quietblueriver

[quietblueriver]

I think they're both craving friendship, especially Yelena.

#marvel give us more pls #hawkeye #women of mcu

[quietblueriver]

one word prompt: intention

Hi!! Thanks so much for the prompt. Had a few minutes to write and it's Thursday (woo!) so here's some soft Imogen-centric Imodna fluff with a little bit of violence at the start.

-

Imogen has always loved the smell of rain. It’s in the air now, the sharp scent at the back of her mouth, but it’s tainted, covered with layers that press against her tongue and turn her stomach–burnt hair and singed flesh and something she thinks might be fear, made manifest in human sick and ammonia and she can’t even hear the cries of pain anymore, much less taste them, smell them, but it feels almost like she can.

Her eyes roam over the bodies strewn in the tall grass around her, collapsed over and under and against each other, brutalized and mutilated and motionless.

Like pick-up sticks. The thought comes unbidden and Imogen’s breath catches in her throat, stuck between a laugh and a sob, both hysterical and neither able to make it into the world. It’s enough to unfreeze her hands and her body, which begin to shake and shake and shake. 

I didn’t mean to, she thinks to herself. “I didn’t mean to,” she says aloud, desperate, a confession and a plea, because she’s not a monster, is she? And maybe that’s a lie, because she’s always known there’s something not quite right with her, and everyone else has known it, too, has said it or thought it or scrawled it across the little shed daddy used for storing tools, across the slate Imogen used in school.

Freak. 

Freak. 

She snaps back into herself, body stilled and determined, reminded that there’s something more important, someone more important, and she turns to see Laudna, body hunched against the sturdy, ancient trunk of the oak tree behind her, fragile legs splayed in front of her, one hand limp at the nasty wound on her torso while the other rests palm up on the ground. 

Pushing back the flash of anger that whites her sight and heats her hands, she runs the few steps it takes to reach her, smoothing back long dark hair and tucking it carefully behind the ever present gold cuffs. A deep breath steadies her, and she’s well past questioning the comfort of the faint smell of decay, of wilting flowers and the leaves of the forest floor in fall. 

They have to go. They have to go now, and she doesn’t want to move her, not like this, but there’s no choice. With a wince, she takes Laudna’s hand from the wound and bites her lip, retrieving the maroon shawl that had fallen from Laudna’s shoulders during the ambush and wrapping it as tightly as she dares around her waist, the best she can do to keep pressure until they make it somewhere safer. 

A small whimper causes Imogen’s chest to seize with empathy and affection, and she shushes reflexively, cupping Laudna’s jaw. “I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” Furrowed eyebrows settle and Imogen lets herself run her index finger down the cool, clammy skin between them once before she starts to move. 

“Okay,” she breathes to herself, leaning back so that she can adjust Laudna’s limbs, slip an arm around her waist and under her knees and lift. A few of the men had ridden, and thankfully their horses are not terribly far away at the fenceline. Laudna weighs almost nothing but it’s enough that Imogen’s grateful for long afternoons with sacks of grain and bales of hay as she begins to walk as carefully and quickly as she can.

A groan from behind stills her. Maybe not dead, then. She adjusts to take in the scattered bodies one last time, the smears of black and red and pink. Her eyes stop on one of them, angry flesh visible through a half-burned sleeve, arm stretched toward a thick coil of rope he would never get the chance to put around Laudna’s neck. 

Jaw clenching, shock and regret fade further into the recesses of her mind, anger filling in the space. She may not have meant to do it, but she would gladly do it again. She will learn how to do it again. 

Her hands pull Laudna’s body just a little tighter against her own as she leaves the mob behind. It takes nothing to ignore the next noise of pain she hears, the little prickles of one or two deeply unpleasant returns to consciousness that reach her mind before she reaches the horses. 

Laudna’s awake but more out of it than Imogen has ever seen her by the time she’s maneuvering them both into the saddle, slurred questions about Imogen’s well-being on her tongue and in her thoughts. 

