#will i ever be over the m9? no

[potatoesandsunshine]

i am.... exhausted now. also people are not lying google docs is truly becoming Worse

[nellasbookplanet]

I've been thinking about Mollymauk, as I'm periodically wont to do, and the fandom discussion about him as a moral compass. Because the interesting thing here is, Molly wasn’t a very moral character. He was an unrepentant scammer. He had no respect for interpersonal boundaries and would deliberately push and break them. Generally, he was an asshole. As far as actually having a strong moral stance I would say Fjord was the standout of early m9, and to some extent Beau.

But here’s the thing: almost all of early m9 thought of themselves as horrible people. Fjord had been bullied so bad growing up that he still dealt with self-hate from it, and now suffered from survivor's guilt to boot. Caleb had killed his own parents. Beau, while she hated her dad, also had internalized self-hate and on some level thought she’d been such a shitty daughter she deserved his treatment. Nott was stuck in a body she considered monstrous. Yasha had survivor's guilt and knew she’d done bad things in her blank spots. Even when they did good, they didn’t think of themselves as good. Most of them were suspicious and asocial and faced the world with the same kind of distrust they expected to be (and were experienced in being) met with. (Jester was an exception, an agent of neither good nor bad but of amoral chaos)

But Molly was different. He was outspoken about loving life and people. He wanted to spread joy, even to people he didnt know or had even met: he slipped coin into people's pockets, hid a silver in a tree just so some stranger would one day be happy to find it. He openly cared for the party early on; was one of the first to step in and help Caleb when he went catatonic in battle. Above all, Molly had rules: where everyone else would agonize over what was the right or wrong or smart thing to do, Molly loudly proclaimed we don't leave people behind, and we leave every place better than we found it.

But the thing about Molly’s rules was, they were largely a cover. While the rest of the m9 thought they were bad even as they did good, Molly thought of himself as good even as he did bad. He scammed people, but made it a good and memorable experience, therefore thinking he gave more than he took. He charmed Nott and Fjord without consent, and when confronted would claim it was to help them. Out of the group, Beau saw through this, not because she was a better person but because she was a cynic. She saw that he caused harm, just as she did, and was personally affronted that he still thought of himself as good and tried to leave people happy, whereas she deliberately left every place worse than she found it.

I see Molly as a moral compass of the group not because he was actually any more moral than them, but because they made him their template. He was joy and brightness and he died trying to save them because it was the right thing to do, and they all chose to honor him by emulating his rules more than Molly himself ever did, because to them it was more than just a cover, backed up by genuine moral thought and discussion rather than small gestures. He taught them that it was possible to be kind of a shit person and still be good, to still love yourself and others. The idealized Molly they created never existed, and finally died for good when they resurrected him in the end and were met with a stranger, who they welcomed with the same love and care they would've expected Molly to show them.

[imagine-darksiders]

Absolute Anarchy

A Darksiders/SCP Foundation crossover nobody asked for but is here regardless.

Summary: SCP-8103. Object class; undetermined. There's a new entity at the Foundation. Four D-Class have already been supplied with weapons and pitted against it, only to be cut down before they could get more than a couple of shots in. Eager to determine which calibre of rifle can pierce its armour, they send you in next - D-1935 - to accomplish what your predecessors couldn't. It's too bad they never taught you how to actually use the rifle...

This has the vague semblance of a plot btw, but I'm trying not to be too finicky, and just to write as it comes to me, so hopefully it'll still be easy enough to follow and enjoyable at the same time.

Tw: Blood, guns, death, imprisonment, threat, violence, trapped, typical SCP violence.

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If there was ever a moment where you should have felt the stars aligning to determine the path your life might take, it would have to be the moment you decided to steal that godforsaken sports car.

It was an instance born of desperation – a tantalising lure cast by the owner of a chop-shop who made heartfelt promises to lift you out of poverty, only to throw you under the proverbial bus when the heat ventured too close to his illicit operation.

He only wanted the money from that Ferrari.

You reduced yourself to grand theft auto for a chance to escape the homeless shelter and land on your feet.

And where did you land instead?

Behind bars, that’s where. Tossed into some dingy prison that seemed only built for the sole purpose of hiding away society’s miserable, forgotten dregs.

You thought you knew what rock bottom looked like.

How were you to know the depths this pitiless world could drag you down to?

“D – One-nine-three-five!”

A strident voice bellows a set of all-too familiar numbers at what must be the top of his already bursting lungs. The door to your cell is wrenched violently open, spilling light into a room that’s a damn sight smaller and bleaker than the one they pulled you from in St Ives.

Bureaucracy had been your ultimate enemy, in the end. A signature in the wrong place, a ‘t’ dotted where it should have been crossed, and an ‘i’ absent from your paperwork had all lead you to a place you couldn’t have imagined in your most turbulent nightmares. A place that shouldn’t - and so far as the public is aware - doesn’t exist.

The SCP Foundation.

Specifically, site 12; a rancorous offshoot of what you’ve come to learn through eavesdropping and rumour, is a worldwide operation.

It turns out the people in charge here couldn’t less of give a hoot whether you’re a petty thief or a renowned and unrepentant serial killer. If your name is on their list, they won’t bother to see a difference. You’re all Disposables, in the end, and no amount of pleas for your innocence or requests for an evaluation will get you any closer to that glorious taste of freedom.

You’ll serve your time or die trying. And as of yet, you haven’t heard of anyone who’s reached the end of their ‘sentence.’

The bed springs underneath you shriek with relief as you scramble up onto your feet, nearly tripping over the long hems of your jumpsuit.

Heart thundering like a jackhammer, you cower before the imposing shape silhouetted in your doorway, warily eyeing the M9 Beretta that’s being aimed directly at your forehead.

You’d hoped that by now the guards here would have learned that you’re not a threat. Hell, it didn’t take you long to figure out that anybody even vaguely considered a troublemaker in this place will earn themselves a one-way ticket to a fate that would make you beg for a bullet between the eyes.

That first week, you ended up trying to plead your case to the wrong scientist and wound up on the bi-weekly rota to clean SCP-173’s cell. Twice.

How you got out of there with your neck facing the right way is one of life’s greatest mysteries. If it hadn’t gone for your poor cellmate first…

“You listening, Scuzz!?” The handgun jerks to the left of your doorway. “Get your ass outta that cell!”

Ah... Mullins. One of the guards assigned to your particular block.

A meaner son of a bitch, you’ve never known. Rumour has it that the towering brute used to be a D-Class, like you, but through shows of force, an unflinching disregard for his fellow man, and an uncanny ability to survive, the Lab Coats bumped him up to guard status, if for no other reason than to keep the inmates in line.

You’re loathe to admit it, but he is damn good at his job.

Ducking your head, you scurry from your bed through the open door, pressing yourself as close to the frame as possible to squeeze past the Beretta that he keeps trained on your head. You don’t even have to look at him anymore to know that there’s a wide smirk on his face when he jabs the barrel at the back of your skull, shoving you into an awkward stumble down the hallway.

“Move. Got a new assignment for you today,” he goads, falling into step behind you, his thick, rubber boots thudding purposefully on the linoleum.

In contrast, your plimsoles make rather pathetic ‘slaps’ with each, hurried step you take.

You know the drill by now. Head down. Eyes front. Mouth shut.

You’ve walked this path to the lifts a hundred times before.

It's been weeks since you stopped asking him when you can go home.

‘When you’ve served your sentence,’ became ‘When we damn well feel like it,’ became ‘You still think you’re getting out of here?’

“SCP-Eight-One-Oh-Three~,” Mullins sing-songs at your back, entirely too cheerful all of a sudden, “This one just came in. The Lab coats don’t know nothin’ about it. And guess who’s the lucky little D-Scuzz who gets to ‘further the advancement of science?”

Although your body trembles like a leaf in a hurricane, you don’t make a sound, not even when the moisture in your eyes wells up into a fat, salty teardrop and breaks over the dam of your lash line, carving a damp path down your grubby cheek.

An unknown SCP?

Your odds of making it to the end of the day in one piece have just plummeted into the single digits, and you once again find yourself asking, 'why me?'

‘We’re doing this for the good of humanity,’ one doctor with a particularly punchable face had once announced to a room full of orange-clad prisoners, and you can still remember wondering when you and your fellow inmates stopped being a part of that same Humanity this Foundation seems to keen to protect.

The cold steel of a gun jabs you again in the base of your neck, pushing a quiet sound of protest from your lips that you hurriedly clamp down on, fists balling up at your sides.

“That’s right!” Mullins continues, “Damn, you gotta be feelin’ proud as a peacock, kid. Not every day someone gets to be the first to make contact. Hell, maybe you’ll get lucky, and it’ll be a Euclid.”

The row of lifts appears as you turn the next corner and come to a stop obediently in front of the closest one, head still hanging nearly to your chest as you wait for Mullins to reach past you and jam his thumb on the ‘down’ button.

“Wouldn’t bet on it though… That thing has Keter written all over it.”

With the damning chime of a bell, the heavy, metal doors slide open, and Mullins shoves you roughly into the claustrophobic space with one fist to your spine. Jesus, trapped in this finite space with him, the smell of cheap brand cigarettes wafts from his jacket and drifts up into your nose, sitting stale and musty on the back of your tongue.

The walls are dull in here, unreflective, which you nearly count as a blessing.

It means you don’t have to see the mess you’ve become.

----

It’s only when you’re standing outside the containment cell that you realise Mullins was either lying, or just plain wrong.

You aren’t the first D-Class to make contact with this SCP.

In fact, if the stiff-faced scientist shoving a rifle into your hands is to be believed, you’re precisely the fifth.

“That,” he begins with an aloof air of bored professionalism, watching impassively while you fumble to find purchase on the heavy gun, “Is the CZ-Five-Fifty. And today, you will be testing its armour-piercing capabilities.”

‘Armour?’ you think, swallowing thickly, ‘What the Hell kind of monster have they brought into this place?’

The cold circle of steel still pressed to your shoulder blade reminds you of Mullins’s unpleasant presence.

“No funny business,” he growls, “You couldn’t get the safety off before I put you down like a lame bitch.”

Charming.

You don’t fancy telling him you couldn’t get the safety off anyway. And that it... hadn't occurred to you to even try and turn it on him and the scientist, though it probably should have been the first thing you thought of.

