#this shit sounds so fucked up lol

[no-te-lo-voy-a-dar]

im just,,so tired these days, i need to see my work and effort have results, i need to be able of feeling proud over myself, but I wasn't even taught to, it's just one thing over to the next thing, I'm tired of trying to start taking care of my mom alone when her husband doesn't i want to actually be able of using my money for myself not pitching in for things that need fixing on this house that my father let crumble

I don't even know if this house will belong to my siblings and I over time

i want trinkets, and posters, and not feel like my whole life fits in half a room because I get panicky over having to choose if I can even fit a cute lamp somewhere on the space that's supposedly mine, I want to be able of having a proper desk, a proper chair that doesn't fuck up my back I want to have a speaker for music and be able of playing it without worrying I'll make someone mad for not listening to them, I don't want to have to pick between a lab test and a tastier meal for that week, I don't want to have to choose if walking back home is worth the dehydration than spending more money on bottled water and arriving home to arguments

im just so incredibly tired, of my chest aching for comfort of a kind I don't think I'll ever get, of a kind of peace in life I see other friends achieve and while I'm happy for them not being able of getting rid of the ugly feeling of jealousy and the desperate crying of "why not me?"

Im Safe, and I don't even have the energy to do that, because I don't want my handful of friends to go through that kind of loss, but I just want to matter enough for just being, knowing that if something happened to me the care I receive is not conditional and that it doesn't make me feel like a burden like when my mom was taking care of me post top surgery and her and my dad argued a lot over her "spending so much time" taking care of me?

i want to leave the guilt I feel over being an awful sibling to my two younger ones, I u feel I never protected them as I should, and that we are clashing so much rn due the requirements of living with our parents that I'm still not doing good by them, that I'm hurting then just as badly, but I'm tired and frustrated and I just don't want to talk in general to anyone for a couple of days irl but o can't because I live with people and there's the good times of course, and nice details but it feels we're playing house, not even family, just playing house and I just, want to sob my soul out but I don't even have a space to do that

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[spaceistheplaceart]

havin fun with this bastard

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Well, at least Fukuzawa got his wish granted, I guess.... he's finally inside Fukuchi <3

[lightbulb-warning]

i used to freehand comics all the time as a child and since the part i liked was the drawing part i would just draw panel after panel because i didn't want to stop drawing to think about icky icky words, plus the story TOTALLY still made perfect sense! to me! and noone else, but 'whoooo caaaaares omgggg its not like comics and sequantial art are a communicative meeediummmm lmaoooooo'. i spent my entire childhood telling myself stuff like "oh pfft I know this story by heart- ill SIMPLY remember the dialogue and write it later" ...and. I can't help but admire baby maiora's (call that a minora ba tm tsk) fucking audacity? hubris? confident wrongness? kid couldn't even remember to finish the comics in the first place? INCREDIBLE levels of unearned self assurance, wish that were me, genuinely- what an icon!!! anyway i think i have forever cursed myself

[the-spooky-children]

Can't stop thinking about unhealthy co-dependent teen!fireskulls..

[wherenymphsroam]

can we . stop making commenting on people’s weights. like just in general please

[foreverxdaydreaming]

x

[djevelbl]

Ok. I now understand what that one person here was saying about doctors treating their patients with a clinical consideration (or lack thereof) that seems to be particular to the profession — or I now understand it more... personally, I guess. So I'm at the dentist (or whatever the specific type of doctor, idk about doctor pokemon types dude they're all the same to me) bc they had to put something on a badly decayed/fucked up tooth (hello bilingualism, how I loathe not knowing how to communicate properly) and she starts cleaning it bc of my, admittedly, bad dental habits

This is where the fucked up thing comes in: she notices that I'm tensing up and clenching the armrests on my grasp real tightly; I have this thing where if I'm grabbing onto an armrest and I'm scared/in pain/deeply uncomfortable I'll dig my index and middle fingers into it, the others circling around it — kinda like how you'd measure someone's pulse on their wrist, but I'm instead trying to strangle the shit out of an inanimate object. So she decides to inject some anesthesia on the general area so she can work better and I'm calmer — situation resolved!

