All you whump artists are so talented 💕

A Day of Revelations

[SV-240 masterlist]

Timeline: post-captivity, set after Another Arrival.

contents: recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, hospital setting, past human trafficking, referenced branding and torture.

~~~

"People know that you're alive."

The car is getting closer and closer to the hospital, and Wren digs his fingers into his thighs, not too hard so Nathaniel doesn’t notice. At the dock it was just the two of them, on the ship it was him and the crew, but now there will be so many people surrounding him, and he tries to keep his breathing steady.

"Do the hospital staff know I'm going to be there?" he asks, his throat squeezed tight.

"Yes." Nathaniel nods. "I was told they would do their best to keep your arrival secret for now. We won't walk in through the main entrance."

"Okay. That's good." Wren bounces his leg, but stops himself, not wanting his anxiety to show too much. "But it's not gonna stay a secret forever."

"No." Nathaniel takes a slow, deep breath. "But your return isn't the only thing people are focusing on right now. You've exposed the trade, and that was a shock to everyone. Myself included." He looks at Wren with an almost apologetic smile. "I had no idea that had been going on. It makes sense, a lot of the… slavers worked pretty high in the League so they could manipulate data, but still…" He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter right now. The point still stands: people are being rescued, people are being arrested, really influential ones at that, so the focus won't be entirely on you."

Wren's not sure how comforted he feels after this answer, but at least he's sufficiently distracted by questions forming in his mind.

The villain had never seen the hero like this. Twitchy. Vulnerable. Volatile. Wide-eyed and not quite present.

Of course, after the media outpour, after the merciless backlash, after the mess that had went down between them and their agency, the villain had expected some form of pain on the hero's face, but not...this. Some look like they'd gone through a revelation that had ruined their life.

They got a compulsion to take advantage.

"I always knew they would do something like this," they murmured pitifully. They brushed slow, careful fingers under their chin. "But not to someone like you. Never you. You were always so... good."

The hero's eyes snapped up, suddenly cognizant.

The villain flinched back from the rage they saw, and just as quickly it flickered out in the hero's face and they were back to sadly staring.

A moment passed.

The hero said nothing, so the villain continued.

"Would you like to exact revenge?" they asked, gentler this time. "I could help."

The hero looked up again, wide-eyed, but this time interested.

The villain slowly raised their hand, careful not to spook, and touched their fingers to the hero's cheek. "They hurt you," said the villain. "You. I think that warrants some retaliation." They dropped their hand and the hero didn't follow it. The villain wasn't sure if they were cognizant of anything at all.

"Do you know the details?"

"Of what happened? No."

Silently, the hero tilted their head to the side.

"I don't want to take advantage of you," the villain told them gently. "I just believe your rage has been suppressed and smothered and doused for far too long. It's unhealthy, you know—"

"They threw me away," the hero said flatly. "Like rubbish. Because I found things." They tilted their head to the other side. "They sent people to me afterwards. Tried to get me to kill myself. When that didn't work they sent a hero."

The villain buffered as they processed this information. Of course they knew the higher ups at the agency liked doing terrible things, but...

"Just them?"

"Not just them. And not just the people."

The villain opened their mouth, considered their next words. But they were not sure what would give another seething head tilt and what would give the weakness they'd prefer.

"Not just them," the villain repeated quietly. They eyed the hero's stray hairs, the blood and dirt and cuts on their face. All their time in this job they'd never seemed to fit a place like this; a gloomy room, a star-lit sky, tall, looming, spindle-shaped trees. They raised a careful hand to tuck hair behind the hero's ear. "What would you like to do?"

"A lot of things."

The villain trailed slow fingers down the line of the hero's jaw. Slightly, so slightly they could've imagined it, the hero leaned into their touch. Their chest swelled . "Bad things?"

Gently, they placed their fingers over the hero's throat to feel the inevitable swallow. "Yes."

"You'd be justified. All these years of overwork, crawling into your bed with no thanks, this constant persistence that you had to do better." The villain stepped close upon the hero's expression turning into that of hurt as they hit the right places. "I'd justify that. I think, anyone who isn't an idiot would justify that. Think of it." They cupped the hero's face with both hands, voice down to a whisper. "Think of what you could do to them with my help."

Something in the hero's eyes cleared. They leaned a fraction of an inch back, all the fog in their eyes and no doubt their head disappearing.

The villain started to draw their hands back.

