Untitled

I like writing and Critical Role and writing Critical Role fics. Huge dork, huger nerd. Credit to browz for the artwork.

[lillithvexx]

My commissions are open for bust and half-body character portraits 🖤 ko-fi.com/c/2df139ee2a

[lillithvexx]

25% discount on commissions until the end of May 🖤

Use code: 25VEXX on Ko-Fi to get the discount.

I’m in desperate need of grocery money at the moment so any engagement with this post will be greatly appreciated 🖤

[distant--shadow]

new commission infographic! dialed back the colours, you'll likely need to click onto the images to read the text, but i hope at the very least you enjoy seeing it on your personal computer screen (and I hope most that you will get in contact!)

thanks for enabling me - I am also happy to work to a budget/pay what you can afford - please don't be scared or ashamed to reach out and let me know what you'd like and what your budget is ❣️

[distant--shadow]

take one for the team

[distant--shadow]

in their fairytale fancy dress (without having to draw much of the dress)

[mehoymolloy]

Minunthádios

(Critical Role; Imogen Temult/Otohan Thull)

An Ancient Greek AU by @maddytrout and I.

Work Info, Tags, and Opening Lines under the cut!

-

Hid from the Moonweaver’s silver eye, blanketed beneath black, and starless sky, the Wild Wolf of Sparta speaks, and their armies listen.

‘Fear not the throng of men, turn not to flight,  but straight t’ward the front line bear your shields,  despising life and welcoming the dark  contingencies of death like shafts of sun.’

Their voice rings with authority hard-earned.  ‘Spartans! To greet death in the light  of the sun is promised to no one.  But this I say with certainty:

 Tonight, we will plunge our enemies  to the darkest, furthest depths  of the Duskmaven’s shadowed realm,  and dawn shall herald our victory.’

Obscured even from the mind of the Knowing Mistress, that guardian Goddess of Athens, The Wolf of Sparta and their pack move on Piraeus.

~

Imogen had known the Wild Wolf of Sparta would one day breach the walls of Piraeus long before his phalanx stormed the gates and seized the docks.

However, as always, the port city’s dēmarchos did not heed her warnings, calling her mad for good measure. While her mother did believe her, even Liliana—Athens’ renowned oracle, elevated in status and favored by the king himself—could convince no one that her daughter’s sight was anything more than the frenzied ramblings of a god-struck girl.

After all, seers are only truly valued when they confirm what the people already believe, and Imogen had seemingly been cursed to foresee only omens and calamity.

So as the days and weeks and months marched along, Imogen had been naive enough to hope perhaps she would never see her nightmare come to pass.

She was wrong.

[distant--shadow]

heyo fine folks! my commissions are open --'-<@

(I know how much you guys appreciate my graphic design skills so have another installment that, contrary to how it appears, took me over 3 hours to throw together)

as always i'm happy to answer any questions and happy to adjust prices to make them more accessible, please don't feel shy to get in touch.

any shares much appreciated!

--'-<@

[distant--shadow]

And the Lady is far enough away - Imogen reminds herself as she pulls her shirt over her head, chest bare to the sea air and immediately transmuting her skin into gooseflesh - the Lady is far enough away that she surely can’t really see anything; sat in the long shadow of the cliff, her pale skin remaining fresh-milk white despite the season – Imogen almost thinks that it’s a shame that she is not sitting closer on the sand, with a black lace parasol to match. She ain’t ashamed of her body – didn’t need the courtesies her mistress offered; leaving Imogen alone in her stately bedroom so that she could get changed into her dead husband’s clothes – she should have looked through her dressers or desk drawer when she had the opportunity – maybe she could create another? Focus and observation is hard. Imogen reminds herself that; reminds herself that she ain’t ashamed of her body as she unbuttons the gloves on her hands at the wrist, mindful to keep them in front of herself once they are revealed, the skin underneath where it isn’t blemished and mangled almost as pale as Ms Laudna’s.

From a distance it might still look like she has the gloves on anyway – it certainly ain’t easy to tell the blood and the cut and the clotting from the scar tissue.

At least it wasn’t her tongue.

