#writing snippet

[save-the-villainous-cat]

hi! idk if you take requests currently. I'm new around here, but I've read. Everything in your whole masterlist. And I love your writing so much. Um. So!

I really love. Flirty villain with the power to mess with people's emotions to like, calm them or seduce them or whatever he really wants X hero who should hate it but secretly is really into it because it's a release of control for him and he's exhausted

“You’re back,” the villain stated. The hero was…an interesting person. Although they had avoided the villain in the beginning, now they were crawling back to them — nearly desperate.

A desperate hero was generally easy to control, the villain was fully aware of that. They didn’t even need their powers to do so. So, the advantage, the position of power the villain found themselves in was anything but unappetising.

However, there was something in their stomach, something that twisted whenever the hero was standing in front of them.

“…I’m sorry to bother you again…I, I don’t know, maybe I can pay you next time?”

“Next time?” The hero started blushing and unfortunately, the villain was very amused by it.

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“Come in and sit down.” The hero stared at them with those horrible puppy eyes, jaw slightly dropping.

Sometimes, the villain’s heart would start beating fast enough to worry them. Mostly, when they looked at the hero for too long. That wasn’t only distracting, it was also incredibly annoying.

“Thank you,” the hero said and they smiled that sweet smile that was usually reserved for scared civilians as reassurance.

Was the villain even worthy of such a smile?

The hero sat down on the villain’s couch and folded their hands in their lap.

“Anxiety?” the villain asked.

“…yeah, it got really bad again.”

“Work?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

The villain stared at their nemesis. Lamentably, they could see how well-built their nemesis was. Them being attractive was becoming an actual problem since the villain was slowly getting the feeling they were the one being seduced.

They took in a deep breath. Their powers demanded physical contact.

Which made it quite intimate.

The villain didn’t know how to feel about that.

“What do you do outside of work?” They walked behind the couch. Last time, they had held hands.

The villain swallowed.

This time, they touched the hero’s neck. They were gentle, but the hero took in a sharp breath.

As usual.

“Voluntary work, mostly.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” As response, the hero laughed quietly. Apparently, they were already relaxing.

“I also work out.”

“Yeah, I figured.” The villain let their hand wander under the hero’s shirt, gliding over their collarbone. “Do those things calm you? Or are you thinking about work the entire time?”

“…it…” The hero took in a deep breath and the villain leaned over, their lips close to the hero’s ear.

“Easy, take your time…” The hero let their head fall back. They let out a somewhat satisfied sigh that sounded a lot like the villain’s name.

The villain’s eyes widened.

“Don’t be inappropriate now,” the villain mumbled. The hero smirked.

“Sorry…nothing calms me like you.”

“You’re being a little careless, don’t you think? Maybe I should keep you to myself, you’re certainly pretty to look at,” the villain said, pushing their voice deliberately deeper. They let their fingers go up: following the hero’s throat up to their chin.

“Gosh, you can be so mean.” Suddenly, the hero grabbed the villain’s wrist and started guiding the villain’s hand.

Too stunned to speak, too surprised to do anything, the villain simply let them do whatever they wanted, only for the hero to stop on their chest. Right under their palm was the hero’s heart, the villain realised.

“I loathed you so much when you did this the first time,” the hero admitted. “I don’t know if you remember, but we were fighting. You were teasing me a lot. You even slapped my ass, I think.”

The hero rolled their eyes, smirking.

“Well, you deserved it,” the villain said. They could feel the hero’s heart beating under their skin.

“Hmm. You remember.”

“Of course.”

“I hated how safe I felt.

“You’re not really safe with me,” the villain reminded them. They could betray them anytime. Capture them, keep them here, kill them…

“You’ve never taken advantage of me when I’m like this,” the hero said.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me,” the hero said. Even though their eyes were sleepy, they looked quite serious. “I love it when you’re soft.”

They raised their hand and touched the villain’s cheek.

The villain’s innards were melting. It was painful. So damningly painful.

“I’m exhausted,” the hero whispered. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

The villain couldn’t really breathe. They swallowed. What on earth was this hero doing to them?

“…yeah.”

It was one word, but their voice cracked several times.

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

A sequel to this. Recap: Sidekick ran away from Hero and went to a grumpy Detective.

*

Detective had given rides to a lot of weird people during the years.

Nervous clients, glancing by the windows to make sure they weren’t followed. Sinister minions dressed in black, pointing a gun at him from the backseat. Smug rich people condescendingly explaining the world to him and getting out wrinkling their noses. A sulking Supervillain who was great with gadgets but terrible against a good punch. A Hero reacting like a six-year-old because they never rode in a car before, courtesy of having super speed and good public transport in their previous town, both wonders unheard of here.

Somehow, none of them had made him as nervous as the huddled teen in the backseat. It was a whole kid! How was he supposed to take care of that? Patting their head and saying “there there, I’m sure Hero only barely wanted to use you until your death” ? Talking about video games? Kids still liked video games, right? Pity he’d never played them. No, this wasn’t good. He had to focus.

“Do you have some kind of power?”

The teen shrugged:

“I fly.”

“Do you like it?”

“I liked it before.”

“Where are your parents?”

“They live in another town. I told them I was going for a summer job. It was true. I thought it was true.”

“Hero told you that?”

“Yeah. They told me it would be only for a couple of months. And then, last week-”

“Last week?”

“They congratulated me and told me I got the job for good. Told them I didn’t want it, and-”

They waved:

“Well, here I am.”

“Here you are. Do your parents know?”

“No. They don’t even know the kind of job I had. I didn’t want to worry them. And I don’t want Hero going after them. They don’t have powers.”

Detective sighed, tapping on the wheel.

“Okay.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a friend. Healer.”

The teen relaxed:

“I think I know them.”

Detective nodded. A lot of people knew about Healer. When things looked bad, people went to Detective. When things looked bad for him, he went to Healer.

They were a weird one. Although they had the power that went with their job, and they had the gaudy clothes – in their case, a long white gown that matched their long silver hair – they weren’t a registered hero, but a regular doctor. The Hero association had approved at the condition that they only healed people with powers. Healer had agreed with a smile and kept healing whoever they wanted when the others were not looking. They were the very reason why Detective was alive in this crazy town. In fact, they were close to being friends. Healer wasn’t only competent -they needed to be – but they were nice. He needed the reminder that people sometimes were.

The door was wide open. Too many doors were today.

“Stay here.”

Detective got out of the car and stayed frozen on the doorway, looking at the body on the floor. Healer was wearing the same gaudy robe as usual, but it had been torn, enough to reveal a huge wound to their side. He didn’t have to force himself to fall on the floor, applying pressure until the blood stopped. With a shaking hand, he checked their pulse. They sighed. Something moved behind them and let out a strangled noise. He didn’t turn around. He should have known that Sidekick would have come inside anyway.

“What happened?”

Detective took off his jacket and folded it under Healer’s head, the only thing left to do for them.

“A very good question.”

