#Critical role fanfiction

[the-kaedageist]

It is years before her hard work pays off. The time is worth it.

She’s done her homework well. She figures out the best time to approach, when her son will feel least threatened. Not when he’s alone. Preferably when he’s in a public place, providing as much safety to him as to her. After five years, the last thing she wants to do is spook him badly enough that she has to track him down again.

She has lived over a millennium. That doesn’t stop her from pausing outside the crowded tavern in Ank’harel, shrouded in the image of a high elf, her heart echoing in her ears. A millennium of life has been nothing without taking risks – but it has been centuries since she’s risked her heart.

She takes a final breath and ducks inside.

The tavern is loud. A band in the corner plays a Taldorian jig, which she recognizes from her three months spent negotiating a trade agreement in Whitestone. Raucous chanting rings from the opposite corner, where a halfling woman and a purple-skinned tiefling are chugging from enormous mugs. She’s so appalled by the drinking competition that it takes her several seconds to turn her attention back in that direction, realizing that they’re exactly the group she’s looking for.

“HA!” shouts the halfling, audible even over the band as she slams down the ceramic drinking mug; it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter on impact. “Suck it, Kingsley!”

The tiefling lowers his mug half a second later, groaning. “You’re cheating.”

She takes a moment to survey the rest of the group. There are nine of them in total, gathered around a long rectangular table running along the length of the side wall.

Next to the tiefling, a dark-skinned human woman in blue waves a similar mug, shouting, “it’s my turn next! Bring it on!” A larger woman with striking hair is staring at this next challenger with clear fondness as she sips from a clear glass. On the other side of the table, a tall pink firbolg and half-orc are deep in conversation, ignoring their companions. A blue-skinned tiefling woman braids the firbolg’s hair and cheers at the drinkers.

On the halfling’s other side, a redheaded human man is tapping his fingertips to the music. He leans against the man she seeks.

She takes a moment to study her son. He’s completely undisguised, his hair a tad longer but just as carefully styled as she remembers, his ears dangling with silver jewelry. From her surveillance, she knows he ordinarily operates in disguise; he clearly has decided to forgo caution here, on another continent surrounded by his friends.

She expects him to look uncomfortable or displeased at the antics of the group – but he is laughing, leaning his forehead into the redheaded human’s shoulder, a flash of fang revealed in his open joy.

In over one hundred and twenty years, she’s never seen him smile like that. It is startling, unbalancing; had she ever truly known him?

Read the rest on AO3 (4,793 words)

[mintywolf]

Her unsteady glance about herself doesn’t catch on a blue damask evening gown, but everything is only a blur of unfocused shapes and bright colors. She draws in a stuttering gasp, and then another, as gradually her surroundings begin to resolve themselves into a bewilderingly comfortable living room and the oddest assortment of people she has ever seen. ... They all look worn and bone-weary, but alive with expectant joy. They are all staring at her intently. They are strangers. -- 33 years ago Matilda made a dying pact in the arms of her murderer. Now that pact lies sundered by a lightning strike, and her soul with it. Waking again in the arms of loving strangers who seem to regard her as family, she tries to put together the pieces of the life she can't remember and what she means to the people around her.

Remember Us, a story about memory (and its loss), fake marriage, real marriage, family, home, the passage of time, resurrection, and ears, is now complete!

(I never did manage to finish all the chapter illustrations I had planned to do but here are a few. Maybe more in the future!)

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hound "baby boy" of Ill Omen for prompts!

first off, thank you for carrying this whole ship on your back. you are our strongest soldier and we appreciate you.

second, even more thanks for sending this my way! I hope this is something like what you had in mind!

if anyone else sees this and would like to toss a little prompt my way, feel free :)

