#'i want to fight everyone who's ever hurt you' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bumblebeesfromvenus · 1 day

Text

Simon Riley NSFW hcs ♡

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Two lovely people asked for my NSFW Simon headcannons and I'm happy to provide!!

Just a disclaimer, these are my headcannons. If you have ones that are totally different, that's okay!

He's fictional and can be whatever you want him to be <3 (except a rapist. We don't do that here.)

If you have any COD thoughts or requests, my inbox is open!!

~ Fi 🐝

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I'm a soft!Simon truther until death.

There's not a single reality in which I can see him ever being too rough with you, let alone hurting you.

First of all, he has no fucking clue what he's doing. He's maybe had sex 2-3 times in his life and I don't think any of them were memorable or good.

I'd wager that all of them were hookups, encouraged by other soldiers to "let off steam". But Simon just can't do it, it feels so wrong. To give himself so fully to someone he doesn't even know.

There needs to be an emotional connection in order for him to feel comfortable and good. He needs to trust and love this person before he can do anything with them.

It's gonna take a while for him to open up, but once he does everything is smooth sailing.

(I also don't think he masturbated excessively. He probably jerked off, everyone gets horny, but especially if we say he's on antidepressants, his sex drive is pretty low. He's either too tired or just doesn't care)

Your first time together was fueled by a, not so uncommon, make-out session on his couch. It'd usually end with you grinding on his thigh or rubbing yourself over his clothed cock until you both reached a satisfactory end.

Simon thinks he could live an entire relationship with only sticking to dry humping, but in reality he's just terrified of the intimacy of real sex.

It's not too romantic, none of that rose petals lit candle stuff. It's not that Simon hates all of that, but I just think it'd be too much for the first time.

He's already so nervous (so are you probably if we're honest) and all that extra stuff would overwhelm the fuck out of him.

(He will spoil you with rose petals and candles another night, even if it just ends you with you falling asleep in eachother's arms <3)

Eventhough it's soft and sweet, you're both still very horny and basically rip the clothes off of the other.

Foreplay is important!!! (For all my girlies who don't drip down their thighs)

Not only for you but for him too. Even if he's rock hard already, he wants to enjoy himself, maybe be a tease. He will always make sure that you're okay and ready (and so will you bc he deserves it).

Would literally eat you out to calm himself down. He probably has fallen asleep while licking your pussy, it's his personal meditation.

Your taste, the way you feel on his tongue and the fact that he was two perfectly good pillows wrapped around his head made it easy for him to nod off.

Also, he prefers it hairy. (Fight me.) (pls don't)

I know it's cliche but he's like 2 seconds away from just coming inside of you the second he pushes in. Not only does he feel good but when he looks down he sees you and he could cry from how happy he is. He just loves you so much.

Can we please put the "You only take half of him" bullshit to rest??? Thank you. We all know Simon as BDE but let's keep it on the real side okay. He couldn't give less of a shit if you can take him to the hilt or not.

(Some gals physically can't bc if your vaginal canal is too short, then it's impossible. You don't want a bruised cervix, so don't be stupid) I do think when he's more comfortable about it and a little more desperate and rough, he'll play into the size kink.

He probably has a huge size kink anyway but he would never make you feel bad if you couldn't take all of him. (Especially if you're giving him head bc let's be real that thing is not going down no one's throat okay)

He has the prettiest moans. I JUST KNOW IT. they're more throaty and deep but they sound good. I honestly don't think this man is capable of whimpering (like physically. Not with that smoker lung) sorry babes.

Simon isn't too loud, but just enough to make you that much hotter. He will try to pull more moans out of you, like a little challenge for himself.

NONE OF THAT "10 rounds Riley" SHIT. (Have any of y'all ever had an orgasm before like?? Who the fuck is going ten rounds??? Not me that's for sure lmao) it really all depends on your guys' mood and neediness on that day.

I do think he can and wants to go a couple of rounds but it's probably more on the rare side and never more than 4.

He knocks out immediately. He's always tired anyways.

I think his favorite positions are missionary, prone bone, and cow girl. He likes the closeness, wants to feel every part of you and kiss it like his life depends on it.

The further you are into your relationship, the more new stuff you can try out. He's always gonna be hesitant at first but if it's not too out there he'll try it.

Simon will tell you if something is a hard no for him and he expects you to respect, just as he would for you.

Would 100% make you ride his face. Wants to he smothered in it okay. (Simon said sit, so sit.)

Simon would be down to tying you up (one condition; you're never tied to anything. In case of emergencies)

You won't get him to be tied up though, that's a real hard no.

I think the closest you'd get to a submissive Simon is if you order him around.

He's sitting on his knees before you and you tell him exactly what you want him to do (one thing Simon Riley can do is follow orders) and he'll pretend to let you be in control and maybe you are for a while, but deep down he's always in control (not necessarily sexual or possessively, he just needs the security)

He loves to get head (not as much as giving it tho) but he will never ever force his cock down your throat, even if you begged him.

He can't do it, won't do it. Has he had the urge and fantasies?? Sure, but it goes against everything he promised when you got into a relationship.

Sweetly suck on his tip and stroke the rest of his length and he's happy as a clam <3

His absolutely favorite thing is when you ride him in the morning. Just lazy and sloppy circles of your hips while you sit on top of him. He loves the sight.

Simon'll gently hold onto your hips and guide you if need be. It's even better if you're laying flush against his chest and the both of you are snuggled under the blanket.

Bonus; he loves to make-out with you. It's an unhealthy obsession that has led to too much lipgloss/lipstick ingested just bc the fucker couldn't wait 2 minutes for you to take it off.

Kissing you is his number 1 way to show you how much he loves you since words aren't his strong suit.

Needless to say, he's head over heels for you, and the sex is great. <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I hope you lovelies enjoyed it!

More of my works --> 💫

#bumblebeesfromvenus #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #ghost cod #ghost call of duty

169 notes · View notes

gglitch1dd · 2 days

Note

I have a few problems with you.

