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defectivehero · 1 day

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Hello! If ur requests are open, I'd love to see a villain or hero trying to break down the walls of their enemy, who's whole purpose is to be a tool. Denied everything for the sake of a single goal, a mere sacrifice, destined to die :)

this ask is so peko pekoyama & izuru kamakura coded. and i love it so much. warnings: manipulation, child abuse, graphic depictions of injury/violence/blood, dehumanization

"Ah, you're awake," the villain realizes aloud, looking at the hero. "I was hoping to get some answers from you."

The hero is silent. They look surprisingly calm, despite the situation they find themself in: bound to a chair, a blindfold secured around their eyes. They don't look unnerved, startled; there's no emotion in their expression—no modicum of energy or presence to denote them as even remotely human.

Admittedly, this hero has intrigued the villain, ever since the moment they met. The hero had moved with a mechanical precision, and the villain was surprised to find that their precision extended to every other facet of their life. There is no boundary between work and personal life for the hero—because they simply don't have a personal life. At least, that's what the villain has found. They'd love to be proven wrong at this point—would love to be proven wrong about their lingering suspicions regarding the cruelty of the local hero agency.

"What did you want to ask about?" The hero asks, as if they are the one controlling the conversation. And maybe they are. The villain blinks, thrown back into reality.

"Why are you...?" The villain tries to say. They're not quite sure how to proceed. They take a slow breath and start pacing around the hero, hoping to quell their restless energy. They are the one in control. "No. What did the agency do to you?"

"Why do you care?" The hero hums. There isn't a denial of any kind—"They didn't do anything to me" wasn't a response. The villain's stomach stews in unease.

"Answer the question," the villain demands.

"Very well," the hero answers carefully.

In hindsight, the villain should've braced themself for the answer. They were so focused on the question that they neglected to prepare themself for the nearly infinite amount of possibilities—unspeakably cruel possibilities. They're suddenly grateful that they blindfolded the hero—grateful that the hero won't be able to see their expression. Because what they say next breaks the villain’s composure.

"I was seven when it happened… My powers manifested. I didn't know how to use them. It was bound to happen."

"...What was bound to happen?" The villain hears themself say. Their voice sounds like a stranger’s.

"I was kidnapped walking home from school. One moment, there was a sharp pain on the back of my head; the next, I woke up to a glass cage and a manacle secured around my ankle."

The villain is biting the inside of their cheek so hard they can taste blood. They shouldn't be surprised, but they are.

"I didn't know where I was or what was happening. I was just a child." The hero continues. The villain wants to think that there's a trace of emotion in the hero's voice after the latter statement, but they get the feeling it's just their imagination.

"For a while, I was alone. I don't know how long. I tried to summon my powers, but they still weren't under control. I nearly killed myself in my attempt to escape.

"Then, someone visited. It was a man in a dark suit. He unlocked the cage, or manipulated it, I can't remember—and walked up to me. There was a glass of water in his hand. I was so thirsty.

"I was too young to know any different, too young to question what was clearly a kind gesture. I took a sip... My vision spiraled and I fell to the ground.

"I woke up on an operating table, with people staring down at me through advanced medical equipment. Tears were slipping down my cheeks, from the brightness of the lights above. Someone secured a mask on my face. I tried to stay awake, but I couldn't move.

"I woke up on the floor of my cage, in a pool of my own blood. There was a giant wound on my forearm, leaking pus. I dry-heaved over and over again. Nothing came up.

"I got a lot of visitors after that. It was clear that they did something to me. Suddenly, I was getting meals three times a day, books and video games to keep me busy... I must've been eight or nine years old at that point—old enough to understand that I was nothing more than a lab rat."

It takes them several moments for the villain to find their voice. "...And then?" They manage to ask. They stopped pacing minutes ago—now they're standing across from the bound hero.

"Then I was trained," the hero says. "Brought to the brink of my exhaustion over and over again, day after day. Months passed, then years... like granules of sand slipping through my fingers."

"I was soon trusted to participate in missions. I didn't know what was happening, why I was fighting who I was fighting. All I knew... was the hollowness in my chest and the commands inscribed on my mind itself."

The villain is silent. They don't trust themself to speak—they know their voice would break, betraying their thoughts.

At some point, the hero is the one to break the silence. They tilt their head to the side slightly, leveling the villain with what they can assume to be a curious gaze under the blindfold. "Why have you captured me? Do you hope to rehabilitate me?"

"It won't work," the hero says before the villain can answer. Somehow, they've ascertained that their capture was motivated by that exact desire: the wish for rehabilitation, the visceral need to do something good for someone other than themself. "They have broken me beyond repair." The hero's voice is hollow.

"Everyone can be fixed," the villain responds.

"But I am not a person. I am just a shell, an empty husk. An amalgamation of observations on human behavior, with no memories, no passions, no opinions. I don't even have a name."

Somehow, this is what breaks them. Somehow, the villain survived the onslaught of horrible information, suffered through the retelling of dehumanizing events and cruelty beyond measure. Yet this is what breaks them: the hero does not have a name. A name: a concept so simple. Even animals have names—they are ascribed names by humans. What does it say that this person has no name? They have been deemed lower than humans, lower than animals. They are merely a tool. A weapon.

The villain's thoughts are spiraling. They feel themself moving before they can stop. They robotically break the distance between the two of them, until they're standing over the hero. The hero must sense their proximity, but they do not respond—do not even flinch or move. The villain bites the inside of their cheek hard and begins untying the ropes around the hero's limbs.

"What are you doing?" The hero asks. They sound vaguely surprised. But the villain is nearly certain it’s just an act.

"Leave," the villain demands, their hands shaking ever so slightly as they finish freeing the hero. "Go."

There's a brief flicker of emotion on the hero's face—a quick flash of complete, utter confusion. It happens so fast that the villain can just barely comprehend it, can just barely grasp that the hero may, deep down, have the freedom to express genuine emotion. But as quick as it appears, the confusion is gone: smoothed over by an infuriatingly blank slate.

The villain watches the hero leave. The moment the door clicks shut, the bile on their tongue rises and they dry-heave. They cough and take deep breaths, feeling their throat burn with more than just acid. Unshed tears linger in their eyes, in the back of their throat.