It was just the end of her finger, so naturally Imogen had scuttled away and stripped herself nearly naked in order to submerge herself underwater.

This time she planned for the pull, saving her clothes from getting soaked, saving herself from the Lady’s gentilities.

Silk on her chest, soup in her stomach, the knots of flora untied from her hair-

She wonders again if hornwort can be found out in the ocean - what its closest seaweed relative would be.

The water is already well above her ankles and midway up her calf when she thinks to register the temperature of it.

Warm enough, at this depth at least. Welcoming with each collapse that laps at her knees, cat nuzzling into her palm and licking at the skin, whiskers of seagrasses.

She wades in further, until her fingertips meet the surface, the tendril of blood diluting in the water only momentarily visible like cleaning off a quill, a space she could write messages and no one else would find them, despite what careless talk the rivers carried to the estuaries to be laid to rest here.  

She steps in further still, to her hips, her waist, her chest, her shoulders - her hair splaying out all around her on the surface.

She wonders how deep the ocean is,

how long she can hold her breath-

Imogen learned to swim in a flooded quarry. The water was an unusually bright light turquoise from all of the minerals.

It was terribly deep;

she was never able to reach the bottom.

She floats on her back, further into the water than the point where the small waves swell; bobbing steadily as if a baby in a cot, swayed to sleep by the melodies of their mother -

she recalls songs she overheard in town squares and inn-corners, as she has no voice or memory to assign to her family’s own.

She’s buried in the graveyard of the local church. Liliana; sun-bleached and splintered. Papa couldn’t afford a headstone but his friend did as good a job as he could at carving a plank of pinewood.

By the time Imogen was leaving, the elements had already done a fair business of trying to erase her momma’s name - just as the worms had successfully done to her body.

On the day she left she visited her one last time. She had made her best attempt at re-sharpening the points and removing the chew from the serif of the carved text with her dagger, used her neckerchief to brush off the clumps of moss, and wiped the whole plank down with a rag she had doused in linseed oil.

She isn’t sure whether it should be seen as disrespectful that she used the same blade to shuck shells for some noble woman who coulda afforded her momma a headstone made of marble; that the same nobility shared in such fruits with her, that Imogen licked its steel length whilst on her knees and before her. She never knew her, so she won’t ever know - clarifying, the arms of the ocean - Imogen never knew her mother and never will.

She never knew her, so it shouldn’t matter. 

Sometimes such a thought is a comfort; though maybe Imogen is confusing the source of such comfort with the contact of the warmth of an undulating tide, making itself more plush to her back than any cot or mattress she has ever slept on

(well, all except one. The guest bed didn’t fill her ears with a perpetual hum and a buzz occupied with the resonance of an ocean’s worth of rippling bodies)

rumours

false memories

Not a discernible heartbeat. Maybe it’s so many hearts that it all becomes a homogenous murmur.

Jellyfish, the bow of a fishing boat, seaweed that grows in dense thicket clumps, arms reaching, grabbing, pulling

cats’ eyes, teeth of shells and fishbone ribs

the Lady’s barnacle canines-

Her finger is bleeding and still that is not enough to draw any attention. What distinguishes the seaweed from the hornwort? Is it the salt and brine?

circling the earth like an old wives’ tale.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tits out for the ocean. i was fortunate enough to get something commissioned to draw from my regency-ish au

[distant--shadow]

another commission for @exandrianscribe who was a sweetheart and gave me dealer's choice on coven spice, so i went with illustrating one of imogen's fantasies from this fic of mine

you can see the uncropped over on my bluesky

[exandrianscribe]

Y’all this is spectacular and needs to be seen far and wide.

[exandrianscribe]

Oh my gods. Y’all, I just got reblogged by @immult and @mehoymalloy for my cuckoo Laudna gets a breeding kink fic and those are two of my favorite blogs.

This is huge for me, and I’m so happy I can’t even begin to say.

