both just finished their ice-cream.

“I—you can’t just invite me over, Ryuu! I don’t have a gift to bring!”

“Dude, you’re so old fashioned! It’s fine! Let’s just go hang out—I got a new game I’ve been itching to play.”

“….fine.”

Ryuu cheered.

—

Ryuu opened the door to his house and yelled:

“NANA! I’m home and I brought a friend!”

Io panicked.

“I didn’t bring a gift! Ryuu—please,” Io hissed. He wasn’t expecting to meet Ryuu’s beloved grandmother empty handed.   

“A friend? A new one, again?” An older woman shuffled down the hallway, and Io’s heart thudded in his chest, even as he stiffened and tried to smooth the distress from his face.

“G-good afternoon, Ms. Zaou.” Io said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. Io had met with people as influential as gods, but they weren’t the grandmothers of his…his friends. “I apologize for showing up out of the blue like this. If I had time to prepare I would’ve brought a gift.”

“Oh! A polite one, he is! Ryuu—you could learn a thing or two from him!” Ryuu’s Nana laughed. “Just call me Nana, sweetheart, no need for formalities around here. Now what should I call you?”

“Nana, please…” Ryuu whined, “This is Io.”

“Oh! Is this the Io you’ve been talking about, Ryuu?” Nana Zaou smiled, just a little smugly, if Io wasn’t seeing things. “He’s much more handsome than you’ve made him out to be, Ryuu!”

“Nana!”    

“I’m just teasing, dear. Now you two go along and have some fun, alright?”

“Okay, Nana!” Ryuu started pulling Io down the hall, his ears pink. Io had just barely toed off his shoes before he was being tugged along.

“Keep the door open, Ryuu! You know the rules!”

“NANA.” Ryuu sounded absolutely scandalized. And if that didn’t pull a laugh from Io…

Ryuu’s room was…well, exactly what Io was expecting, but that didn’t mean it…wasn’t more real, to be in there. Ryuu’s room was a little messy. His closet door was open, clothes strewn on the floor next to it—just like how Io’s looked at home, as if Ryuu had as much trouble with his outfit as Io had.

Ryuu turned on his TV and handed Io a game controller, which Io held in his hands with vague discomfort.

“What’s wrong? Has Mr. Stuffy never played a video game before?” Ryuu’s voice was teasing, joking, so he wasn’t expecting Io’s reply to be a shy shake of his head.

“You really haven’t?” Ryuu’s eyes widened. “Well, I think…the game I wanted to play might be a little advanced for you, grandpa. So I’ll start you off with something easy. Have you at least heard of Super Mario?”

Io’s head popped up. For some reason, he was expecting Ryuu to…he didn’t know…be weirded out or something, to kick him out. When he was young, Io never really had an interest in what his classmates were playing, and that lack of a….connection…always put a distance between Io and the other children.

Of course, he should’ve known Ryuu wouldn’t have been like that.

It was a grueling process, all things considered, to try and teach Io what video games were. But Ryuu smiled and nudged him forward and congratulated him when he finished a level, and Io felt warm and happy all over.

Soon, there was a knock at the (open) door, and Nana Zaou was standing in the doorway.

“I was thinking of ordering you boys some pizza,” she said, “Any requests?”

“Pizza?” Io blinked. “Um…just cheese is fine for me.”

“Meat lovers!” Ryuu cheered.

Nana Zaou told them she’d call them when the food arrived.

It was only after she walked out that Io noticed just how dark it had gotten outside. Ryuu whistled, apparently noticing this, too.

“Do you want to just crash here?” Ryuu asked, so, so casually, as if he wasn’t offering Io the first sleepover in his entire life.

“I…are you sure that’s okay?”

“Of course, dude!” Ryuu said, knocking Io’s shoulder with his own. “You’re like, the same size as me, so you can just borrow some pajamas. And we have extra toothbrushes. You know the big packs of plastic wrapped ones you get?”

“Where would I sleep?”

“Uh, I mean…my bed is pretty big,” Ryuu’s voice turned a little sheepish. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I was thinking we’d play games until we passed out, but if you’re not comfortable with that, you can take the guest room.”

Io kind of stared, trying to process the information. He wondered how this could feel normal, if this was what he was missing out on, growing up. Eating junk food? Staying up playing games until he couldn’t keep his eyes open? It was…it sounded fun.

“Well, if the first option is more authentic to the sleepover experience…I might as well.”

It was surreal, in all honesty. Io was a grown man, and yet, here he was, planning a sleepover like a child…with a friend he’d only properly known for a week. He remembered hearing Kurokawa talk about her children, how they could run up to other kids at the park and decide they were best friends within the minute. Maybe that’s what Io was doing, now, making friends, and making up for lost time. He didn’t mind it.

They ate their pizza when it came, and Io checked his stocks every once in a while, offhandedly telling Ryuu about his company and how the stock market worked. He could tell Ryuu didn’t get all of it, but he was still interested. Io…liked teaching Ryuu. It felt like he was sharing a part of himself, the thing he was good at, and Ryuu approved.

Eventually, the medium half-and-half pizza was devoured, and washed down with bubbly soda that left Ryuu burping between his sentences. And Io saved the Princess. Ryuu vowed to introduce him to more games, and asked him to pick between Kirby and Zelda. Both of the characters on the covers reminded Io of Ryuu, so he had a hard time picking. He eventually went with Kirby, though.

They played and talked until Nana Zaou told them she was going to bed and turned off their lights, and for hours after that. They played until Ryuu started to slouch onto Io’s shoulder. Io hadn’t…well, he hadn’t noticed how touchy Ryuu was—it just seemed so natural for Ryuu. Throughout the day, he grabbed at Io’s arm, his sleeve, touched his wrist, slung his arm over Io’s shoulder. Io wasn’t…he didn’t like people touching him.

He was quickly learning that Ryuu was an exception for a lot of things.

Io was the one to turn the game off and suggest they watch a movie.

Ryuu stood and stretched. His spine popped, and Io grimaced at the sound, much to Ryuu’s amusement. Ryuu tossed the TV remote to Io and told him to pick something from Netflix while Ryuu got them some pajamas.

