... hey... y'all... hey </3
Originally wasn't going to post anything until I could update the main demo again but I've been getting a lot of messages so...
Speedrun Challenge:
No, the game is not abandoned!
I have been avoiding social media for various reasons
The Chapter 2 Twine Version has been out for a while. I forgot to announce it here, but it's on Patreon for free. You can play it here. There's a bug w/ meeting Amilia where info gets mixed, so warning for that.
It's not on the main demo b/c the interlude in-between Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 is unfinished.
Chapter 3 is nearing 50% completion.
The next update on the main demo will include the interlude and add Chapter 2 to be properly added.
Bi-weekly to weekly word counts are resuming from today, whether it's a lot or a little. 🧎🏻 And thank you to everyone who sent kind wishes! Ngl life was beating me up pretty consistently for a long while but I finally have some stability going on again.
(Spoilers beneath. Shows Scene Breakdown from old Demo and where scenes are at progress wise for Twine. It has spoilers for anything past Chapter 1. Red is not worked on, yellow is in progress, green is finished.)
When Y/N Blackwell is invited to return to London for her debut season under Violet Bridgerton’s care, old friendships and older rivalries are bound to resurface. Time has passed, feelings have shifted, and the ton watches closely as she steps once more into a world she once left behind… including one Viscount who may not be as unaffected by her return as he would like to believe.
If the ton were to keep a ledger of long-standing feuds, the rivalry between Miss Y/N Blackwell and Viscount Anthony Bridgerton would surely be written in bold ink and underlined for emphasis.
Y/N Blackwell had been entwined with the Bridgerton family since childhood, her laughter echoing through their halls almost as often as Daphne’s own. She was welcomed, adored, and considered nearly one of their own… by all except one.
From the very beginning, it was known: where Y/N stood, Anthony Bridgerton would surely appear armed with a sharp remark, an infuriating smirk, and an uncanny talent for testing her patience.
Their so-called hatred was legendary. Childhood teasing matured into verbal sparring, glances sharpened like daggers disguised as smiles. One moment, Y/N would carefully adorn her hair with newly purchased lace; the next, Anthony would undo it with deliberate mischief, simply to watch her scowl. Petty? Certainly. Intentional? Without question.
And yet, society could never quite decide was it disdain… or something far more dangerous?
Alas, fate has a habit of intervening when matters grow too comfortable.
Due to Mr. Blackwell’s pursuit of greater professional opportunity, the Blackwell family was forced to depart for the countryside. The farewell was a painful one. With tears brimming in her eyes, Y/N clutched Daphne tightly.
“I promise I will visit as soon as I can, Daph,” she whispered.
“I shall hold you to that promise,” Daphne replied, her grip tightening as though sheer will might keep her friend from leaving.
Y/N bid farewell to the rest of the Bridgertons warm embraces, fond smiles until she reached him.
Stopping before Anthony, she lifted her chin, eyes blazing with triumph.
“Well, at least I shan’t have to endure you any longer, Viscount Bridgerton,” she said sweetly, offering a flawless bow and a most sinister smile.
Anthony leaned closer, meeting her gaze with infuriating calm.
“Do try not to miss me too much, Lady Blackwell.”
And with that, the Blackwell family departed leaving behind unanswered questions, unresolved tension, and a Viscount who watched far longer than he ought to have.
Two years passed.
“I have written to Violet Bridgerton,” Mr. Blackwell announced one evening. “She has graciously agreed to take Y/N under her wing for the upcoming season. It is time our daughter finds a noble suitor.”
His wife smiled knowingly. “Indeed. But let us hope she marries for love.”
At the mention of the Bridgertons, Y/N’s attention snapped fully into focus.
“I shall see Daphne again?” she asked eagerly. “And the others?”
“Yes, my dear,” her mother replied. “You will spend the season with them. It is time.”
“I cannot wait,” Y/N breathed already imagining familiar faces, familiar halls… and one infuriating Viscount she had not thought of nearly enough to admit.
And so, her return to Bridgerton House began.
But what awaits her there?
Scandal, perhaps.
Whispers, certainly.
And how, dear reader, will Anthony Bridgerton regard the girl who once plagued his youth now transformed into a woman who has bloomed most beautifully?
