#all of the kids in my family grew up on these

[foldingfittedsheets]

There was this park near where I grew up. I remember we’d just moved to the area so I was around six and we drove past and saw this waterfront area. My parents decided to check it out so we went for a walk. It was a lovely park, there’s a lazy slough, lots of trees, extremely picturesque. My parents ambled along the trail enjoying the nature while my siblings and I ranged around in their orbit like excitable moons.

Then I saw something odd. Something vibrantly alive down by the water that was entirely the wrong color. I called back my vital scouting info and my family gathered around me. We looked down the steep verge toward the slough, screened by underbrush. We couldn’t quite make out what it was. The only thing we could agree was that it certainly wasn’t a duck. However it was about duck sized and roughly duck shaped. It just wasn’t a duck.

This led to some heated debate amongst my siblings and I but we were forbidden to scramble down the muddy hill to harass the mystery animal. Reluctantly we continued down the trail, speculating wildly when a chicken popped out of a bush in front of us with a train of several chicks.

We froze. The chicken did not. She placidly herded her little puffs across the trail, pecking happily for seeds, unbothered by our proximity. My family had not yet delved into farming and this was the first time any of us kids had seen a chicken up close. It was like a fairytale thing, a creature we had seen over and over in books was suddenly here in the wilderness of the park. We all realized the mystery creature had likewise been a chicken.

Another couple came up the trail and saw us staring.

“Is this your first time at the park?” They asked?

We nodded.

They informed us that this park had become a dumping ground for unwanted chickens. Once the chickens were dumped they were park property and the locals didn’t mind the eccentric additions at all. No one looked after the chickens, but they got on surprisingly well.

As the years went by we visited the park regularly. Signs were added to warn people not to dump off chickens or they’d be fined. They were also excluded from snatching the existing chickens. The hope was that the chickens would eventually run their course and the park would go back to normal.

It did not.

Instead the menagerie grew. Peacocks cropped up occasionally, turkeys; and one visit we saw guinea fowl. But there were always chickens. Eventually feed dispenser were installed so park goers could pay a quarter to enjoy the motley flocks.

Because we’d moved into a house with land my mom started up a chicken coop and we got our very own chickens at the feed store like proper folks. The first rooster we had was a gentleman, politely clucking at us when came into the coop, but the second proved troublesome a year later. He either adored or hated me. Every time I entered the coop he’d dance and flounce and brandish his spurs.

My mom didn’t want to off him frankly she didn’t know how at that point but his fascination ended with him flying at me and the rooster was sentenced to banishment.

We drove to the park.

We saw him there for years afterward, clucking dutifully around a small flock of hens. He did pretty well in exile.

Anyone who’s kept chickens knows that eventually there’s always a tragedy. Ours happened when a neighbors dog broke into our coop and slaughtered the flock. I was absolutely distraught, my lovingly hand reared chicks all decimated in a flurry of senseless bloodlust. I have not loved a chicken since. They are too fragile to bear it.

After a few days of mourning my mom offered that she knew where to find some more chickens. To make up for the massacre she planned a night raid with us. We stayed up past our bedtime and drove to the park with tarp covered kennels in the back of the truck.

We crept down along the gravel parking lot, looking up into the trees, spotting the telltale lumps of shadows that meant chickens. We quickly developed a strategy. We picked a chicken branch, creeping close underneath. Then we reached the end of the branch and gave it a good shake until the roosting chicken glided down to the ground in confusion. It was easy to scoop them up and we went home the proud new owner of a handsome flock of chickens.

The Take a Chicken Leave a Chicken park is still a beloved feature of its neighborhood to this day.

[faithshouseofchaos]

Hello! I came here to offer a request for Franco Colapinto (just an idea that popped in my mind, don't mind if you ignore it)

Basically, Franco wants to show the culture of Argentina to reader, and decides to do take them into a football match of Boca, his favourite team

Now, Boca's fans aren't exactly a calm fanbase, with lots of shouting chants, jumping, and many times you can see people with drums (bombos in spanish) and even fireworks some times

This part of me is now apart of you — Franco Colapinto x reader

Word count

Fluff

A/n— I hope I got it right

Tagged— @crispysoup318 @meeel-things @alex-wotton @bieberismysoulmate @dejavuontrack @barcelonaloverf1life @nominsgirl l @bluebluesoul l @chenlesbitxh @abq654 @sweate-r-weathe-r

The hum of the stadium was already electric as you walked hand in hand with Franco, his face alight with a kind of excitement you hadn’t seen before. “Bienvenidos a la Bombonera,” he said with a grin, spreading his arms as if he was welcoming you to his own home. The stands around you were packed with fans draped in blue and yellow, Boca Juniors’ colors, waving flags that rippled like waves under the stadium lights.

