Could you possibly do one where the villian finds out the hero is their best friend and freaks out because they could have hurt them? ThAnk yo:)
"No - don't."
Too late. The villain had whipped the mask off the hero's face. Then, the villain froze.
The hero stared at them, having expected some sort of triumph, or even unsatisfied anti-climactic gloating.
They didn't expect that. They didn't expect the villain's voice to sound quite so broken.
"How do you know me!?" the hero demanded, sharp with fear. They wished they could read the villain's face below their mask, entirely too aware of how every one of their own emotions was now exposed.
The villain reached out, and the hero flinched back. The villain paused again, fingers curling into a white-knuckled fist that seemed a terrible promise of violence, before dropping.
"How do you know me!?" The hero asked again, when the villain still said nothing, and seemed to only stare at them. Because if the villain knew who they were...that meant they could hurt the hero's friends. They could hurt Vic. Or...did that mean that the villain was someone who the hero knew? How could they have been so blind?
They wanted to pounce, to shake the villain until the truth rattled out of the villain's teeth. They couldn't. The restraints wouldn't let them.
But, that tone...
The hero's mind swirled, tornado-swept and ravaging through the possibilities.
The villain still wasn't saying anything. They weren't moving. It was eerie, and it made the hero miss the gloating, because at least if the villain was being a smug arrogant bastard than it would mean that something was awfully wrong.
"I didn't know," the villain said, almost pleading. "I didn't know it was you...if I'd known..." The villain's hand twitched, again, towards the hero's bloody lip before faltering and falling once more. "I hurt you. I could have killed you."
"I mean." The hero strove for normalcy, however raspy. "I'm not that easily killed."
The villain didn't seem to hear them. Their shoulders have slumped, with that same broken set as their voice had. It should have felt like some kind of winning and it didn't. It really, truly, didn't.
"Who are you?" the hero asked, in a softer tone, not sure they wanted to know the answer. Needing it, though, all the same.
"I'm going to untie you," the villain said. "Don't come back here. Not ever."
"I need to know who you are. How you know me. Your - your voice."
The villain knelt before them, undoing the knots with deft hands.
The hero didn't move, even though only a minute or so ago they would have taken every opportunity to attack, to run, to ensure that everything they had sought to protect didn't fall to ruin.
The villain must surely know that the hero wasn't going to stop? Wasn't going to let their plan continue?
"Go." The villain said. "Before I - before I change my mind. Before I - I don't want to hurt you."
The villain spoke as if they weren't sure they had a choice.
The hero rose unsteadily to their feet.
The villain didn't move. They stared at the floor where the hero had been, almost blindly.
The hero reached out, and the villain flinched back. The hero fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist, uncertain and explosive, unable to cup the enormity of what was going on into something understandable. They let their hand fall without finding a place on the villain's shoulder first.
"Please," the villain said. "Hale."
The hero ran.
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Based on this snippet by @the-modern-typewriter
I'm reasonably happy with how this came out lol but I haven't drawn a comic page in like. 3 months. soo yeah I completely forgot how to draw certain stuff lmao
Hope you like it tho!
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fuck i read your terrifying villain one, edge of my seat through the whole thing and right at the end my fuckign cat in the other room toppled over a pan and---- fuck. ive never felt so close to death in my life. and i was hit by a car once lmaoo
I see I am making great advances with my cat possession plan
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Could I request a snippet about a hero who keeps getting possessed by the villain, and asks their sidekick to handcuff them to the bedposts. But then, the villain arrives.
Thanks in advance :)
The possessions were getting more frequent and, according to the hero, more difficult to shake.
"I'm not agreeing to this because I'm worried," the sidekick said, twisting the handcuffs between their fingers. "I think you're fine. And it's all going to be fine."
"Duly noted." The hero tried for a smile, but it was a wan thing. Between that and the dark circles beneath their eyes, all of the cracks of the hero's usually untouchable were showing.
Nobody could beat them in a fight - the sidekick had seen that - but a threat already under their skin might be the one thing the hero was vulnerable to.
The sidekick swallowed, and they both hesitated, floundered, beneath the new territory they found themselves in.
"This is just," the sidekick added, "to put your mind at ease."
"Yeah." The hero's gaze slid away. "So long as it is my mind, right?"
The sidekick didn't know what to say to that.
"Sorry," the hero said. They shifted back, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, exhaling a breath. "Thank you, for doing this."
"Eh, you know. Perks of the job." The sidekick tried for a smile, and they were pretty sure there's had strained around the edges too. "Tying my incredibly hot boss to a bed. It's the worst thing ever."
The hero did laugh at that, which the sidekick felt an inordinate rush of pride at. At least, it seemed to diffuse some of the tension.
