Welcome to my page! I mostly do Hero and Villain prompts to practice my writing. Lmk if any of these links don’t work and hopefully this makes my page a bit easier to navigate. Links below the read more.
“You don’t want that one.” Villain calls out and Hero looks up from his book, brow furrowed. “It doesn’t end well.”
Hero keeps the book open, cradling the spine with a large hand.
“Why? Is it a tragedy?” He asks, thumbing a page.
“It’s not a tragedy.” Villain fixes his vest. “Just poorly written. The concept was promising, but the execution leaves much to be desired.”
Hero tilts his head and the warm light catches his face just so, cupping each bespoke plane and curve. The wonderful view reaffirms Villain’s initial assessment: Hero will make a wonderful protagonist. But not for that book.
Such a face deserves quality.
“I see.” Hero closes the book and slides it back onto the shelf. “Then, what would you recommend?”
Villain swans forward.
“Depends on what you’re looking for.” He smiles, circling Hero. “Can you handle a bit of hardship? Do you like watching your heroes rise from nothing?”
“I don’t mind it.” Hero shrugs. “As long as it isn’t too depressing.”
“Perhaps a story with a mentor then. A tough upbringing but there’s help along the way.” Villain taps his chin, appraising Hero.
His broad shoulders are the perfect scaffold for knightly strength, but his face doesn’t suit a rugged epic. Those features—a sharp jaw juxtaposed by emotive eyes—ought to display their full range of expression.
Villain whips around and beckons Hero forward with a ringed hand.
“I think I have just the book for you.” Villain turns away from the fantasy aisle and leads Hero past the empty reading area.
“The facility funds a few authors and occasionally, I allow people to view their unfinished works.” The wide room thins into a portrait-lined hallway. With each face passed, Hero slows, the drag of his heel echoing down the linoleum.
“You want me to read an unfinished book?”
Villain stops at a door and turns back to Hero.
“Some of the world’s greatest stories are incomplete.” Villain explains as he leads Hero into a dim room. The walls are rife with paper—scrolls, hardbacks, loose leaf, all threaded together and barely contained by their respective shelves. A table stands at the center of the room and boasts a few books laid out on their spines.
Villain gathers up the nearest novel and hands it to Hero.
“No offense, but I wasn’t really planning on reading anything like this.” Hero offers the book back. “This is a cool opportunity and all but I just wanted something simple.”
“Trust me.” Villain’s grin dissolves into a somber line. “This is the best I can give you right now. It has a good start, the development’s excellent, and you get to determine what happens next.”
Villain grabs the novel and pushes it against Hero’s chest. From beneath his palm, a golden light spreads, enfolding the blank cover. The tendrils reach toward Hero’s shirt.
Hero staggers back, but Villain follows until Hero’s spine hits one of the shelves. Paper spills down like snow.
“What are you doing to me?” Hero attempts to swing at Villain, but his arm stops short and sags back down to his side, limp like an unstrung doll.
“I’m giving you a chance.” The gold sinks into Hero’s skin and branches out, capturing Hero’s throat in a gilded net. “I’m giving you your freedom.”
Hero chokes and the gold crawls over his lips and into his open mouth. As he thrashes and slips down, Villain crouches with him and cups the side of his face, forcing Hero’s gaze toward his own.
Sidekick schemes to get Hero and Villain together. He’s unaware that he’s part of the equation.
////
“Well, this is cozy.”
Sidekick leaned back into Villain’s chest. Hero sat opposite of them, feet twisted with Sidekick’s, hand braced against the wall. His eyes reflected the thin stripe of light coming through the cellar door.
“Sidekick,” Hero intoned slowly, “I was under the impression that you and Villain were supposed to be hiding out in the drawing room.”
“It was too exposed.” Sidekick sunk down and Villain’s hand twitched against his stomach. “So we came here instead and I—I really thought the cellar would be bigger.”
The drawing room had been perfectly fine, actually, but neither of them needed to know that. He’d meant to shove Villain in the cellar and run, but a guard had walked by, so he’d piled in after Villain, unaware of how small the room was—if it could even be called a room at all.
He’d seen closets more spacious.
Hero sighed.
“I suppose we’ve been in worse situations.”
Yes, Sidekick much preferred crowded cellars to sewer lines and rusted ductwork, but he also despised when plans went awry. At the very least, he should’ve aimed Villain in Hero’s general direction before taking a dive in. Now Hero and Villain wouldn’t have this opportunity to get close—literally and figuratively—and Sidekick would be wedged between their weird tension for at least an hour.
“Yes,” Villain’s arm tightened around Sidekick’s middle, “things could be much worse.”
Hero’s brow twitched.
/////
A secluded cabin with no power? Check.
Oh, and a blizzard is on its way? Check.
A perfect scenario except for one thing: Sidekick hadn’t been able to leave. He’d had a ride lined up for earlier today, but they’d also been caught in the weather, which left him stuck and shivering next to Hero and Villain.
He’d intended to stick it out on the floor and let Hero and Villain share the bed, but Hero had hauled him onto the mattress, citing Sidekick’s chattering teeth as a nuisance.
“You have no problem with contact during training.” Hero groused, throwing the comforter over Sidekick. “I don’t understand your issue with being on a bed.”
“Different environment,” Sidekick muttered, melting beneath the heat, “don’t like people breathing near me.”
Hero huffed and rolled over, facing Villain’s turned back. Listening to their slowing breaths, Sidekick blinked at the moonlit ceiling, and resolved to do better in the future. His efforts could not all be in vain.
////
“Just go to the party.” Sidekick groaned into the side of Hero’s knee. “I’m not gonna die just cause you’re gone for a few hours.”
Hero patted Sidekick’s shoulder and laughed, the sound rich and low.
“We’re here for the whole week.” He placated. “I’m positive that we can stay in one night.”
“You both were looking forward to it.” Sidekick turned to view Villain in his periphery. His wine-red shirt remained half buttoned and his tie dangled from his shoulder and over his chest. “And you’re both…mostly dressed. Why waste a perfectly good night?”
“It’s not a waste of time to look after a friend.”
“Oh, please.” Sidekick tucked himself back against Hero’s leg. “Would it kill you to be a little more selfish? Just go.”
Hero hummed, then set his hand over Sidekick’s hair.
“But I am being selfish.” He sighed. “I want this. And Villain and I would both worry about you here, even if we did go.”
Sidekick’s resolve crumbled when Villain climbed into bed next to them, book in hand. This was fine. If Hero and Villain wanted to skip past the dancing and courting, and go straight to old partners—the newspapers and tea in bed kind of romance—he’d gladly go along with it. That’d be much easier to plan around.
Maybe he’d suggest for a walk in the park next or something equally mundane.
Hero gets interviewed about Villain on the anniversary Villain’s death.
////
“He was a very charming man.” Hero rubbed his thumb over the chair arm. “I imagine very few people would come to know him and not think of him fondly in one way or another.”
“But things between you and him were different, weren’t they?” The interviewer leaned back in his seat. “You’ve at been at odds with him since you were rookies. We were all surprised when you suddenly turned around and helped clear his name. How does a ten year rivalry like that dissolve overnight?”
“I learned the truth, Johnny. My feelings didn’t change the facts and I wasn’t going to lie down and let the world tear him apart.” Hero sighed and leaned his temple into his hand before looking back up. “And I never hated him, you know. I couldn’t.”
As the crowd quieted, Hero straightened in his seat, raking a hand through his hair. The studio lights seemed to burn the side of his face as he turned away and stared at Villain’s memorial picture on the projector.
Tight in the throat, he faced the interviewer once more.
“Villain died believing the world hated him.” He swallowed. “If only he had known how…how much he’s loved now.”
As Hero’s breath quivered, the interviewer glanced toward the sides, silently motioning for a break, but Hero shook his head.
“In truth, I came here because of some recent speculation on the internet.” Hero reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He kept it closed and carefully set it on his knee. “When the accords were written, the relationship between Villain and Ms. Fiero was strictly professional and none of the legal agreements were manipulated by romantic sentiments. The letters found in Villain’s apartment were not from Ms. Fiero.”
Hero’s hand trembled over the paper.
“They were written by me.”
The audience devolved into sound and flashing light, but Hero remained tall, staring down the main camera.
“Villain never got to read them.” Hero cleared his throat. “And no one else knew. I didn’t want to disrupt the trial and would’ve gladly taken these sentiments to my grave, but I will not stand for any slander against Villain or Ms. Fiero.”
“I cared for Villain, deeply, but that does not detract from his innocence or my part in championing the movement for his acquittal. The evidence remains clear.” Hero crumpled the letter against his leg. “I meant every word and I am not ashamed of my love for him.”
“And I hope you can extend your care to him as well, in the anniversary of his death. His story is important and should be heard.”
