Would You Be Willing To Do Some Sapphic Dialogue Between Hero And Villain?

Would you be willing to do some sapphic dialogue between hero and Villain? ❤️

“I understand now,” the villain murmured, chin resting in her hand. The hero turned, swiping a bit of blood out of her eyes.

“Understand what?”

She was golden, her villain, standing there like that. Amongst rubble and ash as it drifted from the sky, light illuminating her like a halo. Like she was some sort of god.

“Why they all went mad. Why they started wars and spilt blood.”

The hero’s brow wrinkled as the villain stepped closer, but she held still as the villain tucked a bloodied piece of hair behind her ear. 

“Have you gone mad, then?” It was half teasing.

The villain laughed, smoothing the hero’s brow with her thumb. “I think loving you has always been a sort of madness.”

The hero shoved at the villain’s shoulder playfully, ducking her head to hide her blush. “Are you calling me an illness, then?”

“One I never hope to cure.”

“That seems a little self sabotaging if you ask me,” the hero remarked. She shifted a piece of rubble with her foot, dust pluming out around it. “But, if we’re in the vein of self sabotage, maybe no more mass apocalypse attempts?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“No, you won’t.”

The villain tipped her head. “Would you truly want me to?”

“No,” the hero said after a moment, voice hesitant. “I cannot imagine you any other way.”

The hero froze, blushing, ducking her head to hide the red on her cheeks. The villain took it as an opportunity to grab her chin, guiding the hero’s eyes to meet hers. Her fingers were the kind of soft that made violence seem a myth.

The villain hummed. “I’d burn the world for you, if you asked.” She raised a playful eyebrow at the hero. “Is that how you imagine me?”

Being this close to the villain was doing something funny to the hero’s heart. She felt like she needed to sit down. Or possibly find out what the villain’s lips felt like on hers–

“Yes,” she whispered. Something flickered in the villain’s eyes.

“What a hero,” the villain’s mouth twitched in amusement, that damn mouth.

“You’re pronouncing ‘hopeless romantic’ wrong.”

A slow grin crept across the villain’s face.

“Oh, am I now?”

There were words to respond to that, but the hero had forgotten them. This close, the villain smelled like blood and dust and something uniquely her, something the hero had been missing all of her life and couldn’t get enough of now.

“Mmmmhm.”

The villain’s grin widened.

“Have I driven you to madness?”

The hero couldn’t look away from her eyes. “The kind that makes people start wars.”

The villain pulled her close, tucking the hero into her neck.

“That’s called love.”

The hero sucked in a breath, heart pounding in her ribs, but didn’t pull away.

“I know,” she breathed in the scent of the villain, “I was destined for failure.”

The villain rested her head against the hero’s. Her arms slid neatly around her waist.

“I don’t think you could fail at anything.”

“I failed at not loving you,” the hero pulled back. “Though really, how could they put heaven in front of me and expect me not to love her–”

The villain was kissing her.

The villain, her villain, was kissing her.

The hero melted.

The villain smiled against her mouth.

“They’ll tell stories about us, you know.”

“They always do, when people go mad with love.”

“The Story of When Heaven and Hell Fell In Love,” the villain murmured fondly.

“Mmm. Which one are you?”

“Hell.”

“That’s the most untrue thing you’ve ever said.”

The villain laughed. 

“Only you would think so.”

“Well,” the hero tipped her head. “I am in love.” She wrapped her arms around the back of the villain's neck. “Now, if we’re going to tell a story,” she leaned in to whisper against the villain’s lips. “Let’s make it a good one.”

The villain smiled.

And kissed her again.

Six months ago, when the protagonist had first appeared in the middle of the villain’s compound, scrawny and half feral, the villain hadn’t thought much of it.

And then it happened again.

And again.

The villain thought something of it.

“Let me work with you,” they had begged. The villain was almost certain the protagonist was homeless. “Please, I have powers, I can—”

The villain said yes.

Maybe it had been whatever remnants were left of the villain’s stupid heart. Maybe it was the chocolate donut they had that morning. Maybe it was the desperation coming off the protagonist in waves.

Maybe they were just bored.

They paid it no mind.

The protagonist did have powers, but they were minor. The kind you see in small children, the first in a bloodline to mutate powers. Their great grand children would wield enough power to level buildings, be heroes and villains and everything in between. But for now, they sat in preschool classrooms and summoned the tiniest spark of flame.

The protagonist, trembling like a fawn, sweat slicking their brow, seemed to be one of those children. Albeit an older version.

Not useless, exactly. They had a startling affinity for picking locks—which explained the ability to get into the villain’s compound—a willingness to fight anyone, and a lack of fear. But they weren’t exactly the most useful sidekick the villain could have picked.

