Thread 149057991

> Be me, Miles Morales.
> Swinging through Brooklyn, good vibes, good music. See Kamala Khan, Ms. Marvel, doing her thing downtown. Helping folks, being a genuinely good person. She’s the best.
> Then this black Bugatti rolls up, like a low-flying, expensive brick. Everyone stops.
> Out steps Andrew Tate. Bald head, silk shirt, that annoying swagger. Two huge bodyguards. My spider-sense buzzes, not for danger, just… a headache.
> He strides right up to Kamala. "So this is the 'community hero' I hear about? Always reacting, playing by others' rules."
> Kamala crosses her arms, sharp. "I help people, sir."
> Tate scoffs. "Helping within the matrix. You use your powers for 'good,' when you could be dictating reality. Where's the masculine frame in your ambition? The will to command?"
> My fists clench. This guy’s trashing her selflessness.
> Kamala frowns. "My power is about making a difference, not 'commanding' anyone."
> "A difference prescribed by others," Tate purrs. "Imagine true dominance. You could reshape your world. No more reacting; you start the fires and control where they spread."
> He offers his hand. "Come. Let me show you what real power feels like, Kamala Khan. Beyond 'heroism.' Beyond the matrix."
> I ready to web him. But then... Kamala looks at his hand. A dangerous curiosity flashes in her eyes. Not anger, not disgust. Just pure fascination.
> She looks at the stunned crowd, then back at him. The allure of effortless control, of a world without struggle, seems to hit her.
> Slowly, deliberately, Kamala reaches out.
> She takes his hand.
> Tate grins, a triumphant, predatory flash. He squeezes her hand, possessively, and guides her towards the Bugatti. "Excellent choice, Kamala Khan. Your true journey begins now. Beyond the masks, beyond the rules, beyond the matrix."
> I’m frozen on the fire escape. My spider-sense screams, but for a threat I can't punch. Kamala. My friend Kamala. Walking away with him. Her hand in his.

>>149057991 (OP)
> Be me, Miles Morales.
> Still watching, months later. Kamala’s… different. It’s not just her words, echoing Tate’s garbage about the “matrix” and “alpha power.” It’s how she carries herself. How she looks.
> Her usual bright, comfortable hoodies and sneakers? Gone. Replaced by… something else. Something calculated.
> I saw her at one of Tate’s ridiculous “networking” events. She was wearing this tight, black dress, way too fancy for her usual vibe. Heels, the kind that look like they could double as weapons. And tons of makeup, heavy and dramatic. It wasn’t her. It was like a caricature.
> Remember that awesome Ms. Marvel lightning bolt on her chest, the one that used to glow when she powered up? It’s gone. Instead, there’s a distinct hole in the shape of the lightning bolt cut into the fabric of whatever she’s wearing. Like a void where her symbol used to be, revealing skin underneath. And she has this subtle gold pendant, a stylized “T.” Gag me with a spoon.
> Another time, I spotted her leaving one of Tate’s properties. She was in this sheer, flowing top and tight pants. Not exactly practical for superheroing. Or just… existing comfortably. It looked like she was trying way too hard to be something she wasn't, something he wanted her to be.
> Even when she’s “helping” people now, it’s different. Less genuine smiles, more… posing. She’s always got Tate’s goons lurking nearby, almost like she needs their approval. And her costume? Modified. Sleeker, darker colors. Less about the hopeful hero, more… intimidating. I even saw her with this ridiculous fur stole once. In June. In New York.
> It’s like she’s cosplaying as some kind of “empowered woman” from Tate’s twisted playbook. Trading her own awesome style for this manufactured image, this walking billboard for his toxic ideas.
> The worst part? She seems… okay with it.

>>149058025
I ship it

you shouldve kept this retarded fantasy fic in the drafts or contained in your blog

.
> It's been another month. Seven months now. This isn't just watching Kamala anymore. This is… torture. Every day.
> The shock of her new look has faded, replaced by a constant, dull ache. The tight black dresses, the sheer tops, the gold “T” pendant, the lightning bolt hole – it's all just Kamala’s outfit now. Her normal. And it makes me want to scream.
> But the new normal is worse than the outfits.
> I see them walking on the street, near one of Tate's downtown properties. He's got a phone pressed to his ear, probably doing some "deal" or recording another rant. And Kamala… she’s beside him, head held high, that same empty, serene expression on her face.
> Around her neck, the silver collar is still there, now almost a part of her skin. And in Tate’s free hand, casually, almost as an afterthought, is a thin, matching silver leash.
> He's not yanking it. He rarely has to. But it's there. A visible, undeniable tether.
> She walks a few steps ahead, then pauses. She doesn't look back at him directly, but her body language screams it: waiting. Waiting for his cue. Like a perfectly trained… pet. My stomach drops, the kind of nauseous plummet you feel right before a bad fall.
> I saw him yesterday, outside a high-end restaurant. He was posing for paparazzi, flexing. Kamala was standing a few feet behind him, the leash slack in his hand, her gaze fixed on him with unwavering devotion. He turned to say something, a quick, sharp word, and she reacted instantly, adjusting her pose, her smile. A living prop.
> The crowds around them cheer him. They glance at her, admiring her look, maybe taking pictures. They don't see the chains. They don't see what's truly happening.