wc: 934

cw: body horror…kind of? it’s just canonically what the good boy looks like

~~~

Imogen loves Laudna. She does. Quite a lot, in fact.

Because it is a fact. 

It may as well be written in stone. In the stars. Recorded on one of those dusty scrolls in elegant script and stuck on a shelf in some stuffy library for the next bored student who may happen across it and learn of two witches who saved the world.

Laudna, it must be noted, is a woman of many quirks. 

And Imogen, it must be noted, adores her for them. 

They are just as much a part of Laudna as the angle of her nose, the brightness in her eyes. As are her projects, macabre and scrounged as they often are, and so Imogen adores them, too. 

(If it takes her a moment to come around, Laudna must never know. Each new creation, presented to Imogen with all the glee of a child in a sweets shop, will only ever be met with enthusiasm. Laudna, she knows, has spent too long squirreling away the odd parts of herself. Imogen is determined to recover them.)

“Come here, darling,” Laudna calls, and the flesh-and-bone creature that scared the everloving fuck out of Imogen the first time he burst from his maker’s chest trots happily to her side, tongue lolling from a fleshless snout. 

The hound twines between Laudna’s legs, and she lifts her skirts to allow him through. He leans heavily against the inside of her knee, and Laudna beams. She bends at the waist to wrap the creature in spindly arms. His back arches, and Imogen can hear the vertebrae curving, clacking, as Laudna scratches behind his one intact ear. The ichor-tipped remnant of a tail begins to wag, shaking them both with the force of it.

He spots Imogen several paces away, and his green eyes glow, peering at her curiously.

Laudna has stopped her scritches, and the hound tilts his big head. Laudna looks up, meets Imogen’s fond gaze, and her lips split into a wide grin.

“Go on,” she pats the creature’s sides encouragingly, “say hello if you like.”

The hellhound bounds forward, released from his command. 

Imogen recalls the day he learned his tricks.

Laudna had found Imogen lounging beneath a copse of trees one afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to sink, casting the forest in dappled shades of orange and gold. The festering hound loped diligently at her heels. His paws colored the leaf-strewn ground iridescent black in their wake. 

“Look!” Laudna had said, chest puffed. She turned to her newest creation and pointed one finger. “You’ve been so obedient all afternoon. I’ll see about giving you something from my collection if your other mom approves of your skills. I should have a deer leg that will suit you nicely.” She contemplated for a moment. “Ready?” 

The hound stretched into a bow, muscle snapping over exposed bone, yawned, and shook. Drops of blood and ichor spattered the clearing, but Imogen hardly noticed, too caught up in Laudna’s casual statement. 

She had said it nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just gifted Imogen something extraordinarily precious. As if Imogen’s senses hadn’t suddenly gone askew. As if she hadn’t just sent Imogen’s worldview slip-sliding into something new and dangerous and so welcome that it felt like a homecoming. Her mind spun until she was almost giddy with it. She wondered, then, how something said so simply could feel so significant. If Laudna understood what she had done. 

She had appointed Imogen the caretaker of a fragment of her soul. Of a creature that had been born of her, born from her. Crafted from the essence of her with whispered words and a desire to protect. 

“Imogen?” Laudna had said then, “Are you ready?”

And Imogen had glanced between Laudna and her hound, who sat on bleeding haunches and looked expectantly at his mother, and it was all she could do to swallow the creak in her throat.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

Now, as the hound nearly bowls her over, Imogen cannot find it within herself to be mad at him. Not even at the dark stains on her dress. They’ll come out with a prestidigitation or two. She knows from experience. 

She falls back in the grass and stares down twin emeralds. A broad tongue laps the side of her face, and she laughs, trying to dodge a cold, wet nose against her cheek. Her hands come up to cup the sides of his muzzle. 

“Hi, baby boy,” she coos. She rubs at his ears, and he presses harder into her palm, groaning loudly. She can feel the vibration in her chest.

Laudna scolds, “What have I said about knocking people over?” Her hands rest firmly on her hips. “Honestly, Imogen, you could at least discipline him. How will he learn?”

Imogen rolls her eyes, shrugs. “I’m the fun mom. He comes to me because he knows he can’t get away with anything when you’re around.”

Laudna huffs. “I’m sorry that I want our son to be civilized.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” The hound flops to the ground, sprawling over Imogen’s outstretched legs, and she lets out an oomph of surprise. “Are you going to join us down here?” 

Laudna sighs and settles beside Imogen, resting her head on Imogen’s shoulder. She runs her hands over the creature’s exposed belly, avoiding the biggest of the perpetually oozing wounds. His jaw unhinges happily. His tail thumps a steady rhythm against her shin.

Imogen presses a kiss to the top of Laudna’s head, and Laudna relaxes into her.

A soft smile spreads across Imogen’s lips.

[bloopitynoot]

Dear CR smut writers,

Please never stop creatively coming up with unholy usages of Mage Hand, Hold Person, Unseen Servant, & Immovable Object.

Sincerely,

Anyone who ships the wizards.

[saphirered]

Hiii I love ur writing!

I would love to see a Percy x reader where they both kinda hate each other in the beginning but eventually fall in love, if that makes sense? Maybe a rivals to lovers thing

Hope that makes sense! Love ur work :D

Thank you deary! I love a little rivals to lovers moment so I hope you enjoy this one! 😘

You are completely and utterly infuriating. Percy has a multitude of enemies in his life, upon whom he wishes horrible things but you are not a common enemy. You are not a friend either. He does not wish an ill fate to befall you. What he does wish for, is your projects falling apart at the seams, your wine to taste sour and food to be bland, your ink to forever run out, your notes to be messed up, that one tool you need to be missing or just barely out of reach. Percy wishes no harm upon you but he does wish for the most petty things to befall you. Were he anyone else he might feel some kind of way but he just happens to be a petty individual from time to time and when it comes to you, you are no exception. 

Percy doesn’t quite know where it began or when it might end. He cannot remember a time before, where you might have been on less rivalling terms. You’ve just always been so damn you and you can get under his skin like no other with your stupid perfection and incredible mind. Your clever and eloquent words always hit him just the wrong way and you make his blood boil. Where he turned a tinkerer, you turned to magic. You’re a damn prodigy and you have no issue with rubbing it in his face. You just had to get involved in Whitestone politics, didn’t you? You just had to be fundamental in the city’s protection. You just had to rub it in his face you were here when he wasn’t. 

Your skills to disturb his peace just when he needed it are impeccable. Percy was enjoying a late lunch in the dining hall alone after a busy morning and afternoon of tinkering and meetings. You had been entirely absent all day, nowhere to be found. Despite what he might have thought the lack of your presence irked him. He brushed it off as some expectation you might jump out to ruin his day at some point but you never did. Percy would deny it if ever faced with it but he grew worried at your lack of presence. Perhaps you overslept. Completely unreasonable for you as you rise at the crack of dawn and are never a minute late to anything. You’d missed two meetings you were set to attend. No page had come to notify him of your undoubtedly expertly worded excuse. No word of you came at all. And when those meetings came to an end nobody had batted an eye at your lack of attendance. Did everyone know but him? Was this some sort of trick? Another petty thing to get back at him for something he might have said or done? 

Think of the devil and they shall appear. You enter the dining hall and beeline for the decanter and glasses. You fill one and drink, then fill it again with a deep sigh. You lean against the table a little too much as you shuffle over to grab a plate and pile some of the food leftovers still set out; some bread and some fruits, Percy notes. Not your usual choices. If anything you seem entirely careless about the contents. He notes your appearance. You look disheveled. Your clothes are crinkled and you’re sweaty. Your eyes are sunken and your expression is grim. Your shoulders are slumped and there’s a shake to your hands that are usually so steady. You look exhausted. 

“What hell hole did you crawl out of?” Percy says with his usual snark and casually sips his wine. He expects a quick-witted retort. You bite your tongue and shake your head as you drop some grapes on your plate. 

“I’m not in the mood for your quips, Percival. If you’re looking for a fight I suggest you go find your friends and ask them to kick your ass into the next realm.” You grumble picking up your plate now filled and taking another large swig of your drink before you pour a refill. 

“Day drinking already? I recall you saying those are the actions of idiots and alcoholics.” You give him a look, in particular his own glass very much filled with the burgundy liquid yours holds as well. 

“So which one are you? Idiot or alcoholic?” You retort and Percy swears he notes the faint twitch at the corner of your lips. 

“Any one who does not question his sanity is the furthest from it.” 

“The same could be said about anyone who holds a cup and proclaims themselves not a problem drinker.” He snorts and rolls his eyes. You look between him and the exit. Your exhaustion shows and with a shake of the head more to yourself than him you take to the seat opposite of him. You sit down gracelessly, push aside the cutlery, put your elbows on the table as you cross your arms and lean on them. The moment you sit down there seems to be some kind of relief rushing through you, similar to that of muscle ache. What had you been up to? Percy wants to find out. 

“You neglected your duties to the council today.” It’s a statement not a question. You just pick up a grape and pop it into your mouth musing a shrug. “Did you oversleep?” The jab is almost belittling and you shoot him a look to remind him of your first statement; you really aren’t in the mood for this. 

“I was otherwise occupied. Now may I please eat in silence?” The expression, the tiredness in his eyes makes him almost regret his pervious words. What has caused you to be like this? He’s never seen you so-so beyond yourself. You’ve always been the image of composure and expertise and now, you’re almost seem vulnerable, weak, almost human and not just the picture perfect creature you’d set your appearances as. You’re a person, not just some devil sent straight from the hells to make his life a living nightmare. You’re real. 

“If you wish…” He pushes around his food with his fork while you tear bits and pieces off the bread and eat them slowly. You’re too tired to eat. You look like you’re about to fall asleep right here on this very table, or at least deliberating whether you could justify it. You both eat in silence for the next few minutes. Percy has cleaned his plate and reaches for the decanter to pour some more wine. You’re confused when he refills your cup too. 

“Are you alright?” Percy asks out of the blue and you might as well have been shot by one of Vex’s arrows given your surprise. You choke on your bread and cough. 

