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Here's a prompt for you: write about a mask someone wears. Can be fiction, nonfiction (about yourself, an experience, people in general), maybe a poem. What kind of mask is it? What does it look like? Why are they wearing it?

“You can stop, you know.”

The villain froze for a moment, smile almost slipping, and set down their lunch tray. The hero leaned against the table next to them, knuckles white.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” they gestured to themself. “I’m reformed. I already stopped.”

The hero waived a hand. “Not that. I know that, I’m the one who helped you do it.”

The villain kept smiling, even as the edges began to crack like fine china.

“Hero,” they said as gently as they could. “Are you alright?”

The hero stared at them for a moment, as if they weren’t sure what was happening, as if the villain’s very existence confused them. They blew an angry breath out of their nose.

“I’m fine,” the hero said pointedly. “You aren’t.”

The villain ignored them at that, sitting down to stir their lunch. It was half cold and entirely unappetizing, but happy people ate the compound rations and were happy about it. And the villain was reformed, and good, and happy. So they ate.

Their bowl disappeared from in front of them, and they studied the plastic of the table for a moment. When they looked up, the hero’s eyes burned into them.

“Stop. It.”

This time, the villain was the one who sighed. “Can I have my lunch back please?”

The hero threw the bowl an unimpressed look. “What, this crap? Nobody likes this, and I can especially tell that you don’t. Your face is exactly the same as the first time you met me, and you tried to stab me directly after that. So. Stop.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” the villain grit out. “I’m smiling, I’m contributing, I’m doing good things. No more murder, no more crimes. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“I wanted you to want that. I wanted you to have that. I never wanted this.”

“This what, hero.”

The hero gestured to their face.

“That. That smile.”

The villain gave them a dry look, even as their smile faded. “What, I can’t smile?”

The hero regarded them, fingers laced together under their chin, food abandoned. The villain picked at a hangnail and tried to look calm. This was why they had been avoiding the hero—the villain could read them like a book, but the hero could read them just as well.

Someone clattered down the hall, laughing, and then it was just the two of them again.

“You don’t have to be happy,” the hero said quietly, “to be good.”

The fine china, the mask, shattered.

The hero sighed, but it wasn’t triumphant. Relief, maybe. Or sadness.

“Why couldn’t you have left it alone,” the villain’s voice wobbled traitorously. The hero smiled, just slightly. A smile for a smile.

“Because you were drowning in there. And you don’t deserve that.”

“I’m trying to be good,” they murmured. The hero reached out and stilled their hands before they could pick them bloody.

“You are good. But you’re also hurting. You can do both. It’s okay.”

The villain shoulders loosened, as if the hero had stolen some huge burden from them.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” the villain agreed.

The hero smiled, a soft thing.

“Only smile when it doesn’t feel like a burden to do so,” the hero stood, leaning over the villain for a moment.

They left the villain in the lunch room, staring down at their hands.

Months later, when the hero told an awful joke, the villain laughed. They smiled at the hero, and it was warm. So warm.

And the hero smiled too.

if ur doing requests, I would absolutely looveeee anything w enemies being forced to work together/fake dating <3 thank you!

“Smile, hero,” the villain murmured. “There’s photographers.”

The hero pulled back, looping her arms over his shoulders as he looked softly at her. Cameras flashed out of the corner of her eye, and she grinned at him, digging her nails into the back of his neck.

He hid his wince with a smile.

“Maybe stop trying to rip out my spinal cord in public, love.”

“Sorry babe.” She smiled wider. “I’ll save it for the bedroom.”

His hands settled on her waistline, tugging her flush against him.

“Oh, hero,” he pressed his lips to her ear. “And when my blood is on your hands, what then? The public adores you, but do you really think they won’t slaughter you for ruining their ‘golden couple’?”

She had to turn her face into the side of his neck to hide her snarl, because he was right. Her superiors knew who he was. They knew who they forced her to work with, stand with, fall in love with. And they had her do it anyways, because they looked pretty together in pictures, and the media couldn’t decide if they wanted to be with them or be them.

The perfect pair—the golden couple.

“Hmm?”

She could feel him grinning, real this time, all cat like satisfaction and cruel amusement.

“Go fuck yourself,” she hissed, and he laughed.

“Sorry, what was that?”

She put her palm to his chest and shoved, grabbing his lapel.

“I love you,” she breathed, soft with adoration. Someone cooed, and the camera flashed.

His smile was sharp.

“Oh,” he agreed, “I know.”

Someone reached for her arm, and he caught it before they could touch her. For a moment, just a moment, she saw that writhing mass of power beneath, the darkness he hid so well with a smile.

“Sorry, sorry,” the person apologized as the villain released their hand. “I figured I should introduce myself—”

“Colonel,” the villain greeted, and the man shook his hand. He almost reached for hers, then thought better of it, eyes darting to the villain. Anger flared in the pit of her stomach.

“You’re enjoying yourselves?”

She smoothed a hand down the side of her dress, beaming. “Oh, absolutely, I—”

The villain wrapped a hand around her waist and tugged, pressing her against him. She slammed her foot into his.

“We should be going,” he said pointedly, and the Colonel swallowed once. He disappeared into the crowd and she whirled on the villain, eyes flashing.

“God, can you be less possessive?”

“They know who I am. You think they expect me to play nice, especially when I’m clearly so taken with you?”

He looked out over the floor, eyes catching on everyone who was pretending not to watch them. She glared at him.

