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raineandsky · 2 days
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#103
“[Hero]? What’re you doing here?”
The hero throws their villain their best winning smile. “I’m here to invade, of course.”
“No, [Hero].” The villain takes two long steps towards them and grabs their face much too tightly between their hands. “No, you have to leave. Now.”
The hero can’t help but frown. “I won’t arrest you, darling, I promise.”
“It’s not that.” The villain’s words are getting faster, melding into frantic incoherence. “If [Supervillain] finds you here, you won’t get out.”
“She won’t know I’m here ‘til I’m putting cuffs on her wrists.”
The villain is practically a ghost with how pale they are. “I think you’re underestimating her, [Hero]. Please, go; I’ll explain at home.”
The villain takes a step away and the hero follows. They’d follow them anywhere. “You’re not in any danger with me. You know that.”
“I do.” The villain glances over their shoulder. “It’s you in danger. I’m telling you, she’ll—”
“[Villain].” The villain’s words cut short, their expression slipping into horror. “Who’s your little friend?”
They turn to face the supervillain, standing in the doorway. She’s about as casual as she can be—confident, nonchalant. “[Supervillain],” is the only thing the villain says.
She saunters in, like a tiger moving in on trapped prey. “You’ve been canoodling with a hero.”
It’s not a question. The villain drops their gaze. The hero’s hand finds their blade on their belt.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” the supervillain continues. “I always doubted you, [Villain]. I always knew you would betray me; you’re too soft.”
The supervillain moves before the hero can think to stop her. She grabs the villain and pulls them into her, her own dagger against their throat. To say the villain looks startled would be an understatement.
“You’re not, though, are you?” Her gaze settles sharply on the hero. “Your agency cuts you from pure steel, don’t they?”
“Let go of them.” It comes out almost as an instinct, like they’re just talking to any villain grabbing any civilian in a last ditch effort for carnage.
The villain’s hands are grappling at the supervillain’s wrists desperately, their eyes wide, their breath short. “Now, [Hero],” the supervillain continues smoothly, “you have one chance here. If you never see [Villain] again, I will consider their little liaison with you atoned for.”
“[Hero],” the villain says quietly, “Don’t— Don’t leave me with her—”
“Leave,” the supervillain says over them, “and I won’t have to kill them.”
The hero’s gaze flits between the villain and the supervillain. The abject terror on the villain’s face compared to the cold patience on the supervillain’s is sending anxieties rolling through the hero’s mind. What happens if they leave? What happens if they don’t?
The hero holds their hands up in defeat. “Okay,” they say quietly. “I’m going.”
A choked cry escapes the villain. The supervillain hums approvingly. “Best you turn around and get out then, hm?”
The hero backs to the door. The supervillain follows, the villain in tow. “Just don’t hurt them,” the hero says as they reach the door.
A henchman reaches through from the other side to grab the hero. They try to turn for an attack, but the henchman keeps his face conveniently out of reach, dragging them back through the doorway.
“Survival is not always a blessing, [Hero].” The supervillain smiles too wide, too ecstatically. The hero realises too late the mistake they’re making. “I’m sure I’ll make you realise that one day.”
With a deft kick, the door snaps shut. The henchman keeps a strong hold on them as they struggle to free themself. “Let it go,” he says shortly. “Consider yourself lucky to be leaving.”
They can hear the villain speaking through tears on the other side of the door. Their heart is pulling all sorts of strings to try and shove their body straight through it. “Get off me,” they spit venomously.
“You’re not the first to lose someone to [Supervillain],” the henchman snaps. “Cut with your losses before she comes after you too.”
The hero pauses to take in his words just long enough for him to give them a hearty shove away. “Please, I can’t—”
“Leave, [Hero].”
The hero stares at him and he stares back. Not unkindly—his gaze is some terrible mix of pity and understanding. “Leave,” he repeats softly.
So the hero leaves. They leave the villain in the supervillain’s grasp and try not to imagine what’s going to happen when they’re not looking. They leave the henchman standing at that door with a familiarity between them that the hero wishes they couldn’t feel.
They leave with an outraged cry for revenge and a promise to come back for their villain.
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raineandsky · 5 days
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Hi!
Would you write a story about a body guard and a prince?
The prince doesn't trust the body guard at first, because he thinks that the body guard is someone else's spy. But when the guard saves his life from a deadly assassination all by himself and gets severely injured, the prince apologizes and starts to trust him. Hope you have a great day/night!!
ANON. YOU KNOW ME SO WELL :O thank you for the request - enjoy!!
-
The prince is usually woken up by a maid, or his dog, or, god forbid, that goddamn bodyguard barging in for no explicable reason.
It’s not often he’s awoken by the feeling of cold metal against his neck.
Panic crashes through the confusion almost instantly. The prince flails, tangled in royally thick sheets, and his attacker hisses in annoyance. The blade stings against his skin and falls away.
The assassin fumbles after the prince as he scrambles across the bed; they clearly weren’t expecting to deal with him conscious. They grab him by the collar to yank him back into the covers. The force rocks the nightstand, and the flower vase on top of it rocks in tandem. There’s a blissful moment of still nothingness before the vase topples and crashes to the floor with the violence of a swinging hammer.
The door gets battered open with a similar amount of force. The assassin startles, their attention snapped to the giant figure blocking the doorway.
His bodyguard. The prince has seen the way this man’s eyes follow him, how he’s always in the most convenient of places to fall in line with the prince’s day. He’s been spying, he knew it, he’s been relaying information to some treasonous third party—
And now he’s come to join in on the murder, the prince thinks sourly. Amazing.
The guard moves and the prince scrambles to avoid him, but he doesn’t descend on the prince like he was expecting. He takes four assured steps into the room, draws his sword, and throws himself at the assassin.
The assassin lurches to the side, mostly. The guard’s blade catches on their wrist in a bright arc of shining metal and crimson.
The assassin seems to be getting more and more out of their depth with every passing second. They hold their wrist shakily, red leaking through their fingers, stumbling slightly. The prince’s guard moves in for another strike.
He gets too close; the assassin’s ready for him this time. They dart out of reach and breeze their dagger across the guard’s side.
The guard shoves them. It’s almost an instinct. The assassin staggers, making another haphazard swipe to the guard’s chest that he doesn’t even seem to notice. He traps them against the windowsill, his frame blocking their escape, and with one final push they tumble straight out the window.
The silence that follows is more unnerving than the prince expected. The guard leans over the sill slightly to glance at his handiwork, almost unbothered, before finally turning his gaze back inside and to the prince. “You okay?” he asks plainly.
The prince isn’t entirely sure if he’s meant to feel grateful or terrified. The guard steps towards him, a frown creasing his brow, and the prince flinches unintentionally. 
His guard rummages in his pocket before offering him a handkerchief. “You’re bleeding,” he adds after a moment.
He hadn’t even noticed. Now he’s pointed it out, the prince can feel the faint line trailing down his throat. But, Jesus Christ, now he’s said it—
“I don’t think it’s me that needs it,” the prince says faintly.
Blood splatters across the front of the guard’s shirt, leaving unsightly red stains across the fabric like a stark reminder of who he is, of what he can do.
The prince hasn’t really seen blood at all, let alone so much of it. He feels a little weak looking at it but he just can’t seem to avert his gaze. It’s fascinating, in a horrific sort of way.
His guard follows his gaze to the new patterning on his clothes. “Ah,” he says shortly, “I didn’t even notice.”
He stumbles into the plush armchair near the bed, his sword tumbling to the floor. The prince watches with fear that he can’t quite place—the person the prince has always trusted the least—this supposed spy—has put his life on the line, and for what? What does he prove by almost dying?
He moves without thinking, clambering to free himself of covers much too hot and thick. He grabs the blanket from the end of the bed with shaky hands and mindlessly pushes it into the gash on the guard’s side.
The thanks he gets is a sharp hiss and a cringe from his touch. “I— I want to help,” the prince says a little more desperately than is royal.
“Your Majesty, please,” the guard says gently, “I’m okay.”
“It’s a lot of blood.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Not yet,” the prince snaps, and the guard barks a laugh.
He obediently stays put, though, forcing out a long breath as the prince tries valiantly to stem some of the blood leaking all over his lovely velvet chair. His hands tremble, his head light at the feeling of that sickly warmth on his skin, his mind already wandering. 
He was so sure his guard was in on this. If he had been, surely, he wouldn’t have intervened. The prince has spent the last god knows how many months watching him back, waiting for a hint that he’s right, that this man is part of some gang out for his blood.
His waiting was in vain, clearly. The guard’s always been silent—looking back, maybe that was a respect thing—content to just watch from the shadows, unseen until needed—a common trait amongst the crown’s warriors—and Jesus Christ he was just completely normal and the prince misread everything.
“I’m sorry,” the prince blurts before he can stop it. The guard turns his gaze from the window and back to his prince.
“Not your fault people think you’re an easy target.”
The prince doesn’t think too hard about that comment. “You saved my life.”
A half-smile graces the guard’s face for a moment. “As is my duty, Your Majesty.”
Calling it duty is slightly underselling the weight of what he’s done. “No, you saved my life.” The prince keeps his eyes focused on the blanket slowly turning red in his hands, as much as he doesn’t want to, to avoid the way the guard’s gaze is burning into him. “I think a thank you is in order, at least.”
“Oh, uh, a’ight.” The guard clears his throat dramatically. “Thank you.”
“What? No.” The prince laughs, a genuine full-second’s laugh, before he remembers to rein it in. “No, I want to thank you. After I’ve been so… weird to you, you still put yourself at risk for me. I think it’s worth you knowing that I appreciate that.”