Sidekick watched him rummage through the room with a kind of desperation, his hands clasping on anatomy books, notebooks, and the knob of a drawer that he opened feverishly to get one lollipop out of it. Sidekick tilted their head while he tore off the wrapping with teeth before putting the candy in his mouth like his life depended on it, but made no comment. During the last months, they’d learned not to ask questions and stay close to the nearest exit when an adult was getting worked up. They looked at the window, just in case.

“Detective…”

No answer. Just an adult flipping through the page of an agenda, mumbling to himself, then stopping suddenly.

“Supervillain? They made an appointment with Supervillain? What the hell?”

“Well, you have to give it to them,” said Sidekick with a voice that only slightly shivered, “they’re punctual.”

The adult and the teen looked at each other, looked for any kind of miracle exit, and found the same depressing number.

“Tell me everything you know,” whispered Detective between his teeth.

“Um...wears purple...has a torture room somewhere…”

“Not helping.”

“Super-strengh? Doesn’t understand the word “no”?”

There was no time to answer. The door opened. A cold wind that had nothing to do with the current weather settled in the room. A pair of eyes who rarely blinked glanced at the room, stopped for a whole minute on Healer, then went back on the only adult inside with the lollipop in his mouth. A hand grabbed his throat, propping him off the ground.

“Your death will be as slow and excruciating as possible.”

It’s not easy to talk when you have the double handicap of a candy between your teeth and being strangled to death. Detective, however, made a good attempt:

“Fdoza uill ever o oof.”

“If you do that, you will never know the truth,” translated Sidekick, who was good with languages.

“The truth?” repeated Supervillain. “It seems clear to me, child.”

“But we just got here,” mumbled the teen. “We don’t know what happened either.”

“Then what are you talking about?” snarled Supervillain to their prey.

Detective turned blue in answer. With a groan of disgust, Supervillain released him, letting him gracelessly collapse on the floor. After five minutes of coughing, spitting, and retching next to a sad lollipop, Detective could enunciate:

“Five minutes, only five... and we could have caught them.”

“Who, “them”?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t exclude a lot of people. Sometimes I think I’m the only not non-binary person in town. Well anyway,” he added quickly as Supervillain was turning another color themself, “it’s easy to understand. You’ve just proved that you liked Healer.”

“Everyone liked them.”

“So the killer obviously did it to spite you. Who could that be, if not Hero?”

“Hero wouldn’t-” began Supervillain.

“You sure?”

There was a moment of silence. Of deep, thoughtful silence. Supervillain’s eyes fell on Sidekick. In a quick move, Detective stood up and went through the room to throw an arm around the teen’s shoulders:

“Look at them, the poor kid. They ran away, crying in my office, telling that Hero was planning something terrible but they didn’t know what, we both risked our lives to come here, and this is what we found. The murderer is getting away right now, while we’re talking.”

Sidekick burst into tears. They didn’t have to force themself very much. That was the last step to convince Supervillain.

“This night, their head will be mine,” they said before leaving the room.

Sidekick kept crying, huddled against Detective.

“S-sorry,” they mumbled, sniffing.

Detective awkwardly patted their back, shaking his head in disgust:

“That’s one gullible shithead. I swear, the more they’re powerful, the more they’re complete idiots.”

Gently, he pulled away from the embrace, sitting once again in front of Healer.

“Do you think Hero will win?” whispered Sidekick.

“Don’t know, don’t care. These bozos deserve each other.”

“Should I call an ambulance for Healer?”

Detective held two cold hands in his own, gently massaging them with his thumbs.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know who did that to them?”

“A bloody idiot,” snarled Detective. “Literally. You can open your eyes now, it’s safe.”

Sidekick repressed a move when Healer blinked and frowned.

“Sorry”, they whispered, their voice nearly inaudible. “I really didn’t want to deal with them.”

“Oh, and the only way was playing dead?”

As they were arguing, Sidekick noticed that blood wasn't coming out from the wound anymore. In fact, it had turned into a scratch. That was surprising how a stressful situation could prevent you from realizing that a Healer was, indeed, a healer. Detective shook his head and helped them to sit up.

“That was on the spur,” whispered Healer. “They wouldn’t leave me alone, so…”

“Since when?”

Healer shrugged. Detective groaned:

“You have my number. Why didn’t you tell me? That’s my job to...”

“You’re busy enough.”

Detective squeezed their shoulders, twisting his mouth and grunting:

“You think I’d rather see you dead? Do you see me bleeding to death before calling you ?”

“Many times.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a role model, am I ?”

Healer shrugged lightly, as if to give him this one, then gave the room a side-look:

“Who’s your friend?”

“That’s a long story. I suggest that everybody gets in a car first. And fast.”

*

Back to Hero x Villain Masterlist

[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.

[the-modern-typewriter]

In a recent post you said most of us weren't here for vampires but I beg to differ; your vampire snippets are literally enthralling. If you're in the mood to write another one, here's an excuse for you to do so (pls they're so good-), preferably with an enemies to lover vibe? Who doesn't love a little dramatic tension, right? Thank you!~

"Don't turn around."

The human paused, heart slamming in their chest at the voice. The hall of mirrors was eerie around them, all shadows and neon and flashing lights and distorted glass that offered them no sign of the vampire behind them. After a beat, the hunter kept walking, gaze trained to the wall of mirrors lining the left.

Somewhere, in the distance, they could hear screaming. It was difficult to tell if the sounds were horror or delight.

"What happens if I turn around?" the human asked.

"I'll have to kill you, and neither of us wants that."

"I'm a hunter. I'm pretty sure we both want that fight. Kinda how it goes, you know?"

Yet, the hunter didn't turn around. They had a weapon on them, of course, because they always had a weapon on them. But they hadn't come to the fairground to wage battle against terrible evil. The night was supposed to have been a fun one, candy-floss sticky and sweet with first kisses. A stupid lump wedged in their throat. They hastily wiped the remnant tears from their eyes.

They felt the vampire move next to them, though they heard no steps and felt no breath. Only the slight emanating chill of the undead. Despite themselves, despite knowing better, they searched the glass for any sign. There was nothing.

"What do you want?" the hunter demanded.

"What do you want, coming here?"

"I didn't know this was vampire territory."

"I suppose you are just a baby hunter. How old are? Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," the hunter snapped.

The vampire chuckled. "Seventeen," they echoed. Musing. There was something in their voice that the hunter couldn't quite read.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

The hunter rolled their eyes. They supposed they should have been terrified - on any other day they would have been. They hadn't technically done their first solo hunt yet and even one vampire was not a creature to be taken lightly. Everything in their head was too loud for terror. Too raw.

"Is it the girl you liked, or the boy?" the vampire asked.

"Excuse me?"

"The boy and the girl who were kissing here, not long ago. That you saw. I saw you see them. You looked like you'd been staked through the heart. Which is the one you liked?"

The hunter whirled, furious. They caught a blur of movement before an icy hand clamped over their eyes, slamming them back against the glass hard enough to knock the breath out of them. They were surprised the mirror didn't shatter. Their head throbbed and a low whine of pain slipped free of their throat. The vampire caught their wrist before they'd finished reaching for a weapon, grinding that into the glass behind them too.

