the-modern-typewriter

[the-modern-typewriter]

villian x asistant if ur takinf request?

“Apparently.” The villain’s voice floated across the room towards them. “Someone broke Johnson’s face.” 

The assistant paused, bloodied knuckles still under the warm running water of the tap. Their gaze snapped up to see the villain in the mirror’s reflection, leaning against the bathroom door with a deceptive casualness, attention fixed on them. The assistant looked down again. 

“Broke? It’s probably an improvement.” They kept their own voice light too.

“I needed him for that trade. You knew that.”

The assistant bit the inside of their cheek and focused on getting the blood off, before turning off the tap and reaching for a towel. 

The villain caught hold of their wrist. Tightly. The assistant hadn’t even heard the villain move. 

The assistant drew in a breath, but didn’t fight the grip.  “I’m sorry,” they said, then. “It won’t happen again.”

“Why did it happen this time?”

“I fucked up.”

“You don’t do that.”

“Everyone does that.”

The villain clicked their tongue, a familiar warning shot, and the assistant sighed. Heat rose to their cheeks. They mumbled something. 

“Didn’t catch that, dear,” the villain said. 

“They said you were going soft,” the assistant snapped. “Losing your edge. That you only hired me because you thought I’d look pretty in your bed.”

“You do look pretty in my bed.”

The assistant glared.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” the villain said, after a moment. “And I certainly don’t care what that little weasel thinks of me. Johnson is unimportant in all of the grander machinations of the world. History will not bother to even footnote him.” The villain tugged the assistant’s wrist, and the assistant turned with a reluctant obedience to face their lover. “Let’s not pretend this is about my pride, hm?”

The assistant’s eyes flashed.  “I already said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“It better not.” The villain’s grip tightened hard enough to hurt, before releasing. “He may think me soft, but you should know better.”

“I do! I just -” The assistant stopped. Well, okay, yeah. The words had hit a sore point and they’d lost it. It wasn’t like they’d stopped to think before decking Johnson’s nose, seeing as the bastard couldn’t seem to keep it out of other people’s business. Their shoulders slumped. “The job comes first, and I jeopardised the job. I know that. You trusted me to handle him and I let you down.”

The villain hummed in acknowledgement. When they spoke, next, their voice was softer.  

“I hired you,” the villain said, “because you are exquisite. You’re a brilliant strategist and an excellent shot. You should have nothing to prove to the likes of  rats like Johnson, which makes me wonder if you get this kind of commentary a lot.”

The assistant shrugged.

The villain narrowed their eyes. “Why did you never tell me?”

“I can fight my own battles,” the assistant said. “I don’t need you to do it for me. It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.”

“Look, I already said that I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.” 

“And I’ve accepted that as your employer. That is not why we are still talking.”

The assistant paused again as they registered that, looking up at the villain again. The villain took their hand, entwining their fingers, and squeezed.

“I’m okay,” the assistant replied to the silent question, a little softer. “Really. He was just being so - ugh.”

“His face does look better now.”

The assistant snorted, and squeezed the villain’s hand back. The villain tugged them close to press a kiss to their forehead. 

“Tell me next time,” the villain said. “I won’t stop at a broken nose if they hurt you, and it seems they need some reminder of that. Now.” They flashed the assistant a smile. “Let’s finish this so you can look pretty in my bed.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“It’s why you love me.” 

God help them, but the assistant did. 

Together, whatever else, they were unstoppable. 

#throwback thursday

[the-modern-typewriter]

Ooh! Good job on the outfits :)

The hero was trying to remember when, exactly, they'd agreed to be auctioned off. 'Have a date with a hero! Raise money for charity!' It sounded great in reality, if a little creepy, until suddenly the villain was the one going for the winning bid.

The hero stood at the front of the room, resisting the urge to shift from foot to foot, watching as, one by one, the villain’s competitors began to falter. The auctioneer was excited, of course. They’d raised even more cash than expected.

They had no idea. No one in the room had any idea. Few people had ever seen Scorchlight without their mask on – the hero just so happened to be one of them.

Was it too late to say something? It felt like way too late to say something. Saying something would involve interrupting the sprint of the auction, the loud back and forth of ‘and do I hear £10,000?’.