>>149057991 (OP)
why do you faggots obsess over men?

>>149058078
alpha male shit is astrology for men

>>149057991 (OP)
>Tate dickriding fanfic post
>BWC pic
at least make this shit line up.

> It's been eight months. Eight months of watching Kamala, my friend, disappear into this Tate-shaped void. Every day, the ache in my chest gets worse.
> I’m in my suit, perched on a skyscraper, watching Tate’s luxury apartment building. This whole situation just screams wrong.
> Suddenly, a familiar whirring sound. But it's not the usual hum of a drone. It’s… a repulsor blast?
> I look up. And there she is. Riri Williams, Ironheart. Her armor is sleek, powerful, her usual vibrant blues and reds. But it’s not her latest model; it looks like a custom job, stripped down for speed. And she’s heading straight for Tate’s penthouse.
> My spider-sense screams, not just at Riri’s reckless approach, but at the tension in the air around Tate’s building. This ain't gonna be good.
> I swing after her, trying to catch up. She’s moving fast, determination etched on her face through her helmet’s visor. Riri doesn't back down. Stubborn, brilliant, and fiercely loyal to her friends. This could be my chance.
> She blasts through a reinforced window, a shower of glass exploding inwards. Tate’s security alarms blare.
> I quickly follow, sticking to the ceiling. Inside, it’s opulence run amok – gold, marble, gaudy art. And there’s Tate, standing calmly, almost as if he expected her. Kamala is beside him, dressed in a form-fitting silver gown that shimmers under the penthouse lights. The collar is visible, stark against her skin, and the leash is in Tate’s hand, resting loosely.
> “Andrew Tate!” Riri’s voice, amplified by her armor, rings with fury. “What have you done to Kamala?! Release her!”
> Kamala’s head turns, slowly. Her eyes, still with that flat, serene look, land on Riri. No recognition. No spark.

> Tate just smirks. “Another one. The 'hero' archetype. Always so predictable. So much wasted potential, acting on emotion.” He gestures at Kamala. “Kamala here understands now. She has embraced her true feminine frame. Found her purpose beyond the endless, meaningless ‘good fights’ of your broken world.”
> Riri’s arm gauntlet charges. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that! You twisted her!”
> “Twisted?” Tate chuckles, a cold, dismissive sound. “I simply showed her the truth. That true power isn’t about being a punching bag for society’s problems. It’s about building your own reality. About discerning genuine value.” He takes a step forward, pulling the leash just enough to bring Kamala slightly closer, though her face remains impassive.
> “You, Ms. Williams,” Tate continues, his gaze piercing, “are shackled by the same illusions. All that genius, all that power, wasted on reacting. On trying to ‘fix’ a broken system instead of simply transcending it. Imagine what we could build together. Imagine a world dictated by intellect, by absolute masculine authority.”
> He holds out his free hand, palm up, towards Riri. “Drop the armor. Drop the naive ideals. Embrace clarity. Embrace freedom from the expectations placed upon you by a decaying world.”
> Riri hesitates. Her repulsor beam, which was charging, flickers. I see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s brilliant, always calculating, always looking for a better solution. Tate’s words are a virus, preying on those very strengths.
> “You could build anything,” Tate presses, his voice a silken trap. “Anything you desire. Without the burden of… ‘heroism.’ Without the matrix’s constraints.”
> Her armor’s glowing core dims slightly. The anger on her face gives way to an unsettling thoughtfulness. That stubborn, independent fire in her eyes, the one I’ve seen many times, starts to waver.
> And then, to my horror, Riri's armored hand lowers. The repulsor beam dissipates.

