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turtlecleric · 3 months

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assumption - others have said in need of a hug (yes true) but also,

may not have been praised in the way that you deserved growing up and instead others tried to dim your light because they were envious or wanted to see you fail (->im here to tell you they suck ass. you're everything and more; skilled; determined; worthy; and i love you so so much and i am so so proud of you)

Did you know that I would die for you? Did you know that I love you so goddamn much? Did you?

This is way too much personal info that no one actually cares to know, probably, but. I'm sort of avoiding work on purpose at the moment and I'm having a really rough day. Who needs therapy when you have asks on Tumblr to rant in? (I'm joking, to be clear. Actual therapy is so valuable and important if you manage to find a competent professional who clicks well with you. The only reason I stopped going is because of Covid, time, and money.)

Warning: VERY long vent ahead, please do not feel obligated to read or respond

My dad was really good about praising me in ways that felt genuine, actually, though that made the times he /was/ upset with me all that much worse. My dad isn't perfect, and he's done some things and said some things that I'll never forgive, that I'll never be able to forget, but I would also do anything for him. I know he's there for me when I need it, I know he'll answer when I call, I know that he actually cares about me. He and maybe like two cousins are the only family I would never be able to cut off.

My mom... I guess it was just sort of the baseline bare minimum expectation that I would do things well, so when I /was/ praised it was just like... oh, good job sweetie! Proud of you! But it didn't feel... I don't know how to describe why but... I don't know. Now, when people tell me I do things well I always have that voice in my head that's like "they're just being nice, they don't actually think it's all that great, they expected you to do a much better job than this, actually, why did you even bother sharing? Why did you think this was something to be proud of?" I read way too far into things, interpreting neutral reactions, or even positive reactions that aren't as enthusiastic as I might have hoped for, as proof that people are simply being nice and don't really like what I do or make or say all that much. I always get stuck in this mindset that I'm not allowed to create mediocre content, like it all has to be Excellent or else it's Terrible.

I also remember in high school, posting some drawings on Facebook that I was really proud of. Two drawings, one with hands in chains and cut up and the other with healed hands glowing with holy light and cradling a cross. It was supposed to show the difference between life without God and life with God (I was... VERY religious as a teenager. I am now agnostic.), but she saw the first picture and freaked out, super pissed, yelling at me to take it down, to not embarrass her like that, because people were going to see that and think I was abused or depressed or something (haha... me? Depressed? Nahhhhh). And that was the moment when I knew I could never ever ever share anything even remotely dark with her, that if I ever were to express something that indicated I was anything other than good and happy and perfect then she would react similarly. She's also very judgemental regarding mental health, often made comments about how "people who are/do x are sick, there's just something wrong with them, make sure you stay away from people like that" while I'm sitting on the couch like... oof. That's me. So all my venting went to Tumblr where she couldn't see, and even now I mostly only vent on Tumblr and through writing. I have many wonderful friends that would gladly allow me to vent to them (I love you all so much I love you I love you I love you, thank you for being so kind), but I simply Cannot. I've had a friend before where it felt like all they did was complain, they were always so goddamn negative, and it became a chore to talk to them. I started to get angry every time they said or did something defeatist, I stopped enjoying talking or hanging out with them, and I refuse to be that person. Even if I'm told over and over that I don't come across that way, I'm so terrified of it that when I think about reaching out I start to think of that friend and about how I shouldn't bother people and I panic. Unless I've gotten to the point where I truly believe that nothing I do or say will ruin the friendship, then it's really hard to push through that fear. But that's so much harder than it used to be because I /did/ lose a friend that I thought I would have literally for the rest of my life, I was so 100% confident that we would be 80 years old still hanging out with each other and goofing around, so sure we could go through anything together and stay friends, I knew in my heart and soul that we would be friends until we died, and I was wrong. I was wrong. I also had a different friend who was always there for me, always praised me, always listened to me when I needed it and told me kind things and made sure I felt welcome and loved and viewed positively, and then he fucking assaulted me one night when he thought I was asleep.

