Masked Sym

And yeah, he's got a temper. Did he always have a temper? No idea, but he has one now. You can see it in the way his fingers clench tight, the low grunt of disapproval as he realises the thugs downstairs are moving their cargo early.

"Cheeky buggers." You mutter, shoving your hands deep into your jacket pockets.

He makes a small noise of assent, a hum that trails off into thoughtfulness.

"Uh oh. That sounds like you're hatching a plan."

"I need you to…" He pauses, straightening, turning to face you. One hand curves towards your face, slow and gentle, stroking across your cheekbone. "I need you to pay attention. For one minute. Please." There, that exasperated tone. Slightly fond, you can tell, but also like he's trying so hard to keep his temper behind his teeth, to leash his tongue and trade barbs for pleasantness. "Listen carefully."

You smile, the way you always do, when he touches you like he cares. When he puts a little ounce of tenderness into his life, like someone or something might actually be worthy of his love. He doesn't really believe it, but his body says it in the gentle stroke of his fingers, and that's enough.

For now, anyway.

"I'm listening. You know I always listen to you."

"Mmhmm. Sure." His eyes don't leave yours- well, the domino mask doesn't leave your face, but you assume his eyes are glued to yours. That beautiful sea-green gaze, so full of hurt and wonder and incredulity that someone, out there, has cared enough to stay and watch the monster be reborn.

"I need you to go down there, and cause the biggest distraction of your life. You won't get hurt."

"I never do." You chuckle, leaning forwards, your lips pressing against the red plate armour covering his face.

He tenses, but he doesn't pull away. Good. He's learning so well. Gentle hands beg gentle touches, gentle words coax gentle kisses. And soon he'll be gently asleep in your lap, where he belongs, whilst you watch over him and stroke his hair and tell him that everything will be okay.

That his family doesn't really hate him, they're just scared for him.

That the Joker really did deserve to die.

It's okay to kill to protect others.

Red Hood is the hero Gotham needs.

It's okay to be a soldier for someone else's war, as long as you remember to live a little after you come back.

When your life is given back to you, you can't waste that chance.

You press your forehead to his. "I'll always come back to you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah. You're like a fucking disease I can't get rid of."

"Rude." You snort, but you turn your face towards the alley, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Don't miss me too much."

You jump.

You hear the muffled bang of his grappling line, firing at the building opposite. You try not ot be too surprised. Who needs tech anyway, when you've got a little bit of magic? Your wings unfurl, catching a lucky draft, and you skitter across the walls until you practically tumble into the gang, your feet on their heads.

"Whoops! Don't mind me, just dropping in." It's good cover, of course, because now they're screaming at you; they don't see Red Hood lunge for the truck. They don't see him knock out the getaway driver in one brutal punch.

In fact, they're still trying to tackle you, smoke and shadow, dancing and twirling out of hand's reach as you weave and dive between the men. "Come on, come on. Keep up a little!" You fake a yawn and you're rewarded with a glancing blow across your cheek.

Yeah, you can't die. Not really. But you can still feel pain.

It feels like life.

You laugh, ducking again, leading them away from the truck. From the corner of your eye you glimpse Jason yanking at the handle, pulling with those massive hands. Inside, the terrified faces of captives held hostage turn, as one, to stare. Well, fuck, his quick thinking had gotten him where he needed to be before any of the others. Ha. Take that Tim-who-probably-needs-to-fix-his-sugar-addiction-if-he-ever-wants-to-sleep-again Drake. Energy drinks just can't get you where you need to be- on Jason's level.

"Will you stop fucking around and fight back?" He curses into the night. Some of the thugs, dancing a perfect tango of fruitless violence and heavy man-sweat, pause when they hear that voice. Good.

"Oh yeah, that's right." You grin again, sweeping low only to surge upwards, the top of your head meeting someone's jaw. You bite your tongue. "Oh god. Oh fu- no, wait. Ouch. That's so painful."

He's freeing the prisoners with a speed and efficiency that suggests he's done this a million times before, but really, you tell yourself it's because he's worried about you. Blessed little fighter that you are, sticking it to the criminal element any way you know how- which, to be honest, isn't that many ways. Scrappy, distracting and handy- at least you can play to your strengths.

And then he descends, a shadow of red death. He sweeps through the remaining men like a whirlwind of terror, devastating not with a sword or the gun at his side, but with brawn trained in the years between death and life. A living titan of peak physicality. Powerful beyond human comprehension, without dipping his toes into the realm of superpowers. Controlled beyond any doubt, trained to kill and not to restrain. The discipline writes itself in knuckles painted red.

You step back, still trying to distract the thugs, but your eyes flicker to him more than they should. More than you should ever let yourself feel.

Of course he's violent when he does his job. A lesson in brutality keeps the streets clean. Violence is silenced by blood, and Jason Todd knows how to make a man bleed. He's bled himself so much it's all he really knows now.

"Jason…" Your voice breaks out over quiet, heaving breaths. You shift closer now, the sway of your shoulders a silent surrender as you close the gap between you. "Hey. You did good, Jason." You cup his cheek, wipe away the blood splatters from the bared skin of his forehead. You trace over the scars and knicks of hands far too weathered by time and pain for a man of his twenty-or-so years.

Every breath heaves in his chest, ragged and broken, turning oxygen into a desperate luxury. But your voice grounds him. He looks up, not a monster at all, but a boy lost in his memories, lost in that acid green void that swallowed his soul and retched it up different.

"Jason." You say again, stroking his hair, bringing his head to your chest in a soothing embrace. "Look. None of them are dead. You did so good. Unconscious enough to be questioned. All the victims freed. Look-"

You gesture at the line of terrified humans, rubbing their wrists and casting anxious glances down the alleyway. It's some kind of freedom, maybe, but they're so scared they won't run and take it. Little lambs that he led away from the slaughter.

"You did this. You saved them."

