Sinking Into The Void

"Hey, we're not done!" The hero shoved the villain in the back.

The villain turned.

The hero moved to shove them again, heart beating wildly, and the villain pushed back. Hard. The hero's spine hit the wall and the villain followed, punching hard enough that the hero's ears rang sweetly. The villain moved to hit again.

Maybe it was the hitch of their breath that gave the hero away. The way their eyelids fluttered. The fact that they didn't try and lift a hand to defend themselves.

The villain paused.

The hero panted, dull pain throbbing through their body, head spinning where it rested against the cool brick wall. They were, by their own assessment, a few good hits away from merciful oblivion.

They twisted their lips into a cocky, goading smirk. Blood-flecked and bruised.

The villain's eyes were dark like an oil slick in the dim light. They lowered their fist.

"What's the matter, coward?" the hero asked. "Had enough already?"

"You want this," the villain said.

The hero was somehow not prepared for the villain to notice, let alone to acknowledge it. It was excruciating to hear it out loud. None of the others had noticed.

The fingers of the villain's other hand untangled from the front of the hero's shirt, moving to their throat as the hero's knees nearly buckled. It steadied them.

The hero opened their mouth to protest that they wanted to stop the villain, yeah, but the villain squeezed. The words turned to a desperate wheeze. The want, the need, an ugly festering wound.

"Jesus," the villain said. With regret. With something. "Why?"

"Sod off." They batted at the villain's hands. "If you're not going to fight me-"

"-This isn't a fight. It's just a beating when you're that exhausted."

The hero's face flushed. "I'm fine."

The villain yanked them, suddenly, unbearably, to the light. The lamppost illuminated the shadows under the hero's eyes, no doubt, with unforgivable clarity.

"H-hey-" the hero protested.

The villain's gaze raked over them. It seemed to see everything. The hero wanted to scuttle back into the dark, into the violence, like a cockroach.

"Why?" the villain asked again.

"You're being really weird about this..."

"And you want me to hit you again. Tell me why."

"Why do you care?!"

"Do you think you deserve this?"

The hero flinched.

The villain nodded, just once, like that confirmed something. "Some of that is older than me." They found a bruise on the hero's wrist and pressed down, making the hero gasp. "I'd give this about a week? What happened a week ago?"

The hero wrenched back. They were effective enough to slip free of the villain's grip, but not so effective that they didn't stumble and land on their ass in the gutter.

The villain's head tilted, studying them.

"Stop looking at me," the hero snarled.

"Stop trying to fight me just to hurt yourself."

"Fine!"

"Fine." The villain turned away. Then, they turned back. Their jaw worked.

The hero pushed, wobbly and frazzled and aching, to their feet. The villain steadied them. The hero glared. The villain seemed unfazed.

"I'll hit you," they said, "if that's what you need. But not like this. This is - reckless."

"What?"

They weren't sure where to start unpicking that. The fact that it almost sounded like the villain was concerned, trying to help, or why this in the grand scheme of everything was what the villain had decided was reckless.

"You can't just go goading people into trying to kill you." The villain's voice was measured. "But if you were going to stop just because I told you to, you probably wouldn't be trying to get your arse kicked in the first place. So next time you want that, come to me. We'll figure it out."

"You weren't kicking my arse."

"You look a few minutes from passing out."

"That's just my face."

The villain raised their brows, unimpressed.

The hero folded their arms, making their ribs pull. Another wave of light-headness washed over them.

"How's your face," the villain said. Flat.

"Still wondering why you care."

"You don't deserve it."

"Don't."

The villain said it so simply, as if they could possibly know that. The hero flinched again, in a way they hadn't during any fight that week. It knocked more air out of their lungs too than any blow.

"You asked," the villain said. "More than once."

"It would be kinder just to hit me if you're having a bizarre burst of conscience."

The villain snorted. Their gaze remained stormy. The hero didn't know what to make of it.

"And if I turn down your offer?" they asked.

"Other people are scared of me, even if you're an idiot. People don't like touching my stuff. They like breaking it even less."

It took the hero a moment to process. They gaped.

The villain shrugged. "Your choice."

"This is none of your business."

"You made it my business when you picked a fight with me."

"Well, I wouldn't have done it if knew you'd react like this!"

"Yes." The villain's voice was horribly, terribly, soft. "I know."

The hero swallowed and they scrubbed a hand over their face, not sure if they wanted to claw their own skin off or sob. The adrenaline of the fight left them shaking as it drained a way. All pain without the reprieve of unconsciousness, the overwhelming agony of it to make the shame and the guilt and the regret feel small.

The villain patted their cheek, just hard enough to sting, not hard enough to do any damage. The hero didn't know if it was a peace offering or a temptation. Cruelty or more unnerving kindness.