"I said," the vampire's lips pressed against their ear, voice a sudden lethal hiss, "don't turn around."

"And I don't take orders from vampires!"

"Touchy subject, was it?" The vampire's grip tightened hard enough to hurt.

"If you're going to kill me, just kill me!"

The vampire was silent, at that. They did not retreat, but their grip eased enough to be only iron instead of something painful. Their body felt hard and lean and strong against the hunter's. Dangerous and gorgeous. Nothing like the gentle wholesomeness of-

"The boy," the hunter said. "Eddie."

"Eddie. And you are?"

"Fuck off, leech."

"You're hot," the vampire said. "Eddie's an idiot."

It startled the hunter enough that the venom died on their tongue and their mouth dried. They'd expected - well, anything but that perhaps. They would have gaped at the vampire if they could see past the press of darkness over their eyes. They were sure their jaw dropped.

Hot. A vampire had just called them hot. Maybe they had concussion. A shiver ran down their spine.

"Want me to kill her for you?" the vampire asked, conspiratorial. "Bet I could make it look like an accident."

"No! She's my friend."

"Some friend. Want me to kiss you?"

The hunter - the hunter had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Well. They knew what they were supposed to say. No. Nada. Absolutely not. Vampires were vampires, and the only acceptable way to deal with them was to stake them.

The vampire chuckled again, presumably at their expression. They pressed a kiss to the hunter's throat, above their jugular. The hunter's breath hitched anew.

"God, you're so angry and so hurt," the vampire said. "I want to eat your heart. You're gorgeous. You can cry again if you like, I won't mind. I won't judge."

Vampires, their parents always said, craved life. It was why they were found so often in bars, or fairgrounds, or the other high points of the night. It wasn't just hunting. They were drawn to the sound, and the vibrancy, like ravenous ghosts clawing at the wounds of the world.

Somehow, it made the hunter feel less pathetic. For all those chuckles, it felt a bit like power. They could only imagine what their parents would say to that. No doubt they would berate the hunter for their unforgivable stupidity, because vampires killed hunters and hunters killed vampires and if the fairground was actually a travelling coven then -

"Do you want to kiss me?" the hunter asked.

"Yeah."

"That's embarrassing for you."

The vampire scoffed.

"And crying alone in a funhouse over some boy who doesn't even know vampires exist is cool?"

"I thought you weren't judging."

"Vampires are all shameless liars. Didn't your parents teach you that?"

Despite themselves, the hunter snorted.

"It's because you're not normal," the vampire said, in a different voice. Quieter. Suddenly serious. "Not like them. Can't do the things they do, because you're too busy stuck trying to slaughter the likes of me. Eddie's normal. Safe."

The hunter swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," the vampire echoed once more.

The vampire kissed them then, or maybe it was the hunter that started it, but it was clumsy and shockingly gentle and good and definitely the dumbest thing that the hunter had ever done. But they weren't thinking about Eddie anymore. It was impossible to think about Eddie with that cold perfect mouth and the adrenaline searing heat through the hunter's body. Every instinct in their body screamed danger and it was the most glorious distraction from heartbreak.

Their body arched against the glass, pressing foolishly closer.

They were left panting.

Then the vampire kissed them again, and it was a little less clumsy, more claiming, like the vampire was learning how to do it. Like maybe they'd never kissed anyone either. Like maybe they really were seventeen, and had thought their life would all work out differently.

"Next time," the vampire said, and nipped their lip just enough to draw blood. "Don't turn around. I've gotta go."

They shoved the hunter away, and - the hunter wasn't sure if they were left alone with the empty reflections, because they didn't turn. They looked at themselves, all dark eyes and hurt and confusion, in the glass.

All hunger.

They smiled, wiping their own blood from their lip.

They did look hot, actually.

For at least a moment, they walked out of the hall of mirrors feeling better than before.

[angelbitezzz]

"The stars had long since become mundane to Comet. When you're surrounded by them, traveling in them, eventually it becomes something no longer worth finding wonder in. After all, what mattered was credits, what mattered was finding ways to extend the endless journey, to keep moving.

But this monster? It was as if he'd stepped out of a star himself, a comforting glow radiating from him. It was warm...friendly. Beautiful."

[automeris-io-moth]

Short #5

"Shush, you're okay," Villain soothed, a warm hand running through Hero's hair, mask long ago discarded on the floor, filthy with blood and dirt. 

Hero disagreed, grunting as a half-thought response, still navigating on the frontier of consciousness. Trying, and failing, to slap the other’s hand away. 

“They did quite a number on you, no one would believe they’re supposed to be your friends.” Villain whispered the last part, a hand reaching for Hero’s belt, taking their weapons out, and throwing them to the side. Hero’s hand could only twitch “One can only wonder what would have happened to you if I hadn’t asked for you unharmed.” 

Carefully, Villain brushed a single tear going down Hero’s cheek. They hadn’t noticed they shed it. 

“There’s no need to cry, with me you’re safe.” 

_

Masterlist

[avvail]

a villain that can hypnotise people through touch

The hero feels themselves tripping over their own two feet as the imposing figure advances on them, until their back hits the wall with a solid thud. They attempt to keep their breathing under control, but it’s a difficult game.

“Where are you going?” The villain asks simply, as if they don’t already know the answer to the question. The hero grits their teeth, baring them viciously.

“Stay back,” they hiss. “I mean it.”

“Or else what?” The villain chuckles humourlessly, their cold eyes not leaving theirs for even a moment. “You know you can’t win this fight.”

“No,” they shakily whisper, their eyes desperately searching for a way to escape. They are not ignorant to the power that the villain possesses. The power that had kept them trapped in their clutches for far too long. “Give me a ten foot pole and I’ll find a way to keep you away from me.”

The villain raises a brow. “You don’t have one of those, doll.”

“Yeah?” They spit. “Wanna bet?”

The villain takes a measured step forward, and the hero’s narrowed eyes suddenly widen, pressing themselves closer against the wall until they’re impossibly flat.

“No, please,” they breathe, their face wrinkling in fear. “The people need me, Villain. Please, let me go back out there.”

The villain laughs coldly, like that’s funny.

“You should see yourself when you cling to me,” they respond coolly, their eyes flashing with something dangerous. “It’s cute. You make these little doe eyes that drive me crazy.”

“That’s not me,” they choke, their hands pressing into their chest. “These gaps in my memory, not knowing how much time has passed, what you’ve made me do – it’s torture.”

“It’s far from torture, doll,” the villain frowns, taking another step forward. The hero’s heart hammers in their chest, lodging in their lungs and making it difficult to breathe. “You don’t see how much you’re spoiled.”

The hero chokes on a hitched breath. “You get off on this sick power play. You take away people’s free will, make them into—”

“—nothing?” The villain interrupts sharply. Their expression darkens. “You’d never understand what it’s like from my perspective. You’re thinking too hard, yet so little. Why don’t you come here?”

The hero instantly shakes their head. “No. Stay away from me.”

“Then I come to you.”

