fantasy

Temple

Here we begin a new series: Picture Prompts. (There’s another, specific technical lingo word for it, but idk what it is, so there.) Ah! There it is: Ekphrasis.

We might also try to throw in some pieces inspired by songs, but that’s for future Kat to worry about. Anyways! Pls enjoy! Image used with permission from the wonderful artist @boomsheika_boom on Twitter/X!

The boy sat in a tree. It wasn’t much of a tree, really, more of a single remaining limb on a half dead giant of the forest. Vines draped off the trunk and limb, extensions of the vines covering the temple half-hidden by the surrounding foliage. The boy wasn’t much to look at either, scrawny and wan as he was, barefoot and clad in tattered clothing the colors of earth and moss. His dark hair was shaggy, hanging loose in eyes the color of summer wheat.  

Hood up, and hunched as he was, he resembled an oversized, somewhat tatterdemalion owl.  

The boy sat perched on the limb, contemplating the temple doors. They were stone, thick slabs of a granite like material that shimmered in the gilded light filtering through the canopy above. 

He’d been here, in the forest, for days, knowing he had to get in, find what lay within, and soon. But still the puzzle of the doors confounded him. 

He shifted, right leg dangling beneath, bare foot disproportionately large over the ground. His mind wandered, imagining himself as a giant, and how easy it would be to simply smash the wall with a fist. 

Alas, what was needed was stealth, subterfuge, subtlety. 

Huffing he looked back to the doors with a scowl. He was beginning to contemplate lunch when he saw something in the corner of his eye. He looked up, and nearly tumbled backwards off the branch as a flitting orb of white light darted at him. Clinging to the branch, he studied the orb as it dipped and buzzed around him. Then, it alit on his knee. 

Hello.

A voice chittered in his head. 

His hand slipped and he slid backwards off the branch, hanging only by his knees. His hood flipped off, his hair hanging in shaggy clumps, the wind wending through the ends.

“What are you?” He gasped, scrabbling for purchase. 

I am… 

“You are?”

I am Auros. 

“Auros…” the boy managed to pull himself back into a sitting position, disturbing the orb. It gave a distinctly avian shake of irritation and buzzed back into the air, hovering in front of his face. 

Yes. Auros. Who are you? 

“Me?” The boy pondered, unsure if this was one of the temple’s traps. 

Yes you. 

“Oh. Well I’m…” eh, what the hell, he thought. “Nevis,” he replied, opting for at least part of the truth. 

Greeting, Nevis, the orb chimed. It’s voice was surprisingly melodic. What are you doing here? 

“I’m… well I’m trying to get into the temple.”

Why? 

“Because there’s something in there I need.”

What do you need?

“I… I don’t actually know, really. Someone wants whatever it is, and they paid me to get it.”

Oh. Why don’t you have it? 

“Can’t get in, can I?” Nevis gestured to the impenetrable doors. 

Auros made a contemplative hum. And then zipped off, a blurring of white light through the gathering gloom of early evening. 

Nevis watched as the orb bobbed around the door, up and down and around the cracks. Just when the boy thought the orb was stymied Auros disappeared into the keyhole. 

Blinking in surprise, Nevis waited. And waited. Nothing happened. Just as the sun was sinking behind the eastern mountains, as dark enveloped the clearing he was in, Auros reappeared. The spirit beelined for Nevis.  

Now you can get in. Auros quipped, vibrating with self-satisfaction. 

“What do you…” Nevis asked. But at a bob from Auros, the boy looked. 

And saw that the temple doors were opened. Not much, just a crack. But enough for a slender boy like Nevis to slip through.

“How did you do that?” He breathed. 

Auros can do many things. Nevis need help from Auros. 

“Yes.” Nevis laughed, shocked as his turn of luck, and began descending his tree. “Nevis need help from Auros.”

An Update and an Explanation

Happy September y’all! I’m not dead, so that’s a good thing, right? Also how TF are we in FRIGGIN SEPTEMBER ALREADY WHERE TF DID AUGUST GO!? Yike.

This summer has been, in a word, hectic. But in a good way. I’ve gone to two renaissance faires (legit some of the most fun things ever!) started a new job slinging coffee in addition to wine, and finished draft three of my WIP novel!!! AYEE! And with that development, that means I’m on the cusp of querying!

So what is this post for? Why am I here instead of doing my side gig and flinging queries at people? Welst, lemme tell you. Muse has taken it into her head to get down into the nitty gritty of a side project I’ve had on the back burners for months now, because apparently she wants to. (Also thank you, Brya, for encouraging me to do the two sentences a day for the month. It was because of that challenge that I overcame the tiny little knoll I was struggling to get over in regards to restarting the thing).

Now, what the heck is this side project? I’ve mentioned it in a few previous posts, but it’s time for some elaboration. Cursed Prince was my final project during my senior year of college (2021). It was a second-person POV click-through narrative game thingy developed on Twine, and I about died during the creation, conception, an execution of the story.

And yet I utterly fell in love with the characters and story and the world building. It helped that it’s set in the world of one of my other WIP series, just in a different age, and as such it was as much an exercise in general world building as it was a senior project. Things just clicked, and it became one of my favorite mid-length stories I’ve developed.

What’s it about though, you ask? Ha. That’s for you to find out through reading! My intent with this little project is to develop CP as a serial story. Dish and Spoon was sort of a trial run, but CP is going to be significantly longer. Hell, the printed version of the original is around 50 pages, which is essentially my skeledraft of this reiteration.

I don’t know how many installments there’ll be, so who knows? Maybe I’ll even be generous and share the multiple endings I wrote!

But enough of this chaotic, rambling update post. It’s time to get to the good stuff.

Until next time!

KU

Dish and Spoon – Part IV

And so concludes the first adventure of the bowl and spoon. Will there be more? Who’s to say. Mayhap we’ll see them again in the future? *chuckles in knowing writer*

A comfortable hour passed, during which the entire pot of stew was consumed, along with the loaf of bread and most of the jar of honey. 

“It’s just so good!” Felicity chirped, popping a spoon of plain honey into her mouth. 

“You think that’s good, you need to visit old Fournier,” Featherwright chuckled, endlessly amused by his two companions.

“Who?” Felicity asked.

“Wot?” Bernard asked, around yet another mouthful of bread. The bread knife, noticing the plate was empty, obligingly brought over another loaf and was doing its best to keep up with the boy’s voracious appetite. 

“Pol Fournier. Baker down in the village. Bakes the best pies I’ve had, and I’ve had a-many in my life.”

“Pie?” Felicity asked, a thoughtful scowl furrowing her forehead. “Oh you mean like the dishes with fruit and things that are put in the oven?”

“Precisely my dear, hit the nail right on the head.”

“If he doesn’t start telling us what any of these toasted phrases mean I’m going to bap him,” Bernard ‘whispered.’ Featherwright glowered imperiously, while Felicity giggled around her honey spoon. 

