#are about to frame this man for no good reason)

[aokozaki]

He also hasn't apparently contested being found with a gun. People act like of course the cops planted a gun, why would a guy just be carrying a gun?

If Mr. Magnione is indeed the shooter, it's not hard to imagine "he couldn't think of a way to dispose of the gun" turning into "he kept it on his person" gelling with "if he was found he might have known he'd get arrested right away, so his manifesto thanks the feds for what they do and says he doesn't want to waste their time".

Or, maybe, anyway.

This is assuming a lot of hypotheticals. He is still only a suspect, innocent until proven guilty - and thankfully his family's well off so he's gotten a good lawyer.

The thing is though, people have turned ACAB into an excuse for assuming a massive conspiracy to arrest some guy on trumped up charges. Which like, wouldn't be shocking but that's also not proved either.

You ever notice how when the shooting first happened, and the shooter calmly shot the guy and then rode away on a bike and just fucking vanished, everyone's reaction was "what? that worked?"

But after a few days of myth-making, of seeing every little clue as proof that the unknown gunman was always one step ahead of the cops, when a man is arrested for pretty boring reasons, the reaction becomes "there's no way it's him, the shooter was too smart for this!"

Or maybe it's not that implausible, if Mr. Mangione does turn out to be the shooter (this is still just personal speculation here, it's not proven) that a man who's escape attempt was so slapdash as to provoke shock, also carried a manifesto that opens:

To the Feds, I'll keep this short, because I do respect what you do for our country. To save you a lengthy investigation, I state plainly that I wasn't working with anyone.

Was he expecting to be caught? That's just speculation and personal opinion. We don't know anything for sure yet.

It seems plausible he shot the guy, but objectively it's an understandable motive for murder, and also lmao? Terrorism charges?? Yeah they're not getting him with that even if he did do it.

But like, Jesus, drop the conspiracy theories. Saw some folks allege the manifesto must have been AI generated due to the somewhat surreal tone of opening up thanking the feds but like.

It's a handwritten note. That's very easy to google. The cops were fastidious enough in their frame-job to handwrite it, but hakcy enough to ask ChatGPT? What're you fucking talking about.

Honestly one of the main reasons to assume Luigi Mangione was framed by the NYPD is that the UHC shooter not only had no reason to carry around a manifesto, he had no reason to even write a manifesto. He said his piece loud and clear with the bullet casings and the monopoly money. Everyone understood it and the shooter knew that would be the case.

[morganaawriterr]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Coming Down;

Pairing; fem!reader x old lover!Nishimura Riki also fame hunger!Nishimura Riki Synopsis; You battle the lingering pain of your first love and heartbreak, only to face the unexpected return of the man who once shattered you. As past wounds resurface and kisses are shared, you are torn between the ghost of him and reality. Genre; Angst and slightly suggestive; Warnings; Mentions of smoking cigarettes; mention of God and the Devil; heartbreak; make-out session; Words; 1k — Based on the song "coming down" by Halsey. MASTERLIST;

A/N: I cant seem to write the fucking requests for some FUCKING reason. So here's something else while I make myself write them! I hope you enjoy getting your heart broken!

You find yourself reminiscing about him again, your eyes fixed on the star-filled sky as the night settles, its dark embrace comforting you better than anyone ever could—anyone but him, your first true love, your first true heartbreak.

As you take a long drag from the cigarette between your fingers, you close your eyes and imagine him beside you. His tall frame looms over yours, his addictive yet playful cologne wraps around you, and his deep voice urges you to put the cigarette down. And you would—if he asked.

Your heart aches at the thought of him, a pain so sharp and heavy it momentarily takes your breath away. You miss the way his cold fingers gently held your hand, the way his hair fell into his face, soft and wild. His blonde roots and brown tips made him recognizable no matter where he was.

You exhale a cloud of smoke as his name echoes in your mind, a name deeply tattooed on your heart: Nishimura Riki. The nice guy who grew shy in your presence, the nonchalant guy who couldn’t resist kissing you in front of everyone.

To you, he was almost God. His warm heart and endless patience made you want to surrender to him—not in a bad way. He was the good boy who made you want to be good too. You knew he hated that you smoked, so you tried to stop. He hated when you self-isolated, so you tried to share your feelings before you spiraled too far.

But he was also your Devil. His intoxicating lips left you craving him constantly, despite his aggressive words. His insatiable hunger for fame consumed everything. He knew your dreams were small—you only wanted to escape your abusive parents—yet he tried to push his need for something bigger into you.

You lay back against the roof, tears prick your eyes as you recall the last time you saw him. No more Oreo hair. No playful cologne. No love. The hotel room had felt like an endless corridor, and the closer you tried to get to him, the further away he seemed. The more you spoke, the more he avoided your gaze. The more the corridor stretched.

His sweet smile, the one that once absolved all your sins, was gone. Ni-ki didn’t even glance your way as he left, slamming the door behind him.

Your voice wouldn’t leave your throat as you screamed, clutching your shirt because the ache in your chest was unbearable, as if your heart was being torn in half. And it was. He took it with him, like a broken amulet, a reminder of you.

The cigarette burns down to its end and after that, you crush it against the rooftop and toss it away. He always comes to mind when you smoke. Maybe you should quit, so his ghost will finally leave you alone.

Climbing off the roof and into your tiny studio, your sanctuary offers solace once more, and Ni-ki fades away. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath. Today is the day you stop smoking.

You grab the last pack, step outside, and toss it into the bin by the staircase. A faint smile touches your lips as you imagine his lingering presence leaving with it. But the relief doesn’t last.

“I’m glad you’re quitting,” a familiar deep voice says behind you.

