the-modern-typewriter

Have a nice day!!!

"You're...uh...wow."

Maybe Holden should be horrified, but all he could really do was stare, dumbly entranced. The staring wasn't that different to normal, if he was going to be really horribly honest with himself.

But Atlas also wasn't normally crouched near stark-bollocks naked in the middle of their dorm room. He didn’t normally have dark, gorgeous wings unfurling from his back. He didn’t normally stare at Holden with eyes that had gone from blue to literally black too. Hungry. Heated.

Holden hastily shut the door behind him before someone else on the floor saw.

"Are you, uh, okay, man?"

His best friend was, very clearly, not okay. His gaze tracked every small movement that Holden made.

"You," Atlas growled through his teeth. "Are not supposed to be here."

"Right. Yeah. Uh. My class was—" Holden lost his trail of thought as he continued to stare. "God,” he said, a little dizzy, “you look incredible."

Five-year old Atlas had been funny and brave. Nineteen-year old Atlas also had the absolute gall to be stunning on top of that. It was, frankly, terrible on a night out. On his own, Holden did okay. When he was standing next to Atlas though, more and more as the years passed by, he may as well have been a potato. He couldn't even hold it against anyone. He did enough trying not to stare himself.

But...he definitely hadn't noticed the wings before. He would have noticed wings, right? Even with that smile and those cheekbones to distract.

He realised, dazedly, that he'd drifted closer. One step, two step, three, until he was standing right over Atlas. Close enough to touch.

"Get out." Atlas sounded strained. "Now." His fingers – his claws – dug into the threadbare carpet.

Holden wanted to run his fingers through Atlas's blond hair. He wanted to kiss his parted lips, the line of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his throat. He wanted to touch every inch of Atlas that he could. He wanted Atlas's hands on him, sure and just as smitten as Holden had been for years, and he'd do anything, offer anything if—

"Holden."

The sharp snap of his name cleared Holden's mind a little. He shook his head and backed up. "Sorry. I—"

What the hell was he doing? Heat rose to his cheeks, mortified.

There were a lot of reactions one could have to seeing their best friend suddenly sprout wings, but Holden was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to just drool over his roommate like some kind of neanderthal. He'd done such a good job of not letting his stupid feelings impact their stupid friendship until stupid now too.

It wasn't like he'd never caught a glimpse of Atlas without his clothes before. It had never made him like – he would never have – but would it be so bad if he just—?

No. Something was definitely wrong.

Holden whirled around, heading back for the door. He'd opened it only a crack when Atlas's hand slammed down on it, shutting it again. The lock clicked as Atlas bracketed him with an arm on either side. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close enough that he could feel the heat of Atlas against his back.

He hadn't even heard Atlas move. His breath hitched.

Atlas groaned. He let his head thunk against the door, above Holden's left shoulder, as he drew in ragged gasps.

Holden heard him swearing and muttering under his breaths. He caught a few words that’s sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody scheming bastard vampires’ and a much more familiar ‘shitshitshit’.

Up close, Atlas’s new cologne was…was it cologne? Holden’s head felt cloudy again. He dug his nails into his palms, desperately shoving down the truly ridiculous urge to turn around and kiss Atlas immediately.

“What the hell is happening?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You have wings. You have – I feel –”

“You’re supposed to be in class for the next three hours!”

“My class was cancelled,” Holden said. “Some last minute—”

Atlas caught hold of his hips, spinning him as if it was absolutely nothing, pressing him back against the door.

The bit of Holden’s brain that wasn’t too busy with oh, yes please reminded him that Atlas was not that bloody strong. He should not be able to do that. He always skipped the gym when Holden went, despite looking like that.

“What are you?” The obvious question finally penetrated the fog.

Atlas’s attention lingered on his lips, seeming…distracted.

“Incubus,” he murmured. He’d always had a nice voice, but in that moment, that word, it was like caramel. Sweet on Holden’s senses. “God, you’re pretty. Sharing a room was a terrible idea.”

It took a second for the actual response to register, let alone the rest.

Incubus.

“What?” Holden yelped.

It was all some elaborate joke.

(Atlas didn’t do pranks.)

It was impossible.

(Those wings looked very real, no matter how impossible they were.)

How had it taken 14 years for him to notice his best friend was an incubus?

(Did that mean he didn’t really have a crush on his best friend? It was just – what he was?)