The guard flushes for a moment, thankfully turning his interest elsewhere. “Well, your father pays a hefty sum to keep you alive. I’d deal with you actively trying to kill me for the salary I get in this place.”
“And I’m sorry, again” — The guard’s barely finished talking before the words are falling out like they’re desperate to be said — “for being so… so—”
“Suspicious and rude?”
The prince is momentarily incensed enough that his eyes snap up to the guard’s, but he simply grins back. His eyes crinkle slightly, his face brightened. “Your staring wasn’t subtle,” he adds with a short laugh. “At first I thought it might be admiration, but after a while I realised it was only ever me you were looking at.”
It’s the prince’s turn to flush now—mostly out of embarrassment. “Yes, well, I inherited paranoia from my father as well as his crown.”
The guard’s smile turns soft, and the prince decides he’s best to avoid it once again. “You’ve no need to worry,” he says gently. “I’ll always be here to protect you.”
The prince makes some horrendously unchecked noise before clambering to his feet. “Okay,” he says quickly, “hold this against your side and your chest. I’m going to find a doctor that’s awake.”
“That’s usually my job.”
“You’re not usually the one bleeding all over my silk cushions.”
The guard nods like he’s admitting defeat. “Give my apologies to the maids for all the washing they’re about to do.”
“I will,” the prince says with complete earnest, then he’s out the door.
He reappears with the doctor a few minutes later, the latter of which is wearing a rather telling scowl for four in the morning. The guard lets the doctor prod and poke without complaint whilst the prince flutters about nervously.
He’s so focused on the work the doctor’s doing, making sure he’s careful—as if the palace doctor wouldn’t be—that he completely misses his guard’s gaze. Soft, knowing, relieved that the prince is finally watching him with hope instead of mistrust.
It’s a refreshing change to his usual expression. Maybe one day the guard can change it from hope to unwavering faith.
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raineandsky · 8 days
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Hello! Would you write a Villain finding out that the city's bravest (Villain's favourite) Hero has an irrational fear. Domestic vibes?
...if it interests you ofcourse!
this DOES interest me i love this!!! thank you for the request, hope you enjoy :D
-
Despite what the city thinks of them, the villain is not a soulless monster.
Now, the villain always enjoyed a good scare. A knife too close to the face, or a finger on a detonator, or a good old kidnapping. Easy scares, something that would scare anyone.
The hero is facing the villain’s guard dog, though, and the villain’s starting to suspect that their usual slight scare isn’t as slight as they intended. 
The villain’s dog is a doberman, of course, with the teeth and the growl to match. They chose him because everyone’s scared of dobermans, and so far he’s done a pretty good job of keeping nosy heroes out of the villains business—because most heroes have the sense to turn on their heel upon seeing him.
This hero though, the absolute moron, does not seem to have this sense. They’re cowering on the floor and are decidedly not running away like they’re meant to.
The villain gives the hero a half-thoughtful nudge with their toe. “[Hero]?”
The hero’s gaze snaps up to them momentarily before settling back on their dog. “I-Is that yours?”
“Yeah.” The villain gives him an affectionate pat on the head. He’s too busy growling at the hero to respond. “He is.”
“Can you, uh, call it off or something?”
“He’s a guard dog, [Hero],” the villain snaps with a hint of exasperation, “I’m not meant to call him off, you’re meant to leave.”
“Okay, yeah, great, cool, yeah.” There’s a moment of silence filled with the dog’s rumbling. “I–I can’t leave.”
The villain snorts at that. “I know you probably worked very hard to get this far, but I can’t let you go any further. Nice try though, I—”
“No.” The hero’s voice is so quiet the villain barely hears it. “I can’t leave.”
Clearly there is a secret meaning in that. The villain can’t be bothered figuring it out. “It’s the, uh, it’s the dog,” the hero continues after a long moment. “I’m– I’m really afraid of dogs. I just freeze up when I see one, um…”
The villain can’t believe it. On any other hero, they would’ve struck gold with this. But this hero is one of the nicer ones, one of the ones that seems to have a sense of morality beyond the skewed moral compass the agency seems to drill into all heroes.
Long story short, this hero is one of the villain’s favourites. They can’t leave them like this—it’s embarrassing, for one.
The villain puts a hand on their dog. “Alright, calm down.”
The growling stops almost immediately. The dog sits, oddly polite, his head tilted like he’s just seeing the hero with interest for the first time. The hero looks back at him with no less horror than before.
The villain flops down next to them. “He’s harmless now, see?” They reach a hand out, and the dog snuffles his nose into their palm. “He’s well-trained. He only does things like that on my command.”
The villain gives him a scratch under the chin and his tail thumps rhythmically on the floor. The hero’s eyes don’t move from his face. “What’s, uh, what’s he called?”
The villain should’ve seen it coming. They could lie, maybe, but their dog would rat them out immediately. He’s too well-trained, goddamnit.
The silence stretches a second too long. “His name’s Tiny.”
Tiny’s ears prick up at his name. The hero blanches and accidentally catches his attention again. “You call that tiny?”
“It’s ironic.”
The hero watches in pained silence as the villain makes a show of petting him. They’re pressed into the wall like they’re hoping it’ll swallow them whole, their hands balled into anxiously white, tight fists.
Such a stupid name has clearly not done its job. The villain holds a hand out to the hero. The hero stares at it like the villain’s handing them a gun.
“I’m trying to help you here,” the villain says after another painfully long moment. “Give me your hand.”
The hero slowly—agonisingly slowly—sinks their hand into the villain’s. The villain’s grip snaps around their wrist so fast they yelp.
“Okay,” the villain says smoothly, “now you’re going to pet him.”
The hero’s eyes widen and their mouth moves in what is clearly about to be a sharp god, no.
The villain tugs them forwards before they can complain. Tiny bumps his nose against the hero’s palm hopefully. The hero’s breath hitches, their arm tense in the villain’s hold.
“Calm down,” the villain says, not unkindly. “He likes you, see?”
The hero finally shifts their hand to give Tiny a halfhearted pet. He leans into it avidly, his tail thudding joyously against the floor again.
A smile tries to break on their face, their body finally relaxing slightly. They sink into relief a little too easily, leaning into the villain a bit more than the villain’s willing to admit they like.
“He’s softer than I thought he’d be,” the hero comments. Their voice has lost that tense edge, thankfully.
“He’s a good dog.” The villain sighs and Tiny huffs back. “He’s done a great job of keeping your lot out.”
The villain finally lets go of the hero’s wrist to let them give him a scratch under the chin. “Until me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a very weird anomaly. He was probably wondering why you weren’t hightailing it out of here like everyone else.”
The hero hums thoughtfully. “He didn’t bite me.”
“I don’t teach him to bite; he’s just here to scare. Maiming people I don’t like is my job.”
The two of them fall back into silence for another moment, though this one isn’t long or uncomfortable. The villain simply watches the hero suck up to their one line of defence, their breath a lot more even than it was before.
“Speaking of maiming people,” the villain continues, “we should get to me kicking your ass at some point, shouldn’t we?”
The hero laughs brightly, and the villain tries not to feel too relieved at the sound. “Yeah, I suppose so.” They get to their feet, shaking the ache out of their limbs. “As long as you don’t use your attack dog as an unfair advantage.”
“I already told you, [Hero], he doesn’t do the biting” — The villain springs to their feet excitedly — “I do.”
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raineandsky · 11 days
Text
#102
tw: abuse, threats, knives
The superhero barely sleeps anymore, but he can’t afford to. His mind is always haunted by one question: where has the hero gone?
His assistant lingers on the threshold to his office while he stares blankly at the table. She clears her throat when he shows no sign of acknowledging her. She holds a little envelope out to him when he glances up, his name written on the front in glittering cursive.
He reads the contents. Rereads. Looks to his assistant for answers. Receives none. Stares back down at the words on the little note in front of him.
“Well,” he says flatly, “I suppose I best go if we want the city to stay intact.”
-
The supervillain answers the door with a winning smile and a shocking amount of hospitality. 
“I’m so glad you made it,” he says brightly. He ushers the superhero into what can only be described as a mansion. Crime clearly pays well—or he likes to pretend it does. Who knows how he came into a house like this.
The supervillain sets the superhero down in an extravagant dining hall. Servants line the room, practically invisible in the shadows, almost as much of the furniture as the table and chairs in the middle of the room. Most of them have their eyes pointed to the floor.
The supervillain settles in the chair opposite and motions for one of the servants to step forward with a wine decanter. They pour it out agonisingly slowly, their focus honed in on the glass, before skirting around the table to do the same for the superhero.
The superhero startles. “Oh, there’s no need—”
“Nonsense!” the supervillain gestures for the servant to continue. “You’re my guest. Have a drink, please.”
The wine is poured. The servant steps back, their gaze flitting to the supervillain, and with the slightest nod of his head they retreat back into the shadows.
The superhero watches them go, catching the eye of one of the other servants standing on the outskirts of the room. It catches him off guard slightly—he could’ve sworn they were all staring at the floor—but after a moment to study their face he has to hold down a choked gasp.
That’s the hero. The hero he’s spent endless days searching for. The hero that disappeared off the face of the earth, who seemed to just cease to exist. The hero’s staring back at him like they’re equally stunned to see him here, their eyes wide and their jaw slack.
The quiet goes on too long. The supervillain twists in his chair to glance at whatever’s caught the superhero’s interest.
“Ah,” he says shortly. The single word seems to snap the hero out of it, their gaze immediately snapping back down to the ground. “Is my servant here bothering you?”
“You—” You invited me here on purpose. The superhero can’t think of words outraged enough. They’ve been here the whole time. “How dare you—”
“[Hero],” the supervillain says lightly. “Come here.”
