A hero/villain piece

The Villain stood surveying the view, a cup of honeyed darjeeling held in their right hand. Mozart’s Requime played in the background. They’d always loved the city at night, but… there was something to be said for viewing it from a penthouse. They pressed the china tea cup to their lips, poised to take a sip, when a muffled groan came from behind them, followed by creaking ropes.

“Struggling will do you no good, I’m afraid,” they said without turning. “I tied the knots myself.” 

An oath sounded, followed by more futile attempts at freedom. 

The Villain smiled into their cup, taking the long awaited first sip.

Perfection. 

Turning, the picture of composure, they surveyed their handiwork. The Hero sat tied to a chair, the knots textbook examples of the finest shibari techniques. The gag in their mouth was one of the Villain’s own cravats. The Villain set their cup on the edge of the  coffee table.

“You’re undoubtedly wondering why you’re here. Why…” the Villain’s long legs carried them to the Hero’s side in three strides. “Why I chose you.” They gripped the Hero’s chin between their fingers, forcing their head up. 

“You want to know, don’t you? I feel your curiosity burning in your blood.”

The Hero’s lip curled into a sneer, a growl rising in their chest.

The Villain shifted their grip, their fingers digging into the Hero’s cheeks. “I chose you for your spirit. A spirit I will enjoy breaking piece…” their fingers drifted over the Hero’s throat. “By…” they continued down, resting on the Hero’s exposed collarbone. “Piece.”

Bach’s Come, Sweet Death started playing on the stereo system, the throaty cello voices filling the space.

“An apt song,” they said, turning and striding towards the table on the other side of the dining room. The Hero’s stomach clenched with dread when they recognized the melody. They began their struggle anew.

Back to the room, the Villain considered the collection of knives laid out on black velvet before them. They touched the handle of a damask butterfly knife, smiled fondly at a stiletto.

“I’ve told you, struggling is–“

A crash interrupted them, followed by the shattering of china. 

A muscle feathered in the Villain’s jaw, their smile morphing into a grimace. They turned with deliberate slowness, stiletto in hand, and surveyed the scene. The Hero had fallen over, still tied to the chair. But something else caught the Villain’s attention.

“You spilled my tea.” They said, their voice metallic. “That was rather rude of you. Then again, I’d expect nothing less of a Hero.” Their mask slipped for an instant, revealing the mania that lurked below the surface of their composure. 

They’d been fingering the point of the knife, and were by the Hero’s side in a bound. They stood over the Hero, eyes flashing with bloodlust. Then a switch flipped. Inhaling, the Villain straightened their coat, brushed their hair back, collected as can be.

The Hero leaned away, taken back by the unpredictability of the Villain’s actions.

Head tilted, the Villain rested their boot on the arm of the chair, and rolled it to its back with a kick. The Hero gasped as the ropes dug into their arms, stomach, and thighs. Disdain was written across the Villain’s face as they stared down at the Hero.

“You Hero types have no respect, you know that?” They said. They crouched by the Hero’s side, flipping the knife under the Hero’s nose. “No respect for the greater picture. No respect for progression. I grow weary of it all.”

With a flourish they ripped the gag from the Hero’s mouth, tearing the fabric as they threw it to the side. 

“Wha-“ the Hero rasped, lips stinging.

The manic gleam had returned to the Villain’s eyes.

“Why, my dear…” Funiculi Funicula began playing then. With a flick of the wrist, the Villain nicked the Hero’s chest, blood welling from the cut as they cried out. “All the better to hear you scream.”