Hi!! I love your writing it is always so enjoyable. Would you be open to writing a snippet about a hero with invisibility powers? Maybe the villain can see them because they leave a bloody trail? Just a thought. Have a great day!
There are many things they don’t tell you about bleeding out–they tell you exactly how much blood you can lose before you lose consciousness, they tell you how much you can lose and still come back from, how much you can lose and not come back from.
They don’t tell you, however, about the panic that comes with it. The panic the hero had thought they would be–not immune from, but–able to handle, by now. They had been hurt, before. They had been bleeding out, pressing against a gash in their side, waiting for the end of a fight. They had been slumped in the pouring rain waiting for an evac, hand pressed tight around their panic button, listening for the sound of a helicopter.
But the hero had never been so scared. Never been quite this bloody.
The vast amount of blood was uncomfortable, actually, spreading down the hero’s side, and they were leaving bloody smudges of handprints on the walls behind them, and there was sort of this awful disconnect as they did it because their power kept fritzing in and out as if it, too, was panicked, and occasionally they would look down to see through their hand directly onto the resulting bloody handprint on the wall. Which was, by all accounts, not great.
They would blame all of it on that later–any questionable choice? Panicked, and bleeding out, and now, bleeding out in the closet.
Hyperventilating, shoving a random mildly chlorine scented rag against their side, inside a closet. They weren’t stupid enough to hope for a rescue–not inside the villain’s base. They were going to have to wait, probably hours, before the henchmen who had spotted them let the alarm drop and they all assumed the hero had escaped. Then, maybe hero could–
A shadow stopped outside the door. A moment later, there was the tiniest thud as whoever it was, leaned a shoulder against the door. It felt, despite the fact the hero couldn’t see them and the world was beginning to blur just faintly around the edges, almost conversational.
“Hey, love,” the villain said through the door, easy-going. Like this was a run-in at the town's only coffee shop. The hero stared, feeling a little sick and maybe a little dumb, at the crusty green of the door.
The hero swallowed, the fabric of the shitty towel grinding harder into their palm.
“See, the thing about being invisible,” the villain continued, as if the hero had given any sort of acknowledgement to the original comment. “Is that it’s only you that’s invisible. Not your blood. Which, by the way, I think you have substantially less of in you than you should right now.”
“I think my blood volume is none of your business,” the hero managed after another, too long moment. They were slow with it–the banter, and they knew that both wasn’t good and also that it was something the villain was carefully cataloguing.
“Considering the majority of it is in my hallway? I think it is,” the villain corrected amicably. “But that can be forgiven. Who doesn’t love a good cleaning spree? What can’t be corrected is if you die in my closet, however. That would be rather distressing.”
“I’m not going to die in your closet,” the hero said, feeling somewhat petulant about it. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve got about, hmm,” the villain wagered, “ten minutes before you pass out. And I need you to know I’m being very generous with those ten minutes because I am respectful of your capabilities as both a vigilante and a stubborn little shit.”
“You’re a lair.”
“I’m an optimist,” the villain corrected, still lounging against the other side of the door. “And you’re bleeding out in my closet.”
The hero’s leg cramped, kicking out just barely, sending a broom clattering down the shelves and to the floor. The villain’s silence was judgmental.
“What exactly do you expect me to do about it,” the hero said, annoyed. A muscle tensed in their jaw, then untensed when their vision swam. “Tell my blood to knock it off?”
“I expect you to let me come in there and stop you from bleeding out, for one, and then you’re either going to let me drag you to my medbay and keep you nice and safe and alive, or you’re going to let me take you back to your base and your medbay, where they will also keep you nice and safe and alive.”
“I don’t seem to have much agency in this.”
“You’re down to roughly eight minutes of consciousness, now. If we’re generous.”
“Villain–”
“Hero,” the villain’s voice was firm. “I’m sure you’ve realized how limited your options are. So you either let me, a person who likes you and is generally amused by your antics instead of enraged by them, take care of you, or one of my henchmen finds your cooling body later. Tell me, do you think your body will still be invisible even after you’re dead?”
The hero’s stomach sunk. The villain was right–the hero wasn’t stupid. They knew, with an unfortunate amount of clarity, that there was no way they would make it past the villain, all of their henchmen, and out through their needlessly complex security system before they passed out on the concrete floors.
