chaotic-scraps

Latest Posts by chaotic-scraps

Hey! I love your writing so much. I think I read almost all of your stories.

I was wondering if you could write an angst to comfort story with a henchman who made a minor mistake and is absolutely freaking out because their previous boss didn’t allow for mistakes and the Supervillain and current leader would comfort them?

I think it would be so cute!

Bonus point if the henchman is ruthless in fights and normally very stoic and cold.

I hope you have a nice and once again, I love your writing ❤️

A Misplacement

Henchman braced as Supervillain swept into the room, their grandiose presence seeming to bring everyone in the office into a more upright posture. The henchman stood impassively with their hands clasped and head slightly bowed, awaiting any orders that might be heading their way after the rather dramatic entrance.

“Henchman. Grab Hero’s file for me, will you?”

Henchman knew a command when they heard one, just as they had been prepared for.

“Yes, sir.”

Supervillain brushed by, still speaking as they walked.

“You can stop with that ‘sir’ nonsense. I respect the dedication, but you could really stand to lighten up a bit. It’s Supervillain,” their boss called, rounding the corner into their private office before Henchman had a chance to retort.

It would take more than that to trip Henchman up. They knew the rules, and ‘sir’ was just the tip of the iceberg.

Fight well, follow orders, and keep their head down. That’s all Henchman knew how to had to do. The trap of casualness was not one they would be falling into anytime soon.

They walked briskly to a cabinet against the wall and jingled a small set of keys from their pocket. They found the correct one almost automatically and went straight for the initials they knew Hero would be filed under. They dug past a few folders, brow creasing as they passed the suspected location. Semi-frantically, Henchman pulled out two other drawers, digging through those too to no avail.

Henchman froze. Hero’s file. It was gone.

Numbly, their gaze shifted across the room to the shredder that they had used yesterday to purge some older files at the request of their supervisor. Their hand shook as they closed the drawer of the filing cabinet.

Follow orders, until they can’t. Then it becomes, accept what comes next.

Blankly, they stepped towards their superior’s office. They paused at the door, shoving all their thoughts down into a tiny box they sealed shut with the mental equivalent of an excessive amount of duct-tape.

They could face the punishment. They always could.

The door opened with a click and Henchman allowed their jelly-filled legs to carry them into the center of the room, stopping there and reassuming the stiff posture and clasped hands that they reserved solely for moments spent in the presence of their boss.

“You can just set it on the desk,” Supervillain voiced dismissively, not looking up from the task at hand, which seemed to be signing some papers spread out in front of them. When no file placed itself on their desk, Supervillain rested their pen and questioned, “Is there something else?”

When they received no response, the supervillain lifted their head and immediately took notice of their employee’s current state.

“Henchman, are you alright?”

Supervillain had risen from their large leather arm chair and was now heading towards their subordinate.

“You just look a little pale. Come, sit down will you?”

They grabbed Henchman by the shoulders and led them to sit down in the chair that they had just occupied.

They hadn’t so much as touched the cushion before the words started to spill out of their mouth, lacking the usual curtness Supervillain had grown used to during Henchman’s lengthy employment.

“The file. I’m sorry. I must have misplaced it yesterday with some old papers. It’s not an excuse,” they added hurriedly. “I know and I understand that you need to-“

Their boss shot observant eyes to Henchman’s hands, which they had unknowingly started wringing in their lap.

“Is that what this is about? The file?” Supervillain questioned incredulously.

Their stoic, ruthless fighter who had never been anything but absolutely dependable on the battlefield was now ashy as a ghost and squirming after being asked to deliver a file.

“I messed up. I know the consequences-” Henchman explained almost robotically before their boss cut them off.

“Consequences? Henchman, we can just print another one. They’re saved in the cloud. It’s no big deal. It takes, like, two minutes. I know the printer is slow but it’s certainly not worth crying over.”

Crying? Henchman would never-

Oh. There was liquid trailing down their cheek now, running from the corner of their eye to the bottom of their jaw.

Oh no. Their boss would never forgive them for this.

Their boss, who was-

Henchman braced for sharpness, but Supervillain met them with nothing but soothing words.

“Breathe, Henchman. Breathe.”

Supervillain still had them by the shoulders, but now they were in front of them, kneeling and modeling deep breaths with their whole body and maintaining eye contact with a completely frozen Henchman.

“Are you breathing? I don’t hear anything.” Supervillain shook them gently and their employee finally took one big breath in without breaking the rigid professional composure they were still so desperately clinging to.

“That’s it.” Supervillain encouraged, signaling them to release the breath with an exaggerated deep sigh through slightly pursed lips. “You’re doing so well.”

Henchman’s facade broke with a loud, hiccuping sob.

At that, Supervillain wasted no time smothering them with a tight hug, holding on for long enough that Henchman was able to stop hyperventilating and start matching the pace of the lungs pressed up against them.

Only when Henchman’s face started to burn hot with embarrassment from their situation did their superior finally pull away, but only far enough to look them in the eye as they spoke.

“You transferred from Villain’s office, correct?”

Henchman nodded in confirmation, sniffling quietly and averting their eyes.

“Ah, I see.”

Supervillain went right back into the embrace and continued it for as long as Henchman let them.

A few tissues and a short talk on acceptable treatment of workers later, Supervillain eventually exited their personal office, entering the greater office area and addressing the first worker that they encountered.

“Other Henchman, pull Villain’s file please. Send me the address.”

Other Henchman nodded, immediately sliding their chair over to the nearest filing cabinet and beginning to thumb through the labels in the drawer.

“Got it,” Other Henchman signaled by waving a file in the air, already typing out a message on their computer.

“I think it’s time I pay someone a visit,” Supervillain declared as they sauntered out the doors, their phone dinging with what was undoubtedly the location of their newest nemesis.

"You poisoned me." Hero's hand goes to their throat, already feeling the burn, the effect of the toxin. They realized the moment they took a drink from pretty red wine Villain suggested they share.

"Not poison. Not exactly." Villain tuts. "Truth serum. It's considered a minor toxin but by no means dangerous to the average person."

Hero's eyes widen. They feel the sting of betrayal, harsher than the burn in their throat.

"Why?" They croak. "Was this the only reason you suggested dinner together?" Their eyes burn.

Villain eyes them for a moment. "You're privy to a lot of useful information about the other heroes. Information I could find useful. As for your other question," They drawl, "Why? Would you be upset by that?" Villain almost smirks.

Already feeling the effects, Hero is unable to lie. "Yes." They answer quietly. They try to avoid Villain's gaze, waiting for the interrogation to begin, meal abandoned. "I was happy when you asked me." Their words spill out of them unbidden.

They miss the surprised look on Villain's face at this admission. Quiet settles over them for a long moment.

"Looking forward to trying to mend my villainous ways?" Villain eventually huffs. "Did you hope that a nice dinner together would have been enough to change me?" Their tone borders on defensive.

Tears threaten to spill over Hero's lashes. They try to get control of their emotions, but the serum is doing something to their control, their inhibition.

"No." They confess. "No. I just wanted to spend time with you." They still can't meet Villain's gaze, the table below beginning to blur.

"Why?" Villain asks, sounding incredulous, sounding almost spooked. "We're enemies. I've nearly killed you countless times."

Hero gulps, trying to stop the words from coming out, mentally clawing at themselves to stop speaking. They tumble out anyway.

"I like spending time with you." Their hand goes to grip the table, to steady themselves as they lose control of their own voice. "I like spending time with you especially when we're not fighting."

"Stop it." Villain demands. Now it's their turn for their voice to wobble.

"I really like you." Tears brim over Hero's cheeks now, and they hear Villain suck in a harsh breath. They can't stop the words now that they're flowing out. The dam has been broken.

"Stop talking. Stop it." Villain sounds more desperate now.

"I was hoping you'd kiss me tonight."

The table shakes loudly as Villain stands, dining ware nearly falling over. Hero finally looks up at them, trying to blink away their tears. They see Villain's hollowed expression. They let out a rattling breath.

"This was a mistake." Villain finally says. Hero sees the way they dig their nails into the table cloth, before their vision is blurred by more tears. "I shouldn't have done this."

"Dinner..? Or tricking me?" Hero's voice is rough, raspy.

Villain is silent for a long moment. "It doesn't matter. What's done is done." Now it's their turn to not meet Hero's eyes.

"I'd let you take me to dinner again." Hero gulps, the truth still spilling out of them with ease. "I wish you'd take me to dinner again. Even if you trick me another time." Shame swirls in Hero's gut as they admit to this pathetic truth. It doesn't matter how many times they get burned, it won't change how much they imagine Villain's lips on theirs, their hands on them.

"I need to go." Villain's throat bobs. They shove themselves away from the table harshly, the wine spilling over. Hero watches them leave as their tears drip below.

Smile out of spite

They want you to cry

Not here, not tonight

Existence is resistance

You are here, despite all odds

Thriving in the cracks they tried to seal

You are magnificent

Your roots are strong

One day you'll reach sunlight

But for now?

You know how to do with less

Chips🥔

Hello. I heard you wanted ideas for a snippet so here I am.

Why not write about a supervillain inviting the hero to a dinner to a fancy restaurant. The hero would accept and he would be either dumbfounded or happy to be treated well (or any feeling you would like but something strangely positive). The supervillain would be a gentleman, the hero would be able to eat what he truly wants and not what is cheaper (broke hero perhaps?)…

I feel like I’ve been super specific already so I hope you enjoyed the prompt and if you pick this prompt, hopefully you’ll have a good time writing it.

