the-modern-typewriter - Tumblr blog

[the-modern-typewriter]

my favorite is definitely half sick of shadows…

This one for context:

Thank you! It was a writing challenge during lockdown. It's got a special place in my heart <3

I listened to this song a lot while I was writing for some reason:

[the-modern-typewriter]

hero x villain who's afraid of little old me

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! Recatching up with your stuff after being away for a while~ Could you possibly do a nsfw male villain x villain one? Maybe have one of them be uber scary and intimidating. Like the public/heroes are super nervous around them, but it turns the other villain on more than it scares them. Love you :3

Looking at Diablo always felt a little like looking at an apocalypse; powerful, devastating, inevitable. He redefined what it meant to be alive with every breath.

Or, maybe, with the music of screams still echoing in his ears, the villain was merely feeling fanciful. Poetic. The closest that they could get to romantic, even. Wasn't that ridiculous?

All of the darkness had sucked back into Diablo though, visible only in the bottomless pit of his eyes, and the carnage it had left behind. Really, the villain should have been terrified. Really, they were, but also...

The villain swallowed, and couldn't only call it fear. Fear was a cold thing. The villain felt like there was a molten ball of heat in the bottom of their stomach - a meteor, plunging downwards, it's own form of world-ending.

"Come here," Diablo said. He didn't look up. He didn't have to.

The villain moved closer, coming to a stop between the splay of Diablo's legs.

"You didn't run," Diablo said. "You could have run."

"Would that have saved me?"

"Do you want to be saved?"

"No." It came out breathless. They might as well have said 'not from you'.

Diablo glanced up at that, and if the villain wasn't wrong, there was a flicker of approval on his face - there and gone in a flash. Vital as oxygen.

The villain sucked in an unsteady breath.

The heroes had offered the villain a way out from Diablo's side, even as they quivered in fear of him. They had offered protection. It was laughable, but then heroes were, weren't they?

"They weren't wrong, you know," Diablo said, almost gentle. "I will break you. I will take everything from you, and it won't be fair. I won't be fair."

"You'll use me as it pleases you." Even saying the words...

Diablo looked, for just a second, startled. Like something on the planet had actually managed to take him by surprise. His head tilted the other way, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, dissecting gaze sliding down across the villain's body, and then back up.

As if he didn't already know. He had to have known how the villain felt, right? Most days it felt like Diablo knew everything.

"Mm." Diablo's hum of agreement dropped an octave lower than before.

The villain shivered, but didn't look away. They weren't sure they would have been able to even if they wanted to, and Diablo hadn't even touched them.

"Because," the villain felt almost dizzy with their own boldness, "I'm yours."

"Knees."

The villain dropped, and maybe some would describe it as like a puppet with cut strings, but it wasn't so simple. Puppets didn't have choices. The villain would choose, over and over, to give Diablo whatever Diablo wanted. Anything. Everything.

The two of them were at the same height now, close enough that the villain could see the firelight reflecting off Diablos' eyes. Or maybe the flames there were something different. Something just as molten, just as world-ending, as the sparks in all of the villain's nerve endings.

"Say that again."

"I'm-" Surely, he knew? He had to have known before today. "I'm yours. I've - from the moment we met." The villain had to laugh, even if no one laughed at Diablo, and it wasn't like that kind of laughter, but...

Diablo caught their chin.

The villain let him look his fill in silence.

"I knew you wanted me," Diablo murmured, grip softening, skating down the line of the villain's throat across the frantic racing of their pulse. "I thought it was that simple. I thought you were that simple."

It wasn't the first time the two of them had ever done anything together - there had often been times, high on the adrenaline of destruction and victory, when Diablo had demanded the villain on their knees or taken them up against the nearest surface. Diablo had always felt somewhat removed though. Attention half on something else.

The villain had Diablo's full attention now, didn't they? It was an instant addiction. An intoxication. How could they ever bear to not have it again? They'd thought even a glance, those stolen moments, might be enough. More than they'd ever thought they'd get. But this...

"I've misjudged you, haven't I?"

Quiet, wondering. The villain had never even heard of Diablo being wrong about anything before.

"I need you," the villain whispered.

Diablo's mouth was on theirs, after that. Claiming, devouring, eager. No less dangerous than it had ever been - maybe more so. The villain could drown themselves in those touches, the press of teeth and tongue and fingertips hastily unbuttoning their shirt as if Diablo had thought, too, that a glance or a stolen moment might be enough.

But it wasn't. It wasn't.

The villain moaned against Diablo's lips, reaching out thoughtlessly, for more, more, more. They wanted to unravel Diablo, do what no person before them had done before, like a cartographer in uncharted lands.

The fire was warm against the villain's bare back, the plush rug soft beneath them. They broke apart gasping, without so much as a drop of air between them, and before the villain had even managed a full breath Diablo had kissed them again, surging forward. Fingers tangled in the back of the villain's hair, holding them tight, holding them close as if to keep them from all possibility of running away. Of being lost. Of being gone.

"I need you." The villain repeated it like a mantra, a promise, the sweetest thing they could offer without Diablo laughing at them for something so exposing and vulnerable as love. Diablo didn't do love. But this...

Diablo didn't say it back, but it was there in every touch - swinging wildly between possessive, and careful, so careful, as if the villain was something to be kept. Something precious. It was there, in the aftermath, when for once Diablo didn't immediately get up and clothe himself back in the veneer of the devil. He was simply there, panting, human.

Maybe that should have made him less terrifying.

It didn't.

Maybe that should have made the villain want him less.

It didn't.

"Say it again," Diablo whispered, against their neck. "Say it again."

"I'm yours."

[the-modern-typewriter]

How did I forget this one!?!?

