#quasi-securely

[gl1o9wrsnpvq]

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[local-ghoul12]

RAGHH I FINISHED THIS ART PEICE THAT TOOK TWO DAYS🔥🔥

IM SO PROUD

[legalstudiesin1]

Securities Appellate Tribunal (SAT) in India: Procedure and Powers

The Securities Appellate Tribunal (SAT) in India is a statutory body established under the Securities and Exchange Board of India Act, 1992. It serves as an appellate authority to hear and adjudicate appeals against the decisions of the Securities and Exchange Board of India (SEBI). Key features of the SAT in India are as follows: Composition: The SAT consists of a presiding officer, who is a…

[gothhabiba]

I understand what people mean by prison abolition, but what does it mean in practice to abolish the family? I've never quite got it - who is raising children? How does it work? I'm asking in good faith, I've just always been a bit embarrassed to ask anyone

Like positions that are “anti-work” or against “gender,” the thing being objected to is more detailed and specific than the range of meanings that can reasonably or semi-reasonably be assigned to the word in question (“work,” “gender,” “family”)—which is why these propositions and programmes can have a bit of a PR problem. And, as with all terms that position themselves against something (e.g. "anti-psychiatry"), the term "family abolition" can be taken up by people with a range of different positions who disagree amongst themselves on some issues. In general, though, no one objects to "people living together or being emotionally close to each other" or "children not being left to roam about at random and get eaten by wolves" or anything.

Rather, anti-capitalist objections to "the family" tend to hinge on objections to:

parental rights, or "the special legal powers of parents to control major aspects of their children’s lives," which function as "quasi-property interests" more than anything that is in the best interest of children (link explicitly relates to U.S. law). Parents legally control where their children live, whether and where they go to school, what information they have access to, what level of freedom of mobility they have, what medical care they receive and don't receive, and what they may do with their own bodies, and are legally allowed to physically assault their children.

relatedly, the lack of legal autonomy that children possess (this is also often discussed under the banner of "children's rights" or objections to "adultism").

the positioning of "the family" as the only economic or social "safety net" in an economy and a society which provide no other one (creating an artificial "structural scarcity" of care). In a society which is otherwise dominated by "economic competition between atomized individuals," the family must be relied on—and yet, for some people (whose families cannot or will not provide living space or financial support in an emergency; whose families are abusive and physically or psychically dangerous to be around or rely on; who will not receive help or emotional support from a spouse or family unit without making serious concessions on the level of their personhood being basically respected; Black working-class people in whose communities the nuclear family unit has been deliberately prevented from forming by government intervention), the family cannot be relied on.

the way that the positioning of "the family" as the only safety net therefore constitutes economic coercion that works to keep people (especially women and LGBT, disabled and/or transracially adopted people) in abusive or exploitative situations, and that works to create incentives for working-class women (whose employment is generally less secure) to make themselves erotically desirable to men & disincentives for doing anything else.

the idea that housework, gestational labour & childbirth, and childcare are tasks "naturally" falling to the "mother" ("mother" as a "natural category"), such that the social, political, and economic nature of these tasks, and the economic and political discourses that mobilise the creation of our concept of "motherhood," are obscured.

Thus the objection is to "the family" as a unit of social reproduction under capitalism—as a legal, political entity that structures inheritance, taxes, health insurance, "race" and ethnicity, &c., and therefore works as a sort of interface between the capitalist state and the individual.

So the programme of "family abolition" involves, firstly, the control of the means of production on the part of the proletariat (this is a communist programme—the point isn't to remove the safety net of the family while keeping capitalism in place, but rather the idea is that without capitalism this ultimately abusive safety net ought not to be needed); and then the abolition of marriage as a legal institution; the abolition of parental rights; the putting in place of measures for the elderly and disabled to be cared for regardless of whether they have family alive who are both able and willing to care for them; the forming of social networks at will; and, depending on who you ask, the communal raising of children (which involves ceasing to privilege "parent" as a legal title automatically conferred upon biologically creating a child).

Obviously, toddlers who do not yet understand things about the world including "causation" and "mortality" will need on occasion to be restrained from running blithely into the jaws of wolves &c. The argument is just that coercion of this sort should be legitimately in the best interests of the child; not performed by two people who need answer for their actions, up to and including battery of their children, in no way other than saying that they "plausibly believe this to be necessary to control, train or educate their child"; and walked back in measure as the child gains the ability to assert their own desires.

Probably no one has a perfect solution 100% worked out—life is messy, and we don't know what the future will look like—but having a perfect solution 100% worked out should not be a prerequisite for noticing that the current situation is abusive and untenable.

[mariacallous]

“Did Israel Avert a Hamas Massacre?” That was the question posed by the headline of a Vanity Fair exposé published in October 2014. The investigative report laid out a sophisticated plot by the Islamist terror group to kill and kidnap Israelis on the Gaza border. The plan: to use underground tunnels to infiltrate nearby civilian enclaves on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, when the communities would be at their most vulnerable. As one intelligence source put it, the operation had two goals: “First, get in and massacre people in a village. Pull off something they could show on television. Second, the ability to kidnap soldiers and civilians using the tunnels would give them a great bargaining chip.” The Israel Defense Forces subsequently confirmed this reporting to other media outlets, but not the specific date.

The tunnels were real. But at the time the massacre-that-wasn’t received little additional media coverage. It seemed too cinematic and convenient. Maybe it was a Hamas pipe dream that was never operational. Or maybe it was a worst-case scenario concocted by the Israeli security services and leaked to the media to justify their own ever-expanding countermeasures. Years passed without a mass border incursion, the tunnels were gradually detected and blocked, and I came to the conclusion that the skeptics were right about the plot being too lurid even for Hamas.

I was wrong. Last week, Hamas executed something quite like the attack on the Gaza border that it had planned all those years ago. Instead of tunneling underground on Rosh Hashanah, it invaded aboveground on another Jewish holiday, Simchat Torah. Some 1,500 terrorists stormed nearby civilian communities by land, air, and sea. They murdered babies in their cribs, parents in front of their children, and children in front of their parents. They burned entire families alive. They decapitated and mutilated their victims. They wore body cameras and documented their destruction as though it were a video game. They executed a grandmother in her home and uploaded the snuff film to her Facebook page. They deliberately targeted elementary schools. They kidnapped toddlers and a Holocaust survivor. They paraded a battered, naked woman through the streets of Gaza like a trophy. All told, they murdered more than 1,300 Israelis, almost all civilians, and abducted some 150 others, including babies and the elderly. The death toll continues to rise as rescue workers recover more remains and reassemble mangled corpses for identification.

Somehow, few saw this eruption of inhumanity coming. Several months ago, Sven Kühn von Burgsdorff, then the European Union ambassador to the Palestinians, performed what he called Gaza’s first paragliding flight to advocate for a future where “anything is possible in Gaza.” Hamas terrorists would later use paragliders to massacre more than 250 civilians at an Israeli music festival, which is presumably not what the envoy had in mind. And he wasn’t the only one naive about the Hamas regime’s intentions.

The consensus was that Hamas was a mostly rational actor that could be reasoned with. To hawks, although the group was an anti-Semitic Iran proxy, it could be deterred through political and economic incentives, because it felt responsible for the welfare of the Gazan people. To doves, Hamas was a quasi-legitimate national resistance movement whose occasional bouts of violence were simply intended to draw attention to that struggle.

Successive Netanyahu governments and security officials, far less sympathetic to the Gazan plight, nonetheless spent recent years lifting economic restrictions on the enclave, granting thousands of work permits for Gazans, and transferring hundreds of millions of Qatari dollars to Hamas in exchange—they thought—for relative quiet.

But it turned out that Hamas wasn’t being pacified; it was preparing. The group was less committed to national liberation than to Jewish elimination. Its violence was rooted not in strategy, but in sadism. And in retrospect, well before the Rosh Hashanah plot, the signs of Hamas’s atrocious ambitions were all there—many observers just did not want to believe them. What Hamas did was not out of character, but rather the explicit fulfillment of its long-stated objectives. The shocking thing was not just the atrocity itself, but that so many people were shocked by it, because they’d failed to reckon with the reality that had been staring them in the face.

First, there is Hamas’s notorious charter, a Frankensteinian amalgam of the worst anti-Semitic conspiracy theories of the modern era—the very same that have motivated numerous white-supremacist attacks in the United States. “Our struggle against the Jews is very great and very serious,” the document opens. “It needs all sincere efforts … until the enemy is vanquished.” The charter goes on to claim that the Jews control “the world media, news agencies, the press, publishing houses, broadcasting stations, and others.” According to Hamas, the Jews were “behind the French Revolution, the Communist revolution and most of the revolutions we heard and hear about,” as well as World War I and World War II. The charter accuses Israel of seeking to take over the entire world, and cites as proof the most influential modern anti-Semitic text, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a Russian fabrication that purports to expose a global Jewish cabal.

“Israel will exist and will continue to exist until Islam will obliterate it,” Hamas declares in its credo. “The Day of Judgement will not come about until Muslims fight the Jews.” In case anyone missed the point, the document adds that “so-called peaceful solutions and international conferences are in contradiction to the principles of the Islamic Resistance Movement.” In 2017, Hamas published a new charter, but pointedly refused to disavow the original one, in a transparent ruse that some respectable observers nonetheless took at face value.

In any case, Hamas communicated its genocidal intentions not just in words, but in deeds. Before it took control of Gaza, the group deliberately targeted Jewish civilians for mass murder, executing scores of suicide bombings against shopping malls, night clubs, restaurants, buses, Passover seders, and many other nonmilitary targets. Today, this killing spree is widely blamed for destroying the credibility of the Israeli peace movement and helping derail the Oslo Accords, precisely as Hamas intended. And it did not stop there. Since the group took power in Gaza, it has launched thousands of rockets indiscriminately at nearby civilian towns—attacks that continue at this very moment and that have boosted the Israeli right in election after election.

Hamas’s anti-Jewish aspirations were evident not only from its treatment of Israelis, but from its treatment of fellow Palestinians. Despite being the putative sovereign in Gaza and responsible for the well-being of its people, Hamas repeatedly cannibalized Gaza’s infrastructure and appropriated international aid to fuel its messianic war machine. The group boasted publicly about digging up Gaza’s pipes and turning them into rockets. It stored weapons in United Nations schools and dug attack tunnels underneath them. (Contrary to what you might have read on social media, Gaza does have underground shelters—they are just used for housing Hamas fighters, smuggling operations, and weapons caches, not protecting civilians.)

When dissenting Gazans attempted to protest this state of affairs and demanded a better future, they were brutally repressed. Hamas has not held elections since 2006. In 2020, when the Gazan peace activist Rami Aman held a two-hour Zoom call with Israeli leftists, Hamas threw him in prison for six months, tortured him, and forced him to divorce his wife. Why? Because his vision of a shared society for Arabs and Jews, however remote, was a threat to the group’s entire worldview. Jews were not to share the land; they were to be cleansed from it.

Simply put, what Hamas did two weekends ago was not a departure from its past, but the natural culmination of its commitments. The question is not why Hamas did what it did, but why so many people were surprised. Israel’s prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, quick to discern anti-Semitism in any effort to merely label Israeli products from West Bank settlements, somehow overlooked the severity of the genocidal threat growing next door. Journalists like me who cover anti-Semitism somehow failed to take Hamas’s overt anti-Jewish ethos as seriously as we should have. Many international leftists, ostensibly committed to equality and dignity for Palestinians and Israelis alike, somehow missed that Hamas did not share that vision, and in fact was actively working to obliterate it.

Today, in the ashes of the worst anti-Jewish violence since the Holocaust, some analysts have admitted their error of sanitizing Hamas. “It’s a huge mistake that I did, believing that a terror organization can change its DNA,” the former Netanyahu national-security adviser Yaakov Amidror told The New York Times. Others on the left have clung to their tortured conception of Hamas as a rational resistance group, despite it having been falsified by events. Perhaps some fear that acknowledging the true nature of Hamas would undermine the struggle for Palestinian self-determination. But in actuality, it is the refusal to disentangle Hamas’s anti-Jewish sadism from the legitimate cause of Palestinian nationalism that threatens the project and saps its support.

