defective hero

awww thank you so so much 😭🖤 that genuinely means so much to me, i’m so glad you enjoyed it. <3333

"You're lucky I saved your ass," their sidekick huffs, leading their boss through the winding halls of their base and into the bathroom. They sit them down on the closed toilet, before rifling through the cabinets for the necessary first aid equipment.

It takes the supervillain several moments to comprehend that remark, and even longer to formulate a response. "That's no way to talk to a superior," the supervillain eventually seethes, sending their sidekick a truly malicious glare. Their sidekick just stares back at them, entirely unimpressed. The supervillain misses the times when their intimidation tactics actually worked.

"Just- hold still," their sidekick then orders, placing a firm hand on their shoulder and forcing them to remain seated. The supervillain rolls their eyes dramatically.

"How did you know where I was?" The supervillain finally manages to ask, once the sidekick leans back and they feel as if they can breathe again. There was a reason they didn't tell their sidekick where they were going. They didn't want them caught up in something so messy. Yet their sidekick found their way in regardless.

"I put a tracker in your suit," the sidekick responds unapologetically. The supervillain stares at them for a long moment in complete and utter disbelief. They hadn't even noticed.

When the supervillain can finally speak, they find themself embracing honesty with an unapologetic and uncharacteristic attitude. "Smart," they acquiesce.

"I learned from the best," their sidekick says, tilting their head down and smiling as if hiding the gesture from them. Fortunately, from the supervillain's seated position, they are able to see it. And a sharp bolt runs up their spine at the thought that their praise could affect their sidekick so.

Their relationship with their sidekick wasn't always so easy, the supervillain reflects. After all, both of them have rather distinctive personalities. They clashed nearly every day from the moment they met. The sidekick would do something, and the supervillain would do the opposite.

Their sidekick was particularly headstrong and stubborn—never listening to their orders and always going about things in their own way. It constantly grated on their nerves, and their recklessness gave the supervillain more metaphorical heart attacks than they can count.

But something changed after that mission. Yes, that one... the one the two of them never talk about, ever—for any reason. After all, there are some things that are just too arduous and dangerous to go through alone. When the two of them came out of the encounter, they were left with jagged scars and a strange, unspoken understanding between them.

There's a harsh stinging pain in their shoulder and the supervillain is unwittingly brought back to reality—to their weariness, to the sidekick's attentive gaze and gentle touch. For a few minutes, there is nothing but silence as their sidekick cleans their wound.

"So, how are we going to do this?" Their sidekick finally asks. That was the question the supervillain was dreading. "Are you going to start bringing me to these missions, or am I just going to have to follow after you?"

The supervillain bites the inside of their cheek. Their vision is slightly blurry around the edges, but their sidekick's concerned expression is in full focus. They feel pinned in place, trapped under their sidekick's expectant gaze. Their traitorous lips part to utter the words before the supervillain can stop themself. "I didn't want you to get mixed up in all this."

"But that's what I'm here for," their sidekick responds gently, as if afraid of pushing them too far. The supervillain takes a deep breath and nods jerkily.

"I'm aware," the supervillain acknowledges. They don't trust themself to say anything more, lest they betray their inner thoughts and true concerns.

"Do you trust me?" Their sidekick asks.

"Of course," the supervillain responds far too quickly. They trust their sidekick more than anyone; they trust them with their life. These sentiments remain unspoken, yet their sidekick seems to sense them anyway.

"Then take me with you from now on," their sidekick suggests. They're not forceful—instead uncharacteristically delicate. The supervillain wants to lash out at them, berate them for showing them such kindness and patience. "Don't leave me in the dark anymore."

"If you wish," the supervillain relents instead, sighing wearily. Their sidekick stares at them in momentary disbelief, evidently shocked that they agreed. They were expecting further argument, but admittedly, the supervillain is too tired to put up a fight. Moreover, they're actually starting to feel... guilty that they keep leaving their sidekick out of things. Every time they return with fresh wounds to find the sidekick staring at them with disappointment and worry, their heart breaks a little more.

"I'm your sidekick for a reason," their sidekick maintains, securing a bandage around their shoulder. "Not because you need help, or anything foolish like that. But because... heroes don't always fight fairly. They aren't bound to the same morals we are."

The supervillain doesn't know what to say to that. Thankfully, they're saved from responding as their sidekick continues speaking. "I don't want this to happen again." They admit in the quiet, tense air settling in the bathroom. They motion between the two of them to suggest exactly what this is referring to: the secrets; the physical injuries sustained from battle and the mental ones sustained from betrayal.

"Then it won't," the supervillain asserts.