“Hush, darlin’. I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about,” Imogen says as she settles them so that she can keep Laudna tight to her front. It’s going to hurt her; there’s no getting around it, and she apologizes sincerely but doesn’t slow them down when Laudna gasps back into a fuller consciousness at the pain. She nods at the apology as she tucks her head against Imogen’s chest and moves her hands to squeeze at Imogen’s forearm where it’s flexed above her wound to keep them together. The metal of her ear cuff is sharp against Imogen’s sternum as they ride. 

Smells like rain. The thought floats absently from Laudna, part of a largely incoherent set not seeking or requiring a response. Imogen, who has never been happier to hear nonsense, hums in agreement anyway, knowing Laudna will feel it. 

Later, she tells Laudna that the scent was Imogen herself, that she became a summer storm, sudden and unforgiving in its violence. Laudna’s wide eyes track the scars spreading over Imogen’s hands and wrists until Imogen offers them up, cool fingertips exploring carefully. There is fear in her eyes when she’s finished, but it doesn’t sting, because Imogen doesn’t need to read minds to know that Laudna is not scared of her but for her. 

“I’m gonna learn how to control it,” she says into the night between them, and Laudna squeezes at her fingers encouragingly. 

“Of course you will, dearest,” she affirms with the kind of soft affection that makes Imogen confused. “You’re very capable.” 

Much later, Imogen learns to control it, at least as much as she can. She fights with Laudna and for Laudna and gains a new family and fights with them and for them, too. She grows used to the blend of petrichor and iron and sweat that clings to her more often than not, and the lightning that springs from her is full of intention. She is glad, more than once, that her daddy made her hard. She is scared, more than once, of the way that it makes her feel to have that much power, to be able to hurt, to choose to hurt, to, in the worst parts of herself, enjoy it when she makes that choice. 

“I am the storm,” she says, and she means it, but she means it just as much when she tells Laudna not to let go. She doesn’t want to be untethered. She doesn’t want to lose herself. Laudna doesn’t understand but she listens, and they are moored together. 

Eventually, body scarred and lightning licking at her heart, she is given the option to pass the mantle. There is a new group, eager and younger and capable, if a little lost. Laudna’s cool hand wrapped in hers, she chooses to stop. It is more difficult than she would have hoped. 

Eventually, they spend hours sitting on a porch they’ve decorated with colorful potted plants and rocking chairs and a table Imogen made herself. If they are outside on days when a storm is coming, Laudna will stare at the clouds and take a sip of her tea and say, “I love the smell of the rain. Don’t you, dearest?” And Imogen will see the curl of her lip and know exactly what she means. 

“I prefer the smell of fall,” she says every time, always a little bashful and always rewarded with a smile that reminds her that she may be the storm, but she is more than that, chooses to be more than that, too.

#weekend rb #imodna #imodna fic #cr prompt fic

[quietblueriver]

one word prompt: intention

Hi!! Thanks so much for the prompt. Had a few minutes to write and it's Thursday (woo!) so here's some soft Imogen-centric Imodna fluff with a little bit of violence at the start.

-

Imogen has always loved the smell of rain. It’s in the air now, the sharp scent at the back of her mouth, but it’s tainted, covered with layers that press against her tongue and turn her stomach–burnt hair and singed flesh and something she thinks might be fear, made manifest in human sick and ammonia and she can’t even hear the cries of pain anymore, much less taste them, smell them, but it feels almost like she can.

Her eyes roam over the bodies strewn in the tall grass around her, collapsed over and under and against each other, brutalized and mutilated and motionless.

Like pick-up sticks. The thought comes unbidden and Imogen’s breath catches in her throat, stuck between a laugh and a sob, both hysterical and neither able to make it into the world. It’s enough to unfreeze her hands and her body, which begin to shake and shake and shake. 

I didn’t mean to, she thinks to herself. “I didn’t mean to,” she says aloud, desperate, a confession and a plea, because she’s not a monster, is she? And maybe that’s a lie, because she’s always known there’s something not quite right with her, and everyone else has known it, too, has said it or thought it or scrawled it across the little shed daddy used for storing tools, across the slate Imogen used in school.

Freak. 

Freak. 

She snaps back into herself, body stilled and determined, reminded that there’s something more important, someone more important, and she turns to see Laudna, body hunched against the sturdy, ancient trunk of the oak tree behind her, fragile legs splayed in front of her, one hand limp at the nasty wound on her torso while the other rests palm up on the ground. 

