Hello! I Love Your Cat Villian One So Much Maybe Do More??????

Hello! i love your cat villian one so much maybe do more??????

but ignore if not (AMAZING BLOG EVER)

The protagonist was dying. They were sure of it, they could feel it, this all consuming terror and in the way they couldn’t draw a full breath into their lungs, like it was funneled through a straw and it was killing them–

Their vision went blurry and they crumpled against the wall, curling into a half-hearted ball over their knees against the baseboard. There was blood splattered over their hands. They just–if they could just–a tiny bit of air–

A hand, warm and gentle, appeared at the nap of their neck, tipping their head up to look at their face.

The protagonist blinked, and the villain was there, and they were watching them die, and oh god they were going to get fired–

“Breathe,” the villain said, and it sounded like they were under water. A million miles away. Point Nemo. Their sister had told them about that once, in the middle of the night as they sat on the roof.

It must be so lonely, she had said, head tipped to the stars. To be so far from everyone else.

The protagonist had wanted to say, I don’t need to be far from everyone else to feel lonely. I’m Point Nemo, can’t you see? But they hadn’t, had just hummed something in agreement, and the villain was telling them to “breathe,” again.

I’m trying, the protagonist wanted to sob. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.

“Protagonist,” the villain cupped their face in their hands, and through the blurring of the protagonist’s vision, they looked absolutely terrified.

Which didn’t make sense, because the villain always knew exactly what to do in every situation. It was comforting to be in the shadow of someone who knew exactly how they fit into the world.

The villain said something, and the protagonist blinked.

“What?” they managed. The villain snapped their head to look up at them.

“I said, I’m calling your mom.”

Abruptly, terror was flooding their veins again, and they slammed the phone out of the villain’s hand and onto the concrete.

The villain just watched them, concern stark on their face.

“Protagonist–”

“You can’t call her,” they gasped out, chest tight. “She’ll worry and–I can’t do that to her, not after my sister, she can’t do that again.”

Point Nemo. One million miles away.

Really, though, just six feet down.

It felt the same.

“Okay,” the villain said, low and soothing, like they were a scared child. They were. “Okay, I won’t call her, but I need you to breathe,” they emphasized.

“I’m trying,” the protagonist bit out, sucking in air that didn’t seem to be doing anything. How could it not be doing anything? This was one of the worst things that could be happening to them, let alone in front of their boss. They were supposed to be stronger than this, they were stronger than this, so why were they shaking against the baseboard in the hallway of their base. Idly, they looked down at the blood coating their arms, and couldn’t remember whose it was.

“I don’t know how to help you,” the villain admitted, voice breaking.

The protagonist couldn’t get their hands to stop shaking.

If they could just draw a breath–

Blood is harder to get off than you would expect. It clings and clings and clings–

The villain followed their gaze down, and a moment later, they had a wet wipe in their hand, wiping down the protagonist’s hands with an efficiency they could never hope to imitate.

They flinched away from the cold of it a second too late, and the villain frowned.

“You’re okay,” the villain promised, and the protagonist wanted to believe them.

They still choked on the next breath they tried to take, and it hurt and was miserable and the protagonist just wanted it to stop.

The villain said something that sounded like their name again, and they wanted to respond but felt the words get caught in their ribs, and the villain vanished and–

They were holding a cat.

Their shoulders untensed immediately, hands curling softly into the fur, as softly as they could manage while shaking, and they bit their lip to keep from crying at how useless they felt. How could they not figure out how to use their own hands? They bit back a sob, because nothing was working and they couldn’t bear to hurt a cat.

The cat curled itself further against the protagonist’s chest, tucked into their arms in the hollow between their knees and their abdomen.

The villain was–oh.

Oh, the protagonist was so stupid.

The villain was kind, kinder than they deserved, probably, turning into a cat just to make the protagonist stop having a meltdown in their hallway.

The protagonist just needed to get their legs to stop being numb, and then they could stand up and go hide in the bathroom until their body remembered how to do its job, and stop bothering the villain with their stupid problems and panic.

And then, abruptly, the villain began to purr, rumbling into the protagonist's chest.

Some knot deep inside of them that they hadn’t realized existed uncoiled, and they sucked in a breath so deep they thought it would never end. They choked on it on the way out, but the villain simply kept purring, so they tried again, and again, until their vision unblurred and the ache in their lungs had vanished.

“Okay,” the protagonist murmured to themself. Sometimes, they could trick themself by talking in the tone they used on frightened children when out on patrol. “You’re okay, I’m okay, everything is fine.”

They moved to set the villain down, but the villain dug their claws into the protagonist’s arm, nudging their face into their bicep.

Are you really okay? They seemed to ask, and the protagonist didn’t have an answer to that. They could breathe, and feel their toes, and they could remember–oh.

They could remember.

Blood on their hands.

The villain started purring again, and the protagonist burst into tears, burying their face into the villain’s fur. The villain let them, nudging the side of the face every so often in a reminder to breathe.

They stayed like that, until the protagonist’s tears had dried, and their heart only panged a little bit when the villain jumped down out of their arms and onto the floor in front of them.

A blink, and the villain was in front of them again, eyes filled with concern as they grabbed onto the protagonist’s elbows.

“You’re okay,” the villain breathed, and then the protagonist was pulled into a hug so warm they never wanted to leave. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” the protagonist agreed, face tucked into the villain’s chest.

The villain simply hugged them tighter.