People of all ages surrounded you—families with young kids on their shoulders, groups of old friends with their arms around each other, and older men with well-worn Boca scarves, faces weathered by years of cheering for their team. Everywhere you looked, the fans wore Boca’s colors proudly, from jerseys to hats to scarves. They didn’t just look like a fanbase; they looked like a family, connected by something unspoken and deep.

“Just wait until the game starts,” Franco whispered, leaning close so you could hear him over the buzz. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

As the players entered the field, a roar rose from the crowd, powerful enough that you felt it vibrating in your chest. Franco joined in with a booming shout, raising his fist, while everyone around you chanted with a unified voice, the passion in their cries contagious. You watched as people leaped, jumped, some of them banging on bombos—massive drums—in a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the stadium.

Franco caught your expression—half amazed, half startled—and laughed, squeezing your hand. “Welcome to Boca,” he said, his eyes shining with pride. “Here, it’s more than football. It’s family, it’s life.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him, realizing how deeply this mattered to him. Before you could even respond, fireworks burst overhead, showering sparks as the chant around you grew louder, enveloping you both. You felt Franco’s arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close, his voice joining the chorus around you, and in that moment, you were part of the energy that pulsed through the Bombonera.

The match was in full swing, the ball moving swiftly from one end of the field to the other. Every time Boca’s players got close to the goal, the crowd roared, an ocean of voices swelling in hope and excitement.

Franco leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard over the noise. “See that player in the number ten jersey? That’s our best guy. Every Boca fan knows him. When he’s got the ball, we believe anything is possible.”

You nodded, watching the player weave through the opposition, and Franco’s fingers tapped excitedly on your shoulder. The anticipation in the air was almost tangible, and you felt it too, a strange kind of magic that seemed to wrap you up in the pulse of the crowd.

Then, out of nowhere, Boca scored.

The stadium exploded. People were hugging, cheering, some even crying with joy, and Franco was right there with them, his face lit up with pure exhilaration. He turned to you, grabbing your shoulders. “Did you feel that? This is what it means to be Boca. We fight, we celebrate, we believe with everything we have.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your voice lost in the wave of chants that rose around you. Franco’s eyes shone as he joined the chant, shouting along with the crowd. He nudged you gently. “This one is easy; I’ll teach you.”

He clapped in rhythm, saying the words slowly so you could follow. Before you knew it, you were chanting along, and Franco looked at you like you’d just joined him in something sacred. “There you go!” he laughed, pride clear in his voice. “You’re officially a Boca fan now.”

As the game went on, Franco pointed out every little thing, explaining traditions, telling you about famous goals scored in this very stadium, the times he’d stood right here as a kid with his family. “My dad used to bring me here,” he said, a nostalgic smile tugging at his lips. “He taught me everything about Boca. It’s like… passing down a piece of yourself, you know?”

The crowd around you started a chant that grew louder and louder, almost deafening. Franco’s face lit up as he joined in, his voice blending with thousands of others. He looked at you, eyes bright and full of pride. “This chant—this is one of the oldest. We sing it to remind everyone that Boca is forever. It’s not just a team; it’s in your blood, your heart.”

You watched him, feeling something warm and deep stirring inside you as you saw how much this all meant to him. “You really love this, don’t you?” you asked softly, taking in his face—his wide smile, the fire in his eyes, the way he seemed so completely at home here.

He nodded, voice steady but thick with emotion. “It’s hard to explain. Boca… it’s family. It’s a part of who I am. No matter where I go, I carry this with me.” He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “And now, I get to share it with you. That’s something I always wanted.”

The game continued, and as Boca kept pressing forward, the crowd’s energy only grew. People jumped in place, chanting with all their might. Franco turned to you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Ready to try something new?”

Before you could answer, he grabbed your hand and led you to the edge of the seats, right where the crowd was most intense. You both started jumping with everyone else, and Franco’s laughter was infectious. He held you close, his arm around your shoulders, guiding you through the motions and claps of each chant.

As the game neared its end, with Boca leading, Franco looked out over the field, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile that was both triumphant and serene. “There’s nothing like this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Moments like this, they remind you why you’re here. Why are you alive.”