“All in good time, my lad, all in good time.” A clock chimed somewhere in the depths of the great house. “As it is, however…” With a grunt he stood, patting his stomach as he did. “A fine meal as always, my dear knives.” The biggest one bowed its point, and resumed to overseeing the cleaning up of the dishes. “Now… where was I…” Featherwright muttered. 

“You said however,” Bernard provided helpfully. 

“I… oh yes yes, of course of course. As I was saying, the hour draws towards five, and I have some things of wizardly nature to attend to.”

Felicity drooped slightly.

“But… what about us?”

“I was coming to that, my dear. I was going to suggest you go pester Fournier, perhaps sample some of his decadent pastries, and meet me at the tree at the top of the knoll for dinner around sundown.”

Bernard mouthed the suggestion, trying to commit to memory.

“Okay. What tree again?” He asked. 

Featherwright huffed a laugh. 

“You’ll know it when you see it, my lad. It’s on the far side of town. And now that you’re fed and… humaned, you can go have your first adventure! What say you?”

Felicity squeaked in excitement and Bernard bounced a foot in the air in excitement. Without another word they dashed for the front door. 

“WAIT!” Yelled Felicity over her shoulder. Bernard was already to the door and bouncing impatiently while he waited for her to catch up. “Where is the bakery?”

“Follow your nose, dearie! And remember! Tree at sunset!”

“Tree at sunset. Okay! BYE MR WIZARD FEATHERWRIGHT!”

With that Felicity dashed out the door, doing her best to keep pace with Bernard’s long, loping strides. 

Chuckling to himself, Featherwright made his way to his study. 

“Enchanted crockery. You’ve outdone yourself this time, old boy. Wait’ll that popinjay Corbin hears about this.” His chuckle morphed into a self-satisfied cackle, and he closed himself in his study, from whence arcane sounds and smells soon flowed. 

Meanwhile Felicity was doing her best to follow her nose. And was having a hard time of it. 

“I don’t get what he means though. Do you, Bernie?”

“Not really, but I don’t get what he means a lot of the time so it’s peachy.” He was staring around them in open mouthed wonder, taking in the carved eaves and prettily painted doors of the houses they passed as they ventured further into town.

“But what did he mean, ‘follow your nose?’ It’s not like it has legs.” She grabbed her nose to make sure it wasn’t growing said legs and making an attempt to leap off her face. 

“I don’t know! Isn’t it wonderful?” Inexplicably Bernard was walking on his hands, his hair dragging little furrows in the dust of the road. 

“You… how are you doing that?” Felicity asked. Even on his hands he was faster than she was.

“Eh, I did it as a spoon lots of times, and I thought why not try it now that I’m human? It makes things look funny though.” So saying he flipped back to his feet and slowed to walk with her. “But what do you think?”

“Think?”

“Of our adventure so far!”

“OH! Well…” Felicity smiled at a woman in her garden. She smiled and waved back before returning to weeding a patch of marigolds. “I think it’s the most delectable adventure I’ve had!”

Bernard beamed and stood taller, walking with a decided strut as the dusty road turned to well-worn cobbles. The stone was cool and gritty beneath their feet; it tickled a little bit. 

“I agreeeeeeeoooohhhh…” his eyes drifted closed and he inhaled deeply through his long nose. 

“What is it? I don-ooo…” Felicity had done the same, and the most decadent smell filled her nose and made her toes curl. “What is that toothsome smell?”

“Dunno…” Bernard murmured. His eyes were still half closed and he was wandering down a side street. 

“Oh I see now what Featherwright meant by following your nose,” Felicity commented. 

Together they wandered down the street, following the sweet scent of baking pastry and bubbling berry compote. 

A few minutes later they rounded a corner and there, with eaves that looked like dripping icing, stood The Bakery.

Eyes wide with wonder, the two of them pushed the door open and were met with a a most delectable sight indeed.

The place was spacious, but cozy, with pastries, cakes, loaves of bread, rolls, cookies, biscuits, and myriad other baked goodies filling the shelves and counters. A display filled with chocolate truffles, each lovingly shaped like a flower and dusted with colored glitter that made them gleam like gems, stood on a small counter. A door stood propped open behind the bar, and it was from here the heavenly smell wafted. 

Content to wander, they split apart, each staring longingly at various baked treats before meeting again at another counter, to the left of the front door, where stood a number of still-warm pies. They were both eyeing one particularly crusty pie with puddles of red juice on the top when a voice sounded from behind the counter. 

“Can I help you, mes amours?”

Felicity looked up into the kind green eyes of who she assumed was Pol Fournier. He was a portly man with a shiny head that reminded her of an egg. 

“I don’t know.” Bernard said, still eyeing the red berry pie. “We’ve never been in one of these before.”

The baker looked befuddled, but shrugged, smiling vastly and opening his arms in a gesture of welcome. 

“Well then! Have a look see! If there is anything you find you can’t do without, just let me know and I’ll make sure your tums are satisfied beyond belief.”

Felicity nodded, eying the pie as well.

“What,” Bernard asked, practically drooling, “is this droolsome confection?”

The baker followed his gaze. When he saw the pie, his eyes lit up in delight. “AH! That. That, mes amours, is one of my newer recipes. Cheri Beri, I call it. Made from a mixture of blackberries, cherries, and blueberries.”

He waddled around to where the pie sat and lovingly cut a slice, setting it on a thick, hand-thrown ceramic plate. 

“Come come, amours. Try a slice.” When they both hesitated, he waved away their concern. “No, I insist. Tell me how it is?”

Looking at each other with varying degrees of anticipation, Bernard and Felicity approached. They took up the forks the baker had procured form under the counter, and dug in. 

Bernards eyes widened in awed shock.

“That… that is…”

“Oui?”

“Is…” Bernard took another bite. 

The baker waited with bated breath. 

“It’s scrumptious!” Felicity cried, taking a second bite that was bigger than Bernard’s. Within seconds the slice was devoured, nothing but a few buttery crumbs and an absolutely radiant baker remaining. 

“Can we have more?” Bernard asked hopefully.”

“Oui! But for sure you can. For a few pennies, you can have the rest of the pie if you so choose.”

Bernards face fell slightly in confusion. Felicity had to stifle a giggle when it looked like his hair started to droop as well. 

“We don’t have any pennies,” He said sadly. 

“But Wizard Featherwright said we should see you first of all in town!” Felicity supplied. She didn’t like the way Bernard looked. He looked wrong, like a lid put on crooked.

“AHA!” Pol let out a booming laugh, followed by a smaller chuckle that dwindled to a few residual giggles. The two stared at him in awe. They’d never heard a laugh so loud before. “That old goose. Well if it’s he you’re staying with, you can take the rest of the pie.” He leaned over to Felicity, a hand over one side of his mouth. “But make sure that coot Allen gets his own slice. Lest he cast a hex on my flour pots again., no?’ 

Felicity and Bernard looked at each other, wondering he could mean. Figuring it was one of the many things Featherwright would explain, they ignored it, and each took a second slice of pie, leaving a little more than half left in the pan. 