Is the hero past saving? More importantly, do they even want to be saved?

The villain rubs a hand over their face and walks back to the wooden chair where the hero sat moments ago, kicking it over in a rush of pure frustration. It slides across the floor with a horrible screeching noise.

The villain is overcome with an intense desire to do something rather uncharacteristic: they want to free the hero from the agency's chains. And, hell, it's not out of a foolish desire to do something good. Not anymore. Somewhere, deep down, the villain wants the person they just spoke to—who has only known cruelty—to be given a chance to truly live.

It's ironic. The villain has been fighting heroes for years, unaware that the real evil has been under their nose this entire time. Because, while the heroes may be purveyors of justice, the nature of that "justice" is determined by the agency. It's the agency that contributes to the systemic oppression running rampant in their city, it's the agency that manufactures people and turns them into weapons.

The villain clenches their restless hands at their sides. It seems they have to make a slight change to their plans.

i can't tell if i'm happy with how this turned out or not. i feel like the ending kind of sucks, but whatever. it is what it is.

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defectivevillain · 8 hours

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forgone faith

pairing: Monsignor/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

summary: It’s too late to go back now. You might as well continue pushing forward. “Some part of you, however small, lays its eyes on me and finds belonging and understanding.” The chess game has been neglected since you first accused the Monsignor of being threatened by you, and you can’t attribute that to mere coincidence. “Your desires are much like mine,” you elaborate, your heart hammering in your chest. “I see the way you look at other men, the way you look at me. You don’t practice what you preach… and you are no saint.” You finish.

You're a patient at Briarcliff Manor, and your simple chess matches with the Monsignor quickly escalate into something more.

notes: The reader was born a woman, but is under the trans/nonbinary umbrella. Their identity isn’t explicitly stated, so feel free to imagine however you’d like. (I usually write the reader from my perspective as a transmasc person, if that’s helpful to know.) Otherwise, no pronouns or physical descriptors are used; race is kept ambiguous.

word count: 3.9k | ao3 version

warnings: period-typical transphobia (not the focus of this fic in the slightest), the questioning/scrutiny of religion (mostly just American Catholicism), conversations about gender identity (grounded in the time period and its prejudiced beliefs, unfortunately), canon-typical violence, electroshock therapy, torture, loss of consciousness, canonical Nazi character

“You have the devil in you.”

You look up from the chess game. In a different time, with different people, that kind of remark would have sent your heart racing. You would’ve been terrified at the thought of your identity being thrust into the open so easily, despite your seemingly endless attempts to keep the skeletons in your dusty closet. Now, as you sit in the Briarcliff Manor Sanitarium across from a priest, the remark only makes you huff a laugh.

You’re not sure how these chess games started, in all honesty. As the director of the Sanitarium, Monsignor Timothy Howard presides over the entire building. You hadn’t spoken to him much, save for one fateful day when you found yourself cleaning the kitchen. The priest had walked in with a slight pull to his lips, before requesting your company in a game of chess. You—desiring something else to do—agreed within moments. From there, one chess game turned into two, which turned into three, which turned into games once or twice a week.

You’re abruptly thrown back to reality as the priest successfully takes one of your pieces. It takes you a few moments to remember what he just said—You have the devil in you—and several more moments to respond.

“And how about you?” You remember to ask, moving your chess piece before leveling the Monsignor with an intent look. You’re glad this conversation is occurring behind closed doors. While your first games had occurred in the kitchens, they soon migrated to the priest’s office. “I’ve seen you observing me, watching me.”

The man is entirely silent. His brows are furrowed and he’s staring at the board in concentration, but you know he isn’t thinking about chess. He’s contemplating what you’ve just said and, admittedly, you’re surprised. You had fully expected him to deny the accusation immediately. Sensing that he will remain silent for a while longer, you continue talking. “Do you think I haven’t noticed? The preferential treatment? I haven’t had a beating in weeks, and I definitely deserve it—according to Sister Jude, at least.”

The Monsignor stiffens. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he replies lightly, finally making his move.

You decide to be straightforward. You don’t have much to lose, after all (no one at Briarcliff does). “Does your god care about people like me?” You hum. You don’t need to elaborate any further for him to understand what you’re alluding to. After all, your identity is the reason you’re locked behind these walls. You were born a woman. You are not one. It should be quite simple, but to everyone else, it is not.

“God accepts all of His children into heaven,” the Monsignor says in a practiced recitation. You wonder how many people have been fed that lie. From what you’ve seen and experienced, American Catholicism has traditionally repelled queerness in any form.

“Even the broken ones?” You ask, watching as his eyebrows furrow for a fraction of a second. You don’t think yourself to be broken—you’re simply borrowing the words from accusations that have been hurled at you over the years. “The deluded ones?” You raise your eyebrows and look at him expectantly.

“Even them,” the Monsignor says, suddenly breaking eye contact to look down at his pieces. You don’t think you’re imagining how he dodged your gaze, or the raspy quality his voice adopted.

“Even me,” you supplement. A fleeting smile crosses your face. You clasp your hands. “How I wish that were true.”

“You do not need to wish for it,” the Monsignor remarks, clasping his hands in a mimicry (unconscious or conscious, you’re not quite sure) of your own posture. “You need only… believe it.” His statement is punctuated by the move he makes with his rook.

“Even when you don’t?” You ask, moving your bishop in response.

“I believe you are misguided,” the Monsignor says. Irritation prickles along your skin. You don’t care what a man like him thinks of you. And yet… the accusation still hurts.

“And I believe that you are threatened by me,” you blurt out, before you can contemplate the consequences of speaking so freely. Perhaps a small part of you is feeling vindictive.

“Threatened?” The Monsignor laughs in evident amusement. It’s not hard to notice that his laugh sounds strained. He wouldn’t be so vehemently opposed to this turn in conversation unless he had something to hide. And you know all about hiding—you were forced to hide who you were for nearly your entire life, just to survive. It’s frighteningly easy to peel back the layers of the Monsignor’s disguise and dig your fingers into the essence of his being.

It’s too late to go back now. You might as well continue pushing forward. “Some part of you, however small, lays its eyes on me and finds belonging and understanding.” The chess game has been neglected since you first accused him of being threatened by you, and you can’t attribute that to mere coincidence.

