#the-modern-typewriter

[the-haiku-bot]

For whatever it

was worth, for whatever it

meant, the villain did.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

Could you write something with hero x villain where anyone that the hero loves can read their mind?

“You made me love you.”

“Made is an interesting choice of word,” the villain replied. “Did I hold a gun to your head? Is that how you think love works?”

“You tricked me! If I’d - if I’d known who you were-” The hero didn’t finish. They probably didn’t have to. They were already laid devastatingly bare before their enemy, their carefully guarded heart and mind marinated with the cruelest hope and served on a platter.

If I’d known who you really were, I would never have loved you. I could never have loved you.

The thought was a sharp, furious thing. The hero hurled it like a knife. Like poison. Like the gutting betrayal twisting their insides.

The villain looked up at them. They were still sprawled casual on the sofa, like it was any other evening, even as the hero stood in front of them with their fists squared and body planted for a fight.

“Then stop,” the villain said. “You know exactly who I am now. So, stop loving me.”

The hero swallowed. Bile burned their throat.

The villain cocked their head, oh so clearly listening. Their eyes were dark, boring into the hero, and the hero didn’t know how they’d never seen it before. Of course it was them. Of course it could only have ever been them.

“Go on,” the villain pressed. “I’m disgusting. I’m a monster. No one in their right mind would ever fall in love with someone like me, right?”

There was something in the villain���s voice that the hero couldn’t quite read, but certainly didn’t appreciate. The hero’s jaw clenched.

They barely recognised their lover’s face, in the light of all of their revelations, but another part of them only saw home. Home with the lights off. Home made strange and blank because their lover’s expression had never been quite that, whatever that was. Cool. Closed off. Impossible to read.

“You tricked me,” the hero said again. “You planned this from the start, didn’t you? So you could win. So you could finally bloody win and-”

“-Then stop loving me.”

“I can’t!”

The words were loud in their quiet flat. Loud enough that it felt like glass should shatter, like something should break to mark the occasion. Something that wasn’t the hero’s stupid, stupid heart.

“Mm,” the villain said. “How unfortunate for you.”

The hero scoffed and swiped at the tears threatening to spill down their cheeks. “Screw you.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

It took the hero a long moment to register the words. A lie, right? Surely it was a lie. The villain couldn’t have just fallen in love with them. It couldn’t have been real. Because that meant-

“That the world’s not as black and white as you wanted?”

“Stay out of my head.” The hero’s breath came choked. “Just stay the hell out of my head, okay?”

“I’m not the one in control of that.”

“Yeah? Well I’m going to fall out of love with you any second now!”

A second passed. Then another. Then a minute, as they watched each other, in the wreckage of the life they had built together.

“Oh, god,” the hero said. “You knew. You must have known since I - you didn’t say anything. You didn’t tell me who you were.”

“Why would I tell you anything?” the villain offered, very quietly. They pushed, finally, to their feet. They were so close, then, practically chest to chest. A breath between their lips. “I’m in your head. I can hear everything you’re thinking.”

The hero kissed them then, because they had to do something. Because everything in them ached and they wanted - too many things.

The villain kissed them back, savage and claiming and tinged with desperation. Their fingers tangled into the hero’s hair hard enough to hurt. Eternity passed before they broke apart.

The hero gasped for air. The tears streamed freely down their cheeks, despite all their best efforts.

“Then make me stop thinking. Please.”

For whatever it was worth, for whatever it meant, the villain did.

[kaiwewi]

Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

[emberr-art]

some fanart to celebrate the end of @the-modern-typewriter 's For Kingdom, Come!

[speckeltail]

We're so close to something better left unknown, I can feel it in my bones.

one more fanart for the sidekick diaries for @the-modern-typewriter feat. increasingly insane interpretations

[snowysecluse]

There's a poignant Tumblr post I've seen that talks about the marginalized experience:

And in light of people not being able to tell when trans people are joking, I reworded it:

And this is the Tweet that spurred my thought:

[the-broken-pen]

Honestly the pipeline of “reading the-modern-typewriter snippets at midnight on the floor of my bathroom at age eleven so I wouldn’t get caught” to “being a tumblr writer myself” is a wild one.

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #232

Villain stepped out into Other Villain’s path, causing a little jump of surprise.

“Goodness gracious, Villain! Don’t just walk out like—“

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Villain growled. “Stop trying to take over my heists!”

Other Villain blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re always showing up to my schemes! Fighting my heroes! Forcing your way into my plans! Do you think I’m going to give you a cut? Because I’m not. Or did you think you could push me out completely? Take the goods and leave me with the heroes? It’s a clever scheme, but pretty scummy. Even for a villain. You know we have respect in this city, maybe not for the laws, but for the code we’ve set for ourselves. So back off. Before I make you.”

Other Villain gaped. “I’m not trying to do any of that! I’m just helping out!”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Villain sneered.

Other Villain looked at the floor and flushed. “I just like being with you.”

[389]

Barrie Tullett explores in Typewriter Art: A Modern Anthology

[funplexflip]

RIP Bunny you would've loved Grammarly

[hinatarexie]

[frommybookbook]

i'm going to tell my kids this is the tortured poets department

[kissorkill16]

I love when a touch starved, stubborn person is forced to give in to their feelings.

