Peter Stared Warily At The Creature Towering Above Him, Nursing His Many Wounds. "My Ex Sent You, I'm

The man who strides in is haggard and unkempt. He looks at you with a dead-eyed expression and a look of utter despair.

"So, uh, here goes," he says. "People say you have some kind of power. And I just... I'm wondering if you can check my red string."

"Of course," you say. The request is not unusual. "I'll even tell you who's on the other side, if you like."

You find the start of the string and motion for him to follow. He trails behind you wordlessly, his eyes glued to the floor.

Outside, you can see the string disappear into the horizon.

"We'll take my car," you say.

You drive down the road in silence, following the twists and turns of the string. Sometimes you lose sight of it and have to retrace your steps. It's a bit difficult to pinpoint one string in an area full of people.

Finally you reach a residential building. The string goes straight into the walls of the third floor.

"We can stop," the man whispers. He sags in his seat and buries his head in his hands.

"You recognize this building?" you ask.

He nods quietly.

You touch his shoulder gently. "Then why--"

"It'll never work," he mutters. "My roommate, he's so... Oblivious."

You tilt your head. "Have you shared your feelings?"

He laughs. "So, so many times. He just doesn't get it. He doesn't think... Two guys..." He sighs and shakes his head in resignation. "I need to move out."

"You don't have to explain it," you say gently.

"Do you want to come in for some tea?" he asks.

You nod.

You walk up the stairs behind him. The string pulls taught as you reach his floor. You walk down the hallway, glancing at the various apartments, and pause at the door that the string leads to.

"Why are you stopped over there?" he says. "I live over here."

You blink, then follow him. He hesitates at the door. "I think he's home," he says.

"He can't be. The string leads down the hall," you say.

He opens the door. "Oh. Hey, roomie," he says.

His roommate waves back.

He gestures for you to sit.

You shake your head. "I have to tell you something," you whisper.

"Don't worry, he's got a headset on and he can't hear you right now," the man says.

"He's not your soulmate," you say.

"What?" he squawks.

You look at the string. It pulled taught straight into the wall.

"Come out to the hallway with me," you say. You knock on the door the string leads you to.

The man who answers says, "Oh no. Is your roommate being dumb again?"

Your client hesitates. He experiences a moment of realization.

"Oh. Y-yeah," he says.

"I got your favorite snacks," says the man who answered. "Also I need to share this new show with you. I know you'll love it."

Your client looks at you uncertainly. You smile.

"Oh, you're, um, welcome to join too," the man who answered says.

"No, you two have fun," you say with a knowing smile.

Your client smiles. "Thanks."

Some say that an invisible red string is tied around the fingers of soulmates meant to be together forever. As it turns out, you can see these red strings, and have therefore created a highly successful matchmaking business.

"I hardly sleep, and when I do, I am plagued by nightmares."

"I can help, but the price is steep."

Look, writer’s block is not some giant, mysterious monster. It’s you, in your head, holding yourself back because you’re afraid what you’re writing sucks. And here’s the truth, yeah, maybe it does suck. But you know what? That’s okay. Writing something bad is still better than writing nothing at all. You don’t wait for inspiration to strike, you show up, write the garbage draft, and then fix it later. Writing isn’t about perfection, it’s about getting it done. Even if it’s one crappy page at a time.

Prompt (517)

“People don’t take me seriously enough,” the villain said. “How can I look more intimidating?”

“Well, for starters, you can stop inviting your enemies to lunch dates to survey them,” the hero said.

The villain chuckled sarcastically, but wrote the answer down anyway. The hero sipped their coffee. A wry smile curled their lips.

“You’re paying, right?” The hero asked.

“Shut up. Yes. Next question.”

The vampire wrenched away the religious bauble and tossed it aside. Their hair dripped with holy water. The hunter stumbled back, their injured leg giving out. They scrambled for any weapon left, but came up empty.

The vampire loomed over them. The hunter did their best to stand, using the wall for support. Cornered in an abandoned church. How fitting.

"A pity this should end so soon," the vampire said, tracing the hunter's jawline with a sharp nail. "You fought valiantly, my faithless little hunter."

"Quit stalling and kill me," the hunter spat, flinching from the hand and flattening themselves against the church wall.

"Ah. The faithless hunter is so quick to be martyred." The vampire laughed low at that. "Perhaps I want to make you mine. I have a weakness for the fallen."

"I won't become like you."

"Oh?"