The hero caught their wrists in a vice-like grip. They were present. Their stare was fierce. "No. Not just revenge," they said. "I want them to feel helpless. Do you know how much I've contributed to their strategies? Their technological advancement? And yet they don't give me any weapon that's not years old. I want them wishing they could've been better, that this could've been prevented." They shook their head just slightly, and the hair the villain had carefully tucked back came loose, framing their face.

"I want them wailing for help," the hero said. They let go of the villain's wrists and touched their palms to their cheeks instead. "I want the city bending at my whims," they breathed, stepping close, "like I bent for theirs. I want them to resent me. I want them to fear me. I want them scared when nighttime comes, because they fear I'll pop out and take them. Then they'll see. Then they'll see how great I am. How great I always was. How I was their fault."

For the first time the hero looked like they belonged in this gloom, like the night sky was rising behind them; a lethal backdrop. The trees behind them seemed to rise up, pitch-black silhouettes. A bloody, dirty face, angry, wide eyes, horrible words spewing out their mouth—oh, the villain never knew how they hadn't ever seen it.

They looked like they meant every word. The villain was aware of every inch of them, suddenly alight with fury, with potential, with the need to ruin and desecrate.

The hero pulled them closer, until they were breathing each other's air, and the villain wanted to see that mouth dripping with blood that didn't belong to either of them. Such wild teeth they had. Such a cruel tongue, the villain could give them. Such eyes, such hands, such looks. "I want them," the hero said, "to forever regret me. I want to grow like festering mold in their memory. I want to be a parasite in their history."

"You're wonderful," the villain whispered in a daze.

The hero snapped out of the emotion that had overcome. They let go of the villain's face and moved back.

The villain snapped out of their stupour, straightening. Back they looked, and the hero had returned to looking like a fawn, all traces of that heady capability of ruination and that intoxicating sadism gone. The villain clenched their fist to collect themselves, bit the tip of their tongue.

"It'll be a pleasure to help you exact your revenge," said the villain. They thought of new ways to take advantage of the hero. Thought, distantly, how they could amplify their terrible side. "But you have to trust me."

"That'll be work."

"I will have to trust you, too," they said. "And—don't wear these colours." They traced the collar of the hero's ruined shirt. "I always thought black looked much better on you."

The hero looked at the villain. "Your colour."

The villain tugged lightly on their collar. Looked back at them. "My colour." They righted it and brushed off lint that wasn't there off their shoulder. "Now, to work."

The hero followed.

In ten months they brought despair to the city.

In twelve the hero had made the villain theirs.

“Why did you keep fighting?” The question broke Hero from their thoughts. They looked up and met Villain’s cold expression. Warm water dripped down their skin, mixed with the blood that had finally stopped flowing.

Hundreds of answers remained on the tip of their tongue. They had trained for such a question. Why shouldn’t a Hero keep fighting? There were people to save, Villains to stop, an image to maintain-

Hero gasped as Villain’s fingers gripped their chin, gently drawing their eyes upwards. “You need to learn when to stop.” Then softer, “You’ll get yourself killed like this.”

“And why would you care?”

Villain glared at them as if the question had served some offense. “It’s common sense. No one wants to die, not even you- and yet you keep pushing your limits.” On instinct their eyes fell upon the blade still on the floor. With the toe of their boot, they kicked it away until it was out of sight. “You would have died if I wouldn’t have been there to save you.”

Hero huffed, “I had it handled just fine.”

“Oh, did you now? Tell me, were you handling it when you were left bleeding out on the street? Could you keep up then?”

“I didn’t ask for you to save me.”

“What do you think will happen if the town’s only Hero falls?” Villain’s gaze turned dark and they pressed the cloth tighter against Hero’s wound. They received a sharp cry in return.

Hero turned away, and Villain’s touch fell away as they did. It hurt to admit how empty it left them feeling. Cold inside their core.

“You’re an idiot.” The comment was meant as a jest. Bait to get the Hero to respond with a retort of their own. Just like always. Instead, the crime-fighter’s shoulders sank. They wouldn’t give Villain the satisfaction of a response.

Their wound already ached with the absence of the cloth. Dried blood still marked their cheek where it had yet to be washed off. Hero closed their eyes, “If you think such things then stop bothering to keep me alive. Why don’t you fulfill your purpose, finish me off like you say you’ve always wanted-”

“That’s not-”

“You’re a Villain. Act like it. Take me out. Accomplish your most twisted dreams.”

Hero was met with silence. If they had looked they would have seen Villain shudder at the comment. They were trapped in the quiet for a moment more before Hero could bear it no longer. They turned back, though where they expected anger, there was only sorrow.