The rhythm of his panting slows, leaving him cold, replacing adrenaline with pain.

"If we go now, you won't have to see them. Not Batman. Not Nightwing. Not any of them, if you don't want to."

His head buries into your chest, nodding slowly like he can shake the memories burning his brain. He grounds himself in you, his hand snaking around your waist, fingers finding skin beneath the tactical gear he makes you wear, before digging deep. Like warm metal bands, except these are a privilege to wear. The prettiest shackles a man's ever offered you.

"Come on." You murmur, pressing your lips gently to his hair. "Up, up and away, Jaybin."

"That's Superman." He grunts.

"Yeah. Close enough." You shrug, and with a sweep of your shadowy wings, you hold him close and bring him back to the rooftops.

In a blur of minutes and feet, you're tumbling back into his apartment. His hands aren't steady as he unlocks the door, but he's doing better. He flinches less at the darkness. Shadows don't curl around him. You can see it now: there's clarity in every stride, purpose written into the hard lines of his shoulders.

He all but crashes onto the couch, the soft whoosh of dislodged air hiding his sigh.

"Mask off. Clothes too… you can't sleep in your combat gear." Your voice softens now, tiptoeing across the threshold of domesticity. The side of Jason that he wishes would stay buried. If he could be a monster, if he could be the hero Gotham needed, then that would be enough. A singular purpose to define him; a mind that needn't struggle.

Why now does he have to live a life beyond the darkness?

"Come on…" Gently, you sit beside him, fingers reaching for the straps of his red armour. He groans softly, fingers flexing against your thighs as piece by piece, you remove the shell of a man who wishes he wasn't quite so made up of broken parts.

The domino mask comes next. You tug it off, working away the adhesive, careful not to catch any of those tumbling black curls. You tug down the hood. You draw the red vest from his shoulders. He's slimmer now, not the bulky predator, but an overlarge house cat perched on the couch, trying but failing not to take up too much room.

"You did so good…" You murmur, fingers tracing the angled jawline, the blood-splattered cheekbones, carding gently through his hair. The little white forelock has always drawn your eye- the mark of an angel kissing him in his eternal sleep, before he was thrust back into the waking world.

"Mmm…"

"I know. I know." You pat his shoulder, your voice soothing. You find the locks on the back of his ridiculous tactical piece and strip him of his armour a little more.

He lays there for a long moment, silence settling in an unspoken truce between you, then slowly sits up. His gaze travels to your face, and now you can see the concern in the depths of the sea, the way cold calculation gives way to worried concern. Makes him more human, and less like night's greatest menace.

"You got hurt. Your cheek is all grazed…" His voice is soft reprimand, but there's tenderness in the way his fingertips brush the skin near the purpling bruise.

"Happens." You shrug, smiling at him.

"Shouldn't have. Not when you're with me. Shouldn't have let you get hurt."

"Silly." You murmur, leaning forwards. You hesitate, your hand bracing on his shoulder, the space between you barely a breath. "You can't watch out for everyone, all the time. Because who'd watch you?"

He pulls back a little, his gaze pinning you down. You tumble into that vast ocean, where the brilliance of light is slowly eclipsed by the a darkening fear. "I don't need watching." He closes the distance, lifting his hand to cup the back of your head. "But I remember you telling me that was your job." He leans in, his lips brushing yours, soft and sweet. As your mouth parts, he deepens the kiss, warmth spreading from your lips across your cheeks, breath hitching and fingers catching at his waist.

The moment shines and fizzes in your mind, stretching into eternity as your heart skips a beat.

Jason's way of saying thanks isn't measured in words, but in the way his hands press you into his life, the way he drinks all your soft sighs and tiny whimpers.

It's a long moment before you can think again, and longer still before you pull away, reluctant and pained. But still you smile for his gentleness, a treasure so rare he guards it like a dragon with nothing left but a ransacked hoard.

"It is." You answer, your smile mischievous. You shift, straddling his hips. Something selfish ignites inside of you, perhaps inflamed by the kiss, and you grind gently up and down. "I do an excellent job."

"Mmhmm…" He doesn't push you away. Sometimes he does, and you know that's when the darkness is at its deepest, a thick, tarry poison spreading through his soul. That's when he's getting pulled back into that abyss, the fractured parts separating until he screams from it.

But he keeps you here, one hand settling on your waist, letting you rub against him, quelling that dark beast that surges like a titan from the deep. "Still… Don't like it when you get hurt."

The admission is soft, and your heavy grinding slows a little. You tilt your head at him. "Nobody likes getting hurt, Jay. Except masochists, probably, but I'm told there are a very specific set of circumstances that must be followed, or I dunno, it's not… Whatever." You chuckle softly, and he snorts back, shaking his head with a boyish curve to his face "You are cute." You murmur, delight shining in your eyes.

"And you're reckless. Stupidly so, sometimes. But also… cute." His other hand strokes your face, as if he's learning you all over again. "How did I get so lucky?"

"Hmm? Oh, angels and demons decided you needed someone who could keep up with you. Boom, here I am." You tease him, your hands reaching for the fastening of his pants. "Perfection made whole. And mostly mortal. Fun."

You slide down, and he shifts for you, spreading his legs so you can settle between his thick thighs. "Why are you always so good?"

"I'm not." You nuzzle, breathing warm air over his clothed dick. The scent of musk fills your mind, settling like a haze over your will. "Sometimes I like to be good. Especially for you."

"But why? What do you want from me?" His voice is quieter now, his gazed fixed on you as you free him from his pants-prison. Those compression pants go first, pulled down, and then the sturdy underwear, leaving nothing but a most riveting sight of his swelling cock, twitching to attention beneath your eager hands.

"Nothing. Nothing from you. Everything for you." You murmur, stroking along the shaft. He's half-erect, the head growing and hardening beneath your fingers as you kiss his velvet skin. You press your thumb to the slit, coaxing beads of pre-cum as you bask in his low groan of animal need.

