dominque-writes

[dominque-writes]

LATIN PROMPT SERIES #3

sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc

She had nothing to say to him anyway, just brought her favourite goblet to her lips to swallow its contents. They came in a pair, one of his better gifts. A delicate crystal cup, cobalt blue. Vines twisted up the stem, sprouting into bladed leaves at the cup base, intricate right down to the veins. 

Never let it be said that she did not love him. Were her heart empty, she surely would have left him to die alone. Instead, she sat back on their marital bed, devotion evident in her respect for what they once had - undying loyalty, passionate adoration - in how she lay witness to his fleeting last moments.

She drains the goblet. With the rising sun, she would have a body to bury and a kingdom to rule.

[dominque-writes]

To think, in another life, with better circumstances, she would have been flattered he remembered how she took her coffee.

Incredible. He was moments away from poisoning the city's water supply and she was thinking about coffee dates.

[dominque-writes]

hi! idk if u take requests or not, but i love ur writing and was wondering if you'd do a set of prompts for a superhero duo? like begrudging partners

thank youuu 💖

1) Hero / Anti-Hero - Meeting Times

"You're late."

"Nuh-uh. I'm not late, you're early."

The Hero grits their teeth. "We said 9PM."

"You said 9PM. I actually have a life, so you're lucky I showed at all." Mask peeled up to their nose, lower half of their face exposed, the Anti-Hero had a colourful bendy straw dangling from their lips as they slurp up the contents of a milkshake.

"This," bites out the Hero, "was your idea."

The Anti-Hero gives a particularly obnoxious yawn, paired with a matching wide-armed stretch. "So? I don't recall appointing you as my mother. Hop off my dick."

Biting their tongue, the Hero has to fight to keep themself from dignifying the Anti-Hero with a response.

"I'm gonna take your silence as a hearty sign that we agree. I'm right on time." The Anti-Hero holds out their milkshake. "Want a sip?"

If looks could kill, the Hero would've broken their moral code five times over by now.

2) Hero / Anti-Hero - Kill Rule

Shit hit the fan the exact second the Anti-Hero showed up. The Hero had things under control, to whatever extent they could with their no-kill rule, but the Anti-Hero had no such dilemma.

Goon bodies dropped, both dead and for cover, as the Anti-Hero sprayed the contents of two handguns across the room. Blood, chaos, and screaming clouds the space, painting death every where the Hero looks.

"No killing!"

"No what?!" the Anti-Hero shouted over their shoulder. "I can't hear you over all this killing!"

Familiar frustration rose in the Hero's chest as the Hero yelled back over the gunfire. "I said, no killing!"

"What?! Oh!" The gunfire on the Anti-Hero's end peters to a stop. Just the metallic ricochet of bullet shells rolling on cold concrete floors. Unfortunately, one bloodied, beaten goon made the mistake of trying to push to his feet.

The Anti-Hero pops a bullet in his skull without so much as a glance over their shoulder.

"What the hell was that?!" Hero snaps, feeling damn close to stamping their foot like a child out of pure frustration. This alliance was already controversy, considering their oppositional stances on the value of human life, and now it was killing people.

"Chill out, dude, I thought you said no quilting."

Quiltingareyoufuckingserious- "That is nothing like what I just said!"

"Obviously I couldn't hear you, man, don't bite my head off."

"Just- just-" The Hero splutters, overwhelmed with the life already lost, cleaning up this particular portion of the criminal underbelly, and - apparently - babysitting the Anti=Hero on top of it all. "No more killing, alright?!"

Despite this, the Anti-Hero does empty a new handgun magazine into one last goon's head before this night's collaboration ended.

3) Hero / Anti-Heroine - Jewel Heist

"Oh, I'm so taking this."

The Hero whips around, sensing in his gut that his on-off crime-fighting partner was about to swap sides, just in time to see the Anti-Heroine dip her hand into the shattered glass case of the jewel display.

He's at her side in a split-second, catching her wrist before she can get ahold of the precious jewels they'd just prevented from getting stolen. "Cut it out, would you?"

"What? I did, like, really well today. Saved lives and whatnot, all entirely without benefit to myself. It's my reward."

"No."

"But it's so tiny, they won't even notice it's gone." Again, she reaches for a sapphire jewel that the Hero would never, ever refer to as tiny.