“I can finish you any day, and believe me if I wanted to, I would-” Villain’s eyes narrowed before they sat back with a sigh, “but that’s not what the world needs right now. They couldn’t live without you, and honestly- I don’t think I could either.”

“It hurts,” the hero said, voice quiet enough that the villain believed they had imagined the words.

But that only lasted a second. A wet cough escaped the hero’s lips and with that, the gurgling sound of drowning in their own blood. God, their lungs were probably almost filled with blood.

“Hey, I know, I know...” The villain ignored their blurry vision, ignored the tears and the pain in their own chest. Ignored the battle and the screaming around them. They fell to their knees and somewhat stabilised the hero’s broken form. “You’re alive. Your heart is beating.”

“My ribs are broken…” Panicking, the villain grabbed their “enemy’s” hand. Their other hand slipped to the back of the hero’s head and slowly, very carefully, they moved them to rest on the villain’s lap.

Why couldn’t the villain stop crying? Their brain activated tunnel vision but they knew what was around them. They knew all the blood and the bones and shredded organs belonged to the supervillain. They knew the hero had slaughtered them and had gotten more than a little scratch in the process. Although the hero was a fighter, the supervillain hadn’t been anything less.

“It’s okay, it’s alright…we can fix this, okay?” But the hero only nodded absentmindedly. Their eyes were locked on the villain’s. Focused, clear. Whatever intensity of pain they were going through right now, they didn’t scream.

“Oh, my sweet villain.” The hero touched the villain’s cheeks with their bloody hand, leaving blood right there for them to wash off later.

“The prophecy— You will survive, don’t you know? You’re the only one who’s supposed to survive this—” the villain said and their quivering voice developed into a broken one.

They’d followed the hero because they had believed in them. Had believed all this would come to an end, even if it meant their own life would decay. Love had happened, feelings had happened. They had known this wouldn’t end pretty, both of them had known this. But the villain had expected to die.

Admittedly, they hadn’t cared about that, they had cared about the hero and nothing more. This was their own fault, they had fucked up and basically conjured the prophecy. And they were ready to give everything to ensure the hero could survive and end this war.

“Please,” the hero said. “Please kiss me.”

For you, anything.

The villain leaned down carefully and kissed them. Cheeks first, then their forehead and eventually their mouth. The kiss was weak and frail, nothing like the tenderness or riskiness both of them were used to.

“You’ll be okay,” the villain whispered against the hero’s lips. They kissed them again, a bit softer this time. “You’ll be alright.”

“My sweet villain…” the hero repeated. It wasn’t fair. The villain wanted to scream and cry into the world. They wanted to hurt people and hurt themselves. For years, they’d been alone. And now that they were ready to love, to be loved, everything was taken from them.

And it was their own fault.

“It’s okay, just think about our vacation. We wanted to go on a vacation after this, remember?”

“Darling.”

“Buy a big house with enough space for the both of us and our pets…that’s what we wanted to do, remember?”

“Darling…” No. The villain refused to believe this was it. They refused to believe the life they had planned together would be washed away like that.

“No, please—” the villain begged. “I can’t do this without you, I can’t be without you.”

“We’ve always known we wouldn’t make it together,” the hero said gently. “My love, the prophecy was never meant for me.”

The villain’s eyes widened, scared and angry.

“No, you’re the chosen one—” The hero smiled sadly and the villain couldn’t stop crying.

“We both know this prophecy is meant for you,” the hero said. “And I couldn’t be happier about that.”

The villain was never the same after that day.

Hello there, I am back to request more because your writing is a little bit too good. Now, I would like to request m hero x m villain in which they’ve both been kidnapped and tied together chest to chest… PLEASE GO OFF WITH THIS ONE TAKE IT WHEREVER!!! (Don’t have to do it if you don’t want :D)

Prompt #190

"Great" villain scoffed, trying to pull back against the ropes that bound him to hero. "I just had to be tied up with you."

Hero bat his eyelashes, his lips curling into a slow smirk as he felt villain's heartbeat skyrocket. The two of them were captured, tied chest to chest and forced to stand up. Villain tried to push back his hips, desperate to not let his hips brush against hero.

"Keep trying to escape, maybe it'll work the 100th time" hero teased, not at all even a bit flustered by the fact that there was no space between them.

Villain rolled his eyes, casting another glance to the locked door 20 feet away from them. "You know what? When I get out of this, I'm going to make a tie using super villain's entrails and put it around his own neck and hang him with it."

Hero's eyebrows pulled together, the smirk still carved onto his face. "I'm pretty sure taking out someone's entrails would already kill them. No reason to tie it around his neck and strangle him when he's already dead. "