First of all, your deku work is nice and everything, but honestly you seem like some anti-feminist in sheep's clothing. Why can't reader ever be strong? Why can't they be a hero or fight back or stand at the same pedestal as Deku? It's always reader being this weak little submissive wife that makes him food and gives him babies.

Also I hate that you constantly shit on Katsuki and Ochaco. It's weird. Just say you don't like her because she's the main female protagonist of the show.

And also, maybe you're just some conservative weirdo, but why don't you ever use he/him reader or use trans readers? Or be a bit more inclusive?

Wow. Okay. That's quite something. I've been avoiding answering this but let me try.

Hey Anon, first of all, I pray that God gives you peace in your heart. I don't know who hurt you because it wasn't me, but I hope you know that you don't have to be so offended with the things I write. You don't like it? Swipe left. If it isn't your tea? Go back. If you aren't seeing what you want to be seeing, find another author.

Let me comment on what you said first. Bold of you to say that because reader (that is married to Izuku) isn't a hero and is a housewife, that she is weak. She's not. She's strong. What's wrong with being feminine or being a housewife and being happy that way? I personally like reading stories with such a more domestic reader (as I myself don't like the idea of working for the rest of my life and actually prefer being at home), and I filled in the gap where other people weren't writing for that.

Reader doesn't just keep quiet and pop out babies. She's a strong woman with a good husband that's willing to be good for her and she's a strong mother too. If you think all a stay at home mom does is pop out babies and praise her husband, you're mistaken.

I've already explained my deal with Katsuki and Ochaco, I'm not going to explain it again.

Finally, if you're offended by my writing, don't read it. Simple. Ignore it. Not everyone has to cater for everything the else I'd be here for a long time. I don't hate other types of readers, and I wish I could write for them. I can't. I include them in other ways through characters close to the reader in the story. I'm being inclusive. Katsuki being AFAB but using he/him pronouns in 'A Wishful Time' is me being inclusive. Mina being black in non-quirk aus and Sero being Latino is me being inclusive.

It's a shame you don't like my work but that's okay👍🏿 I hope you find an author that caters to your tastes more.

-Glitch1d

#glitchy community concerns #rude anon #sorry for all my fans that had to read this

126 notes · View notes

deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 10 hours

Text

For All Eternity

So much for the planned fic...anyways here you all go, some angst with fluff and comfort at the end!

Summary: Astarion gets badly injured and you nurse him back to health.

The fight started like any other fight usually did, with you doing all you could to avoid one until there was no other option, and then Karlach would happily charge in, swinging her mighty axe to cut the enemies down. Astarion would hide in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to put a bolt through flesh and you would incinerate whoever was left standing from afar while Shadowheart supported everyone from the backline.

Unfortunately, today’s fight turned out differently. A deurgar had spotted Astarion and went straight for the vampire, bringing its greatsword down to cleave through undead flesh. A cry slipped from Astarion’s lips, alerting you and your companions to what had just happened. Karlach immediately went to work clearing a path to him for you, hacking and slashing at any duergar who came close whilst you ran, faster than you’ve ever run before with the Weave crackling at your fingertips, ready to be unleashed.

Astarion barely manages to roll out of the way of the next blow, hissing when his injured shoulder makes contact with the hard ground and staggers to his feet. He can feel the blood flowing down, seeping through his fingers as he tries to staunch the bleeding to no avail. He messily dodges the next attack but the third connects once more, this time tearing open his thigh. He collapses against the stone wall behind him, painting it red with his blood and he wonders if it’s possible for a vampire to die of blood loss. He’s definitely never heard of one going out in such a way. The thought that he might be the first one to do so brings a sardonic smile to his face, at least he’d go out in a special way.

The duergar snarls in victory and swings again, ready to end the fight when a fireball flies out of nowhere, incinerating it before its blade can land.

“Astarion!” He vaguely hears you call. His vision is getting blurry, he can barely see the charred corpse of the duergar in front of him and he starts to get a little worried. Was he going to die right in front of you? That would be a terrible way to go. You’d cry until you had no more tears left to give, that pretty face of yours all scrunched up and tear-stained. He didn’t like that thought, he’d want you to not be around when he died, he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the hurt he’d caused you by dying.

“Astarion!” Your voice is louder now. You must be close, maybe right in front of him but he can barely see, with black spots eating up more and more of his vision.

“Astarion, look at me! Don’t die on me!” He wonders how shit he looks right now, with his own blood all over him. His armour must be painted in his own crimson liquid, a sorry sight to be certain. For a moment, he wishes you weren’t here to see him in such a state but then the fresh scent of your blood floods his nostrils and all he can think about is how hungry he is.

Instinctively, he opens his mouth and lets the blood in, swallowing every drop that comes his way. He hears you let out a sigh of relief and you swim into view as his body heals itself back up with the aid of your blood that is now coursing through his veins.

“Y/N,” he says tiredly, sending you a grin even as his body struggles to keep upright.

“You scared me,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around him.

“I’m a vampire spawn, I’m supposed to scare you.” Even when exhausted, the snark never stops.

“Not you though.” You whisper into his ear, burying your face into his hair. “I’m so relieved I got to you in time.”

“Me too,” he murmurs, feeling his eyelids close. Your embrace feels nice as always, warm, soothing, filled with so much love and care that he starts to slip into unconsciousness, spurred on by his body’s demands to rest and recover.

“Astarion?” He hears the slight panic in your voice. He wills his mouth to open, to reassure you with his honeyed words that everything is alright and he’s just going to take a nap but his mouth refuses to cooperate. His body feels heavy, keeping anything open takes everything he has and he’s losing this fight.

“Astarion please, stay awake, stay with me!” He can hear you beg, beg for him to open his eyes, to look at you, to say something. He does, he really wants to do all those things but his damn body won’t cooperate, and suddenly, he’s seized by this fear that he may never see you again, never feel your touch again, never hear your laugh again.

