#writing with regalli

[regallibellbright]

Decided "Fuck it" and stayed up until 4 AM, but hey! Coffee Dates Are Overrated is finally, FINALLY done.

[gummi-ships]

[kayfabe-is-king]

I believe Wheeler will only start winning again when he really finds himself. Right now he is deep in the denial stage of grief (look at that sad boi face above). He has wrongly convinced himself the Death Riders are still the Blackpool Combat Club he believed in. He is blindly following Claudio and Jon because that's what he's known for a while now. Only they don't see him as a protege anymore, just their little windup murder doll (his match against Hangman on Collision last night is proof of that). But they aren’t doing the proper maintenance (i.e. supporting him and you know, not forgetting about him as they leave the arena) so the doll is malfunctioning. Hence all his recent losses.

The old Blackpool Combat Club was his home and he started coming into his own with them. Look back at photos of Wheeler during the Bryan era BCC. He was genuinely happy. He was learning and growing and finding his footing. It was something good. Sure the training was brutal (it’s a combat club not a knitting circle) but that BCC showed him how to get back up. They saw something in him and wanted to help him become a better version of himself. And he did.

gif by @heeleryuta

So now he’s latching on to the remnants of what once gave him direction and purpose. Something that built him up and helped him stand on his own two feet. It’s hard to let that go even when it turns into something toxic. The Death Riders aren’t concerned with making him better. In fact, they need him broken so they can control him. He doesn’t have a purpose outside of being a chess piece in their mind games. But here’s the thing, some of their methods remind him just enough of BCC’s tough love that he can’t see the difference (classic abuser behavior). At least not yet.

I think he will eventually but it’s going to be a journey. He will have to truly grieve the loss of the Blackpool Combat Club and finally let it go. He will have to realize he can take the lessons they taught him and stand on his own. This isn’t a quick fix and I don’t think someone else should “save” him. Much like Hangman’s story arc to the men’s world championship, I think Wheeler will have to do this on his own. It’s going to get messy, he’s going to fail and he’s going to get his heart ripped out by Claudio especially. But (ironically enough) just like Papa Castagnoli said once before:

[pain-in-the-butler]

A compilation of art for my Dadbastian fanfic Coattails that I commissioned from the incredibly talented @karafina! They went above and beyond with the details... Each picture feels as cozy and warm as a storybook, right? I'm so delighted with how they turned out!! Thank you for making each one so beautiful! 🥹🥹🥹

[thicc-ray-of-sunshine]

looking through my old stuff that I never posted and was absolutely GUTTED by this bit I wrote about Maul

"You dared to follow the contours of his face even further where you found he had a literal crown of horns. How befitting. A creature so divine, hosting a physical crown to solidify their own majesty in whatever system they deemed so worthy."

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Today, it is time to briefly bemoan my lack of actual writing progress for Aylin/Isobel Week the past couple of days due to pesky real life obligations, and try to think happier thoughts, such as "Isobel is so blatantly and incredibly into the whole glorious paladin/evil smiting thing" and "Isobel casting increasingly suggestive Sendings totally counts for the letters/epistolary prompt, right?".

[waining-crescent-moon]

I just came up with an AU where Fitz was in a Nettle like situation where his mom raised him and he didn’t know who his dad was. This is ground breaking, I know. Anyway, really think about how cool it could have been like I have so many ideas.

Fitz could Wit-Bond to a wolf in the mountains when he’s kinda young. The Fool could live in a tent or a small cabin in the woods then visit Fitz every once in a while, they could actually have a childhood together. After a trip in the woods Fitz, Keppet, could return to his mother dead, courtesy of Queen Desire trying to find him but his mother lying to the people she sent. Keppet taking a lock of her hair and braiding it into his own then he has to run because the guards are returning.

The overall story could be him first running to Jhaampe and trying to explain to his Sacrifices how his family was attacked by Six Duchies soldiers. Kettricken and/or Rurisk then trying to discuss it with the Six Duchies but that only gets Regal sent their way. After Regal inevitably tries to kill him Keppet decides to travel all the way to Buckkeep himself. Along the way he may discover travel companion such as Beloved, his wolf, and Burrich.

[jessamine-rose]

*lovingly tackles Aine*

Read my Yandere! Pierro longfics first ♪( ´▽｀)

Last week, my beloved mutual @ainescribe surprised me with Savior! Darling fan art and AHAI9232@2-!/! CRYING SCREAMING I WANT TO LOOK AT THIS ART AND WORSHIP YOUR VERSION OF SAVIOR THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BLESSING ME WITH YOUR ART—

*clears throat* Anyway, now that I finally have the time to properly sit down and comment on the fan art, I’ll do just that. Feedback will be in the tags and it will be unhinged. Once again, thank you so much to Aine for drawing this <3

[clonemando]

A Kiss a Day in May

Day 20- Keldabe Kiss

Bail/Fox/Breha (ft. Trans!Fox)

Each day this month I have a 100 word drabble featuring a different clone with a kiss prompt. Not all are romantic and they include all sorts of pairings and relationships. Feel free to offer pairing/ character suggestions for future days.