Anyway. When I /did/ fail at things growing up, it was either punished more severely than necessary or straight up laughed at. Mom was very hot and cold, too, you could never tell what kind of mood she was going to be in that day. (She is still like this. It's well known in my family that you never know which version of her you're going to get.) Things are fine one moment and then suddenly I'm in trouble for something I didn't even realize I did wrong (like with the drawings), so I'm just. Terrified of not doing well enough at things, of disappointing people, of people being annoyed with me or upset with me over something I didn't even realize was rude or mean or wrong to begin with.

"Don't overstay your welcome; don't bother people" was pounded into my head. I can't express how often I start to say or type something and then think, "No one cares. Stop bothering people. You're being too much, you're being annoying, they're tired of you, just keep it to yourself." I'm working on it but. Yeah. Half the time I still just stop talking or backspace and stay quiet. Even typing this, I'm like... you should delete this. You're basically just begging for attention, and if anyone says anything about this to you then it'll only be because they felt obligated to and they're going to start seeing you as a whiny, pathetic, manipulative person, and they're going to get tired of you and roll their eyes every time you say anything, even if it's not you venting, or they'll see this and think about how stupid or weird it is for you to put this information out on the internet, and even this sentence right here is proof that they'd be right because you're aware of all these thoughts and you're still doing it.

But then another part of me thinks that if I can't even vent on my own blog on a post that literally no one is required to read that is also hidden under a readmore and clearly states that it's a vent post, then where /can/ I vent? And if someone else posted this, would I be this harsh on them? And what's so wrong with seeking attention and comfort? Why is that unforgivable in yourself but admirable in others? Why are you crying at work? Why aren't you doing your job? Why aren't you better? Why aren't you better?

#asks #I'll delete this later probably #fuck #anyway! back to work!#i have so much to do and not enough time to do it so. I'll be working late today. again.

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nabtime · 6 months

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Better Watch Out

Danny had just started to feel like he was settling in with the Waynes. It had been... not ideal circumstances that brought him to the family in the first place, so getting used to not having to deal with all that mess was the first hurdle. The second being getting used to dealing with an entirely new- if more pleasant, mess. The Waynes, and Gotham by extension, were- to put it lightly- fucking crazy. He wasn't in Amity anymore and however much he'd thought it was the weirdest place on the planet before- he was absolutely rethinking that now. Where he had been one hero against a handful of villains, Gotham had a whole brigade of vigilantes against an army of villains. And they were... Bat-themed. For the most part. He'd yet to meet any of them, so he hadn't gotten the chance to ask what all that was about.

None of that was the point though. The point was that Danny had only recently stopped feeling like a fish out of water around his new foster family, and now the Holidays were coming. The Holidays that always served to put him in a sour mood. The Holidays that made him more prone to lash out and snap at those that didn't deserve it. The Holidays that, despite being Jewish by heritage, Bruce seemed oddly enthusiastic about celebrating.

(It reminded him, painfully, of Sam. He'd yet to be able to see here since everything went down and he missed her and Tucker something fierce. Which was maybe also putting him in a bad mood.)

So you really couldn't blame him for feeling a little tense about the whole situation. Not only were the Christmas decorations that smothered the Manor making him grouchy, but his grouchiness was also making a guilty pit form in his stomach. He was a moody teenager and adding trauma on top of that didn't help how caustic he could be- and adding fear on top of that made it all the worse. What if he saw Dick in his Santa hat, grinning and innocent, and he snapped? What if he saw Damian, stoic but loving, give Titus a shiny red bow-tie collar for the season and he made a caustic comment that went too far? What if he saw Bruce so much as smile at him while standing near the giant tree in the foyer and he saw green?

What if he ruined Christmas? Again? For people that didn't deserve it? Again? What if he hurt the people he cared about that had only ever shown him care and consideration? Again?