"Your kind destroys lives with what you do." The hunter trembled. "You... You destroy homes and families. I'd rather die."

"You seek vengeance, but it will not absolve your grief," the vampire said, a shadow cast over their features. "Just as you seek death, though it will destroy your hopes for vengeance. What an exercise in futility."

"It is not futile to give others peace," the hunter bit back.

The vampire shook their head and brushed aside the hunter's hair. "Poor, faithless hunter. In the end you are still forsaken."

"I don't want to hear that from a creature who lives off stolen time," the hunter said, swatting away the hand. "How many have you killed for your miserable half-life?"

The vampire smiled wide, fangs glinting in candlelight. "Enough to survive. I live off the corrupt and self-righteous. When such prey wanders in so freely, why deny myself?"

"Because even monsters get lonely," the hunter said with a mocking smile. "How long must a beast live alone to beg for companionship from their hunter? How many came to pity you before your hunger reminded you of what you are?"

That struck a chord. The vampire's eyes grew wide, feral with fury. "If a beast is what you seek, it's what you deserve."

They pushed the hunter onto their bad leg, who then toppled sideways. The vampire gripped a fistful of hair and drew them close. They flailed, and the vampire wrapped another arm around them to hold them firm.

Fangs grazed their neck. Their pulse fluttered.

"What are you waiting for?" the hunter hissed. "Do it."

A droplet of salt hit the vampire's tongue. A single tear streaked across the hunter's face and down their neck.

"Do it," the hunter whispered, going slack. "I have... Nothing." Their voice soft and broken, a confession.

The vampire drew back, and wiped the tear from the hunter's face.

The hunter's eyes shot open in silent betrayal.

"Kill me, you coward," the hunter growled.

"No." The vampire cradled their head and gently laid them across the floor. They knelt beside them and cupped their cheek.

The hunter lunged, or tried. The vampire caught their wrists and held them there. The hunter screamed raw and anguished.

They fought the vampire's hold until they exhausted themselves.

"I've lost my appetite," the vampire said, and stood.

Their soft steps echoed through the old church. They paused to pick up and toss back the religious bauble. The hunter caught it.

"Perhaps one day you'll find some use in that," the vampire said. "If only to remind you of the day a beast took pity on you."

And then they were gone, leaving the hunter alone with their thoughts.

Part 2

"You have misunderstood the lore, hunter. It is neither crucifix, nor rosary, nor holy water, nor any other trapping of faith, but faith ITSELF that is anathema to my kind. And yours has proven to be. . . insufficient."

Hey! I love your writing so much. I think I read almost all of your stories.

I was wondering if you could write an angst to comfort story with a henchman who made a minor mistake and is absolutely freaking out because their previous boss didn’t allow for mistakes and the Supervillain and current leader would comfort them?

I think it would be so cute!

Bonus point if the henchman is ruthless in fights and normally very stoic and cold.

I hope you have a nice and once again, I love your writing ❤️

A Misplacement

Henchman braced as Supervillain swept into the room, their grandiose presence seeming to bring everyone in the office into a more upright posture. The henchman stood impassively with their hands clasped and head slightly bowed, awaiting any orders that might be heading their way after the rather dramatic entrance.

“Henchman. Grab Hero’s file for me, will you?”

Henchman knew a command when they heard one, just as they had been prepared for.

“Yes, sir.”

Supervillain brushed by, still speaking as they walked.

“You can stop with that ‘sir’ nonsense. I respect the dedication, but you could really stand to lighten up a bit. It’s Supervillain,” their boss called, rounding the corner into their private office before Henchman had a chance to retort.

It would take more than that to trip Henchman up. They knew the rules, and ‘sir’ was just the tip of the iceberg.

Fight well, follow orders, and keep their head down. That’s all Henchman knew how to had to do. The trap of casualness was not one they would be falling into anytime soon.

They walked briskly to a cabinet against the wall and jingled a small set of keys from their pocket. They found the correct one almost automatically and went straight for the initials they knew Hero would be filed under. They dug past a few folders, brow creasing as they passed the suspected location. Semi-frantically, Henchman pulled out two other drawers, digging through those too to no avail.

Henchman froze. Hero’s file. It was gone.

Numbly, their gaze shifted across the room to the shredder that they had used yesterday to purge some older files at the request of their supervisor. Their hand shook as they closed the drawer of the filing cabinet.

Follow orders, until they can’t. Then it becomes, accept what comes next.

