Concept: Superhero daughter & supervillain dad. Neither of them knows the identity of the other — she thinks he’s working late nights at the office and he thinks she’s at her hobbies or at her friend’s place while really, they are right there in front of each other. Just behind the anonymity of masks.
They have almost killed each other more times than they can count, the only thing stopping her from doing so being her morals, and the only thing stopping him being her knack for getting out of his death traps.
He has had her trapped so, so many times. There have been bombs, ticking away, and lasers, and vats of acid, and mutated, ravenous beasts waiting to be released on her, and a labyrinth that leads to all kinds of death, and so many machines and devices and weapons built for the sole purpose of killing her — not just killing, but killing her, specifically. He has mapped out every single known power and talent and personality trait and past decision of hers and wrapped contingencies upon contingencies around her until he’s certain he finally has her.
He has loomed over her, breathing heavily from excitement, the long-awaited thrill of domination, savoring those sweet moments just before the assumed final victory over her. He has leered at the strong, beautiful, powerful body rendered powerless with restraints or drugs or both. He’s always a little bit surprised by how young she looks up close, and mentally applauds himself for having raised his own daughter better, more proper that this impudent little superslut. For one thing, his little girl would never wear something like that, tightly licking every curve and muscle and crevice, and tempting him to postpone destroying her body.
She has looked defiant, every single time, even if sometimes it really has been only a little more than a look. But she has not always been able to suppress a shiver when he has run his gloved hand up her thigh or down her spine and the curve of her ass, ghosting over her barely-clothed cunt. Teasing to add one final humiliation to her predicament, to have the shining hero die a painful and pathetic death with a wet mess inside her stupid suit.
Sometimes, when he has leaned close, masked face practically nuzzling into the side of her head as he has savored his almost-victory, she has felt an odd flicker of familiarity. It could just be that they have done this dance many times before. It’s a routine, almost.
But that doesn’t explain the odd warmth, lingering in her heart like some vestigial instinct. It’s almost unnoticeable amongst the anger and fear and loathing and shame she feels around him, but it’s still there when he touches her, condescending or cruel or painful as it might be. When he presses against her and whispers in her ear of her defeat, how she’s now his, all his, and of all the horrible things that are going to happen to her and how he just can’t wait to see her humiliated and broken and helpless and torn apart, some part of her has felt like it belonged there — not awaiting the death trap to spring into action, necessarily, but under his mercy. Held by him, if only as a captive.
She escapes every time, of course, and he flies into a rage that gets a henchman or two maimed, of course.
They both go home to each other, masks and suits hidden inside a backpack and a briefcase. He grumbles about a difficult day at work, but he drops that the second he notices that today’s one of those days when his daughter is more quiet than usual. Shaken. He doesn’t know the reason for it, but he nevertheless gathers her into his arms, suggests they order pizza, maybe watch a movie — no need to let her see the news about today, those would just upset her more.
She’s only paying half of her attention to the TV screen — Darth Vader capturing princess Leia’s ship — while she wraps her arms around her dad, breathing in his scent. His hands brush through her hair, gently. She’s pressing against a bruise on his side that he got earlier, but it doesn’t matter. He just bites down the dull pain, and turns his focus to his little girl, making sure she’s comfortable. Unknown to him, there are just as many bruises on her body underneath the oversized sweatshirt.
The father and daughter cuddle each other and joke and talk of mundane, safe, nice little things, while each tries their best to forget their arch enemy, at least for tonight.
