#even though I REALLY need to get started on posters for a con I'm trying to join

[brainrot-yumm]

I've been staying up until 4-6 AM every night for the last four days covering my hands in glue in order to collage every doodle I've ever made since 2014 onto various pieces of cardboard. The original purpose for going through all of my schoolwork and cutting out the doodles was for a high school senior project that I never went through on, and I figured I could probably finish that up now.

I truly didn't think I had so much but I've covered three panels and disassembled a cardboard box, entirely covered every side of it and I still have so much more to attach. And all the pieces are so big that I'm almost out of all the tiny doodles. I'm actively searching for more cardboard to glue doodles onto

this is how I'm spending my school break. Running out of modge podge slathering glue onto dinky bits of paper with my finger and creating the equivalent of one singular layer of paper mache on random pieces of cardboard in the hopes of throwing them all up with hanging strips on my apartment wall.

And the worst part is that I actually have a shit ton of cardboard, but it's all at the one place I'm not currently staying at.

joy. (/in a way that is outwardly sarcastic but is inwardly genuine)

[whosyourcreepyunclenow]

alright, for some reason this exists. not quite aware about your boundaries, so I'm obligated to warn: this content may not be suitable for some readers

warnings: smut, ust, non-conish dub-con(?), toxic crap, sad silly nonsense, probably weird english

was written to a nice song though

(it's pov Michael but I can only write in second person, so imagine yourself a depressed middle-aged man and go ahead)

It’s supposed to be a fucking jinx, doesn’t it? Just how you missed the old times few crazy weeks ago, so much you hate ‘em now. And of course, hate yourself for missing ‘em, like it somehow brought back that wild crap right into your present day. What a joke.

Memories should remain memories. To indulge yourself in a good old shitty nostalgia, to dive headlong into that abyss again and get off scot-free. Your personal paradise of fun where the heart trembles, the night's still young, and the bullet in your shoulder doesn’t bother like a real one. No bruises from recoil, no shortness of breath. You’re the sharpest shooter, Mikey, the clearest mind, you always make the right decisions.

Such a calming little lie to fool yourself you could be better than this. Not just a drunk old loser, feeling sorry for himself, but a drunk old loser with history, which you wisely choose to left behind and move forward. You were a terrible person, you still are. However even a terrible person needs something to be proud of.

And there must be no way for that special something to become more than just a back door to escape reality. No fucking way.

The old days taste like nauseating warm beer and smell like piss. Stained with blood, sweat and cum, sound like annoyingly loud swearing and crunch of broken glass. It was a lot easier to forget their true colors, so you gladly forgot, leaving the only ones suitable for a proper melancholic reminiscence. You know, ain’t nothing wrong with romanticizing the past. The trouble begins when you're starting regret things. Oh man, you should never trust your memories, they’re such fabulists…

Another bottle became a pile of trash for Patricia to clean up. Not sure how obvious but you kinda hate her for no reason, just along for the ride. She could tidy up this rubbish dump for days, it’ll never get clean. She could call him good, kind, mature or whatever, he’ll never stop being himself. And neither will you.

Trying to steady the swaying room, you stabilize its dirty walls with your hands, occasionally grabbing a poster girl’s ass, she doesn’t get offended. The next one even deserved a slight slap, as if you weren’t already horny enough – to even feel the seductive warmth of skin through the faded paper and sincerely enjoy that little illusion of touch. Same 'bout an illusion of privacy behind the flimsy folding door you keep closed anyway.

At least he doesn’t mind. Being asleep and completely wasted, the only thing his doped body’s still capable of is snoring. Lying on his back, with his arms and legs spread out, in that smelly stretched briefs, he’s utterly disgusting and sexy at the same time.

Well, in the old days you wouldn’t think twice. But it ain’t the old days.

So you just carelessly shoved him aside and fell down with your face in the pillow, warm and wet from his oily hair. Took a deep breath. Fucking awful as always. He murmured something unintelligible, then turned on his stomach too, but faced to the other side. You don’t look at him either.

“Forget any idea ‘bout molesting me, pork chop. Or I’ll get sober and shove a grenade into your butt, you hear me?”

Feels like you’d blow up his butt right now, without any other tools except your own. Why the hell.

“You really flatter yourself, T. Like… greatly.”

Still somehow managed to keep your voice smooth, though the stupid nervous smirk makes it a bit softer. You swallowed hard, throwing the fuck out of your mind that nostalgic bullshit ‘bout using your saliva in a more efficient way. There was times when your fingers woulda been doing their job already, now they simply clenched into a fist, crumpling a checkered blanket. Those times have passed long ago.

“We both know you ain’t too picky.”

Is he taunting or just mocking you? Any mistake could be unreasonably costly in a lot of senses.

“Yeah, maybe.”