Dinner with the Villain

This was so fancy to write lol, I love how it was more specific. I hope this is what you had in mind.

Warnings: Poor living conditions

The hero stood outside the restaurant, staring up at the glowing sign with a mix of disbelief and apprehension. Le Clair de Lune was the kind of place they’d only ever seen in movies—crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, waiters in tailored suits. Not exactly the kind of spot you’d expect to be invited to by your arch-nemesis.

But here they were, clutching the embossed invitation in their hand, the words “Join me for dinner. 8 PM sharp. No capes.” scrawled in the villain’s elegant handwriting. They’d almost thrown it away, convinced it was some kind of trap. But curiosity—and the gnawing hunger that came with living on instant noodles—had won out.

The moment they stepped inside, a waiter greeted them with a polite smile. “Ah, you must be our guest of honor. Right this way.”

The hero followed, their boots squeaking awkwardly on the polished floor. They felt out of place in their patched-up jacket and scuffed jeans, but the staff didn’t seem to notice. Or if they did, they were too professional to comment.

The villain was already seated at a table near the back, dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than the hero’s entire apartment. They looked up as the hero approached, a smirk playing on their lips.

“You came,” the villain said, their voice smooth and amused. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Yeah, well,” the hero muttered, sliding into the chair across from them. “Free food is free food.”

The villain chuckled, gesturing to the menu. “Order whatever you like. My treat.”

The hero hesitated, their eyes scanning the menu. The prices were astronomical, the kind of numbers that made their stomach twist. But the villain had said whatever you like, and the hero wasn’t about to pass up the chance to eat something that didn’t come out of a microwave.

They ordered the most expensive steak on the menu, along with a side of truffle fries and a dessert they couldn’t even pronounce. The villain raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, simply sipping their wine as the waiter took the order.

“So,” the hero said once they were alone, “what’s the catch?”

The villain tilted their head, feigning innocence. “Catch?”

“Yeah. You don’t just invite me to a fancy dinner for no reason. What’s your angle?”

The villain leaned back in their chair, their smirk widening. “Can’t a villain simply enjoy the company of their favorite adversary?”

The hero snorted. “Favorite adversary? You tried to blow up my apartment last week.”

“And yet, here you are,” the villain said, gesturing to the table. “Eating my food, drinking my wine. Clearly, you’ve forgiven me.”

“I haven’t forgiven you,” the hero shot back, though there was no real bite to their words. “I’m just… curious.”

The villain’s expression softened, just slightly. “Perhaps I’m curious too. We’re always fighting, always at each other’s throats. I thought it might be… refreshing to see what happens when we’re not.”

The hero didn’t know how to respond to that. They were saved by the arrival of their food, the aroma of perfectly cooked steak making their mouth water. They dug in without hesitation, savoring every bite. It was the best meal they’d had in years.

The villain watched them eat, their expression unreadable. “You know,” they said after a moment, “you don’t have to live like this.”

The hero paused, a forkful of steak halfway to their mouth. “Like what?”

“Like you’re always one paycheck away from disaster,” the villain said, their voice surprisingly gentle. “You’re a hero. You save lives. And yet, you can’t even afford a decent meal. It’s… tragic.”

The hero set their fork down, their appetite suddenly gone. “What are you saying?”

The villain leaned forward, their eyes gleaming. “I’m saying you deserve better. And maybe… I can help with that.”

The hero stared at them, their mind racing. This had to be a trick. Some kind of manipulation. But the villain’s expression was sincere, their offer genuine. And for the first time, the hero wondered if maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to do this alone.

“Why?” they asked finally. “Why would you help me?”

The villain smiled, a rare, genuine smile. “Because even villains have their soft spots. And because… I think you’re worth it.”

The hero didn’t know what to say to that. So they didn’t say anything. They just picked up their fork and kept eating, the weight of the villain’s words settling over them like a warm blanket.

For the first time in a long time, they felt… hopeful.

Masterlist

how do requests work? what can we ask for?

You are my first ask, so you get a special prize! 🍀 It's a clover! Congratulations! You have +1 good luck now. I take requests for hero/villain content. I don't feel comfortable working with other people's characters. I generally stay SFW. If you want spicy I will try and will likely disappoint you. I also draw pictures sometimes, but I have burnout and very rarely want to.

I also work very slowly on average. If you want a mediocre five sentence Halloween themed story with no satisfying conclusion you should ask for it now.

I work for free though, so the return on your investment of time is decent, all things considered.

All in all... Try your luck, ask a question and see what happens?

Anyway, have a good day.

CW: Violence

Beware, friend

story by @yeehawpim and illustrated by @rvicta

Prompt (517)

“People don’t take me seriously enough,” the villain said. “How can I look more intimidating?”

“Well, for starters, you can stop inviting your enemies to lunch dates to survey them,” the hero said.

The villain chuckled sarcastically, but wrote the answer down anyway. The hero sipped their coffee. A wry smile curled their lips.

“You’re paying, right?” The hero asked.

“Shut up. Yes. Next question.”

"Hey, you're a hero, right?"

"Well, I mean--"

"I need someone strong to come clean out my garage."

"But I don't--"

"I'll pay you $5."

"..."

"I'll throw in a sandwich if you unclog my toilet."

"... ..."

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.

The villain sprawled languid, more somber than usual, on the rooftop of a towering business building. Their head rested on the wall leading to the stairwell, legs dangling precariously over the edge. Staring down at the street with an intent that made hero's blood run cold.

"V-villain," Hero murmured with some measure of trepidation.

Villain leaned back, gazed at the hero from upside down, and smiled slow.

"Hero! How on earth did you find me?"

"I'll tell you i-if you come down," Hero said with a note of urgency.

"And why would I do that? I can hear you perfectly fine up here!"

"P-please come down."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me," the villain said, tapping them teasingly. "Scared of heights? Or think I have something up my sleeve?"

"I know you saw what the mayor said," Hero said. "I... I don't even know where to begin."

"So don't," Villain said. "After all, you agree with him, don't you? You just stood there and let him say everything. Of course you'll deny it and feign being neutral--"

"No, that's not--"

"Because that's so much less messy, isn't it?"

"I--"

"Listen, sit back, grab some popcorn, and I'll make a show of it just for you." They stood, one foot on the edge, one arm holding a pole as they dangled over the rooftop edge. "Your life will be sooo much better if I just--"

"VILLAIN!" Hero yelled. They climbed up and grabbed for their collar, but Villain dodged, spinning gracefully to the other side of the pole. Hero lost their balance, and Villain grabbed at their collar to steady them. "Careful, darling, we're high, high up. You don't want an accident, do you?"

"V-villain, please--"

"Aren't you afraid I'll push you?" Villain said. "Poor, sweet, trusting thing."

Hero sucked in a breath. Looked down below. That was a mistake.

"Villain, please, get down from here," they pleaded. "Please, I need you, please--"

Villain sneered. "You need me? What sentimental hogwash are you spewing now? You've never needed someone like me. Besides, you should worry more about yourself." Villain gripped their collar tightly, eyes wide with a hungry sort of malice. "Aren't you letting your guard down too much?"

With a yank, they swung Hero over the edge, toes barely holding the rooftop's edge.

Hero SCREAMED, panted, scrambling for as much purchase as possible.

"You're pathetic," Villain said. "Weak and trusting and SO easy to manipulate. A good little puppet for the mayor up until now."

"VILLAIN--" Hero screeched, voice cracking.

"But now I hold the strings," Villain said. "And it's time to make you dance."

They shoved Hero's feet off the edge. Kicking air. Crying. "Please please PLEASE--"

"Say it. Say I'm a monster, you COWARD. A filthy creature that needs to be eradicated--"

"V-villain--"

"An infestation on an otherwise fine society--"

"VILLAIN, NO--"

"You coward," Villain spat. "Say it to my face."

"Y-you're not."

"Liar. I'm a monster. Say it."

Tears fell from Hero's face.

"N-no. You're right. I'm a coward."

Silence.

Villain drew them back to the ledge.

"The m-mayor... Is the monster. I s-shouldn't have let it get this bad. We can't let him keep on like this."

There was that same somber look on the villain's face.

"I-I should have stood up to him," Hero sobbed. "I-if you... J-jump... It would end me." They hiccuped and buried their face in their hands. "I... I c-can't... I..."

"Hey, uh..." Villain gripped their shoulders. "Let's get down... Okay?"

"I'm a coward," Hero sobbed. "All this time... I just kept quiet... And for what? I almost lost you."

Villain patted their shoulder gently.

Hero looked up at them with watery eyes.

"I... I care about you. You're so used to being the villain you can't picture anything else."

"Heh." Villain shook their head. Put some distance between them, back turned. "You martyr. I just threatened your life."

"They're calling for your blood and disrespecting your life's work, and I stood by and let them. I betrayed you."

"It... Hurt," Villain said, hugging themselves. Head hung. "More than I care to admit."

"I'll make it right," Hero said. "Most don't see it, but your motives are good. I'll make them see it."

"I'm a villain, darling," Villain said with a sad smile. "My motives hardly matter."

Hero closed the distance and laid a gentle hand on their arm.

"They matter to me."

Villain: I'm a villain, darling. My motives hardly matter. Hero: They matter to me.

Found my fav STP route recently. Dragon my beloved. Your horrifying beak mouth was an impossible-to-refuse lip syncing challenge 💖

Shoutouts to @blacktabbygames for making such a cool game!

