the-modern-typewriter

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hey sorry I think I asked in the wrong place (I am new to tumblr, sorry :) ) but I was wondering if you could write about a hero fighting a villain past the point of exhaustion because they want to hurt/punish themselves and the villain notices and tries to get them to stop? (Also very sorry about submitting it to the wrong area, I love your writing so much)

"Hey, we're not done!" The hero shoved the villain in the back.

The villain turned.

The hero moved to shove them again, heart beating wildly, and the villain pushed back. Hard. The hero's spine hit the wall and the villain followed, punching hard enough that the hero's ears rang sweetly. The villain moved to hit again.

Maybe it was the hitch of their breath that gave the hero away. The way their eyelids fluttered. The fact that they didn't try and lift a hand to defend themselves.

The villain paused.

The hero panted, dull pain throbbing through their body, head spinning where it rested against the cool brick wall. They were, by their own assessment, a few good hits away from merciful oblivion.

They twisted their lips into a cocky, goading smirk. Blood-flecked and bruised.

The villain's eyes were dark like an oil slick in the dim light. They lowered their fist.

"What's the matter, coward?" the hero asked. "Had enough already?"

"You want this," the villain said.

The hero was somehow not prepared for the villain to notice, let alone to acknowledge it. It was excruciating to hear it out loud. None of the others had noticed.

The fingers of the villain's other hand untangled from the front of the hero's shirt, moving to their throat as the hero's knees nearly buckled. It steadied them.

The hero opened their mouth to protest that they wanted to stop the villain, yeah, but the villain squeezed. The words turned to a desperate wheeze. The want, the need, an ugly festering wound.

"Jesus," the villain said. With regret. With something. "Why?"

"Sod off." They batted at the villain's hands. "If you're not going to fight me-"

"-This isn't a fight. It's just a beating when you're that exhausted."

The hero's face flushed. "I'm fine."

The villain yanked them, suddenly, unbearably, to the light. The lamppost illuminated the shadows under the hero's eyes, no doubt, with unforgivable clarity.

"H-hey-" the hero protested.

The villain's gaze raked over them. It seemed to see everything. The hero wanted to scuttle back into the dark, into the violence, like a cockroach.

"Why?" the villain asked again.

"You're being really weird about this..."

"And you want me to hit you again. Tell me why."

"Why do you care?!"

"Do you think you deserve this?"

The hero flinched.

The villain nodded, just once, like that confirmed something. "Some of that is older than me." They found a bruise on the hero's wrist and pressed down, making the hero gasp. "I'd give this about a week? What happened a week ago?"

The hero wrenched back. They were effective enough to slip free of the villain's grip, but not so effective that they didn't stumble and land on their ass in the gutter.

The villain's head tilted, studying them.

"Stop looking at me," the hero snarled.

"Stop trying to fight me just to hurt yourself."

"Fine!"

"Fine." The villain turned away. Then, they turned back. Their jaw worked.

The hero pushed, wobbly and frazzled and aching, to their feet. The villain steadied them. The hero glared. The villain seemed unfazed.

"I'll hit you," they said, "if that's what you need. But not like this. This is - reckless."

"What?"

They weren't sure where to start unpicking that. The fact that it almost sounded like the villain was concerned, trying to help, or why this in the grand scheme of everything was what the villain had decided was reckless.

"You can't just go goading people into trying to kill you." The villain's voice was measured. "But if you were going to stop just because I told you to, you probably wouldn't be trying to get your arse kicked in the first place. So next time you want that, come to me. We'll figure it out."

"You weren't kicking my arse."

"You look a few minutes from passing out."

"That's just my face."

The villain raised their brows, unimpressed.

The hero folded their arms, making their ribs pull. Another wave of light-headness washed over them.

"How's your face," the villain said. Flat.

"Still wondering why you care."

"You don't deserve it."

"Don't."

The villain said it so simply, as if they could possibly know that. The hero flinched again, in a way they hadn't during any fight that week. It knocked more air out of their lungs too than any blow.

"You asked," the villain said. "More than once."

"It would be kinder just to hit me if you're having a bizarre burst of conscience."

The villain snorted. Their gaze remained stormy. The hero didn't know what to make of it.

"And if I turn down your offer?" they asked.

"Other people are scared of me, even if you're an idiot. People don't like touching my stuff. They like breaking it even less."

It took the hero a moment to process. They gaped.

The villain shrugged. "Your choice."

"This is none of your business."

"You made it my business when you picked a fight with me."

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if knew you'd react like this!"

"Yes." The villain's voice was horribly, terribly, soft. "I know."

The hero swallowed and they scrubbed a hand over their face, not sure if they wanted to claw their own skin off or sob. The adrenaline of the fight left them shaking as it drained a way. All pain without the reprieve of unconsciousness, the overwhelming agony of it to make the shame and the guilt and the regret feel small.

The villain patted their cheek, just hard enough to sting, not hard enough to do any damage. The hero didn't know if it was a peace offering or a temptation. Cruelty or more unnerving kindness.

"Come along," the villain said. "Let's get you home. I want to get my clothes to a washing machine before your blood stains my coat..."

Dumbly, reeling, the hero followed.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hey sorry I think I asked in the wrong place (I am new to tumblr, sorry :) ) but I was wondering if you could write about a hero fighting a villain past the point of exhaustion because they want to hurt/punish themselves and the villain notices and tries to get them to stop? (Also very sorry about submitting it to the wrong area, I love your writing so much)

"Hey, we're not done!" The hero shoved the villain in the back.

The villain turned.

The hero moved to shove them again, heart beating wildly, and the villain pushed back. Hard. The hero's spine hit the wall and the villain followed, punching hard enough that the hero's ears rang sweetly. The villain moved to hit again.

Maybe it was the hitch of their breath that gave the hero away. The way their eyelids fluttered. The fact that they didn't try and lift a hand to defend themselves.

The villain paused.

The hero panted, dull pain throbbing through their body, head spinning where it rested against the cool brick wall. They were, by their own assessment, a few good hits away from merciful oblivion.

They twisted their lips into a cocky, goading smirk. Blood-flecked and bruised.

The villain's eyes were dark like an oil slick in the dim light. They lowered their fist.

"What's the matter, coward?" the hero asked. "Had enough already?"

"You want this," the villain said.

