yourheartonfire - Tumblr blog

[yourheartonfire]

hello hello! after an accidental hiatus, I'm back with an entry into the surrender an ask game that @save-the-villainous-cat and @epiclamer put together where we all swapped asks. thanks so much for doing this!!!

here's my ask: Hi! I’ve become obsessed with your Hero Gets Yanked By An Upstanding Citizen Into Their Window And Into Their Heart post and I was wondering if you could- maybe- on the off chance- if you have time- come back to it for another scene? I just love the duo’s dynamic so much, the lovable hero who is trying a little too hard at any given chance, and the citizen who is wholly unafraid to manhandle a superhero into their home and into their life. That’s the vibes I was getting from their short interaction anyway- I love them so much aaagugfyduhijigififiguftgb your writing makes me go insane” Submitted by @yourheartonfire

The hero checks once, twice behind their shoulders, then collapses on to the rickety fire escape. It's off the beaten path, away from anyone. Sure, there's a little prickle of guilt that it's a Saturday night, and there are probably dozens of crimes afoot that need their attention.

But the past few weeks have run them absolutely ragged. If they didn't know better, they'd think that someone was scheming against them deliberately. call after call, summons after summons, each one more dire than the last.

People count on them—people need them, and they like the feeling of being needed. But they're exhausting, aching, injured, absolutely spent. Their leg throbs with a recent injury that they haven't had time to treat, and they can't remember the last time they slept more than three hours at a time.

They lean their head back against the scarred brick of the apartment building, letting their eyes slip closed....

.....and when a wailing siren sounds in the distance, the hero tries not to whimper.

Get up. It's time to go.

And they do get up. Too quickly.

Their toe catches on the edge of the rickety fire escape, and before the hero can react, they're falling, tumbling, twisting, too exhausted and spent to do anything to stop the inevitable pull of gravity on their body.

The last thing they see is the extended metal overhanging of the fire escape before pain shot through their body, and darkness overtook them.

_________________

The hero hoped that when they awoke, they'd somehow find themselves in their own spase, yet comfortable bed, that the last two months had been just a nightmare.

Instead, they hear frustrated, disembodied grunts and feel someone pulling at them, tugging them over something hard and metal and painful for their aching body.

"Get...in...here..."

The hero wants to swat the hands away, but their limbs are dead weight at their sides, and their voice gets stuck in their throat when they try to cry out. So darkness falls again.

_________________

When the hero wakes a second time, they're aware of a throbbing in their bad leg and a pounding in their head, and an ache that's more painful than anything they've ever felt. They're in a dark room, save for a softly glowing salt lamp in the far corner, and they're aware of being tucked under a thick, soft blanket on some sort of couch or daybed.

It's comfortable, safe, warm—and wrong. They have no idea where they are or who they're with, nor how long they've been there, nor how many lives have been lost while they've been knocked unconscious.

They try to call out, but the "hey" comes out as more of a raspy whisper, and the blanket is far too heavy for them to toss from their broken body. In their efforts to move, something gets knocked over with a crash.

"Hey, hey, hey now, don't move. Shhhh." A figure darts into the room and the hero feels two hands against their shoulders, pressing them back into the bed.

"W--where..."

"You're....here. At my apartment. Figured I didn't want to leave you out on my fire escape all night." The shadowed figure flicks on another lamp and the hero winces, hand flying to touch their face—

Their bare face.

A strangled cry flees their throat. Not only have they failed their city, but someone's seen their face, seen how utterly, desperately ordinary they are beneath it all. This someone knows who they are and could ruin it all. Their eyes flicker up to see the stranger standing at the foot of their bed, holding their disguise tenderly in their hands.

"I'm so sorry....I didn't want to take it off, but you were bleeding from a pretty nasty forehead cut, and I didn't want to leave it too long." The stranger's hand lightly ghosts over their hairline, and the hero realizes there's some sort of thick bandage over where the throbbing is radiating from. "I won't tell a soul. Promise. If you have some sort of mind control....thing, you can even erase my memories, if you want, but you need like....a ton of medical attention first. I've done first aid and an outdoor wilderness survival class a couple times, but you probably need some kind of doctor, but I get if you don't want to do that with your identity and all that...."

"Won't....won't bother you" the hero slurs, trying to sit up again, before collapsing back down. Try as they might, they couldn't leave this cursed couch.

"Oh no, no, you're not bothering me at all. You just sorta...freaked me out, is all. And there was a TON of blood, and I couldn't just leave you there, so I just kinda—" the stranger motions with their hands "yanked you right in here, did some first aid, and here we are." The stranger adjust the blankets, tucking the hero in tighter. "You looked pretty banged up."

I supposed I did, the hero muses to themselves. "It's....been a rough few weeks. But I'm okay."

"You sure?" The stranger's brows furrow, and their hand gestures to their leg. "I'm no doctor, but that gash on your leg looks...pretty bad. Shouldn't someone be looking after that?"

Hero hears the subtext of the question. Shouldn't someone be looking after YOU?

The hero isn't quite sure what to say to that. How long has it been since someone tended their wounds, tucked them in, brought them in from the elements, and asked how they were?

"I'm....I'm alright." Hero's mortified to hear the smallest wobble in their voice.

"Hero, that's not what I asked." The stranger's voice is firm, yet gentle, their hand resting on their uninjured knee.

"Right." The hero sniffles, suddenly unable to speak.

The stranger seems to understand the thousand thoughts of the hero's mind that flood the silence, then gently pats their other uninjured leg. "Well, in that case, it's time we get started now that you're awake. I'll get the bandages, and we'll really get you cleaned up and take stock of how much healing you've got ahead of you. No promises, though—I told you, it's only a couple first-aid classes, so don't you judge my wound dressings."

Hero's suprised to hear their own thin, crackly laugh. "Wouldn't dare."