I have an entire screwed up sapphic novel draft about an artist serial killer (photographer specifically) and this girl fascinated by her before she realises what's going on.

It has been sitting untouched for like nearly a decade. It needs a lot of editing/near total rewrite I think. But this short story always makes me want to pick it up again because the themes/inspiration for the antagonist is the same.

Some of you asked (in response to this post) what were my favourite stories I'd posted on tumblr were. In no particular order, here are the top 5:

The Blue Key (I think it's the best standalone story I've written, except maybe this Medusa one that I haven't posted anywhere yet. It's pure me and my obsessions on the theme and I'm really proud of the writing itself. I genuinely think it's good. As writers we spend enough time doubting ourselves, so it's really nice to look at something you have done and be like 'huh, yeah, actually!!')

Villain locked up + treated badly (I really like the actual writing craft/descriptions in this one. Again, I think I did a genuinely good job. It makes me feel excited about my writing.)

Super beautiful villain (I can remember my thought process during writing this very clearly. E.g > I'm too ace for love at first sight based on purely physical attraction > so what's going on here? > ooh, ugly/beautiful themes and our stance on morality, plus foil characters, this is tapping into one of the things that fascinate me! I remember someone pointing out 'well, this character could just be ace and kill the villain' and me internally being like 'but I AM ace, do you think that makes you immune to wanting?' Anyway. If I was ever going to pick up a story to expand fully in my own time, it would probably be this one. It just brims with potential to me. Or the ace and the incubi one for a lighter version.)

Tired hero/Villain in cathedral (I often under-utilise setting in my tumblr posts, because they're just not to focus, but I really like how I quietly used the setting in this one. I just love cathedrals)

Princess/Demon Prince or Reincarnated wife of the monster king (oldies, but goldies. If I was ever going to write a me version of a more typical dark romance novel, I reckon it would stem from one of these. I don't know. There's something in the dynamic that I find interesting and dare-I-say mildly original. Worthy of sinking my teeth into.)

[the-modern-typewriter]

!!!

Remi&severin this time traditional 🧚‍♂️ by @the-modern-typewriter

[the-modern-typewriter]

can I request: a villain who betrayed the hero and a hero who still loves them and can’t stop themselves from helping/saving them even after finding out about the betrayal?

"You know," the villain managed. "I never thought you were stupid before."

"Mm, just an easy mark I suppose." The hero kept their back turned, busying themselves with washing the villain's blood off their hands. "You're supposed to be in bed. Go back to bed."

"This is stupid. Saving me is stupid."

"So is standing up in your current state, but you don't see me being a whiny little bitch about it."

The villain was still leaning heavily against the bathroom door when the hero finally turned, any attempts they were perhaps making at being intimidating utterly ruined by the bloodless waxy tinge to their face and the dark circles under their eyes.

The hero raised their eyebrows, shoving down the urge to go to them. "If you pass out, I'm laughing at you and leaving you on the floor."

"But you wouldn't leave me in that place."

"I'm not a monster."

"You're not me."

"Oh please. You're not a monster, you're not that mythic. You're just a run-of-the-mill dick."

The villain huffed something like a laugh, only to grimace, clutching a hand to the freshly placed bandages at their abdomen.

The hero was at their side in a heartbeat. They were glad the villain had squeezed their eyes shut against the pain - it gave the hero time to compose themselves, to keep their flailing hands from steadying the villain.

The villain got the pain under control. They slumped against the wall, sweat beading their forehead, jaw clenched.

"Bed," the hero said, again, voice a little quieter and rougher than before.

"You could have taken me to a hospital. You didn't have to take me to your home."

"The first place they'd look for you is in a hospital. But by all means, you know where the door is. I'm not forcing you to stay. You'll do great on your own. You're used to it."

The villain shot them a look at that, but wobbled back to the bed the hero had initially set them up on. They eased themselves down gingerly and had to take another moment where they were clearly fighting unconsciousness.

It was the hero's turn to lean in the doorway, awkward and orbital, arms folded across their chest.

"You weren't tempted to leave me there?" the villain asked. "After what I did to you?"

The hero's chest ached. They kept their voice light.

"Tempted? Sure."

"But you didn't."

"You know, I never thought you were stupid either," the hero said. "But you're repeating the obvious an awful lot today, so maybe I stand corrected."

"Yeah, alright sunshine," the villain snapped. "It's been a bit of week."

They both lapsed into the silence. The villain seemed to realise what they'd said, breath hitching. They always used to call the hero that, after all. Sunshine. The hero used to be that too.

The villain swallowed. They eyed the hero with a wariness that should have been gratifying but really just hurt.

Wariness. Confusion, too. Something else that the hero didn't want to poke at.

The villain, after all, wasn't repeating themselves because they'd somehow missed the whole rescue situation. They wanted to know why, they wanted to understand, even if they weren't willing to actually come out and say it. To ask outright.

They wanted...

Well. The hero supposed it didn't much matter what the villain wanted anymore.

The villain looked away first. Folded first. They cleared their throat.

"They'll come for me, if I stay here," the villain said. "Come for you, if they think you're harboring me."

"And why would anyone think I would ever do that for you?"

The hero could practically feel the villain tracking them in their periphery vision, studying them with every sense except looking at them directly.

Sunshine, turned to a sun. Dangerous to get close to.

"You are..." The villain stopped. They closed their mouth.

You are doing that for me though, aren't you?

The hero's eyes narrowed.

"Well, thank you, anyway," the villain mumbled instead. "For the rescue. Very heroic of you, as ever."

"It's just what I do. I'd do it for anyone."

"Yeah."

"You're not special."

"Of course not."

"Get some sleep." The hero forced themselves to turn away, even when all they really wanted to do was move closer, check again that the villain was truly okay, keep vigil by their side. "The sooner you're feeling better, the sooner you can get the hell out of my life again."