“You—’’

“Hero, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s the plan,” she snapped, and his smile was real again. She didn’t resist as he tugged her closer.

“I think maybe I could love you,” he said casually, and before she could manage a response he twined his fingers through her hair and kissed her.

It was like being swallowed by the sun. She melted into him and he kissed her like she was everything, as if he took every breath for one more chance to see her face, every heartbeat for another second to spend with her.

They broke apart, and she was gasping, his grip on her hair the only thing keeping her up.

He winked, smirking, like he knew that and was proud of it.

Her lipstick was smeared on his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon.

This would be splashed across the news by midnight.

“I hate you,” she reminded him, half breathless. At some point her hands had ended up in his hair.

“Maybe,” he grinned roguishly. “But you love the way I kiss you.”

And he kissed her again.

Fog licked at the edges of the bridge, curling around the street lamps and up into the stars. It was cold, bitterly in a way that sliced to the bone. She shivered, tucking her coat around her.

The street was as silent as a tomb, nothing more than wet concrete and wind, and she could be at home right now. She probably should be, at least. At home, her cat was probably waiting for her in warm bed sheets.

Here, though, secrets might be waiting.

And oh, how she loved secrets.

The suicides weren't anything special- every city has them. She had dealt with her fair share.

But this? This was strange. One person jumps off a bridge, and it's a tragedy. Two, it's awful.

And three? That's a pattern.

The wind picked up, howling as it tore through her hair. Ten minutes. Ten more and she would leave. It was edging towards two in the morning, and from what little the autopsies could gather, that was the latest time of death.

Five minutes.

Eight.

Nine.

She pushed off the edge of the bridge, turning—and froze.

"Hi," the little girl smiled, all teeth. She had ribbons in her hair.

"Hi." It was more out of reflex than anything. She glanced up, and found no parent, no guardian. Just empty street.

"Are you out here all alone?"

"No," the girl replied drily. "You're here too."

She paused. "Right. Your parents-"

"Are dead," the girl blinked, and smiled softly. "Yours are too."

Her throat went dry. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"That your parents are dead," the girl repeated.

She didn't have a response to that, and she was trained in crisis management. Her chest squeezed like a vise, tighter,tighter still.

The girl seemed to know.

"You want to know," the girl observed, eyeing her. Her eyes drifted over the edge, the water deep and churning.

Deep and dark and deadly.

"Yes," she admitted.

The girl's smile disappeared.

"I wish you didn't."

The wind had vanished.

She studied the girl, in her perfect dress and braided hair.

"You know, don't you."

The girl tipped her head one way, then the other.

"Yes. But then again I know a lot of things. So in the scheme of it, it isn't important to me."

"People are dying," her voice went sharp. She regretted it as soon as the girl’s eyes snapped to hers.

"Everyone dies."

"Not like this," she said, and the girl shrugged one shoulder.

"Death is death in every form." She turned her gaze to the water. “The method reaches the same result."

"Where are your parents?"

"I lied," the girl said bluntly. "Earlier, when I said they were dead. They don't exist. Not really, at least. Belief systems are so strange sometimes-"

"Stop."

The girl did, patiently.

"You see the people who die here?"

"Of course I do," the girl said it like it was obvious.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Why?"

"Why do they die?"

The girl twirled one long strand of hair around her finger, face the picture of child innocence.

"Because they jump, silly."

"And why do they jump?"

The world went silent. The girls face dropped. Something infinitesimal slammed onto her back, the weight of a star itself, the air like thick syrup.

"I can show you," the girl took a step forward. The strand of hair dropped. "If you like."

She swallowed, throat dry. "I do," she rasped.

"You don't," the girl corrected, but she stepped forward anyways.

"They always do this," she murmured, and she was almost certain it wasn't directed at her.

Her small hand landed her forehead, and she was gone.

The vicious bite of loss, the cry of a child, the smell of burnt toast. Abandoned buildings and car filled highways. And empty tombstone, barren elementary school chairs.

It roared through her head like a newly released dam and she was almost certain she was crying, that tiny palm set so firmly on her forehead.

She sat on the edge of the bridge, feet dangling. The girl sat with her, legs kicking in the air as she hummed.

She choked on a sob, cheeks wet.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

She merely nodded, throat closed.

The girl took her hand, fingers tiny and warm.

“You’re okay,” the girl soothed, but she didn’t believe her.

The water beckoned.

“What’s your name,” she managed, and the girl smiled, just barely. She released her hand.

“Say hi to my brother for me.”

“I thought your family didn’t exist.”

“My parents don’t,” the girl agreed. “My siblings and I kind of do.”

“Ah,” she laughed, and it was wet. “Makes perfect sense.”

The girl’s mouth twitched.

“Truth.”

The puzzle pieces clicked into place. The girl’s name. Truth.

Her sister was going to have to take care of her cat from now on.

“That’s why,” she said dully. “It’s you.”

“I don’t give them anything they don’t ask for. It’s not my fault most of them don’t realize they never want what they think they do.”

She watched the water undulate for a moment.

“What’s your brother’s name.”

The girl’s smile turned into something wide, child-like joy.

“Death.”

She laughed then, and it rang out over the water. The girl still smiled.

“Truth hurts,” she murmured. The girl nodded.

“Truth hurts.”

Her fingers slackened on the edge of the bridge and she finally, finally let herself fall.

Truth stayed behind, image wavering above her as the waves swallowed her whole.