No. No. He will not let that happen. He can’t lose you, he hasn’t taken his revenge on Cazador yet, he hasn’t told you that he loves you yet, he can’t just roll over and die. Still, his body shuts down and he feel his consciousness slipping away. Fear grips his heart as he struggles against the exhaustion but in the end, he loses.

“Astarion!”

When he next opens his eyes, new scents flood his nose. He can smell medicine, residual blood and…

Something brushes against his arm, causing him to turn his attention to whatever it was at his side. A messy mop of hair obscures the figure’s face but he knows its you, how could he not? All those nights spent running his fingers through that mop of hair, sweat and saliva exchanged, he knew you inside and out, just like how you knew him to the same degree.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. His throat refuses to produce the sound, demanding instead for sustenance, for blood.

“Astarion, you’re awake.”

He never gets tired of the way his name rolls off your lips. He could listen to it all day but you’d probably get bored of doing that for a whole day so he settles for simply listening to your voice all day instead.

You slice open your wrist, pressing the wound to his lips and he drinks from it thirstily, swallowing huge gulps at a time. The liquid washes down his throat, wetting it and sends new waves of energy surging through his body, breathing life back into it.

Its at this point he usually stops drinking, ensuring you didn’t die from blood loss but you don’t pull away, neither do you show any sign of wanting him to stop. He stops anyways, not wanting to be the cause of your death and looks at you quizzically when you press the still bleeding wound to his lips once more.

“Drink,” is all you say, in a firm tone that leaves no room for discussion. He obliges, still worried about your health but then Shadowheart comes in with a tray of healing potions and you take a swig from one of them.

You really were going to keep yourself topped up by chugging healing potions.

Normally, Astarion would warn you against doing so but his body desperately wants blood, and you were willing to provide so he continues drinking, taking short breaks in between to ensure you didn’t suddenly collapse or anything. He didn’t want to face the wrath of the party members outside should he be the cause of your death, not that he wanted you to die from him drinking your blood in the first place.

At last, his hunger is satiated and he licks the wound, signalling that he has no more need of your blood for the time being. You withdraw your arm, finishing off the bottle of healing potion to allow the wound to close and turn back to face him, checking him over.

“I’m quite alright, darling. No need to fret.”

“Just checking.”

“Thank you for your concern, love, really, but would you be so kind as to not look at me as if I were on death’s door?”

“You were just moments ago!”

“If I recall correctly, being undead means I’m already dead. Therefore —”

“You had me worried sick! I thought you were going to die!” Tears prick the corners of your eyes. Astarion swallows whatever he was going to say, his mind racing through all the possible ways of consoling you.

“I…I…” The words lodge themselves in your throat, your saliva thick with tears as you struggle to put your jumbled thoughts into words.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you sob. “Back then, when I saw the duergar about to swing his sword down, all I could think about was that I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you to leave me, I wanted you by my side, I wanted you with me.”

He holds you close, feeling your tears stain his clothes but he doesn’t care. He lets you cry, releasing all your pent up frustrations in one go and simply hugs you tightly.

“I’m…sorry, for worrying you,” he murmurs, the apology meant only for your ears. You bury your face deeper into his shoulder in response, fingers gripping tightly onto his shirt. He breathes in your raw scent, unearthed by your lack of a bath and whispers how much he loves you in all the ways he knows how without using the word ‘love’.

“Promise me, that you won’t pull such a stunt again?” You plead, looking into his ruby red eyes with your tear-stained ones.

“I promise, love. You will have me for all eternity.”

“And I promise too, that you will have me for all eternity.”

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion romance #astarion x durge #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #durgestarion #astarion fluff #astarion fic #bg3 fluff #bg3 fic

54 notes · View notes

envysparkler · 2 days

Text

Natalia gets out of the car to stare at a row of oceanfront warehouses that are, remarkably, not on fire.

“Huh,” she says to her partner. “I thought you said Hood called this in.”

“I did!” Isha remarks, as upbeat as ever. “Maybe he’s gotten therapy for those pyromaniac tendencies.”

Natalia snorts. Fat chance. The Bats are allergic to therapy—anyone who dresses up to fight crime is certainly not dealing with their feelings in a constructive manner. Before she can point out to Isha that every one of the agents in their office are woefully behind on their mandated therapy—it’s hard finding a decent therapist that isn’t also moonlighting at Arkham, and no one wants to drive to Metropolis and traumatize those poor counselors—her phone rings.

She stares at the familiar name and exhales slowly. “Boyfriend?” Isha remarks with a knowing smile.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Natalia snaps. She’s not supposed to be answering personal calls while she’s doing her job, but Rafa can and will start calling everyone around her if she doesn’t pick up. He’s gotten a bit clingy since he found out that Deathstroke is her neighbor. Isha, for some reason, finds it cute.

“Hi Rafa, good evening, I haven’t been murdered yet,” she answers, turning away from Isha’s smirk.

“That sounds great, queriña,” Rafa chirps. “How are the neighbors?”

“Existing,” Natalia replies. “You know, you really have to stop these check-in calls. Dick isn’t going to hurt me, Slade doesn’t take contracts in Gotham, and people have stopped believing me when I say you’re not my boyfriend.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Rafa,” Natalia rolls her eyes.

“You would not be having these problems if you came back to San Diego like I suggested,” Rafa offers.

“I’d love to come back to San Diego,” Natalia says, “I really would, if it weren’t for the minor problem of all the people there that want me dead.”

“Gotham has people who want you dead,” Rafa says darkly.

“Gotham also has people who want me alive,” Natalia says.

“I want you alive.”

“And if Gustavo del Toro asked you to again get rid of the pesky FBI-agent-shaped thorn in his side, this time permanently?”

Silence.

“Goodbye, Rafa,” she says with a tone of finality, and cuts the call. She’s lost patience with his protectiveness, coming as it does with terms and conditions. She’d consider changing her number, but it didn’t work the last time, and besides, she has bigger problems than a sulky assassin on the other side of the country.

“How’s the boyfriend doing, Agent Padilla?” a mechanized voice asks.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Natalia growls as she spins to face the Red Hood. Hood raises gloved hands in the universal sign of placation. “Did your explosives fail to detonate or did you run out of bombs, Hood? I know it’s too much to hope that you decided not to make our jobs more difficult by setting all our evidence on fire.”

