The hero is taking their nephew trick-or-treating tonight for the first time, and they’re a bit nervous. Their nephew, Danny, is a great kid and well-behaved. The hero just isn’t used to acting as a guardian.
But as the afternoon begins, they start to relax as they see how much fun Danny is having. They watch as he runs up to a rather nice house, returning moments later with candy.
Then the hero sees the homeowner motion for them to come closer. They see that familiar form—almost seeming misplaced in civilian clothing—and their heart drops. Out of all the people they could’ve encountered… they just had to find the villain.
Gritting their teeth, the hero tells their nephew to run to the next house and stay within eyesight… before they walk up to the doorstep of the villain’s house.
“I didn’t realize you had a child,” the villain hums casually.
“Don’t,” the hero warns them.
“What?” The villain asks, having the audacity to look offended. “It was just an observation.” They blink innocently.
“He’s my nephew.” The hero spits out. They must be doing a bad job of hiding their distrust, because the villain sighs theatrically.
“Trust me, if I were up to something, you’d know,” the villain huffs. “Besides, I have… other priorities tonight.” They glance to the side and, in a few seconds, a child heads towards the doorway. The hero blinks. This must be the villain’s child.
“Um. Hi.” The hero says awkwardly, still reeling from the realization that the villain has a child.
The kid has the same eyes and nose as their parent. The resemblance is startling. “That’s a bad hero costume,” they remark helpfully. “You’re missing the amulet.”
They are missing their amulet, ironically. The hero self-consciously puts a hand to their collarbone before sighing. The villain looks endlessly amused, and also a bit wary of them—as if worried about their behavior in front of their child. The hero resists an eye roll at that, before glancing down the sidewalk. Their nephew is running back to them, bouncing on his heels impatiently as he evidently wonders what’s taking them so long.
“Hi,” the hero greets their nephew, placing a hand on his shoulder. He settles down a little, but still looks eager to go to the next house.
“Hi.” He answers. Then he looks curiously at the other child and smiles at them. The villain’s child smiles ever so slightly in response. The hero studies them for a moment, taking in those familiar hazel eyes on someone far more innocent and pure hearted than their enemy. Then they notice the kid’s costume and the slight frown on their lips and wonder if the villain has taken them trick or treating yet. It doesn’t look like it, actually—and that would explain the envious glances the kid is shooting at Danny.
“You know,” the hero says, crossing their arms over their chest. They’re already making the offer before they can think about it. “I was going to take Danny here trick-or-treating anyways… I’d be happy to take your child too.”
The villain studies them for a long, long time. The tense silence is only broken by a movement from the child at their side, who hesitates for a moment before crossing the threshold of the doorway and standing next to Danny.
“Do you want to go with them, Kel?” The villain asks; their child nods brightly in response. The villain lets out a long-suffering sigh, turning their attention to the hero. “Very well. I’m trusting you to ensure their safety.”
“Of course,” the hero responds sincerely. “I’ll have them back by curfew at 7.”
“6:30,” the villain argues.
The hero squints at them skeptically, before glancing down at their watch. It’s only 4:45 p.m. That’s plenty of time. “Fine.” They agree.
“If anything happens to them-” The villain starts.
“I know,” the hero interjects, before they can utter any threats in front of the children.
“I’m trusting you,” their enemy repeats gravely. “Don’t make me regret it.”
The hero nods, understanding just how much faith the villain is placing in them. Then an idea comes to mind. “Get your phone out.” The villain stares at them for a moment, before doing as requested. From there, the hero gives them their phone number. Then they reach into their own pocket and turn their phone’s ringer on. “Okay?” They ask, looking at them pointedly. The message is clear: Call me if you need anything.
The villain is staring at them with a complex expression on their face. “Okay.” They respond. Then they look to their child. “Have fun, alright?”
With that, the hero turns their back on the villain and watches as their nephew and their enemy’s child excitedly race ahead to the next house. They can feel the villain’s gaze watching them, even as they turn the corner and head out of sight.