[yourheartonfire]

“A hero who can see the future. They usually don’t look farther than a day or two, because it’s exhausting to look even that far. One day, they’re with villain/sidekick/whoever, and out of curiosity they ask hero to look a few years in the future to see if they win the fight with villain/supervillain. The hero disagrees, at first, but over time they get more and more curious. When they finally do look, it’s definitely not what they expected. There is no future.”

Prompt surrendered by @some-messed-up-writing-for-you

When the hero woke up, they were in a bed. That was alarming. They had definitely been on a roof when they'd looked forward, and forward, and...

"You're awake. Finally," It was villain who swam into focus through the shimmery aura that was the hero's vision. A moment later, an oversized thermos cup and a plastic straw scratched against the hero's dry lips. "Drink this."

Water, room temperature and plasticky-stale tasting. The hero sucked it down like it was nectar.

Only once the hero could drink no more did they clear their throat, think back on their memories, and shudder. "How long...?"

"Two days," the villain said. "Thirty-eight hours to be precise." They gave the hero a half-hearted smirk. "I beat you that bad in the future, huh?"

The hero looked at them. The villain's face glimmered in the post-trance aura, but even through the ripples, the hero could see their gaze drop.

"Nothing." The hero tried to sit up, and quickly gave that up as a wave of nausea washed over them. "I saw nothing. Not even rubble. Emptiness. Void."

"Ah," said the villain quietly. The color had gone out of their face. "The great unmaking."

"You knew." A rush of adrenaline and the hero sat up anyway, despite the pain. "That's why you wanted me to look that far forward. Send me hurtling into a void, for something you knew!"

The villain shrugged. "I suspected. Now I know." They cleared their throat. "I would not have risked you like that for anything less dire than the end of the world."

The hero squinted at villain. Usually so light and cheeky, usually so quick with a quip. "Not you that ends it all, I assume?"

"Of course not," the villain snapped. "Even if I could. I like the world. It's the only place you can get ice cream and money and sex. No." They sat down heavily in the chair by the bed. "There's rumors about a new powered individual. Somebody they're calling the Ultimate Weapon. Rumor has it that for once, the name is no exaggeration."

"The Weapon," the hero repeated. "Not the Warrior, or the Killer, or a person name. A thing. Somebody already has them?"

The villain nodded grimly. The hero shut their eyes with a groan. They could guess now why the villain had set this up. They could guess who would give a powered individual such a dehumanizing name.

"We have them," the hero said wearily. "My side."

The villain tilted their head. Confirmation. "Your Agency has never met a weapon it didn't want to use. At some point in the next few years, they're going to use it and end us all. So. What are you going to do about it?"

"Me?" The hero eased themselves back down into the pillows. The pain was receding rapidly now, but no need to let the villain know that. "Obviously somebody on your side provokes it."

"Somebody on-?" The villain sputtered to a stop. The hero shut their eyes and waited. "Okay, fine. Fine! What are we going to do about it?"

The hero squashed their smile. "Well," they said, and started outlining their thoughts on how to start.

[yourheartonfire]

EpicLamer (and Cat’s) Ask Game!

Hello everybody!

And welcome to this week’s ask game! Cat and I have set up a little something between a small group of writers that will be posted this week in an attempt to revive the writing community just a bit!

All of the works will be posted through the tag; #surrenderanask

The game is simple! Give up (or surrender) an ask and receive a new one from a different writer’s ask box!

All posts will be upload within the next week! (By Monday October 30th at Midnight.)

Enjoy and have fun writing/reading!

@save-the-villainous-cat @avvail @thepenultimateword @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @warmblanketwhump @livingforthewhump @whumpasaurus101 @autocrats-in-love @yourheartonfire @some-messed-up-writing-for-you @nuttynutcycle

[yourheartonfire]

[yourheartonfire]

I keep trying to write fluff and it keeps coming out either angst or... well. 😳

CW: possessiveness

The villain's apartment was terrifyingly tasteful. Every time they lured the hero back (and the hero had to admit, it was taking less luring every time) the hero was afraid to touch anything, lest they ruin the photoshoot-ready decor. And it was constantly changing. Every time the villain coaxed the hero in, there was some new piece of art on the wall, some new bloom or plant on the shelves, some new silk comforter or fancy bamboo sheets on the bed, sliding beneath them when the villain pinned them down with a toothy smile.

But the most terrifying room of all was the bathroom, and the rows and rows of bottles and jars and sprays. Every time the hero came over the villain would eventually go missing and the hero would find them in here, performing intricate rituals before the mirror.

"You really scare the hell out of me," the hero said, perched on the edge of the marble tub, towel drying their hair. "I mean, corporate sabotage is one thing, but the amount of money and brainpower that you've put into this whole deal..." They waved a hand at the line of products.

"You should be intimidated," the villain said, eye-droppering a pale brown liquid between their eyebrows and at the corners of their eyes and nose. "This serum costs more per ounce than you make in a week."

The hero shrugged cheerfully. "A Big Gulp costs more per ounce than I make in a week."

"You really need a new job," the villain sighed, reaching for the next jar. "Dare I even ask about your skin care routine?"

"Only the finest antibacterial hand soap for this face," the hero said, grin widening.

The villain shuddered as they dipped a finger into a pale pink cream. And then they paused, eyes snapping to the hero with that look that made the hairs on the hero's neck stand up. That predatory look usually meant they were about to fight or... well.

"What?" the hero said, tightening their robe belt and casually sliding onto their feet.

But when the villain rounded on them, eyes dark with intent, it was with pale pink stuff outstretched.

"Wait, hang on," the hero protested, trying to duck away. "You can't put that pricey stuff on me!"

"Oh, but I can," the villain said, easily backing the hero into the corner. They cupped the hero's face, turning it towards the light. "My house. My rules. My things to use as I see fit. Hold still now."

The hero bit their lip and shut their eyes as the villain traced lines across their cheekbones, their forehead, along the line of their jaw. The lotion was cool and the villain's hands warm as their fingers worked small circles across the skin. Not for the first time, the hero wondered if the villain had some kind of secret hypnosis powers. Something that made heroes melt under that piercing gaze and those light, steady touches.