“Anything else, amours, I can get for you? Milk, perhaps?” He said, noticing the way Bernard was smacking this mouth. 

“Yes please,” Felicity answered. 

“Oh, mon cheri, such manners! Un moment.” Pol disappeared, returning a moment later with two glasses of creamy milk. “Got it this morning from Noni.”

“Who’s Noni?” Felicity asked, taking a sniff of the glass. Shrugging, she pressed the glass to his lips and took a sip, remembering how Featherwright had used his pipe. Bernard followed suit, and when they both lowered their glasses milk mustaches covered their upper lips. 

Grinning at their enthusiasm, Pol answered:

“Noni, the old dear, is the grocer’s wife. She has a cow that provides the best milk in the village, ai, the entire country side.”

The two youths believed him as they finished their glasses. They both remembered the Lady bringing in fresh milk some mornings, and Felicity even recalled a few times she’d been used a cereal bowl, but hadn’t known how delicious milk actually was. Or how well it went with pie.

“Now, mes amis, what else can old Pol do for you?”

“We need to meet Wizard Featherwright at the tree at sunset,” Felicity said. Bernard looked half asleep on his feet. 

“Ah, well then…” Pol pulled out a shiny watch from an apron pocket. “Seems you have a fair hour left before then. You should be able to make it with time to spare.”

“Oh, how poached!”

“Come again?”

“Poa… never mind. Where is the tree, exactly?” She poked Bernard in the ribs, and he straightened with a sleepy snort. 

Blinking away his question, Pol placed a hand on Felicity’s shoulder and guided her to the door, pointing down the street. “See there, the end of the street?”

“Yes.” 

Bernard nodded and stretched. 

“Turn right, and you’ll see the Tree Hill at the end of the row.”

“Right, end of row.” Felicity scowled as she tried to figure out which side was right. 

“You had a crack on your left side, remember?” Bernard yawned. 

“Ah. Yes, you’re right. Thank you, Bernie.”

Growing more confused by the second, the baker decided it was simpler to not ask and wrapped the pie with a thin, waxed cloth. 

“Bien, here is your pie. Just bring me back the tin, and we will be square, no?”

No? Yes? These humans had an odd way of talking, and Felicity was realizing how much simpler it was to be a soup bowl. 

But she wouldn’t go back for anything in the world, even more of Pol’s pie. 

“I… we will bring the tin back,” she agreed, taking the slightly warm container gingerly in her hands. 

“In that case, my mes amis, I hope you have a bonne nuit! I will see you more, I hope!”

“Of course! Bood-Gye, Mister Pol!” Bernard crowed. Suddenly awake, he was already striding down the street, Felicity trotting along behind him.

Staring after the two in wonder, Pol returned to his kitchen, where he retrieved another new confection from the oven. 

They took their time reaching Tree Hill. There were many shops to stop in at, many things to see. The cover of a cookbook caught Felicity’s eye as they passed a bookstore, and they peered through the window for a solid 20 minutes before realizing the place was closed. With only slight disappointment did they leave, Felicity promising the book she would come back for it when she could. 

The people they passed smiled and were friendly for the most part. Some called greetings and salutations, and Felicity and Bernard did their best to reply. Once they saw two boys, a little younger than Bernard appeared to be, playing with a ball. They threw it back and forth, over and over again in an endless loop. Once one of them missed the catch, and both boys took off after the ball, racing each other. The smaller of the two reached it first, and held it up with a triumphant grin. The bigger one smiled, and held up a hand, which the smaller one slapped with one of his. 

Felicity and Bernard watched in wonder, and as the boys ran off chasing the ball again, they tried it. Felicity almost dropped the pie a few times, but after figuring out how to balance it in one hand, she held her left hand up, and Bernard hit it was his palm. It made a satisfying smack, and both of them staggered with laughter as they continued their way to Tree Hill. 

They only received a few strange looks as they went – Felicity did have leaves in her hair and blue and green freckles, and Bernard looked like a well-used paintbrush – but the people were kind and bemused. By the time the sun was sinking into the arms of the west the two of them were feeling more settled in their bones, a deep contentment filling their chests. 

Rounding the corner as the sky turned orange and peach, they saw Tree Hill. An ancient oak of immeasurable size stood atop a knoll, its limbs and leaves gleaming in the golden hour light. They stopped, each gazing in wonder at the magnificence of the sight before them. 

“It’s so lovely, Bernie.” Felicity murmured. Tears welled in her eyes, falling slowly down her round cheeks. 

“Fel! What… you’re leaking!” Bernard looked worried, and wiped one of the tears from her face. 

“I am, aren’t I? I just.. I can’t help it. I don’t know what’s wrong or where it’s coming from. Silly me.”

Something in Bernards newly human chest ached at the sight of his friend’s tears. 

“You’re not silly, Felicity.”

She sniffled, using the hem of her dress to dry her eyes. 

“Thank you, Bernard.”

Nodding, he absently took her hand that wasn’t holding the pie, and began towing her forward.

“Of course. I think I see Featherwright!”

So he did: there, beneath the tree loomed an ominous, sweeping figure, its shadow stretching down the hill towards them like a soaring eagle. 

They continued slowly, Bernard all but buzzing out of his skin with energy as he kept pace with Felicity. 

“You can go, I’m okay. We’re almost there.” She said, feeling him tugging on her hand. 

“NO! I’m not going to leave you Fel. This is our adventure.”

The warm feeling from that afternoon returned; she squeezed Bernard’s hand in gratitude. 

Another few minutes, and they crested the hill. Featherwright sat facing the sun.

“I see you made it to Fournier’s!” He crowed, eying the pie pan in Felicity’s hand. 

“We did,” Bernard said proudly. Felicity held out the pan, which Featherwright swooped up with glee. 

“What did he call this confection, mm?” The wizard asked, digging into the pie with a fork pulled from a small basked by his side. Felicity and Bernard stood, peering about, until Featherwright patted the blanket upon which he sat, and they joined him. “Cheri Beri, I think,” Felicity said. 

“Has all sorts of red and blue fruits, too,” Bernard added.

The wizard held a bite in his mouth and sighed.

“Bliss. Pure, blissful decadence.” Opening his eyes he found the two youths staring at him. He felt his crusty old wizard heart soften at the trusting wonder in their eyes. “Mm. Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any.” 

Setting the pie pan aside he pulled a bottle out of his basket, followed by three glasses and a small parcel wrapped in waxed linen. 

“Some seed cake,” he said in answer to Felicity’s inquiring expression. “For later.”

Bernard peered at the basket, perplexed that all the things had fit in it. It was an awfully small basket, after all. 

“Let me guess,” he said, pointing at the basket. 

“Eh? Yes, lad?”

“Magic?”

The wizard’s eyes sparkled with mischief. 

“Aye, that’s the run of it.”

Nodding, Bernard sat back and stared out at the setting sun and Felicity’s profile in equal measure. 