Somewhat inspired by Toei animated Swan Lake from 1981. The characters are not the same, nor is the situation. Mainly the prompt in my head is, what if a villainess asked a hero for a dance? Sketched and drawn in Krita. I am a little rusty so please be gentle.

How to Stay Motivated as a Writer.

I ran a poll to celebrate reaching 50 reblogs because you guys are amazing, and this topic won the poll.

(This is a bit lengthy, but I advise you to read to the very end. These are the kind of tips you rarely find without a fee, but for your amazing support so far, you get this from me for free.)

Let's dive in!

Before I became a writing coach, lack of motivation was something I battled with. Writing started to feel like a waste of my time, but whenever I stopped, I still found my way back somehow.

After a few more months of struggling and finding a clear routine that worked for me, I became a writing coach. Believe me when I say that it was such a commitment, and you'd never know until you get your first student.

I only knew how to stay motivated as an individual. After two students, I realized that motivation was also something they struggled with, and as their coach, it became my duty to offer solutions. In fact, nine out of ten writers struggle with this same problem, so I came up with the 'why and what' technique.

What is the 'why and what' technique?

This technique is a template to figure out the main reason a writer isn't motivated at the current time, which allows for the provision of tailored and personalized solutions to solve the specific problem. In other words: Understanding the why (the main reason for the lack of motivation at the time) to figure out the what (effective solution to solve the main reason).

Lack of motivation is pretty subjective and varies widely. Giving a particular piece of advice may work for some and not for others, which is why I ensured my technique benefits all.

I'll give examples of common reasons writers lack motivation for writing using the template. If you don't find any that relate to you, write it in the comments and get a personalized solution from me.

1. Lack of Inspiration

Why:

- Feeling uninspired by current projects.

- Overwhelmed by the vastness of ideas.

- Stuck in a creative rut.

What:

- Change your environment: Sometimes a new setting can spark creativity. Try writing in a different location, like a park or a café.

- Consume creative content: Read books, watch movies, or listen to music that inspires you.

- Engage in Free Writing: Set a timer for 10 minutes and write whatever comes to mind without worrying about structure or grammar.

- Take a step back: You are no less of a writer if you decide to take a break and watch other writers from afar. Personally, it's difficult to write when I'm not inspired. I find myself editing more than usual and, at times, discarding the piece I spent hours on. So for a little while, I only engaged online and learned other ways to improve my skills with the time on my hands.

2. Fear of Failure

Why:

- Worrying that your writing isn't good enough.

- Comparing yourself to other writers.

- Fear of negative feedback.

What:

- Set small goals: Break down your writing project into manageable tasks to avoid feeling overwhelmed.

- Seek constructive feedback: Share your work with trusted friends or writing groups who can provide supportive and constructive criticism.

- Celebrate small wins: Acknowledge and celebrate your progress, no matter how small. Always remember that our writing styles differ from one another, and that is what makes us unique as writers. 

3. Lack of Time

Why:

- Busy schedules and other commitments.

- Difficulty prioritizing writing.

What:

- Create a writing schedule: Dedicate specific times in your day or week for writing and stick to it.

- Use writing prompts: Short prompts can help you get started quickly and make the most of limited time.

- Eliminate distractions: Find a quiet space and turn off notifications to focus solely on writing.

- Create or join writing challenges: Activities like the 3-day writing challenge, writing a novel in 6 months, the 7-day character creation challenge, the fantasy writers challenge, etc., have specific guidelines tailored to helping writers stay motivated and at the same time productive in limited times.

4. Perfectionism

Why:

- Striving for perfection in every sentence.

- Reluctance to move forward until everything is perfect.

What:

- Embrace the draft: Accept that your first draft doesn't have to be perfect. Focus on getting your ideas down first.

- Set time limits: Give yourself a set amount of time to write and then move on, even if it's not perfect.

- Practice self-compassion: Remind yourself that it's okay to make mistakes and that writing is a process.

-Listen to writing podcasts or join a valuable writing newsletter: You will learn more about the writing industry and writing processes of other established writers, their wins, struggles, difficulties, appreciations, etc., which can serve as an assurance that you are facing the processes of a typical writer. 

Here's a podcast and newsletter for writers I totally recommend—The Shit No One Tells You About Writing. You can listen to The Shit No One Tells You About Writing on platforms like Apple Podcasts and Spotify or sign up for their newsletter.

5. Burnout

Why:

- Writing too much without breaks.

- Feeling exhausted and mentally drained.

- Stressed out from other engagements 

What:

- Take regular breaks: Schedule breaks during your writing sessions to rest and recharge.

- Engage in other hobbies: Spend time on activities you enjoy outside of writing to refresh your mind.

- Practice mindfulness: Techniques like meditation or deep breathing can help reduce stress and improve focus.

- Listen to music: It's an amazing mind therapy. 

6. Lack of Support

Why:

- Feeling isolated in your writing journey.

- Lack of encouragement from others.

What:

- Join writing communities: Connect with other writers through online forums, local writing groups, or social media.

- Find a writing buddy: Partner with another writer to share progress, provide feedback, and offer mutual support.

- Attend workshops and events: Participate in writing workshops, conferences, or webinars to learn and network with others.

- Get a writing coach: Find a coach that will dedicate their time assisting you through your writing processes. 

7. Working on Too Many Drafts Simultaneously

Why:

- Overwhelmed by multiple projects.

- Difficulty prioritizing which story to focus on.

- Constantly switching between drafts, leading to a lack of progress.

What:

- Prioritize projects: Choose one or two main projects to focus on and set the others aside temporarily. This helps you concentrate your efforts and make significant progress.

- Create a project schedule: Allocate specific times or days for each project. For example, work on one story in the mornings and another in the afternoons.

- Set clear milestones: Break each project into bit-sized, manageable tasks with deadlines. Celebrate when you reach these milestones to stay motivated.

- Limit new ideas: Keep a notebook or digital file for new ideas, but resist the urge to start new projects until you complete your current ones.

- Use a timer: Work on one project for a set amount of time (e.g., 25 minutes using the Pomodoro Technique) before taking a break or switching to another task.

8. Frustration of Not Completing Any Stories

Why:

- Feeling stuck or losing interest in projects.

- Perfectionism preventing you from finishing.

- Lack of a clear plan or direction.

What:

- Set realistic goals: Define what "completion" means for each project (e.g., finishing a first draft, reaching a certain word count) and work towards that.

- Embrace imperfection: Accept that your first draft doesn't have to be perfect. Focus on getting the story down, and you can revise it later.

- Find accountability: Share your goals with a writing buddy or group who can help keep you on track and provide encouragement.

- Reward yourself: Plan small rewards for completing sections of your work. This can be anything from a favorite snack to a relaxing activity.

- Reflect on your progress: Regularly review what you've accomplished to remind yourself of your progress and stay motivated.

- Set a clear outline for your story: Having a clear and detailed outline for a story makes it difficult to run out of ideas. 

- Share your achievements with others: Achievement posts are one of the posts that receive more engagement from people. I'm quite aware of Substack. The notes with the highest engagement have to do with achievements. People find those notes empowering and inspiring. Share your wins with others and let them celebrate with you. 

9. Working on Too Many Drafts

Why:

- Perfectionism leading to endless revisions.

- Difficulty deciding when a draft is "good enough."

- Fear of publishing an imperfect work.

What:

- Set a draft limit: Decide on a maximum number of drafts (e.g., three to five) before moving on to the next stage.

- Establish clear goals for each draft: Define what you want to achieve with each draft (e.g., plot consistency, character development, grammar).

- Seek external feedback: Get input from beta readers or a professional editor after a set number of drafts to gain fresh perspectives.

- Create a timeline: Set deadlines for each draft to avoid getting stuck in a cycle of endless revisions.

10. Trying to Earn with Your Writing

Why:

- Financial pressure to monetize your writing.

- Balancing creative passion with commercial viability.

- Navigating the competitive market.

What:

- Diversify income streams: Explore various ways to earn from your writing, such as freelancing, self-publishing, blogging, or offering writing services.

- Build an online presence: Use social media, a personal blog, or platforms like Tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram to showcase your work and connect with potential readers and clients.

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Would you ever write a fluff piece about hero and villain getting distracted from their (already quite flirty in that hero/villain way) battle because they see an injured dog and want to help

Neither one trusts the other to save the dog and so they both watch over it/take care of it

They end up bonding over this and as it turns out, the dog doesn’t belong to anyone. Where would it live now?

(Love your work btw <3) - 🐞

Hi there, Ladybug Anon! Can I call you Ladybug Anon? Anyway, thank you for requesting this, here you go! This one is kinda long, so I put it under the cut!

A well-timed fireball to Hero’s chest had them careening off the rooftop, down a fire escape, and to the hard pavement below.

“Ugh, that’s gonna bruise,” Hero mumbled.

They clambered to get to their feet and looked up at Villain watching them from above.

“Sorry, darling, I thought you were going to dodge!” they called.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hero huffed, dusting themselves off.

Villain climbed down the fire escape and approached Hero, who threw a snowball at their face.

“Oof!”

“There, now we’re even… sort of.”

“Oh, how mature,” Villain scoffed, wiping the snow from their face.

A whimper echoed in the alleyway.

“Well, it was immature of you!” Villain argued.

“That wasn’t me!” Hero said indignantly.

