#cs rewrite

[audreyscribes]

Could you do headcanons for what it would be like for child of thanatos to go to caml half blood? Do you think it would affect how things would go in the first book? Especially if they joined percy on the quest

Alright, I’m going to preface and lay out the obvious that the child of Thanatos will be very headcanon-y and I will try to make it as believable as possible, however much as I’m trying to stretch.  I will also be referring to my THANATOS DEMIGOD H/CS as my basis for the child of Thanatos for this ask. I will also be keeping this theoretical “what if” in the first book of PJO. 

The child of Thanatos will be referred to with gender neutral pronouns with THEY/THEM for simplicity sake. There may be references to their sex (i.e. daughter of // son of) but does not dictate their dominant or overall identity and it is merely for semantics’ sake. 

ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ﾟ⋆{Warning: Really x2 Long Text Below!}ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ﾟ☾

The child of Thanatos being in the first book would act as a physical representation of what is to come throughout the series, and what Percy will experience with the numerous deaths for the upcoming war is going to entail. I’m going to assume the child of Thanatos does not know their demigod identity or at the very least does not realize they are a demigod. If they have the beginnings of their wings growing or they do have wings, the mist is a powerful tool in hiding it (maybe they don’t even realize they have wings) and are very protective of their back, not letting anyone touch or graze it, saying they have a really bad skin condition on their back. They might even be shown having a bad back, constantly being shown having their back hunched over (probably the weight of their wings and being hidden away, making it hard to stand up straight).

While yes, the child of Thanatos could be just there, when the Fates are involved, I really doubt anything is a coincidence and I’m going to say that the child of Thanatos would be placed there deliberately in Yancy Academy. Let’s also assume that Hades and all relevant parties of the Underworld know the child of Thanatos exists (however somehow they are born. Let’s just suspend our belief for now). 

I can see when Mrs. Dodds a.k.a Alecto, appears half way through, replacing his previous pre-algebra teacher, the child of Thanatos appeared roughly around the same time. Grover can smell the child of Thanatos being a demigod but at the same time, might have a nervous breakdown because they would smell like death and the underworld, which would make Grover think the child of Thanatos is a child of Hades.  This would make the satyr even more nervous because he would think there’s another child of the Big Three, and they’re both in one place. 

I can see Chiron as Mr. Brunner doing his best to be close to the child of Thanatos, but at the same time would have a harder time than say being as close as he is like to Percy, because Mrs. Dodds would intervene since the child of Thanatos would be under her care; whether or not the child of Thanatos would be aware or not.

Let’s also just say that Percy gets along with the child of Thanatos, or at the very least, knows about them. Maybe they bond that they both have a hard time at Yancy Academy and are having difficulties in school. Maybe they bond over their mothers or their supposed birth (godly) fathers.

Whatever the case is, the child of Thanatos gets along with Percy, which would be Hades’ plan or insurance to make sure if Percy will open up where he may have hidden the Helm of Darkness, and when he does, the child of Thanatos would mention it to Alecto who would grab it. 

However, how, the child of Thanatos gets to camp, whether Grover escorts or has another satyr takes them to Camp Halfblood, when Percy wakes up, he’s relieved to see the child of Thanatos in same place as he is, both of them not sure who their own respective godly fathers are and who they’re supposed to be, and being stuck together in the Hermes cabin together. If Percy has an inkling or has the same idea that the child of Thanatos may be a child of Hades, another child of the Big Three, he could’ve kept it on the down low to protect his friend. However, I can see Percy quietly asking the child of Thanatos whether or not they can see or sense his mom, who supposedly ‘died’ from the Minotaur. The child of Thanatos may sees the lingering of Hades’ influence, but they’re still very new to their power and demigod abilities, so it may not be a good consolation. I can also see Luke trying to get along with the child of Thanatos, along with Percy, because just like everyone else, Luke mistakens the child of Thanatos with a child of Hades. When Percy gets claimed as a son of Poseidon, Luke would definitely assume that the child of Thanatos is a child of Hades, and tries to get closer to them in hopes to persuade them and make use of them for the prophecy and the war against the gods. 

It would be relatively easy because neither Hades nor Thanatos have a cabin, so the child of Thanatos getting claimed isn’t happening at all. So they’re going to be pretty much stuck staying at the Hermes cabin.

Especially when the child of Thanatos shows some innate power or skill to go (seemingly) invisible; which is very useful when you’re trying to be a spy for Kronos. I can sort of see Luke teaching the child of Thanatos how to be sneaky and develop the demigod’s power as a son of thieves, while also telling him to keep it secret. Mostly because he wants to keep them and everyone else in the dark about their origins as a ‘child of Hades’ which violates the Big Three pact; scaring them that they should stay safe because Zeus already has his eye on Percy, so to hear Hades also had broken his pact? He doesn’t want Zeus to treat Percy and the child of Thanatos like what happened with Thalia, while also guilt tripping them that their ‘father’ killed his best friend and is immortalized as a tree- 

Yeah there’s going to be a lot of Luke manipulation, and trying to isolate the child of Thanatos from everyone, even Percy because he was claimed by Poseidon and Hades hasn’t or ever will- 

There’s also the fact of the child of Thanatos keeping their wings hidden from Luke for it to work; which I guess wouldn’t be a problem too much even if they’re small. It’ll definitely be harder to keep underwraps if they’re a son of Thanatos, since the boys tend to stick together because man to man talk, but if the child of Thanatos is a daughter  of Thanatos, Luke would have to switch to tactics and use his charisma and wit to draw them in like he did with Silena Beaugard. 

Throughout the child of Thanatos’ interactions with Luke, the child of Thanatos would see the lingering aura of the Helm of Darkness on Luke, but since they would be still very new to their power, they just assume that the touch of death is because Luke had suffered the death of a loved one, or experienced death and grief (which isn’t unlikely given Thalia’s ‘death’, the ‘death’ of the mother in Mary, the touch of Tartarus that lingered on Kronos, etc). 

I dunno how the child of Thanatos could legally go on a quest with Percy, Annabeth, and Grover since 3 is a traditional number, and to break that is calling for bad luck. It's either popping up or going practically staying invisible throughout the entire quest with or without Percy’s or anyone’s knowledge. Maybe the child of Thanatos gifts Percy with one of their feathers, as a sort of good luck charm, and maybe eluding to Percy that they have wings or not; to which the wing acts a sort of signal for the child of Thanatos that lets them know if Percy is in danger or not, or if Percy can summon them.

Maybe if Percy and Annabeth ‘knew’ the child of Thanatos is a ‘child of Hades’ and maybe they make use of it; yet kept their mouths closed because of the supposed ‘pact’ the Big Three share. I can see Percy calling the child of Thanatos to come over with their supposed ‘shadow travelling’ and ask for help and get them to go in and out throughout the entire camp as a sort of loophole, 

I can also see Annabeth convincing the child of Thanatos’ supposed ‘shadow traveling’ to go invisible being useful, just as Annabeth uses her cap to do the same. 

Definitely at the Lotus Casino, the child of Thanatos making an appearance because of the tidbit that Nico and Bianca are there, and the aura of a child of Hades practically summons them. There could be a small conversation between Nico and Bianca and they talk about the weird situation of the Casino, to which the child of Thanatos realizes this is the Lotus Casino and goes to find Percy, Annabeth, or Grover. 

Though when it gets to the underworld, things become more tense when Hades calls out that the child of Thanatos being a child of the underworld, and he had them placed in Yancy Academy to specifically find out where Percy, the supposed thief, was hiding his Helm of Darkness. Ensure the scenario of the child of Thanatos being seen as a traitor and spy, but we’re going to have to tap into Percy’s loyalty to his family and friends where he trusts the Child of Thanatos’ words that they didn’t know about this and they aren’t a spy. 

However, I can see the child of Thanatos noticing the lingering of death, darkness, and fear of the Helm of Darkness residue on Percy’s backpack that Ares gave to him, confirming Percy’s suspicion and telling Hades that Ares has the Helm of Darkness. 

I can see the child of Thanatos distracting Hades to let Percy, Annabeth, and Grover escape, ensuring that they would keep an eye on Sally. That’s also where Hades enlightens the child of Thanatos that he is a child of the underworld but he is not his blood son.

At the end of the book, I can see the child of Thanatos barely realizing Luke was the one who stole the Helm and barely getting there to fight Luke to protect Percy. There may be a bit of Luke’s manipulation that lingers in the child of Thanatos’ mind or not, but I can see the child of Thanatos hesitating a lot when confronting Luke. 

This matches or could be a similar scenario in the tv show version of the confrontation between Percy and Luke, where the child of Thanatos follows Luke and Percy with their invisibility skill, and appears just the right time like Annabeth did. 

It’s been a while since I re-read the Lightning Thief so some parts may be inaccurate or not in the right sequence but basically the child of Thanatos’ identity as their godly parent’s demigod would be delayed for a very long time. The constant stress of people having the knowledge that they might be a child of Hades, the impact it may have, and so forth. However, definitely when it comes to the ‘Titan’s Curse, when it comes to the introduction of Nico and Bianca, they’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Not only from the Lotus Casino, because the pull of being underworld children, leading to when Nico has his meltdown and leaves Camp, the child of Thanatos follows him because that’s their inborn duty.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

fanbinding: our little life (rounded with a sleep)

my signature fic. our little life (rounded with a sleep) is a project i originally began in 2018, but abandoned as i realized i didn't yet have the support or ideas i needed to see it through the way i wanted to. in 2019, i signed up for the @captainswanbigbang Rewrite-a-Thon, a decision that ended up being a fateful one for me. (more on this in a later post)

but for now, let's discuss the binding. the cover is a modified paper casing i learned from sarah nicholls at the NYC Center for Book Arts. her original design (detailed in Bookforms, A Complete Guide to Designing and Crafting Hand-Bound Books) is based on an elaborate folded paper apparatus cased in paper, modified from a limp vellum style. i (perhaps?) went a bit overboard here in making the casing out of folded faux leather bookcloth with a longstitch-inspired spine. the textblock is sewn with a combination coptic/french link so that it opens completely flat, allowing flaps that slide into the case to be inserted or removed for ease of reading. the concept was intended to evoke a ye olde style booke appropriate for a fairy tale.

but. BUT. let's talk about this art. for my birthday, as a gift to myself, i commissioned the brilliant @camii-artt to draw characters inspired by scenes from the fic. i built the entire typeset around her work and it was completely worth it--everything about the style evokes the hard-boiled detective vibe of the fic, from the angles to the colors to the facial expressions.

this fic is, truly, the stuff that dreams are made of. (and this is only binding version #1)

[mlb-a-rewrite]

Chat Noir is Adrien

That seems pretty obvious, they are literally the same person. Honestly, I don’t know if this was ever a point of contention in the fandom because I’ve never been, like, properly in the fandom but I remembered hearing about this a while ago and thought I talk about it in regard to my Rewrite :)

Adrien and Chat Noir are the same person, again, obviously, but they act very differently from one another, particularly in the show. Adrien is always polite and carefully spoken while Chat Noir says anything and everything. They act like different people, but they aren’t.

I think every person goes through an identity crisis in their life. Mine has been ongoing but it was pretty bad a few years ago. I felt very lonely because I didn’t have anyone who knew me, but that begged the question, Who am I?

Depending on the situation I act differently. I make different jokes around family than I do around friends. I speak and act differently at work than I do in my house and at school I behave entirely differently, but all of these are me.

At school, I am naturally quieter and more withdrawn. It would be unnatural, not authentic if I were to be super outgoing and sociable. That is me.

But with friends, I make crass jokes and laugh about dumb shit. I instigate conversations and go out of my way to spend time with them. That is also me.

Neither of these versions of me are facades, they are all me, but reacting to different situations. I don’t particularly enjoy school so I go into low power mode, but when I do happen to enjoy a topic or have a friend in the same class then I am more invested. I am fluid and changing and all different “versions” of me are still me.

To apply this to a fictional teenage superhero, Adrien acts a certain way at school, and as time progresses he gets more comfortable in the “version” of him he is at school and settles into it. When he transforms and becomes Chat Noir, another “version” of him surfaces. One isn’t more valid or authentic than another; Adrien is simply adapting to his circumstances.

One minor issue (yes it’s only minor this time around) I have with the show is that they never show bleedover between the different “versions” of Adrien. I may be wrong, but I believe they do with Marinette early on where they show her gain confidence as Ladybug and that transfers over to her as Marinette, but they never do anything like that with Adrien.