“Excuse me?” You wheeze and recompose yourself. You look for any kind of deceit or malicious intent, anything that might explain the undertone of his question because you are pretty damn sure that sounded an awful lot like worry.

“Are you alright?” The second time he repeats it does not ease quell your confusion. Still sounds like worry. Why the hell would he have any reason to be worried about you? You two have been nothing but a menace upon each other’s lives. You never had anything nice to say about each other. You constantly question each other’s skill, motives and credibility. You constantly undermine and try to outperform each other. That’s not to say you have not enjoyed any of it, and you remember the looks of satisfaction and pride well when either of you stand victor over the other. You’d never expect worry to be an expression associated with Percy in the context of you. Worry means concern and concern is rooted in care. And that train of thought sends you down a spiral. Does he care? Do you care? Maybe you do. Anyone’s life grows a little duller without their competition nearby, right? That’s just a poor excuse. How do you even answer his question? Honesty. 

“No.” You speak before you can think but you know it’s true. You’ve been pushing yourself too far the past few weeks.

“Will you be alright?” When you answered Percy swears something within him reminisces of glass breaking. 

“I don’t know.” You chuckle to yourself and think for a second. “Do you know you’re the first person to ask me that and and got the real answer? What does that say about me?” The latter you ask yourself. 

“You’re exhausted. Rest.” You’ve heard those words before but not from him. “I can’t very well argue with you when you’re about to pass out onto your lunch.” There’s a light quip in there but it’s far more playful than the ones you’re used to. It’s far more lighthearted than you have ever exchanged. 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? What’s your record? Sixty-five hours without a minute of sleep before you decided a nice risotto would make a comfortable pillow?” 

“You keep reminding me. As you keep reminding me that your record is set at sixty-seven hours and twenty-four minutes and thus you have bested me even in sleep deprivation.” He manages a chuckle as do you. 

“Are these the petty victories we have come to? Have we no better achievements left?” 

“Well, I’ve killed a dragon. You?” He deadpans though there’s no real seriousness about the brag. 

“You and your friends killed a dragon, together. You still got four more to go. Don’t get ahead of yourself, dear.” You wink and swirl your wine leaning back in your seat. Though exhausted the tension begins ebbing away. Who knew it was Percy that would be a comfort and bring peace to the chaos of your life. 

“It’s still one more than you. Besides, we’ll have killed the other four in time.” You shrug and flick a grape at him. It bounces off his arm and rolls on the table. Before you can claim it back Percy puts his hand over it and prevents you from getting it. He cups it as you try to pry his fingers apart and gets it out of your reach lest you disgrace yourself even further and lean over the table to attempt to take it from him. He grins victoriously and pops the fruit into his mouth. You mutter some kind of curse under your breath and he just looks at you innocently. 

“Of course, you take your sweet time skinning some dragons while I keep this city safe hidden from their senses. Tell me, how many lives saved every day counts against the slaying of a dragon? What’s the conversion rate? You’re schooled in mathematics and economics are you not?” You point a finger at him and Percy is sure he has the perfect retort for your statement but then the gravity of it hits him. You’ve been the one keeping up this city-wide illusion. You’ve been the one keeping Whitestone safe in his absence. That’s why you weren’t at the meeting today and that’s why he wasn’t informed. Gilmore and Allura were there, you weren’t. He doesn’t know why it took him two days to figure out no three of you were seen in the same place since he returned from the Feywild. He had known the illusion was there, he passed through it for goodness’ sake. He just never considered that’s what you’d be doing. It’d gone over his head you’d use your skills not to fight but to protect instead. You’d not reach for glory or selfish gain but you’d do what is best for the people. You’d still risk yourself for every soul in Whitestone. You’d been doing so for weeks and you had not flaunted it in his face once during your interactions. How did you end up the one protecting him? Why did you not gloat? Why do you not mention this fact even now? 

“You’ve been pushing yourself beyond your limits, for Whitestone? For us?” He asks breathlessly. The meaning behind those words becomes very real now they are spoken, and the statement is undeniable. The playfulness disappears and a a gloomy sorrow overcasts instead. Still you manage a cocky grin with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well who else is going to keep your precious workshop safe so you can continue constructing the means of a dragon’s demise or while you’re off gathering those pesky vestiges?” Your jest does not make lighter the gravity of your deeds. 

“Thank you.” Percy blurts before he recovers. “I mean it. Thank you, for everything. Whitestone owes you a debt.” ‘I owe you a debt’, he leaves those last words unspoken. Percy cannot quite describe what runs through you but he feels safe to assume you have not heard those words before, not on this matter. It’s one thing to know people are grateful for the work you do. It’s another to actually hear them say it. A thoughtful moment of silence passes before you push back your chair and rise.

“I’m going to sleep for the barest amount possible and then I’m going to go back for my next shift and repeat this all over again.” You twirl your wrists and they crack sending shivers up Percy’s spine. You flex your shoulders and same thing happens. He sees the discomfort pass across your features when you push the chair back in its place and lean on the back of it before you walk around the table and make way for the exit. 

“Get some proper sleep. I’ll talk to Allura or Gilmore-“ Percy argues but you stop and face him shaking your head. 

“They need their rest too if we want this illusion to last.” You counter. You dread every day as this thing eats away at your magic. You don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this but you have to. Every life in this city depends on it. 

“There has to be something…” Percy thinks of the ways to help but there’s nothing. He knows next to nothing about the arcane. He’s no mage. He’s a damn tinkerer and he can’t very well fix this with some mirrors or magical charges. He can’t help bear the burden, not as you carry the burden for him. Whitestone should be his responsibility, but he’s out of his depths. He’s helpless, or would be without you to keep pushing yourself far past your limits. He can only imagine what price you’d pay for this over time, or how long you’d be able to keep this going. He’ll have to admit defeat in this particular query. 

“You could kill some dragons.” You smile. “But until then, I’d appreciate some company while I drain every resource I have until I can barely stand. If you have the time-“ You imply but an answer is given immediately. 

“I’ll make time.” He answers far too quickly. “I’ve come to the conclusion I might like your company far more than I dislike it.” So he has. He cares about you. He looks back upon his life now and he knows it to be true. His pettiness was never born from hatred or dislike. You were perfect, are perfect in his eyes, any imperfection does not chip away at that belief, it is simply part of you. He’s envious of your skill and achievement because he desires to be your equal but felt like he could never be. His pettiness was born from a an unfair coping mechanism and he hopes this is something you two can work on now that veil has been dropped. Perhaps you can discuss as adults rather than bicker like children? He’d like that very much. He likes you. That feel like a disgusting thought he’s still coming to terms with but he knows he can get over himself. He likes you. 

“Is this where we kiss and profess our undying love for each other?” And you like him. Gods he doesn’t need a demon’s bargain to figure that one out. He knows your games and your words, he knows how to read those underlying tones and it’s exactly how he sees now; you like him. Never did he think he’d draw that conclusion nor would he think himself anything but a fool for believing it. Maybe he is a fool. A lucky fool he’ll be. 

“Perhaps in time.” He retorts. Okay maybe old habits do die hard but given you purse your lips and blow him a kiss, it’s not a habit you want to let die either. It’s perfectly you. It’s perfectly him too. 

“I reckon I’ll have you swooning in no time.” 

“That sounds an awful lot like a challenge. A petty one at that.” 

“If you say so…” 

[railroad-migraine]

In honour of Legend of Vox Machina coming out, can we have a Percy x (fem/gender neutral) reader with the prompt "You feel like home to me." Maybe reader also lost their home (or they were from Whitestone too)

'Welcome Home'

-> Percy x GN!Reader

Notes: Angst and fluff, hurt comfort. I started writing this piece in January 2022. As of June 2023, I have now watched TLOVM. Sorry it took a while Anon, but I wanted to save your lovely request for when I eventually got into Vox Machina 💙 Can be read as platonic or romantic

~ Poet

*****

It wasn't meant to be like this.

Things had not gone to plan. What was the plan, you say? That is debatable depending on who you'd ask.

To start, Vax was unfortunately spotted skulking around the enemy's camp. That then lead to small confrontation, one that he'd be fine to handle all by himself, one where he was suspiciously poked and prodded at innocently, but Keyleth instinctually stepped in to save him - thus getting the whole party involved and quickly overwhelmed. It was manageable until the exact moment where Grog lopped off the head of one of the bandits.

To put it simply, all hell broke loose and it all went to shit.

However, in the end, when the bandits lay dead and smloldering by the campfire, it was a victory for Vox Machina.

A victory, maybe. But not quite a win.

Wounds were in need of tending to, and Pike was far too exhausted to treat everyone. Camping in the woods did not seem to be the best option, the trees offering little cover, and neither did the cliff face nearby. Frustrated, tired, hungry - voices raising at each other prickled the hairs at the back of your neck and you knew you had to step up. To be the adult.

"There is a village," you start, but no one chooses to listen, your voice just another one in the argument.

"There is a village," you repeat, a little more firm and insistant, and the others begin to withdraw, eyes falling onto you, "not far from here. I- I didn't mention it before because it doesn't belong on the map. Not anymore, at least.

"We can go there, set up camp, sit down and just shut up for a few hours," you sigh.

Most of the party look hesitant but Scanlan raises a brow and shrugs with an easy nonchalance that you envy. "If you say it's safe, I'm down."

It wasn't meant to be like this.

"It is." You hope. "I promise.

Percy watches you carefully, the fading light of the Sun behind him casting shadows on his face, sharpens his already sharp jawline even further until it cuts into his coat's collar. Something dangerous in his expression. "Lead on, then," but he doesn't sound convinced.

And so you lead your friends to the home and earth that once nurtured your childhood, the very same that you abandoned all those years ago in favour of adventure.