I’ve not seen any starved touched hero stories so may I request a starved touched hero and the villain finds out and helps them. It’s fine if not:)

"Tell me," the villain murmured, as the hero's breath came out quivering. "When was the last time that someone touched you?"

It wasn't what the hero had expected.

"People touch me all the time."

"Kindly."

"You're not kind."

But the villain's touch was such a gentle thing; the hero's brain refused to register it as cruelty, even as the villain's fingers were curled around their throat. They didn't squeeze though.

The hero should have pulled back already. They should have shoved the villain away. They did none of those things. They leaned limp against the wall, almost hypnotised by the back and forth sweep of the villain's thumb brushing sweetly against their pulse point.

It was pitiful for a nice threat to feel like affection. They were pitiful.

The villain's gaze was intent.

"What are you doing to me?" the hero whispered.

"I'm not doing anything." The villain's powers worked with touch, but they had never touched the hero before. The hero had always been too quick. The villain had managed that time though, advancing, shoving the hero to the wall and then - then this. The villain had touched their skin and then they'd gone perfectly still for a few seconds. The villain could expose all secrets with a press of their fingers, do all manner of things, but...

The hero swallowed, eyeing them. They genuinely didn't think the villain was doing anything.

Each second that ticked by seemed a confession, a betrayal, a plea for something.

The villain's hand slid slowly to to cup the nape of the hero's neck. "You didn't answer my question." The villain pulled the hero a step closer, dragged them flush. The villain's other hand wrapped around the hero's back.

They were being hugged.

A confused, entirely too soft sound left the hero's throat. Questioning. A little choked. It felt like a trap and it felt entirely too desperately lovely.

The villain tightened their grip, tucking the hero's head against their shoulder.

"Skin hunger," the villain said, softly. "Touch starvation. You are a famine, love, I can feel it."

"I-" The hero didn't know how to finish the sentence. The villain was so warm against them, a solid and reassuring presence. That couldn't be right. "What?"

"It has been entirely too long, hasn't it?"

"You're not doing anything?"

"I'm hugging you."

"Your powers-"

"-Mean I know exactly how you are feeling. How much you need this. So are you going to be good and shut up and let yourself have it?"

The hero choked out another gasp of air.

Was that was why the villain had stopped? Why they'd seemed to switch gears so abruptly when they could have finally won? The hero swallowed and shut up, even if it was a bad idea. Inch by inch, when the villain did nothing more but hold them, the hero relaxed. They melted.

"Why are you doing this?" the hero managed, pressing their face against the promise of the villain's shoulder.

"Kindness?"

"You're not kind."

The villain huffed, breath rustling the hero's hair. They pressed a kiss atop the hero's head. "Mm. Temporarily benevolent. No strings attached, pinky promise."

It was definitely suspicious, but it really did feel so unbelievably good. The hero felt like they'd settled into their bones for the first time in years. Maybe longer.

They really couldn't remember the last time someone touched them kindly, for an extended period of time. A brush of accidental touch in a crowd. A hairdresser's clinical contact. None of it was anything like what the villain gave them.

"That's better," the villain said, with a sigh. "Your nerve endings have stopped screaming at me."

"S-sorry. I-"

"It was merely an observation. You don't need to be sorry."

The hero expected the villain to get back to it, or step back. They didn't. It was probably the longest hug in the world.

Finally, the hero let themselves reach out, wrapping their arms around the villain in turn.

"Good," the villain said.

"Are we still...I shouldn't let you touch me. I'm not stupid."

"No."

"Are you going to let go of me?"

"When you actually want me to, sure."

"And you can...feel that?"

"Yes."

The hero squirmed with embarrassment. The villain tightened their grip again. The hero went still.

"Years," the hero whispered, finally. "It's been years. I can't remember the last time."

"Mm." The villain nuzzled into them. "That's not going to happen again. I don't believe in torture."

Neither of them much felt like fighting when they finally broke apart.

[moments-divins]

technically a vampire question but not really:

should I write victorian era vampire au fanfiction, is there any advice you would have for writing such a setting/any resources for immersing myself in such a setting? (rlly i just want to feed my brainworms, sorry if I’m being imposing lol.)

dracula takes place during the victorian era so i would absolutely recommend that!! as for general victorian knowledge all i have is based on the horrible histories "vile victorian" segments lmao. other than that, id say u could just do a bit of research on anything that pertains to ur plot, and there are a lot of accounts of victorian vampires and vampire panics :] mercy brown was a very popular case of supposed vampirism from the victorian era (though she lived in america, not sure where your story takes place but id assume england if ur talking about the victorian era? either way the case of mercy brown is interesting id say its worth learning about)

thats about as much as i can help with the victorian era, sorry! if u have any questions about the nature of vampirism ur portraying in ur story let me know :]

[dudeshusband]

hm. continue my dino sim...or edit my mikedude save with western cc...

[noxexistant]

i have a new modern katherine headcanon

[mariocki]

Play for Today: The Cry (BBC, 1984)

"It's best forgotten about."

"You're not gonna be making a complaint?"

"Complaints? We're not making any complaints! We don't want to know about any complaints."

"Complaints against who?"

"Well, the police."

"Who should I complain to about the police?"

"Well, the police, I suppose."

"What good would that do me?"