Fun with algophobia

Could you continue the story from Tumblr about the hero who is afraid of pain?

First part included for ease of reading!

"You know," the villain said. "I think you may be in the wrong profession."

The hero said nothing, their breathing shallow, their attention stuck unerringly on the villain's hands. Those hands, that touch, that could cause such unimaginable pain whenever the villain so wished it. Hands that, right then, were doing no such thing.

Indeed, the villain's fingers were massaging gently at the hero's scalp, working steadily downwards from the top of their head. The hero could see them in the reflection of the mirror, standing behind them, perfectly at ease.

"The life of a hero," the villain sighed, "is pretty much a guarantee of pain, you know? Noble suffering, yada yada. Emotional trauma. Physical, too, of course."

The hero whimpered.

"Oh?" the villain raised a brow. "Sorry. Am I using too much pressure? You must tell me. You're very tense."

The hero opened their mouth to say something, perhaps please god step back and stop touching me, but their mouth was too dry. Nothing came out. It was pathetic.

The villain met their terrified eyes, and smiled sunnily. They rubbed massage oil over their hands, filling the room with the soothing scent of lavender, and found a particularly tight spot right where the hero's neck turned to shoulder and dug their thumb in.

The hero gasped, squirming like a fish on the hook, because sure it was a good sort of pain but those hands - those hands -

The pain melted into relief, into lightness, into something like pleasure as the knot unravelled away beneath their skin.

"Please," the hero managed. "Please." They slumped boneless, shaking, chains rattling where they kept the hero's wrists pinned to the stool.

Shame and fear burned through them. They could feel the tears prickling at the corners of their eyes.

"You're alright," the villain said. "I've got you. Breathe."

As if that wasn't the awful part! As if the hero couldn't see the gleam of terrible delight in the villain's eyes.

"I said," the villain's hands tightened, momentarily. "Breathe."

The hero forced themselves to take deep breaths, in and out, in an out, counting the dizzying seconds. They dug their nails into their palms.

"Good," the villain said, and their hands moved onto find another new point of tension on the hero's back. "Anyway. I appreciate you're very brave, and all. Braver than the fools who are too dumb and reckless to think to be scared certainly. But it's not good for your health, darling. I appreciate you are a talented healer with that regenerative ability of yours, but the psychological damage..."The villain sighed again. "I mean, just look at you. It's going to take me hours to smooth you all out. The body remembers trauma, you know? It builds up over time, even if the pain is only in your mind."

Hours. The hero had a stomach ache. They were going to pass out, they were certain of it. Their vision was tunnelling at the corners.

"Please let go of me. Please."

"You should stop," the villain said. "Before someone breaks you, yes?"

But the villain knew the hero couldn't, wouldn't, stop. Surely they knew. If fear of pain alone was enough they would never have got in the business in the first place. It still felt unbearable.

Their eyes met in the mirror again. The hero felt a tear roll down their cheek.

"Ah, look at you." The villain raised a hand, to wipe the tear away, and the hero flinched. "All this chatter isn't helping you relax at all, is it? You get my point anyway, don't you?"

The hero didn't know if it would be better or worse to agree, so they simply found themselves staring again.

The villain hummed, and reached for a box of tools, for a sharp knife-

"I'm relaxed!" the hero yelped. "I'm so relaxed. Please. I mean- you're doing a wonderful job and-"

The villain cut some slices of fresh cucumber and the hero's mouth clicked shut.

"I'll stop babbling," the villain said pleasantly, placing one slice over the hero's eye, and then the other.

The hero froze. What would happen if they knocked the slices off? They couldn't see. Where was the villain now? Where were their hands?

"There," the villain cooed, and pressed a kiss to their cheek.

The hero jumped.

The kiss felt like an electric shock - small but literal and it stung more than it actually hurt but - It wasn't just the villain's hands, was it, that could do what they did?

"Please," they could hear themselves, nonsensical, unable to even get a coherent sentence out, let alone something witty or scathing or casual. "Please god-"

"God?" The villain laughed, hands returning to the hero's newly bunched up shoulders. "There's no god here, darling. There's just me. So sit back. Close your eyes, and focus on my hands. Let me work my magic! You'll love it."

The hero soon lost track of time.

***

“Well,” the villain said. “Here we are again.”