Breha held tightly to Bail's hand as they waited in the medical ward in the palace for news. Thankfully it didn't take long for someone to come out and usher them into the room where Fox was. The sight that waited for them made herself squeak and Bail gasp.

Fox looked exhausted but had his forehead pressed gently to the newborn's that he was holding in his arms. Tears started to spill down Breha's cheeks as Fox looked up at her.

"Meet our daughter, Kit." He said and Bail started giggling until she smacked his arm.

"It's a cute name."

[thlayli-ra]

Stray (part 10)

Characters - CM Punk, Drew McIntyre, Samoa Joe, Gunther, Imperium, William Regal, Blackpool Combat Club

Pairing - CM Punk/Drew McIntyre, CM Punk/Samoa Joe (past)

AU - Stray Au

Rating - Mature

Warnings - ***Rape, non-con, past abuse, blood***

Words - ~3,900 words

Summary - Drew returns to his place of captivity, and remembers...

Drew was hurting bad. Heart pounding, muscles aching, every breath coming in hard and ragged. Fresh blood slid over his hot skin, drenched with sweat. And everything hurt! Just like it always did at this point in the fight. When both combatants were starting to tire in the deep waters, each man balancing precariously somewhere between victory... and death!

The crowd were feral tonight. Voices a riot of high-pitched shrieks blasting in his ears. They were all around him as Drew tried to back away from his opponent, suffocating him, grabbing at him, slapping him on the back and shoulders. Whacking against his open wounds, their palms coming away red and wet.

The chain rattled, dangling from his wrist, connecting him to the man hellbent on slaughtering him. Somewhere in the bout, his opponent had yanked the chain hard and Drew had heard a loud crack. He wasn't sure if his wrist was broken or just badly sprained but he knew his whole hand had swollen up like a boxing glove. He couldn't even curl his fingers into a fist.

His opponent began pulling on the chain tethering them again, luring Drew in like an exhausted fish on a hook. Smiling as he bit down on the hunting knife between his teeth, the same one he'd used to slice through Drew's skin. The Scotsman had been able to fend off any major blows so far but he was growing weary, ground down and hurting. One mistake, one strike through his defences was all it would take.

Drew's bare feet skidded across the floor, failing to find grounding in the macabre tug-of-war. His opponent's features becoming clearer, the mad glee in his eye as he yanked the battered Scot closer. The knife was removed from his teeth and held aloft. A last wrench and Drew was within reach of his blade. A clean stab to the neck and the much larger man would be finished.

But Drew struck first, smashing his forehead against the fragile cartilage of his opponent's nose. A catastrophic headbutt that they ironically called a 'Glasgow Kiss' back home. The other man crumpled in a wail of pain and seeping blood. Drew saw his chance and grabbed up the chain, wrapping it around his foe's neck and pulling it tight.

Tap! His mind screamed, pleaded with the other man. For the love of God, please tap! He couldn't endure another name, another face added to his kill list. Another soul weighing down his guilt. Tap! Please tap! Please!

But his thoughts did not get through to his opponent who went limp in his arms, his face a deep shade of purple. At the first sign of unconsciousness, Drew released him, let him flop onto his back. The MC stepped forward, took one look at the unresponsive fighter and declared Drew the winner to a din of mixed reactions from the mob around him. Some cheering for their wins, other protesting their losses, some baying for Drew's blood themselves.

Yet the whole time, he watched his beaten foe. Waiting for movement. Breathe! Breathe!

A hand pressed against the middle of his chest and pushed him back. Pushed him away from the limp body before he could confirm there was still a pulse beating within it. Wheeler Yuta quickly unlocked the metal cuff from around Drew's puffy wrist then grabbed his arm and escorted him away from the growingly agitated crowd.

'Good fight,' Yuta hushed out softly. 'Good win.' Drew liked Yuta, he was a good kid, but he could already see the change taking over him. The bruises on his face like a poison slowly sinking in. The other members of the Blackpool Combat Club had a particularly nasty method of hazing their newest recruits. They said it was to toughen them up, but really it was to bring them in line. Softness and sympathy were not welcome traits in their gang.

Drew looked forward to returning to his cell downstairs, where hopefully a warm meal and his bunk would be waiting for him after the medic had stitched him up. However, he wasn't ushered towards the side door leading to the steps, instead he was taken to Mr Regal's table.

Fingers of terror gripped the Scotsman. What did Regal want with him? Had he been disappointed with his fight? But... Drew had won! It had been a tough battle but he had come out victorious, that had to count for something, surely? His heart kicked like a mule against his ribs as he was lead up into Regal's private booth and came to a halt a foot from the large table, laden with fine food and drink. Instinctively, he sank down onto his creaking knees, his head bowed low for his master.

'That'll be all, Yuta.' The soft grip left his shoulder with a squeeze and Drew had to stop the terrified whine from bubbling up his throat. He began to tremble, a feeling like a noose tightening around his neck.

'Is this him?' Another voice piped up. One that Drew had never heard before.