The auction by @the-modern-typewriter

It took so long to design the outfits of these assholes so thus i’ll rant why i made some of these decisions

The hero: i like to think they’re practical than anything, they started with a typical spandex superhero suit then had to adapt with the villains.

So! Full rubber suit to protect em from electricity and radiation (rubber gloves and boots included) then scorchlight came along n they had to thrift a turnout jacket to atleast put their focus on defeating him than protecting themselves from it.

Scorchlight: imma be honest i just wanted him to look edgy. He’s also practical like the hero. Helmet to protect his face and chainmail around his clothes cuz i want that glowy orange effect during the fights(also good for when your enemies try to touch u n get burned on scorching silver instead👍)

Storm warning: drama drama drama. I want the stereotypical over the top costume. Instead of a normal cape i wanted to be a lil ripped so during the fight it floats all dramatically. Also a good metaphor for a storm cuz yknow.. they’re messy usually-

I was gonna make one for radiation man but i got tired by the end of this so here u go<3

#other people's awesome art

[the-modern-typewriter]

ive been obsessed with your work and i honestly just can't get enough of them! Could i make a request please please please! Supervillain captures hero and tortures them for months until they suddenly get bored of them and ask villain to get rid of them. Villain doesn't know that it's hero he was ordered to kill by supervillain and when he enters the cell where hero was he becomes shocked by what he sees and can't get himself to kill hero. Please continue this however you like im so excited!!

The villain stopped in the doorway of the cell.

It would be wrong to say he stopped dead, given being dead was supposed to be a relatively peaceful thing after the horror of it all.

(The hero, surely, wished that they were dead.)

The villain's mouth worked, but no sound would come out at first. He felt like he'd been punched in the windpipe. In the stomach. In all the vulnerable, gasping places.

(The hero, surely, would find that laughable given the state of them. They would love to only have the air knocked out of them.)

They lay in a broken heap in one corner of the otherwise pristine cell - no chance of infection or disease ending their suffering early, oh no. They were a blot of colour against the white of it all. Bruises yellow and purple and green. Blood red. The glint of bone where no bone should be visible.

Perfectly clean, glossy hair. Intricate, shiny restraints untouched by the violence around them. No clothes.

"Have you come to kill me?" the hero asked.

Their voice was raw, raspy, whether from disuse or screaming he couldn't be sure. It was impossible to miss the most tentative note of hope in the hero's tone.

The villain swallowed. Hard. "Yes," he said. Then, "I've been ordered to. I -" He swore. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't - oh god. How long have you been here?"

He willed down the nausea. What right did he have to be nauseous?

It was impossible to miss the hope and, abruptly, equally impossible to fulfill his task.

He crossed the room in one swift movement, kneeling at the hero's side, flailing to pull off his jacket. To cover the hero with something soft and kind against the bitter chill of the dungeons.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? It's going to be alright."

He didn't want to bring a blade down on the hero's ruined flesh, he wanted to offer soothing creams and bandages. He didn't want to invite the hero to drink poison, when he could give painkillers. How could he destroy? All he wanted was to fix.

The hero's gaze finally moved over to him, with seemingly great effort. There was very little behind their eyes. Everything except desperation had been carved out, leaving them some hollowed thing with their innards dumped like garbage on the side.

The villain was reminded of Halloween pumpkins and husked-out dolls, rabid dogs too exhausted to do more than froth and whine.

"Please," the hero said. "Don't."

Once upon a time, the hero had never pleaded. At least not without a glint in their eyes, a mocking twist of their bright mouth, like pleading was a favour, an inside joke that they were both in on.

"You don't want to get out of here?" the villain demanded.

"I don't want to wake up here again tomorrow."

"I won't let that happen."

"Like you didn't let this happen?"

The villain flinched. There was nothing he could say to that, was there? He could beg forgiveness, but the hero didn't even say it like accusation. It was just a matter of fact. Resigned.

"Finish it." The hero closed their eyes, apparently done with the conversation. "If you ever cared about me. Just...just finish it. You need to finish it. Please."

The villain pulled a knife obligingly from one of his many sheathes. He'd seen a lot of dead bodies. His hand wavered, utterly unable to imagine the hero as one of them.

"No," the villain said. His shoulders squared. "No. You're right, I let you down. God, I let you down. But I - I'm going to fix it. I'm going to fix this."

Maybe it was selfish. He'd never claimed to be an altruistic man.