The catch is you ain’t even confident about yourself anymore, face it. Desire is enormous, the foretaste drives you crazy – hey, when was the last time you felt so aroused by someone? Or just aroused without any fucking reason, like in your twenties, but still aroused as fuck? Though it doesn’t mean that need can be satisfied, since any little bullshit’s enough to ruin the feeling and turn you off like a broken switch. So you hate yourself again and hate your body, hate your deceptive mind, hate your everything.

Guess getting old is a great excuse for losing interest, yeah? At least it works for Amanda and your other whores who demand from you much more than you're capable of. But the truth is you haven’t ever lost interest, you’ve just become more… picky? Or egoistic. Or less randomly horny for pretty things or simply tired from imitating it – that’s what they usually call sexual problems.

Resumed snoring let you know that T’s asleep again. So alright, you can continue feeling pity for yourself until the morning. The only thing you can do as long as you want.

Or there’s another option. Weirdly compromise, still crazy. Hence exciting.

You cautiously turned on your back and glanced at him to check, as if the obvious sound was not enough. Part of you treacherously want him to wake up at the worst moment possible, but clearly not yet. Man, what the fuck are you doing…

Quietly unbuckled your belt and unzipped your pants, suddenly worrying. Years ago it was his thing to masturbate on you sleeping, what always felt confusing when you caught him doing that. As if you were jealous of him to himself and somehow got offended, what a dumbass. Didn’t realize that every opportunity to touch someone you wanna touch is a treasure.

And now you’re casually squeezing your cock, remembering his. You jerked him half-ass mechanically, roughly, without giving a single fuck about his pleasure, the only one that really mattered was your own. Of course you tried to make it less obvious, but it was obvious – you were awful. And he loved you awful. More than anyone.

“Fuck, Trevor…”

Can’t help but whispering, not expecting to be heard. Your handjob is a lot better when you’re staring at his sweaty back, fighting the urge to remove these shitty briefs. Ain’t no even need to screw, you may climax just from looking at his naked ass.

It's almost perfect time for him to wake up and punch you. Almost.

Luckily, he doesn’t. Even when you’ve finally lost your damn mind and pull off his underwear, then predicably realized you need more than looking. And holy fuck… this was your last meaningful conclusion.

Quite unable to mess around, you got to the point, eagerly lubing up your cock with saliva and pushing apart his buttocks, barely maintaining a sense of reality… With all these toys he regularly shoves in himself, you thought it would be easier, but his hole just doesn’t let you in. So you spat on your fingers once more and smeared on his tight entrance, then tried again. He’s already disturbed enough to start moaning and lazily fidget, but not fully awake yet.

“Hey, T… You wanted the old me? You’ll get him.”

Finally, he howled when you pushed yourself inside, probably too fast. Ain’t exactly how things should be done, you was merely trying to avoid that awkward pause between “I wanna fuck you” and “I’m actually fucking you” stages. Just can’t deal with that clarifying relationships shit, not fucking now…

“FUCK!”

Alright, he woke up. And he’s trying to shove you out, if only you hadn’t held his bottom like a fucking lifeline.

“Am I shitting? Feels like a big turd’s stuck in my butt… Not so big, actually.”

“Hi to you too, Trevor.”

It’s so tense here like he’s trying to bit off your manhood with his anus and chew it. And maybe a little dry, yet not enough for him to lament.

“Remember what I said ‘bout molesting me, sugar?”

You spread out his cheeks slightly, conciliatory massaging them to appease, but he keeps struggling. It’s easier to lay down and put your weight upon him, bury yourself even deeper, softly mutter into his neck.

“C'mon, T, let me love you…”

He smells attractively horrible, alluring your lips to fondle his skin with short kisses. He tastes salty.

“It’s not fucking LOVE, you dick! It’s taking advantage!”

“Call it whatever you like.”

You thrust in him slowly, knead his hips with all tender affection you can muster, what the fuck else does he want? Alright, it ain’t really convenient now but lift him a bit to play with his boy too, and this time do it right… Oh please, just make sure to do it right.

God, he’s hard. He’s hard and hot like hell, goddammit…

“No! Just, NO I said! And pull your junk outta me!”

So this moron just slapped your hand, shoved it away and wriggled out from under your body, making you both highly unpleasant. Fucking great!

He got up, swaying and shaking, put up his briefs back on and somehow fixed his boner. Still doesn’t look at your face, though he’s not the only who hesitates. After all, you have no damn idea what went wrong or what he wanted you to do. From your perspective it felt as good as it could be, unspeakably good.

“Oh seriously, what’s the problem?”

Crap, he clearly didn’t like the question.

“What’s the problem?! WHAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM you asking?!”

“Yes, what’s the fucking problem!”

Fuck it. He finally turned and faced you, with so much desperate hate in his eyes that you went numb. Like everything what happened was so terribly wrong he could never forgive. Like you hurt him in ways you can’t even imagine.