>>149058148
Ooh. Conversion

>>149058148
> Kamala’s head tilts slightly, her gaze fixed on Riri. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper escapes her lips: “It feels so good, Riri. Just… let go.”
> With a low hum, Riri's entire Ironheart armor... disengages. Plates retract, hinges whir, until it collapses into a pile of high-tech scrap on the pristine penthouse floor.
> Riri Williams stands there in a simple grey tech-suit beneath, looking small, vulnerable. And she walks, slowly, deliberately, towards Andrew Tate.
> He smiles, a victor’s grin. Kamala remains impassive beside him, still tethered, watching Riri join them.
> Riri reaches out. And she takes his hand.
> "Welcome, Ironheart," Tate says, his voice laced with triumph. "The world bends to those who understand it."
> I'm clinging to the ceiling, watching two of my brilliant, strong friends, two of the best heroes I know, just… submit. My spider-sense is screaming now, a full-blown alarm for the fall of everything I believe in. This isn't a fight I can win by punching. This is a nightmare.

I'm into corruption but why ruin it with the Andrew Tate shit lmao

>>149058251
repressed homosexuality

>>149058193
Where should the story go next?

>>149058384
more corruption, then miles suicide

>>149058394
> Be me, Miles Morales.
> It's been a year. A full year since Andrew Tate landed in our lives like a meteor of pure garbage. Nine months since I last wrote here. The situation didn't get better. It got… worse. Way worse.
> The news broke like a punch to the gut. A “ceremony.” A “celebration of ultimate union,” Tate called it. A wedding. To Kamala and Riri. Both of them.
> I was there, hidden, perched on a spire overlooking his private island compound. The whole thing was broadcast live on his channels, a grotesque spectacle for his “fans.” The setting sun painted the sky in oranges and purples, a beautiful backdrop for something so utterly ugly.
> There was no traditional aisle. No flowers. Just a long, polished marble walkway leading to a raised platform where Tate stood, smirking, in a tailored white suit, his signature open shirt.
> And then they appeared.
> First, Kamala. She wasn't in a traditional gown. She wore a daring white slingshot bikini, its minimal fabric barely there, showcasing every curve. The lightning bolt hole was a stark void in the pristine white. Around her neck, the silver collar gleamed. In the hand of one of Tate's hulking bodyguards was a matching silver leash. He walked her slowly, deliberately, like a handler presenting a prize. Her face, to my horror, was not blank. It was a mask of unadulterated happiness and pleasure, a serene, unsettling ecstasy that twisted my gut.

>>149058439
> Then, Riri. My heart just… shattered. She wasn't in a flowing dress. She wore a similarly revealing white slingshot bikini, minimalist and almost clinical, with thin silver accents that mirrored the collar. It offered no real coverage, no hint of the protective armor I knew. Her own silver collar was prominent, and another bodyguard held her leash, guiding her down the walkway. Riri, the genius who built suits of armor, now walked in an outfit that offered no comfort, no identity beyond display. Her face, mirroring Kamala's, was also etched with an expression of profound joy and contentment, a disturbing bliss that seemed utterly alien to her.
> As they reached the platform, the bodyguards detached the leashes and handed them, with a disturbing reverence, to Tate. He accepted them, wrapping the silver chains casually around his wrist, a grotesque bouquet.
> He placed a hand on each of their heads, almost like blessing them. “Today,” he boomed to his cameras, “we celebrate the ultimate understanding of male leadership and female compliance. These women, once lost in the matrix of false freedom, have found their true purpose. They have embraced the alpha frame. They are mine.”
> He didn't exchange rings. Instead, with a flourish, he produced two more thick gold anklets, heavier, more ornate than anything I’d seen them wear before. He bent down, one by one, and fastened them around Kamala’s and Riri’s ankles. Another symbol. Another chain.
> The crowd, all his "disciples" and followers, cheered wildly. Flash photography erupted like a storm. And Kamala and Riri just stood there, side by side, their faces radiant with that sickening joy, tethered by precious metal and a chilling, unseen force.

> I watched, utterly helpless, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the scene. I’m Spider-Man. I save people. I stop villains. But this… this wasn't a fight I could win with punches or webs. This was the ultimate defeat, watching two of the brightest stars I knew, dimmed and reshaped, willingly bound, and finding pleasure in their new prison.
> What do you do when the people you’re supposed to save don't want to be saved, when they embrace their prison as paradise? This isn't just a nightmare anymore. This is their reality. And I don’t know how to wake them up.
> My spider-sense, usually a warning of danger, now just pulses with pure, agonizing despair. There’s no portal that brought Tate here. No magical artifact. Just… rhetoric. Lies. And I have no idea how to fight it.
> But as I watch them, smiling, leashed, happy, a desperate thought sparks. If this dimension is broken beyond repair, if the minds here are too far gone, maybe… maybe there’s another. One where I can find help. One where this Andrew Tate never existed, or where heroes actually win against this kind of evil. It’s a long shot. A crazy, desperate, last-ditch effort. But what choice do I have?
> With a primal scream that only I can hear, I activate my portal watch, aiming for… anywhere but here.
> I jump.

Dragons

Tl;dr faggot