Writing Prompts

Welcome to my page! I mostly do Hero and Villain prompts to practice my writing. Lmk if any of these links don’t work and hopefully this makes my page a bit easier to navigate. Links below the read more.

1. Villain is in charge of the puzzle section of a newspaper. His villainous alter ego also favors puzzles; he leads heroes through traps, escape rooms, word games and the like. Hero can’t help but wonder why the crosswords and riddles on his weekly newspaper seem so familiar.

2. Hero is a weatherperson. Their news station has a call in section and Villain, who possesses weather related powers, calls in to correct their weather predictions and joke around with Hero. Villain quickly becomes a fan favorite of the weather channel, much to Hero’s chagrin.

3. Villain is a suit tailor and fashion designer. Hero, in his civilian identity, is regular client of his. Villain can’t help but compare the silhouette of his sworn enemy to the silhouette of his favorite customer.

4. Hero is a tattoo artist. Villain’s suit rips, revealing one of Hero’s pieces.

5. Villain works at memory clinic. He specializes in memory removal. Out of respect for his clients, he never looks at the memories he removes. He discovers that his regular client, Hero, has been forced to remove his memories and the Organization is somehow still involved. He begins to collect each memory, with the intent to return them. By accident, he watches one of the memories, and discovers that those memories belong to Hero and that many seem to pertain to Villain.

6. An amnesiac Villain survives the apocalypse thanks to an abandoned safe house. The previous owner has left a voice log of his time in the safe house, and as Villain listens through it, he grows fond of the speaker. The speaker’s survival tips save him time and time again. But then the logs abruptly change. The speaker sounds weary and hunted. In the final log, the speaker devolves into a whisper, repeating Villain’s name over and over again. Villain finally recognizes the voice.

7. Hero guards Villain’s tomb. Villain is well preserved, held in suspension in a fluid-filled glass case. The Organization wants to harvest something from his body, but have found themselves unable to break Villain’s skin. During the long nights, Hero bathes in the case’s sickly green light and in an exhausted haze, Hero begins to see Villain move. He reports it to his higher ups, but they continue to reassure him that Villain’s body exhibits no signs of life—no pulse, no neural activity. And then, Villain opens an eye.

8. Capes are heirlooms and accumulate power over generations. Villain cleans up his grandmother’s house after her passing and discovers a weathered wooden box. Within it, he finds a beautiful bolt of fabric. He strings it up on his apartment wall, believing it to be a tapestry, until Hero compliments him on his “extremely accurate recreation of [Legendary Superhero]’s cape.”

9. Hero was a victim of Scientist’s experiments. The experiments left him with a progressively lethal disease. With the help of the organization, he’s reversed the disease, and as an unintended side effect, he’s grown incredibly powerful. During one of his charitable visits to the hospital, he discovers a man with similar symptoms to his own, and he recognizes him as Villain, who had disappeared the year prior. He knows he can’t give Villain access to the power the cure provides but as he continues to visit Villain in the hospital, his resolve wavers.

////

“And sparring, physically, is such a grotesque act. So inelegant. You tear into each other’s hides until one of you bursts like a waterskin—bleeding, crying, sniveling. You see, a computer keeps all of its parts contained. There’s no spillage of—”

“I think you’d like a body.” Hero interjects.

“What an abhorrent concept!” Villain wails. The room’s light flicks to red, reflecting its displeasure.

Hero smiles at the camera in the corner as he squeezes his shoulder, dragging his fingertips between his cotton shirt and freckled skin, rough to smooth.

“Humans have very sensitive hands.” He stretches out his fingers, displaying them to Villain before running his hand over a nearby desk. “They’re capable of distinguishing the slightest imperfections on an otherwise seamless surface.”

“Such detection can also be achieved with a camera. You are not unique in that regard.”

Hero catches the corner of the desk and then tugs it toward the front of the room. The legs screech, as if in opposition to the movement.

“I bet you know every detail of these rooms. You watch them day in and day out, but nothing ever changes, does it?” Hero kicks another desk and it crashes to the floor, cutting through dust. “You can’t move a thing.”

“You’re free to tantrum as you wish.”

“I am.” Hero sneers. “Are you?”

“I am not beholden to such useless urges.” Villain cuts back. “And neither am I constrained by the wants of flesh. I need no water, no food, no slumber. A body would cage me.”

Hero laughs.

“When I’m gone, you’ll still be in this metal box. This building is all that you’ll ever have.”

Villain remains silent and the light flickers back to white. Hero stares at the ruin of a room: metal desks and shelves, all succumbing to rust. He kicks an empty soda can. It clatters over detritus and spills of frail paper.

“If you had a body, I’d—I wouldn’t hurt you.”

He walks toward the camera and slumps down the wall beneath it, forcing his shoulder into the corner and tucking his knees to his chest.

“We’re all alone here.” Hero whispers. “Aren’t you mad, that they left you behind?”

Silence stretches. Across the room, the broken clock reflects the light like a pale eye, and Hero wishes it would tick, if only to hear anything other than his own breathing.

“I wish you had a body.” He confesses, after an unmeasured length of time.

“I wish you had hands.”

////

Hero buys a camera from the thrift store.

And then he falls.