The hero shares a worried glance with the servants next to them before slowly stepping towards him. They pause just behind his chair, their head bowed—out of fear or respect, it’s not obvious. “Sir?”
The villain holds his hand up to them expectantly. “Give me your hand.”
The hero spares a glance at the superhero. “B-But sir, our guest—”
“Your hand, [Hero].”
They hesitate, their breath uneven. Then they slowly, slowly put their hand in the supervillain’s.
The supervillain moves faster than the superhero can react. He slams their palm down against the table, his grip deathly tight on their wrist. A steak knife sits in his other hand, the tip poised over the back of the hero’s hand.
The superhero’s on his feet in an instant. The hero desperately tries to pull away, but the supervillain’s grip on them is vice-like.
“Now,” he says smoothly, “what have I said about manners?”
“[Supervillain],” the superhero tries.
“Haven’t I taught you anything?”
“I– I’m sorry.” It comes out of the hero’s mouth like a knee-jerk reaction, like it’s been said a million times before. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—”
The supervillain twists the knife testily against their skin. Something of a strangled sob tears from the hero’s throat. “Staring is rude, [Hero].”
“I– I know, I’m so sorry—”
“[Supervillain],” the superhero snaps with all the authority he can muster. “Stop.”
“I deal with my servants how I please, [Superhero].” The supervillain’s gaze pulls up to him lazily.  “This is my domain, not yours.”
But he thankfully lets go of the hero. They pull back nervously fast, their hands cupped over each other protectively. The supervillain glances back at them as they attempt to meld back into the shadows. “Go downstairs, [Hero],” he says flatly. “We will discuss this incident later.”
The hero’s gaze snaps back to him like he just asked them to walk into hell itself. “Down– Downstairs?”
“Don’t make me repeat my instructions twice, [Hero]. You know this.”
Their eyes flit between the supervillain and the superhero for a moment. Then they dip into a short bow, and with a slightly choked “sir,” they practically bolt from the room.
A couple of the servants behind the supervillain exchange whispers and sorrowful glances.
“I must apologise,” the supervillain says with an innocent sigh. “I thought I’d trained my servants better than that. I assure you such behaviour will be dealt with.”
The superhero’s still on his feet. “Release them immediately.”
The supervillain idly swills the wine for a second. “Or what?”
“The agency will not stand for this.” The superhero clenches his fists at his sides. “I will not stand for this.”
“Well,” the supervillain drawls, “you can have them back when I’m dead.” The supervillain sets his glass on the table a little too hard. “This has been a wonderful evening, [Superhero]. Now get out.”
-
It takes 20 minutes to get back to the agency, and by then the superhero has a half-formed plan in his head and a burning cry for vengeance.
When he’s dead. So be it.
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raineandsky · 14 days
Text
Revenge Means Chaos
#80.2 (part 1) (part 2)
Next week. The Lousy Farmer.
The hero flops down at the bar. The bartender eyes him as he slides a pint across the bar to him.
He can't believe he's wasting his evenings like this. Why can't he just leave work at work? Why can't the villain leave him alone for one minute?
The band is setting up on the humble little stage. The hero can see the reason he’s here, plugging his guitar into an amp and fiddling with the settings. The poor guitar looks battered; the hero wouldn’t be surprised if the villain smashes people’s faces in with it on his days off.
The villain scans over the crowd again, and this time his eyes flit straight to the bar to lock with the hero’s.
He throws the hero that stupid, self-absorbed grin again. Hello again, he’s practically saying, I see you’re back.
The hero scoffs into his beer in a way he hopes replies out of obligation for the safety of the city.
The music is similar to last week’s; upbeat, excited, loud. The patrons of the bar sink into the music as they do the drinks, and within the hour a small, slightly drunken dance floor has begun forming in front of the stage.
The dancing proves difficult to weave through. The hero abandons his easy spot at the bar to make their way towards the stage, dipping between stumbling dances as he goes. The villain’s eyes are on him the whole time—the hero can feel them burning into him as he moves.
He reaches the foot of the stage with a huff of relief. He turns his face upward; the villain’s gaze leers down at him, the stage lights haloing him like he’s descended from heaven, his fingers plucking effortlessly at the guitar’s strings.
A smirk—enjoying the show?—and the hero scowls in a wholehearted response—enjoying the part where I’ll whoop your ass.
He waits there until the singer rounds off her last note to the uproarious cheering from the audience. She grins ecstatically, practically glowing.
“Thanks y’all!” she shouts over the crowd. The drummer spins his sticks in his hands with a smile.
The hero saunters to the door behind the little stage—he can cut the villain’s exit off from here and quietly arrest him without causing a scene with the drunken masses. It’s almost too easy.
He carefully holds back the victorious smile before it’s due. He has the time in the world to laugh at the villain on the ride to the agency.
The villain’s gaze flits to him and back out to the crowd as he pulls wires from his guitar. The singer is still talking but the hero blocks her out. His focus rests on the villain with intensity that’s clearly making him uncomfortable. Good. Let him know what’s coming for him.
The villain hops down from the stage ahead of his bandmates, and the hero gets in position to grab for him as he heads for the door. The villain spares him one last glance, adjusts the guitar’s strap against his chest, and takes off into the crowd.
The hero swears under his breath and falls into the masses after him.
People part for the villain, moving aside with a friendly pat on the back. The hero has to battle his way through. The villain breaks through the main doors and into the night as the hero throws himself out on the other side of the horde.
The hero flies out into the evening and almost gets a guitar to the face on the other side. He just manages to duck out of the way, the guitar sweeping much too close to his head. He throws a punch and the villain darts back, that self-confident smirk still twisting his lips.
The hero moves in for another strike. He only gets to pull his fist back when someone grabs him from behind.
“What is it with people attacking the musicians?” someone says from opposite the hero. He can see someone wrangling the villain ahead—a security guard. Perfect.
“He’s– That’s [Villain]!” the hero cries over whatever answer the person behind him was about to say. He thrashes in their grip uselessly, eager to get his hands on his nemesis. “I’m attacking a musician because he’s a criminal!”
The person behind him barks a laugh. The villain has stopped twisting angrily in the security guard’s grip and has been let go of, like he’s earned the freedom. He adjusts his guitar strap on his chest again and levels the hero with a smug gaze.
“Gosh, it’s scary, isn’t it?” He huffs a disbelieving laugh, turning to the small crowd forming at the main doors of the bar. “The agency has people like this protecting our city? He’s insane!”
A few murmurs rise in agreement. Cameras flash, phones get held up. The hero feels sick.
“No, wait, he’s—” The security guard turns him away from the crowd, from the people who’d have a chance to listen “—he’s [Villain], can’t you see that? I need to arrest him before he causes any more damage—”
The security guard gives him a hearty shove onto the main street. “Consider this your warning,” they snap. “Don’t let us catch you around these parts again, a’ight? Or consequences might be a lot harsher.”
“Wait, he’s—”
But the security guard’s already turned on his heel, meandering back to where the villain is basking in the praise of his fans. They usher everyone back inside with the help of the other guard, and with one final clang, the door slams shut on the hero.
Cameras. Phones. The crowd agreeing quietly with the villain.
Oh, the hero’s career is about to go up in flames.
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raineandsky · 17 days
Text
#101
It’s six in the evening. The villain knows this from the telltale sound of plastic scraping against the wooden floor. The sound is accompanied by the undeniably incredible smell of food.
They don’t bother turning their gaze from the window—they can see the hero in the reflection anyway. They nudge the tray into the room as far as they dare, lingering awkwardly on the threshold for a moment.
“Finding everything okay?” they ask after an unbearably thick silence.
“Found everything but my morality,” the villain retorts flatly. “Keeping me in here won’t make me a goody two-shoes like you, y’know.”
The villain had expected worse; concrete floors, metal bars. But here they are, in a plush bed, looking out to the beautiful scenery beyond, a goddamn lasagne sitting on a plate for them. 
“Was compassion not a good enough reason to have you in here the first three times?” the hero asks, their voice halfway between confused and joking. “I get the impression you like it though, seeing as you haven’t… left this room.”
The villain scoffs. “Escaped, you mean.”
“Left,” the hero corrects. “You’re not… locked in here, you know.”
The villain finally snaps their gaze from the window. The hero flinches slightly at the speed of it. “What?”
“You’re not locked in here.” The hero shifts on their feet restlessly. “Did you never even try the door?”
It’s too embarrassing to admit that it was too nice here to bother trying to leave. “I like to get my escapes right first time. I won’t try it until I need to.”
“Right.” The hero shuffles again. “Well, there’s a lot of villains who know you’re here and have been wondering where you are.”
“Villains like who?”
The hero smiles, like they’ve fallen into a trap. “Come outside and find out.”
The villain scowls at that. The hero raises their eyebrows expectantly. “Eat your food,” they say casually. “Then come say hi, okay?”
“No.”
The hero sighs, like this is a conversation they’ve had a thousand times. “The door’s always open,” they say gently. “Come see the others when you feel up to it.”
They linger in the doorway for a moment but the villain offers no response, so they simply sigh defeatedly and carefully shut the door. 
Tsch. Does the hero think they’re stupid? They’d open that door and heroes would descend on them.
The day they leave this room, it’ll be as part of their greatest escape yet.
126 notes · View notes
raineandsky · 20 days
Text
#100
tw: violence
The villain staggers back. The hero follows with easy strides.
“What–what’re you—”
They only just reel back from another strike. “I’m everything you deserve, criminal.”
The hero’s voice is flat, plain. It’s like a robot’s spitting out words it doesn’t understand. Their push into the villain’s space is relentless, forever forcing them back in the vain hope of preventing another gash.
The side of the villain's jacket is painted red by now. They know that. The hero had caught them unawares, unexpecting, and the villain has learnt their lesson very well after that first slash.