"When you say 'your things to use,'" the hero said through a dry throat and unsteady breath. "You're talking about the lotion, right?"

"It's a cream, you heathen," the villain hummed, tilting the hero's chin higher and stroking a line down their throat mercilessly. 

"You didn't answer the question," the hero squeaked.

"I didn't?" said the villain. At the collarbone their thumb dragged across the first of the hero's scars and they tsked. "How can someone as beautiful as you take such poor care of themselves?"

The hero huffed, pulled the robe a little higher. "I guess that's what I have you for," they said. 

It was supposed to be flippant, but the villain's eyes went darker. "That's a tempting offer," they breathed, fingers tightening into the hero's shoulder, body pressing the hero harder into the wall. "I could take such good care of you..." 

In a flick of light of light and ozone, the hero vanished, rematerializing a step behind as the villain stumbled. "In here," the hero snapped, fists clenched and heart suddenly racing. "Take care of me here. That's not an offer for more, that's when we're... here."

"Of course," the villain said immediately, stepping back, hands raised, only the slightest swallow and blink as they clamped down on themselves with that iron self-control. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep the boundaries of our, ah, arrangement."

Cautiously, the hero unclenched their fists. The villain, moving just a hair slower than normal and careful to telegraph their intentions, leaned past to pick out a different bottle from the cabinet. They were careful not to touch the hero and - dammit - the hero missed that touch. 

"I was going to say the cream is all right," the villain said gently. "But I think we can do better." They popped the new bottle open and rubbed a drop between their fingers. A sharp, spicy scent filled the room. "Yes, that's more like it," they said, and turned to the hero with a startlingly meek look. "If... we can try again?"

The hero took a deep breath. It was easy to forget, sometimes, just who they were dealing with. But no. They had their boundaries and the villain was scrupulous in observing them. In here. 

Slowly, the hero nodded.

The villain's smile turned toothier. "It's a body lotion," they said innocently, eyes drifting downwards.

The hero crossed their arms. "But you still have three jars and that stick thing left," they said, just as innocently. "Won't your face melt or turn green or something if you stop halfway?"

The villain chuckled again and reeled the hero in. "For you," they murmured, fingers working at the belt knot, "I'll risk a wrinkle or two."

Later, the villain slipped the lotion into the hero's bag. The hero slipped it right back out into a fancy looking vase. Boundaries. The hero was going to enforce them if it killed them.

[yourheartonfire]

Cat, my ask is inspired by 'care- @yourheartonfire' I really hope you like it!

Please write a married!! villain who religiously indulges in their skin care, and a hero who really can't care less what they put on their skin. One night after them spending 2 rounds in horny jail, they're both up at 4am and after cleaning themselves, hero observes the villain indulging in their skin care routines, and upon spotting their lovely spouse the hero, they find their new target to perform skin care at.

Just when they remove hero's bath gown to apply body lotion (after much convincing ofc) they notice the array of hickies covering their entire body after 2 religious rounds of them in horny jail. Villain now needs to resist the hero, and take care of the hickeys and their hero's poor skin, but notising the way hero melts when they get their face massaged, and the little shivers passing thru them even after being for hours in hot shower, villain cant help but go for round 3 in horny jail!! and tho hero makes them promise no more hickies, they happily let themselves get carried away with their villain.

Well I hope ur comfortable writing this, absolutely no pressure :D I read @yourheartonfire 's care so many times its actually one of my fav!! But I would love to see a bit of your touch to it, really hope you don't mind and write a snippet like this one (with all your own touches obv)

Original :)

“I’ll be sore in the morning.”

“That’s the goal.” The villain’s smirk was undoubtedly of vicious nature. They could be quite sweet with all their big date plans and expensive vacations but the hero knew them by heart, knew their darkest sides and usually, the hero was the one in charge.

However, today, the villain seemed to be yearning for more than usual. Which wasn’t a bad thing, obviously.

But it made the hero wonder.

“Is this some new scheme of yours?” the hero asked as they got pushed back into the sheets. The villain found their neck and tried gentle nibs which, despite the carefulness, made the hero squeak in pain. The villain drew back and tried another spot, choosing kisses over teeth.

“Love, believe me. I would find kinder methods to stop you from working. I know you love this job,” they mumbled. “I can’t take that away from you, I’ve learnt that a long time ago.”

For a moment, they just stared at the hero and the hero really, really felt lucky to have married someone so diligent. The villain was always eager to do more than was expected of them. Their goals were beyond reachable which was exactly why it could be quite frustrating to face them in battle.

The villain’s fingers ghosted over the hero’s collarbone and then, very sweetly, they kissed the hero. It reminded them of their first kiss. Very innocent. And it intensified the feelings they’d had for this entire evening — not only lust but also gripping love.

“You tell me when it’s too much, alright?” the villain whispered. The hero recognised guilt in the question and it squeezed their heart a little too hard.

“Of course,” they answered. They let their thumb brush over the villain’s bottom lip and then added this just to tease them. “I’m not someone who comes home injured and bleeding all over my spouse during sex.”

“Oh, come on. That was one time,” the villain said and let their hand slide down to their thigh.

“It wasn’t fun.”

“I know, I apologised.” The villain had already reached their destination with their hand and the hero was truly astonished that their spouse was doing so much today. It felt like heaven, sure, but the hero couldn’t help but ask themselves if everything was alright.

Growing up in a…troubling household had left them anxious of every micro change in their spouse’s mood which, no matter how hard both of them tried, wouldn’t go away.

“I’m just worried about you,” the hero said. “I’m really worried sometimes.”

They went through the villain’s hair several times, letting their fingers comb through it carefully as the villain’s kisses travelled lower and lower.

“It’s okay, I can take care of myself, love.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing. You don’t…” They wanted to say more but the villain had found a sensitive spot. They breathed in, breathed out and tried to concentrate. “…you don’t have to.”