The weapon sits like a dead weight in your hands, heavy and fundamentally useless. You don’t know how to fire a gun, let alone one this powerful.

But the scientist doesn’t seem to know that, lazily racking off the terms of your contract and your ‘obligation’ to the Foundation.

Yes, you imagine it would get tiresome having to rehash the same speech five times in a row… Perhaps he just assumes you know how to use it?

Bastard.

Wetting your lips, you peel them apart and croak out a question, wincing at the pathetic crack in your voice, dry and reedy from disuse. “What happened to the others?”

At that, the scientist’s lips purse, and an eyelid twitches then settles.

They all hate being interrupted. Especially by a D-Class.

At least the guards acknowledge your autonomy through rage and demeaning names and acts of violence.

To the Lab Coats, you’re just cannon-fodder. Nothing. Empty vessels for them to use as they see fit.

Even so, the one in front of you straightens up and peers down the length of his nose at you, sighing as though he were trying to explain the concept of algebra to a dog. “The D-Class personnel-“ he begins, and you have to bite your tongue to hold in a scoff. ‘Personnel’ is a funny way of pronouncing ‘Prisoners.’

“-who came before, all failed their assignments.”

Behind you, Mullins pipes up with a distinguishable sneer. “Emptied their whole clips into the thing before they got turned into Swiss cheese.”

Oh… God.

“Didn’t even make a dent,” he concludes, sounding not in the least bit sad to have wasted four lives.

“Yes, well-“ the scientist clears his throat, “The first step to knowing your enemy is knowing how to kill it. And the supplied Rugers proved… ahem… inefficient. But at least we now know the three-five-seven calibre isn’t strong enough. We’re hoping the point six hundred will be.”

 “Six hundred Overkill…” Mullins whistles appreciatively. “Elephant killers.”

Your stomach twists into a tight, clenching ball. You think you might be sick if there was anything to bring up except bile.

So, this is the SCP that finally kills you.

Shit.

In a whirlwind of sudden, dizzying movements and barked orders, you’re unceremoniously surrounded by three more guards who bodily ‘escort’ you into the loading dock – an empty room set in the midway of two descending doors that are made from several feet of a solid titanium alloy. The primary door slides open with a mechanical hiss, and you’re shoved roughly into the space between it and the secondary door.

On trembling knees, you gape up at the grey metal, noting with no small degree of alarm that it’s tall and wide enough to admit the shipping container of something titanic.

Above your head on the wall, an orange light pulses as the primary door slams shut behind you, and the sound of enormous locks sliding into place fills the room. Your rifle almost slips from your grasp, leaving you to fumble for it with sweat-slicked palms.

The drawback of not being a hardened death-row inmate is that when it comes to moments of great danger, you’re inclined to neither fight nor flee.

Instead, worst of all, you’re the type to freeze solid.

Now is no exception.

As the light flashing above you turns green, signalling for the second door to ascend into its slot high in the ceiling, your spine promptly goes rigid, fingers locking up around the gun whilst your feet turn to two blocks of cement.

All of a sudden, you can’t help but let out a shriek when something flops down onto the ground on your side of the door once it’s been raised a couple of feet, and at first, you assume something is trying to crawl through the space to get at you.

Once you realise what the dark object actually is, you almost wish your initial assumption had been correct.

What lays on the ground, spread across the threshold between the dock and the cell, is a body. ‘A human body!’ your addled brain registers.

Or what’s left of a human…

Swiss cheese might not have been an exaggeration after all.

Entry and exit holes have torn the poor bastard apart from head to toe, shredding to ribbons what remains of a grubby, orange jumpsuit, much like the one you’re currently garbed in. Bones and muscle and sinew show through torn flaps of skin, and the stench of blood mingles with gun smoke, seeping into your nostrils before you can scrunch your nose up to block it out. You could have done without the acrid taste of iron resting on the back of your tongue.

‘That’s gonna happen to me,’ you gasp silently, choking on a sob, unable to tear your gaze from the body, ‘Oh god, that’ll be me in a minute!’

Jesus Christ, they hadn’t even waited for the blood to dry, the assholes!

With a ‘click’ and a ‘thud,’ the door slides gracefully to a halt, utterly and completely open, exposing you to whatever entity lays in wait beyond the threshold. The fear of what lies ahead outweighs your horror of seeing a fellow D-Class on the ground. In an instant, you wrench your eyes away from the body and gape out into the room in front of you.

Sturdy, grey walls lit by an overhead fluorescent light are a familiar view, as are the bloodstains spattered across the stone slabs.

The pockmarks littering the adjacent wall are new however, each about the size of your fist. There are hundreds of them, like someone took a gatling gun and sprayed it all over the cell. They look… far too large to have been made by any ordinary rifle…

A hard blink sends twin tracks of tears leaking down your face. The room beyond angles sharply to the left right outside the door, and it plucks at your frayed nerves to realise you can’t see what’s around the corner…

Nearby, facedown on the floor just several feet from the entrance, is the second body, a gun laying close to their side and an arm outstretched towards you, their final act in the throes of death. They must have skidded around the corner and were making for the door when they were cut down…

Despite the carnage, the cell is eerily silent, not a breath nor a shift to give away where the SCP might be.

Is it lurking just around the bend to ambush you?

Is it seconds away from tearing into the pocket of space and doing to you whatever it did to these sorry sods?

Aside from quivering fit to bust, you can’t move a muscle.

You won’t.

You won’t go in there, they can’t –!

“D-Class!”

A sharp staccato shout is thrown from a speaker in the corner of the dock, causing you to nearly leap out of your skin. But worse than your visceral flinch is the sound the voice elicits from something inside the cell.

It’s like a roll of thunder, soft then loud then soft again, a guttural growl, so rich and deep it shakes the walls and travels up through your plimsoles, undulating across each section of your spine until you can feel it hum behind your eyes.

The reverb hasn’t even faded before the same voice barks, “Proceed into the containment chamber at once.”

“To Hell with that!” you retort, feet still rooted firmly to the ground.

“You will proceed or you will be reassigned.”

It’s a threat that’s worked before.

And Hell… It works again now.

Reassignment is an absolute. A guaranteed death sentence. At least in here, even with an unknown entity, there’s a slim, albeit nearly imperceptible change of survival or at the very least, a quick death. Besides, the previous victims look well and truly dead, and that’s frankly a fate that’s a Hell of a lot better than becoming a living hive for a colony of insects or a tumour-riddled larder for giant, cave-dwelling rodents.

“D-Class. You have precisely three seconds to-“

The inescapable terror of a worse ending is your greatest motivator down here. You don’t even wait for the countdown to start.

Heaving in a wet breath, you squeeze your eyes halfway shut and yank one leg stiffly into the air, planting it forwards, once, twice, three times until you pass the body on the threshold and step out into the cell. Into the open. Like a doe entering a meadow when she damn well knows there are hunters lurking in the trees nearby.

Your eyes are still clenched almost shut when you turn yourself to the left and spot the remaining pair of bodies, one almost laying on top of the other, weapons still locked in their cold, dead hands,

Another, blood-curdling growl blasts through the air around you, sudden and violent enough to nearly send you toppling over onto your backside.

Flinging your eyes open with a gasp, you immediately wish you’d kept them closed instead. You wish the SCP had just killed you outright.

You wish you never stole that wretched car.

You were expecting big.

This SCP is bigger.

You can see why the scientists want to find a calibre that can pierce armour.

The creature that hunches before you, eating up ample space between the floor and the ceiling dozens of feet overhead, is almost solid metal from top to bottom. And armoured, you realise in horror, covering flashes of grey, scaly skin the colour of iron.

Bipedal, is the second thing you note, towering all the way to the roof on a pair of long, lithe legs, each ending in a three-toed foot with claws that remind you of some long extinct theropod.

A scrawny waist feeds into a contrarily powerful chest and monumental shoulders that are made even larger by the armoured struts encasing them.

Your eyes, wider than saucers, travel along the length of its arms – the first hanging down to its bent knee with a hand that looks large enough to wrap around your whole body and crush you between its fingers. The other arm, however, doesn’t end in a hand – clawed or otherwise.

It ends instead, from the elbow down, in a four barrelled gun the size of cannon.

And all four of those chambers are aimed directly and unwaveringly at you.

Behind the sights, several cylinders spin over one another like a minigun ramping up to fire, clanking angrily in an obvious threat.

You don’t dare pull in a breath, not when your gaze locks onto one of the chambers of the gun arm, and from somewhere deep in the pits of those long barrels, a dim, red glow sparks to life, the same light you imagine the fires of Hell would kick out if Satan ever eventually sets foot in this horrible place.

And that’s without even mentioning its other apparent weapon.

You think it must be some kind of tail, arched up and over the SCP’s head like the tail of a scorpion, swaying very gently from left to right and back again. Whip-like, it tapers to a point, and from what you can see from down here, the grey of its scales beneath the armour fades into an angry red right near the tip, glowing the same colour as the lights in the barrels of its gatling arm.

Vivid images of your body being impaled on the end of that wicked appendage flicker through your mind’s eye, and you have to drop your gaze to banish them, moving on to take in the rest of the monstrosity.

A pair of metal horns sweep forwards from the sides of an avian helm, long and sleek and ending in deadly points perfect for goring, like the tusks of an elephant. There’s a mane sprouting from its back too, a vibrant purple that stands out fiercely against the silver of its armour. Each strand of hair seems to wave and snake about through the air as if they’re alive.

And then you make the mistake of meeting its gaze.

You’ve seen SCP’s with no eyes, some with too many eyes, a few that are made up entirely of eyes and even those that have eyes in places where eyes have no business being.

These though… you don’t like these eyes at all, even despite the fact there are a regular number of them.

Gold as gleaming bullion, unnaturally bright and forward-facing, all nature’s warning signs that you’re staring up into the eyes of a predator.

Once they’ve locked you in their sights, it’s nigh on impossible to tear yourself free.

The snarling visage opens up like a steel trap, baring black fangs the size of axe heads, and a burning heat behind its jaws that rises like-

“D – One-nine-three-five!”