Going back to my example from before, in class, I am typically quieter and more withdrawn, but if I have a friend in that class or was just talking to my friends before I went to class, that may change and I end up being more talkative and involved. If something bad happens in my personal life, I will be unfocused and tired in class. These different “versions” of myself are all connected and they bleed together, they impact one another.

As a whole, I think the show should look into this more. Or, if they don’t want to dive into that, they just ignore it entirely, but a lot of the show’s main struggles are with the heroes, Marinette in particular, dealing with having “two lives” that are at odds with each other. It would make that struggle more interesting if they dove into how they personally struggle with this outside of just being stressed, you know?

In my rewrite, I’m not planning on diving into this in great detail, but I want to make sure that the connection is present. I see how changes in one “version” of a character impact the others. 

When Adrien gets his miraculous and becomes Chat Noir, he suddenly has unlimited freedom and gets to experience something new. As a result, he starts to discover himself more in this newfound freedom and realizes he likes making jokes and goofing off but that he likes to do so because it makes the people around him smile. 

As Adrien, he makes the people around him smile not primarily through jokes, but by acts of service. He spends time with them and connects with them on an emotional level to support them. Adrien still makes jokes, but they aren’t his go-to as it is for Chat. Chat likes to connect emotionally with Ladybug, but can’t fully because of their secret identities.

Adrien and Chat Noir are the same person but just put names to that same person in different circumstances.

[quatregats]

Have been contemplating creating so many Hornblower things in which playing cards are a narrative device/motif that I forgot that CS Forester didn't actually ever do that with them

[the-halfling-prince]

You know that post that's like "After the valedictorian speaks they should get the guy up there with the worsts grades. Let us hear both sides" or something. I need y'all to know that literally happened in Boy Meets World.

[britishchick09]

some employee on the store pa system: *christine and erik please report to customer service! your friends are looking for you*

rewrite christine when she gets there: "sorry we took so long! there are a lot of great book... wait where's erik?"

she and raoul/meg: *find him huddled behind a bookshelf*

christine: "what in the world are you doing here?"

raoul: "the point of that was to get you to us not away!"

meg: "silly mr. e!"

erik: "so much for trying to lay low..."

[anmylica]

Fly With The Black Swan

Tagging the Usual Crew: @kmomof4 @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @snowbellewells @sotangledupinit @zaharadessert @whimsicallyenchantedrose @deckerstarblanche

Read on AO3

Read on FFN

Summary: Captain Hook has finally returned to the Enchanted Forest after an all-too-long stint in the Enchanted Forest, ready to get his revenge, only he’s too late. His Crocodile has been killed by another, but the demon partially responsible for his Milah’s death remains. He sets out, determined to kill the demon once and for all, but a life or death situation puts him right in the demon’s clutches. Reluctantly, he joins the new Dark One, finding himself falling for her against his will and his motivations change. Now, he needs to save this woman from the same demon that killed his first love, and he plans out a way to save her.

But the Darkness has plans of its own.

CSSNS ‘23 Entry. Based on the Sonata Arctica song “Fly With The Black Swan”

Note: I have no idea if this is going to post or not. I am currently in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico with crappy satellite internet and none of my other attempts have gone through. Seriously, I’ve tried it a million times by this point. Maybe this time is the charm? I guess we’ll see. If it does post, I will be editing this Saturday to clean it up when I get home.

———————————

The Jolly Roger landed hard in the ocean waters with a great splash that sent droplets of water into the air and on the deck, drenching most of her crew in the process. Captain Hook stood at the helm, seemingly unaffected by the wake, scanning the seas for any danger, always on his guard. He took a deep breath, turning his face up to the sun high in the sky, practically tasting the ocean on his tongue and thought, ‘This is what freedom smells like.’ The sails glittered with the remnants of the last vial of pixie dust he would ever have to use to get his ship airborne for a sojourn back to the Enchanted Forest again.

He had just spent countless years sailing the never ending circle of Neverland’s waters in the reluctant employ of a demon in a child’s body, never seeing the sun except for when he was Pan’s errand boy on a supply run back to the Enchanted Forest. His years under the deal with Pan were finally complete, and he felt that he had enough information to achieve his true mission: skinning his Crocodile.

Captain Hook stared at the cloudless sky, pondering his next steps as his first mate, William Smee, blundered about giving orders to the others. His crew scurried about letting out sails, hauling in lines, securing their goods, and generally making preparations to sail to the destination their captain ordered. Throughout the hustle and bustle, their captain stood stoic at the helm. He did not steer; his helmsman, Antonio Buckham, had the pleasure of directing the ship, and he stood with his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes on his captain’s profile, awaiting orders.

Hook’s forget-me-not blue eyes finally left the horizon and focused upon the map in front of him. If he had landed his ship in the location he had wanted, then he was just due south of Glowerhaven. This was a pirate-friendly port, and it was going to be the best place at which they could restock their supplies. He looked over at Buckham, who stood anticipating his orders.

“Make way to Glowerhaven,” Hook ordered, and Buckham nodded once.

“Aye, Captain,” he responded, turning to the rest of the crew before bellowing, “Make way to Glowerhaven!”

The crew repeated the order, and Buckham turned the wheel slightly as the others adjusted the sails. Through it all, Hook said nothing else, just watched the sea and the sky pass them by as they sailed towards their port of call. It was a sunny day with nary a cloud in the sky. A good wind at their backs filled the sails and carried them over the water so smoothly it was as if the ship was flying over the waves. All around the deck, his crew carried out their orders, bringing them into the port where they could find a tavern and food and relish their newfound freedom. Hook surveyed the work with disinterest, for so long as they arrived at their destination without issue, it did not matter to him how his crew did their jobs.

His cold, hard, forget-me-not blue eyes watched ahead of the bow as the land of the Enchanted Forest appeared in view. His jaw clenched at the sight. It was there that he would finally fulfill his life’s purpose. As the land grew closer and the short skyline of Glowerhaven became more distinct, he was filled with a sense that, at last, he was on the path for his vengeance. He was about to find his happy ending, however bittersweet it may be. A determined, almost manic glint filled his eyes, and his crew gave him side glances and moved away from him, hoping to avoid his ire, though he paid them no mind.

An hour later, The Jolly Roger had been docked into her berth, the crew had all left, and those tasked with her watch were settled in for a few hours. Hook was the last to leave, wanting to make sure everything was just so. He sauntered down the alleyways between buildings into a tavern at which he had long since been a patron. He knew that the last pieces of his plan could be crafted with information the owner likely had.

He opened the door and stepped inside, scanning the room for any potentially unsavory situations. The room was dimly lit and dirty, much like all portside taverns throughout the realms of the Enchanted Forest. Rough hewn tables of various sizes filled the room and stools of varying heights were haphazardly placed by each table. There weren’t many people occupying the tavern at this time of day, and so most of the tables were empty. His crew occupied a few, already having drinks and food delivered by several barmaids. The bar was manned by a lone attendant, and it was to her that he made his way.

He slid onto a stool at the bar in front of her with a beguiling grin on his face. The old woman scoffed and rolled her eyes, but she moved closer, grabbing a bottle of rum and a glass on her way.

“What are you scallywags doing here,” she demanded, plunking down the bottle and glass roughly. She looked over her glasses at Hook and stared him down, causing him to grin even wider.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend,” he responded, moving to open the bottle and pour himself a finger’s width of rum. He had no plans on getting drunk, but he wasn’t about to turn down the libation.

“You’re hardly a friend,” she retorted, causing him to laugh.

“A patron then,” he amended. “A well-paying patron.”

The woman surveyed him hard and then nodded. “What do you want, Hook?”

He shook his head slightly as he raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the measure of rum. “Many things,” he said, placing the glass back on the bar. “Mostly, I’d like information at the moment.”

The woman crossed her arms. “I ain’t got information.”

Hook smirked. “Come, now, Granny, you and I both know you’re the best there is at collecting information. And we both know how valuable I find it.”

He took out his coin purse and very deliberately counted out five doubloons. Granny watched him as he did so, quirking an eyebrow at him before sighing.

“You want to know about the Dark One’s movements,” she said, grabbing a second glass and pouring herself a measure of rum.

“Aye.” Hook eyed her with curiosity, as this was definitely out of the norm for their usual pattern of conversation.

Granny took a sip of her drink and met his eyes. “You’re a bit behind the times.”

“How so?” Hook questioned, leaning closer to the old woman, a frown on his face at Granny’s implication.

“The Dark One you chase is no longer the host of the Darkness. The host has changed,” Granny said bluntly, a strange look crossing her face.

Hook blinked as Granny fell silent, sipping her rum to allow him time to process her words. He didn’t move as he tasted the information on his lips, a horrible sensation of dread and despair filling him. His immediate instinct was to deny that it was possible, but he knew deep down that the woman’s look of despair and grief couldn’t be anything but real.

“Who is it now?” he asked, studying her face carefully, hoping to pick up on some nuance in her communication. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, but he felt disappointment all the same when he realize how upset she was.

Granny poured herself a bit more rum into the half-full glass and knocked back the entire thing in one swallow. Hook watched her dispassionately. She grimaced out of grief, and Hook realized this topic was a festering wound though he didn’t know why.

“I don’t know,” Granny denied, and Hook got the sense that she did indeed know but didn’t want to admit it.

Hook clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes. He felt a rage that he hadn’t felt since Rumplestiltskin had taken his hand and his love from him. All these years of seeking revenge, and for what? What was he left with now? He snarled at the thought of the Crocodile evading his hook another time.

Granny cleared her throat as she choked back tears, calling his attention back to her before he could fall any more into his anger. Her wet eyes shocked him out of his rage long enough to restore sense to his head. “You want any more than that, you’re out of luck. I know nothing else.”

Granny poured herself another shot and knocked it back. Once she had finished, she stood and moved down to another end of the bar without another word. Hook contemplated the bottle before deciding that today’s news had been bad enough. He poured himself a healthy measure and drained the glass. He glanced over to Smee and beckoned his head. Smee scrambled to his side, and when Smee was within earshot, he said, “Tomorrow we travel to the Dark One’s castle.”

Smee blinked before widening his eyes in fear. “To the Dark One’s castle?”

“Aye,” Hook responded. “There will be information there that we need.”

“But won’t he-“ Smee began but Hook cut him off.

“Apparently someone else got to the Crocodile before us. I want to know who and why.” Hook’s eyes hardened in resolve, and Smee gulped before nodding his head. “My best chance at getting answers is there.”

As Smee scrambled off back to the crew to pass the news around, Hook drank another healthy measure of rum, resigned to the situation at hand. This was merely a minor setback in his quest for revenge. He’d waited this long; he could bide his time a little longer.

The next morning dawned bright and cheerful, completely at odds with Hook’s mood. Hook had already left instructions to the next man in charge for getting supplies in his stead. He and Smee arranged for a couple of horses for the journey inland, and they made sure to have the necessary supplies for their journey.

The journey itself to the Dark One’s castle was mostly uneventful. Hook and Smee endeavored to find out all they could about the Dark One’s whereabouts, but no one wanted to talk. Either they didn’t know or they avoided the conversation once questions were asked and quickly hurried off on their way. Hook was quickly becoming vexed with the situation. He needed answers now.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” Smee attempted to reassure him after their latest fruitless encounter in a village just south of the Southern Kingdom’s borders. “We’ll find out more at the next inn.”

Hook just sighed in response. It would do no good taking his ire out on Smee. Not when the man was trying to help. Hook just nudged his horse forward into a trot.

“We can find out all we need once we reach the Dark One’s castle. Come and let us stop wasting time,” Hook replied.

Smee said nothing in response. Hook supposed it was because Smee could see just how fine the leash was on his temper. The two rode on in silence, crossing into the Moors kingdom just before nightfall. They stopped at an inn for the night, keeping their ears fruitlessly peeled for any hint of gossip. None could be heard that bore any importance for their quest.

The next morning’s travels brought about similar results. They crossed the small leg of the East Mountains and into Capetia at around noon. They stopped briefly at a tavern for food before moving on. The ride was boring, and Hook’s mind wandered as the horse trudged onward.

Just who had managed to get the best of the Crocodile? How had that happened? Would there even be anything of value at Rumplestiltskin’s old castle? Was all of this just Hook grasping at straws, unwilling to let a past wrong go, even after the culprit was long gone?