“I prefer to think of it as cleansing.”

“And I prefer to get home to bed at a reasonable hour, but clearly that isn’t working out for me,” Natalia says coolly. “What do you have for us?”

#my snippets #outsider pov #deleted scene #from a follow-up to 'seeing is believing'

55 notes · View notes

maybeitsalivescribbles · 2 days

Note

Hey! Hope your having a good day! If you want to, could you do a story where a supervillain typically goes easy on a group of rookie heroes, as he usually fights them just for fun, and could destroy them if he wanted.

He just lets them think they can beat him.

Then, something happens (maybe they cross a line, and one of the heroes tries to stop their team from crossing that line but they don't listen) where the supervillain shows them just how powerful he actually is?

Sure. Do you mind if we stop for ice cream?

A Taste of Revenge

“You’ll never get away with this!” yelled one of the three Heroes from afar.

Supervillain smiled and just waved at them while flames and energy beams hit his forcefield without leaving a scratch. It was, in fact, the third time this month he was getting away with this.

The heroes were all new, of course. The town was too little for the closest hero agency to care about what was happening here, so they’d only sent their three youngest. Sometimes they popped in while he was minding his business. They always thought they’d found a way to break through his defenses, and were always wrong. He didn’t care much, amused by these three overgrown teenagers who were looking equally embarrassed and proud of their muscles, trying to speak loud to cover their awkwardness. There was no use hurting them. The hero agency would have sent someone competent in their place. If Supervillain was only mildly inconvenienced by them, and they were convinced to gloriously fight against evil, everyone was happy.

It was sunset. There was no time to sleep before another night’s work, but enough to take a break. Supervillain went home, put his citizen clothes on, called his cat who jumped on his shoulders, and went in his favorite ice cream shop. Coincidentally, it had a magnificent view on the shiny new heroes headquarters.

The door bell rang. The shop owner raised her head and smiled at him. He was a usual customer.

“Hello, Citizen.”

“Hello, sir. Hello to you two,” she added, nodding politely to his pet.

Supervillain smiled in return. To make sure he wouldn’t be ever recognized, he’d gotten a cat. Mister Whiskers was more than happy to follow him in his ice cream adventures, especially since Supervillain was the one who walked for them both. People asked to pet the kitty sometimes, but never gave his face a second glance.

“What will you take, sir?”

Supervillain pondered for a moment, answering then:

“When I was eight, my mother took me to see the ocean for the first time. I want three scoops of that memory flavor in a cup, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

She took a cup that she filled three times with white ice cream, then gently set her opened palms over it and closed her eyes. The scoops changed into a lovely turquoise. Mister Whiskers mewed with anticipation, opening and closing his mouth.

“And for the cat?”

“A kid scoop of Oyster-Caviar, lactose-free.”

She gave his orders to him. Supervillain thanked her and settled in his usual corner. While Mister Whiskers ate his own treat like he hadn’t already eaten thrice today, Supervillain took his time, glazing by the window. For the Heroes headquarters, it was the end of the day. Secretaries were pouring down the establishment. He looked at them with interest, wondering how many people was needed to manage three baby heroes. Sometimes they went in the ice cream shop, looking harassed, not giving him a second look. They never stayed long. It was just enough for him to memorize their faces and note their schedules.

Supervillain bit his lip to hide his smile when he saw the Heroic Trio getting out of the agency, their faces crumpled. Every time he saw them by the window, he wondered what would happen if they were coming here. Today, he realized that he was going to find out. After pausing, all three opened the door and went into the line that had been forming.

Supervillain took a spoonful of ice cream. It melted on his mouth as lightly as foam. It was a flavor of pure joy, with an aftertaste of melancholy. These holidays had not lasted long. Why rush his break, then? He was more than convinced that he wouldn’t get noticed, and if he was, well, that was too bad for the customers. Most of them didn’t linger anyway. They thanked Citizen and went out, hastily eating out outside, maybe because the Heroic Trio grumbled louder and louder about the wait. The line went down quickly until the moment a little boy asked for a cone.

“I can make all the flavors you want in the world, young man,” said Citizen. “Every memory, every feeling, every object, the weather, time itself, everything has a taste.”

The little boy thought long and hard, reading out loud the suggestions. After fifteen minutes, he made his choice:

“Chocolate.”

Ignoring the loud groans behind, he was about to merrily go out, when one of the heroes caught him by the shirt:

“You haven’t paid, kid.”

“She gives it to me for free,” explained the boy, pointing at Citizen.

“Really? Why is that?”

The kid shrugged, licking his cone.

“Sometimes, I do the dishes.”

“He’s right,” intervened the shop owner. “He’s done nothing wrong, let him go.”

Hero released the kid, who went away trotting and licking his prize, and turned back to the owner with a frowning face:

“What sort of business are you running here?”

Citizen raised an eyebrow:

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you see these suits, ma’am?”

“Well, yes-”

“That means we’re heroes. He-roes, you understand? We protect you all day, putting our lives in danger for you. We’ve just escaped the most dangerous criminal of this town. We’d like to give us a little respect.”

“But I didn’t-”

“You made us wait to indulge a kid who can take anything he wants? It’s bad business practice. Terrible, even. How can you make profits like that? It’s a wonder this shop is still open.”

The three heroes towering over her, the woman tried to look at Supervillain, the only customer remaining, but he avoided his gaze. He wasn’t about to blow his cover for that. Furthermore, Mister Whiskers had finished his cup and was now interested in Supervillain’s ice cream. He put it away, but as he avoided the cat’s insistent paws, he was still listening to the conversation, quietly readjusting his perception of his self-proclaimed foes. Kids they were, but bullies are of every age. He heard them making their choice (one Nova scoop, two Oncoming Storm scoops, one First Prize cup), and refusing to pay.

“ If you give free food to the bloody kid, I think you can afford to give us a free pass, too.”