Filled with affection, the wizard popped the bottle open with a tok and poured slightly fizzy, golden liquid into the three glasses. 

“What’s this?” Felicity asked, enraptured by the little bubbles. 

“Honey wine, my dear.”

“HONEY WINE!?” She squeaked, eyes lighting up.

“Aye! I figured it was fitting, seeing as you love honey.”

“Oh I do!” She was about to take a sip when Featherwright placed a gentle hand on her arm. She looked askance at him, and he handed a glass to Bernard. 

“We humans have a tradition, called a toast, when we celebrate things.”

“What sort of things?” Felicity asked.

“I like toast,” Bernard said, sticking his nose in the glass.

Featherwright snorted in laughter, and continued. “All sorts of things. New things, old things, good things, sad things. And tonight is as good a night as any for a toast. So, now you do this…” he held his glass out. Felicity and Bernard followed suit. “And then someone, sometimes multiple someones, say something like this: to magic gone right, and new friends found.” He clinked his cup against their’s, the glasses ringing with a crystalline chime. “And now we drink.”

So saying the wizard took a hearty quaff of honey wine. Bernard and Felicity were slower, but as soon as they tried it, both nearly downed their fist glass in a single go. 

“It’s… warm?” Felicity commented, feeling the mead swirl pleasantly in her stomach, warming her. It was a different warmth than when Bernard held her hand or looked at her the way he did, but it was pleasant. 

Bernard answered with a hiccup, and the wizard laughed merrily.

“Aye, as it should be. Mead – and wine and other drinks – has alcohol in it, and it would do you well to go slow your first few times drinking. Elsewise, who knows what might happen?”

Bernard hiccuped again, and Felicity giggled into her glass as she took another, smaller sip. 

“I – hic – have a – hic – toast!” Bernard managed.

“Do you now? Well let’s have it, lad.”

“To – hic – adventures. And – hic – being a human!”

“An excellent toast, my lad, an excellent toast!” Featherwright clinked his glass against Bernards then Felicity’s, and they all drank. 

“My dear, do you have a toast?”

“I… I suppose I do.” Schooling her expression into a semblance of seriousness (hard to do, with her smily eyes and dimples), she held her mostly empty glass up. 

“To sunsets. And pie. And nice wizards and trees and mead. And… well and I guess to the little things.” She thought of the flowers and bees and smiles she’d seen that day, knowing deep down that she would never forget the feelings they inspired within her. 

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw a glimmer of tears in the old man’s eyes as he drank. Bernard just leaned over and rested his head on her shoulder.

“That… that my dear, is a perfect toast. Your’s too, Bernard,” he added hastily as Bernard tried to sit up and protest. “Some of the best toasts I’ve heard in a long while.”

“So what do you think,” The wizard continued, some minutes later. The sun was little more than a slice of summer peach on the blueberry horizon, it’s last rays a crescent roll of gold. “You’re welcome to come back with me. I’ll look after you, teach you-”

“Everything?” Bernard asked sleepily, his head in Felicity’s lap.

“Aye, lad. Everything I’m able.”

Felicity hummed contentedly. She idly ran her fingers through Bernard’s hair: it was softer than she expected it to be.

“I’d like that.” Bernard took Felicity’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What do you say, Fel? A new adventure? A new one every day?”

Felicity’s face broke into a smile radiant as the last glimmers of sunlight. 

“I’d like that too.”

“It’s settled then,” Featherwright said. He glanced at the girl and the boy who were once a bowl and a spoon with a fondness he didn’t expect to feel. As the sun set on their first adventure – but certainly not their last – casting the land of Neap into shades of blue, the old wizard’s words were a spell unto themselves: “Tomorrow the real adventure begins.”

The End

Dish and Spoon – Part I

In the land of Neap, there lived a soup bowl. 

She wasn’t an extraordinary soup bowl. She was averagely shaped and hand made: a little crooked around the bottom, with chip on the left edge (don’t ask me to explain how it works, but does.) 

Nor was she a particularly useful soup bowl. She was small, and just a tad too deep for the soup to cool quickly. 

But she was unique. For in the entire collection of bowls and pates and mugs that lived in the lady of the cottage’s cupboard in the land of Neap, this soup bowl was the only one that was colored. 

She was a yellow soup bowl, with delicate green vines painted around its rim, and a blue circle right in the bottom. She rather reminded those who ate from the bowl of a flipped sky. Those that used the bowl often found themselves pondering odd things, such as why the sky was blue; or why didn’t plants grow with their roots in the air; or why was the snow white instead of palest purple? (Neap was a magical land, and had its fair share of absurdities: Purple snow wasn’t entirely out of the question).

Most importantly, when people ate from the yellow soup bowl, they felt at home, welcome visitors to the little cottage on the edge of the deep dark woods. 

Well then. Now that the introductions are done, our tale shall continue. 

One day, the yellow soup bowl sat on the counter. She was currently being used to hold potato peels. The lady of the cottage was preparing a large cauldron of stew. This was a hearty stew, filled with lots of good things like potatoes and onions and carrots and even a few rutabagas, in addition to delicious chunks of beef and pheasant. 

While so occupied, the yellow soup bowl thought to herself: 

It is rather nice to be useful, even if I’m not being used for soup. 

As the smells of simmering vegetables filled the cozy kitchen, the soup bowl buzzed with delight. 

“Maybe mistress will use me for strew today!”

While being a pretty bowl had its merits (all the other bowls and plates envied the yellow bowl’s glossy finish and pretty green leaves) it also had its drawbacks. 

You see, the yellow soup bowl only got used when there were no other bowls to be had. Either too many were dirty and were piled in the sink, or there were more guests than bowls. 

It was wonderful to be of use,  no matter the method. But nothing beat the purpose for which she was made. 

The yellow soup bowl sat there for a good amount of time, basking in the aromatics of the simmering cauldron. Then the lady set her knife down, stretched her back, and went to retrieve some herbs from her garden. 

“Sst. You there. Yellow bowl!” A voice came.

The yellow bowl sought the sound, perplexed (do not ask me to explain how a bowl, or any utensil for that matters, perceives the world. There are some mysteries best left unsolved).

“Who, me?” The bowl asked to the kitchen at large. 

“Yes. You. With the tato skins.”

The bowl turned, the chip on her left edge now facing the window outside. She could perceive the lady stopping to admire her lavender bush through the wavy glass. 

“What? Where are you?” The bowl asked again. 

“I’m here.”

There came a terrible clattering jangle as one of the wooden mixing spoons wiggled on the rack from which he hung. 

“Oh. You’re a spoon!”

“Yes I am. And you’re a bowl.”

“A yellow soup bowl, to be precise.”

The spoon gave the impression of raising an eyebrow. 

“But you have tato skins in you.”

“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful to be used?”

The spoon scoffed.

“Pfah, I wouldn’t know. Lady barely uses me.”

This the soup bowl could relate to.

“Oh. Me too.”

“But you have tato skins in you.”

“Yes, but I so much prefer to have soup in me, only it’s becoming rarer and rarer that she uses me for that purpose.” 