The sidekick inhaled a steadying gulp of air, because they weren't entirely lying about the incredibly hot part, and moved forwards.
The hero shuffled obligingly back to the headboard and spread their arms.
Mirrors surrounded the bed on every side, propped up against the walls, angled to catch the hero's deep brown eyes in their reflection.
"You need to make sure I can't escape." The hero's tone had turned more serious. "You won't win a fight against them in this - in my -" the hero stopped, and didn't finish.
"Yeah." That would be bad. The sidekick was ashamed to feel their fingers tremble a little, and they knew the hero felt it.
Worried! Who was worried? There was nothing remotely worrying about a villain taking residence in someone virtually indestructible. This was all peachy. So what if the times the hero spent possessed were getting both longer and closer together.
The sidekick cinched the hero's left and most dominant wrist first, securing it as tight as they could without risking nerve damage. Then they moved to the other side of the bed.
The hero seized hold of their arm.
The sidekick's breath stuttered. Their eyes met.
"Hurry." The hero's voice had gone hoarse. "I'm not going to be able to hold on much longer."
"You need to let go of me."
The hero looked down at their hand, as if surprised. Their fingers recoiled.
Okay, maybe the sidekick was worried. Just a little bit.
The sidekick continued as fast as they could, leaning over the hero to reach, willing their fingers not to fumble over the key. They should have practiced this more. How likely was it that the hero could break down a steel bed frame on pure strength? Their heart hammered.
"Whatever I say," the hero began - and stopped.
The sidekick pulled back, handcuffs locked, key tucked in their fist.
"I know," they said. "Whatever you say, don't untie you. Not even if-"
The hero's legs swung, locking around the sidekick's waist and yanking them onto the bed as if they weighed no more than a ragdoll. The sidekick yelped, only just managing to keep hold of the two keys, colliding hard into the hero's chest.
The sidekick's gaze snapped up to the hero's face - exactly the same as ever - before darting to the reflection of the mirror. In the mirror, their face was nearly the same, but not quite. The hero's brown eyes had turned a ghostly blue.
This was not their hero.
But the sidekick had already known that.
"I could crush you," the villain said, almost conversationally. Their legs tightened where they curled around the sidekick. "Snap your ribs, right here, right now. So I suggest-"
The sidekick hurled the keys across the room, as far away as possible, where the villain couldn't possibly get them so easily. One hit and splintered a mirror with a loud crack, the other hit the ground with a clatter.
The villain's expression darkened, just for a moment.
The sidekick struggled to push themselves up, to twist free, but only succeeded in somewhat straddling the hero's body. They'd seen the hero lift cars with their bare hands - of course escaping their form would no be so easy. The sidekick clenched their jaw and glared down at the villain.
"Let go of me."
"Let me go first."
"That's not going to happen."
"Ah, I see. You enjoy being top of them, don't you? Your admirable hero, who seems so above you in every way, always so in control. Don't you just imagine making all those walls crumble?-"
"Shut up." The sidekick's cheeks flushed.
"Or maybe you always pictured it the other way around." The villain's head tilted, their fingers flexing in the cuffs with barely leashed danger. "Maybe you imagined they would use all that power of there's to simply take what they want from you, hm?"
"This is desperate." The sidekick tried to jerk free again, uselessly. "And pathetic. So-"
"They don't feel the same way about you, alas."
The sidekick stopped, even when they didn't want to, even whey they shouldn't. Nothing the villain spoke of could be reliably claimed as the truth.
"They didn't even want to ask you for help today - they hated it," the villain said. "You're their little ward, their sidekick. You need to be protected, don't you? But I'm meeting you now, aren't I? Despite their very best useless efforts to keep me out. I can feel them fighting, you know, begging me not to hurt you. But they can't do anything about it."
The sidekick said nothing.
"How does it feel to know that they will never take you seriously? Never view you as an equal? Never even consider you as a contender for their heart?"
"It feels like you're talking," the sidekick bared their teeth, "because you know there's nothing else you can do. They've beaten you. Even in their body, you will always be a parasite, powerless except for what other people can give you."
The villain went silent again.
"I'd want you," the villain said. "You're as vicious as I am, when you want to be."
The sidekick wanted to cry at that comparison, hating the thought they were more like their enemy than their mentor, especially because some small part of them had always feared that it was true. Kindness seemed to come effortlessly to the hero, just like bravery, like all those virtues that the sidekick had to work so hard to emulate.
Of course, the hero would never return their feelings. The villain was blind if they ever thought the sidekick had expected that, however much the longing ached.
"Let. Go," the sidekick said, hating that their voice shook. "You're not going to get what you want from me. You can see their thoughts? Then you know that. I have my orders."