“Your desires are much like mine,” you elaborate, your heart hammering in your chest. “I see the way you look at other men, the way you look at me. You don’t practice what you preach… and you are no saint.” You finish.

Suddenly, the Monsignor slams his hands on the table. The chessboard rattles and some of the pieces tip over, terminating your game. You hardly have the time to regret what you’ve done before you’re being yanked up by the collar of your shirt and shoved into the wall.

There’s a dangerous look in the Monsignor’s eyes. You’ve hit a nerve, it seems. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again,” the priest hisses, his calm mask slipping right off. There’s a hint of a snarl on his lips. His fist is tightened around your collar, turning his knuckles white with exertion. “Or I will ensure that you never see the light of day.”

You remain silent, your objections unspoken. You could never do that to me, because you know, deep down, that what I’m saying rings true, you recite in your mind. The Monsignor’s grip tightens and his fingers claw at your shirt, to the point that you have to stand up taller to avoid losing your breath.

“Do you understand?” He hisses, his breath hitting your neck.

“I understand,” you say, if only to placate him. You’ve said all that you wanted to say, and that is more than enough. You can already tell that the priest is ruminating on your conversation, picking it apart within the darkest corners of his mind. That’s the best you can hope for.

The Monsignor’s grip finally leaves your collar and you cough at the stress placed on your throat. Your vision momentarily blurring, you can’t see the emotions running across his face: rage, irritation, fear, regret. “Leave.” He demands.

You turn on your heel and leave without hesitation.

In hindsight, you should’ve prioritized self-preservation over trying to prove a point to the Monsignor. Although, in the time immediately following your conversation, you do not see any repercussions. You go to meals, sit in the common room, and return to your cell. Everything is normal, unchanged.

Then you mouth off to Sister Jude, and you’re roughly dragged into her office. You had gotten too confident, you think to yourself as you’re punished. Sister Jude’s arm winds back again and again. At some point, your vision spirals and you lose consciousness. It’s a small mercy.

When you wake up, you find yourself in solitary. You sit in the unassuming cell, bruises forming along your skin from Sister Jude’s harsh punishment. When you’re finally released, you make your way back to your cell mechanically. Where you had felt fury and determination before, you only feel empty. You’re starting to slip off the deep end, you think.

Unsurprisingly, your chess games are no more. You catch glimpses of the Monsignor around the building, but you don’t speak to him. Sometimes, you get a prickling feeling—as if there are eyes on your back. But when you turn around, you don’t find anyone there.

It’s rather easy to fade behind the walls of the Sanitarium. That is what the building is designed for, essentially. There is no color, no life inside these walls. The medications you’re given certainly don’t help in that regard, either. You soon find yourself trapped in a never-ending cycle of acting out, being punished, getting thrown in solitary, and returning to your cell. Indeed, you’re finding yourself in Sister Jude’s office more often than not these days. And you don’t enjoy the pain—not necessarily. But it does make you feel alive—more alive than you’ve felt in a long time. Regrettably, it doesn’t take the nun very long to catch on.

“We may have to resort to… other forms of rehabilitation,” Sister Jude murmurs, hovering in front of her assorted canes before turning to you. There’s nothing in her eyes—no glimmer of emotion for you to latch onto. “You’re dismissed.” You can’t summon the courage to question her about just what is happening or why she’s dismissing you, so you leave with trepidation curdling in your chest. Sister Jude is many things, but merciful is not one of them. Your punishment hasn’t come yet.

You’re reminded of Sister Jude’s merciless nature when you’re tugged off your mattress in the middle of the night by two staff members, carelessly manhandled through the halls until you’re shoved on a cot and tied down with leather restraints. You try to fight back, but you’re outnumbered. You strain against your bonds, but they don’t budge—instead burning into your skin and leaving irritated marks.

Dr. Arthur Arden strolls in, and any hope you had for escape swiftly dies in your chest. Evidently, your dread and disgust show on your face, because the doctor smiles menacingly. He moves to stand at the side of the bed, and your heart drops to your stomach as you see the machinery and begin to connect the dots. You’re going to undergo electroshock therapy. Your movements grow more frantic as you try to kick out, pull your restraints off, do anything other than lie helplessly on the bed. Something is shoved in your mouth, inhibiting your ability to speak, and a headpiece is forced on your forehead. You stare up at the ceiling, a tear falling down your face as you try to come to terms with what’s about to happen. In all your time at Briarcliff, you’ve never had to undergo this particular treatment. You’ve seen the impact it can have on patients—turning the most headstrong and individualistic people into shivering wrecks.

You try one last time to rip yourself free, but the restraints don’t budge. Dr. Arden looms over you and you feel your hands shaking in horrid anticipation. Sister Jude is standing on the other side of the bed, looking entirely unaffected by the prospect of causing you irreparable damage. Arden says something to Sister Jude—something you can’t quite make out—and he twists the knob of one of the machines. Immediately you feel as if your body is connected with raw electricity, as pain surges up your limbs, through your skin and into your very core.

You have a somewhat high pain tolerance. You survived Sister Jude’s cruel punishments. But this? This is too much. You hear someone screaming—loud, raw, broken . It takes you a moment to realize the screams are crawling up your throat and spilling from your own lips. Flickers of life pass before your eyes.

“Even the broken ones?” A shadowed form asks.

The Monsignor stares at you, his form blurring and his eyes melting into tears that fall from his empty eye sockets. “Even them.”

There’s a hand on your forearm, holding you down as you practically levitate with how hard you’re shaking and trembling. The pain is blinding, creating patterns that float before your eyes and run down your skin. Arden’s blurred figure hovers over you, disappearing for a moment before returning to look down at you. The pressure is like nothing you have ever felt before, and there isn’t a part of your body that doesn’t hurt.

You’re shivering now, your teeth chattering around the mouthpiece. Another tear slips down your face. You’re struck with one awful realization: you’re going to die. You’re going to rot in Briarcliff—your body dumped somewhere to decay and disintegrate. Another desperate scream falls from your lips, but you know it’s far too late to do anything. Sister Jude and Arden show no sign of stopping. Your vision is swirling before you, shadows creeping from the corners of your eyes and oozing down the walls.