Another whimper. Quiet, high-pitched, and absolutely pitiful.

Villain and Hero turned to the end of the alleyway, where a sable and white lump shivered inside a dilapidated cardboard box. They both approached it, Hero crouching down first.

Two sad brown eyes looked back at them, ears flat against their head. Fur matted with dirt.

“Oh my goodness!” Hero cooed, “you poor baby, who did this to you?”

“Hmph,” Villain folded their arms across their chest, “you never call me baby.”

“Hush.” Hero snapped.

They held a hand out to the little dog, who sniffed it cautiously. It shuffled out of the box and limped over to Hero.

“Are you hurt?” Hero asked, brows furrowed.

The dog whimpered again, then licked Hero’s hand. Villain crouched down next to Hero.

“It’s a corgi,” Villain said, “very strange to find a stray one…”

“Maybe it’s lost?” Hero suggested.

“It’s possible,” Villain agreed, “it could have a microchip. We could take it to a shelter and-”

The corgi growled, baring its teeth. Villain had been petting it, but when they started scratching near its hind leg, it didn’t appreciate it.

“Scratch that,” Hero said, “let’s take it to the vet.”

…

Vet Tech scanned the microchip and pulled up the corgi’s information.

“Says here his name is Chester, aaaand… his human is [Civilian’s full name].”

Vet Tech dialed Civilian’s number. It rang… and rang… and no response. Not even an answering machine.

“If you could give us their address we could take Chester home.” Hero said.

“Well… since it’s you asking, Hero…”

Vet Tech wrote down the address on a slip of paper. Hero thanked them and took it. Chester however, didn’t want to go. They kept clinging to Vet Tech, licking her face and covering it in puppy kisses.

“I know, I know!” they giggled, “but you’ve gotta go home! Bye-bye!”

…

Hero knocked on Civilian’s door, Villain right next to them, and Chester in their arms.

“Hello?” Civilian asked.

“We’ve found your friend!” Hero said, beaming.

Hero had expected at least a smile and a thank-you. What they weren’t expecting was the reaction they got instead.

“Dang it, why did you bring the thing back!?” they snapped.

Hero clutched Chester tightly. Villain looked dangerously calm.

“Pardon?” Villain asked.

“I turned the thing loose! I drove it into the heart of the city so it wouldn’t come back! And now you come here and bring the stupid-”

Hero conveniently turned away as Villain slammed a fist into Civilian’s face. Civilian stumbled back, crashing to the floor. Villain closed the door.

“Hero,” Villain said, “I don’t think this is Chester’s home.”

“You don’t say,” Hero remarked.

…

Chester barked happily, chasing a butterfly through the park. Hero and Villain sat on a bench, keeping a close eye on them. He was still limping, but Vet Tech had bandaged their hind leg and given them a good wash. Their fluffy fur swished in the breeze and their little nubby tail wagged swiftly back and forth.

“What do we do, Villain?” Hero asked, “neither of us have time for a puppy.”

“Speak for yourself, I would quit villainy right now if… ah, who am I kidding, then I wouldn’t get to see you~”

…

Vet Tech arrived at the park bench.

“You guys wanted to see me?”

Chester turned, hearing their voice. He barked loudly, running up to them and jumping, his tongue sticking out of his open mouth.

“Hello again!” Vet Tech smiled, crouching down to pet him.

Hero and Villain explained the situation.

“You… oh gosh, I mean, I’ve always wanted to… but I don’t know if I-”

They were interrupted by Chester’s happy bark.

Vet Tech’s gaze softened. They nodded.

“Oh all right,” they said, “I guess Chester can come home with me. But only for the time being!”

Six months later

“Chester!” Hero called, “here boy!”

Chester bolted across the park, Vet Tech watching him happily. He ran right past Hero and into Villain’s arms. Hero frowned and looked at Villain.

“Jealous, are we? That I’m the favorite this week?” Villain asked knowingly.

“Haha.”

Chester came back to Hero, barking and running in circles around them. Hero chuckled, crouching down to pet him.

“Guys, we can only play for a bit, you know Chester eats dinner at six thirty,” Vet Tech said.

“Aww,” Villain pouted.

Hero produced a dog toy from a shopping bag and squeaked it. Chester tilted his head.

“You want this, boy?” Hero asked, “go get it!”

Hero threw the toy and Chester chased after it, ecstatic. His hind leg had completely healed, and so had his heart. He finally had humans he could trust.

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The Green Scarf

CW: blood, head wound, hospitalization

Gerard kept a brisque pace in the snow-covered sidewalk, the frigid air colder still as the sun sank into the horizon. It was hardly the time to dawdle, but something in the air seemed not quite right, almost sinister in its unnatural silence.

It was then his eye caught the little droplets of red scattered in the snow, leading up the steps to the main school building. Probably nothing, he told himself. Best keep moving.

He heard a soft whimper.

Reluctantly Gerard ascended the steps to a small bush, behind which lay a prone figure, face-down and much too motionless.

That scarf.

He'd know that obnoxious green scarf anywhere.

"Blair?"

His heart thrummed in his chest. He gently rolled the body over. Blair. The absolute thorn in his side since day one of university.

He shook him briskly.

"Blair!"

Scoff.

"I should leave you like this after the way you embarrassed me yesterday," Gerard said aloud, mostly to himself. "Serves you right."

No response. It settled like a lead weight in his stomach.

Blair's skin was much too gray, much too dull. His breathing, much too weak.

Red... Pooling from the back of his head. He wrapped Blair's stupid scarf around the wound.

He checked his radial pulse. Faint.

Gerard groaned and glanced around for anyone to shove this responsibility onto.

No one. Of course not.

"Blair. BLAIR." He patted his cheek insistently. "Wake up. I am NOT carrying you."

Why wasn't Blair wearing gloves? Or a coat? Where'd he get that head wound?

That wasn't his business, Gerard decided. Well beyond his business.

His rival getting hypothermia, on the other hand...

He called emergency services.

"High than normal call volume. Wait time is 2 hours--"

He screamed a curse.

Moving Blair proved tricky. Not just the dead weight, but he had no way to determine if there was a neck injury on top of the head injury. The stairs would also be tricky.

He needed something to drag him with, and there was really only one thing that would do.

"You'll owe me BIG for this," he grumbled, pulling off his overcoat. He rolled Blair onto the overcoat unceremoniously and began dragging him down the stairs. The snow kept bunching into piles, slowing the forward pull. The cold made Gerard's teeth chatter, and he kept muttering curses with each merciless gust of wind.

He reached his apartment and threw open the door, snowflakes scattering across the front entry. With one final pull Blair was in, and he kicked his legs out of the way to slam the door shut.

"God, even when you're unconscious, you're still trouble," Gerard grumbled, turning on a space heater with shaking hands.

He felt Blair's pulse. Weak, but still there. He assessed the head wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed. His hands were cold. Gerard pulled him near the space heater and bundled him in a blanket.

With little other option, he gathered first aid supplies. Antiseptic on the head wound, proper dressing.

The warmth was bringing color back to Blair's cheeks. Gerard's eyes pricked with tears, and he picked up Blair's cold hand in his.

"You'll be okay," he muttered. "You'll be back to that obnoxiously chattery self in no time, right? I'd better enjoy the silence while I can."

He laughed at himself for that, and quickly wiped away a hot tear.

A voice in his pocket broke the silence, and he quickly dropped the hand.

"Emergency services. What is the nature and location of your emergency?"

Oh. Right. He'd been on hold. He picked up the phone and explained the situation to the best of his ability, a bit flustered.

Emergency services arrived. Gerard rode with him, because wasn't that the right thing to do?

Blair came to about an hour later.

"Blair!" Gerard started towards him.

A moment of relief cut short.

"Gerard?" Blair spat, a note of disgust.

"Oh, shut up," Gerard grumped. Sat back.

"What the hell are you doing here? And-- wait, is this the hospital?!"

"Well, it's not the morgue," Gerard snapped.

"Why the hell did you ATTACK ME?!"

"Me? ME?!" Gerard held back the urge to strangle Blair. "I just dragged your sorry ass across town, and you're blaming ME?!"

Blair felt the back of his head. "Well, SOMEONE hit my head!"

"It'll be me soon if you don't drop the attitude," Gerard growled. "I didn't do it. I hate your guts, but I would never stoop that low."

"You wouldn't?" Blair quirked his brow skeptically.

"You're so much cuter when you're concussed," Gerard grumbled.

Chattering down the hall.

"Your friends are here," Gerard said. "Maybe ask one of them who had enough of your bull."

He stood to leave, but Blair caught his wrist.

"No. Wait. You really didn't do it?" Blair searched his eyes. "What d'you mean, you dragged me across town?"

Gerard yanked at his wrist. "Let go," he said.

"You brought me here?"

He didn't want to meet Blair's eyes.

"You really brought me to the hospital?"

"You were in front of the school," Gerard didn't answer. Didn't meet his eyes. "Just... Did what anyone would do."

"Yeah. Okay." Blair let go. "...Okay."

"Get better soon, asshole," Gerard said. He stormed out just as the group of well-wishers rushed in.

Arrived home. Realized Blair's stupid green scarf was still on the floor of his apartment.

Blair would definitely come back for it.

He kicked it across the room in frustration. Then proceeded to wash it in cold water.

//AN Sorry for not posting much this last week! I've been struggling to write and not really happy with anything, but I felt I should try to post something. Anyway, I hope you're all doing all right in the New Year. Thank you so much for reading!!!