The hero was somehow not prepared for the villain to notice, let alone to acknowledge it. It was excruciating to hear it out loud. None of the others had noticed.

The fingers of the villain's other hand untangled from the front of the hero's shirt, moving to their throat as the hero's knees nearly buckled. It steadied them.

The hero opened their mouth to protest that they wanted to stop the villain, yeah, but the villain squeezed. The words turned to a desperate wheeze. The want, the need, an ugly festering wound.

"Jesus," the villain said. With regret. With something. "Why?"

"Sod off." They batted at the villain's hands. "If you're not going to fight me-"

"-This isn't a fight. It's just a beating when you're that exhausted."

The hero's face flushed. "I'm fine."

The villain yanked them, suddenly, unbearably, to the light. The lamppost illuminated the shadows under the hero's eyes, no doubt, with unforgivable clarity.

"H-hey-" the hero protested.

The villain's gaze raked over them. It seemed to see everything. The hero wanted to scuttle back into the dark, into the violence, like a cockroach.

"Why?" the villain asked again.

"You're being really weird about this..."

"And you want me to hit you again. Tell me why."

"Why do you care?!"

"Do you think you deserve this?"

The hero flinched.

The villain nodded, just once, like that confirmed something. "Some of that is older than me." They found a bruise on the hero's wrist and pressed down, making the hero gasp. "I'd give this about a week? What happened a week ago?"

The hero wrenched back. They were effective enough to slip free of the villain's grip, but not so effective that they didn't stumble and land on their ass in the gutter.

The villain's head tilted, studying them.

"Stop looking at me," the hero snarled.

"Stop trying to fight me just to hurt yourself."

"Fine!"

"Fine." The villain turned away. Then, they turned back. Their jaw worked.

The hero pushed, wobbly and frazzled and aching, to their feet. The villain steadied them. The hero glared. The villain seemed unfazed.

"I'll hit you," they said, "if that's what you need. But not like this. This is - reckless."

"What?"

They weren't sure where to start unpicking that. The fact that it almost sounded like the villain was concerned, trying to help, or why this in the grand scheme of everything was what the villain had decided was reckless.

"You can't just go goading people into trying to kill you." The villain's voice was measured. "But if you were going to stop just because I told you to, you probably wouldn't be trying to get your arse kicked in the first place. So next time you want that, come to me. We'll figure it out."

"You weren't kicking my arse."

"You look a few minutes from passing out."

"That's just my face."

The villain raised their brows, unimpressed.

The hero folded their arms, making their ribs pull. Another wave of light-headness washed over them.

"How's your face," the villain said. Flat.

"Still wondering why you care."

"You don't deserve it."

"Don't."

The villain said it so simply, as if they could possibly know that. The hero flinched again, in a way they hadn't during any fight that week. It knocked more air out of their lungs too than any blow.

"You asked," the villain said. "More than once."

"It would be kinder just to hit me if you're having a bizarre burst of conscience."

The villain snorted. Their gaze remained stormy. The hero didn't know what to make of it.

"And if I turn down your offer?" they asked.

"Other people are scared of me, even if you're an idiot. People don't like touching my stuff. They like breaking it even less."

It took the hero a moment to process. They gaped.

The villain shrugged. "Your choice."

"This is none of your business."

"You made it my business when you picked a fight with me."

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if knew you'd react like this!"

"Yes." The villain's voice was horribly, terribly, soft. "I know."

The hero swallowed and they scrubbed a hand over their face, not sure if they wanted to claw their own skin off or sob. The adrenaline of the fight left them shaking as it drained a way. All pain without the reprieve of unconsciousness, the overwhelming agony of it to make the shame and the guilt and the regret feel small.

The villain patted their cheek, just hard enough to sting, not hard enough to do any damage. The hero didn't know if it was a peace offering or a temptation. Cruelty or more unnerving kindness.

"Come along," the villain said. "Let's get you home. I want to get my clothes to a washing machine before your blood stains my coat..."

Dumbly, reeling, the hero followed.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Oh on a complete side note, I was wondering do you have a preference for vampires? Some of your work just seems so passionate about them specifically (I adore this) if not it’s clearly a sign of pure talent and on another note u should read the vampire lestat/interview with a vampire series 🖤🖤

I love vampires!

Though I probably also have a type when it comes to vampires, rather than liking every vampire story ever. E.g. I like a vampire that still feels like they could be dangerous. It's not that they have to be evil or villainous. It's that completely de-fanged vampires, so to speak, feel like a waste to me (personally).

(While I have a specific passion for vampires, I do also think it's a symptom of my larger passion for a specific vibe of monster. Vampire is just a particularly low-hanging branch of the same tree)

I read Interview with a Vampire when I was a teen. It was probably formative. I tried a bunch of the other books in the series but I never clicked with them as much, so haven't read all of them. I absolutely adore AMC's Interview with a Vampire tv show though. Obsessed.

Weirdly, I haven't actually read that many vampire books though.

Vampire books I've liked recently/semi-recently:

So Thirsty by Rachel Harrison

The Coldest Girl in Coldtown by Holly Black

Vampires, Hearts and Other Dead Things by Margie Fuston

[the-modern-typewriter]

How many questions or request do you get around each day if you know?

It's not an every day or even every other day thing. I get little flurries now and then! Someone might send one after I post a new story. Idk. I just have a long backlog because I've had this blog for forever haha

[the-modern-typewriter]

I've hit 20,000 word on my horror fantasy aro ace novel! We are so close to the end of Act 1.

My personal favourite snippet of dialogue so far, feat semi-wall pinning:

Lucille’s head tilted. Her eyes seemed to almost glow in the moonlight. “I think you want my attention,” Lucille said. “I think that’s why you’ve been acting out like a petulant brat.” Lucille’s voice was sharp with mockery and something else. More prying, curious. “So.” Diana had planned to laugh, perhaps too loud and perhaps too scathing, but the last word caught her off balance. Her brow furrowed. The retort that she wasn’t some spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum fizzed out. “So?” she echoed. “So you have my full attention.” Lucille flicked Diana’s finger off where it was still jabbing into her shoulder, unblinking. “Congrats. Do you know what you want to do with it or do you just like having it?”