Villain stole another glance at hero, his full lips, dark eyebrows, deep grey eyes that were inhumanly beautiful, and those short, gelled back curls that villain wanted to muse with his hands.

God, they were captured and yet villain wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss hero till they were both out of breath. Villain wanted to tug hero even closer, till there was nothing between them, and make hero cry out in pleasure.

Villain turned, hoping hero wouldn't notice the blush that burned villain's cheeks.

But of course, hero noticed, like always.

He leaned in, making villain flinch backwards, though the rope bound him from moving further.

"Hm, you're looking a little red, villain." Hero taunted, leaning in closer.

Villain swore he felt hero's fingers ghost over his thigh, his touch light and teasing.

"And. . ." hero leaned in, his warm breath fanning over villain's parted lip, causing tingles to break out over his skin. "Your heart is beating quite fast too" hero whispered, his stormy eyes becoming half lidded, darkening with bottled lust. "Are you nervous, dear villain?" hero toyed.

Villain couldn't stop himself, couldn't stop himself from leaning in, his lips nearing hero's, his hips brushing swiftly against hero's.

"Do I make you nervous, my sweet villain?" hero whispered, his lips a lone breath away from villain's sweet, parted lips.

Villain sucked in a sharp breath, gasping when he felt hero's hips lightly thrust against his own. He could feel hero, thick and hard, pressing against him. Villain didn't protest, his voice too lose in the lust that was bolting through him to say anything as hero leaned in slowly as if asking for permission. Villain's chin dipped once, nodding, allowing hero. A low growl came from the back of hero's throat as he leaned in, his lips eating up villain's whimper as their lips crashed roughly–

"Finally" a voice sighed in relief.

Hero and villain pulled apart, villain's cheek reddened while hero's sloppy grin stayed.

"So, you both understand you like each other, right?" Super villain asked from the exit, a scowl sitting on his face. "Right? Right. So stop pining over each other and go on a date or something. I can't do my evil shit because every time I try to destroy the world you two are too busy shooting lovey-dovey eyes at each other instead of fighting me. Now go on a date or something, you pining idiots."

The only “Not All Men” post I’ll reblog.

To break down rape culture, we need to stop teaching people that men can’t help themselves; they absolutely can look for enthusiastic consent, and they must. This is absolute bare minimum decent human being behaviour. 

Also, if you stop teaching people that “men can’t help themselves” it tends to go hand in hand with teaching the fact that no, men do not “always want it”– which in turn is beneficial for those men who might themselves be assaulted, regardless of the rapist’s gender. Enthusiastic, mindful consent applies to everyone.

Who else loves the sound of Whumpees alternating between shouting threats and curses at Whumper and then screaming in pain as they're punished for their boldness? 🥰

This hit home, and I think it will resonate hard with all my creative friends, here. You are amazing and brilliant and I BEG YOU to keep creating!! ❤️❤️❤️

“You can walk forward, voluntarily, with your hands up or I can shoot your knees out and you can crawl. It’s your choice.”

The protagonist gained consciousness on a bed. A very soft, luxurious bed that felt like heaven - until common sense kicked in at any rate. Common sense hurt almost as much as the protagonist’s ribs. 

“Easy there, gorgeous.” The antagonist’s voice drifted from across the suite, followed by the sound of…a record player. Was that a record player? 

The protagonist squinted against the bright light, struggling to adjust, before the rest of the room came into focus. It was better described as a suite, dominated by the large bed that the protagonist was laying on. Nope. Restrained to. They were restrained to the bed, how joyous!

“Relax,” the antagonist said. “I’m not going to do anything to you. You’re on the bed because you need to rest and recover from your wounds, and beds are typically more conducive to rest than a chair.”

“And I’m tied to your bed because?”

“Because you’re an international highly trained spy and I don’t trust you?” The antagonist appeared by the bed’s left side, eyebrow raised. 

That may have been a fair point. Still. 

“That doesn’t answer the question of why I’m tied to your bed in particular,” the protagonist said. “I could have rested somewhere other than your quarters. There must be more suitable places for prisoners you do not trust.”

The guards had continued to interrogate the spy with all of the antagonist’s advice, and when staying conscious enough to answer questions was no longer so viable an option, they’d dumped the protagonist in the antagonist’s quarters as requested. No doubt thinking that the antagonist had some cruel amusement planned. Fast forward, click play, and there they were.

“No,” the antagonist mused. “I suppose it doesn’t.” They skated their fingertips idly up along the protagonist’s abs. “How are you feeling?”

“You know how I’m feeling. You told them what to do.”

