#talk to me whenever!!!

[flowerxguts]

Hi I just wanted to say I loooveee your ocs so much 😭😭😭 they’re actually so cool and silly and awesome and im honestly going crazy 😭😭😭 your writing is really amazing !!! I’d love to hear more

i hope you know you literally just became my best friend with this ask.

THANK YOU SO SO MUCHHH AAAAHHHHHHHHH i’ve never had anyone who wasn’t already my friend comment about my ocs so this is so so special to me literally thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to read my fic + send me this it means so much to me AAHHH you just made me week <33333

my entire page is dedicated to my ocs so if you’re interested you can always scroll!! i post metas + snippets of fics/ ficlets + and a lottt of art. i’m always open to asks and explaining things because i’m well aware i don’t have a big explanation post with all my ocs and their universe (i’m working on that trust) honestly i’m open to any asks ever you can request anything you want and there’s a 99% chance i’ll do it

here’s an older fic of mine i never planned on posting (it takes place a few years before What Are We Gonna Do Now? which acts as a parallel of their relationship in this fic) in appreciation of your ask <33

——————— ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ OC FIC ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ————————

“Eleanor?”

Dion can hear Damiens voice coming from behind him, the sound of footsteps accompanying. He doesn’t move from his hunched position over the roofs railing, not even to glance an acknowledgment to his friend.

In all honesty, Dion had heard him when he was climbing up the fire escape, but chose to blatantly ignore it, avoiding the inevitable emotional probing questions for as long as possible.

And Damien was, in fact, asking one of those questions. He was asking “what’s wrong?” or “what are you thinking about?” in a round-about way where he asked if the obvious answer to the question was right.

Usually, it would annoy Dion a bit, but tonight he is almost grateful that he doesn’t have to say her name himself.

Damien comes to stand next to him, leaning against the railing of the roof just as Dion is. He is looking at his friend expectantly, waiting for a direct answer. Dion just grunts in response, flicking the end of his lit cigarette.

Damien seems unphased by this, still determined to be there for him.

“She was your kid, man.”

Something within Dion aches, a heart string snaps. Eleanor wasn’t his daughter, not in her eyes.

He grimaces, an ugly feeling washing over him “She wasn’t my kid; She was my sister.”

Was.

He can feel the look Damien is giving him before he even looks over. Dion is lying. Anybody who ever met him would know this. After little delay he dares to dart a glance to his left and is immediately met with a pitiful look, raw with emotion.

He can’t find it within himself to argue, so he lowers his head in grief, resigning whatever rebuttal he had at the ready.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“You raised her.” Damien states, still attempting to back up his claim. He reaches over Dion, grabbing the cigarette for a moment.

Dion snorts, staring down to the sidewalk in front of their home, the gate is locked because no one else is coming home. Everyone who lives here is present. He scrunches his nose in disappointment, “Clearly not with enough common sense.”

Damien frowns. “You’re being hard on her, Dee.”

Neither say anything for a moment. Dion doesn’t want to talk, not really, but Damien’s here now to do just that, so he might as well not fight it. He’s too exhausted to anyways. And at least Damien had the decency to leave him alone for a few hours beforehand.

Dion’s ears twitch at the sound of a heavy sigh after about a minute or two of silence. The cigarette is returned to his hand and he’s grateful.

“…I’m not saying I agree with her, but…”

Damien pauses, looking at Dion as if though to test the waters. Dion is looking at him, open to hearing what he has to say, but now it seems as if he can’t get the words out.

Damien bows his head, voice much quieter than before, “I mean, if Elizabeth was right and our mom was… not how I remember,” he swallows, afraid at the very notion that he had twisted his own memory. Hesitant to admit the possibility that his sister could’ve had some justification for what she had done.

“…and she came back to me after all those years, saying she’s changed and wants another chance…” Damien looks up at Dion before continuing, pursuing eye contact. Dion can’t help but notice that his eye bags appear more prominent in the nights ambient lighting. He looks younger, smaller.

Desperate, his mind supplies, he needs you to understand this.

“I’d still fall for it.”

Dion’s aware of how his face changes, how he furrows his brows and his jaw hangs open in shock.

The declaration took him by surprise.

The truth is he doesn’t know the full extent of what Elizabeth had claimed about her and Damien’s mother, but to say that even if Elizabeth’s alleged justifications for killing their mother were true, that Damien would still risk it for a chance, was no less than horrifying. Dion’s thoughts run rampant, trying to fully digest the information and apply it to his sisters own situation.