The shop owner made the effort to laugh, throwing her red braid off her shoulder.

“You have a good sense of humor,” she said politely.

“I’m not joking.”

Ah, thought Supervillain, there you go. Citizen raised her tone, but they laughed at her:

“What are you going to do, use your power?”

“That’s not our fault if all you can do is ice-cream flavor', said another. “I’m sorry you can’t be a Hero, but not everyone is born equal, don’t take it on us.”

Supervillain stared at his blue ice cream melting, waiting for the shop seller to burst in tears and give in. That didn’t happen. Instead, she clenched her fists and said:

“I am more useful than you.”

The booming laughter of the Heroic trio filled the room, but the shop owner was fed up. She hit the counter with her little hand and yelled, covering their voices:

“I feed children who are hungry. I give people the taste of things they’ve forgotten and can’t have otherwise. I give people shelter when they need it. You’ve just set foot in the neighborhood and do nothing but cause property damage. I am the better Hero. Now get out of my shop.”

The laughs died out. With a stony face, one of the heroes went behind the counter, pushing her away, and took their orders by force.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said.

The doorbell rang when they left. A heavy silence fell.

The shop seller rocked slightly on her heels, burying her face in her hands. Supervillain looked at her, then at his now melted ice cream. His mom had offered him to see the ocean to cheer him up. He remembered why, too. Because of the day before. A school day. A bitter taste in his mouth. The wall behind his back. Kids with frowning looks and mocking smiles.

“Forcefield is not even a real power.”

“You’re so uncool.”

“What can you do, uh? Hiding like the coward you are?”

Supervillain sighed, shaking his head. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He stood up, holding out a handkerchief to the ice cream seller. She took it without looking at him. While she blew her nose, he turned his eyes towards the Hero headquarters, looking at the Heroic Trio walking away.

“They’re kids,” he said. “They don’t know a lot of things.”

“That doesn’t give them an excuse to-”

“I know. They have no respect for powers that aren’t flashy enough for them. They’re the kind of people thinking that forcefields are for defense only.”

He smiled. All the windows on the first floor of the Hero headquarters exploded.

People screamed in the streets. The Heroic Trio came back running despite the glass shards flying, trying to localize the culprit.

“They have no imagination,” he explained pleasantly at the shop owner, who was looking at the scene with wide eyes. “They don’t know how impenetrable shields that can be projected from everywhere could be used otherwise.”

He glanced at the building now cut in two, shaking his head:

“I mean, how can they realize that this kind of shield could pierce any matter like a knife through hot butter?”

The heroes wanted to rush towards the headquarters, but bounced back. The forceshield was now covering the whole building, slightly buzzing. It didn’t stop there. It got tighter and tighter until the walls cracked and collapsed under the pressure.

“People inside-” squeaked Citizen.

“It’s the end of the day, my dear.”

The heroic trio was running around, getting people away, swearing and not knowing what to do. The forcefield didn’t vanish until the building was in ruins. Only then Supervillain turned towards the show owner. She flinched hard, but he only pulled out his wallet.

“Now, how much do we owe you?”

Back to the Hero x Villain Masterlist.

46 notes · View notes

twistedwonderlandwriting · 1 day

Text

A Love Long Forgotten|𖦹๋࣭ ⭑ᡣ𐭩⊹ 𖦹๋࣭ ⭑

.......................................

Wordcount:1,021|readerx:Allstudents|Style:Oneshot

WARNINGS: Angst!|Disociation|Hanahaki

.......................................

Everything was hazy, even as you attempted to reveal your previous memories, the ones that always left a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach and made your heart squeeze in the best possible way. Though the memories that previously left you feeling all warm and fuzzy now left you with a sense of dread, or rather their lack of presence did. Leaving you with a looming dark cloud as if prophesying what was to come. Why weren't they there? Why couldn't you recall those.....wait were they happy times? Who were you with? All the figures were...not blurry but vague as if you couldn't recall what they looked like anymore, imagining different ethnicities, clothes, hair, skin, eyes, face shapes, noses, but nothing seemed to click. As if the very essence of your loved ones were slipping away, and with the memories of past experiences and people slipping away so was your spirit and will.

Who were you anymore? Were you still the same? Scratch that you obviously weren't the same. Were you even a person anymore? Looking down at your hands they didn't look like yours anymore.....hell nothing truly looked like you anymore. This world had changed you so much....too much. Body, mind, and soul it had ripped into the very fiber of your being torn apart and then flippantly tried to piece you together like a broken puzzle.....You couldn't even dress the way you used to or wanted to, forced to live in the few uniforms and whatever you could find in the lost and found. How long had it been since you arrived in this twisted wonderland? Six? Seven? Maybe eight months? Hell it could have even been a year. It had been April when your shit show of a life began...well your “life” in wonderland at least......why were you here? What was the point?

Not everything had been bad though. The people you had met had been wonderful…at times…some of them had at least, some more....challenging than others but all beautiful and talented in their own right that was the one thing you could confidently state you didn't regret.

Though with even the most wonderful people came scars, mother the time it's in a metaphorical sense but unfortunately for you it had been quite literal as soon as you were thrust into this world. Fighting for your life metaphorically and physically as you barely scrounged by. Becoming a friend, therapist, reliable constant in your friends lif-…no. In the schools. Slowly reassuring, validating and guiding all the mentally crippled students into a slightly better mentality bit by bit while ironically your mental health eroded away…

Not minding because they were friends. I mean they would do the same in return right? They appreciated your efforts, right? Even if they didn't understand your references or jokes at times they still cared.

“I'm so glad we're friends.”

The pause in his actions hurt more than any slap across the face or outright rejection ever could have. Maybe it was wrong. You shouldn't have blurted it out. Just being stupidly sentimental while rolling cookie dough into balls, maybe that was the reason, maybe the small action made you feel like a kid again. Less damaged, less broken, lifting your heart in a way that it hadn't in a long long time. It may have been wrong to blurt something so sentimental out, but it just felt so right as you helped him bake a plethora of deserts for the upcoming birthday party. Though the apologetic smile he gave you afterwards taking a brief moment to let his eyes linger on you before he pushed up his glasses and turned back his gaze down to the counter, working wordlessly made it so much worse.