“Stay away.”

The hero makes a desperate lunge in an attempt to escape, but the villain’s hand seizes their wrist instantly, and they gasp. Tingles reverberate through their skin, and they desperately try to yank away. Their grasp is unrelenting, and with each second that ticks by, the tingles grow stronger, spreading through their body like wildfire.

“Stop,” they gasp, their knees weak when they’re tugged closer. “Please, please stop.”

“Shh,” the villain hums, a warm hand cupping their cheek, making the hero’s throat close up. Their mind goes haywire. But when the villain speaks, when their skin touches theirs, their thoughts begin to die out.

“That’s it, doll,” they purr, brushing a thumb under their eye when a stray tear leaked down their cheek. “Just like that.”

It’s always beautiful when the thoughts leave their eyes, when their weakening struggles die down, and they go slack and pliant in their arms. The villain’s eyes crinkle with a smile, admiring the dazed expression on their face. It takes moments until all the fight is drained out of them.

“There you go,” the villain hums, and their touch makes the hero go all fuzzy and lightheaded. “Let’s go back, shall we?”

The hero obediently follows them along.

[villain-enthusiast]

TOUCH-STARVED HERO RAHH.

.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine, actually,” the hero muttered from their sloppy position on the ground, though the oozing gash slicing across their torso and the fresh bruises circling their throat said otherwise.

The villain arched a brow, crouching down so they were eye level with the hero. “Do you think I’m dumb?”

The hero glowered at them. “Seems like you're deaf, actually. I said I’m fine,” they snapped, even as pain shuddered through their battered body. “Now if you could just get out of my way—,”

“Darling, please. You couldn’t stand up even if you tried, let alone walk yourself halfway across the city to your apartment.” The villain smirked at the hero’s deepening scowl, but the teasing flair didn't quite reach their eyes. “Let me do you a small favor while I’m here, at least.”

The hero bared their teeth. “Fuck off. I don’t need your stupid healing powers. You'll probably turn this into one of your idiotic bargains—," A harsh coughing fit cut them off, rattling their chest.

They tasted blood on their tongue. Fuck.

“Gosh, so prideful." The villain sighed, tilting their head. "Oh look at that, you're bleeding." They lifted a hand and ran a thumb over their hero's lips, wiping away a smattering of blood that had spilled from their mouth.

The hero's breath hitched at the villain's touch, the smallest, most delicate of noises escaping them before they could stop themselves.

The villain paused, their brow furrowing as their gaze took in every little movement and detail of the hero's involuntary response.

The hero's jaw tightened. Every muscle in their body screamed at them to get away, but they couldn't move. Or was it that they didn't want to move? "Villain, I swear—,"

Then the villain’s hand was cupping their cheek, and the hero melted.

A desperate whimper tore from their throat, their head lolling into the cool touch of the villain's palm as all the pain and exhaustion radiating through their body suddenly evaporated.

They closed their eyes, feeling their face begin to burn with shame.

"Oh, sweetheart," the villain murmured. Their other hand swept through the matted strands of the hero's hair, working through the tangles.

The hero had to bite down on their lip so that they didn't make another embarrassing noise. So gentle. The villain's touch was so, so gentle. So at odds to their earlier opponent's strangling grip and blinding punches, so contrasting to gaping loneliness and helplessness of coming home to no one, of having to painfully stitch themselves up day after day after day...

The villain brushed away a tear that the hero didn't realize had fallen.

"Hey, look at me," the villain said softly, nudging their chin up. The hero blinked at them, fighting back a sob. "You need to let me heal you, okay? You're losing a lot of blood."

The hero swallowed, barely processing the villain's words, their brain entirely occupied by the hand still on their face—or maybe it was just the blood loss. "Yeah," they managed, voice hoarse. It felt like their vocal chords were coated in tar.

"I'm going to do your stomach first," the villain noted. "I need both my hands for this, alright?"

The hero nodded, ignoring the inevitable panic that shot through them at the sudden absence of the villain's touch, which returned almost immediately on the deep laceration on their lower torso.

The hero cringed, bracing for some kind of torturous, painful mending, but the villain's powers were warm, soft, like honey in a cup of hot tea or a crackling fireplace during a winter storm. God, how many years had it been since they'd felt so comforted?

A whimper escaped the hero once more. They tensed. Jesus fucking christ.

The villain cracked a smile as they worked. "Don't worry, love. You're not the first person I've healed that enjoys the feeling." They brushed a palm over the wound, weaving the hero's flesh and skin back together. "This is gonna scar, but at least you'll live to see another day, hm?"

The hero scoffed weakly, still drunk on the villain's magic.

The villain swept their hands over the hero's body, feeling for more damage. "Gosh, Hero," they hummed, "you get yourself into so much trouble, do so much for this pitiful city, and for what?" They placed their hands on the hero's battered neck, soothing the inflammation. "When's the last time someone took care of you?" they asked quietly, but the question seemed more for themselves than for the hero.

Several heartbeats passed before the villain pulled away, finished with their work. The hero couldn't stop themselves from chasing their touch, nearly toppling over.

The villain caught them before they hit the ground, chuckling. "Oh, what am I gonna do with you?"

The hero felt a lump form in their throat at the thought of the villain leaving. I'm not gonna make it home. Not without Villain. They squeezed their eyes shut, swallowing their pride. "Please," they whispered. "Take me home. All I ask."

"Don't need to ask me twice." The villain swept the hero up into their arms, smirking at their indignant (and exhausted) glare. "You're not walking, sorry. You're getting all my love and special treatment today." They winked, as if they were joking.

But as the villain paced their way to the hero's apartment, and as the hero began to fall asleep in their arms, they both knew it wasn't a joke.

[wordsofwilderness]

Found this beauty in my writing notes:

[watercolorfreckles]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t want to!!❤️

Hello! This has been sittin in my inbox for many months during my huge writing rut, sorry about that! I know you also gave this prompt to @the-modern-typewriter and she's been making an incredible series with it on patreon! I changed some things around because I don't want to in any way attempt some sad copy of her interpretation, but I was still inspired by the prompt itself, so I've taken some fairly big liberties to avoid any significant similarities! Hope that's okay! Also, please manage your expectations, I do not compare to the magic that is TMT's writing 😆

TW: Brief depictions of body horror. Violence.

The power blew out in sections. The lights dissolved sector by sector with a sickening whine and click–one by one–in approach.

The commotion ripped Eloise from the fictional world she was lost in, aged page corners still pinched beneath her thumb. Her spirited storytelling abruptly died behind her teeth.

Somewhere in the distance, one person shouted. Two.

Her gaze flicked behind them to the door isolating herself and the bound supervillain from the other sectors of the Maximum Security Prison for Powered Individuals or, as everyone called it, The Max. Seeing nothing but black beyond the bullet-proof glass, her attention snapped forward again to the supervillain imprisoned across from her. 

Was this the start of some elaborate escape plan on his part? Why did it have to happen on a day that she was stuck fulfilling her community service hours instead of being something she could safely gawk at in the newspaper from a distance in a few days? Her stomach did a nauseated flip. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, voice quivering only a little. Her fingers tightened around her book.