Pushing back the flash of anger that whites her sight and heats her hands, she runs the few steps it takes to reach her, smoothing back long dark hair and tucking it carefully behind the ever present gold cuffs. A deep breath steadies her, and she’s well past questioning the comfort of the faint smell of decay, of wilting flowers and the leaves of the forest floor in fall. 

They have to go. They have to go now, and she doesn’t want to move her, not like this, but there’s no choice. With a wince, she takes Laudna’s hand from the wound and bites her lip, retrieving the maroon shawl that had fallen from Laudna’s shoulders during the ambush and wrapping it as tightly as she dares around her waist, the best she can do to keep pressure until they make it somewhere safer. 

A small whimper causes Imogen’s chest to seize with empathy and affection, and she shushes reflexively, cupping Laudna’s jaw. “I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” Furrowed eyebrows settle and Imogen lets herself run her index finger down the cool, clammy skin between them once before she starts to move. 

“Okay,” she breathes to herself, leaning back so that she can adjust Laudna’s limbs, slip an arm around her waist and under her knees and lift. A few of the men had ridden, and thankfully their horses are not terribly far away at the fenceline. Laudna weighs almost nothing but it’s enough that Imogen’s grateful for long afternoons with sacks of grain and bales of hay as she begins to walk as carefully and quickly as she can.

A groan from behind stills her. Maybe not dead, then. She adjusts to take in the scattered bodies one last time, the smears of black and red and pink. Her eyes stop on one of them, angry flesh visible through a half-burned sleeve, arm stretched toward a thick coil of rope he would never get the chance to put around Laudna’s neck. 

Jaw clenching, shock and regret fade further into the recesses of her mind, anger filling in the space. She may not have meant to do it, but she would gladly do it again. She will learn how to do it again. 

Her hands pull Laudna’s body just a little tighter against her own as she leaves the mob behind. It takes nothing to ignore the next noise of pain she hears, the little prickles of one or two deeply unpleasant returns to consciousness that reach her mind before she reaches the horses. 

Laudna’s awake but more out of it than Imogen has ever seen her by the time she’s maneuvering them both into the saddle, slurred questions about Imogen’s well-being on her tongue and in her thoughts. 

“Hush, darlin’. I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about,” Imogen says as she settles them so that she can keep Laudna tight to her front. It’s going to hurt her; there’s no getting around it, and she apologizes sincerely but doesn’t slow them down when Laudna gasps back into a fuller consciousness at the pain. She nods at the apology as she tucks her head against Imogen’s chest and moves her hands to squeeze at Imogen’s forearm where it’s flexed above her wound to keep them together. The metal of her ear cuff is sharp against Imogen’s sternum as they ride. 

Smells like rain. The thought floats absently from Laudna, part of a largely incoherent set not seeking or requiring a response. Imogen, who has never been happier to hear nonsense, hums in agreement anyway, knowing Laudna will feel it. 

Later, she tells Laudna that the scent was Imogen herself, that she became a summer storm, sudden and unforgiving in its violence. Laudna’s wide eyes track the scars spreading over Imogen’s hands and wrists until Imogen offers them up, cool fingertips exploring carefully. There is fear in her eyes when she’s finished, but it doesn’t sting, because Imogen doesn’t need to read minds to know that Laudna is not scared of her but for her. 

“I’m gonna learn how to control it,” she says into the night between them, and Laudna squeezes at her fingers encouragingly. 

“Of course you will, dearest,” she affirms with the kind of soft affection that makes Imogen confused. “You’re very capable.” 

Much later, Imogen learns to control it, at least as much as she can. She fights with Laudna and for Laudna and gains a new family and fights with them and for them, too. She grows used to the blend of petrichor and iron and sweat that clings to her more often than not, and the lightning that springs from her is full of intention. She is glad, more than once, that her daddy made her hard. She is scared, more than once, of the way that it makes her feel to have that much power, to be able to hurt, to choose to hurt, to, in the worst parts of herself, enjoy it when she makes that choice. 

“I am the storm,” she says, and she means it, but she means it just as much when she tells Laudna not to let go. She doesn’t want to be untethered. She doesn’t want to lose herself. Laudna doesn’t understand but she listens, and they are moored together. 

