#Secretsantasnippets2024

[kaiwewi]

Their First Villain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An awkward pause follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The villain raises a brow.

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

“Yet you are working.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, look at them now!

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

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

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

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

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

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

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

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

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

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

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

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

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

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

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

[creweemmaeec11]

Just a Sense

This is my secret santa snippet I wrote for @chaoticgoodthief. Their Prompt was:  "how about the joke villain going ballistic when someone hurts their designated hero?"

I really hope you like it!!!

"Alright, party's over," Hero's voice echoed through the empty halls of the museum.

Villain didn't bother turning around immediately, continuing to admire the painting they were looking at before casually turning to face their guest, "I'd have to disagree," They mused, hopping down from the ledge, "Now that you're here, the party can finally start,"

The Hero grinned, pulling their dagger out and twirling it between their fingers, "Alright, if you're looking for a dance partner-"

"Awe, come on!" The criminal interrupted, "We haven't even gotten to enjoy the museum yet!" they twirled with their arms out to gesture to everything around them, "We have the place to ourselves tonight! We can even go past the guard ropes, don't worry, I won't tell,"

The Hero raised an amused eyebrow, "You don't think I have better things to do?"

The Villain shot them a cheshire, all too knowing smile, "I think we both know you do, and we both know that's exactly why you're here in the first place,"

It was a distraction, for both of them. A game of cat and mouse that repeated like clockwork, comforting in its predictability. They were both safe here, in a weird way. They knew each other, knew the stakes, knew it wasn't actually a fight to the death, that no matter what, Villain would slip away at the end of the night, so they could do it all over again.

The Hero blushed, but rolled their eyes, failing to keep the slight smile off their face, "Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night,"

"Put that butter knife away; we both know you're not actually going to stab me with it,"

"Oh yeah? I do have an actual job to do here, you know?" The Hero countered, crossing their arms.

"Oh my god, are you two done flirting yet?" A new voice cut in mockingly,  as a figure came out from behind one of the museum's pillar supports.

"Supervillain?!" both parties cried in unison.

Hero instinctively reached for their communicator, but Supervillain flicked a hand. The device shot out of Hero's grasp, shattering against the far wall.

"Now, now," Supervillain drawled, their voice cool and condescending, almost like disciplining a misbehaving child, "Calling for backup would ruin the whole point of me going through the effort of getting you alone, wouldn't it?"

"Supervillain, what are you doing here?" Villain asked, a cautious edge creeping into their usually carefree tone.

Supervillain glanced over to them, surprise flashing in their eyes, like they were shocked the Villain had even dared to speak to them.

"Leave." They commanded, "This doesn't concern you anymore," turning back toward the Hero, who was slowly backing away.

Villain saw the Hero glance at them, the fear, the silent plea for help in their eyes. They clenched their fists at their sides.

"Back off, I was here first,"

The Supervillain spun around at that, eyebrows fully raised, shock morphing into an almost... impressed expression.

"Oh, you're cute," they replied, lips curling into a smirk. "I don't believe we've met face to face, have we? Small fries don't usually cause much of a blip on my radar I'm afraid. But don't worry, tonight I'm actually doing you a favour,"

"A favour?" The Villain replied skeptically, narrowing their eyes.

"Well, I'm about to take this little nuisance behind us out of the way for you-"

Suddenly, the Hero behind them made a dash for it, but it was no use, as they were immediately flung backwards, crashing through a wall and an expensive painting along with it.

"Seriously, Hero? Running? You should know better by now."

"Get away from them!" Villain shot back, running toward the Hero who was struggling in the rubble.

"All right, your entertainment value has expired. I needed them without their backup, which they never need with you. You've served your purpose, now get out of my way," the Supervillain gestured at the Villain, as if to send them flying, but to their surprise, nothing happened, "what-"

Suddenly the Supervillain's world seemed to be spinning, running laps around their skull as they could no longer tell up from down. It was like vertigo from all directions at once. It was only then the horrifying realization hit them that their vision was fading.

"What the hell are you-!"

"Sensory manipulation," Villain said calmly, striding toward them, watching as the Supervillain came crashing down to the floor. "A little something I haven't had to use in a long time."

"You insolent little-!"

"Sense of sight, balance, motion... kind of hard to function when they suddenly get thrown into a blender huh? Proprioception really is a wonderful thing."

Supervillain was very quickly beginning to feel sick.

"Certain senses are more fun than others..." the Villain mused, crouching down next to them, "Nociception... the sense of pain... for example"

A gut-wrenching, blood-curdling, animalistic scream suddenly erupted from the Supervillain on the floor.

The pain only lasted for a second, but that was one second too long.

They were flailing, trying desperately to get away, to get a sense of anything. They couldn't tell where they were. Were they on the ground? Were they stuck to the ceiling? Were they floating in water? Even worse, they felt like they were losing a sense of not only where they were, but what and even who they were.

Supervillain didn't even realize they were shaking. They could feel panic flooding their system.

"Interoception is probably my favourite, though," Villain mused, their voice almost playful. "The sense of internal body states. Hunger, thirst.... panic... fear...." The Villain mused, tilting their head in thought, "How high do you think your heart rate can get before it gives out? Shall we find out?"

The Supervillain tried to speak, they really did, but it felt like the couldn't get enough oxygen into their lungs. They couldn't- hyperventilating- their body was-

It was like their body couldn't tell how fast their heart was already beating, yet it felt in desperate need to beat faster.

Then, like a sudden plunge into icy water, everything in their body seemed to balance. Their head was spinning, but they could see their vision beginning to come back. They could make out a blurry figure standing above them that was starting to move away.

"If I ever see you anywhere close to my hero again, I'll get the answer to my question," they warned as they went back over to the Hero in question.

There was a flash behind them, and the Supervillain vanished as they crouched down, "Are you okay?"

"What-.... what the hell was-..."

"Where does it hurt?" the Villain asked instead.

"Everywhere?" The hero huffed, dropping their head to the marble floor below.

The Villain closed their eyes for a moment, and suddenly, the hero could feel the pain melting away.

"Better?"

"How the hell did you-"

"Let's just say I always go easy on my favourite hero," they stood up, extending a hand down to the Hero, "Come on, I'll stop the heist if I get to take you out to dinner, on me,"

"Only if it comes with a side of explanations." The Hero rebuked.

"Deal,"

With that, the Villain helped the hero to their feet. They may have had a lot of explaining to do. But they also had a steak to order, and they had their priorities in order.

[thepenultimateword]

The Un-Gingerbread || Secret Santa 2024

I participated in the Secret Santa writing event again this year! This snippet is for @gingerly-writing! I hope you enjoy! I know you said I could choose just one topic buuuut I ended up kinda combining them all together!

magical girl powers (especially for villains)

something cute and Christmassy turned deadly/bad (Christmas card full of blackmail, evil snow powers, etc)

super niche/useless superpower saves the day

“They’re Christmas cookies,” Hero said blandly.

“They’re suspicious.” Villain tapped the edge of the platter with the tip of their snowflake wand. Little swirls of frost spread over the surface of the plastic wrap, clouding over the little gingerbread faces.

“Some caroler or neighbor or someone trying to be spread Christmas cheer casually left a plate on your doorstep. End of story.”

Hero had never been the imaginative type. It was a little annoying actually: the power of disbelief. One of the only things that had ever rendered Villain powerless. It didn’t always work, especially now that Hero had seen Villain’s work up close so often, but when Hero got thinking too much about the laws of gravity, the improbability of a transformation sequence, the energy mechanics of magic, Villain found themselves dropping like a stone. 

In those moment they just had to hope Hero was close enough to catch them–practically a guarantee–and empathetic enough not say a word to anyone else. …Less likely.

Villain tucked the wand into a reality pocket–Hero was nice enough not mess with that one today-and swished their capelet around them as they turned toward the fridge. The next thing they knew, they were pouring a glass of milk just so they could look away. The hero’s dry gaze already felt like a drain on their powers without this extra dose of exasperation. 