For a moment she wondered who would find the little girl next. Who would be bestowed that knowledge. Who would feel that pain.

Who would get to meet her brother, afterwards.

She supposed it didn’t matter, after all.

Everyone meets them both at some point.

Truth hurts, indeed.

The dark swallowed her whole.

“You’re drunk,” the villain said, voice tinted with surprise.

The hero hiccuped.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No—wait, why are you here?”

The villain laughed.

“Someone told me a party was going on, and that I should crash it. I didn’t expect it to be yours.”

The hero blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears.

“Not really mine any more. So if you had any reservations about crashing…”

The villain arched a brow, and sat down on the slightly damp grass across from the hero.

“Are you saying you want me to crash your party?”

“Not my party.”

The villain tugged out a piece of grass.

“Why isn’t it your party anymore.”

“It just isn’t,” the hero said around a sob.

The villain studied them, too observant, too seeing.

“Does this have anything to do with you being drunk?”

The hero hiccuped again. “No.”

The villain hummed.

“I thought you had a problem with alcohol. Because of your—“

The hero stuck their hand out, pressing a finger to the villain’s lips.

“Can we not?”

The villain had the audacity to smile.

“Stop smiling.”

The villain obliged.

“Did you…did you want to get drunk?”

The hero didn’t answer, and the villain stiffened. Their eye caught on the empty solo cup, abandoned on the grass beside them.

“Please—and I mean this in every sense of the word—tell me that those ‘friends’ of yours did not spike your drink.”

The hero shrugged, noncommittally.

“They just wanted me to relax. Have fun. It isn’t their fault.”

When they looked up again, the villain was seething.

“They drugged you.”

“That sounds so bad—“

“Did you give consent?” The villain’s face was carved from stone.

“I—they wanted me to relax.”

“That’s a no.” The villain grabbed the hero’s chin. “If it isn’t an enthusiastic yes, it’s a no.”

The hero moved their head from the villain’s hand.

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

The hero looked back at the villain. The villain sighed.

“You’re even more stubborn when you’re drunk.”

Ridiculously, the hero smiled.

A moment later, the villain held out their hand.

“Come on. Let’s go get you some better friends—these ones are trash.”

The hero blinked uncertainly. They shot a glance back at the house, humming with music, and laughter, and light. The hero doubted their friends—their ex friends—had even noticed they were gone.

They took the villain’s hand.

“As long as they aren’t douchebags.”

The villain laughed. God, they had a nice laugh, and led the hero away, down the street, and kept holding their hand the whole time.

The only friend the hero ended up making that night was the villain.

And in the end, they were the only friend that mattered.

“You cannot run from me. I made you,” the villain soothed. The hero balked, like a frightened horse, all jerky limbs and anxiety.

“You may have made me, but you haven’t kept me.”

The villain looked disappointed, then, as if the hero was a petulant child.

“A fact I hope to remedy.”

The hero bared their teeth.

“Keep hoping, then.”

And they fled.

The hero was getting blood all over the villains nice jacket.

“I’m sorry about the blood—“ they murmured, and the villain hushed them.

“We’re almost there. Just—just stay still, okay?”

If the hero didn’t know better, they’d say the villain almost sounded afraid.

“It’s okay. M’fine.”

The villain breathed a harsh laugh, cradling the hero to their chest as they walked.

“Yes, you certainly look fine bleeding everywhere.”

There was that tone again. The hero frowned. The villain had never used that tone, especially not with them, and they had no idea what it was—

They barged into the villains apartment, as the hero realized the villain was concerned.

Oh.

The villain set them down on a couch, gently, but the hero still flinched. The villain apologized, soft and gentle, and ran their hand over the wound, assessing the damage.

The villains face went carefully blank.

The hero’s head spun, just a little, and they closed their eyes to fight it off. A moment later, they opened them to find the villain wrapping their side.

Their eyebrows crinkled.

“You—when did you get those?” Their voice cracked.

The villain looked up at them.

“Just a minute ago. You passed out,” they said calmly.

Their fingers continued deftly wrapping the bandage on the hero’s side.

“Wait. Why are you,” the hero grit their teeth as the villain brushed against the wound. “Why are you helping me.”

The villain laughed.

“For someone so observant, you miss a lot of things.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The villain shook their head.

“I knew you were a bit obtuse, but darling, really. Work with me.”

They tied off the bandages, helping the hero sit up against the arm of the couch. The villain held their gaze, cool and collected and concerned, all at once.

“Your powers stem from emotions, yes?”

The hero nodded, once.

“So positive emotions make you stronger. They can heal you, right?”

The hero had tried to keep that bit of information under wraps. Not only could they heal themselves if they were happy, they could heal anyone. They didn’t want to end up some tool to be used in some military stronghold. Still, they healed civilians when no one was looking.

If they were mad, though? They could destroy anything, tear concrete in half, send metal into dust.

The hero cleared their throat. “Yes. Positive emotions can heal me. Not feeling super happy right now, so I’ll get back to you on that—“

The villain sat back on their heels.

“Do you trust me?”

The hero blinked at them. They were ready to give them some bullshit answer about how they could never trust the villain and never would; but that wasn’t true. The villain had saved them, more times than they could count.

And between the agency and the villain? Well, the hero knew who they would choose.

“Yes,” they said hesitantly, and the villain kissed them.

Warmth flooded them, and they reached for the villain, tugging them closer, and the villain smiled against their mouth.