The villain's head tilted, considering them again.
"It's nice," the villain said. "To finally meet you."
And then they used the hero's strength to wrench the bed frame in two.
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do you have a personal blog? I’d love to see more of you as a person besides your writing :)
@the-modern-typewriter-aesthetic is my closest thing to a personal blog. It's where I reblog things that I like and/or which inspire me/whatever I fancy that isn't my actual writing.
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concept: hero in the villain’s limo, forced to drink a drugged drink because they’re going to the villains lair.
The hero had never been in a limo before.
The villain's limo was all sleek black seats and tasteful decor, along with what looked like a literal bar lining one wall.
The hero would have grabbed a glass, or several, and started hurling them at the villain's head if they could. Regrettably it was difficult for the hero to even pick up one of the glasses, let alone weaponise them with any accuracy, with their hands secured firmly behind their back. They couldn't even get up off their seat. They twisted their hands behind their back, searching for a way out.
The villain moved over to the bar instead, humming quietly to themselves as they grabbed two martini glasses.
"Such hospitality." The hero's mouth felt dry with fear, with the need to distract. "What next, are you going to ask me if I want it shaken or stirred?"
"Mm. Would you prefer your brains shaken or stirred? I can accommodate, if you really have a preference. I'm not a monster."
The hero swallowed. Their heart lurched uneasily. Was that supposed to be a joke? A threat? The silence stretched between them.
"I love cocktails," the villain said instead then, as they began mixing ingredients with a startling and showy expertise. "So many different names and variations! It reminds me of being back in the lab, you know? This one." They held up one of the glasses. "Is called a Rattlesnake. It's whiskey, lemon juice, absinthe, simple syrup, a dash of angostura bitters and an egg white."
"Apparently, or so the myth goes, it will either cure a rattlesnake bite, kill rattlesnakes, or make you see them. Delightful!”
"Me being the snake in this scenario, I presume," the hero said.
The cuffs refused to give. They bit at the hero's wrists, so who was really the snake out the two of them?
"You are quite venomous." The villain took an appreciative sip, before offering the glass in the hero's direction. "Want to try?"
The hero kept their mouth decidedly shut.
The villain smiled, and set the glass back down on the side.
"The rattlesnake is not for you though, no. That one's mine. Your venom is one of a sweeter variety, is it not? Much like your taste in drinks." They turned back to the bar, once again moving swiftly as they talked. "This one's yours. It's called Apple Pie. Vodka, apple schnapps and cinnamon liquor. Wholesome and lethal, just like you."
The hero eyed them, warily. They'd hoped, when the villain coerced them into the car, that they'd at least be able to escape with valuable information and their full faculties once they learned where the villain's lair was.
The villain sat back down beside them with an irritating grace, and held the cocktail glass towards the hero between slender fingers, tipping it slightly in toast.
The hero wondered if they could spill it over the villain's lap. Probably. It would buy time for their team. All they needed to do was lurch forward and -
"Be a sweetheart and drink it," the villain said. "Or I'm going to have to turn this car around and go back for those friends you can't stop thinking about. I don't think either of us want that, do you?"
The hero's stomach dropped. Their gaze darted between the drink and the villain. They swallowed again, and did their best to speak lightly. "Just vodka, apple schnapps and cinnamon? You haven't poisoned it?"
"No," the villain said. "I have no desire to poison such a special guest as you." They flashed the hero another smile. "It's merely drugged."
Right. Right, right, right. The hero released a steadying breath.
"You don't have to drug me, I'm cooperating. I got in the car, didn't I?"
The villain reached for the intercom to talk to the driver.
"I'm cooperating!" The hero leaned in, stomach twisting, to take a sip.
The drink was heady, sweet, delicious and...just slightly wrong. Like some haunted version of home.
"You got in the car for your friends, not because I asked you to. But don't worry. We'll work on that." The villain's hand returned from the intercom, cupping the hero's jaw tenderly, holding them steady. "All of it, now."
The hero drained the glass under the villain's watchful stare.
The villain patted the hero's cheek once they were done, and put the empty glass back on the side. They plucked up their rattlesnake, and took a sip, settling once more with a contented sigh.
"Are you sure you don't want to taste?" the villain asked. "It really is an experience. Vicious. It might knock you out if you'd like some mercy. Last chance!"
"You're already knocking me out." The hero's tongue felt thick already. How quickly did drugs usually take root? Their vision swam. "That's what drugs normally do."
The villain laughed. The sound echoed like it was coming from underwater. "Would I have caught you..." They pulled the hero down, so their head rested on the villain's lap as the world swayed. "If anything about me was normal?"