"Come along," the villain said. "Let's get you home. I want to get my clothes to a washing machine before your blood stains my coat..."

"You."

The familiar voice behind them was not, exactly, a surprise. But it went through the detective like a lightning bolt. They turned, slowly, on the spot.

"Me." The supervillain sat at the desk like they had always been there, legs propped up on an ancient table, arms folded behind their head. A fond smile on their face. "Hello, detective."

The detective swallowed. "I thought - it's been -"

It had been nearly a decade since they had seen each other last. When the puzzle pieces had began to click together, they'd suspected. They'd known. But knowing something and seeing the proof, flesh and blood and terrible home, before their eyes was a different matter entirely.

"Mm, I know," the supervillain said, smile only growing. "And just look at you." Their head tilted, eyes bright. "You've made quite the name for yourself."

"Almost as much as you."

The supervillain laughed. "Careful, that almost sounds like flattery."

"It's not." The detective's jaw hardened. They schooled their expression. "All those people..."

"Well, in my defence." In an instant, the supervillain re-appeared inches from the detective's face. The detective didn't flinch, though their heartbeat sky-rocketed and they couldn't help but suck in a breath. "They got in my way."

They eyed each other.

"Am I in your way?" the detective asked.

"You're more of a roadside attraction," the supervillain said. They touched a hand, to the detective's cheek, just briefly. "An undiscovered wonder of the world. You know that."

It still got to them, awfully. The frank admiration in the supervillain's eyes. There from the moment they met. Even before the detective was anything at all.

The detective's breath came out a little more shaky.

"Come on," the supervillain said, voice dropping low. Intimate. "You don't really think I'd kill you. Do you?"

"I don't know what you'd do any more."

"Oh, don't sell that pretty brain of yours so short."

The detective opened their mouth, closed it. The supervillain was right, after all. It was only that the knowledge squirmed inside them.

"You knew I'd find you," the detective said, instead.

"Of course, genius. You can find anyone and anything."

"Do you know I'll stop you, too?"

"I know you'll try." The supervillain shrugged. "Unfortunately, solving the mystery does little to help you, when there's no prison on this earth that can hold me."

The detective would have accused anyone else of arrogance, but their former friend...no. They half suspected not even death was a cell that could contain the supervillain. Their fists curled at their sides.

The supervillain offered up their hands, the gesture as simple as their words. As unsimple as their entire bloody relationship.

The detective narrowed their eyes.

"Oh, go on," the supervillain said softly. "Cuff me. It will be like old times. You can march me through the streets. It would do wonders for getting those idiots you work for to recognise the goldmine they've lucked out in hiring."

"My career doesn't need your help. And I don't need your praise."

"As a friend, I'm offering anyway."

"You think we're still friends? After everything you've done?"

"You're right," the supervillain said, without missing a beat. "Friends is not indelible enough, for what we are to each other."

The detective huffed. They should have felt terrified, probably. They were. It was only..."You haven't changed a bit."

"My hair's better."

"Low bar."

"Shame your morals still can't clear it."

The supervillain laughed again and dropped their hands, when it became clear that the detective wasn't going to reach for the cuffs. They tucked their hands behind their back instead, circling idly, humming to themselves.

"So," they said. "If you're not here to arrest me, what can I do for you, dear detective?"

"I wanted to see if it was really you."

"Well, here I really am. And now?"

The detective's stomach twisted. They ignored it. Shrugged.

"Well, I suppose I could take you to the precinct," they said. "But you'd just slaughter everyone there."

"Not if they got on their knees fast enough. I'm not unreasonable."

The detective snorted, disgusted. "So I suppose it depends on what you have planned next. You knew I'd find you, eventually, so you picked now. You picked this spot."

"Did I?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation in the detective's voice.

The supervillain stopped in front of them again. "And yet, you walked yourself here, wilfully, anyway."

"Well, we already established you're not going to kill me."

"Do we need to establish that there are worse things than dying?" The supervillain's smile faded, the delight leaving behind something dark and cavernous. A place that the detective had nearly lost themselves in once.

"No."

"So take this chat as a hello, nice to see you again, stop."

"No."

"No," the supervillain echoed. Sighed. "I suppose it's not a surprise you'd say that. Just can't help yourself, when you think there's someone you need to save."

"I suppose I came here to ask you to stop," the detective said. "As a courtesy. For old time's sake."

"Mm." The supervillain considered them, at that. Then, as quick as light, they grabbed the detective by the wrist. Yanked. Dizzying, a blur, and the two of them were somewhere else. Outside. In the city lights and -

BOOM.

The storage unit they'd been in exploded. Shards of table, of books, scattered in ashy broken debris.

The detective yelped, hand jerking to cover their face at the searing heat. They felt the shards of the table, the corrugated iron, hurl past them like shrapnel.