You were still young. Like a child, scarrless, soft, green and new to the greater world that waited for you beyond your doorstep.

It wasn't meant to be like this, you think as you fall to your knees, taking in the grim sight before you. It's hard to tell what exactly happened, whether the homes had been raided and intentionally burned down, or if it had been a simple accident and the townspeople luckily fled somewhere safe.

How long had it been since you left home? What seemed like yesterday were many, many months for your people, and anything can happen in that time apart.

But you never expected to be returning home to a graveyard.

It wasn't meant to be like this.

"I'm sorry."

You sniffle and quickly wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt, choking back a bitter laugh. "Percy." He pulls his mouth into a straight line, a grimace of sorts. "You can be a thorn in my side at times, but why should you be sorry?"

He shifts his weight on his feet. "Because... because it's what people might have said to me when I was in a similar state. I'm not sure if it would ever have made me feel better, but I suppose it shows some level of... respect. Condolences. Comfort, sometimes. Or so I've heard."

He pulls his coat tighter around his torso, the bite in the air unforgiving even as you mourn for your childhood home while your knees press into dirt. You risk a glance up at his face, and his forlorn expression shatters your already broken heart. He feigns a weak smile, and ducks his chin in sympathy. "It's not for everyone, I suppose."

It's a cold comfort as your grip on the ashes of your home loosens, and slips through your fingers, like sand lost in the wind.

Percy says your name, clear and grounding, and you manage to tear your gaze from what's left of your history. "Look at me." You crane your neck to look to where he looms over your hunched form. "Home is a feeling... I know that more than anybody."

Slowly, so slowly and gentle as if caught in slow motion, he crouches down to meet your height. He appraises you for a hesitant moment, then reaches out to wipe a tear that trails down your cheek, one that you had accidentally neglected. It smears across your skin smoothly, leaving a clean line in the thin layer of dust you had acquired since the battle and trek over here.

He looks at you softly, and you nearly sob from the incredible amount of emotions you feel all at once. You grip his hand like a lifeline and press it into your face so that you can lean into the comfort he's providing, and a shudder washes over you at the warmth radiating from his glove.

Percy nudges your chin up with his free hand, and you have no choice but to meet his watery eyes.

"And you feel like home to me."

In that moment, you know you feel the same for him.

*****

[posts this and RUNS]

[fruitzbat]

the (in)famous acid trip scene from chapter 7 of crowned teeth, as depicted by @suraelis!

couldn't be more thrilled with how well this commission turned out. thank you again for your incredible work!

[taste-of-the-divine]

ꕤ | Inked | Percy De Rolo

— VOX MACHINA : switch!percy x femcumslut!reader

✩ 𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙀: ​you're the first to fall asleep at a party, and you get cumslut written over your forehead with a marker. it causes an "issue" for percy a few hours later. ✩ 𝙋𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙊: fic (Part 1), 1.8k words ✩ 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: missing consent/dubcon (percy as victim), powerplay (subby percy into dom percy), degredation, namecalling (cumsl*t, wh*re, l*ve), somnophelia, cumhungry!reader, power dynamic switch, sir, mentions of breeding

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝘿𝙄𝙑𝙄𝙉𝙀: i did not proofread this :') hopefulyl its legible BUT eventually i'll go back and make the edits i need. the idea was inspired by this post, and it's probably (?) not done yet.

♡ REBLOGS + LIKES ARE APPRECIATED ♡ 𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘟 𝘔𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘈 | 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛 & 𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘒𝘚 | 𝘔𝘠 𝘗𝘈𝘎𝘌

“Oh cmon, wasn’t the bet that the first one asleep gets a dick drawn on their forehead?” 

Percy, your boyfriend, shoots Scanlan a dirty look through his rosy drunk cheeks. “Have you no decency? She’s a lady for God’s sake, Scanlan. How will I explain to all of Whitestone tomorrow if we have to leave the confines of our home?” 

The pop of a marker and the cap clicking against the floor was enough of a signal that Scanlan didn’t quite care all that much for the high maintenance prince. “Well, then you have an excuse to stay in for a day. Resting’s important, Percy,” he says, before hopping onto a stool to get to your head, slumped over on the couch. Percy stumbles to his feet to try and stop him from putting that bright pink ink on your skin, but he’s forced back into his chair at the hand of Vax. 

“Hey, he’s right, you know. You kind of need a day at home, if you ask me,” Vax says, leaning his weight on Percy’s shoulder to keep him down. Percy glares at him too, going to shove his hand away so that he could get to you, but to no avail. Percy’s too wasted for hand eye coordination.

“Oh, Percy, darling, relax,” his sister says from across the table, looking at Scanlan trying to balance and draw on your knocked out face. “She agreed to the game before we even started drinking, and she’s an adult, so I’m sure she’ll be fine. And if she isn’t– well, you can make sure she’s fine. In the morning. No more fussing about it now, you can barely get to your feet,” she says, words slurring before taking a swig out of her bottle. 

He can’t relax, at least not when Pike isn’t around. Pike’s usually the babysitter of the group, and with Keyleth vomiting her guts out again, they were somewhere downstairs in the bathroom. Grog wouldn’t be of much help either– he was entranced in some sort of conversation with his reflection in the mirror, flexing and unflexing his muscles to look at. 

“Annnnnd, ta-da!” Scanlan grins, showing the marvel to the three others in the room. Cumslut was written across your forehead in big, bold letters, with a penis as the T. Scanlan was really, an artist of all trades.

Percy was the first to react, and the only one that didn’t burst out in absolute side pinching tears. “Scanlan! You little useless bard!” He swung around to Vex and Vax. “I thought we agreed that it would be the dick drawing?”

“Well,–” Vex laughs, whipping away his tears. “There is a dick. There’s just–” he makes eye contact with Vex across the table, who was holding her own laughter for a little before the two burst out again into hearty giggles. “–some other additions.”

Percy sighed. There wasn’t really another other choice; what’s done is done. Hopefully you wouldn’t be too mad when you woke up in the morning about it. And hopefully, the ink would come off soon.

-

Percy, with his lithe frame, was not the one that carried you into bed. Grog actually carried the both of you into bed– bragging that he could do anything with his giant muscles. Percy would have been grateful for that omission of an opportunity to make a fool out of himself, had he been properly awake during that time of the night. He’d passed out on his own accord after a few more shots into the night.

It didn’t take long before he stirred awake. Alcohol never quite helped keep him asleep as well as it put him to sleep. But his body sure felt warm, skin flushed a little as he reveled in the pleasure of being under clean sheets. There was also pleasure budding from his core, some shifting between his legs– 

“What on earth?!–” he manages to choke out before throwing his head backwards as some cavern of warm, wet heat descends on him. It felt good and needy and desperate, and when he had the moment to take a breath from the sudden crashing waves of pleasure, he lifted the blankets to find you, face nestled neatly between his legs, with his cock in your mouth and a protruding cheek. 

“My love,” he says, voice soft and hitched at first. “Y-you need to stop or else,–” A groan cuts through, his hands fisting the sheet that he’s holding up to see you kitten licking his tip. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he hisses, but he doesn’t get an answer because you take his whole length into your mouth again, mushroom tip gliding against the roof of your mouth before sinking into your back tongue. He’s watching you, or doing the best he can with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth agape. When you wrap your hands around his base, twisting and bobbing at the same time, Percy grimaces, one eye forcing itself shut as he watches you with the other. His cheeks are flushed a deep red, and his skin feels sticky under the touch of your fingers, but all you can think about is his cum, and how much you want it down your throat. 

“S-slow d-down,” he stutters, a frustrated moan drawing out of his throat when you don’t listen. He can’t stop his hips from bucking up into your mouth, the sensation of your tongue swirling around the tip all too much for him. He’s close, and you know that, feeling his balls twitching under your chin– and perfect, because that’s exactly what you want. So you keep at it, watching him writhe and pant and seize up with his head thrown back and his eyes cross when he cums down your throat. It’s sticky and a little bitter from the alcohol, but you don’t mind it at all, because you’ve been craving this feeling since you woke up. You suck, and suck, and keep sucking him, milking every little bit that you can. 

He’s a whimpering mess now, his other hand grabbing you by the hair to attempt to pull you off his cock. 

“Love, love, please– please stop, I’m done, I can’t–” but that gets cut off by another moan, his knees shaking and bottoming out underneath you as your hands work his cock from base to tip, using spit and cum as lube. 

He’s never seen you like this before, so needy, so pushy for it– whatever it, was. In a moment of clarity as your hands lift on the pressure to his cock, he reads the word on your forehead again. Cumslut.

He puts two and two together in the middle of a desperate whimper, throwing his head to the side as the pleasure in his overstimulated dick multiplies. On the nightstand was the marker that Scanlan used, capped and sitting neatly by his nightlight. Grabbing it off the table, he managed what he could with you turning him into putty from the waist down, grabbing one of your hands that you were using to support your weight scribbling “obedient” into it the best he could.

Nothing different happened at first– you continued to milk him for all that he was worth, and Percy couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his head as he felt the familiar coil in the abdomen forming, ready to snap. “Hah- hah, hmpfh, s-stop, love, h-hang on–” he begs of you, and for the first time in the night, you oblige, hands and mouth lifting off his cock with the nasty squelch. 

He looks at you, panting, undignified drool at the edge of your lips, and he slips a finger over it and wipes it away. Catching his breath, he dedicates a moment to taking you in; needy, glazed-over cum-hungry eyes as his cock rests on your cheek, tousled hair, plump, shiny lips coated in a thin sheen of spit and semen, the white of your teeth poking out from under. You looked gorgeous for him like that, and he let you know by pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You want my cum that badly, is that right?” he says, tentative at first. But you nod, rather vigorously, at that. It flips some sort of switch inside of him, and you feel him pull you by the hair, your own whimper leaving your throat as he exposes your throat to him. 

“A little cumslut wants her holes filled. What a sight,” he taunts, a wicked smirk brewing at the corners of his lips. The way he looks at you runs a chill down your spine– it was the way he looked at something he wanted, no, needed, to be under his control. 

