#this is a short snippet

[sunfloweraro]

More Pink Bunny AU!

AKA Twi taking the first opportunity to steal Bunny from Hyrule

(Tagging @thatonecrazysidekick and @tiredgaytheatrekid for more Bunny writing!)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .

Hyrule fell face-first into the swamp, the rabbit still in his arms.

The rabbit squeaked in pain as Hyrule landed on it and jumped out of Hyrule’s arms, its eyes wide and panicked. It struggled to stay afloat in the shin-high water, frantically flapping its little arms and kicking its legs, but its head sank beneath the swampy water.

Twilight rushed over, grabbing the rabbit by the scruff, hauling it out of the swampy water and into his arms. It latched onto him as he pulled it to his chest, shaking like a leaf, and Twilight was quick to murmur soft reassurances to the poor rabbit. Where it had been filthy before, the rabbit now appeared grey with dirt and grime.

“Yer okay,” he repeated softly, holding the rabbit close and walking them both out of the swamp. Hyrule hauled his head out of the water, face falling when he saw the rabbit in Twilight’s arms.

“Shoot, I’m so sorry!” Hyrule was up and sloshing water everywhere in a beat. Drops pattered down from his chin and drenched clothes, but he paid them no mind. “Is it okay?” He reached for the rabbit, only to pause when it whimpered, his face stricken.

“Ya fell on it,” Twilight said, pulling it away from Hyrule’s arms. “We’re both mad at ya.”

“What—It was an accident!”

Twilight hummed. “I think it’s better off with someone who ain’t soppin’ wet.”

“You just want to hold it.”

“Perhaps.”

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is...

Sad

Face/Body:

Avoidant/reduced eye contact

Drooping eyelids

Downcast eyes

Frowning

Raised inner ends of eyebrows

Dropped or furrowed eyebrows

Quivering lip/biting lip

Wrinkled nose

Voice:

Soft pitch

Low lone

Pauses/hesitant speech

Quiet/breathy

Slow speech

Voice cracks/breaking voice

Gestures/Posture:

Slouching/lowered head

Rigid/tense posture

Half formed/slow movement

Fidgeting or clasped hands

Sniffing or heavy swallows

Self soothing gestures (running hands over the arms, hand over heart, holding face in palms, etc)

[the-modern-typewriter]

*shuffles shyly into your ask box*

Hello! Your writing is so fun and juicy and I was just wondering if you'd be willing to write a Hero x Villain where Hero is trying to deny their feelings for Villain and Villain is just flirting relentlessly. Maybe Villain kidnapped Hero just to have them alone??

"You think I have feelings for you?" the hero demanded. "You kidnapped me."

"Are you telling me that the big, bad superhero can't break free of a pair of cuffs?"

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it?" The villain smiled, coming to a stop between the hero's splayed legs. "Because if you can break free, gorgeous, it means you're choosing to stay."

The hero swallowed. Cuffed to a (admittedly comfortable enough) chair, they had to tip their head up to meet the villain's gaze. They shifted, slightly. They refused to call it squirming.

The villain's smile grew to a wicked grin.

"That's not the point," the hero said again, voice cracking a little. "It's still kidnapping!"

"And of course nothing in you finds it hot that I can get the better of you. You're above such things. The way you shivered when I walked in was pure terror. Is that right?"

"I'm not scared of you! We just established I can get free of these cuffs at any time."

The villain raised an eyebrow.

The hero coloured and looked down. Their mind reeled. They didn't have feelings for the villain. They didn't. Because that would be wrong. It would be morally heinous. It would be...

"Mm." The villain trailed their finger up along the hero's heaving chest, tip tip their chin up again, and the hero's breath gave a treacherous hitch. "So why are you staying, then?"

"You might give an evil monologue and reveal all your plans. Your kind like to do that."

The villain laughed. "Oh my love. You've never met my kind. Maybe if you had, you'd know what to do with me."

"Arrest you?"

"Pin me down and tell me I've been so very naughty?"

"Yes! No - I mean no!" The hero's face was on fire. They glared at the villain.

The villain brushed a thumb over their cheek, almost soothing. Like they wanted to reassure the hero that, if they were mocking, it was not to be cruel.