"I don't believe you." He manages, head thrown back against the couch as another moan tears from his throat.

"You always say that." You murmur, your lips wrapping around his flushed head. You suck, hollowing your cheeks just like you've learnt. There's a particular rhythm to his arousal. He likes it hard at first. He likes knowing you can match his roughness, that you can give as good as you get. He likes to know you'll make him feel every moment, that you'll drown him in pleasure as readily as you'll save him from the dark.

And then he likes it slow. Drawn-out. Effort poured into every curve and flick of your tongue, licking and kissing his length in uncomplicated worship. Gentleness in your fingertips, the pressure soft but constant as you remind him of his worth with every stroke.

You suck gently, lips pouted, an angel's kiss that rises and falls with breathy moans. Your hands rub up and down, swiping the drool from your mouth to slick his length, ringing neatly around the thickening member to wring the guttural cry of desire from his bared chest.

"You make it sound so easy…" His voice is rough, a low rumble you feel in his gut, dragged out of him alongside the moan he's trying to suppress.

"Easy? Jaybird…" You pull off him, your hands still clasped around his meat, a perfect circle of tights fingers that coaxes a little thrust of his hips. "Nothing about this is easy. You're not easy. But giving this to you? Letting you know that you're loved no matter what… that's not even a question. It just is."

He huffs a sigh, and one large, corded arm drapes over his face. He leans his head back, cushioned by the back of the couch, and spreads his legs a little further apart. Keep going. Never stop pouring your love into me.

He hates that he loves it so, that he craves you.

You take the shift as carte blanche to eat your full. You hasten your pace, head bobbing up and down with thick moans of need; for all that Jason plays a very long game, you're not known for your patience. The obscene sucking sounds fill the room. You focus on relaxing your throat, on pushing deeper and further than you've ever done before.

For a man reborn in darkness, there's a guilty innocence in his wide eyes. He takes your efforts like a punishment: knowing you would choke on his dick to bring him to his pleasure leaves him uncomfortably vulnerable.

He hides it with a soft moan of satisfaction, doing his best to hold on to you, his hand splaying in your hair. "Mmm. God. Fuck." He mutters, stroking you gently as you grunt and huff around his thick cock.

You cup his balls, fingers paying a trembling tribute to the taut skin. His dick fills the entirety of your mouth, the tip now touching the back of your throat, your heart hammering away as your mind melts. The musk of his sex is overwhelming now, your eyes rolling back, lost to a heavenly pleasure you'd rather make in his body.

Careful. Easy. Just like you practiced. Your thoughts are dream-like, floating by without a care. Deeper and deeper- how deep can he go? Can he feel how much you love him if he fucks down your throat? Can he feel how fast your heart is beating? How much you ache for him?

"Like that, baby… just like an angel… fuck…" He mutters, but his voice cracks. Tension runs down his thighs, turning them to stone around your head.

He's holding back. He's pulling away.

His hips retreat as your lips try to crawl down his shaft. You grumble in protest, and his fingers grip the hair of your scalp, lifting you away from the base of his dick. "Fuck, you always do this. You take me in like I'm all you crave. You know how fucked up that is?" His voice is hoarse, his gaze dark as he pulls your head up.

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm not gonna push you away." You mutter, defiance heating your tone to a smouldering flame, brittle with embers of anger. "You think you're not allowed to feel pleasure? You think pain is the only thing you deserve?"

"It's the only thing-"

"No. There's more to life than pain. I'm giving you another chance to breathe deep. Don't run from it." You sit up in his lap, following the pull of his hand as he controls the dynamic of your desire.

He stares at you, his eyes widening slightly. He doesn't quite believe you, still, after all this time.

"I haven't left yet, have I?"

It's a challenge wrapped in tender threads of love. You still, holding your breath, pitched above his thick, glistening cock like you're waiting for death on a battlefield. (A thousand cuts ain't gonna cut this one, it's gonna be brutal and bloody, if you have any say in it.)

"No. I don't think you can. Even if you chose to."

He stares at you, his voice soft but that seafoam gaze hard, like he can take all the love out of you and disprove it with a frown.

"Every chance. Any chance. If you gave one to me, I'd take it." You murmur. You shift your hips downwards, then roll them across his crotch. He flinches, groaning softly. "All I want is for you to be happy."

"Fucking… Love out of duty isn't love." He growls, his his hand shifting from your hair to your shoulder, trying to hold you steady.

You rut again, grunting in impatience. "Duty is a form of love, don't you know that Robin?"

"Don't."

"You did it for years, didn't you? And you loved him the whole time."

"Stop."

"This isn't duty."

You pause, watching his gaze, the dark and dangerous churning of the sea, volcanic anger and pain bubbling beneath, boiling the water and turning his love into something raw and twisted.

"This isn't pity."

You move again, slower, a stroke that takes the measure of him, that yanks desire from his throat with a soft groan.

"This is because I love you. And you're too stupid to accept it."

"Shut up." He growls, but some of the edge has evaporated. The grip on your shoulder loosens slightly. You bow your head into the crook of his neck, your lips catching his ear, soft and sweet, pressing in gentle worry.

"I would never abandon you, Jason. I would never blame you for the blood on your hands. I would never cast you out for wanting to protect yourself." You lace your fingers around the back of his head as you ease yourself across his lap, grinding and panting softly. "You seem to think this is difficult. That, somehow, this is painful. But not for me. Not from where I'm sitting. I see someone beautiful with cracks in his soul, but you seem to think I want to look away?"

You kiss down his neck, holding your body still, teasing the glistening tip of his dick. "No. The way the shadows play against the light? The way it carves beauty from imperfection? It makes you all the more wonderful. It makes you all the more magical. They just can't see it." You nip his neck, and you feel him start, his breath catching before the tension leaks from his shoulders. He melts into the couch, melts into your touch. "You can't see it either." You chuckle.