The wound on their side began to close, and the villain felt it. They smiled, pleased with themself, like a cat.

“I give you positive emotions, huh,” they said, still grinning.

“For someone so observant, you can be so obtuse—“ the villain kissed them, again, to get them to shut up. This time, the hero smiled.

The wound closed further.

“I didn’t know you liked me,” the hero murmured.”

“I tolerate you. I just happen to hate everyone else.”

The hero laughed, side twinging with pain.

The villain checked the half closed wound, then turned back to the hero.

“Kiss it better?”

The villain rolled their eyes.

This time, when the villain kissed them, the hero didn’t let them stop.

She kissed him with blood covered lips.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

He smiled, wolf sharp teeth against her mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s day.”

Behind them, the city bled.

“If you keep forcing me into these life or death situations I’m going to think you’re trying to woo me.”

The villain stopped.

“This is a hostage situation.”

“Yes, and you’re doing absolutely magnificent, but if you wanted my attention you could have just asked—“

“I kidnapped you.”

The hero smiled roguishly.

“Darling, I thrive on chaos. And since you aren’t actively hurting anyone, well,” they winked. “I see no reason to escape.”

The villain blinked.

“I’m not trying to woo you—“

“Sure you aren’t, babe,” the hero drawled, and the villain flushed at the idiocy of all of it. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell me all about your genius plans, and I’ll sit here and admire that pretty blush of yours.”

The villain flushed harder and tightened the ropes as the hero laughed and lounged back into the chair.

The city was quiet that night.

But the hero kept it safe—no matter their unusual methods.

“Do you know,” the vampire hummed in their ear, “how young you look right now?”

The protagonist choked on their gag, eyes glaring up at the vampire.

“Like a lamb to the slaughter,” they continued, trailing a finger through the protagonist’s sweat soaked hair. “Did they tell you what you were getting into?”

No, the protagonist thought, they hadn’t. The agency had needed someone to distract— someone new to the battlefield that the vampire wouldn’t recognize, with their memory as sharp as knives and their penchant for removing displeasing individuals from amongst the living.

And so of course, that meant the protagonist, fresh out of training, newly recruited, the littlest sibling of a sacrificial hero long since revered.

Big shoes to fill.

A solemn and silent grave to impress.

If the protagonist could have, they would have cursed the vampire out, but they supposed that would only make things worse.

Still, being in the room with the murderer of their big brother, the person who had left the hero of the city bleeding out in a place so hidden that by the time the protagonist found them—

Well.

They had a grave to impress.

The vampire caught their chin, tilting their head up.

“Little lamb, you look quite like my favorite enemy. Truly, the resemblance is uncanny,” their hand tightened on the protagonists jaw. “Say, our blessed hero didn’t happen to have a mini me, did they?”

The protagonist’s teeth clenched and they snarled through the gag.

The vampire grinned, delighted.

“Oh, how wonderful. It’s a pleasure to meet you, lamb.”

The protagonist simply blinked. The vampire clicked their tongue, as if disappointed. A moment later, the tip of their finger slid across the protagonist’s gag and it disintegrated.

The protagonist spit dust onto the floor, mouth dry with leftover cloth, before baring their teeth at the vampire.

“You piece of undying shit—“

The vampire slide an amused smile their way.

“The mouth on you. Yes, you really do look like them, don’t you? The resemblance is startling.”

“I’ll show you just how startling I can be if you untie these bonds.”

Behind their back, the protagonists fingers were numb. If they tried to punch, they doubted it would be successful. No need for the vampire to know that.

“Such rage for such a young individual. Tell me, little lamb, why do you want me dead?”

The protagonist closed their mouth that had been prepared to spit more venomous words, and swallowed thickly.

“I don’t want you dead—“

“Oh darling,” the vampire waved a hand. “Of course you do. It’s quite villainous of you, but I’m not one to judge morality.”

The protagonist bit the inside of their cheek, examining the edges of the concrete room, if only to avoid meeting the vampires all seeing gaze.

“Is this about your brother?” The vampire guessed casually, like hearing the vampire reference them didn’t stop the protagonist’s heart.

Their stomach clenched.

The vampire’s eyebrows eased in understanding.

“Ah. Well, then. I suppose I understand the sentiment. Nothing I can do about it, however. Bygones, they say.”

The protagonist lurched forward in their chair.

“He isn’t a bygone, he was my brother, and you murdered him—“

The vampire tutted, hand sliding over the protagonists mouth with impossible speed.

“Now, then, don’t say such atrocious things.”

The protagonist bit the inside of the vampires palm, and they raised an eyebrow. Their too cool palm didn’t move, smooth skin resting above the protagonists jaw.

“I did not murder your brother,” the vampire said after a tense moment. The protagonist glared at them.

Of course they had. The protagonist wasn’t stupid, they had seen the injuries on their brother. They had held him, in his final moments, terrified and shaking as their hands tried to cover too many wounds at once.

And then their brother had been dead and their hands had been covered in blood and all the protagonist could think was “It was the vampire.”

The vampire nodded as if they could read the protagonist’s face.

“Some things you are not meant to know,” the vampire murmured. “But I will tell you this—I did not kill your brother.”

They protested against the vampire’s palm, and the hand gripped tighter. For a moment, the protagonist remembered the terrifying strength hidden under that lovely face.

“I understand you are grieving. But I am not responsible for what happened. I am only responsible for what came next.”