Even after all the horrible things their mom had done, a childhood of nothing but neglect and drug use, choosing to ignore the way all her convict boyfriends would look at her daughter, barely even glancing in their direction, Eleanor had been hanging onto hope that she could have a mother. She wanted someone, older. To hold her, soothe her, teach her how to get by in the world. Someone who would love her unconditionally.

He had done all those things. He had raised her. There’s no reason she needs to run to anyone else for those things, he wants to scream.

Dion feels a surge of energy, but before he could shake his head and begin arguing, Damien cuts him off, turning his head away to hide his face.

“Fuck, man. What kid wouldn’t do anything to see their mom again? What person wouldn’t?”

“Me.” Dion spits, anger boiling to the surface. “I wish I’d gone the rest of my life without ever seeing her.”

Damien sighs, hands curling into fists. He is still not looking at his friend, head still turned off to the side. Something in his tone is pleading.

“Dion you knew your mom. Know her. Eleanor doesn’t. You protected her from it. And now she’s old enough to make the choice herself to stay. How old was she when you left with her?”

“Eight… maybe nine.” He responds thoughtfully.

When he looks to his left his eyes meet Damien’s.

Something within him clicks.

Damien had been in Eleanor’s situation in a way.

Dion had made the choice for Eleanor at the time. To take her away. When she was younger she didn’t want to leave, but she had listened to her older brother, because what else could she do? She trusted him, even if he hadn’t given her a reason at the time. She never really knew the reality of what their situation was because Dion wouldn’t let her. He did not regret that. Not in the slightest. But he can’t lie and claim that he’s denied his little sister the right to know their mother.

Damien’s older sister had taken their mother away, stealing the chance to know her entirely.

Damien understands Eleanor even better than he does in this circumstance, and it stings. While Damien and Eleanor’s situations weren’t the same, they bore similarities in one key factor: their older siblings hadn’t let them know their mother.

He wants to say that seeing the pain on Damien’s face now twists something in him. That the reminiscent plea in his eyes, the begging to be understood, reminding him so much of a younger version of Eleanor, makes him regret taking her. He stares, trying to change his own mind to no avail. He was right in what he had done. He knows that. He had to be right.

His eyes start to water, a new memory fizzling to the surface of his mind.

“The last thing I said to her was that she can’t come back.”

Damien gives a sympathetic smile, his tone is warm when his responds, “You didn’t mean that though, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Not anymore.” He states. He had said it out of a place of childish anger.

“Well, she’ll come running back and when you see her you’ll hold her in your arms and it’ll all be forgotten.” The words are kind, spoken so softly they make the hair on the boys arms prick up.

“No.” Dion shakes his head, eyes downcast to the ground. He can’t forget this. Because he knows the voice in his head that keeps begging, after everything I sacrificed to save you, please stay, even after Eleanor has gone, will never go away. “I’ll take her in my arms but i’m not going to forget this.”

Damien isn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes is still kind, “That’s enough.” he replies earnestly.

Dion doesn’t look at his friend. He stays silent, stuck in his head. His last interaction with his sister hadn’t been kind. And if somehow their mother was able to stay clean for her, would that be it? Would that be how it all ended between them?

“Hey,” Damien’s voice is so gentle you’d think he was talking to a wounded animal. He reaches out, warm palm pressing against the nape of his friends neck. His fingers wrap lightly around the base, thumb running over the shaved portion of his hair.

The physical connection pulls Dion from his spiral.

“You did everything you could for her. You protected her, but some things you just have to learn on your own. It’s out of your hands.”

After a moment his friends touch retracts and a long-forgotten cigarette is plucked from his hand.

“…I’d take the bitch to court if I could.”

It’s the truth. If he could have custody, have the legal justification to tell his mother that she has no right to the child he raised, he would. In a heartbeat. Even if it meant his life would never be his again.

It’s not like it ever was in the first place, a voice in his head muses.

He swallows, feeling guilty, because he knows he didn’t mind that. He’d give up his childhood a millions times, relive it all, if it meant Eleanor was safe, here, with him and not with her.

Damien barks a laugh, clearly not as emotionally preoccupied as Dion. He quickly slaps a hand over his mouth, then continues in a lighter tone.

“Yeah, the day we have enough money for a lawyer and aren’t living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Paycheck.” The statement is more than laughable to Dion, pulling him from his contemplative state, and causing his lips to curl into a disbelieving smile. “You’re a fucking dealer.”

“Okay,” Damien all but scoffs, though there’s a humored twinge he can’t seem to separate from his voice. When Dion glances Damien’s way he can see that he’s fighting a smile, trying his best to look dead serious. He fails, miserably so, breaking out into a full-toothed grin. It’s infectious. He meets Dions eyes, continuing, “well then, when my small business takes off, don’t expect me to pitch in.”