Io browsed lazily. He wasn’t a movie person, so he wasn’t sure what would be…good. He ended up picking a title he’d seen recommended several times on Ryuu’s account.

Ryuu tossed some fabric at him.

“The bathroom is down the hall, but, uh, don’t take too long.” Ryuu looked away, “I kind of have to use it.”

Io laughed.

The pajamas Ryuu gave him didn’t match. Some sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt for a band Io had never heard of. The fabric was soft and well-worn. The pants were just a little too baggy around his hips, and he had to tug the string tighter. He looked in the mirror, and looking back, Io didn’t see a CEO, a busy executive, someone with more money than he knew what to do with.

Io just saw…someone young.

Io left the bathroom and found Ryuu tugging on a tanktop. Io blinked, his brain short circuiting with the sight of Ryuu’s bare shoulders, even for the split second he saw them.

“You picked a good one!” Ryuu said. “You can chill here; I’ll be right back.”

Io sat on the bed gingerly. Ryuu wasn’t long, thankfully, and they watched the movie.

Io couldn’t stop making comments, usually pointing out fallacies in the plot, and thankfully, Ryuu seemed to be the same way—pointing out costumes he liked, acting things he saw, trivia he knew.

Another movie was recommended to them, and Ryuu just clicked onto it without thinking.

“How can you just watch a movie without knowing anything about it?” Io asked.

“It’s just a movie. I might not have picked it if I was thinking about it.” Ryuu shrugged. “If it’s good, then it’s good. If it’s not, then we can make fun of it.”

They eventually were recommended a K-drama Ryuu had binged two summers before. Ryuu tried to sleepily explain the plot while they watched, dipping in and out of consciousness.

Again, Io was the one to turn off the TV. He told Ryuu it would save electricity.

“That’s fine.” Ryuu yawned. “We can just talk until we fall asleep, then.”

Ryuu moved to get under the blankets, tucking them up under his shoulders. He looked up at Io expectantly. Io, hesitated, before throwing caution to the wind and getting under the blankets, too. He and Ryuu faced each other.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Ryuu said, his voice suddenly quiet, as if hushed by the blankets.

“Um, sure…” Io replied.

“I wanted to talk to you since I saw you in the audience the first night,” Ryuu whispered, “I was too nervous, though, the first few times, ‘cause you looked so cool and professional.”

“Oh…” Io swallowed. “I…uh…I only came back because of you. Your acting was…well.” Io closed his eyes. “I was always devoted to my job. I only bought that first ticket because it was cheap; I didn’t even think I would like the show—but then I saw you on stage and I…” Io looked at Ryuu, trying to get across what he felt, that first night. “I felt something. I hadn’t felt something like that in a long time.”

“A long time? You’re so young, though…”

“I am, but it was a long time nonetheless. Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“I didn’t realize…I didn’t realize how much I was missing before I met you.” Io smiled, a little self-deprecating, a little sad. “I never did anything just because. I was always running risk-benefit calculations in my head, for everything I did. And then I met you, and I got ice-cream and played video games and saw plays and talked to my coworkers just because.”

“I…wow…Io,” Ryuu’s voice was breathless. “I don’t think my side is as impressive as yours, but…you make me want to be better. Like, I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you’re so put together and I want to be like that, instead of an aimless college kid. But you’re also really, like, sheltered, in a way, and I want to be better for that, too. I want to show you all those things you didn’t let yourself do, like video games and, you know…It seems crazy because we, like, just met, but…I don’t know…you just…feel right for me, I guess…”

“I know what you mean.”

Ryuu just smiled at him. And there was a sort of tension in the air, not bad, just there. Like there was something they hadn’t said, out of all the things they said.

But it felt like enough, for them, for now. And they didn’t know who fell asleep first…

…but they both woke up to Nana Zaou slamming two pans together to announce breakfast.

—

After the impromptu sleepover, Ryuu convinced Io to drive them back to his condo in his borrowed pajamas.

“You can just change at your place! That way you don’t have to wear the clothes you wore yesterday— and I can see your house!”

“Ah, there it is, your real motivation.”

Ryuu just stuck his tongue out at Io.

“Woah, dude, this place is nice, but it looks a little…lonely.” Ryuu looked around with a small frown. “You should get a plant. Oooh, and some new curtains. And couches to go with the curtains—”

“Maybe I should just get dressed first.”

Ryuu ended up talking Io into buying new curtains, and gleefully dragged him through the home goods store in the mall.

And then dragging him through the rest of the mall.

Ryuu, for all his flashy tastes, also understood Io’s frugality, and didn’t push him into buying the most expensive things. Though he did want Io to find something he liked, not just something that was the cheapest.

They also ended up getting Io new shoes, because even Ryuu noticed how uncomfortable Io’s work shoes were on him. Which was strange, because…

“I never saw you after the plays were over. How did you see me walking in my work shoes?”

“Uh…I may have…watched you a few times, from behind the curtains…”

“You’re saying you were shy?” Io tried to hold back his smile.

“I told you last night I was!”

“You always looked so confident on stage,” Io replied, “I didn’t think it was all that true.”

“Well, on stage is different,” Ryuu explained, “I’m playing a character, with all the parts planned out already. I know what’s gonna happen to that character, so I don’t have to stress. It’s different with people; much more improv.”

They ate chilli-fries from the food court, and Io refused to let Ryuu buy anything, even when Ryuu tried to be sneaky about paying.

Io dropped Ryuu off at home, and when he got back to his condo, he found a little toy cactus hidden in one of his bags. Io smiled.

—

Ryuu kept buying him things after that, too. Little knickknacks, wall art, throw pillows. They were always cheap enough that Io didn’t feel bad about accepting them, and just colorful enough to give Io’s neat, functional little condo a bit more life to it.

Their texting tripled, as did the pictures Ryuu sent, and the plans they made.

Io was going out more, and more often. And he saw Ryuu’s shows just as often.

He saw Ryuu in Xanadu and Les Miserables before his coworkers said anything about it.

“We’re glad you’re getting out more, sir,” Takamatsu said kindly. He was always worried about Io’s health, always suggesting for him to try the newest health food or vitamin pill. “Whoever she is, she makes you very happy.”