The villain stood unmoved. Untouched. Even the ashy debris seemed to avoid them as the detective straightened, coughing and stunned.

"Or," the supervillain said, "you knew where I'd choose to meet you. Thought you'd be a gorgeous bit of monster bait, huh? Keep me distracted? Standing there?"

The detective stared at the villain, wide-eyed.

"Ah," the supervillain said, after a beat, voice softening. "Not you. Your superiors. I should have known you'd never deign to kill anyone or anything, even me."

Their colleagues had set the storage to explode. Knowing both the detective and the supervillain were inside. The detective's ear rang.

"Oh, darling," the supervillain said. "You are far too good for this world. Always were." They pulled back, dropping the detective's arm, leaving bruises in their wake. "One sec."

They vanished.

Distantly, far away, the detective heard screaming.

The villain reappeared, drenched head to toe in blood. They dropped something at the detective's feet with a wet-thwack. The detective's gaze flicked down with the inevitability of a car crash, suspecting what they'd find, but -

"Oh, god," the detective said. "Fuck. You didn't have to do that."

Their superior officer's head rested broken on the ground. Terrified eyes vacant and staring up.

"Sure I did," the supervillain said. "They tried to kill you. More to the point, they tried to kill me. And I know, I know, it wouldn't have worked. But you don't let puppies bite just because they're shit at it. Gives the wrong impression."

The detective looked up at the villain. Slowly.

The villain cupped their face, staining the detective's cheeks crimson.

"Congratulations on your promotion, detective," they said. They squeezed. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to remind that they could crush the detective's skull like mouse bones. "Now we can really play."

Then, once again, they were gone.

"Scared?"

"No." The hero's voice cracked. The sound was far too loud, too obvious, in the devouring dark. They pivoted on the spot, squinting, as if that would do them or their hammering heart any good at all.

There was nothing. It did nothing. Of course there wasn't.

They jumped at the touch of a - hand? tendril among the living night? Feather-light, grazing along their throat. Gone when they whirled.

The hero bit back a whimper.

"Your pulse is racing," the villain murmured.

In the fog of the hero's panic, their voice seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere. As elusive to snatch as the shadows themselves.

"Only because you're annoying!"

The villain laughed. Soft, mocking.

The villain's powers gave them absolute control of the dark, turned it into something physical and concrete, the ever-twisting manifestation of a childhood nightmare. In the light, the villain was a prettier thing.

Light. The hero fumbled for their own powers, but their fingers shook too hard. The dim candlelight they managed to summon to their fingertips felt like it barely penetrated the crowding gloom.

The panic rose in the hero's throat, bubbled over.

In an instant, the darkness pounced. It cradled them softly, wrapped them up in an unbreakable hold, sliding around their wrists, their ankles, like silk upon their eyes. It poured into their mouth until they gagged on it. Tasting of promise, and threat, and nothing at all.

"You look good scared," the villain said. That time, the hero felt a definite touch, the press of them against the hero's back. Lips against their ear. "Especially when you're scared for me."

"It's not for you."

"Isn't it?" the villain asked. Their hand trailed down along the line of the hero's throat once more, along their side. The hero's breath hitched. "Is it not mine?"

The hero closed their eyes, for a moment, because was it a fraction more bearable than staring out into nothingness.

"You don't know what I look like. It's dark."

"You think I can't see in the dark? You think I can't see you?"

"I think this is a cheap trick," the hero snapped. "And you wouldn't dare face me in the sunlight."

"Of course not," the villain said. "I'm not stupid enough to challenge you on home territory. How's it going for you?"

The hero had been determined when they headed out into the night; to face their fears, prove them worthless, to defeat the villain once and for all.

It had, clearly, been a wild miscalculation.

The hero swallowed. They searched for something clever to say and came up empty.

The villain laughed that soft laugh again and placed a kiss just above the hero's damning pulse.

"Don't worry," the villain said. "I'll be merciful."

"I didn't know that was a word in your vocabulary."

"I'll let you go if you answer just one question for me."

The hero turned their head, desperate to see the villain's face, though they couldn't. Their lips brushed the villain's at the motion, though. They both stilled. The villain's breath was warm, human. Maybe that revealed something even their expression couldn't betray. Neither of them recoiled. The villain's free hand rose, grazing along the hero's jaw, their hair.

"What's the question?" the hero asked.

"Is it worse to be in my hands, in the darkness, or to be alone in it?"

The hero faltered. They imagined themselves stumbling through the villain's night, lost and blind, trying to conjure enough light to find some way out of the maze of it all. They shivered. Pressed themselves a little closer to the villain, to their more personal darkness, before they could stop themselves.

The villain hummed. The silence stretched, its own kind of answer.

"I am the worst thing you will ever find in the dark," the villain said. "Let the other monsters scuttle back to the light, where they foolishly think it's safe, and you are waiting for them."

