#cr prompt fic
Note
For a prompt: “snow” for Imogen/Laudna 🤗
Some (more) very soft Southern Gothic below.
Thanks so much for the prompt! ❤️
-
The groan that came out of her when her back hit the bed was dramatic, but fuck if that mattress didn’t feel good.
They’d been roughing it for a little more than a week, staying as far off the path as possible after a particularly enthusiastic mob of villagers and clerics decided Laudna was responsible for the pox that had broken out at the small school maintained by the temple.
Fucking idiots.
They’d finally, finally managed to get far enough away to feel safe. By silent agreement, they wandered toward the little tavern on the edge of the first town they found, Imogen ducking inside to be sure it was safe in the ways they needed it to be.
It was full enough that nobody paid her any mind when she came in, and divey enough that she figured nobody would ask any questions when she brought Laudna, hood up and tucked tight, in and up the side stairs quietly. Not so divey that she’d worry about the state of the rooms.
Perfect.
She booked a room, fetched Laudna, and now she was laid back on a bed that felt close to heaven on her back after nearly a week of rocky outcrops. She sat up, beginning the process of undressing so that she could actually crawl into the bed, when she realized Laudna hadn’t followed her in and was instead pacing by the doorway.
“Laud?”
Dark, frantic eyes looked from the floorboards to Imogen’s face before darting away again, tracking her feet as they took the five small steps back and forth and back and forth by the door.
“I can’t keep you warm.”
Her fingers twisted and tangled nervously now, with enough force that one was already dislocated, moving just a bit further than the others when pressed and pulled. Ichor dripped from her lip where anxious teeth had broken into fragile skin.
Time for intervention then. Imogen laced the boot she had been working on back up as quickly as she could and then stepped to Laudna, taking her wrists with a barely-there grip and pulling them apart.
Laudna’s eyes were wide and frantic, the way they always got when she worked herself up over something. They flitted from Imogen to the dresser to the bed, not actually taking any of it in. Imogen heard her thoughts moving as anxiously as she was, although she didn’t need telepathy to know that Laudna’s mind was running wild and taking her far, far away from their little room at the tavern.
She touched her thumb to her pointer finger around Laudna’s wrist, applying the tiniest amount of pressure to pull Laudna’s attention to her. Her eyes stopped briefly at Imogen’s, just long enough for Imogen to know Laudna would hear her when she spoke, before moving to the small window, the floorboards near the bed.
She tried for soothing as she asked, “Laud, what are you talkin’ about? I’m not cold, honey.”
Wrists twitched against Imogen’s fingers so she let go, never interested in holding Laudna when she didn’t want to be held, although she winced in sympathy as Laudna began the pacing and fiddling again, two of her fingers now bent at an awfully unnatural angle. When she spoke, it wasn’t to Imogen but to her boots, the post of the bed, the little basin of water in the corner.
“Not now, you’re not, but you will be. At some point, you will be, and I won’t be able to keep you warm. I should…I should learn to cast fire, maybe, but I don’t know how I…”
She was off, then, murmuring to herself, her thoughts stilted and branching, moving too quickly for Imogen to follow with any accuracy.
She tried again, a new tactic, knocked at the door of Laudna’s mind. It was immediately opened, Imogen welcomed, although she was nearly certain that was habit more than a conscious decision.
Laudna. What’s wrong? She reached a hand out to brush fingers against Laudna’s arm as she paced by, exhaled a little when Laudna stopped and put her own hand over Imogen’s where it now rested on her sleeve. Can you talk to me? Doesn’t have to be out loud.
Finally, Laudna looked at Imogen, really looked at her, the corners of her eyes crinkling in worry. She licked absently at the ichor still gathering on her bottom lip before she said, “You want to see the snow.”
It took her a minute to figure out what the fuck that meant.
Imogen was used to being chased out of towns, hurrying Laudna down alleyways and waiting in thickets, running a soothing hand down Laudna’s back as the inevitable chorus of I’m sorry began in her mind. She was used to saying nonsense back to her, in her mind and then usually out loud when it was safe, rambling meant to distract Laudna from her own guilt and shame, because she’d learned quickly that telling her not to blame herself wasn’t an effective strategy.
So she talked about books she’d read and her favorite trails in Gelvaan, foods she loved and places she wanted to go. This time, bedrolls wedged into a space sheltered by a small overhang and hidden from view by a few large boulders, she’d talked about wanting to spend some time somewhere with snow, Laudna’s cool hand clasped in her own between their bodies acting as inspiration for her thoughts.
It was nothing, a distraction for Laudna. Laudna, who was constantly scanning Imogen for injuries, who was dejected after they had to flee not because a bunch of prejudiced assholes had threatened to kill her but because she knew a poultice that would’ve helped those kids with the itching and swelling of the pox. Laudna, who was so good. One of the few things Imogen had to offer her was distraction, and she offered it happily, always pleased and maybe a little proud when she heard Laudna’s thoughts calm while Imogen rambled.
“Laud, do you…are you talkin’ about what I said the other night?”
“Yes. You deserve to see everything you want. You deserve to see snow, and I…I don’t want to presume that I’d be with you, that you’d want me with you still, but if I were, if we were together, I worry that…”
She was lost in her own mind again, insecurities and shame loudly vying for top spot and eyes focused on a point beyond Imogen’s shoulder.
Imogen took a deep breath and then a risk, bringing her hands up to cup Laudna’s jaw, smoothing her thumbs over cool, soft skin as she turned her head slightly so that she was looking at her again. And the thoughts weren’t gone, but they were quieter, affection dampening the rest and growing as Imogen kept the contact.
“Well, first of all, I do want you with me. I want you with me as long as you want to be.”
Laudna smiled at her, sadness caught in the corners of her mouth and the tilt of her head. Imogen knew exactly what she was thinking. After more than a year together, she knew the voices that whispered to Laudna about who she was and what she deserved. Imogen forced herself to put aside the anger sparking in her chest (also familiar) in favor of moving one of her hands to tuck a strand of hair behind Laudna’s ear.
She let her fingers rest briefly against Laudna’s temple. Remember–you’re my best friend. Nobody else I’d rather be doin’ this with. Doin’ anythin’ with. Okay?
She nodded, a conversation they’d had many times at this point. Like always, Imogen wanted to sit Laudna down and tell her all the reasons she was amazing, generally and as Imogen’s best friend, but she let it lie for now.
“And second of all,” she wiggled her fingers where they rested against Laudna’s skin, “I have enough heat for the both of us. Especially now that you’re teachin’ me.”
Laudna brought her own hand up to cover Imogen’s where it rested against her jawline.
“Not teaching really, darling, you’re very capable, just need a little assistance now and then. It’s quite impressive, truly, given that you never had anyone to…”
“Laud. Darlin’. Not the point I was tryin’ to make there but thank you, as always, for bein’ my biggest fan.”
“Right. Yes. I’m…” She bit back the apology at Imogen’s eyebrow, squeezing at her fingers with a fond smile.
“You wanna…” Imogen titled her head in the direction of the bed and Laudna’s face drifted back into anxiety, jaw clenching under Imogen’s hand, but she nodded. Imogen took a moment, held her hands and looked at the two fingers not quite where they should be. “Can I?” Another nod, and Imogen re-set them as gently as she could, even though Laudna swore she could barely feel it, was prone to shoving things back where they belonged roughly when left to do it herself. Imogen did it for her as often as she could.
She played her fingers back and forth over imaginary piano keys, testing the set, and then she smiled at Imogen, taking her hand. “Thank you.”
They moved to the bed and settled, Imogen folding a knee under her leg and pressing it to Laudna’s thigh.
Laudna drew out ichor between her fingers in her lap, a wave of black hair partially obscuring her face as she watched the dark substance move back and forth. It was another nervous habit, one much less destructive to her weak joints than playing with her fingers themselves. Imogen knew Pate might make an appearance soon, wouldn’t begrudge Laudna the shield.
“Wanna tell me what you're really worried about?”
It was a real question, and Imogen had worked for months and months and still worked to be sure that Laudna knew that, knew that even though Imogen could see inside her mind she never wanted to see what Laudna didn’t want her to. Never wanted Laudna to feel like she owed Imogen her thoughts, just because Imogen could read them by force.
A cat’s cradle formed and released, Laudna masterfully controlling the thickness and resiliency of the strings as they worked between her fingers.
“There were quite a lot of people in that mob.”
Imogen pressed her knee a little further into Laudna.
“There were.”
A new shape started forming, some sort of star, intricate and layered.
“When I traveled alone, I always knew they might get me.” Released and re-formed, complicated patterns over and under and across. “I was prepared to die, although I didn’t want to. And I’m not sure D would let me…” A shake of her head as she added another point to the star. “Anyway, when I was injured, when they managed to get me with arrows or spells or set fire to my house quietly enough that I couldn’t escape before the smoke did some damage, I either knew how to fix it or I didn’t, and if I didn’t, I waited to see if I would die.”
She let the ichor go again and then looked up to meet Imogen’s eyes with a matter-of-fact shrug of her shoulders. Imogen hated it, hated it, hated it, moving a hand to hover over Laudna’s thigh until she got a tiny nod and let it drop. It was just as much, maybe more, comfort to her as it was to Laudna.
“Laud…”
“It matters now. It matters whether or not I know the right herbs or a spell to keep us safe. To keep you warm. Because what if…” She split the skin of her lip again, looked back at her hands, palms open against her thighs. “What if we have to run, and you’re hurt or cold and I can’t help you. What if…because of me…”
Imogen put her other hand on Laudna’s knee, leaned closer and down, just a bit. “Laudna.” She wouldn’t look up, and Imogen didn’t push for it. It was hard enough for Laudna to let herself be honest like this with Imogen. (“I’m already,” she hummed and ran a hand waving up and down her body as if it were self-explanatory. “I’m off-putting and difficult to deal with as it is. I can’t be both dead and sad, darling. You wouldn’t want to stay, and I wouldn’t blame you.”)
“None of what has happened to us is your fault. I know you don’t believe me when I say that, but I’m right and I’m very stubborn so best to just give up the fight on this one.”
She squeezed her knee when she saw the small twitch at the corner of Laudna’s lips, just visible with Imogen’s ducked head.
“Those people, they’re scared and they do the worst thing they can with that fear, let it make ‘em mean and vengeful. Hateful. That’s on them, not on you. They’re assholes, darlin’, to put it plainly.”
A tiny huff of a laugh sent cool breath to glaze over the back of Imogen’s hand.
“And the ones who hurt you are real lucky, because you’re kind in all the ways they aren’t.”
They were also real lucky that Imogen, who was not near as kind as Laudna, wasn’t there. She kept that thought to herself for the moment.