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello! Could you write a snippet on a hero x villain relationship where they're both cursed to live as long as the other one lives (which means they cannot kill each other & if one of them gets hurt the wounds also appear on the other's skin) but they used to be lovers so they kind of just hold the biggest of grudges against each other but deep down still miss the love & intimacy they once shared. Sorry if this is confusing, I can't find a better way to word it

"You know," the villain dragged the tip of their weapon across the floor, scarring through it. "This would be so-" they swung, decapitating the head off one goon and then another -"much easier-" a third crumpled to the floor, screaming, "if you could resist the urge to play the hero." They shoved the sword through the stomach of a final goon, before looking at the hero. "For five minutes."

"They were awful people!" the hero protested. "Someone had to stop them."

"We're bleeding," the villain hissed. "You ruined my goddamn coat. Again." They stopped, the tip of the blade pressed beneath the hero's chin - which, really, was just a bit overdramatic as they both knew the villain wasn't going to hurt them. At least not in any permanent way. "And getting kidnapped is a terrible example of stopping someone, fyi."

"I was gathering information."

The villain glared at them. "It's like you don't even want to be immortal."

Some days, the hero wasn't sure they did anymore. Eternity was a long time. Especially alone.

"No point being immortal," the hero said instead, with a shrug, "if I have to change my whole personality and hide in my super high security compound all the time instead of helping people or doing anything. That's not living."

The villain's jaw clenched. They cleaned the sword with deliberate spite on the hero's jeans, before sheathing it and moving to pick the hero's cuffs.

Without the villain's gaze piercing their face, the hero closed their eyes briefly. "Look," they said. "Things got out of hand. It's not like I-"

The villain hurled the cuffs on the floor with a loud clatter.

"And I know you only came to save me because -"

The villain caught their chin in a biting grip, squeezing as they dragged the hero's head to the side, so they were facing each other. The hero's breath hitched. They could see the indentation of nails forming on the villain's skin, where they held the hero.

They eyed each other.

The hero swallowed.

It had been a while since they'd last seen each other. They tended to stay close, due to the connection, but they didn't see each other. Not in person. In person always felt...the distance made it easier to forget the full force of what the villain was, what they had been, the aching familiarity of them.

Seeing the villain was like having an old fatal wound torn open all over again. Seeing the villain was the memory of nights cuddled close, of how they had so wanted a chance to be together forever, how chasing that desperate dream had ruined them.

If they wanted to pass on a message to each other, they could just scrawl it on the back of their hand and have it show up on the other's in a matter of moments. Convenient, but...

Some days, the hero woke up with kiss-bruised lips like a personal attack, and some times the villain woke up with an eager mark upon their throat. When the villain charmed and seduced, it was the hero who would buckle weak-kneed against a wall too at the onslaught of touch and feeling. Some times, the villain told their partner to do exactly what the hero had always done, playing the memories like a tune on the hero's skin as they lay alone in their bed.

They were never sure if the villain meant that as fondness or cruelty. They weren't sure if the villain knew either.

Little signs of life. Little signs of I am here and I will always be here.

They had rules. There had to be rules when anything one of them physically felt was echoed in ghost in the other - pain, pleasure, all of it thrumming in a connection that they could try to drown out, but couldn't.

Mostly, they kept to the rules. Mostly.

"I'm sorry," the hero said then, softer - because when they'd felt the first punch land, when everything went to hell, their first thought had been for the villain. It always was.

I'm sorry I hurt you.

I'm sorry I scared you.

I'm sorry I did this to us.

"I'm just - sorry," the hero said.

"You look like crap," the villain replied, and let go. "You're coming home with me until you're less of a liability."

"Actually-"

"-Wasn't a request." The villain turned, and stalked away. "Come."

And the hero was tired, and aching, and they wanted a hot bath and a way out and a way back to before it all began. They didn't want the fight that would come if they provoked the villain any further on one day than they already had. They'd done that before.

So they followed.

And they let the villain take care of them.

And they tried not to let their stupid heart think it was anything other than self-preservation anymore.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Could I request a snippet about a hero who keeps getting possessed by the villain, and asks their sidekick to handcuff them to the bedposts. But then, the villain arrives.

Thanks in advance :)

The possessions were getting more frequent and, according to the hero, more difficult to shake.

"I'm not agreeing to this because I'm worried," the sidekick said, twisting the handcuffs between their fingers. "I think you're fine. And it's all going to be fine."

"Duly noted." The hero tried for a smile, but it was a wan thing. Between that and the dark circles beneath their eyes, all of the cracks of the hero's usually untouchable were showing.

Nobody could beat them in a fight - the sidekick had seen that - but a threat already under their skin might be the one thing the hero was vulnerable to.

The sidekick swallowed, and they both hesitated, floundered, beneath the new territory they found themselves in.

"This is just," the sidekick added, "to put your mind at ease."

"Yeah." The hero's gaze slid away. "So long as it is my mind, right?"

The sidekick didn't know what to say to that.

"Sorry," the hero said. They shifted back, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, exhaling a breath. "Thank you, for doing this."

"Eh, you know. Perks of the job." The sidekick tried for a smile, and they were pretty sure theirs had strained around the edges too. "Tying my incredibly hot boss to a bed. It's the worst thing ever."

The hero did laugh at that, which the sidekick felt an inordinate rush of pride at. At least, it seemed to diffuse some of the tension.

The sidekick inhaled a steadying gulp of air, because they weren't entirely lying about the incredibly hot part, and moved forwards.

The hero shuffled obligingly back to the headboard and spread their arms.

Mirrors surrounded the bed on every side, propped up against the walls, angled to catch the hero's deep brown eyes in their reflection.

"You need to make sure I can't escape." The hero's tone had turned more serious. "You won't win a fight against them in this - in my -" the hero stopped, and didn't finish.

"Yeah." That would be bad. The sidekick was ashamed to feel their fingers tremble a little, and they knew the hero felt it.

Worried! Who was worried? There was nothing remotely worrying about a villain taking residence in someone virtually indestructible. This was all peachy. So what if the times the hero spent possessed were getting both longer and closer together.

The sidekick cinched the hero's left and most dominant wrist first, securing it as tight as they could without risking nerve damage. Then they moved to the other side of the bed.

The hero seized hold of their arm.

The sidekick's breath stuttered. Their eyes met.