The hero belatedly realised they should have recoiled from the touch a long time ago. They swallowed again, but they still couldn't quite seem to get any moisture into their mouth. They felt suddenly infinitely aware of their tongue.

No clever comebacks came to mind. Only the image of the villain pressed writhing beneath their hands, breathless and wild and grinning in that way of theirs.

"So. Here you are." The villain got back on track, though perhaps not mercifully, after another all too telling moment of silence. "And it's absolutely not because you have feelings for me. It's all..." They waved their free hand, "strategic. It's not for the fact that part of you knows..." The villain leaned down, close enough to kiss. "That kidnapped and alone with me is the only time you would ever allow yourself to truly act on what you want, instead of playing perfect. If you were brave enough to take it, that is."

"I-" The hero faltered.

Their gaze dipped to the villain's lips, cataloguing the minty puff of their breath, their closeness. They cleared their throat. Something in them ached. Longed. Yearned. Reinvented new synonyms for craning hopelessly, helplessly, for the thing that they were not allowed or able to have.

The hero shook their head.

"Okay." The villain straightened abruptly. They pulled back. Their fingers fell away, leaving the hero bereft. "Sorry for pressing. See you out there, maybe, gorgeous."

"I-what?"

"You're free to go. Far be it from me to inflict myself where I'm not wanted."

"What? No!" The protest left the hero unbidden as the villain turned away.

It was a trap. It was so obviously a trap, and yet the hero stepped in it anyway because...because...

"You are such an asshole," the hero said.

"Villain, darling."

"It doesn't change anything even if I did have feelings for you. I can't."

"Ain't no one here but us to find out about it."

"It will get messy."

"Life does that, gorgeous." Still, the villain's voice was softer than before, quieter. Less the purr, or teasing lilt. "That's what makes it life."

After a beat, the villain moved back over to them again. They slipped one finger beneath the hero's chin.

"You're tied to a chair, kidnapped by a supervillain," the villain said. "So just this once we can pretend you don't have a choice. Can I kiss you?"

The hero nodded, heart pounding in their chest.

It was a mistake, another trap of as much as any tale of honey and flies, because they immediately wanted more of the sweetness. The villain's mouth on theirs was a more perfect thing than any of the pedestals that the hero had made a home on.

When the villain pulled back, the hero broke the cuffs thoughtlessly to chase, to slip fingers into the villain's hair and drew them back in closer.

The villain's breath hitched that time.

The hero wanted more of that too. They just wanted.

"Tell me again," the hero said, as they recklessly kissed the villain deep, "that I don't know exactly what to do with you, asshole?"

The villain laughed again and it was one of the best sounds the hero had regrettably ever heard.

Somehow, when the two of them were alone, the villain was a choice that the hero kept not making after that.

[tweedfeather]

One day. 💕

[automeris-io-moth]

Short #5

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

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

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

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

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

_

Masterlist

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 1

I catch a glimpse of the pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes have that telltale glaze of just having been wrenched out of herself.

I've never spoken a single word to her, but for a moment as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She raises an emaciated arm and her hand almost seems to beckon to me before something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips back into catatonia.

That brief moment of clarity, that piercing gaze, unsettles me. She recognized me.

It's neural bleed. I know it has to be. She doesn't know me, but Morrigan does.

Good god. In the pilot's present state of post combat haze, she probably doesn't even know where she ends and the machine begins.

Does neural bleed work both ways? Is it her head that I'm about to climb into?

My wrist strap buzzes. I have a job to do and I am late.

The pilot is a problem for the med team and the psychs.

The machine is my problem.

I hurry down the corridor, keeping my head down, avoiding the eyes of every passerby.

I don't like people.

I don't like how their eyes follow me. I don't like the whispered gossip that follows me.

One of the techs is waiting for me at the vestibule.

I don't know his name.

All clear, he says to me. Time to work your magic.

He says it without sarcasm. Others have been less kind.

Even so, he can't quite hide the leer as I strip down to the skinsuit. I don't have the physique of a pilot. My body hasn't been subjected to the stresses that ravage their bodies. Unlike them, I have fat and muscle and the skinsuit clings to every curve of my body.