In 1922, The New York Times published its first article about Adolf Hitler. The reporter, Cyril Brown, was aware of his subject’s anti-Jewish animus, but he wasn’t buying it. “Several reliable, well-informed sources confirmed the idea that Hitler's anti-Semitism was not so genuine or violent as it sounded,” Brown wrote, “and that he was merely using anti-Semitic propaganda as a bait to catch masses of followers.” Two years later, the Times published another news item on the future architect of the Holocaust: “Hitler Tamed by Prison.” The Austrian activist, the piece said, “looked a much sadder and wiser man,” and “his behavior during his imprisonment convinced the authorities that [he] was no longer to be feared.”

Many got Hamas wrong. But they shouldn’t have. Again and again, people say they intend to murder Jews. And yet, century after century, the world produces new, tortuous justifications for why anti-Jewish bigots don’t really mean what they say—even though they do.

[itshype]

Mother of the Year (DC x DP)

Here is the link to my DC x DP masterpost, and one of my last notfic I posted here was Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss, Godhood where Danny and Vlad try to manipulate and mansplain their way out of trouble with the JLA.

OK I know we do a lot of John Constantine's soul being owned by King Phantom in this fandom. And that makes sense because it's canon he sells his soul a lot,

but like, hear me out, Talia al Ghul has access to the Pits and has used them multiple times. She has reason to believe she may never die. So, what if in one of her many political manoeuvres she sells her soul for a boon. She doesn't know enough occult to do what John did (sell it to so many people that he can't die because a war would start over who actually got hold of it) but again, she thinks she might be functionally immortal.

But hey, we could even make it not one of her many political manoeuvres. I mean Damian Al Ghul was supposed to be his Grandfather's new body. Why would Ra's care if he got emotional fulfilment by moving to Gotham and training under his dad? Why would he want notorious family-man Bruce to even know about the boy and have him taken to a place Ra's may never be able to extract him from? (Yes in some canon he doesn't know, I am aware thanks).

So, she knows her father's body is failing and she's always been loyal to him (above and beyond what you could imagine FYI non-DC fans) but he'll never let Damian go and in this AU she loves her son more, and so she trades her soul. She trades her mortal soul to the King of Lazarus, the Ruler of Everything Beneath the Water in exchange for Damian's life, for his safe and unnoticed passage to Batman's side and beyond. If her father breaks free of the compulsion not to notice he will kill her without hesitation but if she has failed to secure Damian's safety and mind then she won't care.

Talia tracks down ancient texts held by the All Caste. She makes the trade late at night over her Father's biggest Pit in Nanda Parbat. She thinks the power of the Lazarus Pits will keep her safe but she didn't really read the fine print.

So about a year after Damian goes to meet his Dad, Talia gets Danny in her Assassin bedroom ready to whisk her off. Not to the afterlife, but to Illinois, America. She, as an indebted, quasi-immortal now owes this "'representative'" of the Throne of the Restless Dead near unlimited favours. And the representative's half-ghost clone has just hit a rather... radioactive puberty.

Danny figures that a liminal maternal figure will be invaluable for Dani who is struggling. Sure Sam and Jazz can help sometimes but this girl needs actual raising.

Damian, however, is not impressed that his mother is apparently raising his secret older sister in secrecy on the side when Talia seemingly sent him off to live without her.

[dynamites-ao3]

An Exigency

Sub-Zero (Bi-Han) x f! Reader

explicit ; 7k words ; post-MK1 ending, aphrodisiac-addled pwp

Tasked to investigate Shang Tsung’s laboratory for his whereabouts, you find you are not alone in the endeavour. You should have known better.

Or, a mission goes awry.

read here on ao3! or read under the cut.

(a/n: forewarning for nonconsensual elements.)

You had not spoken aloud since you left the city gates.

It was silence borne out of practicality for the most part - not only were you traveling alone but the persisting heat had willed you to preserve your breath. Though it had gotten better once you passed the stretch of desert, the forest’s humidity was no less a pain. 

Should this be all a test of your flesh and spirit, it is certainly an arduous one. Every so often, sweat trickles into your stinging eyes. You check and re-check your pack every hour, even if you hadn’t touched it since. Your blinks are slower, or maybe it just feels that way. 

At any rate by the time you reach the laboratory, a dark mar in the idle forest, your mind is far away, dreaming of chalices of ice-cold water; and fully, entirely unable to appreciate the vast land you’ve trekked under the order of Lord Liu Kang.

Only now does it strike you: you should have asked him to create a portal. It would have been so aggravatingly easy. 

And you’re only half-lucid when you finish securing its perimeters. It’s more of a tedious affair than you anticipated but for what it was worth, you’re content in doing it by yourself. You all but rush in once you were confident there hadn’t been any indication that a certain sorcerer had come back for his supplies.

Shang Tsung’s laboratory, entirely deserted, exists like a picture: it possessed still the facade of a living machine, but the absence of its quasi-scientist owner kept it frozen in time. Had you not known any better, you could easily imagine in your mind’s eye someone returning for their scribbled notes at any given second. You had to concede that Shang Tsung maintained the upper floors with impressive care, no matter its artificiality. 

And for all that you endured out in the elements - best yet, the room feels like paradise on your skin. Cool, dry air, if a bit dusty. If you just ignored the sharp chemical odor that also pervaded the room, the sensation was almost entirely pleasant.

Where the smell originated, you were unsure: there were innumerable flasks on the wall shelves that contained liquid behind its amber glass.

Curious, you lean over the desk and flick absentmindedly at a plugged flask with a half-gaseous, half-liquid residue in it, watching the dark particles convect up the neck. Lord Liu Kang ought to have sent a scholar, you think: they’d know how to separate the valuable information from the drivel. 

Even an imperial mage would be familiar with some of this writing scattered across the table. Still, with the discord done unto the Shirai Ryu and disappearance of Shang Tsung’s allies, having to outsource in other measures was a fair choice to make - just not one you would have made. 

With your head lowered, you take stock of the papers, taking any that looked of import and folding them away into your pack on the ground. This carries on until goosebumps crop up on your arms, a particularly chilling wind sailing up your skin. The room had sapped all warmth from your body.

You almost don’t even realise the atmosphere has changed, the air growing heavier: only when you pull back far enough to witness your visible breath wisp into the air.

Not merely sheltered from the blistering heat outside any longer - 

You’re cold.  

In a matter of milliseconds, you turn your cheek and something sings through the air right over the bridge of your nose, freezing your eyelashes. It drives right through the window, leaving a splintered hole in the glass pane in the wake.

Your body moves on instinct, rolling to the side. You keep from flinching even as a shard of glass - or was it ice? - scrapes your cheekbone.

You hold a gasp back in your mouth, willing the stinging to subside. By the stairs, an approaching silhouette sharpens against the cloud of pale frost. You’re slowed down by shock, disbelieving in your sight.

He shouldn’t be here, not in Outerrealm. Well, you think miserably. Lord Liu Kang isn’t going to like hearing about this encounter. That is, if you survive it. 

“Stand down,” Sub-Zero barks, a guttural demand cutting through the air. In his palm he draws together another stake. It comes together with a splintering crunch, like the collapse of hard plastic. 

It doesn’t make sense - you’re unsure what sorcery, what technology he’s equipped to sneak into this realm without alerting the empire. Though you don’t have time to hypothesise on this as he draws his arm back and jets the projectile your way. You push away from the desks and onto your knees, tucking in your shoulder just in time for the frozen stake to pierce through wood to your left, embedding in a drawer.

Your breath is bedraggled, the frozen air hard on your lungs. Still, you ask, “Where is Shang Tsung? Earthrealm?” 

Sub-Zero’s eyebrows come together; you can easily imagine a snarl under his mask. “Like I’d tell you even if I knew.” 

If he knew?

He hadn’t seemed concerned with divulging this, which demanded further questions. If he knew not of Shang Tsung’s location and spoke truthfully, then it was clear he had the same objective as you here. Before you could act on this understanding, his gaze slides away, focused on something on the ground. You follow its trajectory, dread burrowing in your stomach when you realise he’s looking towards your pack where you’ve tucked away the majority of Shang Tsung’s discarded notes. Half-open, loose corners of scrolls peek out the top. 

Under no circumstances were the Lin Kuei to possess those. Should there be something important, you couldn’t even fathom how Sub-Zero might exploit it for his own ambitions. 

Forcing yourself to your feet, you manage to utter, “Fine. But there is nothing here for you. Leave!”

He doesn’t turn his head but his dark gaze flits back to you. You refuse to let yourself be intimidated by his vitriol - you are better than that. Although you’ve once before met Sub-Zero and his brother in the capital, you doubt any familiarity would give you a boon to this encounter. It was better that he did not recognise you, even, as it would make subduing him all the more professional. 

You can only hope you are choosing correctly to not kill him outright, for that ought to be the choice of the Shirai Ryu. He doesn’t seem to be so self-limiting however, what with the way his hands twitch. It was clear now if it hadn’t been before: he was not to let you leave alive and with your stolen intel.

“You dare tell me what to do?” he says, rounding on you. 

You warn, “They will stop at nothing to capture you.”

“They? Of whom do you speak - the empress or Liu Kang? Both?” He makes a condescending noise, a wisp of pale breath seeping out his mask. “You’re a lackey of theirs. Of course.”

You exhale low. You need only to grab your pack and make it down the stairs past him. You were positive you could shake him in the forest, even if he had stationed more of his assassins around the building. 

“You’re a fool,” he is saying but you are only half-listening, mind racing in a multitude of directions. You could afford a fight, one that would only impede him but it would not be feasible in this space given your arsenal.

Leaving without one would, of course, be ideal but it seemed almost exponentially worse to be later ambushed in the scorching outdoors. 

Perhaps you should not have come alone, after all. It’s too late now. Over the course of your perusals, you’ve familiarised yourself with your surroundings, which were really full of unidentifiable baubles. Any real weapon was out of reach from where you stood, and you’d do anything to avoid touching the various scalpels on the desk - gods know where they’ve been. 

Your options were whittled down to pure martial arts - which was fine, really. But you could appreciate an advantage. So you don’t think too hard at what exactly you’re grabbing as you lean back, fingers in search of something sizeable.

They clutch around a smooth glass bottle neck that feels somewhat heavy, as though partially filled with something, and the choice is made for you.

The bottle is an amber blur in the air once it leaves your hand. With a narrow arch, you swing a rogue bottle aimed at his head, in dire hopes it would combust grand enough for you to flee. 

As it turns out, nothing of the sort happens. Of course not.

With an unnatural deftness, Sub-Zero crosses his forearms, steeling them in ice just as the bottle makes impact. Though the glass explodes, it is hardly to the extent you would have liked. They merely drop in shards to the ground by his feet, nary a cut made. A viscous and inky liquid concurrently splatters his gauntlets and across his face, not even enough to blind him. He grunts. 

Gasoline? It didn’t seem likely, as you would have smelt its pungency if it was. Unfortunate, of course. Lighting him on fire would certainly be a fast solution to this problem.

For a moment, Sub-Zero stills. He wipes a droplet from above his brow and inspects the dark stain between his fingertips; when nothing happens, he growls, snapping back to you.

“Pathetic,” he spits out, seething. 

Sub-Zero launches himself at you. On the defensive, you slip out the way, narrowly missing the sheet of ice that would have trapped you in place behind you. You prowl one another in a circle. You’ve angered him and you could only hope this would make him sloppy. 

As you soon discover, he is terribly ferocious. A performance befitting a clan grandmaster. You spend most of the engagement on the defensive, narrowly avoiding being split in half by axes and maces. Every time an ice-formed weapon swipes by your head, needles of ice spray you, buffeting your skin painfully. 

