oops my hand slipped

The hero’s legs were shaking as they climbed the steps up to the villain’s front door. Blood was starting to drip down their back from the barely-healed wounds that had split open as they ran. Their heart was pounding, every breath labored from the effort.

The superhero had beaten the hero before, but not like this. As the whip had cut into the skin of their back again and again, the hero had been certain that they were going to die. It was the last thought they remembered having before passing out. And when they had awoken alone on the floor to sharp, searing agony, the wounds untreated and nobody around to help them, they had simply started running. Running without thinking, running to the only place they could possibly go, to the only person who might be powerful enough to hold off the superhero who would surely come looking for them now, who wouldn't be happy that they'd gotten away.

The hero’s fingers were trembling as they lifted their hand to knock. They shifted on their feet as they waited, looking back over their shoulder. They didn’t know how much time they had, and they didn’t want to sit still for too long. They lifted their arm to knock again, only to lurch forward as the door swung open and the villain appeared in front of them.

The hero’s resolve wavered as the villain looked them up and down, sneering at what they saw. The hero knew they were a total mess. A bloody, sweaty, shaking, pathetic mess.

“What are you doing here?” the villain asked coldly, crossing their arms.

Maybe this had been a very, very bad idea, but the hero had no other choice.

“Please,” the hero whispered, keeping eye contact with the villain despite the hatred that glared back at them. “I need your help.”

“Why don’t you go ask one of your little hero friends instead?” It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. The villain started to slam the door closed, but the hero stuck their foot out, wincing as it took the impact. Anger twisted the villain’s face into something cruel and ugly.

“I can’t,” the hero whispered, shuddering. “I ran away. Please, I have nowhere else to go.”

“Well, well, well,” the villain said, chuckling darkly. “The poor little hero ran away from their poor little hero life. And now you need help from me, the big bad villain? What next, are you going to get on your knees and beg?”

“If that’s what it takes,” the hero replied steadily, even as they gritted their teeth against the insult, even as tears started to pool in the corners of their eyes.

The villain cocked their head to the side. “Prove it.”

The hero lowered theirself to their knees, even as everything inside of them screamed not to do it. Their shoulders started to shake harder as they lowered their head all the way to the ground, as a broken sob racked their body. The movement tore open more wounds down their back, and they felt the sticky heat of fresh blood beneath their shirt. They were completely vulnerable, exposed, but they had no other choice, nowhere else to turn. The villain could kill them now, and they wouldn’t be able to fight back, but maybe that would be a mercy. They braced theirself, tears streaming freely now, but the villain only laughed.

“Oh, this is too good,” they heard the villain saying, but the words sounded distant, muffled. They could barely hear over the pounding of their own heart and the weight of their own breaths. Maybe they had lost too much blood already. Maybe it would end here, on the villain’s porch, begging for help they would never receive—

“Hero? Hero!” The words cut through the hero’s panic, but just barely. The villain was somehow on their knees before the hero, shaking the hero’s shoulders. They could see the villain’s face in front of them, but the world was moving in slow motion, riddled with dark spots.

“Hero, are you okay?” the villain asked. Some emotion gleamed in the villain’s eyes, something different than the usual hatred. Something softer.

It was the last thing the hero saw before the whole world went black.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The villain had stopped laughing the moment they looked down and realized just how badly the hero’s shoulders were shaking. The broken sob the hero had let out had instantly doused the villain’s burning hatred. And the blood that leaked from the hero’s back, sticking their shirt to their skin and dripping onto the cement...

A sickening feeling, a lot like fear, had taken hold of the villain as the hero slumped to the ground in front of them, and they didn’t have time to think as they scooped the hero up into their arms, carrying them back into the house.

The villain laid the hero out on the couch, anger slipping away at the sight of the hero sprawled there, limp and breathing shallowly, face contorted with pain. They looked so weak, so helpless, and they had lost so much blood.

Too much blood.

An icy rage, no longer directed toward the hero, settled over the villain as they moved methodically around their house, gathering the supplies they needed. Alcohol, water, cloths, bandages, scissors.

They returned to the hero’s side and turned them over onto their stomach, cut the shirt away from their skin. They gasped at what they saw beneath—at the angry red welts criss-crossing the hero’s skin, oozing blood, and below that, faded scars in all shades of pink and white that suggested this had happened many times before. The villain could barely breathe as they cleaned and bandaged the wounds. The hero remained unconscious through it all.

The villain had always imagined the hero’s life to be easy, full of constant praise and worship. They had imagined the hero to be beyond suffering. Who had done this?

