#ritual weapon destruction

[ancientstuff]

I'm fascinated by the ritual destruction of weapons.

[kettlefire]

Prepare for the unexpected. (DPxDC)

Everyone knew about the reign of Pariah Dark. Even those who did not dabble in those realms have heard the tale of the tyrant. A power-hungry man who ruled over the dead with an iron fist.

Following the rise of Pariah Dark, his realm had been effectively cut off from communication. Many mystics and magic users knew better than to open the door of nightmares that could arise if Pariah Dark's reach went further than his own realm.

Except, the universe had plans to bring the realm of the dead back into the cards.

A new opponent, one that had all of Earth's heroes scrambling for options. A being with powers of a god over weather, destruction was on the horizon. A world ending threat.

It's the only reason the Justice League was doing this. In a deep bunker, far from close civilization as a precaution, the heroes looked on with grim expressions.

The world was already being threatened. It would be destroyed regardless of what the league did. So it only made sense to make the last ditch effort. To summon someone strong enough to defeat the threat.

No one wanted to do it. No one wanted to be the one to pull the realm of the dead back to the living. The consequences were untold if this succeeded. If Pariah Dark was freed and defeated the threat, whose to say he won't want control?

That was a problem for later. For the aftermath. For now, the league could only watch on with bated breath as Constantine completely the summon ritual.

They watched on as the shadows in the room seemed to darken and grow. As the sigil sputtered to life with a glow that was growing increasingly brighter. A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room, the temperature began to drop with eaching ticking second.

And then it was all gone.

The room stood perfectly still. Just as it had been moments before. Nothing changed. No giant king standing before them, no sign that the ritual worked.

The room stood deadly still for another beat before the murmurs started. The team trying to make sense of the situation, figure out what went wrong.

Constantine swore up and down that this was the correct ritual, taking offense that they would even think the problem was on his end. It only made it better when it finally happened.

A loud sound ripped through the room, pulling everyone's attention back to the summoning circle. Just in time to see a tear appear in the space above the circle.

A thin tear that ran the length of eight feet. The fabric of the dimension seems to curl at the edges, pulling back to reveal a deep glowing swirl of greens. A dark gloved hand reached through, fingers curling around the edge of the tear, stretching it even further.

A portal. The ritual had worked, but there had been a delay. A delay that had every hero nerves on edge. Each team member tensed, weapons at the ready as they watched the being stretch the portal to the right size.

Then, a foot stepped out with a heavy thud. A dark boot that looked otherworldly despite its similarity to mortal clothing. A deep black that seemed never-ending. A second foot quickly followed before a full body emerged from the portal.

Not many people in the room have ever seen Pariah Dark, let alone know what to expect. Based on what Constantine and Zatara had said, this wasn't Pariah Dark.

A man had stepped out of the portal, standing at almost seven feet tall, and built like a brick house. One glance at the glowing white hair, deadly red eyes, and shard teeth was enough to know this being was not to be messed with.

But there was no giant show of armor or royal garbs. There is no large crown at the top of his head or jewelry from the infinite realms laced around his neck.

Instead, the man stood before them in combat boots, worn-in ripped jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a spiked leather jacket. Despite his almost normal clothing choice, the man's jacket seemed to be a never-ending depth of the dark night sky. If one was to look closely enough, the cosmos could almost be made out in the sea of darkness.

None of that would have prepared them for when the man spoke. His tone sounded more bored than anything as he took a step forward.

"Oh, so now you need the help of the dead." The man had spoken, running a hand through his hair. When Batman took a step forward to speak, the man raised a hand. Immediately commanding silence in the single gesture. "I'm on babysitting duty and have yet to have a cup of coffee. I'll be right back."

Just like that, both the man and portal vanished into thin air. Leaving behind a group of stunned heroes. Not only was the man not Pariah Dark, but he was also supposedly babysitting.

"Did that just-"

The Flash had been the first voice to speak up, his eyes trained on where the man had once stood. Except he had barely made it through the first few words before the man was suddenly back.

The man that now had a child hanging off his shoulders and another teen being held up by his scruff. Unlike the man, these kids looked human.

Too human for Bruce's liking. The dark black hair and bright blue eyes had every heroes eyes flickering to Batman for just the briefest moment.

"This isn't fair! I'm not even the king. Why do I have to be here!" The teenager had been complaining the moment the man had reappeared. Arms crossed tight over his chest and seemingly used to being held dangling. "Besides, who brings kids to a show down! Wait til I tell mom about this."

"Aw, come on, Danny. This is gonna be fun!!" The younger girl seemed in much better spirits than the teen, Danny. She had climbed up the large man, sitting on his shoulders and resting her arms on the mess of glowing hair. "It's like take your kids to work day! Ooo, Dan! Can we fight too!?"

Unlike the two kids, the man looked purely exhausted and annoyed. The man, Dan, dropped Danny like a sack of potatoes as he took a long drink from the travel cup in his hand.

It didn't take a genius to recognize the look of an exhausted parent in Dan's expression. A look many of the league members were well acquainted to. A look that even had Batman grimacing with sympathy.

"Can it, little shits. You two were grounded, remember." Dan had growled at the kids before shifting his focus back on the team of heroes before them. His glowing eyes set in a deadly glare. "Pariah Dark isn't coming, and he never will. He's been dethroned and banished. We're the best you've got."

A summoning that started with a group of on edge and scared heroes looking for the ghost king, ended in a way no one expected.

No one was even sure if it made any sense. They weren't sure if they should feel hopeful or in despair.

Because truly, what was a ghostly man with two seemingly human children against a godlike foe with the control over the weather?

The unspoken question of power and ability seemed to vanish following Dan downing the metal travel cup of coffee, and crushing it in his fist.

He tossed it to the side, straighting up his posture as he looked over the heroes. Dan might not be a hero, but he's been playing family for too long.

An almost feral, bloodhungry grin spread across the man's face, sharp fangs on full display. The look made the man suddenly look even less human. He looked closer to a demon from the pits of hell rather than the exhausted parent he looked just a few seconds ago.

"Point me in the direction of this bastard. It's been too long since I let loose and had some fun."

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

WHUMP ALPHABET

*anything that can be triggering is most likely listed here, skip this post if you think it might upset you*

A is for asystole, amputation, amnesia, asphyxiation, asthma, autopsy, asylum, abandonment, anxiety, abuse, assault, aneurysm, anger, addiction

B is for blood, bruises, blunt force trauma, burns, bite marks, blisters, betrayal, beating, blindfolding, bondage, brainwashing

C is for cannibalism, cuts, convulsion, concussion, cardiac arrest, corpse, chains, cult, carnage, craniotomy, craniectomy, chest compression, choking, coughing up blood

D is for delirium, dehydration, disfigurement, dismemberment, demonic possession, death, dehumanization, degradation, depression, disease, drowning, distress, despair, dizziness, drug withdrawal

E is for exsanguination, electrical injuries, electroconvulsive therapy, electrocution, execution, exhaustion, eating disorders, emergency room

F is for fever, flu, fatality, flat-lining, fractured bones, fear, fatigue, force-feeding, flagellation, flogging

G is for garroting, gunshot wounds, grief, gallows, guillotine, guilt, gash, gag

H is for hypothermia, heatstroke, hallucination, hyperventilation, hemorrhage, handcuffing, hospital, hanging, hatred, hate

I is for intubation, infection, injuries, injection, illness, internal bleeding, intravenous therapy, insomnia, illusion, innards

J is for jealousy, jugular veins

K is for killing, kidnapping, knife

L is for laceration, lobotomy, ligature marks, lack of oxygen, loss of consciousness, lies, living weapon, locking up

M is for morgue, miscommunication, murder, manslaughter, massacre, mourning, miscarriage, masochism, mistreatment, manipulation, misery, mental illness, malnutrition

N is for nightmares, nausea, necrophilia, necrotizing fasciitis, necrosis

O is for outbreaks, obeying, operating theater

P is for physical restraints, pain, punishment, poison, panic attack, paralysis, PTSD, penetration, pierced lung

Q is for quadriceps tendon rupture, quadriparesis, Quebec platelet disorder

R is for ruptured blood vessels, respiratory failure, rabies, rape, rope, resentment, ritual

S is for schadenfreude, strangulation, starvations, shock collar, shock therapy, straightjacket, sadism, scapegoat, shame, sacrifice, sadness, sorrow, slaughter, suicide, self-harm, self-hatred, self-destruction, stabbing, slavery, seizures, stress, slash, suffering, surrendering, somnophilia, shackles, sepsis, surgery

T is for torture, trauma, tears, toxicity, trust issues, traps, tying up

U is for urinary tract infection, unresponsive, unconsciousness

V is for violence, vomiting, viruses, venom

W is for wounds, weeping, waterboarding, weakness, whipping, whimpering

X is for x-ray

Y is for yellow fever, yelling, yelping

Z is for zombie apocalypse

[burningcheese-merchant]

Merchant! Please, rant to us about the mythological inspirations of the BurningCheese!

The fact that I came home and sat down and wrote out a detailed post for this ask... The fact that I did research into Hindu mythology for BurningCheese inspo in the first place... (sidenote: Hinduism is legitimately interesting, I had genuine fun learning about it even outside of cringe shipping bs)

THE FACT THAT THERE'S ACTUAL SHIT TO WORK WITH...

Buckle up, buckaroos lol (I'll put it under a cut in case it turns out really long)

Do note that I am not a religious scholar nor a follower of Hinduism, and I didn't do a suuuuuuuper deep dive. I spent a few hours reading different articles/sources and looking at some paintings and the like. Whatever I say is what I derived from my own personal understanding (and my old notes), which may well be flawed!

Let's start with the obvious.

Burning Spice is directly inspired by Shiva, Hindu god of destruction. Important note: in the actual religion, Shiva is not malevolent; the destruction he brings is considered a necessary part of life and the foundation of cosmic balance. He can be temperamental and violent, yes, but he is by and large a pretty decent guy and performs his duty in the cycle of life and death without complaint (obviously, this is where Spice deviates lol)

His hair is a fucking pitch black jungle. Matted af. Just like Burning Spice's. I just felt like saying that lmao (they both look like shit, Shiva wears animal skins and dead people's ashes and doesn't brush his damn hair. HE WENT TO HIS OWN WEDDING LOOKING LIKE THAT! (Until Parvati told him to please freshen up and he went "yes dear, anything for you <3" and manifested fancy groom attire))

Now let's poke our heads into the rabbit hole.