"It is its own exhibit, Anti-Heroine," hisses the Hero, "so I think they will know somebody took it."

"They wouldn't know it was me. Bet they'd write it off as collateral damage."

"I promise they would know it was you. Okay, just- Look, the work itself is the reward."

The Anti-Heroine tilts her head, questioning.

"Uh, you know. Gratitude of the people? Knowing you did the right thing? Pretty... rewarding, emotionally."

"Right..." The Anti-Heroines rolls her eyes, shaking her head as if the Hero was the one not understanding here. "Well, I can't buy new shoes with gratitude and high fives. C'mon, what about just the red one?"

"I said no."

"Fine, I'll settle with the incy-wincy emerald. Matches my eyes, don't you think?"

"Anti-Heroine, I swear to all that's holy-"

She scoffs, but withdraws her hand in favour of crossing her arms over her chest. "You're no fun."

4) Hero Sidekick / Villain Minion- Rescuing Mentors

"-Or, hear me out, we do my plan and it might actually be good."

"My plan is good," the Sidekick bites out. "It minimises civilian casualties and property damage, whilst ensuring we can get to our mentors in the shortest preferable time."

"Your plan is lame. Nothing even blows up. What I am supposed to do with all these bombs I brought?"

The Sidekick eyes the dufflebag trapped snugly under the Minion's foot. "You didn't, right?"

"Like I'd tell you, nerd," says the Minion snarkily. "Your goody-two-shoes ass would confiscate my shit so fast."

"God, you're immature."

"Immature?" The Minion gives a ridiculing laugh, clearly enjoying the act of winding the Sidekick up. "I'm immature? Didn't you literally just graduate from high school?"

The Sidekick splutters, taken aback. "I've been in college for like, two years!"

"Huh. My bad, I didn't know you were just short. Maybe stick to the high school thing. Or invest in heels." Kicking back in their chair, the Minion kicks their feet up, boots now irritatingly close to the Sidekick's face. "Anywho, your plan is all well and good if we have to be totally boring. But how, oh smartypants supreme, do you suggest we get past their primary and secondary reinforced drop-doors without brute force?"

"... I hadn't thought about that."

"So you were wrong." They give a theatric yawn before nocking a forefinger back at their now blank expression. "This is me shocked, stunned, and flabbergasted."

"I'll kill you."

"Ooh, Moral-lad McBuzzkill wants to murder me, I'm sooo threatened." The Minion presses their hands to their face, a picture of mock, exaggerated fear pulling onto their facial expression. "I'm just quivering in my floral Chanel combat boots."

The Sidekick's hands ball into fist, holding their rising anger and frustration back by a weakening threat. Maybe they can list supernatural patience to their resume as a new superpower.

5) Hero / Antihero - Stakeout

"Can you get off the phone?"

The Hero glowers, pulls their phone from their ear and ghosts their hand over the mouthpiece, and hisses, "I'm on the phone."

"Yes, I have eyes."

"So. Shut up."

The Anti-Hero forces out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. They lean back against the parapet wall of the rooftop the pair were stationed on, chin balanced on the palm of their hand as they stare intently at the Hero. Fully intending to disrupt them without saying a word, throw them off their precious conversation.

It takes less than a minute for the Hero glare and stop talking to hold the phone away again. "Do you need something?"

"Oh, only if you can slot it into your super busy schedule, Mister Important," says the Anti-Hero, tone slick with mock sincerity.

"What is it."

"Okay, so do you remember that high security vault we were supposed to be watching?" The Anti-Hero says, taking their sweet time to get to the point out of petty vengeance. "Y'know, the one containing that death weapon some major-league baddies wanna steal?"

The Hero rolls their eyes. "Ugh, yes?"

"It's totally getting robbed right now."

"Oh, shit."

[dominque-writes]

monster concept: lookalikes

They're adaptive, ever-evolving humanoid creatures with the ability to shapeshift into a human individual of their choice. They can take the form of any human they make skin-to-skin contact with, but they will often revert back to their first assimilated form. Without a primary, these creatures are hideous. We refer to these initial forms as ‘primaries’, of which they have disposed of the original. The resemblance is impeccable, exact; they mastered our faces long ago. They sound just like you and me, your neighbour, your childhood best friend, your own mother. They infested humanity, taken over those in positions of high status and those with significant political influence. They'll outnumber us quicker than we'll know, if they haven't already.