“She?” Io said, puzzled.

“Oh!” Takamatsu colored. “Apologies, sir—it’s just, ah, the rumor mill had been saying you had a new girlfriend is all. Now there’s nothing wrong if it’s really a new boyfriend —”

“It’s not like that! He’s just a friend,” Io cut off Takamatsu before someone else could overhear, but knowing the man, the word would be out before lunch.

“Well, whoever he is, we’d all love to meet him!”

—

The theater was given a generous, anonymous donation.

With the way Claudius—or, Mr. Nakai—smiled at him knowingly the next time Io came in for a show, sitting in his new, refurbished seat, Io was sure his donation wasn’t as anonymous as he expected.

Especially with the way Ryuu had come barreling into him after the second performance of Grease, his hair still slicked back in that incredibly charming style, at least in Io’s opinion.    

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a bigshot CEO!” Ryuu said, after sweeping Io up into a hug.

“I didn’t try to keep it a secret…”

“Yeah, but you let me, Pizza Hut manager, totally think you just had a normal desk job!” Ryuu’s voice was playfully frustrated, like he wasn’t really angry at all. “Your net worth is through the roof! And you were the third most eligible bachelor four years ago—how do I not remember that! I still have that same magazine!”

“To be fair, I forgot about the bachelor thing, too.”

—

Eventually, finally, Io brought Ryuu to a work party.

They were celebrating a successful merger of one of their sister companies, and the party was a casual, daytime, family friendly affair. They’d gotten into the habit after Io joined the company, fresh-faced, and quickly worked his way up. He’d been too young to drink, but he was well-liked for his good manners and work ethic, so they tried to keep him engaged. The habit stuck around because Io encouraged the “no hangover” part, and his coworkers appreciated being able to bring their children. Even if those children were, in some cases, old enough to be Io’s mother, and they were really looking out for the grandchildren.

Ryuu was a big hit, of course, the social butterfly he was, and hit it off with everyone.

“You two are good for each other,” Kurokawa mused, “I wish you two the best, we all do, really!”

“Yeah, I…I’m lucky to have met him.”

—

After that, Io was properly introduced to Ryuu’s acting buddies. Unlike the PG work party he brought Ryuu to, Io had tagged along to a casual after party to celebrate the end of a successful play.

With the renovations to the theater, they’d started pulling in more crowds. It also helped that Io had finally become comfortable enough to recommend the theater to his coworkers.

“You know, Ryuu used to be the biggest flirt,” Yukie said offhandedly. Ryuu was off getting them drinks, and Io felt Yukie had waited until Ryuu was gone to say this. “If he wasn’t at a cast party, he was out on a date. A different person every time—” Person? Something in Io thought the phrasing was important. “—but then you come along and, well…he seems more confident in himself. You’ve really helped him.” Yukie smiles at him.

“Not to mention, he never stops talking about you.” Yukie pitched her voice down to mimic Ryuu, “Io just took me out here. I told Io to get that new jacket; doesn’t it look nice on him ? Io really liked the show. Io Io Io.” Yukie dropped the voice. “You know, that night he finally got the guts to talk to you? He told us to stop you if you tried to leave before he was ready—he wanted to talk to you that badly.”

Io looked over at Ryuu, who held their drinks in his hands, even as he was distracted talking to his costar and her sister.

“But, yeah, he hasn’t been on any dates like he used to. Unless, you know…outings to butterfly pavilions, fro-yo, and amusement parks don’t count as dates…” Yukie’s voice went playfully sing-song, and it took only a second before her implications sunk in.

Io blushed, but quickly forgot his embarrassment the second Ryuu came back.

—

It had been the best year of Io’s life, truly. He wouldn’t change a single thing—but…

“Ryuu…” Io asked. Ryuu’s head was tucked against Io’s shoulder. They were lounging on the couch they picked out together a month prior. Ryuu hummed.

“Have we…been dating this whole time?” Io felt the way Ryuu stiffened up against his side. Io thought about…what he thought he was making up, all of those hesitations, the looks, the way Ryuu would grin shyly whenever Io would imply how he wanted to be with Ryuu for years—because in such a short time, Ryuu had become that important to him.

“That depends on if you want to be…” Ryuu mumbled, burying his face against Io’s side.

“What would it change if I said yes?”

Ryuu’s lips curled into a smile against Io’s arm.

“Well, we practically live together, at this point. Half of my clothes are over here. You take me on dates. My Nana loves you. Your mom loves me. And you’re thinking of naming the Pomeranian we want to get ‘Yen,’” Ryuu listed, “I think the only thing would change would be the amount of kisses I can get from you…and other things…if you’re okay with that.”

“Hey Ryuu?”

Ryuu untucked his head from against Io. “Yeah?”

“I’m more than okay with that.”

Ryuu’s smile was absolutely blinding.

“You want to start with the kissing thing, now? Because frankly I’ve been wanting to kiss you for so long, and if I have to wait another minute I’m gonna explode.”

Io cleared his throat, suddenly shy. Ryuu’s eyes were so bright, and Io couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away, but as Ryuu slowly began to lean closer, Io found his own eyes slipping shut.

The kiss was chaste, and sweet, and sent Io’s heart into a frenzy of butterflies. He felt Ryuu smile against his mouth, and he didn’t have to do a single calculation to know that every risk he took with Ryuu was absolutely perfect.

[zorovevo]

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Article Outline

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however, I understand that some investors like to use more leverage on their trades. For that reason, I'll explain to you what else you need to take into consideration if you trade bigger than what you're willing to lose. So where did our option investor go wrong?First, they were trading options that were expiring in a little bit over a week. By selling 20 call spreads right off the bat, they didn't give themselves a whole lot of margin for error. These short call spreads were still OTM, meaning the time decay and option volatility would really get sucked out of the option premium. if UVXY prices declined or even traded flat for a couple of days. By fully sizing up, you leave yourself no margin for error. In fact, if they still believed in the trade they would of have probably wanted to sell more call spreads at those strike prices or even further out for higher premiums. However, they were forced to get defensive because they were sized up incorrectly. (Note: The following Monday, UVXY traded at $31. 50. down 9%.