I force a cursory smile and try to forget him as I walk barefoot to my destination.

The vestibule is small, windowless. It's impossible to assess the scale of the machine from here. The only part visible to me is roughly four square meters of pitted and scarred metal plating framing the access hatch and the pilot's cradle beyond.

B0-987T the stenciled lettering reads. And below, in flowing script, is “The Morrigan”.

She's a Javellin class, medium weapons fire support unit. She isn't meant to be on the front lines in a skirmish, but one-on-one, she can hold her own against a Wraith. Which is exactly what happened only a few hours ago.

I place a bare palm on the bulkhead. She thrums with some distant vibration. Her reactor is still online, still in the early stages of drawdown as she transitions to dock power.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to her.

I think of the pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I flinch my hand away.

The tech looks at me, asks if I'm alright. I'm fine, I tell him.

I climb through the hatch and into the cradle.

I feel like an interloper here. The cradle isn't calibrated for my body. Everything still smells like the pilot. Mingled with the smell of the machine is her sweat and her adrenaline and the particular scented soap that she prefers.

There is a faint whirring as her cameras track my movements from a dozen angles. The access ports open to receive me.

Against my better judgment, I imagine eagerness for this exchange.

This is immediately followed by an all too familiar sense of inadequacy. The engineers’ rig is not nearly as all encompassing as a pilots’. It's only the most basic neural interface. No haptics. No neurotransmitter feedback. No access to the suite of sensors studded throughout her hull.

I can't interface with her the way her pilot can.

My rig is a remnant from basic training. The pilot corps wanted me for my exceptional ratings in synchrony and neuro-elasticity, but after serval training exercises, they determined that I didn't have the temperament for the battlefield. I froze up too easily.

A neural rig is a massive investment and removing one will fuck a person up a hell of a lot more than installing one. The selection process is designed to weed out washouts before we even get to installation, but some of us still slip through the cracks. Most end up reassigned to logistics, operating loader mechs or piloting long haul supply frigates. But my aptitudes made me ideal for the engineering corps, so here I am.

Morrigan senses my mood and the cradle shifts slightly, aligning itself to my dimensions. Her eagerness to connect morphs into a sort of tender reassurance. It's a slippery slope, ascribing human emotions to these machines, but she does seem genuinely happy to see me.

I can never be part of what she and her pilot have, but I can be part of something in my own way.

The pilot knows about me, she would even without neural bleed. Does she envy the relationship I have with her mech? Does she envy that I can exist both together and apart with the machine?

Is she jealous of us?

Morrigan slips her jacks into my rig and my mind enters hers and I feel tension leave my body. Some dull ache that I wasn't even consciously aware of ebbs within me.

My senses dull and my visual cortex is fed a series of diagnostic logs and telemetry streams. The techs have access to the exact same data, but Morrigan highlights particular data points that she and the pilot flagged. I log them in the engineering report.

A wireframe schematic of the battlefield spreads out in my awareness. Green markers for our battlegroup. Red markers for the pack of Wraith interlopers.

I hear the ghost of music, strange and ambient, like whale song. The first time I heard it, I asked the techs about it. They had no idea what I was talking about. One even suggested I get an eval for some psych leave.

Later I realized Morrigan was singing to me. Or rather she was interpreting tightbeam comm links as something my brain could process. A human mind can't possibly interpret the full datastream, but with Morrigans's rendition, I can suss out the basic meanings. The battlegroup is a choir and Morrigan is playing me their song.

I caused quite a stir when I first made that connection and started flagging battle events the analysts had missed.

I survey the battlefield before me, reconstructed from feeds from TacCom and all the individual mechs.

Morrigan and I have done this enough times that she knows my preferred display layout, but she holds back, allowing me to pull off the virtual displays on my peripheral vision. There's an odd sort of intimacy to it, her letting me take charge like this.

God-knows how many tons of metal and ceramic and miles and miles of wire and optic fiber and see waits eagerly for me to start the playback sim. She wants to show off. She wants me to assess the actions of her and her pilot and tell them they did well.

Other engineers, few as we are, have mentioned similar experiences with their assigned machines.