You freeze, closing your eyes and muttering a curse under your breath. Why does your mind insist on playing tricks? When you turn around, ready to see his image vanish, he doesn’t.

Riki stands before you, tall and real, with flushed cheeks and eyes stained red. Your hands tremble, your heart races, and you swear you’re imagining things. But then his strong, cold arms wrap around you, and his familiar cologne pulls you under, back to him.

“Ni-ki, what are you doing here?” you whisper, your voice fragile.  Your hands instinctively reach for his familiar face.

“I failed and came back to you,” he replies with indifference, before leaning in to capture your plump lips in a bittersweet kiss.

Your lips meet his reluctantly, but soon your hesitation fades away as you're completely consumed in his presence. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as his lips mold perfectly against yours. Just like they used to.

With a stable hand on your lower back, Ni-ki guides you both inside your studio, taking slow steps, so your lips can remain connected. You briefly parted to close the door behind you, a small smile forming on your sore, wet lips while gazing at your handsome lover.

Ni-ki sits on your bed and pats his leg, inviting you to sit on his lap. Shyly, you avert your gaze as you walk toward him, settling yourself atop him. Your head is spinning as you do, your heart jumping eagerly to the sigh of your lover.

Riki wastes no time—his delicate lips chase yours, hungry and impatient. You let him devour you whole, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth, evoking the touch you missed so much.

Your hands weave into his soft hair as Ni-ki breaks away, lowering his lips to your sweet neck. You tilt your head back, giving him access, and his skilled mouth begins to leave wet marks on your soft skin. The sensation sends shivers down your spine.

You close your eyes and savor the moment. His delicate hands grip your waist tighter as your hips begin to move weakly against his, not being able to resist his tempting touch. When Ni-ki lifts his head from your neck to moan softly near your ear, he whispers, “I love you, Y/N…”

Suddenly, you wake up cold and alone in your empty roof. The night breeze brushes against your short hair as you sit up, disoriented.

The cigarette in your hand is almost finished, but extinguished and completely chilled. Did you just fall asleep on the roof? Did any of that really happen?

Quickly, you climb down and return to your small studio. The only light comes from the TV flickering in the living room. Your eyes scan the space, and you soon realize no one is there.

It was all a dream.

Tears well up in your eyes as you throw yourself onto the bed, taking a deep, shaky breath. It all comes down to you quickly; Ni-ki won't ever come back to you. It's too late now; you are paying the price for loving him.

Taglist: @grandlightcandy @seokseokjinkim @strxwbloody @enhasunghoonishot @contyynishimura @heewanrik @ranwonbin @leanderexists @lovelyyf @youngheejay @crimson-reaper576 @rikifever @mrsjjongstby @laurradoesloveu @babyboomysweetie @mintchocos-things @nxzz-skz @saphiranishimurashan @ikeupups @yangjungwonnie @xiiaobaoo @itsuen @laylasbunbunny @mellowgalaxystrawberry @firstclassjaylee @questionsdearreader @greeyjre @en-doll @riqomi @lovingvoidgoatee @mitmit01 @miuwonis @aureliaaaa555 @han-to-my-minho @heeweenie @vixensss @ro-diares @hoonvinx @immelissaaa @jiryunn @quilevyt @vrusha01 @kkamismom12 @skzenhalove If you wanna be added or removed from the taglist just comment below!

[dollerinna]

❪ 小薇 ❫ I’M NOT A BAD MAN : I’M JUST OVERWHELMED

— 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝚑𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝚑𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 .

𝓘ames wilson ੭୧ f! reader ┇ p in v ⋆ somno ⋆ non-con

JAMES WILSON’S larger frame drapes over you, pulling you close in your unconscious state. His warmth envelops you like a blanket of fire, the heat of his body melding into yours in a way that makes your pulse spike before your mind can even catch up. The room is hushed, every sound muted by the gravity of his presence—except for his breaths. Hot and uneven, they tease the shell of your ear, stirring the hair along your temple with a hunger that feels barely leashed. His hand tightens on your hip, fingernails leaving a trail of crescent-shaped imprints into your flesh, as if his very skin demands yours.

His cock stirs, painfully hard beneath the confines of his pants, the dull throb of arousal building into something that demands attention. Each rapid thump of his heart feeds the tension coiling tighter in his core, a steady pulse of white-hot need spreading from the pit of his stomach down to the ache between his legs. He bites down on a groan, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, but the sound still claws free anyway—a feeble, borderline pathetic noise that makes him feel as though he's coming undone, thread by thread.

The image of him plunging his cock into your tight little cunt plays on an endless loop in his head, delirious and unrelenting, like the world’s worst porno he can’t turn off. It’s agonizing, this carnal itch he was powerless to soothe, a hunger gnawing at him from the inside out. And it’s your fault—cruel, unknowing, perfect you. Why did you always have to look so devastatingly, effortlessly fuckable? Even now. Even like this. He's supposed to be better than this. He swears he is better than this. Or at least, he was. But you're ruining him, turning him into something base, something unrecognizable—a mutt in heat, panting after scraps of you like his life depended on it.

With trembling hands, he shoves his pants down just enough to free himself, a stinging hitch of breath catching in his throat as the cool air hits his angry, leaking cock. It stands thick and flushed in a mess of brown, slapping against his belly with a humiliating, wet sound that reminds him of how far gone he is—and yet it only spurs him on, the tingling buzz in his ears swelling akin to static, drowning out the last whispers of reason.

His jaw locks as he carefully eases himself between your legs, gliding the slippery head of his shaft over your folds with a slow, surgical precision only a doctor could have. A weak moan betrays him when your entrance flutters helplessly, involuntarily clenching around the aching emptiness he’s yet to fill. It's a maddening kind of torture, one that leaves his knees jittery and his resolve fractured.