Those few who survived a lookalike encounter describe them as shriveled, bald creatures featuring human-like proportions, with gnarled/webbed fingers, slit noses, toothless mouths, and chameleon-like eyes. They’re very quick when they want to be. Upon getting killed, their primary face will drain away and they’ll be reverted back. They are aware of their ugliness, and actively prefer and seek out the more attractive human form.

Their strengths are their superior intelligence and strategic planning, as well as their incredible manipulative tendencies. But their fatal flaw is linked to arrogance.

They don't hate humanity, they simply want to be us. And there isn't enough room for the both of us.

[dominque-writes]

prompt fill: the one left behind

The Villain was dead at last. The battle was finally over. The Hero, the picture of altruism and courage itself, is carried on the shoulders of their friends to celebrations of each and every kind. Parades are held, parties are thrown. It was like it would never end. People are happy, the streets are safe, and peace has returned to the city. 

But the Villain’s home was silent. Their beloved companion, a scruffy little mutt puppy they’d rescued off the street, rushes to the door. He felt that enough time had passed, and that meant their owner would be home very soon. 

It was the best routine ever. Footsteps approach, the keys jiggle in the lock, the door opens. He would see them and he’d yip and jump all over them and let them lift him into their arms, and they’d scold him with doting, adoring affection in their voice. Anytime now.

But more time passes. The sun sets. Fireworks are set off in the far, far distance. His wagging tail slows to a stop. 

His owner was never late. That was how it was, that was the routine. He gives a soft, yearning whine nobody was around hear, and tucks into a tight ball before the door. He rests his head on his paws, ears pricked up for any hint of those footsteps.

He would wait. As long as it took, he would wait.

[dominque-writes]

i've been all three

(hears a song lyric) this would make a great all-lower case fanfiction title

[dominque-writes]

prompt: unconditional love

"I'm worried about you."

“It is none of your business.”

Malachi crosses his arms, shoving down the fear and rage that'd been festering in his gut since Roy disappeared. "I haven't seen you in weeks. You could've been dead in a ditch."

"Are you nagging me right now? What are you, my wife, Mal?" Roy snaps, cold and stern.

"Right. Because God forbid, Roy, somebody gives a damn if your ass is breathing. Something happened, and you vanished off the face of the Earth. I got scared, so sue me. Then next thing I know, you're back out of the blue with some metal mask on your face, lookin' like scifi Phantom of the Opera-"

"Shut your damn mouth."

Roy's tone is ice and venom, and Malachi really should do as he says and back down.

But Malachi doesn't. "No! I searched everywhere for you! Couldn't find you nowhere, and you pop back up like nothing happened! That mask is creepy as shit, and it's not helping with your ass being all shadowy about it-"

"You want to see? Really? Fine. Fine!" Roy’s hand comes up, the tips of his fingers hooking into the perimeter of the metal plate stretched across the right side of his face, and tears it off in one go. Roy fixes him with an expectant, pointed look. "Happy?"

Malachi is stalled for a moment to take it in, gaze sliding from Roy's alluring, angry eyes to the now-exposed cheek. Rough scar lines are etched into his skin, crudely stitched together into jagged cords of raised flesh. 

Somebody - his fucking boss, likely - had carved Roy's face up. And obviously had the wounds stitched up in a manner that properly maintained the damage, intended to ensure he has been permanently maimed. A message. A warning. He had been mutilated to prove that even top soldiers like Roy Finnegan aren't protected if they cross the Boss.

For the first moment, Roy looked volatile. Angry. Almost violent, daring him to recoil in disgust. Expecting him to recoil in disgust, prepared to guard against seemingly inevitable rejection like water off a duck's back. But as Malachi looked on without any of that to be seen, the hard guise on Roy’s face subtly softened into something else entirely. 

Devastation and vulnerability rolled into one, shallowly masked under the poor imitation of his usual stony expression. It was as if he could barely stand to uphold eye contact. Anticipation. Insecurity. Malachi recognised what this was. That what he chose to say next mattered. 

"It just…" Malachi starts, slowly, "confirms what I've feared for a while now."

"And what, exactly, would that be?" His tone is almost accusing, borderline aggressive. Ready to punish him for something he hadn't done. Again, just expecting him to do it.

"That you'll always be beautiful to me."

