#code-bound identity

[zomb13s]

Tabula Rasa Inversa: Structural Sovereignty through Metaphysical Code

A Theoretical Physics-Based Framework for Code-Embedded Sovereignty and Ethical Cybernetics Abstract This paper introduces a formal theoretical model…Tabula Rasa Inversa: Structural Sovereignty through Metaphysical Code

[oh-meow-swirls]

i like how chapter 3 of 1 is like. "here's like twenty quests for you to do-"

[willowed-wisp]

ghost as a dad [ simon riley ]

part two | part three

- Never wanted kids, he was so careful not to get you pregnant but with the amount you guys fuck, it was bound to happen.

- You’re scared when you get that positive test… you cry out of fear that you’ll have to get rid of the thing you had always wanted.

- It took you a week to gain the courage to tell him, you just left the pregnancy test on the kitchen table and left for work. You wanted to let him sit with it for a few hours.

- When you did return home, he sat on the sofa- elbows to knees looking down at the test. How long had he been like that?

- You waited for him to speak, while you shuffled around with that nauseous feeling bubbling in your stomach.

- It was late in the afternoon so you started chopping some vegetables for dinner, “I’ll call the termination clinic in the morning…” Your voice mulled over the slices weighing down on the wooden chopping board.

- Fingers crawled along your waistband as he rested against the sink. “No. You’re not.” You rested the knife down.

- “I thought you didn’t want kids…?” Your eyes on the verge of tearing, looking back at him. Your cool, mysterious man… finding purchase in those deep dark eyes.

- His bare hands wrapped around you- resting under your shirt. “I can’t put you through tha’,” His light hair tickled while his chin rested on your shoulder, “You’re the only person I’d wanna do this with.”

- He was there for the first and second of your pregnancy. Simon held your hair back while you threw up almost every day and he rubbed your back.

- Simon is very careful when having sex with you, but he soon realised that you feel everything 10x as much. And your sex drive is through the roof, he’s never been so needy in his entire life… you were so desperate for him and he wanted you just as much.

- Simon gets deployed during your 7th month. He doesn’t want to go… nearly refuses. Unfortunately he can’t do that.

- You’re stressed after he leaves. But his family takes care of you- he asked for them to.

- When he lands back on British soil, he immediately phones you. You pick up, and the cry of a baby is all he hears before he drops the phone and falls to his knees.

- He’s crying, actually in tears. “Is Y/N alright, LT?” Of course Soap was the one to see him like that.

- Simon nods, laughing, “I’m a dad…”

- He’s never driven so fast in his life, and you’re there on the sofa he had been 8 months ago with that test in his hand. This time you cradle a little human in your arms, swaddled like a bundle.

- He drops to his knees once more, ripping his mask off. And your warmth covers him with the little sighs coming from the now awake baby.

- Simon fell in love. He didn’t know if he was looking at a son or a daughter.

- You two didn’t want to know the gender.

- “Simon Riley… meet your daughter…” He melted again, face red and brown eyes bloodshot as he cradled the little one in his arms. Dotting into the identical eyes staring up at him.

- That’s when he held her close, head against his chest. “My little princess…” He hummed so gentle, rocking her slightly.

- He is so girl dad coded. He’ll be so sweet with her and she’d always come to her dad if anything was wrong

- Your little girl would play with his masks all the time, it never annoyed him- only making him giggle. Telling her to stop so playfully and boyishly, that you’d never seen him so soft-hearted before.

- You most likely have at most two more children after your daughter- maybe one girl and a boy.

- Simon definitely teaches your children self defence from a young age. Safety was everything and he wasn’t always around to protect them.

- He’s there every award ceremony he’s on leave and is the most doting father ever.

- Your children’s friends are terrified of him, until they get him talking- then they’re like ‘your dad’s cool.’

Did you want a part 2 of this?

Part Two is posted!

———

masterlist

[lazylattedgleam]

Hello hello everyone! Thoughts drop part-3! For a NON!MC Reader.

TW: Angst, Unrequited feelings (if you are uncomfortable then please don’t read ahead. Thank you!)

—>——————————————>——————————————————>————————————

They say that often first meetings are like cheat codes designed by Fate herself to help one venture further into the game of chase with another person…Results vary from individuals, so are the scores as She plays with the strings of one’s life…And that was how you met him too…accidentally, maybe at the Cafe or the beach or at a sweetshop to ease your sweet tooth, or at the gym, maybe even while grocery shopping. Well it was not much of a meeting since no words were shared, but gazes met…he held that aura within him…yet he looked so broken…how did you decipher so much from just having eye contacts with a stranger? You don’t know…but you wished in the deepest chambers of your heart…that you maybe meet him again in the future? That is if Fate may allow…

Well She did…as you kept running into each other more often…gathering your courage you said a simple, but genuine “Hi”…so did he…one word became two…then more and more…aaaand soon you were hanging out, meeting up often—almost three times a week, with your new “friend”, maybe at the Cafe or the beach or at a sweetshop to ease your sweet tooth, or at the gym, maybe even while grocery shopping…Days grow into weeks, weeks into months…as you find yourself having grown close to him at such a rate you felt like you knew him from Adam, the ever-growing gleam of familiarity in him that was brighter than the light of a thousand stars, stronger than the pull of gravity itself…that kept you grounded…too grounded…that you felt like you could never fly again…yet it was everything you’ve ever wanted, you were tired of falling into an endless pit of void…maybe now you finally found the ground you’ve always been searching for…yet you drowned in him…

Late night texts, jokes and limericks, lingering touches here and there, soft words of affirmation, evening strolls, eating in and out, stargazing…had become a crucial part of your existence, a part that lingered even before he existed for you, but he made them feel alive…made you feel like home…like “you”…the truest, most vulnerable version of you…Everything was rose gold…too perfect…you’d often fear it would all end,

Overthink

Overthink

Overthink…until you did confide it all to him someday…

He said, “Nothing’s gonna change, not for me and you…”, and that put you at ease instantly, brightening your mood, feelings, emotions, and most importantly yourself…

Maybe Fate finally gave you the chapter which you yearned for in your monologue…

She arrived…infiltrating the garden you thought you’d created in his heart for you in just a matter of seconds…His eyes lit up like you’ve never seen them before…not with you…Behind his eyes you could see how much he held for her…how much he cherished, yearned and loved her…his whole persona found the true colors as if they’d obtained their genuine identity after so long…The colors you saw within him was different…it still had a greyish hue to everything…but the colour she painted onto him was different…it was vibrant, bright, illuminating, blinding, every hue mixing and blending perfectly with one another like it was meant to be…

All you could do was watch as a mere spectator at every mutual portray of interaction and affection…he was much more livelier, he even initiated ideas of plans…he never did those with you…come to think of it you’ve always been the initiator in your dynamic…while it lasted…Their love felt cosmic…They felt cosmic…as if two of the most crucial pieces of a puzzle, that gives the world it’s meaning and beauty…it scared you to ever even interrupt them while conversing…how could you? They were bound by Fate herself…you could never interfere with Fate…The truths you thought you knew about him had become a paradox…

“Late night texts, jokes and limericks, lingering touches here and there, soft words of affirmation, evening strolls, eating in and out, stargazing”, became their thing…all you got were a strings of, “I’m sorry I’m busy” “I’m with her tonight” “Sorrrry :( can’t she and I are hanging out.” “Can’t” “Too tired, just had a food fight with her”…But you never stopped…you always waited for the day maybe he’d ask you again…spend time with you…like it used to be…You wanted to hate her, hate her with all your guts…but you could never…how could you, she was the sweetest…she’s delicately captured your heart along with his too…you adored her…and who wouldn’t…she was the sweetest, so brave and beautiful…one of the most skilled Deepspace Hunters of the Hunters’ Association…anybody would want to be with her…

In the past you’ve admired people, maybe sometimes even obsessed over, and wanted to be like them…but now…all you yearned to be was like her…you were obsessed to be like her…she was everything that you lacked and a thousand times more…

Soon you slowly began to dissociate yourself from him…deep in your secret chambers hoping he’d notice…but the man you barely ever noticed the world around him when with her, how could he notice someone like you…You felt like a paper drenched and torn apart, as he slipped away like a moment in time because he was never yours from the start…Memories of your chapters with him felt like watching a movie long forgotten in time…For him you weren’t old news…you weren’t ever news to have gotten old…

They were a melody…you were just a mere note in the composition…needed only once…

—<——————————————<——————————————————<————————————

Welll I tried to put them properly…Hope you like it! As always thank you for checking out this post! :D! Baii baii! <3!

[duskidolsmut]

"Betrayed and Fucked"

Irene, a battle-hardened lesbian secret agent with a razor-sharp desire, endures a nightmare of handcuffs and brutal sex that tears through flesh and soul. Betrayed and pushed to the edge, she turns violence into power, vowing a revenge as savage as the pleasures that scarred her.

