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#antiheroxvigilante
daydreamed-snippets · 3 years
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hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii your writing is lovely!! and I'm always happy to find other hero x villain (sort of) writers, snippets give me happy feelings. ANYWAY, can I have a part two of the antihero x vigilante? I would LOVE that
Sorry this took so long… I wanted to get some other pieces out before doing this one. And it just took me forever. Hope it was worth it. 
@itsaterriblelife for wanting more too. Enjoy!
Part 1 here
The vigilante tensed against the vivid facets of their imagination, at what they guessed would happen in the next few moments. They imagined that the anti-hero would start ripping their already tattered costume, tearing fistfuls of cloth away from their begrimed, blood-spattered body. Fueled by some masochistic desire to provide—what did they call it? Inspirational awakening?
Or, conceivably worse, their mind plunged in the other end of the pool. Imagining the anti-hero bending low, dragging rugged lips across their own. Letting their one free hand roam nomadically, seeking the softest plains of their frame until the anti-hero’s smell of faint chemicals and sandalwood soap fully and utter invaded their senses.
Or maybe it would be a combination of both. The vigilante didn’t know them that well. Only what they witnessed in passing, which was rage masquerading as wit. Intense battles played out like a gag reel, culminating in some deadly whimsy the anti-hero donned like a cape.
They could handle the pain. Any torture really. They’ve dealt with as much before. But this kind of humiliation would be beyond bearable. Knowing that they would just as easily succumb to a moment of passion than fight until the bitter end was a shocking and poignant revelation. 
The anti-hero moved.
The vigilante’s eyes pinched shut.
“Have you ever noticed how certain predators tend to play with their prey before going in for the kill?” The question was posed languidly. Heterochromia eyes watching intently as the vigilante’s own eyes popped open, brow furrowing with confusion. 
“The orca is a great example,” they continued, releasing the vigilante’s chin, brushing the back of their knuckles over the contours of their face. As if they yearned to trace every freckle, connect every speck, discover how many constellations hid amidst those sun-kissed spots. The fickle definitions of beauty be damned. 
“They hunt in packs. Painstakingly perfecting their skills, oftentimes forsaking all other prey just to stalk one particular quarry. Beaching themselves, they deploy tactics that lure their prey into a false sense of security.” The anti-hero bends further in, hovering over their ear, breath hot. “The prey takes the bait, and that’s when the fun begins.” They scrape their lips over the softest part of the vigilante’s ear, teeth tugging on it gently. 
Jolting, the vigilante jerks against them, trying to dislodge the heavier body pinning them down. They bring up their knees, frantic to kick them off. 
Patiently, the anti-hero rides out their tremors, waiting for this rebellious episode to pass. The little energy the vigilante had left, they spent it then, and the anti-hero could feel them pacify after moments of frenzied struggle; quivering beneath them, arms still shaking from the exertion. 
“S-stop it,” they mewled feebly.
In this prone position, the vigilante had finally been stripped of their many layers of protection; their courage, their pride, their ambition, their skills, and their strengths. Plans to overcome the warden, and that moment, to overcome the anti-hero, went skittering away. Counterattacks fell apart, nullified. Their many scrapes, cuts, lesions, and bruises quelled them. Fatigue weighed on them like chains tethered to an open grave. They’d lost; to the warden, to the anti-hero, to the city.
“Well, both know what happens next, don’t we?” the anti-hero went on, unaffected. “The prey gets thrown about, tossed like a rag doll. Powerless to stop the whales. Trying to swim away, but getting dragged back. They are impaled; their organs are punctured. Their skin ripped from their bones. And if the poor creature happens to be so lucky, they succumb to their wounds before being eaten. And the best part,” the anti-hero licked their lips, “is that sometimes the orcas don’t even eat what they kill. They just let the prey fall, sink into the darkest parts of the ocean. Because you see, orcas derive such pleasure out of the chase that the hunt becomes more about gratification than necessity.”
“Are you the orca in this analogy?” the vigilante swallowed, finding their voice unsteady. “Was this your plan all along? To toy with me until you are ready to consume me?”
“As much as I’d love to devour this exquisite body bit by bit, inch by inch,” they start, teeth flashing as they run their tongue over the pearly whites. “I’m not the orca in this little tale of woe.”
The vigilante’s realization peaks. “The warden.”
The other smiles slowly, exposing those dimples again. “There it is.”
“So, I’m a poor little seal slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean? To be picked off by other, lesser predators like you?” They swung their legs up again, an ineffectual attempt. 
“If that’s the position you want to be in then I have no qualms with keeping you here, leashed to me, little seal,” they jest, with a charming smile. But their eyes remained concentrated, a nefarious sort of gleam twinkled in the irises. “But I’m giving you a choice here. You can, as you said, drift to the bottom of the ocean to be picked off by predators. Or you can metamorphose into a new kind of defender.”
A new kind of defender?
