#guilty or innocent?

[writing-to-survive]

#98

You were framed. Everyone who knows you thinks that you committed a terrible crime. You didn't, of course, but no one believes you. Police, friends, even your own family doesn't believe. You have less than three days to prove yourself innocent and find the real culprit. If not, then you'll either spend the rest of your life on the run or in a cramped cell.

[sam-winchester-is-my-wife]

“here’s what we know about the uhc shooter”

WRONG! He is a suspect and we should treat him as such. He should be treated as innocent until proven guilty, not guilty until proven innocent. He’s a person of interest not the killer. I don’t care what the media or authorities are saying, he’s a human being who deserves a fair trial and deserves to be treated as innocent until proven otherwise.

[colossalmechanism]

I cannot see any word that has "Quint" in it without being like HOLY SHIT THE QUINTESSONS FROM TRANSFORMERS?????

[v0idwraith]

quite frankly idgaf what Luigi Mangione’s politics are, he actually did something to make a change and that’s more than most people can say

[everwizard]

I'm just gonna say it. If y'all actually cared about Luigi Mangione, you wouldn't be doing the cops work for them and automatically deeming him guilty. If you actually cared, you would be fighting for his innocence.

[sinister-yet-satisfying]

I don’t think the ruling class realizes what they’re doing with their reactions to the UHC CEO shooting. The actions of a single person, seemingly acting alone, has gotten more reaction out of them than decades of peaceful protesting has.

Seems like a dangerous precedent.

[dracaryswonder]

Friday was a key example of law enforcement using optics such as the bullet proof vest and the hands, waist and feet being shackled to make Luigi look guilty and dangerous.

They want to convince the public that he is vicious. We cannot let that happen Luigi is innocent until proven guilty, and there has been no solid evidence to link him to the crime.

We have got to give Luigi the presumption of innocence. Stop talking about him like he has already been convicted.

There is zero presumption of innocence from the court.

[powerin]

alternate universe

[youreyesaremyfavoritecolor]

it's the fact that brett howden said he had to leave because she was crying so hard, it's the fact they had golf clubs and threatened to put them in her, it's the fact that her testimony was called false because she lied about how much she weighed, it's the fact they made a group chat to get their story straight, it's the fact that she was sobbing so loud her mom heard her over the sound of a shower, it's the fact that men are blaming this whole case on her not wanting to be caught cheating, it's the fact that multiple men left because they felt it was weird but never did anything to stop it, it's the fact that they made her record a video saying it was consensual AFTER the fact, it's the fact that the jury was thrown twice because of the defendant's lawyers, it's the fact that all five of them were given a "not-guilty"

[notlemoncello]

Luigi pre-trial main points

(Source BBC)

- Luigi Mangione has appeared at a New York City courthouse, charged with the killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson

- He (Luigi) arrived shackled and wearing a bulletproof vest, with at least six security guards surrounding him

- Kicking off proceedings, Mangione's lawyer said he has been a "model prisoner" and asked for his shackles to be removed, to which the judge refused

- Mangione's supporters are both inside and outside the courtroom, and shouts could be heard throughout proceedings

- It's the first time Mangione has appeared in court since December, when he pleaded not guilty to murder and terrorism charges

- Prosecutors allege Mangione shot Thompson, a father of two, outside a hotel in Manhattan before going on the run. He was arrested five days later while eating at a McDonald's in Pennsylvania

- The killing of Thompson, who led a major health insurance company, caused anger among many Americans against the trillion-dollar industry

[forgetful-nerd]

I will absolutely die on the hill that every Donnie does (or would do) the unhinged shit Rise Donnie does. They are just a bit better at hiding it at….least until they are directly confronted with it.

Like other Donnies probably wouldn’t let it slip out that they have trackers on their own brothers, but they wouldn’t be able to deny it if their brothers ever asked them if they have put trackers on them (even if it was said jokingly).

