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surplus-of-sarcasm · 2 months

Text

#32

TW: Knives, references to violence, restraints, bruises/wounds, flirty?

I am literally sauurrr sorry for being so inactive but college is destroying me. It's been so long since I've written too, so I do hope the quality of this piece isn't affected. Missed u guys 💙

"Do I scare you?" the hero asked, her voice devoid of any emotion, all while her eyes stared straight through the villain like he was transparent, searching for something in his expression.

Except his face remained defiantly blank, looking up at her, fire in his honey brown eyes, surprisingly not sparing any effort to attempt escaping his restraints.

When the hero stuck one of her nails into a small, open cut on his neck, the villain bit back a wince, an irritated frown tugging at the corner of his lip. "Yes," he supplied, his tone even and calm, not even hostile, trying to render himself as passive as possible.

Except he'd licked his lip in that quick, almost imperceptible manner, something he only ever did when he lied, something the hero wasn't supposed to know.

But she did.

"Stop lying," she snarled, sticking her nail again in the cut.

"The hell do you want, Hero?" he snapped, hissing as her finger left his cut.

The breaking point. The point where the villain was done placating and playing along and already back to his normal, wild state, where he could care less about whatever earned the hero's ire.

She'd spent the last three hours mostly in silence, only ever talking to ask the villain a question she knew would irritate him. He held up surprisingly well, even though his self-preservation instincts were usually nowhere to be found. So she wondered why he'd act so placidly in the beginning.

The villain liked to talk. He did most of the talking during their fights. The quiet drove him insane, and now he had his teeth bared like an animal, murder in his eyes and tension in his jaw.

This was the part where the hero should've laughed or slapped him across the face, or done anything just as cruel.

The truth was that they'd both been nothing but cruel to each other, enemies by virtue. The villain had beat the hero black and blue, had called her a myriad of flithy names, had screamed at her because of how much he hated that she was quiet. In turn, the hero made sure that every nick with a knife and every punch against skin had left a mark on the villain. She fought to scar, not just to incapacitate. She knew the scars were more a wound to his ego than his body, proof she'd hurt him.

And yet, the villain had pulled her out of a ditch and bandaged up her nearly destroyed leg, effectively saving her life when he had no business being there. In turn, she'd pulled him up when he almost slipped off a roof during one of their fights.

And situations like that would only keep happening more and more often, almost a staple of their atypical relationship. The villain would laugh, would crack a joke, would be so careful with her wounds, would be anything but his usual abrasive self.

And the very next fight, they would be even more horrible to each other, as though whatever had happened the day before had never been, as though cruelty was the only language they could speak.

The hero didn't have friends. They were another luxury she couldn't afford. Her teammates weren't actively cruel or anything of the like, but the agency left no room for any semblance of friendship or love or all the things the hero wanted but could never really have. And the villain wasn't her friend. He wasn't supposed to be anyone. But he was genuine, almost the only person in her life who didn't sound and act like a robot. He'd had actual conversations with the hero. And maybe she was not stupid enough to think that made him any good, but maybe she was stupid enough to think that made him mean something to her.

"Answer me, Hero," he snarled coldly, tearing her chain of thought in half.

The hero didn't consider spending any time on thinking of an intelligible response. People weren't logical when they were desperate. Desperate was the hero's hand cupping the villain's jaw so gently that the shiver up his spine was still awfully intense, even with his numb body. Desperate was staring into the villain's eyes, watching the way his lashes fluttered, as his eyes told a completely different story from the harsh frown on his lips. Desperate was the hero's lips on his cheekbone, warm against his skin, shy, terrified, staying there for a fleeting moment that still felt like too long and retracting away with shame written all over her features.

"I'm sorry."

Villain's eyes had widened, even though it seemed impossible they could grow any bigger. "I- come closer again," he half-whispered, all the roughness from his voice gone. "Lean down a little."

And the hero obliged, even though it went against every single thing she'd been taught, and in turn the villain's lips were pressed to her jaw, careful but in no way timid. They weren't supposed to be velvet-soft, and hints of the villain's spicy cologne shouldn't have still managed to be distinguishable through the blood and the sweat. But of course the seemingly impossible was happening.

"Yes," he answered, "you do scare me, but not in the way that you asked, so I was lying," he continued against the hero's jaw.

And she hated how palpable the relief was when he hadn't licked his lips.

"This is how you actually kiss someone." The smirk on the villain's face may have been merciless as he pulled away, but it was clear he was trying to break the tension that they could have sliced through with a blade.

God, the hero could barely breathe. She never knew something that felt almost forbidden could feel so right. She was scared the villain's response had been a trick and more scared that it hadn't. She wanted to scream at him and slam her fists into his body, to split his rose-petal-like lips with a jagged streak of crimson. But more than anything, she wanted him close enough to her that they were breathing each other's air, she wanted to kiss his face again, properly this time, so that it truly felt like something, something that set the hero's nerves on fire.

The hero had pulled out her twin knives, cutting through his ropes with one, while the other remained pressed against his carotid artery, as he still remained sitting on the chair.

Except the villain had pulled the knife out of her hand, slightly scratching himself, and he got up, twirling the knife with his hand and pressing its cold, flat edge to the hero's jaw, his breath warm on her face. "Don't fight it. That's all you've done, all I've done, and I'm sick of it."

And in all honesty, so was she. Sick of having no one, sick of wanting someone who was right there and yet so far away, sick of pushing a knife into the skin of the same boy who had bandaged her bleeding knuckles and made fun of the stupid kids' designs etched on them, the only thing he had, the next day after it happened.

The hero nodded, slowly putting her knives away when the villain handed her the other blade back, slinging an arm around the villain's waist, surprisingly small for someone so athletically built, but not any less attractive.

"Let's go home. I mean, my place," the villain suggested, utterly exhausted, but a hint of a smile was still there in his words as he wrapped his arm around the hero's shoulder, his fingers gripping onto the fabric of her suit a little playfully.

And the hero simply nodded, mirroring the villain's own soft smile.

Emotions are hard to understand, no rules or logic existent that could ever explain the power they hold over a person; the power that the heart exercises so ruthlessly over the mind. And yet nearly nothing could ever leave one feeling so certain, so absolutely euphoric to the point that not even the entire world would seem to matter compared to the one person love tethers you to.

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