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weaktostrong

My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines

“Villains aren’t born, they’re made...blah...blah...” Cute quote. Stick it on your Tumblr header next to your anime pfp. You boys love your villain stories, don’t you? You want carnage. Chaos. Control. You want a dark throne, a cold smirk, and a woman kneeling at your feet begging for mercy. But you? You don’t want to lift a damn finger. You’ll cheer for the villain as he kills a god, but cry when he gets betrayed. You call it “plot armor” when the hero survives—but call it “art” when the villain does the impossible. You’re not fans of villains. You’re fetishists. You want the violence, but not the silence after it. You want domination, but not the burden of being hated. You want power, but only if the story forgives you for it. You don’t read these stories to understand evil. You read them because you think you're too good to win the normal way. “Villains don’t play fair.” Exactly. That’s why you love them. Because you wouldn’t last a day in a world where strength mattered and excuses didn’t. You don’t want a villain’s life. You want his results. You want to watch him burn the world for a woman. But you’d cry if a girl left you on read. So tell me— What exactly are you rooting for? At least unlike you, I support heroes—the ones with boobs. You know the type. Tits squeezed into latex, thighs tight in spandex, preaching virtue with cum-drunk eyes the moment they fall into my arms but always end up screaming my name instead. She flies above cities, saving lives like it’s her job. But at night? She crashes into my arms, trembling, moaning, clawing at my back like I’m the only real thing she’s ever touched. Her cape drops before her guard does. But I don't need to tear it off. She hands it over herself—bit by bit, kiss by kiss, lie by beautiful lie. You ever felt a heroine's breath hitch in your ear as she begs you to stop pretending you're the bad guy? Ever watched the symbol of hope ride you like you're the last man left after the world ended? That's not conquest. That’s devotion, baby. Unfiltered. Undeniable. And the irony? They fall the hardest. Because no villain ever tried to understand them. No hero ever dared to see past the shine and into the ache beneath. But I do. I whisper into the cracks of their perfection. I plant kisses where they hide their pain. I fuck them where they forget to wear their strength. And when they break—when their moans turn to prayers, when their strength melts into submission— That’s when I rise. I’m not just some brooding misfit out for revenge, or a misunderstood loner sitting around hoping for a shot at redemption. I’m not a villain. I’m the SUPERVILLAIN—the kind your heroines moan for when the cameras are off and the capes are crumpled on my floor.
Idiocrat · 84k Views

The Wife, The Ex, and the Apocalypse

A sound, deep and unearthly, cracked across the sky — like the world itself had been struck with a sledgehammer. The stars flickered, then vanished behind creeping waves of ash and violet light. A fracture spread across the heavens, jagged and violent. And from that wound in the sky... they fell. Shapes. Twisted. Wrong. Crawling, jerking — no longer human. But inside a secluded estate tucked behind electronic gates and manicured hedges, the world still slept. Ryan stirred beneath the sheets, tangled in warmth. Jane Blackwood lay beside him, her breath calm and even. For a fleeting moment, the illusion held. Then— Bang! Bang! Bang! “Ryan!” Maggi’s voice, sharp with panic. A second slam, louder. “Open the door! Now!” Ryan groaned, still half-dreaming. “What the hell’s going on…” He slid out of bed, eyes heavy, limbs slow. When he opened the door, Eleanor nearly collapsed into him. Her hands were streaked with blood, her eyes wild. “They’re here,” she whispered. “The sky cracked open. Something came through. People are changing. Dying. Tearing each other apart—Ryan, this isn’t a dream. This is real. It’s happening.” Maggi stood behind her, gripping a rifle, jaw clenched. “We’ve got to move. Now. This estate won’t hold them long.” Screams echoed in the distance — not just one. Dozens. Back in the bedroom, Jane sat up, pulling her hair back with one hand. “Ryan?” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were already calculating. He turned, pulse hammering. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” Outside, the world had ended. And the dead had begun to rise. He reached for his clothes, yanking on a shirt. But just as he stepped toward the hallway, a voice — soft, familiar, like silk — stopped him cold. “Ryan...?” He froze. Slowly, he turned toward the source of the voice. There, standing at the end of the corridor, bathed in the eerie flicker of backup lights, was a woman he had never seen before. And yet… something in her gaze — the tilt of her head, the tremble in her voice — pulled at him like gravity. His mind raced, breath caught in his throat. Why did she feel like a memory he'd forgotten? Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. thank you !
Xylos_Nightshade · 5.7k Views