The hero's vision tunnelled further, until everything went black. They were not...unconscious, though, at least they didn't think so. They couldn't see. They couldn't...the sound of the car engine, smooth and close to silent as it had been, had vanished too. They could hear the villain's breathing, the occasional sip of their drink, but nothing more.
"Wha..." It wouldn't come out right. Nothing in their body wanted to cooperate with them. They felt the villain's hands in their hair but couldn't so much as twitch away.
They couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't feel the comfortable seat beneath their body or the aircon brushing over their skin. There was only the villain.
"Now," the villain murmured. "Do I at last have your full attention?"
It was a long drive.
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you really have a way with words. what works have you read that you feel have most benefited your writing ability? sorry if you've been asked this already. :) btw im presently setting up an altar to you bc u are the one true god of prose
I'm always happy to be worshipped ;)
I don't have any particular text. I have stories where I have loved the writing though, and which inspire me. Recently:
A spindle splintered, by Alix E Harrow
Plain bad heroines, by Emily M Danforth
Things we say in the dark, Kirsty Logan
In terms of writing technique, On Writing by Stephen King. I also read masterclass articles when I want advice. Most of it, though, I just muddle through and follow the things I love. I write what I want to read and what I care about.
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I invite the monster
Coax it close, like a small wild animal
To be tamed with crumbs and bits of gingerbread
Morsels from my hand
Morse code in every bite
Be mine, be mine, be mine
But gingerbread has always led lost things home
And if you were tamed, it was only because
You lost your vicious heart a while
How could I truly expect crumbs to hold your appetite?
When with each mouthful
That's what living things do.
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Could you write a snippet of a villain so horrifying that the hero is scared of them 👹
"Did you think I wouldn't catch up with you eventually?" the villain asked. "That you could fight me, and get away with it?"
"No." The hero wanted to quip something funny and scathing, but their brain buzzed and it was all that they could do to keep their voice even remotely close to steady.
The villain's head tipped to one side, examining them. They were sat on the hero's favourite armchair, in their apartment, seeming perfectly relaxed. Their gloved hands rested lazily against the upholstery. One was black, and one was red. It should have been comic. Garish.
The hero considered turning, considered running as fast as they could back out and into the street and never stopping again.
They knew they wouldn't even make the front door.
"No," the villain echoed. "And yet, you fight. I always find that interesting in your type. I don't think I've ever really fought for anything in my life." They looked a little wistful, like they were curious what that desperation, that struggle, might be like.
The hero swallowed, but it didn't make the terrible dryness in their throat go away. They resisted the urge to wipe their clammy palms on their jeans.
"It felt like the right thing to do, at the time." The words came out raspy. The hero had half feared they wouldn't come out at all. "Willing to die for the cause, and all...that."
"Sit down," the villain said, and gestured at the hero's sofa with the red hand. "You look a little unsteady on your feet."
The hero perched on the edge of the furthest cushion; keeping their gaze fixed on the villain, for all the good that would do them.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" the villain asked.
"I've heard stories."
People who met the villain always came home wrong, if they came home at all. They came home like weapons for the other side. For as long as the hero had known, at least half of the resistance's resources had been in making sure that the villain didn't find them.
"You can beg, if you like. Some people find it cathartic. It gives them a sense of agency, of control, like there's something they can do to save themselves."
The hero felt dizzy, like the whole world was tunnelling.
The villain's head tilted the other way with that same quiet assessment. There was something odd about their movements, that the hero couldn't quite put their finger on. Maybe it was too fluid, too smooth, or maybe too slow. Something.
The hero swallowed again, and tried for a smile, painfully aware of how strained it was. "Is there something I can do to save myself?"
"No." The villain offered them a smile back, then. Tender. Like the smile was something they'd practiced, watching other people show compassion. It didn't look right on their face.
"Right." Maybe the hero could throw themselves out of the window. At least, then, whatever came next would be quick.
"You won't die while I'm here," the villain said. They started to pull the black glove off their hand. "You'll just break your spine and not be able to move while I work on you. But, as I said, you can try if you like. If it makes you feel like you're still fighting, in your own little way. I would never deprive you that."
"Kind of you."
"It's no trouble to me."
"Is it true that you once survived having your head cut off?"
The villain set the abandoned glove down on the arm of the chair, before spreading their hands in a go ahead and find out gesture. The revealed skin was so terribly normal looking, for all that it could do.
It could have been a bluff. The hero didn't think it was a bluff. They'd seen a grainy piece of footage once, one of the few the resistance had ever managed to get of the villain. The hero stood, raising a shaking hand in the villain's direction. The villain watched them, still curious, and utterly unafraid.
"Did it hurt?" the hero asked.
"Not as much as what will happen to you. Are you going to fight or not?"