They all but slammed the bedroom door shut behind them.

They wished it was anywhere near as easy to shut off their heart.

[the-modern-typewriter]

can you rec us some books with very pretty prose?

Beautiful writing style is, of course, always in the eye of the reader. However, these are some books where I really appreciated the prose style because it was either pretty or in some way really compelling/interesting to me in some way:

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M Danforth

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Song of Achilles by Madeleine Miller

The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

A Portable Shelter/Things We Say in the Dark by Kirsty Logan

Middlegame by Seanan McGuire

A Spindle Splintered by Alix E. Harrow

Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

Nightwood by Djuna Barnes

This Is How You Lose The Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

Bunny by Mona Awad

(These are all from my 'beautiful writing style' shelf on Goodreads. However, I have omitted any where I can't remember what happens in the book anymore or if I didn't love the book!)

[the-modern-typewriter]

I hunted you down from Pinterest

what an ominous way of phrasing this

[the-modern-typewriter]

Weapon. They needed a weapon. Unfortunately, all they could come up with was an ancient torchstick that wasn't even on fire.

They hefted up the torch anyway, heart trapped somewhere in their throat, and backed up another step.

Three of the undead lurched towards them. They had the swords, the bastards. They were probably actual fighters too, once, not little idiots who should have died before ever being dragged to this nightmare place.

Maybe they'd get lucky. Maybe the torch would be sufficiently stake-like.

Given the terrible slurping noises the protagonist had heard behind them as they scrambled out of the ancient temple, the screaming that went quiet, they didn't think they'd get lucky. Maybe it was karma.

"Careful now," came a voice. Less raspy, more silken, more alive - but not one that the protagonist recognised. "If you back up any further, you're going to tumble right off the cliff. And wouldn't that be a waste?"

The protagonist didn't dare glance behind them to check if it was true, but they couldn't stop their attention from flicking up.

The beautiful stranger lounged a top of the great door, hastily locked again, watching. They waggled their fingers in a 'hi'.

Maybe falling off a cliff wouldn't be so bad, given the alternative. The protagonist still didn't want to die. Stupidly, they didn't want to die.

The undead lunged for the protagonist's throat.

The protagonist swung the torch wildly. It impacted. It just...didn't do anything. It would have at least winded and doubled over an actual person. But the undead...

The stranger leapt down, landing cat-like in the fray. They had none of the frantic movements of some of the lesser undead; ravenous and rabid.

They clicked their tongue and the undead all stopped, eyeing the two of them warily. They skittered back from the stranger.

The stranger pulled the sword from their own belt and offered it, hilt first, to the protagonist.

"Duel wield?" they offered. "Bit more of a fair fight."

It wasn't remotely, but the protagonist would still take it, with trembling fingers.

The stranger smiled at them. all sharp teeth and searing crimson eyes. They bowed their head. Then they stepped smartly out of the way again and the undead once more advanced.

It went a little better with an actual sword. The three undead were - if not dead - no longer capable of mauling the protagonist's throat. It wasn't good enough.

The protagonist crumbled to their knees, gasping in pain. They clutched the sword loosely in their hand. They touched a hand to their shoulder. Bloodied. Burdened with teeth marks. Their vision swam.

The stranger stopped in front of them, still smiling.

The great door rumbled with the force of bodies slamming against it, trying to get out. The protagonist very much doubted anyone in there was still alive in the traditional sense.

"This is fitting," the stranger said, gesturing at them. "I like this."

Dizzy, the protagonist lurched off their knees and lunged again, as clumsy as the undead had been. They certainly couldn't just wait to die.

The stranger merely stepped aside and let the protagonist stagger a step, before swiping their legs out from beneath them.

The protagonist hit the ground hard. The sword clattered out of their hand. The stranger plucked it up, tucking it neatly back into their holster.

"Who are you?" the protagonist managed. They began to push themselves up again.

"You woke me up. In the temple."

The protagonist swore quietly. "Yeah - about that -"

"-I thought the prophesied one would be a better fighter. Less willing to spill their magical blood. You are them, aren't you?"

"No."

The stranger laughed softly, delighted, and grabbed the back of the protagonist's neck, like scruffing a misbehaving kitten. "You're pathetic." They sounded entirely too endeared by this fact. "Come on." They dragged the protagonist bodily away from the cliff edge, past the bodies of the undead, back towards the terrible, terrible door.

The protagonist thrashed.

Predictably, it did no good. In fact, it did the precise opposite as they left blood in the dirt and the three bloody undead began to heal before their eyes.

The stranger deposited them with startling gentleness on their knees again. They stroked their fingers through the protagonist's hair, taking a moment to calm them, all soothing noises and shushing sounds. The other arm hooked around the protagonist's throat, cradling them securely against them. Trapped.

The two of them looked at the door.

The protagonist could still hear the undead behind it. They wailed and clawed - nothing like the figure behind them.

The other undead kneeled in a circle around them and the stranger. The protagonist didn't like the way they looked at the stranger - like they were everything, like they were god. It was far more lucid than they had been before. They looked less zombie-like too. More real.

"Don't do this," the protagonist said into the silence. "Please don't do this."

They already knew what would happen if they touched their blood to that door again.

"Our people are hungry," the stranger replied. "They have spent so long in the dark and the slumber, waiting for you. You can't abandon them now. We can't abandon them now."

The protagonist shook their head. They wanted to say something daring and clever, but there was a whimper caught in their windpipe.

"It's not so bad." The stranger held them a little tighter. "You're going to help them. They won't be quite so brain dead once they've had a bit of you. They won't slaughter everyone."

"Just most people?" It came out choked.

"Depends entirely on if most people are willing to accept my rule, my saviour."

