fiction

Reputations and Expectations

A Hero/Villain piece. Minor cw for violence.

It is to be noted that this is one of the few remaining H/V pieces. Cursed Prince posts will resume promptly.

The Hero and Villain faced each other, violent intent marring their expressions. 

Both bled freely from the myriad wounds they’d inflicted upon each other: the Villain had a split lip and several loose teeth, but they’d given their own back by blacking both of the Hero’s eyes and breaking their nose for the umpteenth time.

Their fight had been scrappy, violent, not so much to kill as to maim. 

To hurt and scar. 

All The Villain had simply taken the Sidekick prisoner, and the Hero had retaliated by targeting the Minion, taking their torment a step further. 

The Hero had beaten the Minion so soundly that the Villain hadn’t recognized them, finding them only thanks to the tracking necklace they made them wear.

“Since when… did you stop pulling punches?” The Villain panted, wiping blood from their aching mouth. Grim determination contorted their bloody face into a sneer.

“Since you made this personal.” The Hero snarled. They made to lunge, but drew up short, a hand pressed to their undoubtedly broken ribs. 

The Villain exhaled sharply in disbelief.

“You thought I wouldn’t retaliate when you beat my Minion?” 

Thanks to the Hero the Minion had lost an eye, and had required reconstructive surgery. Even now, they was laid up in the Villain’s private medical ward, unconscious and hurting. 

Silence rang through the abandoned lot. The Hero stared at the Villain through slitted eyes, righteous hatred radiating from them like heat from a flame.

“Figures.” The Villain sagged, bracing their hands on their knees, staring at the Hero a gimlet eye. “It’s always a double standard with you galumphing Hero types. It’s okay for you to beat the shit out of people in ‘the name of good,’” – the Villain’s tone dripped with sarcasm – “but as soon as I, the Villain, retaliate in kind it’s wrong?”

“They’re not involved.” The Hero argued. Their breathing was labored, wheezing from between clenched teeth. Satisfaction welled within the Villain: they had finally, finally, managed to hurt the Hero in a fight.

“They became involved the moment they came into your life, my darling.” They snapped back. “You’re just too blind to recognize that what you call protection is damnation!”

“From you!”

“From me?! You absolute shit filled idiot! It’s not just me. It’s never just been me. And do you know why?”

The Hero remained silent and glaring, shoulders hitching in pain.

“Because I swore that I would flay and gut anyone who crossed you without my leave. You think you know what power is.” The Villain laughed, only to fold double with a wet cough. Blood dribbled from their mouth, landing with a wet pat on the cement. “Well, darling. That, is power.”

“It’s not true power if it’s based in fear,” The Hero argued. 

“And what would you have it be? Respect?”

“Ideally? Yes.”

“Well news flash for you. Fear and respect are of a kind, in the grand scheme of things. At least with fear you actually know where you stand with people. They’re not lying behind your back or to your face, making protestations that they love and adore you when in truth they are terrified of you. Terrified of what you may become should your oh so precious morals fail.

“Me?” The Villain uttered a bitter, agonized laugh. “They know what I am, and I know what they think I am. They don’t expect me to ask for forgiveness, and I’m unapologetic in my actions. That’s as close to being truly free as you can be in this fucked society.”

“That sounds like a lonely way to live.”

The Villain rolled their eyes and straightened, throwing their shoulders back despite the pain that racked their entire body.  

“It’s a true way to live, dear Hero. And I’d rather be isolated and lonely and free than surrounded by the cage of the peoples’ adoration.” They turned and limped away, the Hero’s gaze searing into their back. “Don’t think this is over, either.” The Villain paused and sent a look of complete, malicious intent over their shoulder at the sagging Hero. “This is just the beginning, dear Hero. Revenge is a sweet and sublet thing, and subtly has never been your strong suit. You’ll be lucky if you survive long enough to see that revenge come to fruition.”

With that they left, refusing to let the Hero see just how much pain they were in.

When starting a war, it never bode well for your enemy to know you were weak before the first shots were even fired.

And what a war this would be. 

Empathy

A Hero/Villain piece

It is to be noted that this is one of the few remaining H/V pieces. Cursed Prince posts will resume promptly.

“You don’t understand!” The Hero choked. 

The Villain stood completely still, their face a mask. 

“Actually, I do,” they murmured, tone neutral.

The Hero shot them an agonized look, desolation ravaging their insufferably confident expression. Their face crumpled, and they curled over themselves as gut wrenching sobs tearing from their chest. 

