The Villain Emerging From Their Hiding Spot. "Oh. This Is Sad."

hero has a fencing sword. villain has a fencing sword.

hop to it

The swords were real. Not just for practice, even though that was what they were being used for. They could cut skin like paper. Paper like air.

Alive was not the right word they'd use to describe the hero. But alive they looked. Overwhelmingly so. The sweat-matted hair sticking to their face. The warm puffs of air let out with every exhale. The sun burning red into their cheeks. Overwhelmingly alive and there and existing.

(But they were not alive, they were very much dead. Dead and revived and more alive than they'd ever been actually alive.)

So alive was the hero, so painfully alive that they felt like a second sun burning the villain's eyes, that they wondered what would happen if they plunged the fencing sword into the hero's chest.

The villain managed to get the hero down on the practice ground, sword fallen away, staring up at them shadowed.

The hero glared up at them. The blazing sun made their eyes squint into narrow crescents.

The villain tipped the hero's chin up by the end of their sword. "Déjà vu much?"

"Not really," said the hero. Their breath came hotter than the air around them like it was winter. The villain hadn't touched them once, since the resurrection. "I'm rather hurt you're not treating me gently."

"I figured you needed something fresh."

"I do. Believe me, I do. I'm rather sick and tired of everyone treating me like I'll die again with one wrong shove. But I hoped that tough exterior would come apart. It's like you don't care about me after all."

The villain gripped their sword tight, and tipped the hero's chin up further so they could see their throat. Their sword left a red line up, but that was the only mark on their neck, and it was so painfully human and alive that the villain's grip on the sword threatened to go slack.

"How did you do it?" the villain asked, because their throat was as smooth as marble.

They'd found them with their throat slit, already dead. Too late to do anything. Hell-bent on revenge. Then they'd found them again, cleaning up the days-old blood on the same spot. They called it fucking social work.

"Like I'd let you know. Like you won't use the info to try and become immortal. Wreak havoc for ever and ever."

The villain twisted their sword, daring them to keep talking. But they didn't dig it in. Didn't dare push further. All that they were was morbid curiosity and no bite.

The hero grinned and threw sand at them. The villain shouted and dropped their sword, too, and felt hands roughly twist into their shirt, dragging them back and slamming them against the wall so fast and so hard that the villain had the wind knocked out of them.

The villain's eyes flew open as they felt the hero's chuckle inches away from their neck.

The hero leaned back, alive and well and overwhelming on the senses. A playful grin tugged at their lip. "Déjà vu?"

Anything else the hero said got snuffed out by the villain's ears as their gaze landed on the little cut on the hero's neck. They darted forward as if on instinct, pressing their lips against the wound.

(And they were so, so, warm and so, so mortal still. Their blood ran hotter than ever and the villain wanted for it to never go cold.)

The wound healed in seconds, moments. It healed with such force that the hero gasped and shook.

The villain drew back to the hero wide-eyed, breathing hard. They looked so rejuvenated and so shocked that there was no doubt that the villain's power had rippled through their entire body.

The villain tensed up against the wall.

"I see," the hero said breathlessly.

"You see nothing," hissed the villain, then choked on air as the hero darted forward and pressed their lips hard against the villain's neck. Stiffening up like a cat.

The hero held them there for a long moment, impossibly warm, burning hot. Then they let go and shifted to nuzzle at the underside of their jaw kittenishly.

"It's sweet that you care." The villain could hear the grin in their words. They tried not to shiver at the hot breath brushing at all their sensitive nerve endings. "That fear in your eyes was frankly delectable. I still won't tell you how I did it."

"I wish you'd stayed dead," they managed to croak out.

"You love me." The hero leaned back to tuck two fingers underneath the villain's chin and make them look. "It's sweet. Really. But don't let it affect practice, hm? We have a mission to complete, after all." They took the sword, threw it for the villain to catch, and picked up their own. In the heat, they looked like a godsent soldier.

They resumed practice.

The embarrassment never left the villain. Ever.