“Look at the clothes,” they said.

Hero raised an eyebrow, but began to peel up the first layer of plastic wrap.

“Don’t unwrap them!” Villain cried, then as Hero’s eyebrow did a higher, more quizzical leap into their hair, “We don’t know what’s in them.”

“I don’t think this shoddy wrap job is keeping in any dangerous toxins,” Hero said.

Villain stomped a heeled shoe. “Don’t say such dangerous things out loud!”

“For that to work the cookies would have to actually be toxic. Which they aren’t.” Hero’s eyes flicked up and down before returning to the cookie plate and the unwrapping process. “Did you seriously do a complete transformation over this?”

Villain warmed a little. They didn’t make a habit of inviting heroes to their apartment, but something about this had shaken them. Something about those sugar pearl eyes peering up at them had felt…wrong. Though they’d claimed, even internally, that Hero was simply the first name to pop into their head, maybe…maybe they’d chosen them on purpose. Maybe they’d wanted a bit of logic to asway their anxiety. To tell them everything was truly alright.

“I’m just being prepared,” Villain said, then nodded at the plate.

The gingerbreadpeople were dressed like them. Not the comfortable, baggy outfits they wore as a civilian but their magical version–silver pompadour shoes with a snowflake sprinkles for the buckles, long icy blue tailcoat and capelet with a carefully iced imitation of the frost pattern emroidery, and whipped ruffles—so many ruffles, in the cravat, in the white undershirt, in the peeking cuffs of the sleeves; the Ginger-Villains even held their wand, complete with silver edible glitter so the snowflake head sparkled in the light.

“Coincidence.”

“Coinci�� Hero! That’s me!”

“Yes, and half the city is convinced you’re some sort of ice fairy.” Villain could hear the eyeroll in their tone. “This isn’t the first cookie I’ve seen with your face on it.”

“But they are the first to show up at my door.”

Hero let out an enormous sigh. “Ok, honestly? Yes, it’s weird. Yes, it’s creepy. But I just don’t believe anyone could have figured out who you are let alone where you live. You’re ok. Throw them away if you’re so worried.”

Villain folded their arms poutily. “I’m sure that’s exactly what the sender wants me to do. One moment I’m dumping cookies, the next I have giant radioactive rats breaking down my door.”

They swished their cape again, more dramatically this time, making the full breadth of their displeasure known. 

Hero sighed again. They did that so much it was a wonder they had any breath left.

“Do you want me to take them?”

Villain blinked. “Really?”

“You’re just going keep calling me otherwise, right? And I have no worries about throwing them away in my trash.”

Villain picked up the platter hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my behalf…”

“I know it’s Christmas but quit with the fluff. Hand them over.”

Hero thrust out their hand, waving their fingers impatiently. 

Well, if Hero really wanted the creepy cookies, who was Villain to stop them. They were a grown, capable adult who knew how to take care of themselves, and they were enemies anyways, so Villain didn’t need to feel guilty at all if–

Villain’s thoughts stopped short, plate half extended. The platter trembled a little in their fist.

“Are you really so freaked out that you’re shaking?” Hero said.

“I-I’m not.”

Something on the platter was moving. 

As the first Ginger-Villain rose to its feet, all Villain and Hero could do was stare. 

When the second one popped up, Villain threw the platter across the room.

The decorative plastic cracked against the wall, and about two dozen cookies scattered every direction.

The wall clock ticked a second of peace, and then the cookies were back up, faces smudges, bodies cracked, or a gory scene of cookie arms and legs and sugar pearl eyes littering the tile.

One cookie who was lucky enough to escape the throw with no more damage than a lost eye and a smeared tailcoat waddled determinedly forward while several others limped or dragged themselves behind.

Villain cursed. "What is happening?"

"It's not real. it's not real. it's not real," Hero muttered like a ritual beside them. But the cookies were real. And whatever disbelief Hero had been suspending was broken.

Fine. If Hero was going to be useless... Villain reached into the air and yanked their wand out of its pocket and back into reality.

They flicked the wand once, sending a pale coating of slick ice over the living cookies, stiffening their limbs and freezing them to the spot.

"There," Villain said, letting out a slow exhale. "Now I think we should burn--"

Crack.

Crick, crack.

Crick, crack, crackle, crack.

Steam wafted up from each cookie, and as they pressed forward, little fissures spread up the weakened ice-coating.

"Are they...getting hotter?" Villain said.

The embroidery detailing and facial features dripped down the cookie's bodies as they moved pooling in little sweet puddles at their feet. A few cookies picked up the nearby limbs and melded them into the now soft stumps.

"That shouldn't be as disturbing as it is," Hero muttered.

"Ok, I was going easy on you all because you're made of flour," Villain said, "but why don't you try escaping this?"

Villain swished their wand in a circle, this time encapuslating the cookies in a large, solid ball of ice.

Crack.

Villain conjured another layer.

Crick, crack.

Another.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Another.

The ice ball grew and grew, but for every layer of ice Villain threw up, the cracking only seemed to quicken.

Great billowing clouds of steam filled the room, obscuring the ice prison from view and Villain backed warily toward the living room, grabbing Hero's arm as they went.

There was one final crack; ice shot around the room like shattered glass and a wave of chilly water washed across the floor, seeping through the seams of their shoes.

As the cookies had heated in their prison, they'd mushed together, replacing two dozen zombieish Ginger-Villains with one enormous, thoroughly burnt Ginger-Creature. One beady sugar pearl stared down at them from the gooey burnt icing face.

"Hero, do something!" Villain shouted, digging their nails into the hero's arm.

Hero paused their muttered chant long enough to roar, "I'm trying!"

"What, a walking cookie is too realistic for you?"

"It reminds me of a horror movie! It's hard to disbelieve in things that have that sort of hold in my mind!"

The Ginger-Creature stepped toward them.

Villain waved their wand toward the pool of water on the floor, freezing it into a slick sheet. Unfortunately, they hadn't thought about their own half-submerged feet. As they attempted another step back, they found their blocky heels frozen to the floor.

The creature slipped a little with its next step, but ultimately its heating power left indents in the ice wherever its giant feet moved.

Villain lurched back, but the attempt was fruitless.

"Take off your shoes!" Hero cried, already in their socks and crouching down at Villain's feet and fumbling with the intricate snowflake buckles.

"They're magic shoes," Villain choked. "They don't come off."

"Then detransform! Do something! It's coming!"

Villain grabbed Hero by either side of their face, forcing them to look up at them.

"Hero, I need you're annoying, unimaginative, logical brain to start asking the big questions right now."

Hero stared at them wide-eyed. "I...I..."

"Come on! You always think of something aggravating! Like...how can this cookie see us when its eye is just sugar? How does the light pass through? And even if it does, how is that light processed? Does it have a cookie brain? That doesn't make any sense."

"How can it heat itself?" Hero said, voice a little trembly. "Nothing in gingerbread can conduce its own heat."

"Yeah, and why did the cookies have heat powers anyway when they were supposed to be copies of me?"

"How did it know how to shape itself? It's messed up, but it's still sort of a person. Do all the cookies have a sense of humanity? Do they have separate thoughts? Or are they one cookie hivemind?"

The smell of burnt sugar and ginger was suffocating now. Villain could feel the heat wafting off it as it's burnt foot came into view a mere couple of feet away.

Hero spread their arms out in front of Villain and looked up into the towering cookie's face. “You're not real.”

The gingerbread froze in place. It's entire body shuddered, and then abruptly it crumbled into a pile of blackened cookie dust. The sugar pearl rolled across the floor and into Villain's knee.

They both stared in silence.

Then Villain laughed.

They couldn’t help it. Emotional response maybe. They just laughed and laughed and went weak against Hero's side, grasping for balance around their waist. Hero hugged them with one arm around the head. Villain wasn't sure if they even knew they were doing it, or if the simply needed as much support after that conclusion as Villain did.