Seeing the Hero so low, so utterly broken, cracked the Villain’s icy facade. Tears welled in their eyes, and they knelt, slowly. They reached out, slower still, to the Hero. 

Their hand brushing the Hero’s shoulder, they expected the Hero to retaliate, to lash out in grief or rage or some violent combination of both. Instead the Hero collapsed back and to the side, landing agains the Villain’s body. 

Shocked, the Villain did all they could think to do: they held the Hero. After a moment they ran their hand down the Hero’s head and back in soothing strokes. 

“It’s alright…” they whispered. They were unsure if the Hero heard them. 

“How can… can it…” the Hero sobbed, fist bunching in the Villain’s freshly pressed linen shirt. 

A flicker of annoyance flashed through the Villain at the inconvenience, but they didn’t say anything. Instead they held the Hero tighter as sobs continued to wrack their powerful body. 

They were surprised to realize they didn’t want to gloat. Didn’t want to make a snide comment about sentimentality and weakness and goodness. All they wanted to do was be there. In the moment. For the Hero. In the only way they knew how. 

As a Villain, they’d had countless moments like this, feeling so desolate they didn’t know how to move forward. But always, always, their Minion had been there. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they sat in silence, in each other‘s arms. And sometimes they simply occupied the same space. Sure, the Villain had comforted their Minion a time or two. But never like this. 

They blinked furiously, refusing to let the Hero realize they were as human as the next fool by crying. 

The Villain held the Hero. 

Through screams of anguish and gasping sobs, they held them. They held them for an eternity, a moment, an indeterminate amount of time, until their knees and legs were screaming and throbbing in protest at being folded under the weight of two bodies, their back aching from the angle in which they sat. And yet they never let go. 

Eventually the Hero’s sobs died out, their sorrow and rage and grief spent, if only for the moment. After a prolonged moment of silence they gripped the Villain in a ferocious hug, nails biting into the Villain’s back through their thoroughly ruined shirt. 

The Villain didn’t say anything, only returned the embrace even as their desire to run, to escape, returned in full force. 

A moment later the Hero sat up. Their face was splotchy and tear streaked, their eyes swollen and red. There was a crease across their forehead from the Villain’s shirt, which was soaked in tears and snot. 

The Hero looked at the Villain. 

Neither spoke. Neither had to. Sometimes silence spoke louder than words. 

Heaving a sigh the Hero pushed to their feet, reaching a hand down to the Villain. 

The Villain took it, allowing themselves to be pulled to their feet. 

Still they didn’t say anything, even though snarky comments were fighting to break through their momentary vow of silence. 

The Hero met their gaze with tear-rimmed eyes, their hands still clasped with the Villain’s. If they noted the tears still clinging to the Villain’s lashes they didn’t comment. 

“Thank you…” they rasped. They squeezed the Villain’s hand, and the Villain squeezed back. 

The Villain opened their mouth to reply, comment, retort, anything to break the sudden tension. They never got the chance. 

With a decisive nod, the Hero released their hand, turned, and strode away, leaving the Villain standing alone in the empty alley. 

“The fuck just happened?” The Villain murmured into the rainy night. They were suddenly shivering, but whether from nerves, anticipation, cold, or a combination, they couldn’t tell. 

All they knew, in that moment, was that something irrevocable had passed between themself and the Hero. As they turned and walked the opposite direction, they realized that it wasn’t a bad thing. 

What that meant for their feud remained to be seen, true. But for now… 

For now they had come to an understanding. And the Villain felt less alone than they had in years. 

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

Flicker

A Hero/Villain Piece

For those of you who’ve read others, this piece can be considered a loose prelude to Grey

The Villain reached down and lifted the Sidekick’s head, fingers pressed to the underside of their chin.

“You,” the Villain tsked, “Have a hopelessly misplaced sense of trust, my dear.” 

The Sidekick glowered, their lips trembling in rage and pain. 

“They’ll come,” they rasped. “The Hero always comes.” 

The Villain laughed, a dark sensual thing that wrapped its fingers around the Sidekick’s throat, its intent choking them with fear. They struggled to look away from the Villain’s gaze. 

“My sweet, sweetly naive Sidekick.” They ran their finger down the Sidekick’s jaw to their neck. They squeezed, and the Sidekick had a weird sense of de ja vu. 