Even when you suspect what's happening, you are hit by the reveal. Very fun read.

will you write something vampire themed for spooky season?

The coffin was luxurious, as far as coffins went. The protagonist had half-expected just a plain wood box, scratchy and full of splinters. They supposed, if they had to die, they could at least do so in style.

It didn't really make them feel better.

And it didn't make the coffin fit two people any better either.

"Stop squirming," the secret love of their life snapped. "You're just going to get us more stuck."

"I don't think it's possible to get more stuck." Their voice was only a little, reasonably, hysterical. "We're buried alive in a bloody coffin!"

The secret love of their life looked awful beneath them. Pallid, even in the crowded gloom of their shared grave. They felt clammy and cold beneath the protagonist's limbs.

The protagonist swallowed. They tried to stop squirming. There were no comfortable positions.

The love of their life hissed between their teeth with irritation, and if the protagonist could see properly, they were sure that a terrifying and wrathful and gorgeous glare would be pointed in their direction.

"I'm sorry," the protagonist said. For the squirming, sure, but mostly for everything else. For somehow getting them into this mess. For being the last idiot that the love of their short life would ever see. For not knowing how to save either of them.

"You should stop talking and conserve your air."

"You should stop talking and conserve your air," the protagonist mumbled. They closed their eyes. They tried not to panic. The panic closed in on them on every side, just like the too close suffocating padded walls, and the steady weight of six or so feet of packed soil crushing them on all sides.

"Someone's going to rescue us," the love of their life said. "Your friends - someone - will figure out where we are."

"Coffin. My first guess too."

"They'll get us out." The growl in their friend's voice was almost inhuman. Quite impressive.

The protagonist bit down hard on their lip, and the rather unhelpful response of 'before or after we die from the lack of oxygen? Because, you know, I read that people can survive five hours locked in a coffin. Tops. If they're not hyperventilating. But who's hyperventilating! I'm not hyperventilating! Are you?'

Their friend drew a sharp breath. Then they squirmed, hypocritically, before managing to place cool hands on either side of the protagonist's whirling brain.

"Easy," they murmured, abruptly far more gentle. "You're okay. You're going to be okay. I'm not - I won't let anything bad happen to you."

The protagonist felt tears prick the corners of their eyes. Absurd.

One of their friend’s thumbs grazed over their lip, wiping away the bead of blood there.

"Match your breathing to mine," their friend murmured, voice a little hoarse and trying-to-keep-it-together. "Concentrate on me."

The protagonist did their best. Their friend breathed very slowly, admirably calm really, given the circumstances.

"I won't hurt you," their friend said. "I love you. I won't."

"It's not you I'm worried about. Wait - you love me?"

It was impossible to see the love of their life's face, and really, a coffin was the worst place for a confession. Because the protagonist would very much have liked to have seen their face. At least if they were hanging over a lava pit, the protagonist would have been able to see their face, and make a judgment on if they meant that platonically or romantically.

God. They hated their brain.

Their friend didn't say anything and the silence was surely almost as agonising as dying. Almost. They brushed a tear away from the protagonist's cheek, feather-light.

"More than anything," their friend said. "Now shut. up. Please. And please, please, stop moving."

The protagonist shut up. Somehow. They rested their head against their friend's chest, letting the knowledge of that confession fill them with warmth, or try to.

At least they were dying in a coffin with someone they loved. Who loved them back. Someone's whose heart was so...

The protagonist stopped. It was a trick. A mistake. Something. But it felt, beneath their ear, like their friend's heart wasn't beating. Actually, when the protagonist really thought about it, now that their breathing was more or less steady, even in the squashed space they couldn't hear their friend's breathing at all. They couldn't feel it against their cheek and...

They didn't think the love of their life had always been so cold.

"Why." The protagonist resisted the urge to shift again. "Why do you think you're going to hurt me? Worst you're going to do is elbow me in the face?"

Their friend was silent a second time.

"Right?" The protagonist pressed.

"Someone will find us. They'll get us out. It's not a problem. It won't be a problem."