"I did it," Hero gasped.

"You did it!" Villain said giddily. "You're so boring, you fantastic stick in the mud you!"

Villain picked up the sugar pearl, rolling it between their thumb and forefinger a couple times, before popping it triumphantly in their mouth. As soon, as the sweetness hit their tongue, words sprang across their mind unprompted.

Merry Christmas, Villain. I'm sorry you didn't like my treat. My next one will be better.

[watercolorfreckles]

Static's Girl

This is a Secret Santa Snippet for @esperosisdoeswriting!! Merry Christmas, Esper, I hope you like it!!! Her prompt was villain dad who' loves his small child and is not afraid to kill ppl over it!

TW: Blood, violence, mention of needles

“Our target is a child?” The horror in Blythe’s voice seemed loud, even past the pound of blood pulsing in her ears. 

Fellow members of the hero’s team poured into the back of the van, one strong-arming a terrified little girl. Her wrists were bound, mouth covered and tears streaking her cheeks. The child kicked and thrashed with pink-booted feet, legs dangling helplessly above the floor of the car where the hero’s sidekick kept her firmly hoisted in the air.

She looked barely older than 7.

Blythe’s protest was suitably ignored as the team shouted instructions at one another. The back doors slammed shut and the van lurched into action. Passengers plunged themselves into their seats.

“Are you crazy?” Blythe hissed. She stood only to stagger into the side window as the vehicle made a sharp turn. “This is crazy! Why are we kidnapping a child?!”

“Bosses orders,” another said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

Mockingbird said “Jump” and they said, “How high?” That was just the way of things, wasn’t it? It had never concerned Blythe before–their leader was a just one.

But now…

The child’s knees were muddied and scuffed. As if she'd fallen. As if she'd run. She squealed panicked cries against the sidekick's palm.

Blythe's stomach bottomed out and pooled again with a honey-slick dread. “Who is she?”

“Static's kid,” the driver called back. Blythe caught a shiver skating through them in the corner of her eye. 

“Static's ki- I must be missing something, are you crazy?” She rounded on Mockingbird's sidekick once more. “You said we were retrieving a powered weapon that could bring Static down!”

He blinked at her as if she were exceptionally slow. “That's what she is.”

Blythe shook her head, feeling an angry tremor seize her bones. “She's a little girl, is what she is.”

Blythe startled as the radio station crackled to life, flipping noisily through channels. The driver cursed and mashed at a button. Clicking on his coms device, he spoke aloud as his free hand yanked the wheel into another screechy turn. 

“On our way back with the package in hand, Boss.”

Mockingbird's sidekick yelped and dropped the girl, a red welt forming on their palm where it had pressed against her mouth. The child hit the floor and scrambled on her knees to an empty corner.

The driver's eyes lit the rearview mirror. “What's–” He hissed and ripped his earpiece away from his head as it fizzled with blaring static loud enough for the rest of the van to hear. “Hey- She's interfering with our coms!”

“Probably trying to reach her father,” another in the front seat agreed. She pointedly shut the radio off as it flitted through stations of chatter and music once more.

The child’s nose was bleeding. Had it been doing that before? 

“Somebody knock her out already!”

The sidekick sighed and lifted a hand. All-consuming shadows danced at his fingertips seeming to choke the air around it.

“Don't.” Blythe hurled herself in front of Static's daughter. Her eyes tingled with a familiar heat that told her they were glowing, power teeming just beneath the surface. 

They stared at each other in a terse stalemate.

The sidekick’s teeth clenched.

“Listen, rookie–”

“We do not threaten children, and we certainly do not hurt them.” Blythe was proud of how steady she managed to keep her voice–firm and leaving no room for argument.

She still wanted to cry a little. How had this become her life?

Little hands grabbed at her from behind and a warm face pressed into her back. Then, a tiny sob. Blythe softened. 

“You're okay, sweetpea, it's alright,” she crooned. Blythe turned to take the child gently in her arms, gathering her close in her lap. “Shh, it's alright. I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

The sidekick's seething was palpable, gaze cleaving cleanly through her, but he finally sat back down.

An eternity later, they were back at the base. Blythe had smacked away any hands reaching to grab the child away from her, carrying the girl inside herself. The little one’s legs wound around her waist like a koala, bound hands clutching fistfuls of Blythe’s shirt fabric.

Blythe’s thoughts felt scattered as TV static. She moved on autopilot, only coming back to herself when the sterile-white lights of the laboratory hummed over them.

Mockingbird was there, black curls cascading freely over her shoulders and contrasting with the icy gray of her eyes. They were not particularly kind eyes, but Blythe had always thought the hero to be good, at least.

“Boss,” Blythe heard herself speak. She cleared her throat. “What exactly are we doing here? Why did we take this kid?”

Mockingbird gestured toward the lab table. “Put her there. We need her blood.”

Blythe’s eyes widened. “Her blood?”

“We are going to use her cells to create a power inhibitor for her father and a power replicator to dose myself with. When he comes to retrieve her, we inject him with it. He won’t act out when he knows we have his daughter. And with his own powers used against him, he’ll never escape again.”

Blythe’s voice came out croaky. “I think you’re putting an awful lot of faith in the self-control of the most powerful supervillain we’ve ever encountered. When we’ve taken his only child. And stabbed her with needles.”

Static’s daughter tightened around her. Blythe glanced down and murmured a soft apology against her ear.

“I don’t care,” Mockingbird snapped. It was clipped with a danger Blythe had never felt aimed at her before. It now felt like a knife against her soft underbelly, as silver and glinting as the superhero’s eyes. “We’re close. Too close to lose now. If you plan to stand in the way of that…”

She stepped closer and plucked the child out of Blythe’s arms with her own super-strength-enhanced, bionic ones. The child knew better than to thrash that time.

Blythe wondered now, nausea climbing her throat, whose blood she’d stolen to replicate that particular gift. The metal prosthetics weren’t just technology, now, were they? Blythe had never thought much of it before… 

“Then you’ll have to take a time out,” the superhero finished. “Somewhere quiet where you can re-evaluate. Understand?” Her voice was a fake-chipper, then. Something Barbie-coded but full of invisible teeth.

Blythe’s powers hummed low beneath her skin, a tamed beast waiting for permission to lash out. Her fists clenched. “I really don’t think this is wise.”

“No?” Mockingbird sounded bored as she set Static’s daughter down on the table, tying a strip of elastic around the child’s forearm.

The little one jumped, blue static zapping Mockingbird’s fingers where they touched.

The superhero jerked back. “You little–”

“She’s just scared,” Blythe said, stepping between them. “I’ll do it. She’ll let me do it. Please.”

Mockingbird’s metal hand clanged into a fist. She took a long-suffering breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get it done.” She pointed at the tray of tools on the counter. “Strap her down if you have to.”

Blythe’s hands went numb as she picked up the syringe. “Mocking–”

Their attentions snapped away as the speakers throughout the building crackled and spat. A wave of clammy dizziness flooded the room. Did the superhero feel the same sick lurch in her belly as Blythe did? The two clutched opposite ends of the counter to steady themselves.

Mockingbird whirled on the little girl. “Stop it, right now!”

Wide, terrified eyes stared back at her, but no blood oozed from her nose.

Blythe swallowed, choking down a roiling wave of nausea. She felt unsteady on her feet, light-headed and woozy. “It’s not her.”

A deep voice sounded over the intercom. “I’m coming to skin alive everyone who laid a finger on Verity. Those who merely stood by–don’t worry, I’ll fill your head with radiation so quickly you won’t even be able to choke out an apology.”

Oh no. Oh, they were so dead.

Blythe grabbed the child–Verity–and took a step toward the door.

Mockingbird blocked her. “No.”

“He’s going to kill everyone if he doesn’t get her back safely!” 

Blythe tried to push her way past and Mockingbird grabbed her by the throat, cogs whirring in her bionic arm. She shoved, Blythe and Verity hurtling back into the wall.