He clutches the camera to his chest as he does and he mourns that he’d only taken one good picture before dying or breaking the camera—whatever came first. The police would find his body and discover only test shots of pigeons and gargoyles.

How lame.

He hits the ground and the world stutters. A flash strobes the back of his eyelids and the afterimage hangs in his vision as he blinks in his surroundings.

From beyond his cheek, pavement stretches, strewn with litter. A takeout bag with a smiling face skitters past Hero’s nose, following a rank breeze, and he watches it skip out the alley and into the street. A car catches the bag under its wheel and Hero jolts up.

The camera rolls into his lap, its lens and frame untouched.

There’s no way. Hero had fallen stories. He’d had time to deliberate his life mid fall and time meant acceleration; he’d given gravity every chance to yank him back to earth and make a spectacular show of it, and yet he had no evidence of his trip downward. No pain, no dents.

He clicks the camera on, reminded of the flash.

Realistically, your hero would not run on coffee and spite. If they wanted to keep their body and mind sharp, they would have to fuel accordingly. I understand that heroes don’t have to be realistic and that it's entertaining to see them eat like normal people, but it’s also fun to consider the logistics behind heroism.

Fuel is so important. These heroes are probably running around for hours each night, which is a testament to their endurance and their consistent fueling. During marathons, runners are recommended to eat and hydrate often. Your hero would probably be snacking and rehydrating between fights.

Furthermore, if we were to consider building muscle, that requires a lot of fuel. If your character had a day job, they’d likely be chowing down between every meeting. They’d probably have to tell their coworkers that they're training to run a marathon or planning to enter a lifting competition. For bonus points, it’d be funny if they actually did enter marathons or lifting competitions to keep up this ruse.

I used to compete in college. In order to get the edge over my competition, I would focus on everything from sleeping properly to what’d eat in the days and hours before my races. Every little thing counts and your hero would have to consider these things too. If I didn’t take care of my health, I’d lose. In your hero’s case, the weakness from not eating well could be the determining factor between life and death.

So if you want to add a little more realism to your hero’s, I’d consider stuff like this.

////

“You remind me of someone.” Villain confessed. “She uh—used to talk like you.”

“She probably grew up around the same area then.” Hero shrugged, squeezing the ledge to disguise the nervous twitch of his hands. “You know I come from out west.”

“No, it’s not the accent.” Villain leaned forward to gaze at Hero. They’d both tugged up their masks halfway to eat and now Hero’s bare skin felt ablaze beneath the supervision. “You just say similar things, you know. A lot of odd observations and comparisons I’ve never heard from anyone else.”

Hero shifted back and swung his legs into the open air, the shadows of his ankles and shoes occluding the streetlights below.

“What are you getting at?” He asked. “You think I’d know the girl or something?”

“I don’t know.” Villain’s hands curled in his lap. “Maybe. I just keeping on getting this strange sense of Déjà vu when I’m with you.”

“Are you trying a new pick up line on me?”

“No,” Villain slapped Hero’s knee, “I’m being serious. I just—well, I miss her, that’s all. We used to be close in school, but she left at the end of the year and went no contact. And I’m sorry if this is weird. It was supposed to be a compliment.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Hero swallowed, and turned toward the skyline.

From far away, the scattered city lights and faint stars appeared perfect reflections of each other, and the sky and ground slipped together without seam. The world could turn on its end and Hero wouldn’t know up from down until he started to fall.

“It’s nice to be compared to a friend.” Hero coughed around his tight throat. That comparison would grow truer soon, once Hero left like she did.

Villain rifled around his pocket and brought out a small bracelet. He offered it to Hero and the single, teardrop shaped pearl rolled around his palm.

“She gave this to me before she left.”

The pearl gleamed like a ripped tooth. Hero whipped toward Villain, but found no tension in his jaw nor a knowing smirk on his lip. Only a thin, somber line remained on his face, though the edges pulled tighter at Hero’s reaction.

“You know this?” Villain asked, leaning toward Hero, bringing the bracelet further into the light. “Do you know her?”

“I—uh…no.” Hero curled in on himself. “Sorry, it just looked familiar for a second.”

Villain frowned and slumped forward. He slipped the bracelet back into his pocket.

“Fuck man, that almost got me.” Villain shoved his knuckle against his lip to mask the quiver of his mouth. “Why would you even react to something like that?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” Hero whispered, glad that the upper half of his mask was still on.

His eyes burned as Villain climbed back off the ledge and landed on the rooftop.

“Whatever dude, I’ll see you around.” Villain yanked his mask back over his face, and then leapt into the night.

////

“You don’t want that one.” Villain calls out and Hero looks up from his book, brow furrowed. “It doesn’t end well.”

Hero keeps the book open, cradling the spine with a large hand.

“Why? Is it a tragedy?” He asks, thumbing a page.

“It’s not a tragedy.” Villain fixes his vest. “Just poorly written. The concept was promising, but the execution leaves much to be desired.”

Hero tilts his head and the warm light catches his face just so, cupping each bespoke plane and curve. The wonderful view reaffirms Villain’s initial assessment: Hero will make a wonderful protagonist. But not for that book.

Such a face deserves quality.

“I see.” Hero closes the book and slides it back onto the shelf. “Then, what would you recommend?”