Blankly, they stepped towards their superior’s office. They paused at the door, shoving all their thoughts down into a tiny box they sealed shut with the mental equivalent of an excessive amount of duct-tape.

They could face the punishment. They always could.

The door opened with a click and Henchman allowed their jelly-filled legs to carry them into the center of the room, stopping there and reassuming the stiff posture and clasped hands that they reserved solely for moments spent in the presence of their boss.

“You can just set it on the desk,” Supervillain voiced dismissively, not looking up from the task at hand, which seemed to be signing some papers spread out in front of them. When no file placed itself on their desk, Supervillain rested their pen and questioned, “Is there something else?”

When they received no response, the supervillain lifted their head and immediately took notice of their employee’s current state.

“Henchman, are you alright?”

Supervillain had risen from their large leather arm chair and was now heading towards their subordinate.

“You just look a little pale. Come, sit down will you?”

They grabbed Henchman by the shoulders and led them to sit down in the chair that they had just occupied.

They hadn’t so much as touched the cushion before the words started to spill out of their mouth, lacking the usual curtness Supervillain had grown used to during Henchman’s lengthy employment.

“The file. I’m sorry. I must have misplaced it yesterday with some old papers. It’s not an excuse,” they added hurriedly. “I know and I understand that you need to-“

Their boss shot observant eyes to Henchman’s hands, which they had unknowingly started wringing in their lap.

“Is that what this is about? The file?” Supervillain questioned incredulously.

Their stoic, ruthless fighter who had never been anything but absolutely dependable on the battlefield was now ashy as a ghost and squirming after being asked to deliver a file.

“I messed up. I know the consequences-” Henchman explained almost robotically before their boss cut them off.

“Consequences? Henchman, we can just print another one. They’re saved in the cloud. It’s no big deal. It takes, like, two minutes. I know the printer is slow but it’s certainly not worth crying over.”

Crying? Henchman would never-

Oh. There was liquid trailing down their cheek now, running from the corner of their eye to the bottom of their jaw.

Oh no. Their boss would never forgive them for this.

Their boss, who was-

Henchman braced for sharpness, but Supervillain met them with nothing but soothing words.

“Breathe, Henchman. Breathe.”

Supervillain still had them by the shoulders, but now they were in front of them, kneeling and modeling deep breaths with their whole body and maintaining eye contact with a completely frozen Henchman.

“Are you breathing? I don’t hear anything.” Supervillain shook them gently and their employee finally took one big breath in without breaking the rigid professional composure they were still so desperately clinging to.

“That’s it.” Supervillain encouraged, signaling them to release the breath with an exaggerated deep sigh through slightly pursed lips. “You’re doing so well.”

Henchman’s facade broke with a loud, hiccuping sob.

At that, Supervillain wasted no time smothering them with a tight hug, holding on for long enough that Henchman was able to stop hyperventilating and start matching the pace of the lungs pressed up against them.

Only when Henchman’s face started to burn hot with embarrassment from their situation did their superior finally pull away, but only far enough to look them in the eye as they spoke.

“You transferred from Villain’s office, correct?”

Henchman nodded in confirmation, sniffling quietly and averting their eyes.

“Ah, I see.”

Supervillain went right back into the embrace and continued it for as long as Henchman let them.

A few tissues and a short talk on acceptable treatment of workers later, Supervillain eventually exited their personal office, entering the greater office area and addressing the first worker that they encountered.

“Other Henchman, pull Villain’s file please. Send me the address.”

Other Henchman nodded, immediately sliding their chair over to the nearest filing cabinet and beginning to thumb through the labels in the drawer.

“Got it,” Other Henchman signaled by waving a file in the air, already typing out a message on their computer.

“I think it’s time I pay someone a visit,” Supervillain declared as they sauntered out the doors, their phone dinging with what was undoubtedly the location of their newest nemesis.

Villain: I'm a villain, darling. My motives hardly matter. Hero: They matter to me.

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.

You jokingly called it your little Trash Shrine.

Suspended from the window hung little earrings you'd picked up from the ground over the years.

On the sill, glass jars held marbles, seashells, buttons. A planter grew dandelions, henbit, and white clover. A little vase of blue jay, cardinal, and raven feathers. A decoupage box filled with magazine clippings and pressed flowers.

You were just adding to your little cushion full of yarn bits when you hear skittering on the kitchen floor. Something tugs at your pants leg and you flinch back. A raccoon stares up at you with unnaturally glowing eyes.

The little raccoon chatters and skitters up to the countertop. It promptly sits on top of the cushion you were just stuffing yarn bits into.