Atlas’s fingers grazed just slightly beneath Holden’s jumper, blazing hot against the skin above his hips.

Holden asked no coherent questions whatsoever. He didn’t even manage an incoherent word. Every reasonable thing he should have been considering vanished in a haze.

His best friend was an incubus? Sure! Whatever. Nothing mattered except the fact that there was really far too much distance between them. Atlas’s mouth was right there and – Holden couldn’t have said which of them initiated the kiss, but it was ravenous and he was putty against the door. Head empty. All need and greed and wanting. He finally got to tangle his fingers into Atlas’s always annoyingly perfect hair and –

The lock clicked.

Faster than Holden could fully comprehend, the door was open and Atlas had bodily shoved him into the corridor. He landed sprawling and ungraceful on his butt.

He had a second to peer up, bewildered, at the look of absolute raw desire on Atlas’s face before the door slammed shut. The lock clicked again.

The texts pinged on his phone a moment later.

Don’t come back until I say so.

Will explain later.

Sorry.

Well, crap.

Holden pressed a hand to his mouth, catching his breath and his sanity with Atlas out of view. Then he went to the uni library to research everything he could about incubi.

Holden weighed the desire to cross the room and kiss Atlas, as he closed the door to their room for the second time. It seemed normal. There was no cloud in his brain. No tug stronger than the one he always felt when he thought of his best friend or caught sight of him from across the room.

Holden cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Hey." A beat passed. "I - Holden, I'm so sorry." Atlas started to take a step towards him, before catching himself, shrinking back. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah...yeah. Just...curious, I guess."

"No unusual urge to jump my bones?"

"Nope. Nah." Holden managed not to squeak and considered if he had the makings of a fine career in acting ahead of him. It wasn't, after all, unusual.

"Good." Atlas's shoulders relaxed. He tugged his fingers through his hair, exhaling a breath. "That's good. I - you have questions. You probably have questions."

"Oh god," Holden tried for a smile, "I have so many questions."

They talked a while, with excruciating awkwardness, from opposite sides of the room.

According to Holden's reading, there were two ways to create an incubus: born, or made. A born incubus was the child of an incubus or succubus and a human. A made incubus was something much more tragic.

Atlas had, apparently, mercifully perhaps, been an incubus all of his life. The gene only really properly kicked in with puberty though, growing steadily stronger until an incubus came to their full power.

"When will you reach your full power?" he asked.

All of the texts were much more sketchy, confused and generally vague about that. Those that believed Incubi were real anyway.

"I - it doesn't matter," Atlas said. "The main thing is that you don't have to worry. Today was - unusual. It won't happen again."

"Because of the vampires?"

Atlas stared at him.

Holden shrugged. "I heard you muttering."

"Yeah, because of the bloody vampires. They-" Atlas swore again, rattled once more it seemed. "I normally have my uh...inheritance under control, you know?"

Holden didn't know, but given the last fourteen years he could certainly guess.

Atlas swallowed. "Look, basically it's a whole lot of monster politics BS. Short version, they drugged me to bring out my...you know, other side. They-"

Holden's eyes bulged. He'd crossed the room in an instant, awkwardness be damned. "They drugged you? Are you okay? Point them out to me, I'll-"

"-I'm not letting you anywhere near a vampire coven, Holden."

"I could take them. I've seen Buffy."

Atlas's lips twitched, his eyes warming away from their uncertainty. Back to more familiar ground. It made Holden melt, just for a second, as they looked at each other.

He realised belatedly that Atlas's fingers were curled around his wrists, gently enough, but physically preventing him from doing a full body pat down.

Idiot. He was such an idiot.

The one thing that all of the research was very consistent on was that incubi sucked life force out of the people they - his gaze darted to Atlas's mouth. To the lips that had kissed him like they invented kissing.

Atlas dropped his wrists like he was on fire. His ears went pink and he mumbled something, shoving past Holden to put the room and an additional desk between them again.

Holden stomach twisted.

Atlas had clearly only kissed him because he was drugged. Because he couldn't help himself. And Holden had - well, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that his best friend didn't even want to touch him now. It was fine. Everything was just fine.

"Holden," Atlas said, arms folded across his chest. "Your cancelled class...why was it cancelled?"

It took Holden a moment to re-orientate back to the topic. Away from the memory of Atlas pressing him up against the door, so tantalizingly close. He shook his head.