“The Hero isn’t coming for you.” They leaned in, lips brushing the Sidekick’s ear. The Sidekick whimpered, and the Villain smiled. “The Hero isn’t coming, and neither is anyone else. You.” They squeezed harder; the Sidekick’s eyes bulged. “Are.” They pressed a kiss to their jaw. “Mine.”

When the Villain leaned back, a flicker of doubt shone in the Sidekick’s eyes. 

They wouldn’t, they thought, too weak to break free from the Villain’s grasp, weak as it was. They wouldn’t leave me, would they? 

As the Villain straightened, that damned smirk still curling their lips, the Sidekick realized they didn’t know the Hero at all. 

Shouldn’t I know that? They wondered, desperation clawing at their throat as the Villain turned and grinned as they shut and locked the door, leaving the Sidekick to their thoughts. The Villain’s laughter echoed around them. Taunting them.

A tear rolled down Sidekick’s cheek as more questions and doubts began to crowd their mind. 

Maybe the Villain is right.

A lump welled in their throat.

Why would they come for me?

More tears fell, and the Sidekick was glad the Villain wasn’t around to see, to mock their fear and faith.

Faith that began to waver the longer they sat there, alone in the cold dark of the cell. 

Why would they care about me? The Sidekick thought, curling in on themselves around their bound wrists.

I’m just a Sidekick. 

Domestic

A Hero/Villain piece.

The Villain woke with a start and a gasp. They tried sitting up, but gave up as their entire body creaked and ached in protest. Groaning they closed their eyes against the glare from the window across from them. They relaxed back, and were surprised to realize they were… in a bed? 

Upon further inspection, dragging their hands over the fabric beneath them, they realized the sheets were soft, clean. Not as high a thread count as their own, but comfortable and cozy. 

They were also naked, under the blankets. 

Wondering what the hell had happened or who they had fucked to get here, they tried sitting up again. 

Their ribs creaked, and every muscle in their upper body barked in dull agony, but slowly they managed to sit up, the sheets and blankets piling around their hips. 

They were in a modest room: queen size bed with too many blankets, a dresser, and a small bookshelf. There was a closet as well but the door was closed, preventing the Villain from identifying who’s bed they were in. There was also some art on the wall above the dresser, but it was too dim for them to make any details out beyond ‘squiggly plant shape.’ 

Clanking came from the half-open door to their left. 

Intrigued, the Villain geared themself, took a deep breath, and stood. They swayed on weak legs for a moment or two before finding the strength to stand unaided.

There was no sign of their clothes, no sign of their beloved coat. 

Someone’s going to pay, they thought, grinding their teeth. 

Heedless of their nakedness they opened the door, padding across cheap carpet into a narrow hall. A few more pieces of original art hung from the walls – more plants, and what looked suspiciously like a nude done in charcoal – which opened onto a cozy, lived-in sitting room. Books littered the desk in the corner, and more blankets were piled on the overstuffed loveseat in the middle of the room that faced a southern window. 

Another clank sounded from the right, and the Villain turned just as the Hero stepped around the corner from the galley kitchen. 

“Oh. You’re up.” If they were shocked or embarrassed by the Villains nudity, their face didn’t show it. Someone had bathed the Villain, that was clear from the unfamiliar scent in their hair. “I made you some tea.” 

The Villain stared, bewildered by the simple statement.

“Made me tea?’ They looked at the Hero, then around the apartment, realization dawning on them. They were in the Hero’s home. 

They turned to peer at the Hero, who still stood halfway behind the kitchen wall. Never looking away, the Villain strode to the couch, folding their legs under them as they settled in the corner, the image of polite interest.

“What happened?” They asked bluntly. They pulled a blanket around their shoulders. Not because they cared what the Hero thought. Of course not. They were just cold. 

“I found you dying in a ditch.” The Hero deadpanned. 

The Villain snorted. 

“No. Seriously. What happened?”

“That did.” 

When the Hero didn’t elaborate the Villain sat up a little straighter. 

“Wait. You’re serious, aren’t you…”

“Would I lie to you?”

The Villain squinted, searching for a trap. 

“That depends on the situation.”

The Hero shrugged. 

“Sure. But not in this situation. Whoever attacked you was long gone by the time I got to you.” 

“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?”

That summoned a weak grin from the Hero. Leave it to the Villain to turn a simple act of kindness into an interrogation. 

“And waste all that time and expose you as human to the masses while you were unconscious? That hardly seems fair.” 

The Villain ceded the point with an elegantly indifferent lift of an exposed shoulder. 