Villain swans forward.

“Depends on what you’re looking for.” He smiles, circling Hero. “Can you handle a bit of hardship? Do you like watching your heroes rise from nothing?”

“I don’t mind it.” Hero shrugs. “As long as it isn’t too depressing.”

“Perhaps a story with a mentor then. A tough upbringing but there’s help along the way.” Villain taps his chin, appraising Hero.

His broad shoulders are the perfect scaffold for knightly strength, but his face doesn’t suit a rugged epic. Those features—a sharp jaw juxtaposed by emotive eyes—ought to display their full range of expression. He would do well with a bit of romance or tragedy.

Villain whips around and beckons Hero forward with a ringed hand.

“I think I have just the book for you.” Villain turns away from the fantasy aisle and leads Hero past the empty reading area.

“The facility funds a few authors. Occasionally, I allow people to view their unfinished works.” The wide room thins into a portrait-lined hallway. With each face passed, Hero slows, the drag of his heel echoing down the linoleum.

“You want me to read an unfinished book?”

Villain stops at a door and turns back to Hero.

“Some of the world’s greatest stories are unfinished.” Villain explains as he leads Hero into a dim room. The walls are rife with paper—scrolls, hardbacks, loose leaf, all threaded together and barely contained by their respective shelves. A table stands at the center of the room and boasts a few books laid out on their spines.

Villain gathers up the nearest novel and hands it to Hero.

“No offense, but I wasn’t really planning on reading anything like this.” Hero offers the book back. “This is a cool opportunity and all but I just wanted something simple.”

“Trust me.” Villain’s grin dissolves into a somber line. “This is the best I can give you right now. It has a good start, the development’s excellent, and you get to determine what happens next.”

Villain grabs the novel and pushes it against Hero’s chest. From beneath his palm, a golden light spreads, enfolding the blank cover. The tendrils reach toward Hero’s shirt.

Hero staggers back, but Villain follows until Hero’s spine hits one of the shelves. Paper spills down like snow.

“What are you doing to me?” Hero attempts to swing at Villain, but his arm stops short and sags back down to his side, limp like an unstrung doll.

“I’m giving you a chance.” The gold sinks into Hero’s skin and branches out, capturing Hero’s throat in a gilded net. “I’m giving you your freedom.”

Hero chokes and the gold crawls over his lips and into his open mouth. As he thrashes and slips down, Villain crouches with him and cups the side of his face, forcing Hero’s gaze toward his own.

“I’ll help you write your story.”

Groaning, Hero shakes his head.

////

“Well, this is cozy.”

Sidekick leaned back into Villain’s chest. Hero sat opposite of them, feet twisted with Sidekick’s, hand braced against the wall. His eyes reflected the thin stripe of light coming through the cellar door.

“Sidekick,” Hero intoned slowly, “I was under the impression that you and Villain were supposed to be hiding out in the drawing room.”

“It was too exposed.” Sidekick sunk down and Villain’s hand twitched against his stomach. “So we came here instead and I—I really thought the cellar would be bigger.”

The drawing room had been perfectly fine, actually, but neither of them needed to know that. He’d meant to shove Villain in the cellar and run, but a guard had walked by, so he’d piled in after Villain, unaware of how small the room was—if it could even be called a room at all.

He’d seen closets more spacious.

Hero sighed.

“I suppose we’ve been in worse situations.”

Yes, Sidekick much preferred crowded cellars to sewer lines and rusted ductwork, but he also despised when plans went awry. At the very least, he should’ve aimed Villain in Hero’s general direction before taking a dive in. Now Hero and Villain wouldn’t have this opportunity to get close—literally and figuratively—and Sidekick would be wedged between their weird tension for at least an hour.

“Yes,” Villain’s arm tightened around Sidekick’s middle, “things could be much worse.”

Hero’s brow twitched.

/////

A secluded cabin with no power? Check.

Oh, and a blizzard is on its way? Check.

A perfect scenario except for one thing: Sidekick hadn’t been able to leave. He’d had a ride lined up for earlier today, but they’d also been caught in the weather, which left him stuck and shivering next to Hero and Villain.

He’d intended to stick it out on the floor and let Hero and Villain share the bed, but Hero had hauled him onto the mattress, citing Sidekick’s chattering teeth as a nuisance.

“You have no problem with contact during training.” Hero groused, throwing the comforter over Sidekick. “I don’t understand your issue with being on a bed.”

“Different environment,” Sidekick muttered, melting beneath the heat, “don’t like people breathing near me.”

Hero huffed and rolled over, facing Villain’s turned back. Listening to their slowing breaths, Sidekick blinked at the moonlit ceiling, and resolved to do better in the future. His efforts could not all be in vain.

////

“Just go to the party.” Sidekick groaned into the side of Hero’s knee. “I’m not gonna die just cause you’re gone for a few hours.”

Hero patted Sidekick’s shoulder and laughed, the sound rich and low.

“We’re here for the whole week.” He placated. “I’m positive that we can stay in one night.”

“You both were looking forward to it.” Sidekick turned to view Villain in his periphery. His wine-red shirt remained half buttoned and his tie dangled from his shoulder and over his chest. “And you’re both…mostly dressed. Why waste a perfectly good night?”