"Hurry." The hero's voice had gone hoarse. "I'm not going to be able to hold on much longer."

"You need to let go of me."

The hero looked down at their hand, as if surprised. Their fingers recoiled.

Okay, maybe the sidekick was worried. Just a little bit.

The sidekick continued as fast as they could, leaning over the hero to reach, willing their fingers not to fumble over the key. They should have practiced this more. How likely was it that the hero could break down a steel bed frame on pure strength? Their heart hammered.

"Whatever I say," the hero began - and stopped.

The sidekick pulled back, handcuffs locked, key tucked in their fist. "I know," they said. "Whatever you say, don't untie you. Not even if-"

The hero's legs swung, locking around the sidekick's waist and yanking them onto the bed as if they weighed no more than a ragdoll. The sidekick yelped, only just managing to keep hold of the two keys, colliding hard into the hero's chest.

The sidekick's gaze snapped up to the hero's face - exactly the same as ever - before darting to the reflection of the mirror. In the mirror, their face was nearly the same, but not quite. The hero's brown eyes had turned a ghostly blue.

This was not their hero.

But the sidekick had already known that.

"I could crush you," the villain said, almost conversationally. Their legs tightened where they curled around the sidekick. "Snap your ribs, right here, right now. So I suggest-"

The sidekick hurled the keys across the room, as far away as possible, where the villain couldn't possibly get them so easily. One hit and splintered a mirror with a loud crack, the other hit the ground with a clatter.

The villain's expression darkened, just for a moment.

The sidekick struggled to push themselves up, to twist free, but only succeeded in somewhat straddling the hero's body. They'd seen the hero lift cars with their bare hands - of course escaping their form would no be so easy. The sidekick clenched their jaw and glared down at the villain.

"Let go of me."

"Let me go first."

"That's not going to happen."

"Ah, I see. You enjoy being top of them, don't you? Your admirable hero, who seems so above you in every way, always so in control. Don't you just imagine making all those walls crumble?-"

"Shut up." The sidekick's cheeks flushed.

"Or maybe you always pictured it the other way around." The villain's head tilted, their fingers flexing in the cuffs with barely leashed danger. "Maybe you imagined they would use all that power of theirs to simply take what they want from you, hm?"

"This is desperate." The sidekick tried to jerk free again, uselessly. "And pathetic. So-"

"They don't feel the same way about you, alas."

The sidekick stopped, even when they didn't want to, even whey they shouldn't. Nothing the villain spoke of could be reliably claimed as the truth.

"They didn't even want to ask you for help today - they hated it," the villain said. "You're their little ward, their sidekick. You need to be protected, don't you? But I'm meeting you now, aren't I? Despite their very best useless efforts to keep me out. I can feel them fighting, you know, begging me not to hurt you. But they can't do anything about it."

The sidekick said nothing.

"How does it feel to know that they will never take you seriously? Never view you as an equal? Never even consider you as a contender for their heart?"

"It feels like you're talking," the sidekick bared their teeth, "because you know there's nothing else you can do. They've beaten you. Even in their body, you will always be a parasite, powerless except for what other people can give you."

The villain went silent again.

"I'd want you," the villain said. "You're as vicious as I am, when you want to be."

The sidekick wanted to cry at that comparison, hating the thought they were more like their enemy than their mentor, especially because some small part of them had always feared that it was true. Kindness seemed to come effortlessly to the hero, just like bravery, like all those virtues that the sidekick had to work so hard to emulate.

Of course, the hero would never return their feelings. The villain was blind if they ever thought the sidekick had expected that, however much the longing ached.

"Let. Go," the sidekick said, hating that their voice shook. "You're not going to get what you want from me. You can see their thoughts? Then you know that. I have my orders."

The villain's head tilted, considering them again.

"It's nice," the villain said. "To finally meet you."

And then they used the hero's strength to wrench the bed frame in two.

[the-modern-typewriter]

trying to find a writing from you and can’t find it 🥲 it’s the one where the hero is possessed and their sidekick ties their hands and the possessed one finally breaks the ties and says “it’s nice to finally meet you”

[the-modern-typewriter]

hey! I really love your work and I was wondering if you could do a lesbian villain x hero?

"Bit playing into tropes, isn't it?" the hero asked. "The femme fatale."

"Did you prefer my damsel in distress when we first met?" The villain smiled, passing a fizzing pink flute of sparkling wine over. She widened her eyes and touched the hero's bicep. "Thank you so much for saving me! You're so strong and good and pretty! I want to be just like you."

The hero glared, even as her face went hot at the memory. Of how utterly she'd been fooled. She took the flute automatically.

"I didn't think so," the villain said. "Don't come at the tropes, gorgeous, when you like them so much you can't stop staring."

"I don't like-" The hero gritted her teeth. "I'm staring to make sure you don't do anything evil."

"Morally ambiguous at best, darling. Everyone knows the femme fatales are morally ambiguous."

"Are they also insufferable?"

The villain laughed. More genuine than perfect. Enough to make something in the hero catch like they'd just drained their glass and swallowed a handful of stars. Light and giddy.

The hero released a breath. Why did this happen every time? The second she was in the villain's presence, hazy in her scent of violets and smoke, she felt too hot and stupid and like a particularly graceless bull in a china shop.

She tried again, cool. "Whatever you're planning tonight-"

"-Oh, you don't know?" The villain's smile notched wider. She clinked their glasses together. "Whatever. Cheers."

"Assassination," the hero snapped.

"If you say so."

"I know so." The hero's gaze scanned the party below them, finding the tech bro monster-come-idiot who'd foolishly taken the villain for eye candy thinking he could control her. "We're leaving. Right now."

The villain simply raised an eyebrow at that, her own attention flicking from where the hero's hand landed on her arm, back to the hero's face.

"I don't think you want to start a fight here. All the people screaming. So many cameras. Your complete lack of evidence."

"My evidence is that I know you."

"Yes," the villain said, soft and pleased. "You do."

The hero swallowed, thrown for a beat.

"So, assassination."

"I never kiss and tell. Not even to you. Though, given you're here, perhaps I don't need to."

"Will you come quietly?"

"Will you pick me up and throw me over your shoulder if I don't?"

The hero rolled her eyes and the villain smirked. Her hand slid up, half mockery of when they first met, part something else that was harder to read.