"I'm not - I didn't - I didn't want any of this."

A week ago, they hadn't even known.

"I know," the stranger murmured. "I know you didn't. Children of fate rarely do. That's why their hands must be forced by destiny."

"My hands were forced by cultists."

The stranger shrugged. "Destiny takes many forms."

"You killed them. Let them-"

"-My people were very hungry. Who was I to deny them? Besides." The stranger bowed their head, so their lips brushed the top of the protagonist's head. "They hurt you."

"You hurt me. Your people-"

"I wouldn't have let them get too rough. I just wanted to see what you could do. I don't think anyone expected you to escape the temple and seal the doors again in the first place. Lucky I was around!"

Lucky was not the word that the protagonist would have used.

"Just reach out a hand," the stranger murmured. "And all this can be over. You will be a hero."

"To the undead."

"To what is yours. To what you belong to."

Maybe it made no difference in the grand scheme of apocalypse, but the protagonist didn't reach out a hand that time. They expected the stranger to bark out an order, for the undead to wrench their palm forward and bleed them like the cultists had. A lamb on an altar.

The silence stretched.

The stranger couldn't make them.

The realisation struck the protagonist heady, impossibly light-headed with hope. They didn't understand why, or how, or much of any of the horror. But if the stranger could make them, they would have already done so.

The protagonist laughed. Wild. Delirious. Their head tipped back against the stranger's chest.

"They suffer in there," the stranger said. Less amused. More quiet. "They are trapped. Help them."

"No."

"This is what you were made for. Promised for."

"Then maybe," the protagonist said, "destiny should have asked for my opinion first."

"Please," the stranger said, and the protagonist didn't know what to do with that. "Please."

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. That begging wasn't how the story went, was it? Ancient evil didn't beg.

"No," the protagonist said, a little softer. "Sorry."

The stranger let go.

The protagonist crumbled, gasping, on the door stop.

"Then I suppose." The stranger stepped up to the door, pressing a longing hand against the stone. "We're doing this the hard way."

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi, I have a question if you don't mind: why don't you write with female pronouns anymore? I might be mistaken, of course, but I think you either write gn or m now. Just curious.

I'm perfectly happy writing with female pronouns.

I default to gender neutral when no preference is given in the ask. That makes up 99% of the asks I have probably.

When I get gender specific requests, they are often asking for male characters instead of female characters, which is why you see more men. I have some female-based requests in my inbox, but like just in terms of a probability numbers game they're overwhelmed so you see them less often! That's really all it is on my part.

With that said, I have found that my female-led content is less well-received? It doesn't change if I write it or not, because ultimately I write whatever I'm in the mood for on tumblr and base more on if the idea interests me than anything else. But I do notice a distinct difference which I find interesting. I think other people have talked about seeing a similar trend before.

[the-modern-typewriter]

PSA CAN’T BELIEVE I’M POSTING THIS. STOP AI.

The first image is a prompt I posted on my prompt blog LAST YEAR.

The second image is from an application called c.ai. On MY post, a viewer commented, telling people that there’s a character with this very dialogue.

Mind you, NO ONE ASKED ME FOR PERMISSION. Though it wasn’t stolen word for word, this is very obviously taken from my prompt which I took the time to write and publish. This is MY writing, and though I share it publicly, that does not give anyone the right to make money off of it. I did NOT CONSENT TO MY PROMPT BEING USED IN AI.

I honestly am not even sure what action to take but please please please bring attention to this and reblog. We need to end AI and the act of stealing artists’ work. I can’t believe this.

[the-modern-typewriter]

“You made me love you,” the hero said. They stared out of the window, quietly, watching the rain spit down across the streets. 

The villain froze in the doorway, studying them, the cup of love-potion spiked tea still cradled in their hand. 

“I’ve known for weeks,” the hero continued, idly almost. They didn’t glance over. “It’s obvious. Too sweet in the tea.” 

“You’re still drinking it.” 

“I wanted to see what you would do. Waited.”

The villain swallowed, at that.  They hadn’t done anything - aside from give the tea. Perhaps that was the most damning thing of all.

[the-modern-typewriter]

hey~ first off i love ur writing, it’s so gorgeous.

second, may i request something similar//continuation of the king x rogue series from like 3 years ago?? rly old so i understand if u don’t wanna bring it back but one of my favs of yours <3

(This one, I think -though this isn't a continuation)

"My lord."

The king jumped out of his skin (in a very kingly manner, of course) and whirled in his seat.

His rogue smirked at him from - he wasn't even near the window, he was lounging against one of the walls as if he'd been there the whole time. He hadn't.

"You're like a cat," the king said. "A ninja cat."

"A very royal assessment, my lord."

The king scowled at him.

The rogue's smirk grew. He pushed himself off his languid incline, shadowed by the encroaching evening, and closer to the pool of golden light which bathed the king's private desk. The king always privately thought that his rogue looked better in gold than he did.

Up close, however, there was something unreadable in the rogue's eyes. The king had seen it before, many a time, but he'd never quite managed to decipher it.

The king's scowl thus deepened. "You only call me 'my lord' when you're mocking me."

"I would never mock you, my lord."

"Or when you're about to tell me something that you know I won't like."

The rogue's smirk transformed into that something else - softer, but just as indecipherable. "Are you ready for your grand festivities tonight?"

"It's a ridiculous tradition."

"Most traditions are."

"Thank the fates that I'll have you by my side."

The rogue hesitated.

The king twisted properly in his chair, rising from his desk and his stolen moment for never-ending duties. His eyes narrowed. "Thank the fates," he said again, "that I'll have you by my side."

His rogue was always at his side, at his heels; his deadly, playful, dependable shadow. It had been that way since they were teenagers.