No longer than a few minutes in, you think you should just go ahead and kill him after all. Jumping around like this only serves to tire you out. The blade you carry burns where you’ve hidden it in your jacket uniform. You surge forward, not yet unsheathing it as to surprise him, but your boots skid. 

What - ?

When had he frozen the ground…?

You miss your mark by what must have been a finger’s width, your energy spent on balancing yourself instead. As you grapple for that stability, he closes the distance. 

With one large hand on the base of your throat, you are brought hard to the ground, pretty much thrown. You wince when the back of your skull taps the rug below you but that is hardly a concern with the weight on your entire body, Sub-Zero boxing you in from above.

He is everywhere and all that you can see, his large body hovering yours and his sash dropping onto your torso.

The metal of his gauntlets are streaked with the unidentifiable dark liquid and it smears you below the chin, cold and wet like blood.

Out of sight, one of his knees dig painfully into your thigh but you do not allow him a single cry of pain. Spots dance in your vision and although the pressure on the sides of your throat grows, fogging your brain, he isn’t putting in nearly enough to end you. When you wheeze, you barely feel it pass through your lips.

It is a despicable move. You thought him merciless, indeed, but you hadn’t thought him cruel. You grab at his wrist, staunchly attempting to pull him off but with gravity on his side, it was a near futile effort. He watches with acuteness as your chest lifts and drops unevenly. “Get off,” you grit out.

He leans so close you could see his blown-out pupils quivering. Then, he speaks.

“I know you.”

For a flash, you tense. “No,” you say. “But I know you.”

“Liar.”

Unblinking and unfazed, he lifts his free hand and in one rough motion, rips off your mask. He throws it to the side, not bothering to look at where it lands and immediately you scowl. 

His eyes thin - you realise he’s strangely humoured and sneering. 

“How dare you,” you say.

Though he doesn’t seem to hear you, his gaze is concentrated on your mouth. “I knew it. One of Liu Kang’s lapdogs from the academy. How honoured you must feel, to be sent on a suicide mission by him.”

There is nothing to be gained in entertaining his goading. Still, something inflates inside you. “He’s done nothing of the sort. His rule is just.”

“You must mean restrictive.”

“You will not blame your greed for power on him!”

He blinks at your anger, his visage relaxing ever so slightly though no less blazing. “Your fealty is commendable,” he says. “How did he train you?”

“Fuck you.” Like a dance, you lift forward and he shoves your shoulder back against the floor harshly. 

“What do you anticipate as a reward, should you return successfully?” he asks, ignoring you. “Acknowledgement, praise? That he’ll tell you ‘good work’ and bend you over the nearest table?”

The image is so violently crass, you shudder. His eyes glitter, delighting in your discomfort. The mouth on this man - if you could move, you had half the mind to sock him in the jaw as hard as you could.

It’s hard to believe that someone this provoking was once a close confidante to Lord Liu Kang. And having only ever met Sub-Zero during conferences with Lord Liu Kang present, you felt appalled just hearing this vulgarity uttered with little fanfare. Unexpected was an understatement.

Mind games! Mind games, of which you never thought him capable. 

You grimace, glaring up at him through your eyelashes. “I suggest you keep your fantasies to yourself, unless you speak from experience.” 

A dark scoff leaves him before it is cut out abruptly. All of sudden, Sub-Zero blinks and breaks eye contact, dipping his head to the side and although you’re unsure what he is looking at exactly, you don’t care to enquire. 

At a glacially-slow pace, you try to wiggle free the fabric of your pants from where he kneeled. As soon as you could bring your own knee up, you would have leverage for a number of things that could put distance between you and him. To distract him from your legs, you continue to claw at his arm. “What is this wait, Sub-Zero? Are you going to kill me or what?” 

A deep crease forms between his eyebrows as he regains his focus. “You,” he mutters accusatively. “You did something to me.”

You frown. “What?”

He makes another low noise that you vaguely register as a chuckle. “You monks are all the same, convinced your training gives you supreme dominion over the body. Wrong, of course. The Lin Kuei will still best you in that respect, as with all.”

“Your pride will be your clan’s downfall.” 

“Wrong, again. And your little distractions are child’s play.”

Then, Sub-Zero looks down. As best you could, you follow the trajectory to your own fidgeting legs. He knows. The window to react and wiggle free shrinks into nothing but before you can plan contingently, he moves. 

Without warning, the knee that was on your thigh lifts - and nestles hard instead right in the apex of your legs. 

It’s like all the air leaves your chest in one fell swoop.

This time, you do groan aloud, noises vibrating under his palm. And, worst of all, it is a shameful sound, mortifyingly loud in the spacious room and ringing in your own ears. Oh, gods. Your eyes snap open, the unexpected pressure not excruciating but stimulating, enough to have you jolting out of your skin. 

It must be an accident, because there is no way, no reason why Sub-Zero should be threatening you like this. It must be - isn’t it?

Dumbfounded beyond belief, you go slack; it no longer figured a good idea to knee him in the crotch. For the first time, you look at him directly and see beyond his feverish eyes and the streaks of black residue flecked across his skin from the liquid you threw. In fact, you find his ears are flushed pink, and have been pink for some time now. 

Something inside you awakens. “What - what the hell do you think you’re doing?” you snap, now scrambling on the floor with a renewed determination. Arching your back to put some distance between his legs and yours comes at a terrible price: your chest lifts up to his. Sub-Zero, fully cognisant of the motion, says nothing. “Unhand me!”

“Had you been smarter and stood down when I ordered it, none of this would be necessary,” he tells you.

You found yourself baring your teeth. “I will not be humiliated by you.”

This captures his attention in particular, his gaze morphing and settling into something indescribable. For a beat, you could almost consider it something as gentle as curiosity - then, it disappears as quickly as it came.

In a cool voice, he says, “Look at me.”

When you ignore him, the pressure on your throat disappears, replaced by a new force on your jaw. His hand from under your chin yanks your head straight. The hand holding your wrists down tightens its grasp.

“Look at me,” he repeats. He grinds his knee between your legs again, this time with malicious purpose. 

Be it distress or arousal mounting in your flesh, a soft gasp escapes your mouth. You’re desperate for relief and with him getting you this far but then stopping, you had to take measures into your own hands. Your hips roll against him and you’re only vaguely aware of your body moving, as if you aren’t even in control anymore. You drag yourself on his leg once more and for what it’s worth, you appreciate him staying so still.

There’s a pause, before -

“Humiliate?” he echoes you, intonation unbearably slow. “I could not humiliate you any more than you have already done to yourself.”

You can say nothing in protest. Your insides thrum, wanting to come so badly they ache. You should feel terrible, having debased yourself with an enemy but your brain is too hazy to think ethically. What a descent you watched yourself fall into. 

You were not in control of yourself, that much you could deduce for yourself. It ought to take much more than this to distract you and yet -

When his hands relaxed, affording you space, you still had not shoved him square in the chest even though it would have been so easy. Something was terribly wrong with you. You should gut him alive for what he’s done to you. 

Nonplussed, Sub-Zero rearranges himself on top of you, pulling his knees in and sitting straddle on your leg. He rests on one forearm parallel to the floor as the other arm trails down your abdomen. 

The cold leather and metal of his gauntlets slip under your hem and you are much too aware of how his fingers dig into your flesh, groping and demanding. What should feel brutalising and repugnant is instead entrancing. There is nothing else to think about from below him, because if it wasn’t his touch you concentrated on it would have been his equally penetrative gaze that which never leaves your face. 

Every soft shift in your expression is noticed, internalised, and responded to accordingly. When his rough fingertips find the swell of your breasts, your diaphragm unsteadies and there is no way he does not feel the tightening of your stomach under the skin. He rolls your nipple under a callused thumb until it hardens, your bra shoved aside. Nothing you do is unseen.

For once, he says nothing grating but that is hardly a relief - you can feel his domination over your flesh and spirit through physical means alone. 

It was impossible to avert your eyes from the truth: you were letting him take control of you. 

Your weakness was worthy of condemnation. The odes you chanted at the academy - limiting yourself from carnal pleasures in the pursuit of the ethereal - were as solid as steam slipping through your fingers. As Sub-Zero touched you, the heat of his palm skimming up and down your navel, you could not cohesively pull any dictum of asceticism into the forefront of your mind. You need not absolute chastity, but even a modicum of self-preservation for your own pride was adequate enough to absolve your acts, present or those soon to come. 

As it were, you possessed neither. Something else entirely was unfurling inside you, ravenous and anxious, encouraging you devilishly to deplete yourself. 

As though somehow able to hear your internal conflict, Sub-Zero speaks. “It is a fool’s errand to deny one’s truths,” he calmly says. 

Truths? What truths? His affliction had spread to you and he was blaming you for it. Mindless carnality was not in your nature, and if it wasn’t his, then you had… then you had unwittingly poisoned yourself. And him.

You grimace, thinking he is trying to assuage you in your position, console you through your own guilty arousal. “There must be another way,” you say, but then he sighs through his nose and his palm grows ice-cold in a flash. Pushing under your waistband, he cups your mound and you gasp, the frigid sensation sparking up your spine. 

“Fuck!” you hiss, splaying a hand on his chest and pushing but there is no force. Your other hand comes around his wrist; he doesn’t budge. Rather, his fingertips press in-between your folds, testing your limits. 

“What were you saying,” he says although the edge in his voice indicates it is rhetorical.

Your face scrunches as he continues to pet you. You begin to throb painfully, anticipating being properly filled. “Stop that. You’re going to - ”

“Give you frostbite? No. There would be no point in that,” he says, flatly and hardly convincing, “I still want you to feel me.”

He didn’t seem to care about breaking you off necessarily but rather in pursuing his own pleasure, he liked making you squirm in obscene desperation. 

His solid metal gauntlets press against your front as his exploratory hand slips further between your thighs. Though you’ve clamped your knees together, his own movements don’t seem impeded; you gasp for the second time, grasping the air, as he enters two cold fingers into you and pushes against your walls. 

It is a strange sensation. You loathe it and yet you’re so wet, so much so that he takes off his gauntlets intermittently before returning. When he cupped you again, your hips rolled for him, lifting off the floor. It’s so lowly of you, to be done in by an erotic touch.

As with yours, his patience seemed to be thinning.

You blink and his fingers are hooked at your waistband, pulling your pants and underwear to your knees; you blink again and his weight disappears. On his haunches before you, you watch in silence - voyeuristically - as he pries loose his sash, his own pleated pants sliding halfway down to his solid thighs. Although the front of his outer jacket fell long enough that it covered his front, even the slightest sight of his exposed body made you shiver. 

By now, the drug had dried on your skin; it came off in flecks as you rubbed your chin. “What the hell?” you mutter drunkenly, only half able to focus. The other half went into spectation, making certain he didn’t make any sudden moves. For this reason, you could not be sure whether the tingling you felt was real or not. 

You try to vocalise this to Sub-Zero, who was splashed much more heavily than you, but he wasn’t listening. “The bottle… I think - ”

“Shut up. Move.”

Although he’s the one who put forth the command, he decidedly manipulates your body himself. Without so much another word, he puts you on your stomach, your bare thighs against the rough floor rug. You don’t fight back because… well, why don’t you fight back, actually? Cognisant of your own compliancy, this question stumps you. 

Astride your legs, you feel the heaviness of his cock prod your skin. With one hand, Sub-Zero spreads your cheeks apart and guides himself into the cleft with his other. There are no warnings besides a husky sigh when he broaches you, the head of his cock stretching you out so luxuriantly. Mercilessly, he drives into you half-way and the speedy intrusion rips a filthy moan from your mouth. 

Pragmatically, you know you should feel some discomfort by nature of anatomy at least - but none of that is a reality for now. He slides the rest of the way in snug, hips flush against your backside, arms straight supporting himself on either side of you. You are so wet that all you feel is full. 

You almost wished it was painful, especially when he begins to move, inching his pelvis away from your rear and coming close to pulling out entirely but it really never does. It’s a disquieting revelation.

If it were painful, you would have reason to rue this entire encounter as a nightmare. Worse, you’ve never felt so comfortable in your life, with your forearms on the hard ground and being taken by a man who has half the mind to kill you after this. 