Parvati is Shiva's wife, whom he adores and is wholly devoted to (and vice versa).

She is revered as a life-giver. A goddess of creation, love, devotion, and... ABUNDANCE.

Parvati has many forms. Her original form is that of a beautiful woman wearing a red sari, with a GOLDEN HEADDRESS/HEADBAND and LOTS OF GOLD JEWELRY AND PRECIOUS STONES, WHICH SHE LOVES.

She's very beloved by pretty much everyone. She's elegant, vivacious, and revered as a doting wife and mother

I'm not finished.

One of Parvati's forms is that of a fierce warrior woman called Durga. She is powerful, confident, and no less beautiful than her original self

She has many arms, and a sacred weapon in each one. One of which is a GOLDEN SPEAR.

Durga is regarded as a goddess of protection, war and destruction - but not the malevolent sort. She fights and destroys the forces of evil, for the sake of others'; the destruction she brings is in the name of protecting and liberating innocents, and empowering creation

One of her epithets is Mahamoha, which means "great delusion" - and in this context, the delusion/ignorance derives from intense desire and attachment

Now, with all of that said, I'm gonna tell you guys a story.

Shiva's first wife was Sati, daughter of Daksha. Though they were madly in love, Daksha despised him and never approved of their relationship

The blood between them was so bad that Daksha declined to invite either of them to the yajna (VERY important ritual sacrifice) he was hosting. Against both social norms and Shiva's advice, Sati showed up anyway, which led to her father cruelly insulting her, her marriage and basically her whole fucking life in front of everybody

In protest of everyone's derision of her and the life she chose to live, she throws herself on the sacrificial fire and thus kills herself (extreme and unnecessary, I know lol). Shiva finds out and LOSES. HIS. SHIT. Shows up, goes on a rampage, hurts a bunch of people, beheads Daksha (whom he revives and pardons eventually)

In his grief, Shiva basically decides to retire from everything and seclude himself in the mountains, denouncing the world and everything in it and refusing to interact with anyone or anything

Sati ends up reincarnating as Parvati. She remembers exactly who she is/was, and made it her mission to return to Shiva's side and rekindle their relationship

Shiva doesn't buy that that's his beloved and rebuffs her. She doesn't give up. She tries over and over again to convince him and win his affection. She endures harsh weather without appropriate clothes, starvation, the faces of her own fears and doubts, endlessly; all while continuously performing acts of religious penance/piety. So unwavering is she in her strength and devotion that Shiva eventually, finally realizes that that really is the woman he loved and lost

They reunite and remarry quickly (and it was a big blowout event, too! Very important, there are even several sculptures depicting it!) and they live happily ever after

And a short summary of their union:

Shiva and Parvati are considered complementary forces; one without the other does not make sense and simply cannot be. Parvati is the warm, life-affirming, creative force that balances Shiva's cold, world-denying, destructive one. She's portrayed as having lured Shiva away from his lonely, ascetic lifestyle and showed him the value of life, love and marriage. They're almost always depicted together in artworks, as they're admired/adored not only for their loving partnership, but for the way they uphold cosmic order together. They are life and death. Attachment and detachment. ABUNDANCE AND DESTRUCTION.

It's commonly stated that Parvati is the outright source of Shiva's power. His shakti (not super sure how to explain what this is, it's not very simple. It's... ultimate cosmic energy, basically). She encourages and energizes him. Without her, he is incomplete

They have two kids :P two sons, Ganesha and Kartikeya. (I DID NOT KNOW THIS when I first made up the fankids, I just happened to guess the correct number of kids to give them lol. I thus decided to partially base Pepper Jack on Ganesha and Matar Paneer on Kartikeya, enjoy those links where I explain properly haha (and you can look through their tags to see more abt them if you want))

They also jointly represent harmony between sexes. Shiva is the male aspect, Parvati is the female

They also jointly symbolize love, devotion and sexuality and are said to have a lot of sex (and are also often depicted having sex)

Let me walk you guys through it all one more time. A god who, in his endless rage and grief, chose to forsake the world and all within it, for he believed he had nothing left to value from it...

Who is temperamental, violent, and is not above lashing out at others when he feels wronged... who can and will destroy everything in his path... (You don't need screenshot evidence of this but whatever lol)

Who will lash out at others if they dare to lay their hands on his counterpart, or otherwise keep him away from her...

... And his counterpart, a beautiful, vibrant, benevolent goddess who can take many different forms, including that of an elegant queen adorned with gold and gems, and a great, fearless warrior... (You notice how there's some red in her Soul Jam now? There's that bit of Destruction, used to defend others...)

Who's known and loved for the boundless love and warmth and charity she bestows upon one and all...

Who's known as a creator, a life-giver; who so cherishes the world and what she makes that she allows herself to descend into madness in pursuit of preserving it all... Whose desire and attachment led to ignorance and delusion...

Who, in stubborn defiance of the cruelties she faced, chose to remove herself from them and from the world itself for a time, only to eventually return with her identity and life's purpose still intact, and livelier than ever...

Who takes the form of a hero, a protector of the innocent, a warrior who battles against evil and seeks to vanquish oppression and tyranny...

And together, she and he make up the foundation of the world. The threads with which the great tapestry of the universe is woven. Life and death. Attachment and love for the world, and detachment from and contempt for it. A woman dressed in the finest garments and jewelry, and a man who embodies the unforgiving wilderness in which he sequesters himself.

Abundance and Destruction.

In conclusion: Burning Spice and Golden Cheese are literally Shiva and Parvati, they are husband and wife, they NEED each other and are meant to be together, together they create and maintain the balance of life and the universe, we must all band together and demand that Devsisters release the cutscene that shows their wedding, they are the bride and the ugly ass groom fr fr

[pookietv]

pub golf | arthurtv

me when i don't upload in ages and come back out of nowhere (sorry pookies ily all)

this is obviously not too accurate to chip's pub golf or anything but yeah whatever!!!

but yeah enjoy this poorly constructed and half proofread fic about close friends arthur and y/n getting all drunk and maybe a little flirty :)

as a youtuber in your friendship circle, it becomes somewhat of an initiation ritual to be involved in a pub golf video, so when chip decided on making another monopoly pub golf video, you weren't all too surprised when he decided you just had to make your pub golf debut.

so that was how you had been roped into standing in a park in london, at 3pm on a tuesday, waiting to be assigned into your pairings for this pub golf.

chip stood with a grin on his face, announcing teams of george and harry, chip and theo, steven and chris, and finally, you and arthur, who gave you a grin as you stood next to him.

"the dream team!" you laughed, and arthur nodded as he looked down at you.

"we better win, so you've gotta bring your a-game," he teased slightly and poked you gently in the ribs, "you're gonna owe me big time,"

you narrowed your eyes at him playfully, "oh yeah? and what will i owe you exactly?"

he grinned, "you've gotta sit and rewatch all the harry potter films with me if we lose," he said, causing you to groan out in mock annoyance.

"fine, fine!" you laughed slightly

arthur was easily the one you were closest to in your friendship group: it always ended up being you two paired up together, or nattering on about something no one else seemed to care too much about, and it had become somewhat of a joke to the group, you had been deemed 'future mrs. television'.

and in all honesty, though you would never admit it, you did have a tiny crush on arthur. or you insisted to yourself it was tiny because the reality was you had a big fat crush on arthur and you were embarrassed. but to you, he was just so easy to be around, he was always sweet and listened and you two were always just close.

and of course, what other embarrassment ritual would kick off pub golf like mortifying monopoly themed costumes. george and chris getting stuck as sailors, chip and theo being dogs, steven and chris being penguins, and you and arthur being stuck dressed as the 'wheelbarrows', in hi viz jackets, builders hats and a small childs wheelbarrow, which seemed more like a weapon of mass destruction.

on the walk to the first pub, the boys were already hyper, which did not bode well as their pre-drink states, with chris and george flirting and arthur almost hitting everyone with the mini wheelbarrow, finally getting there.

and the drink to start was of course a double vodka, which arthur had cockily turned to you, "i bet i can finish my drink quicker than you," he said, and you rolled your eyes at him.

"in your dreams you sad little man," you laughed, picking up your drink with a small little nod, as you both began to drink.

you beat him, only just, watching him wipe his mouth with a dejected little sigh, grinning to yourself at your victory whilst teasing arthur.

along with a shot due to the hole being a bunker hole, to which everyone called chip inane, insisting that three units on the first hole was a recipe for disaster.

and you felt they couldn't be more right, as arthur already gave you his slightly dopey grin, the one where you could tell he had maybe not eaten enough so the drink was hitting him a little too quickly.

"so, who do you think is winning this thing?" he asked you, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, and you rolled your eyes with a playful laugh.

"us, obviously," you said, and he gave you a little look as if to say 'come on, no way'.

"you really think we're beating the team of degenerate alcoholics that are harry and george?" he joked, "i mean you know i can barely handle my alcohol, and i've had to carry you home more times than i can count," he teased.

along the route, the drinks only continued, leading to what could be summed up as mass chaos - with george and chris flirting so much you had to seriously question if they were single by choice or to cover up some secret feelings for one another, and steven and chip making friends with some random guy who had the misfortune of asking for directions from them, and you and arthur, walking miles slower than everyone, yapping on whilst holding the vlog camera at your own faces.

"y/n's gonna crash after her next drink, i can feel it in my bones," he smirked to the camera, causing you to reply with a face of mock anger.

"can't be worse then the crash bicycle kick you attempted in the pitchside charity match," you quipped back, a self determined grin on your face as you leaned on him slightly for support, almost tumbling yourself over.

"whoa, there, you good?" he sniggered a little as you caught his arm, his hand gently on your back to stop you from falling.

"uh huh, 'm brilliant, was just making sure you weren't falling behind," you said sarcastically.

"yeah, right. you're the one who needs a babysitter after a couple of sambucas," he jided, leading you to grin a little more.

"well, lucky me i have the most willing babysitter ever, right?" you teased, poking him slightly in his sides.

after being forced into a duet with harry after he had made to do a forfeit for knocking chip over twice, and steven almost throwing up after being forced to chug a bloody mary after insisting that he hated tomatoes, you had wound up waiting on a bench outside one of the pubs whilst the rest of the boys went to the toilet, finished up their drinks or otherwise messed around.

you on the other hand had been dying for fresh air, so ended up drunkly watching the ground as you waited for them to finish up.

arthur approached you on the bench, giving you a small smile as he drunkenly slumped himself next to you.