And you were more than ready to give that.

“Be a good girl, then. Get on with it. On your hands and knees, on the floor,” he commands you, nodding towards the wood floor you have next to the bed. You glance down and back at him, and he’s watching you expectantly. Heat rising to your own cheeks, you shuffle down, assuming position on all fours as he requested.

You hear him shifting off the bed, stalking behind you– you feel his hands wrap around your waist, and then– a searing burn on your knees as you’re re-oriented, looking up to see the closet mirror and yourself staring back at you, cumslut written over your forehead. And dauntingly, above and behind you, stood Percy. 

You’re naked, because you woke up earlier and tried to satisfy your urges by touching yourself, which, went nowhere, clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this cum-drunk state– but he is clothed; well, partially clothed, his sleeping robe untied and hanging off his shoulders. He knees behind you, secures your ankles to the ground with the weight of his calves and body, and sinks his fingers into your sides. 

“Spread your pussy for me.”

Your eyes go wide, thundering in your chest. He notices your hesitation, and grabs a fistful of hair and pulls you towards him.

“I said, spread your pussy for me. Do I need to repeat myself?”

Some sort of noise comes out of you that sounds vaguely like a whimper and a “yes, sir,” as you take your hands and grab your ass to satisfy his request. You feel a bubbling of dopamine in your chest when you obey him, and it feels good, addictive, almost.

When you feel the weight of his cock pressed against your entrance, your body instinctively gravitates towards him, craving to be filled. But you feel his weight pull away, teasing it along your slit as he leans over to your ear. 

“Be patient, love. Just enjoy it, I’ll do the work, my little cumslut. You’re such a needy little breeding whore, aren’t you?”

© copyright @taste-of-the-divine 2023 ♡ REBLOGS + LIKES ARE APPRECIATED ♡ 𝘔𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘟 𝘔𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘈 | 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛 & 𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘒𝘚 | 𝘔𝘠 𝘗𝘈𝘎𝘌

[deramin2]

Shadowgast feel like the sort of couple who would have a regular date night to see queer theater and spend several months talking about the themes and the meanings and comparing plays and what they all mean together.

[mommymilkersmac-n-cheese]

Can’t wait for the fics about the group actually noticing Ashton’s panic attack. Craving that sweet sweet Ashton angst hurt/comfort chronic pain oml.

[crescent-moon-mollymauk]

Had to return to the fanfic mines because I couldn't stop thinking about how ridiculous the (hopefully) upcoming conversation between Braius and Ashton about Callowmoore's relationship status will be. So here, have a hastily written fic.

[the-kaedageist]

congrats on hitting your follower milestone!! for a CR short fic prompt, how about shadowgast where essek is learning to coexist with caleb's cats? :)

I'm emerging from the abyss to answer this prompt 11 months later, but I hope you enjoy! I also believe someone else had Caleb having a cat named Gretchen before me and my brain borrowed it from someone; apologies, it just fit so well.

“Ah,” says Caleb when Essek arrives for their weekly meeting. “Since you were here last, I have acquired another housemate.”

This feels like a somewhat alarming statement. Thankfully, the suspense is not held for long - a moment later, a calico cat makes her way daintily into the room with them, stares up at Essek, and hisses.

“Gretchen,” Caleb scolds, along with a long string of Zemnian that Essek’s rudimentary skills can’t hope to follow. He’s just about mastered ‘please’, ‘thank you’, and some of the major foods; nowhere near native-speaker-speaking-to-his-cat level.

Essek tries not to be offended at being hissed at, even as he can feel his own ears flicking back behind his head in annoyance. “I have done nothing to you,” he says to the cat.

“She is scared,” says Caleb, reaching down to scritch the calico’s ears. She glares at Essek but submits happily to the pets. “She will get used to you.”

The cat eyes him like a particularly unpleasant thing that has been dropped on the floor. Well, Essek thinks, he has certainly had nemeses before. What is one more?

The situation does not improve from there. Every week, Essek Teleports to Caleb’s house, and every week, Gretchen acts as though Essek has offended her to the very depths of her being. (It probably doesn’t help that the third time this happened, Essek hissed back.)

By the end of the first month, Essek despairs that he will ever have a good relationship with Caleb’s animal companion.

At night, when he’s downstairs studying and Caleb is asleep, Essek sneaks back upstairs to find Gretchen curled up at Caleb’s side, purring happily. When Caleb is reading on the couch and Essek is attempting to cook in the kitchen, he peeks in to find Gretchen stubbornly attempting to seat herself in the middle of Caleb’s book, to Caleb’s laughter.

It seems that although they loathe one another, he and Gretchen share a love of the same man. Surely there is common ground they can find.

One night, Yasha and Beau come over for dinner. Gretchen is ambivalent about Beau (although no hissing is involved), but she waltzes right up to Yasha and starts headbutting her ankle.

“Oooh, hello, little beauty,” Yasha says, reaching down to scratch her cheek. Gretchen stares up at her adoringly. Essek also stares at her, aghast and betrayed.

“What is this?” he asks like a spurned lover.

“What is what?” Beau asked. She glanced over at Yasha. “Oh, the cat? She loves Yasha. For obvious reasons, of course.”

Essek rolls his eyes. “I thought she did not like strangers.”

Beau blinks. Her eyes narrow and her mouth stretches into a smirk. “Does the cat not like you, Essek?”

“No,” Essek denies quickly. “I don’t know what you are talking about.” He quickly makes an exit to the kitchen, making excuses about checking the soup, before he can be pestered further.

That is when he begins to wonder what he’s doing wrong.

First, he tries dressing more comfortably for his trips to Caleb’s. Perhaps, Gretchen is intimidated by the points on his mantle and the finery of his robes – is that a thing cats care about? The only cats Essek has ever encountered have been moorbounders, and usually they care more about the quality of their meal.

Unfortunately, even in loose pants and a soft shirt, Gretchen still glares and hides from him on his next visit. Caleb seems to appreciate the change though, pulling Essek into his arms and cuddling with him more than normal, and Essek makes a mental note that perhaps more comfortable clothing was in order regardless of the cat’s opinion.

Next, he attempts to determine if Yasha has bribed the cat for her love. He does research and discovers that cats are known to love meat and fish. The next week, when he Teleports into Caleb’s house, he pulls out a handkerchief with some pieces of fish stashed inside and lays it out on the floor. Gretchen does her usual routine of glaring at him while growling before she slowly approaches to sniff the food.

Caleb looks amused. “You brought a present?”

Essek shrugs, feeling heat on the back of his neck. “She is part of your family.”

Gretchen eats up every morsel of fish, to Essek’s relief. However, once her meal is complete, she goes back to hissing and glowering as though no offering had ever been made.

Essek is starting to feel a bit offended. This feels personal.

One night, he cuddles up with Caleb, dejected, as Caleb strokes his hands through Essek’s hair and coils a curl around his finger. “You are quieter than usual,” says Caleb. “Is something wrong?”

Essek glances up at him through his lashes. “Gretchen does not like me.”

Caleb says, “hmm” and continues to stroke Essek’s hair. “I have thought much about this, and I think she sees you as another cat.”

This is not something Essek has ever considered. “Another cat?” he echoes, surprised.

Caleb presses a kiss to his hairline. “You have cat-like mannerisms. You are prickly and picky and beautiful. Does it surprise you at all?”

Essek thinks for a moment; perhaps it does make some sort of strange sense. “So if I am another cat, how do I win her affection?” he asks at last.

“Well,” says Caleb, “ideally I would have put you both in adjoining rooms and let you sniff each other under the door.”

Essek gives him an unamused look. “Caleb Widogast, I am not actually a cat.”

Caleb tousles his hair with a small chuckle. “Ja, of course. Then I would say…be around her. In, ah, her orbit, so to speak. Give her space, but be present and let her get used to you.”

“I have been present,” says Essek petulantly. “She does not like me.”

Caleb shakes his head. “You either approach her head-on or you give her a wide berth – understandable, but I do not think it helps.” He lays his forehead against Essek’s curls. “You are stubborn. You will find a way.”

And slowly, Essek does.

He continues to bring Gretchen fish, but retreats beyond arm’s reach so that she can eat without feeling threatened. He is careful to seat himself within her watchful gaze when she is near, so that she will know his location. He stops trying to befriend and starts letting her be, and Caleb had been right – once he gives her the space to get to know him on her own terms, Gretchen finally, finally begins to thaw.

The first day she approaches him after her fish treat and lets him tentatively reach down to scratch her ears, Essek feels as though he’d been rewarded with a monumental gift. He meets Caleb’s gaze – and Caleb smiles sappily at him, as though all he’d ever wanted for his life was Essek and a cat, in this little house, with everyone getting along.

“You see?” Essek says to Gretchen. “I am not so bad.”

She turns around to show him her butthole and trots away with her tail held high. Essek laughs. “Perhaps we still have some ways to go.”

Caleb wraps an arm around his shoulders. “It takes time,” he says sagely, and Essek can do nothing more than laugh exasperatedly and press a kiss to his cheek.

[mintywolf]

Far away in Gelvaan, amid the Taloned Highlands of Marquet, the birth of Liliana and Relvin Temult’s baby girl is overshadowed by misfortune. The poor thing is thrust into the world under a flare of the unlucky moon, and covered in dead poppy flowers. The dead blooms crumble away as she’s cleaned up and swaddled by the midwife, falling from her ears, in scattered patches all over her little body, a ring of them around her neck. These ones are the last to fall, and the impression of them remains like a scar, a band of poppies on her throat. -- In all her life, Matilda has never found a single flower on herself, which must mean that she has no soulmate. Imogen is born in withered blossoms, which must mean that hers is already dead. When a first bloom appears on Laudna five years after her death, she sets out to find the person destiny has bound her to, no matter how long it takes.

A Southern Gothic soulmate flowers AU!

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hello! Can I request a number 22 "Do you trust me?" "I don't know." from the angst prompt list if this appeals to you at all?

Best of luck with getting back into the grove, I look forward to reading anything new <3

hi! thank you very very much for this prompt - it's delicious. might even reuse it for another idea I have rolling around. i hope you enjoy how this one turned out; it was a great warm-up piece and i got to play around with second person (very sorry if that's not your thing). and on a personal note - I'm a huge fan of yours, so this was a wild ask to wake up to!

cw: mild gore, self-doubt

length: ~1250 words