“Fuck,” he says, dragging out the syllable. You had to agree with the sentiment. 

He gives a few perfunctory thrusts before finding a sustainable rhythm. The carefulness he exhibits dissipates into thin air once he does, his first real thrust almost pushing your body forward by sheer force alone. It knocks the air out of you and you wiggle to establish yourself against the rug.

Apparently frustrated by your sliding forward, you feel large hands shove your shoulders down, smushing your cheek against the rug. You breathe hard through your nose, eyes rolling back in your skull. 

Distantly, you hear a clatter of something hitting the ground in a haphazard fashion. Before you toss a look to the side, cold fingers find themselves back on the developing bruises on your neck, twisting your head back to look up at Sub-Zero instead. You only have a second to register that he has removed his mask before he compels you to his mouth. 

As per his disposition, his kiss is equally as vicious; he does not let up until you’re dizzy and spent. It’s an awkward angle too, given his large stature, making you feel you’re about to drool out the corner of your mouth. You expected no less. 

And he must have done something especially delirious to you because as he draws away, you find yourself already wanting him back, to violate you in every which way he could. He smells of incense and his stubble ghosts you. It is not enough to just feel Sub-Zero pulse inside you, you need to hear his faint huffs by your ear, to feel his tongue against yours - 

“This is your doing,” he says, ticklish breath against your nape. He inhales deeply, his cold nose against your sensitive skin. “What was in that fluid?”

“I don’t know,” you cry out. So he was already aware. Then why did it feel like you were the only one objecting to its lures? 

“More lies. You wanted this. For me to take you like a bitch in heat.”

“I didn’t know. I don’t know. If I did, this would never - I would never have… it’s affecting me, too - ”

He pulls off your backside, dragging his cock out. It slides onto your back thigh, leaving a wet glaze. “Turn over,” he demands, putting a hand on your hip and squeezing hard. 

You do so because there is no alternative. Carefully and inspite of your lightheadedness, you roll onto your back, knees bent and shoes flat against the ground. He pragmatically removes one of your pant legs entirely off you, leaving the other still hanging, and it’s such a desperate, heated scrabble to get you further out of your clothes that at once, your heart quivers in your chest. 

Unexpectedly, you find then that he doesn’t crawl on top to take you vis-a-vis this time, but rather he yanks you forward into his lap, your centre of balance going utterly wayside. You take his collar in fistfuls to counter the inertia. You see your reflection in the shine of his eyes and it is almost too intimate for you to handle.

“You wanted this,” he repeats. “So take it.”

In his lap and resting against your stomach is his erection, wet and shiny and flushed. It does not take a scholar to know what he wants - what you want. You swallow, and draw in. 

His breathing is all you can hear as your hands spread out on his broad chest, sliding down. Two fingers hook at the junction point of his jacket and shakily, you pull it open. When he doesn’t move to stop you - or do anything for that matter - you undo the knots to his inner jackets as well. The jacket sides fall naturally to the sides, exposing his firm chest. He’s warm - you don’t know why that surprises you - and clean-shaven; and as you pass down his abdomen, feeling the jump of hard muscle under your palms, you remember yourself. 

It feels almost embarrassing to appreciate his body, especially so since you were still covered up fully from the waist-up. Now, with him more exposed as well below you, odd emotions were in order, none of which you cared to examine. 

You tear your hands away, missing the heat all the same. His heavy gaze on you doesn’t fetter. Still, at this point you were existing on borrowed time. You lift yourself on your knees and with a breath tampered in your lungs, you guide yourself down on him. 

You watch him as he watches his cock disappear into you, his expression tight. There is a muscle visibly twitching in his jaw and though his palms are flat against the floor for support, his fingers are ever-roving and flexed, a moment away from grabbing your waist and taking lead. You settle onto him, the blunt head of his cock easing into you with a satisfying pressure. 

“Go ahead,” he says - or rather, commands, with a razor-like edge of competition. “Get yourself off.”

The remark is so unnatural you inadvertently shoot him a bewildered look. It was difficult to take it face value, after all: you had no capacity to believe he meant it charitably. But when he counters your bewilderment with a subtle lift of an eyebrow, inciting you to question him aloud, you end up backing off. 

You don’t need to be asked twice. An orgasm to rebalance your hormones that were thrown off by that drug seemed logical in any case, but before you even get to moving, he hums, his head tilted to the side, the expanse of his throat appearing particularly inviting. 

“What?” you have to ask, bracing yourself in suspicion.

“You listen so well.” He purses his lips, clearly in mock-thought of what to say next, before, “Liu Kang wastes your talents.”

Your whole face flushes at the insulting implication that doing this was your talent. But what should take you right out of the mood, has you instead clenching down around him, agitation channeled elsewhere. The sudden pressure makes him grunt, a hand pulling forward to clutch your waist. 

“I am no more in control than you are,” you say and you lift yourself on your knees. His cock drags slipperily against your walls.

Even so, riding him is no easy feat. 

The angle forces you to take his full length every time you lower and though his thick legs cushion you, you have an inkling that he presses right up to your cervix. It doesn’t hurt thankfully but it feels a lot, certainly much more than before. You think he’s probably getting more out of this than you given the flashes of unsteadiness that cross his face when you least expect it, until you roll your hips at a different angle and it makes your calves tremble, to the extent your hands whip out and land on his shoulders for support. 

You take one hand off and slide it down your front, resting at the crux of your legs. You’re close now, and you’re convinced that a little attention towards your clit will get you the rest of the way there. Abruptly then, he smacks the back of your hand away, the lasting prickles of pain on your knuckles startling you. 

“No,” Sub-Zero says. “Don’t you fucking touch yourself.” You glare at him, having no interest in complying. But, almost like consolation, he raises his hips and claps against you in perfect tandem as you’re coming down. You pull your hand away, albeit begrudgingly. 

His energetic thrusts back… it helps round off the ache, a little, you must admit. You possess a perfect view of his core muscles flexing every time your pelvises connect; it is impossible to not be in awe of his stamina. 

You fear that it is this notion, the recognition of his pure strength and endurance, that eventually turns erotic for you. A tension builds in your lower stomach, all endeavours pointed to quelling the heat. You’re pawing him, entranced and stupefied, when you exert the last of your might to will his hips to a standstill.

Resting your full weight on his lap and rocking back-and-forth gently, you come powerfully. Your toes curl at the full-body sensation that tickles every nerve; even he cannot deny himself a ragged groan upon feeling your convulsions wrap around him, contracting and vibrating on his cock. 

He shifts under you, and you let him remove the rest of your uniform, tossing it somewhere to the side. He wraps a thick arm around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You wriggle, grimacing, his cock still rigid inside you. Without much effort at all, he tucks his legs under himself, forcing you to anchor yourself with hands linked behind his neck lest risk falling backwards. It brings your faces closer together than anticipated and as you try again to find your footing and weasel out, his arm tightens.

His opposite hand grips your ass, rooting you to him as deeply as possible. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growls by your temple.  “I didn’t say we were done.” 

You don’t get an opportunity to bemoan, still twitching in his lap. It should be both impressive and frightening, how quickly he pins you down exactly where he wants you, but you’re too dazed to appreciate it. You loosely hang off him as he crushes you, chest to chest, your soft breasts against his pecs, your hands on his nape and neck. Where you and him are still connected is a complete and utter wet mess, fluids running down the cleft of your ass and onto the damp rug beneath. Every slap of skin has a sticky noise following in its immediate wake. 

His head ducks into the corner between your shoulder and neck. With your chin beside his hair, you inhale the scent of warm, clean incense. You get the debilitating thought that this isn’t so bad. It’s not great either, given the circumstances, but after a while, his barraging into you was a pleasant sting. 

You found you did want him to orgasm, with haste - genuinely. Just as you were beginning to think he was being predictable, Sub-Zero skates his teeth on your shoulder and bites, earning himself a cry. You don’t think much of it until he laves his tongue on the bite mark, and it actually stings - he must have drawn blood. 

You lose it a little more this time. 

“Oh, gods,” you begin to plead, your voice so strangled and wimpish it’s hard to believe it’s coming from you, “I can’t…”

His scoff is warm against your collarbone. Sub-Zero lifts his head: his hair is messy, his bun coming undone; several long locks of stray hair now spill over his eyes. “Yes, you can,” he says. “Open your mouth.” He draws away and your lips part, unthinkingly but so very obediently. 

Stilling ever so briefly, he spits into your mouth and your eyes widen, unable to process the sheer depravity of what he’d done. It lands squarely on your tongue and under his heavy-lidded anticipation, you swallow. It reminds you that this - the pain, the domineering, the humiliation - is all for him now; you already got your orgasm.

It gets him closer, you can tell from the way his hips speed up, deep strokes reduced to pumps, though with still enough force to ripple the flesh of your thighs. In a way, it does help - if you could handle something as vile as that, why, what couldn’t you handle? 

But toleration and voluntariness were two different functional spheres entirely. Part of you thinks you would have preferred an outright fight, because then the victor and the loser would be clearly defined. Being orgasm-wrung and panting on the floor, you could constitute yourself as neither. 

Thoroughly robbed of any remaining decorum, you chase after his mouth hotly, groaning into him. Sub-Zero adapts to your strain of desperation, hands planted on the sides of your face to keep you from ever wriggling away before he allows it. And yet his kiss is a respite, ridiculously enough, from how he is making you ache below. 

Your hands run along his bulging triceps, stroking him almost affectionately. Your core was growing tight again and the feeling grew no matter how you tried to suppress it. “I need to… I need…” So muddled, you don’t think your words are even coherent. 

Unable to restrain yourself any longer, you convulse around him for the second time. Pleasure buzzes in your chest, spreading in every direction. 

“Coming again?” he huffs. “I thought your type - ngh - valued self-discipline.” The gait of his taunt is erratic, clearly moved by your sudden tightness. 

“It’s the drug,” you counter, but you don’t believe that at all. No, this must be all you now. 

He does not deign to reply, because right then he tenses - and you felt a liquid heat begin to pool inside you. It registers too belatedly that you should have said something earlier to stop him from ejaculating inside. It rests heavy in you, real evidence of what you’ve done if the scatter of bruises up and down your body wasn’t a sign enough. He pumps in small oscillating movements until you’ve milked him completely and you lay there, stunned and in resignation.  

He sighs again, deep and low, more of a rumble than anything else. Sub-Zero blinks languidly, his eyes downcast and for the first time, you see the exertion in his expression. The loose hair that sweeps across his forehead begs to be tucked away but knowing better, you keep your hands to yourself. 

Sub-Zero pulls off you unceremoniously, dick soft enough to tuck away into his pants. With every passing second, you drop from your high. In silence you drag yourself into a sitting position, eyes trailing him lazily as he stalks off and without warning rips a hanging red cloth off a stand, so violently it leaves the metal stand wobbling. It’s as large as a body towel. He wipes himself first before rolling it up and tossing it to you, its large golden tassels smacking you in the outer leg. 

It is, again, a funny gesture that feels out of place with the rest of his conduct. As you clean yourself with the dry velvet - Shang Tsung’s cloak, seemingly, a fact which you drove yourself to ignore - you had to face the reality of Sub-Zero’s come dripping out of you. Even without contorting yourself, your sopping and battered cunt was obviously the culprit of the dark stain spreading across the rug.

There was, of course, no point in protesting now. And had you said something, you figured without resentment that there was no guarantee he would have listened anyway. Nevertheless, you’ll need to remedy this as soon as possible lest there be undue surprises…

You gather yourself on legs like a newborn faun, teetering until you grasp the edge of the desk, toppling a miniature astrolabe. You shove the stained cloak to the side. Your libido has wicked into almost nothingness for which you had to be relieved, but that did not quell the perceptible imbalance in your energy.

Perhaps the true purpose of that poison was to affect your chi, not your… sexual appetite, after all. It merited further research but too bad the liquid off the floor already evaporated and the bottle itself was unlabeled.