Idly, you hear raised voices. You can’t see much of anything, and you can’t make out the conversations that are occurring over the horrible static and high-pitched ringing echoing in your ears. Your eyes are blurring with unshed tears. You blink to clear your vision, only to find a dark shadow on your left. It looks like an angel, its eyes gleaming as it stares down at you. It has some sort of mass behind it—feathered wings, you realize. It regards you with a sad smile, slowly rounding the bed to stand at your side. Your teeth are aching, your head feels as if it’s about to burst, and your chest has never felt so tight. Your heart is racing in your ears, and you feel your fingers clenching against your will. Just as you try to reach out to the figure next to you, there’s a harsh bang and the demon—angel?—disappears. The last thing you see before you’re blissfully brought into unconsciousness is a new blurry silhouette hovering over you, a concerned expression on their face.

You float in and out of consciousness, inhabiting an eerie middle ground between wakefulness and slumber. Pain is a constant companion, forcing you down into what you can only assume is a mattress. Your skin feels too tight; your eyes feel as if they’re going to pop out of your head; and your temple feels as if someone has been consistently hammering at it. You can’t even move and, amidst your best efforts, your eyes refuse to open.

There are brief traces of what you can assume to be happening around you. A stinging pain tingles and burrows into your forearm. Sometimes, you can catch hints of voices speaking over you. Occasionally, there is the steady pressure of a hand on your wrist.

When you finally wake, your mouth is so dry that you nearly choke on your own breath. The nurse standing at your side is quick to hand you a cup of water, which you gulp down eagerly. You cough and make several attempts to clear your throat, only for nothing to come out. The nurse informs you that you’ve been unconscious for several days following the electroshock therapy. You nod, having expected as much. The ward is entirely empty, save for you and the nurse standing across from you. You take a look at the table next to your bed, huffing an amused breath as your eyes catch on the small figurine on the side table. Upon closer examination, it appears to be… the Virgin Mary? The thought fills you with inexplicable amusement. Although, above all, the figurine provokes your curiosity: who brought it here?

As if sensing your thoughts, the nurse answers your question. “The Monsignor has been visiting rather frequently,” she states. Her tone is clinical, but her expression betrays a little of her confusion. Evidently, she’s wondering why he has made multiple visits.

On the one hand, you’re not surprised—you’re sure the Monsignor visits any patients in the ward to pray for them. On the other hand, you’re certain that you would’ve lost that privilege after your quarrel weeks ago. The idea that the Monsignor has gone out of his way to visit you multiple times… You don’t know what to make of that.

Your recovery is slow going and dreadfully boring. When you’re finally moved out of the ward, you don’t return to your cell—to your surprise. Instead, you’re given a room on a different floor—one with an actual bed and a window.

And if you had special privileges before, you’re not even sure what you have now. It’s like you have some sort of… diplomatic immunity. Where the guards were harsh and rough with you before, they now hesitate to even touch you. You don’t have to do any chores, you don’t have to take any pills aside from the ones the nurse gives you to take away the pain. You spend nearly all of your time in your new room.

You’re still slipping away.

The Monsignor visits as you’re growing restless with boredom. He knocks once, twice on the door. After a few moments, you give him permission to enter. The priest opens the door with tremendous speed, his eyes immediately finding you and latching onto you with feverish intensity. He grabs a chair from the table in the corner of the room and sets it near your bedside, before taking a seat.

For several moments, there is nothing but silence. The Monsignor seems to be contemplating his next words, as he stares down at his clasped hands with a blank expression. When he finally looks up at you, you’re surprised to see a remorseful expression on his face. “I am sorry,” he murmurs. “I only wish I could have arrived earlier, before the damage was done.” His fingers move along the beads of his rosary in an unconscious gesture.

Realization crashes down on you, as you realize that the Monsignor must’ve been the person looking down at you as you lost consciousness. He must’ve been the cause for the raised voices you were hearing as you underwent the procedure.

Admittedly, you don’t know what to say. Your eyes are suddenly incredibly dry and you reach up to rub at them, taking a bit longer than normal to complete the action. Monsignor’s eyes track your hands even as you place them in your lap.

“Let me see,” the priest says. You bring your hands up to show him. Indeed, they’re fidgeting and trembling. You’ve long given up on trying to get them to stop, recognizing the ailment as a side effect to the torture you went through. He brings his hands under yours and clasps them with incredible gentleness.

The Monsignor’s eyes look glassy and his lips are pressed in a thin line, as if he’s troubled. His hands slip from yours as a frown overtakes his face. “You must excuse me,” he says, averting his gaze and fleeing the room. You blink at him in confusion. It’s not like him to simply… end a conversation like that. You watch his retreating back, taking note of how tight his shoulders are drawn and the way his fists are clenched at his sides. He looks strangely rattled.

You’re left to contemplate his sudden departure in solitude. As you think back to the look on the Monsignor’s face, you rationalize that his concern was of a professional nature. He doesn’t care about you—he just cares about the implications of a patient being harmed under his leadership. You shake your head. That excuse sounds flimsy, even to you.

In light of his unexplained exit, you don’t expect to see the Monsignor for several days. When he walks into your room at approximately the same time the next day, you can’t quite conceal your surprise. If he senses your confusion, he ignores it—instead deigning to sit at the table in the corner of the room.

“Care to join me?” The Monsignor asks, motioning to the chess set he brought with him. You nod and get up from your bed, walking over to take a seat across from him. For a while, there’s nothing but a tense silence. Once it is broken, you find that the conversation is easy and quiet. There is still that lingering tension settling in the air—especially when you consider the accusations you hurled at him—but it doesn’t hamper the mood considerably.

Your hands continue to shake when you go to make a move, but the Monsignor steadies your hand and ensures you don’t knock over any other pieces. He doesn’t bring up your conversation all that time ago, yet it clings to the air around you like a vice. Surprisingly, the two of you mostly talk about inane things. You find it strangely refreshing—you can’t remember the last time you were treated like a person in Briarcliff.

When he leaves for the day after a successful few chess games, you think you may finally be getting better. You lie in bed that night for a bit longer than normal, unable to chase thoughts of the Monsignor away from your waking mind. When you finally do fall asleep, he follows you to your dreams.