'This is the man in question,' Regal answered, his voice flowing with easy charm. 'Scotsman. Six foot five and two hundred and sixty five pounds. Dark hair. Blue eyes.' Why was he reeling off his attributes like that? Like he was selling a used car?

'Can I have a closer look?'

'Be my guest.'

Drew heard a sharp whistle and glanced up to find a grim-faced man pointing to the floor in front of him. Realising he was being beckoned over, the Scotsman went to stand when the stranger shook his head. 'No, don't get up.'

Drew didn't understand. He turned to Regal for help but the Englishman was glaring sternly at him. Do as you're fucking told! So Drew did what he thought he was being told. He crawled on all fours! Ass up, back arched, like a whipped dog. Feeling a burning in his cheeks from the humiliation.

'Good boy.' The stranger's mocking made it worse.

Drew struggled, his bad wrist was weak and unable to support him on one side. No matter what he did he couldn't hide it. The stranger immediately clocked the injury but said nothing.

Once he'd reached his destination, Drew's chin was grabbed and tilted back. The large man loomed above him, menacing. 'Hmm, pretty,' he noted, his tone cranking up Drew's dread. A thick thumb wormed its way between his lips, pushed down on his bottom teeth to open his mouth up wide for him to inspect. Now Drew was starting to panic!

'Is he well behaved?' the man asked as he poked his fingers down the back of his throat, making him gag.

'Hmm-mm,' Regal nodded, taking a sip of his red wine. 'Very. We haven't had any trouble from this one. He's a good fighter too, strong and-'

'I don't need him to fight,' the man interrupted. Then what? Drew pleaded internally, what do you want with me?

'Stand,' the man commanded and Drew shakily got up to his feet, silencing any grunts of pain as his fresh wounds flared. However, he had no such luck with his heartbeat, which drummed loudly in his chest.

A pounding that became deafening when large hands stroked down his flanks and rested on his hips. Drew flinched when the fingers hooked into the waistband of his fight shorts and yanked down, dragging them all the way to his ankles. Quickly, he covered himself with his bloodied hands but both of his wrists were captured in a vice-like grip and torn apart. 'Hands behind your back!'

The fire in Drew's cheeks roared red hot as he glanced around the audience looking on, piqued by that morbid curiosity that afflicts all animals when they spy one of their own being devoured by a predator. On one side was Regal and his two right-hand men, Mox and Claudio, while on the other, Regal's guest had two men of his own, one blonde, the other bald. Six pairs of eyes on him, twelve eyes staring as the man's large hand slid between his legs and cupped his genitals in its palm, feeling the weight of them like they were a sack of gold.

'Yes, very nice.'

A shriek tore through the air, making Drew jump. The man had shoved back his chair and was now getting to his feet, Drew's cock and balls still trapped in his grasp. He stood to his full height, only an inch shorter than the tall Scotsman and locked his fierce eyes onto Drew's startled blues. He said nothing, only began to knead the fragile flesh in his hand and watched as his victim squirmed.

Then slapped Drew hard across the face!

The Scotsman reeled from the blow, grunting as the hold on his groin tightened, forcing him to keep his feet.

'What are you going to do?' The stranger asked with a mocking sneer. 'Are you going to hit me back?'

Slowly, Drew turned his face back around, teeth grit and intense blue eyes glistening through the threads of his long, damp hair, glaring defiantly. Betraying the fact that Regal had oversold just how 'well-behaved' his prisoner was.

The stranger squeezed him viciously between the legs, giving a slight twist to remind the Scotsman he had full control over him. Drew ruefully backed down and kept his clenched fists behind his back, trying to ignore the stranger's other hand wrapping around him to stroke down his shoulder blades, finding the groove of his spine and following the trail down, down, down.

'Has he...' the man paused, mulling over his words, '..been broken in already?'

Regal didn't even look up from his meal as he asked Drew, 'have you ever been fucked up the arse?'

Drew gaped, blue eyes wide and round with shock. Thinking of nights when the drink had flowed too freely among the guards, when they huddled together and chose a cell at random. It often took two or three to hold him down while another-

Drew lowered his head in shame, lifted up his fist. Gave an anguished cat paw.

'What was that?' the man asked, suspiciously.

'He said yes,' Regal explained matter-of-factly. 'We don't permit our prisoners to speak. Instead they must learn sign language for when we need them to communicate. British sign language. That way they can't go spilling their sob stories to some nosy, sympathetic yank.'

'I see,' the man replied, thoughtfully. 'So he doesn't speak?'

'Shouldn't do. Is that a problem?'

The grim lips tightened. Considering.

The hand holding his genitals finally let go. Only to lightly grab hold of his injured wrist and coax it from behind his back, bringing it up to Drew's chest height. With one hand on Drew's wrist, the other seizing him by the base of his fingers, the stranger slowly twisted the inflamed hand. It began to throb, it took all of Drew's fortitude not to let the discomfort show. Nothing more than a slight twitch of his eye.

But the man continued, prising Drew's swollen hand further back. The pain grew, getting worse until Drew couldn't hide it anymore, his lips pursing, the bridge of his nose crinkling. Yet, still he kept on winding it back on itself, cold eyes boring into his, waiting, knowing he would get the result he wanted if he was only patient.