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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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
“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.”Â
“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.Â
“Even when you don’t?” you ask, moving your bishop in response.Â
“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.Â
“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.Â
“Threatened?” he 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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“Do you understand?” he hisses, his breath hitting your neck.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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. Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“Even the broken ones?” a shadowed form asks.Â
The Monsignor stares at you, his form blurring and his eyes melting into tears that fall from his empty eye sockets. “Even them.”Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.”Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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!!!!
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general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat
“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.
"Don't touch me," the villain hisses, writhing in the hero's arms as they're unwillingly carried around.
"Would you prefer if I dropped you?" The hero hums, their eyes set on the skies ahead. "Left you to fall thirteen stories and collide with the pavement? That's certainly an option." They shrug.
"You wouldn't dare," the villain claims with manufactured confidence. Truthfully, their heart is racing in their chest as the two of them soar higher and higher in the sky. They have never quite trusted their enemy—and for good reason. Their morality runs rather grey for a hero, and the villain wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they took advantage of their momentary weakness to cause them even more pain.
The hero shrugs in response to the villain's accusation. Meanwhile, the villain clings on a little tighter, resolutely ignoring the laughter rumbling in their enemy’s chest.
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Villian (hero's lover) locks up injured hero until they get better, hero was injured many times before and would always convince villian that they were fine, this was the last straw.
i am allergic to explicit romance (or romance at all), so i'm skipping over that part haha
"Well, isn't this fun," the villain remarks, raising their brows as they study the hero's form. They've been waiting for the hero to arrive. After all, the villain's misdeeds are never ignored for very long. And the villain has enough experience to know exactly how to unsettle and unnerve the hero—how to get them running over in five minutes; how to summon them without so much as a single word or action. They are the puppet master and the hero is their faithful mannequin, bending to their every whim.
Yet the hero has been running about with loose strings recently. Surely that is the only explanation for their current state: as they stand unsteadily, blood spattered across their clothes and bruises and scrapes nearly everywhere. It looks like they're favoring their left ankle over their right and there's a dazed glaze in their eyes, as if they're fighting off fatigue. "Just what makes you think you can take me on in such a state?" The villain asks lightly.
"Shut up," the hero hisses. They take a step forward—evidently intending to fight them—only to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap. The villain chokes on a laugh; after a few seconds, they walk over and look down at their enemy, clicking their tongue.
"This is embarrassing," the villain remarks. They lightly kick at the hero's side and the hero groans, flipping to lie on their back. The hero squints up at them as the sunlight evidently burns bright spots in their vision.
"Just... leave," the hero bites out. It's clear that their pride is wounded, if they're admitting that they can't fight. If the villain were a kinder person, they would leave the hero be. But they have never been kind, so they laugh instead.
"I don't think so," the villain says, regarding the hero with mild interest. "You were the one to seek me out, remember?" Indeed, the villain got here first, and the hero arrived shortly after. The villain stares down at the hero's form for a long moment, a plan quickly taking shape in their mind.
"What are you plotting?" The hero asks, breaking them out of their thoughts. The villain must've had a smirk on their face. They raise a brow and the smirk returns. Something in their expression must betray their intentions, because the hero immediately tries to back away on their elbows. "Don't touch me," the hero spits.
"Sure," the villain remarks easily, ignoring their request and instead bending down and picking the hero up into their arms. They're sure their rival wants to resist, but they're evidently much too injured to do so. Regardless, the hero looks positively murderous. The villain takes a deep breath and closes their eyes, until the familiar feeling of darkness encompasses them and they visualize their intended destination: their laboratory. Within moments, the villain is standing in the center of their lab with the hero.
