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“Were they good?” The villain asked from where they were sitting behind their desk, their legs propped up on the desk. Their eyes held a fire, and the hero swallowed painfully.
“Who?” They asked, pretending not to know who the villain was referring to. But, they knew. The villain was asking about the date they brought home last night, but they had no idea how the villain found out. They had made sure to disable the cameras located around their house before they went out. So, how? How did the villain know?
“You know who I’m referring to.” The villain said, calmly. But there was a hint of venom behind it, a possessiveness trailing along. The hero frowned, looking away. “Tell me, were they good? As good as me?”
“How did you know-” The hero began, the villain cut them off with a curt shake of their head as they took their legs off the table and stood up. The walk was slow, and deliberate, making sure to put pressure into each step as they came and stood right in front of the hero.
“I know, sweetheart. But that’s not important. I asked you a question.” The villain said, their hand twitched and they brought to the hero’s cheeks.
The hero faltered. What was happening? The villain knew and they didn’t seem to be mad, like previous times when they would lash out at the hero and tell them that they belong to them and them alone. But this? This was unexpected. They took a deep breath, and then: “No.” They answered.
And as if the villain could detect it, they spoke up: “You’re a terrible liar, darling.” They said and smiled, almost sadly. The hero raised a nervous eyebrow.
“You know…I wish you were honest with me. But, it’s okay. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” The villain said, their hand stoping the grazing on the hero’s cheek and falling down. They turned around and sauntered to the set of knives they had, packed away, in a glass cabinet attached to the wall. The hero took in a sharp breath, realizing what the villain was implying.
“You didn’t-” They mumbled, clenching their jaw.
“I already have. I’ll let you say goodbye to the body if you want.” The villain said, examining a knife that had hints of blood left on it, evidence that what they were saying was true. The hero stayed silent. Because that’s what they did. They couldn’t do anything, they were bound to the villain. Whether they liked it or not.
“Such beauty.” the villain murmured.
The hero shuddered at the hand that trailed gingerly along their battered back, tracing the various cuts and purple wounds, and up to caress the white slice up their jaw, touch feather-light.
“Exquesite.” the villain smiled, “Lovely.” they locked eyes.
The hero swallowed. The villain’s gaze was hungry, appreciative, intent.
The hero tried for a stoic, ferocious glare, but it seemed to only make the villain even more amused.
“It’s adorable that you’re still determined to seem like you’re in control of the situation, that you’re stronger. Quite desperate, don’t you think?” they mused, “It’s far good a look on you. Makes you a lot more beautiful with those traces and designs I artfully left on your skin.”
“I’m not some canvas for you to paint on.” the hero snarled.
“Oh, but you are, darling, and I am the artist, the brush.” their grip tightened, nails digging in their skin, deep enough to draw more blood, expression darkening with malice.
“I must own credit for my masterpiece, mustn’t I? After all, you’re mine.” the villain’s voice dropped dangerous, possessive. “Now, I’m not done with you yet. Let’s leave a few more traces on you before your friends come to see you, my masterpiece.”
Not a prompt.
“Oh my dear,” the villain murmured, and their eyes flickered wicked with a foreign glint of delight, face almost unfamiliar.
The hero recoiled at the feather-light fingers that traced along the various bloody cuts and swollen stab wounds, from their back to their abdomen, to their arms and the blood line slicing up the hero’s eye.
“Look at that, look at those, aren’t they beautiful? Aren’t you pretty all battered and hurting like that? It’s far good a look on you.” the villain grinned, flashing their teeth, expression not quite as pure and gentle as their tender touch.
“Retribution.” they muttered, “It’s your punishment, what you deserve, for your misbehaviour. Naughty hero.” they giggled with a sneer, “You should’ve known better than to think you could even mess with someone at least half like me.”
And then, the villain’s amused grin vanished, and the soft touch of gentle fingers suddenly turned to nails digging in the hero’s throat, deep enough to draw blood.
“Imbecile.”
Not a prompt.