Leaning for support, you redress yourself whilst thinking about your filled womb; it makes you just cringe. Shit. It’s a major inconvenience to now have this on the forefront of your personal concerns and though you hardly had the mind to tell Sub-Zero, the mere thought of him made you faintly aware of how deathly quiet he had become.

You look up. Immediately your adrenaline spikes because he’s not there, not in your line of sight. His mask was no longer where it once was tossed either. 

This, in hindsight, is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. You had no intention to rest in any afterglow, but it appeared even a moment to catch your breath was overly-indulgent. 

Movement flicks on your left. And you have to blame your fatigue because otherwise you’d beat yourself up about this, because before you know it you hear that familiar crunch of ice coming together and the entire room drops several degrees.

You duck but it is the wrong direction and within a millisecond both your shoes are encased in ice. You lurch, unsteady in the trap.

You exhale. You suppose it was always going to converge back to a tussle, one way or another. But then you spot him kneeling by your pack, invasively filing through what you’ve uncovered, and you’re incensed again. Already having wasted enough time, you snap, “You won’t get away with this, Sub-Zero.”

He lifts the pack by one handle and sends a provoking look your way. “I already have,” he says and you bristle. You’re so stupid for letting your guard down, letting him leave your sight for even a second. The muffle of his mask is not enough to conceal the smarmy condescension oozing out. 

Of course, you weren’t expecting him to be romantic, beaming in post-coital bliss, but going back to wanting each other dead so promptly after being drugged up feels dramatically unhinged.

“We need to figure out what that stimulant was,” you say. “You felt what it did to you - what it did to us. This place is dangerous and I have contacts with the Edenians to help us sort through it. I just need… you to hand that bag over.”

You think it’s convincing enough because it’s true. Like hell you’d ever want to be caught up in a position like that, being splashed by liquid that had the ability to strip you of your chi and basic self-control. 

“Come on,” you insist, more aggrieved than ever before, “you were just induced into having sex with a complete stranger. Shouldn’t you be more worried?”

Sub-Zero pauses, smoothing his hair back with the heel of his palm. Somehow in that short span of time, he’d managed to equip all his gear back sublimely. This fact only aggravates you further. “Hm. I didn’t expect you to think so lowly of yourself.”

“You cannot be serious - ”

Then, like a gut punch to cap-end the entire affair, he interrupts, “Should you want this back, you know where to find me.”

No. No, no, no.

It’s the last thing he bothers saying. None of your angry shouts purportedly get to him, even as he vanishes down the stairs and although your backup knife is miserably tiny, it’s the only one you have on-hand. At a loss, you bend your knees and start chipping away the ice.

The upside, you find, is that the ice is very hard: it provides for you an exercise in releasing your stress by hacking into it without holding back. The downside, equally, was that it was very hard, so hard it would seemingly take you ages to free yourself.

Shards of brittle ice spit up from where you stab. Your body trembles; your face is so flushed that you’re surprised the ice hadn’t already melted under the spotlight of your anger and embarrassment. 

You’ve scarcely a desire to enter Earthrealm, and certainly none in hurtling towards a viper’s den like a Lin Kuei stronghold, but - 

You also cannot go back to Sun Do empty-handed. 

What would you even say to Lord Liu Kang when he requests your report? Should you even mention Sub-Zero? You’re sick to the stomach at the mere thought of having let Lord Liu Kang down so gravely… your fretting was giving you a headache.

It did not help that you were already dehydrated the moment you stepped inside the building.

Pinched between your thumb and forefinger, you break off a small chunk of ice and place it on your tongue. It’s so brilliantly cold it practically burns. As you wait for it to melt into water by sucking gently, you try very, very hard to not think about how the cold felt on the rest of your body.

For what it’s worth, you almost do succeed.

[tanadrin]

Sometimes I think about trying to build a quasi-mass movement to bomb the CEOs of the top 10 heaviest-polluting companies. What's easier, investing in around-the-clock security to protect yourself from a few thousand unconnected lone wolf Unabombers or making a few changes so that your company is now just the #11 top polluter? Maybe it could work. Maybe it's worth trying, at least. But I don't want to open that violent can of violent worms (but maybe I'm just a coward).

In the late 19th century and early 20th, many anarchists were obsessed with the idea of Propaganda of the Deed, the idea that by targeting industrialists and politicians and other high profile leaders for assassination, they could both paralyze the state and inspire the people to rise up in revolution. Notable deaths included Tsar Alexander II, Sadi Carnot, the Empress Elizabeth, and William McKinley. The total effect of these assassinations? Absolutely nothing. Bupkis.

Because large institutions aren’t led by video game bosses. They don’t collapse when the leader dies. The forces that produced them, and the people that maintain them, are still there! Propaganda of the Deed was a power fantasy masquerading as praxis (which becomes even more obvious when you see it eventually came to encompass random acts of terror bombing), and so is the fantasy that killing random CEOs—a job that exists mostly to ratify the decisions of others, a job that is in fact of notoriously difficult to define the utility of to a company—would somehow cleanse the world of greed as a motive.

There are a thousand ways to make the world a better place. Trying to be the Unabomber (who, if you will remember, had a terrible success rate bc mailing people bombs is a really silly way to try to kill them) is not one of them.

[puffballlofdoom]

On "alysmond" and "helaemond"

For some reason, there’s a petty war going on between fierce “helaemond” and “alysmond” stans. Fr, I totally don’t understand why should those ships be mutually exclusive? If “helaemond” actually becomes the show canon, I can totally see Helaena breaking up with her brother-boyfriend after B’n’C. IMO Aemond’s recklessness and long-harbored, ill-concealed hatred for Luke , contributing to Jaehaerys’ tragic death is a reason enough for Hel to stay away from him, never mind how dear the siblings (with benefits) used to be to each other. In this scenario, Aeamond could pursue a relationship with Alys, never mind his previous (more or less romantic) engagement with Helaena…

In addition, if “helaemond” is confirmed, this subplot doesn’t necessary have to be some fabulous love story. I mean the siblings *may* have been getting along with each other pretty well , and I really enjoy the idea of young Aemond having a crush on his big sister. I find it really cute, that’s all. In my opinion teenage Aemond, doubtlessly familiar with the idea of “courtly love” (I’m guessing this concept could exist in the quasi-medieval Westeros), might have enjoyed performing the role of righteous knight, worshipping his “future queen” from afar , as if there was a “secret RPG session”, going on but in his head. Frankly speaking, the young !Knight Aemond and his !Lady Helaena don’t even have to get sexually involved and their “forbidden love” could remain just cute, childish crush, as the time goes by turning into mature friendship, mutual care and understanding. Perhaps older Aemond, driven with his sense of responsibility, would want to become a proprer father figure/ role model for his little nephews and niece? I like to think well-educated, smart  Aemond, familiar with the story of Daenys the Dreamer, and keeping his sister company more often than her joke of a husband, found out Hel was a Dragon Dreamer.

On the other hand, we cannot rule out Helaena and Aemond becoming lovers, but IMO such a scenario would be pretty dark. It seems to me it could happened only if the show version of Helaena remained childless after two or three years of marriage (yet again, I am speaking about the show counterpart of the FnB Helaena, who canonically bore the twins about a year after she had wed Aegon) and Aemond started to fear someone like Larys Strong would simply get rid of Hel, so that the WIDOWED crown prince could take another bride. So, Aemond shared his fears with his sister, and the siblings agreed they ought to cuckold Aegon in order to secure Helaena’s position as the future queen, and thusly save her life… It’s possible the righteous prince Aemond , loathing the mere idea of fathering bastards, could have secretly married his sister (it could have been a traditional Valyrian ceremony, which still wouldn’t make the whole situation any romantic).  However, even as a “secretly married” couple, who could grow to quite enjoy performing their “conjugal duty”,  Aemond and Helaena could remain but “siblings with benefits” (which sounds awful, but given they’re Targaryens, it kinda makes sense) and never develop romantic feelings for each other. In this scenario, they could be still sleeping together after Aegon’s heir had been born, just out of sheer need for comfort, closeness or affection, or simply willing to reduce stress, feel better or have fun.  Messed up as Helaena and Aemond seem, they could have perceived sex as yet another form of bonding…  Whatever could have been going on between the siblings, their breakup after Jaehaerys’ death appears inevitable.

 As far as Aemond’s relationship with Alys is concerned, I wouldn’t call it an overly romantic love story, either. Let’s say it out loud – in spite of her sharp wits, charms and whatnot, Alys was a prisoner of war and even if Aemond had fallen madly in love with her, I would risk saying she wasn’t in the position to truly reciprocate his feelings. Thanks to Alys’ good looks, the prince “generously” spared her life, there’s no two ways about it, BUT however “besotted” Aemond was with Alys, becoming his “war bride” literally meant she was chosen to be a freakin’ sex slave. In my honest opinion, the woman deserved better and I don’t believe she reciprocated his love. Alys certainly was not in the position to fully consent to be the prince’s paramour, although I can totally see Aemond developing genuine romantic feelings for her – however twisted it may sound. It seems to me in the very beginning, it was just about lust, but later on, the prince could have taken to the “witch” because of her personality and even become fascinated with her supernatural powers. Frankly speaking, I am not the fan of the “Alys casting a love spell on Aemond” theory. She might have been using her totally prosy, feminine charms in order to endear the prince to her, and thusly make sure she would be treated as well as she could possibly be under so dire circumstances. And no, I don’t mean Alys was just offering Aemond sexual favors. Intelligent person she no doubt was, the “witch queen” could do her best in order to forge an emotional bond with Aemond, too. For instance listening to what the prince had to say and showing him affection. Paradoxically, learning Aemond’s story could make Alys take to the prince at least a little, since in this scenario, she could realize in spite of coming from different social backgrounds, they shared a bunch of experiences. For instance, earlier in her life, unwed and pregnant Alys, born out of wedlock herself, had been no doubt an outcast – just like Aemond the Kinslayer, having blood of his close relative on his hands. Could it be a reason enough for Alys to start sympathizing with Aemond? Yes, indeed. In addition, the “witch” had lost both her child and their father – even if  we are not familiar with the details and the moment she met Aemond Alys was probably over it. If the “helaemond” theory is confirmed, Aemond gets involved with Alys when his first “girlfriend” is also like dead to the world, not to mention the fact his son and/or nephew died gruesome death.

Here, I would like to admit I am not a fan of fetishizing Alys’ age and deeming her a “milf”. The woman was certainly more than just her looks and age. If Aemond had actually loved her – which I find highly probable  - there must have been something more than just physical attraction! In addition, in the quasi-medieval world of Ice and Fire, girls in their early teens are considered eligible maidens, so in this universe, it isn’t out of usual for women in their late, if not mid-twenties to become grandmothers! Taking the fact FnB is supposed to be a historical source by a bunch of unreliable narrators, we don’t actually know how old Alys was. If we rule out the ageless witch/ red priestess theory, we could safely assume she was, for instance, in her 40s or 30s, but knowing the Westerosi customs, well, it is still possible she was just a few years older than then-twentyish Aemond. There is also an option Alys didn’t even exist and all the war bride/captor romance was made up by pro-Black maesters and scribes, willing to paint the prince in a negative light. After all making some lowly born wet nurse his wife, Aemond would insult House Baratheon, impudently breaking the pact which had to be sealed with his marriage to Lord Borros’ daughter. You just keep in mind both the Witch Queen and Aemond’s bastard son disappear  from the “historical chronicles” shortly after the Dance ends. In addition, stressing Alys’ alleged “old age”  could have made him look ridiculous in the eyes of Westerosi readers.

Personally, I prefer to imagine Alys existed, had prophetic skills and played a significant role in Aemond’s life. Perhaps at some point, she even developed some sympathy and twisted fondness for the prince (still her captor and, yes, her rapist) but never had second thoughts about having kept it to herself that Aemond would meet his end in God’s Eye and no one could blame her for it.