“I said no!”

Blythe’s breath collapsed out of her lungs as her back hit the wall with a sickening crunch, drywall cracking and littering the floor around them.

Mockingbird turned to the monitor screen, making furious selections on the keyboard. Security footage of the whole base blipped to life.

They watched as Static strode into a room with the terrifying grace of an apex predator, tearing down anyone in his way. Radiation flooded his fists in a green glow as he punched through the receptionist’s chest, shifting to easily grab the next closest person and brace his hands on either side of their skull. The poor soul thrashed as blood leaked from their eyes, nose, and ears. When they were no longer moving, Static let them crumple to the floor.

The next group ran and Static bowled them down with infinitely multiplied radiowaves, hurling them from open palms as if it were nothing. The speakers filled with screams, the feedback whine behind the sound forcing Blythe to cover her ears.

Her blood iced over as in the top right frame, the supervillain looked up at the camera. His head tilted, making chilling eye contact with the lens until the screen cracked and went blank with buzzing stripes of radio static. 

Verity was the only one in the compound who didn’t look afraid. She looked relieved.

Mockingbird moved for the door just as it burst open. She swung at Static with her bionic fists, missing and punching straight through the steel door instead.

Static stood on a platform of squiggling waves that lifted him off of the ground. He looked god-like. Untouchable. The impulse to run coursed through Blythe, but she stayed rooted to her spot, clutching the child to her chest. Static’s hands glowed green again as he lifted Blythe’s boss into the air. Those same up-and-down scribbles seized her, wrapping her prosthetic limbs and ripping them from her shoulders.

Mockingbird screamed.

“What did you do to my daughter?”

“Daddy!” 

The villain’s attention shifted immediately. Verity wiggled free of Blythe’s arms, running to her father.

Static dropped his target as if she were a ragdoll, scooping up his daughter instead. “Verity,” he breathed. His eyes fell closed, stroking her hair, whispering tender praises and apologies into her shoulder. 

The child clung to him. “Daddy.”

He pulled back to search her for injuries. “Are you hurt, darling? Tell me what they did to you.”

Though his voice was gentle for her, there was still a sharp undercurrent to it, as penetrating as the radiowaves that still leaked through the air. His eyes narrowed on her bloodied knees and the stained skin between her lip and nostril. 

“I’m okay, Daddy,” Verity said, looking back at Blythe.

Her vision swam as the supervillain’s focus shifted, once more, to skewer her to her spot. A calm sort of rage stretched his posture taut as he stepped closer.

Blythe, embarrassingly, may have whimpered. Her hair stood on end, floating above her head.

Verity squirmed out of her father’s hold, jumping between them. Just as Blythe had done for her. 

She held her breath.

“No, Daddy! She protected me.” Verity’s eyes took on a determined sort of gleam; valorant and unwavering. 

The air around them fizzled quietly as another wave of illness rolled over Blythe. 

Radiation poisoning. She wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

Static’s head tilted, looking from his daughter to the broken super behind her.

“She kept me safe,” Verity insisted, turning her head to look back at Blythe. Blythe couldn’t seem to speak. “She’s hurt. Can we take her home?”

“Verity.”

“Please?” Verity moved to Blythe’s side, taking her hand.

Despite her swimming vision, Blythe couldn’t help but smile softly at her. A powerful weapon indeed. Blythe believed she could move mountains.

Seconds passed and Blythe thought she may have passed out. Her vision stretched fuzzy and dim at the edges. Then she was being lifted from the floor, broken bones screaming their protest.

Blythe whimpered again, unable to help burying her face in the supervillain’s shirt.

His voice buzzed in her ear where it pressed against his chest.

“Stay close to me, Ver. Take my hand. We’re going home.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Secret Santa Snippet 2024

Secret Santa snippet for @kaiwewi! I hope you like it!

Prompt: A hero and a villain team up to confront a civilian who's writing an insane amount of fanfiction about them

918 words

"Well, hello there."

Civilian jumps at the voice in their ear. The seductive, sultry, melodical tone that fills the videos in the corner of their laptop screen.

They spin around.

Villain's lounging against the doorway, a smirk on his face.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Civilian swallows nervously. "No. No, nothing at all." As Villain shifts slightly, they slam a hand down on their laptop, abruptly remembering its contents. "Can I– can I help you with something?"

"Maybe. You're Civilian, correct?"

Civilian gulps, nods. Villain knows them by name. Why?

There's a low chuckle from someone behind him. Civilian flinches, then feels themself heat up at the absurdity of the reaction. It's just a laugh.

"Stop scaring the civilian, Villain." Hero sounds amused as they push their way past Villain, coming to stand by Civilian's window. Civilian doesn't miss how this covers both of their exits.

Them working together is near-unheard-of in public, but Civilian makes a mental note to include it in something later.

Hero smiles disarmingly.

"Hello, Civilian. How are you doing?"

Civilian swallows.

"Um. Hi. I'm fine."

"Good, good. You're panicking. Don't. We just want a quick word."

"Um. Okay. What about?" They want to deny their feelings but Hero will know. Empathic powers. It's the source of their emotions, all the confessions...

Hero's blinding smile drops into something much more serious, and Civilian's stomach plummets with it. Oh shit. Oh shit. What have they done?

"Your writing habits."

"More specifically, where they regard us." The 'us' is punctuated by a flash of white teeth.

Civilian tries to inch out of their seat, though they know there's no hope against Villain. Maybe they can get closer to Hero...

Villain places a hand down on the table beside them, blocking their exit, and just stares. Somehow, that's the most menacing thing he could do.

"It's just a hobby!" they burst out, babbling. "I just– I just like to write, I don't mean anything by it!"

Villain rolls his eyes and opens up the laptop, scrolling through the open tabs.

"Videos. More videos. Ooh look, a forum. And your *word document*. I wonder what you're writing now."

He bends over to look closer, humming. Civilian wants to sink into the floor. Better still, into the centre of the Earth and scrub this night from their memories entirely.

Hero crosses their arms.

"Villain. *Behave.*"

Villain sighs, but draws back, looking mutinous. In a dim corner of their mind, Civilian wonders what the arrangement was. Neither seems happy with it.

"I– I can stop. If you really want me to."

Villain opens their mouth, receives a glare from Hero, shuts it with a snap. Despite what they said, Civilian starts to make mental notes of all of this, all the minute body language and conversation between them, because this– this could really up the realism. Make everything in their writing so much more real. And it fits so well! They're so accurate!

"It's your private life," begins Hero, "and what you do with it is your own affair. Really, this shouldn't be any of our business, except people just have to keep showing us." A fact Civilian knew, and has never been sure what to think about, but one look at both faces and it's– it's definitely bad. "And wow. You write so much. So–"

"What do you see in us?"

Civilian stares. So does Hero, looking thrown. Civilian is suddenly, 100% certain that this wasn't part of the plan.

"Villain..."

Villain ignores them. "You're by far the most prolific writer. So why do you do it? What do you see? Besides the whole 'enemies-to-lovers' thing, which is ridiculous if that's your only reason, by the way, there's way better tropes out there."

Civilian swallows, throat dry. What do they say? The truth? A lie about it being a joke? Hero would probably see through that. What if their reasons aren't good enough, will Villain kill them? No, no, Hero wouldn't allow that. Would they?

"Stop looking like I'm the last thing you'll ever see and tell me."

Hero rolls their eyes. "I won't let him kill you. Melodramatic much."

Right. Right. No deaths. Not that Hero's words are very reassuring.

"You um. You're always fighting each other. And I mean, you're nemeses but Villain doesn't fight anyone else. You once waited three hours for Hero to turn up, just repelling everyone else with a forcefield, because you wanted a 'proper fight'. You send each other Valentine's Day gifts, and okay they're not what one might call traditional courting gifts, but still. Villain, whenever you're injured Hero avoids hitting that spot, even though it'd be an easy win, and Hero, you always go slow when Villain's ill. There's footage. And when was the last time you monologued for anyone but Hero, Villain? Your displays for everyone else are lackluster in comparison. You clearly enjoy each other's company at the very least. And I know that could all be platonic but just... it's fun to imagine... and..." Civilian trails off uncertainly as the tips of Hero's ears, the only thing visible under their mask, turn bright pink and they rush out of the room.