So, if PKT shoots up to 60. You can exercise the contract and buy 100 shares of it at 40. If you immediately sell the stock in the open market, you would realize a profit of 20 points or $2000. You did pay a premium of $500, so the total net gain in this options trading example would be $1500. So the bottom line is, you always want the market to rise when you are long or have purchased a call option. Trading Strategy vs.

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The same could be said for those who sell weekly options on Thursday or Friday. the options have the potential to move very quickly. if you're sized up too much. you'll be out of the trade with a loss before you even got a chance to see the idea play out. For longer term time frames you have to be more concerned about the volatility risk. A classic example is a biotech company that announces their drug results in a couple of weeks. In anticipation, traders start buying and selling options in the contract month the announcement will be made. Of course, option volatility rises due to the uncertainty of the outcome. Again, you almost have to treat these like binary trades as well. Even if you think you've got time on your options. anything could happen. For example, they could come out and say that will not have their results ready and change the announcement date to something else. Those who bought option premium will see the value of those options lose a lot of value because of the volatility crush. (For the record, I don't usually trade biotech's because of all these wild card factors)Putting it all TogetherRelative sizing is one of the toughest things to get right as an investor or trader. If you invest for a long enough time. you're bound to get it wrong on some positions.

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It was even an issue for me when I started trading. I would have a few stocks on my watchlist that I wanted to get into, but knew it wasn't the right time. And then when I'm not looking the stock takes off. On a few occasions, I have actually chased stocks that eventually turned against me. These types of situations hurt in 2 ways: 1) dents your ego and 2) dents your portfolio balance. If you have the same issues, don't fret. Luckily, it's been well documented that more often than not, solid annual portfolio performance is often caused by having a strong exit plan. 8. Document and Learn From Your Previous TradesEvery trade is a learning experience. Don't focus solely on losing trades, but also look at your winners. There is always something you can learn.

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Learning to trade puts or understanding them starts with market direction and what you have paid for the option.

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However, they were forced to get defensive because they were sized up incorrectly.

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Taking profits at 50% of the premium collected is a great level to exit. as outlined in my previous article. The max risk on this trade at expiration is $4,860. 00 (the value of the spread minus the premium collected multiplied by the number of contracts times the multiplier).

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if UVXY gapped up on the following Monday, it would probably get past the amount they were willing to lose.

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Let me walk you through a likely trade scenario an investor not familiar with relative sizing might make. For example, let's say on 7/31/14 an investor looking to take advantage of a short term move. sold call spreads in UVXY. UVXY is the PROSHARES Ultra VIX Short-Term Futures ETF. It attempts to replicate, net of expenses, twice the return of the S&P 500 VIX Short-Term Futures index for a single day. On 7/31/14, UVXY was trading at $31. 70. Let's assume on that day an option investor sold 20 $36/$39 call spreads (expiring 8/8/14). collecting a premium of $0. 57 or a total $1140 (minus fees and commissions). Their goal is to get out of the position when the premium of the spread reaches $0. 29. in which they would be buying back the spread for a profit of $560. Taking profits at 50% of the premium collected is a great level to exit. as outlined in my previous article. The max risk on this trade at expiration is $4,860. 00 (the value of the spread minus the premium collected multiplied by the number of contracts times the multiplier).

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Superman Reboot: Ta-Nehisi Coates Can Get Character Back to His Essence

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Ta-Nehisi Coates is writing the next Superman movie. That good news has come alongside an avalanche of rumor and speculation. THR, for one, reports that unnamed sources say “the project is being set up as a Black Superman story.” Meanwhile Shadow and Act, a website centered on studying African diaspora in the arts and media, confirmed Coates’ involvement while also noting this is a full-fledged reboot with the search for a new Kal-El having yet to begin. Social media predictably has already exploded with predicable reactions.

 However, debates about who should play Superman run the risk of obscuring the full potential of a scribe like Ta-Nehisi Coates tackling such a character on a global stage. As a writer famous for his opinion journalism, including his essays for The Atlantic and his National Book Award for Nonfiction for Between the World and Me (2015), Coates has irrefutably demonstrated a brilliant mind—the kind the Superman character has long yearned for on the big screen.

“To be invited into the DC Extended Universe by Warner Bros., DC Films, and Bad Robot is an honor,” Coates said in an exclusive statement to Shadow and Act. “I look forward to meaningfully adding to the legacy of America’s most iconic mythic hero.”

And adding meaningfully to Superman’s legacy is something that’s been sorely absent for the character, at least in the cinema, for more than 40 years. Not since Richard Donner and Tom Mankiewicz broke down what became the first two Christopher Reeve Superman movies has Kal-El’s on screen persona been successfully explored and built upon. Admittedly, this wasn’t due to a lack of trying.

The ill-fated effort to make a “Death of Superman” movie in the 1990s—including with an iteration of the character audiences would have never seen before—was so sordied it proved to be great fodder for a documentary film decades later, or at least a Kevin Smith spiel on college campuses.

In the two following decades, we saw as many Superman reboots. One was so suffocated by nostalgia for the Donner era that it failed to have anything significant to say about the character’s place or image in the 21st century—to the point where it was even bashful to acknowledge his role in American pop culture. The other more recent attempt, which starred Henry Cavill, tried to offer a more mythic interpretation of the character, even as it fundamentally misunderstood the Superman mythos it was adapting.

Regarding the Man of Steel approach, director Zack Snyder said, “I was trying to grow up [your] character,” but his film failed to depict a particularly mature understanding of Superman or storytelling in general. Rather the film accepted the fallacy that there is something inherently childish or simplistic about Superman’s idealism, and the best way to depict that was to go in the complete opposite direction without much in the way of nuance. Hence scenes of Superman snapping a villain’s neck with his bare hands. Ostensibly the choice was meant to be a teachable moment for Superman about the value of life. But it was so poorly set-up within its film that audiences never never knew from anything depicted on screen that this Superman was loath to kill, nor that he afterward felt some great epiphany or shame. Indeed, in Snyder’s next movie Superman returns on screen with a smirk before slaughtering someone else.