He stepped out of the dungeons some twenty minutes later, gently cradling the hero's body in his arms.

He stopped a second time.

The supervillain lounged against the stairs leading up, eyes glittering, a delighted grin upon their face.

The villain's mouth dried. He glanced down at the hero, who tensed, but did not seem surprised.

They seemed...guilty.

The villain's stomach plunged icy.

"Oh, you failed," the supervillain crooned. They pushed to their feet. "I really wasn't sure which way it would go. We had to have a little bet."

"You-"

The supervillain attacked with monstrous swiftness. Both hero and villain cried out as they hit the floor; the sounds impossible to distinguish from each other. Everything rang sickening with pain.

The supervillain caught hold of the villain's hair, yanking their head back. In an instant, the villain felt their powers sweep over his body, locking every joint and muscle in place. Rigid. Rigor-mortis.

"Good job," the supervillain said, to the hero, in the tone of one promising a lollypop to a toddler. "As promised, you can go now. Crawl away if you can. The front gate locks in one hour! You know what happens if you don't make it."

The hero choked on a sob.

The villain and the supervillain both watched them, agonisingly, try to move. They managed a mere inch. Dragging themselves, with bloodied-nails, across the polished floor.

Then the supervillain turned their attention, dismissively, back to the villain. They tightened their grip, dragging the villain's body back towards the cell, the way they'd come.

"Ah well," they shrugged. "That's a them problem."

"No." It came out a wheeze, barely audible through the villain's frozen lips. "[Hero], please, what-"

"This," the supervillain declared, throwing him down where the hero had been. "Is going to be so much fun. Traitor."

#heroes and villains #angst #tw: violence #villains and heroes #I considered going sweet and then...well #villains #dark fiction #writing #darkfic #writing snippet

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hello this is a question that came about from watching the new Fallout TV show and a character named Maximus. He’s a relatively neutral character and his arc is very wonderful coming from a writer and big book reader but I noticed that the average viewer doesn’t understand his character and actually hates him… my question is as an author is it okay to make your story more digestible to people who lack perception since it’s the general audience for mainstream media and how do you do that without losing your story? Idk this was probably too complex and a stupid question 💔

Not a stupid question! There are no stupid questions.

Going to unpack this a bit though. (I haven't seen the show.) First some general points, but then some advice on balancing complexity in a story.

So. Some things to get out of the way:

You don't know what the average viewer is thinking. Just because their opinion on a character is different to yours, doesn't mean they lack perception. Do we sometimes have an issue with critical thinking in the modern age? Yes. But we also live in an age where people bring a vast array of different insights and experiences into the stories they read/watch. 99% of the time a story doesn't have just one right interpretation, especially if it is a more complex narrative.

You CAN try to write a story that is more digestible to a general audience, but if you do have concerns about the media literacy of the general population, focusing on providing unchallenging stories is not the fix to that. People learn through engaging with interesting work and having discussions about them - e.g. when they are given the opportunity to. Perception, like anything, is a skill trained with practice. No one's born with it. There's no inherent us/them that can't be changed.

Will you be happy and fulfilled as a writer writing stories that you feel are dumbed or watered down? I know I wouldn't end up writing the versions of stories that I want. Similarly, you probably won't then attract the readers/audience that most resonate with your ideas, because you don't give them the chance.

Generally speaking, people hate being talked down to. As a reader/lover of stories, if I thought a writer was talking down to me and thought I was an idiot who couldn't understand the themes/plot, I wouldn't want to have anything to do with their stuff. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? It's like being written off before you even leave the gate.

Okay, now some advice: Amazing children's books are a great example of stories that are simplified to appeal and meet the audience where they are at, without losing the richness that makes them resonate and engage readers/audience. However, there are adult examples too. They share some qualities.

These often have:

Clear structure (there are a myriad story structures that you can use to make a story hit beats the reader expects and create a sense of satisfaction, while still giving you room to play.)

High concept story idea/plot (so, stories that can be explained/pitched in a line. E.g. children are forced to fight in televised death matches (Hunger Games), a famous author is imprisoned by a dangerous fan who doesn't approve of his new work (Misery), 'it's jaws in outer space!'). These stories have simple premises that often have wide-appeal, but the stories themselves can be complex.