"I - I'm not -"

"Aren't you?"

But the hero was. They'd taken pride in it. The things that scuttled from the dark feared them far more than ever feared the dark itself.

"There is a solace in shadow," the villain said. "Away from prying eyes, and pretence. Is that was frightens you so, then? Knowing exactly what you are in the dark when nobody is watching?"

"You're watching."

"And you're not letting go."

No. The hero wasn't. They were barely even struggling, hadn't thought to try for another light in a while.

"You're scared," the villain said. "But don't worry." They captured the hero's mouth, sweet and aching and hunger-filled. "I don't kiss and tell."

In the breathless aftermath, the hero finally summoned a light. Gentle. Exposing them both. The darkness around them melted away, leaving them uncaged, uncradled. Strangely bereft.

The hero caught a glimpse of the villain's face - not so mocking, raw - and then they stepped back into the darkness and were gone.

The hero was alone, in the light beneath a streetlamp, where they were safe.

And if part of them missed the villain, wondered about that kiss -

Well. They touched a finger to their lip, still tingling, a terrifying and tantalising thing. They were safe.

Could you please do a civilian (f) x supervillain or villain (m)?

I love it when bad guys get obsessed/fall in love with innocent, terrified and confused sweethearts 🤭✨

Here's a flower for u: 🌷

"Are you hurt?"

"Only by you," she said, as coolly as she could. "You lied to me."

"You're bleeding."

"You let me believe you were just some guy!"

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing, gloves tucked away into his pocket as he reached to brush his fingers along the cut on her abdomen.

She hissed out a breath of pain, recoiling. Their gazes met, danced, did all the things that the most treacherous lovers were supposed to do on a first meeting. "It's just a scratch," she said, belatedly. "My lord."

"You don't need to call me that. Let me see."

"Don't touch me!"

He paused, searching for her gaze again, but she refused him that too, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart lashed against her ribs. She swallowed.

"You lied to me," she said. "Lord Cyberion."

His supervillain name. Because he had a supervillain name. Because he was a bloody, goddamn supervillain. And he'd let her kiss him. He'd kissed her! So sweet, and aching, enough to make her knees go weak. No doubt, he'd find that funny. He the wolf, and she some sheep though she'd never liked to think herself so meek and so fragile. No.

"So, you see," she continued, tightly. "I do need to call you that. Because that's what everyone calls you who doesn't want to get their head ripped off."

"I wouldn't rip your head, love. It's much too pretty."

"This isn't funny!" Her voice cracked.

"I wasn't joking," he said. "And, see, this is why I didn't tell you. We were having a far nicer time before."

"We were having a far nicer time before I got kidnapped for dating you!"

"It won't happen again."

"Yeah!" Her hands shook as she wrapped them protectively around herself. "Because you just ripped their heads off."

He stepped closer again, and a whimper caught in her throat as he caught her chin, gently. He tipped her head up and her eyes flew open on instinct. Their gazes met, once again, and the second time it was impossible to look away. His were dark enough that to be some new category of black hole that ate all the other black holes, until he was the only thing left in the universe.

His thumb caressed along the line of her jaw.

"Yes," he murmured. "I ripped their heads off, and they would consider that a mercy. Because the alternative to that sweet oblivion would have been to be stuck facing me after they hurt you."

Her breath hitched. He reached for her abdomen again, and when she tried to step back again, she couldn't. He held her too firmly.

"I'd do it again," he said. "And the only thing I would regret is that you were hurt and frightened in the first place. I wanted only pleasurable things for you."

"It's just a scratch," she said, again, breathlessly.

"Which is why they just got their heads ripped off for touching you."

Oh Christ. Oh Jesus. Oh whatever other deity or god or thing, real or imagined or fictional, she could pray to for assistance.

She once again couldn't help but fear, in that moment, that there was only him.

"Let me see." His voice brooked no argument. "I need to know you're okay for myself."

"I-" She didn't know what else to do, so she nodded.

She didn't expect him to sink to his knees in one graceful movement, but it left her dizzy. Mercifully, he moved his eyes off hers, so she could blink back tears and glare at some spot far beyond him.

It didn't stop her feeling his gentle touch, the way he carefully peeled up her bloodied shirt.

"You'll need stitches," he said. "But there doesn't look like there's any internal damage. Still, I'd like to have you checked by a doctor."

"I just want to go home."

"Your home isn't safe until I've had new locks fitted. You really put up a fight, huh?" His voice softened. "The place was damn near torn apart."

"Well, I wasn't planning to just let myself be kidnapped," she muttered.

"That's my girl." He sounded like he was smiling. Warm, fond, possessive.

She shivered. She hated, with all of her shattered heart, that part of her still liked hearing that in his mouth. My girl.

"It wasn't enough," she said.