It took them two, miserably pathetic tries to reach up and unlock the door, still half sprawled on the floor. The villain pulled it open before they had even fully sagged back on the floor–and though their voice had been calm, their eyes were half-wild, slightly wider than the hero was used to.
“God,” they said, eyes darting through a visual assessment faster than the hero had ever seen them. “You got yourself fucked up, didn’t you?”
“Are we victim blaming the person who got shot?” The hero asked, voice rasping by the end of the sentence. They winced, throat raw.
“You should know how to dodge by now,” the villain replied, and then their palms were pressed against the hero’s side and the hero was doing their best not to pass out. Their power flared, panicked, but the villain didn’t seem bothered by their brief stint in non-visibility. Sickeningly, the hero noticed once more, that their blood refused to go invisible with them, leaving half of their body outline only by the mess of red spreading across their side.
It was really, really annoying that their power would turn clothes invisible but not their blood, because their clothes were just on them and their blood was their blood–
“Fuck–” the hero finally managed to gasp out, blinking the white spots from their vision. “You could have–”
“Warned you? Sure, but it wouldn’t have made it hurt any less. I’m trying to stop you from bleeding out, hero, not woo you.”
Privately, the hero considered the fact that in their mind, those things weren’t mutually exclusive, before promptly dismissing that thought as a product of their severe bloodloss. Maybe when they had more blood they would consider it again–
“Did you hit your head?” The villain asked. They pressed down harder with one hand, pulling a punched out wheeze from the hero’s lungs, before grabbing the hero’s chin with their free hand, tilting it up to the light. The hero could feel their own blood slick across their skin, but it was a faint, muted sensation. “Ah, yeah. That’s a concussion.”
“I’m not concussed,” the hero said, petulant. The villain shot them a…mildly scathing look.
“So the mismatched pupils are a fashion choice, then?”
The hero gave them as much of a dirty look as they could manage. From the way the villain bit back a snort, the hero was pretty sure the message got across just fine.
“And what would you know about fashion,” they said. The villain raised a brow.
“Says the individual who wears a form fitting suit and domino, in perhaps the most basic superhero costume aesthetic known to man. Seriously, did you just open a random comic book and go from there?”
The hero fought a frown, insulted. “Hey, I’ll have you know people love the suit.”
“Right,” the villain said, head ducked low as they examined the wound. They ended up half-pressed against, half on top of the hero in the process, which the hero didn’t really mind. “Because it’s formfitting, and everyone loves to be saved by a hot, charming individual with a dashing grin. Why do you think people love firefighters so much?”
“You think I’m hot?” The hero asked, voice slightly slurred even to their own ears. A second later, they blinked, and blushed as much as they could out to the tips of their ears. They felt themselves flicker in and out of that comforting, all encompassing blur of light and image entirely, like a blink.
The villain looked up from where they were wrapping a bandage against the hero’s side, fingers deft as they taped a generous amount of gauze through the hole of the hero’s suit. The hero had no idea where they had gotten it from. “Darling, I thought we had established this earlier.”
“Maybe you established that earlier,” the hero muttered, and they felt more than heard the villain laugh through where they had settled against the hero’s side.
“This is as good as we’re getting with the supplies I brought,” the villain said, sitting back. The hero missed the contact immediately, like a lost limb.
The villain shifted slightly closer once more, as if they knew exactly what the hero had been thinking.
From the very tiny, sly smirk at the corner of their mouth, somehow, the villain did.
“Stop that,” the hero said. The smirk widened slightly.
“Stop what? Saving your life?”
“You know what,” the hero said, and the villain laughed.
“Let’s get you up,” the villain said, half-rising on their haunches. The hero peered up at them, side still flaring with pain.
“If you expect me to walk–”
The hero was settled in the villain’s arms. They weren’t…entirely sure how it had happened, but as they, vision dazed and half-blurred, watched their limbs flicker back into visibility, they figured they had probably passed out.
The villain tucked the hero’s head more firmly against their neck. Like they were worried the hero would fall, or hurt their neck–
“What,” the hero finally managed. The villain glanced down at them, face a painful mix of panic and amusement.
The hallway was beginning to swirl around the edges as they moved–the only concrete, certain thing the hero had was the villain.