Oh my god I am so obsessed with ‘A Man of His Word’ could you please continue it if you have time? Thank you sooo much i love your writing so much.

Happy to! Thanks for the kind words, hope you enjoy :)

Pt. 1

-

A Face with Two Hands (A Man of His Word pt. 2)

Cw: childhood parental loss, interrogation + previous warnings

“11:59,” the clock read.

It was digital, so no ticking could be heard from where it was reinforced into the wall. Civilian was just as silent where they stood in the center of the utterly empty room.

Around them, cold gray walls closed in, broken only by a thick metal door. It was painfully cliche as far as cells go, appropriate for a cold-hearted villain to stash away all their problems and inconveniences.

Like Civilian.

The quiet was peaceful, for a moment.

Silence, however, tends to beg to be broken, and Civilian’s mind was more than happy to oblige the whims of the stale air around them.

As easy as breath filled their lungs, the voices of their Mom and Dad flooded their head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Midnight,” they had promised, with eyes full of love. “You should be asleep by then.”

But Civilian wasn’t.

Instead, they were camped out in the kitchen, nest of blankets keeping them separate from the hard laminate floor. They refused to give in to the sleep that pulled relentlessly at their eyelids, gaze stubbornly locked on the little green numbers that glowed above the oven and spelled out broken promises.

They clutched a small stuffed panda in their arms, waiting for the familiar sound of the garage door opening. Their eyes watered as they rested their head against the wooden table leg.

With each minute that ticked by, Civilian’s heart dropped a little lower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking at the clock now, Civilian couldn’t help but feel the same sense of dread.

They shook off the memory, coming back into the present with a disorienting blink.

It was three hours till the next switch check in. As far as Civilian could tell, Villain wouldn’t be back until then.

Plenty of time to take inventory.

Physically, Civilian had little more than the clothes on their back.

The cuts Villain had inflected still laid open and untreated. Clearly, he didn’t plan on them living long enough for infection to become a problem.

They tried to tear strips out of their jacket in hopes of maybe tying some fabric around their wound but quickly deemed the weave too thick. Out of necessity, they moved onto the thinner cotton of their T-shirt, tearing off the hem with a degree of difficulty and gripping it with their teeth to tie as tightly as they could manage.

They really did miss having Friend’s extra hands and muscles around.

Mentally, they were about at the same level, except there was no shirt bandage that would stop the echoing in their mind.

Prisoner.

The word sat like cold iron wrapped around their heart, the weight like a death and betrayal all in one.

Civilian didn’t know how they could ever forget a feeling like that.

They were painfully aware that there was nothing but an awkwardly blurted secret and three days of planning keeping an old friend from spilling their blood across the unforgiving concrete of what they could only assume to be some kind of basement.

They took a deep breath and glanced at the clock again.

Well, two days now.

Unexpectedly, a sharp wave of anger crashed over them. Did their friendship truly mean nothing? They were so, incredibly, irrevocably stupid! Now they were probably going to die, stuck in this stupid place he brought them to (because of course he had a place-!)

The door opened with no warning, the loud clicking and snapping of the lock sending a sudden jolt through their heart and taking several more years off their life.

The man that entered seemed nothing but cold and distant.

He wasted no time stepping towards them, and in turn Civilian wasted no time falling flat on their ass trying to back away from him.

“What was your plan?” He questioned without preamble, freezing his movements and allowing Civilian a precious second to think.

Unfortunately, even with the immediate threat paused, they still lacked the clear-headedness to answer.

What was Villain talking about? He was the one with a plan to take down Hero. Civilian just needed to help work out one little kink-

“What?” They asked the stone-faced villain.

“After ten seconds.”

Oh, that plan.

“Hope for the best?” They squeaked.

Civilian’s attempt at a self-loathing chuckle ended in nothing but a weak cough.

Once upon a time, Friend would have laughed heartily with them, bent over, one hand holding his stomach. Villain did no such thing. Eyes that could never have belonged to Friend cut them a dangerous glare.

“Okay, then. We’ll start with the harder questions,” he spoke level, but Civilian knew a dangerous tone when they heard one. Slowly, they started crawling back, but it didn’t matter.

Villain descended and Civilian shrunk with the knowledge that his hands were not empty.

“How the fuck did you figure out who I am?”

As much as Civilian tried to ignore it, the way he spit the pronoun stung.

Civilian was not unfamiliar with pain, nor were they unfamiliar with those close to them inflicting it upon them. What they felt now, however, was a level far beyond anything they had felt before.

They supposed he, of all people, would be an expert in inflicting pain.

In a matter of seconds, Civilian was sure they didn’t have nearly enough shirt left to bandage everything. Their tongue loosened with the stinging. They had no question this was intended by the man holding the sharpened knife.

“Die,” they blurted as a result, in that oh-so elegant manner that Villain had a habit of bringing out in them.

“Excuse me?” Villain challenged, eyebrows raised and hand poised to continue cutting.

“My plan,” Civilian grit hard through their teeth, “was to die.” They clarified, rolling over to groan. “I made peace with it.”

Villain considered them for a moment, rising to his full height and staring down at them with a confusing mix of condescension and possibly pity. Or perhaps he was just smug. Civilian certainly didn’t trust their ability to read him anymore.

He tilted his head slowly, only adding to Civilian’s confusion as he smirked.

“Did you make peace with this?”

To that, Civilian said nothing.

His face evened out again, and Civilian recognized the masked anger, familiar as the taste of blood, as he reached down. Villain pulled them up by the collar, wrestling their arms roughly behind their back as he leaned over their shoulder.

“That was not your best plan,” he whispered, before pulling them out the door.

2024 Art Wrap

This was a big animation year for me. It’s really nice to do these art wraps to remind myself all the work I’ve accomplished.

See how I make room guardians on my Patreon!

Scraps

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

The medals we earn adorn their necks

The food we prepare they rend and scrape

Their clean homes, our cracked skin

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

The spreadsheets, waivers, all-nighters

The mandatory overtime, 'voluntary' vacation

As family, friends, community becomes strangers

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

They bathe excess in bleach

Destroy 'out-of-season' and 'imperfect'

Unwanted treasure that never trickles down

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

They shrink the box and raise the price

Formula and cinnamon with lead filler

Locked away from desperate hands

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

They take your words and art

Remove the feeling and the context

But most importantly, the watermark

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

Big words not meant for us

They'll pulverize until the pain means nothing

Your screams are taken as aggression

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

Cries in the waiting room, unheard

Life is precious, they'll say to bodies

Who in neglect, turned to corpses

We're scraps to feed for larger mouths

In fear, they cut us smaller

Yet they shovel mouthfuls much too quickly

The scraps will make them choke

New Year's Day

"I don't matter," the hero said, hollow.

"Of course you do. You've saved so many people," the civilian argued. "You've done so much."

"You've known me for 15 years," the hero whispered. "What day is it today?"

"New Year's?" The civilian asked, a note of confusion. The hero huffed a breath. Nodded.

"Well, I should get going," civilian said. "Chin up, okay? You look better when you smile."

The hero watched them leave. Stared at the falling snow with detached interest.

A click. The barrel of a gun brushed the back of their head.

"Well, well, well," the villain said. "You should be out celebrating, darling. Not brooding on some snow-covered bench."

"Can you get to the threats?"

"Touchy today," the villain said. "Down on the ground." "There's snow on the ground," the hero said. "Can we skip that and go straight to the kidnapping?"

"Well, fine," the villain sighed. "Since it's your birthday."

"What's that?"

"It's your birthday. Get in the van."

The hero paused and turned.

"You think these bullets are blank?" The villain pressed the barrel to their temple. "Get in."

The hero laughed. High-pitched, a little bitter.

The villain was getting angry now. "What's so funny?" They snap.

"You're the only one who knows it's my birthday," the hero said.

"It's New Years Day. How could anyone forget that?!" the villain sneered, a little flabbergasted.

The hero shook their head and got in the van. After the interrogation, after the threats and the monologue and the random tangent about Christmas commercialism, the villain brought them a cake.

An enormous cake. It was collapsing under the weight of its own hubris.

All the henchmen came out wearing party hats. They sang Happy Birthday loud and off-key.

The hero tried not to smile. Tried not to cry. Failed at both.

They sang karaoke. Danced. Played party games.

The villain patted their shoulder heavily.

"My birthday is next month, by the way. Don't forget or I'll end you."

The hero laughed.

"I'm serious," villain said. "No peppermint. I hate it."

All I Want For Christmas is You (Part 1)

Inspired by the song version Minor Key All I Want For Christmas is You - Kurt Hugo Schneider with original characters (no names, I'm allergic apparently).

CW: Kidnapping, gun violence

Red and green lights blinked through the window blinds. Christmas music echoed from the street below. Gloved and shaking hands pulled red yarn from tack to tack. Photographs, sticky notes, news articles, emails.

The detective stared. Head pounding. Swigged the cold and bitter coffee. Jittery. Cold.

A month. It'd been more than a month since the thief's last known activity.

It just didn't make sense.

"Where are you," he whispered.

It wasn't like they owed him anything. Not the little gifts they would leave after a heist, nor the postcards mocking him for being one step behind.

Not the flirtatious moments that just… Refused to leave his mind.

They'd given him a souvenir of the last heist, just before disappearing. A thick and heavy gear, uniquely shaped, wrapped in a box. He'd shoved it into his bottom drawer with the other odds and ends the thief brought them.