"you good?" he said, and you smiled and nodded back to be reassuing.

"uh huh, 'm all good, just needed some air," you babbled out, a little breathy.

"no worries, just wanted to check," he said, before hiccupping slightly, making you grin.

"i'm glad we're on the same team," he continued, and you giggled a little, nodding.

you felt your cheeks heat up a little and silently willed it to not be too obvious, "yeah, me too. always great to have a babysitter," you joked back in response, trying your best to stay casual.

"you have this thing where you make everything better, in all honesty." arthur drunkenly admitted, looking slightly down at his shoes, slightly embarrassed himself to be admitting it. he wondered if he might regret saying any of this in the morning, but when he looked up to see the smile spread on your face and the slight pink tinge to your cheeks, he determined that anything he said that made you look so adorably happy was worth saying, at least in his mind.

"you're going to give me an ego, at this rate." you joked back sarcastically, and he rolled his eyes in response, chuckling to himself.

"anyways, whats in it for me if i keep playing babysitter?" he asked, a small smirk on his face.

"well, you get the pleasure of my company, obviously," you replied in a mocking tone

he laughed slightly to himself, shaking his head. "c'mon, i deserve more then that surely?"

your eyebrow raised slightly, "like what?" you giggled out.

"we go out for drinks? like, not in a group. i'll even babysit then, i swear," he joked.

"are you asking me out, mr television?" you asked, your heart racing slightly as you felt determined to keep your tone light and playful.

"depends, are you saying yes?" he asked, leaning slightly closer.

you looked down at the floor for a moment, in mock contemplation, "well i guess that's conditional of how good of a babysitter you are tonight." you teased, before standing up to go find the other boys.

the rest of the pub golf had ended in a twisted drunken blur: with arthur insisting he was at least a ninety-percent on the drunk scale, to harry almost stacking it on a lime bike, in the last pub everyone had become a drunken state, all calling ubers back to their home once revealing the winners of the pub golf - an unsurprising win for harry and george.

since you and arthur lived in the same apartment building, you had decided to book one uber, sitting on the curb and sipping a bottle of water each that you had bought from a nearby corner shop in a desperate attempt to sober yourselves up and stop yourself from gagging every two minutes, your head leaning on arthur's upper arm in attempt to stop your vision from spinning.

"so, put me out of my misery already. was i a good babysitter?" he asked teasingly, but you could tell by the half softened but still half serious look on his face that he was anxiously waiting.

"the best babysitter," you drunkenly babbled in response, leading to a grin spreading across his face.

"good. feel like i'm always about to lose my nerve or something around you, cause i've had a crush on you for the longest and you're so... i don't know, like effortlessly flirty with me, so i didn't know if it was intentional, or if you didn't even realise, but it was just driving me crazy 'cause i never know how to be around you without being some idiot that has an obvious big fat crush on you so... uhm, yeah. suppose i'm waffling a little now."

you let out a grin of relief as you pulled your head slightly from arthur's shoulder so you could look at him, your eyes half lidded from drunkness and a tired but deliriously happy smile across your face.

"i like you too, arthur. 'm glad i seem cool and effortless, cause i'm really just an idiot with an obvious crush too," you laughed a little to yourself.

he let out a small breath he didn't even realise he was holding, "god, that's a relief. um, so, maybe we could do the drinks we mentioned earlier?" he offered with a small grin.

"uh huh. as long as your babysitting skills are still up for grabs," you giggled in response.

"for you? always."

[foone]

Annoying edge case for lycanthropy: a dragon who is also a werewolf.

(A short story I wrote back in 2022 for twitter. I've slightly re-edited it, but it's still "twittery" in how it uses linebreaks (because there used to be post-boundaries there). Sorry! )

So on the full moon, they uncontrollably turn into… A much smaller and squishier humanoid. They can't wait to get their scales and fire breath and wingspan back. They're so vulnerable in their werewolf form!

No one at the werewolf support meetings is sympathetic.

They're all humans or nearly, so one of them is like "it's just so scary. I'm huge, and inhuman, and I feel like I'm made of weapons, with my claws. Everyone fears me, and I fear myself sometimes, never knowing what I might do, if I lose control and just let the rage out…" And the werewolf-dragon is like "and then you turn into a werewolf! It's so annoying, I agree"

Everyone else just turns to look at them, slowly

They do take some tips about werewolf safety. They just do it backwards, because instead of making sure they can't get out and cause death and destruction, it's more about making sure no one can get in and attack them in their merely nigh-invulnerable werewolf form. When you're a dragon, turning into a nearly unkillable rage monster of claws and fangs is a major downgrade. It's a real moment of weakness, and who knows if your ancient enemies or some upstart knight is going to try to take advantage of that moment of weakness?

They get infinitely more annoyed when they finally find a witch who can do the right ceremony and lift the curse of lycanthropy. "there… With the burning of this silver candle, you are finally free. You're human in all moonphases, now." "WAIT A FUCKING SECOND, HUMAN?!"

They got turned into the humanized version of their werewolf form. Permanently.

Always read the fine print before asking a witch to do a complicated magical ritual on you.

"also, question: how the hell did you burn a silver candle? Isn't the melting point of silver…" "one thousand eight hundred degrees, yes. It wasn't easy. Look. "

She pulls back a curtain and points. There's a complicated bellows system being vigorously pumped by a bunch of little black cats, each wearing a tiny witch's hat. They're sweating with exertion and the heat.

"we're done, my lovelies. You can stop now" The kitties hop down off the bellows and lie down at her feet, or wander off looking for food. The witch looks down at the former dragon, now barely 5 feet tall. "why do you think I asked for my fee in cat food?"

"but it was ALL cat food. Don't you need to-" The former dragon pauses mid-sentence, as the witch pulls off her traditional witchy headwear to reveal two pointy feline ears. "you were saying?"

"nevermind. Thanks, I guess." The dragon walks to the door, then turns around. "hey, I need to find out how to be a human, would you happen to know anything or anyone I can ask?" The witch looks up from sitting on the floor with a leg behind her head, licking the inside of her thigh "wouldn't have a clue, sorry love", she says with a smile.

The witch has to show up later and bail the former dragon out of jail. Apparently they accosted a city guard after being told "you can't just wander around the city naked". The dragon told them to contact the catwitch because it's not like they know any other humanoids.

The guard wasn't physically hurt, but getting jumped by a small naked human after merely pointing out you need to wear trousers or a dress or something in public is the kind of thing that leaves mental scars that'll take a while to fade.

Even if your tiny nude opponent was mainly trying to scratch or bite you with claws or fangs they no longer have

The former dragon ends up living with the catwitch. She could use some help with the bellows, and even if the dragon can no longer provide her own fire, they still know a lot about it.

And even if they're now a short little weakling who has to be reminded to wear clothes, they are a bit better at pumping the bellows than a pack of kittens.

Plus they can help with making potions and such in ways the cats can't, what with having thumbs.

They live together for a while, until the grumpy now-human finds out that another dragon has taken up residence in their former hoard.

And that will just not do!

So the dragon convinces the catwitch to come with them on an adventure to raid their own hoard and defeat (or at least evict) the dragon.

So they set out, the former dragon having to figure out the weaknesses in their own defenses and how to navigate a space built for dragons, not tiny humanoids. They're wearing the minimum in clothing they can get away with, and wielding a sword almost bigger than they are.

And following, the catwitch with a broom and a big sack of magical devices and reagents, and a little procession of kittens in their hats.

(the former dragon uses they/them pronouns. Their human body does have a sex, but when gender was explained to them they called it a "foolish human thing" and never bothered with it, just like their opinions on silverware and public indecency laws)

As far as anyone can tell, dragons have only one gender, and it's dragon.

Anyone who has asked further questions about dragon gender, sex, or reproduction has ended up crispy and good with ketchup.

They manage to evict the squatting dragon, and the witch is like "well, I guess you got nearly everything you want now. I'll take my cats back to the city…" And the ex-dragon is like "WAIT… I was thinking, maybe you could… Use my hoard as a new shop? There's plenty of room"

"are you asking me to stay?" "n-no… I mean, yes? Shut up. It's just because it would be a good place for you. After all, your shop has that leaky roof, and you were running out of storage space, and the mayor always wanted you kicked out…"

"oh I see, so it's just for me? How kind. You don't care either way, right?" "right! I don't care! I don't need or want you around! I don't care about silly human things" "human?" she asks with a smile, wiggling her ears on the top of her head. "shut up you know what I mean"

"so you don't want me to stay around you? You don't have a reason why you want to be near me, to be with me?" she says "with" with a certain slant on it, as she rests her arm on the shoulder of the former dragon, having to lean over her to reach. "n-n-n…"

The witch switches to cupping the former dragon's face in her palms. "and your face is so warm, little one. Are you trying to breathe fire? You're turning red, so maybe you are…"

"stop it! I… I just…" "yes?" the witch lets go, but her tail curls around the waist of the former dragon, like they are walking hand in hand down a beach.

"I like you, alright? I want you to stay. I want to be with you! Is that so wrong?"

"nope!" says the witch, happily pulling them into a kiss.

We zoom out, past a pile of gold coins and goblets and scepters, as little black kittens in adorable hats play in the hoard, ambushing each other in play-fights from the high ground of a treasure chest.

[melaninfury]

MOVE

What is your next move in life. What will help you move on. Moving into a new environment or place. What is about to move in life for you.

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Tip Jar

Firstly this reading is for general guidance. Please do not use this as an excuse for medical needs. The point is to see if there is a message for you that is describing a present energy in your life.

Choose wisely.

Pile 1

Hello my pile one. So I first got a download. You need to move your ass, there needs to be more of your time and energy towards your career/finances. You e gotten a strike of clarity about a venture, something you may be learning or developing. Some of you here may be in school or thinking of going into education to work on a skill/craft. This is your sign to put some energy towards investing into yourself. You have some options on the horizon, I see some travel for you.

If some of my people here have been working on spirituality, you are being called to move some working if you know what I mean, lighting a candle or an actual ritual. I’m seeing there being some mindset shift for you pile one. If you have been stubborn or walking a comfortable path towards your goals, you will be put in a decision to set outside of your comfort zone towards a new opportunity. Move towards that new beginning. The path towards this new beginning that will appear for you will come after some contemplation and careful planning. You will strike gold of you move down a certain path. But the choice is yours how to get there. I see a move towards success but remember if you fail to plan you plan to fail. Success is not without clarity. You’ve gotten your answers and that may be different from what you expect but you must show up at this time.