“Alright,” I whisper so that only she can hear. “Show me the dance. Sing me the song.”

(Next)

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[save-the-villainous-cat]

“What?”

The villain kept staring at them.

“I don’t know. I’ve just realised that…I can’t stand you,” the villain said quietly. Their bottom lip was trembling. “Isn’t that funny? You used to be my favourite person in the world and now, I just…I just hate you.”

“What?” the hero repeated. The villain had expected some sort of sarcasm to leave their mouth, some sort of reaction that was accurate to that funny persona they always put on. But there was nothing.

There was literally nothing.

“I can’t fucking stand the way you talk. The way you walk, how you carry yourself. What you say, what you don’t say. I cannot stand how you look and how you move, how you grin and how you fight. I just realised I don’t like a single thing about you anymore. I just don’t.”

The hero stared at them, mouth agape. They blinked away a tear.

“You weren’t supposed to like me in the first place anyway,” they whispered eventually.

“Then get the fuck up and let me kick your ass again.”

[moonlitkissing]

Whimpery men, gimme

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[defectivehero]

The hero is taking their nephew trick-or-treating tonight for the first time, and they’re a bit nervous. Their nephew, Danny, is a great kid and well-behaved. The hero just isn’t used to acting as a guardian.

But as the afternoon begins, they start to relax as they see how much fun Danny is having. They watch as he runs up to a rather nice house, returning moments later with candy.

Then the hero sees the homeowner motion for them to come closer. They see that familiar form—almost seeming misplaced in civilian clothing—and their heart drops. Out of all the people they could’ve encountered… they just had to find the villain.

Gritting their teeth, the hero tells their nephew to run to the next house and stay within eyesight… before they walk up to the doorstep of the villain’s house.

“I didn’t realize you had a child,” the villain hums casually.

“Don’t,” the hero warns them.

“What?” The villain asks, having the audacity to look offended. “It was just an observation.” They blink innocently.

“He’s my nephew.” The hero spits out. They must be doing a bad job of hiding their distrust, because the villain sighs theatrically.

“Trust me, if I were up to something, you’d know,” the villain huffs. “Besides, I have… other priorities tonight.” They glance to the side and, in a few seconds, a child heads towards the doorway. The hero blinks. This must be the villain’s child.

“Um. Hi.” The hero says awkwardly, still reeling from the realization that the villain has a child.

The kid has the same eyes and nose as their parent. The resemblance is startling. “That’s a bad hero costume,” they remark helpfully. “You’re missing the amulet.”

They are missing their amulet, ironically. The hero self-consciously puts a hand to their collarbone before sighing. The villain looks endlessly amused, and also a bit wary of them—as if worried about their behavior in front of their child. The hero resists an eye roll at that, before glancing down the sidewalk. Their nephew is running back to them, bouncing on his heels impatiently as he evidently wonders what’s taking them so long.

“Hi,” the hero greets their nephew, placing a hand on his shoulder. He settles down a little, but still looks eager to go to the next house.

“Hi.” He answers. Then he looks curiously at the other child and smiles at them. The villain’s child smiles ever so slightly in response. The hero studies them for a moment, taking in those familiar hazel eyes on someone far more innocent and pure hearted than their enemy. Then they notice the kid’s costume and the slight frown on their lips and wonder if the villain has taken them trick or treating yet. It doesn’t look like it, actually—and that would explain the envious glances the kid is shooting at Danny.

“You know,” the hero says, crossing their arms over their chest. They’re already making the offer before they can think about it. “I was going to take Danny here trick-or-treating anyways… I’d be happy to take your child too.”

The villain studies them for a long, long time. The tense silence is only broken by a movement from the child at their side, who hesitates for a moment before crossing the threshold of the doorway and standing next to Danny.

“Do you want to go with them, Kel?” The villain asks; their child nods brightly in response. The villain lets out a long-suffering sigh, turning their attention to the hero. “Very well. I’m trusting you to ensure their safety.”

“Of course,” the hero responds sincerely. “I’ll have them back by curfew at 7.”

“6:30,” the villain argues.

The hero squints at them skeptically, before glancing down at their watch. It’s only 4:45 p.m. That’s plenty of time. “Fine.” They agree.