"Does it make a difference to you?"
"Not with you," the villain said. "I cleared out my evening, so I don't have anything else I need to get to tonight. I figured after five years you deserved the courtesy. I quite liked you, you know. For what that's worth."
The hero choked on a laugh, at that. Mirthless. Airless. They wanted to scream, or punch, or cry. Do something anything.
"You like me," they said. "You're going to empty me. There's not going to be any me left in my body. I'd hate to see what you do to somebody you love."
"Maybe one day. Maybe not." The villain shrugged. "It depends how annoying a voice you are in my head - I leave the annoying ones alone in the dark. But you'll be good for me, won't you?"
The hero's heart lurched.
"You will be conscious," the villain said, gently, like they were surprised the hero didn't know. "There is no oblivion waiting for you, no end. Why do you think everyone says I never really let anyone go?"
The hero fought, then.
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Can we please get a sequel to this? This is so well-written and ahh so so satisfying to read.
(Though if you don't want to, no pressure. I love you writings.)
I've continued this one on my patreon ($1 tier).
On Tumblr - Part 1
On Patreon - Part 2
On Patreon - Part 3
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If you listen to Taylor Swift, maybe do a snippet based on a song from Red TV in honor of its release?
(I love her music, and didn't realise she'd re-released until I got this ask and looked it up. So I can definitely do you a snippet for bringing it to my attention, thanks! 10 minute All Too Well :O)
Loving him was red.
In the hours, days, weeks since the break up she had done her best to catalogue the exact shade - tomato for her blush as he leaned in to whisper in her ear, soft dusky red for the lazy mornings with the sunset shining in across the bed sheets, bloody arterial red for the end like something vital had been excised and slashed away.
Loving him was red, and, right then, the red was scarlet. Furious, vivid red, most famous for clouding even the clearest of vision. Her fist clenched on the edge of the doorframe to hold herself steady. Her heartbeat pounded in her head, like it was ready to rise out of her chest, and spill right out of her and into his waiting hand. She'd cough him up like the drowned heaved up lungfuls of water.
Her lips - Bad Blood Red, courtesy of Urban Decay - moved around his name but no sound came out.
"I think we should get back together," he said, and thrust a bouquet of roses (red, red, red) through her open door. "We were meant to be together. You know it. You always knew it." He tilted his head, and smiled, self-deprecative but still handsome. "Sorry it took me so long to catch up."
Loving him was burning red, and the fire had razed through her life, and she'd only just finished getting the ash and char of him from under her fingernails. She was doing the impossible. She was moving on.
She took the roses on automatic.
"Can I come in?" he asked. "Or maybe we can go on a drive, and talk?"
Even as he asked, he was already sweeping in, past her, examining her life without him with interest.
"I'm seeing someone," she said.
"Yeah." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "But they're not me. They're not us."
No. No, they weren't.
Loving her was green. Fragile lush new growth, requiring tender and careful care, but with the promise of not only bloom and beauty but sustenance too. There was no thorns. There was no dead end. There was no speed, exhilarating and terrifying, to make her feel breathlessly alive. There was patience.
She swallowed and shut the door, following him further into her flat.
It had been seven months, and nineteen days, and she was only glad that she could not specify the hours. Knowing the days was bad enough.
"This isn't fair," she said.
"If you don't want me anymore, just say so."
Their eyes met.
The problem had never been not wanting him. Only in wanting him too much, always, through all of the different shades.
"Just once," he said, oh so softly. "Like you mean it. Tell me to go."
She said nothing. Her mouth felt dry. She didn't think he could take up more space in person than he did in her memories, but there it was. There were so many details she had forgotten. His voice, his cologne, the exact way his lip curled when he thought he'd won (and he always won, didn't he?) and how good that stupid expression looked on him. He suited winning.
He took a step closer. "You missed me," he said.
"I missed you." He took the roses from her slack hand, setting them down on the table without a vase to hold them, and took hold of her fingers in all of his. He drew her closer, and it was like vertigo. She could feel the free-fall so close. Maybe all it would take was a kiss, if she let it. His kisses were carmine. His kisses were bittersweet. "I didn't realise how good I had it, did I?"
He swallowed, his gaze flickering over her lips. His hand rose to cup her cheek, and the touch still made her shiver, an addict reminded of withdrawal.
"Losing you was the biggest mistake I ever made," he said.
"You didn't lose me." She let herself enjoy the warmth and familiarity of him for just a moment, like a waiting hearth on a winter night. "You never lost me."
"You gave me up," she said. "You tossed me away. 'Losing' implies it was accidental, and you knew what you were doing. It took me a long time to figure that out."
His smile faltered.
She squeezed his hand and then dropped them, stepping back, and the red was fire-engine red, ready to put all of the flames out for good.