"I don't know. They didn't say. I just got an email and the prof never showed." His brow furrowed and he glanced over at Atlas again. "You think it has something to do with your monster politics bullshit?"

Atlas seemed to weigh his words for a long moment.

"Oh, come on," Holden said. "You can trust me. You know you can. Seriously, after everything, you're just going to-"

"-Incubi come into their full power the first time they feed fully on a human."

Holden's mouth snapped shut.

"I think they drugged me to lose control and then made it so you would be in a room with me."

"...oh."

"A pretty little human, who couldn't have done a thing to stop me." Atlas's eyes had a molten quality again, dark, fixed on him in only a fractionally more idle way than he'd been doing earlier. He seemed to be talking half to himself, voice that low caramel once more. "You wouldn't have said no. You wouldn't have been able to. Everything about my kind is designed to make you want us."

Pretty. Little. Human.

Atlas seemed to catch himself, yet again. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing clenched fists over his face. His voice returned to normal.

"But I didn't lose control, Holden. I mean - I did but - you said you're okay." His eyes locked on Holden again, so intent, so earnest, so desperate that it quite stole Holden's breath. "You're okay, yeah?"

"I'm okay."

Atlas brushed a distracted finger over his own mouth. Holden bit down on his own lip. Atlas cleared his throat. "Sorry again."

"It's fine."

"It's not. You should never have been dragged into this."

I'm your best friend, I should have been dragged into this years ago. Holden didn't say it. He suddenly felt very small and nowhere near as ready for the whole conversation as he'd thought.

"Well," he managed. "As you said, it's never going to happen again. No harm. No foul."

It was stupid to want it to happen again.

They had, unfortunately, already established that Holden was very stupid indeed. The longing felt like a quietly bottomless pit.

"I'd understand if you didn't want to share with me anymore," Atlas said.

"Oh, please. I'm not scared of you."

"You should be."

Holden blinked, somehow not expecting that. He didn't know what to say. Incubi were dangerous, sure, but it was Atlas. He'd never hurt him. He'd just proven that he wouldn't.

"I don't suppose they'd let you switch dorms in the middle of term anyway," Atlas said.

"...Do you want me to switch dorms?"

Atlas stayed quiet.

Something in Holden broke, just a little, at that. He nodded once, twice, three times. "I can go."

"It's not that I want you to go. I just want you to be safe."

"Yeah," Holden said. "Yeah."

"Holden I -" Atlas stopped.

Holden looked at him, but he didn't say anything more either.

I think a lot of people misunderstand why enemies to lovers is so popular. It’s quickly become one of the most pervasive tropes in many novels. Is it the banter, the tension? That’s definitely part of it. But if that were true, then friends-to-lovers and literally any romance with good dialogue and characterization would scratch the same itch. For some, it does, but for many…enemies-to-lovers just hits different. 

My theory is that it isn’t actually about love, not really. I think it fulfils a fantasy that no other trope can provide: the fantasy of being seen as an equal. 

Think about what specifically makes someone an enemy in fiction. It’s not just someone the MC dislikes, it’s someone who can affect them in tangible ways, maybe even have the power to ruin them, challenge their worldview, expose their weaknesses, etc. The relationship begins with conflict because the characters are fundamentally opposed in some way. It doesn’t matter why, but they’re fighting. There is a struggle for dominance. 

I would argue that the most impactful enemies-to-lovers moments are never the romantic moments, they’re the scenes where power shifts. They BOTH lose: they’re forced into a position that would have horrified them at the beginning of the story. They end up needing (or wanting) each other. 

That’s why I think people are often disappointed when a supposed enemies-to-lovers story turns out to be a milquetoast attempt where they’re just kinda mean to each other for a few pages, and then immediately start making out. Where’s the risk, the actual threat? If the characters aren’t capable of genuinely affecting one another, then the relationship isn’t actually transforming in a satisfying way. The appeal is in the fact that they have power over each other, because the eventual trust they build requires real surrender.

Because here’s the thing about enemies; they pay attention, and usually more attention than anyone else. They notice weaknesses because they’re actively looking for them, they notice strengths because they need to account for them. They notice habits, blind spots, ambitions, fears. 

They study the MC with a level of scrutiny that borders (and later crosses) intimate, but unlike friends (or supporting characters in the MC’s corner) they’re not willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, they don’t overlook flaws out of affection. Which is exactly what makes the eventual romance so satisfying. It feels earned. 