Privately, again, they considered the fact that this was not in fact a new feeling–
“I’m taking you to the medical wing,” the villain reminded, soothingly, and the hero gave half a nod before slumping back against their chest.
“You’re really warm,” the hero informed them. The villain’s chest stuttered in a sort of half-laugh.
“This would be far funnier if you weren’t still actively bleeding out in my arms.”
“I’m not bleeding out,” the hero said. They glanced down at their side, but the villain’s arm, curled around the hero’s body, blocked their view. “You fixed that.”
“Fixed is generous,” the villain replied, and then they were half-turning to shoulder open some sort of swinging door. The hero, idly, watched it swish closed again as the villain settled them on to the medical bed.
“I’m going to grab you something for the pain while we wait for my staff to–” the villain paused, half a step away from the bed. They turned back to look at the hero, expectant. The hero just blinked at them.
A second later, the villain glanced down to where the hero’s hand had wrapped itself firmly around their wrist, slick with blood and about as strong as a newborn kitten.
The hero willed their very traitorous hand to let go. It did not.
“That’s–I’m not–”
The villain’s face softened.
“Hero,” they said gently. They made no effort to tug themself out of the hero’s grip, something the hero was secretly, viciously grateful for. It was cold in here, and the hero didn’t know if it was the bloodloss or the dizzyingly white walls of the medbay, but the hero hated it. “I’m going to be right back, alright?”
The hero nodded. Their hand still refused to move.
“Okay, hero,” the villain said, soft, all their edges dulled, and sat down at the side of the hero’s bed. They entwined their hand with the hero’s, seemingly unbothered by the blood. Considering how often injuries happened in this line of work, maybe they were. “I’ll stay.”
“It’s just–I can’t–”
“Hero,” the villain said, “you’re invisible.”
It took far more effort than it should have to force themself back into visibility, fighting to release their grip on light and mirage. By the time they managed, there was sweat slicking the side of their temple, their headache had sharpened to an unbearable point, and a medic had appeared and begun sorting through something against the far wall.
“Sorry,” they said, mouth heavy around the word, and the villain’s face tightened.
The villain just shook their head, fingers tightening around the hero’s. A second later, the medic passed the villain something that the hero couldn’t see.
“You’re probably going to pass out in a second,” the villain informed them. It didn’t scare the hero as much as it should. “But I’m not going to leave. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
“You mean more than the gunshot?” the hero managed. The villain’s face darkened.
“That will be handled.”
The hero managed a small nod in agreement, and then the world twisted in a sickening, thrumming way, and the hero was–
They woke up, bandaged, swaddled in blankets, and on what they could only assume was an insane level of pain killers, to find the villain half-asleep against the side of their bed, hair mussed.
Happy Wednesday, friends! 💚 I have some fun fics coming at you soon in the last month of winter (+ a peak of spring!)...
Depend on Me
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Size (Latina)!Reader
Summary: After Mary leaves the bunker, you finally move in permanently. You know staying with Dean was the right decision, but that means you’re locked in—with him, Sam, the British Men of Letters, and whatever’s going on with Mary Winchester.
You probably guessed it! This one's another chapter in the Midnight Espresso-verse. ☕ It directly follows Stay With Me and Devour Me, so it's still in the first year of their relationship (season 12). Some flirty fun, a lot of angst and hurt/comfort, and a lot of "wtf Mary" lol
👀 Sneak Peek:
“So you knew this Asa guy too?” Dean says. He ventures back into the bedroom, tosses his unused shaving kit back in his duffel, and begins to get dressed.
Meanwhile, you’re getting undressed. He watches the show out of the corner of his eye and tries not to get hard. There’s nothing he likes more after a good hunt than a good fuck.
But he knows what you’d say.
A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone.
“I worked with him once,” you say, managing to tie your mane of hair up into a scrunchie. “He was a good guy. Great hunter.”
Dean pauses. “You worked with him, huh?”
Just like you’d worked with your ex once, right before he talked himself into your bed.
You shoot your boyfriend a wry brow raise.
“Yes. Worked. It was a ghoul slurping the brains out of hookers in Colorado Springs.”
Dean cocks his head, zipping up his jeans.