You felt his fingers lace through yours, his grip strong and sure. The game was nearly over, but you sensed that, for Franco, this was just the beginning. He had let you into his world, one that ran deep with passion and history. And as the final whistle blew and the crowd erupted one last time, he leaned close, his voice warm in your ear.

“I hope you know now,” he said softly, his words barely audible over the chanting, “that this—this part of me—is yours, too.”

[fenharel-is-so-swell]

While I’m on my ✨Race in Thedas✨ rant let me just explain why the blending of Dalish and City Elves bothers me personally.

As I said previously, I’m mixed. I’m specifically black in the ‘descendants of enslaved people’ way. I grew up in a predominantly white area but finished out highschool in a diverse school with a high number of first gen African immigrants.

(I promise this is pertinent) My relationship with race has always been complex. I benefit from a proximity to whiteness due to being mixed, but I of course still experienced rampant racism and an identity crisis.

In elementary school we had to do a yearly genealogy project. In some ways, mine was easier than the few other black kids in my class. While their families were nearly untraceable past 2-3 generations, I could just focus my effort on my mother’s side. Though, I faced ridicule because OBVIOUSLY I wasn’t white, so obviously I couldn’t be German. While I may have shared DNA, I felt much less experientially connected to the ‘family tree’ I did my reports on because their lives could look nothing like mine. They walked through world without the color of their skin first. So, of course the next year when a culture week came up and we were encouraged to wear clothing representative of our heritage I went the other way—I asked my dad to buy me a dashiki. I still I faced ridicule and still it felt foreign. I had no cultural ties to the patterns, my family never wore them, I’d never heard of the foods we looked up that were mainstays on the Ivory Coast. I may have shared DNA, I may have shared racial trauma, but my culture was different. I was black I wasn’t African.

Playing dragon age origins as a City elf I saw myself for the first time. I saw a woman divorced from her original culture, ripped from her roots by an imperial force but still incredibly steeped in a rich world created by survival and painstaking effort to hold onto oral tradition and what blended history the alienages could. I saw my grandmother singing gospel on the weekends, the church ladies in their outfits, the greens, the pecan pie, the stories of struggle the community shared, the village it took to raise all my cousins and get our older family and friends through chemo and childloss and hard financial times. In hearing about different alienages I saw the distinct cultural differences between Harlem, Oakland, Birmingham, Houston, Atlanta.

Playing as a Dalish elf I saw a facet of the African-Immigrant experience I came to know in high school from my friends who immigrated. I saw the culture more closely connected to the various countries they came from, but still scared by the vestiges of imperialism and colonialism. They were all unique, just as Dalish clans are. My Nigerian friends ate different food, had different rules, wore different clothes, had different cultural practices than my Kenyan or Nigerian friends. I had a couple of North African friends from Morrocco and Egypt that still felt grounded in the history of Africa but were so different. I saw the physical differences in them like I saw them in further DA entires in the Dalish from Antiva or elves from Tevinter.

(And better yet to see this dichotomy in culture I didn’t have to face more trauma porn on black bodies)

As I continued digging into elven cultures in southern Thedas I saw even more complexities of the diaspora that matched my experience. They way both city and Dalish elves looked down upon each other one for ‘assimilation’ and being ‘weak’. The other for holding on to ‘strange’ cultural practices and being ‘primitive’.

Growing up at a crossroads of many racial and cultural experiences I relished in the nuance, the way both cultures were painted as a people just trying to survive and hold onto themselves. A people distinct and resilient, a people not too unlike from each other and while aloof still marginally less wary in solidarity. They were both full of individuals that interacted so vibrantly with the world and life they lived in.

Flattening that in Veilguard initially devastated me, then enraged me. That’s not just poor writing, that’s borderline racist. It indicates that the differences don’t matter, the pain, the struggle, the culture, the history none of it matters because ‘an elf is just an elf’ at the end of the day. And that’s fucking gross.

[alexanderwales]

When I was nine years old, my grandfather died.

He was a life long smoker, and lung cancer got him. He died slowly in a hospital bed that had been brought into their house, and we made the trip so South Dakota as a family to watch him die.

He couldn't move on his own. He was weak and wasting away, and they needed to periodically turn him so he wouldn't get bed sores. I had never heard of bed sores before that, and I was scared of them, of the mere concept that someone could be so immobilized that their body would start to ache. His skin was thin and translucent, showing every liver spot and wrinkle in bold, and his eyes were sunken in. There was a smell of death and disinfectant in the house, warring for my nostrils.