So Danny was just a bit tense. A bit on edge. And he was trying. Oh Ancients was he trying. To not be such a little bitch about all the Christmas stuff. But he had a limit. Bruce, being the rich socialite that seemed far too enthusiastic about family-centered holidays, did not have a limit. Every inch of the manor was covered in tinsel and holly and blinking lights and fake snow. Every spare moment was filled with different siblings being coerced into doing cheesy holiday activities, with Danny being the only one to attend every single one of them. (Cutting down a Christmas tree with Jason. Buying presents at the mall with Tim. Decorating while hanging from the chandelier with Dick. Caroling very badly with Stephanie. Making snow angels with Cass. Watching Christmas movies with Duke.) And he attended them all with a barely restrained snarl and a badly bitten tongue. The one time, one time, he'd told Bruce no- the guilt had eaten him alive (and dead) at seeing the man melt into the most pathetic kicked-puppy look he'd ever seen.

No grown man should ever be able to do that with his face. Danny never wanted to see that again.

In return, though, he had to face the Horrors.

The latest Horror being the worst he'd ever faced to date. A Horror that he thought he'd never have to face. He thought he'd slipped past this particular one by aging out. He was too old for this. He shouldn't be there. Damian, scowling and eyes filled with murderous intent, shouldn't be there. Dick and Bruce seemed to both be having the time of their lives. It was far too disturbing- and the continuous blasting of Christmas music and the overheated crush of a restless crowd only made it worse.

They were in line to see Santa at the mall.

It made his skin crawl. He was fifteen! Damian, the poor bastard, was also fifteen!

He could practically feel Ghostwriter laughing his ass off at his predicament. This was worse than getting stuck in a rhyming Christmas cautionary tale. He would 100% rather be stuck in one of Ghostwriter's cheesy poems than be stuck in the stupidly long line to see the fake mall Santa that probably didn't want to be there just as much as Danny.

But Bruce looked so fucking happy. Genuinely happy.

It was something he'd noticed early on about his foster dad. He smiled a lot and smiled big, but he rarely ever meant it. Now, Danny wasn't usually one to notice things like that. He got pretty wrapped up in his own problems and just- didn't have the skill to notice these things. Usually. But, well, being ghostly gave him a bit of an advantage. He could get a pretty good read on a person's emotions, regardless of what expression they wore. If he felt close enough to them. Frostbite had compared it to, like, family pack bonding. And he really, really didn't want to think about that further (why had it never worked for his parents? why did he feel so close to Bruce so quickly? why?) But, more importantly, he could tell that while Bruce smiled a lot, he rarely meant it.

But whenever Danny or his foster sibling begrudgingly participated in "family holiday activities" he smiled and he meant it. Bruce, fundamentally, was a sad man. Always grieving something. But here and now? In line to see his teenage children visit fucking Santa in the mall? He was smiling from ear to ear and his emotions, for once, matched. Yeah, there was a hint of mischief there, but it was overwhelmed by the giddy joy and excitement.

A suspicious amount of excitement... Like he was expecting something.

And then Bruce was leaning down between him and Damian and with a bright grin, he muttered, "I have a surprise for the both of you."

And even Dick, who had not stopped taking a stupid amount of pictures the entire time, paused to look at Bruce curiously.

"As I've told you both before," he said, looking over at Dick and back to Damian, "I know the real Santa. Met him a few times, saved Christmas with him a few others, and he owed me a favor for the last misadventure we had. So, I asked him to be here, for this one afternoon, for you guys."

Danny barely caught a glimpse of Dick rolling his eyes in the background. Oh, okay, so this was bullshit that has long been established. Nothing new on his account. That was something at least.

"Father," Damian interrupted with scorn and a promise of violence in his voice, "you are aware that this- Santa Claus creature- is fictitious, are you not?"