Any trace of hope you had quickly fades as you wake the next morning; you’re immediately greeted with a ringing sound in your ears and a pounding headache. When you get out of bed, you find that the world is spinning beneath you. One moment, you’re standing up; the next, you’re lying on your side on the ground. You’re shivering and shaking with phantom bursts of electricity. Your teeth are chattering and clacking; your hands are trembling uncontrollably. It’s been weeks since the procedure, yet its aftereffects are still persistent.

Your collision with the ground must be loud, because within moments, the Monsignor is walking into the room. He looks worriedly around the space, his eyes settling on you and his expression falling to something far too close to worry as he sees you on the floor. The priest kneels down at your side and helps you up to a sitting position. You think he’s saying something to you, but it’s too hard to make out amidst the tunneling in your ears and the jackhammering sensation ripping at your temple.

The expression on the Monsignor’s face is so open and honest. Confused and in pain, you can’t help but reach out to him. Leaning forward, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and try to breathe. To your surprise, Timothy doesn’t push you away. Instead, he embraces you back—with a reassuringly strong grip, as if he’s afraid to let you go. You lean into his shoulder, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as you hug him. Your body is still wracked with tremors. If he notices that his shoulder is growing damp with your tears, he doesn’t comment on it.

When he finally does speak, it’s with a frightening amount of sincerity. “Tell me what I can do,” the man implores you, briefly leaning back and bringing his hands up to cradle your cheeks. His eyes are gleaming with unapologetic affection—a sentiment you still refuse to believe you’re provoking in him. “Anything. I’ll do it.”

“Just…” You break off, lost for words. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been treated with such kindness. Briarcliff has molded you into someone who only knows cruelty. Now that you’re being shown compassion, you don’t know what to do with it. “...Sit with me.” You eventually request. The Monsignor leans closer and holds you tighter.

In the coming days, Timothy will enlist the help of a doctor with vast experience treating patients with similar side effects from electroshock therapy. In the coming days, Timothy will grow more and more hesitant to leave your side. Your chess games will morph into matches, and you will soon be unable to deny that the Monsignor truly cares for you.

In the meantime, you’re content to sit on the floor, safely shielded from the world’s harms in his embrace.

endnotes: this was fun to write. and yes, this was born out of my religious trauma. i will not be fielding criticisms, concerns, or questions about that at this time. LOLLL

peep the shachath reference, mwahahhahaha. also, it/its pronouns for shachath, 'cause i said so!!!!

obligatory fic playlist

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat

#defectivehero #transmasc reader #gn reader #male reader #x male reader #x transmasc reader #ahs #ahs x reader #ahs asylum #asylum x reader #monsignor x reader #monsignor howard x reader #Timothy howard x reader #I've got issues #I'm aware #blasphemy #ig

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the-modern-typewriter · 3 months

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Hi! I’m looking for some more tumblr writing blogs similar to yours if you had any recommendations you’d be willing to share!

There are a lot of hero and villain writers on tumblr! @creweemmaeec11 has a whole community going, so may be more up to date than me!

(Sorry if this list misses anyone! It's by no means exhaustive.)

@gingerly-writing, @yourheartonfire, @thepenultimateword, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room, @saltydumplings, @save-the-villainous-cat, @creweemmaeec11, @amethystpath-writes, @selene-stories, @some-messed-up-writing-for-you, @onestopheroxvillain, @booberryfun, @watercolorfreckles, @vigilantetendencies, @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers, @nuttynutcycle, @defectivehero, @caffeinewitchcraft, @recklessfiction, @snowshowerwriting, @deckofaces

Anyone else who writes in the hero/villain, enemies to lovers, romance/fantasy ballpark, please feel free to add your name so people can find you!

#writeblr #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain community

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save-the-villainous-cat · 1 year

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i mean yes there are a bunch of writers for this tag but. I can only find like mha characters x f!reader for some reason so if you don't mind please lead me to those other writers

BRO ARE YOU KIDDING ME THERE ARE SO MANY

@epiclamer

@some-messed-up-writing-for-you

@avvail

@gingerly-writing

@the-modern-typewriter

@creweemmaeec11

@watercolorfreckles

@amethystpath-writes

@nuttynutcycle

@saltydumplings

@autocrats-in-love

@thepenultimateword

@lesbianwriter

@defectivehero

@snowshowerwriting

And seriously, so many more. In the last year the community grew like crazy. Just search for hero x villain and try not to get overwhelmed by the abundance.

#no writing #GASP

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justbreakonme · 1 year

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Dear justbreakonme,

Tis I the ominous crab, I am here to propose a concept. I have already tormented @autocrats-in-love and @defectivehero with this concept and now it is your turn dear justbreakonme !

How long do you think it would take you to notice if you were in a tube water slide but it was infinite and just never ended? Like it looked normal from the outside but once you got in it just kept going. You couldn’t climb back up because the water would just push you back down. How would that make you feel? How would you feel knowing you were going to be in wet isolated tube forever?

Sure there are occasionally turns in the slide and the lights get dimmer when it’s night and the water park is empty, but everyday until infinity you are stuck looping inside a water slide.

Sincerely,

🦀🔪

#infinitube

This is by far the most alarming ask that I’ve ever gotten.

I’d say maybe 2 minutes, 5 tops, then from there? Honestly, I’d probably go through the stages of grief knowing that my family and friends would have no clue where I had gone or what had happened to me and that I’d leave a lot of things unfinished.

My parents would have lost two children, and I wouldn’t get to be the third generation author in my family, and my siblings would lose their oldest sister.

I don’t know what would happen to my best friend. I love my best friend so much and I know he feels the same way about me, and the idea of disappearing on him without a trace breaks my heart more than anyone could ever know.

I’d never get to see my cat full grown, my car would sit unmoving for who knows how long, and I’d never get to know my youngest cousin.

Eventually, I’d probably grow apathetic, knowing everyone I’d ever loved would be long gone, and then from there, that’d be it. Blank nothingness.