"It wasn't a battle you could have won."

"Are you?"

He looked up, at that, head tipped back like surrender even if he was nothing but. He let her shirt fall down again, to cover the wound. His lip curled. "You consider me a battle, love?"

"You lied to me," she said. The first of the tears, terribly, pricked her eyes. "I certainly don't consider you a friend."

He hummed at that, then rose to his feet. Knowing what she now knew, he seemed to tower over her.

"And I don't," she bit out, "consider myself yours. I'm not your girl. I'm not your anything. It wasn't real."

"It was plenty real for me."

"Yeah, well, I didn't lie to you and pretend to be something I'm not! I didn't - I'm not -" How to even finish all the things he was that she wasn't?

He was quiet, for a long moment, studying her face. He wiped the tears away as they fell, so tenderly, like he wasn't the cause. Like he could never, ever be the cause.

"No," he said softly. "I'm not a battle you can win. Now, come."

She considered running.

She considered how far she'd get.

She considered the throbbing pain in her abdomen, and the pool of heat in her belly that should have only been rage and disgust but somehow wasn't.

He held out a hand for her to take.

"Are you even sorry," she asked, "for hurting me?"

"I never lied to you," he said. "I merely ommitted the facts that would distress you most."

"So, no."

"I'm sorry," he said, "that you got hurt. But I will never, ever be sorry if the whole world knows you're mine."

She closed her eyes again, so she didn't have to look at him. She took his hand.

He reeled her in and kissed her, sweetly, achingly, and her breath caught. She swayed into him; the warmth and solidness and wretched feeling of safety she'd felt, just for a second, when he came for her.

A lie. He was a beautiful, gorgeous, heartbreaking lie.

She knew, then, that he was right.

The protagonist stopped dead, visions ripping through their brain, terror seizing every atom of their body.

"They're coming."

The room around them warped to a massacre. Brutal most of all in how economical it was - like the lives stolen were barely worth the seconds it took for the villain to end them.

"They're coming," the protagonist gasped again. "We need to go. Now."

"How long?"

"I-" In their brain, the villain caught sight of them. Their head tilted. "10 minutes? 20 minutes max. It's-"

The future quivered, pressing close, and the villain smiled. Then, they were gone, and the protagonist was simply standing in the room surrounded by pale faces. Still alive faces.

They would not all make it.

"-It's not an exact art," the protagonist finished. "But I can buy you some time."

Who had the protagonist seen, broken on the floor? No. They couldn't focus on that.

Hope helped. Hope always helped.

Everyone stared back at them, frozen, as if they hadn't bloody heard '10 minutes'.

"Run," the protagonist said, "for your lives."

It broke the dam. They scattered. The protagonist turned and sprinted for the roof.

"They're coming. They're coming. They're coming." They hissed it at every person they hurtled past; ever-made omen and sign. They watched the horror follow them like a ship's wake, but there was no time.

The roof was freezing, wind biting straight through their hoodie. They whirled on the spot, clutching their head as the visions pulsed through them again.

"Please," they said. "Come on, please."

The future-rooms below them shifted, changed, vanished. The protagonist exhaled. They braced, at the sight of a dark shadow on the horizon.

The villain landed lightly upon their arrival. A perfect touch-down a few metres away. Their head tilted.

"Were they smart enough to listen to you this time?" the villain asked. "To run?"

The protagonist braced their feet for a fight, keeping their centre of gravity low, heart hammering.

"Ah." The villain smiled. "They're on their scurrying way, I see. How long are you hoping to give them?"

"As long as I can."

"The rest of your life?"

The protagonist swallowed. Hard.

"How foolish of them," the villain moved closer, "to abandon the only early warning system they have."

"As opposed to what? Coming up here and dying too?"

"Taking you with them to their little rat holes, perhaps?"

"So you can follow them there? Hunt them there too?"

"Hunt you, you mean," the villain said.

The protagonist flinched, despite themselves. "Yeah." They managed to keep their voice steady, if a little hoarse. "Hunt me."

It had become clear, over the last year, that they were the villain's target. They were the thing that the villain wanted, more and more, with every life that the protagonist managed to save by warning people that the villain was coming.

"Did you finally realise that you couldn't run forever?" the villain asked.

"Maybe I just got sick to death of being your harbinger."

The villain laughed, softly, at that. Then, they crooked a finger. Come at me. Fight for their lives.

There was no future, waiting, when the villain was right there. Only the torturous present. Dizzying and claustrophobic. Impossible to predict.

The protagonist feinted, lunged, and then the villain's hand was around their throat. The protagonist was in the air, legs kicking, arms flailing. They clawed at the villain's wrist but their nails wouldn't burrow through skin. They slammed a knee into the villain's body, but the villain didn't seem to notice.