"Thank you, human," a voice says in your head.

You jolt. "Y-you're welcome?"

"I truly thought I was all but forgotten," the voice says. "Not many of your kind pay homage to the God of Discarded Treasures."

"Oh, well, I didn't know I was," you say honestly. "I mean, I would have if I did know. You seem like a cool God."

"I am the rain reclaimed from refuse," the voice says. "The rainbows left by gasoline spills. The flavor of raspberries left by castoreum--"

"I'm going to stop you there," you say. "I mean, I can't be the only person who likes to creatively use trash. What did I do differently?"

Silence.

The raccoon turnes and analyzes the shrine, and skitters over to the decoupage box. They nudge the lid off with their nose, and dumps out the little clippings that lay inside.

"It seems you invoked me accidentally," the voice concedes. "The clippings you have in this box just so happen to perfectly match the words to summon me, if left in the right order." It laid out the passage letter by letter.

"Deus Quisquiliae, exaudi orationem meam, benedic mihi thesauris abiectis."

"Well, no wonder no one summons you," you sigh, sipping your tea. "Most people don't speak Latin these days. Maybe some linguists, Catholics, or doctors. God of... I don't know that word. Hear my praises? Exaudi like, exhalted? Benedict Cumberbatch something me something something."

"There are others that would work. Discarded languages. Discarded treasures. The prayer asks that I bless you with the items that deserve a second life."

You took a picture of the Latin phrase in your phone. "Well, I could make this a daily thing. Do you show up every time?"

"Not in ways you might see, but yes."

"Well, okay. Thanks."

In the following days, you find money in the parking lot. A barista offers you a scone they couldn't sell. The persimmon trees drop their fruit as you come near. You find a discarded chair after yours falls apart. You slip down a hill and find a bed of natural clay that you form into shapes and bake in the hot sun.

Perhaps it's not what everyone would consider a blessing.

Some may even think of it as a curse.

Nevertheless, you set aside a little time each day to thank the little Trash God for their bounty.

You are a person who covers your counter space in clutter and inadvertently makes a shrine to a long forgotten god who shows up to thank you.

A Man of His Word

(Context: Civilian has a friend that is well known for never breaking promises. This friend also just so happens to have a secret, and Civilian has figured it out.)

Cw: threat of death, knife violence

Civilian smiled across the kitchen at Friend. He was helping them put their groceries away, transferring things from the floor to the fridge. Plastic rustled as he removed milk from one bag and various cheeses from another.

“Thanks again for helping me carry these. You know how much I hate doing two trips.”

Friend sighed, rolling his head back dramatically as he replied, “I know you just keep me around for my arm muscles.”

Civilian glared at their friend, who was now flexing his biceps, for all of two seconds before a smile broke back out across their face.

“But really, it’s no problem at all.”

Breaking the comfortable silence after the amendment, Friend bunched up an empty bag, throwing it straight at Civilian instead of shoving it into the bag-of-bags looped around the pantry door handle.

Civilian gasped as they batted it away, instinctively going for the closest thing on the island that wasn’t breakable. They clutched the freshly-bought apple in their hand before throwing it mercilessly at their friend. Luckily, Friend caught it with a laugh, keeping the fruit from being bruised.

Civilian joined in with some light giggling of their own as they watched him take a bite with a satisfying crunch before continuing to stock the fridge while they conquered the pantry.

“Hey! That was supposed to be for a pie!” They protested.

“Please,” he started, pulling some scissors from the kitchen drawer and cutting open the plastic rings from a six-pack of soda they had broken into earlier. “I saved it from a terrible fate:” He finished, tossing the bird-safe remains into the trash, “The horrors of your baking.”

Civilian gaped in offense.

“No more birthday cakes for you!”

“The best gift I could ever ask for,” he winked, coming over to throw an arm over Civilian’s shoulders and ruffle their hair.

The normalcy sent off a pang in their chest.

A thoughtful, dependable, goofy guy. It was just so easy to believe.

It was a shame they knew it was a lie.

Friend had started to relay some adventure from earlier in his day, which Civilian tried their best to attend to. In the background, the TV in the living room was playing some stupid sitcom with a shitty laugh track that was definitely being overused. They leaned against the counter, basking in the peace of it all for just another moment.

Before it all went to shit.

Civilian made their move after the pantry was shut and they both headed for the next room.

“Hey,” Civilian checked their nails as they spoke, “I want to talk to you about something, but you have to promise me something first.”