[theoreocat]

When they look at you like this, you always wonder what they’ve done. 🤔

[meymimi]

Oh, shit. SHIT, MY HAND SLIPPED--

GUYS IM INNOCENT THIS IS NOT INTENTIONAL

[xxcrushesxx]

Cruel Love

synopsis: Harry Styles is the bad boy of your college campus—arrogant, untouchable, and devastatingly handsome. You're the shy, innocent girl who accidentally catches his attention. But Harry doesn’t do sweet. He does mean. And for some reason, he’s set his sights on you.

Warnings: Warnings: ,Angst, Bullying/Mean Behavior, Power Imbalance, Possessive Behavior, Strong Language, Steamy Content, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Lovers, smut, sex scenes

paring: Harry x y/n

The first time Harry noticed you, you were tucked in the corner of the library, biting your lip in concentration as you scribbled notes. He smirked to himself, watching how your brows furrowed when you were deep in thought.

Too easy.

He sauntered over, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned over your table. "You’re in my seat," he said, voice dripping with arrogance.

You blinked up at him, startled. "I—I’m sorry, I didn’t know—"

"Didn’t know, or didn’t care?" His green eyes glinted with amusement as he watched you fluster.

"I’ll move," you whispered, already gathering your books.

Harry chuckled, pressing a hand down on your notebook to stop you. "Nah. Stay. I like watching you squirm."

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t understand why he was like this—why every word out of his mouth was sharp enough to cut.

But Harry knew exactly what he was doing.

Because breaking you?

That was going to be fun.

Harry made it his mission to torment you.

He’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long. He’d smirk when you dropped your things, then kneel down to help—only to whisper something filthy in your ear that left you breathless.

"You’re such a mess, Y/N," he taunted one day, cornering you after class. "One look from me and you fall apart."

"I don’t—I don’t like you," you lied, your voice trembling.

Harry’s grin widened. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "Liar."

You hated him.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It all came to a head at a party.

You were trying to avoid him, but Harry had other plans. He found you hiding in the kitchen, clutching a red cup like a lifeline.

"Running away again?" he drawled, stepping too close.

"Leave me alone, Harry," you pleaded, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his warmth.

He cupped your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You don’t mean that."

And then—he kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet. It was claiming.

When he pulled away, your lips were swollen, your eyes dazed.

Harry smirked. "Told you you didn’t hate me."

The party was still raging around you, but in that moment, all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart. Harry’s lips had left a brand on yours, his touch still burning your skin.

You pulled away, breathless, your fingers instinctively touching your lips. "Why did you—"

"Because I wanted to," he interrupted, his voice low and rough. His green eyes were dark, unreadable. "And you wanted me to."

You shook your head, but the lie was obvious. Your body had responded to him instantly, betraying every protest you’d ever made.

Harry smirked, victorious. "Admit it, Y/N. You’ve been thinking about this."

You hated how easily he saw through you.

After that night, things changed.

Harry didn’t stop teasing you—if anything, he got worse. But now, there was something else beneath his cruel words. A possessiveness. A hunger.

He’d show up at your dorm unannounced, leaning against your doorframe with that infuriating smirk. "Miss me?"

"No," you’d say, even as your pulse spiked.

He’d laugh, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "You’re a terrible liar."

And then he’d kiss you again, pushing you against the wall like he couldn’t help himself.

You told yourself you hated it.

But you kept letting him in.

Then, one night, something unexpected happened.

You were studying in the library when Harry slid into the seat beside you. You braced yourself for his usual taunts, but instead, he just… watched you.

"You’re really into this, huh?" he said, nodding at your textbook.

You frowned. "Yeah. Why?"

He shrugged, looking almost… shy? "Just asking."

It was the first time he’d ever shown genuine interest in something you cared about.

And it terrified you more than his cruelty ever had.

The truth came out during a thunderstorm.

Harry showed up at your dorm, soaked from the rain. You let him in without a word, handing him a towel.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

"I think I’m fucked, Y/N," he admitted, running a hand through his wet hair.

"Why?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at you, his usual arrogance gone. "Because I can’t stop thinking about you."

Your breath caught.

And then, for the first time, you kissed him.

-the next day-

You were supposed to be studying.

But the second Harry's text lit up your phone-"Open your door. Now."—you knew that wasn't happening.