However, the consistent lack of foresight toward how to handle the character over the last three decades might be best represented by Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice—a movie where the character’s psychology and composure is indistinguishable with an equally bloodthirsty and misanthropic Batman. In the third act of that movie, WB executives got what they wanted for the last 20 years with a rushed account of the “Death of Superman” storyline, even if the execution of it rang as hollow and meaningless after two cynical films.

This is not meant to simply criticize previous approaches to the Superman character, but to highlight how much welcome potential there is in Coates’ stewardship of the cinematic Superman.

As one of the most beautiful literary voices to emerge to prominence in the last decade, Coates’ achievements in both nonfiction and fiction show a deep consideration of American culture, both for its history and its lore, from a perspective that has been largely marginalized and ignored. Yes, that includes Coates’ most famous writings about the eternal role of race in American life, which brought him to national prominence with the seminal essay “The Case for Reparations” in 2014. It’s also present in Between the World and Me, a bestselling meditation that Coates frames as a letter written to his son about the intractable realities that come with being Black in America.

What shouldn’t be overlooked though is Coates’ full-range of talents which are used to often explore the full context of the American experience. He’s already made a habit of examining the symbols of American ideals in contrast with the often disappointing realities of American life—as seen with Superman’s Marvel comic book counterpoint, Captain America.

As one of the stronger writers to take a stab at Steve Rogers on the page, Coates made it a mission to explore the dichotomy and wonder of a character as morally altruistic as Captain America. He didn’t shy away from “all that stuff” about the American way, but he examined it from a vantage far more observant than the cynicism that comes with blithely settling for just “growing up” an earnest character.

“Dubbed Captain America, Rogers becomes the personification of his country’s egalitarian ideals—an anatomical Horatio Alger who through sheer grit and the wonders of science rises to become a national hero,” Coates wrote in 2018 for The Atlantic, explaining why he was tackling a character far removed from his previous literary work.

He continued, “And Captain America, the embodiment of a kind of Lincolnesque optimism, poses a direct question for me: Why would anyone believe in The Dream? What is exciting here is not some didactic act of putting my words in Captain America’s head, but attempting to put Captain America’s words in my head. What is exciting is the possibility of exploration, of avoiding the repetition of a voice I’ve tired of.”

The prospect of such an introspective exploration of America’s other great comic book ideal, especially if he is seen through the prism of a Black American in the 21st century, is a fascinating one. And fascination is something the Superman character has lacked on the big screen for a long, long time. Bring on the change.

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from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2MzPimk

[letspretendfictionpressworks]

body language 6

We sleep a while, apparently. The late evening sun is long fallen, and the living room is limned in nothing but the pale streams of moonlight and a faint glow from the TV—still turned on, but the screen black—when something gently nudges me.

  I lazily blink my eyes open. My pillow isn’t as soft as I’m used to, yet it’s oddly comfortable. My neck is complaining at the awkward angle the rest of my body is resting at, though.

  “Hey.”

  I lift my head and peer around the dark. I realize then that it was not, in fact, a pillow that I was laying on. It was Trevor’s side. As things outside of sleep and dreams come to me, I start to become cognizant of the fact that one of my arms is crumpled under me, the other is wrapped loosely around some part of Trevor (his stomach?), and my legs are tangled in something—his legs, I think, but I don’t look to check. Instead, I’m looking at Trevor, who’s speaking to me, and trying to convince my brain to make sense of his words.

  “Maybe we should move to the bed,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

  The bed. We tried that, and we didn’t get very far. Trevor has never been with another man, does not know how to be with another man, and I’m too tired to try to take him through the steps—

  But my sleep-addled brain finally makes logic of that sentence. Trevor isn’t asking me to his bed for sex. Or, at least, I don’t think he is. But my thoughts can’t find each other yet, still lost in my dreams somewhere, and I can’t figure out how to work my tongue and mouth to form words to ask anything. Instead, I nod.

  “You have to get up first,” Trevor tells me, managing to sound amused.

  And, again, I don’t have the thought capacity to use my mouth and question or say anything, so I wordlessly sit up. Hide a yawn behind my hand. Trevor gets up and takes a few steps, and I’m momentarily confused where he’s going despite what he just said because my brain is still not working.

  He notices my hesitation and returns to my side, gently nudges me to my feet, leads me to his bedroom. My thoughts are locked on the hand wrapped around mine, the warmth of those fingers and his palm. I’m startled when he gives me a small shove that results in me sprawling across his bed. I feel like I’m sleep walking, everything fuzzy and out of focus. But I never had a sleep walking experience before, so maybe that’s not what it’s like.

  I open my mouth and try to remember how to speak, to say that I’m not sure I’m up for the task of leading Trevor through his first time with another guy, but the bed jerks again as he flops into it, very ungracefully. He rolls so he’s facing me and it’s his turn to hide a yawn.

  “This is more comfortable, right?” he asks, his eyes already drifting shut, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

  I’m too tired to feel the full brunt of embarrassment I normally would, too relieved that I’ve been invited to his bed to sleep with no further expectations. Perhaps as a result of that, I don’t think about it—I just move so that our bodies curve against each other, laying close enough to Trevor that it’s his body heat that keeps me warm as I return to the blissful oblivion of my dreams.

  ***

  Ice cold. Wet. Freezing cold. Everywhere. Drenched in it.

  I gasp as my eyes shoot open. I feel like I’m drowning in a frosted, winter lake. I wonder if I can break the sheet of ice that’s above me. I’m convinced that I’m not going to be able to breathe when I draw in breath. I think I’m going to suffocate.

  But I sit up sit. There’s air. I’m breathing it and I feel it against my skin, chilling me and causing goosebumps to slide up over my skin. I’m wet, but I’m not drowning. I’m not even underwater.

  I look around. The morning sun is slicing through the room, the bright rays almost painful to my eyes. Next to me, Trevor is sitting up, looking around. As equally confused as I am, apparently.

  That’s when I see the woman, her face set into a fierce and stony expression, her eyes ablaze with rage. There’s a pitcher in her hand. The lid is removed, and she’s holding it at an angle that allows me to see that it’s empty.