It’s easy to imagine being loved by someone who sees the best version of you, but it’s an entirely different thing to be loved by someone who has seen you at your worst. That’s why this dynamic often feels more convincing than romances where the characters are immediately into each other.

I imagine there are many who go through life feeling misunderstood, or worse, that the people who love them only love the polished, perfect version they present to the world, almost like impostor syndrome. But what if there was someone who couldn’t be fooled by this carefully constructed image? 

When someone more powerful chooses someone, maybe the fantasy is protection. When it’s someone less powerful, the fantasy might be admiration. But if there’s someone intelligent and observant enough to see the MC as an equal, the fantasy there is the most intense and honest validation. 

Enemies to lovers at it's best is a wonderfully versatile kind of romance, because in the good ones you get things like:

How do you navigate opposing world views? Who challenges your ideals and values to make you a better person? How do you compromise? Because, in a good enemies-to-lovers, it can't actually be that the antagonist was never right about anything or that the protagonist was perfect, or there wouldn't be that mutual respect/attraction. They affect each other. They change each other.

Sacrifice - it's easy to love your friends, it can be easy to love when it doesn't cost you anything, but loving an enemy? What would you actually give up for love? What wouldn't you? When is love enough and when isn't it?

Redemption - not in the 'sad backstory' way, but in the way that you can be forgiven and loved despite the most monstrous or shameful things you have ever done

All of these themes tie into vulnerability, our sense of self, and our power over ourselves and others.

In a good enemies-to-lovers story I don't think it can ever feel like they are just together because it's a romance story. You have to earn it.

I love exploring toxic relationships in fiction. They are my all time favourite thing. I write antagonist / protagonist stories more than I write enemies to lovers. These are often characterised by power imbalances and other questions about love and power and vulnerability that I find fascinating to explore.

However, if we are talking 'romance' in the sense of book-marketing as a useful way of talking about specific genre conventions, with enemies to lovers being one of those conventions, that's a different thing.

I think a lot of people misunderstand why enemies to lovers is so popular. It’s quickly become one of the most pervasive tropes in many novels. Is it the banter, the tension? That’s definitely part of it. But if that were true, then friends-to-lovers and literally any romance with good dialogue and characterization would scratch the same itch. For some, it does, but for many…enemies-to-lovers just hits different. 

My theory is that it isn’t actually about love, not really. I think it fulfils a fantasy that no other trope can provide: the fantasy of being seen as an equal. 

Think about what specifically makes someone an enemy in fiction. It’s not just someone the MC dislikes, it’s someone who can affect them in tangible ways, maybe even have the power to ruin them, challenge their worldview, expose their weaknesses, etc. The relationship begins with conflict because the characters are fundamentally opposed in some way. It doesn’t matter why, but they’re fighting. There is a struggle for dominance. 

I would argue that the most impactful enemies-to-lovers moments are never the romantic moments, they’re the scenes where power shifts. They BOTH lose: they’re forced into a position that would have horrified them at the beginning of the story. They end up needing (or wanting) each other. 

That’s why I think people are often disappointed when a supposed enemies-to-lovers story turns out to be a milquetoast attempt where they’re just kinda mean to each other for a few pages, and then immediately start making out. Where’s the risk, the actual threat? If the characters aren’t capable of genuinely affecting one another, then the relationship isn’t actually transforming in a satisfying way. The appeal is in the fact that they have power over each other, because the eventual trust they build requires real surrender.

Because here’s the thing about enemies; they pay attention, and usually more attention than anyone else. They notice weaknesses because they’re actively looking for them, they notice strengths because they need to account for them. They notice habits, blind spots, ambitions, fears. 

They study the MC with a level of scrutiny that borders (and later crosses) intimate, but unlike friends (or supporting characters in the MC’s corner) they’re not willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, they don’t overlook flaws out of affection. Which is exactly what makes the eventual romance so satisfying. It feels earned. 

It’s easy to imagine being loved by someone who sees the best version of you, but it’s an entirely different thing to be loved by someone who has seen you at your worst. That’s why this dynamic often feels more convincing than romances where the characters are immediately into each other.

I imagine there are many who go through life feeling misunderstood, or worse, that the people who love them only love the polished, perfect version they present to the world, almost like impostor syndrome. But what if there was someone who couldn’t be fooled by this carefully constructed image? 