You hesitated for exactly three seconds before giving in, unlocking your dorm door. He slipped inside like a shadow, all leather and musk and intent. Before you could speak, he had you pinned against the wall, his knee nudging your thighs apart.

"Missed me?" he murmured, lips grazing your ear.

You swallowed hard. "No."

Harry chuckled, low and dark, one hand sliding under your sweater. "Liar." His fingers found your waist, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast just enough to make you gasp. "You've been thinking about this all week, haven't you?"

You bit your lip, refusing to answer.

Bad move.

His free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Haven't you?"

A whimper escaped you. "...Yes."

"Yes what?" His voice was a rough command.

"Yes, I-I thought about you."

"Where?" His fingers trailed lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. "Here?"

You nodded, breath hitching as his fingertips teased over your soaked panties.

Harry's eyes burned. "Fuck, you're dripping." He hooked a finger under the lace, tearing them aside with a sharp tug. "Couldn't even wait for me?"

You moaned as two fingers slid into you without warning, his palm grinding against your clit.

"Look at you," he growled, watching your face twist in pleasure. "So fucking desperate." His fingers curled, dragging against that sweet spot inside you. "Bet you'd come just like this, wouldn't you? Just from my hand?"

You were close-so close-but then he stopped, pulling away.

You whimpered in protest.

Harry smirked, wiping his fingers on your thigh. "Beg."

You hated how much you loved this.

"Please," you gasped.

"Please what?"

"Please-fuck me."

His pupils blew wide. "Good girl."

In one motion, he flipped you around, bending you over your desk. Papers scattered as he yanked your leggings down, his belt buckle clinking behind you.

Then his cock was pressing against your entrance, thick and unforgiving.

“Harry一"

He didn't make you wait.

One brutal thrust, and he was deep, stretching you impossibly full. You cried out, but he didn't slow down, setting a punishing pace, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Mine," he snarled, fingers tangling in your hair. "Say it."

"Yours-fuck—!"

His teeth sank into your shoulder as you came, his own release following with a groan, hot and possessive inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing.

Then Harry pulled out, turning you to face him. His thumb swiped over your swollen lips, his smirk returning.

"Still gonna pretend you hate me?"

You didn't answer.

(You didn't have to.)

Epilogue

Harry Styles was still a bastard.

But he was your bastard.

And as it turned out?

He wasn’t so mean after all.

A/N: ✨FIN!!✨

*(Want more? Smutty shower scene? Jealous!Harry? Let me know.😈

[mycherrycola]

troubled sibling relationship my beloved

[urfavleo777]

luigi wearing glasses, praise kink, professor x student relationship, dry humping

pairing: luigi mangione x f!reader

➳

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least. Instead of jotting down the lecturer's golden sentences, you preferred to write down yours, so that when you got home you could create something actually readable out of it that some might consider poems. For you they were much more valuable than the highest score on the final exam. Exactly, for you. 

But you weren’t lazy. You were just tuned into something different. So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. Each free moment you dedicated to the library, where you ended up spending more of your academic year than in actual lectures—especially those without mandatory attendance. You always took the same table, which, after a while, sort of became your signature spot. People started to recognize you only by the sight of you sitting there, head down, lost in pages. You were not aware that among them there was also one man who particularly stood out, who often rummaged through the shelf of your favorite fiction. Professor Mangione. And you were so absorbed that you didn't even notice him sending you a short glance that grew longer with each passing day.

"Hey," he said with a small smile. "I’ve noticed you here a lot. You’re not in any of my classes though, right?"

You shook your head, slightly confused. "No, I… I don’t usually go to lectures where attendance isn’t required."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. But eventually, you’ll have to start. Final exams are coming up. You don’t want to cram everything in last minute.”

You blinked, a little confused. “Wait, what do you even teach again?”

He didn’t seem offended, rather amused, which he confirmed with laughter. That was a bit disappointing though since you wanted him to go away. Instead, he replied, briefly glancing at the cover of The Bell Jar. “Literary theory.”

It suddenly clicked - sure enough, Professor Luigi Mangione was somewhere hidden in your course syllabus. You decided to skip his lecture right from the beginning of the semester.