"Thank you for the flowers." She squared her shoulders. "I think you should go now."
Loving him was red, and she was done with the carnage.
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If you’re interested? Could you write something along the lines of a hero in captivity by the villain and trying to end their life so that the villain can’t use them ( read their mind or use as hostage or something)
I love your work ! ❤️
"Now," the villain said to the vampire. "I thought that little circle of light would keep you nicely put - I never imagined you would be so quick to throw away your immortality!"
"Better then you having it."
"And I thought you hero types were supposed to be generous."
The blisters and burns on the vampire's skin were already beginning to heal away from the sun. The villain watched the process with an unmistakeable hunger.
"But I suppose," the villain continued, "that you're not like the other little heroes, are you? You're a monster."
The vampire didn't flinch at the word, nor the accusation. It had its truth. Super speed. Super strength. Healing. The vampire had many of the abilities often attributed to super heroes, and so they had figured why not. It had felt good to help people considering what they were; atonement, if not redemption. Some balancing of the scales, of what they were, of what they took to survive.
They scoured the villain's posture for any sign of an opening, any advantage they could press. The villain was no creature of the night, and yet somehow they were able to match both that speed and strength like they were not human either and had never once been prey.
There was sunshine behind them, in the courtyard garden, but the vampire had to get past them first.
"You're selfish, the villain said, with a sigh. "Unwilling to share your gifts with the world. Maybe you like having their life in your hands alone, is that it? I can understand that."
"I'm not like you."
"No, I'm better."
"Well, then you don't need me, do you?"
The vampire lunged forward, and the villain moved too - barrelling into them with that impossible speed, knocking them back once more.
The villain laughed, all sharp grin and those gleaming hungry eyes as they looked the vampire up and down. "No. But I do want you very much, and that's much more important."
The vampire's jaw clenched.
"It's no matter, anyway," the villain murmured, almost to themselves. "I can work around this. I'm sure you look lovely wrapped up in chains too. Perhaps that is more fitting for a thing like you."
"I'm not a thing."
"I'm sure, if they knew what you were, that your precious public would disagree."
The blood lust hazed behind the vampire's gaze, but they forced it down.
The villain laughed again, looking at the violent curl of the vampire's fists, at all the parts of them that weren't as golden as the stereotype. They looked at the hero like they were a thing, a precious thing, but an object or specimen to be collected and carefully preserved nonetheless.
The vampire felt the first shiver of fear down their spine, absent for a long time for themselves.
The villain took a step closer again, and the vampire circled, keeping them out of their range.
There was no light, no fire, no way out anymore.
"I'm going to enjoy this," the villain said. "Thank you."
And then they pounced.
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I absolutely love your writing!! I'm wondering if u could do a masochist hero being hurt/interrogated/tortured by a (possessive and/or obsessive) villain that at some point realizes the hero is into it?
"My, my." The villain's hand caressed the hero's throat from behind, tone abruptly reverent. "You're enjoying this."
The hero shook their head, closing your eyes, but didn't trust themselves to speak.
"Oh, please," the villain continued. "I know it took me a little, but I know a masochist when I see one." They squeezed - enough to restrict air, but not enough to do any real damage.
The hero's breath hitched. They bit down hard on their lip, but it didn't stop a small sound from escaping.
"I know all your favourites," the villain whispered against their ear. "And I'd say if you weren't enjoying this that you could just tell me what I want to know, but we both know it's not that simple, is it?" Their other hand snaked around, pressing over the hero's racing heart. "Every inch of you is screaming it so sweetly."
"No." It came out breathless.
The villain let go, and the hero's gasped at the sudden and complete withdrawal.
"Alright." The villain circled in front of them again, hands tucking neatly into their pockets. "I'll stop then."
"You never stop."
"I will if you want me to."
"Liar. You're too much of an obsessive."
"Guilty." The villain shrugged, a small smile curling their lips. "But at least I can admit I am. Maybe my new obsession is getting you to admit your own truths. Do you still think I wouldn't deprive you, then?"
The hero studied the villain's face, feeling rather like a fish squirming on a hook. Because, well. They maybe didn't want the villain to stop, actually. Even if they very much should want that, given the whole point of being a hero in the first place. It wasn't something to think about it. The hero would have been fine never thinking about it too closely.
"If you're hurting me," the hero said, "you're not hurting anyone else. I can take it."
"I'm sure," the villain purred. "That was never the question."
The hero's face flushed.
The villain reached out a hand again, after a moment, and with the same infuriating gentleness wiped the blood from the hero's lip.
The hero flinched from that more than they'd flinched from any rough touch or word.
"Liar," the villain crooned, and clicked the button to release the hero's restraints.