One by one your casual small acts of service, gifts, and company were being rejected so casually by everyone you offered them to. As the memories seemed to flood you squeezing at your heart as a reminder of how little your so called "friends" truly cared as you leaned over the toilet bowl hacking and coughing into it the petals and blood that seemed to form in your throat and get thicker at like a unwanted metallic sludge clogging your throat. It was a massacre with how many differing types of flowers, succulents, and even a form of mushroom species you had clogging your throat, shaking around painfully in your lungs, hitting the walls with painful thuds while you coughed. A painful and bitter reminder of your predicament: Getting out as much as you could before flushing the toilet.

Using the edges and what little strength remained to push yourself up from your kneeling position. Wobbly staggering over to sink to wash off the blood and petals that suck to you from around you mouth and dripping onto your chin with the freezing water that snapped you out of your dazed.

No one had even taken notice to your wobbly steps or how you covered your mouth to cough into your hands at least twenty times an hour as the Hanahaki got worse with each passing day. Though you would have thought that Vil, Riddle, Rook, or even Malleus's astute eyes should have noticed…The thick but now familiar feeling of something gathering in your throat started once again, signaling once more that another coughing or rather choking fit was near. Covering your mouth once more as the petals filled your hands. Though unlike the last few times, it didn't stop. The build-up becoming worse as the attempt of getting the pesky beings out of your airway failed. Your vision darkened suddenly as a wave of nausea and dizziness hit worse than it ever had before. The cold feeling of the tile making contact with your knees causing the thud to ripple throughout the empty halls as the flowers blocked your airway and filled your lungs.

Unrequited love really hurt, but it would be fine. You'd love them all even if it killed you. After all, wasn't it fitting you put your life on the line for them one last time.

27 notes · View notes

writing-for-life · 1 day

Text

Considering this is a site where so many people have aspirations to become professional authors or artists, I think it’s really astounding that many (often the same) people encourage book piracy. And by that I mean: They don’t just do it behind closed doors (whatever, do what you have to do and keep it to yourself)—they actually package it as some act of immeasurable kindness in the name of “social justice”. And I’d say: If you’re not a professional author and have no experience in or with publishing, hence don’t really understand what it means to make your living as a writer, maybe just… don’t? And if you ever want to sell your books, maybe also just… don’t?

It’s not some cool subversive thing in the name of social justice you’re doing. You’re really hurting authors with it, and it’s in no way comparable to “fighting the big bad streamers.”

Yes, Neil Gaiman will be okay, but if you’re saying it’s okay to do it to him, you’re also saying by extension it’s okay to do it to lesser known authors. And those authors make up the vast (and I mean vast!) majority of authors. But maybe you’re one of those people who think that all artists are minted and picture them in La La Land, entirely possible. If that’s the case, maybe educate yourself what the median income of authors is, be very surprised and wake up. Sometimes, it really helps to think before hitting post. And if rants are not your thing, this is the exit sign because I’m not going to mince my words…

Here are a couple of really good comments from *that* post that people should maybe inwardly digest before they prioritise being oh-so-understanding and supportive of every Tom, Dick & Harry who “can’t afford the book” via piracy (how about buying them one instead if you care so much. No? Thought so) over supporting authors, artists and, yes, libraries:

(Re the last comment: Or use online libraries—they’re also free. That was also part of above post btw. Libby, Hoopla etc exist for a reason.)

If that’s all too hard, then let’s at least stop pretending on here that we care about supporting authors and artists while vocally supporting book piracy. Because really, it’s the same in all arts, even if the symptoms are slightly different—take it from one who is both a published author and used to be a stage performer.

And to say it quite frankly: These “ideas” are probably held by the same people who were tearfully blabbering about the arts being what kept them going during the pandemic and then forgot about it all when lockdown was over. Or maybe they are the same people who think that art is a “jolly pastime”, and that everyone should just be content to “do it for the love of it and give their art away for free because awwwww, so amazing, here, buy food with my exposure bucks.” Go on then, write and consume fanfics and create fanart, problem solved. Just don’t ever ask for the pro art that inspires it again. Ah no, I forgot, it’s all made for money and soulless anyway, innit? Why oh why then do you want to consume and pirate it though?

You’re not progressive and/or supportive of artists. You just have no clue how making a living in the arts works and think your comfort (= “I have to have all the things even if I can’t afford them”) matters more than someone’s livelihood (namely that of the people who devoted their lives to creating that art for you), and it really shows.

I don’t care about anyone’s Google history and even said so several time on here when people asked (this is the latest one, and yes, I see the people who had a “reaction” to this one or the reblog above, but I bet that’s “coincidence”). Do whatever you want to do, it’s your choice, keep it to yourself. But stop pretending that piracy means “caring about the noble cause”, because repackaging entitlement as social activism is performative crap…

#book piracy #authors #publishing #support libraries #support writers #books & libraries #bookblr #books #writers #personal rant

26 notes · View notes

ashesbreadandbutter · 2 days

Note

I've got one: an Adam that can SEE soulmates. He grins nastily as he takes a GOOD LONG look at Alastor and SMIRKS "Vox, huh? You love him, hmm? I can see it written right on your disgusting soul Al-ass-tor. Annnnd even better he's your soulmate. I kill him, I cause you unimaginable pain and suffering for eternity without touching you." And then he takes off, leaving Lute and his army to take care of the hotel--who HEARD HIM to search for Vox.

The Vees are in full out panic mode, of course. They have no idea what to do. Vox say he can carry both Val and Vel through the electricity but they need a location to go too--abd the vacation home is too far, he doesn't have the juice.

Valentino is pissed at Vox for being Alastor's soulmate, and panicking about the certain death heading their way.

Velvette doesn't care: "Take us as far as you can to the vacation home and we can steal a car!"