My parents were going through a divorce at the time, so my dad wasn't with us. My grandfather, on his deathbed, told me that he wanted me to change my last name to be my mother's. It was important to him. He was leaning forward, using his limited strength to be emphatic, dry mouth forming the words.

It's kind of a fucked up deathbed request. I didn't end up doing it, mostly because I was nine, and as I grew older I started to resent the request, which had sat very heavy with me when I was little.

His sons built his coffin in the driveway. My grandfather was a woodworker, among other things, and it was their way of honoring him, but they also argued during the course of the building, and I didn't like the sounds of the power tools or the nails being driven in. It was a very plain coffin, I remember, and I always wondered where the idea to make it using his tools, in the driveway had come from. Symbolically, I guess there's something there, building the vessel of death, but at the time it just felt really off-putting and morbid.

My aunt was a doctor, and she was doing most of the work of taking care of him, helping to rotate his body, double-checking the medications, making sure that he was as comfortable as he could be.

But my grandfather made her a deathbed request to her too, and it was that she kill him. That's a lot to ask from your own child, and moreso because she could have lost her ability to practice medicine if anyone found out, but I also thought ... I don't know, that someone else should have done it? He was in pain, and not always lucid, but he'd made his request, and we were all waiting on him to die.

And so I thought, at nine years old, that I would do it, find some way to grant at least that wish, to end his suffering.

I didn't end up doing that either, because I was little.

I didn't know my grandfather all that well, because he died when I was young. We built a wooden toy together when I was seven, before he'd gotten so sick, and he gave me some wood carving tools that I never used. He had been a farmer before he lost the farm, and losing that farm was one of those things that echoed through my mom's childhood, but I don't remember him ever talking about it. He was a conscientious objector in World War II, because he was a Mennonite, but unlike my other grandfather, I don't remember him every telling me any stories about it.

I think overall it's good to let kids know that people die, to not shield them from it completely, but I don't think I endorse putting a child that close to death, not for so much time, or at least not a child like me.

(If you've read some of my fiction, you might recognize this as a very similar to something Juniper says in Worth the Candle, and yes, that part of the book, like many others, is roughly autobiographical.)

[crypt-void]

i saw in ur therianthropy day that you have a pack!! could i ask how you went about finding them?

They're just my irl friends :]

I got really lucky with my girlfriend also being an alterhuman. I grew up in a small town where every alternative kid just clung to one another. My group doesn't really call itself a pack, but I see them as my pack. We're like a family. We talk to each other all the time. They don't mind when I act dogish and even join me at times (hence the howling at the moon comment). It also helps that we have a weekly hangout where I can crowd them into my home and just watch over them while they relax. It itches my dog brain just right.

I think community is everything. So if you're looking for a pack, or at least something you consider a pack and you dont want to look online, focus on that. Only one other person in mine is an alterhuman. The rest are humans. Focus on finding people you can be your most authentic self around and encourage them to be themselves. It doesn't have to be a big group. Some packs are just made out of a wolf and their mate. It can just be you and someone you care about.

The most important part of having a pack to me is respect and support. It does wonders for my mental health and gives me so much species euphoria to have such a good support system.

So if you can find some folks in your area who you can trust, and who even if you don't say it explicitly still accept your identity with all of its traits, I think you've got yourself a pack :]

Anyways! A pack is different for everyone, so if you are looking for a pack made up of alterhumans, this post may not have helped, lol. But I hope maybe it gave you something.

[lightlycareless]

Do you think Naoya and his brothers feel a slight resentment in the change of Naobito’s behavior towards Naohime when compared to raising them? While Naobito is certainly not Grandpa of the Year, I’m sure his behavior is a significant improvement to how he raised his own. So I’m curious if they’d hold some anger towards him or Naohime(I doubt Naoya would but I think he’s feelings might be complicated) since it shows Naobito had the capability to be better but wasn’t? Or do they think that Naohime is just a Naobito whisperer Lol

Now isn’t this an interesting ask? This is a can of worms I feared opening because it might put some of Naoya’s relatives in a bad light but hey, that’s just how some families work haha.

Anyways, I won’t say much here, everything will be either on the actual post or afterwards :> I hope you enjoy my analysis of the situation!!

Warnings: none. Difficult family dynamics.

I would love to say that all of the Nao-siblings are responsible, mature adults when it comes to their feelings but let's be real, when Naohime comes along that’s when the real issues with their nephews begin.