“If anything happens to them-” The villain starts.

“I know,” the hero interjects, before they can utter any threats in front of the children.

“I’m trusting you,” their enemy repeats gravely. “Don’t make me regret it.”

The hero nods, understanding just how much faith the villain is placing in them. Then an idea comes to mind. “Get your phone out.” The villain stares at them for a moment, before doing as requested. From there, the hero gives them their phone number. Then they reach into their own pocket and turn their phone’s ringer on. “Okay?” They ask, looking at them pointedly. The message is clear: Call me if you need anything.

The villain is staring at them with a complex expression on their face. “Okay.” They respond. Then they look to their child. “Have fun, alright?”

With that, the hero turns their back on the villain and watches as their nephew and their enemy’s child excitedly race ahead to the next house. They can feel the villain’s gaze watching them, even as they turn the corner and head out of sight.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! happy halloween!!! 🦇🧛🏻

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[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is…

Nervous/Anxious

Face:

Darting eyes/avoiding eye contact

Rapid blinking

Tense jaw

Looking upwards when talking or fixing eyes on a more distant point

Furrowed (or raised) brows

Frowning

Blushing 

Micro-expressions- quick/short facial expressions like suddenly widening their eyes or a brief grimace

Voice:

Shaky or trembling

Higher pitch or thin

Breathy

Wavering

Raspy or slightly cracked

Hesitant

Speaking quickly or stuttering

Choppy (many pauses in speech)

Shorter, clipped words (staccato)

Gestures/Posture:

Tense, closed off stance

Hunched shoulders

Body is stiffened

Crossed arms

Fidgeting

Touching clothes

Cracking knuckles

Bouncing knee

Subtly covering their mouth

[the-modern-typewriter]

Short dinner date story between a normal human who just so happens to love garlic as much as they love their partner, but is completely oblivious to the fact that their partner is an obscenely powerful vampire. They are strong enough to not die from eating garlic, but would still be desperately hiding their vampirism while trying to eat every bit of garlic laced food that was lovingly made by their partner.

"You don't like garlic."

The human looked near tears.

"I - what - no," the vampire spluttered. "I love garlic. Garlic is the-"

"-Question," the human said. Their eyes were, somehow, dark and tight with an unexpected...something beneath the tears. The hurt. Frustration? Anger? Were they angry? It was definitely something, that the vampire hadn't fully anticipated. "Do you think I want you to lie to me? Like, do you think to impress me, you should have to pretend to be someone you're not? Is that the kind of person you think I am?"

"Um."

That was not a question most would dare ask them. It was also a ridiculous question. Most humans, most people, in the vampire's experience absolutely wanted lies. Romance was a lie. A curated sweetness, or thrill, carefully separated from the un-sexiness of being alive. It seemed like a trick question.

"I don't," the human said. "Like, what the absolute hell. If you can't tell me something as simple as 'hey, I don't like garlic' how am I supposed to trust you with anything big? Like, hey, we're in bed, and you want to stop, but you don't want to upset me, so you're just like 'it's fine!' But it's not fine."

The vampire's head tilted. It took them a moment to parse that. They weren't sure if it was the garlic burning like acid in the pit of their stomach making it twist in cramps, or the emotions on the human's face.

"Oh my god," the human said, slumping. "Do you actually like it when we're in bed together."

"Yes. Yes! Why would you even need to ask that!?"

"Why would you spend over a year pretending you like garlic when you very clearly don't?"

"I think you're blowing this way out of proportion-"

"-Are you actually going to sit there and tell me I'm being over-dramatic when you've been elaborately hiding the fact my cooking makes you ill?"

"I love seeing you happy," the vampire offered, after a beat. That seemed safe enough. "Garlic makes you happy."

"And does it make you happy?"

"Making you happy makes me happy, darling."

"Oh, for the love of god!" The human pushed back from the table, grabbing the half-eaten pasta plates and storming towards the kitchen.

After a moment, the vampire followed. They watched the human carefully scrape the remnants of their dinner date into the bin.

"Garlic," the human said, through gritted teeth. "Yes or no? Completely independent of me."

