original story

Official Stuff and Nonsense

Update!!! All Cursed Prince posts have been deleted, for the simple reason that I am in the midst of revisions, with the intent of officially publishing the full, beautifully revised book within the next year or so!

Thank you to those who read it in its early slop trash first draft form, and please keep an eye out for further updates! (We’ll see if i can actually remember to post here… but whatever…)

All said, I’ll likely keep posting little rambles every now and then, but for the foreseeable future I think this lovely little sketchbook will be on the shelf.

Again, thanks to everyone who read the things!

Cheers, and see y’all around, soonish or laterish. Who really knows?

KU

The Albino Pangolin

Written per a prompt from a friend. Also hey hi hello, yes I am alive, just mentally hibernating.

The mall was busy, typical for a Saturday afternoon, the bustling crowds packing the halls and escalators to a claustrophobic degree. Teens chatted on their phones, thumbs a-blur as they texted and tweeted and reblogged and shared. A pair of adults hurried- bleary eyed and overwrought – after their children as the little ones ran amok between the legs of other shoppers, hyped up on donuts and Jamba Juice. Elderly folk reclined on a set of arm chairs, the sitting area delineated by a collection of potted palms.

There was a flash, then, by the fountain in the central atrium. 

Someone gasped. Another yelped. Someone else laughed, before scurrying away, phones out and angled towards the ground. 

An albino pangolin waddled out of the fountain, water dripping from her scales, her red eyes taking in the scene. 

People stopped and stared, and the man playing the piano a few feet away came to a clanging, discordant stop when the pangolin sidled past his foot, her cold scales brushing against his ankles.

She stood on her hind legs, blinking in the flashes of cameras; a curious device hung from her neck, bounced between her feet as she set off in search of an escalator. 

People made way, commenting and pointing and exclaiming ‘how cute!’ as she passed. A spotty teenage tried to pick her up, but she flicked her tail and chittered her displeasure, sending the boy running after his friends.  

No one got on the escalator until she reached the next level. 

Already the noise of the place had changed, and she knew she was running out of time before animal control was called to deal with her. It had happened before, and would undoubtedly happen again. 

Finding a bench that overlooked the promenade and atrium below, the pangolin clambered atop it. The tide of humanity continued to swirl and swarm below and around her, the chaotic clammed of thousands of  voices deafening in the glass-roofed space. 

She huffed, scratched her claws against the glass in irritation, and sat up on her hind legs, the device on display. 

The president -a honey badger of some renown – had given her this sort of mission before, and she could not, would not fail. Too much hung in the balance.

With another determined huff she pressed a claw to the gleaming, silver green button in the middle of the device. There came a soft beep, a dull swell of light, and then… 

And then blessed silence. 

The humans, previously overwhelming in their numbers, had vanished. To where, the albino pangolin didn’t particularly care. So long as they were gone, she and her comrades could do what they needed to in order to save their Sacred Mother. 

Satisfied with another job well done, the albino pangolin clambered off the bench and went in search of a snack. Reshaping reality always left her feeling a little peckish, regardless of whether she’d eaten recently or not. 

A few minutes later the albino pangolin gave up, realizing there weren’t nearly enough insects in such a sterile human space, and vanished herself to a favorite savanna, there to feast upon one of many termite mounds.  

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.”

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

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. 

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.”

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.