You grinned, biting your tongue to avoid complimenting him for the book he was holding. “No wonder I barely show up.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And why’s that?”

You shrugged, a bit defensively. “I guess I just prefer the practice over the theory. Reading and writing feels more real to me than all those abstract concepts.”

He leaned in just a little, eyes narrowing with interest. “Practice over theory, huh? There’s something poetic about that.”

Fuck.

You stood. You sat again. He didn't look away for even a second, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

“Well,” you said, grabbing your bag with a smirk, “I should probably get back to work before I start failing all my classes—even the ones I actually attend.”

He laughed softly. “Smart move. But don’t be a stranger, alright?”

You glanced over your shoulder as you headed for the door, tossing a playful grin back at him. “No promises, Professor. But I’ll try not to disappoint.”

What the fuck had just happened?

➳

You quickly noticed that Professor Mangione had a certain routine to which he stuck religiously.

Mornings began with him drifting through the fiction shelves—never in a rush, always deliberate—his fingers grazing the spines like he was searching for something long lost. Then he’d settle into the same armchair by the window, legs crossed, a book in one hand, coffee in the other.

You told yourself you weren’t watching him. Just... observing. Like a character study. The kind of person you'd write into a story without fully realizing it. But the truth was, his presence began to mark your days almost as much as your own reading. A quiet fixture. Predictable. Steady.

And somehow, annoyingly, intriguing.

He wore a navy button-down today, sleeves rolled just past his forearms, and when he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, your stomach flipped like it had no loyalty to your brain.

No doubt — it was that image of him that must’ve provoked the dream you had the following night. Naturally, you started attending his lectures, where you often engaged in provocative discussions with him. But it was his beautiful, focused face that couldn’t prevent you from thinking about finally fucking him.

You put your notebook away and walked over to him, taking a seat across from him like you hadn’t dreamt about his face buried between your thighs three days ago. Like you hadn’t dreamt about him pulling your hips to the edge of his desk, looking up at you with his mouth wet and his voice wrecked, and saying, “You’re my favorite student. My brightest. My best.”

You cleared your throat until he noticed you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You wanted to talk about your assignment?” His voice was calm. Casual. But you saw the flicker in his eyes, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded and pulled the paper out, holding it with both hands like it might burn you.

“Actually it’s already done,” you said quietly. “What you asked me to write.”

He took it from you gently, careful not to brush your fingers—but the air sparked anyway.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he hummed, clearly impressed, while sliding the pages into his leather satchel. “I’ve been curious to see how you write.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Curious, huh?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “You have a reputation, you know.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head. “For what?”

“For saying too much in discussions. For not showing up to lectures. For making people want to listen when you do.”

A pause. His voice had dropped just enough to blur the line between professor and student.

You laughed lightly, trying to break the tension, but it only made it worse. “That’s a lot of reputation to carry.”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “Something tells me you’re not burdened by it.”

There was silence for a moment. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. You leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, letting the soft hum of the library swallow your heartbeat.

“And what’s your reputation, Professor Mangione?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips and back up again—quick, practiced, like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Depends who you ask.”

“Well,” you said softly, “I’m asking.”

He looked at you for a moment too long. Then: “Maybe you should write about it. Come to your own conclusion.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Careful. I get very detailed when I write.”

“I hope so.” His voice barely carried across the table now. “I look forward to reading it.”

➳

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Luigi Mangione — the one you even started to respect until he treated you unfairly.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and raspy, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test. And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

You swallowed hard. “I came to talk.”

At that, he finally looked up—glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just slightly, gaze unreadable. He didn’t say anything for a moment, only studied you like you were a passage in a text he’d read too many times but still hadn’t quite decoded.

“About your grade?” he asked, but his tone already suggested he knew it wasn’t just that.

You stepped forward, voice low. “About how you’ve been treating me.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not guilt. Not surprise. Something heavier. He leaned back slowly in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, fingers steepling.

“Go on.”

“I participate more than anyone,” you said. “I turn in every assignment. And yet somehow I’m still the one being dismissed. Corrected. Challenged harder than the rest.”