The villain made a show of looking pointedly at his restraints. Wrists strung taut and chained to either wall, he shrugged an innocent shoulder at her as if to say “clearly, nothing.” He was perched on the edge of his bed like a bird, tilting his head with a matching sort of probing curiosity. 

For all the chaos outside of the room, Artisan had not a hair out of place. He appeared perfectly unconcerned, though as thoroughly trapped as ever: ankles shackled, arms stretched uselessly apart from each other. The power-dampening collar wrapped around his neck still blipped a faint red light, indicating it was active. 

The prisoners were rioting. Surely they couldn’t get too far? Containing the most dangerous of powered individuals was, after all, the express purpose of the facility…

The lights above them flickered, dipping the room in and out of inky darkness before settling into a dimly lit haze. Eloise’s breath stalled. The imposing dark felt like a threat, as if the lights could keep the monsters at bay. It only made a little sense, in the way that a child feels safe from the monsters under their bed as long as their nightlight is plugged in.

Except that these monsters were real. The most dangerous in the country. And she was currently feet away from the monster that made even other monsters run.

He hadn’t seemed so bad in the time that she’d known him. Quiet, impassive, yet twisting her gut with pity any time she eyed his barbaric restraints. The least she could do–while crossing off her hours–was to read the supervillain a story every few days. She couldn’t change his fate. Couldn’t make him more comfortable. What she could do was rattle off, sheepishly, about fictional worlds and impactful characters in literature and the way that a well-crafted story could transport you somewhere better.

A crash, gunshots, a scream. Tension racketed through Eloise’s shoulders. More shouts chased thundering footsteps.

Things were going very, very, wrong. And she was very much out of her depth.

Eloise jolted as something struck the door, her special-edition copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein falling to the ground and skidding away.

Finally, the lights cut out. With it, every noticeable piece of tech died. All of the energy felt sucked out of the room as if vacuumed. The camera’s blinking light disappeared. Alarms that should have been wailing cut silent. Speakers, keypads, and security systems, all dead. The secondary generator hadn’t sprung to life yet. That meant that this was more than a simple power outage. This was a calculated revolt.

 Eloise’s mind raced through a list of everything else that must have been failing. Coms. Sedative gas. Shock collars. Layers and layers of security locks…

Power dampeners.

Panic clamped vice-like and suffocating around her throat. Artisan’s collar was no longer blinking. 

She froze in the eerie silence of the cell, afraid of shattering the fragile calm. Her heart thumped, rabid, against her ribs.

Chains rattled and clinked to the floor.

Eloise bolted blindly for the door, smacking her palm against the DNA scanner while frantically swiping her “Volunteer Staff” badge through the card reader. When neither miraculously came to life, she resorted to banging on the door.

“Let me out, let me out! Guard!”

The door could only be opened by one person inside the cell and one outside simultaneously unlocking the security checkpoints. Even if the power were on, if the guard on the other side was gone…

The emergency floodlights kicked on, bathing the building in startling fluorescence. Eloise flinched, briefly stunned.

Hands grabbed her firmly from behind, yanking her backward.

Eloise yelped. “No, please–!”

The spot that she had been standing in exploded, steel door and concrete chunks collapsing into the room in a barrage of shrapnel. Something–no, someone–landed, bones crunching, at her feet. The guard who had last been standing on the opposite side of the door lay motionless. His blood puddled the floor, staining the soles of her Converse sneakers.

A horrified sound choked in Eloise’s throat.

Another supervillain strode in, eyes alight with hatred and something more–power. His lip curled, waving a mocking hand–engulfed in green energy–at the guard’s corpse. “God. I’ve wanted to do that for far too long. That one always got on my nerves.”

Artisan looked unimpressed. “You’re making a mess in my cell.”

Eloise’s breath caught. Hearing the supervillain’s voice was jarring. Artisan rarely spoke. Not that any of the other staff had ever actually attempted conversation with him… But even in news clips and YouTube videos, he carried himself with the kind of self-assured quiet of someone who had absolutely nothing to prove. His lethal efficiency did more for his reputation than any words could.

The other man was a villain named William Frenzy, a telekinetic with a gleeful taste for violence.

Faced with Artisan’s startling calm, Frenzy… paused. Faltering on a tight rope he had moments before been strolling across. 

“Yes, well. It won’t have to be your cell much longer, will it? They can’t stop all of us.” He smirked at the dead body on the floor. “Some of them can’t even stop one of us.”

Eloise shrank back toward the corner nearest the door, agonizingly slow, willing the ugly shadows from the artificial lighting to swallow her up while the supers focused on each other. She was the kind of person that people tended not to notice; a background character in the perimeter of a story that the protagonist would meet once and never spare a thought again. She wished, then, that invisibility really was her superpower.

Artisan said nothing, his steely gaze fixed upon Frenzy.

Frenzy floundered beneath the scrutiny. The smugness buffered on his face. Finally, he huffed, crossing his arms. “I made you a nice and easy door out. You’re welcome.” He flicked a hand toward the gaping hole in the wall.

Eloise inched further toward it.

Artisan tutted, and while it wasn’t aimed at her, it shot a cold thrill up her spine. She froze, briefly, before continuing her tantalizing escape. She listened to Artisan speak again. 

“I did not need anything from you. I’ll be getting out regardless. You on the other hand…” 

Eloise stared as Frenzy’s skin shrank taut against his bones, the frame of him creaking and groaning like an old tree in the wind. The air choked out of him, fingers grabbing at his jaw as it stretched open too wide. The corners of his lips tore, slitting his mouth into a gaping maw.

The faintest of smiles graced Artisan's lips as he continued, soft as ever. “Say sorry.”

Eloise didn’t wait to see the carnage through, slipping out into the hall and running.

The other sectors were washed in the same sterile glow as Artisan’s cell was, blue-tinged and horrible, like the lights in a dentist's office. She kept to the edge of things as best she could, clinging to the walls and dark corners.

There was brawling in every sector—guards with weapons drawn mowed to the ground by the creatures they had wardened for so long. A villain fell as shots rang out. Another grabbed the guard from behind, cracking his skull against their knee. 

The smell of blood stung Eloise’s nostrils. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe.

She turned to flee down another hall, but two fighting inmates crashed into the doorway in front of her.

Eloise squealed, jerking backward into the belly of the room's chaos.

Don't notice me, don't notice me, don't notice me.

Everyone was so occupied by their chosen prey, maybe she could fade into the background. Maybe she could–

Her heel caught on something and she tumbled, gracelessly, to the floor. It took her several moments to register the lake of blood seeping warm and sticky into her clothing. 

Terror blurred her brain in a white flash bang.

Disappear, disappear, disappear…

“Mm. What do we have here?”

Eloise couldn’t bring herself to lift her head. She clamped her eyes shut, another child’s illusion of protection. 

The villain opposite her chuckled. He ripped her volunteer badge off of its clip against her chest. Her eyes snapped open again. She recognized him as a ringleader among superpowered thieves. They called him Volt.