The villain started to use their tongue and the hero’s mind couldn’t comprehend their surroundings anymore. But they wanted to make a point, they remembered. They pulled the villain’s face up and guided them back to their mouth.

“Sometimes…I just wish you could talk more with me. We’re a team. Maybe not at work but…at least at home.” What a cruel sentence to say but the villain seemed to understand. “You don’t have to carry around everything.”

“Yes, you’re totally right. I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be a burden,” the villain said. They tried to get back down but the hero’s grip on their jaw held them in place.

“You’re not a burden,” they clarified. “You never have been, okay?”

“Okay,” the villain whispered and for the first time today, their shoulders seemed to relax. “Okay.”

They kissed the hero yet again very softly but the hero knew this wasn’t it.

“They’re sending me on a mission next week,” the villain said softly. “Some say it’ll be suicide.”

[yourheartonfire]

It's Sunday afternoon, might get a little silly and post a whole mini essay on why and how the shifting narrators across The Locked Tomb series works...

[yourheartonfire]

The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist's side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They'd have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don't catch anyone's...

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

"Hello, little sacrifice," she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist's head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

"Are you serious?" she sneered.

The god of the protagonist's childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

"Spare this one," the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. "Please. This one is mine."

The god of war laughed. "You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I'll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics."

"Oh, I'm no god of anything so prevalent," the protagonist's god murmured humbly. "And I'm not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we're here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you."

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

"A song!" they blurted. "A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and... and honor your name."

The god of war... paused. Tilted their head.

"A fitting tribute to your potency," their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. "From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead."

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. "Fine. But I expect my song. I'll hold you responsible, godling. I don't forget!"

She was gone and the god of the protagonist's childhood turned to look down at them. "Well," he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. "I hope you can actually write music."

"Seems like a priority to learn," the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.

[yourheartonfire]

There we go! Technically a reblog after the early post yesterday. Thanks @whygodohgodwhy for a great prompt.

Conversation Prompt

“Sorry, I meant to be gone before you woke up. Your mom insisted that I sleep off a sugar crash on your couch.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’s missed you since our break-up. She’d like it if you came around more.”

[yourheartonfire]

Pleased to announce a new co-author on this account: my cat. Last night she decided that I'd worked enough on one piece long enough and decided to stomp on my phone in exactly the right way to post it immediately out of drafts.

So, uh, sorry if you saw a phantom post go up and then down again. It should be finished and up tomorrow.

The criminal:

[yourheartonfire]

For a moment the vigilante froze, like a raccoon caught in the sudden glare of a motion sensor light. Then they went back to dressing, hurriedly yanking their layers of clothing back on.

The hero knew better than to question the vigilante's need to cover themselves in shapeless gray and brown, even in the warmth of spring. They knew better to ask why the vigilante was sleeping on the daybed on the covered porch instead of inside in one of guest bedrooms. They averted their eyes, carefully slid the cup of tea and the plate of breakfast onto the side table and backed up to the stool by the door.

"Are you, uh, rationing...?" The hero cleared their throat. "That is to say, is there some way we - I - can assist with your insulin supply?"

"Not unless you've got four hundred bucks in your pocket," the vigilante said dryly, shoving things back into their backpack

The hero pulled out their wallet and started paging through the bills. The vigilante stopped and stared. "Not unless you've got a single-payer not-for-profit national healthcare program in your pocket," they said loudly.

The hero gave them a half smile. "That's two hundred thirty three, uh thirty eight," they said, sliding the money over next to the food. "If you give me a minute, my go-bag upstairs has cash too I can get."

"Mkay," the vigilante said, avoiding their eyes.

The old heat flooded through the hero. They tilted their head. "Mkay I should go get it and you'll wait right here for me? Or mkay I should go get it so you can disappear on me again?"

The vigilante flung their gloves into their pack. "And this is why I meant to be gone before you woke up."

Somehow the hero was up on their feet, caution forgotten. "I am trying to help you!"

"Your help always comes with strings. Compromises." The vigilante was backing towards the screen door, hunched over their backpack defensively. "I'm not coming back to the Agency!"

The hero threw up their hands. "I never even suggested - !"

"And I'm not coming back to you."

The hero pulled up short. The vigilante hovered in the doorway, one foot fully out and down the first step, those dark and lovely eyes wary under their hood.

"Stop, please." The hero swallowed. Backed up. "No strings. Please, just let me help. I want you - I need you to be okay. Can't you believe that much about me?"

The vigilante leaned their head against the door frame. "Of course I know that about you," they said with a sad smile. "You need to believe that everything will work out okay."

The hero closed their eyes.

"I'll go get the rest of that cash," they said and walked away. When they got back, the money, the food, and the vigilante were gone.

The hero sighed and went up to their mother's office. The door was open and, at the hero's soft knock, she actually looked away from her spreadsheets and closed her laptop. That wasn't a good sign

"Well?" she asked. The hero shook their head. Their mother clicked her tongue. "That's disappointing. Now you'll have to run them down on their territory, not yours."

"Mother, they don't want to come back," the hero said.

"Too bad." Their mother took off her glasses, stared the hero down. "They're too good an asset to lose. And too good a partner to you," she added. "I do want grandchildren someday."

"They hate me!" the hero blurted out.

Their mother rolled her eyes. "They didn't come here for my charms. Take your time if must, reel them in slow. But run them down. That's an order. Now be a dear and close that door on your way out."

"Yes, Director," the hero said through their teeth and stormed out.

Conversation Prompt

“Sorry, I meant to be gone before you woke up. Your mom insisted that I sleep off a sugar crash on your couch.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’s missed you since our break-up. She’d like it if you came around more.”

[yourheartonfire]

Hi!! First off I just want to say that this is my new favorite writing blog on tumblr!! I'm so grateful for whatever strings the universe pulled that led me here. I'm literally addicted to every single thing you've written here. I swear I've read Mutually Assured Destruction like ten times within the past 24 hours.