"What...what won't be a problem?" But the protagonist, with a dreadful twist in their stomach, knew. It should have been obvious, maybe, in the last twenty four hours.

The stomach bug. The dark glasses. The cringing from the sunlight.

"I won't hurt you." A mantra. Not a reassurance; a mantra, a plea. "I love you. I won't hurt you. You're going to be fine."

Five hours, suddenly, seemed like a lifetime.

The coffin was luxurious, as far as coffins went. Excellent quality. Top notch.

Nothing else, after all, would keep in a newly turned and starving vampire locked up.

"Shit," the protagonist whispered.

And that about summed up their current predicament.

Okay but hear me out, this could make a fun prompt:

"You made three mistakes. One more, and it's all over."

There was a reviewer or commenter who said "I always keep track of how many mistakes the protagonist makes and after three, I stop reading the story and never look back".

I think about that person pretty frequently. We read for our own enjoyment, and therefore there's no wrong way to read a book so long as you're enjoying yourself, but ... maybe I don't actually believe that. Maybe there are wrong ways to read a book, and this guy found one.

The woman was barefoot and caked in mud and ash. Her eyes glared up at his. Glowing, hungry.

"Impossible," The prince huffed. "But an excellent bluff."

"They all are," she said, voice hollow, gesturing across the landscape.

She picked her way through the destruction, hardly breaking eye contact even as she stumbled.

The prince laughed, but the sound wasn't convincing, even to his own ears. "Save your breath," he said. "They... They must have moved farther east."

"...Without their helmets?" The woman said, picking up a partially melted helmet from the rubble.

The prince faltered. "That... That's my father's helmet," he gasped. He seemed to look at her with a new wariness.

"You know who I am," the woman said.

"Y-you're nothing more than a legend," the prince said. "You... You must have stolen the helmet. To trick me!"

The woman grew closer.

The prince's mount chuffed and backed away.

"S-Stay back!" The prince said.

The woman tilted her head, but she stopped. "Go."

"Go?..." The prince whimpered.

"Go back to where you came from, and tell your kingdom what you saw here."

The prince gulped. Nodded. Ran.

He did not pause until the woman completely faded from view.

"I knew he was afraid of my conquering army, but I didn't think he would be stupid enough to leave you behind." "Oh, no, you quite misunderstand. Your army's already dead."

#136

Not many villains are brave enough—or stupid enough—to come straight through the front doors of the agency, so the agency never thought to put up anything more secure than a barrier for heroes to scan through on their way in.

The villain saunters in, hops straight over the barrier, and loudly demands, “Which of you assholes is meant to be [Hero]’s boss?”

The heroes leap on them, of course, and twenty against one is barely a fight. The hero’s boss, it turns out, is just the guy they wanted to see anyway.

“Why are you just strolling through my agency?” the superhero asks incredulously.

“Someone's clearly dramatised my entrance. I didn’t get past reception,” the villain corrects with a scowl. “And it’s not my fault you lot have the same amount of security as a train station. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to tear you a new one.”

The hero standing behind them makes a noise dangerously resembling laugh. Even the superhero quirks an eyebrow disbelievingly. The villain is sitting in his office in cuffs, sure, but this is only the beginning of what will be an ass kicking.

“You villains are so violent.” The superhero tuts, opening a tin box next to him with a shake of his head. “Has anything happened to warrant this so-called new one tearing, or is this just routine?”

“I’m glad you asked. Did you not notice [Hero] was missing?”

“Oh, yeah I did.” A biscuit comes out of the tin and promptly disappears into the superhero’s mouth. “Are they with you then?”

The disgusted silence the villain leaves is a second too long. “… Yes.”

The superhero nods mindlessly. “Cool.”

This silence is even longer. The villain can hear the hero behind them shuffle awkwardly. “You don’t care,” they say flatly.

“[Hero]’s a rookie,” the superhero offers with a shrug. “Catch one of my best, and I’ll consider coming to visit sometime. I don’t send rescue parties for just anyone.”