"You could simply be the better date," the villain said.

"...what."

"Seduce me away from my target," the villain said, "if you think I'm going to hurt them. If you know me. If you're sure." Her fingers flipped, expertly, grazing along the sensitive underside of the hero's wrist, stroking the path of a vein. "I can teach you, if you like."

The hero's grip tightened on her flute.

"Or I could just punch you," she said. If it was a little breathless, well...she was only trying not to be overheard. "Much more efficient."

"And damage this face? Tch. You're not a monster."

It was the hero's turn to laugh, despite herself. Too loud. Too bright. She pressed a hand over her mouth as people glanced curiously over at them.

"Come on. You must be bored of playing the angel," the villain murmured. "And, personally." She leaned in, caressing her lips against the hero's ear, "I think you'd make an amazing whore."

The sound that the hero made was truly embarrassing. She would have ranted about any girl who turned so weak at the knees in a fantasy novel, so it seemed the villain's greatest malevolence to make her feel that. Especially as a response to saying something like that.

The villain laughed again softly and drained her drink, before setting the glass aside to free up her hands.

"An unusual seduction technique," she said. "But it works for you. Quite adorable. Nobody would ever suspect you were capable of killing everyone in this room if you weren't so invested in being good."

"How do I know you're not just trying to distract me? Get me away from your target?"

"Do you mean 'how do you know you're not my target?'" The villain shrugged. "I suppose you'll find out. In the interest of playing devil's advocate, you are the one who told me to leave though. If anything, I'm being nice."

"Given it's you that's even more suspicious."

The villain grinned. "Maybe I just want to see your moves, given you seem fit to mock mine."

"I'm not-" The hero studied her, heart hammering. It was clearly a trap of some sort. Everything about her was a trap of some sort. The villain's eyes, glittering with her private amusements, revealed nothing. "I'm not trying to mock you. I just think you could be so much more than this."

"And I think you'd look good on your knees. We all have our opinions."

"Insufferable. Utterly insufferable."

"Blushing." The villain touched a hand to her cheek. "And I thought you didn't have any weaknesses."

"I don't! Certainly not to you."

"Then you have nothing to lose, don't you? Except someone else's life. But, let's be real, I would probably be doing the world a favour."

The hero opened her mouth to argue that, then closed it.

"Fine," she said. "But only because it's not like I'm planning to let you out of my sight."

"Mm, yes. You're very attentive."

"You don't have to say it like that."

"Part of being a femme fatale is saying everything with innuendo. Champagne." The villain caught her hand, bringing the hero's knuckles to her lips, kissing them gently. "Enchantee."

"Croissant?" the hero offered, mimicking the villain's dreamy velvet.

It was some kind of phenomenal acting that the villain honest to god giggled. "Butternut squash," she offered back, a moment later, in that oh so sultry tone.

The hero bit her lip to keep from laughing again.

The villain tipped her head, laughter and smirk fading, until it only lingered in her eyes once more. A secret for the two of them.

"First lesson," she said. "This is the bit where you ask me to dance."

"Would you like to dance?"

There was no assassination that night, or the next party, or the one after that. Six months in, thoroughly smitten, the hero had the dizzying feeling that she'd been the villain's actual target all along.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Tell me if there’s more but I’m finally done with the master list!!!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/10Y5hIXmjrZ2n5n5HN17LqMPsKqBnPcEzyLZUe0XZWWk/edit?usp=drivesdk

paperprinxe asked: Just realized there is…a lot more oops

Haha, yeah. I'm afraid there's a lot. Thank you for making a start! <3 It's more than I've ever done, so it's appreciated.

My account tells me this tumblr has 3200 posts so it's a hell of a masterlist to try and take on! I imagine that figure might iinclude throwbacks/reblogs of earlier posts, and it definitely includes the earlier writin prompts up to 2017 which are much shorter than the full snippets post Dec 2017.

Nonetheless, I imagine there is over a 1000 stories. So, like. Sorry.

Last time I started doing a back up (putting them into a word doc) back in like March 2024 the word count hit 370,000 and I did not get all the stories.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Could we get a love triangle where the rivals fall in love with each other instead of the intended love interest? (Would love if it's m/m and enemies to lovers)

"Tell me," Cassander murmured. "Is it that you don't like my hands on her, or simply that you wish I had my hands on you instead?"

Azael glared at the other fey. His jaw clenched with the sudden horrible realisation that the truth wanting to slip passed his lips wasn't "her" immediately and without question.

Cassander, bastard that he was, smirked at his silence. He sauntered closer, his gaze fixed on Azael with the disquieting familiarity of any good enemy. He wasn't like the human. Cassander didn't look at him he was some beautiful, otherworldly and magical thing. All positive qualities and power. A dream within a dream within a fantasy. Cassander looked at him like he knew every filthy, dark thing about him and still wanted to sink his teeth in for the rest. Rake out every lingering secret with clawed hands. Rend and own and conquer.

Cassander was not fragile and caring and brave. If Azael shoved Cassander into a wall, if he grabbed him by the shoulders, experience told him there would be no need to be gentle. No fear of breaking something fleeting and perfect.

It should have been about her. She was the better choice in every way. She should have been what he wanted.

"I think you're very quick to physically put yourself between me and her," Cassander continued, in a confiding sort of voice. "Quick to get in my face and see if I'll put you back down . I think, when the three of us are in a room together, I'm the one that you're always watching."

"That's because you're the one who can't be trusted."

"She's drawn to me."

"You're a high fey. She's a human. She can't help it."

"How very patronising and mildly misogynistic. Does she like that about you?"

"I'm trying to keep her safe!"

"Maybe she does," Cassander mused. "Certainly, it's been centuries since I've seen you so worked up. It's an excellent look on you, possessiveness. It reminds me that, no matter how civilised and cold you pretend to be these days, you're still just the vicious little scrap willing to fight every other member of my court. Aren't you?"

Azael seethed. Still, no good response could leave his mouth without damning him. He'd never envied the human's ability to lie quite so much as when Cassander was in the room. He'd never felt quite so much like his very blood was burning up in the heat.

Cassander's smirk grew.

"But what about you, Azael?" His head tilted, as he paused on the other side of the dining table. His voice was ancient music, fey-tongue, home. "Can you help it?"