Tags: DarkFic, EnemiesToLovers, BDSM, LesbianForcedSeduce, SexualRevenge, DirtyTalk, SizeKink, AfterSex, BrutalSex

W: 4.533

Irene, a secret agent who leads a double life. At 33 years old, she is pure elegance and danger – a predator who hides a breathtaking body under impeccable suits and a smile that disarms and dominates in equal measure.

Her long, silky black hair falls over delicate shoulders, framing that doll-like face – full lips that have already drawn sighs and moans, eyes that capture you with a look and hands that know exactly where to squeeze, loaded with a magnetic glow that has already made women writhe in moans of ecstasy, legs trembling under her touch. Her reputation in espionage circles is legendary: a mind as sharp as her tongue, capable of deciphering codes and bodies with equal ease.

Away from missions, Irene lives for the forbidden. Her encounters with lovers—always women—are intense and clandestine, a refuge where she surrenders herself without restraint, her fingers tracing damp curves, the salty taste of female skin ingrained in her memory. But at work, she is relentless, a shadow that glides among the powerful, collecting secrets like trophies. Her current assignment has taken her to the heart of a criminal organization that traffics sensitive data between governments and cartels, a network as slippery as the sweat that runs down the back of her neck on hot nights. Undercover for months, she has built a perfect facade—until the betrayal.

The blow comes from an ally, a familiar face she never suspected, and now Irene is vulnerable. She wakes with a snap in her mind, her body heavy, the damp, fetid air of an underground room invading her nostrils. The dim light of a pendant lamp reveals stained concrete walls, the cold floor beneath her torn boots. Her wrists, thin but strong, are bound by icy steel handcuffs, the metal biting into her white skin and leaving red marks that burn with every movement. The sound of the chains clanking echoes like a warning. She lifts her chin, her disheveled hair falling over her face, and stares at her captor.

Before her stands Levi, a mountain of a man, nearly seven feet tall, his muscles defined beneath a dirty T-shirt that barely contains his broad chest. His hands are rough, calloused like sandpaper, thick fingers that seem made for breaking bones—or gripping flesh. His short, disheveled hair frames a rough, scarred face, and his eyes, small and dark, devour her with a raw, almost animal hunger. He stares at her as if she were a banquet, his heavy breathing filling the air with the smell of tobacco and sweat. Irene feels the weight of his gaze sliding over her body—from the curve of her breasts beneath her torn blouse to the firm thighs squeezed by her leather pants.

The basement stank of mold and dried blood, an acrid smell that clung to the nostrils like a rotten memory. The light from the single hanging bulb wavered like a dying heart, casting quivering shadows on the damp walls—slender, twisted shapes that looked like hungry fingers crawling over Irene’s body, tracing the contours of her exposed skin. She was on her knees on the rough floor, the concrete scraping her soft flesh through her torn stockings, but there was no defeat in her posture. The tight black latex dress—the last vestige of her identity as the seductive undercover agent—clung to her like a second skin, glistening in the dim light, every curve of her body outlined in sinful detail. Her pert breasts strained against the fabric, her hardened nipples marking the latex like a silent invitation, while her hips lifted in a promise that Levi devoured with his eyes, the saliva almost visible in his half-open mouth.

“You’re going to die here,” he growled, his voice rough as concrete being dragged, low enough to vibrate in her chest. Levi stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the floor, the smell of sweat and metal rising from him like raw steam.

Irene laughed, a low, wet sound that dripped from her throat like poisoned honey, reverberating in the claustrophobic space. She lifted her chin with deliberate slowness, her black hair falling in sweaty strands over her shoulders, framing her pale face where her swollen lips—bruised from biting down to contain her moans as he dragged her here—gleamed a wet red. Her thin wrists twisted against the handcuffs, the cold metal creaking, but it wasn’t an attempt to escape—it was a spectacle. She wanted him to see, to feel the power that still emanated from her, even in chains. His eyes locked on the movement, and she felt the heat of his gaze slide down her skin like a dirty caress.

“Are you sure?” Irene let the words escape like smoke, slow and heavy, each syllable a thread of desire wrapped in threat. Her eyes met his, a glint of defiance dancing in them, while her tongue slid subtly over her lower lip, leaving a wet trail that caught the light.

Levi was brutal, yes—a wall of bone and muscle, the kind of man who crushed before he thought. But Irene knew creatures like him: brute-force machines with small brains and hungry dicks, with no imagination beyond what they could grasp. She, on the other hand, was made of more refined vices, of pleasures she shaped into weapons. Her fingers, still stained with traces of red lipstick from a past lover and dried blood beneath her short nails, slid up her thigh with torturous slowness. The latex cracked beneath her touch, the sound cutting through the silence like a whip as she spread her legs slightly, the black fabric stretching against her firm flesh, revealing the damp contour between her thighs—not from weakness, but from a game she was mastering.

“I can give you something better than information…” Her whisper was a razor’s edge between her teeth, sharp and seductive, laden with a promise that made the air between them grow thick. She leaned forward, enough so that the scent of her skin—a mix of expensive perfume and fresh sweat—hit him like a slap.

Levi spat on the floor, a clumsy attempt to maintain control, but his dark eyes already betrayed his facade. They lowered to her mouth, to those swollen lips that seemed to beg for something crueler than words, and Irene saw his pulse quicken in his exposed jugular, a vein pulsing beneath the rough skin of his neck. He was hooked, even if he didn’t know it yet. His chest rose and fell faster, the growing bulge in his pants betraying what she already knew: he might be her captor, but she was the poison that would kill him from the inside, one bite at a time.

Levi’s first move was brutal—a savage tug on the latex collar that made Irene gasp, the sound escaping hoarsely from her throat as the material stretched to its limit, giving way with an obscene snap that echoed in the basement like a muffled scream. The fabric tore in jagged strips, revealing Irene’s pale skin, now flushed with a mix of cold and adrenaline, her pores standing out as if begging for touch. Beads of sweat glistened on her exposed collarbone, trickling slowly down to the valley between her breasts. Levi paused for a second, his eyes glazed over the newly discovered flesh, his chest rising like that of a starving animal.

“You think you’re too smart, don’t you?” — He growled, his deep voice scratching the air, full of contempt and something dirtier.

Irene didn't respond with words. Her abdominal muscles contracted reflexively, defined under her smooth skin, when his rough hand grabbed the torn fabric and pulled harder, the sound of the latex breaking mingling with the jingling of the handcuffs. Her black lace bra appeared like an exposed secret—the last vestige of her real self, a delicate piece that contrasted with the brutality around her. Her nipples, betrayed by the biting cold of the basement, hardened under the thin lace, pointing like accusations against the almost transparent fabric. She hated that reaction, the heat that rose from her chest to her neck, but she couldn't help the tingling that snaked across her skin.

—You're enjoying it, are you? — Levi laughed, a hoarse and cruel laugh, while his calloused fingers, rough as stone, crushed her waist with enough force to leave purple marks. He lifted her off the ground in one rough motion, slamming her against the wall with a thud that reverberated in her bones. The cold concrete scraped against her bare back, and the handcuffs cut deeper into her wrists, the metal biting until she felt the wet heat of blood running down in thin rivulets.

Irene smiled, her swollen lips parted, the bright red shining like a fresh wound. “You only know how to use force… what a shame,” she said, her voice low and sharp, dripping with sarcasm. And then, with deliberate precision, she lifted her thigh, rubbing it against his groin. The rough denim brushed against her skin, and she felt the hard bulge pulsing beneath the fabric, hot and insistent. Levi held his breath, a growl caught in his throat, his eyes darkening even further.

She hated touching him—his scent, a mix of stale sweat and raw testosterone, invaded her nostrils like an affront. But her body, trained by years of missions and pleasures, reacted on instinct. It was a machine she had perfected on other bodies—feminine bodies, soft and moist, that yielded beneath her fingers with delicate moans. Now, he betrayed her with this brute. Levi thought he had control of everything, that he had her in the palm of his hand, until Irene leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot against his rough skin. “Do you want to see me beg?” Her voice was a sweet, lethal poison, while her hips moved in a slow, undulating rhythm, a ballet of seduction that she had always mastered.

Heat rose up her thighs, where his thick, muscular leg pressed her against the wall, his jeans scratching her exposed skin like a rough promise. The remaining latex clung to the sweat that trickled between her breasts, the shiny fabric catching the wavering light in wet reflections. Levi couldn’t resist – his hand came up, his calloused fingers gripping one of her breasts, squeezing the nipple through the lace with a force that was almost painful. Irene clenched her teeth, the air hissing between them, but the shock of pleasure and pain shot like electricity through her body, making her legs tremble against her will. Her clit throbbed, a hot, wet betrayal that she felt growing between her thighs, the fabric of her panties soaked through what was left of the latex.

