Hurt Hero - Tumblr Posts

How about a hero who accidentally kills a cat and feels bad about it so they bury it but villain finds them? Love your writing!

The hero was thoroughly, miserably, soaked and shivering on the ground. Dirt coated their palms, under their fingernails and on their knees.

They dragged a hand down their face. Fought off a wretched sob.

Their fingers shook as they set the flower down on the tiny mound.

Behind them, the sirens on an ambulance cut off, plunging them into silence. If they thought about it, they could feel the blood seeping from their side. They could hear the sound of rubble shattering to the ground echo in their ears.

And the screaming.

They could hear that, too.

They didn’t think about it.

A sob worked it’s way out of their chest, painful in their throat as they tried to swallow it.

“I’m sorry,” they choked. Their voice cracked. “It was—an accident, and I know that doesn’t…”

They had to bite their lip to stop another sob.

“Praying?” the villain questioned from behind, voice gentle.

The hero shrugged one bruised shoulder.

“No.”

The villain stepped around, facing them. Their eyes dropped to the flower, the fresh dug dirt on the hero’s hands. The grave.

Their expression softened.

“Ah.”

“You can leave now.”

“Praying for forgiveness, or praying for salvation.”

“I said you can leave now,” the hero snapped. They swiped away an angry tear, dirt smearing on their cheek.

The villain didn’t move.

“Why are you still here?” They bared their teeth in something they hoped was enough of a message to get the villain to leave. They had a feeling it was something pathetic, instead.

“You were crying,” the villain said it like it was an answer.

If the hero thought about it too hard, it was.

They didn’t think about it.

“Burst water line,” they gestured haphazardly to the demolition behind them, the half-flooded street. “No tears, no praying, and certainly no need for you—”

The villain’s expression shifted. “I told you that you needed to microdose your power.”

The hero froze.

“Shut up,” they hissed. “Shut up—“

“You wanted to quit, and I respected that. You have enough scars for a lifetime, we both do. But I warned you. I told you that if you didn’t use your power, it would use you, and it would be an ugly, violent thing.”

The hero shook their head mutely, words stuck under their tongue.

“And you thought you knew better,” the villain continued like it wasn’t breaking the hero’s heart. “You thought you could go through life and keep it bottled inside you and ignore the pressure.”

Their gaze flicked to the wreckage the hero knew lay behind them.

“Did you know better, hero?” Their voice was soft and dangerous. “Did you?”

“I said I was sorry!” It clawed its way out of the hero, and it wasn’t a scream, but it was close. “Okay? I know I messed up. You don’t need to taunt me with it, I already—“

The hero’s gaze settled onto the grave once more.

“I already regret it,” they whispered. “You can’t make me any more sorry than I already am.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad.”

“Then you’re failing spectacularly,” the hero snorted derisively.

The villain’s jaw ground.

“I’m trying to make you understand that this would have happened regardless of what you did. And that it’s not your fault.”

The hero blinked.

“You just said that I—“

“I said you thought you could fight your power and win. And you were,” the villain conceded. “You might have made it another month. Maybe two.”

The hero had never seen the villain so angry. “But then someone shot you, off duty and in civilian clothes,” they seethed. “The fallout is on them, not you.”

“I killed a cat,” the hero managed roughly. They blinked back tears.

The villain shook their head.

“You were off-duty. A civilian.”

“I could never be just a civilian, you know that.”

“Just because you were the bullet does not mean you were the one who pulled the trigger.”

“You aren’t making any sense.”

“I am,” the villain corrected. “But you’re grieving, and bleeding, and suffering from a massive energy drop, so you can’t see it yet.”

The hero let the villain pull them to their feet, dirt smearing between their two hands.

“You want forgiveness?” The villain ducked their head to meet the hero’s eyes. “I forgive you.”

The hero forgot how to breathe.

“You can’t just do that.”

“I can do whatever I want. And what I want is for you to stop crying.”

The hero snorted again, but it was lighter this time.

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a civilian.”

The hero shook their legs out. When they went to turn back to the grave, the villain caught their chin, turning them away with soft fingers.

“I forgive you,” they said solemnly, as if they had never said anything so important. “They do, too.” They inclined their head just slightly towards the grave.