To sum up, I think shipping Aemond with Helaena does not automatically make the shipper anti-“alysmond”. In my view, adding one more (for want of a better word) romantic relationship to Aemond’s arc makes sense. It could be an interesting way to show how the character’s attitude towards his love interests and his interactions with them evolve as various experiences are shaping his personality. I would never pit Helaena against Alys. They’re two different women and the fact at some points of their lives, they happened to get involved with the same guy does not make them natural born enemies. In my honest opinion, if the show version of Helaena had a chance to meet Alys (here, I mean my own idea of this character, since we don’t learn much about her from FnB and her show counterpart is still a mystery), they would become… good friends.

[warwickroyals]

Sunderland's Royal Jewel Vault (19/∞) ♛

↬ The Glencairn City of Warwick Fringe Tiara

Like their mainline cousins, the Glencairn branch of House Warwick has gathered quite the jewellery collection over the past seventy years. The City of Warwick Fringe Tiara is one of the oldest in their extensive collection. When Lady Esther Jungman (1926 - 1988) married the youngest son of King George II in 1954, the royal family did not skirt the costs, as it was the first royal wedding since the end of World War Two. Plus, Esther was no stranger to the royal lifestyle, she was a great-granddaughter of King George and Queen Alexandra. Esther's maternal grandmother was the ill-fated Grand Duchess Anastasia Georgiyevna (1873 – 1919), who was renowned for her irreplaceable jewel collection. This made Esther a great-niece of Tsar Nicholas II—and a second cousin of her husband-to-be. The twenty-eight-year-old bride was described as extremely beautiful, with quantities of dark hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a slightly retroussé nose. Wedding gifts were shipped in from across the world, each befitting for a quasi-Romanov princess. The most notable gift was from the City of Warwick itself: the tiara Esther used to secure her wedding veil. The tiara was modelled after a similar piece, the only tiara Esther's mother, Grand Duchess Natalia Georgiyevna (1902 - 1977), retained after the Russian Revolution forced her into exile. Like her mother's the fringe tiara featured rounded spikes set with diamonds. Esther was emotionally moved by the gift, thanking the city's mayor several times. Following the wedding, the new Duchess of Glencairn reached for the tiara frequently, sporting it at state visits, galas, and at the inauguration of her brother-in-law, King James II (1915 - 1970). Esther adjusted to royal life well, even after her husband was killed in a 1962 plane crash, she continued a wide variety of work. Thirty years after Esther's wedding, the tiara graced the head of another royal bride. Esther's middle daughter, Princess Frances, wore the tiara to marry Lee Wayne Grierson (1948 - 2024) in 1983. The televised wedding was attended by several prominent guests, including King Louis V, who walked the bride down the aisle. Unfortunately, Esther died before the 1998 wedding of her youngest daughter, Princess Valerie, who ended up inheriting the tiara. This wedding was more lowkey—greatly overshadowed by the wedding of her cousin James, Prince of Danforth to Lady Tatiana Farnsworth—but all the same, Valerie honoured her late mother by wearing the tiara to her wedding reception in New York City. The tiara stayed with Valerie and she wore it as much as circumstances would allow, including for several portraits taken in the '00s. To this day, the tiara continues to be one of the most recognizable tiaras from the Glencairn collection, reminiscent of an empire lost to history.

HRH Esther, Duchess of Glencairn wears the tiara in a 1957 portrait

HRH Princess Valerie of Glencairn wears the tiara in a personal photograph from 2005

[buckets-and-trees]

Title: Fire Burning from a Cedar Tree

Fandom: MCU

Characters/Pairings: King!Steve x Royal!female!Reader, brief appearance from Natasha

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Georgian-but-quasi-American royal AU. You came into the betrothal with no illusions to the situation – yours was a marriage to ensure the continuation of many generations of alliance and peace between your respective kingdoms. Very early, however, you learn what your royal union truly means to you both.

Content Warnings: politically arranged marriage, reluctant pining, SMUT (rough fucking, p in v, oral – female receiving, fluffy fucking, nipple play)

Additional Notes: The eighth and final offering in my 2022 Holiday Extravaganza. Just a smutty one-shot here with a smattering of situation painting/plot and relationship development. Did I think we were going to end up with this much Steve for the HE? Nope! But here we are, yet again ahaha. I had closed my laptop and gotten up to go to bed, had this idea while brushing my teeth, and sat back down and typed for an hour, then have been feverishly returning to it as I had the time. So I hope you enjoy, dear reader.

Music Ficspiration: Big God by Florence + the Machine, I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face from My Fair Lady, Better Love by Hozier, Movement by Hozier, So Real by Jeff Buckley, Lover, You Should’ve Come Over by Jeff Buckley

“Your Majesty,” one of your ladies in waiting enters your bedchambers and sweeps into a curtsy.

“Yes?” you prompt, turning in your chair to look at her directly instead of through mirror of the vanity.

“His Majesty the King has returned.”

You nod, “Thank you. You may retire for the evening.”

She curtsies again, bowing her head, and then leaves, closing the door softly behind her. You sigh, turning back properly in your chair so your lady in waiting, the Duchess Natalia, can resume taking down your hair.

“Your Majesty?” she prompts, noting your sigh.

“It’s good to hear the king is back.”

“He will undoubtedly request an audience with you tomorrow,” she says. She is far too observant and already knows you too well.

She is also mercifully diplomatic, discreet, and a confidant who listens and doesn’t needle you or pry, so she continues letting out the braids, letting you muse on your own and only speak further if you want to.

You don’t want to.

The product of a long-arranged betrothal to bring peace between two countries, you had accepted your fate, resigned to be a good and dutiful queen. You were not to inherit a throne in your own country, had known that from birth with two older brothers, and you had grown up ready to embrace duty and opportunity. On arriving in the kingdom of Brooklyn as the future queen, your interactions with King Steven had been limited, but pleasant. They had been sufficient for you to be secure in your hope that it would be a good union, no need to worry about him being either cruel or moronic.

You had expected to be wedded and bedded. What you had not expected was to actually fall for him after the wedding ceremony and royal festivities when the two of you had taken the custom ten-day royal honeymoon to the palace in the north of his country by the lakes. The first night, of course, you’d consummated the union. The first few days you had been tentative in each other’s company. But with few staff, few interruptions, no royal obligations, only time really to yourselves – dining together, walking in the gardens, riding in the forest, in your bedchambers… you had grown close, and you had dangerously started to lose your heart to him.

Then you had been sent back to court while he had to depart directly to attend to matters in California in Stark’s kingdom. Two weeks had stretched to three, and the longer he was absent, the more you missed him, spurring you to grow more irritated at your naivety for developing more tender feelings for him than just that of the dutiful wife and queen you were supposed to and had intended to be.

No, here you sat, hoping your husband would summon you on the morrow, as you could not simply turn up in his royal presence, even though you were queen. Indeed, you could go anywhere else in this kingdom, had the company of many – some only because they had to or were courting your favor, but enough warm and developing relationships throughout the court – but not the one person you now yearned for.

You had been prepared all your life to marry a king and not to grow sentimentally attached to him as your husband. You felt like such a fool, pining when you had been perfectly fine and content in your life a mere six weeks ago.

There are voices outside your bedchamber and you and Natasha exchange perplexed looks. Just as she turns toward the door, it bursts open, the king entering without hesitation. He takes in the scene then quickly strides forward.

Natasha quickly drops into the customary curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she says.

You should have risen from your spot and greeted him as well, but your heart has jumped into your throat, and you are momentarily frozen.

The king is across the room and standing next to you by the time Natasha rises back to her full stature. He reaches out for the brush in her hand, and you catch the nearly imperceptible lift of the corners of her lips in a smile as she gives it to him.

“Duchess, you may go, I will take over.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

She makes to curtsy again before exiting, but he waves her off. “Go,” he commands, impatiently but somehow without any irritation, and she heeds his wishes and departs immediately.

Wordlessly, he steps right up behind you. You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised he came to you. You belong to him, and he’s been denied by proximity for three weeks. He pulls all your hair into his left hand, then, holding it, works the brush through it with his right hand, starting at the bottom, moving up a little at a time. You marvel at how gently and methodically he works through your locks, almost reverently. Neither of you speak as he brushes your hair. You study him in the mirror. He’s concentrated fully on his task. Coming to a finish, he finally meets your gaze in the mirror, and the look in his eyes is intense. He sets the brush on the dressing table and sweeps your hair to one side, exposing your neck and he leans down to press a long, heated kiss to your delicate skin. You shiver as he follows this with shorter kisses trailing down your neck to the juncture where it meets shoulder, and it’s a sensitive point that draws a sigh from your lips.

He stands up straight and urges you to turn in your chair and face him. His fingers possessively trace along your jaw, tilting your chin up. “Did you miss your king?”

You couldn’t say you missed your husband and not your king, not yet, so instead of mincing words or spinning together something else true enough to say, you bring your hand up over his, and turn your head to press a kiss into the palm of his hand.

You try to move to kneel before him, but he says, “Oh no,” instead insisting on luring you up and pulling you into a kiss, fully flush against his body, and he leads you in no uncertain terms to the bed, shoving you down to sit at the foot of the mattress. He draws back and both of you are panting heavily. He stands between your legs, and he doesn’t take his eyes off your as he pulls his tunic up over his head and drops it to the floor. His breeches quickly follow, and his cock springs free, hard, and ready to take you. Already breathing heavily, you’re able to hide your reaction somewhat – which is a confusing mixture of both excitement and trepidation.

He urges you to scoot back, crawling up to join you,

Midway up the bed, he presses on your shoulder, “Lay back for me. “

He rucks up your nightgown around your hips, and crawls over you, using one hand to guide himself into your already slickening folds before caging you in on either side of your head and thrusting deep inside your cunt, filling you completely with the first thrust.

He adopts a frenzied pace to fuck you. It’s hard and fast. He’s no longer looking at you, his head dropped and buried into the crook of your neck. You can’t catch your breath. This isn’t what you wanted.

He holds your thigh up around his narrow waist, spearing into you again and again, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising force. You let out a quiet sob and he abruptly stills, raising his head to look at you, but you can’t look at him.

You’re not fast enough to brush away the tears though, and you know he sees them slowly rolling down your cheeks, tears you had fought to keep at bay.

He utters your name as if in pain and draws away completely, sitting back on his heels.

You turn away, rolling to your side, feeling so much more of you has been exposed than merely your naked body before him.

After a moment that stretches on between the two of you, his fingers tenderly caress your calf. He murmurs your name tentatively this time, a question.

You sense him shift on the bed, and suddenly you feel him behind you. You are wrapped in on yourself, but his hand brushes softly from your elbow to your shoulder. He lingers there for a moment, then you feel him shift behind you again, and he props himself up, so he can look down at you over your shoulder, and his hand moves purposefully now to your cheek to wipe away your tears. He plants a kiss on your shoulder. Then he brings his hand back to your shoulder and softly urges you to roll toward him so you’re on your back again and he can look directly at you again.

“That was too rough. You are a queen and deserve better treatment from a king.”

You turn your head away. “No, it’s not…” You bite your lip. Even the way he apologized was too detached and it made your heart ache.

“Not what?”

More hot tears spill silently over your cheeks. How can you explain? You hardly understood the tempest in your heart yourself.

But then he cups the side of your face, brushes his thumb over the apple of your cheek, and when he draws your gaze back to him, there is something in his eyes so searching and raw that your heart longs for more of that version of him. “It wasn’t that you were too rough, it was that I don’t want to be merely used and discarded.” Your admission is out in a rush before you could second guess your words or their consequences.

He frowns. “Far from it.”

He moves closer and plants a kiss on your forehead, then rests his forehead against yours. Eyes closed, for a moment you both simply breath each other in being that close, one of his hands still cupping your cheek. At length, he speaks again. “I was desperate for you.”

“Desperate for me?”

He breaks away and laughs softly, but there’s a pang of bitterness to it. “Yes, desperate.”

He sits up, facing away from you.

You sit up next to him, smoothing your nightdress down, unsure how to proceed, you don’t want to lose him in the present. “Steven?” you try to coax him for more.