"Damian, chum," Bruce responded carefully, sincerely saddened, "why would you say that about an old family friend?"

And, poor Damian, looked two parts baffled and three parts murderous. Nonplussed and unable to even fathom a response to his father. He just stared the man down.

Dick huffed in exasperation behind them. "C'mon, B. Will you let that go already?"

Bruce furrowed his brows, eyes already taking on that faint sheen of kicked-puppiness, and looked back up at his eldest. "You don't believe me, Dickie? After all these years?"

Dick responded with a flat stare. Danny kind of wished he had popcorn for this moment. It was like witnessing a mild car crash. Nobody got hurt and it was still wicked to see parts flying everywhere. There was even a chance of things catching fire. Man was he glad he could just watch.

"Danny?" Bruce pleaded, turning to him with those sad, sad eyes. "Do you believe me, chum?"

And fuck how was he supposed to respond to that?

"I have it on good authority," he said, thinking of yearly fight, after fight, after fight, "that his existence is very hotly debated in the scientific community."

He could feel the questioning stares from Damian and Dick but he refused to look away from the innocently tilted head of his unfortunate foster father.

"Is that a yes?" and he sounded so sincerely hopeful. He couldn't crush the man's spirit. He couldn't.

But he also refused to lie and say he believed in Santa. At fifteen.

He clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth, but eventually replied. "It's a hotly debated topic."

And Bruce just smiled that empty smile and patted his shoulder. "Thanks, chum."

He, again, ignored Damian and Dick's stares. If he looked at them, he'd break. If he so much as made partial eye-contact, he was gonna fucking lose it.

"Oh look! We're almost at the front!"

Danny was living his worst life. Officially. This was the bad time-line. Dan's future didn't even come close. He was going to go mega evil any second now and kill everyone in the vicinity and then himself. This wasn't happening and it wasn't real and Santa Claus can't hurt him because he isn't real.

But Bruce, the saddest man in history, utterly and sincerely believed that he was.

So Danny was going to sit on some random old dude's lap and pretend to care about what he wanted for Christmas and whether or not he'd been a good boy this year and he was going to force a smile the entire time and his soul might shrivel up and die all the way inside, but at least Bruce would be happy.

What the fuck kind of afterlife was he living.

And then it was their turn and Danny was forced to go up first because the alternative was Damian committing homicide in the middle of the mall while Dick and Bruce cheerily took pictures.

Okay. Just sit down. Spit out answers to any inane questions. Pose for picture. And leave. Simple and easy and completely unbearable. But- for Bruce- he would bear it.

But, damn it all, a chill went down his spine as he approached.

No. Absolutely not.

There was no way. But he examined the man sitting in the chair and the more he saw the more the sinking pit in his stomach grew. Full thick beard of snow white hair. Brown eyes filled with smug mischief and magnanimity. Thick red velvet jacket made for trapping in heat in extreme cold weather, lined with white fur that looked suspiciously close to trim on cloaks he'd seen in the Far Frozen. A not-quite-ghostly-not-quite-magic-but-something-in-between aura he often got around Gods and Ancients.

Fuck, but Bruce actually knew the real bonafide Santa Fucking Claus.

What, and he means this with a great amount of emotion, the fuck.

He sat down in a stupor and the man just placidly smiled at him, a twinkle in his eye letting him know that he knew Danny was currently experiencing new stages of grief not yet known to man and was just gonna let him ride it out. How nice of him. Because of course he was being nice. He was Santa.

Fuck.

He looked up at the man. Ghost. God. Whatever. And for a good moment that's all either of them did. Just. Stared.

Sorry, Santa, Danny's brain has suddenly gone on vacation. 404 not found. Please leave a message after the tone. Error. Sorry, there's nothing there. Please try again.

After a few agonizing moments he asked, "how? Do you know Bruce?"

And Santa laughed at him, the sound working its way into his bones and filling him with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time. It tasted just a bit like egg nog. Gross.