"Good," their sidekick nods, relief relaxing their tense shoulders. "Now, I think we're about done here." The sidekick offers them an arm and the supervillain doesn't hesitate to take it, leaning on their sidekick for balance and support. They are immediately assaulted by memories and a twisted déjà vu—remembering all the moments they supported their injured sidekick in the same manner.

The supervillain is guided down the hall and into their bedroom. They relax against the mattress and sink into the pillows at their back. For a moment, they stare up at the ceiling with burning eyes and a chest pained with indecision. "Rest." Their sidekick's voice drifts into their ears.

"You should go home," the supervillain murmurs tiredly. "Get some rest yourself." They firmly press their lips shut so that their true thoughts don't seep out. Stay. I need you here. Please don't leave.

But their sidekick doesn't take the gifted opportunity. "I'd worry about you," they say instead, a tortured expression on their face. The supervillain desperately wants to ask them to elaborate on that sentiment, but their exhaustion is strengthening its grip on their waking mind. Shadows pass across their vision and their limbs sink into their mattress, slowly drowning in fatigue. They drift off into the void of slumber with the inexplicably comforting conviction that their sidekick will remain at their side for as long as they wish.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

hey hey! i’m doing well, hope you are too! <3

"Detective," the supervillain smirks. They're conflicted as they watch the detective flinch hard and spin around in their chair with wide eyes. Their fear is delightful, but... Something about the display turns the supervillain's stomach. The detective's fear isn't fading, the supervillain realizes, even though they've met their gaze. In the past, the detective would relax after seeing them. The supervillain studies them for another moment, the words slipping from their lips before they can stop them. "In all the years you've known me, you've never been afraid of me."

The detective's expression sours. "Maybe I didn't really know you, then." They snap with uncharacteristic forcefulness, crossing their arms over their chest. The detective's gaze hasn't left theirs since the supervillain first made their presence known. There's a new wariness in the detective's eyes.

"What the hell is with you?" The supervillain feels the need to ask. They make sure the question is disguised in a heavy layer of expectant frustration, rather than the genuine confusion and betrayal they think they may be feeling deep down.

"You just killed six people-" the detective chokes out, shaking their head. The supervillain glances at the utter mess on their desk. The detective has evidently been looking at the photographs of the crime scene the supervillain just created a few hours ago.

"Sweetheart," the supervillain says patronizingly, making sure to look down at the detective as if they're a pet that has misbehaved. "I'm a supervillain. Class X and everything. You shouldn't be surprised when I commit crimes."

"I know that," the detective hisses angrily, pushing themself to their feet. The supervillain is surprised by the sheer amount of emotion in their voice. It doesn't take them very long to rationalize the detective's new attitude.

"Oh, I see what happened," the supervillain realizes aloud, a grin growing on their face despite the dread coiling in their stomach, begging them to turn back while they still can- "You let your guard down."

"No, I didn't-" The detective argues immediately.

"You did," the supervillain interjects before they can stop themself. That old, sick glee is back. They embrace it like an old friend. "You thought, even for the briefest of moments, that I would abstain from cruelty."

The detective doesn't respond, proving their suspicions correct. The supervillain laughs. "That's hilarious. Did you think that our conversations, that this-" They motion between the two of them, "-was making me a better person? Thwarting my evil, perhaps?"

The detective is infuriatingly silent. Their brows are furrowed and their expression is pinched. There's an unfamiliar tightness to their posture.

"Maybe you need a reminder," the supervillain hums, extending a hand and raising their hand. The detective rises until they're floating in air, strangled by an unseen force. "I am not, nor will I ever be, a good person."

"I am a rotten, despicable being. You can't save me or redeem me—although you have certainly tried." The latter statement is spoken with a sort of detached amusement.

As the detective's airways grow tighter, the supervillain sees that same expression again—fear glimmering in the detective's typically dull eyes. They grit their teeth. The nausea they felt before is returning. The detective is writhing in their unseen confines, struggling against their hold. Growling at their own weakness, the supervillain lets their hand fall to their side. The detective promptly falls to the ground, coughing and choking as they regain their breath.

The supervillain feels like they're spectating—a mere observer as someone else pilots their body and forces their thoughts out into the open air. "I can't promise to be so merciful the next time we meet." The supervillain announces, clenching and unclenching their fist. They don't think the statement is for the detective's benefit. Rather, it's to hold themself accountable.

"You weren't merciful," the detective says disbelievingly, their voice raspy. They're still kneeling on the ground. They let out a small cough.

"Maybe you don't really know my mercy, then," the supervillain hums, playing on the detective's words from earlier. Their gaze meets the detective's and a sort of new understanding passes between them. Whatever they had before is decimated—abandoned out of necessity. The supervillain turns on their heel and walks away, brutally aware of the detective's surprised, betrayed gaze pinned on their back—a gaze that has evidently morphed into hatred.