“Listen… Right now, I’m making incredible efforts to not kill you, Michael,” his voice got menacingly quiet, yet notes of deeply rising anger strive to break through. “If that ain’t A PROBLEM to you, guess what I’d be doing with your corpse!”

Shit, he’s so fucking fine when he’s mad. Scary to realize, you’d probably rape him, if only he wasn’t a lot stronger, even with a such hangover. Or perhaps what you’ve already done can be as well considered as a sexual violence – of course, how else. So you’re a rapist now. Congratulations, pal.

“A-right, I got it,” but you’re still a human, who has his goddamn feelings too. “Go fuck yourself then.”

That treacherous, suicidal part of you expected him to react – in any way. He could punch you, slam you against the wall, chock you, shove a fucking grenade into your ass, rape you in revenge. You want him to do fucking anything, you just want him. Desperately.

Hastily zipping up your pants, slide open the door and leave. Patricia’s asleep on the coach or pretending being asleep. Who cares.

When harrowing horniness finally let you go, thirst hit. So bad you’d dry up the Alamo Sea despite its saltiness and ask for more. You bursted into a bathroom, opened the tap at full and drunk greedily from your palms until you felt sick, but couldn’t bring yourself to vomit. The water was muddy, rusty and smelled like sewer, lovely taste of a childhood. Lastly, you washed your face and turned to the broken mirror.

Of course, you’re miserable. Fat old fool with shadows under his eyes, saggy skin and smoky teeth. So what goddamn hopes you had for yourself? He might like that perfect old you, young and handsome, everyone’s blue-eyed boy. Oh, you were hot back in the day, admit it.

You were something to jerk on. Now you ain’t even someone to drunkenly fuck.

So go outside, get in the car. Find yourself the ugliest, the dopest hooker and blow your load into her stretched ass to chill out. Kill some strangers, if doesn’t help, trash someone’s car, rob a store. No other entertainment in this fucking nowhere.

[pahichannel]

AnimeExpo Recap Day 1-2!

I like the idea of using Tumblr for more blogging style Pahi rants so... that's what I'm gonna do! Welcome to Pahi's adventures at AnimeExpo! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡ Boy is LineCon not a joke. Get in a line to get in to get in a line to get into the area you want to go to get into a line to see a paticular artist... it's absolutely wild out here LOL. I really didn't stop walking (or standing) for 11 hours the first day and day 2 wasn't much better. But I GOT A LOT OF COOL THINGS FOR MY TROUBLES!!!

Hitsukuya was my Day 1 first stop because she had limited post cards and I love her OC Hi-chan so I really didn't want to miss it! They were numbered and I was customer #10! Hitsu goes to a ton of cons so I already had most of her stuff but the Honkai stuff was quite new! Next picture is Xeph whom I have a lot of prints from last AX but the Honkai ones are new so I picked up that as well! Then there's Minsgraph who had a holo Silverwolf which looked SO GOOD. I wouldn't be surprised if I accidently double-bought the Gura and already have it... aaaaa I have too many prints. I could stand to more properly organize what I have but at a certain point they're all either on my wall or in a portfolio and you start forgetting who drew what and just kill me. Maybe I should start asking for business cards to slide in with each poster I keep safe. Last pictured is Gyool! They had THE ONLY TOKI I COULD FIND IN THE WHOLE VENUE. I love Toki. Someone please draw more Toki. Also always nice to still see someone drawing Sagiri!

Dealers Hall was next and Inti Creates just reprinted a Lola tapestry I've been looking for forever...??? No seriously, I've been camping Yahoo Auctions, Mandarake and Surugaya for probably a year now for this exact tapestry and it either just doesn't exist or costs 8000 yen plus. And there it was for 25$? Excuse me? Was tempting to buy 2. Probably the happiest surprise of the con for me. As much as I didn't care for the first Gunvolt game the designs are so heckin' cute and Pahicore. I'll probably give the Luminous Avenger games a try at some point...

I have no clue what Fatal Twelve is, I literally pointed at it and said "sell me on this" to the people at Sekai Project and they did a good enough job. I may never make the time to play a lot of visual novels I own but I just love to own them physically and have a soft spot for collecting them up. I'm sure it's just boomer brain where even only 10 years ago visual novels were extremely niche in the west and what was available licensed was incredibly sparse. I'm very happy I can finally buy stuff like Beat Angel Escalayer, something that feels a bit surreal to be a new release given my first encounter with the series was on some backwoods anime hentai site probably 15+ years ago.

Probably my happiest accomplishment was getting alternate color variants of Reimu and Marisa fumos from the AmiAmi booth! It was first come, first serve with a small allotment for them each day so I made the decision to make getting them my mission day 2. At first I just wanted Reimu as she's my favorite 2hu but... she needs a friend right? So I caved lol. Thanks @myrral for joining me to double our chances getting through the crowd for them! I actually had a scare where I thought Marisa was stolen or fell out of a bag but luckily I set it down at a artist friends booth and they kept it safe for me. Glad to have them reunited!