He hesitates, guilt rising like a bitter, choking weight in his throat. This is wrong—he knows it's wrong. You're asleep for god's sake. Sweet, innocent, and unaware, probably lost in some dream about kittens and puppies with that peaceful smile gracing your lips. But as the shame churns deep in his gut, it's quickly eclipsed by something much worse: the ugly truth—he doesn't care.

However, even at his worst, there is this tenderness in the way he moves that refuses to vanish. He wants to make you feel good—needs to, as if somehow, this could be something you’d never hate him for, no matter how far he falls. It’s a twisted kind of redemption, one that only someone like Wilson can dream about.

Slowly, he grinds into you, inch by torturous inch, flesh to flesh, your slick depths stretching to welcome him in. A shuddering sigh flees his lips as he buries himself to the hilt, reveling in how the gummy walls of your cunt clutches onto his member with an almost suffocating grip, squeezing so tightly it was as if your sleeping body wanted him here in the first place.

"Mmm... holy..." he breathes, the words faltering as they leave his lips, fragile and barely formed. "…'m sorry... I didn't want this... didn't m-mean to..." his confession splinters in the air, equal parts of guilt and lust tumbling out in hoarse murmurs, dissolving into the void with every stuttering thrust of his pelvis. Each stroke feels a perfect contradiction—a prayer answered and a sin committed, tightening his chest and clouding his mind all at once.

And then there’s you—silken, wet, and impossibly tight—wrapping around him like a second skin. Your fleshy insides mold to every pulsating ridge and vein of his cock, sucking him deeper in with the unknowing shifts of your hips. His nerves flare with a sizzling anticipation, the lewd squelch of him violating your cunt eating away at the edges of his crumbling resolve. Still, as futile as it is, he desperately clings onto what’s left of his control behind squeezed eyelids, and it takes everything in him not to spill right there—but the way his dick twitches within the deliciously, spongy muscles of your sex suggests that everything might not be enough.

After all, he's deathly afraid of crossing that final line. But in the hollow, aching pit of his chest, he knows...

He already has.

[growthhyp]

An accidental muscle theft here, hi 🫣.

Now, im a 50 years old stepdad i wanted to buy a gift for my stepson maybe those black boxers can work.

The Black Boxers

The warm, early autumn sun shone down on the cluttered garage sale, casting a golden glow on the assortment of forgotten treasures and knick-knacks. You, a 50-year-old man with a heart that had learned the meaning of true love and loss, meandered through the labyrinth of tables, each one groaning under the weight of discarded memories. The air was filled with the aroma of dust and the distant chuckles of neighbors swapping stories and bartering deals. The leaves whispered a soft lullaby as they danced in the gentle breeze, a poignant reminder of how life's seasons change.

Growing up, you had been the shy, unassuming boy, the one who often went unnoticed by the fairer sex. Yet, in your 30s, the universe had thrown you a lifeline in the form of the most enchanting woman you had ever laid eyes on—your future wife and Andrew's mother. The moment you saw her, something inside you had ignited. With trembling hands and a racing heart, you had mustered the courage to approach her, and to your astonishment, she had looked at you with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. Her acceptance of your feelings had been like a breath of fresh air, a new beginning you hadn't dared to dream of.

And now, with her gone, Andrew had become the very essence of your existence, the reason you woke up every morning and worked tirelessly at your job as a restaurant server. The bond between the two of you had grown stronger over the years, despite the stark contrast in your physical appearances. You had never been one to boast about your physique, but Andrew—his mother's son—was a towering testament to athleticism, a force to be reckoned with on the football field. He was a young man you were incredibly proud of, even though his interests had taken him on a path far removed from your own.

The muscular frame that Andrew now flaunted was a stark reminder of his biological father, a man you had never met but had heard tales of. His mother had spoken fondly of his athletic prowess, how he could command the attention of any room with his sheer presence. Yet, as you watched Andrew from the sidelines of his games, you felt a strange kinship with the man you had never known. It was as if the genetic legacy of strength and power had skipped a generation, landing squarely in the hands—or rather, the muscular embrace—of your stepson.

You approached the garage sale with a sense of purpose, knowing that Andrew's birthday was fast approaching. Despite the meager wages from your job as a server, you were determined to find something that would bring a smile to his face. You rummaged through piles of t-shirts and shorts, hoping for something that screamed 'football' without being too cliché. And there, amidst the sea of discarded goods, the muscular man emerged, a beacon of hope with his table of sporting goods.

His biceps bulged as he folded a faded jersey, drawing your eyes to his sculpted physique. "What would you like to purchase?" he asked, his voice deep and resonant. You felt a twinge of nostalgia for your youthful aspirations, the days when you had dreamed of muscles like his. "Actually, I'm looking for something for my son," you replied, trying not to betray the hint of longing in your voice. "He's on the college football varsity team, so I'm not sure what to pick."

The muscular man's eyes lit up with understanding, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He reached beneath the table, producing a black boxer with a subtle silver trim. "This," he said, holding it up with a flourish, "is perfect for someone in his position." The fabric looked durable, the kind that could withstand the rigors of athletic activity. "I guarantee he'll love it," he added with a wink. You nodded, hopeful that this simple piece of clothing could somehow bridge the gap between you and Andrew, remind him that you knew what it was like to be a man, to strive for something greater.

With the exchange of a few crumpled bills, the black boxer became yours to give. You tucked it away safely in your bag, feeling a sense of triumph. It wasn't just any old gift; it was something that screamed 'I support you' in a way that only a fellow sports enthusiast could understand. As you walked away from the table, you couldn't help but feel a pang of envy for the life this stranger led—his body a canvas for power and dominance. But you pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the excitement of giving Andrew something that might just make his day.