Once the interview ended, the curtains closed, turning the screen crimson.
Hero tries to reach out, but something’s keeping Villain away from the phone.
////
Continuation of:
💬 3 🔁 39 ❤️ 251 · Villain: Contact in Case of Emergency
////
“Hello…uh Sir Villain. My dad told me to use this phone when I needed help
////
“This is an emergency line, Kid.” Villain squeezes the phone and turns away to sigh. “If you keep calling when you’re fine, I’m never going to know when you’re actually in trouble.”
“I know. Dad tells me that already.” Kid proclaims. “But you didn’t come to my game. Dad said you were fine, just busy, but I—I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Villain sags down the brick wall till he’s sat in alleyway grime. Weak, yellow light cuts over his ankles and knees, outlining every tear in his suit.
“I wanted to see you too.” He croaks. He’d been there when Hero had bought them cleats and shin pads. He’d trudged along to morning practices and watched Kid disappear into the mist rising from the wet fields. “I’ll—I’ll try my hardest to get to one of your games later in the season.”
“You promise?” Kid asks.
“I’m not very good at promises.” He shivers. Water patters onto his shoulder, dribbling from a broken gutter overhead. “But I’ll try, Kid. You’ve got my word on that.”
“It doesn’t have to be a game.” Kid continues. “We can go shopping or we can get ice cream. Or you can come over and say hi to Dad.”
Villain’s head thunks back into the brick. Maybe he can close his eyes and rest a little. Maybe he can dream of what the kid wants and fantasize over a warm summer day spent in blissful domesticity.
“Yeah, that sounds real nice kid.”
“Good.” Kid chirps. “I—uh miss you, Mister Villain.”
Villain curls forward though the bandages on his stomach don’t let him get very far.
“I miss you too.”
////
“Where are you?”
Villain nearly pulls the phone from his ear, heart sinking.
“Ah, ya know,” he mutters, “around.”
“Two months, Villain.” Hero grits out. “Two months without a word from you.”
“Things got busy. I got called back in.” Villain tugs at his hood. Summertime had slipped into autumn, exchanging blue skies for an unbroken spell of grey. The cloud cover never faltered and Villain was glad that soccer season had shifted over to indoor volleyball.
Kid would be warm in the gym, and so would Hero as he cheered from the bleachers.
“I thought you were done.”
“I’m trying to get out. Cutting ties, cleaning up, the whole nine yards.” He turns down a street, boots churning up leaf litter and asphalt. “I couldn’t—I wasn’t going to risk being called upon while I was with you. I don’t want that anymore.”
He wasn’t going to save Kid in one breath and swindle another man in the next.
“You should’ve told me.”
“You would’ve held me back.” Villain sighs.
“I wanted—people worry, Villain.” Hero grouses.
“Don’t go grey on me now.” Villain closes his eyes and the wind breezes over his damp face. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
////
A whistle sounds as Villain rounds the top of the hill. He stands beside a few other parents, catching his breath from the muddy trek from the parking lot to the field.
“Might as well have gone for a hike.” A man nearby chuckles. “They always got us traveling such a long way to see these kids. The least they could do is make parking closer.”
A long way. He muses.
Villain nods and follows behind the throng of parents. His heart races though he trudges slowly, hands in his pockets. Fiddling with his zipper, he works his way toward the bleachers, and scans the crowd. He doesn’t spot Hero in any of the seats.
Maybe Kid didn’t show today. Maybe they were sick or maybe they quit, and he would never know because he’d been gone—
An arm hooks around his shoulders and drags him back toward the fence. He seizes and slips in the mud before he’s hauled upward.
“What’s the point of being an emergency contact if you don’t answer your damn phone?” Hero hisses in his ear.
“Sorry?” Villain squawks as Hero spins him around and claps both hands on his shoulders.
Hero sighs, a litany of expressions warring over his face: anger, relief, irritation. He opens his mouth, thumbs digging into Villain’s shoulders, but he never speaks, lips snapping shut. Shaking his head, he tugs Villain in and squeezes.
Villain grabs him back, fumbling for anything to say.
The whistle shrieks again.
“Off sides!”
Villain glances up and finds a figure dashing past the goal. A bolt of hair whips behind them as they cut through the grass and toward the fence.
“Looks like I’m in trouble.” Villain whispers into Hero’s ear.
Hero can smell trouble. The more offensive the odor, the greater the danger.
So why does Supervillain smell so nice?
////
“Don’t leave the circle.”
Hero jumps as an arm loops around his stomach and pulls him back.
No one else should’ve been in the room. Only Superhero and himself had entered. As the arm slips away, Hero flicks the button at the base of his palm. The bottom half of his mask detaches and exposes his jaw and nose.
He takes a deep breath, bracing for the worst—rot, ammonia, the coppery reek of blood.
His nose reports back: good.
Reallyreallygood.
He freezes, hand locking over the blade at his hip.
“Why should I listen to you?” He asks, parting his mouth, subtly drawing in air. As the scent hits again, he salivates.
At first impression, the smell remains too complex to parse, but his olfactory neurons fire and his amygdala sings, plucking the chords of every fond, scent-associated memory at its disposal. Whatever the scent may be, it undoubtedly translates to safety.
Hero slips his hand off his dagger and his shoulders melt down from ears.
“I have a vested interest in keeping you away from Superhero.” Supervillain leans in closer. “If he gets that key of yours, it’ll be hell for us both.”
“It’s not my key.” Hero quickly claps his mouth shut, scarcely breathing. He can’t think with that smell.
Supervillain sighs.
“You should know—of course you don’t know.” He pulls Hero back to the center of the circle, where the empty pedestal stands. A pool of blood shimmers where the key once lay. “The stone cut you and you bled. That’s magically binding. The key’s gonna be with you for the rest of your life.”
“What happens if the key’s used for the portal?” Hero sniffs shallowly.
A sweet note hits: caramelized sugar, freshly warm and golden. Still safe.
“Your soul would become a convenient power source.” Supervillain turns toward the edge of the circle, where a blue barrier extends floor to ceiling. Superhero’s shadow shifts behind it.
As Superhero lashes out, the barrier ripples like water, distributing the force in waves about the circle. Supervillain casts an arm in front of Hero and cocks his head. After a few more sloshes, the barrier regains its seamless shape.
“What’s your interest in the portal?”
Supervillain twists toward Hero, face haloed by the blue light.
“It can’t be opened.” He claims. “Superhero wants glory and wealth, but every portal that he opens further destabilizes our world.”
Hero takes a deep breath. Supervillain’s scent turns metallic, tinged with iron—the smell he’s associated with truth and resolve. Beneath that lies notes of Supervillain’s true character. If the action weren’t frowned upon, Hero would shove his face in Supervillain’s collar and divine each aromatic thread.
He touches his sternum, tracing the outline of the key.
“Superhero’s been using the portals to support our world. It must be a mistake.” He eyes Superhero’s warped silhouette. “We can tell him about what’s going on and he’ll fix it.”
“He knows what he’s doing.” Supervillain places a hand on Hero’s shoulder. “With the portals, with you—it’s all on purpose.”
Hero shudders. He’d never thought to disengage his mask around Superhero, never even considered smelling out the truth. Did he really—?
Supervillain’s hand curls over his shoulder, a phantom touch, the weight of each finger known only to Hero. Hero jolts. Not here. He swallows, glancing down the line of soldiers, all clothed in ceremonial garments. Not now.
“You’ve pathed the way for a tyrant king.” Supervillain croons, tracing the ceramic edge of Hero’s mask. “All that power, all that will, and yet you bow before him, without name, without face.”
Hero turns his head from the touch, gaze forced along the crimson carpet. The runner leads up to a semi-circular dais. At its center, Superhero stands, facing an assembly of clergymen and alchemists. The lead priest cradles a spired crown with both hands.
He will lead us to the light. Hero swears.
Supervillain sighs against his ear. “Such willful delusion.”
Superhero bears the mark of destiny. The gods have chosen him and he shall bring us into an age of prosperity.
A weight builds along Hero’s back. If Hero focuses, he can feel Supervillain’s chest through his cloak, rising and falling in a languid rhythm. The slowness of each breath reminds Hero of where Supervillain’s real body remains, entrapped in slumber beneath Superhero’s soon-to-be palace.
“Fortune favors fools.” Supervillain rests his forehead against Hero’s back and Hero twists his hand tighter around his spear. “And destiny breeds compliance. True power lies in choice, in the courage to forge a new path.”
After hours of standing in the cold ceremony chamber, Supervillain’s touch scalds, and Hero swallows back a pitching breath. Supervillain had never been so solid, so warm before—almost real.