Engaging main character(s) with a clear goal/agenda. They don't have to all be morally pure, but for an easy win, your character should be likeable/easy to root for. In a children's book, e.g. at the simplest level, these are often also high concept. (E.g. a mouse wants to be heard so is convinced it needs a lion's roar to be loved - The Lion Inside by Rachel Bright)

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. Game of Thrones was phenomenally popular, for example, but I don't think it's an easy to sink into world/simple set of characters.

Watering down an existing story to fit a different target audience is often not going to lead you to write the best story. This is because it's like trying to fit a triangle into a circle, or make a banana bread into a savoury scone. However, there are plenty of stories with mass-appeal that offer readers a variety of different levels to engage with them, so it is very possible to write a brilliant story with mass appeal. But you work from the foundations up, not from the finished product down.

I hope this helps!

#writing advice #writing talk #writing tips #creative writing #fiction writing #writing #on writing

[the-modern-typewriter]

"Tell me something nice."

"What?"

"It's been a day," the protagonist said. "And I feel spectacularly mediocre. So tell me something nice."

The villain blinked at them. "You're wonderful."

"And now tone it down to something believable."

"I happen to really like you," the villain said, "and if you were extraordinary I'd have to kill you."

"...I'll take it."

The villain snorted.

#creative writing #writing #heroes and villains #villains #flash fiction #dialogue #enemies to lovers #to delete maybe #writing inspo #hero x villain #i'll write properly later

[the-modern-typewriter]

my favorite is definitely half sick of shadows…

This one for context:

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

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

[the-modern-typewriter]

hero x villain who's afraid of little old me

#to delete #brain rot #hero has snapped #villain is somewhere between horrified and entranced #taylor swift #the tortured poets department

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would that have saved me?"

"Do you want to be saved?"

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

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

The villain sucked in an unsteady breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Knees."

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

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

"Say that again."

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

Diablo caught their chin.

The villain let him look his fill in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

"I need you," the villain whispered.

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

But it wasn't. It wasn't.

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

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

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

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

Maybe that should have made him less terrifying.

It didn't.

Maybe that should have made the villain want him less.

It didn't.

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

"I'm yours."

#throwback thursday

[the-modern-typewriter]

How did I forget this one!?!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[the-modern-typewriter]

!!!

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

#other people's awesome art #remi and severin #there was only one bed #fascinated by the vibes Remi gives off here #Love that Sevi is charmed by everything Remi does #accurate #art

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

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

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

"This is stupid. Saving me is stupid."

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

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

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

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

"I'm not a monster."

"You're not me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tempted? Sure."

"But you didn't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

They wanted...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hero's eyes narrowed.

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

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

"Yeah."

"You're not special."

"Of course not."

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

They all but slammed the bedroom door shut behind them.

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

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #villains #writing #writeblr #creative writing #writing snippet #hero and villain #betrayal

[the-modern-typewriter]

can you rec us some books with very pretty prose?

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

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M Danforth

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Song of Achilles by Madeleine Miller

The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde

The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

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

Middlegame by Seanan McGuire

A Spindle Splintered by Alix E. Harrow

Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

Nightwood by Djuna Barnes

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

Bunny by Mona Awad

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

#book recs #book talk #book #books #reading #reading lit #book list #book recommendation #book recommendations

[the-modern-typewriter]

I hunted you down from Pinterest

what an ominous way of phrasing this

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The undead lunged for the protagonist's throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger stopped in front of them, still smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You woke me up. In the temple."

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

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

"No."

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

The protagonist thrashed.

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

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

The two of them looked at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just most people?" It came out choked.

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

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

A week ago, they hadn't even known.

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

"My hands were forced by cultists."

The stranger shrugged. "Destiny takes many forms."

"You killed them. Let them-"

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

"You hurt me. Your people-"

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

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

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

"To the undead."

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

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

The silence stretched.

The stranger couldn't make them.

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

The stranger let go.

The protagonist crumbled, gasping, on the door stop.

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

#Part 2 now on Patreon

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

I'm perfectly happy writing with female pronouns.

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

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

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

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

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

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

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

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

#this is awful #i'm so sorry this happened to you #signal boost #anti ai theft #pro copyright #isnt this illegal!?

[the-modern-typewriter]

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

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

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

“You’re still drinking it.” 

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

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

#ooh a fave of mine i forgot existed #if i do say so myself