While the entirety of day 1 involved going through all the shops, day 2 I spent a little bit of time in panels! ...getting to them was absolutely awful! I wanted to get to the Lazulight panel but it was absolutely packed and there was no way I was making it with how little time I got there before it started. There was literally a line to get up an escalator so you can get in line for a security checkpoint so you can get in the actual line for the panel, which was capped. I stuck around to get to the next event, a Q&A panel with CDawg and Ironmouse... though that had it's own mishaps. I somehow got ushered into another panel room which was some sort of Studio Bones press announcement panel? I almost gave up and stayed there but I wondered my way out and by some fluke I found where I was supposed to enter the same time security said they can let a few more people inside. They didn't allow anyone to line up once they thought it was full so I got to sneak right in, super lucky!

Day 1 and 2 were so hectic that it ended feeling like I really did everything I wanted to do. I went hard on trying to line up for the things I cared most about and min-max'd my browsing time amongst the artists and exhibitors booths. I'm ready for a much more chill day 3 and 4... so chill that this is my first time I've decided to take a breather and sit in my hotel room the whole con! I'll have a follow up blog for the last days and lots of photos of the general sights and not just what I bought lol. But until then it's time for me to weather the crowds once again though, wish me luck! (￣^￣ )ゞ

[willshipanything-blog]

Rules of the Game- Chapter 1

My first fanfic, so be nice (but I will gratefully accept constructive criticism) <3

Full Chapter Index here.

If you want to read and comment on AO3, it's here (I'm darkbelle on there).

More detailed tags and warnings over there. For now: dead dove, kidnapping, violence, non-con, you get the picture.

Chapter 1: Misdirection

“You’re not leaving, are you, Y/N?”. 

Ms. Rutherford, the librarian at Galesburg Community Library, looked up suspiciously, abandoning her book stamping duties to ask you this. She had always been very particular about the volunteers sticking to their scheduled hours. It was almost sinful you were leaving earlier than expected. 

You turned from exiting the front entrance to face the help desk, piled high with books waiting to be stamped for return and shelved with their neighbors. You thought you might have sneaked out without a fuss. You suppressed a smirk as she pushed her glasses up her nose slightly. She was a walking stereotype of your typical librarian, old and stern, but you had to admit her book recommendations were superlative. Recently you’d been on a Brontë binge and you and Ms. Rutherford had had several (admittedly) heated discussions over the better sister; she was Camp Emily, you Team Charlotte. 

“My ride let me down at lunch, so I need to set off home earlier today,” you replied “but I’ll be back right on time tomorrow!”

“What else can you expect from young men these days? Really, to let a young lady walk alone at night, and with that deviant on the loose, no less!” 

You stifled a laugh and instead exhaled through your nose in amusement. “Ms. Rutherford, first of all, it's 4pm, and honestly, it’s no big deal, it’s not the first time I’ve had to walk home by myself, I’m a big girl! See you bright and early tomorrow!” You turned quickly to avoid a tirade of criticisms about the current generation of young men, which you were very well aware of. As you pushed open the double oak doors of the library, you couldn’t help ponder that Jonathon, your boyfriend of just over a year now, had pissed you off when he had told you last minute he had plans with friends to drink beer and watch football. How original. 

These thoughts disappeared as you stepped outside. You weren’t going to let it bother you. Glass half full, Y/N, you thought to yourself: at least the weather was nice. Although lugging your bookbag in this heat wasn’t ideal, you weren’t going to complain about the weather being so pleasant this late into fall.

Hopping down the stone steps of the library, you thought about another thing that Ms. Rutherford had said- that deviant. It still made you uneasy thinking about the recent spate of missing young boys, especially when you had known one of them. Only distantly, but it still made your stomach turn to think about. It was hard to try and forget though, between the near empty streets at night and the endless rows of MISSING posters that desperate families kept pasting to every fence, streetlight and store window in Galesburg.  

At least at this time of day, most kids had gone straight home from school. Even with leaving the library early, you were able to avoid them. It seemed that all they could talk about these days was ‘the grabber’, as they’d so unashamedly nicknamed him. This moniker spread quickly throughout their friendship circles; it even started to be used by the police, newspapers and TV stations. The speculation about who ‘the grabber’ was gonna get next, the whispered dares to say his name three times in the mirror, as if he were some bogeyman, set your teeth on edge. He was real, not an urban legend to tell ghost stories about. Most kids seemed to forget that they were the ones at risk. Had it gotten colder or was it just these thoughts making you shiver? 