For once, as their chest collapsed in on itself, the hero believed them

As another request, maybe the villain and hero are fighting , and the villain notices that the hero reacts suspiciously numb to his attacks. And when he taunts him about it, the hero sisimply says something to the effect of being used to it. And the villain is suspicious by the tone so he follow the hero and find out he’s abused by family . Cue villain saving the hero, comforting him and showering him with the love he never got

The villain should have known something was wrong the first time he hit the hero, and he simply braced, pain flickering along the muscles of his jaw, before hitting back. Face blank, a mask stronger than concrete. As if pain played no part, and it was just the give and return of kinetic energy, and nothing more.

He should have known when he said something so cruel it felt like graveyard dirt upon his tongue, and the hero merely stuttered for half a second, everything within him freezing, before he continued like nothing had happened. Nothing cruel in return, nothing biting in his face. Just–complete nothing.

“You never flinch,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a sudden realization, but it was close. Again, that momentary pause, like the hero had been grabbed and stopped by some otherworldly being on a molecular level. It allowed the villain to catch the next hit the hero threw at them.

“What?”

The hero, to his credit, didn’t sound upset, and in this line of work the villain was especially good at noticing the tiny pieces of that kind of thing. He just sounded confused, maybe.

“When I hit you. You don’t flinch,” the villain clarified. The hero just stared at them.

“You only really flinch if you aren’t used to it,” the hero said finally.

“Used to it?”

“You heard me,” the hero replied, and this time, there was irritation behind his words.

The villain tossed the hero’s fist down, and the hero stumbled back.

“And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware there was one.”

“Are you intentionally being annoying, or is it just natural for you?”

The hero’s breath shuddered.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry–you–I don’t want an apology,” the villain sputtered. This conversation felt above his pay grade; and he wasn't entirely sure why, either, which irked him, itching under his skin.

“So–” the hero snapped his jaw shut around the rest of the word, and it looked like he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from finishing it.

Before the villain could prod further–about the flinching, or any other confusing aspect of it–the hero blew out a breath, and said, “I’m done here.”

The villain blinked.

“You can’t just decide when a fight is over.”

“Watch me,” the hero said, but his voice didn’t have the heat that usually went along with that phrase.

“You’re a hero, isn’t this kind of your entire job? Finishing fights, not walking away from them?”

“I said, I’m done,” the hero snarled, and it was the first hint of emotion he had shown the entire day, explosive and aimed entirely at the villain. The villain was taken aback for a moment.

The hero turned and left before the villain could even think of a response. He didn’t look over his shoulder.

Of course, the villain followed him home.

The fact that he had been able to at all was something to be worried about.

He watched as the hero entered, shutting the door behind him. Heard the sound of his bag hitting the floor, his jacket being hung up. Normal, quiet little things. Shuffling through the kitchen, making a cup of tea. A quiet conversation with his mother.

The villain was about to leave when he heard the slap.

He was through the door before he realized he was moving, leaving the handle to slam into the wall.

He caught the barest edge of a conversation as he rounded the corner–a curse word, then a vile sort of thing that was somehow worse than anything the villain had managed to say in his entire life–and slotted himself neatly between the hero and his mother.

The villain caught her wrist before it could touch any part of the hero. His grip was too tight to be anything but painful.

The hero’s mother gaped at them.

A bruise was beginning to bloom across the hero’s cheek.

The hero was shaking, slightly, face tense and drawn as he stared at the villain. Like the villain was the unnerving thing in this situation, and the hand his mother still had raised was the normality.

A rage, raw and unfathomable, ravenous within him, descending down so deep into the white hot of fury that it passed anything that had a name, uncurled itself along his bones.

“Touch him again,” the villain seethed, voice shaking with all that feral untamed mess within himself, “and you lose the hand.”

“Villain,” the hero said quietly, and the villain had never heard him so meek.

How long did it take for a person to learn that kind of quiet?

“Villain, leave it.”

The villain didn’t release the hero’s mother’s–no. The woman in front of him wasn’t a mother. She was something twisted, and broken, and cruel, upper lip curled with displeasure. Not that the villain was within her kitchen; but that he had stopped her from hitting her child.

The villain wanted nothing more than to vomit on her spotless white tiles.

Maybe in another life she would have been the kind of person the hero, with his kind heart, would have saved before it got to this point.

Maybe in another life the villain would have let the hero try.