"You're cooking is lovely, and sweet-"

The human rounded on them, looking ready to scream or sob or possibly glare ferociously, as if they were one of the most deadly predators to walk the planet.

The vampire cleared their throat and took a step back. "Garlic is, um. I'm not the biggest fan. Kinda gives me a stomach ache. It's not a vampire thing, or anything, I just - I don't know. Not a fan. It's the texture!"

"Thank you for telling me. I will cook less garlic."

"But you love garlic! I don't want you to sacrifice-"

"-It's not your decision." The human closed their eyes. They breathed out. When they next spoke, it was gentler. They wrapped their arms around themselves. "What I sacrifice or don't sacrifice for people I care about is my decision, and something I do deserve to make an informed decision about, you know? There are plenty of people I can eat garlic with. It doesn't have to be you."

"...you are really upset about the garlic."

"It's not about the garlic!"

Had the human guessed the truth then, somehow?"

The human dragged a hand through their hair. "Would you want me to tell you I liked something when I didn't? And not even didn't like it, when it actively made me feel bad? Would you want me to tell you?"

"You don't have to. I can always tell when you like something and when you don't."

"Oh, well, now I feel loads better."

It sounded like sarcasm. They did not look loads better.

The vampire blinked at them again, astonished, not sure how their dinner date had got quite so out of hand. The silence stretched as the vampire floundered, trying to think of something to say that wasn't, 'but you believe me it's not about vampirism, right?'

"I...wasn't trying to hurt you," the vampire said, eventually.

"I know."

"You're still upset."

"Just wondering what else you've lied to me about, I guess."

The vampire laughed, nervously.

The human did not. They turned away again, back to the dishes, as fragile as if the very ground beneath their feet had somehow been wrenched away.

"I haven't. I haven't lied to you about anything," the vampire lied. "I'd never do that. You're too important."

"Okay." But their voice was small.

"Next time I'll tell you if I don't like something, okay? If that's what you want? If that's what makes you happy?"

"And what," the human said, with the tiredness of an immortal thing, "would make you happy?"

The vampire had never hated garlic more.

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #254

Hero wrapped the emergency blanket around Villain's wet and trembling shoulders. "You know, when I let you escape into the woods, I didn't know you were going to get lost. Or that you sucked so bad at wilderness survival."

Villain managed a half-amused exhale through their clenched teeth. "And you know so much?"

"Actually, yes. My camp is about a mile over that ridge. You think you can make it that far?"

Villain fought their stiff legs into the standing position, stumbling a bit on the way up. "What, you can carry traumatized civilians, but can't spare a bit of muscle for your nemesis?"

Instead of quipping back, Hero suddenly scooped them into their arms. "I certainly can if you need me to."

[automeris-io-moth]

Reunion

That morning Hero felt particularly tired. 

Perhaps Villain had noticed early when greeting them at breakfast, such was the reason the servants were fetched to help them shower, help them dress and eat, fed by hand as if not humiliated enough by then, trapped by the fact they were indeed unable to lift the cutlery. 

Perhaps it had been Villain’s doing. Perhaps it had been the tea, perhaps it had been something else. 

Later, Hero was taken to the main hall of the former gubernatorial palace right in the heart of the city, where a wood and gold throne laid. Hero had once, long ago, made a joke about Villain compensating for something with such a cartoonish display of power, but then they had no energy to obnoxiously repeat it, as they did every time they entered the place. Mockery was one of the few things Hero had left after all. 

Yet, that day they could barely keep their head upright, a foggy sense of nausea crepting up their throat, a heavy weight pushing them down from the top of their head kept them glued to Villain that morning, head laying on the other's shoulder as Hero laid across their lap, their enemy's hands stroked up and down their arms and back, warming them from the coldness of the room. 

"Let them in," Villain's voice boomed across the hall, the echo remaining a second longer. 

The old wooden doors creaked open, uneven steps entering the room, as if being rushed, and Hero hid their head from the sharp noise. 

"What do you think I should do, love?” Villain asked the Hero this time, pressing their lips against their hair  “Four intruders wandering around, trying to enter our home to steal god knows what.” 