"Do not move one inch," growls Villain, not even ensuring Civilian will obey before running after Hero.

New writing ideas chase themselves around Civilian's mind, but only as an undercurrent now. Is this real. Is this really, actually, real?

They pinch themself. Ow.

And another thing.

How long is it going to be until Villain gets back?

[serickswrites]

Citizen Detective

This is my secret santa snippet for @yourheartonfire . Hope you enjoy it!

Civilian sat in their car. They knew they had to get out and go into the warehouse. They had spent weeks, no, months tracking this string of petty thefts. Initially they had thought it was punishment issued by the chief because they were unprofessional always--their suit crumpled, papers balled up in a wad in their pocket, and their unusual way of solving crimes--but they realized it was a way to keep their mind going. Because if their mind was unoccupied, they would turn the case that no one wanted them to work on. And so they continued to work this case instead.

It had seemed straightforward. Had seemed like an open and close case. Had seemed like it was just a bunch of teenagers robbing a couple of post offices every couple of weeks. Nothing major was ever taken. No mail stolen. So why had they been robbing the post office?

Other than just a bunch of kids looking for fun, Civilian had no idea why they were doing that. Maybe they were just showing off that they could. Maybe they were looking for money, no realizing that the postal service was basically bankrupt. Perhaps they were looking for packages addressed to their parents. But it didn't matter. It was a crime and they had to be stopped.

Civilian would have rather focused their energy on finding more evidence against Villain. Villain had been terrorizing the city for years. They committed all sorts of crimes, flaunting their ability to triumph over the law. No one could stop them. And yet, six months ago, everything changed. Civilian knew, without any proof, that Villain was not just laying low, but plotting. After their latest brush with the law made national news six months ago, Villain had gone underground.

But Civilian didn't think so. They had no proof, but Villain was out there doing something dastardly. Villain had to be. They were always up to no good. But no one believed Civilian. And even if they did, there was no sign of where Villain had gone. And what they were up to.

And now they had to go bust the group of young hoodlums that were in the warehouse. Civilian sighed, checked their service weapon, and got out of the car. They took a moment to adjust to the night that engulfed them.

It was cold and dark. They hoped that the warehouse was at least heated. They had been cold all day, but this cold sunk deep into their bones and was unrelenting. Maybe they could go for some hot chocolate after this. Anything to warm up.

"May as well get this over with," Civilian muttered as they shouldered open the door. They froze. It wasn't a group of unruly teenagers. Villain, and their entire operation, turned and stared at Civilian.

"Get them," Villain ordered coldly before turning back to the board in front of them, their back to civilian. "Do not let them get away. Bring them to me. Now." Villain's minions surged forward.

"Shit," Civilian said as they braced for impact.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[yourheartonfire]

Secret Santa 2024!

This one is for @wren-l-winter for the secretsanta2024 exchange! Prompt: Explore the dynamic between two rivals. One, an ancient vampire, and the other, a new vampire hunter eager to have her name written into legends.

It was a properly dramatic confrontation. Sheeting rain, lightning flashes, a marble floored pavilion in the middle of the city's oldest cemetery. The hunter skidded across the water-slicked surface on one knee, ending in a half-spin and a perfect three point landing, sword out and eyes narrowed.

The ancient vampire, the dreaded apex predator herself, rolled her eyes. "For fuck's sake," she said in a perfectly modern accent, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "It's going to be a clear night tomorrow, and this rain is going to wreak hell on all that fancy leather you're wearing. Can't we do this then?"

The hunter sprang. The sword flickered out. The vampire flung herself down into a shoulder roll. Sparks exploded against the pillar, inches from where her neck had been moments ago.

"Ow," said the vampire, brushing water off the shoulder of her wool coat. Somehow, none of the rain seemed to stick to her pale skin or dark hair. "How fun to see someone with a sense of the dramatic. Do you talk?"

"No," the hunter said and lunged again.

The vampire hissed, dodging and retreating from the flurry of blows, leaping with superhuman grace up onto the banister. "C'mon, kid. I'm giving you a chance here to walk away. I don't know which mothball-ridden cult trained you in sword-fu or whatever this is, but I can tell you this won't end well. It never ends well for your type."

"Don't try to get in my head, you monster!" the hunter snarled. "I grew up on social media, and believe me, your psychological warfare has nothing on unsupervised teenage girls."

The vampire arched a flawless eyebrow. "Oh honey. If that's your idea of evil, you are not at all prepared for this."

"If that's so," the hunter said with just the tiniest sneer, "why are you retreating?"

The vampire shrugged, and thunder boomed behind her as she spun around a pillar. "Maybe I'm sick of killing. Maybe the long centuries have infected me with a sense of empathy. Maybe I just don't want to deal with vampire hunter secret society bullshit again. The last time that was in fashion was the nineties. You don't want to go back there, kid. The economy was great but those cargo pants were a nightmare."

The hunter flicked water off her sword. "I think you're afraid," she said, letting the tip of her sword ring against the marble as she stalked closer. "I think you've gotten too comfortable, too lazy. Too used to picking off the easy targets. You don't remember what it's like to face a real threat-"

"I think you're dulling your blade," the vampire said with a half smile.

For a brief moment, the hunter glanced down. The vampire moved.

The world turned upside down with a painful crack, and suddenly the hunter was on her back, head dangling over the edge of the loggia. Hands empty, wrists pinned.

The hunter froze, adrenaline turning to ice in her veins. Oh god, her veins. Oh, no no no. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

"So," the vampire said with a fanged smile, shifting her weight over the hunter's hips. "Now what, honey?"

The hunter swallowed, and then flinched as the vampire's eyes flicked down to her throat. "You said something about a rain delay?" she said hoarsely.

The vampire chuckled, a noise like glass shattering. Her eyes seemed to widen, turning a honey-golden color as slow and sticky and sweet as molasses. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Who are you, sweetheart? More importantly - who sent you?"

The hunter gasped and slammed her eyes shut, before the hypnosis could take her.

"Now, now," the vampire purred. "No need for loyalty. You have potential, I'll grant you that, but whoever it was that sent you after me as your first target is either cruel or insane. Or," she said thoughtfully, almost to herself, "they wanted to send a message. Run a pawn out to take a swing at the queen, while they get the board in order. What an opening move. Where did that sword go?"

Abruptly the vampire's weight and grip were gone. The hunter flailed up to her feet with all the grace of an overturned hedgehog. The vampire was across the pavilion, examining the blade, her back to the hunter as if she'd dismissed her from her thoughts. As if the hunter was nothing.

"I am not a pawn!" the hunter screamed, water running down her face and empty hands. "They sent me to end you and I will!"

"Sweet girl," the vampire said, tucking the sword smoothly into her belt as she stood. "You're a Christmas gift to me from an old enemy. A little holiday treat before the real fight begins." She tilted her head. The hunter took a step back. "But. You do have potential. I'm rather curious to see what happens if you do make it across the board, if you'll be a rook, a bishop, a knight. Yes. A little catch and release might be fun. You go on back to your masters, tell them I reject their trap. Look them in the face and ask them what game they are playing. But-" The vampire's eyes lit up from within. "-that's after you pay the penalty."

The hunter turned and fled. She made it down before a clawed hand caught in her hair, yanking her back into an iron embrace.

"J'adoube, little pawn," the vampire whispered into her ear. Hot breath and sharp points sank into the hunter's throat and everything went white and cold.

[404lunar1216]

Secret Santa 2024!

It was so fun joining this years secret Santa! This is the first time I've ever done something like this, so I definitely have room for improvement.