But that was not this life.

And there was a bruise blooming on his hero’s cheek.

“You have no right–”

“Did I not make myself clear?” He said, and it was black and poisonous in the air.

The woman in front of him swallowed, and for the first time, fear flickered across her face.

Good.

“Villain,” the hero said, voice strangled, and the villain turned to look at him.

“She’s hurt you before,” the villain said, and it wasn’t a question. The hero looked at him wide-eyed, and he wondered how many times the hero had walked into a fight with him with pre-existing injuries. Injuries he would pretend later that the villain had given him.

The hero swallowed, hard.

“Yes,” he whispered, and that was all the villain needed. He turned back around.

“The only reason you are alive right now is because I think killing you would upset him,” he informed her, and he watched her face pale. “That, and getting blood out of shoes is a bitch. Isn’t it, hero? See, you wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever made you bleed, I’d wager, because if they had, you would understand it isn’t the kind of thing you do to someone you love.”

He grinned, feral.

“You’re going to leave,” he continued. “Matter of fact, you’re going to vanish. And you’re going to do it so well that if he wants, he’ll never have to think of you again. The only way you’ll ever see him again will be because he wants it to happen, do you understand me? If you don’t, we’ll make you vanish my way.”

The hero made a choked noise behind him. “I don’t think you’ll like that very much,” the villain confided in a whisper.

He wasn’t sure the woman in front of him was breathing.

“Hero,” he said after a long minute. He was going to leave bruises on her wrist. She was shaking, and it soothed some of the yawning rage within him. “Pack a bag.”

The hero vanished into the halls of the house.

The villain didn’t say anything, just stared at the woman in front of him, as if he looked long enough he would be able to see the rotten core inside of her that had made her this way. Turned her into something violent. Or perhaps, the thing that had been inside her since birth, broken and seething. Inevitable.

He didn’t like to believe people could be born evil.

He would make an exception.

The hero appeared back behind him as silent as a wraith, far faster than the villain had expected, duffel bag in one hand.

He wondered how long the hero had had a bag tucked away, packed and ready to run if it got too bad.

He wondered what the hero considered ‘bad enough’ and his jaw clenched hard enough he could hear the bones creak.

“That all you need?”

The hero nodded, mutely, and the villain finally dropped the woman’s hand. She pulled back, hissing as she rubbed her arm, but she had the sense to not glare at the villain.

He tipped his head towards the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, as gently as he had ever heard himself.

The hero followed him out, and they didn’t say anything until the villain’s apartment door locked behind the both of them.

The villain blew out a shuddering breath.

The hero looked like he wasn’t entirely there, eyes glassy.

“Hero,” he said softly, and the hero’s gaze snapped to his face. He stopped himself from reaching for him, a helpless effort to do something, to fix it. “Can I touch you?”

He made sure it didn’t sound like a demand, because if the hero said no, the villain would die before crossing that line, no matter how much it stung. A moment later, to his relief, the hero gave a jerky nod.

He moved slowly, a gentle palm on the hero’s jaw to tip it up, inspecting the bruise with pursed lips. He brushed away the tear that slipped down the hero’s cheek with his thumb, and left it there.

“It could be worse,” the hero offered quietly.

“The fact that it exists at all is worse enough,” the villain murmured, tipping the hero’s head back down. “I’m so sorry.”

The hero blinked, brow furrowing. “For what?”

The villain shrugged one shoulder. “That it happened. That it has been happening. That I didn’t notice.”

“I’m good at hiding it,” the hero said, like it was supposed to make the villain feel better.

“You shouldn’t have had to learn how to do that at all,” the villain said, and the hero’s lip wobbled.

The hero wavered slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He carried himself like the entirety of his body was an open wound, every second spent breathing a second spent in agony.

The villain couldn’t pretend he knew what this felt like, but he could do his best to soothe it as much as possible.

“Come here,” he said softly, and the hero melted into him, shaking as he tried to cry quietly and failed. He tucked the hero against his chest, and hand coming to curl into the hero’s hair as he let out a desperate keening noise.

He rested his chin on the top of the hero’s head. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “It’s not right now, but it will be, I promise. Even if it takes a while.”

The hero shuddered against him, then nodded, just once.

It wasn’t okay, but it would be.

The villain had promised.

And he never broke a promise.

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.