And Hero tried, tried to twist their head to look at the people standing before them, distinguishing them on their knees, half aware of the number mentioned, half aware of their factions, of what they wore. 

Half aware that they knew them. 

“I told you, Leader,” one said, a whisper too sharp to fulfil its purpose of being discreet “they sold us out.” 

“Shut up, Teammate, what about that?” The called answered, face straightening and, for a moment, Hero could swear they made eye contact “What are you looking to prove with this display, Villain?” 

Villain huffed a laugh, turning Hero’s head back to them  “Come on Leader, do you really think I put this show just for you?” 

They had, Hero thought, Villain usually preferred if they weren’t seen. Just for their eyes, they had once said, when they were, as that day, too out of their mind to talk back. 

“What did you do to them?” 

“I would never hurt them, if that’s what you’re thinking,” they answered, hands pulling them ever so close to their chest, curling if only lightly to embrace them “I’m not like you.” 

“We never…” 

“Yes you have,” they answered “I’ve seen every scar in their body, and I’m responsible for only one. Don’t lie to my face please.” 

“They knew what they were doing! It was for the greater good,” Teammate answered this time, sweat dripping from their forehead to the blood, taking the dirt with it. 

“Such a funny concept is the greater good. I can assure you it holds no meaning to me, there is nothing greater than keeping what's mine close and unblemished, and you have scarred it, sadly.”

With a hand on their hip, and the other on their neck, Villain twisted Hero’s head slightly to the right, where their team knelt, eyes glazed, barely open enough to discern their shadows, they could see one turn away from their unintentional stare. 

“So what would a fitting punishment be,” they asked in the air, looking down at Hero “I accept suggestions, my light.”

_

Masterlist

[ghqstwriter]

Usually, when Hero awoke from the night terrors, they’d manage to find comfort in the familiarity of their bedroom, and that would calm them down. However, once they jolted awake, drenched in sweat yet still shivering to the bone, their anxiety only grew. Where the hell were they?

As they lurched forwards, untangling themself from the unusually light sheets, Hero was quick to note the dull ache that had spread across their body. Injuries, most likely. Was this some new safehouse? Had they been wounded in a fight? It seemed likely, their arms and leg were all bandaged tightly, but clearly with care, and most notably, Hero had been stripped down to their innermost layer of clothing. Thankfully, the sun was scorching and summer was dawn on the horizon, so that didn't seem to bother them.

Curious, and slightly suspicious, they slowly began to stand up, testing to see if their newly damaged leg could withstand their body weight, to which they would find the answer was 'just about'. Hero subsequently began to limp out of their room, taking in the surroundings with an analytical mind. The place didn't seem too fortified, meaning that safehouse was almost out of the question, however, who would take a superhero hostage, only to leave them someplace easily escapable?

As they entered what appeared to be the main living area, they first noticed the window. It was large, and impeccable clean. Outside appeared to be a beach view, with the tides rolling in peacefully, and the sun resting alone in the sky, no visitors outside to watch it's slow descent. Then, they noticed the figure, seated on an L-shaped sofa, one arm dangling off of the armrest. At the sound of Hero entering, the person glanced upwards, and as their eyes locked briefly, Hero paused in their stride, opting to lean against the doorway for support.

"Is this your place, Villain?" Hero questioned, still feeling too weary and fatigued for the usual sense of urgency to kick into full swing. Villain seemed entirely unbothered, too, as though they were fine with Hero wandering the halls as they pleased.

"It's under my name," Villain answered plainly, in about as vague of a manner as Hero had expected. "Though if you thought I'd take you to my actual house then maybe I should re-evaluate your condition. Concussions are much easier to spot when someone's awake, I suppose." Villain sat up in their spot, crossing their legs with intrigue.

"Re-evaluate? So, I take it you're the one who bandaged me up then?" Hero shot back, questioning. What plan did Villain have that involved keeping the hero alive? Why not let the wounds infect themselves; why not let the hero rot?

"Ah, well, the bandages weren't my idea. Your wounds seemed to have been treated when I found you, I simply thought you might prefer it if you woke up dazed and confused in a proper bed, rather than amongst the worms."