Alastor is RAGING. How DARE that pompous f-wit threaten what is HIS?!? (Although he is pleased Adam did announce Vox was his too all of Hell. Now no one would dare try to date Vox after he killed the moth.)

(Feel free to use :3)

Thank you anon because I definitely WILL be taking this.

No really this is good, honestly you anons are helping write the best voxal fanfic with me as well speak. I think after I finish my current writing coms today then I'll start on this story. It honestly sounds really fun and I'm a bit of a slow burn kinda gal with a passion for angst so this is definitely up my alley.

The idea of Adam coming in? Mwah!

Like imagine the way Alastor freezes the moment Adam says that stuff about going after Vox and especially before Vox finds himself having to defend the vees. Bro doesn't even know what's going on at first and that he's basically one of the reasons it's happening. Imagine his shock if Alastor does hunt him down before the angels get there, both confusion AND relief showing on his face just to see Alastor. Though there's also annoyance.

"ugh! I could have handle a few angels Alastor!" He growls after Alastor grabs them after fighting and imagine something like after Alastor saves them he and Vox are having this argument just for Vox to stop when it seems Alastor did in fact take some damage.

"a few isn't tons Vox." Alastor would most like his back while cradling a wound and Vox might as well be the one to help him clean it up, matter of fact he has too because everyone is rather fearful of the pair. Alastor doesn't want anyone to deal with the wound like a stubborn dog unless it's Vox and this could leave them a lot of time just to sit with each other. It's silent as Vox carefully cleans his wounds, gentle and careful not to do anything that would hurt even more and then as he's looking over Alastor's body he'll glare at nothing halfheartedly, brows burrowed in confusion and annoyance.

"why'd you do something so stupid?" He'll ask and I can see Alastor's ear twitching. Vox basically asks him what's his problem. Why'd he go out there to fight so many angels and over HIM of all people? He's both flattered and a bit unnerved.

If Alastor really did all that to help him then maybe he SHOULD go back to the hotel just to keep an eye on Alastor's healing though maybe it's just a way to get closer because though Vox being Alastor's soul mate is life changing on his own, knowing and seeing Alastor after such a fight and touching his wounds really manages to draw Vox in. Like he wants to be with Alastor in the same bed and everything as he heals.

I wanna say Alastor will heal with no issue but imagine a case where he doesn't. Where the angel blades hold off his healing for just long enough to where Vox is actually worried over the other man.

This could be an interesting part to rebuild their connection. Seeing Alastor almost die while showing Hell that Vox BELONGS TO HIM really makes the TV demon flustered and more than he's ever been before. (Vox likes knowing Alastor is possessive enough to literally have a battle of his own with heaven. It makes him feel special and more than he ever has before)

I'd like to say this situation really convinces Vox but with their history he's worried about getting too close even though he wants to.

He's scared of falling in love with Alastor because what it its 'not the right time' again?

Vox is definitely an over thinker in this case, will sit through the healing process for Alastor but maybe he finds Alastor's words to be a fluke? Did he really mean it? Yeah he almost DIED but he couldn't possibly- he definitely means it.

They've had their history but Vox is a runner now and Alastor wants to chase him. After all, who could know him better than his old friend and whether Vox likes it or not no one would DARE (especially after the shocking announcement that they are soulmates) take Alastor's destined spot in his life.

I honestly love these ideas and I have many myself, keep em coming y'all!

- A

23 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 1 day

Text

Memories: Captain Jean Treville x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @@princesschyanne @caffeinatedwoman @kmc1989 @lovemissyhoneybee @sekretwindow @rey4kat @roschele @sassyscottishchick @aiko24k @scorpio-1357 @burningpeachpuppy @swanfan17 @@dragon85faby @angelnyx

When Athos goes missing it is you that finds your old friend, he's strung up by his wrists about to be whipped by a baron’s son. It triggers something in you, seeing him like that, at the mercy of nobility who want to get their grubby hands on his land. That was you a long time ago, after your father died, when you were nothing but a girl.

Only there was no one to rescue you, to cut the rope that bound your wrists, to prevent a marriage that was forced at gun point as blood ran down your back. When you fight for Pinon alongside Jean and his Musketeers you fight for yourself, for the girl who couldn’t.

“It brings back memories doesn’t it?” Jean murmurs as he sits down alongside of you by the hearth at the inn. You’re staring into the flames, your attention focused entirely on the logs that crackle and burn.

You’ve been quiet since they’ve arrived, reserved. There’s a tone in your voice, a distance. It’s clear there’s been a dispute between yourself and Athos, you think he has a duty to his people and he wants nothing to do with the damn place. He doesn’t understand that his choice is one that everyone else has to live with, he can’t see beyond his own pain.

“Too many to count.” You say despondently, before your gaze shifts to the innkeeper’s daughter.

“She was lucky you were here.” He says quietly as he leans in close, the back of his hand brushing over yours. It’s a tentative display of affection. Sometimes you don’t like to be touched when you go back to that place, you withdraw from him as if he’s one of the men that hurt you all those years ago. “That you were able to get her out.”

Breaking in the filly is what they called the horror of what they were going to do to her, rape is what you call it.

“I could never resign someone else to that fate.” You tell him, your attention turning back to the fire.

When he takes you to bed that night, you sleep curled up against him like a child, his fingers trailing soothingly through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings. Darkness like this brings dreams, dreams of a man who shamed you, ruined you, who fed you to the wolves so that he could own your estate.

You were nothing to Charles DuMire but a tool to be used, a plaything for men who always held more power than you. You were exchanged for favours, for money, for prestige.

“I was their whore.” You had said, when you’d told him your story.

“No.” He’d whispered fiercely, his eyes glittering with rage as his palms came to rest upon the surface of his desk. “You were abused.”

He doesn’t know how you kept your wits during that time, trauma like that would drive anyone to madness. You were nothing but an object to those men, and men, they speak freely in front of things that they own.

When you learn of their plot to assassinate the King, you decide to act. You gather evidence, letters, a ledger of the money exchanges and the ring that each one of the men wear, a symbol of their allegiance to one another, one that can only be worn in the shadows. You take them to Paris with you during one of husband’s excursions to court.