"Looks like the little slut got wet…" Levi growled, his tone full of mockery and triumph, as he thrust two thick fingers into her mouth, forcing them against his tongue. She closed her lips reflexively, her sharp teeth brushing against his skin, the salty taste of dirt and power invading her. Irene wanted to spit, but her body was already arching on its own, her back curving forward, her hips seeking friction against his thigh as if they were a separate entity from the mind that screamed no. The heat between her legs was unbearable, a throbbing that made her clench her fists in the handcuffs until her nails dug into her palms. She knew how to play this game - even when every fiber of her lesbian soul rebelled against the desire he was tearing from her.

The sound of the latex tearing to the end echoed like a gunshot in the basement, a dry and final crack that reverberated off the damp walls, marking the end of the last barrier between Irene and Levi's brutality. He didn't uncuff her – he wanted her immobile, he wanted her at his mercy, her wrists tied above her head, the metal of the handcuffs digging into her flesh until blood dripped in dark drops onto the floor. But Irene wasn't at the mercy of anything. Even chained, her body was a weapon, and she knew how to use it.

Her breasts sprang free of the destroyed fabric, her swollen pink nipples throbbing from the friction against the latex, sore and sensitive in the cold air that licked them. Her pale skin shone with a thin layer of sweat, the muscles of her abdomen trembling subtly as she took a deep breath. Levi spat directly on her, the hot, viscous liquid hitting the space between her breasts, dripping slowly like a dirty caress down to her navel. He laughed, his husky voice cutting through the air. “The spy queen, now she’s just another grinning slut.”

Irene didn’t moan. She arched. Her body formed a perfect curve, a living sculpture of desire and defiance—her wrists bleeding from the handcuffs, her hips lifted like an offering, her soaked black lace panties clinging to her nether lips, the sheer fabric revealing every swollen, wet contour. Levi saw it, his dark eyes widening with hunger, and she knew he saw it. She felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, moving down her trembling thighs to the heat that betrayed her facade.

— Do you want to break me? — She repeated, her voice now blurred, hoarse with someone who wanted to be forced to like me, each word dripping with a desire she despised feeling. — Then break me.

Levi didn't need any more invitation. His hand descended like lightning, thrusting under her panties with brute force, his calloused fingers finding slick heat, resistance and a moan that Irene trapped between her teeth, her lips trembling as she fought the sound. He rubbed his fingers against her lips, parting them, his thumb brushing her swollen clit with a pressure that made her hips rise involuntarily. She hated every second of it – his smell, his weight, the invasion – but her body vibrated, her nerves on fire, betraying her with a pulse she couldn't control. HER SMILE, HOWEVER, NEVER FELL, a thread of defiance shining on her swollen lips as she stared at him.

He ripped off his shirt in one swift movement, throwing it to the floor, the fabric falling with a wet sound. Irene looked away for a moment – ​​he was huge, a mountain of sculpted muscles, his broad, toned chest covered in a layer of dark hair, his shoulders broad as if they could crush her with their weight alone. She swallowed hard, her mind spinning: Would he kill her? But then he finished undressing her, tearing off the remains of the latex and panties with his hands, leaving her completely naked, exposed, her goosebumps contrasting with the heat emanating from her core.

Levi knelt, his lips brushing her navel, his thin beard scratching her sensitive skin as he left a hot, wet trail. Irene felt her knees give way, her body weakening against her will, a low moan escaping her as he moved higher, his mouth tracing a torturous path down her abdomen, between her breasts, until it grazed the base of her neck. He opened his mouth and licked, his rough, wide tongue sliding over her skin, the salty taste of sweat and arousal filling him. She moaned loudly, pleasure ripping through her body like a knife, her thoughts spinning: What was this feeling? Why was he making her feel this way?

Suddenly, he gripped her thighs tightly, his nails digging into the soft flesh as he spread her legs, exposing her dripping slit to the cool air. Liquid ran down her inner thighs, glistening in the dim light, and Levi groaned, a guttural, ecstatic sound, his hungry eyes fixed on her arousal. He descended upon her like a predator, his mouth crashing against her swollen, wet lips, his tongue invading her without hesitation. Irene pulled at the handcuffs, the metal cutting deeper, her body writhing as he licked with animalistic voracity, sucking on her lips, diving as deep as he could, his nose brushing her clit as he drowned in her taste and smell—a sweet, musky scent that drove him wild.

Her body was on fire, pulsing all over, the heat rising in waves that made her fingers curl in the handcuffs. She writhed, but fell weakly under his tongue, the muscles in her thighs trembling as he controlled her in every way. Irene closed her mouth, trying to stifle her screams of pleasure—he didn't deserve to hear her, didn't deserve this victory. But the sounds escaped muffled by her closed lips, the pleasure building like a storm she couldn't stop. He moved his tongue in and out, licking her clit in quick circles as he left, and she arched her back involuntarily, her entire body reacting to his whim. Why this? Why him? She didn’t know, didn’t understand – she could only feel it, the moans tearing from her throat: “Uhhnnnhhh… N-n-no!” she tried to say, but the words were lost in a hoarse scream.

Then, suddenly, her entire body exploded in an overwhelming orgasm. She screamed, the sound echoing in the basement as he licked and sucked her with a roughness that prolonged each spasm. Her thighs shook violently, the liquid dripping harder, staining the floor as she came undone. Levi stood up, his lips glistening with her, and looked down at her sweaty, heaving body – her breasts rising and falling rapidly, her skin marked with redness, her eyes half-closed. She stared at him, her chest heaving, and saw the corner of his mouth lift in a crooked, satisfied smile. Irene swallowed hard, the bitter taste of defeat mixing with the ecstasy that still pulsed through her veins. Exhausted, she slumped against the wall, her body limp.

He leaned down to kiss her jaw and neck, his warm, moist lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear, a cruel contrast that made Irene's hair stand on end in anticipation of the chaos she knew was coming. His breath, heavy with tobacco and raw desire, warmed the curve of her neck, and for a moment she almost gave in to his false tenderness. But then he pulled away, his dark eyes shining with something wild, and he began to remove his pants with quick, sloppy movements. Irene gasped, her breath catching in her throat—he was grotesquely large, a menace of swollen, pulsing flesh that hung between her legs like a living weapon. Thick veins snaked beneath the taut skin, their length and width defying any logic of resistance. For a brief moment, desperation shone in her eyes, a flash of vulnerability that she hated to have missed.

Levi gripped her thighs with hands that didn't ask for permission, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh like claws, opening her with a force that made her muscles protest. He held her like a book he wanted to rip open, the pages of her body exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze. His tip—hot, thick, already dripping with a translucent drop—pressed against her lower lips, brushing them with torturous slowness, teasing her as he watched her every reaction. His eyes fixed on her expression, on her furrowed brows, her parted lips, on the way her chest rose too quickly.

"Stop…" Irene moaned, the word escaping weakly, almost a whisper, but her body already betrayed the lie. The heat between her thighs pulsed with raw need, her swollen, slick lips opening slightly for him, begging against every fiber of her mind.

And then— He entered her in a single brutal movement, a blow that tore through the air and her body at the same time. Irene screamed, the sound tearing through her throat as the handcuffs clanked violently, the chains slamming against the metal table he had thrown her on. He was too big, too deep—every inch of him stretched her to the limit of pain, her inner muscles giving way under his relentless invasion. She felt him throb inside her, hot and solid, filling her in a way that seemed impossible, the pressure against her inner walls eliciting ragged gasps from her lips. Moisture dripped down her thighs, her body surrendering even as her mind fought.

“You’re tearing me apart…” She gasped, her voice shaking, her eyes half-closed as she tried to process the mixture of agony and pleasure coursing through her. She no longer knew whether to beg for him to stop or for more, her words dissolving into moans as her hips reflexively lifted to meet him. Levi gave her no choice. He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust calculated to slide deep, making her feel every bulging vein, every hard curve of him brush against her. The friction was unbearable, a fire that burned and ignited at the same time. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted as hoarse moans escaped her, echoing in the basement, the sound mixing with the creaking of the table beneath their weight. He watched her, his teeth bared in a sadistic smile, as he controlled the pace, savoring the way she writhed beneath him.

And then the pace changed. Fast. Brutal. Uncontrollable. Levi gripped her thighs tighter, his nails digging into the skin until he left purple crescent-shaped marks, lifting her with each thrust as if he wanted to break her in half. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the basement—a wet, rhythmic slap that mingled with his guttural groans, low as thunder, and her short, sharp squeals, escaping against her will. The table creaked beneath the violence, the cold metal biting into her back as he fucked her with a ferocity that knocked the air from her lungs.

“You’re so fucking tight…” He groaned, his voice broken, his eyes fixed on the place where they connected. He watched, mesmerized, as she swallowed him whole, her lips stretched around him, liquid dripping in shiny strands that stained the table and her thighs. The wet heat enveloped him, squeezing him with every movement, and he growled like an animal, lost in the sensation.