And finally, when he snapped Drew's injured hand back at a terrible angle, the stranger won his victory. Drew let out a wail of distress as the pain shot through his entire arm. As soon as he did, his wrist was released and Drew fell to his knees, clutching his throbbing hand to his chest protectively.

'No. It's not a problem at all,' the stranger replied to Regal's earlier query, smiling down at the quivering Scot at his feet. He barked out an order in a foreign language and the blonde man stepped forward, placing a black briefcase on the table and sliding it across towards Regal, who opened it eagerly. 'As we agreed.'

'A quick inspection, if I may?'

'Go ahead. If you don't mind me doing the same.'

Thick fingers entangled in Drew's hair and yanked him up to his feet. He was shoved belly first onto the table, the hand in his hair holding his cheek flat against the hard wood while, behind him, the stranger wetted two of his fingers in his mouth.

Panic grabbed hold of Drew and shook him viciously. Trying to snap him out of his stupor while a huge thigh punched between his legs and drove them apart. Everybody was watching, everybody was looking. Not even Claudio had the decency to turn away as his cheeks were split open and a chunky, slick finger probed between them.

Except Regal. The one man he needed to look at him at that moment.

The finger forced its way in and Drew squealed.

Still Regal refused to look his way.

He had to get him to look at him!

Drew freed his hand trapped beneath him and loudly rapped his knuckles against the tabletop until his master glanced up from the stack of money in the briefcase towards him. Pinned facedown, Drew couldn't get the full motion he needed but he was able to get his point across. His flat palm, flying from his chest like a bird. A finger pointed at Regal, making the sign of a 'x' in the air.

'Yes,' Regal said, closing the case with a snap. 'I did promise you your freedom, didn't I?'

Drew's blue eyes looked up pleadingly at his master, gasping as another finger probed deep inside of him.

'But I thought you would have figured it all out by now.' Regal nodded to Mox and Claudio, the pair of them turning to leave. Drew's breathing quickened, heaving his shoulders in short, terrified pants as Regal cocked his head down at him. 'This is the real world, petal. Nobody keeps their promises!'

And he left.

Closing the door to his private booth as Drew was brutally broken in by his new master.

'This the place?'

Drew blinked back to reality and looked ahead. As soon as he spied the large chain link fence, he felt a stab of fear. Taking in a deep breath to help him focus, he lifted his fist.

Cat paw.

'Ok,' Joe was working on his breathing too but to his credit, nothing else gave away his nerves. His hand curled around the steering wheel was rock-steady, his brow lowered and his jaw clenched. A man who was no stranger to a fight, and knew on his best day, he could beat anybody.

But this wasn't just any ordinary fight. Punk's life hung in the balance.

'So what's the plan?'

Drew flicked his finger between them and drove his open palm forward towards the fence. We go in.

'Both of us?' Joe turned to him, narrowing his eyes.

Drew heaved in another focusing breath. He gave a determined nod of his head.

'Fine,' Joe cut the engine then reached down behind his seat, retrieving a hefty crowbar. Drew gaped at the weapon, wondering if Joe always kept him with him, or had grabbed it specifically for the rescue mission. 'Let's go.'

The pair of them got out of the car and crept through the shadows towards the large, looming barricade. Making sure the coast was clear, Drew scaled the fence and leapt down onto the other side. Turning around, he expected to find Joe following suite but the other man was busy jamming his crowbar into the chain locking the gate tight. With a grunt, he tore the metal apart, the chain slumped to the floor and Joe casually walked through the gate.

'I prefer to keep my feet on the ground,' he stated.

The two men then took in the sight of their next predicament. A strange building stood before them, a huge slap of cold grey concrete. A ladder lead up to a door halfway up its facade with a walkway winding around the side of the circular building.

'What is this place?'

Drew ignored the question and pushed on ahead. He didn't know what the building was once used for and didn't care. All that mattered was that it was currently where they were holding Punk.

And where they had held him too!

Grabbing hold of the ladder, he climbed up, finding a hefty padlock on the door. Once Joe had heaved himself up onto the walkway, his crowbar made short work of the lock and the door swung open, squeaking on its rusty hinges. Beyond, there was nothing but black shadows.

Drew's nerve failed him.

It must have shown because a big hand squeezed his shoulder. 'Stay here and keep watch,' Joe told him, giving Drew an out. 'I'll go in.'

Drew answered with a resigned sigh and quivered his head. Lifting up both hands, he crooked his index fingers and touched them to the corner of his eyes then down. Be careful!

'I'll watch out,' Joe reassured the Scot before stepping into the darkness and out of sight.

Drew felt like his heart was trying to escape out of his mouth. He'd been fine coming back, nervous yes, but the sight of the fence and the building hadn't fazed him since he'd only really seen them for the first time when he had escaped. But as soon as the door opened and he got that first whiff of stale, damp air, all the terror and pain had come crashing back.