Hook didn’t think so, but he had been wrong before. He decided that the only way he was going to get answers was by raiding Rumplestiltskin’s castle. He could decide on the next course to set once he saw the state of things there.

They reached the edge of the Dark Forest that evening. He and Smee lit a fire for safety and camped under the stars. Neither spoke very much, for Hook was too deep in thought and Smee knew better than to push his Captain when the man was pensive like this. The night passed by uneventfully, and the next morning dawned bright.

A hard ride resulted in their arriving at the perimeter of the Dark One’s lands just after noon. They pulled their horses up short as they surveyed the imposing structure in the distance.

“So that’s the Dark One’s castle,” Smee muttered. “Do you think maybe he was compensating for something?”

Hook sniggered. “Most assuredly. We need to be cautious. If the rumors are false, and he is still alive, he won’t take kindly to seeing either of us.”

Smee nodded vigorously and they dismounted their horses. They tied the mounts off, leaving them plenty of slack to graze, and they slunk off in the direction of danger. They crept along in the surrounding woods, keeping their eyes peeled and their ears alert.

The woods were silent. It was eerie how no animals rustled in the undergrowth, how no birds tweeted in the trees above them. The closer they got to the castle, the quieter it got. Hook felt dizzy with how much he kept looking around them, just waiting for an ambush.

Finally they got close enough that the front doors were just in front of them. The castle had a derelict, abandoned feel. No smoke rose from the myriad chimneys; no movement could be detected behind the windows. The facade was covered in overrun ivies and weeds littered the overgrown lawn.

“Well, Captain, there might just be some truth to the rumors after all.”

Hook glanced at Smee. “It seems safe enough so far, but keep on your guard.”

Hook and Smee each grasped a door handle of the giant wooden doors and pulled with all their might, not noticing the wave of blue light that swept the yard as they did so. Slowly, creaking in protest the entire time, the doors gave away. Hook was just about to step inside the foyer when a fireball came soaring at them. Hook and Smee dove for the ground, managing to just narrowly avoid it. They watched as it flew into a tree and caught it on fire. The flames whooshed as it engulfed the large tree and devoured it until nothing but ash remained. They stared at it before looking at each other.

“Let’s hope that’s the only thing waiting for us,” Hook said. Smee chuckled nervously and they both scrambled up into standing positions. They glanced at the opening, but nothing else seemed to be waiting.

“Shall we try this again, sir,” Smee asked uncertainly.

Hook nodded once. “Without the fireballs, preferably.”

They crept through the arched doorway, sticking to the sides, but nothing else happened. The foyer beyond was dark and cold. It gave off a chilling air of abandonment. Hook and Smee exchanged looks.

“Shall we split up sir? Cover more ground that way,” Smee offered as he shrugged.

Hook considered his first mate for a moment, eyebrow tilting up a bit. On the one hand, splitting up could be a trap, but on the other, they waste valuable time searching together.

Hook nodded once. “Yell if you find anything.”

“Aye, aye,” replied Smee before heading to the rooms on the left. Hook decided to go up the grand staircase that lay in waiting just in front of him.

He walked up the steps one at a time, slowly prowling forward, always expecting another type of security measure. Nothing happened.

The lack of reaction set him on edge even more than he had been before entering the abandoned building. He expected Rumplestiltskin’s slimy high pitched giggle to sound behind him at any moment. As the minutes dragged on, he became even more unnerved at the lack of the coward’s appearance.

He stepped onto the next floor and looked around him. The second floor had the same derelict feel as the downstairs. There was no sign of anyone’s inhabitance. He crept forward, resting his palm in the jolt of his sword, keeping his hook at the ready. The first room he came to was some sort of guest room, but for whom, Hook couldn’t begin to say. He didn’t believe the Crocodile had many guests. The imp hadn’t been known for his hospitality, after all. He searched the room, but nothing was there besides tacky furniture and dusty bedclothes. Hook left the room as quickly as he entered it.

The silence in this place was eerie. It set his teeth on edge, and he clenched his jaw out of tension. He crept down the hallway, forgoing searching other countless bedchambers. The stench of Dark magic hung in the air, cloying and sickening. The further down the hall he traveled, the more palpable the magic became.

He went up another staircase, choosing to follow the feeling of the magic instead of investigating every room. Hook figured the odds of finding something were better if he traced the magic. He hadn’t felt this kind of sensation, this tingling numbness, since the Crocodile had been on the deck of his ship, changing Hook’s life forever.

He followed the tingle of the magic until he arrived in front of what appeared to be a private study. He opened the double doors and walked into a large room. A giant table occupied the center of the room, and display cases that had once held whatever objects Rumplestiltskin deemed important surrounded the table. The room had been decorated in rich shades of red and gold, but now a thick layer of dust covered everything.

The room looked as if it had been ransacked by looters at some undetermined point. Hook breathed a heavy sigh. This beyond anything else convinced him that the Crocodile was gone. Looters wouldn’t have been able to mauraud this castle if Rumplestiltskin had still been alive. Hook felt a dull sensation curdle in his stomach that he belatedly recognized was disappointment.

Discouraged, he wandered into the room, no less on his guard than before, but no longer expecting his mortal enemy to appear before him sniggering with twisted glee. He rummaged through the detritus, looking for something but not knowing what it was. After shuffling a few plates around, he saw a brown piece of fabric, dirtied with age and a few dried blood stains. He frowned and picked it up, his heart sinking even lower in his chest.

He knew those stitches.

He stood and shook the fabric out, using his hook to help fan it out to make sure that it was what he thought it was. He smiled a grim smile at the confirmation. It was a shawl. He recognized the handiwork as Milah’s, and he suddenly felt like crying. It must have belonged to Bae.

He swallowed and cleared his throat, hoping to drown the burning sensation, and rapidly tried to blink tears away. He folded it as carefully as he could, caressing the fabric as he did so. He took a step towards the door, intending to leave this room and all its ghosts behind, when he stepped on something that slid as he put his weight down.

Catching himself from falling, he looked at his feet and saw a cane. He moved his shoe off the wood and bent down to pick it up, recognizing it to be that old cane the Crocodile had once used to walk when the coward boarded his ship for the first time. He held it against the shawl that was also in his hand for a moment, considering all the possibilities that could have happened and didn’t, all the ways fate could have worked out differently for him.

Frustrated, he threw the cane away from him and turned to walk out. As he threw it, a shimmering came from the far corner of the room, catching his attention. The shimmering revealed a cabinet that extended from floor to ceiling. He stared in disbelief at it before his heart started racing. This was what he had been looking for!

He hurried to it and wrenched the doors open, seeing all kinds of magical items and whatnots. Books were stacked high in all areas, potion ingredients were stored three lines deep in bottles, with some already being completed. Magical objects filled the empty areas, and wands were held in stands. The magical items weren’t necessarily what he needed, but the books… the books might just be the missing link.

Hook tore through the books stacked high inside the cabinet, desperately searching for something that would help him piece together what had happened. He quickly discarded the ones that looked as if they were magical instruction books, having no interest in their contents. No, he was looking for something more personal.

Seeing nothing in the stack that could help him, he turned to the table, searching for any hidden compartments. Finding two, he tore open the drawers, the contents rattling as he jerked the drawers out, quills and empty ink bottles and other rubbish littering their insides. There was nothing that could even hint at the circumstances that finally resulted in the demon's demise.

He searched in this manner until he had combed through the entire room. If there had ever been any records, they had long since been hidden or destroyed. The fruitlessness of the search just made Hook more determined.

There had to be another room he had overlooked in this overgrown hunk of an imitation castle. Moving decisively towards the door, his hook got caught in a hole in a shelf of the cabinet in his haste. Hook yanked his hook out of the hole it had gotten lodged in, and the shelf came crashing, the contents falling to the floor in a great crash. Hook just managed to jump out of the way in time.

Hook scanned the rubbish, finding it absolutely ridiculous that Rumplestiltskin had never bothered to secure the blasted thing when it had borne all that weight when something caught his eye.

He scanned the back of the cabinet again, his brow furrowing in concentration. There! A glimmer!! He tilted his head this way and that as he tried to determine from where the glimmer had come. He noticed a notch from in between the wooden panels that covered the back of the shelf.

He put his hook into the notch, which was just big enough for the tip of his hook to lodge into, and pulled. The back panel was stubborn and didn’t come off. He sighed and maneuvered his hook deeper into the hole to provide himself with a bit more leverage. He wrapped his hand around his brace and pulled again, this time with all his strength.

The back panel came loose with a loud screech. It had detached just enough so he could see a small book inside. The cabinet must have had a false backing that only the crocodile would know about.

“Clever,” Hook muttered to himself as he reached in and clasped the book in his hand. Once he had pulled it out, he wiggled his hook out of the hole and set out to peruse the book. It had to contain something of importance if the Crocodile had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden.

He opened the book as he sank into a nearby chair that hadn’t toppled over in his haste to further ransack the room. Hook was pleased to find that it was a handwritten journal. He flipped through the pages slowly, finding a lot of drivel about magical experiments that didn’t interest Hook. Most of it was useless, but almost at the end of the journal, the writing changed. It was spiky, with very slanted words (a far different type of handwriting from Rumplestiltskin's scrawled handwriting).

The script made the document hard to read, so Hook skimmed the pages looking for any clues as to what had happened to the Crocodile (and most importantly, whom had killed him). He flipped through page after page, almost falling into a trance as he skimmed over the entry. Just when he thought the journal had nothing of importance, his eyes caught upon a very familiar name.

Milah.

Hook’s heart skipped a beat. He read the sentence that contained her name but found it didn’t make sense in the context, so he backtracked until he fell upon a section that seemed to detail why her name was on the page.

As he read the entry, his blood began to boil.

It had been easy enough to convince Rumplestiltskin that the only way to satisfy his broken heart upon learning his once beloved wife had fallen in love with someone else was to rip out her heart and crush it. With this, I believe that Rumplestiltskin’s last dregs of humanity have been thoroughly eradicated. I have been successful in imprinting myself irrevocably within his soul. With his black heart now thoroughly darkened, he will have no hope of the use of Light Magic against me, that cursed abomination of a magical force.

I had thought seeing him abandon and break a deal with his son was the ultimate test of his loyalty to me, but his murder of Milah showed me the depths of depravity he is willing to sink to. It will be so much easier to twist and bend Rumplestiltskin’s actions to my will. It was amusing to see how little he resisted the urge once I placed the thought in his head to kill her. He almost seemed to welcome it.

I think the coward enjoyed the thrill of the power I wield over life. He will be much more pliant to fulfilling my desires, I think. After all, he will not want to give up the control over the magic I have given him easily. This just serves as further proof that humanity is corruptible and unworthy of the gifts they have been bestowed. They will all bow to me before it is over. I must make my own plans for that day. This vessel will not be able to support me for very long, and the time will eventually come to find another host.

Hook continued to read, but the rest of the passage detailed how it felt to crush a heart and the magic that had to go into the action. He felt sick the more he tried to read, and he closed the book in disgust. His heart lay in jagged pieces at his feet at the information he had sought and obtained.

Rumplestiltskin had merely been a pawn in Milah’s death. Oh, Hook didn’t doubt that Rumplestiltskin desired her death; by the end, the man had looked upon his estranged wife with hatred in his eyes. But to learn that Hook’s love had been killed because some demon had wanted it done to prove a point? That was like rubbing salt in an already festering and infected wound.

Hook grit his teeth. He snatched the journal up and tucked it into one of the hidden pockets in his leather duster. His revenge was still possible. All he had to do was find the demon that killed her and find a way to end its existence.

He threw open the door, hollering for Smee. His first mate came running.

“Tell me you’ve found something of value in this place,” Hook commanded.

Smee held up a dreamcatcher. “I found this. I think it could tell us who the next Dark One is!”

“What is it?” Hook asked, puzzled as to how such an object would be able to tell them anything.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but when I held it, I could see something. I think it might hold memories.” Smee held it out to his captain.

Hook took it in his hand, and once he touched it, images started to play out amongst the strings. It did look like memories. He watched as a pretty young girl, possibly mid to late twenties, approached the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin giggled, dismissing her, when she held out the dagger. He watched dispassionately as Rumple froze in disbelief. He watched the woman say something and then plunge the knife into Rumplestiltskin’s chest. He watched as oily tendrils of darkness began to ooze out of Rumpelstiltskin, making their way up the woman’s arms until it coated her in the substance. She disappeared, the knife disappearing along with her. Rumplestiltskin fell to the ground of his castle, obviously dead.