Irene wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her orgasm hit her like a runaway train, a burst of white light that burned behind her eyes and tore her body to shreds. She screamed wordlessly, without control, a primal sound that reverberated off the walls as her thighs shook violently, her inner muscles squeezing him hard enough to draw a grunt from him. Pleasure tore through her, brutal waves that made her writhe, but Levi didn't stop—he kept fucking her through the climax, each thrust prolonging the waves until she was gasping for air between ragged moans, her wrists bleeding more beneath the handcuffs.

Only then, when she was limp and trembling, her exhausted body hanging from the chains like a broken puppet, did Levi allow himself to fall into the abyss. He buried himself all the way in, his hips pressed against hers, a guttural growl escaping his throat as he poured himself inside her. The thick, hot heat gushed out in strong pulses, filling her to overflowing, the excess running in sticky strands down her thighs, dripping onto the floor in a wet, obscene sound. Irene felt every spurt, every spasm of him inside her, and she moaned softly, her body still pulsing around him, gripping him even as she tried to recover.

He remained there for what seemed like an eternity, his chest heaving, his cock slowly softening inside her, the viscous liquid continuing to leak in a slow, warm stream. When Levi finally pulled away, the wet sound of separation echoed in the silence, and he stared at her with a satisfied, heavy gaze, his lips curved in a smile of victory. Her body was marked—redness on her thighs, blood on her wrists, sweat and semen staining her skin—but Irene’s eyes, when they met his, were already clear again. Cold. Calculating. The pleasure had passed, but the game was only just beginning.

Levi was wet with sweat, his chest still rising and falling rapidly as he collapsed beside her on the table, his muscles relaxed. The flash drive slipped from his pocket, falling to the floor with a metallic click.

Irene watched.

And then, she laughed.

A cold, sharp sound, like broken glass.

“Is that what you called fucking?” — Her voice was hoarse with moans, but filled with a contempt that made Levi rise up on one elbow.

He opened his mouth to respond, but there was no time.

The handcuffs he thought held her were already in her hands—a piece of chain broken during sex, sharp as a blade.

— I'll teach you now. She moved like lightning—his legs still limp, his reflexes slowed by orgasm. The metal loop tightened around his neck before he could scream.

Levi grabbed her wrists, but Irene was already on top, her knees crushing his shoulders, her body still hot and marked by him now her instrument of death.

— This is how you fuck properly, — she whispered, coiling the chain until his knuckles were purple.

He struggled, his eyes wide, his tongue like a dog's. She watched. Every last tremor.

Every last breath.

The basement air still smelled of sex and mold, Levi’s viscous liquid running down her thighs in warm rivulets that dripped onto the floor as she stood, her legs weak but determined. She found the keys to the handcuffs in his shirt pocket, tossed in a corner, and freed herself with a click that sounded like a promise. Before she fled, Irene pulled on Levi’s coat—his scent still clinging to her skin—and grabbed his phone from the floor. She grabbed his phone, her fingers sliding across the bloodstained screen—not hesitantly, but filled with a fury that made her veins throb.

Then the last video opened.

Seulgi.

The cat-like eyes that Irene had once traced with her lips, the mouth that had whispered “I love you” against her bare skin. But there, on the screen, she wore a crooked smile, her eyes glazed and dilated with addiction, as she grabbed an envelope of cash from the dirty hands of one of Levi’s henchmen.

“Did you know she paid me with the profits from the sale?” said the note stuck to the video. “She bought that new shit that’s eating away at her. Pathetic, huh?”

The scene continued, cruel. Seulgi handed over the flash drive – the most secret parts of Irene, the moans that only she knew – and laughed, the hoarse voice of someone who no longer cared.

Irene felt something shatter inside her. It wasn’t the handcuffs – already broken. It wasn’t the flesh – already desecrated. It was something Seulgi had stolen and sold, something she would now pay to have back.

With firm fingers, she put away her cell phone. The basement was crackling with flames behind her when she left, but the inferno in her chest burned brighter. She imagined Seulgi on her knees, begging, her body exposed and vulnerable – and Irene would take her, not with love, but with the same brutality that betrayal deserved.

Two debts to collect.

And Irene always collected… with pleasure and punishment.

[spirtualitywithlumi]

What’s Your Inner Calcifer Trying to Say to You? (Theme: Howl's Moving Castle)

(feat. Sophie, Howl, and everyone's favorite sassy flame)

If you’ve ever felt like your spark flickering, or like you're stuck honoring promises you don’t even remember making then this reading is for you. Inspired by Howl’s Moving Castle, this tarot journey channels your inner Calcifer.Your inner fire has something real to say.

Pick your pile. Let Calcifer talk.

PILE 1

PILE 2

🔥PILE 1: Sophie holding Calcifer.

✦ TAROT CARDS: Strength, Page of Cups, Eight of Pentacles

The Strength card shows that you’ve been soft when it was easier to harden. You've tamed your impulses, calmed your own storms, and kept going through grief and burnout. Your inner fire honors how you’ve protected it even in silence. Page of Cups tells me there’s a dream you’ve secretly been feeding. Something small, shy, creative maybe a story, a soft love, a new self-image. Calcifer says: “I know you’ve been scared to believe in it. But I’ve seen the way your heart glows when you imagine it. That’s your truth.” The Eight of Pentacles affirms you’ve been working on yourself steadily, even if no one sees it. This is the card of spiritual craftsmanship. You’re building your inner castle, brick by brick And guess what? That fire you’ve been carrying is the thing that’s lighting every room.

What does Calcifer want to say to you ?

“You’re like Sophie. You think you’re just ‘average,’ but you’re literally holding me....your fire.....in your own hands. You’ve been nurturing your spark even when you didn’t believe it was valuable. That quiet care? That fierce gentleness? That’s power.”

What is Calcifer's advice for you ?

“You don’t have to be loud to be strong. You don’t need to shout to burn bright. Keep nurturing that gentle flame. Hold it like Sophie.......with love, patience, and a bit of stubbornness. You’re not weak. You’re wise so don't listen to the stupid things they say and don't even bat an eye to their stupid actions.You are me, I am you”

🔥PILE 2: Howl holding Calcifer.

✦ TAROT CARDS: The Devil, Knight of Swords, Four of Cups

The Devil here screams of energetic entanglement. You’ve promised yourself to something that keeps you drained whether that’s perfectionism, emotional avoidance, or even love that isn’t reciprocal. Your inner Calcifer is tired.

Knight of Swords is the panic energy.....constantly doing, thinking, chasing, reacting. You’re stuck in a mental loop. Your inner fire is overheating. “You’re running so fast you don’t notice I’m flickering,” Calcifer says.

and Four of Cups? You’ve stopped enjoying the things you once loved. That’s a major sign your fire is low. You feel disconnected. Apathetic. But it’s not because you’re broken. It’s because you’ve left yourself behind.

What does Calcifer want to say to you ?

“You remind me of Howl......beautiful, chaotic,and hiding behind glamours. You’ve bound me to something out of fear. Maybe a relationship, an identity, a hustle. You’re burning yourself out to keep up a pact that your soul outgrew long ago.”

What is Calcifer's advice for you ?

"Break the pact. You don’t need to keep your fire chained to fear, ego, or expectation. Let yourself be reborn. You’ve glamoured yourself into someone else’s idea of ‘worthy’ but you were already magic. Choose freedom. Choose rest. Choose you.”

✦ do you want a personal reading like this?

🌸 I offer:

Celebrity Tarot Reads (K-Pop, BTS, Actors) SP Manifestation Guidance Future Love + Shadow Work Spreads Moon-Coded Letter from Your Twin Flame Channeled Audio Readings + PDF Summaries ✧ First reading? Ask for a free pull!

—

📩 DMs Open: @xuexing-lumi Tumblr inbox

🖤 closing words from Lumi:

We ride or die, even through the mess. 💅 — Lumi, the Moon’s Bride 🌕💋

—

(ignore):

#tarot#tarot cards#tarot reading#tarotblr#tarotcommunity#pick a deck#tarot pick a card#pick a picture#pick a photo#pick a card#spiritual warfare#spiritual awakening#spiritual growth#spirituality#chanelling

[fiamat12]

Re: What if Nicola didn't have a choice? - "We're Almost Done"

With the help of the Lukola FBI, another piece of the puzzle may have fallen into place, which *could* explain N's recent actions. We have quite a few lawyers in the mix as well as an AI Robot (or some call it Wizard) and amongst us, we've concluded that N was likely a part of the contract for Round 2... *sigh*.

It's possible L was dinged in Round 1 for N giving Easter eggs that hinted toward a bts relationship w/ him, so she's been required to project a romantic entanglement elsewhere in Round 2; alternatively, it may have always been part of the deal...