“And if your destined Superhero was so powerful, why was it not his hand that felled me?” Supervillain reaches down Hero’s arm and wraps his fingers over his knuckles. The shaft of the spear creaks; splinters flake the floor. “He couldn’t even touch me but you—you burned me.”
It was not his destiny to slay you.
“Then why did he claim it so?” Supervillain hisses. “Why did the world praise his name and not yours?”
The priest begins to sing, voice like a tolling bell, resounding about the hollow hall. Each note devolves into a singular, piercing tone in Hero’s ear.
“That’s it.” Supervillain purrs and Hero can feel his breath this time, stirring the hair by his ear. “You have so much power. Let them see. Let them know.”
Sweat builds beneath Hero’s mask though the porcelain should be frigid. Beyond Supervillain’s weight, the heat spreads, pooling in chest.
The singing stops.
The priests and the long, long, line of soldiers—everyone except Superhero—turns their attention down the hall. Gasping, Hero stumbles back, dropping his half-ashen spear. His neighboring soldiers spring away as he descends but Hero never falls.
He’s caught by the shoulders and pushed back into the light.
Supervillain’s laugh follows after him, pealing through the room.
Hero’s a big fan of a popular mystery series. After the release of the sixth book, he begins to notice a pattern, and finds a secret subplot encoded in the previous five books. What he discovers seems to be a convoluted retelling of a real life cold case—Superhero’s disappearance—but the details are just a little off and a little too real.
////
As the author packed up his last book, Hero hurried forward, clutching his book to his chest.
“Sorry, I’m just about done here.” Author glances up with a genial smile. “I can sign your book, but I’m afraid I don’t have time for much else.”
“Uh, yeah,” Hero coughed and set the book on the table, “that would be great. Thank you. I’m really sorry for being late. The train was behind and then I had to help this person—well, that doesn’t really matter—just, thank you.”
Author quirked a brow. In the time Hero had rambled, he’d already penned his signature across the title page.
“It’s not a problem for me, I assure you.” He slid the book back to Hero. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan, no matter how untimely.”
Hero snatched the book back, but lingered as Author tucked his pen back into his pocket. The man turned away from him and grabbed his bag from his chair.
Though he faced the other direction, he asked, “is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Just a quick question.”
“Go on.” The author urged, digging through his satchel.
Everything but a Soulmate Mark: Heroes and Villains.
////
Heroes take the mark of the house they serve, typically a coat of arms.
When Hero is separated from his house and joins forces with a Villain , the coat of arms on his chest slowly morphs into a familiar/ancient/cursed symbol.
Aposematism: animals use bright colors to signal that they are aggressive or poisonous. This mechanism is present in supers as well. The brighter the mark, the greater power.
While heroes proudly display their marks, promoting transparency about their power level, villains tend to cover their skin completely.
Hero has been using fake marks—dull bands of blue on his wrists and his cheeks. His suit is torn one day, exposing the most vibrant mark Villain has ever seen, a glowing supernova of color that takes over his whole chest.
Supers bless individuals with marks of favor. Most last only days, as impermanent as a gold star stamped on a test booklet.
Villain’s had the mark of Superhero’s favor for almost a year now and he’s still trying to figure out what he did to please Superhero in the first place.
The hero team conspires to give Villain as many marks of favor as they can without them noticing.
Marks that act as pH indicators for “evil.”
Upon acceptance into the hero program, all heroes must receive a tattoo on their temples and wrists. When enough hateful energy builds in the system, the mark turns red. Hero, who’s been a model of peace for years, suddenly turns red.
Villain deserts from the hero program but his mark remains ‘good’ and nonviolent.
Temporary target marks, bounties set upon a person’s skin, calling all nearby allies to pursue a certain foe.
Weak, unassuming Hero has multiple active target marks, including one from Supervillain himself. No one has quite figured out what he did to incur their wrath.
Hero has so many target marks that most people are reluctant to fight him, out of fear of the threat he poses, and out of concern for accidentally angering one of his previous mark makers.
When heroes gain their powers, they must bestow a mark of protection upon a group of people. Some heroes claim cities, while smaller ones claim families or villages.
After a horrific accident, Villain is the sole survivor of Superhero’s protected people and Superhero is hellbent on keeping him alive in order to maintain his power.
Undercover Villain is present at Hero’s power ceremony and receives his mark of protection. He must learn to hide it or face the consequences.
Heroes use a fraction of their power to tie themselves to another person, in the form of shared mark. They use this to track the wellbeing of their loved ones, typically children, or partners.
Superhero has played a strong role in mentoring young Villain. While the formation of a mark would normally be intentional, he finds his power fractioning on its own, bleeding out in Villain’s direction, but he knows Villain won’t take the mark, not with ragged, weeping Supervillain mark has left behind.
Shared tattoos are a symbol of power. The more bonds a person maintains, the more powerful they are. Bonds stretch across Hero’s skin like a lichtenberg scar.
Long ago. Hero formed a bond with Supervillain. The world believes Supervillain to be dead, but Hero’s mark is as strong as ever. He can’t warn anyone without exposing himself in the process.
After ever great deed, a god marks a hero.
The heroes can’t comprehend how Villain bears so many divine markings.
Hero serves an unknown god. At first, his marks are small things, pinpricks of silver that spray across his chest like freckles, but after a particularly harrowing mission, his skin is split through with light. He’s as decorated as Superhero though no other god should be that powerful.
Hero and Villain discover that they serve the same god.
At the end of a great battle, Superhero stands with arms outstretched, anticipating a mark. The god marks Villain instead.
When Hero finishes his divine task, he’s horrified when a historically evil god marks him instead of his intended god.
All supers are born with marks that hint at their destiny.
Villain’s mark is suspiciously similar to the logo of a popular coffee chain.
Villain bears the mark of an ancient Hero.
Every year, Hero’s mark morphs into a different letter. He has yet to decipher the code, if one exists.
A skull is a particularly damning mark, so Hero becomes a mortician instead, hoping to curb any potentially murderous tendencies.
Magical tattoo
Civilian finds a cool symbol on Pinterest. He gets it tattooed and wakes up the next day with unthinkable powers.
Magical tattoos are powerful. They facilitate the flow of power and can help with power amplification or absorption, among other things. After disappearing, Villain returns with head-to-toe tattoos in a magical script Hero cannot decipher.
The matching tattoos Hero and Villain got in their youth have unintended consequences now that they both have powers.
Hero’s skin rejects ink. Villain is the only one who’s managed to tattoo him.
Villain’s armor is a living, magical construct, tied to his very being. Hero has seen it shield Villain from all manner of weaponry, plates thickening just before the impact of a spear, or swarming about his head to ward off a spray of shrapnel.
The armor often erupts into spines when Villain stands before the heroic assembly. On one notable occasion, he nearly skewered an attendant’s hand.
Hero, naturally, maintains a respectable a distance from Villain. When the armor gains a vicious edge, he widens that berth. If the plates round out and thin, he veers a little closer, enamored by the fluid shift of metal, rippling like mercury along Villain’s skin.
But he forgets himself one day and reaches.
He finds neither spine nor thick wall of metal.
Skin. His hand curls around Villain’s bicep—around warm, lenient flesh—and he freezes alongside Villain.
“You,” Villain starts with a hiss, “you dare to touch me with such careless hands?”
Before Hero can snap his hand away, the metal seeps back down, threading over his fingers.
“I’m sorry.” Hero yelps, attempting to yank back, drawing Villain with him.
Villain stumbles forward and Hero’s stomach clenches, envisioning thorns in his ribs, but no such impact ensues. Instead, Villain cants into his chest, all soft cotton and flesh. The shock of it seems to free Hero’s hand and he reflexively claps it over Villain’s back to steady them both.
Gasping, Villain twists his hand into Hero’s shirt.
“You fool,” he seethes, breath hot against Hero’s collarbone.
“I didn’t mean it.” Hero drops his hands to his sides. “I promise, I just wanted to show you something and I forgot that you don’t like people touching you.”
Despite Hero’s release, Villain remains still, a line of heat along Hero’s front. He drops Hero’s shirt and sighs, hand skimming along the fabric.
“You will take responsibility for what you’ve done to me.” He proclaims.
Hero balks, too terrified to leap away.
“It was an accident.” He protests.
“You’ve tricked my armor.” Villain snatches Hero’s limp hand and pulls it to his back. The metal is still there, but thin, yielding like warm wax beneath Hero’s stricken fingers. “You’ve whittled me down to my skin, with your sweet words and your constant lingering, following me around like some thoughtless limpet.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Hero breathes, “can’t you just build it back?”
“I will.” Villain vows, grip tightening around Hero’s wrist. “And I will make it so you may never touch me so closely again.”
“Okay.”
Hero’s shuffles away, attempting to respect Villain’s proclamation, but Villain holds him in place.