When someone more powerful chooses someone, maybe the fantasy is protection. When it’s someone less powerful, the fantasy might be admiration. But if there’s someone intelligent and observant enough to see the MC as an equal, the fantasy there is the most intense and honest validation. 

Enemies to lovers at it's best is a wonderfully versatile kind of romance, because in the good ones you get things like:

How do you navigate opposing world views? Who challenges your ideals and values to make you a better person? How do you compromise? Because, in a good enemies-to-lovers, it can't actually be that the antagonist was never right about anything or that the protagonist was perfect, or there wouldn't be that mutual respect/attraction. They affect each other. They change each other.

Sacrifice - it's easy to love your friends, it can be easy to love when it doesn't cost you anything, but loving an enemy? What would you actually give up for love? What wouldn't you? When is love enough and when isn't it?

Redemption - not in the 'sad backstory' way, but in the way that you can be forgiven and loved despite the most monstrous or shameful things you have ever done

All of these themes tie into vulnerability, our sense of self, and our power over ourselves and others.

In a good enemies-to-lovers story I don't think it can ever feel like they are just together because it's a romance story. You have to earn it.

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.

"Oh for f..."

"Now you don't have to feel responsible for me," their villain said. "Because you can't do anything about it."

The hero drew in a steadying breath through their nose, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Unlock the chains. Right. Now."

"The scary voice is less scary from over here. Sorry."

"I swear to god-"

"-Really, you should take it as a compliment that I take you seriously," the villain said. "Otherwise I could have just used some crappy ropes you would have got free of in like five minutes."

"Do you really think I'm going to feel less responsible about you killing people because you have me chained to a wall?!"

The villain considered that, for a beat. "No," they said. "I don't think you're ever going to stop feeling responsible for me, it's like your biggest flaw. But it's worth a shot. You can talk to a therapist about it some day or something. And at least this way you won't get in my way."

The hero tugged, furiously, at the chains. They did not budge.

"I don't want you in my way," the villain said, softer, more lethal. "I don't want to hurt you. Not after everything you've done for me."

Not enough. Maybe if they'd - what - role modelled better, protected them better, their sibling would have led a very different life. They wouldn't have wanted to hurt anyone at all. They wouldn't be filled with such fury and hate.

The hero's throat tightened.

"Don't do this," they said. Their tone cracked around a plea, even if they'd never put it into words. "You're better than this."

The villain looked away. Exasperation and fondness.

"Let's be real, neither of us really thinks that any more," the villain said.

Maybe it was true. The hero didn't want it to be true. They still remembered their sibling trailing after them, wide-eyed with wonder and innocence and curiosity. Soft. Better. The villain had always been ambitious, always been hungry, but it used to be tempered by something.

"You've always thought you were better than me," the villain said, in that same soft voice. "You've always been better than me. At everything."

The hero couldn't bear it.

"I'm not going to fucking reassure you right now," they snapped. "You don't get a poor you with what you're planning. Chains. Now."

The villain smiled, a mirthless thing. When they looked back, there was no sign of what had once been left on their face, only what they had become.

"I'll always admire you," the villain said, cold and firm. "But I'm done letting you control me."

"Control you!? Maybe stop doing evil shit that needs to be controlled and stopped you little-"

-The villain clicked a button, and a thick sheet of metal wrapped around the hero's mouth, muffling the rest of the sentence.

The hero glared.

The villain stepped closer, then, albeit warily. They curled their fingers aorund the hero's throat, expression utterly blank, almost like they were testing the idea.

The hero's fingers flexed. The chains rattled. But, for once, they could do nothing. They could say nothing.

"If I were evil," the villain said, "I'd kill you. Be utterly free of you."

You really think death would free of us of each other?

Maybe the villain saw something the statement on the hero's features, because they let go again. Cleared their throat. Summoned up the smile that had become so practiced over the years, around strangers.

"I'll come and check on you when I'm done with my work," the villain said. "Remember - it's not your fault! I have only ever been mine."

"You did."

The antagonist sat opposite them, in the back of the van. They were loose-limbed, casual, leaning in slightly with one elbow propped over their knee. At the comment, their eyebrow raised, just slightly.

The protagonist stared back; flat, a contrast of a steel straight-spine and hands cuffed stiffly behind their back.

"Yes," the antagonist allowed, after a beat. "I did."

"Despite the fact you were about to imprison the wrong person."

"Is that why you revealed yourself?"

The protagonist's jaw clenched. They cast their gaze down.