They turned confused eyes on the vampire, and the vampire released them, studying the protagonist for a second before striding to the door.

The paused with a hand on the door knob.

“By the way, little lamb. Your brother isn’t alive,” the vampire’s voice rang into the room. “But he is living.”

The door slammed shut.

And the protagonist was left with the horrible realization that maybe when their brother had died, the vampire had done far worse than kill him—maybe the vampire had brought him back.

The protagonist started screaming for the vampire to come back.

Hours later, when they were rescued, the agency asked them what they had learned.

Stonily, faithfully, they looked their supervisor dead in the eye.

And said nothing.

The villain clicked their tongue as she crumpled to the floor, a keening wail slipping from her lips.

“What did you do,” she spat. “What did you do.”

The villain regarded her as if they were collector examining a butterfly.

“I took your powers. Children shouldn’t play with such things.”

“You have no right—“

The villain raised a calm hand and her jaw clicked shut.

“I have every right,” they said smoothly. “You are a child being sent to defeat the monster in the dark by an agency that is entirely willing to leave you to die. I’d say that gives me every right to take measures to stop you. Be lucky I didn’t kill you instead.”

She spat as their feet.

“I will kill you.”

They tilted their head. “No. You won’t.”

She pushed herself to her knees, then stood.

“It is my duty. One I will not fail.”

“And how do you intend to fulfill that duty? Powerless and weak as you are?” The villain said, half mocking, half curious, like watching a child as they failed to make a sandwich.

She glared at him, and slipped her hand into her pocket, fingers curling around her blade.

“I was raised a fighter first” she said slowly. “I became a hero second. Losing my powers hurts,” the villain raised a brow. “But not as much as you’re about to.”

And then she stabbed him.

When the zombie apocalypse started, you felt only a sense of sour humor. Like on those nights when you wished you could sleep and never wake up, some cosmic entity heard you, and was taking a kind of sick vengeance.

Your friends laughed and stole liquor out of locked cabinets and took shots in the name of doom.

You went home and turned the tv all the way up and locked every single door twice. It wasn’t enough.

Don’t approach someone if they appear sick, they said. Avoid them and dial 911.

After a week they disabled emergency service lines.

Stay indoors. Only go out when necessary. Keep your distance from one another, they said.

Online, people called it a hoax.

But that footage they showed on the news, people emptied out and filled with some creature that knew only hunger, that snarled and lunged for those around them without hesitation…something in you knew without doubt that it wasn’t fake.

The government gave blinding smiles and sent every army they had. They promised everything would be fine.

Nothing would ever be fine again.

Bullets did nothing. No matter how wounded, those humans that were empty and vicious dragged themself with bloody nails after anything that pumped blood. Those soldiers died and came back, killing their friends and family and comrades.

The government stopped going on tv.

With all your precautions, with every warning you gave your friends who didn’t give a shit anymore, who took this as a sign to give up, with every tip you got from the news, it didn’t save you in the end.

Thousands, millions were dying every day and you…

One week after the start zombie apocalypse, you saw a dog. A pitiful, sick dog that whined at you and gave you mournful eyes, and you froze.

And you stopped.

And you knelt down next to it because you with your fear and your kind heart wanted to be a vet.

Because you, with all of your precaution and all of those warnings forgot everything.

A week and a day after the zombie apocalypse started, you lost control of your own body. You were filled with something so hungry every bone in your body ached.

That’s fine, you thought. I’ll die soon anyways. The people on the news said the host always died. That there wasn’t anything left inside.

Two weeks after the zombie apocalypse starts you realize that the people on the news were wrong.

You start screaming. No one bothers to try and save you.

The creature inside of you has been dragging you across this wretched planet for a month, and you crave death with the same fervor that it craves flesh. The news people, your neighbors, your family, they flee from you.

They cannot hear you begging for them to burn every scrap of you alive.

You wish they would.

Two months after the start of the zombie apocalypse the creature inside of you has run out of things to eat. You are starving. Everything hurts. Your heart is giving out.

At some point, the creature inside you starts to consume your body.

You should be dead by now

It won’t let you die

It eats your vocal cords. Rips them apart with your fingers, tears out your tongue. Peels off your flesh.

The pain consumes every thought until your nerves fry.

You count it as a blessing.

You lose your eyes, your fingers, every piece of you soon after.

You cannot bring yourself to care.

A year after the zombie apocalypse starts, your body gives out. You lie on something that feels like asphalt. The remains of your muscles and tendons and joints and bones twitch as the creature pulls once, twice, again, but you do not move.

You feel it then, as it leaves you lying there. The utter cruelty of it as it leaves you lying on the ground, when it has been the only thing keeping you alive for eleven months.

You have been dying for over a year. You have been dead in your mind for far longer.

You regret every thought you ever had about the zombie apocalypse, about the notion of quick death and reanimation.

You regret the things you didn’t do. The things you did. You can feel your heart, finally, give out.

You wish you could see the sky one more time as you slip into the dark.

But you haven’t had your eyes for a long, long while.

And with one last breath, you die alone on an empty street, with only the uncaring creature that stripped you for parts and murdered you slowly to watch you go.

“I’m of the stars,” she confided. “I belong to them.”

She trailed a hand along the banister.

“But then, so does everyone else. The same material that makes up all of us is what makes up stars, you see?”

She tipped her head to one side in concession.

“I’m not made of stars in the way you are. I wield them, I control them, I breathe them. But they control me, too.”