The sun had set by the time you got home, your mind buzzing with anticipation for tomorrow. You wrapped the black boxer in simple, yet elegant, paper, careful not to crease or damage the fabric that now held such promise. You placed it on Andrew's bed, a silent sentinel of the transformation that awaited him. When the morning light streamed through the blinds, he found it, his eyes lighting up like a child's on Christmas day. "Thanks, Dad," he said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. You felt a swell of pride, knowing that despite the challenges of your past, you had managed to make a real connection with the young man you had vowed to raise as your own.

That night, the garage sale's mysterious magic began to unfold. As Andrew donned the black boxers, a strange sensation washed over him. His muscles, already formidable, began to swell and pulse with newfound power. He felt a surge of strength and vitality that seemed to emanate from the very fabric that clung to his growing physique. He flexed his biceps in amazement, watching them balloon before his very eyes. His chest broadened, the crevice of his six-pack deepening with each grunt of exertion. His legs thickened, the veins becoming more pronounced as if they were trying to escape the confines of his skin. His cock grew too, standing tall and proud, demanding his attention.

Andrew couldn't believe the transformation. He had always been athletic, but this was something else entirely. The black boxers had unlocked a potential within him that was both thrilling and slightly disconcerting. He tried to contain his excitement, not wanting to alert you to the sudden changes. But as he jerked off, his mind racing with thoughts of unbridled power and virility, he couldn't help but feel a sense of euphoria. His moans and grunts of pleasure filled the quiet house, echoing down the hall to your own room, though you remained oblivious to the cause, attributing the sounds to his natural development.

As the weeks passed, Andrew's football performance soared to new heights. Coaches and teammates alike took notice of the burgeoning beast on the field, his aggression and dominance becoming the talk of the town. Yet, off the field, his personality had begun to shift, mirroring the changes in his physique. The once shy and gentle giant was now a cocky, arrogant presence that seemed to command attention wherever he went. You couldn't help but worry, though you brushed it off, chalking it up to the pressures of college life and the natural progression of a young man's hormones.

One fateful day, while doing his laundry, you stumbled upon the torn black boxer in the trash. The fabric looked as if it had been stretched to its limits, the seams strained by the sheer power of the muscles beneath. You picked it up, examining the damage with a furrowed brow. "I don't need it anymore," Andrew had casually said when you asked him about it. "It doesn't fit anymore because of my muscles." You nodded, understanding his need for new clothes but feeling a twinge of disappointment that your thoughtful gift had been discarded so quickly.

But your thrifty nature wouldn't let you throw away something that could still be used. You took the boxer in your hands, turning it over to assess the damage. The tear was small, but it had clearly been under immense pressure. You decided to fix it, pulling out your sewing kit from the drawer and carefully threading the needle. With meticulous precision, you stitched the fabric back together, making sure that it would hold against the relentless growth of Andrew's body. After all, the boxer had cost you a pretty penny, and it was only right that it served its purpose for as long as possible.

The following morning, you stepped out of the shower, feeling the cool tiles against your bare feet. You grabbed the repaired black boxer, noticing how baggy it had become. It was almost comical, but you shrugged it off, sliding it on. You were about to leave for your shift at the restaurant when you felt a strange warmth envelop you, a heat that grew more intense with each passing second. The tremor started in your fingers, a gentle vibration that grew to a quake, rushing through your body. You stumbled backward, the world around you a blur, and fell onto your bed with a thud. Your body convulsed as if you were being electrified, muscles contracting and expanding without your consent.

On the other side of the house, Andrew stirred in his sleep, the tremor jolting him awake. "What the fuck is happening?" he whispered, his voice barely above a croak.

As you lay on the bed, the tremor grew stronger, your muscles stretching and swelling with an intensity that was both painful and exhilarating. You watched in awe as your biceps grew, the two heads bulging outwards to form the peak of power you had always envied in others. The veins on your forearms became more pronounced, the brachioradialis flexing with each involuntary contraction. Your triceps, once hidden beneath layers of flab, began to take shape, forming the horseshoe that signaled true upper body strength.

Your chest expanded, the pectoral muscles pushing against your skin, creating a broad, intimidating silhouette. The growth was not limited to your arms and torso; your back muscles, the lats, began to spread wider, pulling your shoulders back and giving you the illusion of a smaller waist. The deltoids grew round and firm, capping your shoulders and making them seem even broader from the side. Your traps, once unnoticed, started to thicken, lending a sense of power to your neck and upper back that you had never experienced before.

The tremor grew more intense as the muscles in your stomach contracted and expanded, sculpting your abs into a defined six-pack. The lines between each abdominal muscle grew deeper, your stomach becoming flatter, more chiseled. The transformation was not just in your upper body; your legs also began to bulk up. Your quads stretched the fabric of the black boxers, the muscles becoming more pronounced as they grew. The hamstrings on the back of your thighs started to take shape, balancing the powerful look of your legs and contributing to your newfound athletic appeal.

In stark contrast, Andrew's body began to experience the opposite transformation. As the night wore on, his muscles deflated, the power and definition that had once made him the envy of his peers slowly dissipating. His arms, once bulging with the promise of victory, grew leaner, the veins retreating beneath his skin. His chest, once a bastion of strength, flattened, the pectoral muscles shrinking back into obscurity. His back, which had once boasted an impressive 'wingspan', now appeared narrow, the lats retreating to leave a less defined silhouette. The cockiness in his stride was replaced with a tentative gait as the very essence of his athletic identity was siphoned away.