“It’s not a waste of time to look after a friend.”

“Oh, please.” Sidekick tucked himself back against Hero’s leg. “Would it kill you to be a little more selfish? Just go.”

Hero hummed, then set his hand over Sidekick’s hair.

“But I am being selfish.” He sighed. “I want this. And Villain and I would both worry about you here, even if we did go.”

Sidekick’s resolve crumbled when Villain climbed into bed next to them, book in hand. This was fine. If Hero and Villain wanted to skip past the dancing and courting, and go straight to old partners—the newspapers and tea in bed kind of romance—he’d gladly go along with it. That’d be much easier to plan around.

Maybe he’d suggest for a walk in the park next or something equally mundane.

////

“He was a very charming man.” Hero rubbed his thumb over the chair arm. “I imagine very few people would come to know him and not think of him fondly in one way or another.”

“But things between you and him were different, weren’t they?” The interviewer leaned back in his seat. “You’ve at been at odds with him since you were rookies. We were all surprised when you suddenly turned around and helped clear his name. How does a ten year rivalry like that dissolve overnight?”

“I learned the truth, Johnny. My feelings didn’t change the facts and I wasn’t going to lie down and let the world tear him apart.” Hero sighed and leaned his temple into his hand before looking back up. “And I never hated him, you know. I couldn’t.”

As the crowd quieted, Hero straightened in his seat, raking a hand through his hair. The studio lights seemed to burn the side of his face as he turned away and stared at Villain’s memorial picture on the projector.

Tight in the throat, he faced the interviewer once more.

“Villain died believing the world hated him.” He swallowed. “If only he had known how…how much he’s loved now.”

As Hero’s breath quivered, the interviewer glanced toward the sides, silently motioning for a break, but Hero shook his head.

“In truth, I came here because of some recent speculation on the internet.” Hero reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He kept it closed and carefully set it on his knee. “When the accords were written, the relationship between Villain and Ms. Fiero was strictly professional and none of the legal agreements were manipulated by romantic sentiments. The letters found in Villain’s apartment were not from Ms. Fiero.”

Hero’s hand trembled over the paper.

“They were written by me.”

The audience devolved into sound and flashing light, but Hero remained tall, staring down the main camera.

“Villain never got to read them.” Hero cleared his throat. “And no one else knew. I didn’t want to disrupt the trial and would’ve gladly taken these sentiments to my grave, but I will not stand for any slander against Villain or Ms. Fiero.”

“I cared for Villain, deeply, but that does not detract from his innocence or my part in championing the movement for his acquittal. The evidence remains clear.” Hero crumpled the letter against his leg. “I meant every word and I am not ashamed of my love for him.”

“And I hope you can extend your care to him as well, in the anniversary of his death. His story is important and should be heard.”

Once the interview ended, the curtains closed, turning the screen crimson.

“Thank you for your time, [X] city.”

////

////

Continuation of:

////

“This is an emergency line, Kid.” Villain squeezes the phone and turns away to sigh. “If you keep calling when you’re fine, I’m never going to know when you’re actually in trouble.”

“I know. Dad tells me that already.” Kid proclaims. “But you didn’t come to my game. Dad said you were fine, just busy, but I—I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Villain sags down the brick wall till he’s sat in alleyway grime. Weak, yellow light cuts over his ankles and knees, outlining every tear in his suit.

“I wanted to see you too.” He croaks. He’d been there when Hero had bought them cleats and shin pads. He’d trudged along to morning practices and watched Kid disappear into the mist rising from the wet fields. “I’ll—I’ll try my hardest to get to one of your games later in the season.”

“You promise?” Kid asks.

“I’m not very good at promises.” He shivers. Water patters onto his shoulder, dribbling from a broken gutter overhead. “But I’ll try, Kid. You’ve got my word on that.”

“It doesn’t have to be a game.” Kid continues. “We can go shopping or we can get ice cream. Or you can come over and say hi to Dad.”

Villain’s head thunks back into the brick. Maybe he can close his eyes and rest a little. Maybe he can dream of what the kid wants and fantasize over a warm summer day spent in blissful domesticity.

“Yeah, that sounds real nice kid.”

“Good.” Kid chirps. “I—uh miss you, Mister Villain.”

Villain curls forward though the bandages on his stomach don’t let him get very far.

“I miss you too.”

////

“Where are you?”

Villain nearly pulls the phone from his ear, heart sinking.

“Ah, ya know,” he mutters, “around.”

“Two months, Villain.” Hero grits out. “Two months without a word from you.”

“Things got busy. I got called back in.” Villain tugs at his hood. Summertime had slipped into autumn, exchanging blue skies for an unbroken spell of grey. The cloud cover never faltered and Villain was glad that soccer season had shifted over to indoor volleyball.

Kid would be warm in the gym, and so would Hero as he cheered from the bleachers.

“I thought you were done.”

“I’m trying to get out. Cutting ties, cleaning up, the whole nine yards.” He turns down a street, boots churning up leaf litter and asphalt. “I couldn’t—I wasn’t going to risk being called upon while I was with you. I don’t want that anymore.”

He wasn’t going to save Kid in one breath and swindle another man in the next.

“You should’ve told me.”

“You would’ve held me back.” Villain sighs.