They stumble over the edge of their coat slightly. The hero’s eyes flicker with opportunity as they fall into another attack.
The villain only just contains the whimper in their throat when the burn of metal slices against their skin. It should be expected by now, but the agony of such a simple, smooth action was never something they got used to.
“Who…” The word comes out as no more than a haggard breath. “Who are you?”
The hero smiles disingenuously. There’s no emotion behind it, positive or otherwise, like invisible strings are tugging the corners of their mouth into an unnatural curve. It’s slightly horrifying to witness. “I’m [Hero],” they say in that nothing voice. “You already know that, don’t you?”
“No the fuck you’re not,” the villain spits. Pain is blinding them to a lot of the common sense they’d usually have. “[Hero] was at least fucking humane. Tell me who you are.”
The smile disappears. It’s somehow worse without it now. “[Hero] was a pathetic, weak-willed excuse of a hero who couldn’t bear to kill the vermin ravaging the streets.” The hero tilts their head, almost curious, mostly mechanical. “Why, do you miss them?”
“I much preferred them to you, I’ll say that.” The villain heaves a deep breath. Keep breathing. Don’t let them have this over you. “Where the fuck are they? What did you do with them?”
“Disposed of.” The flatness of the words is almost an emotion in itself. “And I am in their place as an improvement.”
The villain barks a laugh that tears into their side. Their hands are red. They need to get the hell out of dodge before they get too obviously weak. “And you’re impersonating them.”
That unnatural smile makes a momentary appearance, like the faked kindness of someone three seconds from putting an axe through someone’s face. “[Hero] would be missed by the masses. We can catch you villains unawares if you think we’re harmless.” Their brow knits in question for a moment, humoured. “Did you really think I’m the only one they’ve replaced?”
The villain’s shivering. Or trembling. It’s hard to tell which. “How many of you are there?”
The hero takes a long step forward and the villain scrambles to stay out of reach. They’re too slow; the hero doesn’t have the wounds to hold them back. Their hand closes around the villain’s throat, breathlessly tight.
“Would you like to meet them?” The hero’s smile splits into an uneven grin. The villain can’t see it very well from behind the blurriness of their eyes. Thank god, honestly. “I’m sure they’d love you.”
The words the villain wants to say are stuck behind the hero’s grip. Their breath is almost non-existent. Their sides feel like someone’s shoving a red-hot poker into them. The hero says something but they can’t hear it. It’s faraway, distant, and all the villain can think is fucking hell, not now.
That’s the last thing that gets to cross their mind before they pass out in the hero’s grip, and it’s uncertain whether that’s a blessing or not.
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raineandsky · 23 days
Text
This is a epilogue to a lil project of mine - loving titled Around the World in 80 Cafes :)
-
Crow arrives in the village, accidentally, under the cover of darkness. His client has made his rounds of the lands a lot more hurriedly than he’d expected, and the opportunity to get the hell away from him as soon as possible was not an opportunity lost on Crow.
“Everyone’s favourite mercenary’s back early,” the guard, Phive, comments from the walkway as he reaches the top of the ladder. Her job’s been rendered a little obsolete since Norveticus brought his family’s little empire to the ground, but she seems more than happy to stand here, with nothing to do, at one in the morning. “Good run?”
“Was a’ight.” He waves her off with a gruff laugh. “Pays just enough to deal with the nobility that comes with the job.”
Phive snorts, gesturing down the walkway with her spear. “Speakin’ of, I think your noble’s been anxious for you to get back. He’s been stress-bakin’ for, like, four days.”
Crow frowns suspiciously. “He's a cook, Phive. He doesn’t bake.”
“Exactly.” Phive grins. “You should get outta town more often. He’s good at it, and it’s usually me that gets first pick of whatever he’s makin’.”
Crow rolls his eyes as Phive laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He pauses in front of his house. It feels strange to think—his house. He spent so long flitting between the houses here in his youth; whoever had the space, had the energy for him. Now here he is, standing outside a house he can actually call home. It’s a strange feeling, and not one he hates.
It smells delicious inside, as always, and he can see what Phive was talking about. It’s definitely the aroma of baking—sweet, a little less intense than usual, and concerningly strong for one in the morning. He can see that the kitchen light’s on from here. He can’t be worried enough to be up at this time, surely.
The culprit of the smell is sitting on the kitchen counter. A cake of some sort, by the looks of it, but not one he’s seen before. The kitchen’s empty though, thankfully, so after a second to marvel at the treat he’s back on his way.
He doesn’t find Norveticus where he expected to; he’s neither in the kitchen or the bedroom, where Crow was mostly hoping he’d be, but instead in the living room. Crow comes across him on the sofa, his arm left hanging over the side and a book dropped heartlessly on the floor. He carefully picks the book up, giving it a onceover—it’s Norveticus’s own cookbook, nothing he hasn’t read a thousand times—before laying it on the table nearby.
He squats down near his face, simply content to admire Norveticus for a moment. He seems so peaceful like this, blissfully unbothered. The light from outside dances over his face, his hair a little ruffled from his obviously unintentional nap. He’s unfairly pretty, as always, and Crow didn’t realise how much he missed him until now.
He knows Norveticus will find something to worry about the moment he wakes up, so he just quietly takes in the view before giving him a light nudge.
Norveticus stirs, kind of. He clearly has no intention to wake up. “Angel,” Crow whispers.
Norveticus makes some halfhearted noise that sounds vaguely like “huh?”
Crow can’t help but laugh a little. He ghosts a hand over Norveticus’s face, his thumb brushing idly against his cheek as he finally opens his eyes. “I’m home, Norv.”
Norveticus stares at him in a blank half-squint for a long moment. Then it suddenly seems to click what he’s seeing—he bolts upright, his eyes wide, his mouth working to probably try and say several things at once.
“Hey,” Crow says plainly, an unavoidable grin working its way onto his face, and the single word seems to break Norveticus out of his stupor.
“Oh my god, Crow!” He throws his arms around Crow’s neck, half-dragging him onto the sofa with him. “You’re back—” Norveticus pulls away rather suddenly to hold him at arm’s length, a frown adorning his face. “… early.”
“Don’t worry,” he says quickly. “The job just finished earlier than we expected.”
Norveticus lets go of him quickly, a disappointed frown on his face. “But I had everything planned,” he whines. His gaze slides past Crow and to the kitchen. “I was going to do this big thing for when you came back. I was going to make that pie you said you liked, and I wanted to get you some flowers and I was going to get Hettie to make another cloak and—”
“Norv,” Crow interjects exasperatedly. He gently takes Norveticus’s face in his hands, like he needs some sense talking into him. “I don’t need a big thing. I came home because I wanted to be with you, okay?”
Norveticus huffs. “Can I at least still make the pie?”
“I’m not stopping you from making anything.” Crow snorts at the slight scowl on Norveticus’s face. “Phive tells me you’re a baker now, anyway.”
There’s a half second where Norveticus looks like he’s about to delve in to explain the exact things he’s been making—a common occurrence, and music to Crow’s ears—before he leaps out of Crow’s hold and to his feet.
“My cake!” he cries. Crow slowly gets back to his feet as Norveticus beelines for the kitchen. “God, I didn’t mean to go to sleep—it’s ruined.”
Crow lingers in the doorway as Norveticus flutters nervously over the perfectly fine-looking cake on the counter. “It looks a’ight to me,” he offers simply, “and it smells pretty good.”
“Smell and taste and entirely separate experiences, Scarlet Crow,” Norveticus says matter-of-factly. “It may smell like a god has made this, but I can assure you the texture will be absolutely vile. I was meant to put it in the ice box, like, two hours ago.”
“Did you seriously just drop my full mercenary name to explain food to me?”
“Yes,” he says flatly. He gives the cake a poke for good measure, his nose wrinkling slightly when it wobbles. “I am the culinary expert here, and I’m telling you that it will taste bad.”
“I don’t believe you.” Crow’s already rooting through the drawer for a fork. “You wanted to have something ready for when I got back, right? Let me try it.”
Norveticus seems to go through the five stages of grief in half a second. “Crow, I wanted to have something edible for when you got back. This will probably kill you.”
“I’d like to see it try.” He reaches for the cake, only stopped when Norveticus tries to block him. Crow tries to nudge him out the way but he’s goddamn stubborn. Nothing particularly new. 
Norveticus grabs his arm to try and stop him and Crow wriggles theatrically in his grip, making another stab for his prize.
“Crow!” Norveticus yelps with a laugh. “Stop!”
The two of them wrestle for a moment before Crow finally manages to tear a bit of cake with his fork. Norveticus notices a second too late, and Crow shoves it in his mouth before the other can stop him.
For a moment, all Crow can feel is victory. Then surprise. Then overwhelming disappointment. Then, like the cherry on top of the cake, acute defeat.
Norveticus watches this cycle of emotions blankly, like he was expecting nothing less.
It takes Crow a second too long to talk around the dough sticking to the roof of his mouth. “It’s… it’s really good,” he chokes out.
“You’re a horrendous liar, Crow.”
“Divine.”
“You’ve never called anything divine in your life.”
Keeping his face passive is almost impossible with the cake practically attacking him from the inside. Norveticus was, tragically, right—the dough clumps and glues to anything it touches. The taste wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t burning itself into every inch in his mouth. 
He swallows it, finally, and it’s equally a relief to have it gone and abysmal going down.
“Welcome home,” Norveticus says flatly.
Crow hums a laugh, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. “Glad to be here, angel.”
Norveticus smiles pleasantly before a yawn forces its way through. Crow laughs lightly. “D’you wanna head back to bed?” he adds after a moment.
“Ugh, please.” Norveticus grabs his hand and drags him from the kitchen. “But only if you come to bed with me.”