Taken aback by the sudden flood of words, the spoon just hung there for a moment. 

Then:

“Well. That’s all fine and dandy for you, bowl. At least you get used at all.”

The soup bowl felt a pang of pity for the spoon. What was life with no purpose? To be, without fulfilling your created duty?

“Surely Lady uses you more than that?” The bowl asked hopefully. 

The spoon shook its scoop rather sadly. 

“Nay. She used me but once when she got me, then hung me up and forgot about me.” 

“That can’t be!” Cried the bowl. 

“See for yourself,” the spoon indicated the myriad other spoons littering the kitchen counter and sink. “She has no use for me. That’s why I’ve decided to go away. On an adventure!”

The bowl gasped. 

“Go away? Where? How?” 

The spoon considered a moment. 

“I’ve no idea. But I’m going to, soon.”

Further conversation was prevented by the return of the Lady. She shredded the rosemary leaves from the stems, dropping the fragrant herbs into the cauldron before setting the stems in the yellow soup bowl. 

The bowl glowed, happy to be of use. But she wasn’t as content as she was before. As the hearty stew finished cooking, and the Lady didn’t empty the potato skins from her, the yellow soup bowl began to consider what the spoon had said. His words rang through her mind for the rest of the day and long into the night. 

***

The yellow soup bowl sat on her shelf for nigh on a month, with nary a glance from the lady. She’d been so sad when she’d placed it there, in the dust and cobwebs. Surely she would be cheered if she just ate a bowl of soup from her yellow soup bowl? Or even a nice helping of custard? 

But no. She all but ignored the soup bowl. She seemed to forget she was there. 

The soup bowl’s spirit quavered. Then she began to feel restive. 

She looked at the rack where the spoon had been. Indeed, he was still there.  

Seeing the spoon there, unused, unseasoned, the soup bowl had an idea. 

It was bold and daring, and so unlike her that she nearly didn’t follow through with it. But when the Lady once again overlooked the soup bowl for a drab, plain clay one, the yellow bowl made up her mind. 

Late that night, after Lady had gone to sleep, the yellow soup bowl wiggled to the edge of the cupboard and whispered. 

“Spoon! Spoooooon!”

A few spoons rattled and mumbled in their various nests. But the wooden one didn’t move.

“Oye! Spoon! Wooden spoon on the rack!”

“Mm. Wha? Whozit?”

“It’s me. The yellow soup bowl.”

“Oh. What do you want?”

“You were right!

“Eh? I was? Well of course I was… about what?”

“I’m bored. And I want to be useful. Er… more useful. Or something…” the bowl added, thinking she had the better deal of the two of them, despite being ignored for a month. 

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I want to go away with you.”

Silence met that proclamation. 

“Well? What do you think?” She asked, tentatively. 

More silence. 

“Spoon?”

The soup bowl’s spirits were plummeting back into despair when the spoon spoke at last. 

“Well that’s a brilliant idea. Let’s do it.”

Una Nota

Ciao, Belli. Just another brief note that should be taken into consideration when reading any of these lovely Hero/Villain pieces.

I’ve written them with the intention of being vague. The technicalities of the dynamic is up to you, my lovely readers. These pieces are essentially exercises for working on tone, character dynamic, dialogue, and brevity.

Hero/Villain aren’t chronological, and can technically be read in any order. A Treacherous Path could follow Dangerous Temptation, or could be considered an alternate version, or read with a completely different set of characters in mind (this is how I’ve intended them to be).

So. That’s all from my end, for the moment.

Go forth and enjoy the day, my lovelies!

KU

A Treacherous Path

Trigger warning for violence, dub con, and minor sexual content

After losing yet another fight, the Hero woke once again in the Villain’s home.They were tied, as usual, to an uncomfortable chair. Though this time they were in what they assumed was some sort of sitting room. Though, given the presence of only a single love seat across from the their chair, they had to assume this room served other, darker purposes most of the time.

Disgusted with themselves, with the Villain, and with the world in general, the Hero immediately began working at the knots that bound their hands. The Villain’s rope work was spectacular as usual, but the Hero had been doing research. In a matter of minutes and a few dislocated joints, they had their hands and one foot free. They were working on the other one when the Villain entered the room. 

“Wha…” the Villain gaped, dropping their tea. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered. 

With a snarl the Hero tore the remaining rope from their body, and launched themselves at the Villain. This was a rare opportunity and they weren’t going to waste it. Besides, they had a score to settle.

Coming within reach, the Hero flung a fist at the Villain, hoping the suddenness of their attack was enough. 

It wasn’t. With effortless grace, the Villain dodged the blow, and landed one of their own on the Hero’s ribs. 

The Hero grunted, but turned and attacked again. 

“Well isn’t this fighting spirit new,” the Villain commented, dodging one punch only to take a kick to their upper thigh. They staggered, but maintained their defensive position. 

“Oh, it’s always been here,” panted the Hero, eyes burning. 

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed.”

The Hero yelled, and threw themselves at the Villain. Shockingly, the direct attack worked. The Villain – surprised at finding the Hero free, and unbalanced from the blow to their leg – wasn’t fast enough. They tried to slip aside as they always did, but instead caught the Hero’s bulk full in the chest. 

They barely had time to catch their breath before the Hero slammed them into the wall, knocking the wind from them again. Using the moment, the Hero grabbed their neck, locking their fingers behind their jaw. The Villain’s eyes bulged in surprise. 

“I should crush your throat,” the Hero growled. “For what you did to my Sidekick.”

“Ah, so that’s what’s got you so worked up.” The Villain grabbed the Hero’s shirt and twisted, searching for a hold. They kneed the Hero in the thigh, stepped on their feet, but it was no use. The Hero’s grip was relentless. As was the weight of their body, keeping them pinned against the wall. “I was wondering when that would come up. I should have thought of it soo-achk-“

Their taunt was cut off as the Hero upped the pressure on their throat. 

The Villain had a moment of panic as their vision darkened on the edges. But they found they still had a voice. 

“Do it then,” the Villain goaded, vocal cords whistling. Their eyes gleamed dangerously. “Avenge your Sidekick.”

The Hero sneered, and nearly lifted the Villain off the ground. 

The Villain smirked, despite being choked. They knew they had the upper hand now. 

“Ah. But you… won’t, will… You… You’ve proven… that before.” 

The Hero snarled and leaned in, thinking rapidly. Clearly threats of physical harm didn’t work with on the Villain.  Their face was a breath from the Villain’s.

 A sudden thought occurred to them, something that could potentially put the odds in their favor.  

They slackened their grip on the Villain’s neck and closed the distance. They breathed on the Villain’s lips, holding the Villain’s gaze with their own. 

“What are you doing?” The Villain asked, bemused and completely nonplussed. They even stopped struggling, their body still.

“I…” The Hero’s chest rose and fell with startled breaths. It hadn’t worked. But something had shifted. “I don’t…”

Suddenly the tension between them was different. More heated. 