“Where did she disappear to?” Hook asked once the memories went black and the images reverted back to the strings once more.

“I don’t know, Captain. But I found this with it,” Smee said as he held up a giant black feather.

Hook took it, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Perhaps we can use this to find out.”

He turned and made his way back into the study where he had found the stash of potions. He went to the box and scanned its contents, pulling out a bottle once he had found what he was looking for. He uncorked it, Smee looking on, and poured its contents over the feather.

“Is that a locator spell?” Smee asked.

“I think so. It’s some kind of potion for it, at any rate.” He watched as the feather floated in the air before darting towards a ragged map of the Enchanted Forest that hung on the wall. It gouged itself into the map, and Hook and Smee hurried across the room to see where it was pointing.

“The North Mountains?” Smee read aloud.

“Aye,” Hook agreed. “That is our next destination. We must return to the ship at once.”

Smee nodded, and after a brief moment to figure out the exact location on the map the feather pointed to, the two men left the Dark One’s castle, never to step foot inside again.

After several days’ journey of riding hard and resting only when needed, Hook and Smee arrived back in the port town they had left the Jolly Roger moored at. After a quick replenishment of supplies, she set sail once more, this time to a village called Sapphire Springs in the Northern Kingdom.

Hartford was a quaint little village that had little to offer pirate crews, so Hook and his band rarely made port there. It was out of the way of the major shipping lanes, as it was the most remote village of the Northern Kingdom. Hook preferred doing most of his business at Glowerhaven and other larger ports where it was easier to blend in with the locals and visitors, but he had been to Sapphire Springs enough to know the lay of the land.

Hook and his crew sailed hard, avoiding most traffic in the shipping lanes. They stumbled upon a ship from Agrabah, and Hook gave the order to take it. He knew his crew would appreciate the opportunity to acquire jewels and riches when they hadn’t yet been able to take any ships since their permanent arrival back in the Enchanted Forest. The crew of the merchant ship were very amenable to surrender, and after a couple of hours, the Jolly Roger rode deeper in the water, her hull full of spices and jewels and Agrabahn wine. Hook allowed them to open a barrel, and the evening was spent toasting their success.

They made a quick stop at a port in Sherwood Forest to sell off the jewels and spices. Smee divided the spoils to the rest of the crew after selling off their wares. The crew didn’t dally long; Hook was in too much of a hurry to make it to the North Mountains to spend much time in port.

After selling off this particular haul, they set sail once more, making a beeline straight for Sappire Springs. Hook stood back, letting his crew do the sailing and navigating as they had been for centuries. He kept his eyes trained on the horizon as he came ever closer to fulfilling his destiny and achieving his happy ending (however miserable an end it may be). If he had any doubts about the dangers that lay before him, he didn’t express it.

Hook continued his vigilance until the sky turned to dusk and the night crew took over. He looked out over the water at the waves, felt the breeze on his face, and heaved a sigh. He turned and slid open the hatch to his cabin and descended the ladder, not noticing the giant black swan that swooped down from the clouds and glided over the ship for a brief moment before ascending once more into the clouds.

[ghostsanndstuff]

So. I rewatched the second Narnia movie today. And that is one of the stories I absolutely cannot think about too much because it makes me feel feral.

The books were the first ones I was absolutely obsessed with as a kid. I have always loved and coped via daydreams and escapism (and definitely went way too far with that for a few years there during teenagehood) and it was always the Narnia chronicles about which I felt a particular way. But it took rewatching it a few times now that I'm a bit older to see why.

Somewhere between 11 year old me wanting to be there instead of here so badly it physically hurt and the scene in the last book where everyone except for Susan chooses to end their lives in our world to return to Narnia forever.

Somewhere between there and being raised catholic while Aslan and Narnia are C.S. Lewis' metaphor for God and Heaven and talking to my mom sobbing on the phone for the 5th day in a row as she tells me that whenever she has felt utterly hopeless and like there was no way forward she would take all the pressure and all that she was and put her life, put herself entirely in the hands of god, and how it felt like someone was squeezing every last bit of air out of my lungs as I desperately wished to fullheartetly have faith in something like that for even a moment.

Somewhere in between the way I see myself in Lucy and the way I fully understand Susan I'm going insane.

[divinecomedyproductions]

FanFiciton Multiverse: The Emperor-Verse

Given the nature of my RWBY Reimagined AU, Saints of Remnant, I'm thinking compiling some of my fanfictions in a universe thats inspired by The Chronicles of Narnia which is implied to exist in this universe but never truly touched upon until a major crossover event and even then, its set after The Last Battle so Narnia is long gone, but it vaguely implied and referenced to explain how this multiverse works and even the origins of some worlds along utilizing the theology of my Catholic Faith, The Works of CS Lewis and Medieval Cosmology, since all these things in my opinion can help tie them all together.

The Emperor-Verse(link to the blog is in the title)

The Emperor-Verse is the fanfiction multiverse in which these stories take place, named after the Supreme Deity that rules these worlds The-Emperor-Of-All-That-Is which were created or adopted by The Great Prince and given The Breath of Life

My Catholic Faith along with the works of CS Lewis served great inspiration for this universe, but mostly its a prototype of one of my fictional universes, or perhaps you can call a ‘multiverse’, known as The Loreverse which you can find on my primary blog

And here are some of the titles

RWBY: Saints of Remnant(reimagined)

Code Geass: Lelouch of The Knighood(reimagined, possible placeholder title)

Skullgirls: Reimagined(placeholder name, need to think of something more fitting)

Bionicle: A Tale of Hope(reimagined)

Fate/Defiance(Fan Sequel to Unlimted Bladeworks)

Skeleton Knight in Another World: The Order of The Sacred Blood(alternate sequel)

BlazBlue: Alterized Fate(reimagined)

D.Gray-Man: Encore(reimagined)

There may be more in the future

It may feature a crossover involving five characters, two from our world which shares the same world as Fate in this case, jumping from world to world and bring some other characters across worlds depending on the situation

Now you’re probably asking

“Why are you doing this?”

Mostly because like I said, its a prototype of concepts and stories which these franchises I’m using I take heavy inspiration from, which will most likely become there own things mostly for The Lorverse.

If I used The Loreverse which I plan to make money on, it might lead to legal issues and I don't want that to happen.

“Why are you using your Religion?”

Mostly due to it being a strong foundation, notably theology, for most of my stories, there are many strong foundations of storytelling, religion, history, you can even fantasize science if you put the imagination, time, and effort into it.

After doing some soul searching and listening to the Narnia books on Audible, which Narnia is implied to exist, or I should say had existed, in this universe, and I might include elements of CS Lewis’ Space Trilogy

The multiverse takes these universes and blends them into my faith and its theology, and even uses medieval cosmology, and makes them more like swashbucklings epics and fairy stories.

“Isn’t this kind of entitled and disrespectful?”

Disagreement isn’t necessarily malicious, and entitlement is not inherently bad if its your opinions and subjective feelings which people are entitled to.

Tolkien was heavily inspired by his distaste for how Shakespeare handled certain concepts, such as the Ents when he was upset and dissatisfied that there were no walking talking trees in the Enchanted Fortest of Macbeth, and the Valar Aule the Smith and the origin of the Dwarves make him something of an Anti-Prometheus

Not to mention Philip Pullman, the author of His Dark Materials Trilogy, made it out his distaste how CS Lewis made the Chronicles of Narnia and his overall beef with Christianity, and nobody seems to take issue with that.

I’m not trying to spite anyone, I’m not trying to spite Monty Oum with my RWBY Reimagined AU, Especially when I never knew the guy, and that can be said with the other AUs I’m not trying to change canon or its “trajectory” whatever that means in this context. I’m not saying Pyrrha and Arkos and the current direction of RWBY post V3 was objectively bad, just not my taste, I expected it to be more like Star Wars or Avatar the Last Airbender, and ships I wanted akin to Ed and Winry, Han and Leia, Kagome and Inuyasha, I think you get the idea, and I know not everyone who liked it and are fine with how these other franchises turned out is an elitist about it, just in my experience, there were people who were. And I won’t touch upon the ships I have a beef with on this blog either.

And I’m not saying any of the franchises I’ve been covering are all objectively bad, even when they use concepts or take directions with them I don’t like due to personal tastes and preferences and “personal emotional beats”, I have my reasons for them just as you all have reasons for yours.

I am making these AU stories, which will eventually be revamped into original stories because looking back on them, their worlds, characters, concepts, ships I wanted, and other ideas all could have been in stories I believe are worth telling and I was disappointed and frustrated that they weren’t. That’s it.

Yeah, it may also be due to subjective and personal feelings, at least so I’ve been told, but I try to integrate that in a meaningful way. Once again, I have my reasons for them as you all do for yours.

“But isn’t this crossover and multiverse stuff, especially if your including Narnia and your religion kinda cringe?”

It’s mostly because helps organize my stories and gives a stable foundation when reimagining these stories, notably the magical nature of each world such as the nature of Remnant(Aura, Semblance, Faunus), Geass, Blue(BlazeBlue), Bionicle mysticism, and so-on and so-forth as different configurations of Deep Magic

I’m also utilizing medieval cosmology as Lewis did to explain the multiverse by organizing with every universe being a “Sphere” and our world, blended with the Fate Type Moon universe for practical purposes, being “The Firstborn Sphere” and the outermost sphere being Heaven or some had called “Aslan’s Country” or as its called in this Multiverse “The Great Empire” which also can be applied to the multiverse itself aka The Great Cosmic Sphere. and Hell or also known as “Tash’s Country” or “The Netherworld” exists completely outside of the multiverse 

As well using the Biblical Story of Genesis as a basis especially with Adam and Eve’s connection to many sentient species of the Multiverse.

Now personally when it comes to my faith, I can live with either creationism or theistic evolution, just anything besides outright materialism.

All of this just helps tie everything together...

And like I said, all in due time, these will be made into original stories for my original universe.

I can see why people think using my religion and Narnia is cringe due to the creatively bankrupt Pureflix movies are all feel-good with no substance written by mostly I like to call "Joel Olsteens" rather than the works of martyrs and church fathers, or the esteemed medievalist CS Lewis and his friend JRR Tolkien, a hardened veteran who's family and his own life was nurtured by a serious but still merry understanding of the faith.

And I'm not saying I'm on par with these guys, but I feel like if I take cue from them, I can be sincere in my work.

So I hope you all enjoy what I have to offer, which will most likely be put on AO3 and FanFiction.Net, and who knows, I might get a few artists to commission to redesign some characters or illustrate some scenes if anyone is up for it.

[dbphantom]

I am so fucking glad this actually returned what I was trying to say while writing tags about Law's kickass outfits because the unhelpful instamash mix I disrespectfully call a brain was supplementing all the wrong words and I didn't feel like finding that one writing thesaurus site on mobile

[safyresky]

do you ever just. reread something you wrote and do a double take? maybe even, triple take? bc let me tell you. I'm doing just that with this old thang and like...

in FETAL POSITION? CRYING AGAINST THE WALL???????????????? WELL THAT'S A LITTLE INTENSE.

[ohmightydevviepuu]

fanbinding: a second version of our little life (rounded with a sleep), plus some thoughts on fandom and Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day

the story: i found in my tumblr drafts an ask about this story, a hard-boiled detective noir AU retelling of the first season of OUAT.

a lot of the first half of the story came to me very quickly and very easily, especially during the rewrite draft, because i had already done some work with @thisonesatellite to brainstorm about what might be expanded and i already had about 18k to work with.  

i got stuck about halfway through, caught up in my own writer bullshit, but @wistfulcynic kindly stepped up and freed me from that with a couple of simple, pointed plot questions while the group in the CSRT discord helped me unlock a few ideas about the specifics of the dreams.

as for the ending...was directly influenced by a project that @distant-rose and @justanotherwannabeclassic were working on that they kindly shared with me. 

the binding: sewn boards covered in Duo Oatmeal bookcloth. lineco bookcloth spine piece, hand embroidered for decoration. painted by me in a buttercup motif. paste-painted endpapers from Madeleine's Paste Papers on etsy. art by @camii-artt.

i mentioned in the earlier post about how joining the @captainswanbigbang CSRT in august of 2019, to work on finishing the fic of my heart, was a fateful decision for me. boy howdy was it. i had no idea what i was getting into--the people, the community--they were just names i'd seen on so many amazing fics. i had no idea what events were like or what the group chat would be like but i jumped in with both feet. it was the timing, you see. august is (for Reasons) a very difficult month for me and the idea of grasping on to this Thing was a joyful and a hopeful one.

so we embarked, as a group, on this writing project together. comments, questions, discussions about show canon turned into pet photos and vacation photos and late nights. we entered lockdowns together. watched one, two, three babies come into the world. new jobs. new houses. election night(s) 2020. insurrection day 2021. new year's eve parties, cocktail hours, bake-off, video game lobbies. in-person meetings. vacations. and so many nights spent writing together.

all because we wanted the same two fictional characters to kiss.

holding this fic in my hand is a wonderous thing because it literally would not exist without these people.

happy FFWAD to my CSRT/IAS fam. you're everything.