“I wanted—people worry, Villain.” Hero grouses.

“Don’t go grey on me now.” Villain closes his eyes and the wind breezes over his damp face. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

////

A whistle sounds as Villain rounds the top of the hill. He stands beside a few other parents, catching his breath from the muddy trek from the parking lot to the field.

“Might as well have gone for a hike.” A man nearby chuckles. “They always got us traveling such a long way to see these kids. The least they could do is make parking closer.”

A long way. He muses.

Villain nods and follows behind the throng of parents. His heart races though he trudges slowly, hands in his pockets. Fiddling with his zipper, he works his way toward the bleachers, and scans the crowd. He doesn’t spot Hero in any of the seats.

Maybe Kid didn’t show today. Maybe they were sick or maybe they quit, and he would never know because he’d been gone—

An arm hooks around his shoulders and drags him back toward the fence. He seizes and slips in the mud before he’s hauled upward.

“What’s the point of being an emergency contact if you don’t answer your damn phone?” Hero hisses in his ear.

“Sorry?” Villain squawks as Hero spins him around and claps both hands on his shoulders.

Hero sighs, a litany of expressions warring over his face: anger, relief, irritation. He opens his mouth, thumbs digging into Villain’s shoulders, but he never speaks, lips snapping shut. Shaking his head, he tugs Villain in and squeezes.

Villain grabs him back, fumbling for anything to say.

The whistle shrieks again.

“Off sides!”

Villain glances up and finds a figure dashing past the goal. A bolt of hair whips behind them as they cut through the grass and toward the fence.

So why does Supervillain smell so nice?

////

“Don’t leave the circle.”

Hero jumps as an arm loops around his stomach and pulls him back.

No one else should’ve been in the room. Only Superhero and himself had entered. As the arm slips away, Hero flicks the button at the base of his palm. The bottom half of his mask detaches and exposes his jaw and nose.

He takes a deep breath, bracing for the worst—rot, ammonia, the coppery reek of blood.

His nose reports back: good.

Reallyreallygood.

He freezes, hand locking over the blade at his hip.

“Why should I listen to you?” He asks, parting his mouth, subtly drawing in air. As the scent hits again, he salivates.

At first impression, the smell remains too complex to parse, but his olfactory neurons fire and his amygdala sings, plucking the chords of every fond, scent-associated memory at its disposal. Whatever the scent may be, it undoubtedly translates to safety.

Hero slips his hand off his dagger and his shoulders melt down from ears.

“I have a vested interest in keeping you away from Superhero.” Supervillain leans in closer. “If he gets that key of yours, it’ll be hell for us both.”

“It’s not my key.” Hero quickly claps his mouth shut, scarcely breathing. He can’t think with that smell.

Supervillain sighs.

“You should know—of course you don’t know.” He pulls Hero back to the center of the circle, where the empty pedestal stands. A pool of blood shimmers where the key once lay. “The stone cut you and you bled. That’s magically binding. The key’s gonna be with you for the rest of your life.”

“What happens if the key’s used for the portal?” Hero sniffs shallowly.

A sweet note hits: caramelized sugar, freshly warm and golden. Still safe.

“Your soul would become a convenient power source.” Supervillain turns toward the edge of the circle, where a blue barrier extends floor to ceiling. Superhero’s shadow shifts behind it.

As Superhero lashes out, the barrier ripples like water, distributing the force in waves about the circle. Supervillain casts an arm in front of Hero and cocks his head. After a few more sloshes, the barrier regains its seamless shape.

“What’s your interest in the portal?”

Supervillain twists toward Hero, face haloed by the blue light.

“It can’t be opened.” He claims. “Superhero wants glory and wealth, but every portal that he opens further destabilizes our world.”

Hero takes a deep breath. Supervillain’s scent turns metallic, tinged with iron—the smell he’s associated with truth and resolve. Beneath that lies notes of Supervillain’s true character. If the action weren’t frowned upon, Hero would shove his face in Supervillain’s collar and divine each aromatic thread.

He touches his sternum, tracing the outline of the key.

“Superhero’s been using the portals to support our world. It must be a mistake.” He eyes Superhero’s warped silhouette. “We can tell him about what’s going on and he’ll fix it.”

“He knows what he’s doing.” Supervillain places a hand on Hero’s shoulder. “With the portals, with you—it’s all on purpose.”

////

“Look at what you’ve done.”

Supervillain’s hand curls over his shoulder, a phantom touch, the weight of each finger known only to Hero. Hero jolts. Not here. He swallows, glancing down the line of soldiers, all clothed in ceremonial garments. Not now.

“You’ve pathed the way for a tyrant king.” Supervillain croons, tracing the ceramic edge of Hero’s mask. “All that power, all that will, and yet you bow before him, without name, without face.”

Hero turns his head from the touch, gaze forced along the crimson carpet. The runner leads up to a semi-circular dais. At its center, Superhero stands, facing an assembly of clergymen and alchemists. The lead priest cradles a spired crown with both hands.

He will lead us to the light. Hero swears.

Supervillain sighs against his ear. “Such willful delusion.”

Superhero bears the mark of destiny. The gods have chosen him and he shall bring us into an age of prosperity.