The two of them had a good thing going, the supervillain supposes. There was a sort of unspoken truce between them for a while there. When the supervillain needed information, they asked the detective—and vice versa. There had been some close calls between them over the years, but never anything as clear-cut as what the supervillain did mere moments ago.

The supervillain has always been self-sufficient; they've survived and thrived for centuries on their own. So... why does the prospect of continuing on without the detective's presence sound so daunting?

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

"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.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. reblogs are greatly appreciated—just please don't steal my writing or share outside of Tumblr.

aw, thank you so much! that’s super sweet <3

hello? 😭

The hero has grown accustomed to working late night hours at the agency. He's grown used to being the last person in the office, to shutting the lights off and locking the door behind him once he leaves. The hero always feels guilty leaving right at his scheduled time, especially when his job can determine if a person lives as a bystander to a horrible event or dies as a victim. He begins to stay later and later into the night, and it becomes increasingly hard for him to tear himself away from the agency and his hero mask.

This overtime habit is how the hero finds himself hunched over his desk with rather painful crooked posture as he compulsively checks his computer for messages. His agency is one of the first to adopt a sophisticated messaging system that converts audio from emergency calls to text, which are sent as alerts straight to their inbox. The idea sounded morbid at first—the hero didn't want to equate life-saving to checking his email. But the system grew on him. It's convenient and easy to use, drastically improving the agency’s response time.

He squints at the screen in front of him, rubbing his eyes roughly when his vision begins to blur. He's tired.

Perhaps the hero’s exhaustion is the reason why he fails to notice a figure standing in the corner of the room, watching him. “Your eyesight is terrible.” The hero hears, stiffening in his seat and turning around to find his enemy, the villain, lurking in the shadows. It takes him a few moments to process the statement.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the hero then huffs, blinking a few times as he realizes his eyes feel incredibly dry. His close-up vision is passable, so he's still able to do his job. His distance vision, on the other hand...

The hero has worn glasses since fourth grade. He experimented with contacts but eventually went back to wearing glasses. He's spent an ungodly amount of time in his life wiping his glasses clean with a cloth or pushing his frames further up his nose.

“I’m serious,” the villain sighs. “How can you even see out of these?” At that, the villain steps forward and holds out his hand, revealing a pair of glasses. The hero immediately recognizes the telltale blue gleam that distinguishes his glasses, and reaches out to his enemy. He almost expects the villain not to hand them over, so when the glasses hit the hero's palm, he raises his eyebrows.

"Thank you," the hero feels the need to say, when the silence stretches on to a painful tension. When he puts on his glasses, the blurriness around his vision clears and he can see the words displayed on his screen in sharp, clean strokes. The hero then stares at the villain, several questions on the tip of his tongue. How did the villain remember the hero had lost his glasses? Did he go back to retrieve them? And if so... why?

"It took me a few days to realize why you hadn't shown your face since our fight," the villain answers, as if reading his mind. The hero has to wonder how he grew so predictable. "After that, it didn't take long for me to remember that blow I dealt you—rather powerful, if I do say so myself—and the ensuing clatter of your glasses falling to the ground. So... I went back to the rooftop and grabbed them."

That answers the hero's first two questions. He is still left with the most important query of all: why?

The villain seems to telepathically understand this question too. He takes a slow breath in and ambles around the office in a carefree manner that makes it seem as if he owns the space.

"A win is more enjoyable if it's a complete victory," the villain drawls, tapping his fingers along a nearby desk. The hero has to wonder if his enemy has his power activated—if charred fingerprints will be left as remnants (as tangible evidence) of their encounter. "That means no cheap advantages or hinderances."

Ah. The villain wanted a fair fight—one unimpeded by the hero's poor vision. He supposes he can understand that. The villain is honorable above all else. The hero knows this about his enemy, has grown to accept it. Perhaps he should've intuited that motivation before bothering to ask.

The villain is still lingering, as if waiting for something. The hero's patience only lasts a few minutes. “Well, was there another reason for your visit, or…?” The hero asks, looking at him with sharpened vision. His glasses now provide him with a glimpse of the nuance written in the villain's form—the minuscule pull to his lips, the faded scars tangled around his hands. The hero is suddenly thankful to have his glasses again—but for entirely different reasons than before.

“That was it,” the villain says, his gaze turning scrutinizing. "Why are you in such a rush? Got a hot date?" The latter statement is spoken with a surprising amount of venom.

The hero raises his eyebrows. "A date?" He hums casually, his heart racing in his chest. He didn't expect the conversation to take such a sharp turn into such a convoluted and confusing subject. "At this hour? Of course not."