“A-and what? You want to be my catalyst?” they snorted. “You kidnapped me, tied me to your bed, are currently assaulting me, and…” The vigilante’s gaze lingered on their lips, before springing away as if the very thing burned them. Vehemently denying the slight flutter of their stomach. They shift again but did so differently; moving their hips, arching their back, taking in a sharp breath. Trying to alleviate their discomfort. 
The anti-hero watched with barely abated hunger. “And what?”
“You…you’re on me,” they stammered, unable to look them in the eye.
“My apologies, dear, do you need a safe word?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I did ask for your name.”
“No, not like that. You don’t know me.”
The anti-hero let out a tapered sigh, the rush of air whistling faintly between their lips. They noted the fresh sheen of sweat coiling in the vigilante’s hair, the light red splotches oozing through circular bandages wrapped around their collarbone they thought they’d correctly addressed. All that work while the vigilante was out cold was coming undone.
Not to mention the adrenaline that arrested the vigilante, flowing like a drug through their veins, was wearing off quickly. The anti-hero could see it, their eyes were half-lidded, their limbs were shaking, their breathing labored. The vigilante was fighting just to stay there, to stay conscious. The anti-hero needed to let their straining muscles relax, before their coy civil rights warrior passed out.
Making a grand show of it, the anti-hero released them, both hands hovering by their face in a display of truce. They swung their leg over and sat next to them on the bed, observant of how the vigilante tucked their hands on their lap, keen eyes skeptically surveying them. They tried to sit up, but the anti-hero held out a non-threatening hand, and they sunk down obediently.
“The media calls you the Maverick Vigilante, yes?” they said, a band at their wrist blinked a glaring light in time with the monitor on their nightstand, illuminating the room in sporadic light. They had twenty minutes tops before their place was compromised. They needed to make this quick.
“You became a bane of the state three years ago wearing just a sweatshirt and a ski mask. Since then, you’ve gained notoriety, made some improvements to your costume. You’re named appropriately, all right, since you have no sidekick, no allies, and no powers apart from your ravishing physique.”
The vigilante rolled their eyes, going back to whittling at their lip. Enticingly so. Showing lurking fragility underneath their rough surface. It was tempting to chasten such a habit. Absentmindedly, the anti-hero progressed.
“There is no one you trust. No one can get near you. You’ve dedicated yourself to ‘fighting injustice’ and ‘protecting citizens’ alone.,” they mimicked sardonically. “It would be noble if the people of this city actually cared about you. I wonder why you bother at all.”
“Someone needs to stand up to them.”
“Felicitations, you have. In doing so you’ve managed to piss off the warden. Which is where my interest was piqued.”
“So, you’ve done your research,” they spat, “Regardless, if I agree to anything you offer, it would be under duress.”
“I’ve treated you well. I’m only restraining you to prove a point.”
“You’re threatening to hold me against my will if I don’t choose the path you want me to take.”
Point taken, though it was little consequence to them. Sure, they had done a little bit of prodding, of tough love, of roughly guiding to an avenue that wouldn’t get the vigilante killed. Of course, the twit didn’t see it that way, gnawing incessantly on their lower lip, continuing to drag the anti-hero’s attention to them.
The anti-hero glanced at their wrist again. Fifteen minutes. They’d have to address that issue later. For now, they will address what they can.
“Keep biting your lip,” they challenged, drifting over to run rough fingers through their tangled tress. “I promise I’ll find a better use for it.”
The vigilante dropped their lower lip immediately, a pretty fire scorching their cheeks.
With a chuckle the anti-hero slipped off the bed, moving about the room gathering necessities. They slung their get-the-hell-out-of-dodge bag onto their back, fitting a weapon to their hip, and, on second thought after glancing at their captive, they unfurled a blanket from the top shelf. They check the motion cameras tied to the monitor on their nightstand. The warden’s soldiers were getting close. Out of the corner of their eye, the vigilante made another attempt to rise. They discouraged it by a shake of their head, motioning offhandedly for them to stay still. 
“What is it?”
“Orcas, little seal.” They took steps towards the bed, untying the rope they’d fixed to a bedpost. They tucked the blanket earlier fetched around their shoulders before they shimmied an arm behind their back, the other under their knees. The vigilante winced, whimpering slightly, their pain tolerance hit its extent as the anti-hero lifted them with ease. 
“Best we run,” they said, fitting their head beneath their chin. “Or at least I run, and you just hold on.”
They down headed the stairs and out the door. The anti-hero would miss their piano. 
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daydreamed-snippets · 3 years
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“Sorry,” the anti-hero said simply, slender hands slipping from the white and black piano keys like they hadn’t wanted their guest to rouse that very moment. “Did my playing wake you?” 
They looked to the top of the stairs, where the vigilante had padded over from the anti-hero’s bedroom to overlook the loft’s balcony. “I told you not to bring me here,” the vigilante said, a hint of annoyance crossing their voice. But they were careful about it. It was only a hint. They didn’t let too much frustration cloud their tone even while fidgeting at the leather cords wrapped around both wrists. A ten-foot-long cord, drawn tight, anchored them to the anti-hero’s bedpost. 