They studied the protagonist, holding them up at face height. If not for the squeeze of fingers around the protagonist's throat, the protagonist had the absurd mental image of a monster scruffing a kitten.

Eventually, exhausted, they sagged in the villain's hold. The villain let through just enough air that they could draw in thin, strained lungfuls.

"Go on then," the protagonist spat. Tears pricked their eyes. "Finish it. Just - finish it."

"I didn't come here to kill you."

What? The protagonist's eyes bugged.

"I simply can't have an early warning system running around," the villain said. "It's very inconvenient. So if you're done with the theatrics, let's go. Can I put you down or are you going to do something silly again?"

"You're taking me with you?" The protagonist's insides bottomed out. They tried, desperately, to shake their head. "No. No. Just - why wouldn't you kill me? You kill everyone else!"

"But you're not everyone else," the villain said, softly. "You're my harbinger."

Before the protagonist could possibly hope to respond to that, a blast sounded in the distance. A missile hurtled towards them. The villain turned their head, eyes narrowing at the interruption, and it disintigrated inches away from impact.

A moment of thick, choking silence followed.

"Oh god," the protagonist whispered.

The villain sighed. "They really should learn to run when you tell them to."

"Don't," the protagonist said. "Please don't. I'll come with you, I won't fight, I-"

The villain slung the protagonist over one shoulder, holding them firmly in place as the protagonist began to thrash all over again. Then, they started stalking in the direction of the attack.

"Fight all you like, my harbinger," the villain said. "It's all the same to me now I have you. But they don't get to. You know that, don't you? You know me."

The future flashed.

The bodies hit the floor.

Based on this but you don't actually have to have read the first bit.

The human was sure that the first kiss was a mistake. A brush of soft lips as the vampire re-positioned sharper fangs. At the second kiss, they were less sure.

They were sitting on the vampire's lap, as was often the case when their employer was feeding on them. It had been a little awkward the first time, but apparently it worked best that way. Less strain on the circulatory system, more control of blood flow, easy access and the vampire could apparently better tell when the human's body was getting chilled enough that they needed to stop. The vampire's arm was a comfortable cage around them.

At the third kiss, nuzzled with a gentle nip just beneath the human's jaw, the human tensed.

"Is this okay, pet?" the vampire asked immediately.

"You're kissing me."

The vampire pulled back, free hand grasping the human's chin and guiding their eyes to meet. Their eyes narrowed a fraction.

The human huffed, even as their stomach fluttered. "You didn't take too much, don't worry."

"Then why are you stating the obvious like you have brain damage."

"It's an expression of surprise."

"Hm."

"Don't you, um." The human didn't know how to delicately point out the string of devastatingly pretty lovers that were in and out of the vampire's home. "You're kissing me."

"If there's a question there, pet, use your words."

The human felt their face flush and the vampire smirked. It struck, then, that was perhaps the exact reaction the vampire had hoped to achieve.

"It's okay," the human said. "You're fine. Thanks for, er, checking."

The villain studied them for a moment longer.

Foolishly, with the distant sense that they would blame the blood less for their own recklessness, they leaned in and pressed a quick chaste kiss to the vampire's mouth.

The vampire blinked. The human had a moment to regret everything before the vampire simply ducked their head back to the human's neck.

That time, though, there was no mistaking what the vampire was doing. The kisses trailed up along the side of the human's neck that the vampire had fed from - a deft flick of the tongue encouraging the pinprick puncture wounds to close.

The human had never felt so aware of their own body. Of the pooling heat of desire at dizzying odds with the lingering cold of being fed upon. The vampire was as warm to the touch as they ever got, deceptively human.

It was easy to let their head tip, offering more of their throat, to the vampire's mouth. To simply follow the vampire's guiding grip.

They didn't remember the vampire twisting them so that the human's back hit the massive daybed, but then the vampire was bent over them. Brushing the hair back from the human's face. Studying them again, like merely looking at the human could be as much of a feast as drinking them from.

The human felt halfway to undone. Floaty and wanting. A puddle of need on the cushions, which was just ludicrous for mere kisses.

"I suppose this is a bad time to negotiate some terms in your contract," the vampire said. "I should have done it before I drank."

The floaty haze threatened to rupture in an instant. The human sat up so fast that the world tipped and the corners of their vision fuzzed.

"Wait .You're firing me?"

The vampire frowned. Their hands had snapped out, catching hold and steadying. One finger moved to the human's pulse.

"I'm not dying," the human said, feeling flushed all over again. "I'm just dumb."

Something flickered in the vampire's eyes.

"No, pet," the vampire simply said. They dragged the pad of their thumb carefully along the human's lower lip. "I'm not firing you. I just don't expect you to be kissed without compensation."

"Oh. So this is - this is a work thing?"

"You have a 24/7 contract," the vampire said.