“Shit!” You don’t mean to yelp aloud, nor do you intend to nearly drop the gun, scrambling to secure your grip on it before it can fall from your hands. In the blink of an eye, the entity’s gigantic head swings around to hiss furiously at something you’d missed completely when you stumbled into its cell.

An observation window dominates the far wall, and behind it, several figures donned in white coats stand watching, their faces only slightly blurred behind the thick – presumably bullet-proof – glass.

Just above the window on this side of the cell, another speaker has been fitted into the wall, and from it, the same nasally voice as before barks a command.

“You are to proceed with testing the Overkill’s capabilities.”

… Are they serious?

The SCP’s tail has swung around to follow its head and aims warningly at the glass, though its weaponised arm stays fixed on you.

Your own weapon remains useless, hanging from your grasp, pointed at the ground. You can’t muster the courage to raise it.

What defence could it possibly provide? What could such a tiny rifle do, really, against a weapon that made holes that size in the concrete walls?

The scientists are insane. The lot of them...

Well, to Hell with them, and to Hell with this stupid experiment.

Still blurred over by salty tears, your eyes reluctantly trail back up to the entity’s head. If you’re to die, you want to look this thing in the eye when it kills you. You might have lived as a coward, but you’re not so eager to die as one.

You’ve been afraid to defy them for so long, terrified – paralysed by the possibility of what these people might do to you in retaliation of defiance. But somehow, being here surrounded by the bodies of your fellow prisoners, knowing you’re about to meet the same fate, you can’t think of anything more satisfying than not giving the Foundation what they want.

Oh certainly, you imagine they’ll soon get some other D-Class to do the job you failed to do, but if causing the Lab Coats a mild inconvenience before you die is how they remember you, you think you’ll be okay with that.

You have to be okay with it. There’s nothing else you can be now, seconds from having your body turned into, as Mullins so eloquently put it, Swiss cheese.

Stiffening your upper lip, you aim a shaky scowl at the window, eyes bloodshot with tears and fatigue. And in an act you hope looks as rebellious as it feels, you open your arms and let the gun fall to the ground with an almighty clatter, drawing the SCP’s attention back onto yourself.

A strangled noise escapes the speakers before you hear, “D – One-nine-three-five! Retrieve your weapon at once!”

Ignoring him, you roll your gaze over to the SCP and let your arms flop defeatedly to your sides, teeth clenched shut to try and hold onto your sobs.

That enormous, horned head cocks sideways at you, and through your tear-streaked vision, you almost believe you can see its gatling arm drop ever so slightly, and the glow in its barrels fade from red-hot to warm-orange.

“Please,” you find your voice, blindly toeing a plimsole forwards and giving the gun a weak kick, listening to it slide a few feet away from you. You’re unaware that the beast’s gaze tracks your discarded weapon across the room. “Just… make it quick?”

The body closest to you still has his eyes intact, and they stare up at you from the floor, glassy and unseeing. You wonder if his death was quick. You hope so. It looks like it should have been.

The entity regards you with its wide, fiery snarl, unblinking, calculating. As the seconds tick by, you find yourself fidgeting and sparing glances between its gun and its armoured face.

What the Hell is it waiting for?

All of a sudden, two slitted nostrils appear above the SCP’s mouth, glowing with the same liquid gold that shimmers in its eyes. They flare hotly for a moment, kicking out a noisy whumph of air, and then…

Against every odd…

The SCP snatches its head away from you and… and drops its gun arm with a gruff snort, glaring at the wall opposite the scientists.

You blink once.

Seconds later, you have to blink again, clearing your vision slightly.

Why… are you still alive?

“Um…” you utter, for lack of any better ideas.

The SCP doesn’t turn to acknowledge the sound of your voice. In fact, it seems entirely adamant in subjecting the concrete wall to a fearsome glower instead as it thumps the barrels of its gun to the ground and leans its weight on that arm, its mighty chest heaving in and out with a huff.

… Perhaps you’re going mad. That’s it. That must be part of its power. It makes people go mad. Why else would you be plagued by the feeling that you’re being deliberately ignored?

On the other side of the glass, a young scientist hovers over the microphone, trembling with unprofessional agitation and apprehension.

“D-Class!” he barks shrilly, pushing down on the button so hard his fingertip turns white, “If you don’t pick up your rifle at once, I will have no choice but to-!”

“- Quiet Spencer…” Another voice - older, authoritative – snaps, causing the shrieking man to immediately fall silent and cower away from the microphone as obediently as a beaten dog. It even hushes the mutters of every other scientist in the observation room. Narrow eyes stare unblinkingly through coke-bottle spectacles, observing the interaction beyond the observation window with cool interest. “This is the longest a D-Class has survived with this specimen…” she points out, listening to the intern beside her scribble down the minutes, “I’d like to find out why.”

She watches the Disposable’s face turn towards the glass, trying to meet any of the scientists’ gazes, apparently seeking some sort of explanation to the SCP's behaviour.

Join the club.

“… Ma’am?” someone asks after several seconds pass without an answer, turning to face her, their expression inquiring.

For a further minute, she elects to stand there in silence, thoughtfully tapping a manicured nail against the microphone button, contemplating the magnificent creature and the miniscule human currently sharing a space.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, she slides her finger from the button and folds her arms, lab coat wrinkling around her elbows.

“The D-Class gets five minutes inside before extraction,” she declares, shooting a nod at her intern who scrambles to fish a stopwatch from his pocket and stabs his thumb on the button. Once she hears the sharp ‘beep,’ she returns her attention to the staff around her and adds, “No external input.”

There are murmurs of varying approval rising and falling all throughout the room, but once again, she only has eyes for the SCP.

“Let’s see if this D-Class proves more useful than the predecessors…”

---

“Hello?” you whisper-shout at the scientists behind the window, keeping the entity in the corner of your eye, “Um...”

Christ, this is awkward... "Can I... Can I leave, or...?"

Silence.

Impassive, boring silence.

Aside from the occasional motion made to scribble something down on a clipboard, none of the scientists seem inclined to offer anything more through the microphone.

Gradually, the tired muscles in your shoulder tighten.

You’ve seen this before. D-Class call it the ‘silent treatment,’ where scientists are more interested in seeing what you can find out about SCPs of your own volition.

Are you supposed to have survived for this long? Your mind races with the thought that your predecessors might have been subjected to the same thing before they met their end. You may end up a smear on the wall yet. Half of you is weary enough to hope that’s the case. You’ve just defied a direct order from one of the Lab Coats. You shudder to imagine which SCP they’ll toss you to after this.

It’s that thought alone that spurs you to take a single step towards this entity, intending to get this over with, but no sooner have you moved closer than it whips its head towards you again, and that gun is back up, the cylinders clicking furiously in response to your proximity.

You realise at once that you’d become too bold without its weapon pointed at you because now, that same fear has returned tenfold, sending you staggering backwards again to put some more distance between you and that deadly arm.

Slamming your eyes shut, you raise your hands up in front of your face, breath hitching as you wait to feel the first of many bullets slamming into your flesh.

… You count no less than ten heartbeats without feeling a thing.

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

“Two minutes to go, ma’am,” the intern quibbles at her side.

Eyes gleaming, she watches you stand shaking in front of the SCP, arms lifted in what she presumes must be surrender. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, “The entity still hasn’t fired a single round…”

“You think it’s run out of ammo?” one of the other scientists asks, bolder than his fellows in the face of their superior.

“Perhaps,” she muses, eyeing the SCP’s ‘tail’ that hangs slack behind it this time, not poised to strike over its head like a cobra, “But perhaps it’s just as likely that it won’t fire unless it’s fired upon first.”

The intern, apparently emboldened by another voice speaking up before him, says, “Um, would that class it as a Euclid then?”

Someone scoffs derisively.

“That cannot be determined at present,” she returns cooly, “We haven’t enough data… That being said...”

Stepping closer to the window, arms coming to clasp loosely behind her back, she tilts her head sideways and regards you with the mild interest of a spider watching a fly struggle in her web. “Thanks to this D-Class, we now know far more about the SCP than we did before… And all because an order was disregarded…”

“Impertinence,” someone spits.

“Initiative,” she returns sharply, the beginnings of a rare and pensive smile lifting her cheeks, “Mullins.”

The guard near the back of the room snaps to attention.

“Prepare for extraction in one minute’s time… And return our lucky D-Class to isolation. Forty-eight hours, I think. Regular meals. That should give us enough time to make arrangements for the next test.”

“Ma’am,” he grunts, moving up to the primary door.

“Er…” The intern beside her shifts on his feet, casting apprehensive glances between the SCP and the D-Class, “What is the next test…? Oh-! Um, Ma’am?”

What indeed? Her mind is already swirling with possibilities, the first of which sticks in place as she contemplates the logistics of it, turning it over and making mental arrangements that’ll need to be put in place.

“The next test?” she replies absently, gazing up at the entity’s fangs that are still being bared down at you, though it hasn’t made a move against you yet, “We’re going to see what, if anything, this SCP likes to eat.”

[ludinusdaleth]

You're honestly so right re: adaptation bc I think people cannot process that outside of a DND medium absolutely nothing in CR.... Works. I won't pretend I'm not critical of some decisions but folk act like they've never seen an adaptation before????? Even among good adaptations I don't think these people could even survive the HDM series.

hdm is honestly a really good pull because i would consider that the pinnacle of "objectively good adaptations with just enough changes it makes me squirm a little". i personally really dont like how they modernized the setting. or leaving out the part of the lost boys funeral where lyra screams at them for not respecting his dead fish/daemon. or how slow wills plot is in s1.

but it is beyond that a good adaptation. it hits and expands on every theme and plot point. i couldnt really ask for a better one.

i think lovm is presently infinitely better than hdm in hitting what matters. i dont like every part of it - i wish keyleths guilt-anger was developed more, or that her & vax werent so damn difficult conceptually to portray without problems any way you slice it - but im pretty stunned by everything else. i like c1 enough but i think a lot of lovm elevates it. ripley is more interesting to me here personally. i love how they changed the dawnmartyr subplot. and i like that it can mash future developments & the larger world in without it feeling forced and in fact adding to the scale of vox machina's heroism. and im really excited for expanded geopolitics & larger focus in m9's adaptation too! because i know things physically could never be a 1/1 in any adaptation, of anything, on planet earth. it would be boring, reductive, & at times even ignorant of modern politics if they did. i very purposely didnt come here to watch vm as it was and it surprises me that folk did. i ask m9 animated to be different. i ask bh animated to be different. maybe they will all misstep but it's all made with love and that is functionally all that matters to me. folk act like this is some wolverine origins deadpool level butchering when all i see are tweaks that dont matter to folk who are patient and dont obsess over every detail to a point of possession.

i just.... really, really dont get the anger over adaptation. i never have. the source always exists. just go to it, problem solved. if the literal creators are involved in the adaptation i do think they generally know what they want more than fans ever will and they have the maturity in creation to understand how to adapt a medium and compromise through that.

[escape-from-reality-reads]

Armored

The start of a fic set in regards to a conversation that happened between my partner and me in regards to Tieflings using their tails for various things.

M9 x Reader

slight mollymauk x reader

slightly suggestive but that's up to interpretation

Find it on AO3

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

You were staring. You knew it. Molly knew it. Everyone knew it and it was starting to get weird. 

It wasn’t the first time Molly had been stared at, being part of a carnival for a while, but the Nein were a bit more cautious about where they looked so as to not garner unwanted attention. Yet here you were; deep in thought, unmoving, and staring at his tail. At first he thought you were just staring into space so he started moving the appendage back and forth to be sure, only to have your eyes follow its every move. 

Glancing towards the rest of the crew with a smirk he lifts his tail to eye height, your eyes faithfully following.

“Glad you were able to find my eyes darling.”

“Why don’t you use your tail as a whip?”

He freezes at the random sentence. “I — What?”

You finally focus on his face. “Your tail. Why don’t you use it as a whip? I’ve seen both you and Jester lash your tails fairly quickly and it's about the width of my whip.” You place your bullwhip on the table, unwrapping part of it. 

Jester was the first to recover “That would hurt tho.” 

You look over. “Not if you wrap or braid it with leather or something. You’d essentially be making a new piece of armor that protects your tail. Plus you could probably find a blacksmith and get a piece of metal that you could place over the end that would be sharper to help deal damage.” 

“Almost like a stinger on a wasp.” Yasha responds, entering the conversation. “You could grapple with your arms and wrap around with your tail.” 

“Even without wrapping I feel like it wouldn’t be too different from clotheslining someone with an arm.” Beau leans forward, now entrenched in the idea. 

You nod. “It would probably hurt more than that, considering that the amount of contact would be smaller.”

“We could even get different things to attach to the end!” Jester states, pulling out her sketchbook and scribbling down some ideas while muttering to herself.  

Molly, finally snapping out of it, leans forward onto the table. “Your brain never ceases to amaze darling. Where did this come from?” 

You stare at him in confusion, slowly raising the bullwhip from the table. “You have something attached to your ass that looks like a shorter version of my main weapon of choice. I have seen you actively move it however you want. Why are you so surprised I asked this question?” 

Beau laughs. “Molly they say the most out of pocket shit that I have ever heard. You can’t be surprised by this. Between the threats of shaving people bald, wanting to make mimics their pet, and responding to things with random noises that make no sense, I'm just happy there’s some logic in this one.” 

Fjord, Caleb, and Nott sit down with new drinks, Nott speaking up first. “We making fun of Y/N and their mannerisms?” Jester jumps in, quickly explaining the small conversation that had happened while they were away, leaving you able to lean over to Molly. 

“You know, I could just braid a fabric around your tail for fun.” 

Molly looks back to you. “Oh?” 

“Wrap it up, put some charms on the fabric. Could even do so as to match the rest of your attire. Doesn’t have to be a defensive thing.” 

Molly smirks. “Was this just a long con to be able to play with my tail darling? You know all you need to do is ask.” 

You shrug with a smile, a glint in your eye that Molly quite enjoys. “But now Jester has an option to use to get alone time with a certain green someone.” 

Molly barks a laugh “Oh you clever little thing you.” All you respond with is an eyebrow wiggle as you drink your ale. 

[beedreamscape]

VERY LONG POST EXPLORING C3 AND WHY SO MANY PEOPLE MIGHT NOT LIKE IT/MY PERSONAL GRIPES WITH IT.

I ended up exploring a bit of that Reddit community of critical role fans (not the main one) where they basically gather together and commiserate how much they hate C3. It's frustrating to read because at some point you can tell they make no effort to engage positively with the campaign and have a penchant for hating anything about it.

But, from the perspective of someone with very little emotional connection to the past campaigns, I kinda get why C3 feels so different and, in my opinion, it's all about personal stakes for the characters.

As writers, we constantly hear that we must give the characters something personal to care about so that the reader may care about the plot - yeah city-destroying laser beam is a big stake, but if main character's loved one will be used as a sacrifice to the aliens to activate the laser beam unless they do something, the tension doubles.

And with a shallow look over the arcs of the past campaigns, especially the fans' favourites, a pattern I find is of those with heavy personal stakes:

People often point the Briarwoods arc as a favourite. It's not just about bringing down the powerful Briarwoods, it's about avenging Percy's family and bringing his beloved Whitestone back to its past glory, all mixed with the fighting of personal demons.

We also got Vax'ildans overarching arc with the Raven Queen and Scanlan's with Kaylie and his self-worth/discovery in the party.

In campaign three, the struggle of Fjord getting over Uk'otoa's influence and turning to the Wildmother, rediscovering himself. Bright Queen's Favor with freeing Yuza, uncovering Nott's past, grappling with their preconceptions of the empire and the dynasty, and meeting Essek. Losing then Recovering Yasha from Obann. Traveler Con.

This post about the first third of the C2 comparing it to C1 explains quite well how M9 is driven by the party's personal stakes over any obligation to any institution.

Not only personal stakes that build the value of the campaign, but places that grow as their own: Whitestone, Emon, Zephrah, Xhorhas, the Menagerie Coast, Zedash, etc.

That's what's missing from Campaign 3: anchors and personal stakes.

Bells Hells doesn't really care about anything! We're entrenched in the Ruidus plot ever since we learned what ruidusborn means in the beginning of the campaign and yet, what does that mean to them? It was the subject of Imogen's dreams and afflictions but what else? The main victims of it will be the gods, but they repeatedly state how much they don't care for the gods and are in doubt if losing them would be bad anyway.

In a certain perspective, I don't blame them - the plot has grown so massive and subjective, while they haven't - they're still level 10 nobodies against a god-eating moon-shaped monster and the insanely powerful guy that wants to free it.

Bells Hells doesn't care for the places they walk through! Only two members of the party are actually from Marquet! Imogen and Dorian. And both are running from their past! so they don't even want to be there! Ashton hates everything about it and all the others have no reason to cling to it.

Jrusar was such a great city with great dynamics that were only half explored and they don't seem to care to return to it even though so much goes unexplored. Yios meant nothing nor did Heartmoor or the Taloned Highlands (and its apparently juicy political intrigues nobody cared to explore) and barely a mention of Ank'harel or the Silken Squall.

WHY do we keep going back to Taldorei???

Marquet as a whole goes mostly unexplored and underused in the campaign and it's so upseting.

Bells Hells have nothing to lose! They hold no personal stakes to the plot, most of them don't have families and those that do feel like something so distant and impersonal, no place or city they love or feel connected to, the only thing they owned (the very valuable skyship rip) they destroyed with barely any consideration. Their morals feel like the only thing at stake and even that feels already lost.

C3 is pulling too much from past campaigns. From the moment they first contacted the VM people, it felt like a mistake, and every appearance since has felt so much like fan service (especially bc specific fan favourites are the recurring appearances, no variety). The time spent in Whitestone, the connections to Delilah, everything with Keyleth, etc.

This last one, in particular, contributes to that group of NPCs feeling, always revolving around some other character struggle - who cares what is going on with Bells Hells when Vax's trapped in an orb and Keyleth is half dying, and Caleb is in an anti-magic collar, and Trent is probably loose, and this character and that character...

We haven't spent proper time with C3-exclusive NPCs excluding Nana Morri since episode 50! No Lord Eshteross or Xandis or Ira or Jiana Hexum or the Green Seekers or Milo. It was so special to me having Dancer and Imahara Joe around even if briefly.

And Lord Eshteross death left such a huge gap in the dynamics of the party with the world. I think it was premature, especially because the thirst to avenge him (which I suppose was meant to fuel their hate and intention to kill Otohan) lasted so little and from there on out began the heavy and meta-gamey (and personally, OOC) relying on VM characters.

The ticking clock on the apogee solstice strained much of the campaign and brought this looming fear of 'if we don't take care of it nobody will so we can't waste time', therefore the alternative paths and personal arcs fell to the sidelines in favor of the elephant in the room, so it felt like several episodes of dragging towards this event, then the peak of ep 50-51, to re-start the drag of post moon beam.

Guest PCs are a whole other can of worms I'm not ready to explore also bc it entails a lot, but it's a shared sentiment that people miss Dorian and what he brought to the table.

On a personal view, the Hellcath Valley was my favorite arc. Bassuras felt so tactile and real and gritty, we had a clear objective of infiltrating the Paragon's Call and retrieving Armand Treshi, Deathwish Run, the mystery of Dusk unveiling into Yu, Fearne's parents encounter, Ira, Imahara Joe and reveals about Dancer and D., first FCG nervous attack, Otohan battle and Laudna's death. SO MUCH.

Special mentions to everything Jrusar and Shade Creepers, Heartmoor and the Museum, Savalirwood, and the time spent on the Silver Sun.

I miss these small-scale objectives, I miss the C3 NPCs, I miss Marquet, I miss turning our eyes to these character tensions and exploration, I miss the one-on-one talks, the unity they shared in those dire moments.

I can't wait to leave the Predathos plot and all the repetitive discussions within it behind.

This doesn't cover everything (interpersonal relationships are a whole other spectrum of discussion) but a few things I feel puts an obstacle towards people liking this campaign when comparing the past ones.

[saphirered]

I saw the Autumn/Winter prompts and i have to.

So how about Solstice Kiss with Mollymauk preferably Spice and Fluff. I am a sucker for Molly (is it obvious?)

I’ve been dying to write for the M9 again! Especially after having been to the Live Show 😩Fluff with some spice coming right up! Hope you enjoy! 😘

The party rages on. Whatever solstice celebrations this village takes to are very much enjoyable. It’s a refreshing delight to see such peoples take to such debauchery without eye for consequence or modesty. Drink flows a plenty, delicious foods are shared graciously, and the company, the company does not judge. It indulges. When the carnival stopped here for their last show of the year they did not intend to stay this long but the snow kept them. A gift from the gods themselves according to some because they were welcomed by the locals and are more than happy to enable every poor life choice made on this eve for the sake of everyone’s enjoyment. No one would be left out. No one would feel sad or alone on this night. Tonight they are all among family and friends and lovers. It is a good night. 

Mollymauk watches as you dance with Bo the Breaker. You’re spun into the arms of Gustav next who offers you a cup you take to your lips. You’re dressed to impress. While he might be a little biased he dares say you are the most beautiful creature to be seen. While you danced he had occupied himself telling some fortunes here and there. He’d have done it for drink and trade but these people offered generously, even more so when their cups kept refilling. Pockets heavy they kept coming to him still and he would tell them their fortunes. They’d eat up every word but despite his nimble fingers pulling forth the cards he searched for, he was slower than usual. You caught his attention, distracted him whenever you entered his peripheral vision and you knew it too. Little minx you are. 

And then you disappeared into the crowd. His focus returned. If only for a little. Molly finishes up yet another fortune, reshuffling his cards how he always does, assuring they’re in the right order. He has a moment of respite and expects the next farmer to come chatter any moment. The chair opposite of him is not occupied but in front of him he finds a cup of questionable looking liquid. Arms drape over his shoulders sliding down until they link together over his chest. You perch your chin on his shoulder after pressing a quick kiss to his neck. He’s sure you can feel the goosebumps spread across his skin. Your lips are cold. He’s got every intention to change that now. 

“So everyone is having a good time and you are reading fortunes? We closed hours ago.” You chirp letting your cold fingers trail along the exposed skin of his chest. More goosebumps. He can feel your smile when your lips brush so close to his ear. Molly takes the cup in one hand, putting his cards away with the other before he turns to face you better. You take the opportunity to slide into his lap and take a sip of his cup. 

“What’s a little overtime for these good people.” He takes the cup from you. “I thought that was meant for me?” Teasing as ever. He takes a sip. Gods that’s good. Before he can ask you answer.

“Apparently they call it apple crumble mede. It sounds disgusting but tastes like apple pie. They also have cherry, chilli and whiskey but I’m particularly fond of the chestnut one.” 

“So exactly how much did you have to drink?”

“Not nearly enough to be even remotely tipsy.” You’re truthful. You’d only had a single sip of those before you settled on this one. You’d barely had one cup. Molly shakes his head. 

“Such a party and such little drinking? What has become of our reigning champion?” He jests and chuckles when you go to reach for the cup. He holds it out of your reach until you give up with a roll of your eyes. Only then does he feel safe to actually drink more. You clutch your hands together rubbing them for warmth and subconsciously move yourself closer into him. 

“Cold?” He asks. You don’t even make a point to deny it. Instead you curl closer to him. 

“I’m warm when I’m dancing. I feel like the dead of winter when I stop moving.” 

“So what you’re saying is we got to keep you warm somehow?” Molly gives you the most suggestive look he can muster just to humour you. 

“But what about the midnight dance?” You groan throwing your head against his shoulder. His fingers gently dance up your side, brushing up and down at an even pace. They slip under the fabric of your shirt. Molly is making it very hard for you to focus and he knows it. 

“If you insist. I’ll never say no to a dance with you.” You make no move to get up just yet. “Come on… It’s tradition after all.” He lifts you to your feet until you stand on your own, then takes a step backwards and with a ridiculous bow extends to you his hand. Your freezing fingers touch his and he instantly brings them to his lips, shiver running down his spine as the cold hits him but he doesn’t let it stop him. Despite his warmer body, Molly still very much is susceptive to the cold, perhaps even more so than you. 

Mollymauk leads you to the dance floor, where the commoners dance their commoner’s waltzes and let’s be honest, these are probably the only dances the carnies actually know. It’s something to bond over, to finally fit into the chaos that allows for mistakes and choses fun over perfection. The musicians play an upbeat tune while the locals sing the song in a chorus of dancers. Everyone seems to know the song, or at least enough to hum along where the words are but foreign to them or their ability to form coherent sentences, be they out of breath or too intoxicated. You spin under his arm, link your arm with his, close in, then apart, side to side and twirl around each other. You sway and sway, close in, a hairs breath away, and then too far. Repeat. 

It’s the midnight dance, following the patterns of the stars and skies and constellations long lost to Exandria but it matters not. You feel alive, so incredibly alive. The dance is a short, too short but when you see that burning in those scarlet eyes, see that love and admiration, that joy, you know it’s just long enough. You know how this dance ends. You’ve heard the locals talk about it when you ran your errands. And so when the last note strikes and the cheers erupt, you step in close within Molly’s embrace. You look him in the eye, then down to his lips and place yours against his in a feverish kiss. His response is quick, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer, the other at the back of your neck tilting your head ever so slightly to gain better access to you. You feel his lips part, his tongue brush against yours and you invite him wholly. Perhaps time slows, or perhaps it moves all too fast because when you part you want more, so much more and when you look him in the eye, so does he. 

Taking his hand you pull Mollymauk along away from the dancing and feasting people. Instead you make for a barn. Perhaps not the most glorious place but you’ve found yourselves in far worse. You quickly pick the lock and slide into the barn, Molly following behind. When he enters you quickly close the door and push him against it. Your lips are on his, hands sliding up his chest until you cup his cheeks. He takes a moment to recover but quickly his hand settle on your hips and in one swift motion he lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you along to the piles of hay. As you’ve done many times before, you push the coat from his shoulders. Begrudgingly he sets you down so you can take it off and without breaking contact once, place it down behind you. You use this moment to change places, urge him backwards and onto the coat. 

You are the image of seduction and you bring him to his knees with but one wanton look; your lips are slightly parted, your pupils dilated. He can see your breath rise and the twitch of your fingers. All it takes is a gentle push of your guiding hand and he is at your mercy as you crawl on top of him, legs on either side, fingers in his hair pulling at the roots ever so lightly. Your lips meet once more, tongues dancing together, but a taste of what’s to come, of what you are setting out to do. It’s safe to say those solstice kisses are intoxicating but you can do so much more and you intend to prove it. He all but whines when you trail your kisses down his neck, being sure to leave many a mark there, and go down further and further until you feel him. You look up at him when you reach for the buckles of his belt, teasingly slow to undo them. 

“Say the word.” You croon looking up through your lashes. You could have him undone right then and there. When he doesn’t respond thinking about what you’ll do to him, you let your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his trousers. The sweet noises he makes when he’s at your mercy.

“Please.” Begrudgingly he speaks but is cut off by his own mewling sounds when he feels your tongue circle him, then your lips wrap around him, just the once before letting your hands take over, stroking so slowly.

“That’s a good devil.” You grin and when you see the flush to his skin, feel his fingers lace in your hair you go down again. This will be an eventful solstice. One to remember for sure. 

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Hidden Gems: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have one of our recurring themes: fics with fewer than 150 kudos! Check under the cut for fourteen amazing fics that you might have missed the first time around:

Ocean Blues by Vailee (3836,General)

Warnings: None

On a remote island, Caleb meets a merman named Essek.

Reccer says: The description of merman Essek with his fins and tail is very adorable.

Breaking Inertia by futureshieldmaiden (31096,Teen)

Warnings: None

A time loop fic where Bren has to work with the Shadowhand Essek Thelyss to straighten out time.

Reccer says: There's a lovely slow burn between the two, and I like the plot develops - with a couple of twists along the way.

flurries by quinn_of_aebradore (1381,General)

Warnings: none

Caleb and Essek visit a night market

Reccer says: It's extremely sweet and soft, with a warm and cozy wintertime feel to it.

the start: wings to chase the sky by mllekurtz (TheKnittingJedi) (2662,Teen)

Warnings: None, but note that the other part of the duology has its own tags! (calamity fic)

Part of a duology of an Age of Arcanum AU where Caleb and Essek are prestigious wizards of Avalir. A getting-together ficlet.

Reccer says: Mlle is so good at writing the shadowgast getting together, and it's fun to see the wizards in this lavish arcane world.

in the blood by VexedVixen (11075,Mature)

Warnings: None

Vampire!Essek rescues an injured Caleb and brings him to his towers in Rosohna. Caleb is them offered a job by Essek - a job that includes donating some blood.

Reccer says: The worldbuilding is so cool! Always nice to see a good vampire AU.

A Thousand Words, Unspoken by soot_and_salt (3150,General)

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings (technically, but it's not a dark story)

Caleb runs a YouTube channel where he films himself restoring paintings. The latest one to come in is a portrait of a beautiful drow man.

Reccer says: If you're familiar with the story of Pygmalion and Galatea, it's a little like that.

you're the only light i've ever known by glossolali (1463,Teen)

Warnings: None

After their bath, Essek combs and plays with Caleb's hair. Caleb enjoys himself.

Reccer says: It's very sweet and tender. And like the author says in the end note, it shows how Caleb has changed and healed over the course of campaign 2.

Break Me, Mend Me by Kaiannae (21835,Mature)

Warnings: Depiction of depression and self-sabotage, CNC if you squint, borderline force feeding if you squint.

Caleb's self-loathing is rearing its ugly head and he is spiraling out of control, pushing his friends and chosen family away, isolating himself from those who care about him and attempting to sabotage everything good in his life. Eventually, Essek decides to do something about it. He knows that nothing mundane like talking would be of any help, so he offers Caleb what the human thinks he wants: punishment, atonement, debasement, a way to quiet the vicious voices in his head.

Reccer says: BDSM as therapy, sort of, getting into Caleb's head for the character study, aftercare for the masses, doms and subs alike.

Silver Couches To Recline Upon And Ornaments Of Gold by soot_and_salt (3242,Teen)

Warnings: None

Essek, unable to leave the tower he resides in, finds a cat on his balcony. He soon discovers there is more to this cat than he could have ever imagined.

Reccer says: It is a fairy tale au and I am a big fan of fairy tales.

Let the River Carry You by Operafloozy (2983,General)

Warnings: none

Essek knits something for each of the Nein

Reccer says: It's very sweet and thoughtful, and I love the description of the patterns

in vaults and cherished amber by allinna (4406,Teen)

Warnings: none

At the Vurmas Outpost, Essek receives some well-deserved love from Caleb and the M9.

Reccer says: it's a sweet, comfy fic that makes you smile! what more would you want.

born from beauty by hanap (2375,Explicit)

Warnings: None

Caleb and Essek have a conversation about their respective experiences with gender and what it means to feel at home in one's body, after which Essek shows his love for Caleb's body by giving him a blowjob.

Reccer says: I resonate with both Caleb and Essek's experiences of gender in this fic, so it was a lovely experience getting to read how much the two of them love each other's bodies that are so similar to mine.

if only I could see your face by lakrisrot (3399,Explicit)

Warnings: Can read having a sex-negative to sex-neutral POV character

Caleb spends some time with Essek after the Transmogrification fails. They end up more intimate that expected.

Reccer says: This fic offers a very intriguing look into Essek's mind as an asexual/demi person. I very much enjoyed that.

And two recs for

the hole in the stone by MinnesotaBruja (13243,Teen)

Warnings: Animal/Pet Death

Shortly after the end of campaign 2, Essek takes a position as a lighthouse keeper on a remote island north of Eiselcross. The fic is comprised of his letters to Caleb.

Reccer 1 says: Essek cares for chickens while living on the island and I find it extremely sweet. Reccer 2 says: Beautiful, heartbreaking, so very well written you will most definitely cry and it's worth every tear!

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. And hey! Don’t forget to leave comments and kudos for the lovely authors!

Check out the previous Hidden Gem Recs Lists here [1] [2]

Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week's theme is Time Travel/Time Loops!

[burningdarkfire]

blood moon (author's notes)

Putting this post on my resume as proof that I am committed to seeing things through to the fucking end. It might be 2024 now but here is a finished author's note for blood moon!!

It's been long enough that the below is more of a retrospective than what we usually think of as an author's note. Some of it dates back to two or three years ago, a lot of it doesn't. With the goal of finishing these notes, I recently reread the fic in its entirety, twice, and I still very much enjoyed it. That's all I can really ever ask of a fic, so I'm happy 💕

Writing Timeline

Blood Moon was a fascinating writing problem. I always knew it was going to be a long fic, longer than I usually wrote, and I also knew that I was bad at finishing long fics. I started writing in November 2021 with the promise to myself that even if I didn't finish it, I would eventually share whatever I had. I initially planned to upload chapters without editing because I suspected that it would bog me down in a lot of small details … and I was entirely correct! So here is the 18 month journey of the fic, in monthly word counts, from start to finish:

November 2021: 18723 

December 2021: (no work)

January 2022: 3591

February 2022: 2872 (finished the shadowgast oneshot, outlined the rest of the fic)

March 2022: 4353 (this is when i first thought "the ending was in sight" LOL)

April 2022: 3667 (i made the decision to edit/rewrite some chapters—at this point i had already written up to fjord meeting back up with the m9 after getting the third eye)

May 2022: 1163 

June 2022: 2028 (this was my initial estimate/deadline for finishing)

July 2022: (no work)

August 2022: (no work)

September 2022: 3371 (i copied over my existing work—up to fjord and astrid's conversation—and started a major edit/second draft)

October 2022: 1228 

November 2022: 2278 (posted the first chapter to ao3)

December 2022: 2144 

January 2023: 1876 (finished my second draft and sent to beta for edits)

February 2023: 126 (finished edits! left some very minor points to polish)

March 2023: 17

April 2023: (finished posting!)

Blood Moon Universe

Blood Moon is an original universe of mine that dates back to 2011. It has all the cliché vampires vs. werewolves vibes that I will shamelessly admit I have never grown out of. We didn't get to see a lot of it in the fic, but it's a very fertile, flexible environment—this is the fourth story I've set in this world, and even though they've all been vastly different from each other, the shell concepts have always served me well. Unsurprisingly, one makes original worlds that are conducive to the themes and motifs that one likes to write about.

Caleb and Fjord live in a dark age, where the last war between the vampires and werewolves decimated both populations so severely that the world is simply emptier than it used to be. Molly and Yasha raid abandoned manors, Caleb lives on ceded vamp territory where the wolves are also absent. Caduceus is alone in the Clay family home except for his temporary companions. Everyone is busy with their own survival, and there's no way for the scarce, scattered populations of the northern forests to repel the Shades on their own.

It was a big decision to write a story about two humans in this world, but Fjord and Caleb have always been underdog stories struggling with established powers. It's hard to imagine them any other way.

Canon-Related Concepts

One of my favourite arcs of Campaign 2 is the pirates arc, because the characters are asking themselves such deliciously heavy questions about their place in the world following Molly's death. I wanted to explore those facets of these characters. 

I've also always found it so interesting that Travis said Fjord would have left to find the third orb if the Wildmother hadn't come through for him. 

Caleb seeks an impossible magic for selfish aims, but he does it because he loves his parents. Fjord would make a deal with the devil for power, but he does it because he equates power with agency, and he wants the ability to protect himself and others. Caleb had a taste of that power, but it soured when he used it for the wrong reasons. Fjord is tasting it now, and can't imagine ever letting it go.

Related Works

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley 

The Raven Tower by Ann Leckie

The Magicians by Lev Grossman

The initial pitch of Blood Moon explicitly referred to Caleb as a "Frankensteinien" character. Pervasive in that book is the desire for a domestic life, in which love, happiness, and security are enclosed. Frankenstein loses his mother, and then loses everything else as a consequence of the actions of his grief and uncertainty. What if Caleb's desire to undo what he did to his parents outweighed everything else?

Blood Moon borrows heavily from the magic in The Raven Tower, where one can literally speak something into existence. The idea of a world where "if you say something, it must become true, or you die trying" is extremely evocative and has stayed with me. It was a beautiful way to explore how grief can change the world.

If I can be honest here for a moment, I actually no longer remember why I have The Magicians listed as an inspiration for the fic. I started Blood Moon 3+ years ago and read The Magicians shortly afterwards, and I've since forgotten everything about that book except for what it made me feel: a despair that was hard to look in the eye.

Themes

These are phrased like high school essay questions because I couldn't think of a better way to present them. These are some of the questions that I asked myself while writing:

"With great power comes great responsibility …" Perhaps the defining question of the entire story. How is the question of duty explored in the fic? What do different characters feel responsible for and how do those responsibilities compete? How would each character answer the question "What do we owe to one another?"

Magic is intention. In this world, anybody can do magic. How is the magical presented in relation to the mundane? How much agency do the characters have? What kinds of choices do different characters make? How much does magic change their perception of the world? 

The knowing is part of the price. Caleb and Fjord are both characters who don't know who they are or don't fully understand what made them. Initially, Fjord is resistant to the idea of learning more about his teacher at all. Vulnerability, he understands, is something that can only be given when you have power. What role do alter egos and second identities and our strange other selves play in this fic?

Life and death are the greatest changes of all. Caleb is determined to bring back his parents at any cost. Fjord is determined to live at any cost. Both of our lead characters have other forces calling for their dues. How are death and grief explored in this fic? How about ideas of rebirth and change? 

I am nothing like I was. I cannot teach you; I cannot protect you. The story of Blood Moon is the story of what happens when Fjord goes looking for a teacher. In fact, many of the primary relationships in this fic are a mentorship or potential mentorship between a teacher and a student. What role does learning and teaching play in interpersonal relationships? How do different characters challenge these categories?

Home is where the heart is. The residences of several prominent magicians feature heavily in the fic as their seats of power. What role does "home" play in Caleb and Fjord's lives? How do they imagine, think of, and build their homes? What happens when someone's home is destroyed or otherwise absent? 

Return. What is Fjord's relationship with the sea?

Misc. Notes

The enduring image of the fic that still lives rent free in my head is the burning house. Caleb's childhood house goes up in flames -> Isharnai's house goes up in flames -> the manor goes up in flames, and each time the axis of the world shifts just a little bit.

If you read and enjoyed the fic, please know that you have my eternal thanks. It means a lot to me.

And of course:

[burr-ell]

Seeing the art gallery and the ep thumbnail and cast and fans and such all focus on the kiss/ship (which i'm not begrudging their excitement about they're genuinely happy and that's great) is kinda jarring to me because in the long run of that episode. Nothing actually changed much because of the kiss. There really wasn't any paradigm shift, no further discussions, not much to talk about, and nothing that lends itself to any of the things that happened with the m9 where we had the brjeaus and Jest and Veth having their freak outs over their crush romance developments @ each other. Like obviously they were kinda busy over the moon and rq visions business but like. Where everyone else had so much character material going on, there's just so little that the romance can provide.

It really is odd—especially because you could cut out the kiss entirely and even the conversation they had when it happened wouldn't really be any different, nor would it be distinguishable from any other conversation they've ever had. They don't talk about it with anyone, either, even Ashton or FCG, who are the ones who have encouraged it the most, so the result is that it makes the relationship feel even more insular than it already is.

I think part of what it comes down to and why I don't enjoy this ship is that it feels like we're all watching two separate stories: one is an action-adventure story about this big moon conspiracy and the other is a YA romance novel. (Which is not at all helped by a fandom that consistently judges every character and story development based on whether or not it supports The Ship.) So every time the characters have another 'I depend on you SO much" "No I depend on YOU so much" remix, it's like...okay, but what's going on in Campaign 3 right now? And that is incredibly weird when every other romance these players have done feels more integrated into the overall story, even the ones they've done in oneshots. But it's because even their friendship has been so isolated from the rest of the group in a way that even Vax and Vex or Caleb and Nott weren't, and yet when they're around each other there's still so much they aren't willing to say.

[wizardnuke]

this is a short essay response of a meta this is batshit insane. im still on my shadowgast honeypot meta. this makes no sense. i have. citations.

also i wholeheartedly believe that up until the nicodranas incident, caleb was never fully himself around essek because 1) his latent spy training alarm bells went off as soon as he met him 2) caleb is an ex-volstrucker in an "enemy country" where he knows there's an empire mole and knew that essek was hiding something. he didn't know what. i don't believe that he thought it was All That. but caleb is extremely paranoid. right are we following. meanwhile he and the rest of the m9 were getting into essek's head bc essek had thee distinct disadvantage of being 1) alone 2) very nervous all the time 3) juggling contact with the bright queen and da'leth and just like, having a Bad Time, and the m9 popped in and he realized "ohh some people don't spend their lives in social espionage hell" and proceeded to, not at first but eventually, also assume that caleb was included in that statement (dairon implied that someone, likely the empire mole, had to have given that volstrucker the shank, and it's not confirmed that essek did but like. he did. and then he got over that paranoia a little bit because caleb is a good actor) and anyway my point is. i don't think essek really saw caleb outside of that double honeypotting scheme (which was beginning to devolve into a one-sided honeypot, with caleb still on the job while essek was slipping) and half-made plans to get caleb killed, and probably the false security of working with him (and veth) to make that spell, My Point Is. essek slipped. essek fell for it. he didn't fall in love with caleb, but he liked him and saw him as a peer and a friend.

and then the first really barefaced, honest thing that caleb ever said to him was "yes, friend, what are you doing?" echoing essek's mention of having friends to da'leth, and then following that with "i would love for you to see the sunrise, so if there is a reasonable explanation, we would love to hear it" anyway the first time that essek really saw caleb as who he is- an actor stepping away from a role, a spy, a grim counterpart to jester's concern and compassion ("what are you doing?"/"do you want to sit down?"/"i hold his hand")- and someone who still despite all that wanted to think the best for essek because he had more or less up until that point fully duped the m9! caleb didn't suspect a thing, he was just being paranoid!

the. the first time that caleb dropped some of the act- he went from honeypotting him to handling a crisis, the crisis being "essek is freaking the fuck out and we don't have time for this, we are actively in peace talks and essek could blow everything up if he slips, so im going to say what he needs to hear", paraphrased from a talks machina that's probably off yt and i don't really care to look up, but he wasn't lying to him. he wasn't telling him that it was all okay, because it wasn't, but "the difference between you and i is thinner than a razor" is caleb recognizing what essek is and saying that he's barely any different, both in terms of atrocities committed (whether that's true or not is another story but my point is that caleb believes it) and in terms of the game they were playing - essek lost that game. bad. he lost it real bad.

essek sees caleb for the first time when he's been caught and the person that he thought of as a friend sits in front of him and flatly tells him "i am going to kill you unless you give me a reason not to, right now". that's caleb. that's Caleb Widogast™. that's the guy that made a deal with beau and fjord that they would keep each other on the right path. that's the caleb that wants to get rid of ikithon. that's the caleb who misses his parents. that's the caleb who has hope for astrid and wulf. he wants to have hope for essek too- "you were not born with venom in your veins, you learned it". he's not lying about having hope for essek, he's lying about how much hope he has. and he's trying, desperately, to instill some of that hope in essek. and isn't that. like. thee caleb thesis. determination, despite a lack of hope. "you and i are both damned, but we can choose to do something and leave it better than it was before".

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

Dialogue Prompt

4 - John & Cobalt-Team (pick your straight-man)

13 - Kelly & Fred

From these prompts - please, anyone feel free to throw me some more!

4 - "Could you not be a show-off while we're trying to stay alive!"

(Set in the Silver timeline)

Cobalt Team were among the highest-performing Spartan teams. They had been hardened into a cohesive unit since they were six years old, and it showed. Ice water ran through their veins. They were efficient, they were precise, and they were deadly. Unfortunately, even the best of the best had bad days.

This was a bad day.

They'd been scouting ahead for an extraction detail - yet another in a long list of embarrassingly meaningless tasks ever since Silver Team had dropped the ball and made the entire SPARTAN program a liability in the eyes of the Powers That Be. For this particular mission, Silver Team was even sent along. No one knew why not one but two Spartan fireteams had been assigned babysitting duty, but then... they weren't the type to question orders. They'd leave that to John and his band of misfit toys.

Cobalt had just split off to check a new NAV marker when they came under fire. It took only a matter of seconds for the grizzled soldiers to realize that they were well and truly surrounded - and in deep trouble to boot.

"Elite, nine o'clock," Cobalt's leader, Val-015 called out stoically. He put a three-round burst into the towering alien's center-mass. Its shields flared brightly, then cracked. Yaz-112 put a single round from her DMR through the creature's skull, its dark blue innards spraying outward in a fine mist.

Val shifted his aim. "Cobalt Three, half a dozen jackals creeping up the right flank."

"I see them, I see them!" Karim-002 barked. He distracted the vaguely avian creatures with a few burst from his battle rifle before lobbing an M9 fragmentation grenade over top of their shields. A second and a half later, their angry squawks were silenced permanently.

Cobalt were good at what they did. Quick. Efficient. Deadly.

As Val consulted the dozens of incoming enemy contacts on his motion tracker, it suddenly dawned on him that it wouldn't be enough.

"Where's Silver when you need them?" Karim asked no on in particular as he knocked down a trio of Grunts with a few well-placed shots. "John's always around to act like he's the be-all end-all of hardcore soldiers, but when you actually need him? Something better always-"

Whatever Cobalt Three had been about to say was lost in the violent report of a Condor's chin-gun. The dense foliage around the fireteam erupted into shrapnel and neon-colored plumes of blood as the UNSC dropship rose seemingly from nowhere and began to burn down the encroaching enemies.

The carpet-fire was enough to give Cobalt a brief reprieve - and then the Condor was spinning around, its gangplank hanging open and waiting to receive them. Karim groaned audibly when he recognized John-117 standing on the lowered ramp, one arm outstretched heroically.

"Come on!" the Spartans' squad leader bellowed, firing an M6 into the woods.

Cobalt scrambled onto the Condor, both Val and Yaz allowing the Chief to help them aboard. Karim stiffly refused the other Spartan's help, opting to fling himself into the hovering dropship under his own power.

Once the troop bay was sealed tight and they were headed back to their carrier, John made his way to Karim's side.

"Are you injured, Spartan?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle for the man who had become so synonymous with warcraft that the UNSC had all but painted him as their mascot.

"I'm fine," Karim snapped. Then he sighed heavily, staring at his boots. Finally he lifted his eyes to glare at John's visor. "Just... could you not be a show-off while the rest of us are trying to survive?"

John stared at him in silence, the small twitch of his head the only indication that Karim's annoyed request had any effect on him. "Sorry," he finally said, his tone heavy-laden. "I'll try not to in the future."

From the cockpit, Vannak-134 and Riz-028 laughed loudly.

13 - "I would rather be kissing you right now."

The UNSC Infinity was the greatest warship the UNSC had ever constructed. She was sleek, she was fast, and she was just as powerful as the most impressive weaponry the Covenant had ever managed to bring to bear.

Not the least impressive attribute of the Infinity was her Spartan Deck. S-Deck, as it was known by the ship's crew, was stocked with enough Brokkr System machines and training materials to keep an entire company of Spartans happy... and Blue Team was certainly taking advantage of that.

Kelly-087 in particular was enjoying herself immensely. With the Infinity's 'War Games' simulator, the fastest of all Spartans had finally found herself a worthy challenger: a training relay that combined all of the thrill of a life-and-death combat scenario with all of the competitive triumph of being able to run simulations over and over again until her need for perfection was finally satisfied.

"This is incredible," Kelly said excitedly between rounds. Blue Team had just sent Fireteam Boxer to the showers, thoroughly humiliated with their poor showing against the veteran Spartans. Next up on the chopping block was Grindstone. She couldn't wait to rub the upstarts' faces in her own squad's superiority.

"I couldn't imagine a better way to spend our day," she continued, jabbering excitedly. "Teaching these kids how real Spartans operate, only to line them up and knock them back down the very next day."

Although Blue Team held immense respect for the Spartan-IVs, it was undeniable that they all got a very real sense of satisfaction from knocking down the younger generation down a few pegs from time to time. While John and Linda smirked and nodded their concurrence, Kelly noticed that Fred merely cocked his head to one side curiously, and said nothing.

Curious herself, the Spartan leaned closer to the man. "Something wrong?" she asked quietly enough that only he could hear, studying his expression. They were close - close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his unhelmeted head and to count the flecks of blue pockmarking the green of his eyes. Close enough that she could smell his breath, still minty from his toothpaste, and could see each tick and shift in his familiar face.

Fred glanced over at her and grinned, dimples forming small valleys in his cheeks. "Not a thing, Rabbit," he said with a twinkle in his eye that he seemed to reserve only for her, in moments like these when no one else would notice. "I was just thinking that there's at least one thing I could be persuaded to do instead of this."

Kelly shot back a grin of her own, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "And what might that be, LT?" she prodded.

"Nothing too important," Fred answered, his smile slowly transitioning into a smirk. "But I'd rather be kissing you right now."

With that, the Spartan slid his helmet back into place. "Time's up," he called out, turning his back on Kelly and slinging an MA5D over his shoulder. "Grindstone's waiting for us to show them up yet again... I'd hate to disappoint."

Kelly watched him confidently march away, her jaw dropping open ever-so-slightly in shock. Then, mustering all of her will-power, she closed her mouth with a click of her teeth and resolved to focus on the upcoming simulation. It wouldn't do her any favors to waltz in unprepared. But, she promised herself, she was definitely going to take Fred up on that offer.

Sooner than later.

[skeletonsloverockcandy]

I know everyone loves C2 episode 97 as like a fav Essek episode, and I do too, but I feel like people sleep on episode 91 sometimes because of that

That episode is so fucking cute you guys,

It’s got hot tub shenanigans and bonding and sharing close personal secrets and awkward ice breakers

It’s the first time Essek really goes out of his way to spend time with the M9 and realizes how lonely he’s gotten in their absence

It’s when the M9 really begin to trust him not just as an ally but also as a close friend

In hindsight it’s so good because you can really pin-point the conflict in Essek and the anxiety because he got close to these chucklefucks because they were a security risk to him, but he *actually* grew to like them and really care about him because they’ve only ever been nice to him, even when he was a ball of hidden anxiety because they were close to finding out his secret

Hindsight is also good because we can see just how much Essek lies this episode, how much he’s dancing along the truth to save his own skin, but also how much he’s opening up about himself.

He lies about being consecuted, he lies about his involvement with the beacons and the Assembly, he obfuscates how much he really knows, and his reactions reveal just how much he’s been kept on the outs of the Assembly’s research as well—

This all to save face in front of the Nein to what most would assume would be standards of his culture (pretending to be consecuted when he’s not for example), but at the same time being strangely forthright with the Nein about other things that would be considered heresy in Dynasty culture, like his views on religion and the Luxon and his willingness to keep secrets from the Bright Queen, to his admission of his father’s death from the result of angering him.

It’s so interesting to go back and see what he was lying about and what he was being mostly truthful about, and dancing this line of being nervous anytime the Nein got close to questioning something he might have had involvement in to the genuine endearment he is gaining as he learns more about these individuals.

He admitted himself that he accepted their invitation after some thought because he didn’t realize how lonely he was and he was lacking good friends, how he began to lean towards the Nein because they are not strongly affiliated with either side of the conflict and not held up to one strong ideology over another, so he feels he can be himself around them and not hide his true feelings about certain subjects

This in turn endears him to the Nein because they agree with him on his candidness and because him endangering himself to hang out with them and help them and be nice to them in a world where so few people are nice to them let’s them really grow to like him

And in this group of secrets where they are known for hiding secrets upon secrets from each other and the world, seeing Essek appear to reveal some secrets to them and be trusted with some of their secrets I feel really brought them together

This episode (and the many episodes preceding it) I feel really built up the foundation of their friendship that could withstand the revelation of episode 97, because otherwise they would have turned him in or he would have fought back if he cared about them just a little less. And while it fundamentally changed their relationship I think for the better to have everything out in the open, that couldn’t have happened without all the hard work put into it first

I find myself grateful in a way that the M9 didn’t suspect Essek’s involvement with the beacons or possibly being the traitor up until the peace talks, because if they had been more suspicious or guarded with him, they would never have grown close enough to be hurt by his betrayal, and he would not have become friends enough to consider it one.

It was something he did before he ever met them, and it only became a betrayal after he grew to care about them, and by that point it was too late to take back, and this he is left with this mingled feeling of guilt and gratefulness to have met them in the first place.

Also episode 91 is just awesome anyway, you’ve got the Traveler Pitch, you’ve got Essek not knowing how to do small talk so he asks about their Ultimate Goals™️, you’ve got the Fjord Stone revelation, you’ve got “I’m the transmutation Wizard, but you’re the one that changes people”, you’ve got “I smell like a crayon” you’ve got the completion of Halas’s spell and Caleb hugging Nott and Essek, it’s literally the Best. I love this episode so fucking much, I keep having to pause it to kick my feet and giggle at how much I love Essek because of how awkward he is and how much he’s trying and he’s stress drinking and bashfully dipping his feet in the hot tub and I’m just 💜✨🥰💕❤️💜✨💕❤️🥰✨💜💕🥰❤️✨💕❤️✨💜

Anyway, in conclusion: Hot Boi Wizard is fav ❤️

[squillflower-art]

Just found your acc and I love your work!

I love your derpy little skrungly art of the CR cast! They’re so cute I wanna pick ‘em all up and give ‘em a big ol bear hug! I also adore the phone wallpaper you made for Bells Hells and was wondering if you ever plan to make one for the Mighty Nein as well?

Thank you sm! 💛 I do want to do more wallpapers for the M9 and also VM once I manage to draw them.

I've been blessed with a lot of commissions right now so I haven't had much time to do any personal art hehe.

Maybe I'll have to close them for a bit over the holidays so I can get that done.

[ludinusdaleth]

this is something ive had brewing in my mind for a while, but now that this aeor arc seems concluded, im really thinking on ludinus & other calamity survivors, and the idea of no perfect victim & moving forward.

ludinus & leylas are about the same age, have lived the same years. when we meet leylas, she is sending her soldiers to war in large part because she has seen the cycles of exandria unfold so consistently she cannot imagine peace until she defeats her enemy (quana still prays for it, and unity among everyone. but she holds her tongue). ludinus, on the opposite side of the mountains, knows the cycles too. and he thinks he must wage them to break them. leylas worships the luxon to free herself from the gods. ludinus despises the luxon for being seen as a god at all, that leylas as a survivor would dare worship it. both see the exact same thing but in opposite ways. but leylas gives a small smile of surprise when the m9 stop the war of ash & light. she is surprised, but happy to be wrong, in this one moment; her faith in these non dynasty folk paid off. all ludinus, one who hates cycles seeing a cycle caught short, sees, is a loss at taking more beacons, at destroying the "religious drivel" of the luxons religion. at least he can get to work on the big picture, the cycle he actually cares about, over any he enforces.

devexian & alyxian awaken the same year, devexian by the m9, in the ruins of his (and ludinus's) home. he can only laugh dryly at its fate, say it is a cruel joke of history. he picks up the pieces, tries to bring his people back to life. he wants them to start anew. he wants them to let go. if ludinus cant escape the day the city fell then it seems devexian wants nothing more than to leave it for tomorrow. alyxian has been caught in the hell of being a demigod of divinity & ruidis left to rot in half death. (depending on your netherdeep ending) he awakens to a new dawn, suddenly ancient & old in body, but.... free. freed by your party. he was torn asunder by avandra/correlon/sehanine & predathos within him, their powers festering in him as gruumsh destroyed him - and still he tries to be kind, and have faith, even if he is not the warrior he was, even if everything he ever knew was destroyed. he can see society flourish again, even after his & gruumsh's battle destroyed half of marquet. ludinus has seen society rebuild its entire course of time - and all he sees is a world never as brilliant as what it was before.

all of these calamity survivors are completely fucked. leylas is paranoid, losing her mind from living too long, and still haunted by lolth. quana is resigned to stay at her lovers side even as madness takes her when all she wants is unity with others. devexian is clearly so unwilling to face history repeating he wont tell other aeormatons their heritage. alyxian is broken & battered after an eon of nonstop torture.

but they had help from others, from kind souls, who reached a hand out. and they took that kindness and internalized it. and they have vowed to help their people any way they can. to spread that glimmer of hope. to rebuild.

ludinus hasnt. and i think there is deep tragedy in that. i dont know if he has much hope, ironically, beyond raging cleansing fire. in that broad big picture it is both incredibly real & also heartbreaking when recovery falls through the cracks so badly. to have so little of a support group of survivors around you that you smack the hand of those who came out of it differently, and not have known others who could show you it was okay to move on. you hurt other survivors in your refusal to breathe, and live too large to see the others choosing a small destiny. it is unfair to him to had to have suffered and unfair to inflict that on calamity survivors again for your own agenda.

i fixate on him not disagreeing with the bells finding a third option. deep down, he wants to have that hope the others share so fucking bad. we'll see if he ever finds it.

[soullistrations]

First Lines

I was tagged by @mithrilwren to share the first lines of my last ten fics! Thanks again for tagging me! I....really have not written a lot so my last ten is most of my fics. also included the two fansongs I uploaded bc...poetry right?

Recipe for Disaster (Sanji and Zoro get kidnapped by fine-dining pirates)

“That is not a fucking loquat.”

2. War Paint (double drabble about sokka, suki, and eyeliner. i'm sensing a dialogue theme)

“Ow!”  “If you weren’t fidgeting, I’d be done by now.”

3. coordination (and other 'c' words) (Sun Xiang/Jiang Botao/Zhou Zekai threesome fic. They have sex. For teambuilding reasons.)

Sun Xiang is beating himself up again. He’s doing a good job of hiding it — he has his head down, scribbling notes as Jiang Botao shares his observations on the day’s scrimmage. Nobody’s noticed the tightness around his eyes, or the grimace when Jiang Botao praises him for breaking free of the others’ encirclement and rejoining his team’s formation so quickly. Nobody, that is, except Jiang Botao.

4. Reignite (one of two songs on this list--this one is for Zhang Jiale, and though the sound mixing on the track really sucks it's one of my favorite things i've made)

Is this all there is? Six years, and I’m going out with a whimper, not a bang - and here I thought we’d be eternal

5. burning up (for you, baby) (Caleb/Essek, the M9 have a beach day and Essek gets a sunburn)

The successful completion of a world-saving quest calls for a week in the sun: relaxation, rejuvenation, relocation (while the heat of Trent’s still-ongoing search dies down). With amulets slung over bathing wraps and under wide-brimmed hats, the Mighty Nein make their way back to Nicodranas, pay their respects to a grateful Yussa, and hit the beach.

6. The Way Back Home (ostensibly a collection of SPN songs I've written over the years...but i've only posted one so far)

I once saw you looking at the stars and you told me they were friends that you once knew. Well, I've been looking at the stars Wondering if one of them is you, Wondering if one of them is you.

7. because you're by my side (a very ampersand-y Chu Yunxiu & Su Mucheng fic where cyx has seasonal depression)

Thursday was phone call night. It always had been, since just after the first Season Four match between Misty Rain and Excellent Era, when Chu Yunxiu insisted on showing one of the only other girls in the league the best spots to eat in Suzhou. That next Thursday, Su Mucheng had called to complain that Chu Yunxiu had ruined her on jianbing, because how was she supposed to find any that tasted as good as the ones they had last weekend? And ever since then, it was a weekly tradition.

8. even if we're just dancing in the dark (lookit i was jamming to the song of the summer before it was cool on tumblr) (jk but this one was a lot of fun) (it's a magic au where Zhang Jiale gets rescued from prison by Ye Xiu)

Ping! Twenty-eight. Ping! Twenty-nine.

9. pics or it didn't happen (oh my god this fic was so long ago) (Outsider POV fic where Baozi opens a knock-off McDonalds and chaos ensues)

Happy’s Brawler spotted working at McDonald’s knockoff! Posted by ExcellentAutumnLeaf at 23:48 L-O-f*cking-L, it looks like Team Happy’s finally collapsing under the weight of its own shamelessness!

10. i am no icarus (I invented so many Italian nobles for this fic) (Princess Isabella and Countess Livia get together to upend the balance of city-states in Northern Italy.)

Vicenza had clearly spared no expense when it came to decorations, Isabella thought, watching the streets of the city pass by the window of her carriage with a sardonic eye.

This was a fun look back, thank you! I'm tagging @bisexualshakespeare, @granny-griffin (hi this is theetwinkleboy) and anyone else who wants to participate!