I was wondering, if you find the free time and the inspiration, if you could write a villain x medic/civilian snippet? Maybe Medic accidentally witnessed villain's crime so villain can't let them just wander around freely since medic works for the hero agency, but also doesn't want to kill medic since medic is useful?

Thank you so much! I've always loved the idea of Villain x Medic so here you go!

CW: Kidnapping

“You know my face.”

The medic knew this day would come. Still, they froze in the doorway of the living room, keys dangling in their hands, blood frosting over in sheer dread. The villain sat with their legs crossed in the medic’s favorite armchair, the fire place unlit. The room in semi-darkness, the only light a glow from a street-lamp.

They didn’t ask how the villain knew their address. They should have taken Hero’s offer to leave under witness protection, but their whole life was built here. They couldn’t just leave and start over.

“I haven’t revealed it,” the medic said.

“Yet,” the villain amended. “I’m sure you would for the right price. Or under the right pressure.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t. But I am not going to risk it.”

The lamp beside the couch switched on. The medic flinched away from the sight, eyes trained on the coat rack by the door. As if mattered anymore if they saw the villain’s face again. As if they hadn’t doomed themselves the first time.

Footsteps creaked over the old wood floors. The medic took slow deep breaths, holding it for four counts and releasing it. A trick they had taught people afraid of IV needles to calm their racing heart.

The time to run had long since passed. And even if it hadn’t, the villain most definitely had people outside lying in wait for such an escape.

Hands that tipped the medic’s chin to meet that dangerous gaze.

“You’re going to kill me,” the medic said. It was not a question.

An eyebrow raised. “You sound very calm about that.”

“My career has taught me how to recognize and accept things that aren’t in my control. Right now there is nothing I can do to stop you.”

“This is true.”

The villain studied them, thumb brushing absently against the curve of their bottom lip.  The darkness of their eyes felt unfathomable, like the Marianas Trench. Like the deepest part of the ocean, full of wonder and terror.

“I am not going to kill you,” the villain said finally. “I owe you my life. And I always repay my debts. But you know my face.”

The medic swallowed thickly against the barrage of options that opened up. The villain could blind them, torture them into insanity, cut out their tongue. All of the above. The villain’s hand slips across their cheek to cup the back of the medic’s head. A possessive gesture, they noted with a shiver.

“You are coming with me. Whether it be conscious or unconscious, I leave up to your . . . control.”

Relief warred with new fear. “Where are you taking me?” they asked.  “What happens to me when we get there?”

“Questions I will happily answer in the car,” said the villain, their hand sliding down the medic’s 

neck before retreating. “Hand me your phone and your keys and then go pack your things. You have ten minutes.”

The medic stood rooted to the spot. This was real, this was happening. And it yet it still felt like a bad dream. Ten minutes to pack their life up? Ten minutes?

“Tick tock, darling,” crooned the villain, holding their hand out.

Numbly, the medic dropped their phone and keys into the villain's hand and took robotic steps towards their bedroom. Clothes were easy to grab and stuff into the suitcase. As were their birth certificate and other identity papers. Personal items, less so. Medic spent precious minutes at their bookshelf, picking a well thumbed classic from their childhood, their most referenced medical texts, and a novel they hadn’t started yet.

The pressure of time throbbed in the back of their head, making it difficult to think rationally about what they needed. They ducked into the bathroom, grabbing their contact case and solution, their toothbrush. Then they stood in the middle of their bedroom, frantically trying to think of what they couldn’t live without.

“Times up.”

The villain’s voice came from behind, causing the medic to jump out of their skin.

“Zip it up and let’s go.”

The villain’s car lay hidden in the shadows of the back alley. A dangerous looking driver waiting for them, their cigarette glow the only light. The villain opened the backseat of the car for Medic with a mocking flourish.

It was their last opportunity to run, but the medic knew a shot in the back waited for them if they tried it. So, dread sitting heavy in their stomach, they climbed in. The villain took the seat next to them, giving out curt orders to the driver in a language the medic didn’t recognize.

 The nagging horror that the medic forgot something important haunted them. They leaned their head against the window, mentally walking through their house, trying to remember. But the fear churning in their blood made it so difficult.

“I’m taking you to my compound,” said the villain, almost conversationally. As if detailing the itinerary for a date. “I have a room set up for you, as well as a med bay. You can resume your work taking care of my mercenaries.”

The medic listened with half an ear, watching the wave of street lamps pass them by. What were they missing?

“No objections to that?” the villain asked, bemused.

They passed a park, one the medic had many birthday parties in as a child, and the sudden zing of memory made them gasp.

“Stop! We have to go back!” they cried.

The driver didn’t so much as flinch.

“Go back?" The villain laughed. "Too late for that, doctor. You should have protested before you climbed into this car."

"I forgot something!"

"Whatever it is can be replaced," the villain said with a dismissive wave of their hand. 

"It's not replaceable. Please."

Desperation clawed at their throat but the villain remained unmoved.

"If it were so important, one would think it would be the first thing you packed, not the first thing you forgot. You will have to learn to live without it."

The medic closed their eyes the rest of the journey. They couldn't bear to look at Villain's face.

"Do you regret it?"

The villain sat upon the examination bed, looking almost innocent.

It had been a week since the medic was taken. Their life had changed so drastically that the normality of the med bay, of the tools they had spent years around, clanged like a discordant note. They threw themselves into their work, demanding physicals for the Villain's mercenaries to establish a baseline of health. These people, so used to sewing their own wounds, grew awkward around the medic’s soft and attentive care. Some refused to come. 

The villain showed up last, a new laceration on their ribs. They sat, spine straight and unflinching as medic carefully cleaned the wound and bandaged it. 

"Regret what?" the medic asked. 

" . . .Saving my life."

Their hands stilled for a moment, hovering over the wound. It was a tricky question and the medic wasn't sure how to answer it honestly. 

"I would have regretted the person that I'd become if I had let you die," they said finally. 