He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes. It meant nothing, he tried to tell himself. No news was good news, right? The thief was lying low after kicking the hornet's nest.

It had only been a month. They'd turn up. They always do.

Yet the hours ate away at him. They'd… Promised to stop by on Christmas Eve. Rookie mistake. Never trust a con artist to follow through on their honeyed promises.

Yet…

The thief's last target had been none other than a mob boss. They'd been missing since shortly after the heist.

If… If the detective could find some sign, some single shred of evidence they were okay, that they were safe, he could sleep.

He tried not to think the worst.

He took a shaky breath.

He couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. Couldn't function.

Time to call on an old family… 'friend'.

Hopefully she was in a good mood.

He pushed through the cold and crowded streets. He went down a much quieter alley to a door with a small and faded sign.

The door to the shop jangled.

"Hey! Look who the rat dragged in," the shopkeep rasped. She hacked a cough and limped over to him.

"C'mere, you!"

She pulled him into a back-cracking hug.

"Ohh! Merry Christmas, sugar plum! I haven't seen you since, what? Last year? You look thin. Have a cookie."

The detective shook his head. "I just need some information, then I'll be out of your hair."

The shopkeep pursed her lips.

"Oh. I see. I'd hate to keep you, mister important detective man. No time to visit your auntie anymore. Not even on Christmas."

"You shot at me last time."

"Warning shots. Ought to teach you not to stick your nose where it don't belong."

"…Yeah." The detective sighed heavy. "I… Speaking of that." He withdrew a photograph and slid it to her. "Recognize this face?"

The shopkeep squinted. "Oh, yeah, that thief character. Stole my favorite mug. Little beagle on the front. Said 'You're the Doggon Best' on it."

Oh. The thief gave him that mug. He used it every day.

He shifted his gaze awkwardly, opening the door to a grandfather clock pendulum.

"Have you seen anything of them recently?" He asked.

"I heard they're not going to be a problem anymore," the shopkeep sniffed. "Quit fiddling with that old clock. You'll break it."

An old and matted cat mewled and stretched, and she scratched his head. "Does Mr. Biscuits want his num nums?" She cooed.

"What does that mean," the detective hissed, stepping between the shopkeep and her cat. "What do you mean, they're not a problem anymore?"

"You get between me and Mr. Biscuits, and we'll have ourselves a problem," the shopkeep growled, pushing past them. "Your friend messed with the wrong people. Forget about them."

"You know something," the detective demanded. "That mob boss has them, right? Where are they?"

"Dead," she rasped. "Dead, as far as you're concerned."

The detective sucked in a breath.

He leaned against the glass display for support.

No. No, they couldn't be dead. If the item the thief stole was worth their life, they wouldn't do away with them until they found said item. They were currently worth more alive.

"I don't believe it. Tell me your sources"

"I don't owe you that. Believe what you want."

"Where…" The detective pulled out a notepad. "Where is the boss's last known location?"

The shopkeep's eyes went wide, nostrils flared.

"No. You're looking for a fool's end, and I want no part in it," she said, walking by and pulling him by the sleeve.

"Take this cookie and get out, you fool boy." The shopkeep pushed a gingerbread into his hands and shoved him out the door.

The streets were colder as the night grew darker. Crowds thinned and the festive lights went out. The detective found a bench to sink into.

Something began to build in his chest. A cold, sad laugh.

He was laughing.

Crying.

God, he needed to get ahold of himself.

"Hey, uh," a voice caught his attention.

The detective hastily scrubbed away his tears.

"Heard you're looking for a friend," the gaunt figure grunted. "I can help."

Their eyes flicked to the cookie, and they swallowed. "For a price."

The detective held out the cookie for them. They blinked wide-eyed, then snatched and scarfed it down. A moan of satisfaction.

"The mob boss is hosting the Christmas party in their cabin." They smacked their lips. "That's just outside of the abandoned diner, cut right after the old winery. You'll find an unmarked path with a fork, go left. Tell em you're making a delivery."

They shoved a package in his hands. Cookies.

"I can't trust myself with 'em." The stranger grinned crookedly. "God, I've been so tempted for a nibble all day. Fresh baked this morning. A special something in the butter. God, just smell that." He sniffed the box deeply. "Tell em Ol' Shakylegs sent you if they ask."

The detective reached the address long after dark. Vehicles parked back to back all the way down the driveway and across the lawn. Anyone parked farther in was stuck. What a nightmare. He parked his motorbike close to the side.

There was a side entrance where staff went in and out. He made his way over and an event planner all but snatched the parcel away.

"You're late," they barked.

"Apologies," the detective said.

"Well? Move it! Clear out!"

"Where's the restroom?"

The planner scoffed. "Second door on your right. There's a line."

The detective nodded. Then went left, towards the party. He slipped into the crowd, eyes darting around for familiar faces.

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

"You're not supposed to be here," a hefty man grunted. "Party guests only."

"I'm a detective, and I found something of interest for your boss," the detective said. He handed a photograph of the gear the thief had left them.

"This looks like junk." The man held the photograph. Squinted. "Stay right here."

The detective peered around the room. Suspicious eyes flicked back. He recognized some. Some recognized him. He waved and forced a smile.

The man returned. "Come with me," he said. He grabbed the detective by the shoulder in an iron grip and pushed him through the murmuring crowd.

He reached a private study and shoved the detective inside. A few more men blocked the door.

"I'm told you have something of mine, detective," the mob boss said, tapping the photograph of the gear. "A Christmas gift, perhaps? This isn't extortion. You're much too smart."

"I need the whereabouts of a certain thief," the detective said. "Tell me where they are, and I'll wrap that gear in a pretty little bow for you before Santa comes to town."

The boss tapped his desk. "I need the blueprints, too."

"Only they have that information." The detective wet his lips. "I can get them to talk. Let me see them."

"Afraid that's not how this is going down." The boss made a gesture and one of the grunts pulled the detective to his knees, gun barrel digging into his temple. "You bring me the gear and the blueprints or my boy's'll make like Picasso with your brains."

Silencer. Plastic wrap on the floors and furniture. Fridge-sized gift box. He wasn't joking.

"Replicating the gear will take years," the detective said, voice stronger than he felt. "You need it now. Let's be reasonable here. Only I know where it's hidden. Blueprints won't help if you don't have all the pieces."

The boss stepped around the desk like a panther stalking for the kill. He looked down at the prone man with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye.

"Do you have family, detective?" The boss asked. "You look like a family man. You have a wife? Husband?"

The detective sucked in a breath.

"No." He looked down. "No, I have no one."

"No." The boss patted his cheek. "No, of course not. You don't know what it takes to raise a family. A happy family. What the cost is."

He gripped the detective's hair and forced him to meet his eyes.

"You get between me and my livelihood, you threaten my family. Understand? You come to me the day before Christmas and you threaten my livelihood with my family just outside--"

"Tell me they're alive," the detective pleaded. "Tell me they're alive. Give me some proof they're alive. Or…"

He took a shaking breath. "Or I won't care what you do to me."

There was a shift. The boss released his grip.

"You care for them," the boss whispered in revelation.

The detective's throat bobbed.

"You came for them… Because you have feelings for them."

"They're all I have," the detective whispered.

"That's why you have the gear," the boss said, everything clicking into place. "They care for you, too."

A pang in the detective's heart. Did they?… They never really confirmed-…

"Bag him. Take him to the basement," the boss said. "I'll deal with him later."

The detective yanked himself out of the grunt's grip and dodged a swing to the back of his head. One hit the other. The boss shot at him, missed and hit the second grunt. The detective grabbed a bottle of brandy and broke it, and held the broken glass to the mob boss's neck. A bead of blood trickled from where he pressed too hard.

"I will destroy you," the mob boss hissed. "I will destroy everything you love."

"You have MORE TO LOSE," the detective roared. "You have a family? I have one person. ONE PERSON I CARE ABOUT! WHAT ELSE CAN YOU TAKE?! TRY ME!!!"

He grabbed at the boss's wrist and bit into it until he released the gun. The boss wailed.

"YOU'RE INSANE!" He screeched.

"Tell me where they are," the detective said. "Tell me where they are now."

"In the abandoned warehouse near the pier," the mob boss said. "But you will never--"

Grunts stormed in from outside. They trained their guns on him.

The detective aimed the gun towards the ceiling, and shot the light. He ducked and rolled in the ensuing chaos.

"He's escaping! Get him! GET HIM, YOU IDIOTS!"

The detective burst into the room filled with festivities and barreled through the back entrance.

"Grab him! SOMEONE GRAB HIM!"

The detective pushed a chocolate fountain over. The grunts skidded and fell behind him.

Shots fired. The staff hit the floor.

Glass shattered. A bullet grazed the detective's side. He ran out the back and mounted the motorbike.

Too many cars parked. The grunts scattered in panic, trying to work a car free.

Precious time lost for them. The detective chuckled. That was a lesson in crowd management.

It was well after midnight when he reached the pier. Someone must've phoned he was coming. Grunts all around the perimeter.

They didn't expect him to be so brazen.

He barreled through a crowd of grunts who dove away with a cry. He shot at the deadbolt, but it held firm. A waste of bullets, a waste of time.

Something hit the back of his head.

The detective came to with a bag over his head. Hands tied behind his back, feet tied to a chair.

"Detective? You awake?"

His heart fluttered.

The thief's voice.

"I… It's you," the detective was overcome with emotion. "I heard you were dead."