Sure, they always considered them to be quite spoiled from Naoya’s willingness to give them whatever they want, followed by having an actual mother that cares for them, to finally, how they don’t seem to go through the same suffering they did when growing up around people like the Zen’in. (You defend them, Naoya is somewhat softer when training them, etc)

They don’t like the whole dynamic around your family…

BUT Naohime just takes it to a whole ‘nother level. At the intervention of Naobito, they finally realize that what they felt upon seeing your family… might’ve been akin to jealousy. It’s just that Naoya gets to experience that as well this time around.

However, the worst part of it is that nobody really expresses their sentiments, so they kind of just continue to grow bottled up inside them—and you don’t blame them. It’s the first time they get to see Naobito being… well, an actual human being and not the monster they grew up to fear and avoid, so they just don’t know how to process it.

Naofumi kind of gives you hints about their current turmoil, or at least that what affects those present at the estate—I dare say Naosuke and Naohito couldn’t care less about this because they’ve moved on, really. They’re rarely home anyways. And truth to be told, when they’re told about Naobito’s and Naohime’s relationship, they don’t really believe it— but outside of that, he’s used to never being up to anyone’s expectations so there’s no difference now :’(.

Naohiko is very vocal about it too, always complaining about how the old man “now has a heart” and how “ridiculous he looks” acting like that. He blames it to old age, that he’s growing senile, or he’s finally lost it, but…. Well, he won’t do anything outside that. Like Naofumi, he’s accustomed to never being to anyone’s expectations. Dare say, he probably has children too at this point, so he can’t bother himself to care about other kids that aren’t his.

Naoaki and Naoya though… they take it the worst.

Naoya is conflicted in the sense that he’s happy that finally one of his kids appear to be of his father’s approval (he’ll never admit it, but he’s unfortunately cursed to always seek his approval, one way or the other.) it’s just that… he never expected to see that kind of behavior coming from him. For the longest time, he believed it was too ingrained in Naobito’s DNA to be evil… alongside the eternal questioning of “what does Naohime have that I don’t to earn that kind of treatment?”

He eventually overcomes this when Naohime reassures him of being the best father ever (it’s a type of “Father adores Naohime, but Naohime adores me, so take that!!), because to him being a good father is much more important than being a good son (at least to someone like Naobito.) and besides, to compare himself to Naobito is… his worst nightmare haha. But all possible thanks to your and the kid’s support ♥️.

Naoaki… yeah, he’s the worst. He effectively hates Naohime, unjustifiably, but he couldn’t hate Naobito more so he has to take it out somehow, you know?

Now, he won’t do anything outrageous, but… he’ll try to diminish her achievements, make her feel guilty about what she does or doesn’t do, and most importantly, project his own insecurities onto her, like comparing her to her siblings. Naoaki genuinely believes she doesn’t deserve all that she gets, thinks that he's worked harder and such. Kind of a “I spent my whole life training to try to appease my father, and this kid is just born and suddenly she’s all he’s ever wanted?”

But by that point Naoya is the leader of the clan so if anything happens he’ll make sure to take the necessary measures to protect his family, though I think that Naoaki would rather live anywhere else than be under the control of his brother. So, kind of like Naosuke and Naohito.

Naohime is quite a spoiled kid, but nonetheless, she’s equally loved by you and Naoya, and Naobito, it seems haha. You really did come to change the Zen’in estate for good 😭😂.

TLDR: Naoya is a bit conflicted but eventually surpasses this situation because he loves Naohime too much to let such petty things bother him. (It took YEARS to get this mature version of Naoya OOF worth it) Naoaki already disliked everything that had to do with you and Naoya so now this is just— great lol. He’ll avoid Naohime most of the time… unless Naobito inspires her to mock him 💀

There you have it :> what I believe their thoughts would be regarding Naohime’s odd relationship with Naobito. They for sure think she’s some kind of Naobito-whisperer lol and those bold enough might use that to their advantage (like get favors and such, very bad influences indeed) but I also believe it doesn’t really matter since I envision that by the time she’s around Naoya is effectively clan leader. It’s a miracle that Naobito is still around by that point lol.

I hope you enjoyed my short analysis, and you don’t know how happy it makes me to read that y’all are interested in my other characters 😭!!!! It’s the highest compliment I could get, so thank you so much for sending in this ask 🥺♥️

Take care and hope to see you soon!!

[cons-and-constellations]

**No one needs to respond to this, i treat my blog like a personal journal, nothing I say is an attack in any way**

I think this is a difficult conversation to have. And articulating is difficult. As someone who grew up EXTREMELY poor, around other poor people, some poors dont know WHEN to stop having kids. And when I say that, I mean they keep trying for more, without having thought ahead on how to support those kids, leading to an unhealthy home life situation. Ive also seen poor people have kids and provide for them in such a way that the kids dont know how poor they are. Im not going to be discussing accidental pregnancy bc there are too many variables there.