Moving or making the move kinda feels out of place. Though you may feel as if you are walking through the dark it does not mean that you aren’t able to find your way. You must stop looking at yourself as the broken lamb in the road. You have some strong grounded power here. MOVE your legs like you have a journey to get finished. You might be an also going for a promotion or financial opportunity that will be successful once you invest the time and energy.

You need to move through your breakthrough. Something is going to be in your hands very soon do not drop it take it and face every fear. Focus attentively to your abundance and plan your next steps in silence. This is a time to move through your list of priorities. Don’t be afraid to have very high standards for yourself. And protect your ideas with pride and joy, lighten up on your journey also. Have joy in triumph. You are a student of life, you know your way even if you need to meditate to get to it. You may have an ally or some support to help you get through this time. Allow them to help remind you that you’re loved and capable. Believe in your strength. But go on and move towards you manifestation because it’s here. Prepare well to harvest in your abundance.

You got the 3 of pentacles twice. You may be involved in some sort of plan for a career idea of some sort of financial venture. That will be lucrative for you. With the emperor coming out I think there needs to be a sense of strong authority moving along this path. You could be healing from some dark childhood traumas, fears that can easily take over your mind and make you feel so blocked and blind. The task is to make the burden an opportunity. There is an illusion based out of fear that more burden will follow with the next steps you want to take. This leads to doubt, there is no more room for that unnecessary thought. One who is afraid of their past is afraid of their future and can’t understand who they are. Don’t weapons but prioritize making your shadow your friend. Fall in love with the joys of your inner child rather than the destruction. Don’t be afraid to be alone on a journey of self you are not a deep dark abyss you are a deep person with depth and that includes joy. Work with all parts of yourself including the part that seems so silly in joy and innocence. Protect and nurture yourself.

Side note you are very protected spiritually. And you protect yourself fiercely maybe to much because when the threat is different the red scary lights your not able to see. The people you keep around you that seem like they can’t grow will never be able to water your garden. Yon may have a family member or two you need some boundaries and a vacay from don’t feel guilty or burn yourself out because you love or feel connected to someone, don’t burden yourself you have enough to figure out for yourself. Take a vacation or relax with yourself away from things that are draining. But you are protected and very strong person.

Want to know more of what’s next? Tap in ❤️

Pile 2

Welcome to your reading pile 2. Okay so this is such a lovely message to relay, you have been waiting a very long time for this moment. You are such a beautiful spirit and soul my pile twos. You love wholeheartedly and your energy never fails to find joy in a room. Some of you here have a soulmate, a person that is more to a just a friend. Not only a support but a confidant. You are about to establish a plan for your future. You may have or be contemplating what options you have or defining the vision for your future. I’m here to tell you are moving into your dream.

Whether the soulmate here is a path of self discovery, a beautiful partnership or a wish fulfilled…maybe all three it is a perfectly crafted moment of unity. Love.

A good amount of you will be moving into a long term commitment, a more official…cause of celebration. This thing that will be moving into your life will be coming at your pace…like the fool that jumps off the cliff it is there to meet you halfway in the air for an embrace. Your emotional fulfillment this year will solidify to a capacity that makes your life feel like a home. One you love opening the door to everyday.

You will move into a new stage of community with your family and ancestors. Life will move you quickly and joyfully into territories you have never really seen before. You will delight with adventure into this next stage of life. Success in life is more than a moment or a material it is truly having the things you need around you.

I see a relationship no matter the kind but you will have a soul family member entering your life very soon mutual respect and commitment. If this is a lover they will work for that happiness and spark with you. You will want to engage and thrive with them. Whatever work you do have in career or opportunity with shine as a nice stepping stone to your financial prosperity. You will be fulfilled sexually with them also. But alas before we get juicy let’s get into shall we.

You need to get yourself together before you can truly enjoy this though. The task for you is to free yourself and pay attention. The fog and the walking through the fire with your eyes closed is not gonna cut it this time. You have to release in order to truly let go and only then can there be room for more. Be careful letting finances and career influence your love life in a negative way. Nothing should be in your way and if it is it’s really you. Don’t move to slow but take your time. Trust and have faith in your situation. You cannot walk around feeling hopeless because of the past or the things around you. You move yourself out of places that don’t make you happy. I got a warning here that some of y’all here need to take heed to two faced people around you if you think they are going to ride with you on this journey you are mistaken. You have some envy eyes around you that seek to tank and get close to you inner circle, they seek to take and control how you feel about this person coming in. Be careful who you call a friend and truly evaluate who you have around you. Two faces means one see the truth of who they are not the illusion and that includes the life you tell yourself. Faith without work is dead. Hope is nothing if you can’t truly be sincere.

What you lose at this time may be in the cards a divine intervention for your greater good release the things that have to go with grace and healing. Mourn but let go.

You have a soulmate coming in and that doesn’t mean anything but someone is out there for you and with you. Don’t think you are all alone nor things will stay the same. Shedding skin is more painful than washing the dirt off. Free yourself and take back control in your life.

Yeah no more happy stuff until you address the elephant in the room is funny how your reading started showing the future and quickly revealed the smoke clearly and truth of how your living in the past. Move on the time is here.

Want to know how to move on? Tap in ❤️

Pile 3

Hi pile 3 let’s get into your reading. You need to move your priorities for the top of the list. Be very careful indulging at this time. You are about to have a test of your boundaries and mindset. You will have an opportunity to choose to free yourself for a proper new beginning. But you and I both know it’s work that you fear. Part of you in this pile need to move out the way and let what needs to be destroyed be done. The key to how you need to move is to have strength to recover from disappointment and stagnancy. Choose the discipline of self and healing over choosing a dead end road. The key here is move on your path not a path laid out for you but you must learn to listen to your inner guidance. You might need to go back home or turn to your family for guidance at this time. You must stop procrastinating your moves to a better future. I’m seeing there are some heart to heart conversation about your life you need to start having with yourself. Make the effort towards your goals because you can.

There is a need to be more practical. How are you valuing your time? Because now is the move towards priotiies and patience. You need to have patience and stop trying to rush past the finish line. Your only slowing yourself further start with things outside of what your hyper focusing on. No matter how hopeless you feel and blocked there is another way you are not seeing. You can move past this situation but something must be released. You got the death card also so there is skeletons in the closet that will never just go away. You must sacrifice in order to grow. Something here is also being looked at very naively and foolishly stop that. You know the right way even if it’s not the way you want.

Don’t fret it’s a matter of healing and cleansing. It’s not as big as it feels know that. They want you to move towards the direction of self care and healing. Patience and endurance for a while is what’s best for you. You have an option or two on the horizon that will bring some newness to the situation. You have a big heart but it’s time to take a look at your emotional investments as to why you don’t feel fulfilled. Because all you wish for and want is on the horizon if you just move the swords in your heart out of the way. Trust that you can heal and move forward and you will pile 3. Close this cycle after some pondering and watch your life change for the better. There is a new beginning here and some of you could actually be pregnant so if that’s something you know of you need to be very strict with your boundaries and your family life. You have a deep heart use it for good not to do good. Because not everybody deserves that heart ❤️. Invest into your mind body and spirit as you are. You’re growing more beautiful and graceful by the day. Allow the inside to reflect the outside. You are not alone you are feeling the ache of needing comfort. Put into yourself as if your cup was empty and don’t hold back. Your naive touch is also a true source of your joyful yet expressive inner child who is very much active in your energy right now. You may need to show some deep love to yourself and show how much you love you right now. Make the move to grow emotionally and spiritually. The move is moving on to better. Heal.

Want to know how to grow? Tap in ❤️

Pile 4

My pile 4 welcome to your reading. I hate moving for you…well let’s see the one thing you’ve been fighting to stay. You have pushed and you have dragged on a while in this mindset of it’s what I want so it’s mine. Now things are going to move out of your life and show you that it’s a sacrifice for self not a sacrifice that loses self. Your Latinos because you’ve already know you made a decision that left you juggling while on one foot. Your feeling lost and blocked and that because what path are you trying to walk that’s not your own. Some of you here are seeing someone that is not yours whether your aware or not is a question only you can answer but there is an act that is lustful yet hopeless and your feeding it. Why. I think you really want to feel something even if it can’t be what you want and that not the ways you should treat yourself.

Whether you are with this person or not they are someone you’ve already made a judgment call on. It’s something that will selfishly lead to pain. Choosing something that is not good for you is selfish to a part of you that want to be better. Now is not the best thing to do you. It’s a time to let things move through you the pain, the discomfort, the trivial feelings all of it and after it passes you pick up the pieces. I need you to move into a place of PAUSE and reflection. Cause you’ve been told this before sit down somewhere and focus instead of trying to rush everything forward or focus on shit that doesn’t matter in the future.

With the way your going now and I tell you your walking into a while lie whatever it is, there is hidden yet anterior motives involved here and it has to do with a man I ebekiev or some type of strong emotional attac that bring you a lot of passion/energy/rush. You’ve blocked the soulmate and the proper energy chasing something else allow this to play out so you can actually get to a place to be happy. You’ve blocked and need to nurture your masculine energy. Not give it to other masculine energies.

Something you’ve ignored or looked past will return. You will be moved by a strike of clarity or information and it will push you to stand up for yourself and make a proper decision. You’re stepping into confrontation while also trying to avoid it or at least you should because it’s going to cost you in ways if you do not allow the tower to fall. You will find whatever you’re looking for once you let it go. There is a move here towards a shift in mindset and true stability. You need to have more heart for the people that love you and spend time with friends allow the real ones to be there. There’s a direction here for you that if you take it this upheaval can be calmer and more stable on the other side. With justice and the 8 of wants you know the right way or at least the start you must let the right things move on by so you can see that. I don’t think you should make any rash decisions right now now is just not the best time to do you it may not end so well. Meditate and get a deeper reading for clarity but as for now I would say focus on the small things like what your consuming, what are you nurturing in your mind and how your feeding your emotions and space.

