Could you write vampire hero×villain, if you want of course.I thought it would be cool and I really like your writing:))
"Do you think," the villain panted, "that fighting me balances your scales? That brandishing your violence in the name of some ideological good makes up for the parasite you are?"
The words would have cut deep, would have made them feel blistered beneath the all-seeing light of the sun, if the hero wasn't somewhat distracted by the blood dripping down the villain's chin.
It was a (not) funny thing. No matter how far they came in their self-control, there was always a moment when the blood pulled at something animal in them.
They wanted to suck the blood off the villain's lower lip.
They wanted to bite the soft skin of their slightly trembling thighs.
Taste the pulse roaring with the villain's cruel bravado.
The villain laughed, acidly, breathlessly, immediately noticing the hero's preoccupation. They licked their own lips cleaned, grinned to bear their bloody teeth.
"What would you even do," they said, "if I spilled a citadel of blood for you? Would you even be able to think straight, saviour?"
The hero took a stalking step closer, then another, and then in a blur the villain was right there and the hero had shoved them hard against the wall. All heat and flesh and bloodbloodblood pumping. Oh, how the villain's heart was hammering.
The villain swallowed. Primal terror and something else, darker, recognisable from the cages in the hero's own soul.
"God," they whispered, venomously, adoringly, "look at you. You monster."
It was true. They were a monster. A parasite. A vampire desperate to do enough good in their eternity to wipe out the thing they were, the blood they demanded, just by existing.
The villain looked at them like they were god, or death, and maybe it was the same thing. Most people just looked frightened.
Still.
"No," the hero said. "I think nothing will even my scales. I think compared to me, you're still a good little kid, cowering beneath teh bedsheets, afraid of the dark."
The villain faltered. They bit their lip. Their eyes were wide and wild in the gloom.
The hero leaned in, and the villain's breath betrayed them by hitching.
"But I'm trying," the hero said. They let their fangs graze against the villain's frantic pulse. "And yes, I think that counts for something. Maybe you should consider trying to be your best self too, hm? You have a dreadfully short life to be remembered for."
They bit down. They drank. They felt the villain groan, felt them squirm like they still remembered what power was. Then, when they were dazed and limp and incapable of hurting anyone else, the hero pulled back.
They took a moment to steady themselves.
The blood was rich on their tongue. The villain's memories lingered in the back of their brain like an after taste, complex and sad, already fading.
The hero felt human again. Raw. Messy. Bursting.
"You're under arrest," the hero said, soft, a little fond despite themselves. "Come along."
In hindsight, the more predatory parts of the hero thought it was a little cute that the villain had referred to it as a fight at all.