@wistfulcynic @thisonesatellite @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @idoltina @initiala @phiralovesloki @thejollyroger-writer

[mlb-a-rewrite]

Fixing Lila Rossi

Oh boy, do I hate Lila. Not only is she a bad character, but she's a badly written character too which is a far worse crime imo.

At first, I was tempted to just write her out entirely but then I thought, "What the hell, might as well see if I could make her work" and I'm glad I did.

In the show, Lila is a conniving manipulator. She is constantly scheming, but why? Her reasons for what she does are never made very clear, but that's not her biggest crime.

Lila joins the class randomly and immediately begins lying and deceiving. When Marinette discovers this, Lila begins attacking her and when Marinette speaks up about this, everyone sides with Lila, including Marinette's best friend. For so many episodes, for so many seasons, Lila is a cruel manipulator, and that entire time Marinette and Adrien, two of the most well-liked people in the entire class, are ignored when they speak up against Lila.

I think this is all incredibly dumb and it makes me very angry to think about it so I reworked her character entirely.

The first thing I figured out was Lila's motivations. Why is she the way she is? What are her goals? How far is she willing to go to get what she wants?

The easy conclusion I came to was that Lila wants the luxurious glory of wealth. She comes from a poor family where she's been neglected and pushed to the side her whole life. She wants the power that comes from money. She wants people to look at her and envy her like she has done to others her whole life.

But the more I thought about Lila the more I realized her motivations are more than that.

Her whole life has been lived in uncertainty. She never knew if she would be getting dinner that day or if she'd be able to stay in her home. She never knew if her parents were in a caring mood or a cruel one. She never had any control over her life, and she is tired of it.

Lila wants money because it gives her control, but she also wants to control people. She befriends people to get what she wants or to gather information to force them to do what she wants. She never lets anyone have a leg up on her, because that is surrendering control.

Even if the person she is interacting with doesn't play a role in her master plan, she doesn't want to risk the chance that they might. Vulnerability and authenticity give people access to Lila, to the things that anger her and make her sad, and so she never lets anyone in.

Yes, Lila is driven by a desire to accumulate wealth and fame, but those are just pieces of the larger puzzle. Ultimately, Lila has lived a life where she is powerless and she decided years ago that she would rather be dead than continue to live at the whim of others.

[poisonf0rest]

Overc*mming Writer's Block

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

♱⋅── zayne x reader

♱⋅── tags: smut, teasing, guided masturbation, fingering, first time (kinda), pwp

♱⋅── about: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. Partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

♱⋅── word count: 9.3K

art credit to @/kaito_aii on X

You’re screwed. Fucked. Utterly damned.

Groaning into your desk, you slam your head down upon piles of patient records and old case files. 

You’re only halfway done with your medical residency and somewhere along the way turned your lifelong passion for writing into a successful side gig. So successful in fact, that it was single-handedly providing you with enough money to get by and complete residency.

After anonymously posting online for a decade, you signed with a publisher three years ago, on the exact same day you matched with your first choice cardiothoracic residency program here at Akso Hospital.

Needless to say, you haven't felt that magnitude of happiness in years.

You doubt you ever will again.

In the midst of your wallowing, your phone lights up: Michaela. It’s a follow-up to her previous messages, all with the same damn request. 

Michaela - Boss Man

checking in on my star, how’s that manuscript going?

talked to the director again to try and plead your case but she didn’t budge :( 

she said w current book trends the fans will go crazy for a few explicit spicy scenes

pluuuus she believes in your writing enough to know you’ll make it big! come on, star, you know I’m here if you need any extra help

You - Little Star

Hey Micheala

You cringe for a moment at how formal you sound, but honestly, you’re too burnt out from writer’s block to match your editor’s energy and too tired from today’s shift to push back any further. 

You - Little Star

No I get it, thanks for trying though

I’m almost done with the novel, it's just those scenes that are taking a little more time

And by a “little more time,” you mean you’ve tried writing and rewriting them over a dozen times just to cringe, delete, and scream into your keyboard. Over. And over again. 

It’s not that you’re clueless, you’ve read your fair share of erotica for inspiration and pleasure equally. But actually writing them yourself? That was a whole different story. Pacing, banter, and even making the right word choices without sounding like a repetitive pervert or absolute lunatic were all so much harder to do than you previously gave authors credit for. 

Not to mention, you haven’t actually experienced a lot first-hand.

Beyond a few situationships in high school and undergraduate flings between pre-med classes and internships absolutely kicking your ass, you’re probably half as sexually experienced as most adults your age. And you had absolutely no intention of re-entering the dating scene with residency, until now. 

With Michaela breathing down your neck about how these explicit smut scenes were a marketing goldmine and the combined stress from your jobs, it seems like you’ve been fighting a losing battle. This time, however, your main income was on the line. 

You groan  as another ping lights up your phone, going to silence it when you realize it’s from the hospital Slack and not your editor. 

residency-CS-alerts

Dr. Zayne: Second look needed for a CMR scan. Nonurgent. 

Jumping to your feet, you sprint from the office wing to get to the MRI’s before another resident can take your spot. It’s not that your program lacked opportunities- far from it as you attend the top program– but rather that this particular opportunity was rare indeed.

Doctor Zayne. Akso Hospital's respected chief cardiac surgeon, who has made groundbreaking advances to the treatment of congenital heart abnormalities in neonates. At only twenty-seven he is the youngest recipient of the Starcatcher Award. His dedication to his craft is unparalleled, as he tirelessly devotes more time to surgeries than any other doctor you know, cementing his reputation as an unwavering force in the field.

He’s also impossibly tall, extremely well built for a man who seems to spend most of his time in the hospital, and has a face sculpted like a Roman deity in marble. And gods, his voice.

Safe to say, you admire him just a little.

You’ve bumped into him a handful of times during your first two years here, but the doctor was so engrossed in his work that the occurrence was rare enough. But a chance to perform with him? To consult alongside him on a cardiovascular case? 

You began to fear for your own heart’s safety as you felt it skip in your throat. 

Finally reaching the MRIs, you knock once before sliding the door to the control room open with a bow. And when you stand straight again, Dr. Zayne’s steel-set eyes only glance at you before he points to the readings displayed on the computer. 

“Tell me what you see.”

Your mouth is still hanging open from what was going to be a very enthusiastic self-introduction, but you cut yourself off with a cough and stumble over to the monitor. Dr. Zayne’s eyes follow you with a precision that makes your hands tremble, and you bend over slightly to scan the patient’s readings. 

You’re about ready to make a diagnosis when you realize you haven’t gotten much background on the patient.

 “What’s the patient’s briefing?” You look down, flinching as you see Dr. Zayne already staring at you. “If I can hear it, sir?”

He nods once. “An adolescent female with complaints of shortness of breath and coughing. She had no specific medical history, but grew up in the countryside unable to visit a proper clinic for several years while this issue persisted.”

Countryside… that could mean this was an undiagnosed issue that festered. 

Clearing your throat, you begin to point to the different scans. “Firstly, there’s clearly an enlarged cardiac silhouette.” Squinting, you point at two denser mounds in CMR scans. “Here and here. There are two large cysts along the lateral and inferior walls of the LV pushing and invading the myocardial walls.”

Gods, the cysts were huge. Even if surgery was performed on her now, would she survive?

Dr. Zayne’s low voice pulls you back into the control room. “Then what is your final diagnosis?”

“I–” you stutter, shaking your head. “I would recommend surgery immediately.”

“More detail than that, please.”

A sharp inhale and you scan the readings again. “Maybe a cannulation? The cysts might be causing an SVC compression, which would explain her shortness of breath.” You dare ask. “Will she survive?”

Dr. Zayne stands up this time. “You did well. She was my patient, and underwent surgery over a week ago.” He gently pats you on the shoulder, touch warm. “Our job as surgeons is to act decisively, to learn, and to try. Not to be heroes.”

You can’t manage to say anything back as Dr. Zayne leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him.

Surprisingly, you’ve been seeing more and more of Dr. Zayne since that day. 

And if that wasn’t enough, the doctor has also been actively acknowledging you, exchanging greetings and simple conversation when you pass in the halls, cafeteria, or shared cardiovascular wing of the hospital.

Not that you haven’t been putting in the effort either. 

Dr. Zayne’s current apprentice is graduating from residency this year, and you have every intention of becoming their successor. Between picking up extra shifts, answering every pager call, and of course paying special attention in case Dr. Zayne specifically requests a second pair of hands, you’ve been climbing up the ranks amongst your peers. 

Luckily, it seems those efforts have not been in vain. 

You’ve been doing so well apparently, that Dr. Zayne wants to meet with you in the hospital’s cafe today. Interviews before officially announcing mentor-mentee pairs was not unusual, but the thought of being one-on-one with Dr. Zayne after your last case together still has your mind reeling. 

Will he pull out old case files? Will he bring you to a patient and test you in real time? You have half a mind that he might pull out a custom-made test and timer. It seems on-brand enough to be a possibility.

Yet when you arrive, the cafe is completely empty, save for the staff and a familiar man in a white lab coat.

Dr. Zayne stands as soon as he sees you and beckons for you to sit, pulling the chair across from him out in the same movement. He clears his throat, a barely-there smile gracing his lips as he watches you settle down. “How have you been, doctor?”

“Good! Good.” The words rush out from you and you flinch, forcing yourself to slow down. Was the cafe always this small? “Discharged a patient today, so all good news.” Holy striped cows, if you say the word good one more time you might lose your mind.

“Well,” Dr. Zayne nods, taking a sip of something that looks like a far-too-sweet cup of coffee practically drenched in whipped cream. “That’s certainly good to hear.”

You die a little inside. 

“I’ll keep things rather brief since I’ve already made my mind up.”

Was this it? Did you ruin your chance at having Linkon’s top doctor as your mentor because of your damn mouth?

Dr. Zayne reaches inside his jacket, and you swear your heart is going to beat itself out of your throat. He pulls out a simple white envelope with your name scrawled across the front, the paper crisp as he slides it across the table. 

His fingers linger on the edges before he speaks. "I wanted to formally offer you the position to shadow me as my apprentice."

"I accept!"

The words fly out before you can stop them and Dr. Zayne looks stunned for a moment before laughing, a smooth and deep sound you didn't expect from him. He looked good when he smiled. Softer, content. 

The ghost of the smile stays, even when Zayne speaks again. "It's not a timed offer, you don't have to agree so quickly."

You flush down to your neck, looking down at the envelope. "Right. Only, it would be an honor to learn from you, sir. I really don’t know anyone in our field who wouldn’t accept it."

Zayne hums, but his brows furrow. “You don’t have to call me sir either. Doctor Zayne is fine while we are at the hospital. Zayne is more than acceptable elsewhere, we’re not that far apart in age and I don’t wish for this to be an overly formal relationship.”

You curse your heart for fluttering, reminding yourself that he only means this in a conductive, professional way. 

After a beat of silence, Zayne looks at the clock and stands, taking his sugar-filled drink with him. You never pegged him to have such a massive sweet tooth. 

"I have a consultation now, but I would like to talk to you more about your residency. We should set up weekly meetings outside of work, check your calendar, and organize it later.”

You nod and thank him as he walks away, leaving you alone to open the envelope. Inside is a simple handwritten note, signed and stamped with Dr. Zayne's official signature alongside Akso Hospital’s. 

A reminder that this was, in fact, not a dream. 

It’s barely been a month since you’ve begun officially shadowing Zayne, yet you swear it feels as though a part of you has known him forever. 

Aside from his virtually frozen demeanor and tendency to make snarky quips at your habit of running your mouth, he’s been nothing but a patient mentor. Brief, direct, unrelenting, but attentive to your work and growth. 

