#do you know about MACHOs and WIMPs

[oliviax727]

Physics Friday #4: WTF is Dark Energy/Dark Matter? (Part 2)

Important Note: 50 people is a lot! (well after I blocked all the bots it was under that). And I never expected it to grow so quickly. But also I've noticed that a lot of people move in and out of following this blog. And I think one reason is because some people just want to see the physics/maths/astronomy instead of that plus random shitposts.

So what I'm going to do, is for all future posts like this, put this in a second blog to separate it from this one. And every time I post to that one I'll re-blog it here so that there's space for those who just like to see science-y stuff.

The second blog is @oliviabutsmart.

Preamble

Education level: High School (Y9/10)

Topic: Cosmology, Particle Physics (Astronomy)

This is the second part of three to the Dark Energy vs. Dark Matter post. In this part, I'm going to cover the possible ideas behind what dark matter is.

From the last part, what you need to know is that:

Dark matter and dark energy are completely different things, they're both dark because we can't see it

When we look at galaxies and orbits, what we expect is that most of the mass is concentrated in the centre (galactic bulge)

What we actually end up seeing is that there's a lot more stuff in the outer reaches of the galaxy, and we can't see any of it

This hidden matter, called 'dark matter' is what we have to use to correct our equations

Introduction: The chad MACHO vs. the virgin WIMP

Now unlike what this tile says, I don't actually think that MACHOs are better, it's just a play on- .... you know what I mean.

So, given what we know, we need to find a source for this hidden matter. The best place to start is to take a look at what we do know about dark matter:

It doesn't interact with the electromagnetic force (or if it does, it's very rare) - this allows it to appear as 'invisible'

It does have mass - as it affects the motion of stuff in galaxies

It needs to be plentiful outside of galaxies

It generally doesn't interact with other forms of matter

So now we have three different candidate groups for dark matter:

Weakly-interacting particles, including WIMPs (weakly interacting massive particles)

Really big objects that happen to not radiate a lot (also known as MACHOs)

Modified theories of gravity on the large scale

We also need to worry about the way in which this matter is produced. Which is where the cold-warm-hot metric is introduced. It has less to do with temperature and more with speed, particularly in the early universe (see free streaming length for more details - I'm oversimplifying).

What's important is what this "free streaming length" does. Larger lengths corresponds to the formation of larger structures first, then smaller internal structures later.

A cold dark matter model corresponds to dark matter with a small speed in the early universe. In the current day, we think that this is the best model - as it allows for the formation of galaxies first, then clusters of galaxies later - something that we have observed.

Hot dark matter is on the higher end of the speed spectrum and is more equivalent to the formation of big super-galactic sponges before the individual galaxies appear.

The Jocks of the Galaxies: MACHOs

A MACHO is also known as a MAssive Compact Halo Object

Massive - it's heavy Compact - "self-contained" in a way, it doesn't interfere with stars and it doesn't radiate much Halo - it exists in the galaxy's "Halo", a region surrounding the galaxy

Small or Primordial Black Holes

The immediate thought, right of the bat, is to think of a black hole. I mean, it's heavy, and it sucks up literally everything. You may object because of hawking radiation but it's very difficult to see that. So what we get is effectively no radiation.

The problem comes with the fact that it's heavy. Where are you going to get all of this stuff into one place? And won't you be able to detect the effects of these objects on star systems?

The early universe was small, really small, and there was a lot of stuff all compacted into this area. Is it not possible that portions of space end up "pinched" and turn into black holes? Well, maybe!

These black holes from the early universe continue on into the modern day to form the dark, unseeable 'mass' on galaxies.

The problems come with hawking radiation (and not because of the aforementioned radiating) ... black holes naturally emit radiation. A topic I may cover in more detail in a future post. But for now, because of this radiation, black holes actually shrink in size over time and eventually disappear.

This puts a lower bound on how small a primordial black hole can be. As any smaller black holes would've popped out of existence by now.

We could also opt for using smaller black holes that formed more recently, but that also comes with the initial issue of how do we make them?

Red Dwarfs, Brown Dwarfs, Black Dwarfs, or Rouge Planets

Often stars don't go out with a bang. In fact, it's more likely that they simply fizzle out. Black dwarfs are what results from this. And because of it they're just dark solid spheres of material.

Some stars are just small and dim. Red dwarfs are incredibly, INCREDIBLY common in our galaxy. It might be possible that we don't see them because they are so dim.

Some stars don't even form, they just don't ignite. These failed stars turn into brown dwarfs. They are unusually large gas giants with a faint glow.

Some planets get knocked out of their system - for any reason. These planets, without light, wander the galaxy alone.

These four objects, are large, dark, and too small to really interact with anything. And it might be the case that these rouge objects are more common than we think! Enough to account for the missing mass.

The issue is just how we are able to find them so far out of the reaches of the galaxy. Hypothetically, we could say that because of the lack of abundant gas in the outer reaches we end up with failed or dim stars.

Dark Stars

This is both the most interesting candidate for dark matter, and also the least documented. Primarily because we're talking about objects made of shit we haven't even seen.

Dark stars come in two varieties, ones made of dark energy, ones made of dark matter.

Dark energy stars are effectively legacy candidates of black holes, that the dark energy in the universe 'pinches' like in our primordial black hole scenario.

Dark matter stars require us having some sort of particle concentrated in a star-like object. It is of course, a strange idea, and it additionally requires the existence of small particles contributing to dark matter.

There's actually a good PBS Space Time video on this. And I recommend you watch it as I do not have the chops to understand this stuff: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUhOL38346Y

The Little Nerds: WIMPs, WISPs, and other particles

The easiest (and most likely) answer is that we're looking for some sort of small particle somewhere in the universe in big concentration.

The core idea is of the WIMP, a very large particle (large being relative i.e. as heavy as maybe an atom), which doesn't interact much.

We want larger particles because, well, then we can have less than them. It's easier to explain that then having particles that are incredibly numerous.

But there's also another type of candidate: WISPs. The S stands for slender. Maybe we don't actually require massive particles, maybe we can have a particle that doesn't interact with stuff. That in order to interact with it you have to be really close to it and so you just don't end up interacting with it.

Neutrinos

Neutrinos are the most obvious candidate. Because we already know they exist. And we know where they are produced.

Every time you undergo nuclear fusion, you actually produce neutrinos as a bi-product. When you have collapsing and exploding stars, this neutrino radiation becomes so numerous it could fry you.

The benefit of neutrinos is that they only interact via the weak force, which only operates when you're really close to the neutrino. This makes neutrinos a type of WISP.

So why do we not declare that this is dark matter? The issue is that neutrinos are hot dark matter. So if they made up dark matter it wouldn't fit with what we see when we look outside.

We could go for a new, yet similar particle, the sterile neutrino. However we end up falling into the same pattern of needing to find an undiscovered particle.

The Axion

Axions are a hypothetical WISP particle that interacts using either the strong force or the electromagnetic force. They are our best traditional candidate for dark matter. A particle that does exactly what we want it to do.

It's sort of like the "string theory" of dark matter candidates, the cleanest looking idea which we still don't have good evidence for.

Strangelets

Strangelets are particles containing the strange quark. They are candidates for dark matter because they fall more into the WIMP class than anything else.

The scary consequence of these particles is that they become more stable with more particles, so they could effectively turn other matter into strange quarks until an entire planet or star is consumed by them.

Fuzzy Dark Matter

Sometimes when you need a big particle, you actually should look for a small one. Fuzzy dark matter basically hypothesises that there are particles that are incredibly light, allowing them to form wavy fields of stuff that contributes to the mass of galaxies.

Quantum Weirdness and SUSY

SUSY, or supersymmetry, is a foundational component of string theory that states that force is directly translatable to mass. That for every fermion particle type, there exists an equivalent particle that acts as a boson. And every boson, there is an equivalent fermion.

You don't need to worry about the difference between bosons and fermions outside of that they are force carrying, and normal particles respectively.

SUSY, and other weird quantum effects are additionally proposed candidates to dark matter, as they can generate new and weird particles or forces that might contribute to the missing mass. But also, they have had a bad reputation in more recent years for returning negative results.

What if Gravity is Just Wrong?

So this is our last category. Forget the large black holes and the tiny new particles, maybe gravity is just wrong! That we got general relativity right on the scales of planets and stars, but not at all when it comes to larger masses like galaxies and clusters.

Modified Newtonian Gravity

Modified newtonian gravity, or MOND, is the idea that, when acceleration is low enough, the motion of particles stop following the rules dictated by newton's laws. Specifically becoming F=ma^2 instead of F=ma.

This, however, implies that ALL of newtonian mechanics becomes affected by this change, so it's often proposed that this modified newton's law affects only gravity compared to other forces like electromagnetism.

We can also develop this idea into our more fundamental understanding of gravity, General Relativity. Using what's known as Tensor-Vector-Scalar gravity.

The problem is that this is a pretty big change to make. Disproving gravity - it sounds less like a sound theory and more like a conspiracy theory. But of course, that's how we would've treated previous theories of gravity when they first came out.

Another problem is that the current proposed MOND theory still requires the existence of some form of dark matter MACHO or particle.

Entropic Gravity

Entropic gravity is another interesting theory, especially because it also acts as a theory of quantum gravity (i.e. solving the biggest problem in all of physics).

Basically, gravity actually doesn't exist, but is instead a cumulative effect of quantum disorder. Emerging in the same way that temperature emerges from the second law of thermodynamics.

This helps us solve the dark matter problem by demonstrating that gravity changes as we scale things up. Similar to how temperature looks different if we were, say, looking at whizzing atoms in a box compared to a warm block of metal. And MOND theories end up emerging if we extend the scales beyond that of stars and planets.

Yet, the problem still remains, that this requires us disprove the existence of gravity. It would take quite a lot to try and do that. Including accounting for how we get from the probabilistic world of the quantum to the tangible normal world.

Conclusion: So ... Which one is right?

Short Answer: None

We don't really have enough experimental evidence to prove any of these to be the true source of dark matter, or even a combination of different sources. There is experimental data of course, we've been looking for ages. But a lot these experiments either don't give conclusive results or just limit the possible ranges of their properties.

The search for dark matter is ongoing, and is still certainly under the works. It's one of the biggest unsolved mysteries in physics, and just like other theories, the ideas we come up with just end up getting disproven or are too hard to prove to begin with.

This post was a whopper! It took a lot more research and reading to wrap my head around all of the different concepts, as it is just beyond my area of knowledge. But hopefully, I at least explained it well enough for y'all to understand.

As always, feedback is much appreciated. I know I didn't cover things in too much detail, but what can you do when there's so many proposals. I more wanted to talk about the general base ideas of each one instead of getting into the nitty-gritty for a few.

Next week I'll focus on something related to computer science, and finally the week after that, cap things off with a discussion on what Dark Matter is!

[sacredasexual]

Meeting (Little)Inosuke! Age Regressor Inosuke; Caregiver Reader

~~~

Y/N had observed Inosuke from afar. Why was he acting so off today? Usually he was so amped up on energy and so loud. But today he's the opposite. He's more... sensitive? That's really the only reason Y/N can tell something was up. Because usually, he wouldn't even want to be caught dead acting so soft and sensitive. Inosuke's head was down, his face hidden behind his long black and blue gradient hair, his eyes closed and body trembling. This was one of the rare moments his boar mask was off and resting beside him instead. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be comforted. No. He wanted more than that-- He needed it. He was so lost in his own head that he hadn't realized Y/N was staring right at him. In fact, he didn't even know anybody was there... Until, well, Y/N spoke.

Y/N slowly approached him, they couldn't help but be worried about the feral boy. "Inosuke?" They had called out to him.

The moment he heard his name be called, Inosukes muscles tensed up and he started to shake and tremble. He knew that he was about to go into his Littlespace, yet was fighting against it with all he had. Finally, however, he did open his eyes.

...

"Wh-what…!?"

He muttered, trying to maintain his usual rough and intimidating voice. His face looked even more pitiful than usual. The whites of his eyes glowed brightly and his eyebrows furrowed deeply. A few tears that he was failing to hide were forming.

Upon noticing his tears, Y/N  immediately realized that something was wrong "Okay...something is definitely wrong. What's up with you today, Inosuke?" Y/N asked him, a sense of worry beginning to fill their heart. 

Inosuke was caught by surprise as he looked up at Y/N. He didn't want anyone, especially them, seeing him like this. He was embarrassed! But he kept it all bottled inside, as per usual. His voice quivered ever so slightly when he spoke out loud. He didn't want to look like such a wimp in front of them.

"N-Nothin! Jus’- Jus' a bad day!" Inosuke replied with a strained voice, trying and failing to seem like nothing was wrong.

"...Uh-huh, and what made today so bad?" Y/N replied. They already knew something was up as previously stated, so like hell they were just gonna leave him alone.

Inosuke took a deep breath as he glanced away from Y/N, his littleside was getting harder and harder to suppress with each second that would pass. After some hesitation, he finally spoke about what was really wrong. His voice was quieter and much softer than usual; almost sounding like a child rather than a teenager. 

"I…I had a bad dream…" At that point, a tear rolled down his left eye as he couldn't get the words out.

Stunned, Y/N spoke. "A-A bad dream? What about?" They couldn't deny they were confused seeing someone as stoic, macho and tough like Inosuke start to cry over a nightmare. Inosuke didn't want to answer the question. He was scared that it would make him look pathetic since this particular nightmare was…childish to say the least. After a few moments, he finally decided to just come out and tell the truth. And trust me, it was hard for him to admit.

"A-A bully was being mean to me in my dream..." A few more tears escaped from his eyes and his body trembled. 

"...?" Y/N blinked a couple times.

Inosuke was crying over something like that? Of course Y/N was in no way about to judge him or make fun of him. But they did have to say that they were very shocked. The urge to regress was coming up on Inosuke, it was getting so hard for him to stay big when he wanted to be little so much, and was suppressing the urge since the day began. Inosuke finally decided to just let it all out; all the tension, anxiety and frustration. He didn't care what Y/N thought of him anymore, and honestly, this might be embarrassing to do in front of them, but he needed to get this out before he went into a breakdown. He looked away from Y/N again as he covered his face with his hands.

"I-I...." Tears filled his eyes as he finally admitted.

". . . I Don't wanna be big anymore...."

The sight of him starting to cry this much had Y/N frozen for a couple seconds. "Big? As in like..You want to be little?" They replied. 

They were beginning to understand exactly what was happening. Inosuke nodded slightly; still unable to look Y/N in the eye. Tears still stream down his face despite his attempts to stop them.

"Yeah. I.. I'm sowwy..." He uttered. 

That last sentence came out sounding much younger than he intended it to. After a few seconds, Y/N had come to the conclusion that Inosuke was regressing 

"Inosuke, are you...an age Regressor?" They uttered in response.

Inosuke nodded slightly once again, although he was unfamiliar with the term…its name was rather self-explanatory. He had kept face hidden behind his messy bangs still as a few more tears escaped him.

"Uh-huh..."

He couldn't believe that he was admitting this to Y/N of all people. He didn't want them to think of him as a freak or weird…He just wanted to be treated in a loving and caring way whenever he was in his regressed state. At least, that's what he always dreamed of.

After a couple seconds, Y/N replied.

"I see...does anyone else know about this? Or just you and now me?"

Inosuke shook his head slightly at their question, he thought that Y/N wouldn't like him admitting this to others. He was only okay with her knowing for a reason. 

"Nuh-uhhhh.... Jus' you an' me... my other friends would judge. I don't want people to think I'm weird... I jus' wanna be in a space where I can be treated like I'm actually special..." The last sentence escaped his mouth in a soft and hushed tone. Hearing that last sentence immediately made Y/N feel sympathy for Inosuke. 

"... Y'know, Age Regression is a perfectly normal thing. It's a healthy coping mechanism, nothing to be ashamed about. It's just another part of who you are. And what makes you, well...you." Y/N replied.

Inosuke was completely speechless and couldn't speak for a moment. After he finished processing what Y/N had just told him, he slowly nodded again as he let out a small sigh.

"M-m'kay... Thank you.. Y/N..."

He was starting to sound slightly younger as he spoke. It felt good to have at least one person to talk to about this, though he still seemed to not let it happen fully. His age would range from ages 1 - 3.

Upon realizing he was still fighting against it, Y/N did the only thing they really knew to do to comfort him. They leaned toward and had their arms gently wrap around him into a firm yet soft hug. Inosuke's face immediately softened as he leaned into the hug. The hug was warm and comfortable. As he slowly started to calm down, he placed his arms around Y/N's back and held them close. He wanted the moment to last forever. He finally started to speak again, his voice now sounding completely like a 2-year-old instead of a teenager.

“Th-thank yew…” The feral boy whispered. 

Y/N had pulled Inosuke close to them and began rubbing his back up and down in a slow and steady pace.

"Shhh, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Just let it happen if you need to let it happen, I'll take care of you if you want me too." They whispered back.

Inosuke felt his body shake and tremble as he began to regress. Once he did, he held onto Y/N a little tighter and even held their hand. He wanted more then just a hug. He needed to be cared for, at least a little. He didn't know how long it would take for him to fully regress. It was different for everybody after all.

"Pwease…I needz you. I w-waanna be a baby again..." He begged, basically unable to talk normally now.

Despite this, Y/N honestly couldn't help but find his baby talking to be quite cute.

"C'mere, sweetie."

At those words, Y/N pulled Inosuke up into their lap, beginning to rock him slowly.

"You can be a baby as much as you want to, I'll be right here the whole time.” They whispered.

Inosuke's body instantly relaxed as soon as Y/N pulled him gently into their lap. The rocking motion was soothing as well. It was hard to suppress his regression at this point. It was going to happen one way or another, this was one of those times. His arms wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders as he laid his head against her chest in a way a small child would hug their mother. He just wanted to be loved and cared for.

"Thanky you… M-Mama/D-Daddy..." Inosuke sniffled into Y/Ns chest.

Y/N was a little stunned as Inosuke suddenly began to call them Mama/Daddy. They honestly didn't mind it at all, if it was what he wanted...then they would go along with it.

"I love you, my precious baby..." They whispered.

At this moment, he stopped trying to suppress his regression, and allowed himself to finally regress to the mental age of 2. His mindset had finally completely shifted back to his younger days. He felt extremely safe and comfortable with Y/N and didn't want to leave her lap at all. He nuzzled his head against Y/N’s chest and uttered;

"I wub you too...mama.."