The two boys break out in a fit of laughter from the shear ridiculousness of the claim. Damien shushes him, clapping his arm and looking back towards the fire escape. The cigarette they’d been passing back and fourth rested between Dion’s fingers, burnt close to nothing. The low embers heat creeped up to the older boys fingers, though he didn’t stub it out. He sighed deeply, relishing in the pain a moment, breathing in and out. In and out. It grounded him, cleared his head.

The quiet drags on, and the air settles heavy around them, all previous joy having been fleeting.

In the distance what is likely a prostitute can be heard calling out to men, attempting to entice them with crude language. There’s loud laughter from nearby bars, as well as yelling, bar fights likely. Sirens, though relatively quiet, can be heard ringing from somewhere farther North.

For a moment, Dion almost thinks maybe it’s for the best she got out of here, and it hurts.

“I thought you promised Morgan you’d stop dealing.”

There’s a beat of silence, then two. Damien seems hesitant to answer. There’s a huff, not quite a laugh, but an exhale with some form of humor.

“I promised her I wasn’t going to be ‘fucking stupid’.” The way Damien says the words, there’s evident affection, but also very evident quotation. Hell, Dion can practically hear Morgan saying it. “Money is good right now. It’s getting us by comfortably.”

Dion doesn’t respond. Silence falls between the two once more.

The mood shifts gradually, an unspoken agreement of the conversations conclusion is reached.

Neither move for a minute or so, soaking in the others presence, the cold February breeze biting at their skin.

Dion continued looking out mindlessly at the town, his eyes having long blurred. He was too stuck in his own thoughts to care to refocus them. A million thoughts all following the general consensus of Eleanor was really all he could think.

While his conversation with Damien may have concluded, it didn’t mean he was able to stop thinking about it.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as his friend reaches over, wincing slightly as he grabs the burnt-to-nothing cigarette, stubbing it out on the rusted railing.

“Alright, I’m going to head in. Gotta get back before Morgan completely takes over my side, that is, if she hasn’t already.” Damien states with some degree of casualty.

Dion wants to smile. He does. He wants to give a knowing look to his friend, hell, make fun of him for how domesticated he is. But he doesn’t. He stays staring out at the illuminated town. One his sister was not in.

He registers the sound of receding footsteps, but still doesn’t make an effort to move. Mulling over the conversation, a thought suddenly rushes forefront to his mind.

“Damien.” he hears his voice before he can even think.

“Yeah?”

The brunette stops and turns around, curious.

“Are you using?”

They both understand wordlessly what he means: Are you shooting up? Because honestly Dion could care less about his friend getting high.

He turns his head back, eyebrows knit together. He chews on the inside of his cheek, fear bubbling inside him.

Damien’s face is straight. It’s rare to see him with an expression completely devoid of humor, or at least of a softer emotion. The air between the two is tight and all of a sudden it seems twenty degrees colder. Dion knows these words are heavier than a ton of bricks. He wishes he didn’t have to ask the question at all. He trusts him, but not enough to be sure he can help himself. Because if he is dealing again, who’s to say?

“No. I’m not.”

“Good.” Dion says, because there’s nothing else he can say.

He’ll take the words at face value. The last thing he can deal with right now is Damien losing his shit. If he was able to think before her spoke, maybe he wouldn’t have asked. But he asked. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he didn’t ask.

“Do I need to worry about that?” Damien asks, curtly nodding towards the stubbed out cigarette.

Dion follows his eyes, feeling his teeth automatically clamp down harder on his cheek, blood festering.

Of course he would notice.

There’s still no trace of emotion on his friends face, only an earnest look that reaches his eyes in a way that makes Dion feel sick. He wishes he could say that Damien was just saying this out of a place of anger, that he was only insulting him because he was the first to ask are you still an addict. He wishes he could say no.

“I wouldn’t dwell on it.”

Damien clicks his tongue, eyes roaming over Dion skeptically.

For a moment Dion is worried that he isn’t going to get out of this. That instead of grieving alone Damien wouldn’t leave, looking over his shoulder the whole night. Waiting. Maybe in silence, maybe with mundane conversation. Staring at the inside of his bicep when he thought Dion wasn’t looking, like any minute the scars would magically revert back to fresh wounds, start bleeding again.

“Well, you know where to find me.” Damien sighs, defeated.

“Yup.” The response is automatic, mindless. He feels relieved for a moment. He wants to care more, to appreciate his friends concern, but he can’t find it within himself right now.

“I’m serious, Dee. You wake my ass up if you need me.”

Dion pushes himself up a bit, no longer leaning his full weight on the railing. He hopes the action will mean something to Damien, that standing on his own two feet will somehow prove that he doesn’t need a crutch right now.