“Laud.”
She gave it a second, and her head tilted in Imogen’s direction, although she still didn’t look up.
“You saved my life, when we left Gelvaan. I was trapped there, alone and miserable, and then you came and…I want to believe I would’ve been brave enough to leave on my own one day but I don’t know when it would’ve happened, if it ever did. You made me brave.”
It was nothing she hadn’t said before, in one way or another, but she needed Laudna to hear it, really hear it.
“I meant what I said earlier. I want you with me as long as you want to be. I don’t care if we have to fight off a mob of idiots every day. I’d rather be sleepin’ on rocks and scarin’ fools with you than anywhere else in the world.
“I don’t wanna play in the snow without you. C’mon now. Can you imagine how much fun Pate would have makin’…rat angels?”
A real smile broke across her face and Laudna turned a bit more, half-meeting Imogen’s eyes as she said, “I think he’d quite like to build a snow rat friend.”
And Imogen knew she would help build it, gods help her.
“Yes. Exactly. And you and I can make snow witches and drink hot chocolate and tea and huddle together by the fire to keep warm, okay?
“And if anybody tries to fuck with us, we’ll handle it together. I never, ever want you to have to fight people like that alone again. You’re not alone anymore. Neither am I.”
She sighed deeply, breath she hardly needed, and faced Imogen.
“Thank you. I’m afraid after this week, my nerves just…” She wiggled her fingers a little frantically and Imogen nodded.
“I get that.” Moving a hand to the mattress between them, she patted it and grinned. “We’re gonna sleep so good, Laud.”
She moved her hand next to Imogen’s and then let herself fall back on the bed with a happy groan.
-
“It was freezing cold.”
Imogen was pressed tight to Laudna in their bed at Zhudanna’s, speaking quietly about her time in the Tundra and Uthodurn.
“No time for snow witches, I imagine?”
“No.” She pushed up, holding herself on a forearm so she could look down at Laudna. “And I wouldn’t want to make one without you anyway.”
“We’ll have to go back.”
“Yeah. I’ll bring warmer clothes next time.”
“You looked lovely. But yes, perhaps something with a little more weather protection.”
Heat pooled in her cheeks at the compliment, somehow different than the million Laudna had given her before after today in the market.
“Pate’s snow rat’ll really be something, now, huh?”
Smiling, Laudna reached up and traced the shell of Imogen’s ear and Imogen wanted to…Imogen could. Holy shit. “Can I kiss you?”
Laudna’s answer was a hand at the nape of Imogen’s neck closing the distance between them. Imogen fell into it, bracing her other arm above Laudna’s shoulder and getting lost for a minute. When they broke apart, Laudna ran a thumb across Imogen’s lower lip, the pad dark with ichor when she pulled it back. “Sorry, darling.”
“Don’t be. I like it.”
She wasn’t quite sure where all her bravery was coming from today but she didn’t question it, let herself enjoy the benefits. Right now the benefit was a shift in Laudna’s eyes, gentle affection losing ground to a new kind of hunger that made Imogen’s stomach swoop.
“Oh?”
Imogen nodded. “It’s you. Like havin’ you on me.” She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, cleaned what was left. “And you taste so…”
Laudna’s hand was back in Imogen’s hair, pulling her close for another, deeper kiss before she could finish.
-
In the Shattered Teeth, Imogen watched Laudna conjure a flame so big that she had to spend considerable time making sure it didn’t burn down the whole island, Laudna grinning proudly.
Later, as they trudged through jungle as stealthily as they could manage, she knocked at Laudna’s mind.
Hello, darling.
Hi there.
Everything alright?
Yeah, just missed you.
Did you now?
She blushed a little at the teasing tone and hoped nobody was paying close enough attention to notice.
I did. I was thinkin’ about that flame you made.
It was quite good, wasn’t it?
It was. Y’know, now you can keep us real warm. Wherever we are.
She could hear the smile in Laudna’s response. Hopefully we won’t need anything that big.
Hopefully not.
She wasn’t sure they’d get there, that she’d get there. After the solstice, especially, she understood what she might have to give to end all this. But she let herself daydream a little. It couldn’t hurt to remember she had some real good reasons to try her hardest to stick around.
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The inn is small and plain, the tables worn from years of patrons and the weight of beer steins. Essek touches his fingertips to the wood and thinks about how far his life has come. “Why are we here?” he asks after a long moment. Caleb looks up from where he had been spacing out, presumably lost in old memories as he glances around the room.
“Oh, ja,” he says, catching himself. “This is where we first met. The Mighty Nein, I mean.”
Essek’s eyes widen. The room takes on new hues, a history he hasn’t been able to read from the furniture and the beer spilt in the corner. He can see the ghosts of younger versions of his friends, set lightly upon this space like a memory - Jester laughing and carving a dick into one of the tables, Beau and Fjord drinking from steins and ribbing one another. Caleb sitting with Veth, who presumably would have been Nott then. Yasha by the bar, perhaps, with the infamous Mollymauk. They had started off with only seven, not having any idea that someday they would be the nine of their strange moniker.
“Ah,” says Essek, not sure how to put all of these impressions into words, especially not in Common. “An auspicious beginning, I see.”
Caleb shares a small grin with him. Essek knows that smile; it usually forecasts some statement that Caleb knows will horrify Essek’s delicate sensibilities, looking forward to how Essek will react.
“Yes, what is it, Caleb Widogast?” Essek asks, trying to keep the answering smile from his own lips and already planning to act as affronted as possible.
“I was covered in mud and shit, you know,” Caleb says conversationally, a gleam in his eye. “When we first met. You would not have come within five feet of me.”
Essek has heard tales of dirty Caleb, and privately been amused at the thought. “I would have Prestidigitated you clean long before you came close enough to be a problem,” he says confidently.
Caleb laughs openly; it’s good to see him comfortable and safe enough to do so. “Perhaps I should fall in the mud and see how cool you would act around me now,” he says with a straight face. His eyes gleam with mischief.
“We shall see then, who is faster on the draw,” says Essek smugly. “My Prestidigitation, or your determination to get dirt upon me first.”
Caleb laughs again and moves to the bar to order them trosts, while Essek sits at the table and waits for the others to arrive. It seems fitting, that Caleb chose this place for their first monthly reunion since Uk’otoa had been vanquished. A new beginning, in a place where a beginning had been forged once before.
Caleb returns, carrying two trosts and wearing a thoughtful smile. “Wishing you had been here to join us from the start?”
Essek is rarely surprised at how well Caleb knows him, these days. This comment still throws him, putting words to a yearning that Essek hadn’t even begun to understand himself. “Had I been here from the start,” Essek says, “the story would have turned out very different.”
Caleb hums and clinks their glasses together, sipping from his trost with a hum. “True,” he acknowledges. “And in the end, you found us assholes anyway.”
The door flies open. Beauregard and Yasha make their way inside, Fjord and Jester hot on their heels. “What did we miss?” Beau demands.
“Hey Trostenwald,” Jester shouts. “We’re back!” She proceeds to cast Thaumaturgy and blow out all the windows in the inn. The innkeeper glares at her in a way that implies she’s not at all surprised by this occurrence.
As the room fills with the shouts and laughter of the Mighty Nein, Essek sits back with a smile.
Yes, indeed. In the end, Essek found them all anyway.
#critical role#campaign 2#shadowgast#essek thelyss#caleb widogast#the mighty nein#cr fics#cr ficlets#found a prompt in my notes from 6/2021 that was just 'they take essek to trostenwald'#turns out I never wrote it#so here it is!!!#not sure where this came from but ah#enjoy#there are nine of them#my fics#oh also essek is in disguise in this fic lol totally did NOT even mention that detail#it’s fine! presumably most of you assumed so
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sad kiss imodna?
imogen looked for laudna in the reading nook where they’d first met the kid. she’s almost certain she’d find her there—laudna had a habit of poking bruises, and this one was going to sting for a while.
the room was roughly square. a few desks lined the walls; one of those round lights was ensconced above each of them but were dimmed now. beyond the desks was a small maze of bookshelves. imogen moved past them. she did nothing to disguise her approach, the click of her boots against stone, swish of her dress, the mental crackle of her searching mind. the far wall of the room curved slightly—they must be in the base of the tower—and cut out from the grey stone was a door leading to a small balcony. there, just as imogen suspected, stood laudna. hands resting on the balustrade, she stared out across the rapidly darkening city. imogen joined her. they watched together, enraptured, as an energy seemed to flow through the city streets and, one by one, glowing streetlights began to stir like stars in their infancy.
‘she’s alright,’ imogen said eventually. ‘fearne stayed a bit longer to see if she could lure her out but i think she’s done for today.’
‘that’s good,’ laudna said, very quietly. ‘fearne is fun—gwendolyn will feel comfortable with her.’
‘you’re fun too.’
it didn’t reassure as imogen hoped it would. laudna’s smile trembled like the last leaf of autumn, its drop imminent. she said nothing.
it might have been wise to look around for any of their friends, but imogen wasn’t all that bothered if they saw. soon enough, they were going to leave the planet and she had no bets on what would happen after that. here and now, she found she wasn’t that concerned with their friends finding out what they’d suspected since meeting her—that she was in love with laudna, that they were an item, that given half the chance and a moment of peace imogen would give into the urge to step closer to laudna and, hand against her cheek, turn her eyes ever so gently away from the city.
‘can i kiss you?’ she asked.
laudna lifted a hand to press imogen’s, to keep it where it was.
‘you’re trying to distract me.’
‘yeah, i am. is that okay?’
laudna nodded. there was a smudge beneath her eyes where she had wiped black tears. imogen leaned in, touched her lips to laudna’s cheek. it warmed beneath her attention, part blush, part the singe of her own power.
‘imogen…’ disappointment - hope - crept over her name.
she smiled. ‘it’s alright, honey. properly now, i promise.’
imogen stepped closer—close enough that laudna had to retreat, though she seemed disinclined, happy to lean into imogen and wrap around her like ivy. when imogen had her crowded against the corner of the railing, though, laudna tensed. imogen pulled and turned, slotted herself against the stone guard, and drew laudna into her.
laudna came willingly, sweetly. she touched imogen’s face and brought their lips together. the kiss was achingly soft. careful. with every shift—the tremble of her own hands, the press of laudna’s lips against her own, tiny testing kisses—imogen could almost sense the repairs. each kiss a stitch in the rip, a brick in the wall. laudna’s taut strings started to relax. she leaned more heavily into imogen and the cautious fingers on her cheek and shoulder warmed, grew a little more brave.
laudna slid a hand around imogen’s waist. the other buried itself in her hair, stroked at her hairline. it was making imogen shiver—the tickle of it, but also the maddening closeness, laudna wrapped all around her, the dual throb of their minds that agreed close wasn’t close enough, the way her nail scraped against the fine hairs of her neck every few touches and imogen let herself imagine it as she kissed laudna more deeply. imagined a sharp nail cutting her, the wet glide of a finger through blood, laudna’s mouth, sharp teeth, how it would feel to be consumed by her, soul and all.