“You will speak of this to no one.” He snarls. “And you will not touch me when any of your compatriots are present.”
“Of course.” Hero nods, though Villain’s head is tucked so far down he cannot see the motion.
“And in the event you expose me again, you will guard me with your life.”
“I mean—sure, that’s kind of my job anyway.”
Villain huffs and relinquishes Hero, stepping away. His armor ripples over his shoulders, plates ruffling like feathers, and he slaps his hands over his face when the metal fails to shield it. Unlike the harsh contours of his mask, his face is soft, belying profound expression.
A blush burns through the gaps of his fingers, even as his mouth twists in a sneer.
“Hello…uh Sir Villain. My dad told me to use this phone when I needed help and I uh—there’s someone outside.”
Villain lunged out of his seat, reassembling his suit with one hand.
“Your dad, Hero, where is he?”
“He’s o-on the ground. They put something shiny under the door and he fell.” The kid sniffled, swallowing back a sob. “He’s not getting up.”
“That’s okay. They just made him sleep.” Villain locked a gas mask around his head, then charged out the door, following the phone’s coordinates on his watch interface. “Are you feeling dizzy? Does your head hurt?”
“No, but my dad—he hit his head. He’s hurt.”
Dread sunk in Villain’s gut as he grappled the nearest building and shot into the air.
“Your dad’s strong, kiddo. He’ll be fine, but you’re gonna have to leave him so the bad guys don’t get you.” Villain instructed. “Your dad made you a hiding place, didn’t he? Somewhere safe for just you. I need you to go there and lock the door.”
“But dad’s supposed to go with me. He told me—"
“I’ll bring your dad over. We’ll be right behind you.”
“O-okay,” the kid shifted, footsteps sounding upon the floor.
“That’s good.” Metal clicked, hopefully a lock. “Thank you for being so brave. I’m going to get your dad and we’re going to be right with you. Just sit tight and don’t open the door until you hear your dad or me say the secret word, okay?”
////
Hero lurched up before Villain could withdraw the antidote needle from his skin. An elbow caught his cheek and Villain fell back, clutching at his face.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh—you.” Hero staggered onto his knee, clutching the countertop for support. “Where’d you put my kid?”
Villain shot to his feet.
“I didn’t—I just told her to go to whatever hiding place you made for her.” He skirted around Hero, hands held uselessly in the air as Hero attempted to heave himself up. “Figured you’d be the type of guy to build a safe room.”
Hero fell back to his knee.
“Look, I’ll,” Villain floundered, then sunk down to meet Hero’s eye, “I’ll just go get her. You’ve got like a secret signal, right? I told her to wait until she heard it and I—“
////
The kid launched themself into Hero’s side. Hero caught them with an arm, leaning the bulk of his weight into a nearby cabinet. As Hero hushed and crooned, the kid’s hiccuping wails dissolved into stilted breaths.
“Everything’s fine, sweetheart.” He glanced at Villain, combing the kid’s hair back. “He got rid of all the bad guys.”
The kid divested their snotty, reddened face from Hero’s shirt.
“Thank you, Mister Villain.” They mumbled.
Unused to any similar sentiment, Villain straightened as if ready to salute. When the call came in, Villain had no time to reflect on the matter, but now, staring at the two, huddled together, the realization struck him: of all people, Hero had trusted him to protect his kid.
Him. A villain.
“It was no trouble at all to fulfill my duty as your err…emergency contact.”
Hero frowned and Villain squirmed.
Was that too presumptuous?
Sighing, Hero beckoned him, and Villain slunk over like a dog with a tucked tail. He stood expectantly, staring at the blood at Hero’s temple.
“Get down here,” Hero commanded gruffly, and so Villain went. Hero grabbed him as he descended and crammed him into the cradle of his arms, alongside the kid. Villain awkwardly shifted his arm around the kid and patted their tiny shoulder.
Hero palmed Villain’s neck and brought his forehead to his own.
“Thank you.”
///
“Hello, this is Margaret Hanold from [X] Central School. Am I speaking with [Villain]?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Villain leaned forward his chair, furrowing his brow.
“I have [Kid Name] at the nurse’s office. They’re not feeling well today and we have been unable to get a hold of their father.” She paused and the line filled with the pitter patter of computer keys. “You’re listed here as an emergency contact. Are you able to pick them up or get in contact with their father?”
Villain twirled his car keys around his finger. From what he’d seen on the news, Hero had been called to an emergency in the next city over.
“Yeah, sure.” Villain stood up. “I’ll be over to grab them soon.”
The call ended and Villain stared at himself in the mirror.
Hero has always been a public figure first and hero second. He’s good with the cameras and is generally upheld as a shining, good mannered idol. Even to the villains, he’s been classified as a harmless and low priority target.
That abruptly changes when he’s attacked during an interview.
////
Despite the initial rush, the lights have been arranged perfectly, accentuating the handsome planes of Hero’s face. He sends the interviewer a warm smile and nods in intervals, playing his part with practiced ease.
“It’s always an honor to protect this city.” He grins. “My home.”
“Of course, [Superhero]. And it’s been an honor seeing you out here on the field today, doing what you do best.” The interviewer says smoothly. “The city thanks you for your service.”
“There’s no need for—,” Hero quiets before he can slip into another slew of empty pleasantries. His smile narrows as he cocks his head to the side.
“Do you hear that?” He asks, eyes unblinking, searching past the camera crew.
The interviewer opens her mouth to reply, but Hero shushes her with a hand and sinks to the ground, placing a palm flat to the concrete. As he ducks beneath the light, his smile finally slips. He parts his lips and breathes shallowly, letting the air settle along the roof of his mouth.
The crew stays silent, though one camera creaks as it angles down, broadcasting Hero’s coiled figure to the masses.
Hero snaps forward before the street cleaves in half, colliding with the creature that spews from its center. He loops an arm around the beast’s neck and drives its face into the asphalt before swinging himself over its back. As the beast thrashes, his legs squeeze for purchase, and he reaches over his shoulder to grab for his sword.
His hand meets empty air and he’s nearly upended.
He forgets the dozens of cameras, all whirring and clicking in his periphery. The rabbit-fast beat of the interviewer’s heart drowns beneath the beast’s thunderous breaths.
The creature writhes again, forelimbs tearing through cars and street lamps, and Hero changes, shifting into something sharper and altogether inhuman. Time passes in a blur of blood and adrenaline as Hero rends through scale and flesh.
He surfaces when the light hits his eye—bright, artificial white, arranged about him like planets around a star.
And so, he smiles, finding the interviewer once more.
////
Villain leans back in his chair, pressing the edge of the remote to his lip.
“Oh my,” he drawls, breathing through his nose.
His fingers shake, sweaty thumb sliding up the side of the remote.
The camera pans back to Hero, whose smile edges on delirious rather than polite. He uses a knuckle to rub the blood splatter from his lip and Villain closes his eyes with a sigh.
When Superhero died, he gave every hero under his command a memory. Hero finds out that Villain got one too.
////
“What did you see?”
“It was a nice memory, like the rest.” Villain shifts back and the wind from below breezes against his neck. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to share it with me.”
Hero paces the rooftop. His mask rests askew on his face, pulled up past his nose in a single, furious yank.
“How do you know about the rest?”
“Fifty people, sharing a secret? Of course the news spread quickly.” Villain glances past his shoulder and the streetlights sweep across his face, barring his chin in neon and white. “Who would keep quiet about such an honorable gift?”
“You did.”
“It wasn’t meant for me.” Villain smiles. “I had no reason to share.”
“But it was,” Hero glances at Villain’s exposed chest, at Superhero’s mark writ over his heart, “meant for you. Superhero never did anything by mistake. And he certainly wouldn’t have wasted the last of his powers on gifting meaningless memories to people, especially not to you.”
Hero stalks closer and Villain’s heel scrapes over the concrete edge.
“Perhaps he was a fan.” Villain shrugs.
Hero sneers.
“His memory is wasted upon you.”
“Harsh.”
Hero’s hand snaps out and he yanks Villain in by his tattered collar.
“Those memories aren’t gifts.” The whites of his eyes gleam in the dim light. As he drags Villain away from the ledge, he jabs his other hand against Villain’s chest, palming the bold mark. “They’re not even real. Superhero never got married, he never had kids.”
Villain’s chest flails beneath Hero’s hand.
“And how would you know?” He asks, squeezing Hero’s wrist. “Most supers lead double lives. We all learn to hide.”
“I-I was his sidekick. I’ve worked with him for 16 years.” Hero chokes. “I knew him. None of the memories line up.”
Villain pushes and Hero’s hand slides away without resistance.