"It's not my fault you're - maddening."

"Maddening, am I?"

"The worst."

Azael realised, abruptly, that he'd leaned in across the table to snarl the words into Cassander's beautiful face. There were mere inches between them.

What would Cassander do, if it was the human, standing where Azael was? No doubt he'd be charming. He was never charming to Azael.

Their eyes met.

"Kiss me," Cassander ordered.

Without thinking, savagely, Azael did. He tangled his fingers in Cassander's hair and yanked, half hauling him across the table. He bit down claiming at Cassander's lips. He only stopped when he felt Cassander laugh with feral glee against his mouth.

They broke apart. Cassander's eyes were dark, devouring.

"I guess you can't help it, either," Cassander said. He licked his lips. Slow. Taunting. "So how can you hold it against her? Maybe you should apologise."

"Stay away from her."

"Why?"

"Because -" Azael drew in a breath. He could still imagine the heat of Cassander beneath his hands, the scent of him, the wily danger of the summer court's most favoured son. "Because I said so. And you're in my court."

"Would you like me to leave?"

"I'd like you bloody well kiss me again."

It slipped out. Too lacking in the silver that was supposed to coat his frozen tongue.

Cassander grinned with the same triumphant smile he'd once had on the battlefield. He rounded the table, pushing Azael down into the chair and straddling his lap.

"I'll have to send our sweet girl a fruit basket," he said. He mockingly, gently, tucked Azael's hair back from his flushed face. "She might just make an honest thing of you yet."

"You-"

Then he kissed Azael, and Azael realised he was well and truly screwed.

Him.

Maybe it had always been about him.

Damn it.

[the-modern-typewriter]

I love your writing so much, it always makes my day when I see that you have a new post, so firstly, thank you!!

If you would be interested, could you do a sapphic snippets where instead of the village chief, a villager has to tell the ruler that they cannot pay the tithe that month.

"You're not the village chief."

"No, my lady," Linette said, as if that wasn't already obvious. "I have come in his stead on behalf of the village. He is not well."

She had never been to the Whitewater estate before. She'd seen it in passing every day - it was impossible to miss the grand, imposing manor on the hill. It cast the entire village in its opulent shadow. It was as beautiful inside too as one might expect, and just as achingly expensive even at a glance.

A fire, bringing the closest thing Linette had felt to warmth that winter so far, roared in one corner of the room. She shivered as its heat washed over her. Fine, plush rugs sank beneath her tired feet. The curtains on the vast windows were a thick, heavy velvet.

The woman sitting before her matched the building, in all ways except for her age. The Lady Whitewater had the same crafted loveliness, the same air of having been well-taken care of by many invisible hands. Her golden hair was pinned in an elaborate braid, studded through with flowers and fine hair pins that glittered in the light of the chandelier above them. There was something entrancing about her. She was nothing like the other women in the village.

"You are not..." Linette hesitated. She had expected the Lord Whitewater; a refined, somewhat severe, middle aged gentleman who attended her village but once a year in person.

"I am not the Lord Whitewater, no," she said. "My husband is indisposed."

Husband. She had heard that the Lord Whitewater had been engaged the previous summer, but never seen the bride before. According to the local gossip she was quite an uncommon woman, very learned, very beautiful, and very, very wealthy. Some said she was an invalid. The Lady Whitewater did not look in any poor health at all. She was radiant.

They stared at each other, and the surprise and the sight of her was enough that Linette could nearly forget why she had come. Nearly. Remembering it sharply, she looked down at her worn boots with the proper deference for meeting one such as the esteemed Lady Whitewater.

"You are here about the tithe from the village?" the Lady prompted. Her voice, too, had something delicate and musical about it. Like dusted sugar on a cake, something that Linette wanted to hold on her tongue and savour.

But that was just it. Linette's jaw clenched as she forced herself to focus. "We can't. Not this month. There's already -" Your husband's demands are high, my lady, cruelly and unjustly so. Her face flushed. She didn't say it. "We have nothing to give you. I'm sorry."

The apology felt rancid in her mouth, even as she spoke it. She was not sorry. Not when they were hungry and cold and this room made it clear that the Lady had more than enough already.

Of course, the residents of the Whitewater estate offered protection in response for their tithe. But what good was protection against some strange and foreign force, against outsiders, when they wouldn't make it through the season if they gave all they had away?

"I wouldn't say nothing," the Lady said. "I wouldn't say that at all."

Linette's gaze flicked up.

The Lady's eyes were hypnotic, almost, and wasn't that a strange thing to think? Her attention was almost hungry, with a force of desire that rocked Linette to the core. She couldn't remember anyone ever looking at her before. At least, never a woman, although there had been times she might have hoped...she shoved the thought away.

The Lady smiled at her, benevolently. "At the very least," she continued, "there's you, isn't there?"

It took Linette a long moment to fully register the words. They turned her mouth dry. "Me? My lady?"

The Lady seemed to rise from her seat with preternatural swiftness, appearing before Linette.

"What is your name, dear girl?"

Linette wet her lips, nervously. The Lady Whitewater was still smiling that kind and gracious smile. It was, dare she say it, pretty. Confusing. She'd come here to fight, or maybe plead, and she wasn't sure-

The Lady took her hands, squeezing them gently, reassuringly. Her fingers were cold.

"Linette, my lady."

"Linette. My husband is an exceptionally busy man," she said. "He spends a great amount of time running around the countryside, with his silver bullets and his water blessed by far-away priests. He keeps your roads free from monsters. You must know this."

"I have never seen any monsters," Linette said. She'd always privately thought the whole thing a lie.

"Of course you haven't," the Lady said. "You are young, and your village chief always made sure to pay his tithe exactly on time. Why do you think he sent you, of all the village girls?"

It took a moment for that to register too.

"He expected my husband, no doubt," the Lady said. One of her hands moved up, deft touch unravelling Linette's hair free from its bun, letting the dark strands cascade down over her shoulders and around her face. "But I'm more than happy to accept you myself."

Linette willed herself to move, but couldn't seem to do more than stare.

"I - I'm not sure I-"

The Lady tucked a strand of Linette's hair carefully behind her ear, and Linette sucked in a sharp breath as the touch lingered.

"And in return," the Lady murmured, "your village will maintain both its protection from monsters, its crops, and your gold for market trade. How does that sound?"