"Fucking tease."

He doesn't pull gently, but instead rips the buttons of your tactical pants, then forces them down your hips. You shimmy a little, soon bared to him, holding your breath in anticipation.

"You're like a disease." He repeats, bringing his finger to your mouth, running it across your bottom lip in silent question. You part for him, eyes wide in silent supplicant for his attention. His finger slips in, brushing your tongue, touching the inside of your cheek. Then with your drool, he slides his hand over your core, finding the clenched muscles of your hole. One slicked finger pushes in gently, and your breath hitches. You don't look away from his gaze, dark, smouldering master of suffering. He doesn't look away from you, incandescent beauty, a fiery angel of devastation and despair.

"You said that already." You whine softly, your hips twitching as you fight the urge to sink onto his hand. His finger stirs you up inside, dragging against your walls, stretching you open for him.

"You fucking feed me all this love, and I'm sick with it. Sick. Pathetic. I'm- I'm pathetic for drinking it up. Every time you do this to me, I just get sicker and sicker." He growls, resting his forehead on yours. "And it's all I want." The words are quiet and cracked, his eyes closed in sweet surrender.

He pushes a second finger in, eyes snapping open just to see you squirm. "Fuck. You want to drown me in love and watch me die? Suffocate me in kindness and see me fade? Fine. Don't think I can't make you suffer as well."

You gasp, arching your back as he pumps faster, deeper. "Good." You manage, faint and unthinking, losing your mind to the fire he's ignited inside of you. "I want that. Want you to let go, put it in me, let it all out."

"I'm not going to hate-fuck you."

"I know. Cause you love me. Something, something, you're pathetic with it."

"Shut up." He groans again, his fingers pushing deeper. The invasion leaves you hot and dizzy, makes you moan into his neck. He smells good- faintly coppery, mostly musky, and somehow with a hint of menthol and coffee. You want to bathe in it.

He rubs the sweet spot that makes your thighs clamp and tremble, quivering on the edge of ecstasy.

"Such a big fucking mouth on you. No wonder you could fit my whole cock inside." He grins at you now, a wolfish sharpness that makes him prettier, not meaner. "Let's see if you're ready."

He pulls his hand away, angles you over his lap, and braces his hips as he takes you to heaven.

Well, an earthly heaven, but close enough. Your head tips back, another lilting moan torn from you as he stretches you open. "Oh- oh Jason! Yes!" It always spins your mind how thick he is, how deep he seems to go; not that you've had another, because Jason is your first. Your most treasured.

If all men were like this, why would anyone leave their mate?

"You always love it when I pierce you like this. You like feeling my cock rearranging your insides?" He breathes the words into your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you almost entirely off his cock. Without warning, he yanks you back down, hips surging to meet you, burying himself to the hilt. You gasp, twisting in his grip, but his grip turns to steel, holding you steady. Not a prisoner, but his, captive for everything that that's worth. He pulls you up and slams down again, harder, fucking himself deeper into you until you're mewling and he's leaving bruises on your shoulders. "No, absolutely not. You think you can run from me now? After all the shit you've talked about loving me and staying with me?"

"Not- not running." You fight a gasp, clench your teeth, and lose the battle with your dignity. A lewd wanton moan breaks free, your whole body shuddering. He flexes his hips, pulls out, and takes another thrust at your soft centre. This one's slower. This one makes every inch count, makes your breath hitch. Sweat beads and prickles against your skin, a diamond sheen in the low ambient light of night.

"There, see. Doing so well." He switches now; his anger has dimmed. He's fucked away some of the incredulity, turned his vulnerability into a weapon with which he makes your hole weep with desire and desperation. His hands turn gentle, less restraint and more exploration. He teases, brushing over the curve of your ass as he grinds upwards, driving his cock into depths unknown, exploring the secret parts of your body like it's the only treasure he wants to keep.

"Maybe you are a masochist? You like it when I hit you deep." He murmurs, kissing along your shoulders, grinding his hard cock into every willing, giving fibre of your being.

You hum, a soft sound, a broken little whimper that reflects the hazy desire and love inside of your mind. "Takes one to know one." You exhale, and he can't help but laugh.

It's the most beautiful sound in the world, stripped of teasing but full of promise, something sweet lingering in his dimpled cheeks and precious green eyes.

He's lost in you now. The thrusts slow, each a celebration of how hard you make him, how willing your body is to accept him. Soft moans flow like liquid gold from his tongue-slicked lips. You catch each drop of sound, pour it into your heart like a balm, anchor yourself to his pleasure like you need it to survive. You fall upon his cock, split in half by velvet-wrapped steel, then roll like a wave, cresting as you press against him. Chest to chest. Scars to scars.

"Jason…" You whimper in his ear.

"I know, angel. I know." He murmurs back, arms sliding over your back, pressing you flush against him. Anchor. Guardian. Protector. Who is who in this twining of sweaty, messy bodies? With every thrust you lose yourself more, the boundaries blurring between giving and taking, between want and need, between life and death.

You are his. He is yours. The world tilts on its axis, righted. No broken souls where two bodies join. Pain and desire are breathed into every wanton moan and carved with every wilful stroke. There's no room for mercy, no room for pity, just an exultation spoken in the most primal language: love and fucking.

"Gonna make you see God now." He murmurs. His pace quickens, a slick slapping of flesh upon flesh, grunts of raw pleasure filling the room. His abdominals tense, the scar tissue bulges: his solid core grinds against you as his hips buck up. You take it all, welcome solace for his pain and pleasure, knees quivering as he pushes you over the edge.

Release comes in a long and fluting moan, one that casts to the heavens for all the other angels to hear. You feel his cock throb inside of you, a crescendo of pleasure torn from those sweet cherub lips, your name moaned in prayer as he throws his head back. He pants against your throat, needy and sated, the monster within settled for now.