Malachi wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say, or if it was what Roy wanted to hear. Roy was a creature of habit, precision, and pride. His beauty and physical perfection was his prized weapon. It was a significant part of what made him such an efficient killer, but Malachi  knew him well enough to understand it also sourced a bulk of his self-worth. It was how they met, how they fought and kissed and clashed, and how they got up to this point at all. But here, now, it was how he sincerely felt. 

Something in Roy’s demeanour, his hardened expression, cracks. Crumbles. Melts. He sets his jaw, some muscle twitching on the intact side of his face, breaks their eye contact when he turns his head.

Hesitantly, as to not startle him, Malachi moves in close and reaches to ghost his hand over the crude lines carved into Roy’s cheek. Cups his face in his palm, gentle like to keep the gesture from hurting. Turns his head to have Roy look him in the eye, swipes the pad of his thumb under his watering eye.

"I mean it. I would give anything to have you believe me."

"I don't- I don't like having my face touched." Roy's bottom lip quivers briefly, before he presses his lips into a tight line. He doesn’t resist when Malachi reins him in.

"You're still beautiful." Their noses bump together, Roy's forehead pressed to his own. And Roy leans into his touch like he was starved of it, like he can't get enough. Malachi's free hand slides up the back of his neck into the short hairs at the base of his skull, holding him close. "You're so beautiful."

“You’re just saying-” Roy’s voice cracks, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut. “You’re just saying that so I don’t kill you.”

He's saying it because it's true. Malachi hasn't been so honest in his life.

“A man can have two motives,” says Malachi lightly, trying at humour to ease the thick tension between them.

It startles a huff of a laugh out of Roy. “You’re an idiot.”

[dominque-writes]

prompt: bragging rights

Oh, it'd been a glorious battle between the Villain and the Masked Hero. Blows exchanged, a couple of thousand dollars worth of property damage, schemes thwarted, and only a rotator cuff tear to show for it on the Villain's end. Exhilarating, exciting. And, regardless, a close one for sure. So close that the fight did not technically have a winner, as the pair were interrupted by the city's cops storming their location.

But for the Villain, any battle not explicitly lost was a victory. Especially one that did not have any witnesses but the Masked Hero themself. And that goody-two-shoes didn't count, anyway. Therefore, it would be described as the Villain's victory to whatever bargoers they could rope into a very much one-sided conversation the next night.

Hours pass as the Villain recounts the battle between several drinks, with a handful of exaggerations here and there on top of a slight fib or two, of course. Bar patrons came and went, but one stayed throughout the entire partially-true narrative, seemingly enraptured. They sit on the stool beside the Villain, elbow braced on the counter, head balanced on their palm. Captivated by the Villain's charming flair and devilishly clever, cunning schemes, naturally.

Alas, all good bragging sessions must come to an end eventually.

"Well, my friend," this particular Stranger says, late into the night, as they push off the barstool. "I should be getting gone before I'm missed."

The Villain rolls their eyes playfully. "Ah, if you say so. Be a lamb and spread the word of my victory, would you? It was honestly- honestly just too glorious to keep all to myself."

"Of course," says the Stranger with an equally flippant laugh, paying their tab as they do. "I do hope your shoulder gets better soon. Joint injuries are truly a different breed of inconvenience."

The Villain nods thoughtfully as the Stranger takes their leave. The villain laughs to themself, drunk enough to give a parting friendly wave. It makes their shoulder twinge with a sharp bite of pain.

A realisation dawns in their hazy mind.

In all their bragging, the Villain hadn't told the Stranger about any injuries.

They stare after the Stranger, gone with the swinging door of the bar. Oh.

[dominque-writes]

monster concept: the seer keeper

A universe away, on a lonely forest giant encased in fog and mystery, an ancient creature lives in the shadows among the trees. A near forgotten figure, once a great seer and impassable guardian, now slinks across the planet with the knowledge of a mind god.

Tall, with spindly, elongated limbs, and enveloped in a cascading robe. Arched horns protrude from where the eye sockets would be on a humanoid face, a single big intelligent eye set in the vertical slit in the being's forehead. Her jaw, cheekbones, and neck are too long, skin too pale, smiling mouth too wide. Thinning, white hair rolls down her head and bony shoulders in wispy waves, strands catching on her horns. She is like a ghost in the grey haze, an apparition that you'd miss if you weren't looking. Sighting her is bound to send a chill down your spine, as if she already knows you better than you know yourself. As if knowledge itself had an aura that threatens to overwhelm. This creature had watched worlds and their societies rise and fall, watched branching bygone eras float by, yet was content to look you in the eye in the present and smile as if she hadn't.

