『 Enemies with Benefits 』
II. Sorry About the Ceiling
part one
@autocrats-in-love's prompt
IT IS MY BIRTHDAY 🎂 I am on my 26th rotation around the sun 🥹🥹🥹
And instead of being normal I am deciding to post an update instead because I make EXCELLENT life choices 😍🥰 Please consider this extra-fucking-long chapter my gift to you (and myself)
With love ❤❤❤
*~*~*~*
The guards were enormous.
They filled the doorway as they shoved them forward, rough hands at their backs and fists tangled in fabric. A rough bandage had already been slapped around the villain’s side somewhere along the way, the cloth darkening by the second.
One drove the hero ahead with a heavy palm between their shoulder blades, while another yanked the villain along by the collar. They stumbled over the threshold together, boots skidding on uneven stone.
“Careful,” the hero warned—
And then the guards released them.
The iron door slammed shut behind them, bolts slamming into place one by one with a heavy, echoing finality.
The hero caught themselves on one knee.
The villain, however, was not so fortunate.
They hit the opposite wall hard, the sound of bone striking stone sharp in the enclosed space, and then slowly slid down it, leaving a dark smear in their wake before settling in a crooked heap on the floor.
For a second, the only light came from the narrow viewing slot in the door, spilling in a thin bar across the ground.
It cut across the hero’s back as they stood.
They rolled one shoulder, wincing faintly, then let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh. “Well,” they said lightly, dusting their hands together, “as you said, that could’ve gone worse.”
The corridor outside echoed with the guard’s retreating footsteps, heavy and unhurried.
The hero glanced over their shoulder. “Did you see their face when you shot at—”
They let out a quiet huff, something almost like reluctant admiration slipping through. “I thought they were going to pop a vein.”
No response.
The hero leaned back against the door with a sigh, the light behind them outlining their figure in pale gold. “I mean, Villain, really, what was the plan there? Let’s antagonise the armed billionaire in their own home!” They snorted, running their fingers distractedly through their hair. “Ah, right. Classic strategy. How could I forget?”
Still nothing.
The hero frowned.
“Hey.”
They pushed off the door and crossed the cell in a few easy steps. “You okay, or are you planning to milk this for sympathy later?”
The villain’s head was tipped forward, chin nearly touching their chest. Their breathing came shallow and irregular, each inhale fighting its way in.
Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage the guards had roughly wrapped around their side, darkening the fabric in the low light.
“Villain.”
The joke drained from the hero’s face.
They crouched, fingers catching the villain’s shoulder to jostle them lightly. The body that slumped against their grip was heavier than expected, all resistance gone.
The villain’s lashes fluttered.
For a moment, their vision was nothing but blur and light. The world swam in and out of focus until it settled—crookedly—on the figure kneeling in front of them. The hero’s silhouette was haloed by that thin slice of corridor light, edges bright, face shadowed.
“You—” the villain breathed. “…Hero?”
“Yes, it’s me, I’m here—hey. Hey? Villain? …Vil? Public nuisance. Can you hear me?”
The villain tried to straighten and failed. Their hand twitched uselessly at their side before slipping away, leaving fresh red in its wake.
The hero followed the motion and stilled.
The blood wasn’t slowing.
It had soaked through everything, crept down fabric, pooled beneath them in a slow, steady spread. Every uneven breath reopened what the superhero’s bullet had torn through.
The hero swallowed.
“Damn…” they muttered to themselves. “Das not good.”
No familiar smirk answered that.
The villain’s head rolled faintly against the stone. Their eyes were glassy now, struggling to stay fixed on anything. The light behind the hero fractured into pieces.
“Hold on,” the hero muttered. “Hey—Villain—”
They slid an arm behind their back, hauling them upright before they could slump sideways. The motion tore a small, involuntary sound from the villain’s throat.
The hero felt it like a hook under their ribs.
“Hey.” Their hand came up, patting the villain’s cheek once, then harder. “Open your eyes.”
The villain obeyed, barely. Their lashes trembled with the effort.
“Tired,” they managed, voice fading at the edges.
“No.” The word came out too fast. “No, you’re not.”
They pressed their palm to the soaked bandage and felt heat beneath it. Too much of it. The wet warmth seeped between their fingers.
The hero closed their eyes.
For one suspended second, they hesitated.