A heavy knock on the door startled the villain from their thoughts. The villain took a deep breath, willing their usual icy glare back to their face before stalking toward the door and cracking it open. Right there, on their own doorstep, stood the superhero.

“Good afternoon,” the superhero said, flashing that sickeningly charming smile. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I believe you might have something of mine.”

The villain cocked their head to the side. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

The superhero’s eyes flashed with barely-concealed rage as they glanced toward the pool of blood on the ground between them. “Come now, Villain. There’s no need to be difficult. Just give me back what’s mine, and I’ll be on my way.”

Well, that answered the question of who had done this. The villain flashed their own smile, dripping with venom.

“I don’t believe I have anything of yours, but I’ll let you know if it turns up,” the villain said coolly. “In the meantime, please kindly stay the fuck away from my house, or I won’t be so polite next time.”

They slammed the door in the superhero’s face and slumped back against it, running their hands through their hair. They had never felt so sick, so angry, at the sight of another person, and they had almost lost their cool. But the villain couldn’t think about what it meant that the superhero had beaten the hero, that the hero had run away, that they were now harboring a fugitive.

They couldn’t think about anything other than the hero's shallow, labored breaths, couldn't do anything other than sit by the hero's side and pray that they would wake up.

The hero lifted their head, blade held steady before them, eyes burning with wild, raging fire. They were ready for this to end, ready to end this theirself if that's what it took—

The villain's laugh cut through the hero's thoughts—a genuine, obnoxious laugh that froze the hero in their tracks. The villain's eyes were shining bright as they leaned back against the wall with effortless grace, arms folded across their chest, legs crossed at the ankles.

The hero hid their terror behind the snarled words as the villain closed heavy chains around their wrists, fastening them tight to the chair in the center of the room.

"Of course not, little hero."

Laughter danced in the villain's eyes, across their lips. They took a moment to trail a finger down the hero's cheek, delighting at the fire shining in the hero's eyes as the hero bucked and kicked against the bonds.

The hero had buried their head in their arms, their shoulders shaking with silent sobs, but they stiffened, bristling, at the villain's casual question—as though the hero weren't so obviously alone, so visibly broken—

"Like you even care," the hero snarled, though the words lacked their usual bite.

The words still hit the villain like a punch to the gut, and they sank to their knees beside the hero, taking the hero's trembling hand in theirs.

They sunk deeper into the hero's arms as blood—far, far too much blood—soaked through their ripped and tattered shirt.

"I'm ... I'm sorry. I—" The villain broke off, coughing up more blood, shuddering as silent sobs racked their body. "I never meant to hurt anybody. I never meant to—"

"Shh, it's okay," the hero whispered, pulling the villain closer, running their fingers gently through the villain's hair as the villain's breathing steadied, as their heartbeat slowed to a stop, as their eyes fell shut one final time.

I would love a Hero X villain childhood friend into enemies trope where Hero secretly still loves villain but villain doesn’t know, they’re fighting and villain gives up and asks hero to kill him, but hero’s heartbreaks to see what villain thinks of him and that he thinks that he(hero) can kill him( villain)

It had been years since the hero and the villain had last spoken. Four years, two months, and eleven days, to be exact—back before they had even become the hero and the villain. The hero still counted the minutes, waiting, praying for that loss to finally stop hurting.

But the words from their last fight still echoed in the hero’s ears, haunting alongside the clash of blades as they fought again now. They had pushed the villain away—rather than admit what they felt—in a desperate attempt to protect their friend, this person they’d loved. But the roles they each played now … it was never what the hero had wanted.

And now … now this villain they fought was no better than a stranger. Yet the hero couldn’t bring theirself to go for that killing blow, couldn’t bear to watch the light leave those eyes, even as they burned with anger and hatred.

The love lingered, like the phantom pain of a missing limb.

So the hero blocked the villain’s attacks and aimed to disarm, not kill. It helped that they had known the villain so well, once—they saw the next moves coming before they happened, and were able to land a hard blow that brought the villain to their knees. The hero braced theirself for the villain to rise, to keep fighting, but when the villain looked up at them from the ground …

The fire in those eyes had dimmed.

“Please,” the villain whispered, voice shaking. “Please, just make it quick.” 

The villain hung their head, as though they couldn’t bear to look at the hero for a second longer. And the thought of killing this stranger who still held a piece of their broken heart, the thought that the villain even believed them to be capable of it … 

It brought the hero to their own knees.

When the hero finally spoke, voice cracking, the words were barely audible over the pounding of their heart, the ringing in their head.

The hero froze in place at the sight of them, suddenly unable to move, to breathe. Their legs that had been prepared to run and run and run, forever and ever until their lungs gave out, until the villain could never find them again, now trembled in place as their heartbeat spiraled out of control, thundering so loud in their chest that they couldn't think beyond a panicked no, no, no—

The villain only smiled, cruelty gleaming sharp in their eyes as they strode slowly toward their prey.

They didn't fight as they were thrown into the cell, only stared at the hero with pleading eyes so full of guilt and regret—and so at odds with the cruel, merciless eyes of the villain who had slaughtered innocents and leveled cities without a second thought.

"Please, just one more chance. I'm trying—I'm trying so hard to be better, for you," they pleaded, kneeling on the floor of the cell. "Please, please don't leave me here again—"

"You're out of chances," the hero said—cold, unflinching, apathetic. They should have felt some pride at the sight of the mighty villain kneeling, begging at their feet, but they were so tired of dealing with this, of putting up with the same act over and over again, that they felt nothing.

"Oh, come on, darling," the villain laughed, stalking closer and closer to the hero's outstretched blade. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

The hero didn't, couldn't, pull away from the villain's touch—not as strong, gentle fingers traced a line down their cheek and along their lips, not as their traitorous heart started beating faster, faster, faster.

They had no strength left to fight this, to do anything but stare in terror as the villain's power swirled around them, an angry mass of shadows stretching farther and farther out into the world. The villain only laughed, cold and cruel, as that monstrous power burst out of them.

"Please, you don't want to do this."

"I have nothing to say to you," the hero snarled, pushing past the villain.

"Wait." The villain grabbed the hero by the arm, a desperate pleading in their eyes as they met the hero's stare. "Please, I can't lose you."

Shame flushed bright red across the villain's cheeks—shame at their own weakness, at the vulnerability they couldn't hide—but the hero only jerked their arm away, anger burning in their eyes.

The hero stumbled back to the base, almost collapsing as they passed through the entrance. They were exhausted, sore, aching, but they had made it home.

Home.

But the hero couldn't rest, not yet, despite how they longed to curl up right there on the floor and sleep off the ache in their limbs. The hero had braced theirself to return here and face their mentor empty-handed, yet still they winced at the sight of the mentor waiting for them, waiting for answers—feet planted firmly apart, shoulders back, arms crossed.

"I let them get away," the hero whispered, leaning against the wall to keep from toppling right over. They hung their head, unable to face the disappointment in that cold, unforgiving stare. "I was hurt, and cornered, and... I ran. The villain... I wasn't ready. They were going to kill me."

"You failed."

The hero whimpered—a small, choked sound—and bit their lip to hold back tears as their mentor approached, each footstep heavy and deliberate. The hero kept their gaze pinned on the floor, wishing they could hide, disappear.

"You were weak."

The hero couldn't bring theirself to speak, couldn't think of what to say. Their mentor was right—the hero was weak. They had one job, one purpose in this life, and they had failed. Again.

"Look at me." The mentor gripped the hero's chin, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and tilted it up until their eyes locked. Held it there long enough for the hero to read the emotions in those dark eyes—anger, disgust, disappointment—and then, faster than the hero could anticipate, the mentor's fist slammed straight into the hero's face.

The hero screamed, crumpling to the floor.

"Can't even take a punch. Pathetic," the mentor snarled. "Get up."

The hero struggled, arms shaking, to push theirself off the floor, whimpering at the pain that had the corners of their vision going black. Despite it, they obeyed as the mentor instructed them to take off their shirt, to face the wall, to brace their arms above their head.

"Please," the hero whispered. They had already been dealt so much pain today—

But their mind went blank as the first lash broke through their skin, warm blood leaking down their back. They bit their lip to keep from screaming—the mentor liked it when they kept quiet, took the punishment without a sign of weakness. They pushed the pain to the back of their mind, burying it like the mentor had taught them.

Another lash.

"Good," the mentor said, and the hero smiled, and replaced the pain with thoughts of happy things.

Your body is an object. A weapon. Weapons do not feel pain. Weapons cannot be broken.

Another lash. Again, again, again.

By the time the hero passed out from the pain, their palms were bleeding from how hard their nails had dug into the skin, their lip bleeding from how hard they had bitten down to keep from screaming.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When the hero woke, the pain had faded to a dull throbbing from their head to their toes. They kept their eyes shut, wanting to stay in bed for just a moment longer, not quite ready to face the day that awaited them—but the bed they lay in was not their own. The blankets beneath them were soft and fluffy, the mattress thick—a far cry from the scratchy sheets and cardboard-thin mattress on their small cot at home. They opened their eyes to see walls that were blue, not gray, and a large window open to let in a fresh, cool breeze. They didn't have a window at home.

The hero scanned the room and stiffened when they saw the villain, reaching immediately for a weapon that wasn't there. They had been stripped bare, their torso wrapped in bandages, wearing nothing but a clean cotton shirt and pants. Completely and utterly defenseless—and alone with the enemy.

The hero pushed theirself out of bed, ignoring the agony as wounds in their back split open, blood soaking through the bandages.

Bury the pain.

The villain was on their feet in the instant, reaching for the hero. "Stop, you're hurt. You need to rest-"

The hero flinched at the movement, backing away with their teeth gritted.

'Why are you hurting me?' the hero had sobbed when they first started training with the mentor.

'This is for your own good,' their mentor said. 'I will break you so thoroughly that you can never be broken again. You will learn to bury your pain, to not feel it, to let nobody use that weakness against you. They cannot break what is already broken.'

"Where am I?"

"My home," the villain said, gently, carefully.

"How? Why?"

"Your mentor," the villain snarled, nearly spitting out the word before regaining their calm composure, "left you sprawled on the floor like a bloody slab of meat. Unconscious, defenseless, free for the taking."

The hero swallowed down their questions, a nauseating mix of emotions swirling around inside their gut.

"I assume this was supposed to be another test," the villain sighed, after a long moment of silence. "Send you straight into the enemy's hands, already injured and hurting, see if all that training did any good. But I assume you're tired of all the training and tests. You look like you could use a vacation."

The hero stiffened. That's what this was. Another test. Another chance to prove theirself.

"Don't pretend to know anything about me or my training," the hero growled. They squared their shoulders, forcing theirself to meet the villain's eyes with determination instead of fear. "What I'm really tired of is games, so stop playing them. You can trick me and torture me all you want, but I will never tell you what you want to know and I will never surrender to you."

No pain. No fear. No weakness.

They repeated the words silently as the villain drew closer.

No pain. No fear. No weakness.

The hero flinched as the villain's arms wrapped around their body, the villain's hand reaching up to hold the hero's head against their shoulder. This wasn't like any kind of punishment the mentor had given them—it didn't even hurt.

"What are you doing?" the hero hissed, arms hanging limp at their sides.

"It's a hug, dumbass," the villain sighed. "You look like you need one."

"I—wh—I don’t—”

"I'm not playing games, and I'm not going to hurt you. I know you're in a lot of pain, and you've been forced to be strong, all alone," the villain whispered, pulling back to meet the hero's eyes.

They pressed their hands to the hero's chest in a pitiful attempt to stop the bleeding. They were shaking from head to toe, trembling as panic built up in their chest. The hero couldn't die. The hero couldn't die. The hero couldn't die.

"Hey, it's okay," the hero whispered, placing a hand over the villain's, intertwining their fingers together, holding them close to their heart.

"You promised me you’d be okay. You promised me you would live," the villain whimpered, a single tear falling down their cheek. "You promised."

The hero only let their eyes fall shut with a final sigh, a soft smile twisting up the corners of their lips.

It was the pure, undiluted terror that shone in the hero's eyes, the tremors that racked their entire body, and those broken whimpers that broke from their throat... God. The villain's hand went limp at the sight of it, weapon falling forgotten to the floor.

The hero flinched at the sound. "Y-you... you're not going to kill me?" they whispered, the words barely more than a shaky breath that broke the villain's heart.

"No," the villain whispered, falling to their knees beside the trembling hero, taking the hero's hands in their own and holding them tight.

They were on the verge of losing, but they had been outmatched from the very beginning. Every move they made, every breath they took, was just a delay of the inevitable, a hopeless battle against fate itself.

And the hero was so, so tired of fighting.

They barely registered the feeling of the sword slipping through their fingers. Barely registered the shock that shot down every nerve as their knees crashed into the cold stone floor.

"You don't get to quit," the villain snarled, but the hero barely heard the words, the world around them fading to a dull buzzing in their ears. "Pick up your sword and fight back!"

The wounded beats of the hero's heart were the only sound to break the silence stretched thin across the room. The hero lifted their head to meet the villain's eyes, searching for something there—some guilt or regret or pain to match the hero's own—but there was nothing. The villain was nothing more than a statue, cold and unmoving, eyes dark and empty when they finally opened their mouth to speak.