You watched the mirror, your newfound confidence surging through your veins like a potent drug. Each flex of your newly-honed biceps sent waves of pleasure through your body, a testament to your newfound power. The tremor had subsided, leaving you in the aftermath of your transformation. You felt alive in a way you hadn't since your youth, a fiery determination burning in your eyes as you surveyed the landscape of your new physique. Your mind raced with thoughts of dominance and conquest, a stark departure from the timidity that had once been your hallmark.

Andrew's transformation, however, was a mirror image of your own. The once towering pillar of strength was now a shell of his former self, his muscles retreating to reveal the soft, submissive boy you had met all those years ago. His shoulders slumped, his chest deflated, and his eyes held a quiet desperation that tugged at your heartstrings. The arrogance that had so recently consumed him was gone, replaced with a shyness that seemed to shrink him before your very eyes.

You felt the urge to reach out, to comfort him, but something held you back—something primal and unyielding. Your hand found its way to the bulge in your own black boxers, and you began to stroke yourself, the fabric now taut against your newfound size. It was as if the very essence of Andrew's vitality was being transferred to you, filling you with a power that was both intoxicating and slightly terrifying. Your cock grew harder, longer, and you couldn't resist the urge to take it in hand, to revel in the sensation of your newfound virility.

Hour after hour passed, your strokes becoming more vigorous as the transformation neared its peak. Sweat beaded on your forehead, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you edged closer to climax. The room grew thick with the scent of musk and male power, a scent that seemed to fuel your desire. Your eyes remained locked on the mirror, watching as the last vestiges of your old self slipped away, replaced by the sculpted physique of a man in his prime. The tremors grew less frequent, your body now a finely-tuned instrument of power.

As you reached the precipice, you felt your cock pulse in your hand, swollen and heavy. With one final, desperate pull, you erupted, your cum shooting through the air in ropes of white-hot pleasure. The release was more intense than any you had experienced in your life, a testament to the changes the black boxers had wrought.

In the quiet that followed, the only sound was the slowing of your breath and the steady drip of cum onto the floor. Your body felt alive, charged with an energy that seemed to resonate through every fiber of your being. The tremors had ceased, and your transformation was complete. You looked down to see the once-baggy black boxers now stretched tightly over your massive thighs, the fabric clinging to your bulging muscles like a second skin.

Andrew's transformation had been swift and dramatic. His cock, once a symbol of his newfound virility, had shrunken back to a more modest size. The deflation was as sudden as the inflation had been, leaving him looking slightly lost amidst the sheets. His breath grew shallow and his eyes closed once more, his body succumbing to exhaustion from the ordeal. His sleep was deep, a stark contrast to the restlessness that had plagued him since the onset of his own transformation.

You, on the other hand, felt more alive than ever before. The tremors had subsided, leaving you with a body that was the embodiment of masculine power. You pushed yourself up from the bed, the mattress groaning under the weight of your newfound muscular frame. The black boxers that had once been baggy on you now clung to your body like a second skin, highlighting every bulging contour. You took a deep breath, feeling your newfound chest muscles expand, filling your lungs with confidence.

Walking over to the mirror, you couldn't help but admire the reflection staring back at you. The softness of your former body had been replaced with a sculpted physique that would make any bodybuilder proud. Each flex of your bicep sent a shiver of excitement down your spine, the peak of the muscle threatening to rip through the fabric. You turned to the side, admiring the 'V-taper' of your back, the lats spreading like wings that had been unfurled for the first time. Your shoulders looked broader, more defined, and your waist, once thick with age, had cinched in, giving you the appearance of a chiseled statue.

As you continued to flex, the reality of your new life as a professional bodybuilder sank in. The countless hours of training, the strict diet regimen, and the dedication to sculpting your body had paid off. You had always been proud of Andrew's academic achievements, his intelligence a stark contrast to your own physical prowess. The scholarship he had earned was a testament to his hard work and a relief to your wallet. Now, as you stood before the mirror, you felt a sense of pride in your own right, a pride that had been missing since you had last felt truly strong.

[hatsbuckets]

To Burn - Price x Reader | Ghost x Reader

Pairings: Price x Reader | Ghost x Reader (no reader pronouns used.) WC: ~2535 Warnings: Canon Typical Violence. Burning, cauterization of wound. Not medically sound. Hurt with v little comfort. The word "fuck" multiple times. (If you can't handle torture in the games then I promise this one's not for you.) Short Vers: Reader gets injured, badly. Price and Ghost are desperate to keep them from bleeding out. The two do the only obvious reasonable thing of course. aka one of the worms got me bad and i let it write.

Sorta, not really, Proof Read.

Fuck.

Fuck. You were not going to win this fight. Close quarters combat was hard enough for you as is, but close quarters against a mercenary wielding a blade? Not a chance.

You held him off as long as you could, Price chattering in your earpiece about how he was almost there. Hang on.

You dodged another of the man's swipe, but your footing didn't hold. You tumbled back.

You barely registered the blade before it struck, the mercenary’s movements too fast. You tried to twist away, but the steel sliced into your thigh, and a searing, white-hot pain exploded up your leg.

You hit the ground hard, the impact jarring your already-shaking frame. Blood soaked into the fabric of your gear, warm and sticky.

“Hang on!” Price’s voice snapped through your earpiece, sharp and urgent. Almost there. He was almost there.

The mercenary didn’t care. He loomed over you, blade raised for another strike, his grin wide and cruel. You scrambled, legs weak, arms barely cooperating.

You didn’t have the strength to block.

A crack split the air, loud and unmistakable. The mercenary froze, shock flashing across his face before a crimson hole bloomed in his chest. The knife slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground as he fell, lifeless.

Ghost stepped into view; rifle still trained on the body. His dark eyes scanned you, sharp and unrelenting, before he moved in closer.