The protagonist was hurt in just enough ways for the pain to be maximised, and the lasting damaged minimised. Much easier to keep someone alive that way. Much easier to keep asking them questions. Part of the protagonist was still stupidly grateful that all of their current injuries would heal with time - they’d heard of other operatives who were not so lucky. 

“I can make guesses,” the doctor said, “based on my understanding of the human body. But we are all individuals. You seem to be coherent enough to carry on a conversation, I suppose, but then we’re back to the fact that you’re a trained spy. Your pain tolerance is likely higher than most people’s. All this to say, really, do you require any medication to manage your pain?”

“Would you give it to me if I did?”

“Depends how much pain you’re in.”

“You have an unusual bedside manner. Don’t tell me you had me bought here to give me pain medication.” 

The antagonist considered them for a moment longer, a thoughtful expression on their face, before they sat down on the edge on the bed. “You are here,” the antagonist said, “because this is one of the few places on the base without security cameras or bugs to record our conversation. One of the privileges of being me.”

“And your employers are cool with this?”

“They appreciate that our working relationship goes better when they do not give me sufficient reason to fight them. Besides, I have manufactured a reputation over the last years should I need it for cases such as these.”

“A reputation?” The protagonist’s mind jolted back to the guards’ ugly, jeering laughter. Their eyes met the antagonist’s.

The antagonist shrugged, speaking lightly. “I find when I am sufficiently cruel to those I care nothing for, I have far more lenience to offer some semblance of mercy to those I can be bothered to invest in.”

It made a twisted, ruthlessly pragmatic sort of sense. The antagonist played the role of monster exceptionally well - indeed, they undoubtedly were one in some capacity. But not exactly the kind that the people around them looked for. Get enough people to believe you are capable of the worst torments, and they’ll start expecting it so much that they no longer feel the need to observe the actual evidence so closely. Once you know something is a monster, who needs to keep trying to prove it?

“And you want to offer me mercy.”

“You offered me my life, is that so surprising?”

The protagonist’s mouth dried to hear it so simply put. They weren’t sure if ‘hesitation’ counted as sparing someone, but maybe in their game sometimes it did. Either way, they weren’t going to spit in the face of the closest, if most warped, thing they had to an ally.

“Don’t suppose your mercy extends to helping me escape?”

“My mercy,” the antagonist said. “Extends to ensuring that you don’t. I did tell you that you wouldn’t get very far, didn’t I?”

“Why?” the spy asked. “What kind of security do they have?”

The antagonist laughed softly.  “Nice try.”

A weak, tired smile curved the protagonist’s lip. “Nice catch.” 

The silence stretched between them for a moment.

“You don’t want to be free?” the protagonist asked, and maybe it was the pain to make them question so bluntly. “Your employers make you do terrible things.”

“I’m very good at them.”

“You’re not a terrible person.”

The antagonist smiled, but it didn’t reach their eyes. “How far can you truly hope to separate terrible people from the terrible things they do?”

“Far enough for my job to exist. Far enough that you are offering me mercy.” 

The antagonist laughed again. Their hand shifted up, carding soothingly through the protagonist’s hair. “This isn’t altruism,” they said. “This is making the most of someone who understands before my bosses decide you’re better off dead.” 

“You’ll let them kill me?”

“Perhaps you want me to ask them if they’ll let me keep you as a pet? You are pretty.”

“No - I mean - that’s -” Would that be worse than death? It would give them an opportunity to escape, perhaps, give them time.

The antagonist’s grip tightened in their hair hard enough to hurt, yanking the spy’s head back into an awkward angle.

The spy’s gaze snapped them to them once more.

“You’re not dragging me into your schemes, so don’t even think about it.” The antagonist said, calm and deadly. “You’re pretty, but not pretty enough to die for. Got it?”

“…got it.”

“As I said, terrible person. Terrible things.” The antagonist loosened their grip again. They patted the protagonist’s cheek gently and rose to their feet once more.  “I’ll get you some water. You should drink something, make sure you have enough fluids. Food if you can stomach it. Then, get some rest. I’m sure they’ll have lots more questions for you in the morning.”

“Don’t think I missed you avoiding the question and distracting me with intimidation tactics,” the spy called, after their back. “That means yes. You want to be free.”

The antagonist turned the music up higher, pointedly, and started to hum. 

The spy…took the tiny win, the confirmation, and took the opportunity to rest. They would need everything they had to make it out of this mess.

Difficult Conversations, Part Two

Trope: Survivor’s Guilt

Fandom: Original Work

[Masterlist]

[gray for requested, blue for completed]

Timeline: set after Difficult Conversations, Part One.

contents: rescue and recovery from slavery whump and forced relationship, medical setting (medbay on a space ship), trauma,  discussion of death and broken whumpees, referenced noncon kissing, downplaying trauma, swearing.