Could they call for help? The villain was fading fast. They could summon the guards stationed just outside. They were so close.
—And yet so far. They’d take one look at the villain and laugh in their face, leave them to bleed out while the hero watched helplessly, wouldn’t they?
…Right. Of course they would.
The hero exhaled sharply. Healing this was going to hurt like a bitch.
It always did.
“Fantastic,” they muttered under their breath.
They shifted, pulling the villain closer into their lap. The villain slumped forward against them without resistance, their sweat-soaked shirt dampening the hero’s shoulder almost immediately.
One hand fisted in the fabric, yanking it up enough to expose the wound while the other tore the ruined bandage away. Fresh blood welled up, hot and slick, and they braced the villain against them with one arm as their palm settled flat over the torn flesh.
“Don’t,” the villain almost begged, trying weakly to push them away.
“You lost your voting rights when you got yourself shot,” the hero bit out.
The air in the cell turned thick and metallic, humming faintly as green light flowed from the hero’s palm into the torn flesh, spiraling outward in threads that wrapped around them both and illuminated them against the darkness of the cell.
Outside, boots approached.
Neither of them noticed.
The glow deepened, bright and electric, pulsing with the hero’s erratic heartbeat. The villain’s body arched weakly under their grip, breath snagging in their chest as ruined muscle drew together, as if stitched by invisible hands. The hero bowed over them, jaw clenched so tight a vein stood out along their temple.
Footsteps stopped just beyond the door.
A low murmur. A bored voice. The scrape of a clipboard changing hands.
“Rotation,” someone muttered.
“Yeah, yeah. Anything exciting?”
“Just Boss’ favourites.”
A quiet snort.
Inside, the villain’s breath caught hard in their chest as the last of the wound sealed. The green light flared once—brighter, almost violent—before sinking inward and disappearing.
The recoil struck like a blade sliding home, even as the hero expected it.
They folded inward with a strangled gasp as pain bloomed through their side, hot and invasive, spreading in a widening stain beneath their shirt. Their fingers spasmed where they clutched the villain’s abdomen, nails digging unintentionally into newly healed skin hard enough to draw a hiss before the grip slackened slightly—though they didn’t let go.
Outside, the departing guards’ footsteps faded up the corridor.
A new set remained.
The cell settled into silence.
The villain lay limp for a heartbeat too long.
Then—
A slow, full inhale expanded their chest.
The hero didn’t immediately register it. Their forehead was nearly resting against the villain’s shoulder now, their breathing shallow and uneven as they forced themself to stay upright through sheer stubbornness.
The villain stirred first, their lashes fluttering.
Their focus sharpened as they slowly regained their bearings, shifting as a hand moved to their abdomen instinctively. Fingers brushed their shirt, matted with dried blood, then slid beneath it—
—and stopped.
No wound.
Their fingers pressed again, harder.
Nothing.
They looked up.
The hero was still half-curled over them, breathing shallow, blood spreading through their shirt in a mirror of what had just vanished from the villain’s own body.
The villain’s gaze dropped—
—and stilled on the hero’s hands.
Angry red marks marred their palms, darkening along the fingertips like they’d been burned from the inside out.
Oh.
“…What did you do?” the villain said hoarsely.
Their eyes dragged over the blood, the burns, the shaking hands—
“…You idiot.”
The hero forced a smile. Judging by the result, their face strongly disagreed with the idea. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You’re alive. That counts.”
“That’s debatable.”
The hero tried to pull back, but the villain caught their wrists—careful not to touch the burns—and held them fast, watching them carefully.
“Easy,” the villain said, and for once the word carried no mockery. They shifted their weight, letting the hero lean into them instead of the other way around. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”
At this rate, the hero’s eyes were going to get stuck in the back of their head.
“Yes, that tends to happen,” they commented dryly.
“I’ll take care of you,” the villain said cheerfully.
“Like hell you will,” the hero yelled, appalled. Bloody hell, they were definitely dying in here!
The villain didn’t reply immediately, their gaze dropping to the spreading red beneath the hero’s shirt and lingering there a fraction too long. Their grip tightened, thumb pressing near the edge of the stain.
Something like unease flickered across their expression, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
The hero frowned faintly. “What?”
“Nothing,” the villain said quickly—too quickly.