Something settles in the villain's expression. "Right," he says, something close to relief coloring his tone. "Then, I'll be seeing you." He remarks, turning on his heel and walking out the door. The hero watches him leave, a multitude of different emotions battling in his chest.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

The villain almost regrets rousing the hero from their evidently unplanned slumber, as the hero blinks dazedly and their brows furrow. All the tension that they abandoned in sleep returns. The villain watches as the hero pushes themself up from where they had been resting on their desk and turns around. Once recognition flashes in their eyes, the tension and wariness promptly slip out of the hero’s form once more.

The villain doesn’t know what to think of that—of the fact that the hero visibly relaxed upon seeing her. The thought that the hero is comfortable around her… The notion that the villain is deemed as safe, even in the briefest of moments…

“You are very fortunate that it’s just me,” the villain murmurs, falling prey to the urge to run a hand through the hero’s hair. The words slip from her lips before she can stop them—something that happens rather frequently when she is in the hero's presence.

“Yeah, yeah,” the hero says with a roll of their eyes. It’s clear they’re too tired for this conversation, but the villain has never prided herself on being merciful. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to speak to you," the villain responds after a beat. I just needed to see you, she doesn't say. She takes a slow breath, struggling to tear her eyes away from the hero. Her enemy has always somewhat captivated her; from the moment they met, the villain knew the hero would become a frequent—albeit uninvited—visitor to her mind palace.

"About what?" The hero hums, traces of sleep still evident in their voice. Upon closer examination, they do look rather fatigued—dark circles under their eyes, shoulders sunken as if visibly straining from the pressure of it all. The villain is struck with the inexplicable urge to frown in sympathy.

What did she want to speak to the hero about? Why is she here, again? Any of her rational thoughts seemed to fade away in the face of the hero's sleeping, vulnerable form. She tries to collect her thoughts. She can only focus on the clear weariness that almost seems to cling to the hero.

"You should take a half day," the villain blurts out, in lieu of answering the question. The hero is merciful, and only raises an eyebrow before gracefully allowing the change in subject.

"Half days don't exist here," they murmur, just loudly enough for the villain to hear. It takes her a moment to process that statement, and another to truly comprehend it. The villain isn't exactly surprised—hero agencies were never reasonable when it came to work boundaries and the concept of overtime. She doesn't miss her hero days.

"Says who?" The villain then remembers to ask.

"My boss," the hero sighs. "Besides, I need to be here. Otherwise... things will happen." They glance pointedly at her. The villain hums.

"But I'm right here," the villain says, a plan beginning to form in her mind. "I'm not harming anyone. I don't have any plans to do that today." Tomorrow may be a different story, but her enemy doesn't need to know that.

The hero sighs again. "I know," they say resignedly. Her enemy almost looks like they're pouting. The thought amuses the villain. "I'd take your word for it, but my boss wouldn't."

"Hm." That leaves only one option, the villain thinks. "Well, it appears we'll have to resort to drastic measures." She announces. The hero looks up at her in confusion. The villain grabs them by the arm and yanks them up to a standing position, ignoring the flicker of panic in their eyes. "Congratulations, you're getting kidnapped."

Other than that momentary flash of fear in their eyes, the hero looks entirely unbothered by the situation. They follow after her with little complaint. "This is the opposite of a half day," the hero mutters, looking both irritated and resigned to their fate. The villain feels a small smile working its way onto her face.

"Just trust me," she says, rolling her eyes. She tugs the hero along after her, until, moments later, the two of them are standing in the alleyway next to the building. The villain looks to her left, then to her right. There's no one in sight. "Now you can leave. If your boss asks, you were kidnapped. By me."

"This isn't really... believable," the hero frowns, looking down at themself. Gods, why does the hero always have to make things so difficult for themself? They're stupidly self-sacrificing. Somehow, this checks out—the one time the villain endeavors to do something nice, the hero self-sabotages it. "I'm not injured or anything. They're not going to believe me if I look entirely unscathed-"

"You're right." The villain interjects, losing any remaining patience. She takes a deep breath, reels her arm back, and punches the hero in the face. She bites down a laugh at the utter shock and betrayal on her enemy's face. The hero hisses and wipes blood from their lips, before staring at her with a murderous expression. "There." The villain says casually, unable to ignore the sharp satisfaction at seeing the hero's rare anger. "Now your boss will believe you."

"You're crazy." There's a convoluted mix of emotions in the hero's voice. The villain can't fool herself into thinking she can comprehend just what the hero is saying through their expression and posture.

"Enjoy the rest of your day off," she instead smirks, sending a wave over her shoulder and walking away. The villain doesn't need to turn around to know the hero's eyes are following her as she departs.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

MWAHAHAHHA i’m so glad you enjoyed! and yes, your ask was more than okay!!! i’ll just swallow my pride and ask for more requests, if needed. but thank you so so much, i’m so happy you liked it! 🖤🖤

“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.

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endnotes below!