~~~

[emergentcounseling]

Anxiety in Men

He was sitting behind his desk at work and his chest started to feel like bricks were piling up on top of it; he was sweating, experiencing shortness of breath, and had a headache. Furthermore, he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. He sat there fearful that he was having a heart attack and was going to die. Only, it wasn’t a heart attack it was anxiety.

Men suffer from anxiety as much as women do, loss of control, stress and major life changes are some reasons that contribute to anxious feelings in men. The pressures of maintaining a ‘macho persona’ make it hard for men to get help or admit that they are struggling with anxiety. Consequently, many suffer in silence. Hiding your anxiety increases your stress and can worsen the symptoms. Impatience, irritability, insomnia, body aches, fatigue, and digestive issues are common symptoms men who struggle with anxiety face. Societal conditioning has contributed to the façade many men maintain that: they are invincible, they don’t need the cajoling that women do, and they don’t need a therapist to tell them what to do.

During a conversation with a young man yesterday he shared with me that he thought he might be struggling with anxiety. He also mentioned that he has been keeping his problems a secret because he is ashamed and didn’t want his friends and coworkers to think he is a ‘wimp.’ In his words, “it’s better to tell people you don’t know.” Unfortunately, sometimes this can be true; the decision to get help is courageous, and it’s liberating, but it may cost you some judgment. What’s ironic is that the same people who judge you for your struggle are typically the same ones to criticize you for not getting help when you fall apart.

So, if you’re not comfortable telling the ones you know, then tell someone you don’t know! Get Help!.

About Us

We offer individual, family, couples and group counseling.

Our Vision is to normalize trauma, anxiety, depression, PTSD and other mental health disorders as the body’s way of communicating distress, and help our clients heal by teaching them how to tap into their bodies organic intelligence."

Our Services

At Emergent Counseling & Consulting LLC, services are person-centered, culturally sensitive, stigma-free, holistic and strengths-based.

Our services are tailored to meet your needs and help you develop the skills needed to get rid of anxiety and depression, and enhance your quality of life. Our methods are non-invasive, short-term evidenced-based techniques such as Brainspotting, and Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT Tapping), which simple and focused on reducing the intensity of distress associated with anxiety and depression.

Call : 954 533 4828

Email : inquiry@dare2emerge.com

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Emergent Counseling & Consulting, LLC

[theaustinrockwell]

Whipped Cream and a Cherry on a Pile of Shit

As I try to get to the bottom of why men in the 7-10 range will date me but women either ignore me or latch on to me then push me away, I am discovering a few central themes on what I am doing wrong.

I have stated before that I worked on every area of my life, so that I was at least average or excellent in all of them (except for my student loans, which would be comical if THAT were THE thing to cause every single one of my dating problems). I have my own apartment, I'm college educated, am patient and kind, have worked at prestigious companies, have a motorcycle, etc.

Here's the problem: my lack of masculinity.

"Lack of masculinity? Wow, bro. Hot take. Groundbreaking." However, it's not the "lack of masculinity" in simple terms. I'm not trying to be a reductionist caveman. If it were so simple, then the solution would to just "be more macho." But that is not a satisfying answer for any of us. I am talking about becoming aware of the specific ways that masculinity is missing in my life and seeing why these holes are caused by fear and naivete.

When I date men, there is a certain drive about a masculine man that is magnetic. I also become well acquainted with having hundreds of men up my ass (not literally) message bombing me and how much of a turn off them getting emotional is. That has taught me how poorly I come off when I direct that same emotionality towards women.

When I'm doing MMA, I wimp out there too. Everybody else submits me and I tap a lot. It's like I'm barely even trying. While I am always working on the techniques and have gotten complimented since I started how great my focus on technique is, I still get beaten up most of the time. I don't win. I don't bring a winner's mentality to the gym. I am afraid and I'm hesitant to compete with other men. But when I see men who refuse to compete with other men, do I find that attractive myself? No. There are other guys at the gym who are technique focused, but they aren't that competitive. Or they're competitive at the gym, but life is submitting them and they show no drive outside of MMA. Super unattractive. That makes them see two dimensional and not masculine. To turn that perspective back on myself, I can see how I come off as unattractive. I am stifling my competitive drive. Why would a woman want to date a man without a competitive drive? So life can shit on us both? Nope. My job is to compete and pave the way for both of us.

When I think of the times that girls came on to me and I got timid and didn't make a move, I see why they then pushed me away explosively. I've slept with girls (literally cuddled the whole night and did nothing else) or took them out on the motorcycle until 3am when their boyfriends were at home, and DIDN'T make a DAMN move, even though looking back they made their own moves--I get why they chose other dudes over me or aggressively told me to fuck off. Between the vulnerability they felt in making a move and the societal pressures women face to not be too "slutty", once I appeared to not reciprocate physically (even though I wanted to but was too chickenshit), they hardcore ghosted me or flayed me alive and character assassinated me to the rest of our friend group. For them to go out on a limb and then not feel desired = "Well, FUCK Austin then. I never liked him. I never said, 'I love you.' He is disgusting." I get it. I get where my bitching out has hurt the people I've dated. My lack of masculinity in this area is unattractive. Women hate it. My fear of being called a creep leads me to do nothing sexual towards women, which in turn gets me called a creep, just for different reasons.

You know, when I show interest in a dude and he doesn't make a move, I wonder if he even likes me. Does he desire me? If we get into a relationship, will he make me feel attractive? If I were in a woman's shoes, I'd be asking, "Is he gay?" Of course, the answer for the dudes I date is, "Duh, they are gay." But the lack of physical attraction that I display towards women just does not feel good to them. Once again, my fear of overdoing it and being a creep leads me to act impotent and make girls feel like crap in a different way. When I picture a guy who is afraid to show sexual desire towards me, I imagine a hollow kind of man. Asexual people exist, but it's the fear that these guys have, the wanting to and yet stifling themselves. I have the same problem.

So why does this lack of masculinity hold me back and why was I unaware of it for so long? Going back to my laundry list of reasons why people "should" love me (career, apartment, whatever the fuck), I had all of these "things" that were embellishments upon my personality. I had a bunch of boxes checked, all of the ones that society said I should have checked as a man. It was a resume of material things and social signifiers. I would get mad for doing and having all of these things people said that they wanted in a man and yet still being alone. And again, it wasn't that I had fatal physical flaws. Women who were hot and ambitious and cool would latch on to me really quickly sometimes and make moves toward me. The attraction was there. What was missing was my masculinity, my fucking backbone. I treated all these boxes that I checked and things that I had like having them would allow me to be a meek little bitch, be afraid to live life, and be overly emotional. So either women would see that lack of masculinity straight away and go, "Gross." Or they would be aware that I'm an engineer and artist with a good sense of humor, see THAT as attractive, but then after repeated interactions, see how poor my confidence was and then lose attraction. The most explosive girl situations, come to think of it, were the ones in which I put up an uber masculine front at first (not stoic and silent, but a charismatic "fuck you" attitude), then I would unearth my softer side very quickly (along with being physically timid when the girls made moves on me), and the girls would cast me away, vote me off the damn island. Underneath the thin masculine facade, I was pretty weak and unsure of myself. I constantly sought reassurance. It was fucking pathetic. I thought by doing everything society asked me to do as a mature man that I was this wonderful delicious cake and that everybody was being so stupid for passing me by. I would rage over it. Everybody says they want a nice cake and how much they love icing and whipped cream on top. I have the best whipped cream. Why does nobody choose me? I now realize that all of these extra things I had were just superficial signals. I thought I had a real cake, but I was too focused on the whipped cream. Good whipped cream does not make up for a shitcake. My personality was shit because my core and my confidence were shit.

Most importantly, this is not me deciding to be someone other than myself. I'm not saying, "I am inherently not masculine in these areas and need to change myself to be loved." What I am saying is that I personally see the value in masculinity since I appreciate it myself when I see it in another man and that it's just a fact that the version of me that has a backbone and is not afraid is the better version of me. People reject the version of me that does not have a backbone, women especially.

I have more work to do on figuring out how masculinity and having a backbone plays out in my life, but it seems like the way to go. That is what is missing and what is causing people to push me away romantically and physically. I've been on both sides of this, and I get it. My big fear is that I'm going to fuck up by being too masculine and then be cancelled in 20 years, but thinking anybody gives enough of a fuck to cancel me is it's own form of narcissism. That's a conversation for a different time.

Don't focus on the whipped cream. Focus on being a good cake.

[kerlonthenew]

Jimmy neutron sleepless in retroville

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And sometimes, it can feel like we are being controlled by another force, and some won't believe us. It's as if he takes control of what they say. Poofers is pretty much preventing the storytellers from doing the deed so he can live on. NOw, compared to everything on this list, it's not all that scary, but what really makes it seem so is the fact that the spirit of Mr. Poofers will now be their new god, thereby creating the Cult of Mr.

#Jimmy neutron sleepless in retroville free

Even Strong Bad, the most macho and baddest in all of Free Country USA fails to do it. So, the others try to doit themselves, thinking Homestar is just being a wimp, but whenever they attempt to do it themselves, they end up with similar resuts where they fail to kill it off. Poffers is supposed to die, he can't bring himself to do it because he belives some force is keeping him from doing so. But whenever he tries to tell the part where Mr. This Halloween, Homestar is determined to tell a ghost story so scary it will become a bestselling book with rave reviews, and he plans to do that by killing off the title character, Mr. And last year's Halloween toon just might be one of the most disturbing things from the famous web toon I have ever seen. Now, I know this may seem like a strange thing to put on here, considering Homestar Runner is a bit of a stranger to the horror stuff, but that's not the case when it comes to its Halloween specials. TOP 13 SCARIEST/SPOOKIEST EPISODES I HAVE EVER SEEN These are the top 13 spookiest/scariest episodes I have ever seen. So, let's see what other shows that are not intended to be scary at all managed to give me a shock to my nerves. I wanna give them a break and have more of a challenge. Speaking of Dipper and Mabel, their show, as well as Scooby-Doo, Courage the Cowardly Dog, and other shows that are MEANT to be horror based will NOT be on this list. You might be traumatized.Įmily: Hey, if Dipper and Mabel can fight supernatural beings, I think I can handle what you are gonna show, dad. Me: Sorry, sweetie, but you can't assist me on this. That is not something you'd expected from your favorite series, now is it? Well, for Halloween, I'm gonna talk about my top 13 episodes that just absolutely terrified me in different ways.

#Jimmy neutron sleepless in retroville tv

And nothing is scarier than watching an episode of your favorite TV show only to see that it comes out and does an episode that makes you wet your pants, and you weren't even drinking any liquids or refreshments. The time when nights are filled with frights, ghosts come out to roast, and beasts seek a human feast.

[tiixij]

also quark names are a little funny to me. like up, down, top and bottom make sense. like okay sure thats sensible. and then strange and charm are over here like hello :)

[chudleycanonficfest]

Washing Machine Heart

Day 22, Story #2 is by @rosequartzstarswrites​

Title: Washing Machine Heart Author/Artist: rosequartzstars - @rosequartzstarswrites (Because of Tumblr settings, this is posting from my main blog, but it’s me!) Pairing: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley (and background Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger) Prompt: 5+1 Rating: T (only for some strong language and non-explicit insinuations) Trigger Warning(s) (if any): none apply! 

“I can’t believe I’m going through with this,” huffed Hermione, struggling to keep up the brisk pace Ron was marking on the sidewalk.

“You never believed you’d have to, did you?” Ron said gleefully, seemingly unaware of just how hard his long-legged strides were to keep up with.

“You never told me you were that good at chess!”

“No, more like you never thought anyone could be better than you at anything!”

Despite only having been friends, close friends, with them for a semester, Harry had already become accustomed to the constant bickering between Ron and Hermione, to the point even of endearment. Coming from the Dursleys’, arguments and rebukes were something he was used to, but the undertone of friendship with which Ron and Hermione faced off was a welcome change (and a very entertaining one). Still, he tended to side quietly with Ron, and this particular time was no exception: part of him was delighted at the prospect of seeing Hermione get a tattoo.

This had all started from a ridiculous bet, born of boredom in the lounge of their dorm building. Ron had eyed the communal chessboard, battered and chipped from years of usage, and challenged Hermione to a match.

Hermione had scoffed: “Only if you want to lose, Ron.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Ron had said, exchanging a look with Harry as a sly smile crept onto his lips.

“I’m completely certain.”

“Certain enough to bet?” Ron had prodded her.

The competitiveness that, before becoming friends, was all Harry had known of Hermione had flared up in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“When you lose—”

“If I lose, and I won't—”

“When you lose,” Ron had reiterated, “you have to get a tattoo of my choosing.”

Hermione had smirked. “Game on.”

In Hermione’s defense, Harry thought, she hadn’t ever considered she might lose. There really was no way of expecting how good Ron had turned out to be at chess, especially since —Harry thought— Hermione had based her certainty on how abysmal his grades were, against her own straight A’s, in their proofs-based mathematics class, which relied entirely on strength of reasoning. But, as it turned out, Ron was actually a master logician, if only somewhat lazy at his math classes, and this he had proved by absolutely obliterating Hermione with the fastest checkmate Harry had ever borne witness to.

And that is how they had come to find themselves out on the streets of their little college town that night, wrapped in their scarves and their winter coats to battle the first of the December chill, walking to a tattoo parlor Ron knew in the area so Hermione could be forever reminded of her loss by a tattoo Ron would choose. And if Harry knew Ron well, and knew how much he relished teasing Hermione, the reminder would be a strong one.

“I didn’t even want a tattoo,” Hermione was mumbling, more to herself than at either of them. “I never wanted one— did you know that you might not be eligible to donate blood if you have a tattoo? I mean, not that it’s impossible, but it’s a factor against you, like your weight and your age. And my family has a history of needing transfusions— oh, God, what if my grandfather needs a donation, like, tomorrow? The three-month period of eligibility won’t have elapsed, and my father can’t donate, and– and–” She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, God, have I killed my grandfather?”

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, throwing a fraternal arm around her shoulders and squeezing her half in an attempt to get her walking again. “You’re halfway across the country from home. You wouldn’t be able to fly out on such short notice anyway.”

Harry had to stifle a laugh at how Hermione gaped at Ron then, a billion other dire possibilities to worry about racing through her head now. Ron, however, was less successful at keeping down a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Hermione. Besides, a tattoo will make you look badass.”

“I don’t want to look badass!” Hermione squeaked shrilly. “I’ve never been remotely interested in looking badass!”

“Well, interested or not,” Ron said as they came up to a dark brick building with a neon sign reading LOVEGOOD’S flickering above the door, “it seems like you don’t have much of a choice, because we’re here.”

Hermione let out a noise that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a whine as she looked up at the storefront that, to her, was synonymous not only with her doom but apparently that of her grandfather.

“Ron, please?” she said meekly.

Ron, however, looked gleeful and would not be deterred. “A bet’s a bet,” he declared, grabbing her wrist and beginning to march her up the three or so stairs that led up to the door of the tattoo parlor from the sidewalk. Harry lingered behind for an instant, watching the backs of his two friends as they waddled up the stairs, smiling as he listened to Ron debate whether he would make Hermione get a skull or a sailor’s “Mom” arrow-pierced heart, and Hermione pleading shrilly with him not to do either of those things. Watching them, Harry’s smile widened. He was lucky to have them as friends, that much he knew, despite the short time he’d spent knowing them. Why he hadn’t found them his freshman year was beyond him— but now, now that he had these wacky outings and constant bickering to enjoy, he felt overwhelmingly lucky that they had found him.