"You came looking for me anyway?" The thief huffed. "You… Why would you do that? For me?"

"No, I was just looking for my wallet," the detective said. "You stole it again, remember?"

Laughter. "Lot of trouble for a wallet," the thief said. "You know you can request new cards--"

The detective drew in a sharp breath.

"What? What is it?" The thief sounded worried. "Did they hurt you? What?"

"N-nothing," the detective said, voice rough. "I…"

Thought I'd never see you again, he couldn't say.

"Merry Christmas," he said instead.

The thief snorted. "Yeah. Merry Christmas."

A click.

"Touching reunion," the mob boss said. "You two seem close. Let's test that relationship."

"Of course," you say, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Her demeanor shifts-- she could tell something is on your mind.

She tips your chin, and you return her gaze with a heavy heart.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I..." Tears prick your eyes at the idea of anything happening to your beloved. Instead, you draw her close, and kiss her passionately.

A moment of protest, but she melts, her arms wrapped around you languidly.

"If only the rest of the world could disappear," she whispers.

"I want to destroy them," you hiss back. "I want to destroy them all."

She recoils at your ferocity. You try for another kiss, but she holds up her hand.

"Tell me what happened," she says.

You struggle to meet her gaze.

"I was stopped on the way here," you explain. "Do you... Do you know what they call you out there?"

The queen laughs mirthlessly. "They've been saying that since I was born," she says. "Because of my lineage, because of who I love. It is what it is."

"You don't understand." You grab her hand and draw it to your chest. You try to gather the courage to tell her.

She's patient. So patient.

"They called me the chosen one. They said I... I will bring about your end."

She stares.

Laughs. Delighted.

"Oh, you bring about my end every day," she says fondly. "Every time you leave."

She nuzzles your chin. "Don't make me share attentions with the hateful and small-minded. They are hardly worth our time."

You kiss her head and breath in her scent.

You try to forget the words they spoke to you.

Three days.

In three days, you will bring about her undoing. You are the Chosen One.

You could hardly imagine a world without her. Much less, you couldn't imagine a world you wouldn't tear apart for her.

Especially a world that calls her the "Evil Queen".

Your hands meet and intertwine.

"I love you," she whispers.

You vow to crush her enemies.

Even if it kills you.

You, the chosen one, walk into the evil queen's throne room. The queen was sitting gloomily on her throne. She sees you and lightens up. She rises from her throne and kisses you. "Sweetheart, I am so glad you are back."

🌟👽💫

Christmas with the snarky, morally gray anti-hero notoriously known as Shadow!

Warnings: none

I know a LOT of people take the days near Christmas off from writing or doing anything, but I literally have zero friends in real life to hang out with for the holiday or do fun stuff with so I just decided to write instead 😭 (wallowing in self-pity because I'm such a dislikable weirdo I guess LOL-- on the sorta bright side at least I'm making new friends on Tumblr?? Even though most of them are anons at least I kind of feel appreciated I suppose--)

This is a short story about Shadow learning about the human holiday called "Christmas" -- and getting an unexpected surprise in the process.

Shadow glided down and elegantly landed in front of the lab's front doors, shaking snow from her wings. She’d originally wanted to go on a short flight around the city to stretch her wings, but it was snowing so hard it was hard to see anything, and she didn’t want to accidentally crash. There had to be at least four inches deep already piled up on the ground.

Shadow walked into the main room of the lab and was hit with a blast of bright colors. She halted and stared dumbly, trying to process all the colorful lights draped around and a... literal tree in the corner? Who cuts down a whole tree just to stuff it indoors?!?

And in front of the tree was Thomas, hanging little round balls on the evergreen branches.

Shadow quietly approached from behind, head tilted to the side in confusion as she watched the human work, tying strings to decorations to the branches. She curiously reached out and flicked an ornament experimentally with a finger, making a quiet clink sound.

"What in the entire universe are you up to, Thomas?" She asked warily. It looked like a unicorn had puked random decorations all over the place in a general theme of red and greens.

"ACK!" Thomas jumped in surprise, instantly dropping the ornament he'd been fiddling with as he startled.

Shadow snatched it in a hand before it could hit the floor, raising a questioning eyebrow at it. "Why are you putting these things everywhere?"

Thomas's face turned red with embarrassment. "Can you NOT sneak up on me like that?!?" He squeaked. "You're like a literal ghost -- you're everywhere!"

"I'm not sure whether to be offended or complimented by that statement." Shadow wrinkled her nose, carelessly tossing the ornament in the box with the other Thomas had been taking out. "Mind explaining why it looks like a hurricane of colors tore through this place?"

"It's uh, a human holiday." Thomas rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You decorate trees and houses and cookies and eat a ton of sugar and stuff. And some people host large gatherings and prepare giant feasts. There's also making gingerbread houses."

"And why must you bring a tree indoors to decorate it?"

"Not everyone does it, in fact a lot more people go and put lights on the trees in their yard -- but it's a human tradition to cut down an evergreen to light up a room. And then we put these cool things on it--" Thomas bent down and grabbed an ornament from his box, shoving it eagerly into Shadow's hands. "Go ahead and try it! It's fun."

"I think your definition of 'fun' is vastly different from my own," Shadow grumbled. But she humored him and hesitantly hung the ornament's string on the tree, adding to the dazzling sparkle. It was kind of pretty, she had to admit. But she'd never say it out loud.

"Oh! And there's one more part of the tradition, it's the most important one--" Thomas darted off and returned holding a small yet colorful box with a fancy bow on top. "Humans buy awesome gifts to give to each other! So here's to your first human Christmas!" He held it out, and Shadow cautiously took it with a puzzled frown.

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that it's so small," she said gruffly.

Thomas rolled his eyes with a chipper laugh. "Lighten up, Shadow. Just open it!"

Shadow raised a skeptical eyebrow at the gift. "If this is one of those pop-up-scare things I've heard so much about, I'm going to seriously kill someone," she growled.

Thomas paled, reaching to take it back. "Sheesh, I didn’t realize you were so sensitive! Fine, I'll keep it!"

"Ah-ah!" Shadow raised the box above Thomas's head where he couldn't grab it, holding it just out of reach. "No taking it back. You gave me something, and you'll live with the consequences of your choices like a responsible kid."

"I'm 19 years old," Thomas scowled pointedly.

"And I'm 312 years old. Your point?" Shadow rolled her eyes dramatically, bringing the box back down so she could open it.

Thomas made another determined grab for it, but Shadow spun and swatted him like a fly with one of her white feathered wings, using it as a shield to block and keep him from snatching it.

"Shadow, come on, cut it out!" Thomas snapped, trying to reach over her wing instead -- with no luck.

"You first," Shadow growled back. She found it amusing how fast the human was trying to backpedal his gift after her threat -- which meant it was definitely one of those pop-up-scare things. Her threat had been a bluff, of course -- she wasn't actually going to kill anyone over a Christmas gift -- but Thomas wouldn't assume that, considering how morally-gray she was in general. He fully believed it to be a real possibility, which was perfectly in line with her past actions.

And Shadow couldn't help having some harmless fun with him, watching him sputter and panic uselessly in terror, believing her every word like the idiot he was. Well, mostly harmless fun -- the human might suffer an actual heart attack with how much adrenaline was rushing through him right now.

"Hmm, interesting," Shadow chuckled as she shook the box lightly, listening to the contents rattling around. She barely bit back a cruelly delighted laugh as she watched Thomas turn a few shades paler. The human was right, Christmas was fun.

"Whatever did you get me, human?" She purred teasingly. It was all a game to her -- but not for poor Thomas, whose heart was practically jack-knifing out of his chest. After all, Shadow was known to be violent and aggressive at times -- he had no way of telling she was in a relatively good mood today.

Shadow slowly untied the bow, taking her sweet time and using her wing to keep Thomas at bay. She held the lid on tight to keep it from springing open on her as she let the ribbon fall to the floor.

A mischievous smirk twisted her lips, and in a swift movement she aimed the top of the box at Thomas and let go of the lid.

Her intuition was right: it was one of those pop-up-scare-things. A coiled up plastic snake came shooting out of the box and smacked the human straight in the face, startling him.

Thomas yelped in surprise and flinched backward hard enough to trip and end up sprawled on the floor, a cartoonishly shocked expression on his face.

Shadow burst out laughing. She rarely ever laughed, unless it was sarcastic. But this was a genuine laugh for once, at his expense. Her wings shook with the force of it as she cackled evilly, clutching her ribs. "Oh, I think I DO like your gift!" She laughed between breaths. "That was priceless.”

"That was mean," Thomas sputtered indignantly, face flushing red with embarrassment.

"No meaner than trying to jump-scare the most lethal person in existence!" Shadow retorted, still laughing her head off. "You humans have the weirdest holidays!”

Thomas smiled sheepishly as he got back to his feet. “It’s a time of happiness and family gatherings. There’s nothing weird about that.”

“It's probably not weird to you because you live in the ‘world of weird’ on a daily basis – this stuff is normal for you,” Shadow chuckled. “I’ll admit though, you’ve piqued my curiosity. What else do you humans do to celebrate Christmas?”

“Oooooh you’re really going to like this one!” Thomas chirped. “Let's go outside!”

Shadow raised an eyebrow, but followed him to the front of the lab, watching as he bundled up in warm jackets and donned a hat and gloves. She didn’t bother copying him; she was naturally extra hot-blooded due to being a Falkry. The cold didn’t get to her as bad.