“Is that how you see it?” he asked, head tilting.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He smiled, small and maddening. “Maybe I push you harder because I know you can handle it.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“It is,” he said evenly, “when I’m the one grading you.”

Silence.

You stepped closer. “You’re not being objective.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

There it was. The admission. It landed like a match in a dry field—silent at first, then everything inside you started to burn.

“You’re a good writer, Y/n. But I know you have the potential to become the best.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“And you shouldn’t be here.” His voice was barely audible now, but it struck like thunder.

“I know,” you said.

You walked closer to the chair he was sitting on. The distance between you evaporated in three steps. Close enough now to feel his breath, to smell the faint trace of coffee and cedar.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you,” he said, gaze locked to yours.

“But you want to,” you breathed.

He reached out his hand to you, which you took and he guided you onto his lap, his thumb brushing the edge of your cheek like a question he already knew the answer to. “You have no idea.”

“Professor—”

“Shush,” he whispered. “You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

You’d wanted him for so long—fantasized, daydreamed, obsessed over every look, every word, every red pen note on your essay—and now…

Now it was real.

You could taste him on your tongue.

If it weren't for the fact that you were sitting on his lap, your legs would probably give out on you.

“But if this—” his voice dipped lower, rougher now, “if any of this feels wrong to you—if you want to stop, or slow down, or if you change your mind, I’ll listen. Always. But don’t protect me at your expense.”

You stared at him.

Your heart ached with the weight of it. The tenderness. The way he said it like he meant it, like this wasn’t just about desire but choice. Care.

Your hand reached up slowly, fingers brushing his chest, his collarbone, until they curled into the fabric at his shoulder.

“I don’t want to stop,” you whispered.

And that was all he needed. His hand cradled the back of your neck again, and he kissed you—not hungrily, not desperately—but with the kind of reverence that made your knees weak all over again.

Your hips grind softly against his thigh as you coo softly, “Mh, professor..” you whine as he presses your hips further down on his thigh, giving you more pressure. “Mhm— tell me,” he instructs as he caresses your hair. “What do you want to know besides why I hurt you so much with this essay, hm?” he pouted, gripping your hips. 

“Do you…” you hesitated. The question felt fragile in your throat. You weren’t sure you wanted the answer—but the ache for it was louder than your fear. “Do you really think I’m a good writer?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not right away. But you felt something ripple behind his eyes—something careful. Measured. Like he knew exactly why you were asking. Still, he didn’t flinch.

“I wouldn’t lie about that,” he said gently. “Of course you are, my smart girl.”

Fuck. 

Your hips grinded on him harder, faster, picking up the pace as you try your hardest to utter sentences from your mouth. “I had a dream about you, professor,” you whined as you squeezed your eyes closed, your hips grinding on Luigi harder.

“Tell me about it, baby—y’can do it” he urged, kissing your neck softly, your pussy drenched. “Professor—can’t…” you frowned as your grinds become sloppier the more he kissed your neck. “Why can’t you, hm? Goin’ dumb on my thigh, are we?” he chuckled slowly, moving his head up from your neck to gaze into your lust eyes.

Your underwear was completely soaked through, making a wet spot on Luigi’s jeans, amusing him greatly. “Is my favorite studentessa* close? hm?” he cooed, bouncing his thigh, slightly making your sensitive cunt practically come undone from that alone. “Mhm..” you looked at him, eyes wide and naive. “Yeah?” he tilted his head to the side, his mouth slightly agape as he reached his hand down to rub slow circles around your clit. “Yeah…so close” you bited your lip as you grinded your hips against his finger, hiding your head in his neck as you let out soft whimpers and pleas. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart—you deserve it” he said as you finally let go, your body trembling as you continued to grind on his fingers, euphoria crashing over your entire body. “Prof—sso good..” you whimpered as he slowed down his fingers, letting you ride out your orgasm. “You did so good, baby” he praised as he kissed you on your open mouth. “Now tell me about that dream you had about me.”

You couldn't help but giggle. “It could have been prophetic, actually.”

➳

*studentessa (italian) - female student