"Well," the man started, voice deep and rich like a good cup of hot chocolate, (whatthefuckwhathtefuck). "Why wouldn't I know a man like Bruce? Honorable, righteous, and very skilled. One of the best the Justice League has, if I'm being honest."

And then Danny's brain stopped completely. Because there was no fucking way Santa (FUCK) was implying what he thought he was implying.

But it all made so much sense now. His ears were ringing suddenly and the world was greying out but he was Seeing the Light.

"-nny?" Santa (FUCK!!) was saying. "Are you alright? Want to tell me what you want for Christmas now?"

"Hm," he said airily, still not all the way there, "I'm good, thanks."

And then he slid off the man's lap and walked back to his foster family in a daze. And he looked at Bruce (BATMAN!! FUCK!!!) and he slid a slow hand down his face, attempting to take the skin off it in the process.

"You alright, Danny man?" Dick asked, only half paying attention while he gleefully snapped pictures of a sullen Damian barely restraining himself from committing violence while stubbornly standing next to Santa instead of sitting on his lap.

"That's the real Santa, Bruce is Batman, and I'm half-dead," he replied bluntly.

Dick fumbled his phone in response and Bruce merely raised his eyebrows.

"That's an odd start to a 'three guys walk into a bar' joke there, chum," he said amiably. And Danny wouldn't have noticed the tension in his voice if he weren't ghostly. But he was and unfortunately for them all, it was now everyone's problem.

"Not a joke," he said. "I'll explain the dead part later but Santa outed you on accident."

"Okay, no," Dick interrupted, "we are not leaving the dead part for later, Danny, what the fuck."

"Listen," he said flatly, slapping his hands on either side of Dick's face and smooshing it to convey his seriousness while he spoke. "Santa is real, he's a God, and he's sitting right there." He emphasized with a sweeping wave of his arm in the direction Damian was stomping back towards them from. "We're leaving the dead part for later."

"What is all this about? Dead part? What is going on?" Damian demanded in rapid succession, growing more aggressive and persistent with each question.

Danny, already on his last fucking nerve, was gonna lose it. For real.

"Apparently," Dick drawled, disbelief and an unfair amount of derision in his tone, "that's the real Santa, he told Danny B was Batman, and Danny's now saying he's dead."

"What-"

Damian did not get to finish his sentence because that was the exact moment Danny finally snapped. Every bit of pent up tension and hostility, every bit of restrained Holiday fueled fury he'd been bottling up. Unleashed all at once because Dick decided to be an asshole about not believing him.

Danny snatched one of the giant plastic candy canes that lined the aisle of the queue to see Mall (but actually Real) Santa and gave a good swing in Dick's direction. Dick who had unfairly good reflexes and was able to dodge by jumping over the swing and landing back neatly on his feat.

"Danny?!" he cried, incredulous.

But Danny was no longer listening. Only reveling in the wild swinging of the candy cane and attempting to land a hit on Dick for being an absolute dick and finally unleashing hell upon the world and specifically his asshole foster brother. And maybe he put a little bit more ghostly strength in his last swing than he meant to, because when he finally made contact- he heard a pained off as Dick went down hard.

"Danny, please," he wheezed from the soft bank of fake snow he'd fallen into, "it's Christmas."

He screeched and continued his assault. "It's December 10th!"

And then, promptly; Bruce wrangled the candy cane from Danny's grasp, Damian pulled Dick from the floor, and they were all calmly escorted from the mall and asked politely to never return.

Danny really, truly, hated Christmas. And it looked like that wasn't going to change any time soon.

#naps fics #nap shitposts in the afterlife #danny phantom #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc fanfic #sorry we need to make use of bruce knowing actual fucking santa more often #and pair it lovingly with dannys hatred for christmas #its SO funny #this was supposed to be a funny little shitpost and then evolved sorry #trying to get back in the habit of writing before working on OEG again #anyway hiiii

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