~~~

Hey. Sorry I haven’t called you. Let’s talk in person when I’m back, okay? It’s just a few more days.

Alright.

Wren stares at the single word, the response that came not even a minute after he sent his message, and exhales slowly. Doubts are tearing him apart, he should call, that’s the right thing to do, but he can’t imagine himself doing that just yet.

Not over a call.

He runs his fingers over the strap of the communicator circling his wrist, just to remind himself that it’s there. Johnson gave it to him and let him keep it, and he didn’t expect just how comforting having it would be.

Something he couldn’t get his hands on for two years. A link to civilization.

Before he can turn the communicator off, the sound of a new message makes him flinch. 

I’m glad you’re okay.

Keep reading

Six months. The protagonist wasn’t usually one who cared overly much about silly, made up milestones like ‘six month anniversaries’ but this time, this felt different. This partner was different. Never had the protagonist felt so seen, so valued. They’d been watching the clock all day, fizzing with happiness, looking forward to their evening and the “big surprise” their partner had promised.

Until their partner crashed through the plate glass window of their apartment two hours early, bloodied and in a half-destroyed villain costume, eyes wild with shock to see protagonist sitting there.

“NO!” their partner - the villain? - howled, staring at the protagonist as if they were the one who’d just smashed their way through a fourth story window. “It’s not possible!”

The protagonist sat stunned at their stupid little home office desk, jaw dropped and excel spreadsheet half done. They had no resistance as the villain (their partner?!) stormed up and yanked them to their feet, searching their face like it was suddenly unfamiliar territory.

“How? How!” the villain raged, thumb dragging across the protagonist’s cheekbone as their other hand held them tightly in place. “Shape-shifting? Super-healing?”

“Uhhhh…?” the protagonist said with thrilling eloquence. Their partner - the villain - had always been touchy, deliciously touchy in ways that thrilled the protagonist. This was different, but so, so frighteningly close to the same.