An innocently confused, mildly concerned expression plastered itself over Friend’s face as he stopped short of the couch. Civilian’s stomach twisted at the sight.

“Yeah, of course. Anything.”

Friend crossed their arms and leaned against the pony wall disarmingly.

“You have to hear me out. Give me ten seconds.”

An awkward chuckle.

“What is this about?”

Civilian met their friend’s eyes seriously.

“Just promise me. Ten seconds.”

“Okay… Yeah sure, ten seconds,” he assured, shooting them an uneasy smile.

Civilian took a deep breath.

“I know who you are.”

And just like that, Friend was gone. Instead, there was Villain, pinning Civilian to the floor, holding a blade a hair’s width from their jugular.

Where he had hidden the knife, Civilian had no idea, not that was particularly important right now. Only one thing was.

“You promised!” They squeaked out, hating how helpless they were in that moment, how they were betting their life on there being a kernel of their friend left in the man on top of them now.

Inflectionless, he responded, “Nine. Eight.”

Civilian’s relief was very short lived. Shit, they should have said fifteen.

Trying so very hard to stay still, to keep that sharpened metal away from their carotid, they practically whispered their desperate plea to the stone face above them, “I don’t care. I swear to anything I don’t. You have a plan to take down Hero. In- in three days. I need to help.”

“Two.”

Frantically, they stumbled over their words as they added. “Oh! and um- dead man’s switch.”

Despite themselves, they scrunched their eyes shut as their internal countdown hit zero. When nothing happened, their eyelids fluttered open again to see utterly unchanged features. No reaction at all.

“What,” Villain spoke, in a voice that Civilian no longer recognized, “does that mean?”

“If I live, your identity stays between us. If I die…”

A sharp pain lit up their arm as, presumably, the knife that had been at their neck relocated itself into their flesh. Civilian swore.

“Who,” Villain growled lowly, leaning close to their ear, “The fuck. Do you think you are?.”

“Someone with a will to live?” Civilian choked, no longer scared to take deep, heaving breaths to the side now that there wasn’t a blade directly above their artery.

“Clearly not. People who want to live keep their mouth shut and run far, far away,” he spit.

Their head was wrenched back into a forward-facing position via a hand in their hair.

“How long?” Villain demanded.

Civilian blinked. Right, the switch.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Suddenly, they were being hauled up by the collar, then unceremoniously shoved into the light blue accent wall, conveniently within sight of where their laptop rested closed in the middle of the room.

“Disable it.”

“I can’t. It's automatic, every 8 hours. No off switch.”

Spots arose in their vision as their arm was grabbed in a rather unfortunate location.

“Disable. It.”

“I can’t. I swear.”

“I can get the code one way or another,” Villain warned.

“I know you could.” Involuntary tears dripped down their face as they explained, “There’s nothing to get. The answer changes every time. It’s randomly selected. I don’t know it till I see it.”

“You’re lying,” he accused, and Civilian didn’t have to look to know that they were bleeding somewhere else now with just a swipe of his hand.

“I’m not! Give me the laptop, we’re running out of time.”

Civilain gestured wildly to the oak wood coffee table.

“The only person running out of time here is you.”

With that, Civilian was thrown back to the floor, Villain straddling their horizontal form before they could get their legs underneath them to scramble back. The knife returned, only this time it would not be pressed shallowly, and there would be no more counting, no more promises of time, no more hesitation.

”Look! Hero killed my parents, okay?!” They blurted, a last, desperate attempt at getting through to him before he ended their life.

Maybe there was a shred of Friend left in the villain after all, because Civilian caught the slightest moment of pause in his movements, a blip they might never have noticed having never spent time with the man.

“Please, I would never stop you,” they pleaded, searching for another blip deep inside their former friend’s eyes. They came away empty.

They didn’t really know how it happened, but somehow they ended up perched on the couch, laptop open and propped on shaking legs. Villain breathed down their neck every second, watching them like a starved hawk.

They were lucky they could even punch the code in with the amount of nervous movement in their fingers and hands.

“That’s it. We’re good for another eight hours,” they confirmed, slowly closing the lid of their laptop and sliding it back onto the table next to the coaster. “Guess we’re partners now,” Civilian laughed weakly.

“No,” Villain dissented, in a tone that left no room for argument. “You’re a temporarily-alive prisoner.”

He appeared in front of them, pulling them up and off the couch with an alarmingly harsh grip.

“Don’t forget it.”