And she is ancient, in every sense of the word. Her past is distant and unknowable, her skin is worn, calloused, and she knows the universe far better than any other living thing ever has and ever will. She carved knowledge out from the galaxies no being should be capable of learning, especially one who has not left that orphan planet in a millennia. Records of her name and age are lost to time, though she knows them she'd never tell, but she reaches into the infinite void of sentient thought to find what others they seek.

Alas, though, with age and isolation inevitably comes boredom. Her wise mental revelations are packaged in cryptic tricks and wordplay, borderline - albeit harmless - deception for her own amusement. With the Seer Keeper, knowledge comes at a different price, at the expense of obscurity and secrecy. Wrapped in riddles and locked behind a web of verbal opacity, presented as an enigma for you to solve. Oh, but what an invaluable gift it is to those focussed enough to solve it.

[dominque-writes]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)

[dominque-writes]

LATIN PROMPT SERIES #2

"ut ameris, amabilis esto"

Shoved to the ground at the foot of the throne, the hero has to bite back a grunt of pain as agony cracks up their knees. It’s more of an effort in this state, teeth sinking into tongue, but they manage. Mind over matter, after all. They refuse to give the villain the satisfaction of such a thing. It’ll never fucking happen.

“My darling,” croons the villain from where they’re perched on the throne, cocking their head in false sympathy. “How I missed you. Sick and tired of the dungeon, sweetheart?”

The hero seethes, grits their teeth. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, such foul language.” The villain rises from the throne, slinks uncomfortably close to the hero whilst still towering over their kneeling form. “You have to know it doesn’t faze me, don’t you? I’m afraid you simply aren’t a threat. Not like this. Not without your weapons and your army. Though, if you’re being literal, I would be…” The villain hooks a finger under their chin, forces them to meet their ravenous gaze, and smirks, “...happy to oblige.”

With their arms strapped behind their back, the hero is all but helpless to fight them off. Regardless, they jerk their jaw from the villain’s grip. 

“You disgust me,” they hiss, lips curled in a snarl. 

The villain chuckles, as if the hero is a naughty puppy. Then, they chide the hero with a mocking tsk, tsk, tsk. “Does somebody miss my dungeon? If you need more time to rethink your feelings for me, dear heart, I can provide that.” 

“My- my feelings,” the hero deadpans. Anger subsides in the hero for the briefest of moments, replaced with a cold, deadly calm. 

“Yes, your feelings.” The villain gives a dreamy sigh. “Love is preferable, of course. Dare I pray for your sweet affection. But I’d settle for hate in the meantime. I can allow for nature to run its course. The line cut between love and hate is oh, so thin, after all. For you, my darling, I’ll wait.”

At the sheer implication, the sheer audacity lacing the villain’s words like poison, the hero is left almost shaking with fury. The villain’s hand ghosting their cheek was the final straw, the match that lit the fire raging away in the pit of their gut, and that anger grants them the courage to spit in the villain's face.

The villain freezes, almost taken aback, as they raise the hand from the hero’s face to their own, wiping the saliva glob off. The hero’s retort is downright vicious. “Fuck. You.”

“Hate it is,” the villain says, disappointment in their tone as they wave over a guard. “Take them away.”

[dominque-writes]

prompt: bittersweet epilogue

She slips her hand into his and he wraps his arm around her, tugging her close to his chest. She goes easy to his embrace, leans her head on his chest and, together, they watch the city burn.

[dominque-writes]

Body aching and sore and broken, Evelyn reaches for the thick wires lining edges of the room. Pulls herself across the floor, over to the wall as agony shoots through her whole being. Leans against it, exhausted. She swallows a mouthful of thick, sickening copper.

He took her tongue out.

Blood rolls down between her fingers as she raps her knuckles against the cold, cold surface. Finds herself falling into a pattern.

...one, two, three... one... two... three... one, two, three...

Someone will hear it. Hear her. Save her. Someone has to.

Nobody hears her.

[dominque-writes]

prompt: mind over matter

“Don’t you feel completely and utterly stupid? What were you thinking, trying to take on someone like me? You know what I’m capable of.” The psion cocks her head to the side, watching as the young knight claws at the dirt ground as he tries to pull himself away from her. His sword lays discarded, out of his reach.