Except, it doesn't work.

I've had problems with dental-related anesthesia in the past — I had to get my wisdom teeth removed and let me tell you, even if I didn't feel the pain that didn't mean I wasn't feeling it; I can only assume what I felt was discomfort, some sort of sensibility or something like that, but trust me, that operation was hell on Earth and I hated every second of it. Coming back to the present, I felt. Every. Fucking. Time her shooty mc watergun thing came anywhere close to my fucked up tooth — she had to clean around it? I felt it. She had to clean within it? Yep, I felt it. She moved the instrument around and it just so happen to soot water into the tooth? BOOM I was clenching the armrests like they owed me money. It was SO. BAD I started shaking at some point like I had hypothermia, it was HORRIBLE

The worse part was whenever she asked me if it hurt. The repeated chant of "it hurts? No? Of course not, I gave you anesthesia!" Will forever haunt me, in just the same way that doctor who took out my wisdom teeth does whenever I remember the pain and his question of "you can still feel it?" Whenever I said that I still felt pain from the needle entering my gums. I can still hear the befuddlement in his voice every time I shaked my head one way or another, clearly in a manner that did not align with The Good Patient Manual he'd been taught to learn. I don't think I'll ever forget her sort of upbeat voice as she cleaned my tooth and I was made to lay as still as the tremors allowed me to be, clenching the armrests and getting my head manhandled by my top front teeth with her finger — I didn't even think someone would ever do that.

Like. What the fuck

[rosicheeks]

Anyone have any easy (cheap) dinners when you feel like shit and don’t want to do anything?

[kavehater]

Chappel Roan saying she’s sad she’s demisexual and then there’s me being aroace as a whole like don’t you think I’m even more sad 😭

[filet-o-feelings]

Hey universe,was cancer not enough?

[istherewifiinhell]

yeah those guys who died? there fine now. thats the fucking cartoon shit babey! got new names, ones got a new paint job. OH. and something ive been BEGGING the series to tell me.

whats the relation between the tapedeck bot their casset bots?

[ID: Transformers Headmasters (the 87 anime) screenshots. It's of Soundwave, a navy blue Decepticon with a face mask. He places a hand over his chest, where the tape deck mechanism is, and speaks to his cassets, saying "That's my boys." END]

^just got revived by the cassettes, who had all gathered his pieces and were waiting for him. recalling them all back to their internal compartments.

[ID: The autobot cassets and Daniel gather in what looks like the living space for a much larger mech. Ramhorn, a rhino, and Steeljaw, a lion lay morosely on the floor and a couch respectively. Rewind and Eject, both small humanoid mechs along with Daniel, a human boy, sit slummed around a table. END]

^they're SAD.

[ID: Daniel, one fist raised, his other hand out, in a determined yet pleading manner. He's saying "You don't understand! Nobody understands how the Autobot Cassettes feel!" END]

^the other bots not getting why the cassettes are too depressed to go on a mission. surely i should not read into it being a human child. u know. kid with a parent he relies on. who does understand them.

[ID: Daniel and the cassettes hugging and celebrating. Daniel and Rewind hug, Steeljaw excitely stomping his paws between their legs. Eject reaches for Ramhorn, who's rearing up on his hind legs. END]

^being told blaster can be rebuilt

well i appreciate the extra depth and world detailing. is all... anyway...

[ID: Rebuild Blaster, his new paint in blue and yellow, but still with red hands. He's waving one hand and holding his gun in the other. Saying cheerfully "That's all for now, folks!" END]

[supersecretnerd]

Ok so these designs are cute as hell, the Internet is just mean

I have too many thoughts about a game I still need to watch

[coridallasmultipass]

Guys I missed the countdown by 7 minutes can we redo it?