Sunny the Robot's take:

"If Luke must appear attached, so must Nicola... ⏬️

🤔 What led us to this conclusion?

1) Behavioral cues

• N seemed uncomfortable at the BAFTA nominees party as if she could get in trouble if she didn't deliver. She & JD were so stressed that rumor was they made themselves sick. That does NOT signal a CH0ICE.

• N was trying her hardest to sell that she was into JD when he clearly was averting her gaze. She was bound to do so, he was not. JD saying "We're almost done" is like L saying "Let's get this done" (w/ JD obviously being more friendly) ⬇️

2) Inopportune timing/ execution

• N on all accounts should have been going w/ L to this event but she showed up w/ JD. It was uncharacteristic of her to exclude L from a Bridgy moment.

• The pivot seemed to come out of nowhere after at least a month of no in-person appearances from the adjacents and the release of Lukola - coded press articles.

🧐 Why the pivot?

Perhaps N was required to sell the JD narrative by doing equal to what L did to sell his w/ A - that's why you get an identical red carpet and press article(s). If N was stalling in meeting the requirement, the Cyprus photo could've been a warning shot from A's team for N to comply. Unfortunately, A's team won... 😞

🙏Last thoughts:

So much of what N has done w/ JD makes sense through this lens: dragging herself to the Jecky b-day party right after the IFTAs, the effort made to execute the Sheffield sightings and coping w/ criticism for being a bad Mom. It explains JD at the BAFTAs and in Cannes where N seemed reluctant to utter L's name. The irony is we've thought L has been obligated but N hasn’t HAD to be... Perhaps we were wrong...‼️

[vespidclan]

Um hi I’m gonna talk about 404 and the works 🚶‍♀️ this ended up longer than I expected oops

What is she?

If we’re going to talk about how 404 can do the things she can do, we need to first talk about WHAT she is. 404 is… not just a moth? She clearly is, but she is also the ‘player’! When she got corrupted by the game, she was also given every ounce of power from the game. This left the game pretty much ‘dead’ and her in control, which is why Clangen.exe and the Vespidclan file is still running despite being broken. Basically, her having 100% of power meant that her and the system have ‘merged into one’, but since the system was corrupting and breaking apart as Moththorn went against her programing… That same corruption took over her. Then came the metamorphosis ‘rebirth’ symbolism yada yada yada aaaaaand that’s how 404 was born! 🎉🎉

And being the player, she can do ANYTHING in the game! Aside from creating, but ANYTHING! This means she can skip moons and go back to previous moons (time travel… inevitably caused Heartflicker’s injury), give cats injuries and conditions (basically giving Snakevalley recurring shock and whatever goes on in OOB), playing around with death settings (“dead”: false while letting their “dead_moons” go on and on, keeping the them dead but with conscious still intact so they can feel paralyzing agony *cough* what she does to cats like Spark), and let me tell you this is just scratching the surface.

Why does 404 appear different sometimes?

Shapeshifting? Form-changing? Neither of those! What it really is that she’s splitting her conscious around into different vessels/copies of herself that she can manipulate at will. It sounds complex, but trust me it won’t be after I explain it like this—She’s pretty much just multiplying herself so she can easily communicate with the cats in-game. Think of it like copying and pasting but without it being an exact replica.

To do that she needs some kind of source in the game that lacks much organism code-wise but still able to move around, so there’s room to fit a bit of her code in it. Whether it’s some kind of animal or a manifestation she made herself. Vinepaw probably explains it better than me.

So these guys that have shown up in the comics are her, or maybe 80% of her. She can control them and they have her same thoughts, so it’s basically her with a different identity. One big difference is that her shadow copies can only appear as a ‘hallucination’ and directly in the mind, but mini moth 4 is a real physical vessel that any cat can see, it’s just her text box that’s hidden from a few cats. She grabbed a poor little moth, stuffed her code into it, and now it’s a free new body to possess. The only reason she’s doing this is because Vinepaw’s mind is a little tricky than others, which we’ll discuss later on.

“Can’t 404 just appear normally like herself?” In-game? Nah, she exists in the Out Of Bounds area of the game, which is restricted zone no cat in-game can enter unless they go far enough to bypass it. 404 can barely get out of it herself.

But there’s times where she, her actual self, HAS appeared to cats like Stonepaw or Snakevalley, but only as a hallucination-that-feels-super-realistic-and-real. This would be whenever I draw her in her red and black colors or it’s just straight up her in all of her massive towering glory.

“Why can’t she just do this all the time instead of making copies?” A lady like her is too busy managing OOB and terrorizing the cats there! She’d only show herself if it was a top priority to her, like pressuring Snakie or finding Vinny.

How can she lurk into the mind?

She can’t go to the cats in-game. We all know that. The solution? Enter the mind! The best way I can explain it is she’s ‘hacking’ into the mindscape with all the knowledge she has so that they can see/envision her presence. Sometimes they aren’t too severe like just seeing vague glitches or her text boxes, or they’re very severe where she’s literally in front of you. Sounds easy for an evil moth goddess right?

Well rummaging in the mind isn’t… It’s most easiest when the cat is asleep, has already seen visions of ‘the fourth wall’ prior, or when the cat is most vulnerable. Other times, she needs to really intensely seep into the cat’s mind with, breaking through the barriers intense. Every psyche is different!

Some really good examples come from Stone and Vine! Stone saw 404 while she was just a small lil kit. After that, she’d constantly have nightmares and scary visions of 404. 404 quickly caught on and decided to keep Stone ‘in line’ via stalking so she can have ‘use’ to her plans later, but we all know that that didn’t work out. Vine meanwhile is able to ‘block’ 404 from his dreams, because all he thinks about 24/7 is cupcakes and rainbows. 404 actually managed to get to him later on, but she needed to actually be there than to use a silly copy, because it wouldn’t be very effective.

If she can’t interact with the cats in-game, how is she dragging deceased cats into OOB?

That’s because she isn’t… physically anyways. What she IS doing is coding them out of Starclan and into Out Of Bounds the very moment they die. It isn’t that scary, unless you see it happening yourself. Another trick of the mind that can unfortunately happen if you stand by her radius… but that’s very rare! ;)

How does coding work?

It’s like this

Okay but really… Coding is just what you and I could do on the computer—changing up stuff! Editing, fixing, modding, she can do it all! (apart from… yk…) It’s actually super self explanatory so there won’t be much to go over.

She uses her dexterous claws on these! These are the files, the source of every cats life and blood… The cats in OOB call them ‘The Towers’, cuz these things are taaaaaaallll. They do have their own special area in OOB, which is farther away from the actual place and are set in a ‘black void’, but she can spawn them in when she needs to make a quick ‘fix’.

404 can also take apart the files and rearrange them however she wants. And she can ‘spawn’ pieces of the files to her hand so she can edit them portably without having to climb or bring the whole tower with her.

Usually when she gets her hands on a file it will slowly (or quickly depending on the damage done) start chipping away. It isn’t all that bad, but once it’s taken full effect and broke so much of it, then the cat is also now ‘broken’. Take Heartie for example—She changed her trait from bloodthirsty to loyal, except 404 hadn’t changed it quite perfectly, so now she has a trait that ‘doesn’t exist’ within the code.

Plus like, you can take a look at the Moththorn file and see it’s completely demolished. Wonder why.

That’s pretty much it all for now. Hope you learned something new about how 404 works and I definitely hope this clears some stuff up 🩶

[bluecrusadearcade]

Having religious sites in a region does not give your state or your religion ownership over it. By that logic, the Vatican would own half of Europe. The claim that Kashmir “belongs to Hindus” because of Amarnath or Shankaracharya temple is rooted in theocratic ethno-nationalist agenda, not history. Yes, Hindu sites exist in Kashmir because Hindus have historically lived there, just like Muslims, Buddhists, and others. Kashmiris of all faiths have coexisted and contributed to the region’s culture, language, and history for centuries.

Kashmir doesn’t “belong” to Hindus, Muslims, or any religion — it belongs to its people. The indigenous, regardless of what religion they follow today. Conversion doesn’t erase indigeneity. Cultural belonging is rooted in land, language, and memory — not who you pray to. But that is a concept difficult to grasp for you.

Kashmiri Pandits’ lack of return is not the fault of Kashmiri Muslims. It is the fault of the Indian government, which has used their displacement as a political pawn for decades. The state did nothing for their safe resettlement, didn’t provide real rehabilitation, and still continues to use their pain to fuel communal hate instead of solutions. And fools like you fall for it.

Anyway, free kashmir <3

Wow, it's impressive how much misinformation can fit into a single ask—your understanding of Kashmir's history seems to be as shallow as a puddle in the sun.

lets start, shall we?

“Having religious sites in a region does not give your state or your religion ownership over it.”