They stared at her now, wide and terrified.

“They sing to me. It’s the kind of thing I can’t explain to you. I wouldn’t, even if I could.”

She paused.

“I wield the stars. And do you know what stars do?” She leaned forward, a breath from their face. “They burn.”

“I won’t tell you anything,” the protagonist snarled.

The villain smiled dangerously. “Oh, I love it when they say that.” They tested the edge of their blade. “It makes it so much more fun when they break.” They tapped their knife against the protagonists chin.

“Now, love, will you be making me break you?”

The protagonist glared.

The villain’s smile widened.

“Oh, darling.” They winked. “Try not to stain my shoes when you bleed.”

The protagonist told them everything.

And the villain enjoyed every minute of it.

“Don’t die.”

The sidekick’s hands pressed into the hero’s wound, and the hero blinked dizzily.

“What?”

“I said, don’t die.”

“I’m sorry, wait, who are you?”

The sidekick’s gaze had an intensity the hero didn’t know existed. Then, they grinned, and it was like sunshine.

“Your new sidekick. And I can’t be your sidekick if you have the audacity to die on my very first day, so don’t die.”

The hero blinked once more.

“Nice to meet you?”

“I’ll say nice to meet you when you stop bleeding out.”

—————————

“Don’t die,” the sidekick reminded the hero, half laughing, half serious.

The hero rolled their eyes with affection.

“Have I ever?”

—————————

“Don’t die.”

The hero glanced up.

“Relax, it’s just a graze. No bullet holes, see?”

They held their arms away from their body, twisting to show the lack of harm.

The sidekick sighed with something close to relief.

—————————

“Don’t-“

“Die, yes, I know,” the hero finished. The sidekick’s eyes narrowed.

The hero’s heart twisted.

“I won’t, I promise.”

The sidekick nodded, once.

—————————

“Don’t die.”

The hero sneezed, eyes bleary.

“It’s just a cold.”

“Yeah, and people die from those.”

The hero laughed, voice nasally.

“The agency would be thrilled to have cause of death ‘common cold’ written in my file, I’m sure of it.”

The sidekick threw a pillow at them, and brought them soup.

—————————

“Be careful, okay?”

The hero snapped their head up.

The sidekick blinked at the sudden movement, mouth still half open.

“What?”

The sidekick cleared their throat.

“I said be careful,” they gestured awkwardly with one hand. “It’s Supervillain. They don’t pull punches.”

The hero’s mouth was dry.

“Right. Yes.”

They strapped their last piece of gear on, and turned to leave.

“Oh, and hero,” the sidekick tried for nonchalance, smiling slightly. “Don’t die.”

The hero smiled back.

—————————

“You idiot,” the hero hissed, hands frantic. They didn’t know where to press, which wound to try and stop first. The sidekick coughed weakly.

“I had it handled,” the hero’s voice broke.

The sidekick managed a pained wheeze that might have been a laugh.

“Mhm. Yeah.”

“It’s Supervillain, why—“ the hero tipped their head upwards, tears slipping from their eyes.

The sidekick whimpered, slightly. “You could have gotten hurt.”

The hero pressed their hands onto the chest wound.

“And you getting hurt is okay?”

The sidekick didn’t answer. When the hero looked up, their eyes were closed.

“Hey, no no nonono don’t do this to me, sidekick, hey,” the hero scrambled, fingers slick with blood, heart pounding. “Don’t die.”

A curse, an oath, a command, a prayer.

Don’t die.

The sidekick, just barely, smiled, tugging the hero down to whisper into their ear. Just two words. The two words.

The hero sobbed, shaking their head, pushing back to find a pulse—

And found the silence of a waiting grave.

—————————

“Don’t die,” the hero said to themselves quietly, pressing a piece of gauze to their side.

The medic watched them intently, eyes soft, but didn’t say anything.

They knew. The whole goddamn base knew.

And that was the only thing that would come out of the hero’s mouth.

“Don’t. Die.”

The medic’s mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes watering, and they vanished out the door.

The hero realized, then, that their cheeks were wet.

Two words.

An oath. A prayer. A command.

“Don’t die,” They whispered, and for a moment, just a moment, they could pretend it was sidekick saying it.

The very first words they had said to the hero.

And their very last ones, too, pained hushed whispers in the hero’s ear, a final breath.

“Don’t die.”

The hero started sobbing, then.

And they didn’t stop.

Don’t.

Die

“Please,” she whispered. The villain paused.

A slow grin spread a cross their face.

“Begging so soon? Not very heroic.”

She laughed, and it hurt.

“Not heroic, no.”

The villain’s eyes narrowed, head tipping to the side as they regarded her.

Her eyes darted to the door, fear beginning to churn in her gut. Their face cleared as they followed her gaze, understanding writing itself on their skin.

“You’re afraid,” they observed. The villain stepped forward to where she knelt, knees digging into the ground. Their cool fingers wrapped around her chin and tipped her head up. “But not of me.”

She stilled, swallowing.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The villain tutted, smile vicious and victorious and soft.

“Don’t lie to a liar.”

She closed her mouth.

The villain traced soothing circles along her jaw with their thumb. “You’re afraid your friends will get here in time,” they said softly. The hero made to jerk away, and the villain’s nails dug into her skin, eyes flashing in warning. “You’re afraid they’ll make it here in time to save you.”

Bitterly, tears rose in her eyes.