~~~

You watch as Imogen steps forward. Once. Twice. Her head tilts, and her eyes narrow. Another step. You back away. Your chest is heaving. Why are you shaking? The cold calculation in Imogen’s gaze is unfamiliar. You have been reduced to an object—a threat to be sized up before you are dispatched by those capable hands. And, in a way, you are, aren’t you? A threat. An object. A strung-out puppet without a home.

She is-was-could-be your home, you think. Maybe. She has been. At least, you want to believe that is the truth of it. But how can you be sure? Home has always been an abstraction to you, a thing kept just out of sight, dangled like a lure bobbing just beneath the surface, tempting you up from the depths. It remains just out of reach, it seems. You feel yourself sinking, sinking back into the places the sun cannot reach. It’s safe there, you have learned. The shadows protect you. They are just as much a part of you as the scars that litter paper-thin skin, reminders of rising a little too close to the warm-bright world above.   

Imogen’s stare is piercing, the faint purple glow radiating faintly, only detectable in the darkness. Two pinpricks of violet that bore into you from a safe fifteen paces away. 

Jagged rocks loom, emerge from the ceiling, the walls, like fingers crooking accusingly in your direction. The heel of your shoe catches on a massive hooked chain, snaking and coiling and disappearing in and out of the shadows. Mist curls around your ankles. Hands clutch at a corseted chest as if fabric and boning could freeze the magic leaking from taloned fingertips. 

“This isn’t me,” you swear, and the words sound hollow, distant, echoing, like the air is swallowing them up before they leave your lips.

“It isn’t,” Imogen replies sardonically, but her hands remain pinched at her hips, a faint crimson flickering at her fingertips. “Did you do this?”

Your brow furrows. Three crackling purple spheres appear overhead, and the mist thins. Shriveled corpses sprawl across the stone floor between you. Their skin is ashy and gray, lips dried and drawn back in wild grins that reveal stained, rotting teeth. Bulging eyes too wide for their sockets, bloodshot and unseeing, stare vacantly at the ceiling. Stiff fingers curl into claws, digging into bodies contorted and frozen in expressions of agony. 