The villain can only stare at him in disbelief as he nonchalantly fishes about for another biscuit. Villains would never do that. Villains leave no man behind. The idea that they could be trapped somewhere, in enemy territory, with no promise of at least someone coming for them, is a horror enough to haunt their nightmares.

The villain really thought they’d done something when they’d managed to catch the hero. The hero was scared, of course, but the villain had put that down to the usual. A hero in a villain’s grasp won’t be without injury for long. But the hero had had a certain defeated look in their eye as well, and it’s only now that the villain is realising that that was probably because someone like them disappearing into a villain’s lair means they aren’t getting out.

The cuffs rattle slightly, and the villain heaves a deep breath to stop their hands from shaking. “I've heard them crying every night, knowing you’re not coming for them,” they snap coldly. “You’re heartless.”

The superhero can just about be bothered to meet their eye for a second before his interest diverts back to the food in his hand. “You don’t become a superhero by loving everyone, [Villain]. Do we have a cell set up?”

The hero behind the villain clears their throat. “We do.”

The superhero waves them off, and that’s the end of the conversation. The hero shoves the villain into a cell, and several hours later finds the back of that cell blown clean out with the villain’s friends at the detonator.

The villain never had a doubt they would be set free—they always are. Villains may not be looked upon favourably, but having a posse of like-minded outcasts can make some real ride-or-dies.

-

The hero wipes their eyes when they hear the door at the end of the corridor opening, rubbing their sleeve against their nose in an attempt to look a little less pathetic. They glance up to realise it’s not just the villain, but several of their friends too, all watching them with curiosity. Their stomach drops.

“You got it bad, huh?” the villain says lightly.

The hero doesn’t know what to say to that. They turn their gaze down at their hands to avoid everyone’s burning stares.

There’s a heavy clunk, and out the corner of their eye they can see the cell door swinging open. The villain shoots them a smile as they look up confusedly.

“We were wondering if you’d like to come with us,” the villain continues. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay in here, in the cold and the damp, like a hero. But, y’know…”

The villain shrugs. “We don’t leave people behind, I’ll say that much.”

A hero should never consider an offer from a villain. It’s a trap, the superhero always said. It’s common sense, it’s the right thing to do, it’s what a hero would do.

They didn’t think heroes were left at the mercy of their enemies by their own either, but here they are.

The hero wipes at their face again and clears their throat, painfully aware of how much they’ve been crying. “Um,” they say, their voice a horrible rasp. “O-Okay.”

They all cheer as the villain reaches in to pull them out. Someone hands them a thick jacket. “Put it on,” someone else says. “You’re in the gang now!”

It almost feels like they’re happy to see the hero as one of them. It’s a new feeling, and one the hero finds they like.

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.

I love the expression transition and the cute little bounce, and the secondary animation on the ascot is just *chef's kiss*

Absolutely lovely work

Paper test animation I did yesterday!

It's 25 frames, 12 fps, with a few of the frames on twos, and drawn on sticky notes!!!

This is one of my ocs/personas :D

This is also my first time animating/doing frame by frame on paper! I animated this using a mix of pose to pose and straight ahead animation, mainly straight ahead :3 I am entirely self taught when it comes to animation, and if possible I would like some critique on this! However disclaimer that I am aware that my model changes a bit XD I did this within an hour because I was crunching for time between my free block and my first class in the morning. X3

Anyways, hope you folks like it, have a nice day!

Ps: if anyone who knows my characters has any more requests for animations of them, hmu! I actually really enjoyed this and I want to do more when I'm free!!!

"I found the cure." You hold up a vial.

"Y-you did?" They smile. "That's wonderful!"

They reach for the vial, but you pull it away. Their smile falters.

"You never loved me, did you?" You whisper, voice raw.

The vampire spat out your blood. "God, what have you been eating?!"

"You seem remarkably dispassionate these days," they said in a low voice.

The soft creak of the floorboards was the only sound. They seemed to shift towards you, and you recoiled from the brush of their fingers.

"We're strangers," you whisper, voice cracking. "We're practically strangers now."