“Shit,” Price muttered, skidding to his knees beside you. His hands were on your leg in an instant, pressing down hard. It felt like fire, and a broken sound escaped your lips.

“Still with us?” Price demanded, his tone clipped but tight with concern.

You forced a nod, though the world blurred and tilted. The edges of your vision darkened; the copper tang of blood thick in the back of your throat.

“Not good,” Price muttered, cutting away at the fabric of your pant leg. The gash was ugly, jagged, and deep. Too deep. His hands moved quickly, pressing gauze over the wound as blood seeped through.

“No evac,” Ghost said, his voice low and even. “Airspace isn’t clear. Too many hostiles to the North. We’re on our own.”

Price didn’t answer, his focus locked on you as he adjusted the pressure on your thigh. His gloves were slick with blood, and his expression was grim.

“We've got to move,” he said finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Ghost.”

Ghost didn’t hesitate. He crouched, one arm sliding under your knees, the other beneath your back. You tried to protest, but the words didn’t come. He lifted you easily, his grip solid and unyielding.

“Hush, gotta move,” he said flatly.

Price took point, rifle raised as they started into the streets, Ghost following close behind. Every step jolted your leg, the pain sharp and relentless, and the sound of your blood dripping onto the gravel road was enough to make your stomach turn.

“Stay awake,” Price called over his shoulder, his voice snapping through the haze. “Keep your eyes on me.”

You blinked, struggling to focus, but the edges of your vision swam. “Bleedin' too much,” you mumbled, the words barely audible.

“Eyes front, stay awake,” Ghost said, his voice steady despite the urgency in his stride.

The edge of the town came, and a dark shape took form—a crumbling, abandoned home. Price moved ahead, clearing the doorway before motioning Ghost inside.

Ghost carried you to a dusty old couch, lowering you carefully. The pain was immediate, sharp enough to wring a whimper from your throat.

Price didn’t waste time, ripping open Ghost’s pack and dumping out its contents onto a battered table. His movements were quick, precise, but his face gave him away. Supplies were low. Too low.

...

Ghost crouched by the fireplace, striking another match. The flame caught on the dry wood he’d scavenged, crackling faintly before spreading. Shadows danced across the crumbling walls, their flickering edges almost alive as the fire grew. The warmth barely reached across the cold, damp room, but it added a sense of fragile life to the silence.

Price worked with grim determination, his hands slick with blood as he pressed another bandage against your leg. The fresh gauze darkened almost immediately, and his jaw clenched tighter with each second. Every press sent sharp, biting pain radiating up your thigh, and despite your best efforts, a soft whimper escaped your lips.

Price paused, his eyes flicking to you, studying your face for the briefest moment. “Hang in there,” he murmured, his voice steady but lined with something quieter, something softer than his usual blunt tone. “You’re alright, dove.”

The words felt distant, swallowed by the agony pounding in your leg and the icy fear creeping up your spine.

“Still bleedin',” Ghost said from across the room, his voice low and even. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the fire as if its growing warmth carried all the answers. But the weight of his tone was impossible to miss, and it settled in the space between the three of you like a lead weight.

Price didn’t respond immediately, his focus still on your wound. His hands moved with efficiency, but you could see it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his lips pressed into a hard line. He didn’t need to say it out loud. The blood wasn’t stopping, and time was running out.

When he finally glanced at you, his expression darkened further. His eyes lingered on your face—on the pallor creeping across your skin, the way your breathing hitched as you tried to push past the pain. You felt the weight of his gaze, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it.

The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close. The flickering firelight was too bright, and the scent of burning wood was sharp and overwhelming.

And fuckin hell there was a lot of blood.

Ghost’s shadow shifted as he turned toward you. He didn’t speak right away, his gaze sweeping over you and then locking with Price’s. There was something unspoken in the way they looked at each other, something deliberate.

Price’s hands slowed, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. He sat back on his heels, wiping his bloodied gloves on his thighs as he glanced toward the fire. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible—a brief flick of his eyes—but Ghost caught it.

The tilt of Ghost’s head was just as subtle, a silent question. Price met his gaze, his jaw tightening as he gave the faintest nod.

“No,” you whispered, your voice cracking as it broke the heavy quiet.

Price’s attention snapped back to you, his brows furrowing slightly. “No what?”

“You’re thinking about…” The words caught in your throat, your heart pounding harder. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, despite the panic clawing at your chest. “You’re not serious.”

Price didn’t answer immediately. His silence was louder than words, his gaze steady and calm but lined with that same grim determination.

“We don’t 'ave a lot of options,” he said finally, his voice low.

“No,” you said again, shaking your head weakly. Your breath hitched, and the room started to spin, the firelight now too warm, too alive. “You can’t.”

Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, hot pain materialized, the smell of burning flesh, the burn scars that littered your torso. No.

“We can't let you bleed out,” Price said bluntly, his tone soft but no less firm. He didn’t flinch as you stared at him, desperation written across your face.

Ghost’s shadow fell over both of you as he stepped closer. He didn’t say anything, but his movements were deliberate, his gloved hand reaching for the fire tools.

Your stomach twisted as you watched him pull a piece of steel from the rack, holding it over the flames. The air around it shimmered with heat, and your chest tightened, panic rising in a wave that felt suffocating. You could hear the memories of harsh words you didn't understand.

“Fuck. Ghost—don’t,” even with your voice barely above a whisper, there was a deathly warning behind it.

He didn’t look at you, his focus on the glowing steel. His silence was unbearable, and it only fed the fear clawing at the edges of your mind.

Your eyes locked with Price’s, but the fear clawing at your chest made it impossible to hear his words of reassurance. The world was spinning too fast, the flickering firelight too bright.