"What the fuck are you doing-?" The hero spits, blinking rapidly as they recover from the quick teleportation. A person who is teleported against their will can experience dizziness, blurred vision, headaches... The list goes on. The villain supposes these side effects only further aid their current plans, making the hero pliant in their arms.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" The villain asks quizzically, walking mechanically towards the glass enclosure near the edge of the room. They feel an amused smile growing on their lips. "Taking a walk in the park? Honestly." The motion sensors activate and the door to the enclosure slides open. The villain walks to the corner of the space and unceremoniously drops the hero onto the ground. Their enemy groans at the
The hero is hardly able to move—they will not be able to escape. The villain watches as that realization crashes down on them, as they're forced to accept their sudden captivity.
"I don't understand-" They mumble, looking around the space with a sort of dazed confusion.
"You really do talk too much." The villain murmurs regretfully.
"I-" The hero sputters. It seems they've never been told that before. That is really a shame—they need more honest friends, the villain thinks to themself. "This isn't- I could die in here!" They stare up at them with panic.
The villain pointedly looks at the adjacent wall and the hero turns their head to the side. Their reaction is incredibly amusing—so much so that the villain wishes they had the foresight to record it, so that they could watch it over and over again. The hero regards the water machine with a truly nasty glare, as if the machine did something to personally offend them.
"You're joking," the hero seethes. "What is this, a fucking hamster cage? You're missing an exercise wheel." They scoff, looking around the rest of their new cage. "...And food."
"You know humans can survive for three weeks without food," the villain remarks helpfully. "And I've always wanted to test that theory..." They smile, clasping their hands excitedly.
"Seriously?" the hero hisses incredulously. "I'm not a fucking guinea pig for you to experiment on."
"You aren't?" The villain asks, slipping on a mask of genuine confusion. "Then why did you come when I called?" The hero stares at them in irritated disbelief. The villain hums in satisfaction. The hero's anger and confusion gives them immense joy. "Maybe now you'll learn to take better care of yourself," they murmur patronizingly, crouching down and placing a hand on the hero's cheek.
"Don't touch me," the hero repeats like a mantra. The villain isn't sure if that remark is meant for them or the hero themself. They don't think it quite matters.
"This is your own fault, you know," the villain whispers, standing back up. The accusation sinks heavily into the air and the hero must know it to be true, if the way the light in their eyes briefly flickers and dims. "if you hadn't come to me in such a state, this wouldn't have happened."
The hero looks to be considering their next words thoughtfully. It's clear they want to beg or plea, but they must know that their efforts will be to no avail. The villain has never bowed down to the hero's desires, and they don't plan to start now.
Evidently discouraged, the hero switches tactics. Their composure promptly shatters, as it is instead replaced with raw, unbridled fury. It's clear that they've come to one inevitable conclusion: they will be trapped here until the villain wishes to release them (if the villain wishes to release them). "You can't do this to me!" The hero screams, their eyes wide and their voice unsteady.
"I believe I just did," the villain says with a slight smile. They take a step backwards. "See you in a few days. Try not to die. Or do—just don't make a mess of it." They walk out the door and it slides shut behind them, leaving the hero caged in walls of glass. The villain sits down at their desk and busies themself with their newest blueprints. Their enemy's agitated screams and desperate shouts are a pleasant hum in the back of their mind as the villain resumes their work.
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.
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!
Please write about a nb hero who is big on "not owing anyone money" and "its my problem and weight, let me carry it" and "please let me pay u back" and "its your money even if you spend it on me"
And a nb snarky millionaire (by evil methods) villain who is obsessed with their hero and is like "let me spoil u bbg" and *casually throws money around for hero* and very big on "I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR U" but hero is too fucking dense to actually believe rhe villain.
this snippet completely spiraled out of my control (as most things do).
It all started with that damned news article. In hindsight, perhaps the hero shouldn't have been as forthcoming as they were. But, they wanted the world to know that the life of a hero wasn't always glamorous. They just... didn't expect for the journalist to capitalize on the single remark they made, the single huff of laughter they let out when asked about the wages. Days later, when the article released, the hero was stunned.