"It wasn't a trap," the antagonist said. "It was supposed to be the opposite of that. For - for both of us. I've been hunting you for years."

"So, what, you wanted the win and anyone would do so long as you got the glory?"

The antagonist sighed. They dragged a hand over their face in the protagonist's periphery vision, shoulders slumping. "So I've been hunting you for years, and you hadn't been caught for years, and people were starting to talk. I always get my target."

"So what I said."

The antagonist laughed; a crack in their perfect composure, a rot. "You're infuriating, you know that?"

"I'm sorry I'm not a more sweet-natured prisoner."

As the silence stretched, the protagonist glanced up again.

The antagonist still looked outwardly lazy, but there was still the smallest pinch in their brow that betrayed them to anyone looking carefully. Anyone who knew them at the start. They would have expected the antagonist to be celebrating! Yet...

"Have you been deliberately sabotaging my capture?" The protagonist felt dizzy, like they'd taken a blow, at the mere thought.

The vehicle jerked to an unforgiving halt at their destination.

Sounds came from the front of van, footsteps tramping, the jarring buzz of aggressive voices.

The antagonist rose to their feet, looming over the protagonist. The protagonist tilted their head back, eyes wide, a dozen different moments and incompetences blurring in their memories.

The antagonist hesitated. They reached out, brushing a drop of blood away from the protagonist's lip.

"You infuriating, maddening fool." The antagonist's voice was rough, almost savage despite its quietness. "You should have been my one that got away."

The van door opened.

The antagonist dropped their hand, and all emotion vanished from them, all traces of flaw. They stepped out into the sunshine, already a tornado of orders, the most important cog of a deadly machine.

“…you can’t be serious.” The king struggled to sound less thrown off, more reasonable, more like he knew how he’d possibly been part of creating this impossible son of his. 

It was a tone that the prince was more than familiar with so he simply smiled back placidly. “You asked me what I wanted.” 

“We do not keep slaves,” the king said. “If we did - we certainly wouldn’t select them from -  he’s of noble birth. It would be an insult.”

“An insult to the kingdom we just beat? Tragic. You asked me what I wanted, and I believe I have made myself clear. Perhaps you’d prefer I asked for the princess?” 

Colour drained from the king’s face, before he finally managed to find his composure. “It is foolish to take on a servant who could kill you in your sleep. There are others-” 

“It wouldn’t be much of a distraction if they couldn’t.” The prince tucked his hands behind his back, expression innocent, eyes bright. “That is what you want for me, isn’t it father? A distraction?”

“There must be other distractions to suit your mind.”

“Depends how long you would like me distracted for,” the prince said. “You know how it is, after all the responsibilities of war. Peace can be so difficult to adapt back to. I could be traumatized. You should also offer me the Winter Palace too, as a reward for my excellent military service.” They both knew his brother alone, golden and diplomatic, could not have won this war.  “I’d hate to see anyone hurt at home, I saw so many terrible sights for you both.”

The king stared at him, stonily. 

The prince could practically hear him thinking it over. The Winter Palace was far away, a little kingdom onto himself as far as the royal courts went, where he could hardly reach his older brother to touch a majestic hair on his head. But it was also out of easy reach and control of his family, which was why they rarely used the beautiful building anymore. 

If his father let him have it, and the prisoner, there would be no checks and no balances.

The king began to walk, further into the shadows of the castle, where secrets were better kept. The prince followed him leisurely and strolling. 

“I find it funny, father, that you are pretending that you might say no.” 

“I should disown you,” the king said coldly. 

You made me.

The prince didn’t flinch, still smiling. “The people will be heartbroken.” Everyone knew he was the goddamn favourite, he’d made sure of it. It was the only defense he, second son, possibly bastard son, had. 

“Why that prisoner? What are you up to?”

“You’re so suspicious of me, father. You’re going to hurt my feelings.” 

“Answer your king.” 

The prince considered him with a soft hum, looking over that beautiful kingdom of theirs. 

Because he saw me.

“He insulted me,” the prince said. “I do not suffer insult from my enemies.”

“You always were too prideful for your own good or anyone else’s. It is why I would never let you be king.” His father’s fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, but he would never do it. Cowards, the lot of them. “Have them, and the Winter Palace,” the king said. “If I hear even a whisper of you at court…” 

The prince bowed his head. “Do congratulate my brother on his victory when you rejoin the celebrations. We will leave by the end of the week.”