Eventually, body scarred and lightning licking at her heart, she is given the option to pass the mantle. There is a new group, eager and younger and capable, if a little lost. Laudna’s cool hand wrapped in hers, she chooses to stop. It is more difficult than she would have hoped. 

Eventually, they spend hours sitting on a porch they’ve decorated with colorful potted plants and rocking chairs and a table Imogen made herself. If they are outside on days when a storm is coming, Laudna will stare at the clouds and take a sip of her tea and say, “I love the smell of the rain. Don’t you, dearest?” And Imogen will see the curl of her lip and know exactly what she means. 

“I prefer the smell of fall,” she says every time, always a little bashful and always rewarded with a smile that reminds her that she may be the storm, but she is more than that, chooses to be more than that, too.

#imodna #imodna fic #cr prompt fic

[quietblueriver]

aabria, tearfully: i didnt kill as many of you as i thought i would. and that's a skill issue.

#love love love #she’s the fucking best #critical role spoilers #crown keepers

[quietblueriver]

WITH YOUR WHOLE FUCKING CHEST.

Aimee Carerro.

Aimee Carrero. That’s all.

#critical role #aimee carrero #i swoon

[quietblueriver]

On the absolutely correct advice of @horse-immorality, I must say again: Aimee Carrero.

Aimee Carrero. That’s all.

#aimee carrero #critical role

[quietblueriver]

Aimee Carrero. That’s all.

#critical role #crown keepers #aimee carrero

[quietblueriver]

Page 60

Next 💜 Back 🖤 First

(Author Notes)

Panel 1: Early morning. Laudna is making her way slowly alongside an empty country road running through a wildflower meadow, running her hand idly through the tall flowers. Rolling hills. An abandoned fort. Mountains in the distance. She is weeping silently.

Panel 2:  She stops and half-turns, hearing Imogen’s voice in her head, but from her position at the top of a hill we can’t see her.

Imogen: Laudna!!

Panel 3: (wide middle panel) Imogen slams into her at full speed, knocking them both off the road into the meadow.

Panel 4: Lying on her back amid the flowers, Laudna smiles up at Imogen sheepishly.

Laudna: Oh . . . hello.

Panel 5: Imogen leans over her, in a reverse position of how they first met.

Imogen: (out of breath) Why . . . why did you . . . why did you leave?

#them them them #perfect as always #imodna #critical role

[quietblueriver]

Buffy & Faith in 3.15 Bad girls

#gayyyyyyy #buffy the vampire slayer

[quietblueriver]

missing my fav witches

#critical role #my fav witchy bitches

[quietblueriver]

No yeah definitely the point. Very effectively done and still under an hour.

Is the point of Midsommar to make me hate men? Because if so, I’m twenty minutes in, and mission accomplished.

Pretty sure only Promising Young Woman managed it more quickly.

#midsommar

[quietblueriver]

Is the point of Midsommar to make me hate men? Because if so, I’m twenty minutes in, and mission accomplished.

Pretty sure only Promising Young Woman managed it more quickly.

#midsommar

[quietblueriver]

*90s-ifies your imogen temult*

#loooooooove #imogen temult #critical role

[quietblueriver]

FLORENCE PUGH and SCARLETT JOHANSSON as THE WIDOWS

#what’s that? #me saying for the millionth time that i love them? #and natasha deserved better? #and we should’ve had so much more of them together? #why yes ofc #black widow #natasha romanoff #yelena belova #women of mcu

[quietblueriver]

fingers crossed for your writing! prompt for you: mask

Hi!! Thank you so much for the prompt and the crossed fingers. Very happy to be writing Avatrice again. Here’s a short, soft thing and a play on both mask and masc that’s hopefully not too far off the mark. 💜💜💜

Ava leans against the doorway and watches as Beatrice stares at a black t-shirt that she assumes came from the basket of clean clothes beside the bed, lips pulled down at the corners, a few locks of newly shorn hair falling over her forehead with the angle. Ava wants to tuck it back, run her own thumbs over the buzzed sides in that way that makes Beatrice close her eyes and breathe a little deeper.