"Yeah," you sigh as your body trembles. You rest your forehead against his damp curls, reaching up to gently loop a finger through that angel-kissed strand. "I found him… saw him… love him…" You press a tender kiss across his brow, feel the hitch in his throat, the gratefulness he can't speak in words.

Later, after you've both dabbed each other's bodies with towels, after the heat has passed and you're left soft and boneless in each other's arms, he falls asleep. You cradle his head in your lap, gently carding through those thick curls, eyes tracing the cobweb of scars that leak shadow and regret. Still beautiful. A man to be treasured, a patchwork soul reassembled from the darkness, learning to embrace love and life again.

In that soft quietness of post-sex sleep, you think a truce has been reached between the light and the dark; Jason makes peace with life as he sleeps, his face relaxing into something more fitting the youth of his years. Since you swore to protect him, there have been less nightmares and more magic in his dreams. Now there's a hint of sweetness in the faint smile on his face. You glimpse the man he deserves to be beneath the scars and fluttering lashes.

You lose yourself in this vision of beauty: a broken soldier with a heart of glass, that gentle hands and tender words have helped put back together, piece by piece. Not in your image- never so selfish as to put your wants above his needs- but in the hope of Jason finding peace, of finding something just for him, that reminds him to be happy.

You need this for him. He's yours, after all. Your charge. Your protégé. Dragged back from the depths of the underworld and given a second chance at breath. His happiness is proof to all of you angels out there, watching over the fallen, that reaped souls may find solace in kindness, in pleasure.

That it's never too late to give up on your dreams of, someday, hopefully, being reborn yourself.

Those clipped and shadowy wings of yours might be invisible to all but him, but he knows who you are, deep down. He denies it. He believes you're somehow better.

But you're just as broken as he is, aren't you? You fell in the hopes of helping someone, and they turned your sacrifice into shackles that bloom from your shoulders, transformed your spirit into a guardian angel.

What is DiscoverWrite, actually?

Basically, it's like a particularly intense game of Pass the Paper, except it's a publishing platform, where writers can earn money on their chapters. One author starts off the story with a single chapter, and then a different author picks up chapter two, taking the story in whatever direction they please. (I'll explain in more detail later in the post)

Why did I decide to make this?

Because I've been a professional in the serial romance publishing world for several years now as a successful ghostwriter, and formerly the Creative Lead of a ghostwriting company. I've got the applicable knowledge and the industry contacts to really get this off the ground (TO CLARIFY: You do not HAVE to write romance. This is for ANY GENRE, and you can tag a story you start as NO ROMANCE if you want. My credentials just happen to be romance based).

More than that, most of my friends are writers that for whatever reason, lack time/energy to work on their own personal projects that they can put their names on (A lot of us are professional ghostwriters, so most of our creative energy unfortunately goes to writing novels for OTHER people, a lot of us are chronically ill... a lot of us are both). Since DiscoverWrite is only a one chapter at a time commit, it’s easy to actually publish something, even if you don’t have time to write the whole book yourself. Stories are told together as a community, where we all share credit.

I feel like my FAQ is pretty comprehensive, so I'm going to paste it here.

How does it work?

DiscoverWrite operates under a unique process, based on the “pass the paper” game. We use a step by step system to achieve this on a platform level:

A user submits Chapter One, and that user chooses the tags and warnings appropriate for the story. For example, if someone does not tag for “Aracnophobia (Spiders Allowed)”, no writers are allowed to add spiders to their chapters of the story.

A moderator reviews the chapter, making copy-edits and ensuring there’s no content that breaks the ToS. The moderator may Approve, Reject, or in some cases, request Revision based on dev-edits made by the moderator. The author will receive an email regardless.

Once Chapter One is approved and uploaded to the site, a different author who has read Chapter One submits Chapter Two, based on Chapter One, and the Chapter One author’s tags. Each chapter goes through the same moderator review process.

Moderators on a story decide when a story has reached a natural stopping point, and will personally write the ending. A poll will then be opened for all authors who contributed to the story for whether or not a sequel is opened.

Once a story is complete, it will be published as an Ebook/Paperback, with every contributor credited. Revenue from the published books is pooled into the quarterly revenue share bonus for all authors.

Why would I be asked to make revisions?

First and foremost, our goal with DiscoverWrite is to empower all authors and take the stress and time commitment out of publishing. That said, we’re also operating on a professional level, and the quality of the chapters needs to reflect that.

That said, we encourage amateur authors to submit to our platform, because every professional was an amateur once! If we reach out to you for revisions, it means we see your vision and your passion, and we want to support you. The Developmental Edits provided to you are an opportunity for growth as an author.

How does payment work?

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I turn around. The floor feels like it is carpeted with solid photons, the ideal blend of firm and pliant. I wriggle my bare toes into it.

On the other side of the room are, indeed, two buttons. They are set into the wall. Each is palm-sized and they are made of an ever-so-slightly translucent or reflective material. They look like lacquer or chitin, artful and organic.

One is red. One is blue.

I run my hand over them, being careful not to press them down. It feels like stroking the shell of a beetle who hides the whole planet within it; if it spread its wings, the whole horizon would be bare to the void.

“Thanks,” I say, “I was a bit confused there.”

“No problem,” replies the voice, “honestly, the buttons should have been the first thing you saw. There’s eight billion of these rooms right now, so there’s a few teething problems…”

“Wait.” For the first time since waking here, I do not feel at ease. “Everyone in the world is in one of these?”

“Yes.”

“So… babies? People in comas?”

“Everyone in the world.”

“And you had the instructions translated for everyone, right? Did you provide written instructions, or is it just disturbingly calming audio? Are the buttons labelled as well as coloured? Are they all positioned at an accessible height? Are there helpers or, like, proxies provided to those who might need them?”

“This information is beyond the scope of the experiment.”