"Oh? Most people would consider it a net positive, preventing all my future damage."

"It's not up to me to decide who deserves to live and who doesn't."

"I beg to differ. You hold people's lives in your hands every day. Who else, if not you?"

The medic glanced up at the villain, who stared at them with open-faced fascination, rather than the usual dispassion. 

"I don't think any one person should have that power," they said pointedly. 

The villain smiled, a slow curving movement. "A pity. You could be terrifying indeed."

The medic swallowed something strange dancing in their gut. "You're lucky I'm not." 

"Indeed I am."

They finished the examination without further conversation. The villain watched with quiet fascination as the medic sterilized their tools, folded unused bandages away, updated the Villain's medical records. 

"What did you leave behind?" they asked softly. 

"My life," the medic said, tersely, as they tapped on the keyboard. 

The villain was undeterred. "What did you remember in the car?"

The medic paused at that, unsure if they should answer. They didn't want the villain's mockery over it. But lies rarely went over well with the villain -- the medic had cleaned up the wounds left behind from that. 

"A box under my bed," they replied, keeping their eyes locked on the computer. "It had my keepsakes in it. Family photos, birthday cards, that sort of thing."

"Sentiment," the villain said skeptically. "That's what got you so worked up?"

"I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand," they snapped, standing up. 

The villain watched them leave and the medic felt their gaze like a laser all the way down the hall. 

Two days later a painfully familiar box sat on the examination table. Scribbled in sharpie on the cardboard was a message: 

I do understand. 

[yourheartonfire]

"Everyone says I shouldn't join the pack," the protagonist said. "They say you're..."

Well. They said a lot of things, eyeing the trio with great suspicion. Co-dependent, they whispered. Intense. A bit odd. They didn't fit in with the rest of the town. They were wilder, more wolf-like, than any of the other packs that the protagonist had ever come across.

"And what do you think?" the other werewolf asked, amused. "What do you want?"

You. Them. The pack.

The answer was achingly obvious; an inescapable tug.

It just wasn't sensible, and the protagonist had always been that.

Prompt courtesy of @the-modern-typewriter 's Patreon!

TW: reference to a past traumatic attack.

The pack came for the protagonist on the night of the new moon. It was barely 5pm but in the winter Northwest woods it might as well have been midnight. A crunch of truck tires on gravel, a sharp rap at the door, and three shaggy haired outlines on the cabin porch silhouetted against the starry sky and the deep, delicious darkness of the pine forest.

"Hey lone wolf," caroled the call from outside. "Don't you think it's time we all hashed this out?"

The protagonist gritted their teeth behind the door.

"Consider it an informative, mutual interview," the extrovert werewolf said. Purred, the protagonist would have said, if it weren't the wrong animal family. "After all, whether you join or not, you're still a wolf in our territory."

That... was true. It was deal with them now or deal with them when the moon changed. The protagonist steeled themselves, put on the kettle, and opened the door.

A few minutes later a pack of wolves were sprawled out on the protagonist's living room furniture, cups of Lemon Zinger in hand.

"I don't mean to offend, I'm just not..." The protagonist took a breath. "I didn't move out here to find a pack."

"And you're not required to join," the first one said smoothly. Clearly the speaker of the group. "There's enough woods for us all if you want to stay independent. The question is, ah..."

"The question is, is that what the wolf wants?" cut in the second one with a toothy smile over the edge of her teacup. The fighter, who walked with her shoulders up and her gaze constantly flicking back and forth.

"I control the wolf," the protagonist said automatically, then flinched.

There was a wave of reaction. The fighter dropped her eyes, the speaker immediately raised his hands to calm, to surrender. "You were part of a W.A. pack? That's fine, we're not judging. Obviously we don't subscribe to the creed," he added with a grin, "but it's no skin off our noses."

"Not much choice for a wolf in the city," the fighter added gruffly, her gaze fixed in intense scrutiny of the protagonist's footstool.

The protagonist forced a smile by habit even as they knew it would do no good. If the flinch hadn't been obvious enough the air practically stank with fear, anxiety.

That was the problem, dealing with wolves. There was just no hiding the truth.

"Yes," the protagonist said, giving their footstool the same scrutiny as they paused. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. The pack had probably puzzled it out anyway. "Victim Services recommended Wolves Anonymous to help me find my footing after..." They shrugged

Immediately all three werewolves bared their teeth. The protagonist was used enough to recognize this was not a threat but an expression of sympathy.

"Unacceptable," the speaker hissed, the most wolflike the protagonist had ever seen him.

"The Change is a gift but also a Change," the fighter snarled. "How dare anyone force it another? I trust the miscreant is a pelt?"

The protagonist shrugged and put down their tea cup with unsteady hands. "Drago Asylum. He was in lunar frenzy, it wasn't intentional."

Around them, the protagonist felt the wolves exchange glances as the pieces slotted together. No surprise though.

"Thank you," said the third wolf and their pack mates jumped, "for sharing."

The third wolf spoke in a voice barely louder than the crickets outside, yet the dry rattle of their whisper cut through the room like a knife. The one who positioned themselves by the door, who hung back and kept a watchful eye. The leader.

"We appreciate your forthrightness," they went on, their eyes cool and intense and locked on the protagonist. "You have free parole in our territory as a lone and a standing invitation to our pack, if and when you decide that's what you want. You also," they added with a dry glance to the others, "have free reign to court, be courted, or to have none of it. Whatever you choose won't in any way be impacting your standing."

"Um," the protagonist stammered, heat rising in their cheeks. The fighter grinned. The speaker winked. "That's, uh, that's it? You just met me and I get to join the club?"

The leader cocked their head. "Yes," they said. "We see. We understand. You have good reason to take slow decision. We will wait for you to decide. You are worth waiting for."

The protagonist bit down on their lip. The air in their little cabin had turned thick and hot with this many bodies in their space. But bodies that smelled like pine sap and rich dirt and just a hint of sharp desire, bodies that were carefully angled close enough to support and defend, but not too close to be a threat or to corner. For the first time in months, the presence of others was a comfort. "Thank you," they said.