"What would the world do without someone as empathetic and generous as you? Truly a modern saint," Hero started, sarcasm growing more prominent as the sentence went on. They started to approach the Villain, crossing their bruising arms as they did. "Why'd you bring me here?"

They were towering over the still seated Villain, now, looking down into their eyes and watching them calculate the next response as they shuffled where they sat. The sirens were glaring in Hero's head, this is entirely uncharacteristic for the villain. They didn't look for a fair fight, and they certainly didn't care when Hero was in peril's path. In fact, Hero had always thought they relished the despair of their enemies.

"Because the universe seems to deem you unlucky. You were out cold in the middle of nowhere, completely vulnerable - and murmuring in your sleep, might I add. Already sounds dangerous enough, but then for a criminal to be the first to find you, all on your lonesome? Sounds almost too good to be true, for me at least," Villain always seemed to radiate an aura of pure smugness, however this time it felt almost fabricated. An imitation of the criminal's usual apathy. "I don't like it when my wins are served to be on a silver platter."

"So, you found me in the wilderness, completely on my own, no help in sight?" Hero asked, almost feigning confusion. Villain went to confirm, yet as soon as they uttered the first syllable of a lie, Hero cut them off. "Then who bandaged my wounds? Because they definitely weren't on my body before I collapsed."

For a split second, Villain's grin faltered. And, in the silent moment after that, their eyes darted down to Hero's leg, which seemingly had the worst injury. Obviously, Villain was looking at the bandages. They were the topic of discussion, and the criminal was probably thinking through their story, nothing more. Yet, Hero couldn't help but feel a tinge of embarrassment creep up their neck. They really weren't wearing much, and most of their skin was showing.

"I had assumed the bandages were from an earlier fight," they reasoned, though Hero knew it wasn't the truth. The bandages looked fresh, and Villain was an experienced fighter who should know by now when the bindings look older.

"The truth, if you will. Who bandaged my wounds?"

"You were bandaged when I got there. I wouldn't know."

A beat of silence, followed by several others, in which the tension between the two grew. They hadn't even realised they were leaning closer to each other until their noses were inches away. An unspoken competition; give in before I do. Then, Villain sighed in frustration, and leant their head against the couch pillow. Hero was familiar with anger plastered on the criminal's face, yet this felt less serious. The type of irritation that comes upon you when you lose a bet. Exasperation that holds no malice.

"My medic found you before I got there. They dealt with the bandages just after notifying me. According to them, the damage isn't severe, so don't worry yourself. You just weren't exactly in the most hygienic location, hence the caution."

Hero smiled triumphantly at that, having gotten the villain to admit defeat. Perhaps they had caught them during a soft spot (something Hero was thrilled at the thought of Villain having), since they had taken them to their own place, instead of dumping them at some hospital doorstep. Speaking of which--

"The damage isn't severe, yet you still brought me back here? Who would have thought the city would ever see the day that you grew a heart that wasn't rotten to the core," Hero commented, hoping to press more information out of the villain, who seemed to be more than seething that Hero hadn't taken their win and run. Though, amongst that scowl was a hint of worry.

"Like I said, you murmur in your sleep," Villain commented, voice lowered and tone the closest to soft that Hero had ever heard. At that, it was Hero's turn to wobble, unable to stop their lips from drooping into a frown. The night terrors, they could infer. Something writhed in their chest at the mental image forming in their head.

Through some miraculous luck (or by a certain criminal's stalker-ish tendencies), Villain's team had found Hero in the practically abandoned countryside, and when the criminal themself had arrived, the protagonist had likely been thrashing and yelling like a child sobbing in the night. And, when presented with this sheer sensitivity from someone they called a nemesis, Villain had elected to scoop them up like a wounded pigeon, and carry them into bed. Hero didn't really know what to do at the idea of that. Sure, it was known that Villain disliked when the hero was assigned to other criminals, but that was because they wanted to be the one to finally land the kill, right? This was a type of possessiveness that felt foreign when coming from hands that had once throttled the hero with vicious intent.

"I, uh, suppose you're looking for a thank you, then?" Hero asked, truly uncertain of how to thank the villain for doing something they didn't even think possible of them.

"You can stay the day. That would be thank-you enough."