One moment, they’d been seconds away from killing each other, the next…

The Villain pulled on the Hero’s collar, bringing them closer.

Their gazes locked.

And then they were kissing. 

Frantically. 

Viciously. 

The Hero’s hands shifted from the Villain’s throat to cup their head and grab their hair, and the Villain wrapped their arms around the Hero, suddenly needing to truly feel them. 

The Hero broke the kiss first, gasping. 

“What are you doing?” They rasped, fingers till tangled in the Villain’s glossy hair. 

“I don’t know.” The Villain giggled. “You started it though, and isn’t it wonderful?” They kissed the Hero again, fingers digging into the muscles of their back. 

Deciding to return the odds to their favor, the Villain reached up and jerked the Hero’s hair, pulling their head back. 

The Hero let out a startled yelp that turned into a sigh as the Villain began kissing their neck. They pressed kisses to the hollow of their throat, their collar bone, the pocket behind their jaw, and was pleased to hear the Hero’s breathing become even more ragged. 

Backing them up towards the love seat, the Villain pressed the Hero to their knees. The Hero didn’t resist, instead pulling the Villain down with them. 

With no idea what they were doing, but enjoying it all the same, the Villain straddled the Hero’s hips and leaned the Hero back until their back was pressed into the couch cushions, chest and throat beautifully exposed. 

This was certainly a new way to play their little game. And the Villain was far from disappointed with this development.

With a quick shrug of their shoulders the Villain freed themselves from the Hero’s arms. Grabbing their wrists, they extended and pinned the Hero’s arms down, holding them in place with the weight of their body. Staring down at the Hero, prone before them as they should be, the Villain decided they wanted to continue whatever this was shaping up to be. They kissed the Hero again, letting their desire for control guide them. 

The Hero struggled, but only half heartedly, and after a few seconds they melted into the Villain’s rhythm.

Forgetting themself and their game, the Villain released one of the Hero’s hands to run their hand under the Hero’s shirt.

“Oh Hell,” the Villain breathed, feeling the Hero’s body in a completely new way.

Finding a hand free, the Hero briefly considered fighting, doing anything besides continuing to maul the Villain’s face. Instead they wrapped an arm around the Villain’s back and pulled them closer. 

A surprised gasp escaped the Villain at the new friction between them, and the Hero grinned like a cat. 

Clearly this was a game, and two could play.

Feeling the Villain tense, the Hero lurched forward, sending the Villain sprawling backwards. The Hero sprang after them and straddled them, pinning their shoulders to the ground with their elbows. 

Perplexed, the Villain stared at the Hero, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. 

The Hero looked down at them, surprised at themselves. 

“What now?” The Villain asked, trying and failing to keep their tone steady; their voice cracked halfway through the question. 

Digging their elbows in, the Hero leaned forward, savoring the way the Villain gasped in discomfort. 

“Now?” The Hero mused. Their expression turned positively devious. They shifted their hips, and the Villain tipped their head back, eyes closed, throat bobbing as they swallowed a moan. “Now, I leave you with a parting gift.”

Leaning down, they kissed the Villain hard and swift. Then they shot to their feet and bolted out the door, leaving the Villain too stunned and frustrated to follow. 

***

The Hero didn’t stop running until they reached the street outside. They took the stairs three at a time, practically falling on the bottom flight in their haste to get away from… whatever that was. 

On the street, the night air was cool against their flushed cheeks. The Hero slowed to a brisk walk, feeling like their skin was too tight.

They took a shaky breath, mind reeling.

They shook their head, surprised to find that they were trembling.

But they weren’t… scared. They were… 

Exhilarated. 

Blinking, the Hero realized with horror that they liked the feel of the Villain’s hands on them, the way they…

No. The Hero thought. I shouldn’t be… We’re sworn enemies, nemeses. Hero, and Villain. I can’t afford to let the Villain get to me like that. Especially not after what they did.

They thought about what the Villain had done to their Sidekick, tried to elicit some of the rage they’d felt such a short time ago. It was there, that rage and hate. But it didn’t feel as potent in light of what had transpired between themself and the Villain.

Their thoughts strayed back to the feeling of the Villain beneath them, of the Villain at their mercy for once. 

It was intoxicating, that kind of power. 

The Hero suddenly understood the Villain on a level they never thought they would, and wasn’t sure they wanted to. 

Shaking themselves from their dazed reverie, the Hero turned a corner and hailed a cab. They were in no state to drive. Besides, the likelihood of a Minion lurking by their car was high, and they didn’t want to go back to that room. Back to the Villain.

At least not yet.

Sliding into the back seat of the cab, and absently giving their address, the Hero couldn’t refute the fact that they had been the one to initiate the shift in the game.

 And as much as they wanted to deny it, to deny everything that had just happened, the Hero knew they had just taken a step down a very treacherous path indeed. 

An Addition

Hello my lovelies! (again)

I have a number of playlists dedicated to Hero/Villain pieces, and it occurred to me that I could share them here! So, here you go!

Elegant Villainy: which inspired Evil Tea Party
Fekin Fabulous, let’s have a great time
Hero/Villain angst

Dangerous Temptation

Trigger warning for violence

The fight had been longer than usual.

Once again, it was the Villain who instigated.

Wasn’t it always the Villain who instigated? I suppose it depends on who you ask.

But this time, the Hero had the upper hand. It was rare that this happened. And so often in the past had they let their opportunity pass, that this time… this time… the Hero would have the final word.

After downing the Villain, they hadn’t left the Villain for whichever Minion to find. No, they’d taken the Villain to their own special bolthole. It was nicer than a warehouse, but not much more comfortable. The Hero started using the abandon mansion as a sort of sanctuary when the rigors and responsibility of being a Hero got to be too much. Here they could relax. Here, they could experiment.

“What…” the Villain spat, waking up with a jerk. They were poorly tied in an uncomfortable chair, the Hero sitting before them. This had never happened to them before. They weren’t entirely sure they liked it. But they didn’t dislike it either. This position had an air of… opportunistic irony about it that they could appreciate.

The Hero leaned forward and grabbed their cheeks with their nails. The Villain tried to pull away, expression defiant, but the Hero held them fast. 

The Villain heaved a sigh. 

“I schposh…” they drawled around the Hero’s fingers. The Hero released them enough to speak. 

“I suppose this is you thinking you’re clever, isn’t it?” 

The Villain leaned back, exposing their chest while they stretched their legs out. A pity about their hands and arms being tied. Their neck hurt. 

“You think that after me being your prisoner.. what… once? Will ever make you my equal?” 

The Hero glared and started to say something but the Villain cut them off with a laugh.

“You’re pathetic! If you think this…” they shrugged their arms, spread their knees. I”s enough to cow me…” 

The Hero snarled and slapped the Villain. And was met with another laugh. 

“AHAH! FINALLY!” They laughed again, gleefully. “You’re finally realizing the value of physical violence. Come on, do it again.” 

The Hero blinked at the Villain. 