If that were all, then everything would be perfect. 

If that were all, then you would be sticking perfectly to your ten-year plan: graduating early, completing residency under the top doctor in the top program, and then overtaking him as the top cardiovascular surgeon with a breakthrough of your own. 

But of course, the plot has to thicken. 

Sure, the first few weeks have been strictly business, but since then, your conversations with Zayne—Dr. Zayne—have morphed into more casual, more playful meetings. Your weekly check-ins have moved from the hospital cafeteria to a cozy family-run cafe in town that Zayne introduced to you. And the way you’ve begun to think of him was the most damning part of it all. 

But you don’t have the time nor capacity to deal with whatever this was becoming. 

Not when your novel’s deadline was in three weeks, and you still had absolutely nothing to show for it. Without this new novel’s money, you wouldn’t be able to pay for rent or food or transport, and residency sure as hell wasn’t giving you enough to survive off of alone. 

This past week, you’ve gone from stressed to a thundering cloud of misery. Snapping at interns, drinking dangerously over the FDA-recommended caffeine intake, and ignoring the maelstrom your face has become.

And of course, today happens to be your weekly check-in with Zayne.

Dragging yourself to your usual booth, you watch him order at the counter and bring his drink to the table alongside a signature pair of macaroons, a slice of chocolate cake, and an eclair. He sets it all down with a huff and sits, looking over at you with an iron-cold gaze. You can smell the incoming lecture. 

"You're late."

You dip your head, but your patience is running on reserve, and your reply has more bite than you’d dare use otherwise. "I'm sorry, it looks like I’ve lost track of time."

"You're never late." Zayne doesn't sound any angrier at your attitude, but it still doesn't settle the guilt bubbling in your stomach.

"I've just been really stressed. You know," you wave your hand, "wrapping up residency."

"Is that so." Zayne's gaze is sharp as he fights to maintain eye contact. It's not a question. "I've noticed. You've been distracted and irritated recently, and I can't help but wonder why. Is it really the hospital? Am I demanding too much aside from your typical resident duties?” 

You shake your head, and the guilt is back. "No, of course not."

"Then I have to assume it's something else, is it not?"

"It's..." How on earth are you supposed to explain that the reason why you're a mess is because your editor is pressuring you to write a smut scene that you have no interest in, let alone sufficient experience with? And to someone you admire, your mentor, Linkon’s top surgeon, and apparently now someone your heart is deciding to blackmail you with. "I'm sorry, Dr. Zayne. It's nothing work-related, it's not your problem to fix."

Zayne raises his eyebrow, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms. “That’s the first time you addressed me as doctor outside of hospital property in over a month. ”

You really, really, can’t do this right now, or else you might start spewing some things you’ll regret. “Really? That’s fascinating, sir.” You watch him scowl at the title you know he hates. “Still does not entitle you to my personal issues.”

“As your mentor, it becomes entitled to me when your personal issues begin affecting your performance.” He says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your anger down. "It's really not something I can talk about here, nor to you. Can we just have a regular check-in?"

"We are."

“You know what?" You stand, chair falling back with a screech. “I think I need a rain check today, sir. You know. Stress.”

"You’re not leaving until you tell me what is bothering you."

You're about to grab your bag and walk away when you're suddenly reminded of how tall Zayne is when he stands. Practically towering over you, he leans across the table, grabbing you firm enough to prevent you from slipping away, yet never harsh enough to harm you. “Please, we’re making a scene.”

You sit. Zayne follows. 

Seeing just how reactive you’re being, he softens, genuine concern in his tone as he reaches an arm out. “Is it a family issue? Are you alright?”

“No. Yes.” You inhale deeply through your nose, but your mind is still reeling at a mile a minute. “No, it’s not a family issue.”

“So if it’s not about the hospital and not family, then what could possibly be causing you this much stress.” Zayne’s eyes narrow and you see his jaw tick. “Don’t tell me this foolishness is over a boy.”

“No! God,” you want to push yourself off a building. Or him. “No, it’s this fucking–” You’re rambling. You’re rambling, losing control, and you’re going to blurt it out and regret it. “It’s this smut scene!”

You’ve really outdone yourself this time.

Zayne chokes on his drink and slams the cup down, coughing as liquid comes out his nose. You flounder in panic, trying to help but he holds a hand up and turns, still coughing into his arm. You can only manage to pull out a few napkins, handing them over in a pathetic bundle.

“A…” Zayne almost seems to buffer, clearing his throat before looking back at you. “An erotica scene?”

Your face is burning. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of it in waves, and you have to remind yourself that writing is your job. A respectable, decent-paying, well-appreciated job that you do for the sake of womankind everywhere.

“I write for extra income alongside residency, and recently my editor got it into her head that we’ll sell even more with some extra spice.” You scoff, “But it’s been months of looking at a blank doc. Now the deadline is approaching and I still have nothing to show for it.”

Zayne doesn't say anything for a moment, and you have to check if he's breathing, or if the shock has killed him. Finally, he shifts back in his seat, adjusting his tie.

"That sounds like a difficult position to be in, doctor."

You look up, and Zayne has his arms crossed. It's an expression you're familiar with, one that means he's actually thinking about what you've said, but the way he says "doctor" now feels strange, almost as if the term has no place here.

"It's fine, I'll figure it out." This is also why you didn't want to tell him, as if Zayne has any place worrying about this on your behalf. “Besides, I’m as much a writer as a doctor, this is my job after all. I have to figure it out.”

“Of course. I’d expect no less." Zayne nods a little to himself, slightly dazed, and you scramble to find a way to change the subject back into something even remotely work-appropriate.

"Anyway, I've been keeping up with my rounds, and I think I've been able to handle more cases on my own recently, too."

"You have."

Zayne is quiet for a beat too long and you frown, tapping the table.

"Are you alright? I know this is a lot, I shouldn't have burdened you with it."

When Zayne faces you again, you watch as his brows furrow. "But if this is such a pressing issue…” He clears his throat, looking at a spot directly above your head. “Then, what if I helped you?”

You swear your head is spinning, his words ringing over and over and over in your mind. The only thing remotely in focus was Zayne’s face, far too close for comfort now, even across the table. Oh gods, you’re having this conversation in public, too.

"What do you mean by help, exactly?"

"If you’re in need of experience," Zayne's voice is low, but he still manages to keep eye contact, the intensity of it making you smile nervously. "Then I could offer my assistance. Better coming from someone you know and trust, yes?"

There’s no way you heard that right. Your mind blanks, but apparently your smartass mouth hasn’t. 

"Are you offering to be my fuck buddy? Sex consultant? My smut guide, if you will?"

A deadpan, “I would prefer the term sexual partner.”

Even the way Zayne says it makes it sound more like a business proposal than an actual proposition, and it throws you off guard. He leans back, trying to act nonchalant. "You did mention lack of inspiration was your main issue, correct?”

“Well, yes.” That, and your lack of any novel-worthy sexual experiences.

“And you have had—“ There it is again. Not quite embarrassment, and if you weren’t so tuned in to Zayne’s resting expression, you may not have noticed it, but there is a deeper furrow between his brows as his eyes evade yours, and the slightest tint of pink on the tips of his ears. “You have been with partners before, yes?”

The stoic, pragmatic, level-headed Doctor Zayne is embarrassed asking you whether or not you’ve had sex before.

You nearly laugh.

“Yes,” an amused giggle escapes you at the absurdity of this entire conversation. “I’ve been with partners,” you mimic, slightly mocking his word choice, “but it has been a while, and I haven’t really…”

Zayne moves to take another sip of coffee. “You haven’t?”

“I’ve never come. Orgasmed.”

And he chokes. Again.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” You jump from your seat to hand him yet another pile of napkins, but this time Zayne stops you halfway there, grabbing your wrist as his coughs subside.

Neither of you speaks as he drinks water and coughs once more, his grip still iron and far colder than you imagined it would feel against your bare skin.

“My apologies,” Zayne releases you immediately, going back to staring at his coffee as his hand flexes once. Twice. “Continue.”

You can only watch him in fascination, sitting back down in your chair. The entire time he avoided eye contact, and he was definitely blushing. You almost wanted to push further, to poke and tease and test his reactions, but you knew that would end with you losing your head. Or worse, you muse, heart fluttering against your chest.

“Ah, I mean, I’ve felt pleasure before. It’s not that my previous partners were unwilling to do stuff for me, I’ve just never gotten over that little plateau.” It’s not resentment that washes over you, and not quite embarrassment either. Just a little bit of dull apathy towards the subject. And yourself. “Biologically speaking of course I know it’s possible, but there are also plenty of women who simply don’t climax during sex. I’m probably just one of them.”

Zayne, who seems to have returned to his usual stoicism, frowns at that, mouth drawn taut as though he wanted to say something.

"And if we were to engage in sexual acts," He's so clinical, even as he says something that could send anyone else running. “Perhaps that is what you need to start writing again. It would make sense. To write a compelling,” he stumbles over the word, “erotica, you’d have to experience pleasure."

The gears in your mind turn, and slowly, it begins to make a twisted sort of sense. You'd have to feel it for yourself, to be able to describe the sensation, the passion, the tension with conviction. Perhaps it really would get you closer to finishing this damn book.

But then you remember who you're talking to. Doctor Zayne. Your coworker. Worse than that, your mentor and direct superior in your field, and someone you happen to admire very much. So then why would he…?

"What do you gain from this, Zayne?"

Zayne stiffens. “I’m a doctor, it’s my duty to help my patients.”

A sly smile cracks against your lips, and you prop your chin against your palm. “I didn’t realize I was your patient now, doctor?”

His eyes snap back to yours and he straightens, his demeanor slipping back to his typical formality. "You have a bright future in front of you. This is an investment in you, and I believe this will help us both. I will draw up a contract tomorrow for us to discuss, you can meet me in my office after your shift.”

“Rather formal,” you say, but Zayne doesn’t take the bait this time.

He simply takes another sip from his coffee, and you swear you catch him smiling behind the porcelain rim. “Then perhaps I could also get a signed copy of your next book?"

You scoff, waving him off as you slouch back in your chair. "Of course, I'll throw one in the mail the day it's out."

"It's a deal then.”

He’s about to push in his chair when you lunge from yours, grabbing his sleeve as his eyes widen slightly, looking down at where your hands meet. "Thank you,” a smile. ”Zayne."

His gaze softens and he smiles a bit, nodding. "Of course, doctor."

And with a wave, he's gone.

You don’t know what you expected. 

Zayne seemed like the type to take his girl out to dinner first, probably somewhere obscenely expensive. He’d show up with a single rose or another simple but romantic gift so seemingly contradictory to his outward appearance. Afterward, maybe he’d take her to a show or somewhere with fancy sweets, knowing his taste. Then, after all that, he’d invite her back to his apartment or allow her to whisk him away to her place.

You’d imagine it would go something like that. But then again, the terms of your relationship are quite different then the one he’d have with this imaginary woman. So when he texts you after your shift that Tuesday asking if you’re free tonight, you’re only moderately panicked. 

To make matters worse, he’s at your house five minutes early.

Two knocks, and you scramble to open the door, Zayne nearly dwarfing the door frame as he lingers outside the hallway. His trenchcoat only adds to his natural tendency to command attention, and you feel more vulnerable than usual in your sleep clothes. 

“Fancy seeing you here, stranger.” 

Zayne adjusts his collar. “Do you mind if I come in?”

You tap your chin, pretending to mull it over in your mind, relishing in the slight nervousness your silence instills in Zayne. “It would be rather bothersome to fuck in the hallway, I suppose…”

Zayne shakes his head at the remark, but you can see amusement dancing in his eyes. With that, you step aside, and he ducks under the doorframe to slip inside. It’s as though something irreversible- something inevitable- shifts as you watch him cross the threshold, and it doesn't get better when you close the door and lock it behind him. 

You'd say he makes himself at home, but his stance is still too stiff, too awkward, even as he’s hanging his coat and slipping out of his shoes. It almost feels domestic.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Zayne shakes his head, "Not this time."

He says it so casually, and yet the notion of a next time has you dizzy. Of course there’s a next time, you’ll need more than one night to get inspiration. It was only a natural assumption, you reason with yourself. 

"You seem tense," he says, and then your back is against the wall.