Their eyes lifted again. Whatever had been there a moment ago vanished behind something more familiar, and the edge of a smile returned—smaller, sharper.
“Well,” they said lightly, brushing nonexistent dust from the hero’s shoulder, “this complicates things.”
The hero squinted at them, studying them like they didn’t quite trust what they were seeing.
“Okay… So. What were you doing here?”
The villain grinned. “In a closet?”
The hero held back the urge to reach out and just strangle the villain. “In my boss’ house,” they bit out instead, “with the alarms disabled and security missing and all. You weren’t snooping for fun.”
The villain tilted their head, considering them as if weighing how much to offer.
“You wound me,” they sighed dramatically at last, turning away and conveniently hiding their face from the hero. “I always snoop for fun.”
“Don’t.”
The villain’s gaze sharpened for a split second, before their usual easy arrogance snapped back into place. The hero caught it.
“Fine,” the villain sighed, leaning back against the wall.
They shifted awkwardly as they did, clearly not as steady as they were pretending to be. Healing or not, the blood loss had left them sluggish; the movement taking longer than it should have. They dragged the hero with them, pulling them down so they were half-leaning against the villain’s shoulder.
“Oi! —Watch it—”
The villain already tugged the edge of their shirt aside.
“I was looking for something.”
The hero stilled their fidgeting. “What?”
The villain didn’t answer immediately. Their fingers pressed experimentally against the blood blooming through the hero’s shirt and they let out a pained hiss, swatting the hand away.
“A trinket.” A shrug.
The villain’s other hand moved to their own sleeve. The fabric was stiff with dried blood nearer the cuff, but higher up it was still intact. They caught the seam between their teeth and yanked, tearing off a long strip with a rough rip that echoed faintly in the small cell.
“Important to someone,” they continued, voice steady despite the way they had to pause for a breath. “Not you,” they clarified.
“That narrows it down to literally the entire planet.”
The villain’s grin sharpened at that—familiar, almost fond—even as their hands began wrapping the torn fabric firmly around the hero’s side.
“See? This is why I keep you around.” They pulled the strip tighter.
The hero hissed. “Careful—”
“Stop moving.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
They pulled the bandage tighter.
“Are you tryna fucking kill me?!?”
“Finishing the job,” the villain snickered.
The hero shifted slightly against the wall, breath tight. “...You didn’t answer me. What was it?”
A beat.
The villain sobered, tying the cloth off with fingers that were just slightly slower than usual. The knot held firm after a second attempt.
Then they glanced toward the door as if checking the time, before looking back at the hero.
“Let’s call it… a contingency plan.” They gave the bandage one last testing press. “Small. Discreet. Powerful enough to make very rich people nervous.”
The hero’s stomach tightened.
“You found it?” they asked quietly.
The villain’s gaze lingered on them for a long second.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.”
Now the hero was really going to strangle them. “Alright, look at these hands very carefully, you little shit—”
“Touching,” a voice drawled from just outside the cell.
Both of them jerked.
The villain’s head snapped toward the door so fast it was almost comical, shoulders tensing as if bracing for another shot.
A shadow shifted behind the narrow viewing slot.
“You two done cuddling?” the guard continued lazily. “Or should I give you a minute?”
The villain stared at the door.
Not startled, exactly.
But their expression tightened, recognition flickering across their features before being hurriedly smoothed away.
“…Do I know you?” they called back, tone returning to airy indifference a fraction too late.
A soft chuckle answered them.
“Oh,” the guard said. “You might.”
The hero felt the villain’s hand curl slightly against their sleeve.
The guard didn’t move from the door. For a long second, neither did the villain. They only leaned back against the wall, like someone waiting for a train that was mildly late, arms folded, expression irritatingly calm.
Then, (to the hero’s alarm) a soft huff of laughter escaped them.
“Of course,” the villain murmured.
The hero glanced between the door and the villain, brow furrowing.
Metal scraped softly.
The viewing slot slid open just enough for one sharp eye to peer through.
“You look terrible,” the guard said conversationally.
The villain’s mouth twitched upward. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
The hero blinked slowly. “I’m sorry, what—”
The lock disengaged.
Quietly at first, then with a sequence of heavy mechanical clicks. One bolt slid back, then another, until the door that had sounded so final minutes ago gave a reluctant creak and swung inward.
The guard stepped inside and shut it behind them softly.