  Ah. I shiver, and understand now where the water came from.

  “Wha?” Trevor mumbles, still piecing things together, still bleary and sleep-mussed.

  “I,” the woman says, her voice firm and cold, “cannot believe this.”

  Her voice jolts something in Trevor, and it hits me that I should be worried about how this woman got into the apartment. Does she have a key? I somehow doubt she’s a burglar. It sounds self-detrimental to wake the occupants of a house you’re trying to burglarize.

  Trevor scrambles to his feet, an expression of disbelief on his face. He looks around for a shirt to cover his bare chest, and I wonder when that came off. The woman looks disgusted with him and throws a hand up in a dismissive gesture. I can’t even deal with you, it says. She turns to leave the bedroom with a disgusted scoff.

  Trevor hurries to follow her, trying to figure out which hole of his shirt is appropriately sized for which part of his anatomy. I can only assume, then, that she is not a would-be thief. Yet, somehow, this does not comfort me.

  “What are you doing here?” Trevor asks, a slight angle of something sharp in his voice. Not enough to cut, but enough to feel that the words aren’t entirely friendly.

  “What am I doing here?” the woman asks, a more hysterical note to her voice, something close to incredulity. “I’m sorry—should I have knocked before I came into my apartment?”

  Indeed, I am not comforted.

  “It’s not your apartment,” Trevor says. “It’s mine. You were just staying with me, remember?”

  “Yes, I think I remember that,” the woman retorts. “It was just you and me, not you and—who is that, exactly?”

  I can only assume she gestures somehow to the bedroom and I shrivel, feeling like the intruder in this situation. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I can just disappear.

  But I don’t disappear. Not even close.

  So I move the blankets, hoping maybe I can hide myself under them. It’s childish and won’t solve anything, but my brain is still waking up, my thoughts feel a little sluggish, and maybe I’m hoping I can drift back off to sleep and find this has all been an odd dream. Pleasant at parts, and a shade away from a nightmare at others.

  “Oh,” Trevor says, a bitter note resonating in that single word. “You take issue with finding me in my bed with someone else?”

  There’s a sharp gasp, and I can only assume it’s from the woman. It’s a noise of betrayal, and it cuts at me like a blade.

  I wonder if what Trevor and I did counts as true infidelity. Possibly. Probably.

  These blankets are terrible, and I cannot hide under them. They are wet and cling to me, and it’s suffocating and I cannot stay under them, cannot convince them to make me vanish.

  “I wanted to—I didn’t want—” the woman tries to say, but falters.

  I am not so naïve as to believe that most people don’t cheat on their partners. Of course I’m not.

  I used to allow people to rent my time and body in exchange for money. I never asked if the money that I received should have been spent on spouses or children. I never asked if someone was buying my time and body to escape a marriage.

  It wasn’t my business to pry. It wasn’t my place to ask.

  I know I played a hand in affairs and adultery before. I just never saw the offended party.

  As it turns out, it’s a terrible thing to see.

  After a moment of cutting silence, the woman speaks again.

  “I wanted to come back and talk to you,” she says, sounding pleading and bitter at the same time.

  “I thought we could fix things between us,” she says, her voice teetering away from its bitterness, more towards pleading.

  “I thought we could get past this,” she says, all the sharp edges disappearing, replaced with a sad kind of vulnerability.

  “I thought so, anyway,” she says, and she sounds on the verge of tears.

  “How,” she says, her voice hardening with anger, “could you do this to me?”

  I’m something worth reconsidering, I wanted to tell Trevor yesterday. I should have said it.

  I can’t hide under the blankets. I can’t hide at all. So I move until I’m as far away from the door as I can be; so I can’t glimpse anything in the small window of visibility I could have if I wanted; so I can’t see anything except what is in this room with me now. The blanket, heavy with water. The sheets, damp with moisture. The pillows, still indented from where our heads laid minutes before.

  I pull my legs up to my chest, my back resting against the headboard, and I close my eyes.

  “I didn’t do anything to you,” Trevor says, his voice too calm—the sort of false calm that comes from forced self-restraint. “I would have thought it was clear we were done when I found you and my best friend—in my bed.”

  There’s a silence, so absolute that it has a knife-like sharpness to it.

  I close my eyes and rest my forehead against my knees. Wrap my arms around myself.

  I just want to disappear.

  “I—” the woman tries to say, but she gets no further.

  “I don’t want to argue,” Trevor interrupts her. He sounds so very tired, so very suddenly. “And I don’t want to fight. Just leave your key and get out.”

  There’s another silence, thick with tension. I can only imagine the wordless conversation—is she using her eyes to argue or plead her case?

  But after several long moments, I hear a faint metallic clatter, and then a door opening and closing.

  She gave up her key, apparently. She left. She’s gone.

  I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.

  Trevor returns to the bedroom, looking thoroughly disheveled. His hand is running through his hair, making it even look more mussed than sleep did. I peer up at him cautiously, still feeling nervous.

  He sees me and freezes in the doorway. His hand falls out of his hair. It sticks up at odd angles.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and clears his throat. “I didn’t think…”

  He drifts off, and I scramble for an explanation of what just happened.

  Girlfriend, he said yesterday. His box of chocolates was for a girlfriend, right?

  “That was…?” I try to ask, but my mouth, my throat, my tongue aren’t working. I can’t finish the question. My thoughts are moving too fast to allow me any brain activity to power my words.

  “Ex-girlfriend,” Trevor says, offering me a tight, tense smile. “Newly so.”

  “Oh,” I manage to say, a soft exhalation.

  Trevor looks distracted, his own thoughts obliviously whirring, but for different reasons, over different things. I feel so very awkward and out of place, and I don’t belong here right now.

  I try to express this to him, and I clear my throat. But my mind and my mouth are so very detached from one another right now. Words don’t come when I try to force them, so I clear my throat again and again, hoping at some point I’ll lodge the words free.

  “I should go,” I finally manage, relaxing my stiff position to get to my feet.

  Trevor looks surprised but doesn’t argue, moving aside from where he was leaning against the bedroom doorframe so I can pass. It isn’t until I’m slipping on my shoes and jacket, at the front door, about to leave, that I notice he’s followed me.