“Harry, are you coming in or what?” Ron beckoned him. He had stopped on the topmost step and was still gripping Hermione, whose face was a mask of pure, crystallized terror.

“Absolutely,” Harry said, hurrying up the steps with a little hop. “This I’ve got to see.”

Ron pushed open the door to the parlor with a little too much gusto, and Hermione cringed at the metallic sound of the chimes above the door as they tinkled with the announcement of their entrance. The front of the shop, sealing off the rest with a counter that had seen better days, was empty, the backroom separated by a beaded curtain.

“Hellooo?” Ron called into the backroom, marching right up to the counter. “Is anybody here? We bring a very eager customer!”

Hermione began to protest, but just as she did, an employee came out of the backroom to stand behind the counter. Catching a glimpse of her, Harry felt as if the wind had been knocked out of his chest: she was stunning. She was tall and slender, her toned arms visible through the ripped-off sleeves of her vintage Hole tee, with a curtain of straight orange hair pulled back into a long high ponytail. Her bright brown eyes glimmered atop a button-like nose that matched her small, round mouth perfectly, the pale fine face finished by a spattering of freckles. Even before she had spoken a single word, Harry felt the confidence coming off of her in waves, simply by how she propped her elbows up on the counter and eyed their party somewhat playfully. He was frozen to his place with the sight of her, hoping his jaw hadn’t dropped as low as it had felt in the wake of his awe.

Upon seeing her, however, Ron had had exactly the opposite reaction. “Ginny?” he said incredulously.

“What are you doing here?” the woman —Ginny— said without any greeting, returning Ron’s frown.

“I thought you weren’t working today!”

“I’m covering a shift for Demelza, she had a gyn appointment today.”

“Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have come in,” grumbled Ron. The tips of his ears were beginning to pink, a sign Harry had learned to recognize as a hint of extreme emotion in his friend.

“Well, you’re here now, so… what can I do for you?” Ginny said. “I mean, you can’t possibly be the one getting inked, Ron. You’re too much of a wimp.”

“Shut up, or I’m telling mom you got your helix pierced. That’ll make for a fun Christmas greeting when we’re back home, I’ll wager.”

Then the similarity became apparent to Harry: the freckles, the aggressive red of their hair, the same glint in their eyes… Ginny was Ron’s sister. Somehow, he didn’t know whether that was something he should feel good or bad about.

“Tattletale,” Ginny said, swatting at him. “And it’s called an industrial piercing. Not that you’d know.” Only then did she seem to remark on the rest of the party.

“Harry Potter,” she said, and Harry gulped as she crossed her muscular arms over her chest and leaned back, surveying him. “Come to get a sixth tattoo?”

“A sixth— how do you know?” Harry said, befuddled. Out of all the opening lines he would’ve expected her to use, this had not been one of them.

“You can credit the rumor mill at school,” Ginny shrugged, still eyeing him with interest. “You’re a topic of interest. Or at least among the soccer teams.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Romilda swore you had a griffin tattooed on your chest, but I told her I’d heard it was a dragon. Much more macho, I thought.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dully. What else was he supposed to say?

“Don’t mention it,” Ginny gave him a conspiratorial wink. “And if I were you, I’d find out who on the boys’ team has been giving you the eye in the shower enough to count your tats. I bet it’s Ron.”

“It’s not!” Ron said angrily, the red from his ears bleeding out onto his cheeks.

“I bet it is,” Ginny mouthed to Harry, giving him another wink. “But it’s not you?”

“Pardon?” said Harry, for whom the ‘it-is-it’s-not’ exchange had grown somewhat confusing.

“For the tattoo?” Ginny said, and Harry felt like an idiot. “It’s not you who’s getting it?”

“No, ah, actually— it’s Hermione,” Harry was knocked back into his senses as he gestured toward Hermione, who had stood, utterly baffled, throughout that whole exchange.

“Hermione Granger?” Ginny said, and Harry was almost glad when she turned her gaze away from him and toward Hermione. “As in, Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger?”

“The one and only,” Ron declared proudly, happy to be back off a topic that bothered him (teasing Ron) and back on a topic that delighted him (teasing Hermione).

“I wouldn’t have chalked you up to the tattoo type,” Ginny said.

“Oh, she’s not,” Ron said, his face lighting up as if Christmas had come early.

Ginny’s eyes darted between the dismal face of Hermione and the cheerful face of Ron, her eyebrows rising as she took it in. “Okay, I’m not going to ask about whatever this is. What am I doing on you?”

“I’m designing it,” Ron said brightly. And if Harry had thought that Hermione’s face couldn’t get more desolated, he’d been wrong.

“Christ, Hermione, what has he got on you?” Ginny said, already opening a drawer on the counter to pull out a sketchpad and a pen.

“I’m such an idiot,” Hermione grumbled.

Ron pored over the sketchpad, shielding the paper from Hermione’s eyes as he sketched. When he was done, he handed it to Ginny with a quick flick of the wrist that, much to Hermione’s dismay, ensured she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of what was on it. Ginny looked over whatever it was Ron had drawn and then looked up at her brother with a frown.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then,” Ginny shrugged. She lifted the counter to open a gap through which Hermione could walk. “Follow me.”

Looking like a lamb led to the slaughter, Hermione looked up to heaven as if making one last, futile plea before scrunching up her nose and following Ginny through the beaded curtain to the backroom. Because yes, she hated the idea of getting a tattoo, but she hated the idea of letting Ron hold one over her even more.

Ron watched her leave delightedly, relishing in the jangle the beaded curtain made as it swallowed Ginny and Hermione into the backroom. “This is going to be good,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Oh, this is going to be so good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden. He startled himself as much as Ron when he said it, though he was glad he’d been able to pare down the question from what was actually swirling around in his head: Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister that looked like THAT?

Ron looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. It never came up.”

“You told me about every other one of your five brothers, but not the sister.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age.”

“Nope.”

“Not the sister that seems to be about our age and plays soccer.“ And is hot.

"Nope.” Ron paused and frowned. “She’s a year below us, anyway.”

“Oh, then that explains it,” Harry said sarcastically.

“It seemed like more of a second-semester-of-friendship revelation.”

“I see.”

Harry held the silence between them for a few moments more before he allowed the next question out. “She plays soccer?”

“One more of the long line of Weasleys that get athletic scholarships to Hogwarts College. Except for Percy— no, he was a disgrace, he got in on an academic grant.”

“The family disappointment, truly.”

Harry wanted to ask more about Ginny, but he held his tongue. His friendship with Ron was the most precious thing his sophomore year of college had yielded him, and he didn’t want to jeopardize it by prying further or making it seem like he had the hots for his sister. Even though he did. He suffocated that small voice at the back of his mind: he hadn’t even spoken properly to Ginny, just stood there like an idiot and let her quip freely about his tattoos— which, mind him, apparently were fodder for locker talk back at Hogwarts.

The buzz of the needle in the backroom as it started up brought Harry out of his thoughts, just in time to see a shit-eating grin appear on Ron’s face.

“I wish I could see her face right now,” he said gleefully, and Harry let himself stop thinking about Ginny to join Ron in picturing what Hermione Granger must look like seated in a tattoo parlor chair.

“It really wasn’t so bad,” admitted Hermione as they exited the tattoo parlor and went down the little steps back onto the sidewalk.

Despite his pretensions of malice, Ron’s nobility (which had never been in question, even despite his teasing) had shone through and yielded a considerably modest tattoo: a small, capital “R” in his own handwriting. Hermione, who had almost cried with relief after Ginny showed her the design, had chosen to get it on her left thigh, on the side and at the very top, right under her hipbone.

“Why did you get it there?” Harry asked as they resumed their brisk walk back to campus.

“It’s not a place you usually show. That means if a sleeve shifts or an interviewer sees, I don’t know, my ankle or something, they won’t notice it.”

“As if a tiny ‘R’ would disqualify anyone from a job, let alone you,” snorted Ron.

“Professionalism is a virtue, Ronald,” Hermione huffed, though her cheeks had gone red. “Besides, since that part of me is always covered, I’ll save myself from having to explain the story behind it to anyone that spots it.”

“Yeah, except the bloke that eventually undresses you and sees you in your panties. Try explaining what that 'R’ means to him,” said Ron. But Harry suspected Hermione wouldn’t have to: from how Ron’s eyes had widened and his gaze had lingered when Hermione had pulled down the side of her jeans ever so slightly to show them the finished product, exposing a sliver of her underwear, Harry could almost wager that Ron would be the bloke in question.

They walked in animated chatter for the rest of the way, the tattoo forgotten until Ron made a quip about Hermione now having crossed the gateway to joining a biker gang and Hermione going positively beet-red in the face with outrage. Then Harry, his hands in his pockets, simply smirked to himself and resigned himself to their bickering for the rest of the walk, knowing he was no longer needed in their exchange. Instead, he let his mind drift to Ginny. She hadn’t really spoken to him again, merely ducking out from the beaded curtain backroom and instructing Hermione on how to take care of her tattoo, saying only a general goodbye to the three of them as they exited the shop. There had been nothing in Ginny’s manner to suggest that she might be thinking of him as strongly, as irremediably, as he was of her, and yet there he was.

The main quad was mostly deserted, except for a few scattered groups of late-night library frequenters or sneaking couples, as the three of them crossed it to get to their dorm. Ron and Hermione didn’t stop arguing as they climbed the four flights up to their floor (the elevator, as usual, was broken), and only broke it off because Hermione reached her room before the boys reached theirs, slipping inside it and shutting the door before Ron had a chance to get the last word in.

“Well, that went well,” Ron shrugged as he and Harry kept walking down the hall to their room.

“You actually got her to get a tattoo,” Harry said with some admiration as they reached their door.

Ron grinned as he swiped the key card. “I may drive her crazy, but if anyone was going to get her to do something like that, it was going to be me.”

Ron pushed the door open and let them into their dorm room. He closed the door and, without taking off his coat, immediately flopped onto his bed— or, well, what could be seen of the bed under mountains of dirty or otherwise discarded clothes. Away from his mother’s chore-mongering for the first time, Ron had let himself go wild and go to the other extreme, but even Harry had to admit that the army of socks draped over the foot of his bed was beginning to smell a little stale.

“So,” Ron said, propping his head up, “no parties tonight?”

“Well, it’s a Wednesday,” Harry said.

“So what? There’s no party spirit around here?”

“Ron, it’s the last Wednesday before final exams. People are studying.”

“I wasn’t aware I was rooming with Hermione,” Ron grumbled. Harry had to admit she might have gotten to him a little. However, Ron’s irritation was short-lived, a grin appearing on his face again. “Wait, but we’re not people. We’re not studying.”

Harry surveyed the room and, despite his desire to throw in the towel for the night and have fun with Ron, felt a pang of dismay at just how much grosser it would be if they caved and did that (last time they had, they’d had a Pringle-eating contest, with devastating results for their sheets, which still had some crumbs). “No, Ron. We’re doing laundry.”

Ron groaned. “Jeez, now I’m rooming with my mother.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to do the laundry. I’ll do it for the both of us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go hang out with Dean and Seamus or whatever, see if you can get Hermione to do her second wild-card act of the day and make her stop studying to hang out with the guys.”

“Now I’m a man with a mission,” Ron said, perking up in delight at the prospect of teasing Hermione, or even seeing her once more that night.

“Just shove your clothes in the laundry bag before you go, won’t you? I don’t want to touch your nasty briefs more than I have to.”

Ron obliged, tossing all the clothes on and around his bed into his orange laundry bag and pulling the drawstring to close it. “I’ll update you on the Hermione thing,” he said cheerfully, hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the left to the room they’d left Hermione in.

Harry laughed to himself, wondering how long it was going to take Ron to realize why exactly he always seemed so eager to do anything Hermione-related, as he too threw his dirty clothes into a checkered drawstring laundry bag. Then, he hoisted one sack over each of his shoulders and opened the door using his ankle and leg to let himself out, his hands full with the laundry bags. He stifled a smirk as he passed Hermione’s room and heard the familiar bubbling sound of she and Ron rowing. If Harry knew her at all, he knew however much she might argue she’d be out of that room in an hour tops.

He groaned as he looked down the stairs, and rued the day he had been placed in the dorm with the shittiest elevator on campus. Resigning himself, he began to walk slowly down the poorly-lit stairs to the basement, where the laundry room was. However inconvenient this descent was, Harry was at least comforted with the knowledge that the laundry room would not be crowded, which would be the greater inconvenience once the elevator was fixed.

The basement was even dimmer, the white lights flickering and buzzing with electricity as Harry walked to the laundry room almost at the end of the hall. Sure enough, the laundry room was deserted, oddly quiet with none of the familiar hum and rattle of the machines as they worked. Harry knelt in front of a washing machine and began unloading the contents of the laundry bags into it, cramming them in so they’d fit because he sure as hell wasn’t shelling out quarters for two washers. When he’d made it all fit (which had involved the use of force to jam the door shut), he went to the shelf that held the communal detergent and poured it into the soap compartment. With that done, he dug out eight quarters from his pocket and inserted them into the washer’s slot, pressing the “Start Cycle” button when he heard the clink that let him know his quarters had been accepted. The washer rumbled slowly to life, jets of water trickling out as it began to spin in one direction and then the other, and it was a couple minutes before it was spinning at a hearty pace.

Rising from his crouch (he had always liked to watch the washing machine as it booted up to wash in earnest), Harry took the laundry bags and turned to head back upstairs, already thinking of what he might do to pass the time in the hour he had before he had to switch the clothes to the dryer.

He was so caught up in thinking of this that he didn’t see the person entering the laundry room at the same time as he was exiting, which ended in an awkward clash between them.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted.

“No, it’s fine, I’m sorry too— Harry?”

Only then did Harry realize who he had bumped into, and only because she kept standing there did he believe it. “Ginny?”

She still wore her Hole shirt, but had discarded the ripped jeans, combat boots, and round-the-waist flannel he’d seen at the tattoo parlor. Instead, she wore frayed gray sweatpants and flip-flops, her hair pulled up from the long ponytail into a messy bun. She, however, somehow still managed to look almost unbearably beautiful. What’s happening to me?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the only thing he could think of right that second. Spotting the laundry basket she was cradling, he added: “No laundry in your dorm?”

“No, yeah, there is one, but it’s always too crowded, it being a freshman dorm and all.” Harry nodded: his first year, he too had done entirely more laundry than he had to, and was thankful by the quarters he saved just by realizing he could wear a pair of pants more than once before they were dirty. “So I use the one here. Much quieter. I know Ron’s ID and password—”

“You do?”

“He gave it to me once so I could pick up his books from the library. And my memory’s great.” She gave him a half smile and looked beyond him at the laundry room. “Doing laundry?”

“No, I just like the ambience down here. The shitty lighting and bleach smell are really my style,” said Harry. Ginny laughed, and Harry felt a rush of pride at what was probably the first witty thing he’d ever said to her. “Need a hand?”

“I’d appreciate one, sure,” Ginny said, again smiling at him. Harry moved so she could walk into the laundry room, and watched her pick one of the washing machines that lined the wall. When she’d settled on one, he crouched down next to her and help her lob the clothes into the maw of the machine.

“Tattoo parlor let out early?” he asked as they placed the clothes inside.

“More like you guys came in really late. You were my last customers— I just cleaned up and closed after you left.”

“And you work there?”

“Sure beats a regular work-study, doesn’t it?” Ginny grinned. She tossed in a Tide pod that was left at the bottom of the basket, closed the door to the machine, and rose to find the quarters needed to activate it. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet in my other pants—”

“I got you,” said Harry, digging for eight more quarters in his pocket. For once, he was glad of his bad habit of carrying an excess of loose change in his jeans, something Hermione already got on to him about (sometimes, like when she’d gifted him a money purse, not too subtly).

“Thanks,” Ginny said, picking the laundry basket up from the ground.

Harry listened for the telling clink and then pressed the button. The washing machine whirred to a start, but for once, Harry didn’t feel compelled to watch it boot up: instead, he turned to Ginny. “So how did you come to work there?”

“At the tat shop?” Ginny asked, hopping to sit on the top of the washer where her clothes were spinning. “My friend Luna’s dad, Xenophilius—”

“Gesundheit.”

“Shut up,” Ginny said, but the hint of a laugh was (to Harry’s satisfaction) visible on her lips again. “Anyway, Xenophilius owns the place. He set up in a college town because he knows college is the first time kids are truly free to make rash, impulse decisions.”

“Like getting a tattoo?”

“Exactly. And besides, all the college students love his New Age bullshit, they think it’s very 70s, so his shop is always full. He got a big boost after he started placing crystals in the shop windows.”

“He’s in with the kids, then?”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll be mortified. But he’s great, really. A little eccentric, but great. He knows me from when Luna and I took an art class together in 10th grade, and he’s always complimented my art, so he helped me get my tattoo artist license as soon as I turned 18 and hired me.”

“Is Luna the girl with the shaggy blond hair and the weird glasses?”

“That’s her. Though I’m surprised you didn’t know her by her bottlecap necklaces. That’s usually what people comment on.”

“Does she work there too?”

“Yeah, though not as an inker, she’s useless with a needle. She designs a big chunk of the tattoos, though, both original designs and commissions or requests.”

“That’s awesome,” Harry said. He realized that was the first time through the whole conversation that he had stopped. He’d never hesitated on what to say next: conversation with Ginny had flowed easily, naturally, and he hadn’t had to think too hard to keep it going. Still, he was a little disappointed that it had stopped. Ginny, however, seemed to share in this, because rather than say goodbye and take her leave, she opened up a new topic.

“So how long have you and Ron been friends?”

“Er– since the start of this school year, actually.”

“Really? You’d think from how he talks about you, he’d known you forever.” Harry felt a flush of happiness at hearing that Ron talked about him.

“Well, I got him for a roommate this year, and we just clicked. Then it turned out we had a lot of the same classes. And we’re both on the soccer team, so it just got better from there.”

“It seems strange that you never crossed paths your freshman year.”

Harry shrugged. “I mean, freshman year is weird for everyone. I certainly felt like I was just bouncing from one place to another. I still hang out with a lot of the guys from last year, but my friends have changed. It makes sense— the first year, everyone is trying to meet as many people as possible, as if it’s a race, but by sophomore year you know more of what you want and what you’re looking for. In a way, I’m glad I met Ron now that I’m in a more stable place, now that I know my way around the college and have a better grip on things. I have a feeling he’s a friend I’m gonna keep.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re sticking around the Weasleys,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a tingle run up his spine. Was she… flirting with him? “And Hermione?”

“Oh, Hermione’s great, Ron and I would be dead by now if not for her— I don’t know how I got through a full year without her.”

“But she’s very different from you guys, isn’t she?”

“Well— on the surface, sure, but not in the things that matter. The fact that she went through with the tattoo tonight when she could’ve kicked up a fuss and bailed out tells you all you need to know.”

“So what I’m hearing is that Scamander Fellow Hermione Granger is as much of a bonehead as my brother at heart?”

“Stubborn, is the word I’d use. And only when Ron’s involved, actually.”

Ginny smirked. “Idiots. They haven’t even realized it.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. “You think it too?”

“Oh, I’d bet on it. Ten bucks says they’re together by the end of the year.”

“Hey, did our visit by the parlor today teach you nothing about bets? They can be dangerous.”

“But I’m betting against you, aren’t I?” The way she said you made Harry’s heart skip a beat. “Fine, not ten bucks. But I’ll bet you a load of laundry, how’s that?”

“Deal,” said Harry, taking Ginny’s extended hand to shake it. The touch of her palm, with its long, slender fingers, sent warmth coursing down from his hand and the length of his arm. They let go and dropped hands, and perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but Harry thought he detected a certain reluctance in Ginny as they did.

Harry leaned against the washer, his propped elbow almost brushing up against her thigh. “How about you? How’s your first year going so far?”

Ginny winced. “As well as you’d expect, I suppose. Lots of people still behave like it’s an extension of high school, and I’m very much over that. But as things go, I’m having a blast. Being on the soccer team certainly helps.”

“Congratulations on that scholarship, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said, her wide smile revealing a row of perfect, square white teeth. “You’re on a scholarship too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My aunt and uncle would’ve never paid a single cent for me to go to college, so it was the only way. But I’m sure they were glad to be rid of me anyway.”

“They sound like lovely people,” Ginny said sarcastically.

“I should introduce them to this Xenophilius sometime. My uncle Vernon would have a stroke just walking into that shop.”

“Well, if you ever swing by, you have an insider contact,” Ginny offered, and Harry loved the implication of something, even something as simple as an 'insider contact’, between just the two of them. “I’d be happy to arrange a meeting, especially for such esteemed patrons.”

“I might take you up on that, if I ever planned on seeing them again,” Harry said. The words came out a bit more harshly than he’d expected, and the second silence in their talk set in, brought on by the darker implications of his family situation. Desperate to break it, Harry cleared his throat and geared up to talk again: “So, do you have any tattoos?”

He was relieved to see the smile, that coy, almost lopsided smile, appear on Ginny’s face again. “Actually, no, not a single one.”

“Do you think you’d ever get one?”

Ginny thought for a second. “I might, if something meaningful enough came around. And only if I was 200% sure. But really, I feel like one tattoo would lead to another, and then I’d never stop and run out of room on my skin. So it’s more of a containment mechanism, really.”

Harry smirked. “Hm. Interesting.”

Ginny broke out onto a full grin as she watched him. “What?” she asked, but when Harry’s smirk only deepened, she shoved him playfully, her touch on his shoulders eliciting the same warm sensation as the handshake. “What, Potter, tell me! Why is it interesting?”

“I mean, since you work at a tattoo shop, and you’re wearing a Hole t-shirt, I just thought you might be the type—”

“The Hole tee? Oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna gatekeep it, like you’re the type of guy who’d be like 'name three songs'—”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t know a lot of music by Hole. I really only know who they are because of that one Fall Out Boy song Courtney Love was featured in—”

Ginny winced. “Not Fall Out Boy, please.”

“Why? What’s wrong with Fall Out Boy?”

“Harry—”

“I know they get a lot of shit, but really, their first albums are pretty good—”

“Harry, you’ve gotta stop right here, or you’re going to make me stop finding you so attractive.”

And just like that, there it was, out in the open. Harry felt stun: he felt his mouth open to offer a witty retort, but no words came out. Because the girlish grin had evaporated from Ginny’s face and turned into a different, more mature look, her eyes smoldering slightly and her mouth slightly pouted.

“What about you?” she asked, her words slower, as if she was choosing each one individually. “If the soccer team gossip is true, I know you have five tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice having dropped as well. “Yeah, there were a few tat shops around my neighborhood where the rules were pretty lax.”

“What are they?” Ginny asked.

“The tattoos? Well, the first ones I ever got were my mom and dad’s birth and death dates, on my wrist,” Harry said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to display two small lines of numbers, in plain black ink, on his forearm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ginny said softly.

“Don’t be, I was really small when it happened. But I still wanted to pay them homage. Anyway, I’ll not bore you with my family history right now.”

“But tell me sometime?”

Harry was ecstatic at the implication that Ginny wanted to spend even more time with him. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at her. “Yeah, I will.” He moved on to the second tattoo, shifting the other sleeve up a bit to show Ginny a small black paw print in the center of his wrist. “This was my third one. My godfather was the only person my aunt and uncle would let me see while I was growing up, and even then only because he threatened them. And he had this huge, black shaggy dog, I think it was a Newfoundland, that looked almost like a bear, named Padfoot. I loved that dog, and every time I think of the happiest moments growing up, Padfoot’s in a lot of them. So when he died when I was sixteen, I got this to remember him by. It seems like a tribute to my godfather, too, so I like it doubly.”

He didn’t need encouragement from Ginny to keep going. He raised his left leg and propped it up on the washing machine by where Ginny’s legs hung, rolling his sock down a bit to show a green, line-art tuft of grass snaking above his ankle. “I got this when I got the soccer scholarship to come here. I wanted something to commemorate soccer, seeing as it’s not only, y'know, my passion, but also what got me out of that damn house for good. But I thought something like a soccer ball or a net or even the pitch outline would be too cheesy, so I got a bit of grass, y'know, as in the field…”

“Tasteful,” Ginny nodded her approval, and Harry felt newfound appreciation for that tattoo. “That’s three down, Potter.”

“I’m getting there.” Harry brought his leg down from the washer and turned his back to Ginny, taking his hand up to the nape of his neck and using it to shift the hair there upward to reveal the back of his neck where it turned into his back. “Can you see it?”

“The little lightning bolt?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the story of that?”

“That was my second one. To be honest, I was a little ink-happy after my first one, so a couple of weeks after I got it I went back and got this.”

“But why a lightning bolt?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, turning back around to face her. “I guess it was just cool.”

“Oh, very,” Ginny said, and the edge in her voice let him know she was teasing him. “That leaves us with one, then. The emblematic chest tattoo.” Again, the playfulness disappeared from her face and was replaced by that strange look, the one Harry couldn’t really decipher but really, really liked. “Tell me, then, Harry— is Romilda Vane right?”

It was only because of the suggestiveness in Ginny’s voice and the permanence of that look on her face that Harry did what he did next. His movements slow, he pulled his shirt off over his head, setting it on the washing machine right by where Ginny sat. He heard Ginny draw in a breath and it hitch in her throat as she saw him, her eyes moving over his bare skin to spot the ink blot that had brought this all on. Curled above his right pec was a small, S-shaped dragon, colored in red and gold.

“I win,” Ginny said, her voice still husky, as she extended her left hand to touch the dragon with her fingertips.

“Are you going to tell Romilda?” Harry said, his own right hand settling lightly on Ginny’s thigh.

“No, actually,” Ginny said, her palm now coming down flat on Harry’s chest. Her other hand had also drifted to him, and she had placed it on Harry’s left side, right below his ribcage, as if to hold the side of his torso. “I think I’d rather keep this moment to myself.”

And then she was leaning in and kissing him, touching her lips to his first with tentative softness that turned into a stronger, more determined fire as the kiss deepened. With both of Ginny’s hands on Harry, and one of Harry’s on Ginny’s thigh and the other supporting the weight of the kiss against the solidity of the washer, they leaned into one another. Harry’s mouth sought out Ginny’s eagerly, overcome by the fiery feeling pooling in his stomach and rising up to his throat through his chest, by the fact that everything he’d thought about on their walk back from Lovegood’s was coming true much sooner (and much better) than he’d expected. He felt Ginny’s tongue nudge at his lips and opened his mouth to let her in, engulfing more of her lips with his as he did so. Ginny kissed passionately, her tongue meeting Harry’s even as her teeth dug lightly into Harry’s lower lip, making him kiss her more deeply. With her this close, he was invaded by the flowery smell of her hair, by the soft feel of her skin, by the low humming sound she made as she kissed him. And everything was coming together, making the fire in his chest grow, and it was a good kind of burn, better than whiskey, better than anything—

The loud ding of the washer as it announced it had concluded its cycle startled them, and they pulled back from the kiss looking a little dazed, that one upbeat chime having been all they needed to bring them reluctantly back into the real world. Still Ginny didn’t take her hands off Harry, and Harry felt less than inclined to move his from her leg.

“I should, uh, switch to the dryer,” he said, the only thing that popped into his mind there.

Ginny tightened her hold around his middle and moved her hand from his chest, wrapping it around his upper back to draw him closer. “Oh, let it wait,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, and Harry was finding that the dryer could wait for hell to freeze for all he cared.

The sleepy sound of the chimes above the door didn’t even make Ginny raise her gaze from her stats study guide, which she’d pulled out to make the best of the not-too-busy lull at Lovegood’s. “We’re almost closed,” she announced to whoever had come in.

“You can’t make room for one last customer?” a familiar voice said, and only then did Ginny perk up immediately.

“Harry!” she said brightly, shutting the stats book as it became all-but-forgotten. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to add one more tattoo to the five I’ve already got,” said Harry. “Think you can give me my sixth?”

Ginny didn’t even need to say yes, just opened up the lift-up counter door and disappeared through the beaded curtain. “Flip the door sign to 'closed’ before you come through, will you?”

Harry obliged and flipped the sign before following Ginny to the backroom. He sat patiently on the tattoo chair as Ginny milled about, getting the supplies ready.

“Y'know, you never did tell me the story behind your dragon tattoo,” Ginny commented as she went through the sterilization procedure for the needles. “Seeing as we were, um, otherwise occupied…”

The memory of the kiss flooded through Harry with the same fire that he’d held in his chest ever since, the flame growing to engulf his whole body just hearing Ginny mention it. “Should I tell you now?”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I got it as a tribute to my old headmaster back home, Albus Dumbledore. Funny old man, and incredibly cryptic, but he’s the one that first gave me the idea of applying for the scholarship and helped me get all my grades and papers in order so I could make it here. We were very close, and he had this saying that he used to tell me whenever I ended up in his office for getting into trouble— 'never tickle a sleeping dragon’, he’d say.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Harry laughed briefly and shrugged. “Hell if I know. But it was his catchphrase. So after I graduated, I wanted to get something to commemorate him, so I got the dragon from his favorite saying. He came with me and got it too.”

Ginny turned to him and eyed him quizzically. “Your headmaster got the tattoo along with you?”

“I told you he was a funny old man.”

Ginny pulled a pair of black latex gloves over her hands and rolled a wheeled office chair over to Harry, the needle in hand. “So by what I’m hearing, you only ever get tattoos of things that are extremely meaningful to you, right?”

“That’s right,” said Harry.

“So, Mr. Meaning, what’ll it be this time?”

Harry smiled. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it slightly upward, just enough to uncover his lower trunk. He pointed to a spot on the left side of his torso, right under his ribcage— right where Ginny’s hand had been, where her touch had been burned into his skin. “Right here,” he said. “I’d like a little washing machine.”

[cto10121]

R&J (and WSS, Sadly) Clown Takes Part ♾ + 2

Because West Side Story is trending and you know what that means…double clownage for everyone. Let’s just dive on in.

You forgot your dementia pills, Clown OP.

Romeo is more guilty of friend’s murder more than the guy who actually murdered him!!! Logic!!!

Also, how dare Romeo try to stop an illegal brawl that would have 100% condemned both Mercutio and Tybalt to death!!! He should have just let them have at it!!! Nothing would have happened, one of them would have just injured/killed the other, is all!!! And it’s not as if one of them was his best friend and the other his cousin-in-law!!! Back off, bitch!!!

And I am firm in the belief that Clown OP doesn’t know what satire is. Satire requires comedy, which WSS and R&J are not.

So Clown OP criticizes R&J for its ~ridiculous plot and WSS for replicating them…and THEN criticizes WSS for not replicating R&J’s plot regarding the end!!! Boy. What are you on?

Why the hell would you detest WSS’ lame ending if you thought the original R&J ending was stupid? Surely even lame would be an improvement over stupid? Not to Clown OP, obviously.

Ho boy. Where to start?

1) WSS is not only a musical, but a musical that literally began as a ballet conceived by Jerome Robbins. Take away the dancing, and whoop, there goes a chunk of the core of this musical.

2) Of the two, WSS is definitely rawer in terms of story, more focused on the feud and violence, than R&J. I can tell you exactly why R&J love each other, or at least how they feel the way they do for each other. I can’t really say the same for Tony and Maria. I can’t tell you why the feud is a thing in R&J except for y’know, Italian historical feuding families and also your garden variety machismo, etc. The WSS gangs, however, are based on real racial tensions and urban conditions that are sadly still pertinent, and the musical takes advantage of that. Also, um, Sondheim even bluntly stated that they didn’t care less about the love story, just the racism plot. Word of God is strong on this one.

I do agree that as Tony canonically started the Jets with Riff, he is already a character with a much rougher past than even Romeo, whose attitude toward the feud is cynical at best. Romeo is no wimp either if we trust Mercutio’s POV, so it’s apropos. Beymer definitely got poor direction. Still better than turning him into a typical ‘50s leading man macho, but the softer portrayal certainly made his death feel random and undeserved.

Bonus: Not a clown take, but just wanted to add it anyway:

Even CinemaSins smelled a rat with the “Romeo rushing in to kill Tybalt out of recklessness.” Gentle reminder, once more, that it is indeed non-canonical. Even in an adaptation that stands on its own apart from the original material, it’s weak sauce.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Ricky Vaughn

(Not my gif)(Requested by @ageofthegeekbby )

(A little heads up: I’ve only watched the first movie so that’s what this is based off of)

- You and Ricky met when he first arrived at the field. You were hired as an assistant to the coach, you’d keep notes and files on the players and take calls while the coach was busy so you obviously came into contact with the players during the day.

- Ricky is an ...intimidating figure. He’s this brooding, mysterious guy with a hair pin temper; and a criminal record behind him. That being said, you couldn’t deny that he was attractive. Alternative, punky and a damn good player; he always caught your eye when you were out on the field.

- As a sort of protocol, you were introduced to everyone just before tryouts began. With that in mind, you had your first conversation with Ricky after one of the teams practices.

“Hey! Hey, you!” He’d called after you and you’d paused a bit nervously in your place.

“What uh-what do you have written for me in that book of yours?” He asked.

“I’m not really allowed to share that Mr. Vaughn.” You’d replied quietly.

“Well, can you ...can you just tell me if I’m getting the slip or not?” You looked at him and immediately saw the anxiety hidden behind his cool facade.

Taking pity on him you gave him his answer before walking off the field. “Not this week Mr. Vaughn.”

- After that, the two of you were still practically strangers to each other but you did share a few conversations and polite hellos every now and again. He felt like you were someone he could trust, someone that was one his side, regardless of the fact that you weren’t exactly friends. He liked you ...he liked you a lot.

- It was after another practice that his friends invited you out for a drink with them. When you showed up, you found that only Ricky was there and he seemed just as surprised at the fact that you were left alone together as you were.

- Regardless of the somewhat strange circumstances, the two of you shared a few drinks with each other. It was a bit awkward at first but you quickly found a subject you could both talk about.

- And talk you did! Hour after hour flew by before you checked your watch and realized how late it was. The two of you finished your drinks and began your trek outside.

- While you were walking back to your cars, he’d abruptly turned around and asked if you wanted to go out sometime, blurting it out before he backed out of asking. You smiled and agreed, writing down your number before saying goodnight and driving off, leaving him with a small grin spreading across his face.

- You have your first real date about a week or so later. The two of you go to a more quiet bar and grill as compared to the previous rowdy one you’d met at. He’s charming in his own rebellious type of way, interesting with a lot of crazy stories that you get to pull out of him. You both have chemistry and it’s obvious that you’re gonna see a lot more of each other after that.

- The two of you share your first kiss before one of his big games. Right before he was going to go out on the field, he’d pulled you in for a quick, rough, passionate kiss; as though kissing you would clear his head. And maybe it did, since he ended up winning that game for his team.

- From then on, you’re his little good luck charm.

- He likes Pda but that “macho man” sort of Pda. He wants to show people that you’re together; and just touch you in public, but he doesn’t want to look like a total wimp while doing it. 

- He’ll usually just keep his arm around your shoulders. 

- Kisses on the top of your head. 

- Quick kisses before he goes off to do something, usually playing on the field or going off with friends. 

- Passionate, rough kisses. 

- Intense and heated makeouts. 

- He enjoys cuddling when you do it but it’s not this necessary thing for him, if that makes sense. Whenever you do cuddle, he’ll usually be the big spoon or you’ll be in the “shingles” position. 

- He sort of loves it when you call him wild thing. There’s just something so much better about it when it’s coming from you; even if you’re sort of mocking him with it. 

- Half the time he absentmindedly calls you pet names but other times he uses them to tease you. He’ll usually call you things like Chickie, Princess, babe, and sweetheart. 

- He probably gets a tattoo of you or your name; or something specific about your relationship, after the two of you have been together for a while. 

- Sharing and swapping earrings with each other. 

- As much as he loves everything about you, he can’t deny that he finds it hot when you wear leather and dark clothing. You’ve never seen such a “I’m in love” look spread across a mans face in your life.

- He gets you this little skull necklace that has his name engraved in the back and it quickly becomes your favorite piece of jewelry.

- Whenever he doesn’t have to wear it, he’ll affectionately shove his hat onto your head. He thinks you look cute in it and it’s one of those moments that bystanders see and think to themselves “oh, so thats why they’re a couple”.

- Wearing his jackets. He’ll put them over your shoulders whenever he knows its cold; even if you insist that you’re fine.

- Helping him cut his hair. It doesn’t even matter if you somewhat mess up since being messy and haphazard is what he’s all about.

- Running your fingers through his hair. He likes it and it helps give him that “I just got out of bed and don’t give a shit what I look like” look.

- Carrying an extra pair of glasses for him. He appreciates when you say that you think he looks good in them considering he thinks he looks like a jackass half the time.

- Buying him books to read while he’s traveling with his team.

- Late night visits when he’s in town. 

- Attending as many of his games as you can. 

- He has your picture taped up in his locker at all times. Like I said: you’re his good luck charm.

- Hearing a lot of interesting stories, both about his criminal past and his baseball career. 

- Sometimes you’ll just be reminded that he was a felon. Like you’ll forget your keys somewhere and he’ll pick your lock, or hotwire you’re car, etc. 

- Being stopped on the street or just approached in public when you’re with him since he’s The Wild Thing.

- Getting close with Jake and Willie; they are responsible for the two of you going out with each other after all.

- Teasing each other. He can be a smartass when he wants to be but other times its adorably sweet.

- He has fun with you; pretty much, no matter what you do. He’s a man and you’re his girl, he’ll humor you and your interests and he’s fully willing to chew someone out if they try to give him shit for it.

- He’s not  really used to fancy restaurants; or fancy anything, so you tend to not go to them. He’s completely out of his element there so it’s probably easier on you to just choose more laid back places.

- He sort of just tails you silently whenever you bring him somewhere that isn’t his usual scene. You get your own personal living shadow for as long as you’re there.

- Horror movie dates. 

- Bar dates. 

- He probably buys a motorcycle; or already has one, so you’ll most likely take a few rides on that every now and again. 

- He can be surprisingly sweet with you when you’re upset. He’ll kneel down in front of you and take you by the arms or face, asking what's wrong and listening quietly as you tell him. He’ll comfort you no matter how stupid the issue is.

- Your parents either love or hate him; there is no in between when it comes to the wild thing.

- Trying to help keep his temper in check. 

- He tries to avoid things when he’s worried about them so you’ll occasionally have to give him a bit of a push and a pep talk.

- He always tries to keep his problems to himself. He doesn’t want to bother you with what's going on with him so he’ll usually just not tell you about them.

- He’s a very jealous person but not towards you, if that makes sense. Like he’ll get angry and want to fight with the guy rather than you whenever he does feel that way; especially if they know that you’re together.

- Overprotective. He’s immediately willing to fight someone for you; it’s how he shows his love.

“Want me to drag him out of here and kick the shit out of him?” He’s being completely serious.

- The two of you don’t have a lot of fights in your relationship but when you do, you’ll yell, curse, and borderline insult each other. He has some anger issues so he may throw things as well, but that’s usually after you’ve left.

- Whenever the two of you fight, he’ll usually go to drown his sorrows at the bar; that’s where you’ll pretty much always find him. He’ll apologize shyly whenever he has to and he’ll always easily forgive you when you have to; he doesn’t take things personally so he just sweeps whatever you may have said in anger under the rug.

- He’s only told you that he loves you a handful of times and each of them were during an important moment in your relationship/his life. He doesn’t take the phrase very lightly.

- He’ll never admit it but he definitely wants to have kids with you some day.

[haikyuuvbc]

Sick Daichi Headcanons with a Caring S.O.

- He tried so hard to avoid getting sick. He hates how he feels and he hates missing school because of practice, homework, and of course, he loves seeing you.

- But it was impossible

- He had succumbed to the stomach bug that had floated around the 3rd years over the last week

- Daichi texted you, his s.o., that he wouldn't be in class that day

- Like, of course you were worried! Your favorite captain was sick :(

- But, like a good student, you went to class and took extra good notes and gathered paperwork for Daichi with the intention on dropping it off at his house.

- If you have enough time, you stop by the pharmacy and pick up some medicine on your way to his house, too

- When you arrived, his parents greeted you and and directed you up to his bedroom, you went quickly

- He is totally the kind of guy to try to hold in the sickness (i.e. vomit, poop, snot) rather than let it come out because for some reason he thinks it can go away if he does.

- This does not work well for your boyfriend at all.

- Like most guys (at least in my life), Daichi was a little bit of a wimp about being sick, so he "let you" (really he wanted you to) baby him

- So you do. You sit on his bed, and he lays his head in your lap. You rub his stomach and talk about your day in a really soothing tone.

- Daichi lives for your fingers in his short hair - It's really endearing that this man who normally takes care of you is easily letting you take care of him and try to make him feel better.

- He knows that you want to help so he isn't going to pretend to be macho about it. He just wants you to hold him anyway.

- This is how you stay for another hour as he drifts in and out of consciousness. You were smart and made sure to have your phone or something to read in reach so you didn't have to bother him.

-Honestly, this is one of the moments you live for. You're sad that Daichi feels bad, but you haven't had many opportunities to see your boyfriend like this, so of course you'll take advantage of it.

     Daichi wakes up at about 8:30pm, first aware of your soft fingers carding through his hair. He hums at the feeling, startling you a bit, but only enough to earn a small smile from the young man in your lap. Your boyfriend groans as he shifts up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed so he can sit next to you.

     "Thanks for coming by, you definitely didn't have to," he says, breaking the relative silence. The sun has gone down and now the moonlight is streaming through the bedroom window but Daichi can clearly see you rolling your eyes. He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

     "I wanted to come. You would do the same if it was the other way around."

     "You're not wrong there."

     "Are you feeling better, though?"

     "I always feel good when you're with me." He pauses, and a tiny smirk grows on his face. "You know what would make me feel better?"

     "Hmm?"

     "Kissing it better?" For the second time, you roll your eyes. Pretending to think about it is easy, but you already know your answer.

     "And get sick myself? I'll have to pass, babe." He pouts a little bit but ultimately understands. You lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek as a bit of an appeasement. "I'll give you double the kisses when you get better, okay?"

Back to Full Masterlist

[snoozy-red-panda]

Idk how to say this well but. It seems to me the concept of "twink" occupies a really weird space. It’s of course a privileged ideal in many ways, in other ways, it's...not so much. If taken in its whole "twink" is not exactly the manly gender norm expected from society! It in many ways actually resembles the feminine ideal. Society expects both gay men and women to be small and hairless and looking like they might faint if they tried to join the army. If your response to the over saturation of "twinkdom" sounds like a description of every white male hero in a marvel movie, what are you really saying? Do you think that big men with lots of muscles, and just enough hair on their chest and face, are not already idealized as the straight male gender norm?

It's sort of a double edged sword where ideals/expectations of femininity and masculinity meet. Of course those expectations are heavily driven by fatphobia, ageism, racism, sexism, etc. But men aren't supposed to be trying to meet any of those expectations seen as feminine, they're supposed to be real men. Like skinny men have privilege of course. But they're supposed be effortlessly macho while being skinny, with no effort into their appearance, other than as a byproduct of strength and athleticism, which you are expected to have. No sissies or wimps are real men of course.

To be seen making a big deal about your appearance is seen as something for women, such as when sexism demands that women shave everything. But then men are expected to meet unattainable “twink” beauty standards by other gay men. But then people act like "twink" is idealized by society at large, even though in some ways it goes against expected gender roles. Even if society wants you to be skinny, cishetnormative society doesn't like you being a *twink*, because it is gay and "unmanly"... but within gay male circles, you're idealized to be that and sort of punished if you're not... I don't know if there's any good conclusion here tbh...

[five-rivers]

Mask

Danny slouched against the back wall of the ballroom, mask dangling from his fingers. He didn't want to be here. If his parents weren't out there having the time of their lives, he wouldn't be here, but someone had to keep an eye on them and keep them from getting sucked into whatever scheme Vlad had this time.

He sighed, tracking the bulk of his father across the dance floor. His mother was harder to see, but she was never far behind.

A masquerade ball. Really. Ancients, Vlad was so pretentious.

(Internally, Danny thought that a masquerade ball could be cool... except, well. Vlad.)

His mother briefly emerged from the crowd, caught his eye, and mimed putting on his mask. Apparently she was watching him, too. With a grumble, he put the mask back on. Vlad had given it to him, and although he couldn't see or feel anything wrong with it, he still felt that it was suspect.

"Did your parents make you come, too?"

Danny glanced over. A girl was standing a few feet away. Her dress was red and puffy, and her mask was golden. Her hair was done up in complicated braids. She was, perhaps, one or two years younger than he was, though it was hard to tell with the mask. She was certainly shorter than him.

The silhouette of her dress crumpled as she also slumped against the wall. "You'd think that a masked ball would be, you know, cool, but it's just a bunch of old people jumping around and trying to talk business with the 'great Vlad Masters.'"

"Ouch," said Danny. "At least my parents aren't trying to do that, I guess."

"Oh, yeah? What are they doing, then?" asked the girl.

"I honestly have no idea," said Danny, watching his parents gyrate across the floor again. "Dancing? You could call it dancing." He shrugged.

"Ah," said the girl. "My name's Ellie, by the way."

"Danny," said Danny. "Nice to meet you."

"Same. So, what do your parents do?"

"They're scientists," said Danny, not wanting to get into the whole 'ghost hunting' thing. This wasn't Amity Park. Most people didn't believe in ghosts.

Ellie bobbed her head. "Cool, cool. I kinda want to be a scientist. Like, finding out new things, it just sounds really awesome?"

"Yeah, it can be fun sometimes," said Danny. "I don't understand most of it, though." He rolled his shoulders. Actually, he understood a lot more of his parents' work than he let on, in some specific areas more than them, even. Admitting that wasn't wise, however. "What field are you interested."

"Astrophysics, definitely," said Ellie, firmly. "Space is the coolest thing."

Danny grinned. "Oh, yeah. There's just so much. I mean, have you ever looked at the Hubble Deep Fields?"

.

Two teens talking together and having a good time evidently had a magnetic property. Three other high school kids had come to join them, all boys.

One boy was very tall and broad. During their introduction, Danny reflected that if he was on Casper's football team, Dash wouldn't be the star player anymore. Unlike Dash, however, Dustin was quiet, barely speaking at all and always deferring to the others.

The second boy introduced himself as Damien, and he was also tall, but thin and skeletal, like a strong breeze would blow him away. He seemed to realize this, because he had a pair of small enamel pins on the lapel of his suit: a skeleton and a scarecrow.

The last, Dmitri, a redhead, was about the same size as Danny. He reminded Danny of Jazz, for some reason (clearly, her psychology-camp-induced absence was driving him a little crazy). And, less pleasantly, of Wes. He had... a lot of questions. Not quite to the point of being annoying, but still a lot. There was also something wrong with his mask. It was hard to tell, but it looked almost as if one eye of it had been filled in. Danny didn't want to mention it, and ruin the atmosphere, though.

There was an atmosphere. Shockingly enough, these kids liked him, and they were much cooler than Danny would have expected of kids who's parents had been invited by Vlad. Which, yeah, was maybe a weird prejudice on his part. His parents had been invited by Vlad, after all.

Danny liked them back.

"... and the names of the dark matter candidates, whoever thought them up was a genius," said Dmitri, waving his hands.

"Well, yeah," said Danny, grinning, "if they were allowed to pick the names, they probably were the ones to come up with the whole idea for it in the first place. But I think MACHOs might be more likely than WIMPs. You've heard about the exoplanets they found last year?" He let his eyes briefly lose focus. "I bet there are even more of them, that we just can't see yet."

"Yeah, but there have been a lot of tests for MACHOs," said Damien. "You'd think we'd have seen a least a couple. And what about dark energy?"

"I don't think those two are actually related," said Ellie.

"Sure they are. They both have the word dark in them."

"Yeah, but I don't think they actually have anything to do with each other," said Ellie.

"They just have similar names," said Dustin.

"We can look it up, later," said Dmitri.

"Speaking of related," said Danny, "how are you guys related?"

There was a pause. "How'd you know?" asked Ellie. "Like, I could understand if you could see our faces, but..."

Danny shrugged. "I don't know. It just... Felt that way?

"We're cousins," said Damien, leaning forward. His body language spoke of nerves.

Danny couldn't imagine why Damien would be nervous about that, but he probably had his reasons. Family drama, maybe. It wasn't Danny's place to ask, he was a stranger.

Even if he was rather wishing he wasn't. How often did he meet people who shared so many of his interests? Never.

(Well, they were mostly just talking about the one interest, space, but still. And Dustin had mentioned liking Dumpty Humpty.)

"That's cool," he said. He would have liked to have helped. Maybe he still could, somehow? He and his parents were going to be here for a few days.

If he focused, there was an aura of something being not quite right with the cousins. Nothing he could put his finger on, and nothing to do with them as people, but... something.

"Hey," said Ellie, "what do you say we raid the snack table? It can't all be super fancy stuff we can't name, can it? I mean, at least there's punch."

Danny followed Ellie's gaze to the refreshments table. When he'd been over there before, everything had been covered, and he hadn't felt like fighting his way back across the floor and potentially losing sight of his parents. He glanced at them now. They looked like they were having fun.

He lightly bit at his lower lip. He knew Vlad had to be up to something. Otherwise, why bother with all of this?

But... new friends... He liked friends, and Vlad was always up to something. Danny deserved to have a little fun now and again, even so.

"Sure," he said. "We can ruin our dinner."

Ellie snickered. "That's the spirit!" she said, patting Danny on the back and slipping past him.

He smirked at the pun, even if it was unintentional.

"Yeah, better do it now, before there's a punchline," said Dmitri. "Wouldn't want people to think we're in a joke."

Danny choked a little, trying to swallow a laugh.

"That was terrible. You're terrible," said Damien.

"Hey, our new friend seems to like it," said Ellie.

Danny's core did a little bounce when she said friend. He really did want to be friends. "What can I say," he said, shrugging. "Better a joke, than a fist?"

Dmitri smiled broadly. Damien groaned, arcing his long body back dramatically.

There wasn't a line for the punch, or even very many people around the snack table at all. What few people had been there moved off, glaring, when the five children descended on the table. He caught Ellie sticking her tongue out at a woman who was giving them a particularly dirty look.

They gathered cups of punch and piled tiny plates high with pastries before retreating to a nearby corner to resume their conversation.

Danny was having a harder time following it this time, though. He felt tired. Drained. A little overheated. He wasn't used to wearing this suit. He went back to refill his punch a few times.

Words started to blur together. The inside of his head felt staticky. But he also... really content... New friends... His core felt strange...

"Danny?" a hand on his shoulder made him flinch, which made him sway rather dangerously. "Are you okay?"

Danny blinked at Ellie. "I don't feel..." he mumbled. What? What didn't he feel?

"Did someone spike the punch?"

"There's a room back here, you can lie down."

"I'll go get Father, he'll know what to do."

He was gently guided out of the ballroom, most of his weight resting on Dustin. There was a reason he should stay in the ballroom, but he couldn't remember what it was. Was someone missing?

Wait, spike the punch? Was he drunk?

The thought was lost almost instantly. His core, and therefore his mind, was lost in delirium and delight. New friends! But they needed his help, there was something wrong with them. But he could help! So, everything was good, and he loved his new friends very much.

The place they took him to was darker and quieter than before. They laid him down on something soft and squishy, and he giggled, weakly. They were talking. They might have been talking to him, but he couldn't understand aaaaaaaaanything.

He was so happy, helping his new friends.

The light changed as the door to the room opened. Music and other noises from the party briefly grew in volume, and were muffled again as the door swung closed.

"Well, that was faster than expected."

Vlad's voice briefly pulled him back into lucidity, and he struggled to sit up before collapsing again. No, all his energy had to go to his friends. They needed it. No time for Vlad.

Still, he glared up at the older man as he leaned over him. There were two Vlads. Was that because he was seeing double, or because Vlad had split himself?

The question was answered as Vlad picked Danny up. Danny was distressingly limp. He couldn't redirect any energy to his muscles, and thinking was hard. There was a thunk, and one of the walls opened up, revealing a hidden staircase. Vlad carried Danny down, but that was okay, because his new friends came with them, and- Oh!

There was another new friend down here!

Danny's core reached out to his newest new friend.

.

He came back to himself with only the sensation that something was wrong wrong wrong. He jolted up, only to be stopped by a pressure across his chest and shoulders. He squinted, trying to see. His mask was gone, and the clothing he was in felt different, looser.

"What'd you do with'm?" he demanded.

"They're just in the next room, Daniel," said Vlad. "Calm down. I had no idea you'd get attached to them so quickly. I had a whole program for this week for you to get to know them."

"No," said Danny. He finally managed to get his eyes open. He was in Vlad's lab, lying on something padded. He'd been strapped down, and there were various IVs running into his arms. One of them was a lurid ectoplasmic green.

"No?"

"Won't calm down. What did you do to me?"

"Nothing."

"This isn't nothing." He finally managed to find Vlad with his eyes. The man was sitting almost behind him. It was difficult to bend his eyes to look that way.

"Oh, very well then. I increased the energy levels in your core, allowing you to wake up and us to have this lovely conversation. The rest, my dear boy, was all you. An instinctive reaction on the part of your core, although you, as usual, took it too far."

"What?"

Vlad walked around the tube, to a position where Danny could see him more easily. "This will require some explanation. I realize this situation isn't intuitive, to one such as yourself." Vlad waved a dismissive hand.

Danny scowled, but had the presence of mind to bite his tongue. He needed to know what was going on. He was beginning to suspect that Vlad had drugged him, put something in the food or punch that only affected ghosts and half ghosts, but he had a feeling that wasn't quite right.

"After you and Jasmine blew up my football field, I came to the conclusion that you would never accept me as a father," said Vlad, with the air of someone narrating a tragedy. "I was forced to reconsider my methods and goals. You see, Daniel, all I really wanted was to be loved."

In Danny's personal opinion, that was a load of crap. Vlad, more than anything else, wanted control, he wanted power.

""To be loved," continued Vlad, "and understood." He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "And who could understand me, but a fellow half ghost? So, I decided to make one."

"Wait, wait, hold up," said Danny, beyond horrified. "You made someone a half ghost? You killed someone?"

"What? No, don't be ridiculous, Daniel. I cloned you."

He pointed at something behind and to the left of Danny, and Danny craned his head back to see a tall, vertical tube full of ectoplasm. Inside floated a boy who looked just like Danny in Phantom form. The boy's eyes were closed, and there were tubes and wires connected to his body.

"That's just as bad. Oh my gosh, Vlad, you can't just clone people! Why didn't you clone yourself?"

Vlad's face twisted like he had just bitten into a lemon. "I had attempted to do so, initially, however, my ectoacne and other instabilities in my makeup precluded me from doing so. Cloning you was my only choice."

"We cured your ectoacne," said Danny.

"Yes. But I had already started this project. It did take time to grow your brother into maturity, Daniel. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, David was unstable."

"David?"

"The name given to him by your other siblings. Do keep up, Daniel."

"Other- You made more clones? Why?"

"I had done some research," said Vlad. "Into how ghosts normal reproduce and stabilize children. I discovered that family members, those ghosts with similar ectosignatures and core properties, play a major role in stabilizing and providing energy to newly formed ghosts. My ectosignature was too different from David's, but I thought that if I could just make one stable clone..." Vlad trailed off, the look in his eyes almost haunted. "I tried everything. A mix of your DNA and ectosignature and mine, extra DNA from your sister, your mother, even your father. Nothing worked!" Vlad threw his hands up, angrily. "They are all more stable, but none of them are completely stable!"

It took Vlad several seconds to calm down, during which Danny put a few more puzzle pieces together.

"Ellie and the others, they're all clones?" That hurt, for some reason. Did they like him at all, or were they only being nice to him because Vlad told them to.

"Yes," said Vlad. "Danielle is the most stable." He smoothed down the front of his lab coat.

"So, you need me to stabilize them. That's why you drugged me?"

"I didn't drug you Daniel. Your collapse was a surprising to me as it was to you. Based on my readings, I can only conclude that your core recognized Danielle, Dustin, Damien, and Dmitri as family, registered their instability, and attempted to rectify it by boosting your ectosignature and sending them energy. Unfortunately, the effort overwhelmed you. You are only a child yourself, and..." Vlad trailed off, almost sheepish, "it is my understanding that they process is usually undertaken by multiple adult family members, and with only one child at a time."

"Great," said Danny. "And you didn't plan for that to happen at all."

"I had believed that you would bond with them more slowly," said Vlad. "That your reaction wouldn't be so extreme."

"Well, it was," said Danny. "But they're stable now, right? So, you can let me go." He tugged against the restraints again. He hoped they were stable. He had heard his parents talk about what happened to destabilized ghosts.

"Sadly," said Vlad, sounding like he was gritting his teeth, "that is an incorrect assumption."

There was a long pause.

"I want to make a deal with you, Daniel," said Vlad.

"You- Are you asking me for help?" Not that Danny could refuse. For one, he was tied up, for another...

"I suppose. For my children. They are children, Daniel, and they will die if they aren't stabilized. Painfully. Perhaps not today, but within the month."

Danny's heart clenched, and his core shivered. Even if Ellie and the others had been tricking him, he didn't want them to die. He would do what Vlad asked, if it stabilized his... cousins.

He was going to go with cousins for now. Siblings felt a little too close at the moment, and 'clones' was sort of dehumanizing. They were the ones who had started it, calling each other cousins.

But even if he was going to cooperate with Vlad, that didn't mean he wasn't going to try to get as many concessions out of Vlad as possible. True, he wasn't going to get very many, Vlad was holding the cards in this game, but he still might be able to get something.

"What kind of deal?" he asked, cautiously.

"You cooperate with stabilizing the cores of my children," said Vlad, "and I will make sure your little town stays safe and protected. Fail to cooperate, and not only will Amity Park be exposed and helpless against any ridiculous poltergeist that comes through your parents' portal, but you will be unconscious. As demonstrated earlier, you do not need to be awake for your core to be at work."

Danny frowned. Apart from the threat (honestly, Vlad was borderline pathological) that was a pretty good deal. Heck, Danny wasn't even supposed to be back in Amity Park until the end of the week.

It was a good deal... too good.

"Exactly how long do you think it'll take, anyway?" he asked. "To stabilize all of them?"

"I don't know, Daniel, this hasn't ever been done before."

Danny scowled. He hated it when Vlad said his name with that supercilious tone of voice. "Fine. How long does it take with ghosts, Vlad? You said you researched it, didn't you?"

"The time varied based on a number of factors," said Vlad.

"It takes a long time, doesn't it?" asked Danny. "I want a cover story. One that doesn't make me disappearing for Ancients know how long my fault. I want to be able to talk to Sam, Tucker, and Jazz whenever I want. And I want to be able to veto anything too invasive or dangerous."

"You're hardly in a position to make demands."

Danny made a shrugging motion, hoping that Vlad wouldn't call his bluff.

"I can do the first," said Vlad, finally, "but if you want it to hold up, the second is impossible. The last is ridiculous. Cooperation means full cooperation, nothing less."

That was about what he had expected. "If I can't communicate with them, they'll just show up here, guns blazing. You know that."

"I think I can handle three human teenagers."

"Sure, but do you want to have to?"

Vlad frowned. "I will consider the merits of your suggestion," he said. "I'm impressed, actually. I didn't think you had it in you, to bargain with lives on the line." Danny swallowed to keep himself from gagging. "But in the meantime, do you agree to cooperate, or no?" He drummed his fingers on something Danny couldn't see.

Between Danny's Obsession, and what were apparently ghostly family bonding instincts, there really wasn't any way for him to say no. "Yes, fine, whatever. I'll cooperate. You can let me out of these things, now." He pulled at the restraints again.

"Oh, no," said Vlad, smiling, then moving out of Danny's line of sight. "Those are for your own protection. You see, your core isn't really mature enough to cope with sustaining five other cores, so we are going to have to significantly supplement your ectoenergy levels."

There was a small click, and the table Danny was on started moving backwards. After a few inches, it angled up, until it was vertical. Danny discovered that there were little platforms under his bare feet, and other supports to keep him upright in his new position. Directly to his left, floated the clone, David, in the glass tube. Danny's core seemed to strain in that direction. His eyelids fluttered.

Vlad walked back over and pulled something with two tubes attached to it from the space over Danny's head. "Open up," he said.

"Why?" asked Danny.

"This is a breathing mask," said Vlad. "It will supply you with oxygen and atomized ectoplasm at three times the levels generally available in the Ghost Zone. But this part," he tapped part of the mask that was fitted with something like a bite guard, "needs to go inside your mouth."

After a moment of hesitation, Danny opened his mouth, and Vlad inserted the breathing mask. Almost at once, Danny could tell the difference. The air coming through was just so much richer.

Vlad pressed the cup of the mask over Danny's mouth and nose and sealed the edges with tape.

"Now," Vlad said, as he began pulling other things from the ceiling and attaching them to Danny, "in a few minutes, I'm going to start giving you instructions. I want you to follow them. Cooperate, do you understand? The first thing I want to do is stabilize David enough that he is no longer dependent on the containment chamber to survive."

Danny was getting a bad feeling. Many of the wires Vlad was attaching to him mirrored wires attached to David. Vlad attached a few more wires, and inserted several needles. Danny tried to hiss at those, but the mask acted as an effective gag. Finally, Vlad inserted two small plugs into Danny's ears and stepped back, half smiling.

As Danny had almost expected, a curved glass barrier sprang from behind him and encircled him, trapping him in a chamber much like the one David occupied. Ectoplasm began to bubble up from below, from a source Danny couldn't see.

"You will be submerged shortly." Vlad's voice rang clear in the earbuds. "This will allow you to intake ectoplasm through your skin. You will also be in the same environment as David."

The ectoplasm hit the soles of Danny's feet, and he flinched. It was rising rapidly.

"Do try not to panic," said Vlad. "Now, I want you to focus on David."

It was at Danny's knees, now. He took a deep breath, reassuring himself that the mask was in place. He wasn't going to drown. He looked over at David. What did it even mean, to focus on him? Danny had no idea what he was like, not really. Like him, he guessed, but not?

"With your ghost sense, Daniel," said Vlad. "Not your eyes."

Danny scowled at him, trying to distract himself from the fact that the ectoplasm was up to his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to do... that. It wasn't something he normally did and had no idea how to go about it but-

Ah. Oh, there it was. There he was, Danny's new friend. That was easier than expected. Danny's core began to purr, some of the euphoria from earlier in the night returning.

The ectoplasm closed over his head.

"Good," said Vlad, his voice slightly warped. "It appears that you have connected. Now, I am going to stimulate and amplify that connection. I want you to stay focused."

Of course Danny would stay focused. He was helping his friend, wasn't he? He always stayed focused when it came to that.

Several of the places Vlad had attached wires began to tingle. His core jumped and he twitched. Everything briefly took on a very severe cast.

It was very hard to think, after that.

.

Vlad smiled at his readouts. Securing Daniel's cooperation beforehand had been worthwhile. Had he been struggling, it would have been difficult to establish the connection to this extent. David's energy and stability levels were increasing slowly but steadily. Despite the measure he was taking, Daniel's were dropping. Some of the data concerning his human half was less than ideal. That would be troublesome to deal with later on.

He took a moment to check in on his duplicate upstairs. The party was going well. Jack and Maddie hadn't noticed Daniel's absence yet. With luck, they wouldn't until the next morning.

Overall, tonight had been fruitful. With Daniel, he would be able to stabilize all five of the clones, and, perhaps, he would even be able to win over Daniel. He had seen the relaxed smile on his face when he had been with the clones. Vlad knew how powerful ghost instincts could be.

He stood up and walked over to the room where he had asked his children to wait. They should be told that their elder siblings would make a full recovery shortly.

[dastardlydandelion]

g isn’t for gun (edited)

 ao3 link 

content warnings: child abuse, blood, injury, character death

Billy’s back is against the wall in the garage, shelves of Susan’s gardening supples pressing painfully into his spine, taste of his father’s hand lingering in his mouth. The salty hint of the sweat from his open palm, the waxy residue of the polish he’d been using to clean his guns. They’re still here on the workbench, he was interrupted by a call from the school. Billy’s in trouble for truancy again. He’s skipped one too many days and he’s in trouble, and he can still taste the hand of his furious father as it balls into a fist and punches him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His father’s knuckles plow into his stomach  a second time and he could hate himself for the whiny-wimp-bitch noise punted from his throat.

“Do you like making me look like a jackass?” Neil demands. “I think you think you do!”

Billy raises his head and finds his mouth go dry at the thunderous, dangerous look on his father’s face. Any comebacks he had dissolve in his throat and he. He can’t.

“Leave my brother alone!”

Billy looks past his father. There’s Max in the middle of the garage, lily white complexion budding rose red with a roaring anger too big for her body. She’s petite as is and appears even more so in her baggy skater clothes of choice. Her fists are balled too, held up like she actually wants to hit something. That scares him for her sake, for what Billy dreads will happen if she actually dares to throw a tantrum in front of an already irate Neil.

“This doesn’t concern you, Maxine,” his father states clearly and coldly without even turning around.

“Get outta here,” Billy snaps in agreement, glowering pointed daggers.

Because he can picture it in detail so vivid it’s nauseating. Max’s throat in the crook of Neil’s elbow. Eyes flooding with tears as the pressure goes taut. Max coughing and coughing when Dad finally releases, if she isn’t out cold like Billy is sometimes, on the really bad days. Billy returns his attention to his fuming father. Max takes a couple steps back. That's going to be the end of her involvement. Good.

In a distant way Billy admires Max’s grit and yeah, okay, maybe it feels good that she gives a shit about him, but Billy’s private sentiments don’t compare to his fear. His stepsister needs to fuck off for her own safety. He looks back to his father, meeting and holding his gaze with steel. Billy prepares himself for more yelling, then the unmistakeable cock of a gun has them both freezing.

“I said leave him alone!” Max screeches like a falcon, M1911 stretched out in front of her, bluebell eyes burning in defiance.

Now Neil does whip around and for a moment he hesitates, just as taken aback as Billy. His mouth screws open and then his face hardens.

“I said get outta here!” Billy shouts so loud it rips his throat. Max is one goddamn gutsy firecracker and he’d be impressed by the act of rebellion if it wasn’t bound to get them both killed.

Max’s blazing eyes flicker over the blood at the corner of Billy’s mouth and she holds her ground. “No! I’m sick of living like we’re in a prison! I'm sick of living like we have to ask him permission just to fucking breathe!”

“Maxine, you put that down right now or you’re going to be in a world of trouble,” Neil warns, dark and seething.

She responds by pointing it at his head. Neil growls, lurching right toward her. Billy suddenly finds the ability to move. Quick as a viper, he darts in between them, pushing back against his father. For a moment he isn’t entirely sure exactly who he is protecting and then he realizes it’s both of them.

Billy is protecting Max in case she misses. He’s protecting Neil in case she doesn’t.

“Calm down, Dad! She’s fourteen, she doesn’t know what she’s doing!”

“That’s exactly why she needs to put it down!” Neil snarls right in his ear.

“Get outta here, Max!” Billy shouts for the second time, grinding his jaw as he struggles to restrain his infuriated father.

“You ungrateful little brat!“ Neil roars.

“Move, Billy!” Max shouts, finger on the trigger.

And Billy does move but not quite of his own accord. Neil swings an elbow and the next thing he knows, pain bursts through his face. Billy sees stars as his cheek radiates white-hot hurt. Stunned, his grip slips. He stumbles and hurriedly scrambles back between his father and his stepsister, pushing at him again daring to imagine the fight going in his favor, if only he could take Neil on the floor. Before Billy can go forward with the slapdash plan in his head, there’s a noise not particularly unlike a firecracker on the fourth of July. It almost matches the stars as they recede from his vision.

Neil drains pale and suddenly stops resisting. Billy looks back over his shoulder at his stepsister, actually sees the orange flare from the muzzle as she fires again. Giving a startled cry, Max swaggers sideways, arms jolting with the recoil she was all too clearly unprepared for. As far as Billy knows, this is Max’s first time shooting a gun and that one’s definitely too much for her. It’s Max’s first time shooting a gun she isn’t ready for and Billy— Billy realizes her aim, her accuracy, well, without any practice, it’s—

“It was an accident!” Max yips behind him, frantic, nearly as shrill as Susan in her distress. “Shit! Holy shit, Billy, you’re bleeding!”

Billy is struck with the realization of just how shoddy Max’s accuracy is as his efforts to restrain Neil turn into efforts to hold onto him so he doesn’t fall— so he can steady himself and remain upright. Neil doesn’t even push him away. He’s gone strangely silent, ghost white as Billy fists into the collar of his navy blue button-up.

“Yeah,” Billy mutters, vaguely annoyed as he blinks down at the egg sized exit wound cascading crimson into his favorite white muscle tank. The bullet tore right through the thin strap of the sleeve and the pristine white fabric thirstily soaks up all the blood that just keeps pouring. “You shot me.”

No way he’s salvaging this shirt. Strangely, it’s the shirt he’s more concerned about. It doesn’t hurt like Billy thinks it should. He feels like he got stung by a wasp. He watches connecting canals course down his arm, a small scale rain shower of ruby falling from his fingertips and pattering to the concrete. He just watches, numb, flabbergasted, not hurting like he believes he’s supposed to.

“Maxine, go open the truck passenger’s seat.” Neil commands, steely and stern but somehow the boiling rage of mere moments before receding to a different kind of exigency. “Now, hurry up!”

And for all her defiance just as recent, her palatable hate for their shared monster, Max immediately obeys. She slams her palm against the button to open the automatic garage door and limbo bends herself under the aluminum as soon as she can. Darts off, soles of her sneakers swiftly slapping the cement.

“Can I let go of you for a sec?” Neil urges. “Get you a towel?”

“Uh…no. No, sir.” Billy shakes his head. He thinks he’ll fall. He really does. His head is swimming and the bones in his legs are suddenly squishy as gelatin. He also doesn’t actually trust Neil not to go after Max.

“Come on, you can stand by yourself for a second,” Neil argues. “It’s just your shoulder, be a man.”

Against his better judgement, Billy lets Neil let go. The garage door is open now. Billy stares down the driveway and watches Max fling open the passenger door with the hand that isn’t holding the gun. She’s still holding it. Billy doesn’t understand why she’s still holding it but then Neil’s pressing a towel against his shoulder and now— now it does hurt, throbbing all the way to his back with the horrible and just plain bizarre sensation of something grinding like peppercorns beneath his torn flesh. Billy clamps his jaws around the scream in his throat.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Neil repeats with every step he shepherds Billy toward the truck. “You’re alright, we’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m really fucking bleeding,” Billy remarks and he’s not sure if he’s arguing or not, if he’s being contrary or simply making an observation.

Max is still there, wild eyed, M1911 foreboding and menacing and awkwardly large in her trembling hand.

“Put that back right now, Maxine,” Neil growls, practically shoving Billy in the passenger’s seat because apparently he’s not moving fast enough by himself. “Put that back and go to your room until your mother comes home!”  

Max takes a long look at Neil. Her eyes seem to shake in their sockets.

“I’m sorry, Billy!” she yelps and just like that, she spins on her heel and takes off down the block. As she pistons she picks up speed, legs pumping hard, arms swinging at her sides. She’s running away again. She’s run away before. Twice. This is the third time. Three strikes and she’s out. Billy’s stomach sinks with the dread.

Max is doing everything she shouldn’t be doing and he isn’t going to be able to protect her from the backlash. Not like this. Not this time.

“Maxine! Goddamn it!” Neil shakes a fist after her but makes no move to pursue. He’s still very pale. It makes the flecks of Billy’s blood on his face stand out that much more.

“I’m bleeding,” Billy reminds him and maybe that’s not what he’s supposed to say, not the tough thing to say, not the macho thing to say.

“Dad, there’s blood everywhere,” he continues and he’s trying to be calm. His voice is level and he tries not to sound like he wants to cry even though he kind of does and if he does, Neil’s going to taunt him all the way to the ER for being a pussy-baby-wimp-bitch-loser.

But Billy can’t lift his arm and there’s blood all over. His shirt is ruined and it’s in his jeans now, the towel in his hand has already soaked to the point of uselessness. His head is spinning and he’s terrified of what Neil is going to do to Max. Horrified at the prospect of being unable to do anything about it.

He doesn’t really get along with Susan but Max being spared the full force of Neil’s wrath is one of the few unspoken understandings that exists between them. But Billy isn’t going to be able to hold up his end of the bargain like this, he doesn’t think, or— or maybe. Maybe he can if he redirects Neil’s anger now. If he takes this opportunity to really get under his skin. It’s all that there’s left to do.

“This is all your fault,” Billy accuses when his father finally slides into the driver’s seat.

“Say again?” Neil seems distracted more than taken aback, clumsily fumbling with the keys.

“It’s your fault,” Billy repeats. “Max is just a kid, she didn’t know what she was doing.”

“Horse shit,” Neil growls. “You bet your ass that little brat knew exactly what she wanted to do.”

“Still your fault,” Billy challenges. “She’s right, we can’t even fucking breathe without your permission. You try to control everything…one of us was gonna do this eventually. If not Max then me. Or hell, maybe even Susan would’ve went Linda Couch on your ass.”

“Jesus H. Christ, I always knew you were an ungrateful son of a bitch, but to say something that disrespectful? After everything I’ve done for you, you'd say something like that?” Neil finally jams the key in the ignition, blinking like he’s dazed before he angrily starts the truck. He gives himself a shake as he guns it into the street, tires squealing. Houses blur past and turn into trees.

“Yeah, everything you’ve ever done for me,” Billy sneers. “Beat up my mom—“

“Hey, that whore slung her pussy every which way the wind blows! Hell, for all I know, you’re not even mine!”

“Oh, I’m yours, all right.” Billy rolls his eyes. He’s feeling woozy and his hands are wet and he’s kind of scared now, but not as scared of bleeding as he is scared of what Neil will do to Max if her fails to secure his father’s ire now. She’s in trouble either way, but Billy hopes he at least has a chance to mitigate the pain that’ll come her way if he can get Neil seeing red in his direction.

“Let’s keep going down the list of all the wonderful things you’ve done for me that I should be oh-so grateful for. Let's see, you broke my shit whenever I struck out at Little League practice—“

“You improve under pressure, Billy. That’s just who you are.”

“Broke my actual leg once, do you remember that? Back when I had my paper route?”

“…that was an accident...”

“Pfft. Barely.”

“You were kissing another man’s wife! What I did wasn’t half as bad as what he would’ve done if he’d been the one to catch you.”

Billy just rolls his eyes again. He could go on but Neil beats him to it.

“I fed you, I clothed you, I kept a roof over your head!”

“Right.” Billy huffs hotly, blinking as he lifts the towel to take a peek at his shoulder. “So like, the bare minimum.”

“Don’t get smart with me. You don’t have the faintest idea what it takes to be a parent. What it takes to be a fath—“ Neil breaks off, violently hacking into his hand.

Billy gapes at the saucer of red when Neil’s hand retracts from his mouth, the beads glistening in his facial hair.

“Whoa,” Billy gasps in realization. “Max shot you.”

“…yes.” Neil wipes his palm off on his jeans, shifts his eyes back to the road as he bitterly continues, “It’s a bullet, Billy, it had to go somewhere when it tore outta you. Bullets don’t pop like bubble soap.”

“Holy shit.” Billy has no idea how he didn’t notice. His father’s shirt is darker than his, but still. “Wait, should you be driving?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been shot, William.” Neil keeps his eyes ahead but he’s so pale he’s almost translucent and a foreboding feeling grows deep in the pit of Billy’s stomach.

“Oh, Jesus, not that again.” Billy cackles wildly and it hurts, it sends torturous throbs all down his arms and across his trunk. His ribs stick into him like he's made of mashed potatoes and he cackles maniacally anyway. “You and your stupid wounded warrior bullshit—“

“Don’t you dare insult my service!” Neil forms a fist and Billy knows he’s going to get hit but then his father’s coughing into the curled fingers instead and it sounds wet and he shouldn’t be driving. No way in hell should Neil be driving, they shouldn’t be on the road, this empty road with nothing but trees on either side as the seats soak up their blood.

“I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if you had a hundred purple hearts,” Billy taunts scornfully and he’s never, ever dared to say anything like this at all actually, but if he doesn’t now, he never will and he’s feeling as vindictive as he ever has. His heart is suddenly as light as his head. Above all, he finally feels free and isn't his freedom what Neil supposedly sacrificed for?

Fighting for his freedom, that generously noble thing Neil did that supposedly grants him this unalienable right to pull rank above everybody else?

“You're an asshole, Dad. And I bet you cling to that military bravado because you enjoyed shooting people. Wrap it up in all the red, white, and blue you want, you bastard. I see you, I know who you really are. You’re just some asshole who likes yourself best when you’re hurting other people.”

And even though he’s still coughing and there’s red spurting through his fingers, his father’s eyes meet his and Billy realizes he’s actually hurt him. For the first time in his life, possibly, he’s actually gotten in a dig that had an effect, made a profound impact. For the first time the pain in Neil’s eyes matches his own and Billy revels in it right until the moment they swerve off the road.

Metal crunches like stomping on a beer can. Billy pitches forward, seatbelt biting into him hard, wounded shoulder jarred as his teeth rattle. It happens so fast, the cacophony, the heart-pounding moment of impact.

The moment is. Then Neil is not.

Suddenly the truck’s in a ditch and Neil is undeniably dead, slumped forward in the seat. The horn blares continuously, uninterrupted and earsplitting under the slack weight of his forehead. Billy reaches over and clumsily pulls him off of it just to make it stop. The way Neil’s head lolls creeps him out and makes him want to puke at the same time.

“Yeah, you’re dead alright, you bastard,” he mumbles.

He closes the lids of his father’s blank eyes with a sweep of the hand and swallows against the sight of his own blood smearing across his face. He’s still bleeding. He’s probably dying too. What a fucking crapshoot.

Billy feels cheated. Action heroes on the big screen never die when they get shot in the shoulder. It’s always a flesh wound. But Billy supposes he’s never been the heroic type anyway.

His heart hammers, chest tightening as he realizes he’s graduated from frightened to flat-out fucking terrified. He’s bleeding all over and his injury throbs with a diabolical vengeance. He could be dying. For a moment he thinks maybe he’ll hold his dad’s hand because he’s dead now, and he can’t swat him off, and then Billy realizes how goddamn stupid that is.

“You’re an asshole and I’m not gonna die with you,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, getting his good hand on the door. He gets it open and half-hops-half-falls out of the truck.

Hitting the ground sends a torrent of torment ripping through his shoulder and Billy lets himself scream. Pulls himself up anyway, stumbles to the side of the road with his hand clamped over the bloody egg hole in his flesh, painful sensation of peppercorns grinding together beneath the meat. He wonders if he should just keep walking…if he can keep walking.

Billy’s definitely dizzy now and he feels like he might fall over again because he’s pretty unsteady, uncoordinated. It’s a little harder to breathe than it was a few minutes ago, he thinks. It’s like he can’t catch his breath and maybe that means he’s panicking even though he’s trying not to panic, panicking won’t help and Neil is dead. Neil is dead?

Yeah, Neil’s dead. Billy won’t die with him. He refuses. He at least needs to get away from the truck. If he’s gong to die, it’s going to be at least twenty feet away from his good for nothing, piece of shit father who just got exactly what he deserved. Fuck you, Dad, fuck you and your pretend patriotic freedom fighter bullshit.

Billy prides himself on knowing he hurt him. That their last conversation was one where he was the one to render Neil speechless. The lingering satisfaction gives Billy a boost he uses to push on a bit further. He’s swaying like a porch swing before he sinks to his knees in the grass.

Maybe he just needs a break. He’ll take a break. Catch his breath and then he’ll get up again and…

And walk to town?

Check himself into the ER?

Shit, he’s fucked. Billy is so, so fucked, and the pendulum swings and he’s freaking out again and trying to get up and he never ever should’ve let himself sink, he should’ve known better than to let himself go down because it’s so much harder to get up this time.

Billy wonders about Max. He wonders if she still has Neil’s gun, if she’s still running around with her finger on the trigger. He wonders if she knows she killed Neil. Wonders if she knows she killed Billy because she did, didn’t she?

He can’t get up.

He blames Neil more. Yeah, he blames Neil more. One of them was always going to do something, right?

Billy understands, of course he does, how many times had he thought about doing that himself? How many times had he brought the muzzle to his own mouth and jammed it against his teeth not to die, he didn’t (doesn’t!) want to die, just to get away from Neil.

He’s still thinking about Max when there are headlights and people here, people he knows, Nancy Wheeler and her smoking hot mom. Billy blinks at them blearily, wondering if they’re real. When they begin to pull him up, his ruined shoulder screams and the musky scent of Karen’s perfume wafts over his nose, and it’s all too vivid to be a dream.

“What happened?” Nancy asks, Karen asks. Alarmed. More than once.

“My dad’s dead but it’s not her fault,” Billy explains.

They must know this, if anything, they must know this. If he’s going to die in the backseat, Nancy pressing Karen’s hastily stripped leg warmers to his entrance and exit wounds, then it must be known that he doesn’t blame Max. Because if Billy doesn’t blame Max, then maybe the law won’t blame her either. Maybe somebody already called the cops because sure, some of their neighbors are geriatric and deaf as all hell, but there were two gunshots and a redheaded girl taking off like a bat outta hell with a gun in her hand, and none of it was inconspicuous.

“He made her do it,” Billy emphasizes.

Karen’s pushing the pedal to the metal and burning rubber like a NASCAR champion and god, if Billy didn’t want to roll around with her before— if he survives this, he’s definitely taking her to a motel —but that’s not the point. It’s Neil’s fault. He practically did make her do it. Force her hand because he was just like that and the pressure of living under him just did things to you, Billy knew better than anyone.

“He made her do it, it’s not her fault.”

“We got it,” Nancy promises, voice weirdly jittery considering she doesn’t particularly care for him at school. “We got it, okay? Maybe stop talking and just breathe?”

“Bossy,” Billy mutters.

It is getting harder to breathe. It’s like he can’t hold onto the oxygen long enough before it’s whooshing right out again. Billy doesn’t understand why. He isn’t shot in the chest, it’s his shoulder, just his stupid shoulder, it shouldn’t be screwing up his ability to breathe.

Only maybe being shot isn’t why he can’t breathe, maybe being scared is why he can’t breathe. Because he’s panicking, right? He’s panicking, remember?

Maybe he’s outright having a panic attack. He’s had them before. He tries to drown the memory of them down with whatever he can get his hands on, really. But now he is undeniably scared. Neil is dead and Billy is still fucking scared of what’s going to happen to Max. She has blood on her hands now and they’re not going to let her off the hook for something like that just because she’s a kid, are they?

It’s mostly Neil’s fault but it’s kind of Billy’s fault too.

Max picked up the gun because Neil was going at him. And Neil was going at him because Billy skipped school. But it’s not like following Neil’s rules was ever a guarantee anyway. Fuck it. Sometimes it helped, sure, but sometimes it didn’t do a damn thing, how the hell was Billy ever supposed to know the difference?

Nancy’s speaking to her mother with something urgent in her voice. Billy looks at her hands. Stares at the glaze of red staining her skin up to the wrists as she presses down desperately hard on the sodden leg warmer bundled over his shoulder.  He wishes someone would turn the heat on. It’s starting to get cold, which is weird, because the weather is warm and balmy today.

He feels himself drifting by the time they’re at the ER. He’s only rudimentarily aware of the transfer from the Wheelers’ car to the stretcher. His own legs quaking under his weight and other hands on him. He makes it onto the thing with help and then there’s a shit ton of people in his face. They’re mostly yakking at each other and not him, but there are a few questions fired in his direction.

Billy manages his name and phone number and repeats as much of the story he’s sticking to as he can. It wasn’t Max’s fault. Neil made her do it.

More or less, that’s the truth.

* * * 

Billy feels weird. Surreal and vaguely nauseous. The lady in scrubs is so short, she’s perhaps not even five feet. Stocky and rounded with pudge next to Susan who stands nearly six and lithe— not in the least because Neil always rode her ass about staying a trim, presentable trophy wife —it’s sort of like staring at a shetland pony beside a hanoverian horse. Billy doesn’t mean to say this out loud, but he thinks he does because after the thought concludes, Scrubs scowls and Susan pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I know equines,” he mumbles. “My mom took me to the fair…”

He remembers it. That big barn with metal box fans and a rainbow of ribbons next to the horse’s names on the stalls. Mom holding his hand steady and making sure he kept his fingers flat so they wouldn’t get chomped by the velvety lips seeking treats in his palm. He remembers the warm scents of hey and alfalfa swirling together, wafting up his nose, the horses’ tails like paintbrushes swatting at insects fluttering by.

“Billy, I know you’re groggy, but can you focus for me?” Susan asks, lowering her hand. “Please?”

Billy blinks at her, shrugs his shoulders— tries to, anyway. It prompts a spike of pain through the left and well, of course it does. He got shot. That’s right, Max shot him. Wow. He wets his lips with his tongue and glances down, tracing languid fingertips over the thick bandaging.

“Feels kinda heavy…” Billy wonders how many layers there are for it to feel this heavy, just how much gauze and batting separate his fingertips from his wounds.

“You had surgery, hon,” Scrubs explains gently. “We had to repair an arterial bleed and the bullet broke your scapula.”

“My spatula,” Billy agrees hazily, attempting to blow a low whistle that comes out as more of a rasp. “Whoa…shit, surgery? S’it serious?”

In theory, being shot sounds kind of badass. Neil always talked like a badass when he showed his scars off. But Billy’s stomach is sinking, worry already resurfacing from the murky lake of his mind.

“It could’ve been much worse.” Scrubs gives him a pat on his good shoulder Billy thinks is supposed to be reassuring. Her hands are unpleasantly clammy and he blinks dazed eyes against the touch.

“Billy, where is Maxine?” Susan prompts, worriedly nibbling her lip.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Billy defends, vehement. “She didn’t mean to. Neil…”

Neil’s dead.

That’s right, Neil is dead. Billy snapped at him. And then he died. And a few things happened in between that. He shouldn’t have been driving. Why didn’t he just call an ambulance instead?

“…it’s his fault.”

“But where did she go?” Susan asks, each word spoken slow, voice a mix of fear and frustration. “It’s been hours and she still hasn’t come home.”

“Hours?” Billy echoes, blinking rapidly. “What?”

Doesn’t feel like hours. Maybe like, one hour tops since he’s been here. They asked him questions. They gave him an oxygen mask he tried to fight off until he realized how much better it made breathing. He was cold. It wasn’t Max’s fault.

“Ma’am,” Scrubs interrupts. “Your son isn’t—“

“She’s not my mother,” Billy declares at the same time Susan corrects, “S-Stepson.”

They stare at each other for a moment and Susan anxiously rubs her hands together.

“Do you have any idea where Max went, Billy?” she pleads. “This is very important.”

“No…but it’s not her fault. She owes me a new shirt…but she didn’t mean it. Neil was scaring her, Max just…” Billy trails off, worried about saying too much. Who knows who’s listening.

Susan sighs softly and glances away, visibly uncomfortable.

“I’ll help you look for her,” he decides.  

It’ll be much better if he and Susan find Max before she gets picked up by a cop.

“Oh, um…don’t worry about it.” Susan shakes her head. “The Wheelers brought you in, I know she goes to school with their boy, um…I suppose I’ll start there.”

“I’ll help you,” Billy insists because he was there, so his input is going to be key in keeping Max out of trouble.

“That’s not necessary.” She gives him a dubious look.

“You don’t think I can?” Billy challenges. “Psh. M’not a wimp, Susan, s’just my…my spatula? Gimme five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”

He just needs to find his shoes, or something. New shirt. Shirt and shoes. No shirt, no shoes, no service.

“Alright then, Billy,” Susan concedes to him, never was much for arguing. Shares a look with Scrubs and runs a hand through her hair. “You take your five minutes. I’ll pull the car around.”

Billy bobs his head, glad for her cooperation. He’s out and around more than Susan is, he has a better mental map of the town and where Max hangs out. Not only is it better for Billy to find Max because he was there, but Susan is bound to find her faster with his geographical guidance. Billy might be a little banged up but he’s not some useless coma patient. Max needs him to help find her and say whatever he can to keep her free. Max freed them from Neil and Billy is going to make sure free is how she stays, that one snap decision she made scared won’t end in their household prison exchanged for a brick-and-mortar one.

Billy waits until Susan leaves the room to close his eyes. He isn’t going to sleep. He definitely isn’t. He swears to himself he won’t. He just needs a moment to collect himself. Only a minute or two, just to get his bearings…

[animebw]

Binge-Watching: Ore Monogatari, Episodes 7-9

In which we learn what it means for a man to be truly strong, friendship and romance are equally valued, and we even touch a bit on the meaning of life. This show is really fucking good, guys.

The Meaning of Strength

So hey, you know I talked about how Ore Monogatari was built with positive masculinity in the open friendship and emotions the male characters share? Well, that subtext has officially become text, because this show is literally All The Positive Messages(tm). In episode 7, Takeo gets roped into helping out the judo club at the expense of spending time with Yamato (”They’re groveling. There’s no way I can refuse.”). It’s presented as a classic dichotomy between doing Manly Things and being a softie for his gf. His eventual opponent on the dojo mat explicitly refers to Takeo’s love for Yamato as a weakness, proof that he isn’t “man” enough to be the best judo fighter. But all throughout the episode, we’re shown how Takeo doesn’t sacrifice anything by keeping Yamato in his mind. He keeps in touch with her over messages, he promises her that he’ll drop everything and come running if she ever gets lonely in his absence, he even calls her up the night before the match because he was lonely and wanted to hear her voice because he’s not ashamed to admit how much he cares for her. And when the day of the tournament comes and the macho judo guys start talking shit about her, he wards them off with a simple statement: “Girlfriends... are wonderful.” Takeo’s strength in the world of sports isn’t at odds with his love for Yamato; quite the opposite, in fact, they support each other. Knowing she’s watching helps him put his best effort in, triumphing over his opponent who thinks he’s too much of a wimp for having a girlfriend. This episode’s message essentially boils down to “Men openly caring for the women in their life makes them stronger than emotional repression.” Takeo is an emotional boy, someone who loves and commits and admires and appreciates and makes Yamato feel welcome in his world. And Ore Monogatari posits that doing so is a far greater strength for men to possess than the alternative. You love to see it.

The Power of Friendship

But it’s not just romantic love that Ore Monogatari posits as a strength; it’s platonic love as well. Often times in romance stories, the central romance will overshadow most of the friendships the characters share. But Takeo and Sunakawa’s friendship isn’t downplayed at all. In fact, the ultimate message of this stretch of episodes is pretty much that their friendship is as important as Takeo and Yamato’s romance. We learn that Takeo first met Suna when he was having a rough day related to his father’s medical troubles, and Takeo’s earnest buffoonery cheered him right up. Takeos been just as good to Suna as he is to Yamato, and Suna explicitly weighs their relationships as equal on multiple occasions. When he and Yamato talk about their mutual love of Takeo, Suna amusingly refers to Takeo as “the first guy for both of us.” And he promises Yamato not to worry about their relationship running dry, because ”I’ve been with him ten years, and I haven’t gotten bored of him yet.” Certainly those comparisons are bound to make the gay shippers happy (and I count myself among them: ot3 when), but what’s really lovely about these moments is how completely taken for granted they are. Suna’s friendship and Yamato’s romance are presented as on equal footing, both important relationships for Takeo that don’t need to overwhelm or compete with each other.

And that message gets explicit in episodes 8 and 9, where we find out that Suna’s father is going to have a critical operation on Yamato’s birthday, which Takeo promised to spend all with her. He’s understandably conflicted and wants to be there for Suna, but Suna doesn’t want to ruin his big day. He tells Takeo not to worry about him; go and have a great time with Yamato, I’ll be fine on my own. That’s sort of the undercurrent of a lot of things Suna says; don’t worry about me, I’m fine on my own. I can totally handle the pressures of life by myself. But it’s clear from the way his voice starts to crack with pain that he’s not okay. And dense as Takeo is, even he’s able to recognize how much his friend is hurting. So halfway through his wonderful birthday celebration with Yamato, he finally gives in and tells her he has to be there for Suna. As much as he loves her- and make no mistake, he loves her for all the world- Suna’s just as important to him. If his cherished friend is hurting, that’s just as important to him as if Yamato was hurting. And Yamato, god bless her, understands immediately, tells him to be there for his friend, and follows right after to be there for both of them. All of which culminates in an absolutely perfect inner monologue from Takeo to Suna: ”I don’t know what you want me to do, or what I should be doing. But you’re my friend. So I’ll stay with you.” There’s still a lot he doesn’t know about Suna, even after ten years together, but all that matters right now is that Suna’s important to him. And he cares just as deeply for him as a friend as he does for Yamato as his girlfriend. It’s a wonderful little arc, and the stoic Suna finally breaking down as he talks about how scared he feels brings the whole thing home perfectly.

The Beauty of Life

What’s doubly impressive about the Suna arc, however, is how as well as being a beautiful character study on the importance of friendship, it’s also a quiet rumination on the transience of life itself. Weaving in and out of the Yamato’s birthday plotline is Suna’s own feelings towards his sick father. His dad’s been living with a heart condition for a while, so Suna’s kind of braced for the bomb to drop at any moment. He tries to be prepared for the worst, but the thought of losing his father is still too difficult for him to process without a helping hand. Meanwhile, Takeo’s mom has another baby on the way, still sprightly despite her advancing age (”I’m 40, but I’m 22 on the inside.”) So for Takeo’s family, there’s a new life about to be born, whereas for Suna’s family, the specter of death is creeping ever closer. And the confluence of those contradicting ideas inspires some of Takeo’s deepest thoughts yet. So often, he feels grateful for the mere fact that Suna and Yamato are alive. The fact that they were born into this world is a blessing in and of itself. But someday, they will have to contend with the other end of that spectrum. Death is a fact of life, just as much as the sunset comes after the sunrise. Which means they owe it to each other to appreciate the time they have together all the more. That way, maybe the sunsets won’t seem quite so ominous anymore. It a beautifully understated bookend on an already amazing arc, and it amazes me how Ore Monogatari can manage to have such poignant, meaningful moral ruminations in the shadow of the goddamn ass tree. That, folks, is the mark of a truly great show.

Odds and Ends

-Madhouse is doing a damn fine job with this production, as usual. All the judo matches we see are fucking superb.

-kasjdhkasdhads why are you an ironing board

-”Being absorbed in thought is scary.” Lol, that’s a lot of scones.

-Sunakawa’s entire purpose in this anime is to prevent dumb shoujo misunderstandings by being sensible, and god bless him for it.

-Listen, half of my notes this session are just some version of “Jesus Christ, Yamato is fucking adorable.” How is she so good.

-”Oh man, talking is hard.” That feeling when you just want to talk for the sake of hearing the other person’s voice, holy fuck this is adorable.

-”What language was that?” These manga asides are a blessing.

-”To me, they look like you.” GOD DAMMIT MY CHEEKS HURT

-The thought of little Takeo throwing bowling balls like softballs is great.

-Oh my god he’s working at a gay cafe askjdhaskjdha

-”You were really good at picking out presents.” “What did I give you?” “Bugs and rock.” I love their friendship, man.

-She’s even cuter with her hair down what the fu

-Okay, now he’s just showing off for her and I am totally down for it.

-okay but why is his shirt projecting his thoughts

-”You’re our first customer who’s said it out loud.” Oh hey, I have diabetes now.

-”So a girl like Takeo would be best for you!” OT3 OT3 OT3 OT3

Aaaaah, my heart is full. See you next time!

[tangledbea]

i remember once seeing someone rant on tangled the series, and that person said that eugene was a wimp who is too emotional.... like where the HECK are you getting that? that's the exact opposite of him. he's a strong (physically and emotionally) character who barely talks about emotional stuff and when he does its stuff that any person would be logically be emotional about. like i understand not liking the way he is presented in the show sometimes but what do you mean by THAT argument?

I can’t claim to know the complaint you speak of, but Eugene is a really good example of a guy who’s not besodden with toxic masculinity. He’s private with his emotions, except when he chooses to be, yes, but he’s not afraid to feel them, he just does so privately. He doesn’t react to every situation with anger. He’s not afraid to tell his best friend he loves him, and he doesn’t think Rapunzel needs to hang off his arm at every moment and not be her own person. He supports her.

I don’t know what that person was talking about, either, but I gotta wonder what they think makes a strong man, because Eugene is strong in every way I can personally think of. He’s not muscle-bulgingly macho, but one-armed push ups, anyone? He climbed a 70-foot tower using almost nothing but upper body strength. He’s incredibly athletic.

I--

Whatever. That person was clearly wrong. (Not that they’re required to like him, but they’ve got the facts wrong.)

[kingofthewilderwest]

What do you think Evil!Httyd gang would be like? Like evil!Tuffnut and evil!Ruffnut and evil!Snotlout and the rest?

Ooooo I love thinking about this!

When I imagine evil! counterparts, I think it’s most interesting when you take the imperfect character traits they canonically have, and just… nudge them… further. That is, evil!Hiccup shouldn’t have any traits he doesn’t have in the canon franchise (or couldn’t grow from his starting point in canon). In slightly altered environments or circumstances, or with different choices, a character should be able to become their evil! counterpart.

Here’s what I think about evil!gang.

Hiccup: Hiccup’s easy for me to imagine. What’s interesting to consider is that Hiccup clearly has the potential to be a killer. There are several times (especially in the shows) in which Hiccup’s anger leads to violent desires or actions. He almost kills Alvin the Treacherous when he’s a tiny teenager, something around fifteen or sixteen years old. Imagine if he continued down that path!

RTTE!Hiccup particularly shows that Hiccup can brood, become frustrated, become snappish. If we get a brooding, frustrated, more dark-minded Hiccup who is willing to kill in necessary circumstances… welp. Evil boy complete. Instead of seeking merciful or peace-loving solutions, Hiccup believes it’s necessary to take dark actions to meet his goal. He won’t thwart Viggo’s crews by shooting their chains and breaking their traps. He’ll shoot the people. Problem solved… permanently. He’ll give in more quickly to his frustrations, his internal violent side. He won’t go berserk wild-violent or something… but his plans and his choices will have a more morally questionable spin.

Honestly… I love this vibe to Hiccup.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut: I think one thing we can use for evil!Thorston twins is to consider their violent side. Ruffnut and Tuffnut bond through rough, physical activity. They don’t mind being the victim of each other’s reckless violent behavior. But what if they instead found sweet satisfaction in harming others?

Snotlout: I could see lots of directions to take Snotlout, though I’m sold on none of them. Snotlout has a proud side in which he wants to appear like a tough, rough, callous macho man - in part because of how his father Spitelout views him. If Snotlout managed to become a more callous person (instead of learn to accept and embrace his softer side), he could quit acting on the internal cares and sensitivies we know he has. He’ll become hard and act according to the cold, violent, over-masculine type he thinks he should be. Basically: I think Snotlout has to snuff out his emotions, and once he does that, he can act according to a more selfish, braggy, callous side. Evil!Snotlout is about himself, and everyone else is a sad, pathetic wimp.

Astrid: Think of Astrid at her nastiest. She can be competitive, harsh, aggressive, snappish, confrontational, suspicious, and violent. She’s determined, she’s unrelenting, unstoppable. Warrior Astrid will reign supreme. The loving, sympathetic, good listener won’t be how she grew.

Fishlegs: Hooboy, this one is hard. I think where Fishlegs could mayyybe go “evil” is from one of two possibilities: 1). the pursuit of knowledge, or 2). a coward side resulting in him making compromising decisions to save himself. Neither of these sound exactly like him, though. Fishlegs loves learning, but he doesn’t sacrifice other things for it. And Fishlegs might have a nervous side, but we’ve also seen he can be a brave, bold protector. 

I think it’s important to consider that many of our choices come within context. Whether or not I’m evil isn’t always about my demeanor (am I cold or friendly? bitter or smiley?) as it is whether or not I’m making moral choices. Technically, every member of the gang could act exactly the same personality-wise, but be more evil in their decisions. With Fishlegs, maybe he gets pulled in because it’s the peer group he’s part of. His friends are making evil choices. He doesn’t have enough spine to stand up to the rest of his friends once they start going down darker paths, and once Fishlegs starts doing those bad actions too, that becomes the norm for him. His uncomfortable conscience eventually fades; it’s no longer as uncomfortable a choice as it used to be.

I’d love to hear if others have thoughts!