This new start is more of an uncomfortable place but it serves you more than you know. Once you get over the pain or disappointment.Focus on the right things pour into the right things and it will come back to you. You have to take charge of it and be more independent and solution based. The problems are just that problems let them go and fix what you can because you don’t have all bad here it’s more of a good ole transmutation. You need to breathe and let go take some time to recharge your energy. Be very careful what you wish for, work on your healing and mental health. It’s all about you and your betterment from here what doesn’t not fit, allow it to move out the way.

Want to know more about your journey? Tap in ❤️

Alright y’all that’s the reading for this one don’t forget to check out the paid readings I offer for a more in depth one on one session here!

Much love ❤️

©️ All Rights Reserved @melaninfury

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

The audience reception and discourse around “Nosferatu” (2024) is a warning to creators and artists: having your work misinterpreted is the price for going mainstream. And it’s hilarious seeing so many folks actually believing Robert Eggers’ intention with his ending is for his Ellen to “defeat” and take revenge on Orlok, when this is the second film he makes where the destructive and perceived evil Pagan force symbolizes his lead female character empowerment, vengeance and liberation from oppressive and patriarchal Christian society who shames and ostracizes her. Both which end with the protagonist selling her soul to said evil, as they join him in an eternity of “deliciousness” and pleasure, after he kills almost everyone around them. The OST for Ellen and Orlok’s “wicked sacred marriage” and death scene is called “Bound”; no covenant was broken here.

If you really think Eggers has any intention of glorifying Christianity in his “Nosferatu”, you clearly know nothing of his work, because every single one of his films are deeply anti-Christian, and this no different. And he said it himself: “My influences are all very clear, and Nosferatu is a remake, after all,” Eggers says, yet he plays with the canon, with expectations and clichés – “hopefully subverting them to do something unexpected.” Most of you fell for his trap, and only saw the cliché. He didn’t even want to include that last look between Thomas and Ellen, he probably had to because of studio pressure, or to mess with your heads even further.

Robert Eggers said it countless times, his “Nosferatu” is a “demon lover story”, and a Gothic Romance based on Catherine and Heathcliff from “Wuthering Heights”. In his “Nosferatu” his Ellen wants Orlok, and they end up together, for all eternity. She’s not letting anyone put a “spike of cold iron” through her demon lover, sending him somewhere she cannot reach him, and that’s when she accepts him.

Ellen and Orlok’s obsessive and all-consuming passion is not only self-destructive for them, but everyone around them, and only stops when they are both dead in the physical world and reunited in the spiritual realm. Ellen calls out for Orlok the entire film, she’s a dark character (like every Gothic female character), she’s selfish, complex and nuanced. She plays both Orlok and Thomas and weaponizes them against each other (exactly like Cathy with Heathcliff and Edgar), she wants to fuck around with Orlok/Heathcliff while being married to socially acceptable Thomas/Edgar. She says one thing and does the opposite; she’s been summoning Orlok to Wisburg, and when he’s there she claims to hate him, which causes Orlok to threaten to kill Thomas in return. They are both toxic (it’s not just Orlok). And Thomas is the “damsel in distress” here, caught up in the middle of something he doesn’t know nor understands, and gets his entire life wrecked as a result of both Ellen and Orlok’s actions (like Edgar himself).

Most don’t see this because they think of Ellen as this cardboard victimized character with no agency whatsoever or some nonexistent “Christ-like Madonna” when she’s the embodiment of a dual-natured Pagan spirit, like Orlok himself. She’s the “enchantress”, he’s the “black enchanter”. She starts this film performing black magic (necromancy), when she resurrects Orlok; and ends it with a Şolomonari Sex Magick ritual to break the curse of Nosferatu (which is the whole point of her willing sacrifice). They are the witch/wizard archetypes.

[pictureviewer-universe]

some great ideas for how to develop a nice relationship with the police when you are beginning a superhero career as a vigilante and how much you want to develop it

#010 Law Enforcement

If you’re going to be saving the world from total annihilation every couple of weeks (or every couple of days… or every couple of minutes I don’t know what things are like where you live), it stands to reason that you’re eventually going to cross paths with local law enforcement. As a rule of thumb it’s important to be respectful of policemen or policewomen as they are legally doing what you are illegally doing. Seriously, why don’t you just become a cop. Do you think your parents are proud of you for this? Their adult child running around in spandex fighting sewer mutants?

Unless you manage to get some pro-superhero legislature on the books (which if you have the time, patience and money to lobby for, be my guest) you’re going to be operating as an illegal vigilante. Being able to breath fire or outrun a train doesn’t change that fact. That’s right, technically speaking you’re the criminal. Bet you didn’t see that coming bucko. Therefore, at least when you start out, the cops will probably try to hunt you down. They’ll probably even set up a taskforce specifically to hunt you down, which, while flattering, is also super annoying. They’ll even try to arrest you after you’ve just stopped a crime! Like oh my god man I just did your job for you and you still get paid you should be thanking me not reading me my Miranda Rights. So, to avoid being arrested when the police come to arrest your criminal adversary I suggest running away really fast from the crime scene once you’ve foiled the convenience store robbery, or the occult ritual to resurrect the dead, or whatevers.

If the police department as a whole hasn’t warmed up to you then you need to find someone on the force who has. A diligent straight-shooting cop who believes in your crusade against crime. But, not like, so straight-shooting that they’ll immediately arrest you or report your attempts to recruit them to their superior because again, legally speaking, you’re a serial criminal. A contact within the police force is invaluable as they can provide you with leads and intelligence and they can run interference with official investigations into you and your secret identity. They can also give you a heads up when they get word that a crime is going down. Just try to make sure you don’t get yourself a cop informant who’s super preachy and keeps trying to convince you to “go legit” or “join the force” or “stop parading around town in a stupid costume because you’d look sooo much better in police blues.” Oh my god who asked you, what are you the fashion police? This costume makes my eyes pop and if I have to be an illegal vigilante to wear it then SO BE IT (chill.) Right, anyway… It probably wouldn’t hurt to get your hands on a police scanner too, this way you know where everybody is, where you’re needed most and how to best avoid those two cops who you don’t like because they keep making fun of your ability to turn into a giant hamster. Like they don’t even have any superpowers so why are they so obnoxious. On that note, if you happen to have super hearing or the power to hijack radio signals with your brain, you can just act as your own police scanner so you’ve just saved yourself some money, congratulations. 

Look, I get it. Being hunted by both the law and the plethora of super criminals who will no doubt flood into your city thanks to the legal crackdown on superheroes is a massive bummer. But just think of what a wonderful and grand thing it will surely be when the police finally calm down, realize that having a super powered person stopping crimes is a good thing, and decide to accept you with open arms. Once you make a name for yourself, probably by fighting off an alien invasion or preventing the world from imploding, you might finally be accepted by the establishment and hailed and respected as the hero you truly see yourself as. When that happens they’ll probably throw you a parade or erect a statue in your honor. So that’ll be neat, that’s definitely something to look forward to. Plus, being official public partners with the cops has tons of sweet perks. Imagine how glorious you’ll look riding on top of a police car, sirens blaring, surrounded by other siren-blaring cars as you all race to foil the biggest bank heist of the century. Who among us hasn’t wanted to police car surf their way to a crime scene. None among us. That’s who. Anybody who says they haven’t thought about it is either a liar or has no imagination. Also maybe they’ll help you get out of parking tickets. If you’re one of those superheroes who still has to drive a car.

You’re going to want to avoid getting too publicly (k, real talk for a second does anybody else keep trying to spell publicly, “publically” only for that garbage to be redlined because you’re an idiot and that’s not how anything is spelled or is it just me?) chummy with any specific police officers though. Because then you run the risk of that cop being individually targeted by your enemies and really the only reason you’re wearing the diggity dang mask and using a goofy name (I’m looking at you Professor!) is to prevent that kind of thing from happening! That’s the whole thing! Don’t make good friends in your superhero identity! In general though, even once accepted you should keep official law enforcement agencies at arm’s length. Occasionally in your battle against the criminal scum of the Earth you’re forced to do things that aren’t entirely legal. Did you know you can’t just break into evil lairs and beat up criminals without a warrant? And that you have to hand all evidence over to the court and you can’t just take evil weapons of mass destruction and keep them in a well-lit trophy case in your hideout? Well you can’t, superheroes break laws like that all the time. So if you’re seen as or you actually become an official law enforcement agent, things like that can get real tricky real fast.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monster Hunt: Roilwreak, Temperamental Elemental

WHATS SHAKING YOU WIZARD BITCHES, GUESS WHO BROKE CONTAINMENT AGAIN?? THAT'S RIGHT, ITS MEEE!!!

Beginning life as an apprentice's over ambitious and much procrastinated thesis project, this arcane entity has entered into a troubled adolescence marked by making itself a calamitous nuisance. Being a Weird ( an elemental composed of two contradictory natures) Roilwreak is possessed by a destructive restlessness that only seems to find an outlet in causing problems for others, whether it be in property damage, petty arson, or the disarray of arcane workings for the sheer shit-disturbing fun of it.

Adventure Hooks

Roilwreak spends most of its time in a warded enclosure on the grounds of the academy in which it was summoned, tended to by apprentices and occasional studied for its unique ability to interfere with different kinds of magical energy. There's a rumour that upperclassmen (and even faculty) sometimes sneak in after hours to bargain with the elemental in order to fuel their more elaborate rituals.. which might be how the Weird managed to escape this time. Pheraps the homebrew potion dregs and scraps of firecrackers from the nearby market can point at a suspect.

The elemental has given the academy the slip and disapeared into the city's pipeworks, resulting in minor flooding as pipes crack under unexpected pressure and a number of injuries as a pubic fountain boiled off into scalding mist. The local garison have put a bounty out for whoever can slay the elemental, but the academy just want it returned safely. It IS a sapient creature after all, and it can't help that chaos is in it's nature.

A villainous mage has heard of the Weird's powers and wants to make use of them, binding Roilwreak into a weapon or draining off its energy for some awful ritual. Having organized an infiltration (or perhaps the current breakout) it's a race to see who can catch the hyper-charged herptile first.

[whereserpentswalk]

A lonely planet drifts throughout the void, it is dry and small by human standards but it is filled with life. For the first time one of the nations on that planet has established democratic elections, and it is one of the larger and more powerful nations at that. The calander had to be changed as to not follow the line of queens, marking this year as zero, and the first election day as the new New Years. Because most members of the species still can't read it is decided that over the name of a candidate will be a statue of their head, and that votes will be cast by placing a small orb below their statue.