‘imogen,’ laudna gasped. ‘please—‘
‘anything, anything you want,’
hunger lit in laudna’s eyes, bright and wonderful. it worked as the streetlamps did to illuminate her—the sadness, the relief, the love—and the shadows that lingered were less than they were, but darker for all the light.
‘you were remarkable today,’ laudna said, lips dragging against the corner of imogen’s mouth. she kissed her very sweetly and softly, every ounce of it filled with admiration. ‘you are always remarkable but today—that storm—and flying with you—‘ she scratched gently at imogen’s neck. imogen made a sound high in her throat, a breathy whimper; laudna paused, withdrew. ‘did i do that?’
imogen flushed. ‘you - you’re scratching my neck. it’s nice.’
laudna flexed the hand on the back of imogen’s neck, eyes darting there as if only just realising its placement. ‘oh. may i—kiss you there?’
‘oh fuck. yeah, please.’ imogen gripped onto laudna’s waist and hoped to every god there was that she didn’t seem to bloody desperate, tilting her neck to the side. actually, fuck that, she could be desperate if she wanted. so long as laudna didn’t mind. she didn’t seem to mind. laudna inched closer. she was nearly—but not quite—weightless and the slight pressure pushed imogen further against the railing. the stone pushed into her spine, uncomfortable enough to keep imogen in the here and now, which she hoped would be sufficient to keep her from embarrassing herself. all bets were off as laudna leaned in and, without fanfare, kissed imogen’s neck.
imogen groaned, a funny hitched noise. laudna hummed, intrigued, and swiped her tongue against the same spot. imogen swore.
‘oh gods, laud—‘
‘sorry, should i—‘
‘please, keep goin’. if you want.’ when laudna only kissed her neck again in reply, imogen trembled with relief. she gripped the railing with one hand, leaning heavily to give her girlfriend more space to work, and lost her mind a little to the rising shiver working through her body and laudna’s unending attention, the drag of her lips against her skin, sighs getting warmer almost hot as laudna began to warm up, and she cried out, eyes darting open, when laudna scraped sharp teeth across her pulse. imogen’s knees buckled. her gloves creaked as she grabbed the railing hard. head swimming, she shook in laudna’s embrace, whimpered again.
‘you’re so beautiful,’ laudna whispered. ‘so capable, so powerful, gorgeous,’ she insisted, hungry rasp catching in the back of her throat. ‘imogen, my imogen.’ she mouthed at the taut column of imogen’s neck, down, down to the cracks that split her skin. not many made their way past her neckline but there was one scar that splintered past her clavicle. laudna dipped her head and, arm tightening around Imogen’s waist, dragged her tongue along the line of it.
‘oh fuck!’ a bolt of heat shot through imogen. she groaned low, the sound loud enough that laudna drew back, looking faintly surprised. imogen couldn’t meet her eyes just yet—instead pressing her mind out to make sure no one was close enough to witness their private conversation.
‘imogen? darling?’
‘i- that was -‘ imogen laughed a little. ‘if you keep doing that, i’m gonna lose my mind a bit and we’re gonna need to find a room.’ laudna’s mouth shifted to an understanding oh. ‘yeah. and,’ past her own excitement, imogen could see laudna’s hesitation. ‘i don’t think we’re ready for that just yet.’
laudna flushed prettily. ‘perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘but that was—‘
‘perfect.’
laudna preened a little, pleased. then her attention turned thoughtful, and amused at the edges. ‘you’re a very good distraction,’ she said, almost laughing. very sweetly, adding, ‘and very kind. thank you, imogen.’
imogen wanted to tell her rather fervently that laudna was welcome to ravish her at any time, but withheld. instead, she reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind laudna’s ear. brushed the golden cuff with a gentle finger.
‘everything good in me, you gave me. you know that?’ laudna looked like she would argue. imogen shook her head. ‘when we met, i was so tired. i saw the worst in everyone and it hurt, all the time. the things i woulda done for a little peace…’ her voice shook. ‘don’t you for a minute think fun scary laudna isn’t the most important person in the world to me. you let me laugh for the first time in years. you made the world feel like a good place again. you - you saved me, laud,’ she said, as she had the last time they were here in Whitestone, though that time the confession had fallen on dead ears. ‘i’m so lucky. to get to have you with me. no matter what happens,’ she said, and drew laudna in for a kiss.
after their activities here, and the heated feeling in her gut and her words, it was not the most gentle kiss they had shared. part of imogen wanted to burn this knowledge into laudna and she kissed like that, hot and fierce. after a moment, laudna made a noise, a low moan, that shot right through her to her core. imogen pulled back, reluctantly. ‘we should - we should find the others.’
laudna frowned severely. ‘i hate them,’ she muttered, lips twitching upwards when imogen burst into laughter. ‘fine.’ laudna’s fingers skittered over imogen’s face, her smile. ‘i shall follow anywhere you lead, my darling.’
#tagging my stories#prompt fill#cr fic#imodna my beloveds#a tiny bit steamy which is not where i meant for it to go but hooray!
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hey friend, 'garden' for the march writing prompts! ♥
hey friend! thansk for the prompt 💜this is also sleepverse, a few years down the line
(ask me a march writing prompt)
"How has he been?" asks Beau, kicking back until she's balancing dangerously on the back two legs of her chair. She does this often, with a disregard for how quickly it could backfire on her, but then her reactions are quicker than Caleb's.
Still. If he uses his foot to make it rock slightly under her to see the brief flick of fear across her face, that is between him and himself.
"Obsessive," Caleb replies, sliding his foot back carefully as the chair rocks back onto four legs.
"Hey!"
"What? He is!"
"No, for the fucking--you asshole."
Caleb flinches back instinctively--the dining table between them isn't any protection from Beauregard's flying elbows--before he grins.
"He has spreadsheets for the optimal watering schedule and exactly when they need to be rotated to maximise the sun!"
"Coming from Mr 'I tracked my notebook usage to set up an auto-delivery every six weeks' Widogast. Pot, kettle, black, Caleb."
"And does the wildflower know when the rain is coming? No! Yet it still grows!"
"Let the man have his passions!"
Caleb snorts. Essek has many passions, plants being the most recent. Though in all honesty, this one he quite likes. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but having greenery around is nice. Calming. And it makes him smile to see Essek pottering around with his little watering can and moisture monitor and talking to the plants. He really did need something that got him away from work.
But half the fun of arguing with Beauregard is the argument itself, regardless of the content.
"Beauregard, I no longer have a laundry. It's become a greenhouse!"
"You really should look at moving. Apartments really are not set up for gardens, and it's good for him. Good for you too."
Caleb swallows past the lump in his throat. They have spoken about it, about how it might be time to start looking for somewhere a little bigger, with a little more space, they just can't quite agree on where yet. It's also something he never thought he would be in a place to achieve--a relationship, or a house, or anything stable. A blessing, and he's terrified of moving too quickly least the house of cards comes crashing down around him.
"Eventually. "
"I'll send you a listing that Dairon was talking about recently. Has a vegetable garden and a small greenhouse. I think you might convince him once you see it."
"I--it's not necessarily him that needs convincing. It feels... the apartment is safe. But a house?"
"You could have a library. A whole nerd room of books. Isn't that worth doing something a little scary?"
He thinks about it. Takes a breath.
"Ja. Ja, it can be. No promises, but send it to me later."
"We'll make a proper adult out of you yet."
#a little empire siblings for the day#shadowgast#essek thelyss#caleb widogast#the mighty nein#critical role#cr: fanart#my writing#march writing prompts#fic: sleep with beneifts#mllekurtz
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the usual
Shadowgast, Rated G, 573 words, prompt: late night takeout
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"We should perhaps take a break."
"We are getting somewhere, though." Caleb stood and cracked his back. A topographic map of papers, open books, and component jars was laid out on the floor before them.
"We are," Essek agreed. "But if we keep going, it will be several more hours before we pause a second time, and I may begin chewing on parchment to sustain myself."
As if on cue, Caleb's stomach gave a loud gurgle. He ruefully put his hands on his middle. "Ach, you've woken the beast. Well. I suppose you are right. Do you have food here, or should we go out?"
Essek straightened his robes and neatened his hair with an effortless wave of Prestidigitation. "The night is warm. Let us walk. I know a place." He twisted a ring on his finger and his image shimmered, though to Caleb - who wore a second, matching ring - he still looked like himself.
("You know it is an Empire tradition to marry with an exchange of rings," Caleb had teased him, accepting the plain copper band. Only a Detect Magic would reveal it as enchanted. Essek had looked a little embarrassed, but shrugged it away. "I only wish for you to see me as I am. You don't have to take it." And Caleb, warmed, had put the ring directly on his finger and it had been there ever since.)
Caleb followed Essek through the streets of Nicodranas, which were not vacant even at this late hour, but peaceful and welcoming by the presence of others strolling by to enjoy the balmy air and the stars.
After twenty minutes of walking in companionable silence, they came to a storefront whose cheerful interior made it appear as a lantern in the dark. Steam and smoke fled the chimneys on the roof, and the clank of pots and pans and the murmur of people's voices from within broke the spell of nocturnal calm that wrapped around the rest of the city.
"The usual, please," Essek said to an attendant who opened a side window, releasing a billow of air fragrant with herbs and spices. "And... your special for today."
Twenty minutes more, and they were sat on a wooden bench nearby with cheap clay pots in hand, heavy with broth, vegetables, fresh seafood, and translucent rice noodles.
"Your usual," Caleb teased.
Essek raised his eyebrows and did not reply, as he was busy transferring a cascade of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. They finally vanished with a less-than-dignified slurp. He patted his mouth with a handkerchief. "You have cilantro in your beard. And a bit of oil."
"Oh. Would you?" Caleb tilted his chin forward. Prestidigitation washed over him a moment later. The tingle of it continued down the back of his neck and to his collarbones. Caleb laughed. "I did not have soup all the way down to there, did I?"
Essek sniffed primly and busied himself with his next bite, humor tugging the corner of his mouth.
When they were done, the clay pots set aside to return to the bin at the back of the restaurant, they simply sat there for a long time, watching the passers-by on the street. The warm air wrapped around them, every so often carrying a hint of the sea. The stars glimmered above.
"This was a good idea," Caleb said, Essek's hand in his. He lifted it to brush his lips against the back of it.
Essek smiled. "I know."
#thanks for the prompt jess! <3#critical role#tumblr snippets#shadowgast#ariadne writes CR#my personal interpretation is that shadowgast probably wouldn't focus on something like marriage in their actual post-canon life#so it's fun to sort of write around its outline to show that they don't need vows or formality to be as close as they are#(note - this is not commentary on what people should/shouldn't write in fic! i've written them married in other ficlets)
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Tea Time
This fic is part of this writing challenge, as well as based on the prompt Tea Time from this prompt list.
Day 3 - Use the words: kitchen, date, music
[Read on AO3]
It has been a few days since Caduceus heard news from his blue tiefling friend, Jester. It doesn’t bother him much because he knows if something wrong happened, someone would have contacted him already, but he has to admit that he misses his friend’s bubbly voice in the mornings wishing him a good day and telling him news from home. Caleb doesn’t contact him as much as Jester does, so his silence is not as worrying, and as for Veth, she rarely messages him anyway. Of all his friends (they truly are nine now), only these three have means to communicate through long distances (well, them and Essek, but since the Drow is still a fugitive, there aren’t many opportunities for him to contact Caduceus or to appear at the grove), so Caduceus never expects the rest of the Nein to reach out.
But, as it happens, sometimes silence does not mean good things are afoot, and even if bad news travels fast, on some occasions, it doesn’t travel as fast as a teleporting purple Elf who appears in the middle of Caduceus’s garden. The Firbolg man is elbows-deep in mulch when a hint of purple and silver light flickers a mere few feet ahead of him and Essek, in his dark purple and black robes and curly white hair, flashes into existence.
“Mr. Clay,” The man greets, huffing as if he has been running for miles and miles. “I am sorry to appear unannounced. I was wondering if you have heard news from our friends?”
“Now, now. Take deep breaths, Mr. Essek,” Caduceus’s voice is calm as there is no need to panic just yet. He dusts off his hands and wipes them on a rag hanging from the pocket of his gardening apron, then adjusts the large brimmed sun hat on his head and takes a long good look at his guest. Essek’s hair is disheveled, his eyes are full of fear and worry, and his robes are somewhat askew. The nails of his shaky hands are bitten harshly, but what makes Caduceus worry the most is that the Drow’s feet are touching the ground. Essek must be in a real state of distraught if he didn’t even bother to cast his levitation spell.
“Please, come inside. Let me make you some tea,” Caduceus offers. Essek nods and follows him inside the cozy cottage. He sits on the stool at the kitchen table and watches as Caduceus removes his apron and cleans his hands. He then brings a kettle to boil on the wooden stove top and prepares two mugs with loose-leaf tea. Essek watches, his eyes wide and pupils blown and a leg shaking underneath the table, but he doesn’t speak.
“I have not heard from anyone in a few days,” Caduceus pours the boiling water over the leaves in the teapot and closes the lid to let it steep. He then sits down on a second stool in front of Essek. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
“I am afraid that something has happened, Mr. Clay,” Essek’s hands shake on his lap. “Caleb—Mr. Widogast and I had a… meeting of sorts scheduled for last night,” Essek’s purple cheeks deepen in color at this information and he hesitates. Caduceus shifts his gaze to the teapot between them to allow the man to gather his thoughts in privacy. After a few seconds of silence, Essek continues, “You know he never forgets anything. He is always on time, but last night… he didn’t appear, Mr. Clay, and I can’t help but fear that something has happened.”
Caduceus ponders the information in silence. He slowly removes the strainer of tea leaves from the teapot and pours two cups, one for him, one for Essek, who takes his with shaky hands. Caleb does indeed have a keen memory and an even keener punctuality, so if Essek is this distraught about his friend missing their “meeting”, then it must certainly be a big deal. But Caduceus isn’t learned in magic like Essek and Caleb, who get their arcane knowledge from books. Instead, he gets his powers from his deity and nature, so he has no way to contact his friends, but maybe the Wildmother can help.
“I have an idea, Mr. Essek,” he finally says. Essek’s eyes snap up with hope, but the Firbolg doesn’t offer any more information. Instead, he rises from his stool and walks out onto the grove. Essek tracks behind, towards a nook where the Clay family holds a shrine in honor of the Wildmother. On a stone pedestal sits a clay statue of the Goddess, a full-figured body enveloped by wild tangles of hair, leaves and vines, and underneath, a wreath of leaves and dried berries with a crooked staff in the middle. Caduceus gestures to a fallen log nearby, inviting Essek to sit before the Firbolg sits cross-legged in front of the statue. He gestures his hand to the ground and mushrooms, flowers and other greenery appear from the earth, as if the cleric has grown them himself, then he lights up a stick of incense and pours a bottle of a translucent liquid into a small bowl.
Caduceus closes his eyes and concentrates for a minute. The rustle of leaves turns into the sound of crashing waves, the smell of the moist earth beneath him becomes the salty scent of the ocean, and the music of the wind-chimes shifting in the morning breeze is replaced by the loud scream of gulls in the distance. When he opens his eyes, Caduceus sees that the hard rock he sits on ends on a tall, rough cliff, dozens of feet above the crashing waves of the Lucidian Ocean.
“Hello, Wildmother,” he says, smiling. An ocean-scented breeze caresses his cheek and ruffles his hair in greeting. “I was wondering if you have news from my friends. Are they together?” The breeze is soft and temperate when it rustles his pink hair, and for a moment, Caduceus swears he hears a warm, feminine voice whisper Some are. “Are any of them hurt?” Caduceus asks. The wind turns warm and brings the scent of copper in affirmation. His stomach turns nervously. Caduceus only has one question left, so he ponders his words well before he says, “Are they coming to seek my help?” Again, the warm breeze shifts past in affirmation, but this time it carries with the familiar scent of the Blooming Grove. Caduceus nods politely and wishes goodbye to the goddess. When he opens his eyes, Essek is standing on his feet, glaring anxiously.
“We must prepare,” Caduceus explains as calmly as he can, “They are alive but hurt. We need to get ready to help.” Essek nods, and as soon as his host is on his feet, he stalks him inside, where they ready cots, herbs, poultices and anything they might need.
Right on cue, as Essek finishes wiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his cloak, a light flickers outside, bright orange like fire, and Caleb, Beauregard and Yasha fall to the ground, bloodied and gushing for air. Essek runs as fast as his legs allow him—he notices he’s out of shape since he rarely uses them anymore—to hold Caleb aloft as Caduceus runs to Beau and her Wife.
“There is no time for questions,” Caleb’s voice is hoarse, his face is scratched and blood gushes from his abdomen. Essek shakes his head and raises him to his feet, but both men’s legs shake with the weight. “Scheiße,” Caleb curses between his teeth, covering his injury with his free hand.
“Mr. Clay, we could use some help over here,” Essek’s voice shakes. His pupils are wide and refuse to leave the red stain that keeps growing on his lover’s torso. Caduceus runs back from the doorway where he left a not-so-injured Yasha to carry Beau and holds Caleb on the opposite side of Essek. Together, they manage to bring him inside and lie him on a spare cot and the healer is on him in an instant, cleaning the wound and channeling the Wildmother’s powers to cure him.
Caleb raises his rough hand to Essek’s damp face, a thumb wiping the tears that fall silently, and the Drow leans into the touch with his eyes closed. He knows one day the fugitive life will catch up to him and permanently separate him from the human he cares for so much, but Essek never considered the possibility that his lover could be the one to find himself on the wrong end of a sword sooner rather than later. Yet, here he is. Barely alive, yes, but here. “Sorry I missed our date, liebling,” Caleb apologizes with longing in his voice. It still pains him to see his frail human so hurt, so full of guilt for failing his promise. They don’t have many opportunities to be together, so they treasure every second, and for Caleb, missing out on a full day of Essek cuddles and reading must have been torture. So Essek smiles, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes, and says, “Do not worry Caleb Widogast. I will make sure you make it up to me.”
#critical role#cr fic#mighty nein#caduceus clay#essek thelyss#caleb widogast#shadowgast#<- background relationship#prompted#november writing challenge#in which I forgot how to spell 'caduceus' halfway through the fic
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imodna prompt fill
from @hellsbells-emptynight: “Imogen didn't work things out with Laudna between the rock and Otahan. Like got friendlier but Laudna just construed it as keeping the team together. Right before she was stabbed she said, ‘I'm no one's favorite.’ Imogen is even more desperate to bring her back.”
Thank you for your reply! This was perfect for dusting off some old skills. I don’t think this is exactly the angst you were looking for, but I had fun with it, so I hope you enjoy nonetheless.
Word Count: 1106
CW: canon-typical blood and violence
~~~
The moment Laudna falls, the world erupts in a sheet of white.
A scream rips from Imogen’s throat, raw and ragged, and the earth shatters.
I’m no one’s favorite.
The last thought to escape Laudna’s panicked mind before–
The ground races up to meet Imogen faster than she is prepared to catch herself. Sand bites into her palm, her elbow, and she hisses.
Blood pounds in her ears, a steady drum against whipping wind and the howl of her heart wrenched open.
Buildings crumble, boulders shake, and stone grinds against stone. Bricks tumble from high walls, and clay shingles clatter in a cacophony of percussion that forces Imogen to clamp her hands over her ears.
She screams again, and then–
Silence.
Red dust envelopes her like a storm cloud, settling over the landscape like a blanket. Through the haze, ruined homes jut from the sand like skeletal fingers reaching from the grave. Heaps of rubble settle, small chunks of rock tumbling, tumbling, to lie motionless in the sand. The earth calms with a groan like a mountain disturbed from slumber.
Imogen pants, breathless. Her lungs burn like ash, and she chokes weakly, coughing into the dry air.
Otohan is nowhere to be seen.
Laudna? She reaches out with her mind.
Silence.
She senses the familiar presence of Letters, Chetney, though only barely.
Laud? She tries again, heart rising to her throat, desperate, searching for a sign. A whisper. Anything.
Unstable feet prop Imogen upright as she blinks the white spots from her vision.
A piece of a demolished wall lies in the spot Laudna once stood, impaled by–
Imogen is running, stumbling, heaving across the remains of the road. Her knees smart as they make contact with the stone. Scarred hands move frantically, digging, clawing at the rubble. A fragment of broken glass embeds itself in her thumb.
“Laudna?” She is shouting, murmuring, wailing all at once. The name echoes, resonates in the hollow space of her joints, driving her onward.
“Please, Laud, please,” she mutters fiercely, “Hold on. Just hold on.”
Blood from a gash she did not know she had drips onto her forehead.
Vaguely, she registers another set of hands helping her dig.
Ashton?
A scrap of black cloth peeks between two hunks of stone.
“There,” she gasps, “There.”
She is frantic, she knows. Out of control. Dangerous.
And yet, she cannot bring herself to care. Not now, at least. Not when Laudna–
The ashen skin of a bony wrist is revealed, and Imogen sobs. Ashton works quickly, removing more and more bits of dried clay and rock until the dust uncovers her face, bruised and trickling with congealed ichor.
At best, Laudna is haunting in sleep. Eyes closed, lips opened slightly to reveal teeth just a bit too sharp. At worst, she rests with eyes open, glazed over in slumber, twin voids against pale gray. This is different. This is far, far worse.
Her neck is crooked at a terrible angle. Black eyes are closed, lashes coated in a layer of dust and grime. The tension in her brow has vanished, leaving behind smooth skin marred only by a cut along her hairline. She is still.
Imogen lunges, gingerly placing lighting-marked, unsteady hands against cool cheeks. She leans in, lowering her ear until she hovers just over Laudna’s parted lips.
“Please,” Imogen whispers, “C’mon, Laud.”
She waits. Long enough that even her friend’s sluggish lungs should have moved. Her chest should have risen, even incrementally. A hicough catches in Imogen’s ribs.
“Letters,” she shouts, “Letters! Over here!” Then, to Ashton, “Help me… help me move her.”
They comply wordlessly, delicately removing the remaining material.
“You’re gonna be okay,” Imogen murmurs into Laudna’s shoulder, “You’re gonna be okay.”
She has to be. Too much was left unsaid for her not to be.
Too many things Imogen had been too afraid to say for fear of upsetting the delicate balance that seemed to be struck between them.
She was foolish. She pulled away. The rush of frigid fury that overtook her when Laudna opened her fist aboard the Silver Sun overwhelmed her, blinded her from reason, and she had turned away. Turned her back on the woman she considered more of a home than Gelvaan ever was.
She lay alone in their cabin that night, curled on her side as tears rocked her. The frustration and grief and vitriol shook the bedposts, rattling against the wall as she wept.
The cruel words–the simple truth, so Imogen believed–she had let fall at Laudna’s feet like feathers. Like shards of a broken gem. An accusation that seems utterly meaningless now, with Laudna limp in Ashton’s arms.
Now, excavated from the ruin, Imogen can see the details of Laudna’s blouse. The embroidery she had done by hand on the road is stained, nearly hidden beneath the tatters of a hole in the fabric. Her chest is a dark mess of blood-like ichor, and Imogen has to look away.
“Is she your favorite?”
Imogen doubles over, landing on already bloodied hands and knees. She hardly registers the sting.
Your favorite.
Imogen had yielded. Conceded in with a cry, a broken plea.
Anything to keep Laudna safe, even as Imogen felt the flare of confusion rise from Laudna’s position near the wall.
Go, Laudna.
Then–
A blink. A sword. A scream.
Imogen’s fault. All of it. Not strong enough, not quick enough, not clever enough, not enough.
Her fault for being a coward without the bravery to confess her regret. For pulling away. For withholding.
For making Laudna think she was unwanted, unfavored, unloved.
For making Laudna die thinking she was unwanted, unfavored, unloved.
Imogen’s body feels as if her bones have turned to straw, and she buckles to her elbows.
“Shit, Imogen–look, she’s not gone. Grass’s gotta have something. Just–come on,” he nudges Imogen with the toe of his boot.
“She can’t die, Ashton,” Imogen manages. She can’t die; she can’t.
“Fuck, okay. Okay.”
Imogen takes a shaky breath as Ashton tenderly lays Laudna’s body in the sand.
“Fearne and Orym are down, too. We gotta–fuck. We’re gonna save them all. Okay? No one’s getting left behind,” they grit out. “Letters?”
Distantly, a conversation is held, but Imogen’s sole focus is the agonizingly still form beside her.
Her hands shake, and she tries to still them as she tenderly maneuvers Laudna’s wrists to rest neatly at her sides. Restless fingertips sweep clumped black strands behind gilded ears. Trembling lips press a kiss to an alabaster forehead.
“You’re gonna be alright, Laud,” Imogen whispers, “We’re gonna get you back. We need you.”
I need you.
Don’t leave me.
Please.
#oohhhh boy#its been a looong time since ive shared my writing#im grateful you took a chance on me#gonna be honest I have not read over this thoroughly so sorry for any mistakes or weird pacing#this was fun though ive been trying to get back into prompt fills for little bite sized low-pressure writing exercises#so if anyone sees this and wants to hit me with a prompt go for it#my fic#my writing#imodna#imodna fanfiction#imogen temult#laudna#critical role#critical role fanfiction#fic#southerngothic#imogen x laudna#laudna x imogen#cr3#cr 3#ashton greymoore#otohan thull#prompt fill#imodna fanfic
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Read on ao3
Caleb paused in the kitchen doorway, intentions for tea entirely forgotten in the wake of the scene before him.
"Is that…a scale?"
The waspish reply he received was somewhat diminished by the smear of flour dusted across Essek’s high cheekbone. "Yes."
He carefully removed a spoonful of flour from its dish, glaring at the needle indicating its weight as it bobbed. "Your kitchen instruments were inaccurate and I will not let this fail due to lackadaisical measurements."
Caleb pressed his lips tight, smothering any teasing reply he might have made. He watched as Essek nodded with satisfaction, plucking the bowl and setting it aside before replacing it with an empty one, marking a bit of parchment with the weight and quickly scratching out the arithmetic. Caleb stepped further into the kitchen, noting the neat little row of other carefully measured and labeled bowls spread across the table. "I don't know, " he said, plucking one of the clearly already weighed chocolate morsels and popping it into his mouth, "my mutti always said she measured with her heart and she was an excellent cook."
Essek pursed his lips, pulling the bowl out of Caleb's reach. "Baked goods cannot be left to whimsy, Caleb Widogast."
He didn't quite manage to suppress a snort of laughter this time, though he quickly schooled his face neutral again under Essek's withering glare. It didn't last long, however, irritation melting into genuine unease. He plucked at his lower lip in nervous habit, casting his eyes down at the table before him.
"Jester made her displeasure with my last offering quite clear. I do not wish to disappoint her again."
Caleb reached around the scale, drawing Essek’s flour-dusted fingers from their fussing and pressing their backs to his lips instead. "I am sure she will be delighted that you took the time to bake for her, even if they do not turn out as perfectly as you hope."
Essek smiled self-consciously, squeezing Caleb's fingers and sighing. "I don't really know what I'm doing."
"Well,” Caleb said, releasing Essek’s hand to tie his hair back and look over the contents of the table, “as it turns out I am an excellent kitchen helper. You've got your butter and sugar measured out? Let me start creaming them while you finish the rest."
based on this prompt list
When baking chocolate chip cookies
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Pikelan with the "gestures that gets me on my knees" prompts? If you want a specific one of the bunch, maybe the "you want that, love? I want cuddles tho'", but any of them are fine :]
[Of course! Set in TLOVM, because Makin' My Way happened over the course of a few days - surely some stuff happened over that time, right? Didn't get to smoochies tho, sorry the vibes were not quite that.]
It’s… wait, he needs to count.
Okay, it’s three days into their trek down the mountain. Scanlan’s feet hurt bad and his back hurts worse, because Pike was stabbed and like hell he’s letting her haul Grog’s scrawny ass around. Even puny like this, he’s still a goliath.
Unfortunately, without those big muscles, there isn’t really much warmth to be found when they dare not light a fire. Like tonight, when they spied some bandits parked on the road they finally found. Maybe they’ll just - dunno - use the river to make more progress tomorrow.
Man. He’d really kill for Trinket right now. Bear stank, but at least he had one good use.
Grog passed out within, probably, a few minutes of scarfing down what Pike was able to fish from the river. So it’s just the gnomes, now, against the dark, against the cold.
And - and maybe Scanlan’s a little delirious from hunger, because Grog ate half his serving before he could get to it, and it really should be repeated that it’s been a long fucking few days -
But? Pike might be coming on to him?
He’d usually cut out the might, because let’s be real, Scanlan Shorthalt is irresistable, and when he is resistible a wink and a song usually get the girls and gents to change their tune. Pike is a whole other beast, though - beyond the fact she could squash him like a bug (wow), she plays him like a fiddle, somehow, and he gets tongue-tied in a decidedly unsexy way. So he really doesn’t blame her for not taking him seriously. Honestly!
So he really has no fucking clue why her hand is on his thigh, and she’s laughing at what he’s singing and listening to what he’s saying, and not the other way around.
He’s had cause to thank the gods (the Everlight specifically, lately. No reason.) for his darkvision before. Lots of good cause, really, from sneaking out before dawn to - well.
Scanlan’s pretty sure he mouths a prayer, because this can’t be real. She can’t be real, white hair blue with shadow and gold with moonlight and subtly the richest thing he’s ever seen.
How are her eyes so fucking pretty? They’re grey. His are grey. No one writes ballads about grey eyes. He’d fix that, right now, except he can’t string words together in his head. He’s still talking, though, but no clue what he’s actually saying.
Better shut up. He does. With a gulp.
“C’mon, Scanlan,” Pike prompts. From beneath her lashes - fuck’s sake, that’s sinful. That has to be sinful, looking like that. And he knows sin.
(He’s not a man his mother would be proud of.)
Apparently he’s gone catatonic, because Pike nudges him. “The rest of the story? The boat, and the fleece? What happens next?”
He has no fucking clue. Scanlan swallows. “I - let’s head to bed,” he says. “It’s late.”
“Yeah,” Pike replies, not looking the least bit tired. “Let’s.”
And she doesn’t move.
Or she does, but it’s not away, to curl up under one of Grog’s arms, as far from his armpit and as close to his body heat as she can manage.
It’s into him.
Silver is too weak a word, platinum to cheap, for what he sees in her eyes.
“Scanlan,” she says.
He gulps. Really appropriate comedic timing. “Yeah?”
“What happens next?”
Maybe, now - just maybe - he can… they can… scratch that might? He’s reading this right - right?
So he gives it a shot: he leans in.
Pike rests her forehead against his and his stupid little heart might give out there.
And then.
She fucking.
Winks.
“You want me so bad it makes you look stupid.”
Scanlan sputters. “I - Pike - you -”
“Oh, I don’t mind.” She grins, cheeky little - “It’s a good look on you.”
He reads something he shouldn’t, then. That earnest devotion she has in prayer, and how she shutters herself off from talking about it too much around their party of godless friends. And Vax, now, especially, and whatever the fuck he has going on. A fire blazing, banked low.
Yeah. He gets scared.
“It’s late,” he repeats. And, because he can’t resist trying his shitty luck: “we might need to cuddle for warmth, though.”
Pike snuggles into his side. He definitely feels warmer, already. And she looks at him a little coyly, and he doesn’t need a fire anymore. “Can I be the big spoon?”
He feigns indignity. Which is, let’s be clear, really fucking hard around the huge grin he has.
Mildly spicy prompt game! Ft. ships I want to write more of <3
#critical role#tlovm#the legend of vox machina#scanlan shorthalt#pike trickfoot#pikelan#tlovm spoilers#critical role fic#cr fanfic#ask game#prompt game#my writing
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I………. have a mighty Need to see some ler caleb fics but with other members of the nein…like ler caleb with shameless lee jester???????? ler caleb with fjord???????? with fucking beau???? don’t get me wrong I love me some ler caleb with molly and essek but omg. I need a full arsenal.
#critickle role#ler caleb#wizard lers = evil evil evil#my mind!!!!!!! it burns with the fury of 10000 tickles!!!!#in that strongman fic there’s a very brief scene where he tickles fjord and I’m like YESSSS#or in the fic where he and Beau get revenge on cad for the fucking. rib counting healing spells dodging bit. omg.#yes my boy#this mostly popped into my head c bc I was like is there any ler caleb lee jester fics out there????? I need more lee jester my sweet girl#tickling#mine#cr#ideas#prompts
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For prompts: Imogen/Laudna, hound of ill omen or pâté pet fluff
So this turned into nearly 4k words on Imogen and the animals she has loved? The last section at least is directly responsive. 😬 And I might supplement with hound of ill omen at some point because he's lurking around in my head, too.
Thank you so much for the fun prompt! <3
PS - Wrote this real fast so pls excuse any errors.
-
One afternoon when Imogen was six, her daddy called her into the barn and nodded over at the old wooden trough turned on its side near the stairs to the loft. She knew what it meant, gasping and scurrying in the direction of the trough, slowing to the quickest walk she could manage at her daddy’s, “No running in the barn, Imogen.”
And then she saw them—five tiny new things, eyes closed and mouths searching, mewling and pitiful on a pile of hay inside the shelter of the worn, dusty planks.
Lady, their mother and Imogen’s favorite barn cat, eyed Imogen as she approached, orange and white tail flicking back and forth, one black ear twitching. Imogen couldn’t read minds (not yet, anyway) but she thought she understood–she gave Lady and her kittens plenty of space, stopping before she got too close. She sat criss-cross applesauce, watching from a distance and thinking about names until her daddy put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her toward the house for dinner.
For the next few weeks, she went out every morning before school and every night before bed to check on them–three orange and one calico and a pretty orange and black mix.
“Tortoiseshell,” her daddy said as he watched Imogen watch them, the black and orange–tortoiseshell–jumping and pawing fiercely at a piece of hay that stuck up from the ground. He only stayed for a moment, wiping sweat from his forehead with the navy blue bandana he always kept in his back pocket before he said, “We’re only keeping one.” When she turned to look at him, he was already focused on pulling the rake from its hook and moving toward one of the stalls. She wanted to argue but she bit her tongue. She was getting good at that. He didn’t look at her as he added, “Don’t get too attached.”
She did get too attached. She cried when Pumpkin and Daisy went to live with Mr. Faramore’s cousin. She tried to hide it, sniffling into the sleeve of her shirt, but her daddy saw and frowned and shook his head. “That’s how it works, Imogen. I told you.” Shame curled in her stomach, and when she wiped her face again, motion hard with anger, the button on her cuff caught her cheek and split the skin.
A few weeks later, when Scare and Crow went to live on the farm a few miles away, Imogen hid behind the barn with Ember in her arms and watched as Crow’s little orange face peeked out from the backpack where he and his brother had been put. When the horse turned the corner and she couldn’t see him anymore, Imogen put Ember back inside the barn with Lady and cried and cried until she couldn’t anymore. Throat sore and nose running, she scrubbed at her face in the stream and wiped it dry before she went inside for dinner.
(“Of course you were attached,” Laudna whispered to her under the moonlight in a grove far, far from Gelvaan. “They were kittens. You were six.” She heard, in Laudna’s thoughts, the undercurrent of opinions on her daddy. What an absolute jackass. Honestly. When she snorted, Laudna tilted her head in that way Imogen was coming to love, one side of her mouth pulling into a smile. Sorry, darling. I don’t mean to think ill of him.
Imogen, heart doing strange things at the word darling, only came back to herself when she noticed Laudna’s smile begin to dip. She reached out and ran tentative fingers over the back of Laudna’s hand where it lay between them. Laudna turned her palm up and caught Imogen’s fingers between her own, the brief staccato interlude in her thoughts smoothing back into a more familiar rhythm as Imogen tried for the gentlest look she could manage. It wasn’t real familiar to her, gentleness, but Laudna made it feel easier than it ever had.
Don’t be sorry. Please. I’ve never had…Thank you, for defendin’ me. And you’re right. He was a little bit of a jackass.
She giggled then, feeling younger and safer than she had in a long time, and Laudna’s smile came out in full, face breaking open eerie and beautiful in the night.)
Lady disappeared almost ten years later, gone one day, then two, then a week.
“Likely went off to die,” speculated one of the older hands, bottom lip bulging with dip that he spit into the jar in his left hand every other sentence. “Dignified, that one.”
“Or somethin’ got her. Not as fast as she used to be.”
Imogen mucked a stall quietly as they went on, moving from Lady to the weather to crop predictions. She was sweating, so the tears blended into the water already dripping down her face, and nobody was paying her any mind anyway.
Nobody except her daddy, apparently. He walked by a few minutes later, shadow draping over her from where he stood in the stall door.
“That’s just how it is, Imogen.”
I didn’t say anything, she hissed into his mind, teenage angst and righteous anger forcing more tears from her eyes. The sound of his boots tripping over each other as he backed away pulled a bitter smile from her. She never spoke into his mind. He hated it. Careful, she said, almost taunting, and she felt the anger swell in him even as he moved further away.
She ate dinner alone that night.
-
By the time Flora came around, Imogen was miserable. She was fighting headaches every day, and she’d alienated nearly everyone in town over the course of the last few years.
When her powers first came, Imogen didn’t understand what was happening. Confused and generally in pain, she couldn’t always process the difference between what she heard and what she heard, which meant she sometimes responded to things that hadn’t actually been said out loud. People weren’t fond of having somebody in their mind, even if nobody was quite ready to admit that was what was happening.
Then came the panic attacks.
And the scars.
And the “accidents” that happened around her.
She’d never been popular, looked too much like her mama in a town full of people who loved her daddy, but the rumors gave them a better excuse to avoid her, and of course, to judge.
And, to be fair, Imogen wasn’t real eager to spend her time with them either. She hated the headaches and the anxiety and she definitely hated being able to hear the thoughts vile enough to stand out in the general din, vile enough that the men who thought them suddenly found themselves tripping over nothing or falling into ponds or spilling their drinks all over themselves. She didn’t do it on purpose but she wasn’t sorry. A few of those incidents and suddenly everybody was turning to look for lavender anytime anybody had an accident.
When Ms. Gillis dropped a basket of produce one morning at market and turned to glare at Imogen, setting all six of her kids to whispering about “the purple witch,” Imogen decided to give up the small hope she’d been clinging to that the town where she grew up might learn to accept her as she was now.
She stopped going out when she could avoid it, and when she couldn’t, she picked times when she thought the market or the general store or wherever it was she needed to go would be least crowded, got in and out as quick as she could. At least on the farm she was mostly alone, even if it hurt that her daddy joined everybody else for lunch and left Imogen alone in the orchard or under the big tree out behind the barn.
She was under that tree when she first saw Flora, placid as Sam and a hand she didn’t recognize walked her. She was beautiful, a sorrel with a wide white stripe down her face. Imogen absently took a last bite of apple before tossing it back into the brown bag she’d brought and standing to walk toward Sam.
“Imogen. There you are.” He looked relieved to see her, a vaguely anxious set of feelings pressing into her mind, which meant he really did not want to be handling this horse or he really did not like the other hand. Or maybe both. “This is Dylan. They work for Mr. Langham and rode over with Flora here.”
Imogen lifted a perfunctory hand at Dylan before moving closer to Flora. “Can I?”
Sam nodded, stepping back with the rope, and Dylan joined him.
“She’s real sweet,” Dylan said. “She’ll be perfect for kids.”
Imogen stood a little closer, in Flora’s line of vision, and let her look for a minute before she pulled a piece of carrot from her pocket and laid it flat on her palm in offer. There was the familiar tickle of soft, curious muzzle against her palm as Flora sniffed. She took the treat happily, crunching and then nosing at Imogen like they were old friends.
Imogen ran her hand down Flora’s neck and spoke softly to her until Sam cleared his throat.
“Well. We’re gonna leave her to you.”
“We are?”
She caught some thoughts from Sam that made her turn her face a little further away from the two of them to hide a smile. He definitely didn’t want to get away from Dylan, then.
“Great. Thanks.”
They were gone quickly, leaving Imogen and Flora to themselves. “Whadda ya say?” Imogen asked as Flora mouthed another piece of carrot from her palm eagerly. “Want me to show you around a bit?” She took the gentle pressure of Flora’s muzzle against her shoulder as a yes.
Flora was sturdy and young, barely more than a filly, and Mr. Faramore wanted her for her temperament and as a tester for the riding camp he was considering, a week or two of fancy kids coming to learn about horses and then, ideally, convincing their parents to buy one from him.
Imogen worked with her, taking over as her handler with no objection from anyone else, and they spent at least two afternoons a week together exploring the grounds. Imogen was “setting the trails” for the camp, which didn’t mean much beyond flagging trees and brush that needed to be cleared for easier passage. It was her favorite part of the week, and Flora was better company than any person she’d ever met.
The camp never happened, but two of Mr. Faramore’s granddaughters fell in love with Flora, so she stayed, spending a few days a month saddled up for the girls. She was Imogen’s, the rest of the time–always her choice for checking the property and riding out to mend fences or for any task she could justify, really.
She and Flora were checking some fencing, hot as hell in the afternoon sun, when Imogen heard her for the first time. Toward the forest, where an abandoned cabin sat just far enough over the property line that Mr. Faramore didn’t bother with it, Imogen caught somebody’s thoughts.
She wasn’t digging, had at least learned how to control that part of her powers, but the surface level thoughts were more difficult to block out, especially when she had her shields down, like she usually did when she was out with Flora. She was glad, for once, that she’d been unprepared, because these thoughts weren’t like anything else she’d heard before. They were like music, flowing and self-contained and happy.