“You’re not going to actually hurt me.” The hero jutted their chin up. They pretended at the heroic things they saw on posters; infallible, unwavering strength and bravery.

It was the third time that the villain had captured them. The hero wasn’t incompetent, they had foiled the villain’s plans plenty of times between their antagonist’s victories. Still. The more important part was that, if the villain was planning to seriously hurt them, they would have done it the second time.

The first time, the world’s most terrifying massage, was a warning shot. But the second time?

The villain stood behind them, out of the hero’s line of sight in the dimly lit room; an effect that was no doubt deliberate, though knowing that did nothing to slow the unsteady galloping of the hero’s heart. It didn’t stop them from flinching as the villain’s hand wrapped loosely around their throat, pulling their head to rest back against the warmth of the villain’s torso. They stroked their thumb along the hero’s skittering, treacherous, pulse.

“I’m not going to break you,” the villain said, oh so gentle. “That doesn’t mean I won’t actually hurt you.”

The hero swallowed convulsively against the villain’s palm. They tried to tell themselves that, so long as the villain wasn’t trying to break them, they could hold out. Whatever.

It didn’t feel like forever. The fear was acrid bile in the hero’s throat, it burned in the pit of their belly.

The second time, the villain had set them up in a room with walls that steadily closed in, and in, and in until the option was ‘get crushed’ or tell the villain that they were sorry and would never do it again. They’d had some bravado at first, but as the panic made it increasingly difficult to breathe, they’d meant it. At least for a solid twenty-four hours, they’d met it, they’d been in tears as the villain dragged them out with a sunny smile.

Now…well.

“I like scaring you,” the villain murmured, against their ear. Their grip tightened, restricting the hero’s breathing like they too remembered the ragged hitching of the hero’s breath from times before, and craved it again. “It’s so addictive.”

The hero willed themselves not to make a strangled sound. Their will apparently had the solidness and integrity of a scoop of ice cream left out in the sun.

The villain laughed, entirely too delighted for someone who’d had their plans foiled plenty of times by a competent enemy.

“You really do make me feel like some kind of god,” the villain said. "How could anyone resist that? You can't take one bit off your attention of me. I am the terrible sun that you orbit." They squeezed once more, even tighter, and the hero couldn’t breathe and oh god they were going to die and it would be all their fault for – the villain let go. They stepped around the hero as the hero shuddered, eyes already a little pitifully shiny with tears.

The villain’s grin was all teeth, nothing like the pleasant demeanour they’d pretended at the massage parlour, before it was gone.

The hero eyed their hands, every inch of them, hyper-aware of every inch of not-contact between them.

“Not breaking someone,” the villain said, reaching out to caress the hero’s swollen quivering lip, “and keeping them on the exquisite edge of too much pain is a subtle art. It is one, however, that I have had years to master.”

The hero dug their nails into their palms, whole body tense.

“Not that there isn’t always more to learn, of course.” The villain’s voice was modest. “You’ll be an excellent test subject.”

“What do you want?” Their voice, compared to the villain's, was already embarrassingly hoarse.

“Nothing you can give me, when you won’t stop interfering in my plans. Perhaps I’ll settle for entertainment value, yes?”

It was the hero’s worst fear; getting captured by some cruel thing that didn’t want anything except to hurt them. Because, at least, if there was something that the villain wanted there was a way to make the pain stop, to control it some way, and that it made it a little less airlessly horrifying. Not much. But a bit.

Their eyes met.

“And you’re so responsive!” The villain let a hint of their power, a whisper of it, fizzle against the hero’s skin. The hero reared back with a sharp suck of air, rattling their restraints.. “So, so responsive,” the villain said. “I could give you a papercut and you’d probably whimper. What would happen if I really bought out the big boys?”

“You don’t want to break me.” The hero clung to that.

The villain hummed. They leaned in, so their face was inches from the hero’s.

“If I broke you,” they whispered, like confession, “it would be over.”

And the hero – well the hero – everything sort of tunnelled, everything in them squeezing like they were dying in that horrible room of round two – and –

The villain pressed a kiss to their forehead, wiping the tears from their cheeks.

“We,” the villain said, “are going to have so much fun together.”

--

So not related, but not I'm imagining the villain as a secret vampire of the Sanguivoriphobia universe.