“Maybe you didn’t know him as well as you thought.” He tugs his uniform over the mark. “And harassing me for answers won’t change that. If everyone else got the same memories and saw nothing wrong, maybe you need to let it go.”
Hero sways forward, breathing heavy. “I can’t be the only one who’s seen it—I can’t—you have to have something different. You’re the only one who doesn’t make sense.”
Villain jolts away.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Villain placates. “I already told you that it was the same as the others. A happy memory.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Hero begs. His bare mouth morphs between a snarl and a cry, lips trembling over bared teeth. “Please don’t lie to me.”
“Look, there’s hardly a scar.” Superhero crows into Villain’s ear, hand still pinning Villain’s palm to Hero’s bloody chest. “I was right, you know. You were made for this.”
Villain swallows. Beneath his hand, Hero’s chest rises—all smooth skin and muscle, sealing away the gore. It makes the past hour feel like a false memory, like Villain hadn’t fumbled through bone and viscera, weeping all the while.
“I’m—I’ve always been a soldier.”
Superhero squeezes Villain’s knuckles, smearing blood over the back of his hand.
“You had no choice.” Superhero pulls Villain’s hand away from Hero and turns it upward. He runs his thumb along the thick calluses on his palm and sighs. “A sword was forced upon you.”
In the rare moments when Villain had been afforded a healer, their hands had been smooth, running like water over his raw skin, a natural balm even without magic or power—a kind and clean touch. Villain would never have that natural gentility, could never offer a touch tender enough to heal.
“I’m good at it. Fighting.” Villain leans back into Superhero, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. The more he gazes at his hand, cradled by Superhero’s, the less it feels like his; his fingers burn and twitch beneath a blanket of static. “I’m not meant for healing.”
Superhero makes a soft sound before leaning back with Villain’s weight, against the wall behind them.
“But how did it feel? Healing him?” He asks.
“It hurt so much.” Villain croaks, slumping further. Hero’s limp body blurs into a wash of color before him.
Superhero slips an arm around Villain’s waist.
“It hurt here, didn’t it?” He pulls Villain closer and spreads a hand over his collarbone, dragging his fingers across his sternum, then down along an achingly familiar path.
A scar, not his.
“I‘m sorry.” Villain whispers. “I didn’t mean to—“
“That pain.” Superhero’s thumb digs into his ribs. “It was all your doing.”
Wincing, Villain attempts to turn, but healing has drawn him thin. He falls back into Superhero, sweat slipping down his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” he tries again.
“You worked so hard to make things better though.” Superhero brings Hero’s hand down and presses it against Hero’s stomach, locking it in place with his own, fixing them into some facsimile of a lover’s embrace.
“Don’t feel so bad.”
Villain’s heartbeat crawls into every point of contact, thudding in his fingers and back.
“I’m so glad you did the right thing.” Superhero continues, tracing the side of Hero’s palm. “It would’ve been a shame to lose such precious hands.”
He flinches against Superhero’s arm.
“You told me you were a good fighter. A good soldier.” The blood grows tacky between them, smearing and sealing their fingers together. “You’ve must’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
Villain opens his mouth. A gasp rushes out in place of any coherent word.
“Look at him. Look at what you can do.” Superhero smiles in Villain’s peripherals.
Villain’s gaze flicks between the smear of blood beneath Hero and the scar gleaming across his torso.
“You know what you need to do to make things right.” Superhero whispers into Villain’s ear. “Don’t you?”
Hero and Villain had no need for loyalty in their arrangement. They were bound by a common purpose and joined forces with the understanding that their relationship was a brutal mutualism—they would take from the other until they had nothing left to give.
////
Hero and Villain have no official contract, but they’ve collaborated over the years. Their longest conversations have been through comm lines, with Villain leading Hero through twisted hallways and traps, his voice warped and scratched by the radio feed.
It’s odd to hear Villain’s natural voice now, fuller, resonant, yet still instructional.
“Don’t sit up.”
Hero groans. His eyelids tack together as he tries to open them.
“Why’d you…how’d you?” The words roll like marbles in his mouth. His jaw spasms after each syllable.
“I was in the area.”
It’s a lie and they both know it. Villain should’ve been working on a temperamental, time intensive project in a far off city. He had sent Hero a short text informing him he’d be unavailable the next half year.
Light slashes into his vision as Hero’s eyes finally open; his surroundings come rendered in a whitewashed blur. After a few seconds, the brightness fades into a stained ceiling barred with fluorescent lights.
“What d’ya need?” Hero asks.
“Do you really think you can do anything for me right now?”
“Later,” Hero slurs, “I’ll do it.”
Villain’s chair squeaks as he rises from it. Hero turns toward the sound. Villain shuffles forward, his steps plunking in a lopsided rhythm, and his hand lands heavily on the side of Hero’s sickbed, an anchor. He leans over Hero and rests his hand on his collarbone. As he follows the bandage toward Hero’s shoulder, his gaze crawls over Hero’s face, and Hero wonders if he looks as bad as he feels.
“Would you like me to keep count of everything you owe me?” He asks.
Though Villain’s touch is light, Hero’s shoulder aches, throbbing in time with his breath. He tries to gauge Villain’s expression, but the bright light behind his head burns the edges of his silhouette and washes away the finer details of his face. His eyes remain the only dark and readable point about him, and they narrow slightly as Hero meets his gaze.
“I took a plane here.” Villain continues in lieu of Hero’s answer. “You’ll pay for that. You’ll pay for the bandages, the medication, everything I used to keep you alive.”
Hero swallows. His throat is dry to the point of cracking, splintering apart like baked sand. Wordlessly, Villain grabs the back of Hero’s head to tilt it up. A cup materializes in his other hand and he tips it to Hero’s lips.
Hero wants to spit the water out as soon as it trickles in.
He’d never wanted Villain to see him like this. He knows how Villain works. He lets weakness ripen. He waits until it’s rotten and bruised. When the flesh is soft enough, he strikes and everything gives way, dripping into his hand.
That same hand cradles him now, softly bringing his head back down to his pillow.
“You owe me for my time as well.” Villain hovers his hand over Hero’s head before dropping it back to the sheets. “Few people are skilled enough to drag you out from Supervillain’s hold. Fewer still would be able to keep you breathing afterwards. How much is that worth to you?”
“Just put down a number,” Hero says, “I’ll pay it.”
“I have no need for your money.”
At Villain’s flat tone, Hero holds his breath.
“Then what do you want from me?” He asks.
He doesn’t understand. All those months ago, they’d ended their partnership because Villain no longer needed Hero. His connections and wealth had expanded beyond the need for Hero’s powers. Their separation had been clean and painless, a well placed cut; Hero had been stunned by how efficiently Villain had packed up his things before spiriting away.
“I risked my life to free you.” Villain proclaims. “I abandoned my work and my associates the moment I heard of what they did to you. Don’t you understand what that means?”
Hero’s heartbeat crawls into his throat.
“I don’t—I don’t get it.” He swallows. “I can be useful, if that’s what you need. I’ll make it all up to you.”
Hero squeezes his eyes shut as Villain grabs the side of his face. He wonders if this is the point where Villain will dig in, curling his fingers into the soft, bruised space behind his jaw. He wonders if Villain will find what he needs there, in the tender give of skin.
“I should’ve taken you with me.” Villain whispers, thumb heavy upon Hero’s cheekbone.
Shuddering, Hero cracks an eye open.
“I thought I could free myself from you, that the distance would be enough.” Villain sighs. “But it appears that the old adage is true. I had no need to worry when you were near. I had you right where I wanted you, where I could see, where I could make sure no one got too close.”
Hero’s ears ring as Villain’s calloused palm scrapes over his cheek.
“I don’t want to think about you anymore.” Villain intones. “I don’t want to concern myself with your whereabouts, to wonder about your wellbeing when I cannot reach you. I will not have you haunt me from miles away.”
“What are you even trying to say here?” Hero mutters.
Villain sighs and shifts his hand, brushing his thumb down the side of Villain’s face.
“If I asked you to give yourself to me, would you allow it?”
“I—what?”
“I saved your life.” Villain smiles softly. “It is only fair that you let me keep some part of it.”
“Is that like figurative?” Hero licks his lips, caught between fear and something else entirely.
A burn rises up his neck, ignited by the turn of Villain’s lip.
Villain makes a final phone call back to the past.
////
For a moment, there is only breathing and static. Hero holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he keys into his apartment complex. It’s only the reason he hasn’t hung up yet. Caught between clutching his grocery bags and opening the door, there is no way to end the call.
Crackling sounds from the line. The voice begins to speak, but is split through with fuzz, and Hero wonders where the speaker is. Probably somewhere wild or lonesome, where service just barely reaches.
He transfers his keys and bags to one hand, and breathes in the meager warmth of the hall.
“Can you hear me?”