It was true. They were a live-in blood bag. It wasn't that they couldn't leave and go do other things or see friends while balancing their responsibilities, but in exchange for the free accommodation and myriad expenses they were on call. As far as any time they spent in a room with the vampire went, they were always working.

So why did that reply somehow disappoint them?

Why did it ache like fangs plunged into their throat, before the heady intoxication of vampire venom kicked in?

They'd been joking about being dumb, but maybe it was true.

The vampire, for all of their general amorality, was a generous employer so long as that generosity was embedded in contract.

"Right," the human said, hastily. They flashed a smile. "Yeah. I mean. I'm always down for taking more of your money! No offense. Not that you're a terrible kisser. Not that you care if I think you're a terrible kisser."

The vampire was staring at them, eyes dark and expression unreadable.

The human bit their lip. Cleared their throat. "So is this like, um, a permanent amendment to my contract that you want to discuss or more of a bonus, by the vibes of dinner sort of situation?"

"Today will be a bonus because I didn't discuss it beforehand."

"Right. Cool. Just kissing?"

They felt like the least cool person ever. They didn't know how people usually talked about it without completely killing the mood. They bet the vampire's other lovers - assuming any of them came with a price tag, the human didn't ask - were much more slick in their negotiations.

The vampire caught their chin, angling their head up. They leaned in and claimed the human's lips with the sort of kiss so scorching it was surely branded upon a time stream somewhere. Marked out by history as one hell of a kiss.

"Kissing," the human murmured. "No just about it?"

The fact that the vampire smiled was somehow even more of a shock than the fact that the vampire had kissed them. The vampire chased pleasure nearly as much as their own thirst - kissing fit the brief. Smiling, on the other hand, seemed a very much out of thing place for ancient evil given gorgeous flesh.

"How about I promise to only put my mouth on you today?"

The human made a frankly embarrassing sound in their throat.

The vampire's eyes glittered wicked. "Is that okay, pet."

It was not a question. The vampire damn well knew all the ways it was very much okay, albeit probably a terrible idea. Fireworks fizzed in the human's head.

"Yeah," the human said. Then, with a boldness that surprised them. "I want an extra tenner every time you put your hands on me because you can't resist me."

"Is that so."

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"That's okay," the vampire said. They made a show of putting their hands behind their back. "So, we are in accord?"

"We have a deal, yeah."

"Good." The vampire's gaze flicked over them. Then, they caught the human by the ankle and yanked them flat on their back again, falling on them like an oil painted rendition of sin incarnate. "Next time." They nipped the human's ear. "Make it a hundred."

The vampire's hand retreated and, despite themselves, the human giggled.

It was work, and a bad idea, but...

Well.

"You are bleeding."

"I'm sorry. I've not-" The human gestured vaguely at the bowl. "I've not wasted any. I swear."

The vampire appeared at their side in a flash, and that would have been absolutely terrifying if the human wasn't so used to it. Well. It was still a little terrifying. Everything about them was always a little terrifying.

The vampire's cold gaze roamed between the large gash on the human's hand to the elegant mixing bowl tinged bloody, then to the knife left clattered on the counter. The remnants of dinner prep.

Their eyes went pinprick scarlet. That, and the slight inhale of a breath, was the only sign of the uncontrollable and insatiable thirst that so drove their species.

"Stupid accident," the human said. They felt a little woozy. "Sorry. I know it's not as good when it's not fresh but I- um." Well. The generous description was that they panicked.

They had no idea what the vampire would do if they wasted blood, even by accident.

"Hm." The vampire picked up the sharp kitchen knife, licking the wasted droplets from its wicked edge. "Have you considered trying to stem the bleeding?"

It took the human a second to process, to wrench themselves away from staring.

"Didn't get that far. I just sort of thought, 'shit, blood'. Catch it!"

"How considerate."

"You know me," the human tried for a laugh, "I aim to please and not die."

"Indeed."

The laugh had come out a bit strangled. The human cleared their throat. "Speaking of catching blood...would you like to be my receptacle instead of the mixing bowl, seeing as you're here now anyway? Hungry?"

Though that raised the question of why exactly their vampire had appeared. The forces of darkness and evil did not usually make themselves known before sundown, even if the manor was all tinted and sun-blocked windows. The smell of fresh blood must have woken them.

The vampire responded by reaching down and ripping a length off their no doubt expensive and very fine linen night shirt.

The human's eyes widened. "Uh..."

"Hand."

The human obediently surrendered their hand. They watched in mild astonishment as the vampire made quick work of cleaning and bandaging their hand, using their ruined clothes like an old-fashioned tourniquet.

"Didn't know you knew how to do that," the human mumbled. "You know we have a first aid kit in the bathroom upstairs?"

"A what?"

"A first aid kit. Medicine kit. With bandages and plasters and stuff."