Life as Regal's gladiator had been brutal, but every minute of being Gunther's slave was a waking nightmare. Memories of being locked up, practically naked, in a cold, cramped cage. Isolated entirely from the world around him, days flowing into one another until time meant nothing at all. Reduced to little more than a dog with the collar around his neck and the muzzle covering his face. Abused and beaten and flogged and raped repeatedly. Used for whatever sick purpose his master desired, completely at the mercy of his sadistic whims.

He'd fought back at first, but he was outnumbered, three dangerous men to one, and they always managed to overpower him. One day, he'd found the courage to rip off his collar and threw it at Gunther's feet, spitting a large glob of saliva onto the so-called General's polished shoes.

He paid a heavy price for his insolence. His master was overcome with blinding rage and Drew was beaten so badly he was certain he would be killed. Even his captors believed they had murdered him, going as far as to call in Thatcher to dispose of his body, however, to Drew's great dismay, he regained consciousness. They had left him alone in the cage for several days afterwards, perhaps hoping he would pass on quietly but the Scotsman refused to die. Once he'd recovered enough from his injuries, the abuse began again. Only this time, Drew stopped fighting back.

And he never dared remove his collar again.

Time wore on and the spirit that had burned inside of Drew sizzled out like a flame in a rainstorm. Where courage and pride had once been, fear and dread took its place. And hopelessness. Dark, empty hopelessness.

Until the day he dangled from the hook in the centre of the room, and made an incredible discovery - his cuffs were loose! Giddy with terrified excitement, he wriggled his hands loose. A new-found strength, borne from the promise of liberty, fuelled his limbs as he yanked at the fetter around his ankle, somehow managing to snap the chain in half and Drew dashed for the door. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his calf, he ran and ran and ran, until his lungs collapsed and his legs soon followed and he found himself lost in a raging storm, alone and terrified. Knowing his kidnappers were on the hunt and following his scent.

But then a stranger found him.

Soft fingers, long and slender, reached out to help him when nobody else did. Their feathery touch unfastened the clasps of his muzzle and tenderly removed Drew from its foul grip. As those wondrous fingers threw his own personal cage away like trash, Drew had spied letters inked into them, spelling out a word he knew so well. A word that he had become nothing more than a fantasy, a figment of his imagination that he could never hope to cling to.

Free!

Drew read them as a sign so when the stranger mentioned something about hot coffee and warm muffins, he took a chance. 'It melts in your mouth, I swear.' A promise! Even though Regal's words swarmed Drew's mind - 'nobody keeps their promises' - he accepted the offer and went with the stranger back to his apartment.

Those tender fingers were strong. They carried the injured Scot the whole way back, never once hurting him but never once threatening to drop him. He'd felt safe in their grasp, the first time he had felt safe in years. So many years!

And when he arrived at the apartment... Drew ate the best damn muffins he had ever tasted in his whole life! They did indeed melt in his mouth.

It was something so small and insignificant. Punk probably had no idea of the importance of those two little words - 'I swear' - but it meant everything to Drew. Despite a bellyful of gooey muffins, hot coffee and a fluffy blanket around his shoulders, Drew felt the greatest warmth radiating from his chest. A spark reigniting the furnace of his soul. All because of a promise kept.

As the night wore on, Punk fulfilled more of his promises. 'I'm not gonna hurt you!' He didn't take advantage of him, even when Drew succumbed to his conditioning and crawled on all fours to show his appreciation for the meal. He never touched him inappropriately in the showers or molested him while Drew slept.

'You're safe with me'. When nightmares had driven Drew from his slumber and he'd awoken in the strange room, forgetting for a moment where he was, Punk had allowed the Scotsman into his bed and held him close, chasing the terrors away during the hours of darkness. For the first time in... he didn't even know how long, Drew had slept, peacefully and deep. With Punk's tender fingers stroking his hair, soothing him with their gentle touch.

By the following morning, Drew had fallen in love with those two inked hands. A quick glance over the rest of the man who possessed them, with the distinguished grey in his beard, green eyes that blinked shyly whenever their gazes met and his soft, muscular body adorned with beautiful frescoes, and Drew concluded there were fewer pictures of perfection in the world.

Yet here he was, standing on the outside, waiting around like a coward.

'As long as I'm still breathing, I’ll never let them take you. I can promise you that.'

Punk was in this ordeal all because of him. Because he'd made a bold pledge to Drew and just like he had done for every other oath he took, Punk had set out to fulfil it. However, when he had not returned after promising Joe he would be right back, Drew knew something terrible had happened. When he'd discovered the muzzle missing from Punk's dining table, he realised the horrifying fate that he had wriggled free from now had Punk in its coils.

Drew breathed in slow and long, bunching his fists up tight. Lifting his head, he forced all the fear down to grab the handle of the door.

And went inside to save the man he loved!

To be continued...

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[regallibellbright]

A minor issue with RORD is that Shiki and Rhyme's abilities are better-defined than the boys', to the point where I worry Shiki and Rhyme are going to come off as OP compared to Beat and Neku once they really get a grasp on what they can do. Part of this is that neither of the boys has as strong a grasp on what they're going to do with their life as Shiki (owner of a successful fashion brand) or Rhyme (new dream is to hack reality, and discovering they can do that literally has only encouraged them,) and therefore their powers are less settled.