Crow stops him in the doorway to the bedroom, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s short, sweet, frankly atrocious-tasting with that cake still lingering in his mouth—but it’s a kiss all the same, and Crow’s been craving one whether it tastes bad or not.
Norveticus pulls away from him after a moment, his eyes drifting over Crow’s face for a moment. “I missed you,” he whispers into the quiet.
Crow sighs contentedly. “And I missed you, angel.”
Norveticus smiles at that, and it’s so bright and warm that Crow might as well be staring into the brilliance of the sun. 
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raineandsky · 26 days
Text
#99
tw: stabbing
Laughter echoes off the walls around the hero, and it’s not the laughter of friends. They stumble on, trying to ignore how close it is, how this will inevitably end.
The other heroes’ voices are nothing more than ghosts carried by the wind now. This villain is smart—a group of heroes is nothing to them. A few well placed scares is all it took to split the hero off from the rest of their team.
It’s dark in these parts of the city. The only noise is faroff traffic and the breeze dancing between the buildings and that echoing laughter. The hero turns down a street, lost, confused, counting the minutes, only to find it a dead end.
They turn back too late. The villain is already standing in the entrance, the streetlight behind lighting them up like they’ve just descended from heaven itself. Like they’re some angel, if angels were massive assholes and tried to kill everyone on the regular.
Panic and instinct clash in some horrendous shrieking horror. The hero yanks their knife from their belt, ready to throw their hands up to delay the inevitable, to protect themself, to protect the others. The villain takes two long steps towards them and it’s practically over.
The hero makes a swipe and the villain sidesteps it. Another step pushes them into the hero’s space, grabbing their wrists like it’s easy. It’d be insulting if the hero wasn’t so busy praying to god knows what in the vain hope of getting out of this alive.
“[Hero],” the villain says faintly. The hero makes a desperate attempt to headbutt them and misses. “[Hero].”
A weak cry escapes the hero’s mouth. It’s pathetic, not going down with grace and fire. They want it over. If they die now, here, at least they don’t have to worry about anyone seeing them like this.
“[Hero], stop,” the villain repeats, a little harsher. “I’m trying to help you here, jeez.”
The hero stops. They can’t do anything else. Another grief stricken sob falls from their lips.
“Look, I don’t have long before those freaks inevitably find us,” the villain continues, “but you have to go home.”
The hero chokes on whatever noise was about to come out. “W–What?”
“I’m going to ruin your perception of them and I know you’re not going to believe me, but—” The villain heaves a deep breath, pinning their gaze to the hero’s sharply. “They’re going to kill you.”
A laugh tries to bubble out of the hero’s mouth but it comes out distorted. “No.”
“I’m sorry, [Hero], but I’ve seen them before.” The villain flits a glance over their shoulder, like they have the reason to be nervous. “They’ve done this to many heroes like you. Don’t go anywhere near them, okay?”
“They would never,” the hero spits, the words mangled in their dread. “They– You– You’re trying to turn me on my friends. You monster.”
The villain sighs disappointedly, defeatedly. “Just go home, [Hero]. I’ll call you a taxi.”
The villain lets go of them and steps back, their hand disappearing into their pocket. For a phone, they promised, but the hero isn’t stupid. Their hands free, their enemy’s attention diverted, they dart forward and plunge their knife into the villain’s thigh.
The noise that comes out of the villain’s mouth isn’t a nice one. The hero gives it no thought, slipping past them and back out into the street as they sink to one knee with a gasp.
“Don’t go back, [Hero]!” they call after the hero, their voice taut and grim. “Please, don’t—”
The hero’s panting and echoing footsteps drown them out.
-
The villain watches as the little gaggle of heroes appears out the agency doors. Laughing, bumping shoulders, carrying little bags for lunch. Four of them.
The hero isn’t with them.
The villain nods once to themself, picks up their bag, and leaves.
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raineandsky · 29 days
Text
#98
“And lo! Here approaches my best knight,” the king announces to the jester as the knight squeezes through the door. The poor jester looks thankful to see her as he hurries out of the king’s gaze. “Come, show me your skill.”
The knight throws a few carefully angled swings for the king. He watches with a delighted expression, but she can see the soullessness in his eyes. Her stomach flips uncertainly.
“You are an excellent swordsman, knight,” he says flatly. “Now, tell me, why should I allow you to stay within my walls?”
The jester averts his gaze awkwardly. Is she about to get fired? “… Because I’m an excellent swordsman and your best knight,” she tries, and the king huffs in his telltale way of saying WRONG.
“Perhaps that was on me for being unspecific.” He picks up a wine glass from the golden table next to his throne, swirling it idly. “I hear you liaise with dragons.”
The knight’s attempt to keep her expression neutral fails miserably. The king watches with keen interest as her eyes widen and her mouth moves in an abysmal attempt to form some sort of defence. She’s acutely aware of the jester watching curiously too—whatever she says next will be the castle’s gossip for the next month. Maybe two if nothing of interest happens before then.
Well shit. Might as well fall into treason headfirst.
She reaches a hand into the front of her breastplate, earning a soft squeak from something inside. The king leans forward on his throne. The jester peers as close as he dares.
Her hand comes back with a short purple string laced around her fingers. Or she does at first glance, and closer inspection reveals her ribbon to be a tiny dragon, yawning and digging tiny claws into her fingers.
The king roars so loud the dragon startles. The knight and the jester don’t fare much better. “Beast!” he howls.
“Beast! Beast! Beast! Beast!” the room echoes back to them.
“You bring this creature within my walls?” he demands. “You slander my name—my rule—with your disregard to my kindness for you?”
“She’s harmless!” the knight cries over him. The dragon isn’t a fan of the racket, and is making a great effort to slip up her sleeve. “She looks after my finances.”
“Disgusting beast,” the king spits.
“The dragon,” the jester says quietly, valiantly ignoring the way the king’s stare snaps to him, “is your accountant?”
The knight fishes a coin from her pouch, gently tapping the dragon with its edge. Its gaze snaps to her gold, its past endeavour with her sleeve forgotten as it grapples for her coin. It twists its body around it excitedly, gnawing at the edge like a toddler, a quiet hum emitting from it as it does.
“That noise it is making,” the king shrieks, “it is going to attack!”
“No!” the knight shouts over him. “It’s like a cat—she’s purring. It means she’s happy.”
“Dragons do not purr,” the king retorts, but the dragon is undeniably making a noise that sounds remarkably like purring. The jester takes a cautious step closer.
The knight tucks her finger under her chin, giving it a hearty scratch. The dragon’s humming gets louder, her eyes closing blissfully at the touch.
“How does it… work?” the jester asks. The knight offers him a smile that she hopes conveys how grateful she is for his interest in the face of the king’s disgust.
“She takes my coins—my salary, my earnings, anything.” The knight adjusts her hand so the dragon sits more comfortably in her palm. She doesn’t seem to mind, too busy clamping her jaw around the gold to notice. “She keeps a hoard no one but her can find. I earned her trust, and whenever I need money she gives it to me.”
“She is a thief,” the king spits, but the rage is losing momentum in the face of such a cute little thing. The knight doesn’t miss how she’s suddenly not an ‘it’.
“I give her all the money she has. She’s just better at keeping money than most humans,” the knight says with a grin, “because she doesn’t spend it all in a tavern.”
The jester snorts. The king raises his eyebrows. Silence falls for a moment as they all watch the dragon get comfortable in the knight’s hand, her tiny body choking her coin, a claw wrapped around her thumb as she nestles in and closes her eyes.
The jester lets out a short “aww,” that’s louder than he probably intended.
“Tsch,” the king says. He leans back in his throne like he’s lost interest. “A beast is a beast. I am most displeased you were disloyal to my word, knight.”
“I apologise, your majesty,” the knight says. It’s all she can say, really. “I will fix things.”
“You… may keep the thing,” the king continues after a moment of intense deliberation. The knight attempts to not to look too surprised. The jester doesn’t even try. “But it is your accountant and nothing more. If I discover it torching my palace I will execute both it and you.”
“Accounting is what she’s best at, your majesty,” the knight says brightly. “You’ll never have to see her again.”
The king nods shortly, though his gaze is traitorously locked onto the purple ball in her hand. “I would not be adverse, knight,” the king says slowly, like he doesn’t quite want to, “if you felt it right to study. We did not know dragons purr, or like coin.”
“Your majesty?”
“Gather your resources and come back to me with knowledge of the beasts.” He waves a hand dismissively. “I will reconsider your treasonous actions if you can prove that your creature poses no threat to my rule or my people.”
A lot of questions are rattling through her brain. “Your majesty, what do—”
“That is all. Jester!” The king turns his attention away from her and back to the jester as he takes centrestage, looking a lot less stressed than before. He gives her a subtle nod and the lightest smile—a small gesture between the servants of the castle, a simple well done.
The knight leaves the hall with the king’s uproaring laughter following her. The dragon stays curled in her hand, and she runs her thumb over it carefully, the dragon’s body warm and prickly to the touch.
A knight to a scholar in one conversation. She doesn’t even know how to write.
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raineandsky · 1 month
Text
Ouroboros
#78.2 (part 1) (part 2)
“Chicken noodle soup?”
The henchman brandishes a bowl at the hero like a weapon of healing. The hero begrudgingly takes it, and the henchman gives them his classic lopsided smile in victory.
It’s been two weeks since the hero woke up in this cosy little room. Two weeks since they tried to stop the villain unleashing chaos on the city. Two weeks since they disappeared off the agency’s radar.
The henchman settles in the chair next to the bed as the hero gets comfortable, the bowl balanced carefully in their hands. It’s delightfully warm against their skin, the smell absolutely divine; they’re two seconds away from either falling asleep or devouring the entire thing.