You started to drift away from these ruminations, thinking instead about the large takeout pizza you were gonna order and have with a cold beer once you got home. Extra mushrooms too, which Jonathon hated, to ensure he wouldn’t eat your leftovers. That’ll teach him. Whilst practically drooling over this thought, you heard a sudden rush of steps behind you. Too late to turn around, an arm collided into your own. 

A kid (barely a teenager judging by his size) had flown right into you. Knocking you slightly off balance, he turned but didn’t stop, holding out both hands in a ‘whoops, my bad’ sort of gesture. You noticed tape on the palms that he held up. Must have wrapped them up himself, probably he’d been fighting and had to bandage his knuckles. He did look like a scrappy little thing. 

“Hey, sorry guapa!” he called, turning forward once more and racing on ahead once it was clear you weren’t hurt. You smiled and shook your head, shouting after him down the street. 

“Be careful, kid!” He was already gone, turning the corner about 30 yards ahead of you. 

As you turned right at the same corner half a minute later, a strange scene presented itself, making you stop in your tracks. Crouched on the sidewalk a few feet in front of you was a man with ashy brown-gray hair down to his shoulders, muttering to himself as he tried to collect what looked like a litany of spilled groceries. Looking past him, parked on the curb a little way back was a matte black van with faint green text etched on the side. Even further up the road, you could just make out the young boy still in a rush to get someplace. The crouched figure looked less than enthused and didn’t see that another person was standing just a few feet away from him.

You regained your senses. “Oh! Here, lemme help you,” you volunteered, beginning to grab a couple of oranges that had rolled near to where you were standing.

“No, it’s fine, I got it,” a gravelly voice answered, clearly annoyed at the situation. And why wouldn’t he be? You saw the spilled milk and broken eggs over the sidewalk, things that would have to be replaced. 

“Are you sure? Sorry that kid knocked you over, but I don’t think everything’s ruined,” you said hopefully as you held up the oranges to inspect them. 

“The kid didn’t knock–” the surly voice ceased speaking as he looked up at you. 

A moment of silence followed as the man stood up slowly. You were taken aback by his appearance, his face covered in what seemed to be greasepaint, the top half of his visage hidden by a pair of dark, clunky sunglasses. He must have easily been six feet tall, wearing all black save for a blood-red turtleneck under his silk shirt. Your stomach shifted, suddenly feeling somewhat uneasy around this stranger standing mere feet from you. 

His voice was different when he next spoke; a friendly, almost childish intonation. “Uh, what I meant to say was, I’m sure that boy didn’t mean to bump me like that. I’m normally such a klutz without anyone helping me along!” he smiled goofily, a row of slightly crooked white teeth now visible.

Your silence and continued look of worry was evident, and he spoke again apologetically:

“Oh, uh, sorry for all this,” - here he held both hands up, ringed fingers outstretched, pointing towards his face in an exaggerated gesture - “but my costume isn’t complete. Would you mind passing me my hat, dear?”

Here he gestured theatrically with an arm, guiding your line of sight to a black top hat sat amongst the broken eggs. Feeling only a little reassured by his friendly tone, you stooped to retrieve it. You passed it to him, both of you stretching an arm to cover the distance between you, and as he grabbed the rim he flipped it expertly and it landed on his head. He gave a bow, the vaudevillian look complete, and you huffed out a half-laugh, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. 

After explaining that he was a part time magician, hence the ridiculous outfit, and the van emblazoned with the line ABRACADABRA- ENTERTAINMENT AND SUPPLIES, you both started to pick up what was salvageable from the spilled mess on the sidewalk. He insisted you needn’t help, but you insisted even more that it was no bother. He put the rescued groceries into the back of his van and promptly slammed the door closed. 

“Well, thank you again, you’ve been such a good girl helping me out here.”

You were about to reply for the twentieth time with ‘no problem’, but sensed a strange look come over the man’s face, a vacant, contemplative gaze that you couldn’t place. Before you could speak he interjected, cognizant again.

“Say, you’re not my usual audience, but would you like to see a magic trick, dove?”

Once more, you were taken aback, this time by the strange nickname the man had used, but you’d concluded he was what your mother might have called ‘an eccentric’. You had also unabashedly concluded that this man was charming and (under the facepaint and glasses) really quite handsome, despite the fact he was old enough to be your father. You played ball, nodding at his request.

He chuckled almost imperceptibly under his breath and took a couple of paces towards you. With an elaborate wave of his hand, he reached towards the right side of your face, grazing your cheek as he tucked some hair behind your ear. You hoped you weren’t blushing too much at this spectacle. A shiny quarter was retrieved, and you couldn’t help but smile widely. 

The misdirection of this trick became apparent when you noticed too late the man’s other arm come swinging towards your face at full force, his fist making contact with your jaw with a thundering crack. 