“What?” 

“Oh please. Hit me. Hit me again, with all the strength you have.”

The Hero hesitated and the Villain kept talking. 

“Or are you too morally right? Too polite to-” 

The Villain grunted as the Hero punched them hard in the face. The Hero felt surprisingly better for it. 

“You talk too much,” the Hero said. 

Head still to the side, the Villain gave the Hero a side eye. 

“Yes, it’s because everyone else is a bore. Someone has to make up for-” 

The Hero hit them again, and this time the amusement faded from the Villain’s face. Blood trickled from their nose to their lips. 

They looked at the Hero, noted their heightened breathing, the barely restrained rage burning in their eyes. 

A soft chuckle escaped the Villain, and they spoke again in a slightly nasally voice. 

“Yes. You see? The power it gives you, having someone at your mercy.”

They straightened, and let their head fall back, a sensual smile playing shout their bloody lips. 

“It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

“SHUT UP!” The Hero yelled. They shoved the Villain in the shoulders, sending them and the chair to the floor. The Villain grunted upon impact, but was relieved to find the ropes had untied in the fall. 

“But why?” The Villain said from the ground, awkwardly peering at the Hero. “Because you don’t like the truth of what I’m saying?” 

“No. Yes… Gah…” The Hero’s shoulders fell, their expression crumpling in confusion. 

“It’s alright my darling Hero.” The Villain wiggled their hands free of the knots. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” 

“Oh, but I do. I understand you completely.”

“I’m nothing like you! The hero hissed, some of their fire returning. I’ll never be like you.” 

The Villain hummed.

“You say that now…” 

In  a flash they were on their feet, the rope in their hands. Before the Hero could react the Villain had the rope wrapped around their neck. They twisted, and the Hero gasped, clawing at the Villain’s hands. 

“But one day soon you’ll realize…” The Villain’s voice was silky as hey twisted the rope further. The Hero hacked and choked. “There are benefits of giving into your desires.” 

They leaned in and tenderly kissed the Hero’s cheek. 

“So you see,” they murmured. The Hero was nearly unconscious. “You just have to take what you want, when you want. And when you do that?” They peered into the Hero’s bloodshot eyes. “That is when you are truly free.” 

With that they released the rope and sauntered to the door. The Hero fell to their knees, chest and shoulders heaving as they sucked in breath after breath, tears and spit running down their face. 

“If you ever decide to pursue some more… illicit interests,” the Villain said, pausing in the doorway. “You know where to find me.”

And they were gone. 

As the Hero regained their breath, their throat aching, they thought about where it went wrong. They didn’t know. But the Villain’s words…

The Hero punched the floor, bloodying their knuckles.

The Villain had ended the fight with the upper hand.

Again.

Damn it.

Glaring at the door, the Hero made a vow to themselves. One day. One gods’ damn day, they would come out on top, no matter what.

Succession

A Hero/Villain piece

TW for violence

Sounds of fighting reverberated around the abandoned construction sight. Shouts, grunts, and fists hitting flesh mingled with the overall soundtrack of the night-shrouded city. 

And yet no one knew of the fight besides a few sleepy pigeons in the scaffolding, unbothered by the violence unfolding beneath them.

A crack echoed, followed by a scream, and the Villain sagged in the Hero’s grip. With a grunt of effort and disgust the Hero flung the Villain away. 

The Villain grunted and cried out again, rolling twice before stopping, their cane feet out of reach. They struggled to their knees, only to be shoved back down as the Hero’s kicked them in the chest.

“Please…” the Villain rasped, blood trickling from their lips. “That the worst you can do?” Movement caught their eye, and they saw the Sidekick emerge from the room where they’d kept them for the past two days. 

Catching their look, the Hero looked around. Renewed rage filled their eyes to see the Sidekick stagger into the light, battered and scraped. 

The Sidekick, ropes still hanging from their wrists, watched in horror as the Hero grabbed the Villain by the collar and began punching them in the face repeatedly. 

“STOP! The Sidekick cried. They ran forward, and grabbed the Hero’s bloody fist, stopping another blow. 

“This isn’t the way!”  They cried. The Villain’s head lolled, blood pouring from a broken nose. Their shoulder was dislocated, hanging awkwardly at their side. 

“It’s not your way, maybe.” The Hero growled, eyes flashing.

“Wha…?” 

With jerky movements, the Hero stood, shoving the Villain down where they lay slowly moving in pain, their breaths whining through a bruised throat. 

Steely resolve shone in the Hero’s eyes as they reached into an inner pocket. 

“What are you…” The Sidekick began. Their eyes widened as the Hero drew a gun, leveling it at the Villain. 

The Villain wheezed on a laugh, blood burbling on their lips. 

“You can’t do it… we’ve been…”

An ear-shattering bang sounded, echoing around the concrete and metal structure, finally startling the pigeons into panicked flight.

The Sidekick screamed, and the Villain slumped back, dead. 

“WHAT THE HELL?!” The Sidekick cried, half hysteric. 

“I did what had to be done.” The Hero’s voice was devoid of emotion. “They’d have killed you. I killed them first.”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” The Sidekick was shaking. “You’re the Hero!”

The Hero looked at the Sidekick, expression sympathetic. 

“Exactly. I’m the Hero. The press will believe me when I say I acted in your defense.

“But…” the Sidekick swallowed a sob. “But that isn’t… that’s not how these things are… should be done! You taught me that.”

The Hero hummed, tapping the warm barrel of the gun to their lips. A smudge of gun powder remained behind. 

“Be that as it may, can’t things be different?”

The Sidekick looked at the Hero, confused despite the horror of what they’d seen. 

“What?”

“Cant things be different. Together we can change things. You and me. We can make it so there won’t ever be the need for Heroes again.”

“This isn’t you.” The Sidekick began backing away. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. “What do you mean?”

 The Hero’s expression turned hurt. 

“Of course it’s me. It’s your Hero. I’m the same person you joined up with all those months ago.”

“No. You… you’re different. Something…” the Sidekick stuttered into silence at the sudden change in the Hero’s eyes. 

“Something what?” They asked. 

“Something changed in you.”

“Fah. Nothing changed. I’m still the same. My eyes were just opened fo the follies of the old ways. But together,” the Hero stepped closer, eyes fevered. “Together you and I can make this city whole. We can change THAT for the better. And after that?” Their eyes gleamed. 

“No. You’re wrong.” The Sidekick continued ending away, the Hero pacing after them, and only stopped when their back hit the wall. “You’re just… You’re becoming the Villain!” 

Silence resounded through the site. 

“What did you say?” The Hero’s voice was deadly quiet.  

The Sidekick stood up straighter, expression set.  

“You heard me. You’re becoming what you swore to stop.”

The Hero laughed then, a harsh sound so at odds with their familiar and once-kind face. 

“Don’t you see? I did stop it. I stopped the Villain.” They pointed at the Villain’s battered body. The Sidekick glanced, and looked away quickly. 

It was all wrong. 