“No,” you say, “no, of course not.” You shift back, away, away, and stumble over a red-robed thigh. “I wouldn’t,” you insist. 

“No?”

You repeat, “I wouldn’t. I–”

“How would you know?” Imogen’s tone is cool, “If you did.” She steps over one mangled body, tutting, thunderously calm. A spark flashes in her fist.

“I–”

“You wouldn’t know, would you? If it was you.” She pauses, stares. Her words are biting. “You told me yourself. Maybe it was Delilah.” You shrink back, away, away, until your back hits the jagged wall, and you relish in the pain because it means that something is solid. The fog in your head is thick, clouding, as Imogen stalks toward you. “Is there a difference anymore?” 

A chill runs through you, and the beautiful new corset you wear seems to constrict around your chest, squeezing, strangling. Imogen doesn’t believe you. She doesn’t believe you, and if she doesn’t believe in you, can you believe yourself? She was your home, once, (right?) but the foundation is cracked, leaking ichor and electricity that fries your toes. You need to know. Suddenly, it is the most important thing in the world. Imogen’s confidence in your goodness. That something in you is worth saving. Worth something. (There must be something.)  

“Do you trust me?” Your voice is thick, rattling, when you whisper through dusty cords. 

Imogen is five paces away, now, and moving closer as you press all you can into the wall. Perhaps you could become a fossil for the next generation of adventurers to find. Compressed and hardened between shale and mineral and away, away from piercing violet. Imogen studies you, unmoving, untouching. 

“I don’t know,” she says at last. She brings a hand up to grasp your chin, and you flinch. You have never flinched from her before. (You haven’t.) Her grip is firm. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you say, desperate. “Yes. Please.” Because you need her to understand so badly you could tear your heart from your chest and lay it at her feet if only so she would know it’s there. 

“You hurt us. You hurt your friends, Laudna. Look at them.” She releases your chin and spreads her arms.

Bathed in dim purple light, the corpses wear the clothes of your companions. (Have they always looked like this?) Fearne in FCG’s tattered coat, seafoam hair limp and stringy. Bor’dor, his green shawl stained dark with ichor. Chetney, his throat torn out. Orym, bruised, with Seedling and the Summit Blade fallen at his side. Ashton, arm in pieces.

“I didn’t.” You sound uncertain even to yourself. 

Imogen scoffs. “Running away again?” (Again?)

Always running. You always run. It has always been easier to run. It would be easier to run. (Why can’t you run?) You want to run away. You cannot go far from Imogen. (Can’t you?) The wall is moving. (The wall shouldn’t be moving. Walls can’t move. Why is the wall moving? Are you moving? Are you? A r e  y o u) 

“This is your fault.”

Your tongue refuses to move. It sits limp in your mouth like rotting meat. Sour. Disgusting. Useless, useless. Imogen doesn’t believe you. Doesn’t believe in you. Did you do this? This is your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault

You shudder and gasp, and suddenly, Imogen is holding you, but that cannot be right because she doesn’t trust you and why should she because who are you if you are not yourself and maybe you are just Delilah but how can you be sure and and and 

“Hey, woah,” Imogen croons near your ear. “Hey, you’re all right; you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Stale cavern air that tastes of death and decay floods your lungs, and you heave. Your hands and knees scrape against the floor. You need to get away, away. Away from her. You need to run. Before you hurt anyone. Before you hurt her. 

“Okay, hey, you’re okay, honey. Dominox got you good, huh?” 

Your vision darkens, and your ears ring, and your teeth lengthen.

“What’d you see?” Chetney crows. 

Imogen’s arms tighten around you, and you stiffen.  

“Give her a minute.” 

You shake your head against Imogen’s chest. Bits of debris lodge in your palm, and you savor the sting. Dark hair hangs in a curtain where it has been torn loose. 

“Take your time,” Imogen murmurs. Her eyes are not glowing; her hands do not spark. They trace small circles along your back where you can still feel the imprint of sharp stone, and you shiver at the dissonance. “It wasn’t real, Laudna. Whatever it was, it was the demon messin’ with your head.” 

A shaky exhale escapes your lips. “Do you trust me?” 

“What?” Imogen pulls away slightly to meet your wide eyes. She hesitates. Her mind presses against yours. You can feel her skimming, paging through your surface thoughts like a stone over water before she settles, bobbing, tempting. 

“Is it her?” Orym asks warily. 

“I think so,” Imogen says, but she remains intently focused, searching.

You repeat yourself through the weight that has settled low in your stomach. “Do you trust me?” 

“I… Why are you askin’ me that?”  

[batwingsandblackcats]

Soft Imodna prompts:

1. Imogen doing something nice and comforting to remind Laudna how much she loves her

2. Imodna super fluffy date night

Thanks so much for sending these in! I’ve been thinking about these prompts for a couple days, I just keep being dead fucking tired every time I wanna sit down and actually work on one. One of them will be written soon, promise!

[saphirered]

Because i like pain, can i get basically the sunken tomb/those who walk away (tlovm) but it's reader who dies, not vex? She jumps in front of vex as the blast goes off. Can be either Vax or percy x reader.

Turned out to a percy x reader and hope you like the result. Angsty but with a happy ending. 😘

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. His heart has stopped in his chest. Life has ceased to be linear, or perhaps even moving at all. He is stuck in that one doomed moment. He is trapped within his own body with is own bloody mind. He can’t. He can’t. Percy can’t even think or process. He’s stuck in that single image of you. That damned sarcophagus. It looked fine. Everything was fine. Vex gave it a once over. The three of you pushed the top off and there was the deathwalker’s ward still on the corpse of the previous owner. You’d stepped to the end, with Vex. You’d taken to observing the intricate runes on the inside. Vex warned him not to touch but it was too late. He’d reached in and set off a trap. It would have hit her if you hadn’t pushed her aside and in doing so, knocked yourself off balance and into the full force of whatever damned thing hit you. 

Some kind of magic struck out, hit you square in the chest and sent you flying like some rag doll. You hit the ground with a sickening smack and crack. That breath, that single exhale that left your body unmoving, that’s where Percy got stuck, watching as the light in your eyes dimmed, those eyes that kept staring at him. They all ran to you but he was stuck. You weren’t moving. You weren’t responding to their calls nor pleas. There was nothing left of you to respond. Once that dawned on him, once it hit him what he had done, had caused, he was left broken. Somehow his legs carried him to your side, where Vax held you in his arms, Vex clutched your hand unable to speak, Pike rushed to heal you but there’s nothing to heal, nothing to be done. You were gone. You are gone. You’re gone. 

Things move quickly after. Percy doesn’t know what grace kept him on his feet when he found it within him to join the others. He could not look away from you. Kash had already started whatever ritual he was performing. A resurrection rite. Everything moved so fast. Questions were asked, what happened how did this happen, who was with you? He was but he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t break away from your cold dead eyes. They’ll forever haunt him. They were so full of life just mere moments before when you cracked a joke and smiled, calling him out on his lack of divine worship. He’d retorted with some clever witty remark. Those were the last words he’d spoken to you. He couldn’t even bloody remember them. He can’t even remember your last words. 

But then reason hits. It’s not working. The ritual it’s not working. It has to work. It has to work! The Raven Queen, she resides over death and apparently resurrections do not sit well with her or her domain. The others try to suggest things, solutions, but they are not that. Percy finds it within himself to speak some desperate sense; they’re under a lake, where are they going to go? They’re losing time. This has to work now. They can’t give up! He’s begging them, begging anyone, everyone. This can’t be happening! The spell breaks and you’re not moving. Percy’s ears are ringing. He wants to shout and scream and cry but inside him a void begins to grow and leaves him terrified of himself. 