Zayne leans down, hovering above you as his hand comes up to your waist. A tentative touch, and you give a small nod, feeling his arm relax, palm sliding further into the plush of your hips. He looks so good like this, in a work button-down with a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and his lips parted. Gods, and he’s not even trying- there’s genuine concern written in the way he scans your body with a deep crease between his brows. You hope he doesn’t notice how you squeeze your thighs tighter.

"It's the deadline, is all," you say, trying to brush off the question.

"Ah, of course. How inconsiderate of me. I’m supposed to be helping you and here I am making it worse.”

Zayne's voice is low and smooth. The cadence in his words, the slight drawl, is a sound that makes your heart skip a beat. It's a shame it's so easy to hide your arousal when you're this nervous.

“Well,” You smile, and his gaze flickers down to your mouth. “I suppose I can forgive you if you uphold your end of the deal.”

His stare is heavy, and it feels like the room is closing in. But you understand the man well enough to know that he wouldn’t dare move first, not until you asked for it, not when you have yet to set a precedent. So you loop your arms around his neck, forcing Zayne closer as his forearm slams against the wall to hold himself up against you. 

You nip at the lobe of his ear, smiling to yourself as he shivers with each warm exhale. Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your side while he lets you grind against him, guiding your movements as you groan against his neck. 

But Zayne feels you rush through the movements, a messy sort of impatience less from desire and more from routine. As though you wanted this done. As though you wanted him gone. 

You feel a familiar flutter against your core as Zayne’s knee comes up against your core, but when you move to grind against his thigh, the hand at your waist stops you. 

“I want to do this properly. You deserve—” he cuts himself off. Starts over. “Where would you like to do this?”

You’re about to tell him that right here is fine, not wanting Zayne to feel as though you needed any more special attention, when you realize just how serious he is. “Bedroom," you say.

Zayne hums, and the rumble reverberates throughout his chest. He offers a hand, and you take it.

And with that, you lead him to your room.

Somewhere between the span of your hallway and bed, Zayne seems to have decided how tonight will go. Despite your desperate touches, teasing up his body and luring him closer, Zayne slows his own pace, leaving burning trails traced with agonizing slowness over the curves of your body. Despite your fumbling to strip off your shirt, Zayne grabs your wrist, forcing it behind your back as his other hand teases the exposed skin of your ribs in a way that has you shivering. Despite your hushed complaints for him to just hurry up Zayne merely smiles in amusement, refusing to give you anything more as he scolds you with a click of his tongue. 

Zayne refuses to rush this. He wants to savor every moment, to etch the sight of you into his mind and commit it to memory, to relive it in this life and the next. 

He continues walking forward, each one forcing you to take a step back until your knees hit your bed, buckling as his form looms over you.

“The largest mistake in any relationship- sexual or not- is lack of communication.” He loosens his tie, “So if we are to do this, you have to talk to me. Tell me what you like, what you don’t.”

As he speaks, Zayne continues undressing, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt before rolling up the cuffs so every glorious inch of his forearms is exposed. Your breath catches with each trailing vein, shadowed in the dim lighting up until they disappear under his sleeves.

Maybe you should write a Victorian-era piece next. Clearly, you had a thing for small swaths of exposed skin.

As if hearing your thoughts, Zayne undoes another button before his hands venture south. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unbuckles his expensive leather belt and allows it to slide through the loops of his pants. It drops to the floor, joining all the other articles of clothing as he takes a seat on the mattress, resting his hand on your bare thigh, inching closer and closer to where your sleep shorts have ridden up.

"Tell me what you like and don't like." Zayne repeats, eyes focused on yours, "And remember, you say no, and this stops."

Zayne moves painfully slow, his hands fluttering down your shoulders, breasts, hips, until he plants them behind you, caging you between his broad chest and the mattress. His hand slips under your shirt’s fabric once more, and you feel yourself tense.

You aren’t wearing anything fancy. After all, you were simply writing in bed, nearly falling off when you suddenly got Zayne’s text. Only a pair of shorts and a cami, but gods, when Zayne’s hands begin trailing up your stomach, dragging the thin fabric up with him, you really wished you put something sexier on.

He doesn't stop until his fingertips brush against the underwire of your bra, thick fingers slipping under the band as he practically tugs you toward him. "Can you take this off for me?"

"Don't know how to do it yourself?" You tease.

Before you even finish taunting him, Zayne's hand has already snuck around your back, undoing the clasp and forcing you onto your back. You can feel the heat radiating off of him.

"Now, now, we'll be here all night if we start fighting." He chastises you, tone far too smug. Zayne tugs the undone bra up, his fingers tracing the red marks it left against your skin. You tremble under his touch. "Didn't realize how sensitive you are." 

His tone is even, but you can see the slight curl at the corner of his lips.

"Your hands are cold," you say, voice wavering as Zayne begins taking your shirt off as well. You try not to fidget, knowing that the way your arms are held up only emphasizes the size difference, Zayne being able to completely lift your chest against him as the other binds your wrists. You're not tiny. But next to him? It barely mattered.

"I apologize." But it feels half hearted at best, especially with the way he’s staring at your bare chest, not even bothering to take your shirt all the way off. It almost feels more embarrassing like this, cotton bunched against your collarbones under his palms.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

The way he says it causes a rush of blood to your face. “I’m not some virgin that might break.” You grumble under your breath, but Zayne is as stupidly attentive as always and frowns.

“Do not mistake my care for pity.” 

Something ugly aches in your chest when he looks at you like that.

Zayne’s hand comes up, large enough to encircle the entirety of your cheek as you’re enveloped in the chill of his touch. His body is nearly atop yours, each word breathed into your mouth. “Then, if you have no more snarky remarks, allow me to begin."

Zayne’s gaze drops to where he thumbs at your lips, leaning in as you watch his pupils dilate, flickering with something before he flinches away, kissing the corner of your mouth instead.

His other hand cups the curve of your breast, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You gasp, the sensation heightened by the feeling of his teeth against your collarbone, nipping marks into your skin. 

It takes a moment for all his featherlight touches to register, your eyes fluttering closed as his thumb rubs your chin. You try to ignore the way he avoids your lips, refusing to get too close.

All for the better, you remind yourself.

He kisses lower, down between the valley between your breasts, hot breath the only warning you get before his tongue meets your nipple while his fingers deliver a sharp flick to the other. The contrast of the heat from his mouth to the cold of his fingertips sends you reeling as you muffle your cries into your palm. 

Zayne doesn’t like that. He forces your hand from your mouth, biting your nipple as if in vengeance as you moan, the sound broken and desperate as you claw at his forearm.

Satisfied, his tongue smooths over the bright pink bite mark and swollen bud, the unpredictable pressure fogging up your every thought before he retreats with a wet pop. 

Finally, Zayne moves to fully remove your shirt, but pauses when you flinch.

“Would it make you more comfortable if I undressed as well?” Zayne begins to take off his own shirt, but you lunge for him, stopping his hands as your voice escapes in a whoosh.

“No.”

His collared shirt was utterly ruined, unbuttoned just enough so you could see his flushed chest when he bent over. And now when he sat up straight the bottom rose up just a bit, exposing a stretch of his lean torso, a peak of his abs, and a dark happy trail that dipped into his tailored pants. Every once in a while, you could see his muscles flex and it sent a shameful throbbing down your core.

“You can keep it like that, it’s hot.”

Zayne doesn’t respond, but when he averts his eyes you swear you watch his lips curl into a smirk. It’s gone by the time he looks at you. Not that you have any time to dwell on it, not when Zayne closes the remaining space between you, guiding you against the pillows.

You try not to focus on how out of place he seems in your apartment, mere presence dwarfing everything else as he makes his way between you, forcing your knees apart.

Zayne leans back, his fingers trailing up your leg, edging up the fabric of your shorts up with his touch, but never daring to slip past the self-imposed barrier of the cotton. He coaxes your hips up, and you kick the shorts off in a clumsy movement, Zayne's eyes now focused between your thighs before you snap them shut as best you can around his waist.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– Doctor–”

“Relax. I can’t guide you if you don’t let me, now open.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Zayne’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You could call this off, he’s told you that much directly, and knowing Zayne if you did so everything would go right back to how it was before. A mentor and student. Coworkers. Strangers.

You force the tremors in your thighs to relax, knees dropping from Zayne’s hips to the sheets below as you move your left leg just enough to feel the inner band of your underwear stretch.

It’s a bearable amount of embarrassment and vulnerability, until you look up at Zayne again, and akin to a deer in headlights, you freeze. He watches with enough intensity for it to be clinical, a vicious sort of attentiveness that sees every twitch, every strain your body responds with, as if committing it all to memory. As if he were to devour you alive. 

You think you’d let him.

Zayne reaches over, and his thick finger trails a line up your inner thigh, immediately followed by goosebumps, knuckles ghosting the inner seam of your panties.

Your body reacts before you do. Before you can even breathe, the air catches in your throat, and your legs squeeze together in a pathetic attempt to hide yourself.

Zayne pins them down immediately, gaze snapping up to you. You expect a reprimand. Maybe a warning or a punishment, and the anticipation makes your stomach twist.

Instead, his brows draw in, as if lost in thought. “You said you never came from touching yourself either?”

You can barely manage a nod.

“Hm. Then you weren’t doing it right.” He says, so bluntly that you can only blink at him. “Show me how you do it.”

Zayne sits back between your thighs, one hand still absent-mindedly caressing your knee, waiting expectantly.

And you feel the flush burn all the way up your ears and down your chest.

Oh, that was not what you expected him to say. You were prepared for him to touch you, or to guide you, but instead he asks for the complete opposite.

And, well, you could only ever try your best for him— ever the people pleaser. 

It's humiliating how easily your fingers slip under the elastic band. Even more so when the pads of your fingers run down your folds, and you feel yourself clench at the mere contact, already slick and wanting. You move to tug your underwear off, but Zayne stops you, grabbing at your wrist.

"Wait," He's panting, eyes blown as he continues to stare at you, at the wet patch accumulating in the center of those damned panties. "Keep them on."

His tone is so serious a part of you wants to laugh. You're about to make a quip when he pulls your hand up, bringing your fingers to his lips and wrapping his tongue around them. The way he teases from the pad of your finger to your knuckle, sucking as he goes, has you lightheaded. Your hips stutter upwards, a pitiful sound escaping from your throat as you try to keep yourself together.

He doesn't stop. Not until your fingers are clean and your thighs have grown unbearably sticky, neglected and throbbing.

When he finally lets go, you're a gasping mess, and Zayne looks downright smug. "Now, you can continue."

The bastard.

You don't know how you manage to move, let alone bring your fingers to your entrance.

Pushing aside the cotton, your first touch is tentative, and you flush at how much easier it is with Zayne’s spit covering them. Your breath catches both from the initial stretch and the way Zayne leans in closer to see, even though the thin elastic prevents him from watching the way your cunt flutters around the new intrusion. 

You shift, but your need has grown nearly uncomfortable, hips beginning to buck up as one finger quickly becomes too little, and you whine as you attempt to push in another, to push in a little deeper.

"Slower. You're going too fast."

You can't help the scowl, your tone sharper than intended. “How would you know?" 

Zayne’s face is a cool mask, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement. "You did ask me for advice, did you not?" Then his voice takes on a sharper edge, demanding again. "Slow down, then you may continue."

As if you needed his permission to continue. But you do as he says, rocking your fingers in and out, pace painfully slow, mere friction sending jolts of heat throughout you. 

Usually, this was the best part, the delicious and tortuous build-up that would ultimately lead to nothing. Not nearly long enough, your fingers hit just below your sweet spot, and you could feel tears of frustration prick against your eyes. Writhing, you tried to plunge further, choking out a moan again and again at the barest brushing against your sweet spot, mindlessly grinding your hips up to meet each cruel thrust of your fingers. 

You cry when you finally hit that spot inside you, head falling against the pillows as you tense, about to move again when something stops your hand, ripping it away from your desperate chase. 

“You–“ Zayne shakes his head, breath ragged as some combination of a frustrated exhale and moan rumbles through his chest, the sound going straight to your cunt. “You’re too impatient. Too rough.”

You try to swallow, try to hide how the sound of his moan and the rough cadence of his voice makes the muscles of your belly and thighs spasm, but Zayne doesn't miss a thing. He doesn't release your hand, not fully, but rather guides both of your digits to trace around your clit instead.

"Again," he says, “This time slower. How does it feel?”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you feel his hand continue to guide yours, entire body jolting when he catches against the hood of your oversensitive clit, tapping as he lets you circle it on your own. 