The year is marked as 55 though in earth years has been 113 years since the year zero. Statues with orbs placed below them are now a universal symbol of democracy on that small and dry planet. It's useally used to represent democracy just as the axe was used as a symbol of monarchy and the crossed bones was used as a symbol of theocracy. Occasionally the statues need to be redesigned as there are now places where the plurality of the species who have multiple heads are allowed to vote and/or run for office. For the first time a country has given the vote to males of the species, and though there hasn't been a male candidate yet, people joke about how a male head would look as an election bust. As printing is now more common a technology political cartoons are made and distributed of male heads as busts, some find it very fun, others really don't.

The year is marked as 129. War has broken out. The largest armies that small, dry, planet has ever seen fight with ever advancing weapons. Flying machines are invented for the war effort. Then great Armored vehicles. Then chemical and nuclear weapons of mass destruction. As the death toll climbs more and more recourses are allocated, and rationing becomes quite common. However, the brass busts are never replaced with a cheaper alternative, even when they could aid the war effort. No nation would deface its symbol of democracy for such a small advantage, even when small advantages matter.

The year is 211. Only one nation retains modern technology and infrastructure, but it's technology has now far surpassed that of the days before the war. It is the last democracy on the planet, every New Years every single headed adult female of sound mind us required to go to their city or town center to vote. Though it's handled by computers on a technical level, the physical act is unchanged, as they are required to place and orb below to bust of their chosen candidate as it was before the war. There are only two parties now, and for most their vote is determined by their boss and landlord, but still, it is far more then most have in these days, if that means anything at all.

The year is 340. One nation, one nation that survived the war without regressing, has conquered a small and dry planet, and sent its first ships to the colonies. Parades are held for the empress in jade, the creature considered responsible for this new age, or at least the heir to the conquerors who did. Every new year each citizen prostrates themselves before a brass statue of her and places an orb below it to show their loyalty to their state and empress, very few still remember what such an act once meant, other then that it is a declaration of loyalty. Occasionally someone will refuse out of protest, but they are delt with swiftly, the empress does not have mercy for traitors, and that is what the ritual of the statue and the orb means.

The year is 419. A cult practices a ritual in secret, the day after new years, members ritually give an orb to a statue of their goddess as they would to a statue of the empress. The message is clear, that even if they openly belong to the state, in truth they belong to their goddess. They worship their goddess as the only one, calling the detites of the empire mere devils, breaking statues of the fertility god and the warroir queen goddess that mark the empire's rule. The cults goddess is a goddess of the void of space, and the cult claims she damns her enemies to a eternity within a stars fire after their deaths, while a loyal few live with her forever in a cool and calm paradise. The cult only tells these myths to senior members, and only exists openly at all outside of the homeworld. The cults members forgo intoxication, meat consumption, or premarital relationships, and their males are not allowed to leave their homes without being shaporoned. After they all give orbs to a statue of the void goddess their most senior member is sacrificed, and everyone cheers.

The year is 501. The newest jade empress gives an orb to a statue of the void goddess, as every adult female in the capital city will after her to mark the new year, and their loyalty to the cult of the void. Every other city in the empire will follow her, spanning an entire star system. Even the diaspora will follow suit, those living within the realms of alien races are still egar to partake in the festival. After every citizen has given an orb to the statue of a goddess, the eldest amoung them is sacrificed. For the diaspora living in places where the sacrifice of sentient species is outlawed, the eldest gives a speech and then an animal is sacrificed, a few progressive cities follow suit but that alternative practice is hated in most of the empire. The idea of giving orbs to a statue without sacrificing their eldest member seems so very strange, it just doesn't feel right to most people, it's how it's always been done, it's what giving orbs to a statue always meant.

The year is 643. The rebellion has now taken the entire star system, with the small dry homeworld that served as a capital finally falling. For the first new years anyone can remember, no orbs are given to statues, and no eldests are to give speeches before an animal is sacrificed. While the leaders of the rebellion assure everyone that citizens are free to worship the void goddess if they want to the rebellion wants to establish a secular government, and the practice of giving orbs has always been a symbol of the joint power of church and state under the empire. The statues will be taken down, or remain without orbs, whatever the individual cities choose. As a new democratic system is established, the leaders of the rebellion wonder what the voting system will be, as unlike more spread out races, nobody of their species has experienced democracy within living memory. They have only the ancients to turn to.

[hiddenincommand]

The Ruthless Supremacy of Riding Boots: A Symbol of the Alpha Master

Riding boots are no mere accessory. They are the embodiment of absolute power, the unyielding insignia of an Alpha Master who strides through life with unmatched authority and unshakable control. These boots are not crafted for common feet, nor for unworthy souls. They are a weapon, a statement, a throne upon which the true master of all stands—towering above the pitiful, trembling masses who dare to call themselves men.

The Sole Dominion of the Alpha Master

To wear riding boots is to declare oneself a god among insects. Their gleaming leather, their unbending form, and their commanding presence are the exclusive privilege of those who rule with an iron fist. An omega, or any lesser being, would defile such perfection simply by proximity. Riding boots are reserved for the elite—those who dominate, conquer, and break others for their own amusement. They are not merely shoes; they are the instruments of supremacy.

These boots announce the arrival of power, leaving no room for doubt, no space for weakness. When the polished toe enters a room, all heads lower instinctively. When the heavy sole strikes the ground, its sound alone is a command, a warning to every trembling omega to bow lower, submit harder, and beg with greater desperation.

The Formalities of Power

Even among symbols of mastery, there is hierarchy. The choice of riding boots depends on the occasion. For moments of refined cruelty—dinners where subordinates are reminded of their place or formal gatherings where the Alpha Master reigns supreme—towering black boots, shined to a mirror finish, are mandatory. Their immaculate surface reflects not only light but the pathetic, groveling faces of those beneath them.

For the exquisite act of discipline, a more rugged boot may be donned. Scuffed leather and reinforced soles hint at their history—a legacy of crushing rebellion, both figuratively and literally. The heavy tread of these boots leaves its mark, not only on the ground but on the spirits of those foolish enough to require correction.

Then, there are the spurs. Oh, the spurs—sharp, gleaming instruments of subtle and overt torture. For formal occasions, understated silver spurs whisper of control, their gentle jingle a quiet reminder of latent cruelty. But for moments of brutal correction, heavier spurs are chosen. Their weight and sound add gravitas to every step, and their bite against soft flesh ensures obedience laced with pain and humiliation.

Boots as Instruments of Subjugation

The true beauty of riding boots lies in their duality: they are both a symbol of power and a tool of domination. For an omega brought to his knees, they are a stark, unrelenting mirror. Every gleam in the leather mocks his inferiority, every inch of the towering boot a reminder of the insurmountable chasm between master and subject.

When an Alpha Master raises his boot to rest on a sub’s back, it is more than a gesture. It is an act of ownership, a declaration that this creature exists solely for the master’s amusement. And when the boot presses down—on the neck, the spine, or the face—it communicates a single truth: resistance is futile, rebellion is laughable, and submission is absolute.

Spurs, too, serve their purpose in this ritual of subjugation. A tap against the cheek is enough to send a chill of dread through the most defiant omega. A scrape against the skin leaves more than a mark—it imprints the master’s will onto the body and mind of the sub. Each jingle of the spurs, each flash of metal, is a cruel reminder that the Alpha Master’s control is omnipresent and inescapable.

The Legacy of Dominance

Riding boots are not a mere fashion statement; they are a weaponized art form. They are forged for destruction, crafted for conquest, and worn by those who rule without mercy. They carry the weight of history—of generals who crushed empires, of kings who ruled with unrelenting authority, and of Alpha Masters who turned the groveling cries of their inferiors into a symphony of submission.

To wear riding boots is to stride above the petty concerns of mortals. It is to walk with the confidence of a man who knows he is untouchable, invincible, and utterly dominant. No other garment carries such weight, such command, such ruthless authority.

In every step, in every glint of polished leather, the Alpha Master’s message is clear: You are nothing. I am everything. Crawl at my feet, worship my boots, and know that your existence serves only my pleasure.

For the Alpha Master, riding boots are not simply worn—they are wielded. For the omega, they are not simply seen—they are feared. And for all who dare to look upon them, they are an undeniable truth: supremacy is not claimed; it is taken, enforced, and embodied. And it wears riding boots.

[baphometsss]

Starting to think that 'memories of a duet' might also be about a high approval Inquisitor.

Ofc it will never be confirmed/denied, especially since it makes little sense to be there for a low approval inquisitor and it can also be read as being about Mythal and the early days of Solas living in a body, where she forged him into a weapon. But it's interesting to have it in a room which is otherwise a shrine to the Inquisition. There is beautiful sunlight pouring in through the windows, and it isn't the dull bluish light in the rest of the Lighthouse. He has repainted the frescos from Skyhold, to remember his time as Wisdom ('seeing wholly, and being wholly seen'), with those friends he loved and betrayed. There is a chair with an Inquisition mural on it facing the harpsichord, as if waiting for the Inquisitor to sit and watch him play. A ton of cheese, because they were in Ferelden. There is an Orlesian clock, a Astrarium, and basically 0 references to Mythal. It's odd, then, that the Duet codex would be about Mythal, in a room that is otherwise devoid of her presence. It is a sanctuary, the only part of the Lighthouse that truly lives up to its name for Solas.

You have to make the statues of Fen'harel and Mythal face each other to access it. As if it's only by facing his regrets and humbling himself that he will allow himself to indulge in his 'selfish' desires to be loved and seen for who he truly is, something that Mythal and even Felassan did not give him. The rest of the Lighthouse is filled with destroyed frescos of memories he wants to forget (mainly featuring Mythal), and there is a fragment of Mythal in the Crossroads that he never goes to see. He doesn't allow himself to be selfish or he'll be tempted off his path like he was when he was with the Inquisition, and the presence of Mythal in the Lighthouse is his way of reminding himself to stay true to his purpose. Yet still, he destroys references to her; he destroys the murals because they are too painful to witness, his Pride cannot handle it.

The truth is that since gaining a body, nothing about Solas's life has been about want. He never wanted to come through, but he was asked to by a friend who wanted his help and wisdom to fight a war they would likely die fighting in. He cannot resist appeals to his true nature. He didn't want to stay and seems to have returned to the Fade at some point (the second memory where Mythal shrugs him off to return to the Evanuris appears to take place in the Fade).