The villain wouldn’t trade them for anyone else, though.

Their stupid, half dead heart, it seemed, cared for the protagonist.

So, when the hero set out to kill the protagonist, the villain knew they would do anything to keep them safe.

They caught the hero’s hand, twisting to shove them backwards a step, and they felt rather than saw the protagonist wince.

“Violent today, aren’t we?”

The hero was seething, and it unsettled something in the villain. The hero was unstable, yes. But the villain had never seen them try to kill someone before; they hadn’t even considered the hero might try.

They dodged another blow, the hero’s power blasting apart a building behind them. Their spine prickled, and they dropped to avoid the next hit.

“Just itching to go to prison for homicide, hm?”

When the hero didn’t even attempt to respond to their half-assed banter, the villain’s gut roiled.

“Protagonist,” they said between breaths. “Leave. Now.”

“No.”

They managed to throw the hero to the ground, risking a glance at the protagonist. They were covered in dust, supersuit dirty and torn across one calf, but their feet remained planted, shoulders set. “You heard me. Go back to the compound—“

The protagonist’s eyes widened, and the villain knew they had turned away for too long.

The villain went down hard, ears ringing, as the hero shook out their fist.

“Stop it,” the protagonist’s voice cracked. They took a step forward, wavering like they weren’t sure if they should run or fight.

“Go,” the villain coughed, and the protagonist flinched. They rolled onto their back, struggling to stand as the hero’s power flickered dangerously.

The villain knew, innately, that the next hit would kill them.

The villain sucked in a painful breath.

The hero lunged.

And the protagonist, voice wrecked with fear, screamed, “Dad.”

The villain’s heart stuttered.

There was a flash of light.

In front of them, panting for air like they would never get enough, was the protagonist. The hero’s fist was planted against their chest still, and the villain could tell it had been a death blow. Anyone, even the villain, wouldn’t have survived.

And yet—

The protagonist stood, unharmed.

“Dad,” they said again, and the hero didn’t quite flinch, but it was close. “Stop.”

The silence was deafening.

Something in the hero’s jaw tightened.

“Move,” the hero said lowly. The protagonist didn’t falter.

“No.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“What exactly will you do to me if I don’t listen,” the protagonist gave a sharp laugh. “Hit me? You tried that already.”

The hero sucked in a breath.

“I am your—“

“You are my nothing,” the protagonist corrected. “Certainly not my father. You lost that right when I was eight.”

The villain managed to push themselves to their feet.

“That was stupid,” the villain murmured, but it didn’t have any heat to it. “You couldn’t have known that would work. You had no idea if you could survive a hit like that.”

The protagonist very pointedly did not turn around, shoulders tense.

“I did,” their voice was strained. “He lost the right to fatherhood when I was eight, remember?”

The hero didn’t say anything, but the villain thought that might have been shame creeping its way across their face.

Oh.

Oh.

The hero—

The villain had been harboring the child of the most powerful being on the planet for six months. A child the hero had tried to kill, or at the very least, hurt.

Their heart stuttered.

They had been harboring the most powerful being on the planet, their mind corrected. A drop of blood slid its way down their spine. Power grew with every generation, and with the hero already so powerful, any child they had would be something close to a god.

“You said you had mild telekinesis,” the villain said numbly. The protagonist half turned to look over their shoulder, eyes shiny.

“My mom,” the protagonist. “I got it from her. The rest…”

From the hero.

The protagonist scanned the villain’s face.

They were searching for signs of violence, the villain realized. The protagonist wasn’t afraid of the hero anymore; no, the protagonist had seen the worst they could do. But somehow, the protagonist had begun to care for the villain. And they were terrified the villain—the person they trusted the most—was going to hurt them over a secret. The villain could see it all, scrawled across the protagonist’s face clear as day.

The villain was going to kill the hero. Painfully.

“Protagonist,” the villain kept their voice even. Gentle. Slow. “I’m not mad. And I’m not going to hurt you.” Their eyes slipped past to the protagonist to the hero.

“Him, however, I will be.”

The protagonist worried their lip between their teeth, and the villain watched as their power—their true power—sparked along their shoulder blades.

The villain stepped forwards—

“Don’t,” it was little more than a whisper.

The villain stopped.

The protagonist slid in front of the villain once more. “Just,” they raised a hand, as if taking a moment to choose their next words. “Stay.”

The villain stayed.

When the protagonist’s attention turned back to the hero, it was bloodthirsty. It spoke of war, and hatred, and revenge.

“You’re going to leave,” the protagonist’s voice was sharp enough to cut skin. “And you aren’t going to come back. I don’t care if it’s because you don’t want to, or because you know that if you do, I will kill you and I’ll like it—you won’t come back.”