"What is it, exactly, that you would require of me?" Linette asked, with a feeling she might know. She felt a little dizzy. A little too warm. A little...well, it was shameful to feel excited by the prospect, if she was even right. She didn't like anything that the Lady stood for. What did it matter that she was the most elegant and otherworldly creature that Linette had ever seen? "You must have many servants already."

"None so sweet as you."

"Monsters aren't real. Not the monsters you speak of." She squared her shoulders, and knew her defiance might only bring trouble because she was always being scolded for it, but... "Only the human monsters of greed, of those who would demand more when they already have plenty."

The Lady's smile broadened, and were her teeth? No, no of course not...

"If you feel that way, I will not prevent you from returning to your home."

Linette remembered the urgency of the village chief, the haunted look in his eyes. She didn't move.

"One month," she said instead. "And then we can pay in full next time."

"One month, and of course, if you would prefer to pay in some other means next time..."

Linette released a slightly shaky breath and nodded.

"Wonderful," the Lady said. She pulled Linette closer, and sealed their agreement with a kiss. Chaste and intoxicating all at once. "I am expecting a few more visitors for tithes still today, so you can make yourself at home in the meanwhile until I am free. A hot bath, perhaps? Some tea? You must be freezing, my dear girl."

It all happened so fast, in the end.

By the end of the month, guiltily, she didn't want to go home at all.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Frosty Family Relations

Inspired by this prompt:

By @the-modern-typewriter

(her patreon stuff is just as amazing as her tumblr stuff with the added bonus that you get more continuations)

---

"When did you learn first aid?" the protagonist questioned, watching his little sister meticulously care for the deep cut over his ribs.

The antagonist rolled her eyes sending a stab of nostalgia through him. "It has been six years since we were last in the same room as each other."

"And you've been...working for Frost all this time?"

She sighed, long suffering and let out a small brittle laugh. "You don't have to say it like that."

His brow furrowed. "Like what?"

"You always did underestimate me." She tied off his stitches and applied disinfectant with a slightly rougher hand than she'd been using.

He hissed softly at the sting. "I'm not-- I didn't mean--" he sucked a breath in and tried again. "I just thought better of you."

Her eyebrows shot up but she kept her focus on wrapping the bandages around him. "Better of me? What does that even mean?"

He shook his right hand where a cuff conected him to the medical bench, unable to resist the bait "You're a traitor." He could only manage a whisper but the words were still sharp and he immediately wished he could snatch them back right out of the air between them.

She fixed her steely gaze on him, dropping her hands from his newly fixed up side. Those eyes that were so familiar yet belonged to a stranger now.

"Traitor? I'm a traitor?"

He looked down at his hands, the room growing icy in a way that only she could make it, power radiating off of her. He didn't know how to confess that the day she left was the day he was lost. Older brothers are supposed to be strong protectors, able to save their little sisters from the pain of their family home. But he had failed her. She had run. And he had spiraled. The only thing he could salvage was that identity. Maybe she didn't think of him as her big brother anymore. But he protected the city. He could save everyone. Anyone. Someone. He'd make up for it.

When he didn't answer she grabbed the back of his neck, fingers as cold as a corpse's. His eyes reluctantly met hers, not sure how to hide his unshed tears. She chuckled, harsh and cruel in a way he had never heard from her. "I am no traitor. And I don't work for Frost. I am Frost."

He stopped breathing, watching her face for signs of deceit. But she had never been one to lie or even bluff. She always made certain she was holding all the cards. And indeed she was.

"You-- you're--" he stuttered, his brain refusing to connect what he knew of his baby sister to the supervillain Frost.

She gave him a pitying look and rubbed a thumb at the base of his neck where her hand still rested. "Always playing the hero. But you're still the same scared boy who couldn't even move out of Dad's house."

He cringed, shame landing in his gut like a stone. It wasn't fair. He had found his sister. Why did it feel like he was losing her all over again?

"Don't worry." She straightened, dropping her hand. The room returned to a normal temperature. "Neither of us are going anywhere, anytime soon. See you at dinner."

[the-modern-typewriter]

hey! I really love your work and I was wondering if you could do a lesbian villain x hero?

"Bit playing into tropes, isn't it?" the hero asked. "The femme fatale."

"Did you prefer my damsel in distress when we first met?" The villain smiled, passing a fizzing pink flute of sparkling wine over. She widened her eyes and touched the hero's bicep. "Thank you so much for saving me! You're so strong and good and pretty! I want to be just like you."

The hero glared, even as her face went hot at the memory. Of how utterly she'd been fooled. She took the flute automatically.

"I didn't think so," the villain said. "Don't come at the tropes, gorgeous, when you like them so much you can't stop staring."

"I don't like-" The hero gritted her teeth. "I'm staring to make sure you don't do anything evil."

"Morally ambiguous at best, darling. Everyone knows the femme fatales are morally ambiguous."

"Are they also insufferable?"

The villain laughed. More genuine than perfect. Enough to make something in the hero catch like they'd just drained their glass and swallowed a handful of stars. Light and giddy.

The hero released a breath. Why did this happen every time? The second she was in the villain's presence, hazy in her scent of violets and smoke, she felt too hot and stupid and like a particularly graceless bull in a china shop.

She tried again, cool. "Whatever you're planning tonight-"

"-Oh, you don't know?" The villain's smile notched wider. She clinked their glasses together. "Whatever. Cheers."

"Assassination," the hero snapped.

"If you say so."

"I know so." The hero's gaze scanned the party below them, finding the tech bro monster-come-idiot who'd foolishly taken the villain for eye candy thinking he could control her. "We're leaving. Right now."

The villain simply raised an eyebrow at that, her own attention flicking from where the hero's hand landed on her arm, back to the hero's face.

"I don't think you want to start a fight here. All the people screaming. So many cameras. Your complete lack of evidence."

"My evidence is that I know you."

"Yes," the villain said, soft and pleased. "You do."

The hero swallowed, thrown for a beat.

"So, assassination."

"I never kiss and tell. Not even to you. Though, given you're here, perhaps I don't need to."

"Will you come quietly?"

"Will you pick me up and throw me over your shoulder if I don't?"

The hero rolled her eyes and the villain smirked. Her hand slid up, half mockery of when they first met, part something else that was harder to read.