“Please,” her voice broke. The villain was silent.

They sighed.

“Up you get,” they tugged her up, wrapping an arm around her waist when she wobbled on numb knees. She closed her eyes.

She expected pain, the sharpness of finality, the crisp bite of death—but it wasn’t there.

When she opened her eyes, the villain was watching her.

Her gut sank.

“You aren’t going to kill me.”

The villain shrugged a shoulder.

“Oh, of course not. You want to die. What could be more torturous for you than leaving you alive?”

This time, the panic that curled in her gut was for the villain.

“Let me go then,” she said. The villain’s grip was stone on her waist.

“Mmm, I don’t think so. I won’t kill you,” they reminded. They tugged her against them so swiftly she didn’t feel it happen. Their lips pressed against her ear.

“No, love. I’m going to turn you into another me.”

She could feel their grin against her ear.

They vanished, taking her with them, before her friends could get there.

Six months later, she picked her friends off. One. By. One.

And the city burned.

"You are my sunshine," their breath hitched, tongue going numb as another scream shattered the air.

"My only—"

What came next?

"You make me—"

Their cheeks were wet. What right did they have to cry? They weren't the one bleeding. They were the one singing a lullaby so they wouldn't hear—

The scream was louder this time, higher pitched with agony. They didn't know what could cause that kind of pain.

When skies are—

You never know—

There was a knife on the table, three feet from their hand.

What they had done, the way the horrible truth of it oozed out of their soul; it felt kind of like bleeding.

It felt like screaming under water.

It felt like dying.

If it was their fault, did it matter if it killed them, too?

There was a knife, three feet from their hand.

Their lover screamed again, vocal cords running raw.

Had there even been a choice? Yes, yes, always yes, but had there really?

Their hands were shaking. For some reason, the sight of them trembling drew a sob from their chest.

"Sunshine," they mumbled, but whatever words came after that were lost in their mouth.

There was a knife three feet from their hand.

The next time their lover screamed it cut off so abruptly they wondered if they had gone deaf. If their brain had simply turned off, stolen every sound in the air for protection.

Their lover didn't scream again.

There was a knife in their hand.

"They're alive," they whispered. "They're alive they're alive they're alive."

Say it enough and you believe it.

There was a knife in their hand.

The villain laughed.

Their hand clenched around the hilt.

If they saved their lover, their lover wouldn't forgive them. They knew that. How could they—the person they loved the most, the one person they trusted, had lured them in for the villain.

If their lover was dead—well.

There was a knife in their hand.

The villain was laughing.

And they were going to make sure the villain died painfully.

Maybe by the end of it, they would have something to actually cry about.

Their lover whimpered, a horrible wretched sound. It sounded like hope. It sounded like ‘I’m still here.’

They had a knife in their hand.

And they knew how to use it.

So they did.

The hero woke up with a start, tears streaming down their face as their book went flying. They rubbed their palms against their cheeks angrily, but it did nothing to stop the flow.

Across the room, the villain coughed.

The Hero’s gaze snapped to them, and they regarded the hero calmly.

“Bad dream?”

The hero looked away, embarrassment coloring their cheeks.

“No.”

The villain sighed.

“Good dream, then?”

The hero said nothing, and the villain nodded in understanding.

“I see. Would you like to tell me about it?”

They studied every inch of their room, the silence fidgeting between them like an anxious child, before the words fought their way out.

“I—we, saved the world.”

The villain hummed. “Ah.”

The hero sniffed and tugged the blankets higher on their lap. The book lay forgotten on the floor.

“I can understand the tears, then,” they said sympathetically. The hero let out an unamused laugh.

“No, you can’t.”

“Just because I do not empathize does not mean I cannot understand,” the villain tipped their head. “You have many regrets. That much is clear. It is written upon every move you make. So do not preach understanding, Hero, when I know how you work.”

The hero stiffened.

“I hate you.”

“You hate yourself more,” the villain said conversationally, and the hero’s chest welled with pain.

The silence roiled.

“Yes,” they agreed quietly. “I do.”

The villain tapped their hand once against the door frame.

“I’ll leave you to your dreaming, then, Hero.”

Hero.

Nothing more than a bit of mockery, now.

Their eyes met, the villain’s gaze burning into them, before they turned from the door of the hero’s cell.

They paused. “You cannot change the past, fallen one,” they said softly. And then they were gone.

The hero lay back, and closed their eyes.

Maybe if they tried hard enough, they could bring their dreams into reality. Maybe they could save everyone—could be the hero everyone had worshiped them as. Could rewrite the ending and bring their friends back to life. Could make it so they ended up in a pedestal and not in a cage. So many maybes. The hero dreamed of all of them, constantly. It never really made a difference.

In their cell designed by the villain who had beaten them irrevocably, the hero fell asleep, and outside, the world burned.

Unsaved.

“You’re a super villain.”

“And you’re gorgeous.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry love, I thought we were stating facts.”

“You—“

“Called you gorgeous? Yes.”

“No—that’s not what I—god, you collapsed the bridge this morning.”

“Ah yes. I did that too. In more pressing matters, do you have a preference towards wine?”

“I don’t—“

“I’ll pick, then.”

“All those people—“

“Were unfortunate casualties. Look. Stop trying to call for help under the tablecloth, I can see you. Look at me. I am a villain, yes, but I would give you the world. A hero? They would give you up for the world. Do you really want to love someone who will never put you first?”

“…no.”