“Volunteer, eh? A pretty thing like you should know better than to willingly set foot in a prison full of men with nothing left to lose. It’s been a long sentence, darling. I could make excellent use of your volunteer services. Get up.”

Numbly, ears full of static, Eloise shook her head.

Volt frowned, electricity jumping to life in his palms. “No?” He reached for her, hand nearing her throat.

“Keep your hands to yourself or I will remove them.” 

Artisan’s voice was calm. His eyes were not.

The room quieted.

Spatters of red decorated Artisan’s prison uniform. A few drops dotted his face and he brushed them away with his knuckles, smearing the crimson across his cheek. Almost lazily, he popped his neck and stretched his shoulders, no doubt sore from the strain his restraints kept him in.

The villain across from Eloise paused, sparks still dancing across his fingertips. He regarded Artisan with the same wary caution as Frenzy had.

Before he'd been… Before Artisan had…

Eloise swallowed back the nausea climbing her throat.

Finally, Volt’s hand lowered. “She's yours?”

“She's hers. Step away.”

The man hesitated a moment too long. Artisan didn't offer a second warning. 

As if puppeted, the man's fingers raised to gauge at his own eyes. He screamed, the faint evidence of Artisan’s power shimmering over him. He clawed, next, at the skin on his face, peeling it back like wet wallpaper. 

As promised, his wrists crunched and bent, wrenching all on their own at impossible angles.

Eloise covered her ears, unable to bear the screaming. She felt sick.

“Stop,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

It did. The man collapsed into a sobbing, bloodied heap.

When Eloise managed to look at Artisan, she startled to find his attention fixed on her.

They stared at each other for a stretch of silence that itched. She imagined being forced to choke on her own lungs, or her skull constricting in on itself until it squashed her brain into pulp. For being so bold as to run, he might snap her legs and reaffix them the wrong direction, or splinter her bones to poke, grotesque, out of her skin. They always did say that his victims were his personal works of art, bodies twisted into shells of monsters.

He crooked a finger, beckoning her.

The edges of her vision swooped fuzzy and vertiginous. She rose onto wobbly knees and pushed herself to her feet. When she swayed, Artisan caught her elbow, slipping an arm around her waist to lead her forward.

He did not look back at the others, with complete confidence that no one would challenge him.

No one did.

Eloise was barely aware of taking one step after another. When they arrived back in the villain’s cell, the bodies of Frenzy and the dead guard, thankfully, were gone, though the floor was streaked with the drag lines of their blood.

She wrenched her gaze away.

Artisan’s hand moved further down her arm to her wrist, gesturing that she sit on his bed. When she shifted to do so, his grip tightened, tugging her to a stop. She frozen and tried to read his face. 

His dark brows were furrowed, suspicious eyes flicking from hers down to her hand.

He pulled down her sleeve and held her wrist up between them, revealing the power-blocking cuff clamped around it. His head cocked. He waited.

Eloise swallowed. “I’m not a super. I mean- not a super-super. Just a…..no one.”

“A no-one who volunteers at The Max? With a power-dampener?”

“They’re terms of my probation,” she blurted. “A thousand hours of community service here and a power-inhibitor for a year. I think they put me here to threaten me with where I could end up if I continue on like… Um…”

“Me.”

“A villain,” she clarified, as if that was better. 

Her gaze flitted from the fingers wrapped around her wrist and up to the villain’s face again. The harsh lighting haloed him, dimly silhouetting his face. He looked haunting. He looked lovely. A beautiful house, old and creaking, wrapped in ghosts like a bride’s veil and left to rot. 

“What did you do?”

“I…” Eloise felt very small. “I lied about being powered on my documents. So that they wouldn’t put me on the registry. When they found me out, I tried to run away.”

Artisan’s scrutiny burned her cheeks. He let go of her wrist.

“...What can you do?”

“Nothing special,” she said, cradling her wrist–wholly uninjured as it was–in her other hand. “It doesn’t even work most of the time. My power is sort of…blending in. Going unnoticed. When it’s working, I could stand in a the White House and people’s attention would glide over me as if I belonged there. Not quite invisible, but… It just tricks your brain into not thinking twice.”

Artisan’s eyes narrowed.

Eloise flinched back a step, stumbling back over her fallen book onto the bed. She stared at him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, but she still waited for the catch. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them? Trying to escape?”

The villain considered her for a long moment. He sat down beside her, and the hard cot creaked beneath his weight. “Mm. That’s just it. No one inside the prison could have blown the power-dampeners. They require someone with powers to turn them off or on, and the security is impenetrable. My team has tried. Besides, if this was a simple power outage, the inhibitors would still be on. But they’re not. This was premeditated–and no one imprisoned here could have done it. No one on the outside could have done it. So. Process of elimination. Who’s left?”

That was the most Eloise had ever heard Artisan speak, and she could only sit and listen intently–As he had when she’d read him stories. Her brain whirred in a jumbled jigsaw of puzzle pieces. 

“It… It could only be an inside job.” She wet her lips. “The heroes- The higher-ups- They want the prisoners to break out so that they can kill them. A clean massacre. Justified under the law. The world’s most dangerous criminals could never be allowed to escape…”

Artisan smiled and it swirled something in her insides. “A convenient way to get rid of all of the pesky criminals clogging up the system. I’d bet anything that there are 50 snipers surrounding the building, waiting to slaughter anyone who steps foot outside.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Artisan agreed, his smile easing into something softer; something with less feral teeth.

“Thank you for helping me,” Eloise whispered. “What do we do now?”

Artisan hummed. He bent down and swept up her book, dropping it into her lap. He laid back against his pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The bloodspots on his skin and clothes glittered in the lowlight. 

“Keep reading. I want to know how it ends.”

Part 2

[lux-aurea-lunae]

Prompt 4 - Revenge

Hero found Villain sitting on the edge of a roof. They sat down beside them, trying to see what was so captivating about the view that Villain hadn't noticed their arrival. Finding nothing, they decided to break the silence. "Your end target is Superhero."

In the year they've been chasing Villain, they noticed that their schemes seemed to be building to something, but Hero had never been sure of what. "If you're here to talk me out of revenge, it's not going to work," Villain stated bluntly, not taking their eyes off the street below.

"No, I wasn't going to. I know what they did to you. I'm sorry that happened. No one deserves that." Villain finally looked at them.

"Then why are you here?" they asked sceptically.

"To talk you out of murder?" Hero asked hopefully. Villain scoffed. "Think about it. If you kill them now, they'll be regarded as a hero who tragically lost their life to a villain. I know you'd hate that."

Villain mauled that over. "What are you suggesting?"

Hero relaxed a bit, relieved Villain was hearing them out. Now they just had to sell their idea. "Instead of killing them, why don't you destroy their reputation? Expose them for the fraud they are?" Hero handed Villain a flash drive. "That has a bunch of Superhero's incident reports on it: property damage, civilian casualties, the works. Everything you need to ruin their image."