“Hey,” she says more quietly than she normally would, smiling gently as Bea’s attention snaps to her, body visibly tightening in the moment it takes for her to assess Ava’s threat level. Once a soldier and all that.

“Sorry to surprise you.” She sticks out a socked foot and wiggles it, thick pink and purple stripes on display. “Got a comfy assist with my stealth game. Camila was not joking with this yarn.”

The tension leaves Bea’s body as she lifts her left leg from where it hangs over the side of the bed to wiggle back with her own pair, a more muted blue and gray sticking out from the bottom of gray sweatpants. She doesn’t say anything, but she puts the shirt down and shifts on the bed, tucking socked feet criss-cross underneath her knees and creating a space that Ava fills happily, crossing her own legs so that their thighs are pressed together.

“You good?”

“Yes,” Beatrice offers quickly before she catches herself, shrugging a shoulder at Ava with a small smile. “Mostly,” she amends, and Ava indulges her earlier impulse and presses Bea’s hair back from her forehead before running her thumb over the clipped hair just above her ear. As she’d hoped, she gets fluttering eyes and a content sigh.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Brown eyes blink open and she runs a hand through her hair before turning her head to face the mirror that hangs from their closet door. Ava’s eyes follow, and they meet in the glass, Ava leaning over to rest her chin on Bea’s shoulder.

“‘Sup, handsome?” Her breath tickles Bea’s cheek and she rolls her eyes even as she smiles that smile she saves for Ava, a little bit of pink in her cheeks.

Her eyes drift and Ava presses a kiss to her cheek before settling back and giving her some space.

“I look like my uncle.”

Ava stops fiddling with their duvet, brings her eyes slowly back to Beatrice in the mirror. She’s waiting for her, lips turned up just slightly and eyes soft, and she dips her head a little to let Ava know it’s okay to keep looking, to keep checking.

And she does, eyes tracking the movement of Bea’s chest and the twitch of her toes where they’re pressed under her knee, a flash of soft blue wool.

“Jacob. His name was Jacob. He was…” The shift in her expression as she searches for the words she needs brings her lips to a pout, but her tone isn’t sad or angry when she finds what she’s looking for. “I wanted very badly to be like him, when I was small. He laughed a lot, and he was very smart but he didn’t…he didn’t use it to make me feel small. He was silly with me, in a very intentional way. Always sought me out and asked me questions and told me jokes that…well, you would have liked them.” Ava sticks her tongue out at her and Bea looks a little proud and a lot fond. “Exactly. I didn’t know what to do with that, but I liked it.” She pulls at the silver chain around her neck, the ghost of a prayer. “He died when I was eight. A car accident. I think…looking back on his funeral and the people who were there, I think maybe he was…like me.” Her jaw clenches, determined, and Ava loves her as she says, voice firm, “Gay. I think he was gay.”

Ava moves a hand to the small of Bea’s back, and Bea puts a hand on her knee, skin warm through the fabric of Ava’s leggings.

“It…as far as I know it was a surprise to my father. Uncle Jacob always brought dates to the big Christmas party and to all of the family events, beautiful women that were funny like he was and talked to me like they cared what I had to say but also like I was still a child, like I was only expected to be a child. One of them snuck me extra cake when my mother wasn’t looking, but when she winked at me, suddenly I couldn’t eat anything else.”

She’s blushing a little, and Ava presses her lips to the cotton covering her shoulder, smiling into it.

“Uh-huh.”

The blush deepens, and Ava smothers the rest of her grin against Bea, grasping and squeezing at her forearm to encourage her to keep talking.

She does, smile dimming a little as she says, “They were there at the service, those women, but so were a lot of other people I’d never seen before, all in a big group together.” Her fingers move against the fabric of her sweats, tug at her black tee, the twin to the one discarded a few minutes ago. “They were in the back of the line to greet us, at the wake, and my father was so…” Fingers run with agitation through already mussed hair. “He was so rude to them, Ava. Gritting his teeth and saying nothing when they offered condolences and shaking hands hard enough that he made people wince. I went to the bathroom and heard two of them talking about how it wasn’t any wonder ‘Jay’ lived like he did. I’d never heard anyone call him Jay before, and I didn’t know what they meant, but I knew better than to ask my parents.”