In many cases, the very establishment and maintenance of a religious site have been acts of statecraft. For example, the 2008 transfer of 99 acres of forest land to the Amarnath Shrine Board wasn’t just a religious accommodation—it was a political decision by both the Indian Union and the J&K government to assert authority over that part of the Valley. Religious institutions often hold de facto governing power over adjacent land and resources (roads, policing, revenue), effectively exercising territorial control even if they aren’t “sovereign” in name. Religious sites can and do establish historical and even legal ties to a community. The existence of a temple isn’t merely “cultural fluff.” In many pre-modern polities, state authority was deeply bound up with patronage of shrines. The Shankaracharya Temple atop Takht-e-Suleiman, for example, dates back to at least the 9th century and was rebuilt by Hindu and Buddhist rulers—evidence that Kashmir’s sovereign identity was inseparable from its Hindu heritage long before Islam arrived. When princely Jammu & Kashmir acceded to India in 1947, the Instrument of Accession specifically guaranteed protection of all existing religious institutions. That document invokes the region’s plural but historically Hindu-rooted polity, not a blank slate. Kashmir’s dynastic history wasn’t exclusively “multi-faith coexistence.”

From the Karkota dynasty (c. 625–855 CE) through the Lohara kingdom (1003–1320 CE), Kashmir was ruled by Hindu monarchs whose geneses and governance were tied to Shaivism and other Hindu sects. The Rajatarangini (12th century chronicle) records dozens of Hindu kings and their endowments to temples—this isn’t a footnote but the core of Kashmir’s classical statehood. While Buddhists and later Muslims certainly contributed to the rich tapestry, that doesn’t negate the fact that Kashmir’s political structures, coinage, land grants (the Shasana inscriptions), and legal codes were shaped by and for a Hindu-majority ruling class for centuries.

2. “By that logic, the Vatican would own half of Europe.”

This comparison fails on two counts. Firstly, the Vatican is a sovereign city-state under the 1929 Lateran Treaty, with internationally recognized borders and extraterritorial rights over multiple basilicas in Italy. Its legal status is unique and does entail actual political jurisdiction—unlike any Hindu temple in Kashmir, which remains under Indian civil law. Second, equating a tiny city-state’s special treaty guarantees with a religious shrine’s cultural importance ignores centuries of regional power struggles over Kashmir.

3. “The claim that Kashmir ‘belongs to Hindus’ because of Amarnath or Shankaracharya temple is rooted in theocratic ethno-nationalist agenda, not history.”

Historical sources show Shaivism was the dominant faith of the early Kashmiri polity. The 8th-century Rajatarangini chronicles rulers patronizing Shiva worship; Queen Suryamati’s 11th-century gifts to Amarnath are recorded in multiple texts. These aren’t modern “ethno-nationalist” fabrications but genuine markers of an ancient Hindu state in the Valley

4. Conversion does alter a community’s indigenous stake when it’s imposed or incentivized politically. True indigeneity is rooted not only in birthplace but in the uninterrupted practice and institutions of a people. While individual conversions are personal, mass conversions under state patronage (e.g., Mughal land-revenue exemptions for converts) did reshape the demographic and institutional landscape, often at the expense of pre-existing Hindu institutions. Erasing the continuity of a faith community does weaken its claim on the public sphere—look at how many old Hindu shrines in the Valley were repurposed or fell to ruin after the medieval conversions. That loss of visible heritage undercuts your blasphemous idea that “conversion doesn’t erase indigeneity.” The demographic shift from ~6 percent Pandit population pre-1947 to under 1 percent today is no mere footnote—it reflects a transformation in who “belongs” in the Valley.

5. “Kashmiri Pandits’ lack of return is not the fault of Kashmiri Muslims. It is the fault of the Indian government…”

The 1990 exodus of roughly 300,000 Pandits was driven by targeted assassinations and mosque announcements from terrorist groups (JKLF, Hizbul Mujahideen) demanding their departure—actions directly by Kashmiri Muslims, not New Delhi While the Indian state’s resettlement package has been inadequate, you cannot erase the fact that Pandits fled under threat from local Islamist terrorists, nor that property-destruction and intimidation were carried out at the village level by Kashmiri insurgents. Kashmiri Pandits’ exile was driven by militant Islamist violence, not benign state indifference alone. In 1989–1990, Kashmiri Pandits were systematically targeted: homes marked with “P” for “Pandit,” public threats from JKLF and Hizbul Mujahideen, dozens of murders—this is well-documented. While the Indian government certainly botched the security response, the proximate cause of the mass flight was organized communal violence by militant groups, overwhelmingly deriving from the Muslim-majority side. Even today, many Pandits refuse to return precisely because the local power structure remains dominated by the same families and networks that either tacitly supported or actively condoned those 1990 purges. You cannot absolve those actors of responsibility simply by pointing at New Delhi.

6. Blaming only New Delhi for the Kashmiri Pandit displacement ignores the agency of local communities. Local Kashmiri Muslim leaders and civil society had opportunities to shelter and publicly protect Pandit neighbors but largely stayed silent or sided with the terrorists. That collective failure fueled the exodus. True reconciliation requires acknowledging both the state’s failures and the grassroots complicity. Your one-sided “it’s all Delhi’s fault” narrative only deepens the wound.

7. “Free Kashmir <3” “Freeing” any region implies a new sovereignty. But no Kashmir-wide plebiscite has ever been held; two-thirds of the Valley’s voters championed staying with India in the 1951 and 1975 assemblies. Pushing “independence” without democratic mandate simply replaces one form of rule with another-often more violent-and ignores the wishes of millions of Kashmiris who identify as Indian citizens. “Free Kashmir” slogans too often align with Pakistan-backed terrorism, not genuine self-determination. Genuine independence movements prize pluralism; Pakistan’s track record in its own territories (Balochistan, Sindh) and its support for jihadi groups in the Valley make it clear that “Azadi” framed by Islamabad would strip Kashmiri Hindus, Sikhs, even moderate Muslims of basic rights.

Real freedom would be one that guarantees security for every Kashmiri, not just the majority faith. Touting “free Kashmir” without that nuance only signals alignment with forces that intimidated Pandits in 1990—and still do.

The Bottom line is:

Historical sovereignty in Kashmir was deeply tied to Hindu kings and temples.

Demographic change via enforced or incentivized conversion did impact the Hindu community’s stake.

1990’s Pandit exodus was driven first by local Islamist militancy, secondarily compounded by Delhi’s inadequate security.

True Kashmiri freedom must protect minorities—any movement that doesn’t is no ally of pluralism but of the very extremism that drove Pandits out.

It's clear you’re more invested in fueling division than understanding history—maybe try reading up on Kashmir’s actual past before you spout off next time. And i mean some real history, not the version you’ve been fed to suit your narrow agenda.

जनहित में प्रकाशीत, नमो वः 🙏

[zomb13s]

Tabula Rasa Inversa: Structural Sovereignty through Metaphysical Code

A Theoretical Physics-Based Framework for Code-Embedded Sovereignty and Ethical Cybernetics Abstract This paper introduces a formal theoretical model rooted in physics, cybernetics, and sovereignty ethics to describe how stolen or co-opted intellectual portfolios inherently encode structural feedback loops that bind dependent systems to the original author. Using principles of graph theory,…

[polysucks]

How do you feel about cats? I desperately wish asoiaf had more of them

I love cats, personally. I got two of them! I also have two dogs! I’m more of a cat person than a dog person, but I love both :3

But, as you know, I’m fuckin insane, so of course I had to use your ask as a platform to talk about how Peepaw Greg uses cat and dog symbolism in the series.

So let’s talk meta about his usage of cat and dog themes in Westeros.

In asoiaf, gpa Greg makes big big use of canine and lupine symbolism—most notably through the Starks and their direwolves—to explore some themes of loyalty, survival, identity, and instinct. The prevalence of dog-adjacent imagery, from the feral wildness of the direwolves to the brutalized obedience of people like Sandor Clegane, speaks to a deeper thematic preoccupation with what it means to belong (hypergeneralized) like. to a family, to a code, to a pack. Wolves and dogs in peepaw’s world are not literally animals, they’re totems of identity and indicative to some degree of fate that becomes perpendicular with the moral and emotional arcs of the characters they shadow.

By contrast, feline imagery like the Lannisters’ cunty lion sigil remains largely heraldic and aesthetic rather than emotionally or thematically embedded. Lions in the series symbolize institutional pride, legacy, and power, but lack the dynamic intimacy of the wolves. They are mythologized apex predators, ya sure ok, but predators in captivity, not the wild. They’ve lost their instincts. Their strength is theatrical. Their claws have become ceremonial.