Your body hit the hard sidewalk below you. White hot pain seared through your face. Too shocked to even scream. You felt yourself sitting up, holding yourself on unsteady, wobbling arms. Your vision spun furiously and you recognized the click of a car door opening somewhere in your mind. Whilst you willed yourself to get up and escape the situation, an arm grabbed your chest from behind and in an instant an acrid taste entered your mouth, preemptively choking out any screams you might have attempted. The same spray misted your eyes and it stung like hell. If your body was slow to react to the first hit, it was molasses now. You felt a tight pressure under both of your arms. It was him. He was dragging you to his van. This wasn’t going to end well unless your body at least attempted to move. 

You felt yourself hauled like a sack of flour onto the hard floor of the van. Last chance, both your feet still touched the outside ground, and your mind begged you to do something. Too late. You felt the man’s bulky frame straddling you as he climbed into the van himself, dragging you underneath him further into the vehicle. Your bare arms and legs were stippled with splinters as you were tugged roughly along the wooden flooring, but this pain hardly registered to you compared with the excruciating burning your face felt and the sting from the man’s initial blow. A thud of doors told you he’d now trapped you inside. 

Only now did your sluggish body begin to react. You flailed your arms wildly, though your legs were now firmly trapped under the man’s weight, and your voice was a raspy whisper, clearly from whatever spray had hit you full in the face. As you fumbled blindly with your hands balled into fists, you felt your left hand hit something solid and heard a vicious growl. You’d managed to hit the figure mounted on top of you. A small victory for only a moment; hands suddenly gripped both of your wrists, and bundled them underneath him with your fettered legs. 

As you felt another blow on the side of your face, followed by another, and another, you cursed yourself. Why didn’t you fight back sooner? Or run after that first blow? Why did you talk to a stranger at all? These questions and more exploded in your mind, but began to fade as you sank into unconsciousness.

Al thought it such a shame about that rude young boy. Running past without even offering to help him. Shame too; looked like he had some fight in him. He was going to chalk it up as a bad job, maybe even try another street elsewhere, then she came. This was unexpected. He had closed his van and was going to thank her for her help, when he had called her that- a good girl, he’d said. The idea struck him in seconds. Why not? If the game didn’t work out as planned, who would know? No one who would live to tell the tale. She’s older than the other boys by quite a margin, but he’s still bigger and stronger than her, maybe it could still serve his purposes for the game. And she was a woman- even if naughty boy didn’t work, there were other things that could be done before dispatching her in a shallow grave with the others. Al thought meditatively for a long time on the drive home, the sun just beginning to set on the warm Denver evening.

[descendantofthesparrow]

Hey, do you mind if I ask you a question?

Well I suppose I just did but...I'm going to go to a convention in November and Mitchell Hope's going to be there and we're allowed to give small gifts to the actors we meet and I kinda want to give something to Mitchell to thank him for everything he did in Descendants despite the lack of respect Disney gave him (I mean Ben's not even on the poster despite the fact that there'd be no story without Ben).

The thing is the only thing I'm remotely good at, creative wise that is, is writing and I know there's a big taboo about giving people writings involving their work (though Mitchell's said he loves writings that expand on characters that he's played). As well, with how crazy the world has been health wise, I was thinking of writing a story where Ben (because for me personally, I don't feel right writing RPF and then giving it to the person it's about) visits my state (I mean Ratcliffe exists in Descendants and they have the Bayou de Orleans so my state could still exist and they just smushed all the US into one part of the 19 kingdoms of Auradon right?) and that way Mitchell could 'travel' there because he'd mentioned in another virtual con back in March that he's always wanted to visit my state but...I don't want to seem like the weird fan who latched on to a detail told at 3:48 am EST back in March.

Sorry if this seems completely out of left field but you're one of the more active members of the fandom that I've seen and with the convention in November and September almost half way through, I figured I'd need to get started on the fic fo it to be good...but I can't get out of my own head and keep talking myself into and then out of it. So I thought maybe it'd be good to ask someone else :D

(Apologies if none of what I said made any sense...basically got hit with a big old anxiety bomb at work and still trying to shake it off which can result in rambles)

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm yeah, as someone whose only ever been to one con and has never meet any actors or anything like that-and i dont really know how you would give the fic to Mitchell?? but i do think that-just giving him a Ben fic would be a bit-out of left field?? but! what you could do, is like a -big ol thank you note to him for Ben n all he did for the character, and include a little written link to the fic in the note so if he wanted to, he could look for it and read it in his own time so he (hopefully) doesn't feel obligated to read it or something idk how meet n greets/gift giving work???

idk but-it sounds like a good idea, it would just be a bit awkward to give him a whole ass fic if you plan to print it out and give it to him??? but a thank you letter with the fic link in it sounds a bit-idk less awkward

[trashangel-dee]

Prompt idea for a soulmate AU (I'm a sucker for those :P): You don't see color until you find your soulmate. You only see in black and white again if your soulmate dies or if there's a really bad break in the relationship.