Villain looked between Hero and the flash drive in their hand, a vindictive, triumphant smile spreading across their face and an unmistakable fondness directed at Hero. Then they declared, "I don't care if I'm legally a criminal. I'm going to find a way to marry you."

[save-the-villainous-cat]

“I’ll admit,” the villain whispered, their hand slowly sliding along the hero’s leg - from their knee to their thigh to be precise - “I’m a bit rusty.”

“You?” the hero asked.

“We haven’t seen each other in six months,” the villain said. “That’s enough time to rust.”

“I thought you would have gotten your fun elsewhere.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Softly, the villain pressed a kiss to the hero’s throat and the hero (stupidly so) forgot their responsibilities very quickly again.

The hero didn’t consider themselves particularly greedy in bed. They took what partners threw at them and usually, that was enough. With the villain, it felt different. They felt more confident, they felt terribly secure. The hero wasn’t a passive party anymore.

“Six months are enough to move on,” the hero whispered.

Their stomach dropped when they realised that the villain was giving them a hickey. Instinctively, the hero grabbed their enemy’s clothes but only got a hold of one of the bullet proof vest’s straps. Though the hero tried to pull them closer, the villain didn’t move until they were done on the hero’s throat.

With a wet sound, they parted.

“You’ll understand how desperate I am right now, then.”

“Is it smart to continue this?” the hero asked. Six months. Six. Often, their thoughts would circle around the villain. As if they were an addict.

“…do you want to continue this?”

“Well, yes…”

“Then what’s the problem?” Again, they leaned in and this time, they left a trail of kisses on the hero’s neck.

Within milliseconds, shivers ran down the hero’s spine and their brain fried. Their heart was loud enough for both to hear.

“I don’t know…maybe something changed, maybe you changed.” The villain looked at them, their usually focused and serious eyes suddenly soft.

“Love, what are you talking about?”

“Maybe there is someone else you…” The hero took in a deep breath. Six months were a long, long time and if the villain had found someone else during that time…someone who was simply more fitting, the hero didn’t want to stand between them. The villain was charismatic, chatty, nice when they had to be. Surely there had been someone who had shown interest while the villain was in hiding.

“You’re aware I am extremely picky when it comes to my partner.”

“Yes, I know. But—”

“And stupidly loyal.”

The hero didn’t know what to say to that. They knew what loyalty meant to the villain. It wasn’t a term they used carelessly.

“Don’t worry,” the villain murmured. They pressed an innocent kiss to the hero’s lips and continued with another one that was a little more daring.

The hero had almost forgotten what it felt like to be kissed. What it felt like to have the villain’s tongue in their mouth.

Even as the villain pulled away, the hero couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

“You’re my nemesis,” the villain reminded them. Two of their fingers traced an invisible path down the hero’s chest. “You’re irreplaceable.”

The villain was methodical. They were gentle. Their hand stopped on the hero’s lower stomach.

“And now, be a darling and spread your legs. I’ve been craving the sounds you make for half a year.”

[bookished]

( a collection of fun and adventurous dialogue prompts. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post <𝟑 if you like, please consider supporting me through tips, it's highly appreciated.

"Want to try sneaking into the movie theater?"

"There's this exclusive sky bar on the top floor. I bet if we act confident enough, we could just walk right in. Ready to blend in with the high rollers?"

"You know the 'Staff Only' areas in aquariums always look so intriguing. I've got an idea involving lab coats and clipboards. Interested?"

"There's a secret passage in this art gallery that leads to a hidden exhibit. I overheard the curator talking about it. Shall we go exploring?"

"I've always wanted to see a movie from the theater's projection room. I've got a friend who works here – you get what I mean?"

"So, that exclusive restaurant is fully booked for months, but I may have 'borrowed' a couple of names from the reservation list. Feeling adventurous?"

"The old amusement park's been closed for years, but I know a way in. Imagine having all those rides to ourselves under the moonlight."

"I heard there's an underground speakeasy in this library. Apparently, you need to whisper a password to the librarian. Wanna try our luck?"

"Remember that fancy pool party we weren't invited to? I've got two waiter uniforms and a brilliant plan. You in?"

"There's a secret rooftop garden on top of that skyscraper. I bet we could talk our way past security if we pretend to be lost interns."

"I know this sounds crazy, but I found a hidden door behind the museum. Want to see where it leads after closing time?"

"The local TV station does live broadcasts from that studio. I bet with the right timing, we could sneak onto a set during a commercial break. Ready for your 15 seconds of fame?"

"I discovered a hidden hot spring in the woods just outside town. It's a bit of a hike, but imagine a midnight dip under the stars."

"There's a secret room in the library that's usually locked. I copied the key while volunteering. Want to see what forbidden books they're hiding?"

"Remember that fancy cooking class that was full? Well, I may have found a way for us to observe from the kitchen's back entrance. Hungry for some culinary espionage?"

"I know how to get onto the roof of the tallest building downtown. The view of the sunset from up there is incredible. Shall we?"

"There's a masquerade ball at the governor's mansion tonight. I've got two masks and a wild idea. Care to crash a high-society party?"

"My friend works at the zoo and says we could help feed the penguins after closing time. Interested in a secret animal encounter?"

"I heard this old theater is supposedly haunted. Want to sneak in after hours and do some ghost hunting?"

"There's a secret beach hidden behind those cliffs. The catch? We'll have to climb down a rope ladder to reach it. You up for it?"

"I found an old map of the city's underground tunnels. Fancy a subterranean adventure date?"

[barbwritesstuff]

I'm procrastinating hard right now, so here's a couple of pages I wrote for a potential Blood Moon Thicker Than City of Monsters Hunter Sequel.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hiii! Could you please write some hurt comfort hero and villain? Where it has a “who did this to you” vibes! Thanks! No pressure if you don’t want to!

"You look..." The villain's gaze travelled slowly up the hero, taking in the hard lines of them, the uncanny iciness that had replaced a once warm, familiar face. "Different."

"And you look like hell. Let's get you out of here."

Despite the fact that the hero had just blown the villain's chains to smithereens, the villain didn't move. They leaned heavily against the cold concrete wall of their cell, still staring.

The hero's fingers flexed agitated at their sides.

"I can - if you're hurt, I can help you stand. I don't - you're safe now."

It was like an act they didn't know how to play any more. The script was the same, but the tongue behind the words was a sharper thing. A whittled thing. Made hard and venomous with desperation. Like the world had taken an axe to everything that made the hero them and started hacking.

"Who did this to you?" the villain demanded.

"What?"

"You're all..." Their head lolled, as they tried to tilt it customarily to one side. Their broken fingers hurt too much to wiggle them effectively in the hero's direction, but they did their best. "Not you. All..."

"They hurt you," the hero said. Flat. Deadly.

The villain wet their cracked, swollen lips. Their voice came out raspy. "I heard screaming."

"Yeah." Something dark and protective simmered in the hero's eyes. It looked awfully a lot like 'they deserved it'. Like how the villain's eyes used to look, through a mirror darkly, until the pain scorched through everything cold and steely inside them.

"You killed people. You killed...you came for me."