"My lord-"

"Do not." The king resisted the urge to fold his arms across is chest, because they were not boys anymore, and perhaps it was absurd to feel hurt. Betrayed, even. Yet... He swallowed and tried to keep his voice light. "You don't want to see who I pick to marry? You're going to have to put up with her forever."

His rogue, unusually enough, didn't say anything.

"At the very least," the king continued, "there'll be wine and dancing and games. All things, I recall, which are very much to your liking." It was more to his rogue's liking than his, certainly. He'd grown up the diplomat, but the only time he ever really had fun at such affairs was when his rogue was at his side, talking him into something that was probably a very bad idea.

"My lord." His rogue's voice was as warm and catching as a fire spark. "I can say with the utmost certainty that I have no desire to see who you pick or propose to tonight."

It was his kingdom's tradition that a new king, on the anniversary of his coronation, must throw a ball and invite all the eligible young women of the kingdom. He must then, over the course of three nights, choose one of them to marry. Of course, most of the time, the who was practically decided well before then informally. But it was still tradition.

He'd never considered that his rogue wouldn't be at his side for it.

"Oh," he managed. He was unsure how to reconcile the words with the tone. He cleared his throat. "I see."

"I don't think you do."

Their eyes met. The puzzle pieces flew together as his rogue took a step closer still, taking his hand with a boldness that would have shocked anyone outside of the room.

"I can't," the rogue said again, with no trace of that perfect, infuriating smirk.

The king didn't pull his hand away. The rogue's was rough against his own, scarred from fights and wounds that were meant for him instead. Still, he didn't know what to say.

I would choose you, if I could wouldn't fix the problem. Oh wasn't anywhere near enough, and I'm sorry felt like an insult to the both of them. It didn't change the obligations he had to his kingdom.

He could have prepared a thousand speeches for the moment, but his mouth still would have been too dry to come out with a single useless word to encompass everything. He pulled the rogue's hand up to his lips, instead, pressing a kiss to his rogue's knuckles in the same way a courtier might swear fealty to their sovereign.

The rogue closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged.

People would enter the room soon enough, they would whisk the king away to get ready for this grand and important night, and his rogue...

"You're leaving," the king said, finally. "I understand."

"What?" The rogue's eyes snapped open. "No."

Dizzying relief flooded the king and it must have shown on his face.

The rogue made a performance of rolling his eyes. "You'd be dead in a week without me." He dropped the king's hand, gave a smirk that didn't quite match up to the sharp shine of his usual, and stepped back. "I'll just be spending the next three nights getting merrily sloshed. You'll be well looked after. I've made the necessary arrangements."

"I'll send over a flagon of wine."

"Don't."

Yeah, that did feel like a pitiful consolation. Crueller than the king had intended it to be. He floundered. His hand felt far too empty. He folded his arms then, before he could stop himself.

"You don't have to stay by my side," he said, instead. The best and most terrible offer he could make.

His rogue opened his mouth, then closed it. He studied the king with uncharacteristic seriousness, before his face shifted to its usual carelessness. "Keep this up," the rogue purred, "and I'll think you're trying to get rid of me. See you in three days."

"Goodbye."

He watched his rogue go, heart aching, because what else was there to do that was fair or kind to the man he loved but could not have? Except to say goodbye.

He wished he could avoid watching himself get married to someone else too. He turned back to his desk, any vague excitement he'd managed to muster for the ball evaporated. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes, when no one was there to see it.

He was, thus, surprised when the rogue appeared behind him again, pulling him around. Warm hands cupped his jaw with surety, and then the rogue's lips were pressed against the king's. Sweet and claiming and - if the king's heart had not been willingly given long ago - enough to steal anyone's love.

He'd imagined what it might be like to kiss his rogue so many times. He'd always feared that if he let himself try, he'd never be able to stop.

They broke apart, breathless; the king a little dazed.

"Tell your people," the rogue said, pulling him towards the bed. "That you're going to be fashionably late to that party."

[the-modern-typewriter]

Can i get an immortal villain×mortal hero please please please🥺

I'll give you my croissants 🥐🥐🥐

"How would you like to die?" the villain asked. Their eyes were closed where they sat upon a park bench, head tipped back to the cool breeze and the clear blue sky.

The hero stopped, a little uncertain, but not exactly startled.

"I've tried every kind of death," the villain said. "I can make a recommendation if you prefer."

"I'm not going to die."

The villain's lips twisted - a smile, of sorts. "All mortals die. It is the linchpin of their condition."

"I won't die because of you."

The villain's smile broadened. "Drowning, perhaps. Or maybe suffocation. I don't want to disturb the ducks."

"Why those in particular?"

The villain finally deigned to open their eyes at the question, considering the hero where they stood. The hero couldn't quite read the villain's expression, but their voice remained casual. "Everyone always thinks they can survive those ones. If they just thrash, just fight, hard enough. Then they go very still and very quiet when they realise they can't. You have time to realise what's going to happen to you, see."

"Nice to see you at least put thought into your craft."

"What can I say, I'm a sweetheart. You only get one death."

"But you don't."

"You've done some research. Not enough," the villain added, tipping their head, "seeing as you're still standing there talking to me. But some. Kudos. I guess we'll see if you're brave or stupid."

"I'm not trying to kill you."

"Contain me. Incapacitate me." The villain waved a dismissive hand. "You might save your generation, perhaps, if you get lucky. Are you feeling lucky?"

"I'm not trying to do that either."

"Oh?" The villain sat up a little, finally tuning in properly to the conversation. "Are you not a hero? You dress like one."

"I'm hoping to find a more peaceful, effective solution."

The villain slumped, bored, again. "Mm. This should be good."

"Because I have done my research," the hero said, taking another step closer. "You're immortal. You only kill people when they attack you or are in the way of you wanting something."