Hero barely catches the voice as he stares down at the phone in his hand. There’s no caller ID.
He’s caught off guard by the recorded length of the call. It should’ve been hardly a minute now, with Hero fumbling at the door and the caller breathing, but the time stretches across the screen, displaying some countless number of hours. The text is so small that he can barely see the seconds pass.
“[Hero], I know you can hear me.”
Hero crams the phone against his ear. The screen is still cold and burns his cheek.
“Who are you?” He asks, glancing down the hall. He readjusts the bags in his grip and hurries toward his apartment without even knocking the snow off his boots.
“You don’t remember my voice?” The caller laughs, sounding almost pained. “Have I changed so much?”
Hero’s first instinct is to call this a scam, or a virus, given the odd time on the call display, but the voice itches at his brain. Perhaps there’s some familiarity there. Perhaps, this is a prank call from some old friend of his, whose face he’s long since forgotten.
“I don’t know who you are.” He shuts the door with his heel, and untangles the bags from his fingers. His keys clatter onto the counter.
“It might be better if you don’t.” The voice sighs and Hero lingers in the center of his kitchen, staring at the fridge.
“Can you get to the point? I’m kind of busy.” He says. “I’ve got plans tonight.”
“You’re going to save the world someday. Do you know that?” The caller tells him.
Hero freezes. Save? The caller couldn’t possibly know about his other life.
He’d been so careful.
“And I wanted to let you know that everything’s okay. Most of us made it out, thanks to you.” The service breaks again and the caller curses. “I wish—you’ll see it one day.”
“Is this some fucking joke?” Hero glances out his window.
“I’m not joking.” The caller croaks. “You don’t need to believe me. It’s enough that you listen, that you remember when the time comes.”
Hero pulls the phone away and his thumb hovers over the screen, a swipe away from ending the call.
“I have no idea how time works.” The caller continues, quietly. “If the version of you I knew ever got this call, he never told me. But I’d like to think, after this, there’s a better version of the future, where my words made a difference, and that you—”
The static sounds again and Hero jams the phone back to his ear.
“Don’t believe in anyone except yourself. Don’t trust the Organization. And don’t trust me.”
Hero paces around his counter. The Organization?
“Who are you?” He asks again.
“I—you’ll know soon enough, if I’ve gotten the timing right.” The caller coughs. “Something that you lost will be returned to you.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It will.” The static pitches in Hero’s ear. “But don’t forget. Your theories, all your work—don’t let anyone take it. Hide it. It will be important soon. And don’t tell anyone, even those who claim to love you.”
“You’re crazy.” Hero gasps, yanking his window curtain shut. “What’s your problem? Calling people like this, freaking them out.”
“I miss you.”
The static stops.
Hero looks at his screen. The time reads 00:00, like they’d never even spoken, and Hero nearly drops his phone in his rush to end the call. He sets his phone down and stares at it, hands pulling through his hair.
“What the hell?” He wheezes.
A knock sounds at the door and Hero trips over one of his barstools. He regains his balance, but stays frozen, clutching to the countertop like a lifeline, gaze flicking between the phone and the door.
“[Hero]? [Hero], I know you can hear me.”
That voice.
That voice.
“You left this thing at my place? I don’t know what it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s part of that research project you were going on about.” Feet shuffle behind the door. “I’m leaving tomorrow so I thought I’d bring it back to you in case you needed it within the next week.”
“Oh,” Hero gasps, “thanks.”
“Are you alright in there?”
“I’m okay, [Villain].” Hero shoves his phone in his back pocket. “I was just finishing up a call.”
Supervillain acts like Villain is his son (but not really)
Vampire Villain helps Hero with a curse
Alien Villain takes away Hero’s pain
1.
Villain has been afflicted with nightmares of supernatural origin. He asks Hero to help him with his plight.
“They’re not nightmares.” Villain slouched forward, catching his knees with sweaty palms. “I know nightmares.”
Hero stretched out on Villain’s bed, bracing a forearm over his eyes. “I believe you.”
Villain didn’t drag Hero to bed over nothing. He didn’t compromise his living situation and identity over a nightmare. He’d never even met Hero without a full set of armor, and now he was an arm away, in soft bedclothes, listing forward.
A breeze could’ve sent him tumbling the rest of the way down.
“It’s just for tonight.” Villain spoke at his knees. “I just need a night without seeing—I can’t.”
“You don’t have to convince me, [Villain]. You’ve already got me here.”
All night, Hero had moved himself calmly, conducting himself with lax limbs and easy smiles, because anything else would get him into trouble, more trouble than he already was splayed out on Villain’s bed, with Villain turning back to him with a crooked frown. Hero’s heart leapt and he grabbed the sheets in attempt to anchor himself.
Villain was desperate. This wasn’t some rare show of vulnerability, he reminded himself. This was surrender—weakness without choice. Villain did not look at Hero with trust. He looked at him like a drowning man did a faraway beacon, a man that had no hope to ever reach the shore.
Villain swung his feet onto the bed and eased himself down, slow enough that Hero could be convinced he was hurt. His hair sprawled over his pillow and Hero moved his leg to avoid the ends. And for a moment they both stilled, with Hero kneeling, staring the foreign landscape of Hero’s back, a display of trust he’d done little to deserve.
Hero waited a breath.
“I’m just going to touch your back then, if you’re comfortable with that.” He announced when the silence became too pressing.
“Do what you must.”
Hero reached and spread his fingertips between the apex of Villain’s shoulder blades, the shadows of which shone through Villain’s thin shirt
////////
2.
Hero and Villain travel to the dream world to get information from their sleeping foes.
Before Hero can jolt away, a hand clamps over his shoulder.
“Don’t disturb the dream.”
The voice was close, belonging to the foreign heat at his back—the first sensation Hero had registered as he’d woken.
“What dream?” Hero asked, voice volleying in his throat as the hand clamping his shoulder shifted from curled tension to a leisurely trace of Hero’s scar.
The hand slipped, catching itself at Hero’s elbow. “Your memory should’ve carried over.”
Hero drew in a steady breath, willing his hunched shoulders to roll back, turning lax against Villain’s chest. This was obviously some cover, even if he couldn’t recall the details.
“Well, it hasn’t.” He whispers.
The room beyond exists as a haze. The furniture is a smudge of brown; the edges of color leak into the bleak, white walls. Curtains ruffle in an unfelt wind, swaying over blurry windows and between the bed’s posters.
“It’s a companion dream.” Villain explains. “Just play nice with Dreamer and I’ll ask the questions.”
“Who’s the Dream—”
Villain slapped a hand of over Hero’s mouth and shoved his other arm beneath Hero in order roll him over himself and toward the wall. Hero’s ensuing grunt hid the creak of a door. Villain threw his hand back and squeezed Hero’s hip, preventing him from turning him around.
The footsteps were loud, echoing far too much for the small, curtain-lined room, where the sound should’ve been swallowed, eaten by its soft and shadowed corners. Villain’s hand tightened on Hero’s hip as the steps slowed.
/////
3.
Villain is a parasite. A man turned bodiless, a specter forced to scavenge. Before he fades, he digs his teeth into the nearest soul and holds.
Villain is a parasite, but he appraises the body they now share. The mirror reflects Hero’s face as he washes away the blood and dirt. Time has carved a heaviness to the set of Hero’s brow. His cheeks are hollow; a shadow runs from his ear to the corner of his mouth. The skin beneath his eyes gleams, dark and netted with bluish veins.
Villain doesn’t know how long he’s been gone, and what tragedies have sloughed the youth from Hero’s face.
He clutches at the body’s side, where pain blooms in its gut, radiating outward. The ache squeezes at its ribs and Villain leans against the sink.
“You would’ve died without me,” he hisses at the mirror as the pain reaches his head. He hopes Hero is listening, skulking in a fold of Hero’s brain that Villain can’t reach.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he squeezes his eyes shut and clings to cold porcelain, “not to you.”
——
As he tends to the body, rubbing salve into swollen skin of its knuckles, Hero’s consciousness stirs, a thin thread of thought teasing along Villain’s mind.
“You don’t take care of yourself.” Villain complains, itching the back of its hand. Villain’s sure there’s a bone out of line, or a spur—something lodged beneath Hero’s skin that makes the body’s hand spasm every time they try to write.
Hero doesn’t respond. He hasn’t the past few days Villain has attempted to communicate with the growing presence in their mind.
In absence of dialogue, Hero still wears at Villain. He has found a way to lodge an ache in every bone and pocket of flesh. Perhaps Villain could attribute the pain to the shock of having a body once more, but they don’t remember existing hurting this much, every movement tender and stiff.