Here it is! Sorry it took so long, I was somehow super inspired and super stuck at the same time. It is fairly ooc, but kind of wanted it to be for an au.

Hope it’s okay! :)

Dee grumbledto herself, sitting next to her brother in the restaurant. They were meetinghis boyfriend, and his friend. Dennis claimed they were “just friends”but the way he yammered on about the guy was much more than she had heard himtalk of others. The fact that he had agreed to pay for her meal and a newpurse, just so she would go and chat with the friend he didn’t want to leavebehind didn’t help- Dennis was offering money just so he could see the guy.

“Here theyare!” Dennis whispered excitedly, leaning in close. Dee groaned, ready to killDennis for getting her in this situation. She recognized Mac, having only methim once, but the karate noises and smell of Drakkar Noir would stick with her.It was his companion, her “dinner buddy” that was an issue- a shorter, scruffyman in a wrinkled t-shirt and oversized jacket trailed along. He’s out with abeautiful woman and decides it’s okay to dress like that? Shit, she hopes thisisn’t him actually trying.

“Like Isaid, Deandra,” Dennis began, “sleeveless shirts are so white trash, but witharms like that, Mac can pull it off.” She stared at him for a moment incredulously-is he not hearing himself?

The two menreach the table and sit, Mac across from Dennis and the grungy one across fromDee. “Hey, bro, this is Charlie, we’ve been friends since, like, forever.”Charlie gives a half hearted wave, and Dennis nods.

“So, you’reDennis’ sister” Charlie says to her, and she can’t tell if he’s asking ortelling. She’s debating whether to give a sarcastic response or “play nice” asDennis had begged in the car, when she lost her train of thought. He waslooking right at her, and his eyes, they were so different than anything shehad seen before.

Instead ofthe usual monochrome palette she had only known, there was a new brightness.Green.

—————–

Dee walkeddown the hall to Charlie’s apartment finding herself excited, a combination ofseeing him and hopefully discovering a new color. He had called, inviting herover for lunch, one he had cooked himself. Dee had been to his apartment oncebefore- briefly when picking him up to go out; she wasn’t thrilled aboutspending the day in the small, dirty room but found the pros far outweighed thecons.

He answeredthe door quickly, though there’s no reason he shouldn’t, Dee thought, with howsmall the apartment is.

“Oh, hey,hey, come on in” he smiled stepping aside. She entered, surveying the room,realizing that’s exactly what it was. A room. No kitchen, no dining area. Shewas about to ask just exactly how he ate in there, glancing over the coffeetable littered with magazines, empty bottles and various empty food wrappers.Of course, he hadn’t bothered to clean up before she came over, much like hehadn’t bothered to do to himself the first time they met.

Her eyes fellto a small card table, a little off the center of the room, a chair on eachside; with two place settings, and in the center stood a single flower in avase. She recognized the green stem immediately, but atop where it bloomed wasa new color. Yellow.

——————————————-

“This placeis supposed to be really popular. I hear they make really good drinks and havelots of colors, too,” Dee explained, as she and Charlie rounded a corner andsaw the giant SUDZ sign. Neither had experienced all the colors yet, but therewas always hope of discovering a new one, and finding all the different shadesof the ones they had already learned.

They hadboth discovered different ones than the other, and part of the fun was tryingto explain them and pointing out what things were the unknown colors.

The placewas loud and busy. They sat at an open spot at the counter, and a man behindthe bar held up a finger indicating he’d be there in a moment, they bothnodded. Dee reached for a flyer indicating drink specials, when Charlie pointedat a group sharing something from a fishbowl, “I know what we’re getting.”

“That?” Deeasked trying, and failing, to sound annoyed, “what’s so great about it?”

“It’s blue!Like your eyes. And I want you to like it as much as I do,” he enthused. Sheunderstood, remembering the first time she saw his green, it was such abeautiful color, her first color,instantly shifting her mood that day.

The manjogged up to them, “How you doing? My name is Greg-“ before Charlie cut himoff.

“We’ll takeone of those,” pointing again at the table.

“That’d be aBlue Hole. Our blended signature cocktail. A great choice. It’s what werecommend to our first-“ he started happily, before Dee cut in this time,enjoying interrupting the man. ���That’s great! Go get it.”

He got thehint to quit with the small talk and returned a moment later with the drink,two straws sticking out. For a moment it looked like he was going to try beingfriendly again, but decided against it, and left. They leaned in, taking adrink at the same time; Dee feeling like one of those couples sippingmilkshakes on posters, but not so cheesy.

She satback, looking at the drink they had shared, and it seemed to spring to life.Blue.

———————-

Dee hadnever celebrated a real Valentine’s Day before. Sure, she’s been on dates andsent cards, but nothing really went anywhere. Sometimes it was just a plan toget laid, sometimes she’d see the guy again once or twice; it was more of aholiday for following what movies and TV suggested, she never had actually feltthe things the day had promised.