“Sounds like a good weekend to me,” he says, trying to hide the thinly veiled note of jealousy. “Real, uh, scenic out there up in the mountains.”
You roll your eyes at him and slip into the shower. “Moron.”
“Sure you don’t want some company in there?”
“Go downstairs, Dean.”
☕ Read now on Patreon!
🤎 Coming to Tumblr: March 8
Exposure Therapy
We're coming back to the Break Me Down-verse! With a zesty little interlude lol
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Summary: You’ve tried dealing with it the “healthy way,” like talking it out with a therapist. But what you’re really hoping is for Ben to fuck it out of you.
I’ve had this idea in my head since writing chapter 6 of BMD (almost three years ago 😭), but only now felt the urge to write it. I guess this could stand alone, but will really make more sense if you’ve read the series. It's going to be a callback to reader’s traumatic upbringing, but of course, in a way that's unique to these two lol
☕ Read now on Patreon!
💚 Coming to Tumblr: March 15
Left Like Us (Parts 1 & 2)
Pairing: Tom Hanniger x Reader
Summary: When Tom disappears after that fateful Valentine’s Day in 1998, you refuse to stop looking.
AN: I watched My Bloody Valentine for the first time on Valentine's Day weekend, and of course, I got the itch to write for a "new" Jackles character!
👀 Sneak Peek:
The smell of sandalwood and sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. That’s what fills your nose as you pant for breath.
Your face is mushed into his puffer jacket. Your nails have pierced through the seams as you cling to his back, your legs crunched almost painfully underneath you.
But you know that Tom’s last-ditch attempt at being your human shield from Harry Warden’s pickaxe would’ve failed miserably, if not for Sheriff Burke clipping him in the back with his .38 revolver.
☕ Read now on Patreon! (Part 2 coming to Patreon: March 6)
❤️ Coming to Tumblr: mid/late-March
Fated
Pairing: Alpha!Beau Arlen x Omega!Reader
Summary: When Beau had the bright idea of going undercover to observe a pair of questionable Alphas at a local casino, he never expected to meet you, caught in the crossfire of an Omega human trafficking ring.
Based on this Jacklesverse Bingo prompt: “If I win this fight, your Omegas are mine.”
AN: I'm hard at work on this one! I hope to start posting this 6-part series by late March on Patreon, or if not, early April — which means I'll start to post this series here by early-mid April. It will be angsty and intense at times due to the subject matter, but hopefully it'll balance out with a lot of heart and Beau being a sweetheart (but an imperfect man).
👀 Sneak Peek:
He sidles down the bar and stops next to you, under the pretense of flagging down the bartender for himself. He leans his elbows on the counter and shoots you a smile.
“Hey, there,” he says, injecting some Texan charm. “You drinking whiskey too?”
You take him in, a polite, if reserved smile barely raising your lips.
“I don’t really drink,” you reply, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. You’re nervous; the subtle glance behind you at the Alphas, your gaze lingering on Lucy, still trapped with Ezra—it all tells Beau a thousand things without you having to say them in words.
“Hmm, so only the guys get to party, huh?” he says, both a tease and a gentle test. “How long you been with your boyfriend over there?”
Your gaze flicks up to his. You don’t seem sure of him, but your eyes are perceptive enough to seize him up with a measure of suspicion.
“I’m not looking for a new one,” you say. And you look away from him to take the bottles and fresh glasses from the bartender.
Hi, everyone. I hope the week has been treating y'all well! Now, this isn't really a writing update, more of a PSA.
While I love and appreciate everyone's enthusiasm with the story and especially the wedding scenes and customization, I must say that unfortunately I cannot add ten different choices for MC's wedding hairstyle, nor can I specify whether their nail polish is green or red (to name a few of the... asks I've gotten). This story is not being generated by AI, it's being written and coded by me, Opal, and I'm a human being with a lot to juggle. I have tried to give you as many options as I could for a scene that only lasts a whole prologue, so I ask you to show me some grace in return, please.
In the wedding customization, you can already choose the following:
• wedding outfit, color, and fabric.
• if you're wearing any sort of headpiece.
• and i've added choices for what sort of shoe your MC is wearing and makeup, if only because the ask I got asking for it was so endearingly funny.
But I'm afraid that's all I can offer. If that's still not enough, my apologies, but I'm doing my best here.