Villain pushes the body up and circles the only other room (besides the bathroom) of the safe house, skirting around the streak of blood that leads from the door to the sunken-in cot. The movement keeps his mind off the agony that plagues the body, even while laying down and motionless. He avoids the bed as he walks.
Hero had almost died there, curled up on dusty sheets, in a house where no one would find him. The thought makes Villain clutch the body’s side as he limps from one bare wall to the next. The bed felt more like a grave, or a crime scene, though Villain had cleaned the sheets of blood as soon as the body was well enough to stand.
The body, with the bloody hole in its abdomen, could not crouch long enough to wipe the floor, so he goes to sleep with a massacre before him, staring at the imprint of Hero’s final steps. He wonders what monster caused the body’s wounds. He wonders if it is still out there, following Hero’s bloody trail, and if one day, it will finds its end.
/////
4.
Villain rescues Hero’s family and doesn’t know how to deal with being thanked for it.
“You saved my people. My family.”
As Hero advanced upon him, Villain backed away until his spine thunked against the metal wall. He swallowed and held up his hands.
“It’s not that serious, really.” He blabbered. “I was going to rob the ship anyway and they just happened to be near the cargo hold. It wasn’t that hard to get them out.”
“I heard word of your bravery.” Hero grew closer still, grabbing Villain by the shoulder. “What you did was no simple feat.”
Villain grabbed the wall for support as Hero tilted his head to peer down at him. Compared to Hero, with his noble bearing and ceremonial clothes, Villain felt like a bloodied rag—hell, he would probably leave a streak on the wall after this. He hadn’t time to bathe or practically even breathe since he locked eyes with all those people trapped in the depths of that cursed ship.
“Just think of it as my good deed for the year. Or my whole life, really.” Villain winked.
“You are a better man than I believed you to be.”Hero confessed. “I must apologize for the harshness of my past actions.”
“No, no,” Villain insisted, lightly patting Hero’s armored shoulder in an attempt to urge him away, “it’s fine, I definitely deserved that. And still do, from here on out. I assure you this is my last stint of heroics. We can get right back to the good guy, bad guy routine after this.”
As always, steamrolling past any of Villain’s arguments, Hero continued, “my mother told me what you did for her.”
“Did she?” Villain inched down the wall, debating on the merits of hitting his head hard enough to get out of this. “Look, can we just get the point of this whole spiel? I’d like to sit down some time soon.”
“You are injured?” Hero asked, pulling Villain from the wall and steering him into the middle of the walkway. Villain stood still, blinking against the harsh light.
“No, not that bad.” Villain said, batting Hero’s hand away. “And don’t be so weird about everything. I promise I’m not some ‘changed man’ now so don’t get your hopes up.”
“You don’t have to change.” Hero proclaimed. “You have done good as you are now.”
Tired and weary, Villain’s throat tightened, and he squinted his eyes to abate the burn. He rubbed his arm and turned away.
“This somehow feels worse than a standard ‘thank you.’”
“You deserve more than simple platitudes.” Hero reached out again, unimpeded this time, fingers curling around Villain’s bicep. “I don’t even know where to begin to thank you properly, but I know you shouldn’t be alone right now. I only wish to see you well and so does my family, and all those you have saved.”
“I—I don’t know how to deal with this.” Villain laughed. “Usually you chase me away by now.”
Then, Hero grabbed his other arm.
“It’s really better if I just go.” Hero squirmed, looking down the hall for an escape.
Hero cut him off with a hug.
As an opponent, Villain knew Hero’s body. He knew his bulk slowed him. He knew his arms and hands possessed a fearsome strength, one that Villain clambered away from at all costs, but he had, of course, considered him in kinder contexts, in the quiet, lonesome hours when reality slipped away—late nights suited for pointless dreaming.
But this was real and warm, and Villain was so tired. He crumbled quickly, predictably, into Hero’s arms.
“I’m never going to do that again,” he lamented into Hero’s collar, “it’s so much harder, organizing things and keeping everybody alive. I don’t know how you do it.”
Hero cupped the back of Villain’s head and brought Villain in closer.
“You did well.”
////
5.
Villain is Supervillain’s lab grown “son.”
“He’s my son.”
Supervillain smiles at Hero as he pulls Villain to his side. Villain’s programming ensures he doesn’t flinch, save for a quick turn of head to regard the hand at his shoulder. Even through their suits, Supervillain’s warmth triggers Villain’s thermal sensors: a healthy 98.2.
“I never took you for a family man.” Hero notes, gaze flickering between the pair. “And it seems you’ve kept this a secret for quite some time.”
“We hadn’t met in person until quite recently.” Supervillain sighed. “I would’ve informed everyone sooner if I had the chance.”
Villain didn’t have a body a year ago. Had anyone seen him then, they’ve would’ve been introduced to a clump of cells hooked up to a monitor—his existence entrapped in a screen, flashing away in the corner of Supervillain’s lab.
“Of course, of course.” Hero grins, turning to Villain, “well, you’re a spitting image of your father when he was young. I bet you’re just as smart as he was too.”
“Was, [Hero]? Have I lost my touch?”
As Supervillain tilted his head back, the ballroom light flashed along his teeth and clung to the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Spitting image. Villain mused. He had noted the similarities in their features, a 67% overlap. They shared the same jawline and nose bridge, but Villain wore those structures with a certain softness, as if his face had been engineered to endear instead of provoke.
Villain had wondered why he hadn’t been made a clone or something—someone—new altogether. Perhaps, Supervillain was a narcissist, driven by the need to see his own face reflected in his creation.
But he hardly ever looked at Villain for too long.
Even now, his gaze merely skimmed over Villain. His hand stayed though. He’d only ever touched Villain during lab evaluations, always with latex gloves, and never for longer than necessary.
Their conversation slips back into focus as Supervillain drags him even closer, hauling him up so that Villain struggles momentarily with one foot on the ground.
“He’s better than I could ever hope for.”
The lift of Villain’s smile counters the sink of his stomach as Supervillain drops him back down and ruffles his hair.
Even Hero raises a brow. “Gone soft, haven’t you?”
“Quite the contrary, [Hero].”
////
6.
What if vampires were like medicinal leeches?Hero x Villain.
Vampiric therapy, or therapeutic bloodletting, remains the fastest method to remove bodily curses when a witch is not available. Vampires are uniquely suited to extract cursed blood and naturally breakdown negative energies upon ingestion. Bioactive substances present in vampiric saliva also promote circulation and provide localized pain relief.
Note: itching may occur due to increased blood flow. Do not partake in vampiric therapy if you have a light-based nature as an allergic reaction is more likely to occur.
Hero dropped the pamphlet with a groan.
“You have to be joking.”
“I don’t joke,” Villain said, “and I would not offer it if I did not believe it necessary. The curse will become necrotic if you do not treat it soon.”
“Look, I’ll reach out to the witch again. I’m sure she’ll be back in a few days.” Hero muttered, waving a hand.
“You seem to be underestimating the severity of your curse. You may sustain lasting damage from the curse if you do not resolve it within 48 hours.”
Hero shrunk in his seat and clutched his shoulder. He’d worn a turtleneck to hide the curse-mark, but throughout the day, it had progressed to his jaw, flaring out in purple tendrils up his cheek and ear.
“Is this really the only way?”
“The only way you can afford,” Villain stated, sitting primly in his chair. He used his knuckle to push his glasses farther up his nose. “I am certified, you know, and have clinical experience. It’s not a risky procedure by any means.”
“Look, I’m not scared of doing it,” Hero picked at his collar, “it’s just—is there a clinic I can go to instead?”
“For a high price.” Villain answered, cocking his head to the side. He tapped his hand on his knee as he looked Hero over, noting the fluttering of his fingers and the jerking rhythm of his foot.
He smiled.
“Am I the cause of your apprehension?” He asked. “You know, I’ve done far worse than bite you. There’s no need to be nervous.”
Hero took a deep breath and wilted forward to brace his head in his hand. He’d read way too many racy vampire novels to take this seriously. Of course, Villain, in his little cardigan and pressed slacks, appeared the none the wiser to the implications of his words.
He didn’t even have the decency to look the part. In fact, he was practically the antithesis of dark and mysterious and even then, Hero couldn’t approach the situation with any level of rationality.
“Will it be quick?” He muttered into his palm.
“I will be efficient as possible.”
“Great,” Hero sighed, “do you want to this now or do I have to schedule?”
“Now would be preferable. I don’t want to leave you with that curse any longer.”
“Spectacular.” Hero lifted his head and leaned back. “You want my shirt off too?”
“Yes.” Villain frowned, then turned toward his cabinet. Hero didn’t know whether to be offended or not by his complete disinterest.
As Hero fumbled off his shirt, Villain sprayed an antiseptic in his mouth, and cleaned his fangs with an iodine swab. The preparation alleviated some of Hero’s nerves. There was absolutely nothing exciting about Villain ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes and struggling with the plastic.