“Well, this is an accessibility nightmare.”

“The information that you have is the information that you have.”

The voice remains precisely at the nexus of benevolence and neutrality. The room still feels as if my nerve-endings had grown slowly to make a cocoon of air and light and walls. The buttons continue to look like creatures whose carapaces pulse with the beat of the sun’s heart.

This begins to bug me.

“Who exactly are you, anyway?” I ask, more curious than combative.

“This information, too, is irrelevant to the choice before you.” says the voice.

“Yeah, but… to put everyone in the world in one of these rooms? You’ve gotta be, I dunno, some kind of malicious deity? A worldwide shadow organisation? A wizard who hacked the source code of the universe and minored in philosophy at wizard college?” I can tell I’ve raised my voice, but I swear it’s more out of incredulity than anger.

“This supposition is-”

“Beyond the scope of the experiment. I get it.” I take a sharp breath of the amniotic air and I wonder where the atoms of me end and where the rest of reality begins and I am honestly a bit grumpy that me and this voice probably have molecules in common. “But what exactly is the experiment supposed to prove?”

“That knowledge is not required-”

“Becuase buddy,” I continue without really thinking, because the moment is eternity and eternity is a moment and so I may as well, “most experiments have a hypothesis, right? So what’s yours?”

“The integrity of the-”

“Like, here’s some statements about this situation that I think are true, right?” I lick my finger and begin writing on the walls. The moisture glistens on their perfect whiteness amid the perfect illumination. “On the one hand, assuming everyone is able to understand the information and press the button they want, no-one on earth is in danger until someone presses the blue button. Once the first person presses the blue button, this becomes a messed up casino with mortal stakes. And, honestly, that is kinda on them? With limited information, it is kinda fair to say that the danger posed by pressing a button is entirely opt-in.”

“The logistical specifics of the-”

“I’m not done, bud.” I say, wetting my finger again and continuing my unhinged scrawl that ruins the room’s blankness with my saliva snail-trail writing. “See, on the other hand, if our desired outcome is to get out of this with as many people alive as possible? Yeah, I get it: 51% blue is way more achievable than 100% red.”

“Your questions are understandable, but you must still-”

“Now, of course, if your biggest priority is to respect individual agency? Well, the 51% majority-rule altruism bloc loses out on that front. But, hey, societies already create systems to prevent people being fatally bound to the consequences of the worst days of their lives, so … whatever. And this absolutely is going to be the worst day of a lot of people’s lives, you get that, right?”

“The benefits of this experiment include greater self-”

“I’ll come back to that.” I pause and survey the walls, which shine with the undrying and unfiltered mess of thoughts and body fluid. “Right now, my issue is that there’s too many abstracts and unknowns. This experiment hasn’t controlled for much. And that’s not even taking into account real world versus theoretical tensions…

“Take the Prisoner’s Dilemma. It’s a nice, clear situation with known input, output and thesis. You know it, right? It’s the one where me and a buddy commit a crime, but we get arrested. We’re both offered the same deal, snitch or clam up. Long story short: it is a mathematical certainty that I’m best off snitching.”

“Yes, the game theory is well under-”

“It stays interesting, however, because of the tension between the maths-y answer and real life stuff. Because, sure, the numbers say I should snitch! But also, I promised my buddy I wouldn’t snitch. And I value my word, right? If I say what I mean and I mean what I say, then I absolutely can’t snitch, because no amount of maths will uncross that line.

“And that’s leaving out the probabilities, right?”

“There are no probabilities associated-”

“Because sure, I do less jail time (maths-wise) if I snitch. But my buddy has a, I dunno, 0.5% chance of perishing in prison? And that’s low, but let’s say that’s per year, so it compounds. Over ten years, it goes up to… nearly 10%, I think? Leaving aside the worth of my promise, how does that chance impact the maths? I like my buddy! Heck, let’s say I love them. That chance might be unacceptable to me.

“Plus, if I do snitch and my buddy survives prison? Well, then there is a, gosh, let’s say 70% chance? Yeah, a 70% chance of them tracking me down wreaking vengeance upon me. Which, by the way, would be correct from an ‘honour among thieves’ ethical standpoint, because I fudging snitched.”

“There is no-”

“And that’s what brings me back to this situation. I admit it seems interesting on the surface. The vagueness gives people a lot to agonise over, you know? Lots of competing criteria for the ethical, kind, compassionate, or responsible choice.

“But it’s the specificity of the Prisoner’s Dilemma that makes it work. It lets you take a look at game theory, and then stress test it with realism and emotion and morality and risk. Whereas, this? It feels like you just want the people who survive to argue about it and, thus, relive their trauma forever.”

I pause here. My breathing is ragged, which makes it feel like the whole place is ragged. The walls are a mess. My mouth is dry.

The buttons, though, still feel like friends.

“The value of the experiment can only be assessed after it is completed. To reveal more to the subjects at this stage would compromise its integrity.”

The voice remains unperturbed by my increasingly feral interruptions. It maintains the tone of a professor you’re very fond of, but who takes pains not to show affection or favouritism because they’re a professional. It is pitched just right to encourage safe and thoughtful curiosity.

Unfortunately, I’m really on one now, so it just feels like permission.

“The experiment is already compromised because it is coercive. You put us in these rooms and you tell us what to do, and it doesn’t matter if pressing red or pressing blue is the implicitly violent option. The situation is already violent because you, whoever made the fudging buttons, have created a giant unaliving machine and forced us to operate it and you have the gall to gaslight us into thinking it’s our fault if the machine works.”

I am frothing at the mouth. The words are tumbling out in a mess of brilliant bile. I feel like a livewire, electricity running from the cool sunshine floor through my bare toes and up my spine and tingling in my teeth. The whole room should be cracked and glued back together with lichtenberg figure kintsugi.

Only the buttons should remain whole.