Soon the two of them were walking down the street to the local park, snow crunching underfoot. It was cold enough that their breath came out in foggy puffs.

“Okay, so have you ever heard of making snow angels?” Thomas turned to his white-winged Falkry friend excitedly.

“Ah, the age-old tradition of getting frostbite. I’m familiar,” Shadow answered sarcastically. “But I think I’ll sit this one out. Don’t want to damage my feathers.”

“Pfft, buzzkill,” Thomas snickered. “Then try this instead–” He bent down and suddenl;y scoffed up a handful of snow, flinging it at Shadow.

“Hey!” Shadow nimbly sprung out of range. “Oh, you will pay for that!”

Thomas blinked, and she was gone. “What the–Oomph!" His voice choked off when he was suddenly flattened beneath a massive wave of freezing snow that crashed down on him from above. He quickly scrambled out of the aftermath and shook the frozen flakes from his hair, dancing a little as he tried to reach the stuff that had fallen down the back of his shirt. "Ack! Cold! Very cold!"

Once he had finally rid himself from the last of it, he looked up in confusion to see where it had come from, and spotted Shadow perched on a bobbing tree limb directly above him, laughing hysterically. The limb was devoid of any snow, and it was clear that she had intentionally jumped on the branch to knock the snow down on him.

"Seriously?" Thomas huffed, scowling up at her. "Was that really necessary?"

Shadow raised her hands innocently, still laughing. "Sorry, sorry, I just had to. You make yourself such an easy target. I couldn't resist. You should've seen your face!"

Thomas wordlessly bent down and scooped up a large handful of snow, packing it tightly together.

"Wait, what are you—?!" Shadow’s voice cut off sharply as he chucked the newly made snowball up at her with all his strength, and she yelped in surprise as it clocked her in the face with a pfft sound, knocking her out of the tree. Her wings flailed wildly for a moment until they caught the air, halting her descent.

"What was that?!" She shouted from above with a shocked expression on her face, hovering in the air and sputtering from the snow that had gotten in her mouth.

"It's called a snowball. We humans use it to start snowball fights," Thomas called back.

"Snowball fights? So it's like... a non-lethal war with packed snow?" Shadow asked.

"Basically. But emphasis on non-lethal!!" Thomas leaned down and scooped up two more handfuls of snow and launched another round at her, which narrowly missed her face again as she smartly dodged to the side.

"Oh, it is so on human! Prepare to be destroyed!" Shadow let out a war cry and swooped down towards him, sharply pulling up at the last second so that her wings flung up a powerful gust of snow that covered Thomas head to toe. But he was not so easily beaten, and he revealed a hidden snowball he was hiding behind his back. Shadow was close enough that there was no way he could miss.

Her eyes widened for a moment in realization before the snowball hit her square in the chest, making her stumble back. It was all the opening Thomas needed to launch a barrage of snowballs at her, his arms becoming a blur as he threw one after the other, madly scooping handfuls from the ground, not allowing a moment's reprieve. Shadow used one of her wings as a shield against the attack, ducking her head behind it as she scooped up a snowball of her own.

Then, she moved her wing aside and threw her handful at Thomas as hard as she could with Falkry strength. It hit him in the stomach hard enough to knock him back into another pile of fluffy snow. She wound up for a second throw as he scrambled to his feet, and let it fly, this time smacking him square in the face in an explosion of white fluff.

Yeah, maybe Shadow was enjoying this whole ‘Christmas’ thing after all.

Main Masterlist

Masterlist featuring Shadow and Thomas-related stories

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

A Very Special Lighting

The hero awoke with a groan. Their head was pounding, their body was freezing, and something was very, very wrong.

The first thing they noticed was an offensively loud countdown from what sounded like a cacophony of voices.

They(?) yelled excitedly, “THREE!…TWO!…”

The second thing that they noticed was that they were not horizontal—how one would typically wake up in the morning. Instead, they were vertical, and something was now insultingly bright for what they presumed to be dawn.

“ONE!!!”

Roaring cheers followed closely with the end of the suspicious countdown. Hero had barely had time to consider covering their ears before another one of their senses was assaulted, this time by the onslaught of light. They automatically blinked the blurs out of their eyes and were met with starbursts of twinkling yellow.

Were those…Christmas lights?

All their limbs were lost in the glow. They tried to move but found that they couldn’t. With what little sensation they held, they surmised there were some kind of restraints keeping their legs and arms spread like a starfish.

No, not a starfish.

A star.

Below them laid hundreds of green branches that stretched out to the edges of the square in the city’s center. Hundreds more dots (people?) lined around the ginormous skirt.

They were stuck on top of a giant Christmas tree.

And, if they weren’t mistaken,…they were the topper.

As if their day(…night?) couldn’t get any better, one aforementioned dot started to enlarge, making the flight up several stories to their level. They groaned in realization as the figure approached.

Hero only knew one dastardly mastermind who could fly.

Villain stopped to float only a few feet in front of them, greeting gleefully, “Hero! I’m so glad you could make it to the lighting ceremony! This is a very special day for lots of children, you know.”

Hero gaped, though they doubted their face could be seen with the intensity of the light source behind and around them.

Since when did Villain care about children?

And more importantly, since when did Villain have a beard?!

Fluffy white hair flowed down from their chin, and it took Hero a moment to connect the cherry red suit and matching floppy hat, not to mention the extra padding surrounding their midsection that looked far too impractical to be used as protection in a fight.

Villain was dressed as Santa.

Villain was dressed as Santa.

Their head pulsed again with pain. Feelings of confliction flooded their thoughts as they watched the joy swim below them.

They knew they should be focusing on taking down Villain but…would that…(and they couldn’t believe they were thinking this) ruin it?

They asked the only question they could think of, muttering the words through ridiculously chapped lips and chattering teeth, “What- what time is it?”

“Midnight, silly!”

Right. They were supposed to be watching this on TV right now, from the warmth of their heated blanket with a homemade mug of hot chocolate. As much as they would have loved to participate in the ceremony, this was…definitely not what they would have had in mind. A plan of their own would have involved a lot more marshmallows, and a lot less Villain.

“Are you…gonna let me down?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing that particular request on your Christmas list. Send me another letter, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Villain bellowed a rolling laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a classic ‘ho-ho-ho’. Before Hero could even begin to think of a retort to what they had suggested, Villain was already moving far enough away for them to deem the effort futile.

A bewildered Hero could only watch as they took off, having mounted a sled-looking contraption that they carried with them into the sky, led by several floating deer-looking animals, the nose of one of which was adorned with a small glowing red dot. The unmistakable sound of jingling bells followed.

Villain exclaimed merrily as they flew away into the night, “Merry Christmas, City!”

Apparently, even villains could enjoy the holidays.

Though, if you asked Hero, Villain was enjoying this one a little too much.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The Beast (Part 4)

The soft hum of cooling fans and the clacking of keys were the only sound in the small and dimly lit room. A CCTV feed trained on a small kennel displayed on a screen in the far corner. The villain glanced over at the first sign of movement.

Their patient was waking up, but they would have to wait. The villain was on the verge of a discovery.

Their patient's blood had been genetically modified. Expertly, gorgeously. Though the effects seemed to be leveling out over time, their muscular growth was abnormally rapid. Any small injuries showed accelerated healing.

The growth affected their larynx, unfortunately. Given the patient was able to preserve a certain level of cognition, other organs adjusted appropriately...

Loss of speech was a... Strange side effect.

The bones and muscles were proportionately mutated, practically symmetrical. Organs matched the rapid growth of the body. Their patient grew into a theoretically sustainable form. The fact that they survived at all was a miracle.

Their patient might not be so lucky if they attempt to revert back.

Whoever was responsible did not stop at one. The mutation was much too precise and refined. This was a team and decades of research. Money.

So, who had the resources for this kind of human experimentation?

The MRI offered something of a clue. A small device, implanted at the base of the patient's skull. Whoever set this transformation into motion expected the patient to roam free. The villain extracted the device too late, well over 24 hours. It was active.

Someone would come to collect their experiment soon.

The villain best prepare for their guest.

-

The hero paced the kennel with growing panic. They had misjudged the villain's capacity for harm, clearly. They kept running their hands along the stitches on the back of their head.

Breath in. Breath out.

They needed a plan of escape.

The floor and walls were solid concrete. Thick iron bars reenforced the door. There was a small gap between the door and floor. A much larger gap between the iron bars and the ceiling. Not large enough to squeeze through.

The first rule of imprisonment, find your captor's motive. Their eyes flicked to the CCTV trained on their kennel. There wasn't enough room to escape, but their inhumanly long claws could reach the camera.

They smiled devilishly. If their captor wanted to spy, they'd have to work for it. They climbed up the iron bars and reached for the small camera. Their claws clamped around the device, and they yanked.

Wiring crackled as the connections snapped.

They threw the camera on the concrete as hard as they could. Surprisingly sturdy.

Good.

They grabbed the camera and beat it against the ground, over and over, until it cracked into was a mess of circuitry and plastic. They imagined the villain's skull.

Shouting down the hall, followed by a loud THUD.

Silence.

The hero readied themselves to lunge, but they stopped short.

Their breath caught at the unexpected figure before them.

"Hero, it's me. I've come to save you."

The hero sobbed in relief.

Superhero.

AN// Thank you so much for reading and asking to be tagged @sausages-things @whump-till-ya-jump @jumpywhumpywriter @galaxysmask !!!