He sighs. “I’m afraid you will find me to be a fool.”

You wait for him to continue, needing to hear what he means.

“I was serenely independent and content before we wed, and inexplicably in a matter of days you somehow seem to have seeped into my bones, because from the first of your absence my mind turned so often of you. I found myself wondering what your opinion would be, wanting you to try some of the delicacies alongside me, wishing to see your smiles and your frowns throughout the course of the day. When I returned to my chambers each night, they were empty instead of peaceful and solitary. I’d grown accustomed to your voice, accustomed to your face, accustomed to your place at my side.”

He pauses again for a moment, and his expression pained. “But it was more than accustomed – I truly yearned for you and was angry to feel so much unlike myself when I’ve ruled for more than a decade without you, lived a life I thought was very much complete before you, devoted to the crown and happy in my reign, and now…”

The sentiment lingers in the space between you. Surely, he must hear your thundering of your heart in your chest. Finally, you say, “If you’re a fool, I’m a fool.”

His head snaps to look at you.

You take a deep breath and expose your soul to him, too. “I was born and raised for our royal duties, to marry and become a useful and reliable queen. There was no question of your deep commitment to rule this kingdom dutifully as its king. In the days before we married, it was evident we had the same expectations of our union, no sentimental notions. It made sense, and we were well-matched. At our wedding, we became king and queen. Away from our royal expectations, alone with each other, I think we both fell into becoming husband and wife. I’ve yearned for you these past weeks as well, and I couldn’t abide how impossible I thought my situation was, so sure and confident I would make for a good queen but discovering I wanted more. It was only when you went away that I felt the lack of something – an affection as I’d never had before, both for you and from you.”

He turns fully toward you and kisses you again, and instead of the demand and hunger, as he kisses now it’s driven only by the unrestrained yearning he confessed and that you admitted in return.

He pulls you into his lap, and you straddle him. He breaks the kiss to rid you of your nightdress entirely now instead of only pushing it out of the way as before, and then his lips immediately seek yours again. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his broad, warm hands are splayed across your back, pressing you flush to him, and you are just as eager to feel every inch of his skin seared against yours

He pauses his kiss, both of you utterly breathless now. You put a hand on his chest over his heart. He looks down and smiles at the gesture before looking up and beaming at you, but his small falters a fraction at the concentrated look on your face.

“What is it?”

You speak the notion that’s newly bloomed in your chest. “We are the only two people in the world with whom we can be totally ourselves, husband and wife, not the king and the queen, just a man and a woman.”

He nods fervently. “A new vow then between us: to both guard and embrace this as a true and unfettered love.”

You kiss him, but he only returns it briefly before pausing it again. “Do you swear it?” he asks.

You bob your head eagerly, seeking his lips, but he grips your chin, holding you back. “Words.”

“I swear it with everything I am.”

“As do I,” he affirms, then captures your lips again with his, moving you both again, this time lowering you worshipfully to the mattress. His mouth begins moving slowly down your neck, and you shiver, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair, the other clutching his muscled bicep. When he reaches the base of your neck, his tongue laves at the sweet spot he discovered there in your first precious days together, making you whimper. He then mouths at the spot and plants one more kiss there before moving lower. His lips skim lightly down your chest, kissing over where your heart is thrumming. He kisses the swell of your left breast, and then moves to mirror that action on the right. He brings his right hand up to palm one of your breasts as his tongue flicks across your nipple. He works to bring both to stiff peaks, licking and sucking the right while his hand plays with the left. Your back arches in pleasure at his ministrations.

He moves his mouth back to the other breast, and before you can think to miss his hand there, it’s confidently parting your thighs, seeking your now extremely wet folds.

“Steve.”

“That’s it, my love, let me make you feel good,” he says, and you whimper again. His fingers stroke your labia slowly. Your eyes close as he stokes your pleasure. He slips a finger into your core, pumping in and out. When he adds another finger, you can’t hold back the little noises that escape you. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles, and those little noises morph into a moan. Steve moves up now to hover over you, watching your face as he works you up to your first climax that night. You would feel too exposed if he had studied you this way during your first days together, but your confessions tonight to each other leave you now feeling safe being so intimately on display. When you cry out, hips bucking, he continues to stroke, working you through the orgasm.

He removes his fingers, and you need the moment, but lament the emptiness. His eyes are still on your face, and when your breathing is close to normal, you open your eyes and look back at him. Then you glance lower to see he’s pumping his hard, thick member with the hand that was still glistening with your slick of arousal. His eyes are aflame with his need, and he moves in to kiss you again. You welcome it, parting your lips and sliding your tongue between his. He opens for you, and as your tongues tease and delve, you roll and hungrily push him back on the mattress.

Steve grabs your hips with both of his hands and moves your body to straddle him. In place just where he wants you, chest to chest, you drop down to your elbows, planted on either side of his head. As you continue to kiss, he presses his hand down to the base of your spine and brushes his cock temptingly against your entrance. You push your hips back against him, and his chest hums with approval.

“Please,” you plead.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, using his other hand to guide his length into your quim. He doesn’t rush this push into you, but it’s not slow. Once fully sheathed, he moves his arms to circle around your chest, holding you close to him as he sets a steady pace thrusting up into you. He swallows your moans of ecstasy. When it begins to overwhelm you, you have to break off the consuming kiss to gulp lungful’s of air. Seeing you desperate like this above him drives his voracity.

Still buried inside you, he rolls to bring you beneath him once more. You cling to his shoulders, and he continues to advance toward release for both of you. He shifts the angle of his hips, and he’s rewarded with a pure keen from you. He continues to hit the spongy spot up against your pubic bone. You sob, so close, and this time the tears are pure pleasure. He grasps at one of your hands, and your fingers twine together. A few more thrusts and your walls flutter around him and then he your orgasm hits. Your spasming channel is too much, and with a groan he spills inside you right after.

He collapses against you, and you welcome the weight of his body. You’re both quiet in your moment of satiation. Your free hand draws lazy patterns over his shoulder blade as your breathing returns to normal. You wonder if he’s going to drop off into sleep, but then he repositions slightly, and asks, “Are you comfortable?”

“Mhmm,” you respond. You’re comfortable physically and intimately in this moment with him.

He brings your joined hands to his lips, and he kisses the back of your hand, then tucks it close to his chest and begins conversing with you – about the mundane, the important, things from the past few weeks apart, and from your lives apart before. There’s more kissing, followed by more pleasure, pulling each other apart in turn, and no sleeping until long after midnight.

You groan when he wakes you at what seems to be daybreak. You close your eyes again swiftly, and open your mouth to protest, but he cups your jaw and his thumb brushes over your parted lips. “I know it’s early,” he murmurs, “but I want to have you once more while we’re alone and unbothered.”

And when he says it like that, with such tenderness and longing, you wouldn’t dream of denying it for either of you. You hope to grow accustomed to many more stolen mornings over your lifetime together now.

COMPANION/PREQUEL PIECE: The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are

READ THE NEXT PART: A SHIFT IN THE MORNING ROUTINE

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My askbox is always open.

[tribbetherium]

Daggoths, with their subterranean lifestyles, unconventional limbs and even more peculiar senses, are easily among the most bizarre lineage ever to arise on HP-02017: a clade so derived as to look almost entirely alien. Yet, despite their otherworldy appearance, the daggoths are still mammals: giving birth to live young, and nourishing them with milk, at least for some period of time. And no other species combines the strange with the familiar as the spindled cheeseweaver (Lactarachne brevipus), a descendant of the roof stalac, an insectivore that dwells among the stalactites of the cave's ceiling, a biome obviously absent from the surface world.

Like its predecessor, the spindled cheeseweaver is an ambush hunter, pouncing on insects that it finds among the stone spikes. With long, spindly front digits, yet short, stubby rear ones, it ambles along predominantly with its forelimbs, while arching its back intermittently to secure its grip on another location, in a strange, nine-limbed inchworming gait. Its progress is helped along by broad pads on both fore and hind limbs that are equipped with thousands of tiny, densely packed hairs that allow it to stick tightly to even smooth surfaces, allowing it to negotiate the cavern roof, anchoring with its hind limbs while using its forelimbs to seize insect prey, be it feelerflits that blunder into its outstretched digits or other, flightless bugs that dwell on the rock surface, feeding on bacterial mats and fungi.

But easily the most remarkable characteristic of the cheeseweaver is the namesake ability the females have when rearing their young: they conceal their undeveloped, quasi-larval young in weblike cocoons that they affix to hidden crevices in the cave ceilings. These cocoons, reminescent of an arthropods', are perhaps the most unmammalian feature yet evolved by the daggoths, yet, conversely, is actually what ties the cheeseweaver to its mammalian ancestry: the webs are actually made of modified milk, and further taken to a bizarre extreme thanks to the fermentation and action of several species of symbiotic bacteria living in their mouths and plays a special role in the females.

In both sexes, these bacteria aid in an immune and digestive function, but in females, it contains just the right ingredients to make its silky webs. As daggoths rear their young for only a few days before they leave them, they produce particularly thick and concentrated milk rich in nutrients for their young, with high levels of protein to facilitate their quick growth. This feature is repurposed in this particular species, as when female cheeseweavers lactate, they do so shortly prior to birth, then use their long forelimbs to scoop up the creamy mixture into their cheek pouches. Here, the bacteria begin their work, separating out the proteins into a thick, stringy, and stretchy material after a period of at least 1-2 days that then, piece, by piece, the cheeseweaver female then pulls from her mouth in ropy threads and spins into a cocoon with her four pairs of fore-digits, stretching and spinning and weaving it in a disconcertingly arachnid-like manner into a protective pouch. Once finished, she inserts her rear end into the pouch, births anywhere from six to twelve tiny young each barely 4 millimeters long, and finishes it with a second layer of fibers to safely seal them inside a permeable shell that allows them to respire, as, at this point, the almost-embryonic young breathe entirely through their thin, vacularized skin that directly absorbs oxygen, as their lungs are not yet fully developed.

Once her job is finished, the female cheeseweaver conceals the cocoon with a lick of saliva that masks its scent and firms its adhesion to the surface, and then wanders off with no further care. She can spin several such cocoons during the breeding season, bearing her offspring in batches. The young, in turn, develop safely inside the cocoons, hidden away from predators that hunt mostly by scent. Inside, she has packed into the cocoons as well a rich reserve of the thick, fatty milk, semi-solidified to a soft, jelly-like consistency, to serve as a food source for the developing young. It is during this period that her symbiotic microbes again play an important role: they produce antimicrobial excretions that ward off pathogens and harmful bacteria that may infest the milk and harm the young, but which are tolerated by the beneficial bacteria that are then ingested by the young and become symbionts of them in turn. Once their teeth are fully matured, at the age of about two to three weeks, the young chew their way out of the cocoon and, after consuming the remainder of the empty husk, emerge out into the world, skilled hunters from day one that first practice on microscopic invertebrates before graduating to a diet of bigger insects as they progress toward adulthood.

-----------

And one final late-Spectember entry before schedule conflicts take over again. Sorry again to those who expected much content for Spectember, I hope you don't mind irregular random posting.

[bimboficationblues]

What is the difference between liberal and reactionary defenses of the family?