This is for @thepenuultimateword, and their prompt was: " Villain x Villaim. Supervillain has one of the scariest reputations in the city, but when something happens to them, the people soon find out that Supervillains 'gaurd dog" and most loyal follower, is much scarier"

I tried my best and I hope to improve as I write more snippets.

Word count: 1131

Supervillain. The name alone had people instantly on edge. They had grown quite a fearful reputation with the heroes and public alike. Well, mostly the older generation of heroes who were smart enough to learn from their mistakes. The younger, new heroes were young and foolish. Most wanted a shot to become famous, and taking down Supervillain was a one way ticket to just that.

While being widely feared meant no one came around Supervillain, the duo still didn't trust the public. SuperVillain was sure to exercise caution while grocery shopping. A lackey would’ve been sent in their place, but Supervillain needed to remind the public and heroes they were still around and very much a threat. If they weren’t scary enough, Villain always trailed behind them like a shadow. Never advancing or doing anything, just there.

Due to their association with Supervillain, Villain was also regarded with fear. The media tried to make them seem weak, to give the heroes and public some hope. It somewhat helped that Villain had yet to show off their power. Even so no one really believed them, as most had seen firsthand how Supervillain was. It was easier, safer, to assume Supervillain also surrounded themself with strong people.

“We remembered the flour, right? I want to try that cookie recipe” Supervillain interrupted Villains thoughts. They turned to look back at Villain. “body for your thoughts?” they asked. People cringed away, careful not to stand out much. They wanted to safely make it home, and being noticed by Supervillain was a literal death sentence.

“Nothing, just thinking about how pathetic this city is. And yes we got the flour.” Villain dryly replied. Talking in public was not their thing, and civilians liked to theorize they were mute. They would never ignore Supervillain though. If Supervillain asked they would give a speech right then and there to please them. SuperVillain could ask them to do anything and they would.  Anything.

“ Thats good.” The conversation ended there. To most it would seem awkward, but to the two it was nothing new. Behind closed doors though, Villain could be quite the chatterbox if Supervillain said so themself. But that was for Supervillain only, not the public. They need the apartment, crowds tapering off the closer they got.

Supervillain lived in an apartment complex. It was old and rundown, but that didnt mean it was completely empty. Some civillians shared the apartment complex as well. It was the perfect place to live without suspicion. ‘Only Villains that are bad at what they do have lairs. The smart ones hide in plain sight��� Supervillain told Villain back when Villain had first started to be his bodyguard. Back then Villain was even more shy, staying so strictly professional it almost hurt to watch. Now they were a lot more relaxed around Villain.

The elevator dinged, and Supervillain stepped out into the hall. ‘Villain should already be back by now, getting the mail shouldn't take that long”  Their mind supplied. They pulled out their keys, slipping them into the lock and twisting. There was an odd sense of dread, but their worry for Villain resurfaced and overshadowed it.

That was Supervillains first mistake.

Their second was turning their back to the apartment as they closed the door. A small prick was felt in their neck, and the next think Supervillain knew they were slumped against someone. A knife was pressed against their neck. 

“There we go, nice and powerless for me” The voice echoed in the empty apartment. Even in the dark SuperVillain could instantly recognize who the voice belonged to. Hero. Supervillain could say with his whole being that they hated them. They would've openly expressed so had they not been sedated. All they could do was wait until the sedative ran out…. or Villain came. As much as it was hard for Supervillain to admit, it would be extremely pathetic for Villain to see them like this. Someone so widely feared stopped by a sedative.

Keys could be heard, jingling against the lock for a second before the handle was twisted and the door opened. Villain walked in, not looking up as they turned to shut and lock the door. They turned their back to the apartment, making sure it was fully locked and shut.

“You have 5 seconds before I kill you ” Villain spoke calmly. They turned casually, openly exposing their back as if to show how little of a threat hero was. They did have the element of surprise on their hands.

“You won’t. Your beloved boss will just be my meat shield, so I suggest you put your hands up” Hero spat. They spoke with confidence, readying their hand out in front of them. Sparks crackled in heros palm, not yet a fire but just enough to showcase their powers.

Supervillain could feel the heat next to their face. While they were very confident in Villains abilities, it was not very fun to have a fire practically in your face. Especially when you’re being held as a human meat shield. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen hero. You’re going to turn around and leave, never come back here. If you do, I will personally cut your limbs off, put it into a soup and feed you it. I will do that with every, single, one of your limbs until I run out.” Villain grabbed their dagger tossing it around and making some sawing motions to accentuate their threat.

“Your all talk! You wouldn’t,” Hero spluttered. Supervillain could feel the hold on them slipping. Soup. Supervillain could laugh out loud. This hot shot hero was scared of being made into soup?

“Want to take the chance? I have salt to season you with.” Villain asked, though it was more so a threat. The dagger was waved tauntingly in front of Hero’s face.

“Scram, before you become soup. I hear human tastes like pork” Villain chuckled.Hero bit back a yelp, pushing themselves up and hurrying out the door.

“Are you okay?” Villain asked, catching Supervillain when they were unceremoniously dropped. They propped Supervillain up, settling them against their side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I thought some lady was following us. She was just throwing away trash” Villain tried to lighten the mood.

Villain didn’t wait for a response, not like they’d get one either way. Supervillain was picked up and carried into their room. They were gently set onto the bed and tucked in. Villain gently ran their fingers through Supervillains hair, only stopping after they fell asleep.

In the morning Supervillain was fine, taking measures to move across the city and increase the security. And if Hero was found beaten to a pulp at the police station? Villain had no clue who would do such a thing.

[wren-l-winter]

The destruction lingered long after the siege had ended. Ketsia stepped over cracked stone pillars and narrowly avoided a puddle she tried not to look too closely at. Smoke twisted into the sky, allowing those who’d survived to walk the wasteland of their city without the scorching scrutiny of the sun. But even the ash and dust couldn’t hide the mark left by war.

A wooden figurine lay in the middle of the street, charred by the fires. The face glowed with the stinging breeze, smoldering with grief. Ketsia wondered if the child who’d lost it was alive, if they had survived.

The sounds of weeping children and screaming mothers urged her forward—away. Her hands, stained and sticky from tending to countless wounds, shook as she fumbled with the ring of keys to her shop. The roof had caved as the left wall succumbed to the fire, but it stood defiantly.

Ketsia paused in the doorway, taking in what was left. The sacks of dried herbs had all burned, turned to mounds of ash that blended in with the crumbling wall. Jars of mixed herbs lay shattered on the floor, their contents spread out like the scattered ashes of a loved one. Tinctures dripped from broken bottles, having been knocked off of shelves and tables when the shop trembled beneath its weight.

The door refused to close behind her, no longer able to fit after she’d disturbed the structure. A curse rang out from her backroom—one she hadn’t heard in months. “Countess?”

Heavy, uneven footsteps sounded, before the dark, hunched figure of Countess Reize emerged. The porcelain mask she wore had cracked, revealing full lips and her sharp eye. Scars marred her flesh, clean and precise. A steady hand had carved them into her face, marking her. The red eye beneath the fractured mask settled on her, bloodshot and wild. The regal countess who had visited her shop to search for forbidden magic was gone. In her place was the wounded animal after a fight, scavenging and feral.

Ketsia rushed to her without thought, pushing back the cloak that shielded her. The countess clenched her side, crimson oozing between leather gloves. The woman tried to straighten, to compose herself, to embody the fearsome warrior the world knew her to be. “Stop that,” she snapped. “Sit down. Where are your guards? Your men? Why are you here?” More questions blurted past her lips. She had never known how to hold her tongue, not even when her neighbors had accused her of witchcraft and threatened to sew her mouth shut so she couldn’t cast curses on them.

To Ketsia’s surprise, the woman wordlessly slid down the wall, the corners of her nose wrinkling as she held her breath against the pain. “Your shop was the only one left standing,” she rasped. Strands of loose onyx stuck to the sweat across her brow, small pants escaping her parted lips.