I don’t know if this was the kind of answer you had been looking for but I can’t even think about losing my best friend and family without crying so that’s all that I’d really care about. I’ve been going through a really hard time recently and sometimes I still have that nagging thought in the back of my head that it would just be easier to stop, but it’s quickly brushed away for all these reasons, and I’m glad.

#tw death #sort of #akin to death #not whump #asks #ominous crab #tw suicidal thoughts #slight mention #tw suicide

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just-a-space-rabbit · 1 year

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Dear @just-a-space-rabbit ,

Tis I the ominous crab, I am here to propose a concept. I have already tormented @autocrats-in-love and @defectivehero and @justbreakonme and now it is your turn!

You couldn’t climb back up because the water would just push you back down. You wouldn’t be able to get dry enough to get any traction.

Sure there are occasionally turns in the slide and the lights get dimmer when it’s night and the water park is empty, but everyday until infinity you are stuck looping inside a water slide.

How would that make you feel? How would you feel knowing you were going to be in wet isolated tube forever?

Sincerely,

🦀🔪

#infinitube

Hello ominous crab, and what an ominous question O_O

Well, the boring answer to that is: Never. Since I loathe tube water slide, and just would not probably never go into one if I can.

But if I were forced into one, then probably around a minute? Depending on how big it looked like from the outside. And I’m going to be honest it’s sound like one of the worst places to be stuck at in infinity. A small, wet, cold, and noisy place, with the constant smell of chlorine. I’m not sure at what time I would have gone mad from it all.

Since you said I’ll be there until infinity, so I’ll take it as I can’t starve or die. in that case I think that at one point I’ll probably just lay down in the water in acceptance and forget my surroundings, as I rather explore my imagination and probably create a imaginary world were tube water slide and chlorinated water dose not exist.

So yeah… um… hope that is a good answer? And thank you for the ask :)

#ask #🦀🔪#infinitube

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serickswrites · 1 year

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Tis I the ominous crab,

You know what you did @sterickswrites I have already tormented @autocrats-in-love and @defectivehero and @justbreakonme , And now as consequence of being someone whose writing I enjoy you shall face the infinitube.

You couldn’t climb back up because the water would just push you back down. You wouldn’t be able to get dry enough to get any traction.

Sure there are occasionally turns in the slide and the lights get dimmer when it’s night and the water park is empty, but everyday until infinity you are stuck looping inside a water slide.

How would that make you feel? How would you feel knowing you were going to be in wet isolated tube forever?

Sincerely,

🦀🔪

#infinitube #polar express #why did that movie look like that? #ominous crab

Oh my goodness, Ominous Crab, can I call you Ominous? Or would you prefer Crab?

That sounds like torture. And I feel like it wouldn't take me very long to realize it's an infinite tube.

I will say, that is one way to do aquamation, perhaps a little inefficient, but an interesting way lol.

Also THANK YOU! Polar Express the film hits the creepy valley so hard for me. And literally everyone in my family made fun of me when I said that it freaked me out. My fiance really wanted to watch it, so I had to lay on the bed with my back turned to the screen and listen (listening is ok!) and then they would tell me when it was just landscapes and I can look

Thank you for stopping by, Ominous Crab. Please feel free to visit any time (and request or drop interesting conundrums)

#serickswrites #asks

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ao3feed-snape · 1 year

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dancing around you

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/20xv9nC

by defectivevillain (defectivehero)

“You’re rather popular, tonight,” Severus scoffs, once the two of you are back in the Great Hall. For some reason, he almost sounds annoyed. You then remember that the two of you have been together for most of the night, and that any distraction would indirectly affect him too. You push down your guilt and pinch the bridge of your nose. It’s not like you asked for any attention. You would have been fine to stalk the shadows.

In which Severus and you have to be chaperones at the Yule Ball.

Words: 1724, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of heartburn

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M, Other

Characters: Severus Snape, Reader, Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Students

Relationships: Severus Snape & Reader, Severus Snape/Reader, Minerva McGonagall & Reader, Minerva McGonagall & Severus Snape

Additional Tags: Triwizard Tournament (Harry Potter), Yule Ball (Harry Potter), Ambiguous Relationships, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Pining, Jealousy, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Minerva McGonagall & Severus Snape Friendship, Ballroom Dancing, no pronouns used, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, GN Reader, male reader - Freeform, Reader is a Hogwarts Professor

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/20xv9nC

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Severus Snape

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rekhyt-of-arcadia · 2 years

Text

“I was destined for this,” the Master grinned, gesturing madly to Gallifrey's ruins with their arms. The Doctor scoffed.

“No,” they objected, clenching their fists. “You were destined to play the role of the failed antagonist. You were never meant for more than that. So, be quiet and play the part you were given.”

Timeless Children additional scene (slightly au) where the Doctor has had enough of the Master's gloating and killing.

#doctor who #thirteenth doctor #the master #the dhwan!master #the doctor #timeless child #gallifrey #additional scene?#au? maybe?#defectivehero #originally a writing prompt #sacha dhawan #jodie whittaker #my post

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defectivehero · 1 month

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If you'd like, please write about an injured hero who needs to be carried around by villain! >:D

“One more complaint and I’m dropping you,” the villain announces, briefly readjusting their grip. They have one arm looped under the hero's knee and the other supporting their enemy's back.

The hero has been steadily avoiding eye contact, instead looking ahead. They look a bit flustered, for some reason. “This is humiliating,” the hero sighs, looking down at their ankle with a menacing glare.

“Yes, it is humiliating,” the villain agrees, an annoyed expression on their face as they stare ahead. They thank the stars that they're walking down a rather narrow and abandoned side street. They wouldn't be able to do this downtown, in broad daylight—both because they're too prideful, and because someone may recognize them. “Maybe if you had paid attention instead of tripping over nothing-”

“Hey, that’s not very nice bedside manner,” the hero interjects. The villain has to take a moment to process that statement.

“Bedside manner is for people who are ill or dying,” the villain sighs, “You’re just dramatic.” Gods, why do they even bother? They could be at home right now, washing the dried blood from their skin and melting under the warm water from their shower. Instead, they're carrying the hero across town as if they're some sort of delivery service. Absolutely ridiculous.