Up close, the uniform was spotless, pressed so sharply it looked untouched by the rest of the house.
“You’re bleeding,” the guard observed, nodding towards the hero.
“’S not my fault,” the hero scowled.
The villain pushed off the wall and rose to their feet (with surprising ease for someone who had been bleeding out on the floor not long ago), striding forward and clapping the guard on the shoulder like they’d just met for drinks instead of a prison break.
“You disabled the cameras?”
“For the next four minutes,” the guard replied. “After that I’d prefer not to test Superhero’s patience.”
The hero straightened abruptly, eyes narrowing at the villain suspiciously. “Since when are you all buddy-buddy with Superhero’s people?”
The guard smiled.
It was familiar.
The villain’s grin widened.
“Superhero’s people?” the guard echoed lightly. “Oh, sweetheart.”
The villain brushed past the hero and headed for the door. “Try to keep up,” they said, smirking over their shoulder. “This one’s mine.”
The hero stared.
“You have a plant.”
“A henchman,” the villain corrected.
The henchman was already scanning the hallway. “Now that you mention it, you won’t be seeing me around again anytime soon, Boss,” they murmured as they stepped carefully outside. “Superhero’s starting to suspect me. Not anything huge, they’re just… restricting my assignments, double-checking where I go, asking a lot of pointed questions about who I meet, which missions I take. Little things. Enough to make me twitchy.”
The villain laughed, shaking their head. “Ah, subtle pressure. My favourite form of scrutiny. Keeps life interesting.”
The hero frowned, crossing their arms. “So basically, you’re on probation?”
“Something like that,” the henchman said with a dry chuckle, glancing back at the villain. “I fudge a detail here, deflect a question there… but they’re paying attention now.”
The villain gave a soft whistle, ducking under the low cell door and brushing past the henchman, just enough to peer out into the corridor with wide eyes. “Ah, so Superhero’s watching you as much as I’m watching them. I like it.”
Unlike the dungeon, the rest of the house felt… absurdly comfortable. Warm lights lined the walls, the thick carpet muffled their footsteps, and paintings rattled faintly as they moved past.
“All clear,” the henchman said.
The villain followed, then cast a questioning glance back when the hero didn’t.
“I just—need a second.” The hero steeled themselves, pushing off the wall.
Their legs nearly folded under them.
The villain clicked their tongue.
“Oh no you don’t.”
Before the hero could protest, the villain slid an arm firmly around their waist and hauled them upright.
The hero stiffened. “I can walk, idiot!”
“I’m sure you can,” the villain replied easily, steering them towards the door anyway. “Just maybe not quickly.”
Voices echoed somewhere deeper in the house.
“And right now,” the villain added, “speed is really the theme of the evening.”
The henchman waved impatiently. “Move.”
They hurried down the corridor together.
The hero limped, propped up whether they liked it or not. The villain kept up a firm pace beside them, steering them through hallway after hallway after the henchman. Warm light from the wall sconces stretched their shadows across the polished floor.
“You could’ve mentioned the backup plan,” the hero said, breathless.
“And ruin the surprise?” the villain said lightly. “Where’s the fun in that? Speaking of, Henchman—do you have an actual plan?” the villain whispered.
“Don’t die. Don’t kill anyone. Get out.”
“Vague. I like it.”
They rounded the corner—
—and skidded to a stop.
At the far end of the corridor stood a familiar figure.
A tailored suit, crisp and severe, catching the golden light in muted sheens. Hands tucked into pockets, they were frowning at a painting hung slightly crooked on the wall—a portrait of Julius Caesar, toga and laurel crown meticulously detailed, glaring as if judging the corridor itself.
“Really, Caesar?” the superhero muttered under their breath, before reaching out to straighten the painting.
Then they stepped over to adjust the next one, completely oblivious to their audience.
The three of them froze, afraid even a breath might give them away.
“Don’t run,” the henchman breathed.
They stepped backward until they were pressed close together.
Too late to retreat. Too far to sprint.
“Don't move," they muttered.
The air shifted.
There was no flash of light or dramatic ripple, only a subtle distortion, as though the corridor had grown momentarily uninterested in acknowledging the space they occupied. The lamps flickered faintly, their glow warping just enough that the three figures vanished into the background of their own surroundings.