So I see what OP was trying to say. They didnt mean “poor people can’t have kids” they meant “poor people need to have a serious look at the resources they have to decide if they should have kids and know their limit”. A poor person CAN have kids, be a GOOD parent, AND ask for help/need help.

We Should eliminate poverty because that would ensure that families have all the resources required to raise their kids. But we also need to define what that help would look like, because it isn’t just giving people 2+ grand a month and calling it a day. Eliminating poverty is about meeting people where they are at. ✨poverty is a spectrum✨ (meaning that some people going to need more help than others, and that eliminating poverty is not going to be a simple fix.)

For some, eliminating their poverty would start with getting addiction help, whether thats rehab, support group, or other assistance.

Some people just need childcare. Literally, they have a job that pays well, but not enough for quality, RELIABLE, childcare.

A lot of people just need a stable housing situation. Not like a shelter, I mean like an apartment with a front door that locks where they can LIVE.

Most people need food, so free markets with actual quality food, that are open early and late hours so those people that have odd hour jobs can get groceries.

We also need healthcare, so free insurance that ACTUALLY covers things like insulin, surgeries, mobility aids, DENTAL CARE etc. that doesn’t have 1 million hoops to jump thru. I literally don’t have insurance rn bc of the hoops i gotta jump thru.

We have a lot of these services in place already, they just need revamping. They need more funding, more space, more qualified employees, to DO the work.

And we need rich people to stop bitching about warming centers and abortions.

So yes, you should be financially stable to have kids. But financial stability doesn’t equal rich, and it doesn’t happen without help.

My first time dealing with these people and it was in highschool

[stil-lindigo]

ashes to ashes.

a short comic about the day Ash was born.

Ash's story

Red and Wolf's story

notes:

--

all my other comics

store

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: trauma / ptsd / violence / brainwashing / ]

I’m not done talking about Raph and Leo yet because you know what kills me? How the beginning of the movie with Raph very angry at Leo to the point of lashing out at him is paralleled with how the end of the movie has the Krang very, very angry at Leo and beating him horrifically.

Both Raph and the Krang are so much bigger than Leo, both have been very angry with him, and both deem him responsible for ruining their respective missions.

To make matters worse, Raph’s body was used to hurt Leo. So it’d make sense for Leo to just…flinch, sometimes. To have his body reflectively brace for a blow that will not come because Raph would see this and just be horrified. Their fights, their roughhousing, their existing together all have a newfound and unwanted extra layer to them.

And Raph? Raph is traumatized enough having been brainwashed the way he was, turned into a monster in a way he always dreads in general. To be made into the antithesis of a hero and instead be a villain’s pawn, made to hurt his own family…poor kid, to say the least.

Can’t imagine what it must feel like, the first time post invasion that Raph gets mad at Leo and they fall into their old dynamic only for Leo to see the Krang and for Raph to feel like he is the Krang.

[kinokoshoujoart]

the coolest kids in forgotten valley!!☆

(…it seems there may have been a stretch of time where rock and lumina were the only kids in forgotten valley…🥲)

poseref

[milolunde]

We all know Timmy is Wanda’s mama’s boy but we need to keep in mind he’s still Cosmo’s kid too and that Cosmo would love him just as vehemently as Wanda

[laugtherhyena]

3:23AM, time to post Hatamori fankid and retreat back into my hiding hole

[renlyslittlerose]

Me trying desperately to remember all I learned about Catholicism in a class I took on the Reformation over a decade ago so I can write some filthy priest obikin smut for @veloursdor

[rainingincale]

since you are still awake anyways did you get around to doing your garden thing? & if so how was it what did tou get up to :)

... i didnt end up doing it 🤣😭 i was simply too sleepy and then suddenly it was dark shsvfhdh i am planning to do it tomorrow but I really do not imagine I will be able to 😔

[soft-crimson]

.

[tzufcallsmeshomps]

Just found out I've lost another childhood friend to the war, the younger brother of my classmate. I'm at a loss... I don't know if my parents know too, they were really really close with his parents. I'm afraid to tell them. I'm afraid of them telling me. I have no one on the outside to ask how to handle this... Everyone's even closer to the pain than me. I don't want to trauma dump on internet friends out of the blue. I just don't know what to do.