"We need to go," the hero said, through gritted teeth. "We need to get you out of here. Come on." The hero ducked down, only to falter when their gruff tug immediately made the villain's whole world go fuzzy with hurting. The touch turned gentle as the villain flinched. The hero's hands floundered, like they no longer knew the language of caring, but still remembered that they wanted to try.

A stupid prickle of tears stung the villain's eyes.

"Who did this to you? Who-"

"-Please," the hero said. "Put your arms around me. You need to work with me here. Please."

The villain wrapped their aching arms around the hero's shoulders. The hero lifted them up, holding them oh so carefully. Being upright was still enough to make the villain's vision pop and then blacken.

When they regained consciousness, they were walking through a slaughter house. Blood everywhere. As if a hurricane given teeth and claws had ripped through the building.

"Did I do this?" the villain asked.

"No, love."

But that wasn't quite right.

"No, I mean - I was gone," the villain said. Their head felt so fuzzy with everything they had been given, but the sharp edges of the hero were so clear, if only they could find the words to paint the picture half as well, let the knowledge swirling inside them settle. "You were on your own. How long have you been trying to rescue me?"

"It's going to be alright, okay? I've got you. You're alright."

"Are you?"

"I'm not the one who's been tortured!" It came out a snap, and maybe the villain should have flinched after an eternity of raised voices and raised weapons, but they didn't.

"You don't do so well on your own," the villain said instead, softly. "You never have."

The hero's throat bobbed as they swallowed, convulsive, choking something down. "Don't."

The villain raised a hand, rubbing their thumb over the gaunt line of the hero's face.

The hero flinched back.

"It's going to be alright," the villain said. "You're going to be alright. I've got you."

"You -" The hero laughed then, a broken thing. They jerked their head to the side but it didn't hide the tears glinting in their eyes. "Maybe let's not focus on me right now. You were - what they did to you - they told that they - I should have got here faster."

"I'm sorry they used me against you."

"Don't."

"Tell me their names?"

"They're all dead."

"Tell me anyway."

"I killed them."

"I know, love. Tell me anyway."

The hero swore, but the villain could practically watch some life creep back into those icy eyes. Some horror. Some thing that wasn't a stranger. Their hero. The hero held them a little tighter, cradling them a little closer against their chest.

"Just - later. Let me get you help. You need help."

Well, the villain couldn't argue with that. Still. Their own body didn't feel half as perturbing as the way the hero's eyes iced over again, determined to see through the job, to not shatter no matter what they'd done to get to where they were. To get the villain back. To save them.

They tucked themselves closer to the hero's chest, to their heart - thumping proof of life, proof of hope, proof that maybe they hadn't entirely lost the thing they cared about most of all.

Who did this to you?

But the villain didn't really need to ask.

The answer was always their own name.

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

Caretaker had never been interested in having kids. At every family reunion, people would eventually come round to ask, “so, when do you think you’ll start having children?”

The answer would always be the same. Never. They’re a lot of hassle, and considering caretaker’s line of work, it probably wouldn’t be a safe environment for a kid. Then, eventually, the disgruntled aunts and nagging uncles would quieten down and go back to obnoxiously chewing on their food, occasionally making a snide remark about a cousin or nephew.

It was 2:43 in the morning, or so the glaring alarm clock said. Caretaker groaned slightly as they turned, half asleep still. Normally, they slept through the night with ease, routinely going to bed at a reasonably mature time, and waking up to the beeping of the morning alarm like clockwork.

But, this time, it was loud in the house. Quiet murmurs and tentative footsteps had woken caretaker up, purely from the fact that they simply weren’t used to it. Caretaker was happily single and childless, as well as not owning any pets or really being of an age where sleepovers were considered anything but childish. On any other night, the house was silent through and through, but tonight was different.

A knock on the bedroom door brought Caretaker out of their thoughts. A grunted ‘come in’ was all Caretaker could respond with, and as soon as the words left their lips, the door creaked open, and faint light poured in. It was Whumpee. Caretaker wasn’t particularly shocked - who else would it be? Still, up until noe Whumpee had been adamant that they were completely fine. When the team had found them, they didn’t whimper or sob or plead. They had to be grappled down in order for Medic to be able to examine them, and when they were told of the severity of their injuries, they simply denied ever even feeling bad.

Ever since Whumpee had been found, they insisted on leaving, and going ‘home’, though nobody was particularly sure where ‘home’ was, because when asked about family and friends, Whumpee had no answer. But, the team couldn’t just let the kid go, partially because they were far too young to be fending for themselves, and partially because this was the closest to Whumper they had ever gotten. Could they really risk losing their only clue?

Sleeping in the HQ wasn’t an option for Whumpee, they were tense back there, snappy and hostile. Staying overnight wouldn’t have done any good. Most of the team had to set off on an emergency mission that was far too dangerous for someone as fragile as Whumpee. Medic and Caretaker were the only ones who remained, and the former already had kids of their own waiting at home. So, Caretaker it was. They packed up Whumpee’s things, drove them for three hours to get home, and fought to get them settled in the usually abandoned guest room.

And now, they were standing in Caretaker’s doorway. Hesitant. Akin to a child standing at the foot of their parent’s mattress, shaky and looking for comfort after a harrowing nightmare.

“… couldn’t sleep..” Whumpee muttered, looking away bashfully, as though they were embarrassed that they were hurting to the point of having to reach out. Like it was the worst thing they could have done.

Caretaker didn’t react. Perhaps it was the tiredness. Instead, they shuffled and shifted in their bed so that they were upright, and patted down the other half of the bed. An invitation. Whumpee tread closer to the bed in the same way that a stray cat might stagger towards the scent of a stranger. Assessing risks.

It took them a minute to crawl into the bed, but when they did, they were quick to pull up the duvet, clutching at the blanket for warmth. Caretaker hadn’t seen the room Whumpee was being kept in, but based on the look on Leader’s face after they had found them (somewhere between horrified and distressed), they could assume that Whumper had never concerned themselves with Whumpee’s temperature concerns.

Caretaker hadn’t expected Whumpee to relax this much in their room. Sure, Whumpee had taken to them much faster than they had taken to anyone else, and sure everyone on the team had jokingly started calling them the team mother, but those were all jokes. Caretaker wasn’t a parent, and they had made peace with that. Their life wasn’t safe for a child.

Caretaker moved from their sitting position, now lying on their side under the mauve covers. Here, they faced Whumpee, whose eyes were tight shut, and their frail arms tightly shut around the firm, cream pillow. They looked so young; while nobody could find any documents regarding Whumpee’s real identity, it was easy to tell looking at them that they couldn’t be older than late teens.

Hesitantly, Caretaker pushed their hand out and brushed Whumpee’s hair out of their face, fingers gently skimming their forehead. It was hot to touch, like they were a flu-ridden child in the middle of a summertime heatwave. Caretaker couldn’t even fathom what Whumpee had been through to get here. But, if their meagre little townhouse in the middle if nowhere could provide some solace for them, then so be it. Whumpee could sleep wherever they wanted.