The blood coating it is no one’s but his.

Stabbed into him by his own noble hand, as she wished.

“All that effort,” she says, looking over her raised arms as if checking herself over, “and not even a scratch. You people keep coming to the outlands to ‘kill the mind witch’, each and every one of you thinking you’re more clever than your predecessor.” She sighs. “I don’t take joy in killing idiot men. But if you’re going to let yourselves into my home unannounced, I have no choice. You understand.”

She extends her hand, fingers outstretched. The essence of his mind sits in her palm as she has drawn it out.

“Please…” but he is ignored.

“I did nothing to you. Any of you. Nothing to deserve this, anyhow. I existed, is that a crime? Your people wish to burn me at the stake for it. You write your stories of my wickedness and make your children fear me. They grow to hate me.”

The psion moves to kneel at the knight’s side, free hand gripping his matted hair and forcing him to look at her. Forcing him to watch as she leverages her hand before him and begins closing her fist one finger at a time. “You grow, you train, you hunt me down. Allow me to pass on some advice for your next life, boy. Fighting a psion is pointless. We are of the telepaths. We know your every move before you do.”

And just like that, she squeezes her hand to a fist and, like a bowstring snapping in two, the knight’s mind is extinguished. His body falls limp. After a moment to catch her breath, she stands upright and brushes off her cloak.

“Foolish mortal.”

[dominque-writes]

LATIN PROMPT SERIES #1

"amore et melle et felle es fecundissimus"

Glass shatters, wine spilled, all of which is sent spewing across the tiled floor. The villain stumbles back against the dining table, caught off guard as they clutch at their throat. They choke, esophagus closing up quicker by the second.

Panicked, they snap their gaze up to the hero sitting across from them. Their partner, as fate had it, no matter how much encouragement the villain had to push for it to happen, was hardly concerned. Neutral. Unbothered, even.

“You.”

The facade and smile drop. “Yeah. Me.”

It gets to be too much. Knees buckling beneath them, the villain falls.

“I could’ve chosen something tasteless,” whispers the hero, their lover, their murderer. “Arsenic, or strychnine or something else you wouldn’t have noticed until hours after when I wasn't around to take the blame." When the hero smiles, it's shaky with emotion. They hold out their own glass of wine and tip it over so it pools red on the floor. "But I wanted to see this. I wanted you to know it was me. I wanted my face to be the last thing you ever see."

"But I-" The villain's chest seizes, lungs screaming and heart cracking with the betrayal. "I love- I love-"

"It's like what you told me when you caught me, isn't it? When you laughed in my face as you slaughtered my friends and put me in chains? You remember it, don't you? Because I do." The hero doesn't move from their seat, " 'Love is rich with honey and venom, and you are going to be oh, so sweet-'"

The villain’s face goes white and blue and their eyes positively bulge as lack of air gets to them. Unblinkingly, the hero watches. Like they don’t want to miss a moment.

"You defiled me, destroyed me, and had the gall to call it love," the hero says, and they push to their feet. Tears fill their eyes, a pinprick of one slides down their cheek as they hold their chin up high. Right eye. Happiness.

“They’ll- they’ll kill you for this-” rasps the villain.

And the hero laughs. Shameless, loud, maniacally. “They can’t kill me in a way that matters.” They give a little giggle, clasping their hand to their mouth. “Finally… after all these years, finally. I beat you. I’ve won.”

Even on the brink of death, the villain can't help but think the hero has never looked more beautiful than they do now. When they go to say as such, sour bile comes up in their throat and they’re cut off with a sickening cough. Clotty blood spills down their chin. Next thing they know, the hero has crouched beside them, and a shaking hand cups their cheek, thumb tracing their cheekbone.

“Die quietly, my love, I’ll be there to spit on your grave.”

[dominque-writes]

hey! I just wanted to ask if you're going to be doing any more of those heroes x villains prompts? i read your first one and i really liked it!

hi!! i certainly want to, so you can expect some more in the future. requests are always welcome.

[dominque-writes]

prompt: apocalypse

"Where the hell did you find a loaded gun? Ain’t they all supposed to be gone now?"

"I didn't." They pull the trigger. Click. "It's empty. They didn't know that though."

Their partner grins. “Nice one.”