Abruptly, that changed.
Villain approached Hero’s chair and leaned over, setting one hand on the arm and a knee on the edge of the seat cushion, pressed to Hero’s outer thigh.
“Woah, you want me to stand up or something?” Hero squawked.
“This is a good angle.”
“And you’re sure you want to do this?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t.” Villain answered plainly as he took off his glasses and set them on the side table.
Hero closed his eyes, unwilling to process to the view before him, of Villain crowding him in, shadow spilling over. Up close, the smell of antiseptic burned strong but was underlaid by more menial scents—spices, coffee and all the subtle notes that Hero never dared to think of, for fear of the humanity it lent Villain.
Villain pressed one of the alcohol pads along Hero’s shoulder, imbuing a dry chill into his skin. Hero jumped and Villain used a hand to steady him, pressing him into the back of the chair.
“Tell me or tap me if you don’t wish to continue the procedure at any time.”
Hero nodded, attempting to lean back with the force of Villain’s hand. This was simultaneously worse and better than any daydream he’d conjured about Villain.
“You will feel a pinch, but my saliva contains a natural analgesic, so there will—”
“Just bite me already.”
Villain lurched forward and bit down with speed that twisted Hero’s stomach.
The pain burned white-hot and quick. Though Hero yanked back, Villain’s hand and the back of the chair prevented him from moving far. Consolingly, Villain rubbed a hand along Hero’s bicep as he turned his face into a better position, cold nose skimming over Hero’s skin.
The acclaimed pain relief followed, like a fizzy chaser, buzzing along his skin and deep into the punctured muscle. He groaned and grabbed at Villain’s back before remembering Villain’s rule about tapping.
Villain tensed, jaw clicking, before starting to pry away.
In his haste to keep him still, Hero nearly smacked Villain’s head. He caught the back of Villain’s neck with a rigid hand.
“No, stay. I didn’t mean that.”
Immediately, Villain sunk back in. Hero swallowed a sound and dug his fingers into Villain’s nape, bracing for a pain he could no longer feel.
“This actually feels—it doesn’t feel that bad,” he babbled after a moment.
In response, Villain squeezed his arm.
“I was wondering, does my blood taste any different because I’m cursed? Moldy? Bitter?”
Villain hummed, tone indecipherable, the sound passing into Hero’s shoulder. He moved his other hand from the chair arm to the top cushion and Hero tried to keep still as more of Villain’s weight pressed down. Throughout the procedure, his grip had on his bicep had tightened—probably some latent instinct to keep prey in place—and Hero tried not tried to think too hard about that.
In the battlefield, surrounded by blood, Villain conducted himself calmly, barely twitching his nose when he had to transport wounded civilians. Hero trusted that he had control over his temptations.
A ripping noise sounded by Hero’s head.
/////
7.
Villain is an alien that can take away pain and other emotions. He helps Hero.
Hero holds his breath, pushes his tongue between his teeth and slips the needle in. The surgical thread gleams in the light as Hero draws it through his skin and back, away from from his thigh, lofting the needle high with a shaking hand.
Beneath his gloves, his hands grow slick with sweat. The back end of the needle digs into his softened, pruny fingertips.
“Are you able to finish this procedure?”
Villain’s voice startles Hero. The tension in his body pulls at the gash in his thigh—still so open, so red, so much blood dribbling past his knee—and Hero groans, taking a long breath.
At the sound, Villain leans forward. He hasn’t taken his eye off Hero’s wound since Hero shucked off his pants and crashed back into the pilot’s chair, fumbling the stitch kit onto his good leg.
Villain’s stare is clinical, cataloging Hero’s every movement: the shake in his knees, the dry swallows he takes to bite back the nausea. If Hero weren’t so focused on not losing any more blood, perhaps he would’ve yelled at him. Villain should’ve known enough about human culture by now to turn away.
“I’ll get it done.” Hero croaks.
There’s a steadiness to Villain’s stare, disquieting in the same manner as his posture—no blinking, no twitching, no breathing.
“I can help,” he offers, “with the pain.”
Hero stills, aware that his hand is still in the air trembling. The thread sweeps down into swollen flesh, into a sick of array of color. Fresh red, burning pink, fringed by the purple-yellow swell of a bruise.
He squeezes his eyes shut; his head is a sludge of ache, exhaustion and nausea.
“Take only the pain.” He whispers, bracing himself to look down again.
They don’t touch. Hero doesn’t let Villain touch him, because of what he is, of what he can do. Even if they have brokered a flimsy truce for this mission, he doesn’t want to give him access to his humanity. He’s given up enough as it is. Villain learns too quickly.
Villain doesn’t relay any of his normal human imitations to Hero. There’s no mimicked smiles or off-beat breaths, only a single, liquid movement that brings Villain forward, an inexplicably, down. He kneels before the captain’s chair and remembers to blink once he settles.
He looks to Hero as he raises his hand.
Hero’s brow glistens. His face tenses, a concert of creased skin, as Villain wraps his fingers over his knee. Then, his lips part, exhaling a terse breath
“Well, get on with it,” he grunts.
A pull, like vertigo, seems to drag his leg down and Hero grips the arm of the chair with his free hand. From knee to hip, the flesh prickles, like a weight’s been pressed down on his leg for far too long. The static builds into a violent white nose and Hero bites his tongue.
And then, nothing.
Hero’s relief stops short as Villain jerks, hand tightening, though Hero feels none of the pressure.
Hero hadn’t known Villain to be capable of tears. He’d never had the opportunity to study Hero in the act, but a wet sheen built beneath his eyes as he gazed at Hero. His lip trembled and he gasped for air, though he had no need for it, beholden to no instinct as pure as a human’s drive for breath.
Hero reached for Villain’s hand, which pulled into the flesh of his thigh.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Villain swallowed a pained sound. “I need to understand.”
That’s what his kind did, after all—witness, feel, then take. But most clung to humanity at their brightest, in times of laughter and glee, draining them of joy, stealing their ability to feel pleasure and excitement. Villain was always drawn to Hero’s smile. Once, when Hero had laughed, he’d sat down, curled his fingers around his knees, and stared at the stars streaming past for hours, though his shoulders and legs shook with the effort of his restraint.
“You don’t,” he pried at Villain’s hand, “not like this. Humans don’t learn pain like this.”
Pain was learned with aching gums and growing teeth; it was built with scraped knees and roughened palms. A part of him had been curious to see how Villain would react. He’d wanted to seek retribution for all the times he had bled when Villain had not, but Villain looked too human now. His breaths were skipping and wet, abbreviated by soft sobs.
He pulled at Villain’s hand, but it didn’t budge. Villain groaned softly and bent his head.
“Continue with your procedure. I will remain here.”
~~~
By the time Hero had finished, Villain had his head resting against the hand that braced Hero’s knee. He no longer wept, only trembled in intervals and squeezed Hero’s ankle. He barely stirred as Hero pulled off his gloves and set the stitch kit on the ground.
Hero wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt and then, patted Villain’s shoulder.
“Let go.”
Villain shot up and swayed, the pained turn of his lip dissolving and his brow smoothing. But tear tracks remained, tacky and glistening beneath the overhead lights.
Hero rose after him, nearly choking as pain twisted up his leg. Ache rooted down to his bone.
He stumbled and reached out to steady himself. He caught Villain’s arm and Villain stiffened, breath catching in time with Hero’s.
And in rush of pain and exhaustion, Hero leaned closer, slipping an arm around Villain’s back and pressing his brow into his collar. After everything, Villain deserved this, a glimpse of something painless.
Villain reacted immediately, greedily, fingers twisting into the back of Hero’s shirt. He pulled Hero onto his toes and pressed his face into Hero’s hair, quick breaths puffing along Hero’s scalp.
He knew, intrinsically, that most of Villain’s actions were a reflection of Hero’s emotions—his wants and thoughts transcribed onto Villain’s ever-changing skin. Hero wondered how much of the pressure, those fingers digging into his spine, was driven by his own sense of desperation. He’d been bereft of human contact ever since had embarked on this mission with Villain.
And for all that he was not human, Hero had still eyed Villain, when they parked on colder planets and the ship’s metal hull became imbued with a hollow chill. Hero wondered how warm, how human Villain would feel as he twisted his blankets with shivering hands.
Belatedly, he recognized the vertigo again, yanking at his leg and turning it to hot fuzz. Villain groaned and shoved his hand into Hero’s nape, lacing his fingers into Hero’s sweaty hair.
“Don’t do that.” Hero moved to push himself away but there was no room for leverage, with Villain holding him so tight. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Why else would you reach for me?” Villain asked, fingers digging into Hero’s skin.