“And leave you for dead?” the anti-hero quipped, getting up and closing the fallboard. They then took the stairs two, three steps at a time, stopping promptly to peer into the vigilante’s upturned face. Hovering just at their elbow. “Not a chance.” 
“I can’t be here, you know that,” they spat. “This is an unsecured location in the heart of the city. You’re practically in the warden’s backyard. Bluecoats will be canvassing the neighborhood looking for me after what happened. It’s a death sentence if I’m caught.” 
“You’re safe here.” 
“Am I?” they asked raising their bound hands. The anti-hero smiled. They had done it as a precautionary, really. Restraining, but innocuously so, they made sure of it. After all, they didn’t want to hurt their deft little vigilante. They just wanted to keep them grounded for the moment. 
They shrugged, “If you behave yourself.” 
“And if I don’t.” 
The anti-hero blinked, looking them over, taking in their seedy, disheveled features. The mess of their hair, the flush of their cheeks, the splash of freckles and chapped lips which they’d whittled at with their teeth in nervous anticipation. They’d predicted that response, dreamed of it really. It was the reason why they liked this particular vigilante. All spitfire and hell to pay. Damn the consequences. Damn the rules that were always tipped in the politician's favor. Damn their safety if it meant government reform, and citizens no longer under their oppressive thumb. They were a means to an end kind of fighter, within reason of course. The vigilante had morals. Standards. But, oh, with the anti-hero’s help, they could be so more. 
The anti-hero could draw them out. Make them forget for once the ethical boundaries they set for themselves. Make them forget to play fair. 
The anti-hero reached out, skimming fingers over the hollow of their cheek, relishing the tiniest hint of a shiver before running their thumb over the torn flesh of their lips. They tsked. 
The vigilante’s frown deepened at the touch. Looking apprehensive. Shaken. The veneer of a warrior for the people began chipping away, and the anti-hero was starting to see through those cracks, to the soft core beneath. “You will,” the anti-hero replied decisively, after a pause.
“Don’t touch me,” the vigilante muttered, breaking eye contact, pulling away. They scampered backward, unknowingly towards the bed that had left a short time before. They were still disoriented. Fatigued from the fight, and from the wound in their side that the anti-hero had treated. “This is serious. I’m not going to be toyed with for your amusement.”
The anti-hero wasn’t sure if they knew that the loft was all one room, and that it was where the stairs they had just come from led to. There was nowhere to go really. Not when the vigilante was tethered to their bed. Still, the anti-hero followed, nonchalantly, with hands in their pockets, like a curious carnivore stalking a stranger in their territory. 
“I’m not just doing this for my amusement,” they said, hubris pulling at the corners of their mouth. They flashed another smile, shining teeth, and subtle dimples. It was dimmer in the bedroom. The curtains drawn on the lone window. The light from the main living area was becoming faint. “You’re hurt, for one. And I do believe I mentioned saving your life for another. Isn’t there a code or something that says that you owe me?”
“I guess,” the vigilante replied stiffly, as they took one step after another in retreat. Determined to keep a wide distance between the two, yet still with the appearance of indifference. Biting their lip was a tell. “I do owe you a thank you. So…thank you.”
“I was thinking of something more than that.”
They lifted their chin, “Then you shouldn’t have rescued me. You should have respected my wishes and left me to die when I told you to get out. That’s your fault, not mine. I didn’t ask for you to step in. I didn’t ask for you to bring me here. You can’t just ignore people’s requests—their boundaries—when it doesn’t suit you.” 
“Can I at least know your name for my troubles?”
“No.”
“I’ve seen your face. What’s in a name?” 
“Fine then. It’s Noneya,” the vigilante gritted out, leveling them with a look. “As in noneya business.” 
The anti-hero chuckled at their childishness. It was unexpected from their serious disposition earlier. “Cute.” 
Another step and the back of the vigilante’s knees hit the edge of the bed. They tipped backward with a grunt of alarm, landing gingerly but prone. The vigilante struggled to get up, trying to push themselves up on their elbow and rollover. But anti-hero was on them, up on the bed, settling both knees on either side of the vigilante’s thighs, leaning over them, grabbing those bound wrists and stretching their arms above their head. They could see the panic that lit up their features, their eyes widening exponentially. 
“While I admire your bravado,” the anti-hero said, slowly, capturing the vigilante’s chin. “We both know ‘thank you’s don’t make the world go round. And that your little war on injustice desperately needs an… inspirational awakening.”
“Don’t do this,” they said in warning with stilled, shortened breathes. “You’re not a villain. I’ve seen you in fights. I’ve seen you go up against the warden just as I have. You act like you don’t have a moral code, but I know you do. Remember,” they licked their lips. “Remember my boundaries.”
“Funny,” they said, as if the thought just dawned on them. “I was always really bad with boundaries.” 
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