The leader nodded brusquely, glanced to the speaker. "Right!" the speaker said cheerfully, putting down his cookie. "We've asked you enough questions. Your turn to interrogate us. Fire away."

It was almost dawn before the wolves left. It was two months before the protagonist joined the pack.

[yourheartonfire]

A reblog for the afternoon crowd!

The pass itself was quick: enter the bar, spot the contact, slide into the booth, exchange the flash drive for an envelope of cash under the table.

The fallout was longer though.

"Don't open it here," the antagonist said out of the corner of their mouth. So of course the protagonist immediately ripped it open and started thumbing through the stack of bills in their lap.

The antagonist sighed and took a sip of their drink. They were drinking a wine spritzer. The protagonist had never seen them drink a wine spritzers. "You are such a child."

"Child who gets paid." Wasn't it convenient to have an excuse not to look the antagonist in the eye? "You taught me that."

"You're still mad?" the antagonist said incredulously, as if this indicated something deeply wrong with the protagonist. "I'd thought you'd have figured out by now this -" they gestured to the two of them "- wasn't personal."

The protagonist abruptly lost count. The bills crunched in their hands as their fists clenched. Gravity itself lurched - just like it had that day last spring where the antagonist had announced it was done and abruptly gone from lover to ex.

"Wasn't personal?" the protagonist said, trying to match the chill in their former partner's voice. No, not chill. Something worse. Indifference. "It felt pretty personal when you straight up shattered my heart after two years together."

"It was 18 months," the antagonist muttered into their drink, looking exhausted.

"21 months," the protagonist countered. "And three weeks, four days. You..."

Their voice failed. How could they say it? You were the center of my world. I thought I was the center of yours.

"Well, that's the other reason we're here," the antagonist said, rubbing at the bridge of their nose. "You've been looking for me. Looking into me. Stop."

"Why? Am I embarrassing you in front of all your cool friends?"

"No." The antagonist crossed their arms. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Something about the utterly detached way they said it killed the protagonist's snark in their throat. The antagonist's gaze flicked across their face and they gave a small nod. "My clients don't like loose ends or complications. I've had to put out fires on you twice. Pass you off as some crazy ex."

"I am your crazy ex," the protagonist snapped back. "Crazy for thinking something was wrong, that you might be in trouble when your whole personality shifted overnight. And not in, like, a professional shift, like when you're working a mark-"

"No," the antagonist said with another sigh. "It was exactly in a professional way."

The protagonist blinked. "What the hell does that mean?"

The antagonist stretched their hands out, forearms on the sticky bar tabletop. The protagonist didnt even have time to think before their own hands dropped the cash, snaked their way into their lover's grasp. "Honey," the antagonist said, staring deep into the protagonist's eyes. "I'm trying to tell you that you were the mark."

The protagonist stared. "What?"

They tried to pull back. The antagonist's grip on their wrists tightened. Their face smoothed back into the protective, devoted partner. But the eyes, the eyes were so empty. "It wasn't personal because you were a job," the antagonist said in awful imitation of their past self. Their kind self. Their... fake self?

"No." The protagonist yanked harder. "No! Bullshit. You didn't take anything from me!"

"No? I took you. You for... what was it? 21 months, three weeks?" The antagonist's lips curved. They traced their thumbnail across the delicate skin of the protagonist's inner wrist. "You really are incredible at what you do. A one of a kind skill set."

"No!" They were loud enough a few heads turned. They were smart enough now to clock the heads that didn't. The waitress. The bruiser at the bar. The couple at the next booth over. "We were partners!"

"On jobs I picked, where you never met the other team members?" The antagonist let go. "I secured exclusive use of your services, and I kept you off the board from any other players. Then the job ended. I cut you loose. Now you know. Is that enough closure for you to let this go?"

They asked like it was so reasonable. The antagonist had always had a way of making anything sound reasonable, sensible, the inevitable course of action. The protagonist stared at their own hands still lying on the table and tried to think.

"Why are you telling me this?" they asked.

"I told you my clients don't like loose ends-"

"Neither do you." The protagonist leaned back themselves. "Why are you warning me?"

"God, [protagonist], I'm not a killer. I don't want you dead." The antagonist shifted, hand drifting down to their pocket. "Bad for business, leaving bodies in the wake."

"You did leave a body in your wake," the protagonist said quietly.

"No." The antagonist gathered up their sunglasses, their jacket. "I left a broken heart. People recover from those everyday. You will not recover from what my clients will do if they decide you're a threat."

They stood and - to the protagonist's shock - bent to brush a kiss against their hair. The protagonist flinched.

"For what it's worth," their former partner murmured, "I had fun. Hope you did too."

And once again, they were gone, leaving the protagonist to pick up the pieces and the bill.

[yourheartonfire]

The pass itself was quick: enter the bar, spot the contact, slide into the booth, exchange the flash drive for an envelope of cash under the table.

The fallout was longer though.

"Don't open it here," the antagonist said out of the corner of their mouth. So of course the protagonist immediately ripped it open and started thumbing through the stack of bills in their lap.

The antagonist sighed and took a sip of their drink. They were drinking a wine spritzer. The protagonist had never seen them drink a wine spritzers. "You are such a child."

"Child who gets paid." Wasn't it convenient to have an excuse not to look the antagonist in the eye? "You taught me that."

"You're still mad?" the antagonist said incredulously, as if this indicated something deeply wrong with the protagonist. "I'd thought you'd have figured out by now this -" they gestured to the two of them "- wasn't personal."

The protagonist abruptly lost count. The bills crunched in their hands as their fists clenched. Gravity itself lurched - just like it had that day last spring where the antagonist had announced it was done and abruptly gone from lover to ex.

"Wasn't personal?" the protagonist said, trying to match the chill in their former partner's voice. No, not chill. Something worse. Indifference. "It felt pretty personal when you straight up shattered my heart after two years together."