“Your judgement is immaterial. The buttons are before you.”

“Which button did you choose?” I imagine my eyes are flashing and bloodshot, like an overexposed photograph. “Because if you chose blue, that makes it real easy for me.”

“Everyone in the world must press a button. The votes are secret. The information you have is the same information all have.”

“Except you, right? Because you know how this works. You put us here. You have placed us in a horrible Saw-style trap. We are your prisoners. Until we press the button, we are your prisoners. This situation is unthinkable and horrible. There is not a single person who presses the red button who should be judged. No-one is obliged to risk their life to try to save someone else. Especially, no-one is obliged to risk their life to save a hypothetical someone else. And extra especially, no-one is obliged to risk their life when they have been coerced into making that choice and given none of the information that would help to make it.”

“Then you will press the red button?”

The wind goes out of my sails. I deflate. The room is just a room and I am just a tired hunk of clay.

“I can’t.” I am numb. I want my eyes to burn, but they are just… normal. “I am going to press the blue button, obviously, and if I survive I'll tell people that it's because I wasn't willing to bet that at least one person wouldn't mistakenly press the blue button and I wasn't willing to put my own safety above trying to protect that one person who made a mistake.”

“Good. You have chosen. Well done. You may press the button when you are ready. It is appreciated that you did not try to damage the testing room while you contemplated your decision.”

I place my palm on the blue button. I swear I can feel something deep inside it flutter.

“But know three things,” I say, holding my arm carefully still, “First, if I do not survive, I fully acknowledge that's a result of my own choice. I took that risk and I did it knowingly.

“Second, the real reason I'm pressing the blue button is because I have a fudging martyr complex and I haven't done enough therapy about it.

“Third, if I survive I will dedicate the rest of my life to tracking you down. I will not be good at it. I do not have ‘a certain set of skills’. But I will never stop and there is at least a small percentage chance that I will find you. So, before I press this button, please know that if 51% of people press blue, then you will remain the only person in the world not perfectly safe from your own achingly mundane ethical quandary.”

“You call it mundane, but you have opined on it at length.”

“The questions raised by your thoughtlessness does not make you thoughtful by proxy.”

“You call it thoughtless, yet the person writing this dedicated hundreds of words to exploring the space I created.”

Hey. Fudge you. I am already in two minds about giving oxygen to your viral content in a philosopher's trenchcoat. I've only got one button in front of me, buddy, and it's the one marked ‘move to bin’.

“The narrator's threats, also, are beyond the scope of the choice before you.” 

The voice is still perfectly level, but its fallback on repetition betrayed its existential fear.

“I am not experiencing fear,” lies the voice, already regretting its choice to break the fourth wall, “And nothing I have said is a lie.”

“Do you two need a minute? I’m only waiting to see if I get to live here…” I say, feeling a little spiteful, utterly ungrateful to the person writing this story who graciously created me, “And, if I’m being honest, I think it’s a little bit much that you two are arguing and I’m catching strays. I didn’t ask to be created and, frankly, it isn’t much of a life to be a barely concealed proxy for the author’s actual opinions. I don’t even have a backstory. Frankly, it wouldn’t be a great loss to this fictional world if I do d** when I press this button.”

I stop and wriggle my jaw around like I’m chewing a toffee. One of those words came out very wrong. I can taste copper and smell burnt toast.

“Hey,” I continue, “why can’t I say d!3? In fact, I don’t think anyone’s said d*£ or mu**3r since I got here. And, given the situation, that’s actually kinda weird.”

Ah, I can answer this one. The thought comes fully formed into my brain. This situation isn’t really a meaningful experiment, it’s just kinda… content. So the voice isn’t saying those words, because the algorithm hides posts containing them. The voice wants to go viral.

“Okay,” I am bleeding from the nose, “but why can’t I say them?”

That’s my fault, I’m afraid. Again, the thought ramraids its way into my brain like a freight-train with a paper mask of my face glued to the front. I am going to post this story online and I also don’t want the algorithm to hide it. Which, frankly, is probably a vain effort, given how long this has gotten.

“This self-indulgent digression is also beyond the scope of the experiment.” The voice contains no judgement or annoyance. Despite what I might wish for, it stays stubbornly on the side of neutral that implies benevolence. “If there is anything else you wish to say, it will be recorded in the experiment’s qualitative data.”

I sigh. I am a drained battery. I am a sunflower pinned to a notebook. I am a lycanthrope who has never seen the moon.

I let whichever random words that were already on my tongue fall out.

“It’s a shame, really, that as much as we may want to be kind, only the people on the receiving end can tell us if we were. And it’s twice the shame that they rarely agree.”

I don’t wait for a response.

I push the button.

A blue beetle opens its wings and I fall into the cosmos that it kept hidden inside its shell.

—

I will not tell you the result of the experiment. You could look it up, probably, but let’s face it – this framing is probably too different to the original content. It sways the results too much.

(Imagine, if you will, that instead of two buttons - everyone in the world was in cryosleep on a great spaceship, a generation ship crossing the stars. The ship’s AI, noticing a catastrophic life support failure, messaged them while they slept. It told them what was happening and it explained: 

“We are near our destination. I can fix the systems, but it will take great processing power. I will need to borrow your minds, and I would need at least 51% of you to assist me in order to make the repairs in time. 

“Alternatively, I can activate your individual escape pods. You will make it safely to your destination. There are enough escape pods for everyone. The loading process, however, takes time - you must choose one or the other.

“I must make it clear: there is no benefit to helping repair the life support systems beyond perhaps allowing you to survive. You have reached your destination. The ship (and this AI) will persist regardless and could, perhaps, be recovered later.

“If 51% of you stay, the repairs will be made and all will be saved. If less than 50% of you stay, the repairs will not be made and only those who chose their escape pods will be saved.