She hadknown Charlie for almost 6 months, and was looking forward to the holiday,going into it with real expectations; though years ago she would’ve thought areal Valentine’s should include jewelry, chocolates, and an expensiverestaurant, she now found the idea boring and impersonal.

They hadagreed to spend the day together, with no plans, just each other.  She jumped when she heard a pounding on thedoor, pulling it open to see Charlie smiling widely, hands behind his back. “Imade you something,”

He pulledout a slightly lopsided paper heart full of bright stickers, two cats touching nosesin the center, inside a red hand drawn heart. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ scribbledacross the top in messy handwriting. The paper wasn’t like the kind she was accustomedto, it was colored, too. Pink.

———————-

Dee sat atthe counter of the bar she had just bought with her brother, Mac, and Charlie.

It wasalmost nightfall in the warm summer, when Dee felt someone grab her hand. Looking up, she saw itwas Charlie, a lumpy bag under his arm. “Dee, come with me,” he whispered. Sherolled her eyes then glanced over at Mac and Dennis, who were in the middle ofdoing something… stupid. Deciding Charlie’s mystery was better than the othertwo, Dee followed him out the back door into the alley.

Charliereached for the roof ladder, pulling it down. She sighed, tired from the long day. “What the hell are we doing, Charlie?”

“Having ourown celebration.” he explained, then continued after catching the doubtful lookon her face. “It’s good. I promise.”He stepped back, motioning towards the ladder, “ladies first.”

Dee shook herhead. “Nope. I don’t know what’s up there.”

“Fine”Charlie started climbing, glancing back to make sure Dee was following. Shewas.

They reachedthe top, looking over the large flat surface for a moment, before Charliewalked to the center, dropping the bag; he opened it, pulling out a largeblanket and a couple bottles of wine. He sat down, patting the spot next tohim; Dee followed, sitting and looked around.

“Can youbelieve this is ours?” he asked after a moment. She leaned close, resting herhead on his shoulder. “No. I can’t.” she breathed.

They sat ina comfortable silence, staring at the darkening sky barely illuminated by the settingsun, filled with swirls of a new color. Purple.

———————————–

“We’re notkids, Charlie,” Dee explained. “Halloween is for costumes and getting drunk.Not carving faces on pumpkins.”

“Well yeah!But it’s also for candy and jack of lanterns,” Charlie fought back, patting thetwo giant pumpkins on Dee’s kitchen table.

“O, Charlie. It’s Jack o Lantern.”

Charlienarrowed his eyes for a moment, thinking. “Nah, Dee. I’m pretty sure it’s of,”he finished, grabbing a knife and stabbing at the top of a pumpkin.  Dee watched as he cut the top off thenreached inside, happily pulling out handfuls of seeds and goop.

“Well, I’m pretty sure the only reason youwanted to do this, was to touch all that gross shit.”

“We need decorations, Dee, if we’re really gonnacelebrate. Besides, it’s our first holiday at the bar. Gotta make it big.”

Deeresigned. She had never really enjoyed holidays as a kid; it was alwayssomething her parents had blown off, seeing celebrating for her and Dennis asan inconvenience. She watched Charlie concentrate on carving into the pumpkin,working in detail on his design, finding herself more focused on his excitementthan the actual tradition.

He looked upa few minutes later, spinning the pumpkin towards her with a look of pride, awell crafted glass of foamy beer carved in the center. The entire object lookedeven better when it took on a color. Orange.

——————–

“I’m reallyhappy Dennis dragged me to that stupid restaurant with him,” Dee said oneevening, as she and Charlie sat side by side. He tilted his head slightly, confused.

“I might nothave met you. Things might not’ve worked out, and we wouldn’t be here,” sheexplained. He nodded, “It is kind of cool.”

“I want thisto be forever” she confessed.

“Then, let’smake a blood oath!” Charlie exclaimed sitting up straighter, “That’s, like, thebest promise you can make someone. It can never really be broken.” He looked so serious and focused.

She lookedat him for a moment, considering, then nodded.

Charliepulled a pocket knife from his jeans, flipping it open. He held out hisopposite hand, placing the blade against his palm; Dee reached across the tablepulling one from her purse, and doing the same. They both took a deep breath,pressing down and pulling the tips across, looking up upon noticing that thistime there was a color to the warm liquid slowly pooling out. Red.

They bothsmiled, clasping hands together before leaning forward and touching lips, too.

 ———————–

 This was really fun to write. I tried to use a canon-ish moment for each one, but had to really stretch on some. I thought about doing the death/broken part, but just couldn’t bring myself to.

 If anybody else has prompts, headcanons, etc. send them to me. No promises they’ll be good, but I’ll try.