The henchman’s breath hitched, jaw tightening as they held it there, fingers curling slightly at their sides, and the air pressed strangely against the skin—a faint, prickling wrongness, like standing half a step out of sync with the world.
The hero glanced down.
“Bloody hell—” they hissed under their breath.
They flexed their fingers, and they could feel them, their hands weren’t gone—but all they saw was empty air, the light bending faintly the only signal something was there.
The superhero began walking.
Each step was unhurried, measured, the sound of their shoes striking the floor echoing down the hallway.
Closer.
Closer.
Then they stopped.
Directly in front of them.
The superhero’s gaze lifted slightly.
And fixed exactly where the hero’s face should have been.
The hero swallowed.
There was no painting behind them for the superhero to fix.
The corridor went silent.
The henchman’s fingers tightened, gulping as they held the distortion around them steady.
The hero felt their own pulse hammering in their ears, painfully loud in the silence.
The villain didn’t breathe.
Seconds stretched thin.
The superhero studied the empty air.
A crease formed between their brows.
They tilted their head.
Another long second passed.
...Then the superhero exhaled, dragging a hand slowly down their face.
“Paranoid,” they murmured to themself. “Seeing things now.”
They stepped forward, their sleeve brushing the air just inches from the villain’s shoulder as they walked past.
The footsteps continued down the hall, turned the corner, and slowly faded into the distance.
The distortion vanished abruptly.
All three of them exhaled at once.
The henchman's shoulders sagged. “Okay. I hate that.”
“Well,” the villain said quietly, eyes lingering on the empty hallway even after the superhero had gone. “That would’ve been awkward.”
The hero opened their mouth, and right on cue—
—the entire house erupted into sound.
Red lights flashed along the corridor, and a shrill siren rang through the house with enough volume to rattle the paintings on the walls.
A voice crackled over the speakers.
“Security breach in lower level. All units respond.”
The hero stared. “Did—did we do that?”
“Unless someone else escaped the dungeons in the last ten seconds, yes,” the villain said cheerfully.
Boots thundered somewhere above them.
The villain tightened their arm around the hero’s waist. “Time to go.”
They ran.
The house felt very different now—bright lights flaring, doors slamming shut in distant hallways, guards shouting to one another over the wail of the alarms.
They tore through corridor after corridor.
The hero staggered as the pain flared suddenly through their side.
The villain caught them easily, steadying them without breaking stride.
“Easy there, ma vie*,” the villain said, hauling them along with surprising steadiness. “Try not to die before we reach the exit. It’d really ruin the mood.”
“I hate you—” the hero began, with no real bite to it.
“Join the club.”
“—And I’m not dying.” The hero looked away.
“Good. Because carrying you is already cutting into my escape speed.”
The henchman glanced back while sprinting ahead—and did a visible double take at their pace.
“Run! Run for your life, you slow fucks!” they snapped. “Why can’t you run faster?!”
“Oi!” the villain shot back indignantly. “I’m hauling dead weight!”
“I heard that—” the hero protested.
“Less flirting, more running!”
They rounded one corner.
Then another.
The alarms grew louder, lights flashing red now as security doors began slamming shut in distant corridors.
“Left!” the henchman called.
They skidded around the corner—
—and lurched to a sudden halt.
The corridor ended in a door. Just a perfectly ordinary wooden one with a polished brass handle and those same stupid little gold patterns curling around the frame.
The hero gestured. “That it?”
“That’s it,” the henchman confirmed.
Boots thundered closer behind them.
The hero didn’t hesitate—they limped forward and grabbed the handle, ignoring the sharp protest of burnt skin. They twisted.
The handle turned.
The hero pulled.
Nothing happened.
They frowned.
Pulled harder.
The door gave a faint, stubborn creak—and stopped.
The hero yanked it again, sharper this time, teeth clenched.
Nothing.
A beat.
They pushed against it instead. Harder. A violent rattling now—handle jerking back and forth, the whole door shuddering in its frame with dull, useless thuds.
The hero cursed under their breath.
Behind them—
“They’re cornered!”
Rifles clicked.
The villain stared. “Why isn’t it opening?”
“I don’t know,” the hero snapped, still wrestling the handle like it had insulted their entire bloodline.
They braced a foot against the wall and yanked.
The door groaned.
Stayed shut.
“Oh my god,” the henchman said, already rubbing their eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s stuck,” the hero bit out.