Heroism: A Thankless Job
The hero remembers the dread coiling in their chest as they opened the newspaper to find the article, apprehension increasing as they digested the information. That picture of their apartment complex... they don't remember consenting to release that information. Granted, the journalist kept them as a nameless, anonymous hero. But, it wouldn't take a huge leap in logic to connect the dots—to find the building's tenants and cross-reference those names with the hero agencies nearby. The hero just hoped an average reader wouldn't take the incentive to do something like that. They spent the rest of that day struggling to keep their paranoia at bay. It took them a while to fall asleep that night.
Fortunately, they slept well and their anxieties seemed to fade. The hero stumbled through their morning routine and opened their front door an hour later, ready to greet the day, only to nearly trip on a package. They had frowned and taken the package inside, unable to shake the recognition that they hadn't ordered anything to be delivered. Upon opening the package, they found a single unmarked envelope. Their jaw had dropped to the floor once they found the bills inside—an amount more than their typical paychecks.
Little did the hero know, this would be far from the last time they received an unmarked package with a far too generous, entirely unexplained gift inside. At first, the gifts were just small things: a collection of medical grade bandages and antiseptic, a new sweater after they spilled coffee on theirs at work, a care package with things like cough medicine and tissues that appeared the day they got sick. The hero was still profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of some mysterious benefactor providing them with these things, but at least the packages were small. The magnitude of the first gift hadn't been matched since, and the hero couldn't help but feel grateful.
Amidst their hero work and their daily life, the hero found their mind quickly returning to the question of their gift-giver's identity. It had to be someone they interacted with fairly often, considering the far too accurate timing of several of the gifts. One time could be dismissed as a mere coincidence; a box of cough medicine a mere hour after they found themself bedridden, however... That is an entirely different story.
The gifts continue, but, thankfully, they are small in scale. The hero still feels horribly guilty about being entirely unable to pay this person back, but there's almost nothing they can do. Their benefactor clearly doesn't want to make themself known, and that's fine. Really, it is.
Until there is another envelope. This time, their mystery patron doesn't bother concealing their gift within a package. Instead, the hero opens their mailbox to find an unmarked burgundy envelope. Dread coiling in their chest, they look around—foolishly hoping that their gift giver would somehow have a change of heart and decide to show themself—before heading back inside. The hero sits on their sofa and takes a deep breath, before opening the envelope with care.
What they see is enough to make their hands tremble and their grip falter, allowing the envelope to slip down to the floor. They hold their present in disbelief.
It's a check—for more money than they could possibly fathom having. This sum is so large that the hero wouldn't have to work another day in their life. They would be able to live comfortably without earning so much as a single penny on their own.
The thought sickens them. "I can't accept this," the hero breathes aloud. They look down at their apartment's hardwood flooring as if it will give them the answers they're looking for.
"I don't recall asking you to." The hero jumps, looking up to find the villain standing before them. How they got there, the hero doesn't have the faintest idea. They blink at them for a moment, wondering how they didn't connect the mysterious gifts to the villain sooner. Their enemy has always had access to extremely high-tech weaponry and state of the art medicine (judging from their utter lack of scars despite their numerous fights); not to mention, they've had an inexplicable disregard for finances for as long as the hero can remember. It's all beginning to make sense now.
The villain takes a step closer and the hero remembers their remark. "I'm serious," they say with a frown. "Why are you doing this? Do you want me to owe you? ...Is that what this is? Want to, I don't know, kick me while I'm down? You're such a good person, helping the needy." The latter statement is spoken with venom.
"No, of course not," The villain argues.
"Then why?" The hero repeats, the volume of their voice rising as they get more frustrated. They take a deep breath and clench their fist at their side. They're still holding the check in their other hand, and despite the fact that it's nearly weightless, they can feel a pressure pushing their hand down. "And, more importantly, how in the hell did you get this much money?" The hero hears themself ask.
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," the villain says lightly. There's a darkness to their eyes that suggests the hero should cease this line of questioning. They take another deep breath.