"As I said, I'm a sweetheart and a saint."

The hero's jaw tightened. The villain had slaughtered thousands across the decades after all. They were many things, and had lived many lives, but in none of them had they ever been a sweetheart or a saint.

"And what you want most," the hero ploughed on, "other than your comfortable life, is not to be bored. There's no end, after all. So you need distraction. Diversion. Something to make time a little less of of a prison."

The villain was silent for a long moment, watching the hero. "I take it back," they said, finally. "I'm going to drive a knife through your ribs. Nice and slow. You know it's much harder to die from a stab wound than people think? Often it's the blood loss that gets ya."

"And then what?"

The villain shrugged. "Feed the ducks. Go back to my book. Make Christmas lights out of your bones. The possibilities are endless!"

"Sounds lonely."

"You think you're the first to try this, don't you?"

"I think you haven't met me before."

"Maybe I will entertain myself with you," the villain said. "Maybe I'll destroy your life and the live of everyone you talk to from now on. That could be fun. It's been a while since I've been so personal a devil."

Despite themselves, the hero swallowed. Despite their resolve, they considered walking away. Just for a moment.

The villain pushed to their feet, tossing their paperback carelessly aside.

The hero squared their shoulders. They felt their suddenly-fragile feeling heart begin to race. They let the villain stop in front of them, they tried not to let out a desperate shudder as the villain's fingers wrapped around their throat.

"Pick an option," the villain said, caressing their pulse. "Lose air. Lose blood. Or lose everything, but get a few more years before you go. If you ask really nicely, I might even make it quick. "

The hero shifted. They passed through the villain's fingers as if it were nothing, as if the villain were nothing. A ghost. Untouchable.

When the villain turned, the hero sat on the bench the villain had vacated. They made a show of picking up the villain's book, willing their once-more solid fingers not to tremble.

The villain raised an eyebrow. "Phasing. Cute."

"I don't age when I'm in ghost mode. Any injuries I have heal. If someone kills me, I stay dead, presumably. I'm mortal, as you say, but..."

"Hard to kill."

"Hardest you'll find. Or does the challenge scare you?"

"Determined little martyr, aren't you?"

"Not like you have anything to lose experimenting. You have all the time in the world."

"You realise I don't have to honour any deal now that you've revealed your hand? I could just hunt you and continue hurting other people, especially now I know how much it bothers me."

"I'll disappear."

"I have all the time in the world. I'd find you eventually."

"I guess then I'd just vanish again, if you don't want to play ball."

"You really are just the cutest, aren't you?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Maybe." The villain held out a hand for their book. "I haven't decided. Buy me lunch. See if you can keep my interest for more than five minutes."

"Lunch."

"There's a new cafe I haven't tried. Apparently they make their own croissants."

"You want to go to lunch with me?"

"No, I want to go to lunch. All this talk of bloodshed is giving me the munchies! But I'm assuming you're currently planning to haunt me, so you may as well pay. Unless you want me to just...kill anyone who tries to charge me."

"No! No."

"That's what I thought. Great minds."

The hero pushed to their feet, as the villain had, tentatively offering them their book back. They weren't entirely sure if that encounter had gone well or not.

The villain smiled, full of teeth, eyes gleaming.

"For your sake, little hero, do try not to be boring."

And, so, they went for lunch.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Not a prompt, what's your favourite tropes and themes to write about/for and why?

I like characters who are invested in each other, perhaps even dangerously so, and the consequences of that. Love. Obsession. Wanting something or someone too much. Complicated friendships. How much would you sacrifice to take your enemy down? Appetite and hunger and consumption and longing. Etc.

Monstrosity. Who is a monster? why? who decides that and how? what does this mean? Who is made by what and how do we respond to the responsibilities and guilts of monstrosity? Liminal spaces and doubles and the gothic!

I don't know why I'm drawn to these things! I just find them, among other things, fascinating.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I found your blog and am obsessed with your writing, it’s so amazing! I was wondering if I could perhaps get a prompt about an unseelie seducing the human into their realm and the human only finding out their cruel nature at the last minute?

I don't write prompts anymore, but I can do you a modern-typewriter original story snippet.

Their lover's cottage was lovely, quaint, all white stone and wildflowers. Their lover's cottage was a threshold, apparently, beneath their lands. The front door led to the human world, and the back door to the fields and the forests of the immortal courts.

"Are you ready?" the fey looked back at them, still holding the human's hand in theirs. They raised it to their lips for a kiss. "I understand if you don't want to do this..."

"I do!" It felt xenophobic to be frightened. Their lover had been patient with them, never complaining of homesickness - always smiling so beautifully, so sadly, as they thought of what they had left behind. What kind of person were they if were scared of seeing all the magic in the world? Of their lover, just because the world wasn't human? "I want to see." It wasn't a lie.

They'd always thought there should be more to the world than what humans had. That was why so many people wrote stories about magic, wasn't it? Hoping for a glimmer of something extraordinary. And now...now they, of all people, had it. They had it and their lover was sweet and thoughtful and brilliant and so gorgeous that it almost hurt to look at them.

The fey smiled at them, bright as the sun.

They didn't know how they'd got so lucky.

"Of course I want to see your home," the human said, more firmly. "I'd never ask you to split yourself in half and stay with me forever, as if you're not what you are. That wouldn't be fair."

The human was, therefore, the one to lead the way forward. They pushed the door open with the fey's key - moving past a comfortable, elegant living room and a kitchen that smelled like baking bread and herbs.

"Just through the back?" they asked their lover, heart hammering.

"Just through the back," the fey echoed, softly.

The human drew a steadying breath and went through to the back door, stepping out into...

"Wow," the human breathed.