The last thing Ketsia needed was for the countess to die in her shop. What would happen to her if they found her wounded body there? Burn her at the stake? Put her in a barrel of nails and have a horse drag her through the uneven streets? Ketsia looked over the woman, noting the gaps in her leather armor where blood seeped through. She could abandon her, find the guards, hope they’d bring her to the castle in time for the healer to help her. Or she could drag her out onto the street, leave her there for someone else to find. No. The countess was nearly twice her size in height and bulk. She’d need an ox to drag her out.

The countess seemed to note her hesitation, her eyes, fogged with the aftermath of adrenaline and pain, resting on her. “You will be compensated,” she said.

“I don’t need your compensation,” Ketsia said, irritation prickling her spine. She didn’t need the countess’s charity.

The backroom was a disaster. Someone, either the countess or another, had raided her stores, mindlessly discarding anything they saw as useless onto the floor. Ketsia bit back loathsome tears. There would be time to grieve all the work she’d lost later.

Ketsia returned with a heap of supplies in her arms. She worked in silence, peeling off the woman’s cloak, then armor. More than once, she snapped at the countess to be still, to stop trying to help. In return, all she earned was a huff.

Hours passed before she deemed her work finished. She’d packed the wounds, sewn what she could, and lathered it all in honey before bandaging everything. The healer could finish her work once she got her to the castle.

The countess had fallen asleep as she worked, or perhaps she’d simply passed out. Ketsia tried not to worry, tried to stuff the fear back down her throat and into her belly. There was no way to transport her without help.

Night had fallen when she slipped out onto the streets. The city felt abandoned, a husk of its former self. Where there had once been dancers and circles of chanting drunks, there was only the bitter cold. They had won the battle, but no one dared celebrate in the face of all they’d lost.

No one would help her. They turned her away. Scoffed and told her to fuck off. How could a witch be helping the countess? They wouldn’t be tricked by her.

Furious, Ketsia made it back to her shop. The countess was laid out on the floor, still surrounded by partially used poultices, ointments, dirty bandages, and a bucket of murky water.

How was she supposed to help her? Tears burned her eyes. Her shop was in ruins, and the fate of the city was bleeding on her floor, barely alive. The guards had been looking for a reason to drag her through the streets. Perhaps they’d left the woman at her doorstep. No one thought highly of the countess. She was a tyrant, a monster hiding behind the mask. Ketsia could burn the rest of her shop, burn the countess inside. Start somewhere new, somewhere safe, somewhere where she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder. But how could she turn her away, abandon her? She’d built her shop to be a refuge for all, to be healed without incurring debt or forgoing treatment in fear of what they would owe.

All were welcome, even the countess.

Anger fueled her as she barricaded the doors and hung sheets over the windows. She had built this shop with her own hands, collected the herbs, and crafted remedies for those who couldn’t afford hope. She didn’t need the guards. She didn’t need anyone. Ketsia would keep the countess alive—if only to defy them all.

This snipped is dedicated to @silly-lil-khaos-god! I deviated a little from the original prompt but I'm definitely looking forward to writing some more between these two and having a ton of fluff between them (if they don't kill each other).

Happy holidays to those who celebrate!

[thepenultimateword]

Secret Santa Snippets 2024 List

Thank you everyone who participated in this year's Secret Santa snippet event! I will be collecting all the secret Santa stories in this post so that people can easily find and read them. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Wooden Coffin by @snowshowerwriting for @serickswrites

Secret Santa 2024 by @yourheartonfire for @wren-l-winter

Secret Santa by @gingerly-writing for @creweemmaeec11

Just a Sense by @creweemmaeec11 for @chaoticgoodthief

Static's Girl by @watercolorfreckles for @esperosisdoeswriting

Secret Santa Snippet by @the-modern-typewriter for @snowshowerwriting

Everything's Going to be Ok (I Hope) by @esperosisdoeswriting for @404lunar1216

Secret Santa Snippet by @silly-lil-khaos-god for @sunflower1000

False Feathers and Lightning Strikes by @chaoticgoodthief for @watercolorfreckles

Secret Santa 2024! by @404lunar1216 for @thepenultimateword

Their First Villain by @kaiwewi for @the-modern-typewriter

The Un-Gingerbread by @thepenultimateword for @gingerly-writing

Secret Santa Snippet 2024 by @pigeonwhumps for @kaiwewi

Citizen Detective by @serickswrites for @yourheartonfire

Secret Santa by @wren-l-winter for @silly-lil-khaos-god

Secret Santa by @sunflower1000 for @pigeonwhumps

[watercolorfreckles]

Reblogging with my taglist:

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan , @mercurymomentum , @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo-blog , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces , @7eselt , @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband

Static's Girl

This is a Secret Santa Snippet for @esperosisdoeswriting!! Merry Christmas, Esper, I hope you like it!!! Her prompt was villain dad who' loves his small child and is not afraid to kill ppl over it!

TW: Blood, violence, mention of needles

“Our target is a child?” The horror in Blythe’s voice seemed loud, even past the pound of blood pulsing in her ears. 

Fellow members of the hero’s team poured into the back of the van, one strong-arming a terrified little girl. Her wrists were bound, mouth covered and tears streaking her cheeks. The child kicked and thrashed with pink-booted feet, legs dangling helplessly above the floor of the car where the hero’s sidekick kept her firmly hoisted in the air.

She looked barely older than 7.

Blythe’s protest was suitably ignored as the team shouted instructions at one another. The back doors slammed shut and the van lurched into action. Passengers plunged themselves into their seats.

“Are you crazy?” Blythe hissed. She stood only to stagger into the side window as the vehicle made a sharp turn. “This is crazy! Why are we kidnapping a child?!”

“Bosses orders,” another said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. 

Mockingbird said “Jump” and they said, “How high?” That was just the way of things, wasn’t it? It had never concerned Blythe before–their leader was a just one.

But now…

The child’s knees were muddied and scuffed. As if she'd fallen. As if she'd run. She squealed panicked cries against the sidekick's palm.

Blythe's stomach bottomed out and pooled again with a honey-slick dread. “Who is she?”

“Static's kid,” the driver called back. Blythe caught a shiver skating through them in the corner of her eye. 

“Static's ki- I must be missing something, are you crazy?” She rounded on Mockingbird's sidekick once more. “You said we were retrieving a powered weapon that could bring Static down!”

He blinked at her as if she were exceptionally slow. “That's what she is.”

Blythe shook her head, feeling an angry tremor seize her bones. “She's a little girl, is what she is.”

Blythe startled as the radio station crackled to life, flipping noisily through channels. The driver cursed and mashed at a button. Clicking on his coms device, he spoke aloud as his free hand yanked the wheel into another screechy turn. 

“On our way back with the package in hand, Boss.”

Mockingbird's sidekick yelped and dropped the girl, a red welt forming on their palm where it had pressed against her mouth. The child hit the floor and scrambled on her knees to an empty corner.

The driver's eyes lit the rearview mirror. “What's–” He hissed and ripped his earpiece away from his head as it fizzled with blaring static loud enough for the rest of the van to hear. “Hey- She's interfering with our coms!”

“Probably trying to reach her father,” another in the front seat agreed. She pointedly shut the radio off as it flitted through stations of chatter and music once more.

The child’s nose was bleeding. Had it been doing that before? 

“Somebody knock her out already!”

The sidekick sighed and lifted a hand. All-consuming shadows danced at his fingertips seeming to choke the air around it.

“Don't.” Blythe hurled herself in front of Static's daughter. Her eyes tingled with a familiar heat that told her they were glowing, power teeming just beneath the surface. 

They stared at each other in a terse stalemate.

The sidekick’s teeth clenched.

“Listen, rookie–”

“We do not threaten children, and we certainly do not hurt them.” Blythe was proud of how steady she managed to keep her voice–firm and leaving no room for argument.

She still wanted to cry a little. How had this become her life?

