picturesofthegoneworld
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And this is the thing.
At some point during their touch-starved undressing and colliding, between open-mouthed kisses and scar-tracing and promises to skin, Imogen’s circlet had been removed as if it were another garment – uncharmed non-magical and not requiring attunement – tossed to the floor with the same ceremony as her boots and Laudna’s belt of bones and dead things in jars, except that wasn’t tossed that was given some sorta weird ceremony because of the glass and fragile marrow and Laudna spoke to the foetus like it would respond and maybe it has before-
Dammit ok not that route again bring it back Imogen
So the thing was – sorry, is - is that as they had, shall we say ‘physically’ settled into one another, so had her mind crossed the threshold back to its second home. It had been a while. At least, a lot had happened since she was last there.
And she hadn’t been there before when they were like this.
And she’s not certain how aware of it Laudna is.
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There hadn’t been much time to talk. There is never much time to talk. She had accumulated so many mostly-empty decades with too much time to talk that surely she could re-distribute them now – gut the words from the straw stuffing in Pâté’s taxidermy stomach and grind it between mill stones and bake it in shrapnelled-belly into bread, share that time in Fresh Cut pillowy slices and buttered toast and sandwiches with the Hells, though certainly what would be regurgitated would be of less use than manure, not even bone-meal, and Imogen deserves more than thirty years of grey monologue slop - nutritious as the influence of time-rot isolation on her own accent, acknowledgeable in a short amount of time-bloomed further in how Imogen’s diminished within her own company and fleeing home, causing Imogen’s inflection to soften, dull, slowly, over their nearly-three-years, over and under the time Laudna offered, burnt oven loaves and skillet-fried flatbreads -
and Imogen had taken. There could never be enough time when it was willingly shared. -
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When the village outcast meets the witch of the woods, and what happens afterwards.
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Passages from here and there.
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“Is that too tight?”
Laudna gently inquires from over Imogen’s shoulder, slender fingers sliding in between belt and Imogen’s hips to see how much space the latched material gives.
Imogen shimmies her waist along with her shoulders, her forearms flexing against the harness buckled in multiple points around her body, restraining her arms to be held behind her back. The sound of metal clinging resonates from chain-link rattling where her bound wrists are anchored to a loop on a belt that falls at the base of her spine, only allowing a few inches of extension before it is pulled taught.
“No, that’s good.”
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"I will always stand by the belief - my belief - that you should do what you want and you alone, but I am thankful-
Laudna leans down and kisses Imogen on her forehead just to the right of the jewel embellishing her circlet; her lips feel the skin rise, in relief or surprise, maybe both, maybe something else.
I am thankful that you are not alone in this, I am thankful that you have someone to share it with-
her grip tightens around Imogen’s, and she extends their arms by the hand from out of the confines of their bed roll, running just parralel to the tether between Imogen and Fearne.
-and the ‘thing’ I should be directing that thanks towards is Fearne; because I certainly don't like the idea of directing it towards anyone or anything else that's involved."
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Imogen and Laudna have The Talk (the one about Fearne).
Bookmarked by picturesofthegoneworld
23 Apr 2025
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all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe
so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.
She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:
Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.
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Bookmarked by picturesofthegoneworld
08 Sep 2024
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without you, i am surely the last of our kind by ziggyzaggystardust
Fandoms: Candela Obscura (Critical Role Web Series), Critical Role (Web Series)
03 Jun 2024
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The theater has gone dead silent save for the accompanying pianist, every soul but Jackie paying rapt, religious attention to Evelyn’s character onscreen as she sprints headlong towards the sea. Their eyes are wide and enormous, reflecting the silver of the screen; their jaws are hanging open. Not one of them has seen a stunt so bold put to screen before, of that she is sure.
She has done something right. She has done something new, and she has done it right.
Slowly, carefully, she lets her eyes shift over to Evelyn, who is already looking back. Jackie’s hand is still clasped in both of hers.
Her jaw feels tight again.
Bookmarked by picturesofthegoneworld
29 Jul 2024
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But love isn't for dolls. Love is for real people. So whatever the doll is feeling, it can't be love. It has to be something else.
Bookmarked by picturesofthegoneworld
14 Jul 2024
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Scorpion Venom by AstoriaColumnStaircase for snappilier
Fandoms: Critical Role (Web Series)
09 Jun 2024
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Laudna looked over her potential customers as she meandered carefully around the brightest lanterns, appraising their packs to see if any seemed over-supplied. Several parties closed their circle as she passed, but a young knight looked up, spotting her across the large room. Her eyes were piercing: a strange lavender that Laudna had never seen before, and she nearly ran under the scrutiny. The knight blinked, finally, and turned back to a small pot that was boiling over a fire. A giant scorpion lay dead at her hand. She picked it up, about to stuff the entire thing in, and Laudna recoiled in horror. The poor thing would make herself sick eating that.
a dungeon meshi au
- Language:
- English
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- 7,088
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Bookmarked by picturesofthegoneworld
11 Jun 2024