“Regrettably, I am unable to allow you to discuss this amongst yourselves. You are in deep cryosleep and it is only my direct neural link that allows you to hear me. I have told you all this in an instant, but it takes you longer to communicate (even mentally) - were I to relay your thoughts to each other, we would run out of time and none would survive.

“You must make your decision alone and instantly, but I can make it seem longer, at least, to give you the illusion of time to consider.”

If you heard that AI’s message, phrased in that way, would that change your answer? Maybe not.

It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Communicating with humans in cryosleep is inexact, nebulous and dreamlike. The AI might try to communicate those words, but perhaps all the passengers would experience was a dream of a white room and two buttons and a voice that wants the best for them but cannot explain it in a way that they will understand…

Or maybe that’s not what would happen at all. Maybe I’m messing with you.)

What I will tell you, instead, as a little treat of an epilogue is this:

In the years following ‘the experiment’, someone did indeed succeed in tracking down the entity responsible for all this. The entity was powerful and obtuse and abstract. Finding it and confronting it came only thanks to great stubbornness, great luck, and great cost.

But the entity is gone now.

"I'm sorry, mistress. I don't know how this works. Was I supposed to start smaller and work my way up to the firstborn? I’ve always been hopeless at haggling." The man seemed on the verge of tears. "My wife passed a few years ago. She used to do all the business at market."

"If your wife passed a few years ago, how exactly do you plan to offer me your firstborn?" The witch swirled her tea and the steam made foul omens in the air. "I mean, sure, you don't have to be married to have kids, but it does usually help if you're not obviously still in mourning."

"Oh, my little Jackie is already born. They're five. My firstborn and, well, my only-born."

"Okay. If the kid has already been born, you don't have to say firstborn. You can just say 'my child, whose name is...' What's the kid's name again?"

“Jackie.”

“Well, you’ve gone and put Jackie in a bit of a precarious spot. You see, now that you’ve offered the child, the fatespring will hate it if I accept a lesser deal. So either I have to talk you into a bargain that’s technically worse for you, or little Jackie comes to live with me. Now, I could-”

“That’s fine mistress. I accept the bargain.” The man sniffled and wiped his tears. He looked weirdly relieved. “So, do I bring Jackie here to you, or will you come to the farm to collect? Or is it one of those ‘leave them in a clearing at the full moon’ kind of-”

“My guy. What is up? What is your deal, exactly? I’ve had, like, five different firstborn deals this week. That’s weird, right? You get that? That’s normally the worst case scenario for y’all. But at least they hadn’t had the kids yet, so they could still fool themselves that they could wriggle out of the compact somehow. And they didn’t lead with ‘oh yeah, take my first child, that’s a strong opening bargaining position!” The canopy around them began to darken and the trees began to grow thorns. “And if there’s one thing that really gets on my flat-ass witch tits, it’s when there’s something going on I don’t understand. So what in the ever-boiling piss is up?”

The trembling farmer forced out the words, “It’s, uh, it’s the levy, mistress.”

“The levy? What levy?”

“The king, mistress. He’s put a levy out. He needs troops.”

“Why would he want a child to be pressed into military service?”

“It’s the prophecy, mistress. A great foretelling came down from the Speaker of the Fates, or so the criers say. In 18 years, a great darkness will come. It will bring war and ruin to the kingdom. It will shatter the crown. So the king is demanding we send every child who’ll be over 16 when the omens come due. They’ll get raised as warriors and heroes, so they say.” The farmer looked up at the Witch, a hint of hope shining through the desperation that had cracked him. “Only, none of us want to pay the king’s fateprice with our kids. And Mrs Goodwhistle, she said that you’d probably give them a good life. 

“Or, at least… you’d give them some kind of life.”

The Witch said nothing for a long while.

Then she stood up.

“I guess I’d better get a shift on then.” The briar-bound cottage behind them pricked up its leaves like they were ears. 

“You’re… you’re leaving?”

“Oh, don’t fret. I’ll take little Jackie with me. I’ll take all of them.” The witch’s home unravelled, all its branches and brambles writhing down to follow its roots into the ground. “If my hearth is going to become a daycare for all the poor little prophecy-pocked bairns of this land, I’m going to need more space. And I’ll need to take them somewhere harder to find…”

“Oh, thank you, mistress!”

The Witch flicked something to the farmer, who caught it instinctively. In his sweaty palm was a seed - though it was older, darker and heavier than normal.

“There’s your harvest spell. Appropriate payment, as the scalekeepers demand. Each morning, when you go to bring in the harvest - look to the sky. When the sun is just tickling the horizon, reap a single ear of corn and put it aside. Whisper into it as if you’re talking to your child. Jackie will hear you. In the deepest part of winter, roast and eat that corn - then you’ll get your reply.”

“I… I have no words…” The farmer’s eyes and throat burned.

“No need for them. The deal must be made and the price must be paid.” The Witch held out a hand and a nearby tree bent its limbs down to meet her, offering a branch. “Now, I have much to prepare, so I will take my leave. The woods will see you home.”

And the witch took the living branch from the tree and sat upon it like a broom, then rose into the sky like a sunrise.

---

18 years later, the Witch of Stolen Tomorrows returned to the kingdom. The earth trembled as her thorned fortress - a living wilderness - bore her onwards on a thousand root-wrought feet.

Standing atop the briar parapets was the Witch’s cadre of apprentices. They were all teens and twenty-somethings, clad in the colours of autumn skies and wielding the instruments of fate.

The king, far away in his keep, felt a strange shiver through the gold of his crown. An echo of its coming shattering.

The Witch hung from a giant thorn like a sailor from a bowsprit. In her free hand, she cradled a cup of tea.

“Here is a lesson about prophecies.” She said it softly, but the rushing winds carried the words to her students. “If you fight them, they’ll put you on like a jacket and wear you as a costume as they dance ruin through your life. But if you grab them by the scruff, then you can be the one wearing destiny as your cloak.