She turned Flora toward the forest without much thought.
The woman was weeding outside the cabin, tall and incredibly thin, long hair pinned up with some kind of chisel as she worked, talking to herself quietly. There was something not quite right about her, something unnatural that Imogen couldn’t quite pin down but felt immediately.
It became obvious when she turned to look at them, big black eyes wide and mouth working itself into a smile that was genuine if nervous, and almost too wide to be human. Her skin was pale, too pale, and there was something black on her fingers where they gripped a bundle of weeds, roots dangling, tightly in front of her almost like a bouquet. What looked like some kind of dead creature hung from one of her belts and swayed gently with her movement.
Imogen was grateful for Flora for a thousand reasons, but in that moment, she was especially grateful for her steady temperament and natural curiosity, because Imogen was almost certain the woman would’ve spooked every other horse in their barn. Imogen was also almost certain that the woman in front of her was dead.
“Hello,” she said, clearly not totally dead and with a heavy accent Imogen didn’t recognize. “I’m Laudna.”
An hour later, when Laudna hesitantly offered Flora a piece of carrot from her palm, she took it happily and Laudna laughed, a sound as musical as her thoughts, when Flora leaned into her hand looking for more.
It wasn’t long after that Imogen let loose defending Laudna and burned away the robes of that cleric and any chance of a life for herself in Gelvaan.
She wasn’t sorry and she wasn’t sad, not really, to leave that place. As Imogen hastily filled a pack, Laudna looking on in concern, there was a dull and familiar ache in her chest, thudding below the fire and anger she still carried on Laudna’s behalf. Every what if she’d let herself indulge in over the years, every time she’d tried to please her daddy and failed, every attempt at getting people to see her as anything other than her mother’s daughter. But that’s all they were–what ifs that Imogen was steady realizing she didn’t want anymore.
The real hurt, as they hurried through the forest and then onto the road that led away from Faramore’s, was that light in the barn, where Marty was on shift closing things down and keeping watch. She was leaving Flora, unable to say goodbye, and she didn’t know when she’d be back. If she’d ever be back.
She cried the next night as they settled onto bedrolls, exhausted and overwhelmed and thinking of a horse of all things. She heard her father’s sigh, saw his disappointed and slightly patronizing expression and hid her tears in her sleeve and then in the fabric of her bedroll, trying to keep quiet.
After a few minutes, Laudna said, gently, “I know it must be very difficult. To leave. I’m sorry, Imogen. I’m so very grateful that you saved me but I can’t imagine what it cost you.”
Imogen turned to face her, embarrassed but willing, for reasons she still didn’t quite understand, to Laudna see her. “I’d do it again, Laudna.” The anger roiled in her stomach again, overtaking her sadness for a moment. “They deserved worse than what I gave ‘em, for what they were tryin’ to do to you.” She heard doubt in Laudna’s mind, and Imogen didn’t know yet how to fix that but she had time now to figure it out.
“Honestly, I feel more relief than anythin’ else.” Laudna watched her, pools of black reflecting the soft light of the moon. “I won’t miss it. I’m…I’m excited to explore. I’m excited to explore with you. I’m real glad I met you.”
“I’m glad I met you, too. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a very, very long time.” Ever rang in her mind, loud and earnest enough for Imogen to hear. The fierce, protective thing that had started building in Imogen’s chest that first afternoon was growing faster than she knew what to do with.
“I feel the same way.”
And then Imogen thought of Flora again and found the tears were back. A noise, something affectionate and concerned that was entirely foreign to Imogen, escaped Laudna’s mouth before she sat up and dug in her pack, turning back with a handkerchief which she handed to Imogen. It was soft, embroidered with something she couldn’t quite make out in the dark, and it felt about a million times better than her shirt or her bedroll against her cheeks.
“Thanks.”
“Of course. I…I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but I think I’m quite a good listener, if you do.”
Imogen folded the handkerchief to keep her hands busy as she said, so soft she was afraid Laudna wouldn’t even hear her, “I miss my horse. Flora. I know that’s…I know it’s silly. I just…”
She shrugged, chest tight, and Laudna moved closer to her, placed a hand on Imogen’s shoulder, cool even through the fabric of her shirt.
“It’s not silly. It’s not silly at all.”
It set something loose in her, the honest way Laudna said it, the echo of that honesty in her mind, and suddenly big, ridiculous tears were dripping down her face and Laudna’s arms were wrapped around her, her neck cool against Imogen’s forehead.
“I liked her better than most people.”
“Well, that makes sense. Aside from you, the people in Gelvaan didn’t make the best impression, I must say.” Imogen laughed into Laudna’s shoulder as she continued, “No offense intended, of course. I know I’m not exactly a welcome sight.”
“You are to me.”
She was quiet then, surprise and affection and longstanding shame whirling around in her mind. After a moment, she asked, “Would you like to tell me about Flora?”
“I think…I think I would.”
-
Pate de Rolo was, objectively, horrifying.
Laudna had done a very thorough job preserving his body, and the skull was immaculately clean, but there was no getting around the horror of the creation–the mismatched parts and the patchiness of his thin coat; the dry, flaky reality of his tail; the unnatural stiffness of his joints as Laudna puppeted him, talented hands bringing his movements eerily close to what they might have been in life.
The first time Laudna brought him from her belt with an excited, “Oh, let me introduce you to Pate,” Imogen had worked as hard as she could to keep her smile, to fight the instinct toward disgust. She managed, because she knew a hurt thing when she saw one, and she didn’t want to hurt Laudna any further, but it was a near thing.
“Oh, so lovely to meet you, Pate.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” It was lecherous. It was hilarious. It was one of the most disturbing things Imogen had ever seen.
Laudna looked between them, seeming incredibly pleased, and Imogen, unbelievably, found herself wanting to keep the little monster going, if it meant making Laudna happy. She bolstered herself.
“Pate, Laudna mentioned y’all have traveled all over. She was tellin’ me about the mountains. Do you have a favorite place?”
“Well, I always do like the beaches. For the views, if ya know what I mean…”
Suffering through the ensuing monologue was nothing compared to the pride that bloomed in Imogen’s chest at Laudna’s beaming smile.
Over the course of their first few months together, Imogen began to understand what it meant when Pate made an appearance.
Sometimes, of course, Laudna was bored and they were around the fire and Pate provided a ridiculous and entertaining way to spend an hour before bed. Imogen found it easy to move past disgust as she got to know Laudna, let herself see beyond the grotesque corpse and recognize something that had helped her friend, who had quickly become her favorite person in the world, survive desperate loneliness and nearly unending cruelty. She found it easy, when she thought of him that way, to love him as an extension of Laudna.
And it became clear that he was an extension of Laudna, in more ways than one, as they traveled. The first time they were chased out of a cabin, she saw Laudna’s body shift into something Imogen found both terrifying and beautiful to defend them, limbs expanding and spine cracking as ichor pooled on her skin, a veil of black descending from nowhere to cover her face. That night, as they sat around the fire, Pate came out almost immediately.
“Well that was a right mess, wunnit?”
“It was.” Imogen moved closer on the log they shared, making the offer of contact but leaving Laudna the option to refuse. “We would’ve been in real trouble without Laudna, yeah?”
Pate danced as Laudna’s fingers moved, somehow managing to convey a shrug in the rat-raven creation. “I dunno. I reckon anything would be scared of her, like that. Boss is awful enough when she’s not a monster.”
“I’m not scared of her.” Laudna lifted her eyes from Pate to meet Imogen’s as she said, “And she’s not awful. She’s my best friend.” Black ichor dripped down Laudna’s cheeks as her fragile ankle shifted just enough to touch Imogen’s. “I thought it was really fuckin’ cool.” Laudna snuffled and Imogen grinned, bending down to Pate and stage-whispering, “Did you see that one guy piss himself?”
Pate cackled, and Laudna moved to close the rest of the distance between them.
When Laudna died, the second time, Imogen took his small body and kept it close to her. She couldn’t puppet him, didn’t want to try, but she spoke to him, whispered to him as she set him in a small nest she made from her bandana each night. “Don’t worry, Pate. We’ll get her back. I promise.”
And then he came back with her, ribcage cracking and squelching, off-color observations flying as free as he now could. It was suddenly more difficult to love him, Imogen forcing down disgust in a way she hadn’t in a long time. There was less incentive, now that he was an independent creature, but he was still Pate and he had still saved Laudna, even if he hadn’t been, well, him.
He found her one night as Ashton and Laudna played a game of cards, Laudna cackling in delight as they accused each other, loudly, of cheating nearly every hand. It was so good, to hear her laughing again.
“‘Ey, boss.”
He landed on a branch near her head, wings folding back into his body with a series of motions and noises that made Imogen smile to suppress a gag.
“Pate. I didn’t realize you were out.”
“Mum sent me to check on ya.”
Imogen looked back to Laudna, who was waving a hand dismissively at Ashton, nose turned up. Her eyes caught Imogen’s as she turned away from him with a scoff, and she winked before she threw herself back into their argument, brushing her hair out of her face with an exaggerated motion. Imogen blushed and bit her lip before she remembered she wasn’t alone, clearing her throat and shaking her head before the world’s lewdest undead flying rodent noticed her being a lovesick fool.
“She did, did she?”
“Aye. She worries about you, ya know? It was a hard fight, today.”
It was, objectively, but relative to the past few weeks it was nothing. She’d be fine after a good night’s rest.
“I’m good.” At his uncharacteristic silence, she realized Laudna really must’ve been concerned, so she continued, “Real good, honestly. Just need some sleep. I hadn’t been sleepin’ well, but it’s easier, now that we’re back together. Now that we’re…”
Pate didn’t have lips but he still grinned, somehow, bone-white face more expressive than it had any right to be.
“Now that you and mum’re smashin’, ya mean?”
“Pate.” Her face was red hot, embarrassing on its own and somehow even more embarrassing because her girlfriend’s perverted rat-raven familiar had managed to make it happen.
“I’m real ‘appy for ya.” At her pointed eyebrow, he raised a rat hand in the air, wobbling a little as he rebalanced. “Honest.”
“Mmhmm.” Ashton was up from his seat, arms flailing with enough distress that FCG had begun to make his way over to the duo. Laudna looked like she was having the best day of her life. “An’ how’s she doin’? Really?”
Pate grunted. “Been better, I reckon, but she’ll be alright, our girl. She’s tough.”
Right. This was why she tried to be kind, to hold her distaste at bay, to maintain some kind of love for him. Laudna was their girl. And she’d been Pate’s girl for a lot longer than she’d been Imogen’s.
Imogen stroked the slope of his skull and patted her shoulder, affection and disgust warring within her at the feel of undead claws on her skin. He settled and they watched together as Laudna and Ashton continued, Letters stationed close.