“It’s a door.”
“Yes, thank you, I noticed!”
“Then open it!”
“I am—”
The hero twisted the handle again and this time leaned their full weight into it, shoulder slamming against the wood.
Thunk.
Nothing.
They stepped back, stared at it, then grabbed the handle with both hands and shook it like they were trying to rip it out of the frame.
“Open!” they snapped.
The door remained unmoved.
The villain clicked their tongue and nudged the hero back with a hand at their shoulder.
“Step aside, peasants,” they said. “You're about to witness greatness.”
The villain grabbed the handle and wrenched it sideways—
—and it came clean off in their hands.
All three of them froze.
“What the fuck?” the hero hissed.
A beat.
They slowly dragged their gaze up from the misfortune, meeting the villain’s eyes.
“Fool, you broke it!”
“I broke—you were the one mauling it!”
“I was working it—there’s a difference—”
The henchman dragged both hands down their face. “Oh my god.”
Behind them—
“Move in!”
Boots hit the floor at a sprint.
The villain held up the detached handle. “Shit. What now?!”
The henchman stepped forward, shouldering both of them aside. “Move.”
They grabbed what remained of the mechanism, tried the latch, shoved the door hard once—
It didn’t budge.
They went still.
“…Oh, we’re actually goners.”
Behind them, the pounding footsteps were right there.
“Last warning!” a voice shouted.
The henchman turned, very slowly, to look at the villain.
The villain looked back.
A long, deeply offended silence.
Then—
“You know,” the villain said, rubbing their temples, “sometimes I feel very unappreciated around here.”
“Break it,” the henchman said.
“Gladly.”
The villain rolled their shoulders, stepped forward—
“Stand back.”
“I already don’t like this plan,” the hero muttered, glowering at the useless handle.
“You’re going to love the results.”
A breath.
“Every time,” the villain sighed—
—and drove their fist straight through the door.
Stone erupted outward in a violent burst, plaster and wallpaper flying in every direction as a thick cloud of dust billowed into the air. The wall gave way, leaving a jagged opening to the night.
The villain shook out their hand, breath hitching slightly as their knuckles split and blood beaded across the skin, then smeared it over like it hadn’t happened.
Cold air rushed in, fogging their breaths.
Freedom.
The henchman nodded approvingly. “Thank you.”
They strode through the rubble first.
The villain stepped aside, sweeping an exaggerated bow in the hero’s direction. “After you.”
“Not funny,” the hero snapped as they limped past.
“I’m hilarious.”
The hero cleared the opening.
The villain stepped through behind them—
And a crack sounded from the ceiling.
The sound was small at first, just a sharp splinter above their head.
The hero turned.
The villain looked up. “Superhero’s tit—!”
The overhead beam snapped, the ceiling giving way in a deafening avalanche.
The hero barely had time to react before the villain shoved them harshly backwards—
“Go!”
—and then the rubble crashed down.
Stone and timber slammed into the villain, driving them to the ground. The impact punched the air from their lungs, vision bursting white—then dimming, edges already fraying into something darker. Weight followed, relentless and crushing, grinding them into the floor as debris piled on, pinning their legs, their hips, something in their side that screamed the moment they tried to breathe.
For a second—just a second—everything went quiet.
Then sound came rushing back in, muffled and distant, like they were already slipping somewhere too far away to reach it properly.
Their vision flickered.
Black crept in at the edges, slow and patient, swallowing the world piece by piece.
The villain blinked hard against it, jaw tightening. No. Not yet.
Outside, the hero hit the ground hard, scrambling upright as dust exploded through the broken wall.
“Where’s—”
A hand twitched in the rubble.
The hero lunged forward, dropping to their knees beside them. “Hey—hey, stay with me—”
The villain’s eyes dragged toward them, unfocused for a moment before catching. Their breath stuttered, shallow and wrong, each inhale catching like it had to fight its way in.
“Mm—” They swallowed, voice barely cooperating. “You… you should go.”
“Absolutely not,” the hero snapped, already trying to haul debris aside. It didn’t budge.
The villain’s lips twitched faintly, something like a smile ghosting there.
“Tch. Bad at following instructions…” they murmured.
The darkness surged again, heavier this time, pressing in at the corners of their vision until the hero’s face blurred, doubled.