Part of this I'm alleviating by just saying, fuck it. If Beat believes hard enough, he can fit five people on that skateboard and this is one of his explicit powers. They are going to scream the entire time (except Beat) but they will fit on it. Do not question how this would fuck with the center of balance of the board. They need to get somewhere, and this is working.

It still doesn't solve the Neku problem, but the games themselves do a good enough job establishing Neku as OP for a regular Player so I'm less worried about that.

[writerwrightlegend]

Twelve Days to Christmas(Day 7):Hot Chocolate by a Campfire.

Summary:Techno enjoys some hot chocolate by a fire after his sudden transformation by Dr. Regal.

Techno stared at his new transformation in the mirror. It had been a little while since he was forcefully transformed by Dr. Regal. He red and white steaks in his hair. His skin was paler and his eyes were red. He wore a dark purple jacket, black pants, and purple boots and black soles. Around his wrists were a pair of silver bracers with blue energy glowing through it. Attached to the bracers are chains that are hanging from the attachment of the bracers. He was surrounded by a dark aura and had a blue flame following him.

"*sighs* I look like a freak."

Techno groaned at his new appearance. He didn't know why Dr. Regal was so set of making him a part of his group.

"I hope Metto is okay and that Rock got my message... Gnh!"

Techno leaned against the wall as his legs gave out on him. His body was still exhausted from the transformation.

"Oww... God, that hurts... Come on, get up..."

Techno pushed himself up as the pain went through his body.

"Gnh..."

"Umbra!"

"*sighs* Coming!"

Techno groaned as he heard Dr. Regal call him. He hated the name that Regal gave him. He chose to ignore it as he approached the room.

"You need something?"

He said, trying to ignore the pain coursing through his body.

"Yes, I need your P.E.T..."

"And what if I don't give it to you?"

"Then, we're going to have a bit of a problem, now give me that P.E.T."

Techno reached into his pocket and searched through each one.

"Odd... It's not here."

"Not there? Check the jacket that you came here with!"

Techno grabbed the jacket from Regal and checked it. He still couldn't find his P.E.T.

"I could've sworn I put it in here..."

"Hmm... Well, it seems you dropped it at your previous location before coming here. No matter, I'll simply send some of men to collect it."

"Is that all you needed?"

"For now, yes... You're dismissed."

Techno nodded and walked back to his room. He sat down in the chair, trembling in pain and exhausted.

"Ugh... Everything hurts..."

He buried his face in his hands as he felt his body twitching. Suddenly, he felt something gently rub up against his hand. He slowly looked up to see the little blue flame holding up a canteen of hot chocolate.

"Is... Is that for me?"

Techno reluctantly grabbed the canteen and slowly began drinking the hot chocolate as he felt a blanket being wrapped around his body. He glanced down to see another blue flame moving the blanket over him.

"What- There's another one?"

He glanced over to the right where the fireplace was. He didn't remember it being lit. A large blue flame engulfed the wood, bringing a warm light into the room.

"Hmm... You know, this might not be so bad... I wouldn't mind keeping you guys around."

He said as the flamed orbs danced around him. He took another sip of his drink.

"Yeah, maybe I can make this work... Once the pain wears off, then I can see what exactly I can do in this form and maybe... I can break myself out of this prison... That is, unless Rock comes to get me..."

Techno sighed again before drinking his hot chocolate once more.

"All of that can wait... I need to give my body time to adjust..."

As he finished drinking the hot chocolate and set the canteen down on the fireplace's edge before falling asleep in the chair. The last thing he sees is the flames continuing to dance around him. He could've sworn that he heard them chanting something in his ears.

"You're the Messiah!"

He heard the phrase over and over again in the back of his mind as he slept.

"Yes... I'm the Messiah... This world will... bow before me..."

He muttered in his sleep, unaware that the dark power had already gotten a grip on his mind and was manipulating him. In the back of his mind, he could only hope that Rock would save him before he got corrupted by the dark power completely.

[shayberri789]

Here's a short (600 word) story I rewrote today; a revised version of one I wrote last year. We've done a lot of study on doubles, the uncanny, madness, ghosts, etc in my Gothic Lit course and it inspired me, and I thought to rewrite this piece. I'm really proud of it.

Something Wrong With you

There is something wrong with you.

I can see it in your eyes: a glint of predatory focus. In the sharp corners of your smile: a flash of white in your almost-sneer. I see it in the emptiness of your expression, despite it all.

There is something wrong with you.

You sit opposite me in the sterile gray cotton chair, legs crossed at the ankle, a teacup balanced on your knee. You take a sip, and there’s a taunt in your movements. You don’t look away–perhaps, a challenge, then. I sip my own tea in response. 

There is something wrong here. 