“You haven’t dropped me,” the hero points out. They look far too smug for the villain's liking. Indeed, their next remark nearly makes the villain's jaw crack from how hard they're gritting their teeth. “So I must be doing something right.”

The villain takes a deep breath, trying to maintain their composure. Leave it to their enemy to make a simple act of kindness so painful, overcomplicated, and tedious. “You’re clinging onto my neck so tightly that I’ll get whiplash if I drop you,” the villain feels the need to point out.

“Fair enough,” the hero acquiesces. After a moment’s contemplation, they loosen their grip on their neck. The villain can almost feel the weight slowly seeping from their shoulders. They had underestimated the hero's grip strength, it seems.

They expect the hero to be still once more, but their enemy doesn't relax. It only takes a few moments for them to snap. "Stop squirming," the villain demands.

"I was loosening my grip, asshole-" The hero seethes irritatedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, what was that?" The villain asks, making a show of looking around at the empty street around them. "Was I just insulted for helping my enemy back to their agency—which, might I say, is an entirely voluntary and selfless act of heroism?"

The hero scoffs and rolls their eyes. "Oh, please," they huff. The villain gets the feeling that, if their arms were free, they'd cross them over their chest in indignation. "You wouldn't know heroism if it punched you in the face."

The villain just stares at them, waiting for them to catch on to what they just said. The hero connects the dots moments later, as they evidently realize that they themself have indeed punched the villain in the face before.

An awkward tension clings to the air. The villain continues walking down the street towards the hero's agency, internally cursing their pure heart. If this is how inconvenient it is to be a hero, then they don't plan on doing anything remotely good ever again.

Mercifully, the building begins to appear in the distance. As the villain crosses the street, the hero begins to murmur. “Let’s go in through the back,” they say, “Just turn the corner, there’s a door back there-”

“Oh, absolutely not,” the villain interjects immediately. "If we're doing this, then we're doing this." They readjust their grip once more and stroll towards the elaborate front doors of the city's top superhero agency. They can feel the hero stiffen in their arms.

“Please, no,” the hero begs them. The villain doesn’t bother listening, instead continuing to walk purposefully towards the entrance. The security is laughably lax at this hour. It's when they cross the threshold of the entrance that the hero attempts to break free from their grasp. Thankfully, the villain had been expecting them to do just that, and they manage to hold tight.

The villain pointedly clears their throat, satisfied with the way the occupants of the foyer immediately swivel around and stare with gazes of recognition. “I think I have something of yours,” they announce, looking down at the hero in their arms. At this point, the hero is positively wriggling in their arms—desperate for escape. The villain finally decides to take pity on them and they release their grip, leaving the hero to fall to the ground.

“Ouch.” The hero mutters once they hit the ground. The villain rolls their eyes, knowing that the hero managed to break their fall with a tactical roll and land without injury. They push themselves to stand on one foot and someone nearby rushes to their side, providing them adequate support to remain balanced on one side.

Everyone's eyes are on them, as if they're waiting for the villain to do something. "You may carry on," the villain orders, when a few seconds pass and the onlookers continue to stare expectantly. Their voice seems to break through the confusion and anticipation, and the people scattered around the space return to whatever they were doing. "I've done my civic duty for the year." They mutter to themself, turning on their heel and heading for the door.

"Hey." The hero's voice makes them freeze in place. The villain inhales slowly, summoning more patience. They turn around and manifest a calm expression.

"What?" They ask, struggling to keep the frustration from their voice.

"Thanks." The hero smiles.

"Just- don't let it happen again," the villain answers, looking away from the hero's far-too-bright smile. They turn on their heel and walk away, pushing away any and all feelings born from their enemy's gratitude.

endnotes below!

the villain, holding the hero by the scruff of their neck: look what i foundddd!

the villain: this heroism stuff sucks. the hero: *expresses their gratitude and smiles* the villain, visibly flustered: now hold on a second...

this dynamic really amuses me. I can't get rid of the mental image of the villain holding the hero by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, and the hero just kind of hanging there in defeat. good stuff.

the villain lies awake that night, unable to stop thinking about the hero. :3

and thanks to the anon who sent this request! I posted a cry for help yesterday very briefly and then got embarrassed and deleted it, but! the original point still stands: my ask box is open! send me stuff and i *may* write it!

if ur reading this, ily <3 hehe

click here if you’d like to be on/off the tag list!

#defectivehero #hero x villain #heroes and villains #hero and villain #short fic #snippet #injury #fluff #lighthearted #I'm so used to tagging on ao3 that I post here and I'm like huh what #like what was this about again? lol #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #blah blah #I've been playing stardew so much recently #the new update needs to get to the switch NOW

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flava-proelium · 7 years

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💄(THIS WILL BE A MISTAKE)

Makeup Disaster - @defectivehero

± “I’ll give you ten seconds to run away from me before I key lock you.” The shade was not right for her body type, and couldn’t afford makeup remover. He better hope that water could eventually rub it off. She’d hate to look like an idiot and ask one of her female coworkers how to remove it.

She had been out for several minutes after hitting her head pretty hard. The Ex-SOLDIER must have had a bit of fun in his spared time, though frankly, he could have just killed her off right. Though why he had not done so as of yet was not on the top of her priority. If he was going to play dress up, at least pick colors that looked good on her. Even if she normally did not care.

#defectivehero #;; Confirm or Deny (Answered Inquiries) ;;#;; Spared Time (Queue)

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ffvii-aesthetics · 7 years

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What if, I wasn’t meant to be a hero? After all, death only seems to follow me. But it hasn’t taken me yet.

Made for a canon-divergent Evil!Cloud Strife.

#FFVII #Final Fantasy VII #Final Fantasy Aesthetics #AU Aesthetics #defectivehero

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booberryfun · 2 years

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Ehem,

Dear Heroes, Villains, Sidekicks, Superheroes, Supervillains (including retired ones) Civilians, Witches, Wizards, even Whumpers, Whumpees and Caretakers (if you find the following question interesting) and literally everyone else,

If you were a villain, what would your backstory be?