Point Nemo had never felt further away.

Please write a chef! Villian who adores to cook for their people, literally. They even cook for their sidekick and their henchmen. But never ever for their oh so devilishly beautiful and just as infuriating hero. (whom they have SWORN to never cook for)

But once when hero's parent falls ill, villian is the one who cooks for them so they can get better. However, they are unable finish all of the food, thus ask their kid (the hero) to have the leftovers

Hero, (who unbeknownst to villian was literally starving for days as they were busy) loves the little bits food they had and when they tell that to their Villian, their faux cold demeanor breaks down completely..... And fluff happens next?????

I really hope you don't mind writing on this! Cooking for someone is willingly wanting to nourish them. I just wanted to see that in an enemies to lovers dynamic...

“You’re looking less terrible,” the villain noted as soon as they stepped into the living room. The hero blinked up at them owlishly from the couch, a mangled crochet project clutched in their hands. It was all so horribly mundane.

“Thanks,” the hero said dryly. “Just what I needed to hear.”

Truly, though, it hadn’t been a dig. The hero did look slightly better: there was color in their cheeks, that exhausted sheen had vanished from their eyes. Their hands weren’t shaking around their crochet hook.

“Your mom is out of the hospital?”

A shadow of that tiredness passed over the hero’s face. It was gone in a blink.

“If you don’t already know the answer to that, I'll be disappointed.”

The villain raised their hands, drifting through the living room. They peered down at a childhood photo of the hero, all toothy grin and smeared ice cream. “Just making conversation.”

The hero sighed.

“She’s home on bed rest, now,” the hero said, quietly, like they were trying not to wake her up. “She’s doing better, she is, it’s just not…” they trailed off.

“She’s still sick,” the villain supplied. The hero nodded when the villain turned back around.

“I don’t know why I expected her to be better as soon as she came home.” The hero sounded so small, in that moment. Like they were still that little kid in their childhood photo album, and not someone who saved the city on the daily.

The villain shrugged. “Because you’re human. Human’s don’t like it when the people they love are hurt.”

“Maybe,” the hero agreed.

The villain slid their gaze over the room once more, snagging on an empty tupperware container balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

Their tupperware container.

Which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, exactly. As soon as they had gotten word that the hero’s mother was in the hospital–which had been as soon as it happened–they had gathered a week's worth of meals and sent it over. And then, they had done it again the next week, and it became just one of the things the villain did. They cooked for themself, their sidekick, their henchmen, and now, the hero’s mother.

They knew the hero’s mother had figured it out, but she had known better than to say anything. The villain didn’t swear on much, but they had sworn to never cook for the hero. Even their mother was cutting it a little bit too close to that.

The hero followed their gaze to the container and blushed.

“Sorry, I meant to clean that up–”

The villain cocked their head. 

The hero stammered for a moment in the resulting silence, “Someone’s been sending my mom food. She can’t always finish it, because she’s…” they trailed off, like they couldn’t bear to say the word “sick”. “She gives me the leftovers,” they finally finished.

The villain had nothing to say to that.

“Hm.”

“Yeah, um,” the hero looked down, tossing aside their terribly failing project. “Normally I get by just fine, you know, I’m not incompetent,” the hero added quickly, like they were worried the villain would judge them for it.

The hero swallowed, and again, that yawning and endlessly exhausted look loomed over their face. The villain wanted to never, ever see it again. “But there was patrol, and then the agency wanted me to do publicity, and then I was with my mom at the hospital whenever I wasn’t working and I just–I’m just really tired.”

Seeing it on the hero’s face, in their posture as they slumped against any available surface when they had even a second to rest, in the bruises from hits they should have been able to avoid easily, was one thing.

But hearing them admit it–

“Get up,” the villain said. Something inside them felt raw at the look on the hero’s face.

“Why?”

“I’m making you food,” the villain said easily. It was anything but.

The hero froze, a deer in headlights, before glancing down at the tupperware and back to the villain.

“You’re the one sending the food.”

Even sleep deprived out of their mind, their hero had always been quick.

“And the one cooking it,” the villain added, and the hero gaped at them.

“Why,” they managed a moment later, hand clutching into the armrest of the couch like it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“I like your mother,” the villain picked up the tupperware, hero watching them the entire time. “And you’re not entirely terrible.”

The hero barked out a surprised laugh.

“I’m not entirely terrible,” they repeated.

“No, you’re not,” the villain agreed. “Now, get up.”

The hero got up.

Before the hero could do something stupid, like ask again what they were doing, or a trip over their own discarded crochet, the villain hushed them.

“I’m making you food,” they said, and the hero’s mouth closed. The villain sighed, looping their hand around the hero’s wrist. “Now shut up, and let me take care of you.”

The hero looked at them like they had never had someone do that. Like they hadn’t even considered the possibility that they might need help as much as the people they took care of did.

The villain had enough of their idiot face, turning to drag them to the kitchen.

The hero went.

That terrible, awful look never showed up on the hero’s face again.

The villain made sure of that.

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This is so so old but live laugh love

1) funny enough the person who got me on tumblr is also my ex stalker, and my ex situationship’s ex boyfriend. It’s ok. He’s blocked 🥰

2) I discovered how the word impasse is ACTUALLY pronounced and I got so upset I cried for like an hour

3) my best friends little brother exclusively refers to me as god

reblog if you’re a writer who feels guilt whenever they’re not writing and being productive, so I know I’m not the only one lol