The floor-to-ceiling mirror behind you stretches from corner to corner of the wall, a vengeful accomplice to the floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the only light. There’s too much fog to see anything outside, but that’s okay. We’re too high up to see anyone else anyway. The mirror reflects on a pair of chairs. No, that’s not right. There’s two people in those chairs. No, they’re empty, and it's just a memory. I tear my eyes away from the lying mirror, blinking out the flickering vision. I look back at you. That’s right, it’s just us. There is no one else to see—

—There is something wrong with you.

Your face is familiar to me; the curl of your eyelashes, the light dusting of freckles, that mole on your right cheekbone–it’s all the same. Your features are the same, and yet, they are all at once too straight, too small, too sharp, too big, too smooth, too graceful. That smile of yours—the way you hold your cup–all of it is too polished, too careful, too delicate. 

I want to throw my cup at you. Let the hot liquid distort your expression into something—anything—else. Mar that perfect, serene–taunting–face of yours. Fill the emptiness with pain, or anger, or fear. Something to make you human again.

There is something wrong with you.

No one else seems to notice. But I do. 

There is something wrong with you.

There is something wrong with you.

There is something wrong with you.

There is something wrong with you that is also wrong with me. 

The shadows creep along the floor as the light flees, but still you do not move. You do not move except to hold my gaze and lift your cup and take a sip. You settle it back in the saucer with a delicate, deafening, clink.

Somewhere, I hear the ticking of a clock. Some part of me registers the impossibility, because there’s no clock in the room. Maybe that’s the clinking of our teacups. 

There is something wrong here. With you. With me—you. 

The empty room yawns, and there’s the ticking again, like a heartbeat. Is this room alive? Am I? Are we? Do I care? 

There is something wrong with me. 

Time does not touch me; it slips through my fingers like an errant breeze—unseen, unnoticed, unaffecting but for a gentle, cool sensation. Like the fog outside. No—no, that’s not it. You are the fog: empty and unsubstantial, hiding things from me. 

There is something wrong with you.

Your gaze is coy and knowing. You think you’ve won. We haven’t said a word; no words are needed. But you think you’ve won. You don’t know. Oh, if only you knew. 

There is something wrong with you.

There is something wrong with me.

There is something wrong with us. 

I was meant to be the only one. 

I was not meant to be at all.

Why are you here?

We should not be.

We should not be.

We do not belong.

“Go away,” I say.

You vanish. 

[welcome-to-ratterrock]

A little snippet of a one shot I (@suzie-guru) wrote for @bajingoarts and mine’s boys ♥️

Because some days the characters demand horniness and you have to write a one shot of one of them having a sexy dream.

[friendlyneighbourhoodelf]

whenever i’m writing cody i’m thinking about that description of him as regal btw. it’s important to me

[yoshiyakiryu-archive]

Some fresh nonsense about joshneku losing over at @homoeroticbetrayal

"Fancy seeing you here," Joshua chimes from his perch on the cafe seat as Neku approaches the table. It's not Wildkat, but this side-street shop feels unnaturally empty, and all the more unreal for the presence of the smiling Composer, casually seated by the window.

He could be the most powerful entity in the city, but Neku's urge to roll his eyes and tell him to go fuck himself has the budding inescapability of an oncoming sneeze. Only four words in, Neku's already reminded that no matter how much he misses the asshole when he's gone, he's a pain in the ass to have a straightforward conversation with.

"You invited me," Neku gripes, unable to resist giving the eye roll. He slides onto the seat across from Joshua, feeling another one coming on already.

"Hmm, did I? I suppose I must have. Hee hee." Joshua slides one of the two cups in front of him towards Neku. "The coffee here is decent, you should give it a try."

"…Thanks."

He continues being suspicious for a moment, but ultimately trusts Joshua, and the knowledge that poisoning wasn't really his style. If he wants Neku back in the UG, there's nothing stopping Joshua from rattling another bullet through his poor, pre-punctured brain matter. The old one must still be in there, making him think humoring this conversation was a rational idea that won't just end in a headache.

Joshua smiles, two hands on his own paper coffee cup, fingers striking it in sequence, a steady expectant rhythm. As he watches Neku, the motions change. Taking a sip, the scales shift to an energetic tempo, striking keys he cannot see in time with music he cannot hear. Weirdo.

"What did you want, anyway?" Neku asks, setting the coffee down. There's little point in wasting time on pleasantries when Joshua deemed something catastrophic enough to take the risk of actually talking to him.

"Nothing to say about the coffee?"

"Not really." It's pretty average, as far as coffee goes, and it's not a surprise Joshua knows his order.

Joshua hums, digging his phone out of his pocket and adding to what seems to be, from Neku's view of the phone upside down across the table, a personal review log of local restaurants. "That's hardly a riveting opinion, but I'll include it. We wouldn't want to find Players erased of sheer boredom, would we?"

Whatever UG bullshit Joshua was pursuing, Neku wasn't making it his problem to know. He could guess, but he won't. He won't even think about it. Nope, no dead people business here.

Joshua frowns at him through the silence, bordering on a pout, and sets his phone down. 

Neku tilts his head, gesturing with his free hand.

"Well? Did something happen? Why are we here, Josh? Is reality about to collapse in on itself? Did someone important die? Double die?"