The hero swallowed.

“The city needs me.”

“You are a plague to this city, and I am ridding it of you. Get. Out.”

The hero stumbled a step backwards, as if they had been hit. Their expression twisted.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” the protagonist seethed.

They all knew the protagonist meant it.

The hero was halfway down the block, news vans and reporters scrambling their way onto the scene with cameras raised, when the protagonist called after them.

“Oh, and Dad?” The cameras snapped to them, and the protagonist grinned. It was vicious—it looked like the villain’s. “Parents who abuse their children don’t get to be heroes. Especially not you.”

They waited a beat, two, three.

The press exploded.

Above the din, power crackling around them, the protagonist mouthed two words.

“I win.”

Hi! I saw the “Hero heals with positive feelings” thing and checked out your blog, and immediately got hit with the “Don’t Die” thing and that emotional whiplash was enough to send me back to an essay I was avoiding. Great writing!

✨Traumatizing people so they don’t procrastinate since 2023✨

I really adored your take on the villain ark, especially the ask about the lines like Tom riddle and all. I do have a question. I have a character who is very much like Tom riddle, she’s very charming and clever. That’s how she gets what she wants. Can you do a situation, or dialogue that conveys that?? (Keep in mind this is sort of the first step that leads her to becoming a evil person.) ❤️

Thank you so much for the ask!

However, I’m truly sorry, but I don’t think I can complete this scene for you. I don’t know much about this character, the surrounding story, or the intention of the scene within the plot, and me writing this when I don’t know the full circumstances would be a disservice.

Again, I truly do appreciate the ask, and I’m sorry I can’t be of help.

hey i recently found your work and love your writing. Can you write something about a supervillain dad and a hero son??

“Hands up,” the super villain motioned with his gun, face impassive. The hero swallowed as he complied.

“You won’t shoot me,” the hero said, but it was too hesitant to come out as confident as he wanted it to.

His dad raised a brow. “Won’t I?”

The hero sucked in a breath. Held it in for three. Out for three.

“Do it, then.” He was proud of how steady his voice was. “Shoot your only kid.”

“You say that like being my child means something.”

“If it didn’t, I’d be dead already, dad.”

His father’s face was weary, but the gun didn’t lower.

“I’ve let you have your heroics. I’ve been very generous, actually. Do you know how many plans you’ve fucked up? Plans I gave permission for?” The hero didn’t respond. “It ends, now.”

The hero steeled himself.

“No.”

His dad lowered the gun, but he suspected it was more out of surprise than anything else.

“No?”

“No,” the hero repeated more firmly. “You heard me. I know you did.”

“I heard you,” his dad agreed. “I was giving you the chance to change your answer.”

The hero grit his jaw, shoulders set.

“It won’t change.”

His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his brow.

“Why must you make things so difficult?”

“I’m sorry my morals are getting in the way of your hobbies,” he snarled. “Here, let me move out of the way of your most recent murder attempt.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” his father snapped. “Have you forgotten that you’re my most recent murder attempt?”

“How could I?” He scoffed. “Kind of hard to ignore my father’s attempts on my life.”

“And yet you still insist on playing hero—”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” the hero interrupted, hands clenched. “And I will never stop trying to do the right thing so long as you are doing all the wrong ones.”

His father looked like he didn’t have a clue what to say to that.

They sat in silence.

“Does family mean nothing to you?” His father said finally.

“Family is not an excuse for bloodlust.”

“Your mother—”

“Do not.” His gaze darkened, and his father shifted uncomfortably. “She is not a scapegoat for your actions.”

“She died—”

“And how many mothers have you killed trying to soothe the pain of her death?”

His father lowered the gun.

“I will not let my son continue to play hero. It is a sign of weakness, to have you out here undermining me. I won’t tolerate it.”

He realized, then, that there was only path out of this moment. There was one solution. One chance.

“Whoever you are, you are not my father.” The blow struck true. His father flinched. “And if that’s the case, if the choice is being your son or being a hero, then here’s your answer.”

Power began to crackle up his arms, reflected in his father eyes.

“It’s a shame, dad,” the hero said, eyes glinting. “You lost your only son, and you didn’t even have to kill him to do it.”

The supervillain paused, for a second, just one, pain flashing across his face, before he raised the gun once more.

This time, the supervillain didn’t hesitate before he fired. Didn’t bother to watch if the hero got out of the way in time.

The supervillain would never kill his son.

But if his son—the hero. But if the hero had decided he would rather be dead than family?

Well, who was the supervillain to deny him that?

I read a fic that was last updated in 2019 and I was like oh it’s fine I bet there’s some sort of natural ending even though it isn’t officially finished

Yeah so I was wrong but I’m still gonna do it again