Voices thundered from inside the house.
The henchman turned sharply. “Guards—”
The villain’s fingers twitched uselessly against the rubble, like they were trying to reach for them and couldn’t quite manage it.
“Go,” they said again, softer now. It came out uneven, breath hitching between the word. “They won’t—” A cough cut them off, rough and dry. “Won’t let them hurt you. I can—”
Their voice faltered.
The black swallowed more of the world. The ceiling above them wavered, then dimmed, like a light flickering out.
“I can handle it,” they forced out, quieter now, almost slurred at the edges. “Like before… okay?”
The hero’s hands stilled for just a second at that.
Something tight and furious flickered across their face.
“Don’t—” they started, voice breaking despite themself. “Don’t say it like that—”
Inside, the shouts were right there now. Orders barked, weapons shifting.
The henchman grabbed the hero’s arm. “We have seconds.”
“I’m not leaving them!” the hero snarled.
The villain let out the faintest breath of something that might have been a laugh, though it barely had sound behind it.
“Yeah,” they whispered. “You are.”
Their eyes slipped, struggling to stay open now, focus dragging.
“C’mon, Hero,” they murmured, softer still. “Be good for once… listen to me…”
The henchman swore under their breath.
“Sorry.”
The hero lunged forward. “No—wait—!”
The henchman tackled them.
They came in from the side, a shoulder driving hard into the hero’s ribs, angled to turn them away from the collapse rather than straight through it.
Pain detonated through the hero’s injury, breath snapping out of them as they staggered back.
Their face snapped toward the henchman, eyes blown wide, something frantic and unsteady burning through them—almost inhuman, sending a sharp chill down the henchman’s spine.
The hero pivoted forwards, driving a tight hook up at close range, full force—fist cracking across the henchman’s jaw, their head snapping sideways, stumbling back a half-step as they groaned—
The hero dropped back down toward the rubble—
—and was wrenched back hard.
An arm locked around their middle and dragged them away from the villain in one brutal motion, crushing straight across the bandage. Pain punched through them, hot and immediate, folding them in on instinct with a gasp even as they twisted violently in the hold.
“Don’t—don’t do this—” the henchman snapped low, grip tightening as the hero fought.
“Let go—!”
They drove their elbow back, aiming for the diaphragm. It hit hard, the henchman’s breath breaking on it, their grip slipping—
The hero tore free, wrenching sideways out of it with a stumble that nearly dropped them as their side screamed, something warm spreading under the bandage.
Too slow.
Still too slow.
They lurched forward again, catching themself on the edge of the fallen beam, fingers scraping against splintered wood as they tried to shift it.
Angle it. Lift from the break. Don’t just pull—
“Villain—” Their voice hitched, dragged thin. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m not leaving you—”
A hand fisted in the back of their jacket and yanked them back viciously.
The pull ripped them off the rubble, wrenching through their torso and dragging a broken sound out of them as they were hauled backward again, balance snapping.
The hero didn’t fight the pull—turning with it instead—and drove their forehead straight into the henchman’s face.
A sickening crack.
Both of them reeled.
Stars burst across the hero’s vision.
The henchman staggered back with a curse, hands flying to their face. Blood blossomed between their fingers, dripping down to their lips.
A hot, metallic smear ran across the hero’s forehead, sticky against their skin where it had landed.
“You fucking—whelp—” the henchman hissed, clutching their nose, eyes wild, breath rough with effort.
The hero twisted, already rebalancing, trying to break the hold before it reset, swinging back hard, all force sharpened by scorching intent now.
“Get off—”
Their wrist was caught mid-strike.
Time stretched.
The hero’s eyes caught the henchman’s—a microsecond of hesitation, a tilt in their stance. Every micro-movement screamed the next move and the hero knew it was pointless to beg.
They braced instead.
The henchman twisted it back.
Pain flared white-hot, up their arm and through their side in the same instant, forcing a sharp gasp out of them as their body turned with it, pulled off balance, pulled into the hold instead of out of it—
The henchman swept in, closing the distance.
An arm came tight across their chest, pinning them back flush, right over the injury. The pressure drove the breath out of them again, shallow and uneven as they tried to twist free and only made it worse.
“Stop moving,” the henchman hissed. “You’re only further injuring yourself.”
The hero didn’t stop. They couldn’t—
—think.