“Fair enough. But why here?” 

“Where else could I have gone?”

That gave the Villain pause. The location of their lair was a well kept secret. Even their minions didn’t know the location, all but their most trusted agents arriving blindfolded and hooded. That left their bunker, which apparently would have been too… gauche, and a hospital. Which meant…

“Why save me at all?” They demanded, suspicious and peeved that the Hero had been right about something. 

The Hero paused, deeply considering the question. 

“It didn’t seem fair.” 

“Life is hardly fair. You know that. I’ve taught you well enough.” 

“True. But… I don’t know.” The Hero shrugged, and folded their arms over their chest. “Seemed the thing to do.” 

The Villain scoffed. Typical Hero mentality. 

“Mm. If you insist. I’ll have that tea now, if you don’t mind.” 

Shaking their head but smirking, the Hero pushed off the wall and rounded the corner. They returned a minute later with a steaming vat of milky tea. 

“Cream and three sugars, as you like it.” They handed the massive mug to the Villain. 

“Why are you being so damn nice to me?” The Villain said, taking the mug. It warmed fingers they hadn’t realized were cold.  

The Hero was about to answer but the Villain cut them off. “And don’t go on about it being the right thing to do. God knows I’ve done enough horrible things to you and your Sidekick that it would have been poetic justice for you to let me die wherever the hell you found me. There’s another reason and you and I both know you know it.” They cringed inwardly at the shoddy logic, but stared hard at the Hero, waiting for an answer. 

A long moment passed before the Hero finally replied. 

“I.. seeing you there, unmoving…” they paused. “It scared me, what I felt.” 

“And what was that?” The Villain’s lip curled in a half-sneer.

“Desperation? A regret that this…” the Hero waved their hand, encompassing them both. “Our game could be over so soon, so quickly. And without my knowing how or why.” 

Both fell silent at the implications. 

Try as they might, the Villain couldn’t for the life or death of them remember what had happened the night before. Surly they hadn’t been careless enough to allow themselves to be drugged. But if not that, then…

“I took your coat to the dry cleaners,” the Hero said into the quiet, shaking their head slightly. “It should be ready this afternoon. And your clothes are just about done in the dryer. Had to wash them a few times to get the blood and dirt out. I doubt your pants will ever be the same again.” 

The Villain barked a laugh, though their thoughts remained fixed on bloody, painful revenge. 

“Well. I suppose the effort must count for something, even if you completely ruined them.” 

The Hero smiled ruefully. 

“In the mean time, you can wear anything you find in the closet. Though I doubt it’s up to your standards.” 

The Villain nodded wisely. It was undoubtedly a blow to their ego, just thinking about wearing fast fashion. But they were curious to see what sort of things the Hero wore on the daily. 

“Aren’t you worried I’ll try something?” Their expression was wry, a challenge gleaming in their eyes. 

The Hero looked at them, expression unreadable. Unfazed. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me, no. But I don’t think you will.”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

The Hero spread their hands, eyebrows comically raised. 

“You’ve never struck me as the type to over exert yourself.” 

The Villain scowled. Damn the Hero for being so damn perceptive. But, never one to say no to a little pampering, the Villain settled back in the seat as the Hero disappeared around the corner again. 

“I’ll make you breakfast, though I don’t have much.”

A chorus of banging and clanking followed, and the Villain was struck by how ridiculous this situation was. 

Them, sitting naked in a blanket, in the Hero’s living room, while the Hero made them breakfast.

Was this normal peasant behavior?

They took a sip of their tea, surprised to find it was exactly as they liked it. 

Just as the Hero had claimed it to be.

The Villain glared out the window, even as they took another sip, savoring the way the tea warmed them from the inside out. 

This was all together too weird. The Villain couldn’t quite believe they were having such a… domestic moment, and with their nemesis, of all people. 

The sound of a fridge door opening and closing drew their attention back to the little haven they were in. 

“Toast and eggs?”

When the Villain realized the Hero was waiting for an answer, they spoke. 

“That is acceptable.”

“How do you take ‘em?”

It took the Villain a moment to realize what they were asking. 

“O- Oh. Scrambled whites, feta, onions, and mushrooms if you have them.”

“I’m not the Ritz, you know.”

The Villain sighed dramatically, sinking deeper into the couch. 

“Fiiiiiine. However you deem fit, oh wise kitchen god.”

A snicker met the statement, but the Hero didn’t say anything else as they set about making breakfast. 

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