"You're assuming I'll just... accept this," the hero realizes aloud. That familiar itching feeling is rising to meet their skin, and they're becoming less convinced that they should stop it.
"Perhaps."
The hero blinks at them once, twice. The villain refuses to break eye contact; their gaze almost urging them to do it—to use their powers to turn the check to ash. The hero gives into the flames prickling along their skin and summons their fire in the palm of their hand. It will only take a moment, maybe two, for the bottom of the paper to char. From there, it will only be a matter of time. The hero watches in anticipation.
...But nothing happens.
"Did you really think I'd be foolish enough to give you a check you could just burst into flame?"
The hero stares ahead blankly, their ears ringing. The villain's expression blurs into a twisted smile. A figment of their imagination or reality? The hero hears their breaths, ragged and half-panicked in their ears.
"I don't understand," the hero repeats hollowly. They don't understand anything that's happening—anything that happened that led them to this very moment, standing before the villain and holding a check that their enemy gave them.
"You don't have to understand," the villain says, crossing their arms over their chest. "I'm not asking you to understand. Hell, I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm ordering you to cash this check."
The hero's tongue is ironed to the roof of their mouth. Even if they desired to speak, they don't think they'd be able to.
The villain notices their speechlessness and sighs. "I didn't want things to come to this, but..." They break off. "As I predicted, you're stubborn as hell, and self-sacrificing to a fault." The hero doesn't have the energy to be offended or outraged.
"So," the villain drawls, their arm falling to their side quickly. The hero blinks and they're suddenly being held at gunpoint. "Go to your bank. Now." The hero suspects the weapon is more than a gun—and they don't care to find out just what it can do. It appears they really have no choice. The villain is forcing their hand.
An hour later, the hero is walking out of the bank with sunken shoulders. "There," the villain says, clapping a hand on their shoulder and leading them out of the building. "That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Upon closer examination, the villain's weapon is nowhere in sight—as if it simply vanished in thin air. The unlikely pair walks down the street and heads back to the hero's car. The hero ignores the domesticity of it all, securing their seatbelt over themself. The villain doesn't seem keen to wear their seatbelt, so the hero reaches across and buckles their rival's seatbelt for them before they can object.
"I'll transfer the money back to you tomorrow," the hero announces as they're driving down the street, back towards their apartment. Their eyes are locked on the road, yet they somehow know that the villain's gaze is fixated on them with frightening focus.
"We both know you won't," the villain hums with certainty. The hero hates that they're right, hates that their rival can read them so damn easily. Their hands tighten around the steering wheel and the rest of the ride is suffocated with a horrible silence.
When the hero arrives back home, they can't shake the realization that the villain seems deeply pleased. They say as much to their enemy, who hums.
"Of course I'm pleased," the villain says, "If I knew this was all it would take to get you to accept a much-needed gift, I would've done it eons ago."
The hero takes a deep breath, struggling not to cry. It's been a long day, and they're reaching their limit. "I think you've humiliated me enough today," they announce. "Can you leave?" Please, the hero thinks to themself.
"I suppose," the villain sighs dramatically. They take one step to the door, then another. Just before their hand can clasp the doorknob, the hero feels one last objection fall from their lips.
"That money could go to far more deserving people and causes," the hero chokes out. They're choking on their own pride, choking on the simultaneous acknowledgment that they need money and the horrible knowledge that almost no one in their situation has an out like the one they were just presented with.
The villain turns around to face them, clearly moments away from rolling their eyes. "Do I look like a philanthropist to you?" The hero shakes their head, their throat burning. Their enemy nods in confirmation and turns back around. They twist the doorknob and tug the door open.
"You deserve nice things, you know." The villain's parting remark is murmured so quietly that the hero convinces themself they imagine it. The hero watches their front door close and waits a few moments before locking it. They turn around, their back to the door, and slide down to the ground with their head in their hands.