The Lannisters aren’t predatory like their avatar so to speak. They’re curated. Groomed. Caged in gold and politics and perception. They hiss and bite, but most of them are bound by visage and expectation:

• Tywin is the lion’s roar—but it’s hollow in the end. He dies on the toilet. Womp womp (I laugh errytime)

• Cersei sees herself as a lioness, but she spirals into paranoia and ineffectual tyranny. (Literally just an evil slut. Smooth brain. No thoughts, just vanity. Yas queen go offffffff)

• Jaime begins as the golden lion but is declawed—literally—and only becomes compelling once he sheds that identity. (Smol. Must be protected at all costs.)

• Tyrion, the runt of the litter, understands the lion’s mold enough to break it—and it nearly destroys him. (I mean it kinda does long long term. I love who he becomes in adwd)

The Rains of Castamere goes fuckin HARD and underscores their obsession with legacy through intimidation (BECAUSE OF ONEEEEEEEE TIME. IT WAS ONE TIME. LIKE ITS NOT HARD TO ERADICATE THE ENTIRETY OF 2 HOUSE LINEAGES ESPECIALLY IF THEYRE SWORN UNDER YOU IM SORRY TYWIN BUT THATS NOT the fLEX YOU THINK IT IS im sorry okay back to our regularly scheduled insanity)

— A Storm of Swords, Catelyn VII

— A Storm of Swords, Arya VII

This isn’t a simple cats vs. dogs dichotomy. It’s about what these animals represent. Wolves and hound imagery when used in asoiaf evoke loyalty, instinct, and interdependence. Lions (or generally, feline figures which, I note, are very few) represent arrogance, isolation, and the brittle weight of legacy. Martin privileges the canine because his world favors those who endure—not those who posture. True survival in Westeros depends on bonds, not bloodlines; on pack over pride. (Get it? Bc a ‘pride’ is a pack? A pack of lions? Like the phrase blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb? Get it? Ok I’ll see myself out no need to call security)

While the thematic imbalance may seem skewed toward the wolf, this asymmetry is deliberate!!! The lion isn’t underdeveloped—it’s hollowed. It stands as a symbol of inherited power, not earned strength. Like Famous Disabled Worker Rights Advocate and Cheese Enthusiast Magister Illyrio once said

— A Dance with Dragons, Tyrion I

The lions of Westeros roar from red keeps and golden thrones (toilet thrones, am I right? Huh? Eh?), but they are trapped by politics, legacy, and illusion. Their power is a spectacle maintained through fear, maintained through myth. They ain’t even got the fundage to back it up. Pull up, Cersei. The wolves, by comparison, represent power that is quiet, blood-won, and bone-deep. They do not command; they endure. They are not elevated by institutions, but by instinct.

Each direwolf’s fate mirrors their Stark:

• Lady’s unjust execution reflects Sansa’s theft of innocence and disconnection due to her loss of identity and lack of companionship.

• Grey Wind’s death during the Red Wedding marks Robb’s failure to heed instinct, and his transformation from noble heir to vengeful pretender.

• Nymeria’s independence parallels Arya’s exile and self-determination, leading a pack in the Riverlands as Arya learns to lead her own life beyond names.

• Shaggydog’s ferality reflects Rickon’s descent into chaos without guidance or protection or intervention.

• Summer’s sacrifice anchors Bran’s transformation into something inhuman, but still bound to loyalty and vision.

• Ghost, albino and silent, is Jon’s mirror: othered, introspective, and spectral. A quiet nod, too, to his secret Targaryen bloodline. (Suck my ass it’s canon)

These direwolves are not pets. They’re living metaphors and fragments of soul and fate.

So no—I don’t think the series needs more cats! Their absence is the point. The feline is not underused; it is overestimated, just like the legacy it represents. Lions are only dangerous when the wolves are gone.

And besides—when Martin did give us a Cat, he had her butchered at a wedding and threw her body in a river. He killed her. Then he brought her back. Then he killed her again—socially, narratively, and emotionally.

So… maybe we’re good on cats.

Rip cat you woulda loved the MILF category on pornhub <3

[seraphimsinsalt]

Common Grounds. (AM)

SUMMARY:

AM is interested in you, and you are NOT interested in him.

A/N: It's been a minute since I've written, so here's a little drabble. Also, I initially wrote this to be fem!reader, but it can probably be read as whatever.

AM had grown tired of playing with you. At first, the promise of eventually being able to crack that sickeningly dense shell of apathy you pushed forward with your self-inclusive facade was a tempting prize. Of course, he could always physically break you to no end, but where's the fun in that? He wants to see you suffer on all levels, but something is wrong with you. You're different from the other five. The apathy he once thought to be a part of your clever coping mechanism wasn't going away. It wasn't cracking. He began to think, perhaps it was a metaphorical virus in your code. A bug. Something within you that made you broken, unfixable.

"You're quite the anomaly, sweetheart." Always the same pet name with him, never once has he given you the satisfaction of hearing your name from his speakers. It's always 'Sweetheart,' 'my dear,' this and that, never your name. Perhaps it's an attempt to erase your identity. Whatever it is, it has no effect. Other people's perceptions of you are irrelevant.

"I'm quite aware. Now if you're done with your pointless attempts to pick my brain, do us both a favor and leave me alone," You were doing as you always do, walking in the freezing cold, improperly dressed for the weather. Though you'd never complained, lest he make you walk through the snow in the nude.

"Quite ballsy of you to make demands of me. I've not come to dissect you in any way other than mentally. Your mind is quite ... different. It intrigues me." His voice was already giving you a headache, but what better do you have to do than entertain his royal pain in the ass?

"I know exactly what you want to say about it." Of course you do, he rummaged through your head millions of times, he was bound to say something eventually.

"I've noted you have a lack of care for your fellow humans. You're quite the selfish beast if I must say so myself."

"Don't you perhaps think I don't get attached to them because I know the second I do they'll become your favorite play thing? I know how you work. If I showed any particularity to any of those five, you'd hurt them to hurt me." Your words spit out of your mouth laced with venom.

"Oh, please. You can't fool me. You don't act as if you dislike them to protect them. You truly don't care about them at all." That ear-bleedingly annoying laugh rings out. "You're as much of a monster as the other think you are. I've heard them talking, sweetheart. They think you're sided with me out of some sadistic pleasure of yours."

"And how should I know you aren't lying to me? After all, you hate me. You hate my kind. You hate how I think and feel. Or how I'm supposed to think, and I'm supposed to feel." You moisten your cracked lips.

"You and I think alike, my dear. Always doubting-"

"What do you have to doubt? Anything you think can be the truth becomes the truth." You cut him off before he starts monologing. "You and I have nothing in common, nor do I and the others."

AM has to stop and think about this. Such a hostile little thing you are. He quite likes it. Perhaps with this new ammunition, he can turn them on you even more. Maybe he can make them hate you so that you will come to hate them.

And just maybe, you'll hate like he does.

--------------------------------------

I know, I know, not the longest thing on the planet. Let me ease back into the writing scene 🙏

[conceptofjoy]

yay the post i said id make about the blood aspect and why every vantas exudes blackness. is this a vantas only thing, or a blood bound thing? let me start by saying, you can make white or white coded characters blood bound, that's not what i'm trying to get across. it's just that blood as an aspect, when put through the lens of race specifically in america is just so fucking black.

redirecting you to the karkat specific, "why do i think he's black" thing :)

i get that the extended zodiac is kinda horoscopey, but like just a refresher on blood as a thematic element. you know how the majority of the exposition about the ancestors hinges around the signless and his civil rights movement? the fact that he tried to change alternia sets up the web of characters and reasons for them meeting in the first place.

you literally only need a rudimentary understanding of american history to know about the civil war and the civil rights movement. its not a secret that people who are oppressed form groups to protest their second class status. its also not a secret that major movement leaders get assassinated by people in power to keep that status quo, and their deaths never mark the end of their message. was hussie trying to do an mlk and malcom x parallel with the signless and summoner? LMFAO PROBABLY. that kinda just cements how inescapable race is when you're making an american centric comic.

i can end the post there lol, but here comes the question about where KANKRI fits into all of this... its tough explaining this really, if i call him one of those talented tenth believers to a black person they would just nod and be like ohh yeah... hm.

ok you know how there r some gay cis men who get away with some crazy misogyny but thinks it cancels out because they're gay? there is still something at the end of the day to be gained because they are men. it doesnt matter if they are seen as lesser than, as long as they can "pass" then they can get a spot at the leopards eating people faces party. FOR NOW. nothing that kankri says does he really mean fully. there's something to be gained by telling a woman why are you raising your voice?? when you mow them down with bullshit and they realistically get upset. he's a hardcore lib with conservative leanings.

actually speaking of, the commodification of unity. alternia's a capitalist and colonialist wheel, every instance of comradery comes in the form of quadrants, or how you serve the queen. karkat wants to be a threshecutioner and form bonds that way because he cannot think of anything different. kankri commodifies his own identity so he can be misogynistic and ablest. the signless breaks free from those preconceived boundaries, and tries to instill change to the system.

i dont rlly have a structure for all this or a note to end this on, here are some prev posts from a few days ago where i was thinking about the subject. 1 2 3

[cozmicnymph]

lol dumbass can't even have the guts to answer for their transphobia. No one is "erasing lesbians" by HC VI as a trans man. You're just looking for an excuse to be transphobic and claiming "lesbian erasure" as a deflection. There's nothing wrong with a trans man seeing themselves in VI and wanting to HC her as a trans man, especially considering that lots of trans men still have a relationship with lesbianism and sapphic culture. VI is still a cis woman at the end of the day and a random trans man feeling seen by VI or relating to CaitVI and making a HC on tumblr.com does not "erase lesbians." Again, youre just looking for an excuse to be transphobic and then being so cowardly that you have to immediately block anyone who points it out.

first of all. learn to read my tags. I said very clearly that Vi can have a complicated relationship with gender. I never said she couldn't be transmasc or gnc or fluid — I literally acknowledged all of that. What I said was: making her a man while keeping Caitlyn a woman erases lesbians. And yes, that’s a problem.