“Excellent. Now, do you like pasta?”

“Um. Yes?”

The super villain smiled.

In the end, loving them was easier than the civilian had thought.

“Oh my god—“

“Not quite, love” The antagonist smirked. “If you ask nicely, however, I may be inclined to play along.”

“You’re—“

“A villain, yes.”

The protagonist tried to stop their hands from shaking as the antagonist looked them up and down.

“Why are you in my neighborhood bodega?” The protagonist said finally, and the villain quirked a brow.

“Even famous people need to eat,” the antagonist tucked their hands into their exquisitely tailored suit.

The bag of chips in the protagonists grip crinkled, and the villain inspected them.

“Not the healthiest choice.”

They gave an unamused laugh. “The cheapest.”

The antagonist’s eyes ran over their face, as if taking in their slightly gaunt cheeks.

“Heroism doesn’t pay well, it seems.”

The protagonist looked them up and down.

“Villainy does, it seems.”

At that, the antagonist chuckled, eyes glimmering like they had finally found something to peak their interest.

Behind them, the check out counter beeped and spit out a receipt, which the antagonist promptly crumpled and threw away.

“I’ll be watching,” they said with a nonchalance that did not match the threat of stalking, and disappeared out the sliding doors.

The protagonist stood in front of the machine, slightly awe struck and slightly afraid, until a clerk sidled up to them.

“Old friend?” The clerk asked.

The protagonist glanced over at them, then back towards the door.

“Not quite,” they answered.

They paid for their chips and left, hands pink with cold by the time they got to their apartment.

Attached to their door was an cream colored envelope full of money, and a note in elegant handwriting that simply said “Buy yourself more groceries. Your fridge is a tragedy.”

The protagonist never quite got rid of the antagonist after that.

Her bodyguard shifted, wrapping the cloth around his arm as blood welled from the wound.

“You didn’t have to—“ she began, and her bodyguard snapped his gaze up.

“Of course I didn’t. But it is my job to. And even if it wasn’t my job, I would anyways, because I care about you.”

Her eyes fell once more to his nimble fingers as they guided the wrap.

“It was just a bar fight.”

“A bar fight that could have killed you.”

“But it didn’t kill me—“

He tied off his bandage.

“But it could have,” he said sternly. “It doesn’t matter if it is a scratch or a mortal wound—it is my job to protect you from harm; any harm.”

She sighed. She didn’t know how many times they’d had this argument, but she knew she would never win. Halivard was stern in his protection of her, and she knew he would sacrifice himself for her at the drop of a hat—and do it gladly. She supposed she was lucky he kept her escapades into the city a secret.

She wasn’t sure if she had done anything worth such devotion other than be born into a royal family. But Halivard was as close to a best friend as she had, so although it was selfish, secretly, she was glad for him.

He gestured to the door.

“You have an appointment with Geraldine, yes?”

She nodded, and he let her check over his wound.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Halivard smiled. “Only slightly.”

“Only slightly a liar, or it only hurts slightly?”

He laughed.

“Princess, we best be going.”

She rolled her eyes, but let him lead her down the opulent halls.

By the time they reached Geraldine’s door, they had settled into a comfortable silence.

Looking back, that was probably why she heard the noise at all.

Halivard identified the noise before she did.

“Princess, I’m not sure—“

She knew what that sound was.

She should have known better than to open the door—she had seen the signs, and she had ignored them.

But now?

Her hand found the knob anyways, and the latch clicked as it opened.

Geraldine stilled in the bed, sheets tangled around her—and another girl.

She blinked. Geraldine blinked. The other girl blinked.

“Sophia—“ Geraldine said, voice breaking, and the other girl shot upright, clutching the sheets to her chest.

“Princess Sophia? You didn’t tell me—oh my god—“ the girl prattled, on and on about how she hadn’t know Geraldine was dating the Princess, that she hadn’t known, that she was sorry.

Distantly, Sophia wondered if she would be sorry if it was anyone else—just some person who loved Geraldine but wasn’t royal. Would she care then?

Sophia clutched her hands to her chest. She felt like she had been shot, or stabbed, or maybe crushed under the weight of it all.

Halivard stepped forward.

“Princess,” he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Geraldine began to climb out of the bed.

“How could you?” Her voice broke, wet with tears, and Geraldine stopped.

“Sophia, I’m sorry—“

“Sorry because you got caught, or sorry because you did it.”

Geraldine stopped, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I love you.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

A single tear slipped down Geraldine’s cheek. The other girl was forgotten behind her.

Distantly, Sophia was aware she was crying.

She had loved Geraldine more than life, once. It had felt like freedom.

Now? Now it felt oppressive, the weight of a love that turned out to be too much. A love that had been carefully balanced and had now shattered on the floor, slicing her hands as she went to put them back together.

Sophia looked at her hands as if she could see the blood.

“Sophia,” Geraldine said, and Sophia turned to Halivard. His face was stark with pity, and anger, and too much emotion to identify.

“Halivard,” Sophia said quietly.

“Yes, Princess.”

“Does this count as harm?”

Halivard’s gaze turned assessing, understanding crossing his face.

“I believe it does.”

“Sophia, wait,” Geraldine pleaded, fear coloring her face. She took a step forward.

Sophia met Halivard’s eyes, let the hurt and steel and loss flood through them.

When she spoke, it was a whisper.

“Protect me.”

Halivard smiled grimly.

“Yes, Princess.”

And he drew his sword.