  “Well,” Trevor says, a bit too loudly. He clears his throat, and I recognize it as the nervous gesture it is. It causes me to hesitate, to turn and face him.

  “Well,” Trevor says again, “we never finished that movie. So you wanna come back over to finish watching it?”

  I open and close and open my mouth.

  “Friday, maybe? I get off around five, so would seven work for you?”

  I close my mouth again. My tongue is as dry as sunbaked sand. But I manage to croak, “Yeah, seven works for me.”

  There’s a flash of—something—that’s gone before I can register it. Then Trevor smiles, that small upturn of the one side of his mouth. “I’ll be waiting here for you then.”

  “Okay,” I agree easily, yet again amazed at how his smiles offer me so much comfort.

  But I still don’t feel like I belong here right now.

  So I open the door to his apartment.

  And I leave.

[hsmp3]

it was my cousin's birthday!!! im sober now wow ok let's see: 1) i accidentally read a larry fanfic which led me to look them up on google -> i learnt about them having 'secret messages in their songs -> 1D! 2) OH ok so hmmm witw/eotd, fool's gold/wdbhg, alive/soml, irresistible and moments/same mistakes! 3) ohhh honestly i don't know yet, i mostly draw harry but i love practicing with zayn and thr ineffable husbands! 4) pasta and pesto. because i love it. and my cat loves it too. there's (1/2)

never a wrong time to have pasta and pesto. ofc in my country we have our own version of it so idk if we've had the same one (what's more we don't call it like that) 4) being happy. like. truly happy. 5) the night i saw the 1975 live because BARRICADE and MY FAVE SONGS 6) i get to sleep more with my cat 7) oh yes kdksdjskd mostly books i know i enjoy so they never disappoint me. i honestly don't like surprises (they don't bother me tho) so i usually go back to my favorite books over & over again

aww i hope you had fun !!!! ♥️♥️

ok love that for you,,,, if u remember the fic i would like to read it 👀👀!! all good song choices, i remember moments being my fave for sooo long bc i was a huge niall and louis stan so when i heard their solos i was shook but then tell me a lie grew on me sdhbfakd :’)) i’m curious to know if your fave member has stayed the same since you started liking one direction or if it’s changed over time. and ahhh i love that, is one harder to draw than the other? YOU AND YOUR CAT HAVE A LOVE FOR THE SAME FOOD THAT’S SO CUTE TELL ARTEMIS HI AND I HOPE THEY GEt some pasta soon :’)) !! barricade for the 1975 that is.... so iconic. what was the best song of the night? i get that, i love rereading books !! i try to read new ones but there’s something so comforting about rereading books and getting the feeling of falling in love w characters and the plot all over again. do you like to make notes in the margins and highlight lines that stick out to you?

[flauntpage]

How Bout Them Cowboys? – Ten Takeaways from What Everybody Else Did in Week One

I think I enjoyed week one more than usual this NFL season since the Eagles got their W out of the way early.

It’s kind of like March Madness, when your school plays that 12:15 p.m. Thursday game and you go out and take care of business. That leaves you with the entirety of Thursday night and Friday to just watch and enjoy the rest of the games without worrying if your team is gonna blow a 5/12 matchup with Stephen F. Austin or some other Southland Conference powerhouse.

Sunday really was about taking stock of the rest of the competition, and there was some good and some bad for the Birds.

1) The Bucs.. are for real?

I did not see Ryan Fitzpatrick walking into the Superdome and putting up five touchdowns, four of which he tossed and another that he ran into the end zone.

I also did not see DeSean Jackson going for 146 on five receptions and I didn’t see the Bucs returning a fumble for a touchdown.

They looked good, really good on the offensive side of the ball. Peyton Barber appears to be serviceable as a runner. DeSean turned back the clock and Mike Evans looked like Mike Evans. Chris Godwin, the 2nd year Penn State receiver, also found the end zone.

What did not look great was the defense, which gave up 40 points and 475 yards despite finishing with a +2 turnover margin and winning the time of possession battle 32 to 28 minutes. It was a 48-24 game with 12 minutes remaining in the 4th quarter that ultimately finished 48-40.

I think the Eagles can move the ball against that defense much easier than what we saw against the Falcons, and I also don’t think Ryan Fitzpatrick is doing what he did this week against Jim Schwartz’s unit.

Plus, the Saints have had some pretty poor starts these past few seasons. They were 0-2 to begin last year and went to the playoffs, so I’m not surprised to see them come out of gates looking sloppy. I give a lot of credit to Tampa Bay but wouldn’t be biting my nails off if I’m an Eagles fan thinking about week two.

2) How ’bout them Cowboys?

How ’bout ’em?

They looked like poop.

As predicted, they have next to nothing at the receiver position.

This is how they finished up in their 16-8 loss at Carolina:

Swaim and Jarwin are the tight ends, and I’m not sure either is good enough to be an NFL starter. There’s little to work with on the outside and no real deep threat, nobody to stretch the field or go up and grab a contested ball. Beasley is a nice possession receiver in the slot, but he can’t be your main guy in the receiving corps.

So it’s not about Dak Prescott, not for me. I don’t know who he’s supposed to throw the ball to. Carolina has a good run defense but features a bottom-half NFL secondary, so Jerry Jones’ guys should have been able to throw for more than 170 yards in this game. They couldn’t, which allowed the Panthers to focus on stopping Zeke Elliott, who ran for 69 yards on 15 carries and found the end zone in the 4th quarter.

New kicker Brett Maher also missed a field goal, so it looks like the decision to move on from Dan Bailey was dumb.

Here is a “real fact” for you from Dez Bryant, who trolled the Cowboys on Twitter after the loss:

Real fact https://t.co/VEydUUZ6bO

— Dez Bryant (@DezBryant) September 9, 2018

3) New York football Giants

Saquon looks good, but nabbed 68 of his 106 yards on a single run.

Take away that big 4th quarter touchdown and he ran it 17 times for 38 yards, which I’d say is a result of the Jags’ superior defensive line going up against the Giants’ not great offensive line. That run really looked like something from his Penn State days, where he didn’t get great blocks but pulled off a couple of Barry Sanders-esque moves and made something out of nothing.