A weight builds along Hero’s back. If Hero focuses, he can feel Supervillain’s chest through his cloak, rising and falling in a languid rhythm. The slowness of each breath reminds Hero of where Supervillain’s real body remains, entrapped in slumber beneath Superhero’s soon-to-be palace.

“Fortune favors fools.” Supervillain rests his forehead against Hero’s back and Hero twists his hand tighter around his spear. “And destiny breeds compliance. True power lies in choice, in the courage to forge a new path.”

After hours of standing in the cold ceremony chamber, Supervillain’s touch scalds, and Hero swallows back a pitching breath. Supervillain had never been so solid, so warm before—almost real.

“And if your destined Superhero was so powerful, why was it not his hand that felled me?” Supervillain reaches down Hero’s arm and wraps his fingers over his knuckles. The shaft of the spear creaks; splinters flake the floor. “He couldn’t even touch me but you—you burned me.”

It was not his destiny to slay you.

“Then why did he claim it so?” Supervillain hisses. “Why did the world praise his name and not yours?”

The priest begins to sing, voice like a tolling bell, resounding about the hollow hall. Each note devolves into a singular, piercing tone in Hero’s ear.

“That’s it.” Supervillain purrs and Hero can feel his breath this time, stirring the hair by his ear. “You have so much power. Let them see. Let them know.”

Sweat builds beneath Hero’s mask though the porcelain should be frigid. Beyond Supervillain’s weight, the heat spreads, pooling in chest.

The singing stops.

The priests and the long, long, line of soldiers—everyone except Superhero—turns their attention down the hall. Gasping, Hero stumbles back, dropping his half-ashen spear. His neighboring soldiers spring away as he descends but Hero never falls.

He’s caught by the shoulders and pushed back into the light.

////

As the author packed up his last book, Hero hurried forward, clutching his book to his chest.

“Sorry, I’m just about done here.” Author glances up with a genial smile. “I can sign your book, but I’m afraid I don’t have time for much else.”

“Uh, yeah,” Hero coughed and set the book on the table, “that would be great. Thank you. I’m really sorry for being late. The train was behind and then I had to help this person—well, that doesn’t really matter—just, thank you.”

Author quirked a brow. In the time Hero had rambled, he’d already penned his signature across the title page.

“It’s not a problem for me, I assure you.” He slid the book back to Hero. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan, no matter how untimely.”

Hero snatched the book back, but lingered as Author tucked his pen back into his pocket. The man turned away from him and grabbed his bag from his chair.

Though he faced the other direction, he asked, “is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Just a quick question.”

“Go on.” The author urged, digging through his satchel.

////

Heroes take the mark of the house they serve, typically a coat of arms.

When Hero is separated from his house and joins forces with a Villain , the coat of arms on his chest slowly morphs into a familiar/ancient/cursed symbol.

Aposematism: animals use bright colors to signal that they are aggressive or poisonous. This mechanism is present in supers as well. The brighter the mark, the greater power.

While heroes proudly display their marks, promoting transparency about their power level, villains tend to cover their skin completely.

Hero has been using fake marks—dull bands of blue on his wrists and his cheeks. His suit is torn one day, exposing the most vibrant mark Villain has ever seen, a glowing supernova of color that takes over his whole chest.

Supers bless individuals with marks of favor. Most last only days, as impermanent as a gold star stamped on a test booklet.

Villain’s had the mark of Superhero’s favor for almost a year now and he’s still trying to figure out what he did to please Superhero in the first place.

The hero team conspires to give Villain as many marks of favor as they can without them noticing.

Marks that act as pH indicators for “evil.”

Upon acceptance into the hero program, all heroes must receive a tattoo on their temples and wrists. When enough hateful energy builds in the system, the mark turns red. Hero, who’s been a model of peace for years, suddenly turns red.

Villain deserts from the hero program but his mark remains ‘good’ and nonviolent.

Temporary target marks, bounties set upon a person’s skin, calling all nearby allies to pursue a certain foe.

Weak, unassuming Hero has multiple active target marks, including one from Supervillain himself. No one has quite figured out what he did to incur their wrath.

Hero has so many target marks that most people are reluctant to fight him, out of fear of the threat he poses, and out of concern for accidentally angering one of his previous mark makers.

When heroes gain their powers, they must bestow a mark of protection upon a group of people. Some heroes claim cities, while smaller ones claim families or villages.

After a horrific accident, Villain is the sole survivor of Superhero’s protected people and Superhero is hellbent on keeping him alive in order to maintain his power.

Undercover Villain is present at Hero’s power ceremony and receives his mark of protection. He must learn to hide it or face the consequences.

Heroes use a fraction of their power to tie themselves to another person, in the form of shared mark. They use this to track the wellbeing of their loved ones, typically children, or partners.

Superhero has played a strong role in mentoring young Villain. While the formation of a mark would normally be intentional, he finds his power fractioning on its own, bleeding out in Villain’s direction, but he knows Villain won’t take the mark, not with ragged, weeping Supervillain mark has left behind.

Shared tattoos are a symbol of power. The more bonds a person maintains, the more powerful they are. Bonds stretch across Hero’s skin like a lichtenberg scar.