The hero dropped, landing heavily on their knees before the villain. They glanced up, to see the villain had their hands in their pockets once more, the picture of devastating confidence.
It was not a question.
The villain did not doubt.
"Come back," the villain said. "When you're willing to ask nicely for what you need."
"You're a bastard."
The villain laughed, watching the hero struggle to their feet.
"And you're mine. See you soon."
It was only as the hero stormed away, fled, that they realised they'd never denied those last statements.
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hii!! if u dont mind, could u write something about a civilian (who works as a reporter) discovering that their husband is the villain they've been reporting on? and like, the villain knows that they know :o
also!! i love ur writing,, ur so talented and reading and rereading ur works is always the highlight of my day <3 have an awesome day/night!!❤️❤️
When it hit them, when it finally hit them, they were laying in the bath. The reporter sort of wished it had occurred when they were in the office, or anywhere other than in water with a super-villain who's ability was controlling water.
They couldn't have said why, exactly, the pieces of their recent investigation clicked together then. Maybe it was because they'd spent all day looking at photos of their husband, examining his gait and voice and words, and now he was there in his element. There had been something familiar, something nagging, about the villain from the start.
All notions of bubble bath and relaxation vanished in an instant.
The bath was huge, closer to a jacuzzi in size, and far more than they would be able to afford on their meagre salary alone. Their husband had always enjoyed spoiling them though. Even with their head above water, it all suddenly felt a little like drowning.
Their husband's head tilted, observing them with lazy half-closed eyes. Peaceful. So maybe -
"I was wondering when you would figure it out," their husband said. "You've been close for a while now."
The reporter swallowed.
The villain's expression didn't change; man and monster, husband and stranger, double-exposed on top of each other until it was dizzyingly impossible to unpick the unreconcilable layers apart.
The villain traced his fingers over the surface of the water, idly, still perfectly relaxed.
"You seem very sure I won't tell anyone," the reporter managed. "Life married to a super villain. I could write a book."
Their husband raised a brow. "If you reveal who I am, the story is no longer exclusive to you. Everyone else will jump on the bandwagon. You'd be better off saving the tell-all memoir for when we're retired."
This was not the conversation they had expected to have. Should they try to run? To fight? Both seemed more reasonable than continuing to lounge in a bubble bath, encased on every side by a power that could drag them down and never let them find air again. Such a tragic accident.
The other part of their brain insisted their husband would never do that, as if husbands as a general species were incapable of violent crime. Even outside of supervillainy, the statistics made it clear that wasn't true.
But that wasn't their husband. The man they loved. The villain they had been obsessed for years, even before the two of them first met.
"You let me close," the reporter said. "Even though you knew I'd figure it out."
"Of course," came the reply. "You're the only person I've ever met who is as hungry as I am."
A shiver ran down their spine.
The reporter wanted to say that it wasn't the same, that they weren't the same. Reporting was about finding a truth. The villain was about - well. Truth. Vicious, unforgiving, truth paid for in blood if necessary.
They were the same.
It was just that the reporter had chosen words instead of action.
Their husband smiled at them, gently, and re-heated the water that had began to grow cool. It swirled around the reporter, caressed their skin just like their lover's hand might.
"No one would believe you didn't know all along, anyway. You know that, right?"
The reporter swallowed again, watching as a tendril of water rose - impossible - and tapped them almost playfully on the nose. Incredible. Powerful. They had married something that would change the world. Was it possible that part of them had always known?
Their husband closed their eyes and sighed, softly. "Until death do us part, remember?"
"Until death do us part."
They needed to go over the facts again.
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Hi! Omg I love your writing! You don't really have to do this, but I wish you could continue your short story, Half Sick Of Shadows about the Fae and human? The cliffhanger is killing me (though it ended pretty well)! Thanks :)
That story actually feels complete to me, in terms of structure and what the main point of it is, so I'm not going to continue it as I don't feel it needs a continuation.
I'm glad you enjoyed it though so I thought I'd let you know the outcome to your request! :)
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Hello! I've only started following your blog recently but I love your writing! Can I request a snippet with an easily flustered reporter who gets in over their head trying to get information out of secretive and confident villain?
"You really want some words?" the villain asked, raising a brow. They examined the reporter - eager and terrified all at once, clutching their notepad and pen to their chest like it was either weapon or shield to save them.
The reporter nodded vigorously. Their eyes had gone all wide.
"Hmm." The villain took a step closer, their cape swirling around them like the cling of shadows. Their feet made no sound. They placed one hand on the wall by the reporter's head, preventing it from crumbling and falling on the adorable little creature, who squeaked. The villain suspected it more from the perceived danger of their proximity than any awareness of getting crushed by debris after scurrying into the aftermath of a battlefield.