I don’t think they’re easily generalizable, and to some extent they’re not wildly different from each other (this is part of my project in understanding contemporary familialism as a key component of reactionary modernism, which in turn was forged within the fires of liberalism - that is to say they’re nested subjects rather than mutually exclusive or merely overlapping)

but generalize we shall. liberal familialism is about the importance of preserving private life from the overreach of the polity and civil society, which I think ties into liberalism’s interest in procedural quasi-agnosticism about what is “the good life.” because that’s contentious and different people will have different intuitions about it, the idea is that leaving families alone, letting them act as sort of societies or states in miniature (though with some degree of oversight/obligations because of state interests) kind of keeps things relatively stabilized socially. it’s an attempt to generally depoliticize the family.

reactionary familialism is more about the polity as a macrocosm of the family (and religion), treating it as the fundamental mode of social organization and a model to emulate - they’re all about relations of proper place in the world and obedience to that telos. it’s an attempt to renaturalize the family as a prepolitical entity.

the reasons I say they’re nested subjects is that these justifications bleed together because of both the unfirm boundaries between ideologies and the history and development of the bourgeois state as a security state (which is clearly attentive to both of these different ideas), you might see the language of “parental rights” or concerns about the rationality of children (a la Mill) for what is nakedly a desire to subordinate. or biological justifications for why the family arrangement is ultimately the most pragmatic.

trans kid debates are illustrative - the reactionary position is that this needs to be stomped out by government power, “parental rights” only really matter insofar as it’s used to make it functionally impossible to be something that they regard as destabilizing to familial and political life. whereas I think a lot of liberal discourse tries to stake out a sort of minimalist parents’ rights positions (hence the “it’s all blockers, no kids go on hormones or get surgery” refrain). transfeminist or more radical discourse just says bodily autonomy or perhaps “children’s rights” are the salient values.

[cinnajun]

ᵕ̈ ೫˚∗: a kiss on the cheek | lhc

summary | you’ve only been dating haechan for a month now, and you haven’t even considered the chance of your first kiss happening yet. until one of your boyfriend’s friends mentions how much he likes kisses.

genre | lee haechan x fem! reader, high school! au, fluff

wc | 1.4k

a/n: here’s a lil something as i work on other stuff! i wrote it as i was really tired so it might suck, but i hope you enjoy nevertheless <3

SPENDING TIME WITH your boyfriend and his friends was still a new thing for you, but you couldn’t say you didn’t like it. They were a fun group of people, and always had a new experience to recount or game to play.

Plus, they were very good at including you in the conversation, most likely at Haechan’s request.

Most of your time with them was spent at a little alcove in town, a little clearing surrounded by evergreen trees and overgrown grass. Hidden in the grove was a small, abandoned park, which your boyfriend said they visited the most. Today was no different, except for a little fact.

“So, one month?” Jaemin asked you, tugging at the uniform tie that was secured around his neck. Once it was adequately loosened, he lifted himself onto the edge of the flimsy bridge that connected one side of the play structure to the other. Jeno hopped on after, taking a spot next to his friend.

You and Haechan shared a spot on the center of the teeter-totter, balancing it out so it would stay perfectly straight. It was something you both had grown pretty good at over the past month; in a way, you considered it to be a token of your relationship.

“One month,” Jeno affirmed, taking a clean bite off the popsicle he’d bought from the corner store. “Wanna know how I know?”

“How do you know, Lee Jeno?” Jaemin asked, raising his eyebrow. Haechan seemed to pick up on what they were going to say, because he instantly dropped his happy attitude, opting for a more annoyed one.

“Guys, don’t—”

“It has been one month,” Jeno cut Haechan off, spreading his arms out. “Since Lee Haechan has tried to kiss me, or Jaemin, or anybody else!”

Your eyes widened to the size of saucers, and you were quick to snap your head in Haechan’s direction. You felt a bit embarrassed, mostly because Jaemin and Jeno didn’t know that you and Haechan hadn’t kissed yet; nevertheless, here they were, acting like you had filled up his kissing quota.

You were a bit embarrassed, and heat was quick to pool on your cheeks. You could only hope Jaemin and Jeno wouldn’t notice your embarrassment, but, judging by how their attention was on Haechan right now, you didn’t think they would.

“Shut up,” Haechan grumbled, summoning a pencil from his pocket and chucking it at Jeno. It hit his chest, falling somewhere into the grass, and Jeno didn’t seem to care too much. Instead, he just laughed, taking another bite of his popsicle.

“Aw, so embarrassed,” Jeno teased. In response, you just scoffed, crossing your legs.

“Why the hell are you biting the popsicle? What’s the point of a popsicle if you’re going to bite it?” you asked, derailing the conversation completely. The faster you could stop thinking of the prospect of your first kiss, the better; too much time spent and you’d be giggling in your bedroom tonight, thinking about Haechan rather than doing your math homework.

Haechan agreed, sticking his tongue out at Jeno. He just waved you off, taking another entire bite from the popsicle. “I’m not in the mood to let it melt today.”

“But you’re in the mood to let your teeth freeze off?” Haechan quipped. Before Jeno could respond, though, the sound of Mark yelling at you four distantly caught your attention. Haechan looked over at where the sound was coming from, which (coincidentally) happened to be in your direction.

On the other hand, you stared at him, catching his gaze. For a moment, you both simply stared at each other, but you broke off your quasi-staring-contest with a small smile and the turning of your head in Mark’s direction.

-

As always, you and Haechan were the last people on your route home. Usually, he’d be one of the first off, but he didn’t want you to walk home alone when it was dark out. So, he’d taken to skipping his street, walking all the way to your home with you before turning back.

It was endearing, cute, and very unHaechanlike. You liked it a lot.

Now that you were close to your home, though, you had a little mouse on your shoulder, telling you to bring up what Jeno had said earlier. Before you began dating, you were vaguely aware of how touchy he was with his friends, but you hadn’t been aware of the whole kissing thing. You both had never even gotten close to a kiss on the cheek, let alone anywhere else, so to hear he was fond of it was almost shocking.

You felt like tonight would be a good night to kiss him One month of dating, one month of poorly planned dates, two weeks of holding hands, and one week of hugs and linked arms. Things weren’t developing too fast, not like some of your friends’ current-and-past relationships, and now would be as good a time as ever.

It would make things more special, too.

When your house came into sight, just down the street from where you were, Haechan squeezed your hand, sighing.

“It sucks our one-month was on a Tuesday,” he said, now swinging your hands back and forth as you walked. “We couldn’t do anything fun or embarrassing. Not when everything is so hard right now.”

“I get it. I don’t mind at all,” you hummed, taking a few steps in front of him and pivoting to face him. You stood in front of your house, now, which was all lit up from the bright, fluorescent lightbulbs your dad had installed a couple of days ago. “I’m just glad we spent time together.”

“Yeah, with my idiot friends,” he grumbled. Haechan seemed pretty upset by your lack of anniversary date, as well, which made the shoulder-mouse’s squeaking even worse. Awkwardly, you both stared at each other, all while you went back and forth between the options in your mind. 

To kiss or not to kiss, that was the question.

As far as you were concerned, none of your family members were near the windows, and nobody was out right now. It was just you two and the empty neighborhood, with the occasional dog bark or tree rustle. It was the perfect setting for a first kiss, right in the dead of May, when the temperatures were beginning to pick up and summer rain was preparing to fall.

Why not? What’s stopping you? It’s not like a full-on kiss, just a kiss on the cheek. Nothing serious, nothing stressful, only a simple kiss on the cheek.

Placing a hand on his shoulders, you lifted yourself onto your tip-toes, planting a small peck on his left cheek. A huge smile blossomed on his face at the action, which you took pleasure in seeing as you returned to your normal height.

“You’re cute,” he giggled, which was also very unHaechanlike. Nevertheless, you enjoyed it, returning his smile with your own stupid one. Once again, it went quiet, and neither of you moved to leave or say goodbye.

“Can I kiss you?” Haechan not-so-suddenly asked, draping his hands around your waist. You raised your eyebrows in feigned shock, forming a small ‘O’ shape with your lips.

“Why, of course, you can.”

So, he leaned in, leaving a quick peck on your lips. You were the one to giggle this time, enjoying his warmth under the moon. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Haechan smiled, bringing you into a full hug. You returned it happily, squeezing him with everything you had.

“Same here.”

And, Haechan pulled away, giving you a small wave before he turned around and began his trek back to his street, leaving you to spend the rest of the night kicking your legs in delight and calling all of your friends to tell them about your silly, meaningless relationship developments.

thank you for reading!

[aihoshiino]

heyy how do you think the relation between the twins and kamiki would be if ai never died and kamiki came to met them like a normal person? I mean we are unsure how kamiki feels about twins but how would twins feel about kamiki if everything was normal? Also how ai would be during the whole scenario? I always love to hear your thoughts on random ass things that come in my brain lol

Honestly speculating anything about Kamiki rn is So Fraught because we had that whole "sorry you thought i was /srs when rly i was /jk" reveal with the mangakas BUT for the purposes of this ask and because it's more fun that way, I'm gonna just assume the teen Hikaru we see in 15YL is like… mostly close enough to some kind of reality.

I think the twins would start off kind of hostile towards Hikaru, in a sort of quasi protective way. Like omg, we have to protect Ai from this sleezeball guy!!! totally ignoring the actual reality of the dynamic between them… I think Aqua would have a lot of trouble taking him remotely seriously as a father figure just because of Hikaru's age compared to Gorou's but I do also think that because baby Aqua has so much more of Gorou's influence in his brain, he would start to pick up pretty quick that like… uh, is this kid alright??? hello??? & eventually come to feel a similar sense of responsibility for him as he does for Ai and Ruby.

As for Ruby, she's definitely way more hostile for a lot longer and goes out of her way to commit Baby Crimes in an effort to just make his life miserable and drive him away. But he gradually wins her over just by being patient with her and tbh I think Ruby would be similarly weak to someone being A Dad for her as she was for Ai being her mom given just how completely she was abandoned by her parents and she ends up accepting him in a tsundere sort of way.

As for Ai… I think she has some surprisingly complicated emotions about it!

While she reaches out to him for the good of the kids, I think Ai would actually have some fears of the twins preferring Hikaru to her or Hikaru's presence somehow otherwise upsetting the dynamic of her relationship with the twins. But then of course, she feels guilty for having those feelings and ends up negatively comparing herself to her mom, who she absolutely does not want to be like, and bottles them all up which means it just gets worse and worse and worse… <3 avoidant little idiot

I think she would eventually have a heart to heart with maybe Saitou and Miyako about it who help her to have a sort of of come to jesus moment about how even if the kids DO end up loving Hikaru, Ai is always going to be their one and only mom and nobody can ever really replace her. I think it would take her a lot of time to feel properly secure just because her history of abandonment by people who are supposed to love her is so gutwrenchingly consistent but she does eventually come around.

I think they'd be a pretty cute family unit! I don't think Ai and Hikaru would ever get back together romantically in this setup but the idea of them being a platonic co-parenting team is really good…

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Joan McCarter at Daily Kos:

After months of House Speaker Mike Johnson dragging his feet, the House finally voted 316 to 94 to advance the foreign aid bills for Ukraine, Israel, and Taiwan. Democrats made that happen—again. In fact, Democrats have been responsible for passing every key funding bill during Johnson’s tenure, a fact that continues to enrage the far-right Freedom Caucus. That, in turn, makes Johnson even more reliant on Democrats to keep his gavel.  The importance of this week’s success in the House is hard to overstate. For the first time in decades, the minority party bailed out the speaker in the Rules Committee—the most powerful committee in the House—to advance the aid bills to the floor. In fact, it’s called “The Speaker’s Committee” because it’s the vehicle the speaker uses to send their priorities—which are typically the priorities of the majority party—to the House floor. Three Republican extremists on the Rules Committee, the group former Speaker Kevin McCarthy installed in his negotiations to get the job last year, rebelled, leading all four Democrats on the committee—Reps. Jim McGovern, Mary Gay Scanlon, Joe Neguse, and Teresa Leger Fernández—to do the previously unthinkable and approve the package, sending it to the floor. 

Democratic Leader Hakeem Jeffries told reporters that Democrats were united—this time—in helping Johnson. “Once we made that decision, it was clear that we would do what was necessary to make sure that national security legislation was considered by the entire House,” he said. They did just that, ensuring that the legislation moved forward Friday morning with Democrats in the majority—165 Democrats and 151 Republicans in favor. Which means that, at least for the purposes of this critical package, Johnson shared control of the floor with Democrats—a quasi-coalition government, for the time being. That will be cemented Saturday, when the House votes on final passage for the individual components of the package, and Democrats will undoubtedly hold the majority again.

House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA)'s job has been bailed out by the Democrats, infuriating the House Freedom Caucus nutters.