"And yet you were bleeding into your mixing bowl."

"Well, the bathroom's a long way to go dripping blood on your floors."

"Hm."

"I'm sorry I woke you. It's - I'm okay. I really didn't waste any."

"Good. Your blood is precious. How is your hand? Does it hurt?"

"It's okay. I'm okay."

"You need to be more careful."

"I'm sorry."

"You're a fragile thing, you could have taken a finger off."

"Sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."

"Hm." The vampire's sharp gaze flicked over them again.

The human realised, belatedly, that the vampire was still cradling their hand. They flushed. The vampire let go.

"Sit," the vampire ordered. "What are you making? Tell me what to do."

"What?" They were sure they'd only cut their hand, not suffered some form of brain damage that caused hallucinations.

The vampire's eyes narrowed; ever disinclined to repeating themselves.

"Uh..." The human swallowed. "Chop the veg. Put veg in frying pan."

They watched the vampire get to work. It was bizarre. They'd never seen the vampire do anything around the house. Their immortality was a thing of hedonistic cruelties, tempered only by the fact that it was easier to pay someone to take the role of blood bag in the modern age than kidnap them.

"You really don't have to do that for me," they said.

"Are you suggesting that somewhere in the last thousand years I became incapable of chopping vegetables?"

"No. No, of course not."

"Then hold your tongue. I don't pay you to question me or for your opinions. You're a walking blood bag."

"Right. Right, yeah. Sorry."

The vampire made them dinner, following instructions in a way that the human truly had thought them too proud for, as the sun sank slow and pretty beyond the window.

"Thank you," the human said, nonplussed, when the vampire eventually loaded a full dinner plate. They were more nonplussed when the vampire didn't hand it over, though, simply holding a fork up to the human's mouth. "Er...my hand is okay. I can hold cutlery. I know I don't heal vampire fast but..."

"You're questioning me again."

"Right. Sorry." The human accepted the mouthful of food, then another. Their stomach did something weird and flipping beneath the vampire's strange care, their intent focus.

"Good," the vampire murmured.

In the aftermath of dinner, the night black and endless beyond the windows, they stared at each other.

The human's heart pounded. They were all too aware of the fact that the vampire could hear it. All of their normal, comfortable routines felt disrupted somehow.

They wet their abruptly dry lips.

"Don't hurt yourself again, pet," the vampire said abruptly. "That's my job."

"Do you think," the villain panted, "that fighting me balances your scales? That brandishing your violence in the name of some ideological good makes up for the parasite you are?"

The words would have cut deep, would have made them feel blistered beneath the all-seeing light of the sun, if the hero wasn't somewhat distracted by the blood dripping down the villain's chin.

It was a (not) funny thing. No matter how far they came in their self-control, there was always a moment when the blood pulled at something animal in them.

They wanted to suck the blood off the villain's lower lip.

They wanted to bite the soft skin of their slightly trembling thighs.

Taste the pulse roaring with the villain's cruel bravado.

The villain laughed, acidly, breathlessly, immediately noticing the hero's preoccupation. They licked their own lips cleaned, grinned to bear their bloody teeth.

"What would you even do," they said, "if I spilled a citadel of blood for you? Would you even be able to think straight, saviour?"

The hero took a stalking step closer, then another, and then in a blur the villain was right there and the hero had shoved them hard against the wall. All heat and flesh and bloodbloodblood pumping. Oh, how the villain's heart was hammering.

The villain swallowed. Primal terror and something else, darker, recognisable from the cages in the hero's own soul.

"God," they whispered, venomously, adoringly, "look at you. You monster."

It was true. They were a monster. A parasite. A vampire desperate to do enough good in their eternity to wipe out the thing they were, the blood they demanded, just by existing.

The villain looked at them like they were god, or death, and maybe it was the same thing. Most people just looked frightened.

Still.

"No," the hero said. "I think nothing will even my scales. I think compared to me, you're still a good little kid, cowering beneath teh bedsheets, afraid of the dark."

The villain faltered. They bit their lip. Their eyes were wide and wild in the gloom.

The hero leaned in, and the villain's breath betrayed them by hitching.

"But I'm trying," the hero said. They let their fangs graze against the villain's frantic pulse. "And yes, I think that counts for something. Maybe you should consider trying to be your best self too, hm? You have a dreadfully short life to be remembered for."

They bit down. They drank. They felt the villain groan, felt them squirm like they still remembered what power was. Then, when they were dazed and limp and incapable of hurting anyone else, the hero pulled back.

They took a moment to steady themselves.

The blood was rich on their tongue. The villain's memories lingered in the back of their brain like an after taste, complex and sad, already fading.

The hero felt human again. Raw. Messy. Bursting.

"You're under arrest," the hero said, soft, a little fond despite themselves. "Come along."

some new wood prints