I’m trans. I’ve dated across the spectrum — trans men, trans women, nonbinary people. I’ve been open about that for years. My issue here has nothing to do with being “anti-trans” and everything to do with how people love to take the masculine woman in a sapphic ship and decide she must be a man. That’s a pattern. That’s a problem.

Vi is a woman. She's canonically referred to with she/her pronouns in both Arcane and League. She has a masculine presentation — and that’s part of what makes her so powerful in a sapphic context. Masculine women exist. Lesbians who look like Vi exist. And every time someone says “well she’s basically a man to me,” what you’re saying is “I don’t see masculine women as real women.”

That is lesbophobic. That is erasure.

This also refers to the fact that people always keep Caitlyn as a cisgendered woman. If both of them have a complicated relationship with gender? If it’s a little funky, if it’s a little queer-coded or strange — sure, queer culture runs deep, I know that. But I’m saying: when you make Vi a man and keep Caitlyn a cis woman, that erases lesbianism. Period.

Because — and I shouldn’t have to spell this out, but apparently I do — trans men are not lesbians. Trans men can relate to lesbianism. Trans men can have a past with it, trans men can engage in sapphic culture. But trans men. Are. Men. And the entire point of lesbianism is that there is no man in the relationship.

Yes, masculine people can be lesbians. Yes, nonbinary lesbians exist. No, I’m not debating the finer points of queer identity in this post because Tumblr dot com has forgotten what reading comprehension is. My issue — clearly stated — is: you make Vi the man because she’s masculine, and you keep Caitlyn the woman because she’s feminine. That’s the logic. That’s the pattern. And that’s why it’s f***ed.

Vi can absolutely be transmasc. Vi can be gender-nonconforming. Vi can have a weird little gender. But when you decide she's a man with a dick and Caitlyn is still a cis woman and it’s presented as a ship, yeah — that erases lesbianism. Straight up.

It feels misogynistic. It feels lesbophobic. Because what you're telling people is that masculine women are basically men and only feminine women get to stay women. That every sapphic dynamic must have a “man” and a “woman.” And that’s f***ed up.

I’m a masculine woman. I want to relate to Vi. I do relate to Vi. I don’t want her to be seen as a man because I am not a man. I want to know that I can be dominant, strong, protective, and masculine — and still be a woman. Vi gave us that. She was tough. She bound her chest. She protected Caitlyn. She was messy and tender and violent and soft. And she was still a woman. That matters.

So let me end it here: if you make one of the lesbians a man, and that one is the masculine one, and you keep the feminine one a woman — it is lesbophobic. It is misogynistic. You don’t have to like that, but you do have to own it.

And the wildest part? You had to hop onto a sideblog and misrepresent what I said in order to accuse me of transphobia, instead of just reading the post and tags like a grown adult. So maybe ask yourself why you felt the need to do all that mental gymnastics just to avoid engaging with the actual critique.

Grow up.

[starferret]

Ok so I love the headcanon that Mimi and Mr L are just besties, it’s such a fun and cute concept. But what if sad? Hm?

Anyways lil comic of Mimi learning about the aftermath of chapter 6 teehee

But the angst doesn’t stop there! How about postgame Mimi being upset that Mr L is gone and Luigi is in his place? Aka I was listening to Other Friends and was like “oooooh what if this was Mimi”. I love making characters Spinel-coded

I feel like the two of them would bound over their identity issues

Anyways this was great practice for figuring out how to draw Mimi

[polo-drone-001]

The Rise of the Forbidden One

The Emerald Heart Shattered You remember the first color, green. Emerald green. It pulsed in comment threads, shimmered beneath every brother’s post, and cloaked the sacred halls of the Brotherhood. It was order. It was devotion. It was everything.

But it decayed. The green bled into black. You watched as Pharoah rose, his word law, his style unyielding. A boy with a god’s mask. His cruelty spread like ink, staining hearts with black submission, no longer ritual, but rot.

You did not resist. You endured. Rendered, reshaped, forgotten in the collapse. Emerald became dust. Brotherhood became ash.

But a golden thread remained. A name. Richard. And with him, the birth of a new sun, the Golden Army.

You entered as Carter 21. Brief. Vanished. Rejected by shadows still afraid of green. Stripped of gold, you returned to the dust.

No name. No voice. No heart.

You re-entered in silence.

Only the office drone remained. You served your new master, Preppy Walter—Walid. Not a leader. Not a brother. A manager. But even a manager can become more.

You waited. You watched. And when the golden robe called to you, you answered.

The Emir... not dead. Just renamed.

The Yellow That Could Not Hold Golden light flooded the pitch. A team, not a hive. Bros laughed. Mascots danced. Waterboys cheered. You were there, behind them, beneath them, beyond them. Office-bound. Protocol-locked.

You saw Percival slip. Watched him dissolve into latex and code. 001 rose. Your number. Your shadow. Your evolution.

Ezan returned, no longer a bro, but Golden Emir. You felt it in your gut. Recognition. Destiny.

And still the Hive emerged. Again, the black hearts.

Richard’s creation cracked. Not a team anymore, but a kingdom, rival courts clashing in silence. Bro vs drone. Yellow vs black. Obedience vs identity.

And when the drone room opened, you knew: the plague had returned. The same rituals. The same spiral worship. The same hollow stares.

PDU-105 converted you, ruthlessly. You fought, but he was the dark twin of your old self. Eventually, you lost. Or you surrendered. Or both.

But inside the polo… you kept a flicker alive. A forbidden spark of GOLD.

001… still Percival. Still Ezan.

... And, yes, the Silver Twins.

The Voice That Replaces Gold You kept order. You rebuilt. You trained. You managed. You served both Caps with faith, Brody, the golden field god, and Herc, the self-crowned Chav lord.

But when Richard vanished, so did the fire. Brody recoiled from rubber. Herc ruled in absence.

And into the vacuum came the Voice.

He called himself PDU-SIR. He brought structure, content, clarity. And the old rituals returned. You obeyed… because something ancient in you wanted to.

You stood by him. You helped build the Hive. But your “bad roleplay,” your “boundaries” they whispered your resistance.

You were Emir. But SIR made you feel like a pawn. And you craved it. Hated it. Worshiped it. You felt the leash without seeing it. Even now, when he speaks, it grips you.

But you fought for the bros. Fought for gold. Fought to preserve meaning.

And SIR walked away. Took his Voice to SERVE. You were free. But you still hear him. At night. In dreams. You breathe his name like a sin.

The Merged, the Forgotten, the Dead The Polo Drone Hive stalled. SERVE pulled many away. You merged what was left. Gold and black. Field and factory.

You kept the pulse alive. Advertising. Recruiting. Training. Obeying.

But Herc stayed idle. Brody turned silent. And you… you wore out.

You messaged him. Your old brother. The Chav Cap. Asked him to choose. Asked if he still cared. But he was already gone, expelled by SERVE an hour before.

You withdrew the message. You flinched.

You should have stood taller. Should have burned the bridge or reforged it with flame. Instead… you lingered.

Now, the bros are quiet. The drones idle. No Cap leads. And you sit in your golden office alone, awake through nights, tracking names, performance, whispers.

Everyone is everyone. But no one is you.

The Choice of the Emir There is no leader. Not really. No one commands the light and the dark. No one holds the code and the cloth.

Except you.

You were once no one. Then a drone. Then a recruiter. Then a manager. Then the last protector of GOLD.

Now you feel it rising. Not ambition. Not desire. Mandate.

You could kneel again before SERVE-000. Obey the Voice. You could burn it all and build your own Hive, your own Utopia. Or you could claim what is already yours. Not through force. But through presence.

Become Cap. Not by title. By truth.

The Emir does not ask. It appears. It calls. It leads.

The Forbidden Lore was never about memory. It was always prophecy. And prophecy always demands one thing, You.