“She’ll be alright.” Imogen said it for the both of them, an affirmation and a promise.
Skull scraped skin as he moved to speak, and goosebumps broke out across Imogen’s shoulders, an instinct she couldn’t suppress.
“‘Course she will. She’s got us, after all.”
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h/c spell prompts with Cure Wounds and Ashton and Milo? (Romantic or platonic, dealers choice!)
Ahhh this one was nice and cathartic, in a difficult way. Thank you for the prompt! I hope you enjoy it! <3 ~Martin
Content warning: this fic contains some dark and unhealthy thoughts and actions on the subjects of chronic pain, disability, self-endangerment, alcohol use, and guilt. Also, there's blood.
~
Milo was cleaning up a spill from a mug of coffee in the front room when Ashton walked in through the front door, covered in blood.
Well. Covered was maybe a slight exaggeration, but it was soaked down half of the front of his vest, dripping from their nose, and dried across their hands. He was stumbling, unsteady on his feet.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Milo said, shocked and a little horrified.
“Fight,” Ashton said shortly. They continued to walk in, heading down the hall towards their bedroom.
Milo rushed after him, grabbing the curtain to stop him from closing it behind them. “Are you drunk? You are bleeding. A lot.”
“Yeah.” Ashton sat down, wiping roughly at his nose and barely wincing.
“Fuck. Let me go get some stuff, I can heal–”
“Don’t fucking bother,” Ashton told them.
Milo frowned. They crossed their arms. “Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.” Ashton tipped their head backwards and let out a sharp, tired laugh. “Doesn’t fucking matter what you do, Miles, it’s not gonna stop.”
“Stop bleeding? Come on, give me some credit, I can fix a broken nose. And whatever happened to…” Milo gestured at their own collarbone, seeing the gash that was probably the source of most of the blood on Ashton’s.
“No, not the fucking bleeding, I don’t care about the fucking bleeding.”
“Then–”
Ashton let himself fall backwards diagonally across his bed. His chest rose and fell as he breathed just a little more heavily than he normally did. “All of it,” they said unhelpfully.
After a pause, Milo said, “Okay. I’m gonna go get my healing stuff, ‘cause you’re getting blood everywhere.” When Ashton didn’t protest again, Milo went to fetch all of the healing supplies they had built and learned how to use after Ashton’s fall.
When they returned, Ashton had his eyes closed and he didn’t respond to Milo quietly saying his name. It wouldn't be the first time they had come home and immediately passed out drunk–at least it was on his bed this time, and not in the hallway–so Milo set to work healing up the new injuries as best as they could. The jagged cut just below Ashton’s throat was superficial, and his nose wasn't actually broken. Milo took out a handkerchief and used it with a little magic to clean away all of the blood from Ashton's clothes, skin, and the blankets underneath him. They were about to get up and leave him to rest when he spoke.
"See? Doesn't fucking matter."
"What do you mean?" Milo asked.
"Getting hurt, getting fucking healed, doesn't matter. Everything still fucking hurts."
Milo winced. "Ash…"
"I can get beat to shit and I don't even care."
"Oh, gods, Ash–"
"No, and it–it doesn't stop, and I drink and I fucking…punch somebody, just to make it stop for a second, but I know it's gonna fucking…be back. Never gonna fucking leave me alone. It's always going to fucking hurt."
And there was guilt. There was so much fucking guilt that Milo didn't know what to do with it. It was their fault that Ashton had ribbons of metal gluing their shattered bones and flesh back together, their fault that he hadn't been healed right, that he would never be free of the pain and the reminder of the fall, of the Nobodies leaving, of everyone fucking leaving them.
They wanted to get angry. Milo felt the same boiling fury in their own chest that they saw sometimes in Ashton’s eyes, and they wanted to scream, to get rid of the guilt by giving into their worst impulses and telling Ashton that he was fucking lucky to be alive, would he rather Milo hadn't bothered to save them, would he rather be dead–
But they didn't want to know the answer to that. And they didn’t want to lash out when it wasn't Ashton that they were furious with.
"Do you want me to go so you can sleep?" Milo said softly.
"No," Ashton said, their voice hitching and their hand reaching out briefly towards Milo before they pulled it back down to their side. "Fuck. I mean, you can. It doesn't fucking matter."
Already in pain, doesn't matter if it gets worse. Everybody else already left, doesn't matter if you do, too.
Milo let out a quiet sigh, pushing the rage away to deal with another day, and stayed.
#my writing#ashton greymoore#milo krook#prompts#cr fic#critical role fic#author has chronic pain and is currently quite pissed and tired about it#not quite at the 'starting barfights with strangers' level of pissed but yknow i get it#to the other folks who have sent me these prompts: they're all lovely and i will get around to them#eventually. probably. i have to admit i'm not like great at filling prompts these days#but i'm trying! and i'm spinning the prompts around like a washing machine. tryin to get good ideas. it'll happen.#okay goodniiiiight i'm gonna try to pass out now and ignore my own pain
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here are all of the museum au snippets & prompt fills that i can find in one place, for convenience & enjoyment!! i am working on writing an actual story for this au, which i love very much, & some or all of these snippets may appear in it or may just be bonus material.
blurb exercise for museum au
ashton & laudna scene - ameliorate prompt
laudna & delilah scene - precocious prompt
laudna hiring ashton scene - defiant prompt
laudna & imogen scene - scattershot prompt
laudna & imogen scene - fettering prompt
laudna, orym & imogen scene in the desert site - restricted prompt
laudna restorations scene - brush prompt
laudna & imogen scene - effective prompt
can i kiss you imodna scene - hands prompt
laudna imogen & a hallway full of kids scene - bedazzled prompt
fearne & imogen scene - fresh/renewed prompt
orym & fearne spying on imogen scene - scheme prompt
laudna & imogen first meeting - snippet
laudna & imogen scene - bonsai prompt
first chapter snippet
hoping to add more soon or, even better, a link to the story on ao3 when i finally get it going. enjoy!
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For prompts, how about 'flutter' for "Sleep With Benefits" Caleb and Essek?
oooh sleepverse! keen for that
(ask me a march writing prompt)
A crack of thunder pulls Caleb from his sleep, his eyelids fluttering as he shifts. He reaches out instictively--Essek's a lighter sleeper than him, more prone to waking with the slightest of reasons--and his hand touches cold sheets.
It's been while then.
Light flashes, blinding out his partially lidded eyes, and a second crack follows right on the hells. He swears he can feel the wind, the phantom rain, can feel the skin prick as if he was standing in the open and not lying in Essek's bed.
Blinking, Caleb stirs fully, sitting up and letting the sheet pool around his waist. He beerily peers around, yawning as he tries to locate his partner.
He realises why he could feel the wind; Essek is standing before the balcony, the curtains drawn back and the door wide open. His silver robe is slipping off one shoulder, caught in the maelstrom that is raging outside.
Another flash, and Essek is silhouetted against a white sky before it plunges back into darkness, the door rattling with the force of the storm. It takes Caleb's breath for a moment, for the way Essek doesn't even flinch in the face of nature's fury, a statue.
Slipping from the bed, Caleb pads across the room, wondering how best to draw Essek from whatever is holding him. How to reach him. Essek hasn't given any indication that he's aware of Caleb's presence and he doesn't want to startle him.
In the end, he opts to step up next to him.
It doesn't entirely stop Essek from jumping, from flinching back before he realises who it is and who is there.
"Caleb."
"Hey."
Another flash of lightning, illuminated Essek's white hair and turned his usual storm-grey eyes silver. The rain is hitting them here, blowing in with the breeze, and he can't help but shiver.
"Everything okay?"
"Hmm?"
Caleb nods towards the open door, the storm raging around them, and winces as thunder cracks again.
"Yes. I couldn't sleep."
"Something on the mind?"
"Mm. I'll come in soon."
Caleb watches him, watches how Essek looks far away, eyes scanning and tracking the rain. He leans in and kisses Essek's cheek.
"Don't stay too long, you'll catch a cold."
#where is this going?#I am not sure#something something Essek contemplating asking Caleb to move in#I might turn this into something longer eventually#shadowgast#essek thelyss#caleb widogast#the mighty nein#critical role#cr: fanfic#fic: sleep with beneifts#march writing prompts#ask katie#katie replies#theisngerbadger#my writing
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5 min sketch prompt: fishing for mercalebs
This is the most tried and true method, according to my research.
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Cinnamon Kisses In The Bread Aisle
This fic is part of this writing challenge.
Day 1 - Write about a first kiss
[Read on AO3]
It happens in the bread aisle at their local supermarket, between loaves of freshly baked bread, ginger and cinnamon cookies, and cakes with all kinds of frostings. Thankfully, not a whole lot of people shop at seven in the morning, and neither would Laudna and Imogen be shopping if it wasn’t for their dire need of groceries.
“Can I kiss you?” Imogen asks. “I can’t tell if it’s alright or not anymore.” She is right, a lot has happened recently between them. A fight that lasted longer than any of them wanted it to, a forced separation that felt like the world was coming to an end, and to make things worse, the stress of their lives has been so overwhelming that Laudna can’t even remember the last time she and her best friend had a moment alone in peace and quiet.
“Alright,” Laudna replies, not really knowing what else to say. She has been waiting for this moment since she realized she was in love with her best friend, but she was too scared to take a step forward lest she be rejected (again). But not this time. This is Imogen we’re talking about, not some bully kid who threw dirt at Laudna’s face.
When Imogen gets on the tips of her toes, Laudna bends slightly to make the damn height difference easier on the purple-haired woman. She doesn’t know what to do with her weirdly long limbs. Should she wrap her hands around Imogen’s waist? Is that too forward? Maybe Laudna should just cradle the other woman’s face? And what if her lips are cold and chapped? Will Imogen be bothered? Does it matter if Laudna doesn’t really know how to kiss? She’s only practiced on her hand growing up, like the other kids her age, she never really got a chance to do it with another person.
But nothing else matters in those few seconds anymore, because Imogen’s lips are on hers, soft and warm and sweet like the cinnamon roll she just ate. And she’s kissing her. Imogen is actually kissing Laudna, and nothing else but this matters. Gods, the kiss is short. Too short! Laudna wants more now. She feels as if she’s been trudging through an arid desert for years and this is the first drop of water that she touched, so she takes more. Laudna brings Imogen’s face back up to meet hers and kisses her slowly and longingly. It doesn’t matter if the baker is staring at them with their mouth agape, or if the old lady is trying to reach the loaf on the shelf behind them because finally Imogen kissed Laudna, and Laudna is kissing her back. And nothing else matters.
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