He hasn't had anything he wanted since he was a spirit in the Fade. A romanced Lavellan/high approval Inquisitor, and the bonds he formed in the Inquisition, made him reflect his true purpose, and it's through his time in the Inquisition that he begins to change. By his own admission, he came very close to breaking during the Crestwood moment with a romanced Inquisitor. However, the destruction of his orb by Corypheus, and the ritual to tear down the Veil already being underway, meant that he couldn't abandon his plans. He failed in his attempt to unlock the power of his Orb.

And that's kind of the crux of his change: Pride cannot handle failure, as failure requires humility, which is its opposite. Solas in DATV is Pride is trying to prove its purpose; Mythal is used a figurehead for all his regrets, but don't forget that he destroyed a fragment of Mythal in his pursuit of tearing down the Veil, to steal her power from her. It's no longer just about the debt he feels he owes to her for leaving her to fight the Evanuris alone (i.e. leaving her to die), it's the fact that his words of wisdom were not heeded, and as a manifestation of Pride, he cannot tolerate that. It's the fact that he left to start a rebellion, and it got Mythal killed because he wasn't there when she needed his help. His Pride has convinced him that it would've made a difference, when by all accounts he was outnumbered and not powerful enough to fight them all anyway. All of these mistakes and regrets are deeply humbling. So of course he's desperate. Pride will stop at nothing to prove its purpose, like Elgar'nan's Tyranny will not stop until he achieves godhood.

To a point though, it's kind of Mythal's fault that Solas/Fen'harel happened in the first place. She shouldn't have twisted him from his purpose and used him as a weapon, she shouldn't have kept him loyal to her so she could keep the fight against the Evanuris by manipulating and branding him as her lap-dog. She shouldn't have made him forge the Wolf's Fang to kill the Titans and start the Blight. But also--she was Benevolence, who became Retribution, and that meant that she also needed to prove her purpose. Solas/Fen'harel is the collateral damage of that.

It is only by appealing to his true purpose (Wisdom), that Solas has a chance to be redeemed. The Inquisitor is the one who brings the statuette to Rook's attention. The Inquisitor is one half of the key that brings humility to Pride, to make him see that there is Wisdom in humility too, that he still has that good in him, that he is loved and cared for despite everything. It is Mythal who is the other half of that key, as she is the one makes him understand that the shame isn't just his own, but a shared burden that he must accept a proportionate amount of blame for. Mythal is the release, and the Inquisitor is the guide for his new direction. They are foils. He says that the high approval Inquisitor is why he can see a better way forward, and a romanced Lavellan is there to remind him that he is loved, that he has a purpose beyond all he has known for thousands of years, that he is not alone in his struggle.

[majorasnightmare]

okay so like. mizora

im pretty sure we're in agreement that the conditions for wylls pact were sus as fuck right? like there just happened to be a fully formed cult to tiamat rarin to go right outside baldurs gate mid ritual, and the home of high harper and nosy grandma JAHEIRA didnt notice shit?? nobody saw anything and no one could confirm wylls story despite baldurs gate having an active enough night life to sustain 7 actively hunting vampire spawn for at LEAST 200 years AND a sewer murder cult committing covert assassinations and murder sprees??? with a cult of bane conducting weapons trade deals and the knights of the shield operating a smuggling ring??? the flaming fist didnt even see anything to pointedly ignore??? not a single chickenshit recruit filed a report about observing a dragons head in the night sky with a filed dismissal by a senior officer claiming they probably drank too much. Saitama_Okay.jpg

im personally of the opinion that zariel didnt stage that particular incident but DID utilize agents to provoke tiamats cult into action while also stifling potential witnesses. we know raphael does similar because of his stupid chess themed letters to his own agents, so its not unreasonable to suspect zariel is doing the same. but i think the REAL prize of that particular operation was not the destruction of an active tiamat cult, but instead something more subtle and with a potentially higher payoff: the ear of duke ravengards son. a dragon cult getting annhilated was a bonus, and a convenient call to action besides

mizora, by karlachs admission, was part of zariels personal inner circle (by choice, as devils are ambitious creatures with a drive to climb the ladder). this means that, through mizora, zariel herself took direct personal interest in wyll ravenguard. wyll himself was only 17 years old by this point: he had yet to achieve anything of note and was drifting through noble highborn society as the odd man out, son to a lowborn duke who rised through meritocracy and raised to appreciate the down-to-earth rural pasttimes his father grew up with, like fishing. wyll himself had nothing to offer to a devil besides his heritage; baldurs gate is full enough of self sacrificing do-gooders to keep the harpers regularly staffed, and The Urge regularly sated. for mizora to target wyll specifically makes the most sense if the real target was his connection to the current grand duke of baldur's gate, a city home to a practicing diabolist, several evil cults, and itself has been a hotbed of planar activity thanks to the dead threes meddling for YEARS. that ulder also commands the flaming fist, the gates de facto policing force, is also a point to consider.

this is also reflected in wylls pact, and the terms we experience of it. wyll specifically states that the terms of his pact primarily target the evil, the monstrous, and the heartless. remember, this is BEFORE he was the blade of frontiers. he became a warlock 7 years before the game, but only became the Blade five years prior to the plot. thats a two year gap of being a warlock but not the blade, where his pact STILL primarily targeted monsters. this is. a REALLY weird pact for a devil to offer! like firstly, its overwhelmingly in wylls favor. there is very little wyll does FOR mizora, and the targets she assigns to wyll near exclusively align with his moral code. he sees no reason to doubt mizoras portrayal of karlach, and has to be prompted into sparing her even as he hesitates, because past experience has told him that mizoras targets DO deserve to be slain as judged by HIS beliefs, as indicated by his line of participating in a mummers farce, and him playing his part all too poorly. wylls upset at himself for not thinking to question mizoras target and considering his hunt of karlach to be just. clearly thats because, in every other instance, wyll believed that to be the case!

thats REALLY FUCKIN WEIRD for a devil! like yes mizora gets to take down political rivals using wyll, because wyll knows devils are evil, but. thats a really weird pact to sign in return for destroying a cult mid god summon? like you could extort a LOT more for that and be assured youd get it, cuz its ALL OF BALDURS GATE and the RETURN OF TIAMAT on the line. and it doesnt seem to be a case of poor dealmaking, unlike raphael, whos every deal overwhelmingly reeks of desperation. he'll translate astarions back if you kill yurgir, because he really really really needs you to kill yurgir before he figures out raphael played him and he gets out because of it, and the clock is rapidly ticking down on that because balthazar is already in the temple, interacting with the dark justiciar skeletons, and actively looking for yurgir because the orthons annoying him. we are literally a single step removed from balthazar casually dropping the fact theres a dark justiciar hivemind in the bodies of 100 rats and raphael getting his ass beat for setting yurgir up. raphael really really wants you to hate the emperor and free orpheus because the only bargaining chip he has is the hammer, and in the midst of THAT deal literally spells out its location for you and why youd want it, for free. raphael the crown of karsus is almost in reach but to defeat the absolute ill need the plastic card you dad keeps in his wallet, make sure you send me the 16 numbers on the front, the 3 on the back, and the expiration date! hurry raphael we dont have much time!

comparitively mizora only ever bargains from a perceived position of strength. she can afford to make demands of wyll because he has no way to stop tiamats summoning without her. then, later, she has the easiest and most accessible source of information for wylls father knowing his life is in danger as a political prisoner. these are very strong bargaining positions! shes only ever undercut by the players presence bargaining on wylls behalf. its a quick and easy way to show that her inflated opinion of herself isnt entirely without merit, although her second pact is framed as choosing between two potential agreements, save wyll and kill ulder, or save ulder and damn wyll, when in reality shes proposing a new pact that has no authority over wyll OR ulder until signed (which is why you can save ulder because she doesnt actually have the pact given authority to insta kill him the way she implies, she can only throw thwartable assassins at him like anyone else with a grudge). shes a manipulator with plenty of skin in the game and a good amount of success behind her that justifies her position within zariels court. the point of this is make a point of highlighting how *little* mizora actually fucks with wyll *as enabled by the terms of the pact*. mizora is cruel, she is manipulative, she is condescending and rude, and she makes wylls life awful with her presence, but takes very few ACTIONS towards those ends, and relies primarily on verbally demeaning him. when he violates a clause in their pact, mizora utilizes a loophole to make karlach qualify by its terms and then punishes wyll by infusing his soul with infernal essence. thats... really it. you can watch wyll backtalk her, but she doesnt even do that leash yank she does in act 1. if you blenderize her, wyll dies by the pacts terms, but like. mizora literally also dies, and is REALLY upset by it to boot. you break wylls pact, tell mizora to fuck off with her second one, and she just kinda stomps her foot and fucks off for a bit before loitering in your camp still. as a warlock you can even mention to wyll that she very easily could have snatched his soul about the karlach thing but she doesnt.

in terms of "classic warlock struggles" we barely see mizora do anything beyond being an Unpleasant Person wyll is forced to interact with. theres none of the classic "being compelled to do something evil for self serving ends at risk of suffering The Horrors", mizora barely even tries to corrupt him. wyll is never forced by mizora into circumstances where he has to evaluate his code of ethics against an action he needs to take and decide what parts of his moral code he needs to capitulate on and what to keep, wyll keeps almost every single line in the sand he ever draws! his biggest character conflicts are actually between his OWN ideals, whether to live within the heroic persona of the Blade of Frontiers, or to accept his own capability of failings and live as Wyll Ravengard. like. being a warlock barely factors at all into those decisions and the closest it comes to mattering is choosing whether or not wyll breaks his pact or saves his father, which you can expose as a false choice by just rescuing his dad anyways. mizora exerts that little influence over wylls interior world. for a literal devil on his shoulder, bargaining from the greatest position of strength a negotiator could ask for, that is so fucking WEIRD.