Several breaths pass and then, by some miracle, the light returns to your eyes, you shoot up and you’re gasping for air. You’re awake. He’s riddled with guilt once more. You turn to him and stare at him with those damned eyes and while he sees the life in them now, he’s haunted with that blank stare of your corpse. 

“What happened?” How is he supposed to answer that question? He was an idiot and should have listened. This is all his fault. He got reckless and greedy and stupid and it cost you your life! 

“I touched the armour and you… you were…” He can’t speak the words. The others speak but he does not hear them. “It was an accident.” Why do you keep looking at him. Your eyes should be filled with hatred and anger but you’re not. You’re relieved. You look at him as if this is not all on him. Accident or not, he is still to blame. Luckily distraction comes quickly. The armour is procured and in Vax’s possession for some reason. 

You’re back on your feet and a bit wobbly but insist you want to get out of here as much as the others do. Pike has you at first but whether out of habit or sheer guilt, Percy find himself next to you and you lean on him whenever you stumble slightly. He catches you every time you don’t reach for him. It’s definitely a force of habit because each touch is torture. With each touch that scene keeps replaying. Outside on the banks of the lake Vox Machina decides it’s time to take a rest. Everyone’s exhausted and hurt from the fight to get out. Goodbyes are exchanged Zahra and Kash and upon the sunset Percy wanders off on his own. He had the intention of finding Vax, and apologise for what he caused. He did and got punched in the face. Seems that your best friend gave him a smidge of what he deserves. He deserves so much worse but it’s something. But then you have to find him, alone, ass in the snow, processing the pain in his jaw and contemplating every single mistake in his life that could have spared you this fate. 

“Percy?” You come up to him. There’s still a slight tremble in your step despite your self-assured expression. No matter how well you might be at hiding your feelings, you always have a tell. You may pretend this doesn’t affect you but he sees it does. That just makes it worse. Still you find it within yourself to try and make him feel better. He wishes you wouldn’t. It’d be easier if you were angry with him, even better if you too decided to take your pound of flesh. Instead you kneel down next to him and look at what must be the mark of his preview to punishment. 

“I fell…” He tries a poor excuse but you don’t buy it. Especially not with the extra set of footprints leading away. You place your palm against his cheek. Your touch is cold, he assumes because of the snow but for some reason he cannot help but imagine the worst. Still he leans into your touch. 

“Must have been a strange fall. How does one fall on their ass and face simultaneously?” You joke and normally you’d have earned a chuckle or a retort. ‘With great difficulty’ is what you expected him to say or something along those lines but instead you just get silence and downcast eyes that refuse to meet yours. You settle on your knees and bring your other palm to cup his face and lift his gaze to meet yours. Percy bites the inside of his cheek. 

“How can you pretend this doesn’t affect you? How can you take this so lightly?” You pull back and fold your hands together to preserve some warmth. Your skin feels wrong, your body feels wrong. Every breath you take you’re suddenly aware of. The blood pumping through your veins, it’s as if you can feel it and it hurts. Everything hurts and you feel as if you’re going to burst any second as if someone could prick you with a needle and suddenly you’d explode. You feel vulnerable and have become so incredibly aware of your mortality, in anything you do, anything you have done; every choice you’ve ever made. It haunts you past, present and future. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You thought of going out into the trees just so scream but that wouldn’t help. You’d just be left with the pain. You thought of ignoring it but that turned on you quickly. You noticed the silence when Percy was around. When you’re near him you feel alive and not some dead person walking. You feel like you can take on this life without being afraid of what happened and what you might face. You feel as if as long as he’s near you’ll be alright. That’w why you came to find him in the first place, didn’t you. You hoped he’d help you see things as they had been before your accident, but that didn’t seem possible. 

“Because if I don’t I’ll just be terrified. I’ll break down until there’s nothing left of me and I don’t think I’ll be able to cope. This is all that’s keeping me together. You’re keeping me together.” Those words are harder to speak out loud than you thought, as if speaking them makes them real and undeniable. You suppose that’s true. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat along with your breathing. It just won’t go away and the more you try to ignore it, the worse it gets. 

“You died because of me. You shouldn’t even be able to look at me!” There’s so many things running through your head that want to respond to Percy. You manage to stop some of the more irrational ones, the ones you know you’ll regret the moment you speak them. 

“Is that what you think you deserve? My anger? My hatred? You won’t get it. Yes, you caused this but it was an accident. That doesn’t make it right but if you are in such desperate need to repent for a mistake, you can do so! I need you, Percy! I need you right now because without you I fear I will fall apart! So please, I’m begging you; do not abandon me now.” You plead. He’s unmoving. You reach out. He doesn’t flinch or turn away. He doesn’t respond so you halt and repeat once more. “Please, Percy. I’m begging you…” You place your hand on his cheek and this time he leans into your palm, even if hesitantly so. You’re about to pull away, seeing that reluctance but before you can his hand clasps over yours and holds it in place. 

“I will not ask for your forgiveness-“ You got to speak but he’s not finished yet. “I will not accept it should you offer it to me because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself. But you’re right. If this is what you want, I’ll do it. I’d hand you the stars on a silver platter if you asked. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make this right.” 

“Percy…” You sigh. That’s not what you meant. You don’t mean to ask for his compliance or service. You ask him to be your friend, your confidant, your rock when the tides get too much in the same way he has always been for you. You’re asking him to be himself, nothing more, nothing less but here he is offering you the world. 

“I won’t ask you to accept or turn me away. I will be at your whims for however long you wish me to be-“ Percy keeps going. He has to make this right. You give him a chance to prove himself worthy of you and all you’ve given him. You’ve given him the chance to truly earn your forgiveness in your eyes and his. But you interrupt him by literally placing his palm over his mouth to silence him. Once you make eye contact and you give him a silent ‘are you done’ and he nods you let go. 

“Then I order you to stop now.” His heart skips a beat. He cannot breathe. “I don’t need a knight in shining armour or some servant at my beck and call. I just need you. I just need you to be here, now. I don’t need the moon on a string, or you begging on your knees. I don’t need you to fetch me some drink or write me my correspondence. I need you to just be you.” That punch hits far harder than anyone could have dealt. It’s the sheer realisation that his life is more valuable than his actions and choices and deeds. His life exceeds a purpose. It’s a terrifying reality but then he looks at you and sees through you, into your own fear and doubt and he sees, that’s what you need. You need someone who understands fear and pain and he does. Gods he knows he does. That’s why you need him to be here and to be him. That’s why you can look him in the eye. You feel like he’s the only one that truly understands right now because he too, albeit a long time ago came to realise how fragile mortality truly is and all the thoughts that accompany that revelation. 

“I know.” He whispers nodding to himself. He reaches out. He wraps his arms around you and holds you close. You allow yourself to twist and mould into his side, tuck under his arm and curl against his chest. This feels real. This is real. You can hear his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest with every breath; something you had previously not been aware of nor ever focussed truly focussed on unless it was out of the ordinary. You take a deep ragged breath yourself. You feel cold trail down your cheeks from your eyes and only truly process you’re crying when gloved fingers wipe them away. Percy whispers words of comfort; meaningless he might say but these are the words he had wished he heard when he was alone and suffering. You pull yourself closer to him until the tears subside. 

There’s still a long way to go. This does not resolve the issue nor Percy’s guilt. This doesn’t make anything right or change anything. It’s the beginning of a road to a better future you carve out together. Wherever it leads, he will be at your side as long as this world allows. He’ll fight tooth to nail to have it be so. He’ll make this right. But most of all, he’ll be there for you.