She swallows and Ava covers the hand on her knee with her own, quiet because she’s not sure if Bea is finished and she is trying her very best these days to give Bea the same space that Bea gives her to say what she wants to say. Even if it makes Ava squirm with the desire to comfort, to fill the silence.

“We left the wake as soon as we could without it being socially unacceptable to the people my parents cared about. My father was so angry on the ride home that my mom was afraid to talk to him, and…” The shaky breath makes Ava so fiercely protective that the halo starts humming under her skin. “After he pulled me into the car, I made myself as small as I could. He went into his study and slammed the door when we got home. They never talked about Uncle Jacob again. It was like he died twice.”

“Bea.” Her hand moves to rest between shoulder blades, presses in in comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

Beatrice smiles at her in the mirror before breaking their connection to turn and kiss her. The angle is a little awkward, their bodies having twisted over the course of the conversation, so she moves to fix it, adjusting so her knees are pressed to Bea’s thigh and making her hands at home on the sides of her neck. When Beatrice pulls back, she backs herself against the headboard and lifts an arm, and Ava’s chest is tight with affection as she moves into the space and settles, hand gripping the front of Bea’s shirt a little possessively. They’ve had this now for months, this bed and this apartment and this time together without world-ending bullshit, but she’s still not used to the luxury of it, of open, unapologetic affection, of Bea’s heartbeat steady under her ear, of time stretching out instead of bearing down.

“It surprised me, when I looked into the mirror and saw him.” Her voice is quieter like this, and Ava feels her words as she says them, cheek pressed against her chest. “In a good way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Fingers run through her hair and Ava lets her eyes close. “I wish I could have known him. I wish he could have known me.”

Ava nods against her. “Me too. He sounds way better than the rest of your family, not that that’s a high bar.” The words slip out thoughtlessly but she doesn’t want to retract them. They’re past pretending Ava wouldn’t halo blast Bea’s parents into the nearest body of water on sight and mostly past Bea feeling guilty for wanting her to. “I’m sorry you didn’t have him for longer.”

“Mmm.” It’s a little absent. A beat. “I used to be a nun.”

Ava opens her eyes at that, pushes up a little to raise an eyebrow at Beatrice.

“Oh yeah? I didn’t know.”

Beatrice pokes her in the ribs and she giggles as she settles back down.

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice softens, quiets. “I understand him. Or I think I do. Why Uncle Jay lived the way that he did.”

Ava splays her hand across Bea’s ribs.

“You used to be a nun.”

“Yes.” Lips touch her hairline. “I am glad that I’m not anymore.”

Ava presses her own lips against the body underneath her. “Me too.” She traces a pattern on Bea’s ribs. “I think he would be proud of you. Of who you are. Of how brave you are.”

Her body moves with Beatrice’s exhale. “I think he would have liked you.”

Ava pulls her chin up to rest against Bea’s sternum and grins her best roguish grin. “Well, I’m very charming.”

Her stomach swoops at the look Bea gives her, adoration undisguised and voice earnest. “Yes. You are. You’re wonderful.”

The kiss is short but sure, leaving Ava a little breathless. Affection thrums in her veins, and she pulls and pushes at Bea’s body until they’re reversed, Bea’s head pillowed on her chest and Ava’s fingers running through short hair, scratching at the nape of her neck. She runs her fingers under the silver chain and turns her head to watch their reflection. Bea’s eyes are closed, her breath slowing, and Ava takes the opportunity to look at her, sees for a moment Sister Beatrice as she was when Ava met her, ashamed and hiding so much of herself, desperately trying to be what everyone wanted and needed her to be.

Her heart breaks a little, for little Beatrice who became Sister Beatrice and for a man she never met. She blinks away the specters in the mirror and sees Bea again, soft and sleepy and brave, and presses a kiss of gratitude to her head.

#avatrice #avatrice fic #wn prompt fic

[quietblueriver]

•. A visit in a dream .•

#always a reblog #wanna frame this for my wall honestly #sweet baby it is HARD #amity blight #the owl house

[quietblueriver]

— the haunting of bly manor

@lgbtqcreators event 21: beginnings and endings @lgbtqcreators creator bingo: quotes

#dani and jamie #the haunting of bly manor