okay thats a whole lotta post pointing out that mizoras motivations for even makin the damn pact in the first place needs examining, so now several paragraphs in let me actually get to what i MEANT to talk about. so firstly weve established that 17 yr old wyll doesnt have anything unique to entice a devil beyond his connection to the grand duke. weve established that the pact is weirdly in wylls favor, and that its pointedly not a Skill Issue but seems to be intentional, and furthermore that the POINT of the pact doesnt seem to be corrupting a good soul into the embrace of the Hells to make a new devil, because the pact seems to be made to allow wyll to just Be Himself comfortably without much internal conflict or moral sacrifice. we know that wyll made the pact before he became the blade of frontiers, and thus the pact was not made with the Blade of Frontiers persona in mind, which removes another layer of potential justification for the extremely loose terms of the pact. we know zariel is interested in wyll through the usage of mizora as his patron, and we know that stopping the summoning of tiamat without any external aid from the myriad conflicting interests within baldurs gate almost definitely necessitated a good amount of smokescreen work behind the scenes, but also that it most likely wasnt staged in its entirely because it benefits zariel to thwart tiamats ambitions. so. why is wyll ravengard a warlock pacted to mizora? i suggest the following hypothetical: that mizoras goal, and by extension zariels, was to have a morally agreeable framework within which to make a pact with duke ravengards son, such that hed be guaranteed to agree to it, and then to hide the evidence of the pacts circumstances to allow themselves greater reign to act within baldurs gate. that the goal was to have a devil on the shoulder of the dukes son, to push their relationship into strain so as to make ulder ravengards behavior more predictable and thus vulnerable to manipulation, and that through mizora (through wyll), zariel would have a first hand source to the inner political workings of baldurs gate, and the movements of the flaming fist and the goals they were pursuing. through the fist, zariel could keep track of the cult elements they were investigating (and thus what rivals need deposing), and through wyll and his father, zariel could monitor the movements of the gates upper class and utilize mizoras skillset to ingratiate wyll further into high society and put him in close proximity to those capable of mustering meaningful resistance to an influx of infernal influence. wylls relationship to his father prior to his pact was good, we know ulder was a firm but loving father and that wyll was generally well liked in baldurs gate in general, and that wyll openly admired his father and sought to follow in his footsteps. it is in fact extremely reasonable to suspect that such a good relationship was more than a single incident away from breaking. its in fact more reasonable to presume that a major political figure would be aware of the adage of keeping ones friends close, and enemies closer, such that you could monitor their movements. its reasonable to believe that one would assume good intentions on the part of ones son, who himself has made it known that he desires to be like you. to assume, in good faith, that even with all signs of dragoncult activity removed, that ones son clearly lost his eye and gained new scars *somehow*, through *some* kind of incident related to his new fiend pact. all of these are logical and reasonable things to assume and plan for, when you have made a point of manipulating people, of reading their intentions and catering to them like a monkeys paw.

that ulder ravengard would not just chastise wyll, but banish him from baldur's gate entirely, must have been a horrible shock, not just for wyll, but for mizora. i doubt the uneventful two year gap between taking the pact and becoming the blade was purposeful. it makes more sense to interpet that as mizora simply having no fucking idea what to do with her warlock now, as the pact she dictated (designed so that wyll never felt it was unjust enough to make a point of breaking it, no matter how often he thought of doing so, because it was so in favor of him and aligned with his moral code), simply had no vehicles for any of the usual courses of action. cant force wyll into tricky moral quandries, because she can only ask him to kill evil, infernal, monstrous, or heartless beasts. cant ostracize him through the pact to isolate and grind him down, wyll cant talk about it. what do you even do? now your both stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the pact to show for it

and heres where i veer into hot take interpretation country. i think mizora genuinely likes wyll. when you blenderize her in moonrise towers (before reloading a previous save ofc), her screams are oddly... genuine? confused, frightened, upset. its odd than an otherwise vindictive and catty individual isnt angry upon being killed, but confused and hurt sounding. i think in a lot of ways mizora both relies on the consistency of wylls moral code, while also considering it a hinderance, not to her plans (thoroughly derailed thanks to one ulder ravengard) but to wylls own personal development as a person. shes a devil, she doesnt have the kind of personality where she can be genuine and vulnerable and kind. but she was stuck as the only authority figure wyll had to rely on, for seven whole years, after being kicked out of the only life he ever knew and the only home he ever had. i think in a weird fucked up way, she really does want whats best for him, its just that her opinion of that is filtered through the lens of Literally Being A Devil. none of this is to say she was *good* to wyll. how wyll feels about mizora is pretty blatantly stated, and would be a much shorter post, and im not here to interrogate that or question it, because being stuck with a devil who can use your eye to spy on you is just an awful experience even without regular verbal degradation on top of it. im mostly just intrigued by the other end of that relationship. mizora clearly cares enough about keeping wyll as a warlock to go as far as trying to make a second pact with him if you succeed in negotiating the first one to be broken. which, as weve established above, is really weird because Wyll himself brings next to nothing a devil would value to the table. Mizora isnt trying to corrupt him into breaking his ethics, really the only thing she pushes is sacrificing his father instead, a decision a recruited minthara finds value in as "patricide is often the first step to greatness". i think mizora might have ulterior motives for wanting ulder ravengard dead, and i think its because she believes that wylls love for his father is holding him back. any time wyll is selfish in pushing back on her, mizora indicates some measure of being impressed on wylls behalf. if you encourage wyll to not sign the second pact, mizora taunts him with his fathers death but still says shes genuinely impressed that hes choosing himself over his father

genuinely i think what mizora wants is for wyll to become a more assertive person. a more selfish, self interested, less heroic, less self sacrificing individual. i think mizora considers wylls tendency to bend over backwards to help people to be actively detrimental to him, and i think shes invested in his growth as a person by virtue of being a guide and companion for seven of the loneliest years of wylls life, and in a fucked up devil kind of way i think she invests her pride into it. that, with her plans so thoroughly mangled, the LEAST she can do is forge wyll into a warlock worth the cost. wyll has so much potential he refuses to take, as minthara (another ambitious prideful character) will note, and its explicitly because he would rather give something up than take for himself. i think thats part of why mizora is so cruel and demeaning towards him, to try and push wyll to be pettier or more spiteful, instead of endlessly self sacrificing for the benefit of others, and this is even consistent with her punishment of wyll! she turns him into a devil and specifically notes that he wont be able to be the heroic persona The Blade of Frontiers anymore! ie the facade thats swallowed up wyll ravengard completely at the beginning of the story! i think her investment in wyll as a person is why shes so upset if you kill her at moonrise, because i think she genuinely thought that wyll would always save her and turning him into a lemure was a kind of bluff she didnt expect to cash in.

this would also explain why the terms of her second pact are so comically extreme. eternal damnation and serving zariel forever in return for maybe possibly getting to save ulder from a dangerous situation where he might die anyways from the absolute crisis and WILL die in a few decades from old age even if all goes well? its almost like shes taunting wyll. give it up, give up everything youve ever worked for and sacrifice everything you want to achieve to lock yourself into the worst evil you can think of for someone who banished you who might not even survive anyways. make this overwhelmingly stupid self sacrifice because thats just what you do wyll, never think of yourself or whats best for you, only other people, trade away all of eternity for the CHANCE of someone else getting another day, if THAT. this contract is so blatantly overwhelmingly unfair i DARE you to think so little of yourself youd agree to it. of course she wont congratulate him for choosing himself over his father, shes a devil and she has to rub salt in the wound, but that doesnt mean she disapproves of the choice. the only way wyll ever gets away from her is by thinking of himself and mizora takes every chance she gets to punish him for sacrificing himself and i think its because she knows he can do more if he just takes it for himself instead of passing it up. its the only kind of affection a devil can have. and every time i sit there and talk wyll through breaking his pact at moonrise and bully mizora into giving him a rapier (one of the best in the game, made specifically for wyll, made specifically out of his pact, when she doesnt have to give him anything and least of all something good, how its a reward specifically for wanting more from her and demanding it and not letting a circumstance where you have power over her go), i keep seeing hints of it underneath the surface.

a genuine devilish compassion for a warlock who rightfully loathes her, a loathing she encourages whenever she can. does wyll need an enemy to keep him from getting complacent? something to strive for thats just for his own benefit? it doesnt benefit anyone else for wyll to break his pact. most people benefit from him keeping it. its why he HAS kept it, all these years, despite hating mizora. i think mizoras taken it upon herself to do what the duke refuses to, and thats making sure Wyll becomes someone who can thrive in the world as she understands it. someone who has the ambition to reach higher, someone selfish enough to step on somebody else to get what they need, someone who refuses to get themselves killed just for somebody elses sake, somebody who doesnt give unless they receive in equal or greater value. someone who sees a situation where they have power, where someone needs them, and gets all they can out of it. and if not for people they want to protect, then at LEAST exploiting the people they HATE. does mizora demean him so much so that wyll is more comfortable firing back? so that wyll doesnt have to feel like hes becoming a worse person if he treats her as bad as he gets? if he treats his help as conditional, for her and only her, does he get to walk away feeling like he hasnt done anything wrong because he knows mizora does worse, and more often, and at least wyll will eventually help?

when he breaks his pact, and tells her no, he wont sign another, when he saves his father anyways, when he tells her off and gets everything he wants without sacrificing a damn thing, underneath the bluster and rage, is mizora proud of him?

things to consider sometime.

[dimespin]

So that bit where Carbon says that ahe would've decked the people being cruel to PenWell-- are Saratoans prone to punching people, as a species? I thought about it a bit, and I mean, obviously it's possible with their biomechanics, but they tend to lead with their faces, right, and they've got those big honking fangs, and they have claws that could cut into their hands in a fist. Idk I just wanna know about Saratoan fighting styles now

Saratoans are all in a mutually assured destruction situation with each other with their venom. In order to have a society they have to agree not to use it - spitting is obviously off limits, but biting too, since venom floods their mouths when they are feeling upset or scared or aggressive, so even if they weren't thinking of it as venom use, venom gets in there.

So the entire species has a strong inhibition toward spitting or biting at others of their species, to such a degree that even when expressing a desire for violence most will say anything besides "I'll bite you"

(and thus saying that is a more serious threat, because it's not just stating a desire for violence but also "I am so angry/scared/etc., I've overcome the instinctual inhibition")

When anyone tries to start a fight with someone else it's generally extremely ritualized. Humans often find it funny that they'll huff and puff and make a lot of smoke and shout at each other and then the actual fight is like... gentle shoving.

The intention is to show off health/strength, because a strong healthy dragon also has strong healthy venom. It's an implied threat "imagine how bad it would be for you if I used my real weapon. Back down"

When they do "punch" it's honestly not punching. It's more like a karate chop.

Carbon especially is affected by exposure to humans and human media also, and sometimes says things she's heard in movies because she thinks it sounds cooler than what would actually happen if she got in an actual fight (her actual fighting style is more scratching/slapping/pulling hair)