Your father had often spoke of Jean Treville, the young soldier he had trained to become a Musketeer. He spoke of the battles they fought in, his heroism, his honour.

“He is the Captain now.” He had said on his deathbed. “If there is trouble, he is a man you can trust.”

When you first turn up at the garrison, Jean thinks you are the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes on. It’s only when he helps you down from your horse that he sees the darkness in your eyes, the way you clench your jaw at his touch. He’s careful after that, he doesn’t want to cause you any further distress.

When he reviews your evidence there is no doubt in his mind you’ve uncovered a conspiracy, one that’s already in motion. He moves into action, making preparations and you stand beside him, showing him the access points on the map, detailing the plans your husband has made. You have a mind for battle, for tactics and subterfuge. He thinks you would have been a general if you had been born a son.

“You are your father’s daughter.” He had told you once the trap was set, the edges of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “He would have proud of your strength, your ingenuity.”

“He would be ashamed of what I’ve become.” You say as you pull on your cloak, drawing it up around your shoulders.

“No.” Jean had told you. “He’d be ashamed of the circumstances he left you in, that he trusted his neighbour to care for you the same way he did. None of this is your fault.”

You meet his gaze and you can see the sincerity of his words, the anger that fuels them. None of this should have happened to you, you should be living a happy life, married to a man who loves you, who wants to give you children.

“You can’t go back to him.” He asserts as you tie the fastening of your cloak just underneath your chin.

“If I don’t, he’ll know there is something amiss.” You say before gesturing at the plans upon his desk. “And all of this will be for nothing.”

It kills him to send you back into the viper’s nest, to know that you’ll be sleeping next to a man who gives you to his friends as if you were a trinket. When he helps you onto your horse, he lingers for a moment, his palm lightly caressing the animal’s nose.

“It’ll be over soon.” You say with an air of finality as you pick up the reins. “I’ll take great joy in watching him hang.”

And you do. The next time Jean sees you is inside the prison courtyard as you both watch the men who conspired against the crown hang for their crimes. You smile as your husband takes his final breathes, his body quaking and his legs kicking. Anyone else would look away but you keep your eyes fixed on his the entire time.

“There were others?” Jean asks quietly as he escorts you from the prison.

He’s surprised when your hand comes to rest on his arm. You tilt your head towards him and he can see that a burden has been released. His palm covers yours in a show of solidarity as you walk together side by side.

“Yes there are others.” You say, slowing your step as you reach into the pocket hidden within your skirts and withdraw a piece of parchment. “Here are their names, if you are patient I will get you your evidence. I have no doubt that I’ll be fair game now that Charles is dead.”

“I would never ask that of you…” You cut him off by shushing him and he sighs as the two of you come to a standstill.

You are a wilful woman, spirited despite the circumstances. Your husband’s death has given you a taste for vengeance and he knows you will not stop until you see every single one of those men dead.

“You wouldn’t would you?” You say softly, squeezing his fingers. “You would never ask anything of me.”

“No.” He says, his lips pursing together into a fond smile. “No I would not.”

It takes two years but you send every single one of those men to the gallows. Their reputations in tatters, their lands claimed by the crown, you leave them with nothing. During every death you stand at the front your eyes locked on theirs because you want them to know it was you, that you are the harbinger of their demise.

It’s a few nights after the last one is hanged that you enter his chambers. He’s sitting on the bed, having just removed his boots and jacket when you stand before him and begin to undress. Your skirts go first and then the bodice, the rest of it follows until your clad in simple white garment that’s almost translucent. He can see the outline of your dark nipples, that special place between your legs and his mouth goes dry. He wants you, he always has but he’s not like those other men, he won’t rut at you like an animal.

You mistake his resolve for rejection. He knows your story, of the men you’ve been with. It makes sense that a man of honour would want a woman of virtue, not someone ruined.

“I understand.” You say quietly, your cheeks colouring as you reach for your clothing.

“Terese.” He says softly as he pats the space alongside him on the bed. “Please sit with me.”

You take up residence beside him and the scent of orange blossoms floods his senses. He prays to God for strength because having you this close, feeling the heat of your body, seeing it through that thin sliver of material it’s enough to drive a man to madness. His thumb chases along the line of your jaw, tipping your chin up so that your eyes are fixed in his.

“Have you ever given yourself freely?” He asks you, his nose trailing along yours until your lips are barely apart. “Have you ever known love?”

“No.” You whisper. “I have never experienced the pleasure.”

“You will with me,” He murmurs, as his lips brush over yours. “If that is what you wish.”

It's you that kisses him, that strips away his shirt, that unfastens his breeches. It is the first time you’ve had a choice in your partner, in your intimacy and you choose him. He takes his time worshipping you, he maps out the contours of your body with calloused hands and an eager mouth.

“You deserve the world.” He whispers against your thigh as he kisses a heated trail to nirvana. “You deserve love, adoration, ecstasy…”

And he gives it to you.

Jean, he gives you everything.

You’ve never known rapture, not like this. His hands anchor you in the moment, his palms caressing you as you climax against his mouth. He moans into your cunt at the taste of your sweet nectar before he devours you all over again. When his name rolls off your lips a second time, he kisses a teasing path up along your body, his lips brushing over your sensitive skin. You look beautiful underneath him, your skin flushed and eyes bright.

He stays your hand when you reach for him, bringing your fingertips to his lips instead, kissing them.

“Not tonight my love.” He whispers. “Tonight is about your pleasure, not mine.”

He’s the first man you give yourself freely and the last.

In the small principality of Pinon, he lies in bed with you, his spy, his lover and his wife and he knows you won’t just be fighting for Athos’s people, you’re fighting for your own, for the innocents that were slaughtered when your first husband took over your lands, the ones that tried to save you, the ones that couldn’t.

This is the reason that Pinon is so important to you.

This is the place you make your stand and this time he makes it with you.

Love Treville? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee