“Shh, it’s alright,” the villain said. “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me – you could never have won. It’s not your fault.” Could you expand, or continue this one? I love it so much.

the-modern-typewriter:

(This is one of my favourite things that I’ve written. Like, oh my god. Sometimes I have my doubts about my writing and then I read the above and my faith in myself is restored. Bless the villains. Anyway.)

The hero panted for breath, harsh and gasping in the exertion of battle. Their body trembled with exhaustion. 

The villain held them close and subdued them easily, fingers stroking through their hair, so mercilessly soothing. 

“I can – I – I-” 

“-Shh.” The villain crowned the hero’s head with a kiss, grip tightening a little. “Maybe. Maybe one day. But not now, not like this. You’re not ready.”

“It’s not enough. You – you-” 

“It’s not your fault,” the villain said again. 

The hero squeezed their eyes shut and buried their face in the villain’s shoulder. They hated themselves, a little, for that. It felt far too much like surrender. “Do you really think I could beat you? Maybe?” They regretted the question the second it left their lips. It was foolish. It was a child’s plea for reassurance. It was utterly inappropriate.They jolted in the grip in disgust of themselves. 

The villain caught their jaw in deft hands. “It’s not your fault.”

“Are you going to kill me?” It was another child’s question, frightened and foolish. It tasted like bile on their tongue and similarly they couldn’t seem to stop it. 

“Of course,” the villain said. “But it won’t hurt, I promise you that. You don’t deserve pain. It’s them.” The villain’s thumb brushed up along their cheek, reassuring and hypnotic. “Unless you want to join me?”

“What?” the hero blinked at them. “No. No, I can’t. You’re – you’re-” They wanted to say evil. It was impossible to say evil when the villain cradled them so close, when they wiped the tears from their eyes, when they were so kind. 

To everyone else in the world, if the hero didn’t stop the villain, it was the hero’s fault. That was just how the story went. 

In the stories, the villain didn’t say they were proud. And, if they did, it was a mockery. A temptation. A scheme. 

 Nobody had ever said they were proud before. Goodness was just something they did, something expected, and bravery some virtue demanded undeserving of praise. They were hero. Of course they were brave and, should they be scared, it was the right kind of scared. The inspiring kind. Not the kind that led to them dry heaving, hyper-ventilating, panicking with black spots in their vision in their enemy’s arms. 

“They’d kill me if I did,” the hero finished. It felt too honest. “I don’t want people to look at me like they look at you.”

“They are cruel.” 

“So are you.”

“Yes.” The villain didn’t deny it. “But not to my own.”

“I’m not yours.”

“But they sent you to me,” the villain said. “Knowing you couldn’t win, knowing you could only burn until they found their chosen one. Live and prove yourself. Die as nothing. It’s not fair.”

The hero didn’t know what to say to that. Possibly, they shouldn’t say anything. Possibly it was a trick. Possibly they should find a knife and drive it through the villain’s heart when they were so arrogantly close. 

“You are kind,” the villain said, as if reading their thoughts. “You’re beautiful. You’re everything they want and nothing they need. Should you beat me, you wouldn’t be that anymore. It would cost you – more than death, more than pain.”

“I’m not anything,” the hero whispered. “They won’t remember me.” 

“I will,” the villain promised. “I’ll remember all of you. And they will suffer for you,  I give you my word.” The villain’s eyes were ablaze, intent and focused. They cupped the hero’s cheek. “You are enough.”