Long ago. Hero formed a bond with Supervillain. The world believes Supervillain to be dead, but Hero’s mark is as strong as ever. He can’t warn anyone without exposing himself in the process.

After ever great deed, a god marks a hero.

The heroes can’t comprehend how Villain bears so many divine markings.

Hero serves an unknown god. At first, his marks are small things, pinpricks of silver that spray across his chest like freckles, but after a particularly harrowing mission, his skin is split through with light. He’s as decorated as Superhero though no other god should be that powerful.

Hero and Villain discover that they serve the same god.

At the end of a great battle, Superhero stands with arms outstretched, anticipating a mark. The god marks Villain instead.

When Hero finishes his divine task, he’s horrified when a historically evil god marks him instead of his intended god.

All supers are born with marks that hint at their destiny.

Villain’s mark is suspiciously similar to the logo of a popular coffee chain.

Villain bears the mark of an ancient Hero.

Every year, Hero’s mark morphs into a different letter. He has yet to decipher the code, if one exists.

A skull is a particularly damning mark, so Hero becomes a mortician instead, hoping to curb any potentially murderous tendencies.

Magical tattoo

Civilian finds a cool symbol on Pinterest. He gets it tattooed and wakes up the next day with unthinkable powers.

Magical tattoos are powerful. They facilitate the flow of power and can help with power amplification or absorption, among other things. After disappearing, Villain returns with head-to-toe tattoos in a magical script Hero cannot decipher.

The matching tattoos Hero and Villain got in their youth have unintended consequences now that they both have powers.

////

Villain’s armor is a living, magical construct, tied to his very being. Hero has seen it shield Villain from all manner of weaponry, plates thickening just before the impact of a spear, or swarming about his head to ward off a spray of shrapnel.

The armor often erupts into spines when Villain stands before the heroic assembly. On one notable occasion, he nearly skewered an attendant’s hand.

Hero, naturally, maintains a respectable a distance from Villain. When the armor gains a vicious edge, he widens that berth. If the plates round out and thin, he veers a little closer, enamored by the fluid shift of metal, rippling like mercury along Villain’s skin.

But he forgets himself one day and reaches.

He finds neither spine nor thick wall of metal.

Skin. His hand curls around Villain’s bicep—around warm, lenient flesh—and he freezes alongside Villain.

“You,” Villain starts with a hiss, “you dare to touch me with such careless hands?”

Before Hero can snap his hand away, the metal seeps back down, threading over his fingers.

“I’m sorry.” Hero yelps, attempting to yank back, drawing Villain with him.

Villain stumbles forward and Hero’s stomach clenches, envisioning thorns in his ribs, but no such impact ensues. Instead, Villain cants into his chest, all soft cotton and flesh. The shock of it seems to free Hero’s hand and he reflexively claps it over Villain’s back to steady them both.

Gasping, Villain twists his hand into Hero’s shirt.

“You fool,” he seethes, breath hot against Hero’s collarbone.

“I didn’t mean it.” Hero drops his hands to his sides. “I promise, I just wanted to show you something and I forgot that you don’t like people touching you.”

Despite Hero’s release, Villain remains still, a line of heat along Hero’s front. He drops Hero’s shirt and sighs, hand skimming along the fabric.

“You will take responsibility for what you’ve done to me.” He proclaims.

Hero balks, too terrified to leap away.

“It was an accident.” He protests.

“You’ve tricked my armor.” Villain snatches Hero’s limp hand and pulls it to his back. The metal is still there, but thin, yielding like warm wax beneath Hero’s stricken fingers. “You’ve whittled me down to my skin, with your sweet words and your constant lingering, following me around like some thoughtless limpet.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Hero breathes, “can’t you just build it back?”

“I will.” Villain vows, grip tightening around Hero’s wrist. “And I will make it so you may never touch me so closely again.”

“Okay.”

Hero’s shuffles away, attempting to respect Villain’s proclamation, but Villain holds him in place.

“You will speak of this to no one.” He snarls. “And you will not touch me when any of your compatriots are present.”

“Of course.” Hero nods, though Villain’s head is tucked so far down he cannot see the motion.

“And in the event you expose me again, you will guard me with your life.”

“I mean—sure, that’s kind of my job anyway.”

Villain huffs and relinquishes Hero, stepping away. His armor ripples over his shoulders, plates ruffling like feathers, and he slaps his hands over his face when the metal fails to shield it. Unlike the harsh contours of his mask, his face is soft, belying profound expression.

A blush burns through the gaps of his fingers, even as his mouth twists in a sneer.

////

“Hello…uh Sir Villain. My dad told me to use this phone when I needed help and I uh—there’s someone outside.”

Villain lunged out of his seat, reassembling his suit with one hand.

“Your dad, Hero, where is he?”

“He’s o-on the ground. They put something shiny under the door and he fell.” The kid sniffled, swallowing back a sob. “He’s not getting up.”

“That’s okay. They just made him sleep.” Villain locked a gas mask around his head, then charged out the door, following the phone’s coordinates on his watch interface. “Are you feeling dizzy? Does your head hurt?”

“No, but my dad—he hit his head. He’s hurt.”

Dread sunk in Villain’s gut as he grappled the nearest building and shot into the air.