“You’re strong,” he said, his voice quieter now, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “I’ll make it quick. You have my word.”

Tears streaked your face as you shook your head violently. “Please… I can't...”

“You can,” Price said firmly, his voice soft but unrelenting. His hand lingered on your arm, as your breathing came in quick, shallow gasps.

When Ghost shifted at the fire, the steel rod glowing with eerie light, panic surged like a tidal wave. You thrashed, your hands pushing hard against Price’s chest.

“Please, no,” you begged, your voice breaking as you shoved at him.

Price stayed firm, his steady presence an unyielding wall as he caught your wrists mid-strike. “Easy,” he said, his tone calm but resolute.

You struggled again, your fear flaring hotter than the pain in your leg. “No. Fuck!" Another desperate shove made Price falter slightly. He leaned back, his hands releasing yours as he exhaled sharply.

"Please, John, please, no," You begged through tears. But you knew the answer before he moved.

For a moment, Price hesitated, but he didn't stop, his eyes flicking to Ghost. He tapped the back of Ghost’s arm—a wordless signal that passed between them like second nature. Ghost didn’t speak, but he moved with the silent precision you’d come to expect, stepping in to take Price’s place.

Fuck this. Fuck.

Before you could react, Ghost sank down on the couch in the space behind you. His gloved hands caught yours as they pushed against him, his grip firm but careful. He brought them to your front, wrapping your hands around yourself before his arms encased you completely.

His presence was unshakable, solid against your trembling frame. He didn’t say a word—no promises, no reassurances. Just the quiet strength of his arms locking you in place.

Fuck this. And fuck him.

Your sobs came fast and hard, spilling out uncontrollably. The room blurred, and for a moment, all you could feel was your fear—your terror of the fire, the steel, the pain that was coming.

But Ghost didn’t let go. His breath was calm against the back of your neck, his hold unyielding.

Eventually, the fight began to leave you, draining into the steady rhythm of his grip. Blood loss or otherwise, you were running on fumes. Your cries softened into quiet, gasping breaths, though tears still streaked your face. Your body slumped against his, reluctant but spent, and his arms adjusted, holding you more securely.

Price knelt in front of you again, his expression softer now but still resolute. He met your tear-filled gaze, waiting for the faintest hint of acknowledgment before he spoke. You gave it in something between a glare and a plea.

“It’s going to hurt,” he said gently. “But I can't let you bleed out."

Fuck.

You nodded weakly, the tears still falling as you leaned back into Ghost’s arms. His silence was its own kind of comfort, and you clung desperately to it as Price reached for the glowing steel rod.

The rod seemed to burn brighter in the dim room, its heat warping the air as Price held it over the fire.

Ghost’s arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him, his gloved hands a silent, steady restraint over your trembling ones. His grip was firm but not harsh, locking you in place as you shook against him. His breath, slow and even, ghosted against your hair. You could feel his balaclava's fabric against your ear every so often.

Fuck that stupid, fucking mask. More tears feel down your face.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the glowing steel rod. The thought of it—the heat, the sound it would make, the smell—was too much. Your gaze instead found Price’s face, and your chest tightened.

Those blue eyes. They never faltered, not even now. Not even when you felt like you were falling apart.

Fuck those stupid, ever-convincing blue eyes.

He crouched before you, calm and steady, the rod glowing in his hand. You couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart and the rasping sobs tearing from your chest, but you saw it in his expression: quiet, resolute certainty.

You bit your lip hard, trying to stifle the sound that slipped past as he shifted forward.

The rod moved toward your leg, and your body reacted before your mind could catch up, thrashing violently against Ghost’s hold. He tightened his grip without a word, his arms locking around your middle, pulling you impossibly closer. Your head turned away, your teeth digging into your lip as a strangled cry slipped out.

The first touch of the steel to your skin was blinding. White-hot, searing into every nerve in your body. You screamed. Raw and guttural. You arched against Ghost as if you could somehow escape it.

He held firm, his silence unyielding as you writhed, strong arms locking you in place.

The sound of the steel burning into flesh was drowned out by your own cries, the acrid smell filling your nose and turning your stomach. For a terrifying moment you were back in enemy hands. You were being tortured all over again. You were fucking dying then and you were fucking dying now. You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to look, refusing to see,

but your gaze found Price’s again, desperate and tear-filled.

His eyes were still there. Steady. Grounded. Unflinching. Deathly focused on the task at hand. Fuck those damn-

Your nails clawed weakly at Ghost’s gloves, your strength fading as the pain stole the last of your resolve. Price didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate. He moved with precision, faster than you thought possible, his focus never breaking.

And then it was over.

The steel rod clattered to the floor with a dull thud, and Price was already reaching for fresh gauze, his hands working quickly to cover the wound. Your body sagged against Ghost, your head falling forward as quiet, shuddering sobs wracked your frame.

Price secured the bandage in silence, his movements careful but efficient. He glanced up at you, his blue eyes softening just enough.

“Good, for now.”

He didn’t elaborate.

Fuck him. He knew you. He fucking knew what this was.

And you'd let him do it again if it meant you didn't bleed out and die. You'd let them save you.

Fuck.

Ghost eased his grip slightly, his hands shifting just enough to support you without pinning you. You didn’t have the strength to pull away, your trembling body slumping into his hold.

You didn’t look at your leg. You didn’t look at the rod still faintly glowing on the floor. You didn’t look at the bloodstained gauze or the dark patches on Price’s hands.

Instead, you closed your eyes, your tears still falling as exhaustion and pain dragged you under. Ghost's warmth at your back and Price's gentle lips to your forehead were the last solid things you felt.

Thanks for reading.