“Any news about the agency?”
The henchman clicks his tongue. The hero’s been finding more and more roundabout ways to ask the same question, but the henchman knows what they mean by now.
“They have another hero out dealing with [Villain].” He averts his gaze to the window awkwardly. “They still haven’t acknowledged that you’re gone.”
The agency’s a self-absorbed little corporation. The hero knows that. Still—a search party would be nice. A memorial, even. Something to say that they noticed the hero disappeared.
“They’re probably busy filling the gap I left,” the hero says with forced disinterest, and dips into their soup to keep their mouth from saying too much.
They crave for someone to notice—a colleague, their higher-ups, anyone, anything to prove they cared even a little bit. They’ve already told the henchman that the agency looks out for them. It’ll be awkward if it turns out they lied about that.
The two of them sit in silence for a while, the henchman reading a book as the hero inhales the soup. It’s amazing, as always, and fills a gaping hole that they wish could be filled by more legitimate means.
The henchman looks up when the bowl rattles against the bedside table. His book gets flopped page-down on the table next to him in an instant. “Let’s get those bandages changed again,” he says simply, and the hero groans.
They don’t see the point. They feel fine, but the henchman won’t even let them look anymore. The last time they’d seen the gash it’d looked much better, but the henchman insists that they must’ve done something to tear it again. What, they’ve no clue—all they do all day is roll around in bed. How they’d tear a wound open enough to need another week of healing and close inspection is beyond them.
The henchman shuffles closer armed with a roll of bandages. The hero rolls their eyes and lifts their shirt in defeat.
The henchman’s touch is as soft as ever, of course, and the hero watches him for lack of anything better to look at.
His brow furrows in concentration, his hands steady, his tongue caught between his teeth. His hair is still wet from what the hero assumes is a shower. His usual black clothes—that the hero has come to guess are a uniform for the villain—are abandoned in favour of a baggy t-shirt and a pair of well-loved joggers.
They don’t flinch under his fingers anymore. He’s pleasantly warm against their skin, forever gentle despite the hero’s repeated “I’m fine!” When he’s done he leans back and graces the hero with the slightest of smiles.
“It’s still looking a little rough,” he says like he read the hero’s mind. “We’ll give it a couple more days to make sure it’s definitely good before you head out.”
“You say that every day,” the hero points out. They can’t keep their tone from being exasperated.
They love it here, sure—the cooking, the comfy bed, the being doted on—but they want to kick the agency’s ass for apparently forgetting about them.
“A couple more days,” the henchman repeats, and with a sigh he grabs the old bundle of (bloodless?) bandages and leaves the hero to themself.
A couple more days. The hero’s getting restless stuck in this tiny room. They need to sink their claws into the agency, show them what they’re missing.
They can always come back once they’re done.
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raineandsky · 1 month
Text
#97
“[Villain].” The supervillain beckons them closer from around the door. “I think you might like this one.”
He’s in their little captive room; being a criminal organisation has made them improvise their spaces. A hero is tied to the rickety chair in the middle of the room, ignoring them both with their head bent. A rare sight, and a nice one at that. A sight that suggests a hint of winning.
“Wait,” the supervillain says softly.
They wait. Nothing happens. “[Supervillain], what—”
A sound breaks through their question. A sniffle. The villain ducks slightly to look at the hero’s face, catching the glistening trail of long-since shed tears on their cheeks. Catching heroes is rare enough, but having them cry about it? Gold.
The supervillain flashes them a quick grin. “Wait ‘til you hear their cover story.”
The villain steps forward and flops down in the seat in front of the hero. The hero keeps their head ducked, holding back shuddering breaths, and the villain simply waits for acknowledgement.
Waiting is in vain, it seems. The hero refuses to look up, even when they clear their throat expectantly.
“I thought heroes were meant to be made of steel,” they comment eventually.
The hero finally looks at them, and the villain only feels slightly bad about the miserable quiver of their mouth and the leaking of their eyes. “I’m not a hero,” they say shakily.
The villain raises their eyebrows. Denial’s a new one. “He must have told you that!” the hero continues, their gaze set on the supervillain at the door, and on the last word they break down into tears.
The villain glances back at the supervillain and he throws them another elated smirk. The slightly bad feeling they felt suddenly splits into painful worry.
They turn back to the hero and open their mouth to say something, but it occurs to them they don’t know who the hero is. They’ve never seen them before.
The worry becomes gnawing.
“You’re not a hero,” the villain reiterates slowly, and the hero’s head snaps up faster than the villain thought they could move.
“Yes!” they cry. Hours of tears scratch at their throat. “Thank god, yes. I’m– I’m not a hero. The agency they– they took me off the street, I’m not a hero or anything or– I’m not anything to do with them I swear please the agency is just–”
“Stop,” the villain snaps, and the hero's words cut off abruptly. “The agency took you off the street?”
The hero nods as they gulp down another sob. “I don’t know why. They threw me out in a hero costume and told me to distract the villains, I don’t– I don’t know anything—”
“Hey,” the villain says smoothly. They scoot their chair closer to the hero’s. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re all here because we hate the agency, right?” They glance back to the supervillain, who’s looking rather unimpressed by this turn of events. “You’re on our side now.”
The sob escapes the hero’s throat this time. Or whoever they are. “I just want to go home,” they manage through the tears.
The villain fishes a tissue from their pocket, tipping the hero’s head back to carefully wipe some of the tears from their face. “I know,” they say softly, “but the agency might be out searching for you right now. We’ll look after you until you can go home, okay?”
The hero hiccups their next breath. “T–Thank you.”
“I’ll get you back on your feet,” the villain says with a sigh. They glance back at the supervillain scowling from the door. “And [Supervillain] will go find whatever the hell the agency’s trying to distract us from.”
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raineandsky · 1 month
Text
#96
tw: guns
The villain laughs in the hero’s face when they round the corner. Laughs so hard they double over. The metal support they were bending with nothing but their mind is briefly forgotten.
“It’s you!” they announce, like the sight of the hero is nothing more than a surprise visit from a friend. “Now tell me, [Hero], why would they send you to deal with me? Did they get bored of you and hope you’d not come back?”
“They sent me,” the hero retorts flatly, “because they know I’ll get the job done.”
“Get the job done? And how exactly do you do that?” the villain says with a grin. “Go on, what’s your power?”
“I use it when I need to.” The hero cracks their knuckles expectantly. Their expression is plain, almost bored. “No one’s been bad enough to need eviscerating with it.”
“Eviscerating?” the villain repeats with an incensed screech. “See, [Hero], I’m starting to think you’re bluffing. You refuse to show us your power. You won’t tell anyone what it is. Is the agency sending unpowered civilians into battle now?” They tut in mock disappointment. “That’s not very ‘good guy’ of them.”
“What would you say if I had no powers?” the hero continues. They stand just on the edge of the villain’s destruction; they’ve been to town in the time it took the hero to get here. The building the villain was previously snapping the support of is one of the few left actually upright. Modern buildings were clearly not made with metal-bending villains in mind. “What if overpowered criminals like you could be stopped by some average guy like me?”
“If you have no powers,” the villain says with a content sigh, “I’ll laugh at you because I was right, then I’ll make you watch as I cause the destruction you’re meant to be stopping. Which you can’t, because I’m right and you don’t have powers. Look, watch.”
The villain turns their attention back to the metal beam bracing the entire building’s weight. They only get to set their focus on it before the sound of something clicking into place snaps their gaze back to the hero.
A small handgun sits in their grip, pointing at the villain. They still wear that aggravatingly bored look on their face. “I don’t have powers,” they admit tiredly, “and I don’t need ‘em.”
The villain forces all their willpower into the barrel. Metal’s their thing. Why is this hunk of metal so stubborn?
The hero frowns into the momentary silence, glancing into the villain’s face before following their gaze back to their weapon.
“Oh,” they say with a short laugh. “Yeah, I 3D printed this. It’s not metal, but it sure as hell shoots like it.”
The villain knows their horror shows on their face. “You’re bluffing again,” they say a moment too late. The hero smiles, and the villain suddenly misses their bland disinterest.
They angle the gun and shoot it into the rubble next to the villain. Instinct makes them yelp and leap back before they can stop themself.
“Am I?” They adjust the gun in their hand casually. “Would you like to find out?”
The villain scowls and steps away from the support beam, their hands up in surrender. No, they would not.
The hero’s weapon of choice won’t be the centre of the gossip. No, the villain got arrested by some unpowered, supposed hero. They know the news will reach the supervillain as unflatteringly as possible. They’ll look like an idiot.
The villain, defeated by just some guy. Embarrassing.
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raineandsky · 1 month
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Could you write a story where a king who outlawed magical beings (like fae, elves, sorcerers, etc Bc they’ve tried to kill him multiple times ) has a trial for a young magical creature found in his lands, but the creature isn’t evil, didn’t even KNOW they were trespassing, and is terrified they’re gonna be executed or tortured or something. But the king doesn’t hurt it, since the magical being didn’t mean any harm? Could turn into found family or he just lets it go or something
I hope 2024 is going well for you!! Sorry if this prompt is hectic/worded bad haha
hello again!! it's always a delight to see you in my inbox :) thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy it!
-
For a moment it looks like a child is thrown at the king’s feet. They’re small, frail-looking, and sobbing between short, forced breaths.
“We caught it on the outskirts of your lands. Trespassing,” the knight says. His hand rests on his sword, his gaze turned down to the creature like he wants to eviscerate them there and then. “We’re lucky we found it when we did. What’s your defence, freak?”
The only response is more sobbing. The knight’s gaze turns to the king, almost bored. “Shall I execute it, your majesty?”