"You could simply be the better date," the villain said.

"...what."

"Seduce me away from my target," the villain said, "if you think I'm going to hurt them. If you know me. If you're sure." Her fingers flipped, expertly, grazing along the sensitive underside of the hero's wrist, stroking the path of a vein. "I can teach you, if you like."

The hero's grip tightened on her flute.

"Or I could just punch you," she said. If it was a little breathless, well...she was only trying not to be overheard. "Much more efficient."

"And damage this face? Tch. You're not a monster."

It was the hero's turn to laugh, despite herself. Too loud. Too bright. She pressed a hand over her mouth as people glanced curiously over at them.

"Come on. You must be bored of playing the angel," the villain murmured. "And, personally." She leaned in, caressing her lips against the hero's ear, "I think you'd make an amazing whore."

The sound that the hero made was truly embarrassing. She would have ranted about any girl who turned so weak at the knees in a fantasy novel, so it seemed the villain's greatest malevolence to make her feel that. Especially as a response to saying something like that.

The villain laughed again softly and drained her drink, before setting the glass aside to free up her hands.

"An unusual seduction technique," she said. "But it works for you. Quite adorable. Nobody would ever suspect you were capable of killing everyone in this room if you weren't so invested in being good."

"How do I know you're not just trying to distract me? Get me away from your target?"

"Do you mean 'how do you know you're not my target?'" The villain shrugged. "I suppose you'll find out. In the interest of playing devil's advocate, you are the one who told me to leave though. If anything, I'm being nice."

"Given it's you that's even more suspicious."

The villain grinned. "Maybe I just want to see your moves, given you seem fit to mock mine."

"I'm not-" The hero studied her, heart hammering. It was clearly a trap of some sort. Everything about her was a trap of some sort. The villain's eyes, glittering with her private amusements, revealed nothing. "I'm not trying to mock you. I just think you could be so much more than this."

"And I think you'd look good on your knees. We all have our opinions."

"Insufferable. Utterly insufferable."

"Blushing." The villain touched a hand to her cheek. "And I thought you didn't have any weaknesses."

"I don't! Certainly not to you."

"Then you have nothing to lose, don't you? Except someone else's life. But, let's be real, I would probably be doing the world a favour."

The hero opened her mouth to argue that, then closed it.

"Fine," she said. "But only because it's not like I'm planning to let you out of my sight."

"Mm, yes. You're very attentive."

"You don't have to say it like that."

"Part of being a femme fatale is saying everything with innuendo. Champagne." The villain caught her hand, bringing the hero's knuckles to her lips, kissing them gently. "Enchantee."

"Croissant?" the hero offered, mimicking the villain's dreamy velvet.

It was some kind of phenomenal acting that the villain honest to god giggled. "Butternut squash," she offered back, a moment later, in that oh so sultry tone.

The hero bit her lip to keep from laughing again.

The villain tipped her head, laughter and smirk fading, until it only lingered in her eyes once more. A secret for the two of them.

"First lesson," she said. "This is the bit where you ask me to dance."

"Would you like to dance?"

There was no assassination that night, or the next party, or the one after that. Six months in, thoroughly smitten, the hero had the dizzying feeling that she'd been the villain's actual target all along.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Where do you get inspiration for all of your ideas? You seem to never run out! And some have really been a surprise twist!

1. I get a lot of requests, which helps. It gives my brain a starting point. Sometimes too many ideas looks functionally the same as no ideas, you know?

2. I know my genre and my own back catalogue. That makes it a lot easier to think 'well, what could happen that I haven't already done/hasn't already been done?' What other choices or outcomes could there be? Because I've been writing heroes and villains since like 2015, so some days I do feel like I must have done everything haha. It forces me to get a bit creative.

3. Most of my pieces run on character, not on plot. I can usually think of how someone might emotionally feel about something before I can think of a cool plot. The emotions thus drive the plot. Once you have a strong set of characters or premise you can sort of just...play it out. If the characters and their emotions are different, the exact same scenario would happen differently, you know?

4. Reading and watching stories helps fill the creative bucket. Writing doesn't happen in a vacuum. It's when you see good things or (sometimes) bad things and go ooh, but what if?

5. Tumblr snippets in particular are short. I don't need to come up with a whole unique story with a fleshed out character arc. Just a scene, a particularly interesting or high-impact moment. That also helps. It's the fun bits of writing without the connective tissue required for long-form or more structured work.

Regarding tumblr snippets and hero/villain, the back catalogue/hero x villain community on tumblr has grown enough that there's a shared sense of understanding. Or something. People know the familiar tropes. They have expectations for what a villain is and what a hero is. That makes it easier to play with those tropes and with expectations. It's not quite the same as starting from scratch. So, again, you can get more unusual takes because people know the usual takes.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Any reason you unpinned your book?

Creating room for new and exciting things :)

I'm still very proud of my book!

[the-modern-typewriter]

I absolutely love your writing. Any advice on how to get as good as you?

Practice! (I've been writing pretty regularly for at least 15 years, not to discourage you, just to highlight that it's a learned and very much practiced skill). It doesn't matter what format this practice takes - fanfiction, tumblr snippets, boldly jumping into your first novel, trying to write out a short story idea. Just sit down and actually write. That's the single most important thing in my opinion.

Figure out what you like writing about. This doesn't have to be one thing. But you're going to be spending a lot of time with your writing projects, so while you will inevitably go through periods of not feeling it, it's important that it excited you once. Be a little bit obsessed by your niche, or your love of enemies to lovers, or whatever. Be self-indulgent.

Remember that 80% of great writing is actually good editing skills. Your ability to come up with ideas and a good story or lovable characters is a different skill to beautiful prose and execution. It's okay to get the story/idea down and then work on perfecting it with study/second opinions whatever. If you are editing, leave at least a 2 week period or something so you can see the piece with fresh eyes.

Read books and learn about writing. Figure out what you like in the books you like and why. Or, what you don't like. Equally important. You will find, as you drill down to different stories, that they often have a similar structure that you can draw from in your own work, etc. However, don't necessarily feel tied to this. It's useful as a jumping point to know craft, but it's ultimately a creative medium. If you're doing what you're doing for a reason and it feels right for your story, then it's probably valid.

I hope this helps!