"It was 18 months," the antagonist muttered into their drink, looking exhausted.

"21 months," the protagonist countered. "And three weeks, four days. You..."

Their voice failed. How could they say it? You were the center of my world. I thought I was the center of yours.

"Well, that's the other reason we're here," the antagonist said, rubbing at the bridge of their nose. "You've been looking for me. Looking into me. Stop."

"Why? Am I embarrassing you in front of all your cool friends?"

"No." The antagonist crossed their arms. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Something about the utterly detached way they said it killed the protagonist's snark in their throat. The antagonist's gaze flicked across their face and they gave a small nod. "My clients don't like loose ends or complications. I've had to put out fires on you twice. Pass you off as some crazy ex."

"I am your crazy ex," the protagonist snapped back. "Crazy for thinking something was wrong, that you might be in trouble when your whole personality shifted overnight. And not in, like, a professional shift, like when you're working a mark-"

"No," the antagonist said with another sigh. "It was exactly in a professional way."

The protagonist blinked. "What the hell does that mean?"

The antagonist stretched their hands out, forearms on the sticky bar tabletop. The protagonist didnt even have time to think before their own hands dropped the cash, snaked their way into their lover's grasp. "Honey," the antagonist said, staring deep into the protagonist's eyes. "I'm trying to tell you that you were the mark."

The protagonist stared. "What?"

They tried to pull back. The antagonist's grip on their wrists tightened. Their face smoothed back into the protective, devoted partner. But the eyes, the eyes were so empty. "It wasn't personal because you were a job," the antagonist said in awful imitation of their past self. Their kind self. Their... fake self?

"No." The protagonist yanked harder. "No! Bullshit. You didn't take anything from me!"

"No? I took you. You for... what was it? 21 months, three weeks?" The antagonist's lips curved. They traced their thumbnail across the delicate skin of the protagonist's inner wrist. "You really are incredible at what you do. A one of a kind skill set."

"No!" They were loud enough a few heads turned. They were smart enough now to clock the heads that didn't. The waitress. The bruiser at the bar. The couple at the next booth over. "We were partners!"

"On jobs I picked, where you never met the other team members?" The antagonist let go. "I secured exclusive use of your services, and I kept you off the board from any other players. Then the job ended. I cut you loose. Now you know. Is that enough closure for you to let this go?"

They asked like it was so reasonable. The antagonist had always had a way of making anything sound reasonable, sensible, the inevitable course of action. The protagonist stared at their own hands still lying on the table and tried to think.

"Why are you telling me this?" they asked.

"I told you my clients don't like loose ends-"

"Neither do you." The protagonist leaned back themselves. "Why are you warning me?"

"God, [protagonist], I'm not a killer. I don't want you dead." The antagonist shifted, hand drifting down to their pocket. "Bad for business, leaving bodies in the wake."

"You did leave a body in your wake," the protagonist said quietly.

"No." The antagonist gathered up their sunglasses, their jacket. "I left a broken heart. People recover from those everyday. You will not recover from what my clients will do if they decide you're a threat."

They stood and - to the protagonist's shock - bent to brush a kiss against their hair. The protagonist flinched.

"For what it's worth," their former partner murmured, "I had fun. Hope you did too."

And once again, they were gone, leaving the protagonist to pick up the pieces and the bill.

[yourheartonfire]

@nuttynutcycle we did it! 👏

Prompt 180

“So, if you could kidnap me really publicly that would be great.”

“…why?”

“I kinda forgot about this research essay due tomorrow? And like, my prof knows I’m a hero- I even brought my laptop so I can write it in your cell. Is the wifi password still the same?”

[yourheartonfire]

The single most important piece of writing advice I would give to a lot of amateur writers is to write less beautifully - or at least to write beautifully less.

I rarely find a piece of writing I can't read because it's too simple, or too concise and to-the-point - not memorable, perhaps, but also not a headache on a page. On the other hand, I see loads of pieces which are effectively unreadable because they're far too rich to swallow, and badly in need of watering down a bit.

The absolute worst culprit is the dialogue tags. I'm a big fan of letting people write in their own style, but I would love it if a lot of writers could please cool it with letting me know every time a character blinks or licks their lips. I don't need to know that, especially if it happens every time they speak.

So many dialogue excerpts look like this:

"So this is how we talk?" he queried quietly, his eyebrows furrowed into knots. "Apparently," she replied with a puzzled grin, bouncing on the balls of her feet with restless energy. "Isn't that... exhausting?" he questioned, a lop-sided smile snaking its way across his lips. "The bouncing?" she asked shyly, her eyelids fluttering in shame. "No, of course not," he told her, his lean arms reached out to pull her closer. He buried his face into the mess of her hair, taking a deep breath of her perfume. "I just feel a little nauseated by all of these actions." "I don't know what you mean," she giggled, brushing the hair back out of her eyes as her cheeks flushed red. "Don't worry," he sighed, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling.

I'm assuming this is a convention that comes from somewhere, given its ubiquity - perhaps somewhere in the world of fanfiction, where there will be short, intimate pieces entirely focused on the ways in which characters interact with each other. But to me, in an original work, it's so exhausting that I can't make it down the rest of the page.

Dialogue tags may be the worst, or most obvious offenders, but the same principle extends pretty much everywhere else. Each line doesn't have to be some great quote you can hang on your wall, and it's hard to read a whole story written like that.

There's been some recent backlash on here against modern films where every line of dialogue is a quip, at the expense of building an authentic conversation, but that's how a lot of people start out writing - thinking that each sentence should be made as flowery as possible, when too many flowers in the same pot will crowd each other out.

You need to leave some gaps to let the sunlight in, and illuminate the beauty of the occasional flourish you do include. Think of it like vanilla extract, to make a reference that was topical when I started writing this post: you need to add a little for flavour, without which the writing will be too dull, but tip the bottle and I will actually be sick. Write beautifully less. Learn to embrace the prosaic.