“No!” The creature lurches up, and the knight has to grapple for them to stop them leaping straight for the king. “No, please, I– I didn’t know—”
The knight pushes them back to the floor and they land hard. A whimper leaks from their mouth as they collide with the merciless tile. From here the king can see the translucent wings on their back—torn, fractured, probably beyond repair. He can’t help but wonder when that happened.
“No need to be so harsh,” he says shortly. The knight stares at him like he’s lost his mind.
He has a feeling, though. Most of the mystical beings that came to his court with the intent of murder were relatively plain-faced about it. He gets the impression they’re not good liars. Not many of them can cry this violently on cue, at least.
“What is your business in the lands you are exiled from, creature?”
The creature glances up at him, seemingly startled to be addressed. Then their gaze turns away, nervous, skittish. “I– I didn’t know,” they force out after a long moment. “I was looking for a creek, and I– I thought I heard water but I didn’t realise I’d overstepped and your men were guarding the riverside and I’m so sorry please please don’t kill me I swear I didn’t—”
“Why were you looking for a creek?”
Their eyes flit back towards him, unsure, like they’re waiting for the trap to close its jaws around them. They courageously swallow down another sob. “Music,” they say eventually. “It isn’t the same without the water flowing through it.”
The knight scoffs. “You play?” the king asks. 
“Your majesty,” the knight cuts in quickly. “With respect, please, don’t entertain it. We should behead it before it has the chance to act against you.”
“We ruled that the mystical beings would face trial, did we not?” the king snaps. “With respect, knight, allow me to follow through on my own laws.”
The knight dips his head awkwardly, and the king returns his interest to the creature beneath him. Their gaze is locked to the floor; being caught in the middle of a conversation about their fate clearly isn’t a favourable place to be. “Your instrument, creature, where is it?”
The creature’s wings flutter at the question. Their gaze pulls to the knight behind them, snapping back when he returns it with hatred. “It– It got destroyed.”
The king’s eyes find the knight’s. “He destroyed it?”
“I thought it was a weapon,” the knight defends weakly.
The creature sniffles, their eyes wet again. “If you let me go, you’ll never see me again,” they say desperately. “Please, I swear, I’ll never come back.”
“And your wings, creature,” the king says, purposefully ignoring their words, “what happened to them?”
Their wings quiver slightly again. They keep their eyes carefully pinned to the floor. “I– I scared your men,” they whisper. “They were afraid I would hurt them.”
The king can practically see the scene. A magical creature, a tune in their hands and a song on their lips, stumbling upon the king’s men. They’d probably tried to escape, probably realised their mistake too late. The king’s men, with orders to protect him from the magical beings that came for his throat, pouncing on opportunity. Breaking them beyond repair and throwing them at his feet in the hopes of praise.
The king only outlawed these creatures. If he’d known how his men were enacting his laws, he would have altered them much sooner. How many of these beings are scared, damaged, dead, because his knights leapt at the excuse for bloodshed?
The king heaves a deep breath. “Knight,” he starts, and both he and the creature tense. “You are excused.”
The knight’s face twitches. “Your majesty—”
“You,” the king repeats, “are excused.”
There’s a still moment where he thinks the knight will have the gall to disobey. Then he dips into a polite bow, stepping away.
“I’ll be right outside, your majesty,” he says pointedly, and with that he slips out the door and leaves the two of them alone. The creature’s gaze burns into the tile below them.
“I have the finest woodworkers at my disposal, creature,” the king says once the echo of the door has dispelled into nothing. “Tell me what your instrument looks like, and I will have it remade.”
“O–Oh,” the creature says shortly. “I, uh, th–that’s very kind, but it’s, um, made of a particular wood. Its magic is held in the care my family has shown the tree for centuries.”
“Then my woodworkers will carve it out for you.” He waves a hand dismissively. “If it is required to repair what my knights have wrought on you, it will be done.”
“T–Thank you.” The creature glances at the empty room behind them. “So, uh, am I free, or…”
“There is a creek not far from this palace,” the king continues idly. “Your music would sound wonderful within these walls.”
The creature falters at that. Their mouth works for a moment. “Huh?”
“As my court musician, you would be protected under oath and my rule,” the king explains casually. “My knights cannot touch you within these walls.”
“That’s kind,” the creature repeats quietly, “but I don’t– I don’t think I could—”
“Nonsense.” The king gets to his feet, waving for the creature to follow him. “You would be safe and able to play music as you desire. I will hear no more of it—you shall stay here.”
The creature stumbles to their feet as he gets closer. “O–Okay.”
The king glances at their wings as they stand. “We shall see the woodworkers,” he says thoughtfully, “but I feel you should visit my doctor first.”
The king leaves them in the medicine hall, under the careful watch of a different knight, so he can batter the door down to his legal advisor’s office. The poor man looks rather startled to see him. “Your majesty,” he just about says.
“Rise, advisor,” the king demands, “I have a law I must amend.”
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raineandsky · 1 month
Text
#95
The villain appears around the corner at a run, their hair still wet and their coat ridiculously crumpled. The hero raises an eyebrow at them as they practically skid to a halt in front of them.
“Sorry I’m late,” they say between ragged breaths.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” the hero points out with a pointed check of their watch, “to your own crime.”
“To my crime?” the villain echoes indignantly. “Why would you invite me to my own crime?”
That barely makes sense to the hero. They root through their pocket and shove a tiny piece of paper in the villain’s face.
The villain’s eyes scan over the paper with an increasingly confused frown. “You told me to meet you here, and I have—even though you were, y’know, fifteen minutes late.”
“[Hero],” the villain says slowly. “This isn’t my writing.”
All accusations lining up in the hero’s mind grind to a halt. “Excuse me?”
“This– This isn’t my writing,” they repeat a little more intensely. They rummage through their coat for a moment, slapping a scrap of paper against the hero’s chest. “Did you write that?”
The hero pries the little piece of paper open.
meet me at the back of the bank at 6:30pm. not a fight. - Hero
“I didn’t write that,” the hero says automatically.
“What the hell is going on?” the villain demands. It seems to be aimed more at the air than the hero, but they feel inclined to answer regardless.
“I don’t know,” they say uselessly. “Someone wanted to bring us together. They knew we’d answer each other.”
They gesture with the note for emphasis. “Jesus Christ,” the villain says flatly. “It’s a two-for-one deal. We’re going to die.”
“We’re not going to die, [Villain],” the hero snaps, but the way the villain is glancing over their shoulder is making them want to do the same. 
The villain’s face twitches into some kind of horrible acceptance of fate for a moment. They open their mouth, their breath misting in the evening air as they gear up to probably say something stupid, but a voice cuts them off.
“Isn’t this a nice little gathering?” the henchman says brightly. “I’m glad you both came.”
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raineandsky · 2 months
Note
hi! i was wondering if you'd be willing to write a piece where a hero, who is the older brother of the villain and considered "the golden son," and the villain, who had left home once they were of age, haven't talked for months after a big argument. Then one day, Villain is fighting his brother when his brother has a panic attack. Villain tries to leave, thinking it's a trick (cause his perfect older brother could never be hurt, right?) and goes to hide. but then their parents appear and Villain realizes perhaps Hero wasn't as admired by their parents as Villain would have liked to believe. In fact, it almost seemed like they disliked Hero all together. they're being mean and kind of calling him pathetic, and hero keeps getting more and more anxious until finally the Villain realizes something is wrong and tries to help
god this turned out WAY longer than i intended - i hope you like long stories anon!! and ofc thank you for the request :)
-
tw abuse
“What are you doing?”
The villain thought they were fighting, but now the hero wants to sit on the floor and pant like a dog and clutch at his chest. He thinks it’s a fair question to ask.
“I don’t want to fight you, [Villain],” the hero manages through short breaths. “Please.”
The villain doesn’t see him much anyway. He’s not sure why one fight would take it out of him. He simply rolls his eyes, blatantly unconvinced. “If we weren’t on opposite sides I would maybe consider it.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this.” The words rush out before the hero has to heave another shallow breath. “We don’t have to hate each other.”
He glances up to the villain and– oh god, is he crying? What kind of game does he think he’s playing? The villain scowls wholeheartedly.
“Funny,” he says flatly. “Look, if we’re not going to battle it out I’ll be on my way.”
“No, [Villain].” The hero practically chokes on his name. What a show he’s putting on. “[Villain], please, don’t leave me—”
But the villain’s already turned on his heel to make one of his famous escapes. It’s not quite as extravagant as it usually is, considering he’s walking away rather casually and not pursued in the slightest, but he’s getting the hell out of dodge and that’s all that matters.
Or he tries to, at least. He’s just reaching for the door handle when it swings open with a mind of its own. He just about has the foresight to stagger back to avoid being whacked in the face.
“[Hero],” a voice says coolly from the stairwell.
The villain’s stomach drops in a way it hasn’t in a long time. He’s flitting round the corner to hide before he realises he’s doing it. He hates that his own father can still have this effect on him, even 16 years later.
Two superheroes stalk out onto the rooftop, seemingly oblivious to anything but the hero sagging on the floor in front of him. “Where’s [Villain]?” the other superhero demands after a moment.
The villain shrinks back in his hiding spot slightly. The hero doesn’t even look at his parents. “He left.”
The villain didn’t care what was happening with the hero, but the superheroes don’t seem to even notice. The superhero looks at the hero at his feet like a child who’s done nothing worse than get bad grades in school. The other superhero sighs like he’s simply a stubborn teenager. Of course they do. They never saw anything less in him.
Jealousy isn't the right word. Just distain, maybe. Annoyance that their parents had to have favourites.
“He left,” the superhero echoes coldly, “and you let him?”