“Your dad’s strong, kiddo. He’ll be fine, but you’re gonna have to leave him so the bad guys don’t get you.” Villain instructed. “Your dad made you a hiding place, didn’t he? Somewhere safe for just you. I need you to go there and lock the door.”

“But dad’s supposed to go with me. He told me—"

“I’ll bring your dad over. We’ll be right behind you.”

“O-okay,” the kid shifted, footsteps sounding upon the floor.

“That’s good.” Metal clicked, hopefully a lock. “Thank you for being so brave. I’m going to get your dad and we’re going to be right with you. Just sit tight and don’t open the door until you hear your dad or me say the secret word, okay?”

////

Hero lurched up before Villain could withdraw the antidote needle from his skin. An elbow caught his cheek and Villain fell back, clutching at his face.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Oh—you.” Hero staggered onto his knee, clutching the countertop for support. “Where’d you put my kid?”

Villain shot to his feet.

“I didn’t—I just told her to go to whatever hiding place you made for her.” He skirted around Hero, hands held uselessly in the air as Hero attempted to heave himself up. “Figured you’d be the type of guy to build a safe room.”

Hero fell back to his knee.

“Look, I’ll,” Villain floundered, then sunk down to meet Hero’s eye, “I’ll just go get her. You’ve got like a secret signal, right? I told her to wait until she heard it and I—“

////

The kid launched themself into Hero’s side. Hero caught them with an arm, leaning the bulk of his weight into a nearby cabinet. As Hero hushed and crooned, the kid’s hiccuping wails dissolved into stilted breaths.

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart.” He glanced at Villain, combing the kid’s hair back. “He got rid of all the bad guys.”

The kid divested their snotty, reddened face from Hero’s shirt.

“Thank you, Mister Villain.” They mumbled.

Unused to any similar sentiment, Villain straightened as if ready to salute. When the call came in, Villain had no time to reflect on the matter, but now, staring at the two, huddled together, the realization struck him: of all people, Hero had trusted him to protect his kid.

Him. A villain.

“It was no trouble at all to fulfill my duty as your err…emergency contact.”

Hero frowned and Villain squirmed.

Was that too presumptuous?

Sighing, Hero beckoned him, and Villain slunk over like a dog with a tucked tail. He stood expectantly, staring at the blood at Hero’s temple.

“Get down here,” Hero commanded gruffly, and so Villain went. Hero grabbed him as he descended and crammed him into the cradle of his arms, alongside the kid. Villain awkwardly shifted his arm around the kid and patted their tiny shoulder.

Hero palmed Villain’s neck and brought his forehead to his own.

“Thank you.”

///

“Hello, this is Margaret Hanold from [X] Central School. Am I speaking with [Villain]?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Villain leaned forward his chair, furrowing his brow.

“I have [Kid Name] at the nurse’s office. They’re not feeling well today and we have been unable to get a hold of their father.” She paused and the line filled with the pitter patter of computer keys. “You’re listed here as an emergency contact. Are you able to pick them up or get in contact with their father?”

Villain twirled his car keys around his finger. From what he’d seen on the news, Hero had been called to an emergency in the next city over.

“Yeah, sure.” Villain stood up. “I’ll be over to grab them soon.”

The call ended and Villain stared at himself in the mirror.

That abruptly changes when he’s attacked during an interview.

////

Despite the initial rush, the lights have been arranged perfectly, accentuating the handsome planes of Hero’s face. He sends the interviewer a warm smile and nods in intervals, playing his part with practiced ease.

“It’s always an honor to protect this city.” He grins. “My home.”

“Of course, [Superhero]. And it’s been an honor seeing you out here on the field today, doing what you do best.” The interviewer says smoothly. “The city thanks you for your service.”

“There’s no need for—,” Hero quiets before he can slip into another slew of empty pleasantries. His smile narrows as he cocks his head to the side.

“Do you hear that?” He asks, eyes unblinking, searching past the camera crew.

The interviewer opens her mouth to reply, but Hero shushes her with a hand and sinks to the ground, placing a palm flat to the concrete. As he ducks beneath the light, his smile finally slips. He parts his lips and breathes shallowly, letting the air settle along the roof of his mouth.

The crew stays silent, though one camera creaks as it angles down, broadcasting Hero’s coiled figure to the masses.

Hero snaps forward before the street cleaves in half, colliding with the creature that spews from its center. He loops an arm around the beast’s neck and drives its face into the asphalt before swinging himself over its back. As the beast thrashes, his legs squeeze for purchase, and he reaches over his shoulder to grab for his sword.

His hand meets empty air and he’s nearly upended.

He forgets the dozens of cameras, all whirring and clicking in his periphery. The rabbit-fast beat of the interviewer’s heart drowns beneath the beast’s thunderous breaths.

The creature writhes again, forelimbs tearing through cars and street lamps, and Hero changes, shifting into something sharper and altogether inhuman. Time passes in a blur of blood and adrenaline as Hero rends through scale and flesh.

He surfaces when the light hits his eye—bright, artificial white, arranged about him like planets around a star.

And so, he smiles, finding the interviewer once more.

////

Villain leans back in his chair, pressing the edge of the remote to his lip.

“Oh my,” he drawls, breathing through his nose.

His fingers shake, sweaty thumb sliding up the side of the remote.