I’m tagginggg:

@kitsunesakii @letthebodyfall @livingforthewhump @corruptedtwibunny @creweemmaeec11 @amethystpath-writes @a-blue-comedy @avvail @akawrites000 @bleeding-letters @coffeewritesfiction @chocomarsuniverse @deckofaces @defectivehero @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @epiclamer @equestrianwritingsstuff @esperosisdoeswriting @flowerypeaches @gingerly-writing @galaxy-mermaid-musi @gwenapple @itsleighlove @kaiwewi @kactus-loves-writing @larinzz @letters-unsending @literally-just-kirby @morallygreyprompts @mirohtron @nuttynutcycle @nightfrostshadow @obsessed-over-hot-villains @omegaventus @phoenixisdabestwriter @paperburrows @playssilly @romancepromptsforthevillainous @rainy-knights-of-villany @some-messed-up-writing-for-you @the-modern-typewriter @the-tsar-unanswerable @thepenultimateword @token-homosexual @the-luminol-writer @undeadnotunreasonable @vigilantetendencies @villainsandcivilians @watercolorfreckles @wisteria-whump

Feel free to tag more people I’m dyinggg to know ><

#hero #villain #civilian #sidekick #supervillain #superhero #prompt #writing prompt #hero x villain prompt #hero x villain community #whumper #whumpee #caretaker #muhahaha I can finally get some insights on why you guys choose villainy

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creweemmaeec11 · 3 years

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What I'm So Afraid Of

The villain hesitated for a moment, and it made the hero's heart sink.

"Come on, I only asked what your favourite colour was. That's like, the easiest question I could think of!"

The villain fidgeted, looking to the ground, an expression like they were mad at themselves. Regardless, they relented.

"It's... uh, blue,"

"Blue..." the hero deadpanned, unimpressed and disappointed by the uncertainty in the other's voice.

"it is!" The villain urged, but the hero just shook their head.

"It's okay, I get it, you still don't trust me yet," the hero replied as they stood up, trying to sound like they were unbothered despite how obvious the hurt was in their voice.

"What!? No! Of course I trust you! It's just-"

"Don't, please." The hero replied, "having trust issues and needing more time to trust me is one thing. And that's okay! I don't mind that." they explained, "but.. lying to me about it is another," the hero fidgeted, "I- I know you're only trying to make me feel better, but..."

The hero sighed, running their fingers through their hair, "I'm gonna head to bed early tonight. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" they said, trying for a smile before turning and walking off toward their bedroom leaving a very sad and guilty feeling villain on the couch behind them.

It wasn't that they didn't *trust* the hero, in fact, they would trust the other with their life; that wasn't the problem.

No, the *problem* was the villain themselves. Who -and, more importantly, *what*,- they were.

What if something made them remember just what kind of monster they were dating?

The villain waited a full hour before going to bed themselves, quietly slipping into the dark bedroom, relieved to see their partner was sound asleep.

The hero was laid on their side, facing them, but had their face half-buried in the blankets. The sight brought a small, silent, yet pained smile to the villain's face.

As quietly as possible, they slipped into their side of the bed, looking down at the hero next to them.

The villain sighed, "I really wish you'd listen to me sometimes when I say you deserve so much better," they whispered, reaching over to very gently tuck a strand of the hero's hair behind their ear.

"I'm not afraid to tell you something as personal as my biggest fear, I'm afraid of how you'll react when the answer is: losing you,"

They glanced over, admiring the sleeping hero next to them.

"I'm not afraid to tell you simple stuff like my favourite pastry is a cinnamon bun. I'm afraid of telling you that's because it's the only pastry I've ever *had,* after *you* got me one,"

The villain brushed over the hero's hair gently, something they always did to help the other sleep, smiling when the hero leaned into the touch.

"My coolest talent is I can pick almost any lock. I can't tell you my parent's names cuz' I never knew them. You already know what my hobbies and bad habits are," they explained, laughing under their breath slightly at the last one before continuing, "but any of those things could just serve to remind you what kind of monster you sleep with every night,"

The villain shook their head, huffing a laugh of self-pityI'm, "and I'm certainly not afraid to tell you my favourite colour is ocean blue, I'm afraid to tell you it's because that's the colour of your eyes. What... what if you think that's creepy?" They took a deep breath, "I've *never * not trusted you. I'm not scared of giving you information. Im afraid it will make you finally remember what I am, and that you've made a mistake. I'm terrified of not waking up beside you,"

They glanced over again, and thankfully the hero was still asleep.

The villain gave a deep sigh, before leaning down to kiss the top of their lover's head gently.

"I'm sorry," they whispered, before pulling back up and-

Awake. The hero was awake.

Their eyes were all but *gleaming* up at the villain next to them, a smile plastered on their face.

The villain immediately froze, statue still, like a mouse that had been spotted by a cat.

Except this mouse also lit up a bright firetruck red.

How long had the hero been awake!?

The hero laughed, genuinely, but before the villain could react, the hero grabbed their hips, pulling them closer on the bed and subsequently causing the villain to topple over backwards.

"You're forgiven, you big dork," the hero replied with a smile, hands still on the other's hips as they supported themselves to loom over the villain below.

They giggled again at whatever expression they received, not giving their partner a chance to reply before leaning down to bring their lips together.

"I never knew you could be so soft and sweet," the hero teased when they finally broke, lifting themselves to look down at the other again.

The villain somehow blushed more. "You weren't supposed to know..." they muttered, pouting and glancing away, "I was afraid-"

"Well, believe it or not," the hero replied, cutting them off and leaning down to kiss the other's nose, who squeaked, "you've got nothing to be afraid of,"

MASTER TAGLIST:

@llamaly @why-am-i-on-this-website-anyway @larinzz @sharraus @asrasmysoulmate @kaiwewi @akawrites000 @sunflower1000 @aroacewitchyacademic @aquarellesirene @lbelle0527 @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room @freefallingup13 @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @homosexual-having-tea @friiday-thirteenth @chocomarsgalaxy @ravenshadow17 @daydreamed-snippets @stankyt0es @jinx1365 @rainy-knights-of-villany @fromtheo-withlove @maybe-a-cat42 @the-sky-writes @watercolorfreckles @noirewaves @digitalart-tw @itsleighlove @chibicelloking @distractedlydistracted @kitsunesakii @daedae127 @wish1bone1 @avery1s @vampart @ilikebooksbuttheresnousernames @defectivehero

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