New York had a chance to win this game but just came up short on too many drives. They couldn’t get the ball in the end zone until the Barkley run and settled for 4 field goals instead. Eli Manning went 23/37 with a customary late-game interception. The Jacksonville D sacked him twice and put up eight tackles for loss while also stopping a two-point conversion.

The defense looked decent enough on a rainy and crappy day against a Blake Bortles-led offense that lost Leonard Fournette to a hamstring injury. Odell Beckham Jr. looked like his old self as he reeled in 11 catches for 111 yards and got a pair of interference penalties to go his way.

Some positives for the Giants despite losing at home to a better team. I just don’t know if Saquon is going to be wasted running behind that line and I don’t know how much Eli has left in the tank. The Eagles’ defensive line should feast against that offensive unit, unless Eli comes out dinking and dunking like he did last year.

Same old Eli, same old Ereck Flowers, same old #giants … and #same old #jags’ lockup defense pic.twitter.com/BJ2FMjq1by

— Jordan Schultz (@Schultz_Report) September 9, 2018

4) Warshington

Adrian Peterson?

Yes, Adrian Peterson.

26 carries for 96 yards and a touchdown. And Chris Thompson looked healthy while putting up 128 all purpose yards and a receiving touchdown.

The Redskins looked more like the 2001 Rams en route to a 429 yard outburst in Arizona. They logged 30 first downs and really put the game away early. The Cardinals were hardly even in it.

Alex Smith looked great. In the first half alone he went 17 for 20 for 171 yards and two touchdowns. He’s just so efficient when he’s on his game, and yeah he’s checking down and throwing swing passes, but when you have skill guys around you who know how to play, then that’s all you really need to do in week one.

Here’s his passing chart from week one, where you can see he completed 5 of his 21 attempts at or behind the LOS and only tried two passes beyond 10 yards:

Peterson, Thompson, and tight end Jordan Reed caught 12 of Smith’s 21 competions. Jamison Crowder grabbed three balls and Paul Richardson four. I don’t know how much of a vertical threat this offense is, but we’ll find out well before the Eagles and Redskins meet for the first time in week 13.

5) You like that?

Good debut for Kirk Cousins in Minnesota, who went 20-36 for 244 yards and two touchdowns.

Hard to throw a pass better than this one:

Kirk Cousins with his first TD as a member of the Minnesota Vikings pic.twitter.com/BYrfXJMSsr

— No Huddle NFL (@NoHuddle_NFL) September 9, 2018

Smooth.

Cousins didn’t turn the ball over while Jimmy Garoppolo threw three interceptions in the Niners’ 24-16 loss, which did not feel like a one-score game to me. The Vikings defense forced four turnovers on the afternoon.

Cousins is poised and he isn’t gonna get rattled. But we know he’s not a world beater, and I don’t know if that offense has the horses to keep up with a full strength Philly if Carson Wentz is ready to go by week five when the Vikings come to town. Even if Wentz is still out by then, you’re looking at a more comfortable Nick Foles with Alshon Jeffery back in the fold and a hungry Eagles defense playing Minnesota at home again, so while it’s going to be a challenge, I think we all know who the better team is.

6) Frank Reich’s team

The Colts come here in week three without much of a running game and look reliant on Andrew Luck to carry the load.

He ended up throwing the ball 53 times while the combo of Jordan Wilkins and Nyheim Hines could only run it for 59 yards on 19 carries. Marlon Mack should be healthy by the time the Eagles and Colts square off.

Indy had a 4th quarter lead and shipped 17 points to the Bengals, with a late drive turned upside down by an 83 yard fumble return as the Colts were moving into the red zone. They were up 23-10 and couldn’t close it out.

7) Delay of game

The Titans/Dolphins matchup was the longest game since the 1970 NFL/AFL merger.

From ESPN:

Delays for lightning lasted a total of 3 hours, 59 minutes, and the game took 7 hours, 10 minutes to play. The previous longest game since 1970 was a Bears overtime victory against the Ravens in 2013 that took 5 hours, 16 minutes.

Of note to Eagles fans, who will watch the Birds play in Nashville in week four:

Marcus Mariota threw two picks and came out of the game with an elbow injury

tight end Delanie Walker and tackle Taylor Lewan also both went out injured

Dion Lewis got the bulk of the carries, 16 compared to 10 for Derrick Henry

Here’s the Mariota injury:

Mariota injured on this DIRTY play by Williams Hayes. He had the ball out for more than a second and Hayes didn’t hold up pic.twitter.com/DetOOREOTz

— Abdul Memon (@abdulamemon) September 9, 2018

Miserable start for Mike Vrabel.

8) Pat Mahomes

Gotta be honest:

I thought Mahomes was going to be another Big 12 system quarterback that turned into an NFL flop.

He just never really impressed me at Texas Tech and I was highly skeptical of the Andy Reid match, but he looked phenomenal yesterday, throwing for 256 and four touchdowns on only 15 completed passes. Obviously having Tyreek Hill as a YAC monster is going to make any quarterback look good, but he made some wonderful throws yesterday, like this one:

Dime after Dime from Patrick Mahomes!

(via @NFL)pic.twitter.com/uZ8Kai5AMs

— Pro Football Focus (@PFF) September 9, 2018

9) The Browns

Undefeated this season. They turned a +5 turnover margin into a 21-21 tie.

Shame on the Steelers for playing Cleveland to a draw. Only pansy ass soccer teams play to a draw.

10) The Nathan Peterman era

I’m sorry, Bills nation.

I don’t know what to say. If there’s any silver lining, at least the Nathan Peterman era is over and you can get on with Josh Allen instead of having to suffer through two or three more losses before the inevitable takes place.

Other notes:

Brady and Gronk looked good. The 27-20 scoreline doesn’t tell the story of that Patriots/Texans game

Green Bay? Shrug. I don’t know what else there is to say about Aaron Rodgers.

We all should have put James Conner on our fantasy teams.

Denver did a nice job against Russell Wilson. I don’t think Seattle is going to be much of a threat in the NFC.

That’s about it, happy Monday

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