Little hands grabbed at her from behind and a warm face pressed into her back. Then, a tiny sob. Blythe softened. 

“You're okay, sweetpea, it's alright,” she crooned. Blythe turned to take the child gently in her arms, gathering her close in her lap. “Shh, it's alright. I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

The sidekick's seething was palpable, gaze cleaving cleanly through her, but he finally sat back down.

An eternity later, they were back at the base. Blythe had smacked away any hands reaching to grab the child away from her, carrying the girl inside herself. The little one’s legs wound around her waist like a koala, bound hands clutching fistfuls of Blythe’s shirt fabric.

Blythe’s thoughts felt scattered as TV static. She moved on autopilot, only coming back to herself when the sterile-white lights of the laboratory hummed over them.

Mockingbird was there, black curls cascading freely over her shoulders and contrasting with the icy gray of her eyes. They were not particularly kind eyes, but Blythe had always thought the hero to be good, at least.

“Boss,” Blythe heard herself speak. She cleared her throat. “What exactly are we doing here? Why did we take this kid?”

Mockingbird gestured toward the lab table. “Put her there. We need her blood.”

Blythe’s eyes widened. “Her blood?”

“We are going to use her cells to create a power inhibitor for her father and a power replicator to dose myself with. When he comes to retrieve her, we inject him with it. He won’t act out when he knows we have his daughter. And with his own powers used against him, he’ll never escape again.”

Blythe’s voice came out croaky. “I think you’re putting an awful lot of faith in the self-control of the most powerful supervillain we’ve ever encountered. When we’ve taken his only child. And stabbed her with needles.”

Static’s daughter tightened around her. Blythe glanced down and murmured a soft apology against her ear.

“I don’t care,” Mockingbird snapped. It was clipped with a danger Blythe had never felt aimed at her before. It now felt like a knife against her soft underbelly, as silver and glinting as the superhero’s eyes. “We’re close. Too close to lose now. If you plan to stand in the way of that…”

She stepped closer and plucked the child out of Blythe’s arms with her own super-strength-enhanced, bionic ones. The child knew better than to thrash that time.

Blythe wondered now, nausea climbing her throat, whose blood she’d stolen to replicate that particular gift. The metal prosthetics weren’t just technology, now, were they? Blythe had never thought much of it before… 

“Then you’ll have to take a time out,” the superhero finished. “Somewhere quiet where you can re-evaluate. Understand?” Her voice was a fake-chipper, then. Something Barbie-coded but full of invisible teeth.

Blythe’s powers hummed low beneath her skin, a tamed beast waiting for permission to lash out. Her fists clenched. “I really don’t think this is wise.”

“No?” Mockingbird sounded bored as she set Static’s daughter down on the table, tying a strip of elastic around the child’s forearm.

The little one jumped, blue static zapping Mockingbird’s fingers where they touched.

The superhero jerked back. “You little–”

“She’s just scared,” Blythe said, stepping between them. “I’ll do it. She’ll let me do it. Please.”

Mockingbird’s metal hand clanged into a fist. She took a long-suffering breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Get it done.” She pointed at the tray of tools on the counter. “Strap her down if you have to.”

Blythe’s hands went numb as she picked up the syringe. “Mocking–”

Their attentions snapped away as the speakers throughout the building crackled and spat. A wave of clammy dizziness flooded the room. Did the superhero feel the same sick lurch in her belly as Blythe did? The two clutched opposite ends of the counter to steady themselves.

Mockingbird whirled on the little girl. “Stop it, right now!”

Wide, terrified eyes stared back at her, but no blood oozed from her nose.

Blythe swallowed, choking down a roiling wave of nausea. She felt unsteady on her feet, light-headed and woozy. “It’s not her.”

A deep voice sounded over the intercom. “I’m coming to skin alive everyone who laid a finger on Verity. Those who merely stood by–don’t worry, I’ll fill your head with radiation so quickly you won’t even be able to choke out an apology.”

Oh no. Oh, they were so dead.

Blythe grabbed the child–Verity–and took a step toward the door.

Mockingbird blocked her. “No.”

“He’s going to kill everyone if he doesn’t get her back safely!” 

Blythe tried to push her way past and Mockingbird grabbed her by the throat, cogs whirring in her bionic arm. She shoved, Blythe and Verity hurtling back into the wall.

“I said no!”

Blythe’s breath collapsed out of her lungs as her back hit the wall with a sickening crunch, drywall cracking and littering the floor around them.

Mockingbird turned to the monitor screen, making furious selections on the keyboard. Security footage of the whole base blipped to life.

They watched as Static strode into a room with the terrifying grace of an apex predator, tearing down anyone in his way. Radiation flooded his fists in a green glow as he punched through the receptionist’s chest, shifting to easily grab the next closest person and brace his hands on either side of their skull. The poor soul thrashed as blood leaked from their eyes, nose, and ears. When they were no longer moving, Static let them crumple to the floor.

The next group ran and Static bowled them down with infinitely multiplied radiowaves, hurling them from open palms as if it were nothing. The speakers filled with screams, the feedback whine behind the sound forcing Blythe to cover her ears.

Her blood iced over as in the top right frame, the supervillain looked up at the camera. His head tilted, making chilling eye contact with the lens until the screen cracked and went blank with buzzing stripes of radio static. 

Verity was the only one in the compound who didn’t look afraid. She looked relieved.

Mockingbird moved for the door just as it burst open. She swung at Static with her bionic fists, missing and punching straight through the steel door instead.

Static stood on a platform of squiggling waves that lifted him off of the ground. He looked god-like. Untouchable. The impulse to run coursed through Blythe, but she stayed rooted to her spot, clutching the child to her chest. Static’s hands glowed green again as he lifted Blythe’s boss into the air. Those same up-and-down scribbles seized her, wrapping her prosthetic limbs and ripping them from her shoulders.

Mockingbird screamed.

“What did you do to my daughter?”

“Daddy!” 

The villain’s attention shifted immediately. Verity wiggled free of Blythe’s arms, running to her father.

Static dropped his target as if she were a ragdoll, scooping up his daughter instead. “Verity,” he breathed. His eyes fell closed, stroking her hair, whispering tender praises and apologies into her shoulder. 

The child clung to him. “Daddy.”

He pulled back to search her for injuries. “Are you hurt, darling? Tell me what they did to you.”

Though his voice was gentle for her, there was still a sharp undercurrent to it, as penetrating as the radiowaves that still leaked through the air. His eyes narrowed on her bloodied knees and the stained skin between her lip and nostril. 

“I’m okay, Daddy,” Verity said, looking back at Blythe.

Her vision swam as the supervillain’s focus shifted, once more, to skewer her to her spot. A calm sort of rage stretched his posture taut as he stepped closer.

Blythe, embarrassingly, may have whimpered. Her hair stood on end, floating above her head.

Verity squirmed out of her father’s hold, jumping between them. Just as Blythe had done for her. 

She held her breath.

“No, Daddy! She protected me.” Verity’s eyes took on a determined sort of gleam; valorant and unwavering. 

The air around them fizzled quietly as another wave of illness rolled over Blythe. 

Radiation poisoning. She wasn’t going to last much longer like this.

Static’s head tilted, looking from his daughter to the broken super behind her.

“She kept me safe,” Verity insisted, turning her head to look back at Blythe. Blythe couldn’t seem to speak. “She’s hurt. Can we take her home?”

“Verity.”

“Please?” Verity moved to Blythe’s side, taking her hand.

Despite her swimming vision, Blythe couldn’t help but smile softly at her. A powerful weapon indeed. Blythe believed she could move mountains.

Seconds passed and Blythe thought she may have passed out. Her vision stretched fuzzy and dim at the edges. Then she was being lifted from the floor, broken bones screaming their protest.

Blythe whimpered again, unable to help burying her face in the supervillain’s shirt.

His voice buzzed in her ear where it pressed against his chest.

“Stay close to me, Ver. Take my hand. We’re going home.”