“Good. It feels really good.”

Zayne hums, but he already knows that. He feels it through the drenched bottoms of your panties, rubbing your poor swollen clit through them, watching as you gush again, the slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist in sticky strands.

It takes everything within him not to withdraw his hand and lick it all. Or even better, take his mouth to you directly. Not yet. Not yet, he reminds himself. Next time.

You have to bite your lip as you feel Zayne’s hand take over your own, almost greedily pushing and pinching your clothed cunt, the fabric both a delicious friction and a damn barrier you wish was gone so you could finally feel his bare fingers on you, in you. It’s torture, every nerve on fire as Zayne continues to focus on your clit while your fingers return against your folds, teasing your entrance with a light touch before pressing in.

But it's still not enough. It's not what you need.

You look to Zayne for direction, but his expression is unreadable in the darkness. "Deeper. Keep going."

The angle isn't quite right, but you do as he says, trying and failing to muffle your sounds as you fuck yourself on your fingers, desperately chasing the feeling building up once more.

“Again. Deeper.”

It hurts. Your wrist is beginning to ache, and you’re really not sure how much longer you can keep going, crying out again when Zayne forces his hand flat against your clothed core, shoving your own fingers deeper and causing the wet fabric to rub deliciously against your clit. 

You don't even have time to react before he's pulling away, his own hand rubbing the wetness on his fingers together as he watches the strands break and drip down his hand.

His tone is so nonchalant despite the way he keeps his gaze trained between your legs. As if the sight of you, flushed and gasping, with your cunt pathetically leaking and yet still demanding more, wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen. 

“Ask,” Zayne demands, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Ask for it.”

“Need your help, please, Zayne” you manage, voice airy and heart still racing from unintentionally edging yourself over and over again. “I want your fingers.”

It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. Hands gentle enough to care for patients, steady enough to perform surgeries, cruel enough to tease you this mercilessly, and yet you can’t help but imagine what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly. 

You’ve probably thought about his hands more times than you’d like to admit.

At the hospital, at the cafe, at night in your apartment. Every inch of his body seems to haunt you like a forgotten memory your body had already grown addicted to.

The moan that rumbles out of Zayne’s chest is low and addicting. He sits back for only a moment before your hips are dragged down the bed, a yelp leaving your lips from the sheer force. 

Zayne practically knocks your leg over his shoulder, and when you arch off balance, you press against something that has you inhaling sharply through your nose. Fuck, Zayne’s hard.

He shudders violently at the contact, falling onto his forearms as you roll against him once more, watching his face twist from the painful pleasure you know all too well. You feel his control slipping, both in the way his fingers tighten at your hips and the throbbing heat you feel twitch against your thigh.

And just realizing how much you’ve affected him is enough to send your eyes rolling back into your skull with a violent tremor. 

You attempt to grind up against him again when Zayne roughly pins you back down. You writhe helplessly, hips pinned to the mattress as Zayne curses, adjusting himself in his slacks with a rough squeeze. “No.” A command to both himself and you, “You asked for my fingers, so that’s what you will get.” 

You’re about to open your mouth to make another demand, but Zayne is one step ahead of you yet again. “That’s all you’re getting.” As if to quell your anger, he begins to thumb at your clit again, moving to take off your last remaining piece of clothing. “Next time.”

A promise he has every intention to keep.

Ironically, Zayne is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your endeavors, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow. But you’ve been worked up far too long, and as soon as Zayne begins fucking you with two of his much thicker fingers, you already feel the familiar tension building.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re feeling?”

“Not really,” you manage through clenched teeth. 

You feel Zayne pull away and thrust your hips up into nothingness, only making yourself more sensitive when he roughly thumbs at your clit. He slams your hips back down, a cruel pinch to the oversensitive nub forcing you to arch into him as your jaw falls slack.

 “That was not a question.” Zayne is still hovering above you, watching as his fingers slip against your cunt, slick with your arousal. “Use your words.”

His voice takes a dark edge every time he commands you now, and you bite your lip to not whimper at the tremor his voice sends down your skin. It’s not fair, the effect something so simple has on you. But while his demand is still ringing in your ears, Zayne curls his fingers further upwards, rubbing directly against that sweet spot inside you with frustrating ease, and you sob. 

"Please,” you can’t even remember to beg. Zayne nearly abuses the spot, curling into it over and over again until you’re certain you’re drooling all over the silk of your pillow, writhing. "Please, I'm– I need more, and, ah—“

Zayne hums. "More? You're going to have to be more specific if you actually want to orgasm."

You whine, shaking your head as his eyes narrow. He’s only halfway through scolding you when his finger smacks against your clit, the sharp twinge of pain enough to make you cry. "Don't be a child. Words. Tell me what's giving you pleasure so I can help you."

"It's," a huff of air leaves you and you can barely manage to form a coherent sentence, your mind fogging over completely as Zayne continues to talk. "Hah, your voice helps.”

“My voice?”

Your eyes nearly roll back at the sound of Zayne’s chuckle. A deep, cruel thing that you now think may be all you need to come as your eyes screwed shut. “Well, if that’s the case, then I suppose I should just keep talking. Keep your eyes open.”

You obey, and Zayne simultaneously pulls your jaw towards him, forcing you face-to-face with him. “Look at me.”

You do. You do and really wish you hadn’t because the smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips and the freckles of light green you now see in his softened gray eyes might really be all you need to send yourself over the edge.

And, as if listening, Zayne forces his fingers deeper inside, the tips of his digits hitting the same spot that has your mind fogging over, vision blurring with a disorienting mix of hazy and dizzy. You can barely hold on, fingers twitching against the sheets as suddenly it becomes too much, your hands shooting up as you press desperately against Zayne’s chest. 

“Wait–” You’re dizzy. The pressure is consuming you, and you’re losing control. “Please, Zayne.”

He stops immediately, pliant under your touch as he lets you push him away. Even so, his free hand comes up to meet yours, coaxing your fingers against his as he holds it up to his chest, letting you ground yourself with his heartbeat.

The rhythm is comforting.

Zayne isn’t speaking anymore, just looking, waiting for you to give him a sign. He doesn’t dare move, letting his fingers sit still, buried inside of you. You don't know if it's the dizziness lingering in your head or the fact that his fingers are insistently rubbing against a spot inside of you that sends sparks up your spine, but either way, you might be going insane.

“Keep your breathing steady, even when you’re close. Deep breaths.” In, out. In, out. Your chest rises as Zayne’s does, bare skin brushing his. “Good.”

Even as your vision clears, Zayne refuses to let go of your hand, this time pinning it beside your head as he begins to move his other hand too, thumb circling your clit as the others curl against your walls. 

When you begin to shake again, his lips ghost by your neck, dangerously soft and hesitant as he kisses down from your jaw, following each whimper and moan you give to him with loyal intent, sucking gently at a spot near your jugular and collarbone.

"Ah, Zayne. I think–" your breathing hitches as Zayne presses another soft kiss against your skin.

"Are you okay?" The softness of his tone nearly breaks you, and you force yourself to ignore it. Focus on the sensations; focus on what you can use for the novel. Nothing more.

You nod.

"What else, darling? Are you close?"

Your breath hitches. The sudden pet name has you reeling, and you feel Zayne keep his steady rhythm, even through your trembling and whining, his thumb mercilessly circling against your clit in ways you swear never feel the same when you’ve done it. 

"Call me that again," you cry, nearly begging.

"Come. Come for me, darling."

And you do.

Your vision blurs as you come around Zayne’s fingers, a silent scream catching in your throat. All you can manage is a broken moan as you arch into him, gripping his forearm and holding it in place. Your thighs quiver around his arm, and Zayne holds you still, coaxing you through it as wave after wave of pleasure wash over you.

The sensation is overwhelming. You're not even sure how long it lasts, the only thing grounding you is the weight of Zayne's hand laced against your own.

Slowly, he begins to withdraw his fingers, kissing your knuckles softly.

"How are you feeling?"

The room is quiet, and it feels like all the sound has been sucked out of it. Your head is fuzzy and your whole body is tingling, and all you can focus on is Zayne's soft breathing.

Good, you want to tell him. More than that, your body is still shaking from pleasure and desire, and you can’t stop looking at Zayne’s lips or remembering how hot and needy he felt grinding against your thigh. You can’t stop thinking about him, so instead you say, “Fine.”

Zayne stiffens. “Good.” 

He sits up, still scanning your face for something as you watch the fabric of his shirt pull taut across his chest and stomach, and once again you are overwhelmed by the desire to run your hands down his body, to feel his skin against yours. To see more of him.

“I’m going to get you water and a towel.” He says, not moving just yet. “Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head no. Zayne nods, leaning in as his hand goes to your jaw before he pauses halfway and steps out of bed, making his way to your bathroom.

You don’t really remember how much of the night goes by after that, a blur of Zayne attentively guiding you through proper aftercare and you throwing in a few quips here and there at his ceaseless worrying. Before long, he’s saying farewell, and you’re back at your computer screen, empty doc staring right back at you. 

But the words never form. Not when your head is still spinning, replaying everything that happened tonight in vivid flashbacks as an overwhelming rush of mortification and desire runs down your spine. 

You can’t help but feel that perhaps you just made an irreversible mistake.

[vladtoly]

heyyy so could i request a reader x frontman fic cs i have had this idea for so long but i just cant write it myself😓😓

so the idea is reader is a daughter of one of the vips and one day reader's father decideds to fund the game by marrying her to frontman if that make sense?? or reader's father made some sort of deal with ilnam (up to you) , and reader is just totally against it at first bcs she thinks the games are cruel but once she spends more time around inho she warms up more and grows to really him and he also warms up to her😣😣🙏🙏 (so its like an arranged marriage, enemies to lovers type shi🤞🤞)

Hello dear!

I actually wrote something similar to this a while back when season one came out, just without the enemies to lovers trope. I'll leave a link to it at the bottom, but if that doesn't satisfy the craving, let me know!

I totally get what you're saying and don't mind revisiting/rewriting the idea if you would like :)

[losergames]

Chop Shop is strictly 18+ for language, themes, and potential explicit content. 

🔗 - Game Intro | Bug Report | ko-fi

WE ARE LIVE!!! Chop Shop has officially relaunched on Itch.io! Available to play on desktop, tablet and mobile.

Prologue - EP .02 are ready to play - the same as the previous demo - with a new word count of 120k. The choicescript demo will be taken down at the end of the month.

Thank you so much to those who have helped me during this transition period of development! It has been crazy frustrating but I am so much more in love with the game than ever. And thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting - hope you enjoy all the new bits and bobs!!

PLAY THE NEW DEMO NOW!

AN: CS has had some significant rejigging and rewriting. You can read the authors notes under the cut.

chop shop now has it's own UI! woohoo! (totally did not kill me) this, of course, will come with teething problems and accessibility issues. i am welcome to constructive feedback!

there are a lot of new dialog boxes to explore, especially the dashboard, which includes the PC's profile, inventory, contacts and a glossary page. (the stat definitions page from the old choicescript demo has been scrapped, too much text that wasn't needed.)

chapters are now called episodes! not a huge change but i prefer the vibe yknow.

there have been some extensive rewrites - especially in ep .01, the bar scene got a lot more fleshing out - so i expect typos and grammar errors have slipped through. this doesn't bother me too much but i appreciate any one who spots them to send them in!

there is now an 'end game' scenario in ep. 01. i won't be providing a walkthrough as i think it's relatively obvious given the scenario but it does give you an achievement!

i've kept achievements like the old choicescript demo but it no longer rewards points. maybe i will think of something to reward the player with later down the line?? who knows

i don't want to explain ALL the new details as i really encourage people to go find all the new flavour text and other things etc!!

next -- if you have not noticed, i have added a bug report to the links list. all issues, bugs, and errors found in the public demo can now be reported via the new bug report form.

in terms of writing, i am now porting episode 3. i have had rewrite plans for this chapter for a while, so i imagine this port will take some time. i was in the middle of writing episode 4 when i decided to make the twine jump lmao, so it hasn't been touched for a LONG time, probably since march. i plan to jump straight back into writing when episode 3 is all done!

like before, ep 3 won't be released until ep 4 has a first draft and i'm happy with the shape and direction. so it will be some time before i am able to release new content. but - we ball!

thank you for reading this far and i hope you enjoy the new and improved demo! happy reading! - becky :^)