[singeds-subject]

ohhh finally someone put it into coherent words. i've been trying to find a way to verbalize all of these issues, and then some. it's just been insanely hard to find my words for it haha.

genuinely when jinx called sevika an ogre i was absolutely slackjawed. what an insane thing to include?? did NOBODY think for, like, a second or two before leaving that in???

there are some other smaller things i picked up on as well while thinking about all this stuff...

one, the way almost every disabled character is an antagonistic force at some point. most of our zaunite cast, salo, viktor, they all act antagonistically.

two, the way they frame sex work is... kinda weird? like... almost every shot we see of sex work happening in arcane, it's shown to be a fairly uncomfortable environment in one way or another. i mean, we don't ever see a protagonist engage with it either. there's that scene with caitlyn in the brothel, but she's just talking to that woman, they're not even doing anything. we namely see babette trying to hit on claggor, and lest acting as a spy during sessions with salo. speaking of lest...

three, gee i wonder why they cast a trans woman as the deceptive sex worker that we see spying on people and being a drug expert. i'm sure that doesn't fit any negative stereotypes. and i'm sure there's a good reason why we didn't get any other transfeminine characters besides this one. no biases here, no sir.

four, the way ambessa is handled feels a little gross to me too? especially compared to the other, much lighter skinned antagonist we got in arcane. silco largely does not conduct his violence himself, while ambessa often leads the charge for it, and actively advocates for it. they both are violent people, but the contrast in the way it's framed for them just feels weird. that's not to even mention that bath scene with jayce and ambessa... it feels so strange to me that they made the black woman so openly dismissive of a smaller, lighter skinned man's boundaries! that feels weird! i am very much white so i could be blowing this one way out of the water trying to find something to get angry at, but i can't get it out of my head.

i think what really put the final nail in the coffin for me was seeing that ekko had like, 700 words of dialogue in either season, while jinx had thousands in either. vi had like 5,000 in season 1, which dropped to around a fifth of that in season 2. take this part with a grain of salt, i could very well be talking out of my ass.

Now that arcane is over im seriously starting to doubt its “inclusion”

Mel being the disposable black girlfriend

Sky existing solely for the development of a white man (viktor)

Ekko and sevika both dedicating their lives to the betterment of zaun and getting absolutely 0 recognition and instead being favored for the white girl that didn’t even want the position (jinx)

Ekko having no personal development outside of jinx (white girl) and his only real purpose in arcane being to save the day and never being mentioned again

Silco being an antisemitic stereotype

Sevika being called an ogre by a white girl?????

Now that I’m actually looking at this shit, it kinda sucks. And when you consider the fact that the whole p/z conflict was thrown out the fucking window with the “both sides are bad” p.o.v + the fact that the whole reason the p/z conflict exists in the first place is because of ship angst, it feels like they never cared about any of it. The inclusion, the commentary, the mindfulness, it was all fake. Like damn. They really dont give a shit and never did. Its all just racism in pretty packaging :/

[cringefaecompilation]

mfw orym, guy with a missing dad who fucking despises him to the point he refuses to remember his first name and notably cares deeply or is overprotective for the vast swath of his surviving all-female family members starts talking about how "important the relationships between fathers and sons" are

[drpicklesart]

they are going to mehnahnaroo

[derylaintshit]

NYOD stop making Luigi look so fucking badass challenge! (Failed)

[sciderman]

Pre-2000s comics are superior for being able to make their characters not be as clear-cut and stereotypical (classic Peter Parker and his personality, motivations and views on stuff, pre-2000s Wolverine for being more than just the wild berserker but a man with strong morals and hobbies/interest you wouldn't expect for a gruff berserker) AND for writing out their accents (reading 90s Wades accent can be a wild experience sometimes and i miss that) whitch helped with making them sound unique and recognizable

GOD i miss wade's accent SO much. i loved the way he talked.

it's something i try to write in when we're in flashbacks or when i'm writing the cablepool fics - wade talks a whole lot more like he did in the older comics.

BRING back wade's stupid accent i say. i miss when he talked like a looney tunes character.

[horsegirlhob]

I'm not an Angel hater by any means however I do think Spike should get to be as big of a dick to him as he wants to be and people shouldn't get to say shit about it.

[descriptionofaruby]

and yknow what else

telling me like "youre an adult you deal with it" is so insulting actually. of course at the time my stupid feelings go "oh no i didnt think of this specific method of dealing with the problem and hadnt made steps yet i must be being immature :(" when in reality i just havent fucking gotten to the point where i know if and what steps i want to take yet. i was going to monitor how i feel for a bit to check consistency before i make a decision on talking to anyone because i actually felt really really happy last night and decent this morning before This happened which maybe shed have known if she'd asked about anything before she started talking about stuff. and of course shes asleep now so i just have to like sit here with this knowing i have to bring it up if i have any self respect and not knowing when thatll be an option

[sskk-manifesto]

(´｡• ◡ •｡`)

[doux-amer]

Revenant is soooo mid which is disappointing because I was looking forward to it due to the actors and writer (this isn’t a flop like Jirisan, which I gave up on after 2–3 episodes, but it’s not really good). BUT. BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m suffering from “poor little meow meow middle-aged man” deficiency and Professor Yeom Haesang suffers so much. I can’t believe I was like “Oh...okay” about his casting because I’m planting my palms against his windows, peering at him in his little cage and being fed because he’s had the worst life ever and it keeps getting worse. HAESANG *____*<3

[daydreamerdrew]

The Incredible Hulk (1968) Annual #10

[dyketennant]

been trying to get into this fucking writing conference for weeks only for them to let me know the night before it starts that oh actually we don’t need any more volunteers. and also our registration is closed. oh and by the way go fuck yourself