Me being me, I always try to write something for Pride and Halloween. It is Pride month. So.

The hero's breath hitched at the villain's closeness. She would blame the cold, gentle press of the blade at her throat.

The villain's gaze dipped down to the hero's mouth.

"You're allowed to have what you want," the villain said. "You're allowed to take it."

"Most people, when they're begging me to kiss them," the hero replied, breathlessly, "would just say please."

The villain's smile notched wider, more alluring, and infinitely more dangerous. Her free hand was pressed to the wall by the hero's shoulder, bracketing her in against the rough brickwork against her back.

"Most people, golden girl, wouldn't be turned on by a knife at their throat."

"Well," the hero managed, only a little indignant, "that's just categorically untrue. Have you been on tumblr, lately?"

The villain's eyebrow arched.

The hero flushed. She swallowed. Her treacherous attention did a full on a Judas, straying from the villain's bright eyes to the curve of her lips. Indelible. That was the name of the colour. The hero had spent a wildly unproductive, or productive depending on one's perspective, evening narrowing down the particular shade of the villain's mouth online.

The knife trailed down, a sharp kiss of contact, tracing the swallow.

What would it be like, to kiss her? Soft as a slow-acting poison? Or as wild and claiming as the look in the villain's eyes?

"You realise," the villain said, "that you didn't deny it."

Damn. She hadn't, had she? But, then, perhaps they were past that. Had been from the moment the villain shoved her up against the wall and the hero's heart only raced faster in her chest. Not to run away, like was wise, but to get close. Close enough to close the gap between them entirely.

"It's a very nice knife," the hero said. "I don't think you get to take the credit."

"Ah, so this is all about the knife."

"You have shapes carved into the handle!"

They were kind of the villain's tell. Intricate fingerprints left at the scene of the crime.

"You noticed."

"It's my job to notice you," the hero said.

"So this," the villain leaned in further still, her breath ghosting over the hero's ear. "Is purely professional, then?"

Would the villain pull back, if the hero gave a defiant liar of a 'yes'? It had been professional, once. She was sure of it. Somewhere along the line, her professionalism had fallen head over heels along with the rest of her.

The hero reached up, seizing the villain's wrist, and flipping them.

The villain didn't look perturbed to be pinned to the brickwork. She grinned, lazy. Head tipped to one side as if to offer up her throat.

The hero considered leaving. Considered leaving her standing there, aching with want. Considered telling her to beg.

"Does your heart feel more in control now?" the villain asked. "Or are you simply giving up your excuses?"

The hero kissed her.

Maybe, to shut her up. Mostly, just to kiss her. A ravenous, greedy thing - the sort she didn't allow herself, as a rule. Duty. Discipline. Kissing the villain was pure indulgence. Touching her, sliding her fingers along the villain's waist, through her hair, trying to get everything at once.

"Oh," the villain breathed. Her arm curled around the hero, drawing her fearlessly flush. "Very good."

The hero made a small, pitiful sound.

She wasn't sure if kissing her nemesis was very good at all. It was probably very, very, very bad.

But god, she didn't ever want to stop.

The villain's blade hit the alleyway with a discarded clatter and then she was taking too, claiming, just as hungry. Cavernous things made full with each other's company, at least for a while.

Eventually they pulled back, restless. The villain's eyes were bewitched and bewitching, as she dragged her thumb over the hero's parted panted lowing lip. Lipstick smeared.

She smiled. Dark and satisfied.

"Left my mark on you," she murmured.

"Indelible," the hero replied, and sucked the villain's fingers into her mouth.

The villain nearly buckled against the wall with a soft gasp and the hero smiled. Dark. Satisified.

"Yeah," the villain said. "You are." Her expression turned almost...fond, just for a moment. "My girl."

And, for the first time, the hero wondered if the villain had fallen too.

The hero released the villain's fingers and cocked a brow, keeping her voice as light as she could.

"Yours?" She pulled back, to give the villain space to stalk after her, like the tugging of a lure. "Don't get ahead of yourself, darling. It was just a kiss."

The villain laughed.

"Well, then," she said, and summoned her blade back to her hand. A shadow sweet in the night. "Consider this just me seducing you, then."

The car pulled up at the end of the allway. Invitation or kidnapping. Thrill either way. Waiting like a promise.

The hero swallowed, again.

The villain smiled, and gestured an elegant hand.

"After you," she said. "My girl."