"Over your head," the villain suggested. "In the deep end." They leaned in, and oh so gently let their teeth graze the reporter's throat. "Bitten off more than you can chew."
So close, they could hear how ragged the reporter's breath had become, feel the tremor in their limbs. To the reporter's credit, they didn't pull away. The villain felt them make an effort to square their shoulders.
"Stop following me," the villain whispered, against the reporter's ear. "I mean it."
"I just thought," the reporter tried again, "that you might like someone to listen to and tell your side of the story."
"My work stands for itself."
"Judging by the state of the building, I hope you don't mean literally."
The villain snorted before they could stop themselves, and pulled back.
The crack in the wall behind the reporter's head had sealed over good as new by the time they took their palm away.
The reporter glanced at it, and back at them.
"Next time," the villain said, "I'm letting you get crushed. You shouldn't be here."
"You didn't have to save me this time."
"I didn't do it for you." The villain turned away. "Go home."
The reporter scurried after them.
"What did you do it for?"
The villain said nothing.
"You control stone," the reporter said. "What's your origin story?"
"I let my heart turn to stone and since then my powers continue to spread."
The villain gave the reporter a look over their shoulder.
The reporter blushed. "Not that I thought - obviously I don't think you're heartless, or anything. I mean - I know you're a villain - but I also know there's a deeper story there. One that I think the people would be really interested to hear!" They flipped to a new page in their pad, and peered at the villain.
"I'm not your scoop, kid."
"I'm not a kid."
"This is harassment."
"I prefer 'plucky grit and determination'. Maybe we can help each other."
The villain whipped to face the reporter, who collided into them and promptly squeaked again.
"I can get information," the reporter offered. "I have sources."
"Ask your sources what I do to people who annoy me."
"If I was really annoying you, you'd kill me."
"Is that what you want?"
"Then why are you still be annoying?"
"I think you like that I'm not scared off by you."
The villain snorted again. "Oh, please. You're terrified. I can practically hear your little heart racing, and see your dilated pupils. You start shivering whenever I get close to you. You-" The villain stopped.
Fear was not the only thing that caused that reaction, it just hadn't occurred-
The reporter blushed, clearing their throat.
"Oh," the villain said. They eyed the reporter for a long moment, taking a renewed stock of the last few weeks. "You are definitely in way over your head, sweetheart."
"Way over. Head over heels. It's a problem."
"I'm still not giving you my secrets."
"It doesn't have to be secrets - just whatever you feel like sharing, whatever you want to say. I can be your link to the media, if you let me. Please."
"Is that a yes?"
The villain turned and walked off again.
"I'm taking that as a yes!"
The reporter followed.
"So did you design your own cape, or-?"
The babble was strangely soothing.
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Can you write a snippet about someone with the power to manipulate memories and their lover knows that their memories have been manipulated, so they decide to confront the other about it? I'm sorry if this is confusing lol
“I know what you’ve done.”
It was the one thing that their lover had promised never to do to them, and it tasted like ash in their mouth.
Their lover paused by the front door, sighing, before letting their work bag ease to the floor. “What have I done?”
“You’re really going to pretend not to know!?”
“It seems easier to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“What, because you’ve screwed with my memories so many times that you’re not even sure which time I’m talking about?” Their stomach lurched. “Perhaps we’ve had this conversation already, and you wiped that away too. Prick.”
Their lover watched them quietly, rubbing a tired hand through their hair, and headed into the kitchen. They made up two stiff drinks in a hurt silence. “Yes,” they admitted. “I shifted your memories. You asked me to.”
“I asked you to?” It brought them up short. Was it a lie? Surely it was a lie? Why would they ask that? And yet, before, they never would have thought their lover capable of toying with them so. Their fingers curled around the stem of the glass until they half thought they’d snap it. “Why?”
“My telling you would defeat the purpose of you asking.”
“I want to know.”
“Yeah, you always do. I told you that.”
“Are you going to delete this conversation?”
“I do wonder,” their lover snapped, “why you’re still here with me when you clearly hold me in such high regard. Certainly makes it bloody clear.”
They bit down hard on their lip, thoughts in turmoil. They took several large swigs of their drink. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of their stomach. “What happened?” they asked, softer.
Their lover deflated and downed the drink, mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about them seemed to crumple and they just looked so very tired.
The unease turned to fear, spiking.
They set their drink down, hand shaking a little, and rounded the kitchen island to touch their lover’s arm.
Their lover curled an arm around them and drew them close, holding them tight, face pressing against their hair.
The memories came flooding back.
The silence stretched, awful and unbearable, and their mind flinched.
“Make me forget,” they whispered.
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