They lunged again, flailing, their arms trapped tight against their sides by the unyielding grip—
Cool metal slid under their jaw.
The movement stalled.
The blade settled at their throat, wickedly sharp.
The hero jerked instinctively—
The edge pressed in, a sharp sting of heat trickling down their throat where it cut.
Their breath hitched hard as their head was forced back with it, throat exposed, chin tipped up just enough that any movement would drive them straight into it. Air caught high in their chest, shallow and sharp, the hero suddenly hyper-aware of every inhale, now measured against the pressure at their neck.
“Enough.”
Rocks shifted and clattered as the guards’ voices pierced the dust, edging nearer through the wreckage.
Closer.
The hero’s gaze snapped forward—to the rubble, to the villain—
The villain didn’t look at them.
Or maybe they couldn’t.
No.
No, that wasn’t—
Something in the hero broke loose.
“—HEY—!” It tore out of them before they could stop it, raw, cracking. “Hey, look at me—!”
The knife pressed tighter.
A hand clamped over their mouth at the same time, sudden and solid, cutting the sound off mid-breath.
A hiss—“Be quiet.”
Right against their ear. No space for anything else.
The hero’s body wrenched against both restraints, a sharp, desperate movement—sound muffled uselessly against the henchman’s palm, breath breaking hot and uneven through their nose as they tried to force something out, anything—
The blade didn’t move.
Their head stayed tipped back against it.
Dust shifted over the rubble.
The hero’s eyes burned.
They leaned forward recklessly anyway, just a millimetre.
Just enough to feel the knife follow.
“Don’t,” the henchman said, lower now, steadier, their hand still firm over the hero’s mouth, breath close and controlled despite everything.
The hero’s fingers clenched into fists.
There—
They could get leverage if they just—
Their whole body pulled forward in small, stubborn increments, every inch dragging at their side, every breath catching against the pressure at their throat, the need to move, to get to the villain still there, still pushing—
“Mmph—” It broke uselessly against the henchman’s hand.
The grip tightened.
“If they hear you,” the henchman said quietly, right there against their ear, “they die for nothing.”
The words landed heavy, final.
The hero stilled. No.
No—
No no no NONONONONO—
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. The henchman was fucking lying right now! See, they could see the villain shift there—just—just a little. Fucking liar!
The hero felt hot tears well up and hit their cheeks, trickling down and caught by the henchman’s hand.
At last, their body went fully slack in the henchman’s hold.
NO—THE VILLAIN WAS RIGHT THERE—THEY WERE ALIVE! THEY HAD TO BE ALIVE!
Behind them, the hold shifted—firmer, braced around the hero’s shaking.
“I’m sorry,” the henchman said again, quieter now.
The air bent.
The invisibility field snapped into place, folding them both beyond the wall and into darkness just as the sound of boots hit the night air.
Guards flooded into the ruined corridor moments later.
Rifles raised, dust swirling in the flashing lights.
They stopped when they saw the villain pinned beneath the debris.
One of them lowered their weapon slowly.
“Uh…”
Footsteps approached behind them, calm and measured.
The superhero stepped through the shattered wall.
The guards moved aside immediately.
They took in the demolition in one sweeping glance.
The villain looked up at them from beneath the rubble, dust coating their hair and lashes and coat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the villain gave a crooked smile.
“Eh… sorry. About the mess,” they croaked, throat ragged from the dust. “Y’know, I’m starting to think… punching structural walls wasn’t my—cough—best long-term strategy.”
The superhero folded their arms.
“And yet,” they replied calmly, “you keep doing it.”
*~*~*~*
*ma vie = my life. The hero doesn't know French lol
Hehehe… so what exactly was the villain after in the superhero's house?Or should I say, who? >:)
I am happy to say the story is written all the way to the end, and there is a lot of whump lore 🥰 and angst wordbuilding, of course of course, mmm 😇😌 so chapters will simply be edited from here on out for posting hehehe
Thank you all very very much for the love and kind words, I think about them every single day :D It is very very encouraging <3<3<3
Taglist (lmk if you want to be added or removed!): @fa1rie @whumporama @chaotic-orphan @doctorsawyer @elfwhump @wherethewhumpgoes @scoundrelwithboba @gods-mistaken-existence @betareading1 @castell-da-near @neon-kazoo