“Yes. But what cost?” The Sidekick asked quietly. 

The Hero regarded them steadily, considering. 

“I see,” they said. They sounded sad. “I understand.” They took a step forward, and the Sidekick cringed away, hands grasping for something, anything, to use as a weapon. “You just don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?” The Sidekick’s hand found something loose and metal. They grabbed it, but kept it hidden. 

“My vision.” The Hero signed, suddenly exhausted. “And I can’t have shortsighted people working with me. You’ll only slow me down.”

They primed the gun, and the Sidekick suddenly understood. 

“This is your last chance,” the Hero said, leveling the gun at the Sidekick’s chest. “Are you with me? Or-“

The Sidekick, cold metal in their hand, didn’t hesitate. 

“No.” 

Before the Hero could react beyond a narrowing of their eyes, the Sidekick swung. They caught the Hero in the face with a slim metal pipe. A sickening sound followed the impact. 

The Hero shrieked in pain, clamping a hand to their eyes, the gun falling to the floor with a clatter. 

“WHAT DID YOU DO!” They screamed, curling forward. Blood dripped between their fingers, papping on the concrete. Snarling, the Hero’s hands dropped away, and the Sidekick bolted from the sight of the Hero’s contorted face. From the one bloody eye socket and the remaining eye that was filled with fury. Nothing remained of the person they’d met and spent so much time with.

And come to love, in their own way.

“YOU FUCKING LITTLE SHIT!” The Hero lunged for the Sidekick, but missed, their depth perception forever skewed. 

The Sidekick dodged the grab, and ran as fast as they could while the Hero continued screaming profanities behind them. 

They burst out into the empty yard of the site, tripping over boards and other hazards. They didn’t care. 

“YOU WILL PAY!” Screamed a voice they didn’t recognize as the Hero’s. “YOU HEAR ME?! THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING!”

The Sidekick tripped, skinning their hands and knees as they slid over the gravel and sand covered ground. They barely felt the sting as they struggled to their feet and kept running. They didn’t stop until they were a mile away, the Hero’s tortured screams echoing in their mind. 

What have I done? The Sidekick thought, staggering to a stop under a street light, gasping for breath, and in horror. 

The Villain was dead, killed by the Hero. 

And the Hero was…

The Sidekick sank to their heels, curling around themselves, and wrapping their blood-speckled-hands around their knees. The ropes were still hanging from their wrists. 

With an agonized cry they struggled out of the coarse cords, flinging them as far away as possible. They grabbed their hair, failing to keep the panicked sobs from escaping. 

The Hero had become the Villain, hadn’t they? 

And that meant-

They were the Hero. 

Devotion

A Minion/Villain piece.

A little different from previous posts, this piece introduces a new, recurring character: The Minion. After all, what is a Villain without a Minion, or a Hero without a Sidekick?

“Where were you? The Villain’s voice was cold. 

Caught in the middle of removing their coat, the Minion looked up, finding their Mastress sitting in a chair by the bay windows. Dusk was falling, staining the sky plum and citrine as a curtain of depthless indigo descended over the world. 

“I was running errands,” they said, hanging their coat and scarf on the rack. “Some of the supplies were low, and I thought-“

“Come here,” the Villain interrupted, waving at them to approach. 

Obediently, the Minion came to stand at the Villain’s side.  

“Why did you not tell me?” The Villain’s tone sent a thrill of warning through the Minion’s chest.  

“You were busy,” they said truthfully, hands stuffed in their pockets. “When I got back with the supplies you were still locked in your office, so I met someone for dinner.”

“Who did you meet?”

The Minion hesitated, fearing to say too much. 

“A friend.” It was true, to a point, but they didn’t want the Villain involved in their personal life more than they already were. 

Without warning The Villain surged to their feet and wrapped their hands around the Minion’s neck, driving them to their knees. The Minion didn’t resist, merely met the Villain’s gaze with something like resigned trust. 

“You are mine!” The Villain growled, squeezing just tight enough for the Minion’s eyes to widen in surprise. A moment later they released the Minion’s throat with a scoff, only to grip their cheeks instead, digging their nails in. “Do you understand?” They hissed. “Mine, and mine alone.” 

The Minion inhaled gently, relieved to have the Villains hands off their neck. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last. Still, it was unsettling. 

“Say it.” The Villain’s voice was harsh, their expression difficult to read. 

The Minion blinked once, slowly, holding the Villain’s unwavering gaze. 

“I am yours.” They said softly, devoutly. 

“And?” The Villain dug their nails in harder. The Minion suppressed a wince. 

“Your wish is my command, Mastress.” 

A tense moment passed, neither so much as breathing. 

“Good.”

With a flourish the Villain released the Minion, leaving red crescent moons etched into the skin of their cheeks. 

Slowly, so as not to provoke them, the Minion rose to their feet, assuming a neutral stance. 

“Mastress?”

The Villain pressed their fingertips to the bridge of their nose, eyes closed.

“It’s been a long day,” the Villain sighed, as if carrying on a previous conversation. As if nothing untoward had happened. “I require a drink. You know which, I take it?” 

“Of course.” 

The Minion was about to leave when the Villain stopped them with a gentle touch on their shoulder. Pausing, the Minion turned, their chest a mere breath from the Villain’s. 

“I haven’t told you this enough, darling,” the Villain murmured. “But you… you are the reason…”

The Minion raised a hesitant brow when the Villain didn’t continue. 

“The reason?”

Forgoing an answer the Villain pressed their lips to the Minion’s, lingering just long enough to convey a vague sense of desperation. Grinning as they pulled back, the Villain savored the warring expressions on the Minion’s face; confusion, desire, fear, concern. 

“Why, you’re the reason I remain so fabulous, despite the Hero’s best efforts to make me otherwise.” 

The Minion nodded, a bemused smile on their mouth. 

“It’s my pleasure, Mastress,’ they said, their expression settling back into carefully practiced neutrality. “Shall I get your drink then?” 

The Villain waved their hand dismissively, the kiss already forgotten. 

“As you will, my dear.” 

Bowing slightly, the Minion departed. When they returned the Villain had resumed their seat by the window, staring out at the night-enshrouded cityscape below them. Without a word they set the drink on the table at the Villain’s elbow. 

“Do you require anything else, Mastress?” They asked. 

The Villain merely waved their fingers. But rather than cupping their chin again they took the Minion’s hand, staying their departure. 

“Stay here tonight,” they said. Their thumb traced idly over the Minion’s knuckles. “I want you ready for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mastress.” 

The Minion returned the pressure of the Villain’s grasp before slipping their fingers free. 

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll turn in, then.” 

Nodding idly, the Villain continued contemplating the view, knuckle pressed to their lips in thought. 

Taking the silence as a dismissal, the Minion headed for their bedroom, the door on the far side of the room. They stepped through and were about to close it when they paused. 

“Good night, Mastress,” the Minion said. 

“Good night, my darling. Sweet nightmares.” 

The Minion smiled and closed the door.