"No, no no no, nothing like that," Joshua says waving off his tone. "Well, people die of course, every day. But that's not my concern." He cuts Neku off before he can reply that yeah, it kind of is, by snatching his phone back off the table and waving it in Neku's face. "I'm here about this."

Oh.

That.

The homoerotic betrayal thing. He'd heard about it after the fact when three of his friends texted him their condolences on losing to Brutus and Caesar. He needed to ask for context, and to be frank, didn't know what to make of the whole thing. He could have gone without knowing that "iconic homoerotic betrayal" was a tournament he'd been nominated in, and privately thinks Joshua has got to find more normal ways of hitting on him. Ways that don't involve firearms.

"Isn't that over?" he asks, with little else to say. If it was over, they shouldn't have to worry about it. Problem solved. Neku out. The arcane and meta machinations of the multiverse can remain not his problem.

"Yes," Joshua says, all business, "but we lost."

"So?"

"So, we lost! After all our fans put in such heartwarming work about us too."

Neku mulls over the word "fans" for a long moment, and decides he doesn't want to consider the implications of that either. He shrugs. "Okay."

"Neku," Joshua says, placing the phone between them and folding his hands loosely over his drink, "I don't think you're taking this very seriously."

"No shit, Sherlock," Neku snaps, indulging that eye roll. "You're not telling me why I should."

"Because we lost," Joshua says, forced patience, as sincere as he ever gets, "and because I have reason to suspect there was UG involvement." He picks up his phone again, opening an app before handing it over. "Take a look. Do any words stand out to you?"

Neku takes the phone, and scrolls slowly, taking his time to make sure there was nothing obvious for Joshua to scold him about missing, and to make him squirm, until he sees a familiar word. "Memes?"

"An astute observation Neku! I knew I'd chosen you for a reason."

He's insufferable. Neku hands the phone back and sinks down in his seat. Unbelievable.

"Memes, yes." Joshua twirls a lock of hair around his index finger, and Neku takes a sip of coffee to disguise how closely he followed the movement.

"You think that we lost because everyone was Imprinted to vote against us?"

"In short, yes again," Joshua says, smiling once more. "Someone put on their thinking cap today."

Asshole. Bastard. Little snot.

Neku takes a deep breath and swallows the growl climbing his throat.

"Explain."

Joshua hums, then shrugs, palms up and put upon. "I believe there was a site-wide Imprinting campaign leading up to the bracket. Disguised as a celebration of the death of Julius Caesar. You of all people know how easily folks can be swayed by a trend." He slumps down onto his elbows, resting his chin in his hands. "Then we lost," he continues, annoyed. "And I don't like losing."

"Obviously. Isn't it kind of far-fetched to Imprint memes on a whole website?"

"You'd be surprised what some of the Higher Plane get up to in their spare time.

"…Right, don't tell me." He doesn't want to hear about angel hobbies. He doesn't want to think about angel hobbies. "I still don't get why you submitted us to that thing in the first place."

"I didn't."

Eye rolls must come in threes. Joshua has the audacity to look affronted.

"Okay. Sure. I'll believe that. Then why is this so important?"

"I can't tell you," Joshua says, gazing meaningfully into the middle distance fingers tangled in a stray lock of hair.

He is so full of shit. There is not one iota of Joshua that isn't composed of compacted, steaming, fresh shit. This is what happens when you cross the guy's competitive streak with a crush. He should confiscate Joshua's phone. Joshua should talk to him more often.

"But! We could get a second chance," Joshua says, affected wistfulness gone. "I know how big a fan you are of second chances. We'll win the revival match." Joshua leans in, devious and conniving across from him, and Neku knows what's coming even before Joshua does a fingergun in his direction. "You will win us the revival match. By any means necessary."

"And how am I going to do that?" Neku crosses his arms.

Another shrug. "Start Imprinting memes on people yourself. Find the culprit rigging things from before. I'm not fussed about the strategy, as long as we win."

Neku closes his eyes. "I don't get a choice here, do I?"

"It's a homoerotic betrayal tournament, Neku. That's against the spirit of it, wouldn't you say?"

"Fair enough." It isn't. Not really. But Neku's learned to pick his battles. He's learned to pick them very well. "But I set the terms."

"Oh?" Joshua's pitch rises in surprise. "Intriguing. Go on."

Neku lifts up a finger. "One. No penalties for losing." Joshua grumbles against his palm. "Two, if we win, you're showing up for group outings. No excuses or leaving early. Spend time with us."

There's unmatched satisfaction in the way Joshua looks like he's swallowed something far too sour. "These aren't very nice terms, Neku."

"Take them or leave them. And no funny business."

"…Fiiiiiiine. I guess you'll just owe me."

Joshua pulls himself from the table and stands, all drawn-out, fluid movements and exaggerated resignation. His coffee sits abandoned on the table, half finished.

"Owe you!?"

"Hee hee. For being so generous, of course. I'll pick you up when the polls open." Joshua touches his sole fingergun to Neku's temple before leaving the cafe and an exasperated, incredulous Neku. "Toodles."