The hero’s breathing is in tatters now. He seems like he’s barely even listening, his head bent, his chest heaving. “I couldn’t—”
“What kind of hero are you if you just let villains run out of your grasp?” the superhero snaps, and the other superhero nods shortly. “Villains waltz in and destroy everything me and your mother have created and, what, you cheer them on?”
“H–He’s my brother—”
“He’s vermin,” the other superhero butts in sharply. “You can’t even save the city from a rat? Is that it?”
The villain keeps his emotions carefully in-check. He knows his parents were never going to be happy with his life choices, but it still hurts. Being compared to a goddamn rat is a little hurtful.
And the hero. What’s with the shortness? He’s the best of both of them. The golden child, the star pupil, the one their parents spent all their time building into the perfect son. The perfect hero.
“Answer your mother, [Hero],” the superhero spits coldly.
Even the villain can see the hero shaking even from here. He’s practically choking on his own breath, his sight probably blurry with the tears. The villain’s heart twists in a way it hasn’t in years. He’s my brother reverberates through his mind uninvited.
“He can’t even answer a simple question,” the other superhero says with a disappointed tut. The villain recognises that noise—it’s a lot more of a death sentence than it sounds. “Pathetic.”
He’s my brother. He’s your brother.
The villain pushes himself upright.
“I– I can’t—” The hero stumbles over his words for a moment, a desperate cough pulling from his chest. “I can’t hurt people. I can’t hurt him.”
The villain heaves a deep breath, stabilises himself. “Sometimes you have to hurt people to get them to do what you want,” the other superhero says. She flicks her hair over her shoulder much too casually for this conversation. “You have to whip the horse to get it to move, [Hero]. I’m ashamed we haven’t drilled that into you yet.”
The fact that she doesn’t use his actual name isn’t lost on the villain. He takes a few careful steps out of the shadows.
Don’t leave me.
“You don’t need to whip a horse,” the villain says sharply. The superheroes whip back to stare at him, and it feels like he’s fourteen again; got too dirty, played too rough, liked the wrong thing. The you’re in deep shit kind of feeling. “You can get them where you need if you give them reason to trust you.”
“Ah,” the other superhero says with a disingenuous smile. “The vermin returns.”
The hero’s head has snapped up, tears streaking his face. The villain wants this to be over. “Leave [Hero] alone,” he spits. “Leave my brother alone.”
“Oh?” The superhero smirks. “Now you want to get involved in family affairs?”
“Go on,” the villain taunts stupidly, “show him how a real hero does it.”
The superhero strides towards him, and it takes all his willpower to stay put. “You act like goodness and peace are one and the same.” He says flatly. “Sometimes violence is the only language you animals understand.”
“What a thing,” the villain retorts. He can feel the regret building as he’s saying it like he’s a child again. Don’t draw his attention to you. Stop talking. “To call your son an animal.”
The villain feels, rather than sees, the superhero’s fist on his face. It takes him a moment to realise he’s on the ground, the cold concrete an unforgiving bed. The hero shouts something incoherent, his voice torn. “I would never hurt my son,” the superhero says, emotionless, “but you are no son of mine.”
“Thank god,” the villain says with a mouth of copper.
“Let’s arrest the rat,” the other superhero says. “We can question him about his associates at the agency.”
The handcuffs are refreshingly cool in comparison to the burning in the side of the villain’s face. The superhero shoves him to his feet with no less remorse than any other villain he’s dealt with.
“Let me take him,” the hero says quickly. He stumbles to his feet, breaths still uneven, sniffling desperately. The words come out choked. “I’m sorry for messing up. I’ll take him.”
The superhero pulls the villain a little closer by the cuffs. It’s almost protective, if he didn’t know his father better. “You realise villains aren’t doves that need releasing into the wild?” the superhero drawls. “They are scum that need stamping out. If you take him, we will find him in the agency, won’t we?”
“Of course,” the hero says shortly. “I’ll get him there.”
The superheroes eventually go on their way. The villain spits on the floor after them.
“Some city defenders they are,” he says flatly. “Why the hell didn’t you leave?”
“They entered me in a race I didn’t realise I was running,” the hero says. His face is pulled taut, sweat beaded on his brow, his voice shaking. “And when I figured it out, it was too late to do anything but live up to their expectations and win.”
His hands still tremble on the villain’s arm. “I’m sorry I didn't see it sooner,” the villain whispers, like his regret is a curse. “You could have come with me.”
The hero laughs insincerely. “I’m sorry dad punched you.”
The villain shrugs as the hero gently nudges him towards the door. “Comes with being a villain. I’ve been punched a lot harder than that before.”
“I don’t know how you live like that.”
“I don’t know how you do either.”
They share a smile, kind of. It’s a little awkward and subdued, but it’s a smile between brothers long since torn apart. That’s all that matters.
“Look,” the hero says after a short moment, “I’m really sorry about everything. I’ll get you out of prison.”
“And incur the wrath of those freaks?” The villain laughs. “No, don’t worry. I’ll break myself out.”
“I’ll get you out,” the hero says quietly, “and this time, I’ll come with you.”
The villain stares at him, unabashedly wide-eyed. “Really?”
The hero looks better than he did ten minutes ago—colour is just starting to warm his cheeks again, his breath a little more even. Relief floods the villain’s heart in a way it hasn’t in a long time. “Anyone who calls my brother vermin is no parent of mine.” They start down the steps, slow, lazy, like they’re putting off getting home from school again. “I’m tired of trying to fit into their perfect ideals of a hero. I’ll come with you.”
The villain grins boyishly. Getting punched was almost worth it to get his best friend back. “We have room for you.” Almost. “But you get the bottom bunk.”
The hero rolls his eyes but he agrees, and it almost feels like nothing ever went wrong.
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raineandsky · 2 months
Text
#94
tw: suggestive
The villain says something the hero can’t hear. The hero grins and grabs their face and kisses them like the world is ending.
The villain stumbles away from the hero, clutching at the side of their head with some sort of horrified, pained grimace.
“What the fuck,” they spit coldly, and the hero isn’t sure if it’s the punch or the insane vision they just had that brings the words out. The hero wants to say them too.
The villain lurches for them with a snarl. Their hands lock around their throat—
Soft lights. A pan bubbles on the stove. A radio hums a tune from the counter. The hero and the villain sway back and forth, hands interlocked, bodies pressed together. The villain pushes the hero out and spins them with a laugh.
The villain’s hold on the hero has loosened considerably since two seconds ago. “What the fuck is happening?” they say like a demand.
The hero scowls. “I’d love to know as much as you,” they say shortly, “but I have bigger problems on my hands.”
They kick the villain to the side, earning a rather indignant yelp as they clamber to their feet. They spring up just in time to avoid the hero’s punch a second time, and return it with a swing of their own fist.
The hum of the city filters through cracked windows. The hero’s head tucks into the crook of the villain’s shoulder. A lazy finger traces over the haphazard scars on the villain’s shoulder. The hero says something, and the villain laughs so vibrantly that it shimmers straight through to the other side.
The hero watches the villain stagger back with their laughter ringing in their ears.
The hero tries for another swing but the villain awkwardly dodges to the side. “No!” they cry, “Stop touching me!”
The hero, for some reason, listens. They force their fist down to their side. The villain keeps a safe distance from them. “You’re causing these fucking… fantasies by touching me, so just– just stop.”
“You touched me just as much,” the hero defends. “Let’s not put all the blame on me.”
“Okay, let’s not say that word so much,” the villain says immediately. “Punching and kicking do just fine.”
“You said touching first” — The hero almost grins — “and it was you who called them fantasies.”
The villain’s horror dips into familiar disdain. “Okay, well, now you’re just getting on my nerves. Just stop causing these stupid—”
“Aren’t you curious?” the hero interjects shortly. “We’re having shared visions, [Villain]. It’s a pain when we’re fighting, sure, but what’s it mean? What’s in them?”
“You can’t be serious.”
The hero holds their hand out to the villain expectantly. “Maybe if we see enough we’ll figure out what it’s about.”
The villain scoffs, but a smug smile tugs at their lips. “You can just say if you want to hold my hand.”
They slap their palm against the hero’s.
Streetlights spill into the dim room. A TV murmurs, forgotten, in the corner of the room. The hero and the villain lay entwined on the bed. The hero’s body pushes down on the villain. Their lips are much too busy on the villain’s to worry about anything else. The hero’s hands trace lines into the other’s sides as the villain’s fingers grasp at their face like it's the last thing they’ll ever do.
The hero faintly feels a tug at their hand, and it takes a moment to realise that it’s not part of the vision. “Wait,” they say sharply.
The villain rolls them both over so they’re now the one pressing the hero into the sheets, and the smile they give them is so genuine it tugs at the hero’s heart. They say something, inaudible, and the hero pulls them down for another kiss.
The villain pulls away so fast they almost trip over themself. “That’s enough,” they say shortly.
Their face is burning. From the way the hero’s own is getting hot, they imagine theirs isn’t much better. There’s a miserably tense silence between them.
“You’re not allowed near me,” the villain continues eventually, “ever again.”
“Why?” The hero throws them a grin much too confident for the way their stomach is fluttering. “Scared you might like it?”
The villain stalks past them, and the hero resists the urge to grab them. Their cheeks are almost as red as they were in the vision. “I’m going home,” the villain says as they reach the door. “Hopefully I can find a way to bleach my memory.”
“You look good when you’re not trying to kill me,” the hero says after a moment of deliberation.
The scowl the villain tries to force looks a little ridiculous with how much they’re blushing. “Sure.” They escape into the stairwell, and make it three steps down before throwing the hero an awkward, “you too.”
And just like that, the hero is left with an unwon fight and a memory of a life they don’t have.
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