The world ahead of them was unlike anything they'd ever imagined. It was wild and it was magic. The trees shone like they were bioluminescent, vivid green and flowering against the pitch black night. They took a step forward, then another. Music drifted through the trees, something orchestral and lilting that made the human's chest ache. They turned to face the fey, wide-eyed, and - stopped.

They had never seen the fey look like they did just then.

In the human world, the fey didn't quite register as fully human, but they were close. A little too pretty, maybe. A little too graceful. Their lover only looked like their lover in the way that a painting could capture something of someone's essence. Their lover now was - the air around them felt different, cold. Not the cool of the sea washing gently over hot skin on a sunny day, but painfully frozen. And their eyes...

"Sweet little human," their lover crooned. Even their voice was different. It had always been like music, but now..."what's the matter?" the fey tilted their head. "I thought you wanted me to be able to be completely myself? Because you love me?"

The human bolted for the cottage door, still so small and so human looking. It didn't open. The key hole was gone.

The fey made a wounded sound.

The human whipped around, and then the fey was there, pressing them up against the wood in a mockery of intimacy. Their fingers closed on the human's hair, tugging their head back with a sharp yank, baring the human's throat.

"Say it again," the fey murmured against their lips. Their breath was like honeysuckle. "Go on."

"Why-I don't-"

"Say it." The fey's nails dug in.

Tears, bewildered and hurt, sprang to the human's eyes. Still. They straightened their spine against the door as best as they could.

"You said you loved me too." The human clutched hold of the fey's hand. "Your kind can't lie."

"Of course I love you," the fey said. "You simply have a mortal's adorable comprehension of what that means. Are you going to make me ask again?"

The human swallowed. They studied the fey's face, searching for something they recognised. The problem wasn't that there was nothing recognisable - there was too much, and not enough, and they'd been so blind.

"I love you," the human whispered. "And you're offended by the lie, aren't you?"

The fey looked momentarily surprised. Their grip loosened a fraction, enough to mimic something mortal.

"You hate that I would claim to love you and care for you when I don't know anything about you at all. Well." The human smiled, without mirth. "No more than 10% of you. How dare I call 10% love?"

It was the right and the wrong thing to say, they could see it on their lover's face. Right because it was why the fey loved them, why they'd picked them. Wrong because it was why the fey loved them, and why they'd picked them, and the human barely knew what that meant but the door was locked so it couldn't mean anything good.

The fey leaned in and kissed them, fierce and claiming, and the human had never been kissed like that before.

"Don't worry," the fey said, with a cruel smile that still had the audacity to be stunning. "You have the rest of your life to make it up to me. For once you were blind..." They kissed the human's nose. "Now you will see."

They swept the human up into their arms, spun on their heel, and carried them into the lights and the dark.

Forever.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Here is the first part of Remi & Severin's story, for context, if anyone fancies a teaser :)

There was only one bed.

Of course, there was only bed. Remi thought, maybe, he should go back to sleeping on a street corner.

The villain placed a hand, oh so gently, on the small of Remi’s back – anticipating the way he was about to take a step towards the door with uncanny accuracy.

Remi gulped.

In a weird way, he could have imagined sharing a bed better with one of the other, local villains. One of the flirty ones who were so busy flirting that they didn’t pay attention. But this one…Severin Cunningham saw far too much. He always had.

“I thought – uh,” Remi cleared his throat. “I thought there’d be twin beds.”

“Why would I order twin beds for my room?”

That was, well, an excellent point. Obviously, Severin would book himself a large, sumptuous king size bed because he was Severin Cunningham, and he only had the best.

It was late. Exhaustion drummed at him.

Remi heard the lock click in the door behind him, and twitched. He knew it was reasonable hotel safety when they were both sleeping, but it still made something in him feel trapped. And, yes, he had hardly been lured into Severin’s room by false pretences or trickery, but…

The situation was:

Remi had been working a job on the opposite side of the city to home, hours upon hours away from home to be perfectly blunt because this wasn’t England with its tiny little cities you could walk across. The job had turned to shit, because apparently that was Remi’s life this week. He’d lost his wallet, his transport, and his will to live in no particular order.

Severin Cunningham, of all people, had stepped in before Remi lost his literal life too. He’d taken one look at Remi as his attackers scattered, at his bedraggled clothes and expression of panic, and offered his hotel room for the night.

God.

Why had Remi said yes?

He knew why he’d said yes. This was a bad side of town, a villain’s side of town, and if Remi went walking about at night with nothing he was going to get himself murdered and buried in one of the luxurious gardens to be used as manure for some evil bastard’s prize-winning roses.

For better, or worse, Severin was his safest best. Severin had never, actually, tried to kill him.

That was a low bar, wasn’t it?

“Don’t worry.” Severin eased past him. “I’m not going to take advantage of you. It’s much too late and I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“I can take the sofa.” Even as Remi said it, he noted the complete lack of sofa in the room.

Severin shot him a look of cool amusement, and heat rushed to Remi’s face.

“I don’t have pajamas,” Remi said next, barely audible.

“You can borrow one of my shirts.”

“Why are you even here? You—” Severin was a villain Remi had seen a few times before, when he swept through on business, so the hotel room made sense given he didn’t actually live in the area, but…well. It didn’t mean that Severin being around with a hotel room was actually that fortunate. Remi always got himself embroiled in full on international messes when Severin was around, like the man was a warning sign for global disaster.

“Now, now,” Severin said. “You know I’m not going to answer that.” He walked over to the suitcase propped neatly in one corner of the room, his back blocking the view as he unlocked it with some code or other. A few moments later he turned, a large male t-shirt offered out in one hand.

Remi took a hesitant step closer, because lurking at the door would be cowardice. The shirt was soft and cottony in his hands, and as he clutched it to his chest, it smelled –

Well. It smelled like Severin.