One hand remains on the bar of the railing.

“I promise.”

He’s finally looking at Damien head on, eyes fully taking in the worried look on his face. His friends lips are taut and lines have formed between his eyebrows. Damien’s shoulders are slouched in a defeated manner Dion can’t stand. Guilt washes over him, he looks down, unable to meet brown eyes. For a moment he considers, a million different options run through his head. He settles on one after a fair few seconds of deliberation.

Dion gives his softest smile back. He means it.

Damien nods, the smallest bit of relief finally tainting his lips.

He disappears to the side of the old building without another word, swinging himself over the edge and climbing down the fire escape.

Dion waits to hear his friend’s shoes hit the cold concrete of the buildings floors with a familiar thud, but no such sound comes. His eyebrows knit together after a moment of unpredicted silence. He didn’t hear a splat, meaning his friend thankfully hadn’t fallen off the side of the building, but why was he so quiet? It takes him a moment to piece together the logic, exhaustion slowing him down, but he exhales in amusement as he realizes: Morgan was sleeping.

It makes sense now. The hand over his mouth at his own abrupt laughter, shushing Dion’s, his overall hushed tone. Damien didn’t want to wake her up.

He really is in it bad.

Once he confirms his friend has safely made it inside, Dion rubs his eyes, the full weight exhaustion coming over him. He yawns, looking out at the town again, resuming his position.

The I love you is unspoken.

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[percabetn]

i can’t stop thinking about how annabeth e-mailed percy the photo of her at dc but this doofus decided to print it and put it in his notebook to stare at her whenever he could. talk about dedication

[entiretorridaffair]

i’m so obsessed with my mutuals i need you all to know that you are like celebrities to me and i want to hear everything you have to say

[deanpinterester]

i cannot stress this enough: if your reasoning for clowning on the mcu is "they overwork their cg artists and animators" i 1000% guarantee that a show or movie you have been stanning for years also abused their artists and you just haven't heard about it because the production companies aren't in the spotlight like mcu productions are. that cartoon for kids? that incredibly animated movie? that non-marvel superhero movie? i've seen people declare their hatred for the way the mcu treats their workers and then turn around and gush about a show that i know for a fact was hell for the artists attached

and no this is NOT me saying "this means you should stop hating on the mcu uwu" it's me saying you gotta be aware that this shit is an INDUSTRY WIDE PROBLEM. you CANNOT "fix" it by refusing to watch mcu movies and feeling good about it. you have to be aware that it's EVERYWHERE. why do you think so many animation and vfx productions are sourced in canada? in india and the phillipines? we are not unionized.

i know it's hard to face the idea that your favourite show might have been made unethically especially when you've spent so much time hating the mcu for doing the same thing. you don't have to start hating your favourite show. just like...be aware. don't be smarmy about it. don't claim without research that a beautifully animated movie Must mean the animators were not working 16 hour days and weekends. i do think we can fix this 👍 but we can't fix it if 90% of us don't even realize what the problem really is

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[egophiliac]

this is basically what happened, right?

(these guys are very lucky that everyone at NRC 1) has the combined intelligence of a sack of bricks, and 2) is easily distracted by shiny things.)

[knifearo]

you can literally just be aromantic. it’s free and nobody’s stopping you :)

[juney-blues]

it amazes me how "transmisogyny is an axis of oppression, like any other," is something that we can barely get people (even people who are nominally transfem allies) to agree to, let alone internalize?

like you can say it all you want and sometimes people will even agree with you, but the moment you start *acting* like it, suddenly it's all "hey what's with the infighting? we're all the same and equal here! transness is treated the same no matter which way you transition, the bigots think we're *all* freaks we should have unity about this!"

just really weird to me that for a lot of people, transmisogyny is real except in any way that matters.

[screamingblogger]

there is nothing more friend- group than Fabian mentioning both riz and Kristen several times in a two minute conversation with a girl he likes

[yunogf]

the voice of the people

[clownsuu]

weren't you the person who created 'gotta sweeps' human design

Ah yes, the mandatory yearly sweep ask—

[cowboysmp3]

i love how like nobody really talks about the possessions in ace attorney. spirit mediums and possession and lowkey magic just exists in ace attorney and nobody talks about it. there’s LOTS people make posts about that detail the craziest things abt ace attorney and nobody is like oh yah spirit mediums and possession is like a huge part of the game series btw

[hinamie]

So remember me in a softer light

[dreamaruu]

would u still love me if i was a bug 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[stuckinapril]

I genuinely love not having a crush like I’m not over here feeling physically sick over some mid guy being dry to me I’m literally chilling