Their partner spun away, grabbed up the TV remote to turn it from background music to cable news. There was their city’s hero live from the aftermath of some fresh disaster, charming the members of the press interviewing them. Blood dripped from under their mask from a thin gash across their face.

“How?"the villain exclaimed, no longer meeting the protagonist’s eyes. "Delayed tape? A body double?”

Slowly, the protagonist sat back down in their dumb little office chair. “You thought I was [Hero]?” they whispered in a tight, high voice.

The villain threw the remote into the television. It stuck in the middle of the LED screen in the middle of Hero’s forehead. “You are [Hero]!” they shouted. “You have to be!” They grabbed protagonist by the forearm, turned their wrist to show the scar running up their arm. “January 3rd. Compound fracture of the radius and ulna.”

“Yeah, in a car accident,” the protagonist said. “You thought I was [Hero]?”

“May 7, another broken arm.” The villain’s eyes were wide and wild. Their hand shook around the protagonist’s wrist. “July 29, a stab wound you got them to record as a burst appendix.”

“It was a burst appendix.” The protagonist jerked away, wrapping their arms tightly around themselves. “And I didn’t break my arm again, it was a complication.”

Their partner fell silent. The protagonist dropped their eyes, face burning. In the sudden quiet, the hero’s tinny laugh echoed from the broken television.

The villain swore and sat down on the couch. As an afterthought, they threw the paperweight off the coffee table. It smacked into the television off button with pinpoint precision.

“I should’ve known this was too good to be true,” the protagonist said. Now the tears were coming - overflowing, to add bloodshot eyes to that red flush. Real ugly crying, the protagonist was sure, but that hardly mattered now. “Now you’re gonna kill me-”

“No!” the villain snapped, jerking their head up. “I would never hurt you! You’re my… um.”

“I’m your what?” The protagonist wiped their nose on their sleeve and stood. “You clearly have no idea who I am if you thought I somehow had time for a crime-fighting alter ego!”

“Hey!” Their partner stood too. “You didn’t know who I was.”

The protagonist picked up their mug of pencils and threw it. Not hard, just to the ground, but partner had the right idea. It felt good. “Of course I knew!” they screamed. “You can’t date someone six months and not notice when they disappear mysteriously on a regular basis!”

The villain blinked. “No,” they said, but with uncertainty in their eyes. “You’re a fundamentally decent person - that was part of the profile. You wouldn’t date me.”

“Well, I disagree with your methods but think you have some valid points,” the protagonist sniffed. “I figured we’d talk about it when you were ready to tell me, your completely normal civilian partner. I didn’t think you thought I was some fucking goody two shoes narc!”

The villain - their partner - was staring. Tilted their head the other way. Eyes bright and over-focused in that x-ray look they had. “Well,” their partner said, in that deep voice that always sent shivers down the protagonist’s spine. “Looks like I was wrong about who had the surprise for whom.”

“Stop it,” the protagonist said in a hitched voice. They turned away, back to their stupid spreadsheet blurry through tears. “You’re just being mean now. You didn’t want me, you wanted-”

“To trap [hero], I was thinking I’d outsmarted myself there for a while. But I fought [hero] today and I felt… nothing.” The chair spun back around. The villain caught the protagonist’s chin in their hand, studying them with a thoughtful look they got when they were ready to take the protagonist apart. “Looks like I trapped something else instead.”

The protagonist slapped the villain’s hand away. Their breath suddenly felt compressed in their lungs, like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. “Don’t you dare. I’m not a consolation prize.”

“Definitely not. A flexible moral code, a gale force personality, an absolutely slamming body,” the villain mused. They straddled the protagonist, the springs of cheap desk chair squeaking in protest at the weight settling precariously over the protagonist’s hips. “This feels - how did you put it - too good to be true? Clearly further investigation is warranted. If…” The villain cleared their throat. For the first time since the protagonist had met them, they actually looked just a tad shy. “…if you want.”

The protagonist swallowed. But there was no question. There never had been. “You owe me,” they said with a jut of their chin, “a conversation, and some very fancy take-out.”

The villain grinned and pulled out their phone to order.