If Severin Cunningham was to be described in one sentence, he would be the dashing foreigner that the protagonist fell wildly in love with, only completely evil. Or, well, at the very least entirely amoral. His power, as far as Remi had been able to work out, was the ability to temporarily absorb the powers of anyone he could touch or see or hear.

Remi’s power was super senses. It came in handy, for spying and stuff, which was his primary modus operandi to the larger forces of heroes in the world. It came in slightly less handy in a fight when there was too much going on from every direction.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Remi asked.

“I can take it off my taxes at the end of year. Stray puppy rescue.”

“Ha, bloody, ha.” He was not a stray puppy! He’d stopped Severin’s plans at least once.

Severin’s lip curled at the corner again, with that same cool amusement as before. He wasn’t going to give Remi an actual answer, was he? Maybe he thought Remi should already know, or maybe Severin simply didn’t care enough to explain himself.

Remi glanced uncertainly at the bed. It was very large, so there would be plenty of space on it for two people. If he closed his eyes it could almost be like a twin bed.

Except, it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. He knew Severin could reach across the sheets at any time and –

It wasn’t murder that came to mind.

Remi might have been able to prepare for assassination better.

“I’m sure there’s extra blankets at reception if I sleep on the floor-“

“Remi.”

He’d never heard Severin say his name before.

Remi gulped for air again, feeling rather untethered. He was blaming this weird night. He should have argued, he knew that, but Severin was looking at him with such knowing in his face.

“You are not sleeping on the floor,” Severin said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Do not make me fight you on this. I don’t think all the innocents in the hotel could take it.”

Remi froze.

Severin smiled, oh so polite. “There’s an extra toothbrush from the hotel in the bathroom, and shower stuff if you want to get the grime off you. The hot water might help you relax.”

It was quite clearly not a suggestion, and part of Remi bristled, and the other part of him thought that a shower sounded heavenly. He hated grime. Still, he huffed.

“You know,” he said. “It’s suspicious that you’re being nice, and won’t tell me why.” He stalked into the bathroom and locked the door. His thoughts whirled at first, and then – the hot shower really was lovely, and Severin really hadn’t done anything to hurt him or even suggest anything other than criminal professionality in their previous run ins. Remi emerged feeling more human, and was still trying to decide if that was a good thing as he caught sight of Severin on the bed with a book in his hand.

He had reading glasses and he was not wearing pajamas.

Admittedly, Remi couldn’t see beneath the duvet. He inched closer, and when Severin retreated to the bathroom with a washbag for whatever his nightly routine was (as if this was completely normal and domestic!) Remi built a careful pillow wall between their sides of the bed with the ridiculous amount of extra pillows he found in the cupboard.

Severin stopped when he saw it, one brow climbing up his forehead in bemusement.

“You realise, of course,” he said, “that a pillow is not really going to stop me. I’m not allergic to feathers.”

“I don’t think you’re going to do anything!” Remi protested. “I wouldn’t, actually, be here if I genuinely thought that.” It cost a bit to admit it, but Severin had been weirdly kind about this. To him, possibly it was a bit like taking in a stray puppy. Possibly feral, inclined to bite.

“You think you might accidentally end up cuddling me?” Severin nodded. “I understand. I have that affect on people.”

“What – no – I mean – aargh.”

“Did you just growl at me?” Severin definitely sounded amused, not even coolly now. “And after I so kindly invited you into my home.”

“Goodnight!”

“Sweet dreams.” Severin’s tone could have melted butter, and his eyes lingered on Remi for a moment longer. On the way that Severin’s own shirt fit him in an opulent caress of material.

Remi turned around to face the other way and squeezed his eyes shut, curled up determinedly on his end of the bed. He listened to the sounds of Severin rustling in the dark. His heart raced. His nerve endings tingled. The possibility of a fight tried to sizzle up his bones again, as the soothing affects of the shower wore off and –

There was only a metre between them.

Remi could have reached out, could have brushed Severin’s immaculate hair back from his face. He could have checked if his skin tasted the way that the comfortable shirt brushing against his back did.

“You know,” Remi couldn’t stop himself. “It is weird that you won’t tell me why you’re helping me. I know it’s not for the tax benefits.”

“I’ll sell you to the highest bidder while you’re sleeping.”

Remi whipped to face him, only to be confronted with a facefull of pillow. He propped up on one elbow to peer over the great wall.

Severin’s eyes were closed, his expression peaceful.

Remi huffed and flopped back down.

“Because, like,” he said, “this is above and beyond the call of duty. It’s not like this is your spare bedroom.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when villains refuse to answer my questions.”

The room was dark around them, quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Even the city outside seemed far away beyond the bulletproof glass.

“I’ve been without safe places to stay a night before,” Severin said, long past when Remi thought he would ever respond. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It’s not like you could have gone anywhere really to wait it out. The clubs around here truly would sell you to the highest bidder, and I don’t know what you were thinking getting yourself caught out like this.”

He sounded – for the first time, Severin sounded almost angry.

Remi’s mouth dried. He wondered, then, who exactly Severin Cunningham had been before he was well – Severin Cunningham, some nebulous high up in the world of villainy, probably far out of Remi’s world and pay range of evil.

He let the silence settle then, and did his best to sleep.

He awoke to softness, to the scent of Severin’s cologne in his nose, to the feeling of…

He was on Severin’s side of the bed. Their legs were tangled up. His head was nestled in the crook of Severin’s arm and he had no idea how that happened.

Blearily, he considered panic, and flight.

He glanced at the clock on Severin’s side.

It was five twenty in the morning.

None of his senses were screaming at him, he was, for once, blissfully comfortable and it was all wrong and…

He went back to sleep.

Remi & Severin my beloved from @the-modern-typewriter