[exandrianscribe]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Laudna/Imogen Temult Characters: Imogen Temult, Laudna (Critical Role) Additional Tags: Porn With Plot, Laudna has a breeding kink, these witches be switches, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Magic Cock, Squirting, Slight Possessive Sex, Post-Campaign, Laudna POV, Laudna is obsessed over Imogen, Light Angst, Fluff Summary:

It started small—a faint something akin to a tremor in the pit of her stomach as they were planned their escape from the Hallowed Cage after Imogen had conquered the source of her horrors, the origin of her nightmares (she is very capable). Laudna wasn't certain what name this sensation was at the time. It felt like infatuation, desire, lust, reverence, all rolled into one heavy passion she had yet to encounter.

Laudna understood it now; she wanted those moments to be real, not imagined. She wanted to repeat these motions for her beloved Imogen. She wanted- Laudna wanted to see Imogen heavy with life. Fuck.

or

A Laudna breeding kink fic.

@immult It is done, and it awaits!

[distant--shadow]

crop of a commission for @exandrianscribe

you can see the full image over on my bluesky or pillowfort

[exandrianscribe]

This is such a treat. My great thanks!

[distant--shadow]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Here it is folks, the final chapter of my post-campaign coven fic (though spoiler free for the last episode); a sort of love letter to all three of the witches. Rated E and check out the tags at the link.

[exandrianscribe]

Chapters 32 and 33 are up.

[exandrianscribe]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60761290/chapters/160499395

Chapter 31 is up.

[distant--shadow]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

It had been quite the amount of time since Imogen last had sand in her shoes.

She isn’t given much time to dwell on it; Ms Laudna coming into clarity as Imogen approaches, hunched forward with her arm further than elbow-deep in one of the rockpools.

“I see you took the opportunity for a swim.” She states matter-of-factly, inspecting a pebble in her hand before placing it on the same swatch of cloth that had lent itself for the oyster spread.

“A-yeah, sorry about that - kinda happened without thinkin’.” Probably a bit too candid, and it gets a momentarily raised brow from the woman sat at the rockpool, before her attention returns to the miscellaneous selection of stones by her side.

“I am sure it did you good, and your wound? How is that looking?”

“Oh, fine, thank you. I was in there long enough it’s already stitchin’ together again.”

“Your intuition served you well then.”

Imogen can only assume that the compliment weighs so much because she regards the Lady as so worldly - and not only because of her age.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know, hasn’t taken that look behind the curtain for herself; rendering the woman and her behaviour even more mystifying and esoteric, the leading suggestions behind her statements as well as the knowledge eagerly shared.

Regardless of the rumours.

The selection of rocks and oyster shells on the embroidered cloth, now dirtied with splotches of wet sand and a curl of seaweed like a stray hair. 

“What’re you collectin’?” Imogen hopes that it’s a feasible and polite-enough question.

“Whatever interests me – it’s quite a renowned stretch of coast, you know.”

Imogen wants to ask how closely related these stories are to the lake’s, but she isn’t sure if that would break her own personally-set parameters.

“Yeah? What for?”

“Here- look at this…”

Ms Laudna retrieves one of the pebbles from her side; a larger and more flat one in comparison to the rest of the bunch. She sits back; resting on the palm of one of her hands, the other holding the stone aloft for Imogen to inspect, expectant and notably casual - as she had been at the base of the statue in her garden.

Imogen steps to meet her, taking the stone into her own hands and bringing it to eye-level.

At first it looks as though its surface is imprinted with the weave of a wicker basket, but as Imogen tilts the rock in the sunlight she sees that these impressions are actually in relief, swelling outwards, dividing and complex

Like roots

like veins

Like the gnarled scars that cover her hands from fingertip to mid-palm

(and climbing-)

She wants to touch the surface with her bare fingers, wonders if she can excuse herself for a trip down to the ocean once again.

Imogen is sure that the Lady has not seen her hands, and yet the timing, the curation

Perhaps she is thinking too much from her own perspective. It is not the view she has had to grow accustomed to.

“Oh, it has a pattern an’ a texture.”

“Isn’t it beautiful? I admit I had to get my notebook out to remember the name of this one.”

She thinks it’s beautiful.

“It has a name?”

“Yes dear, it’s a fossil. A Pentacrinites crinoid.”

Imogen doesn’t call the Lady out on her incorrect addressing, allows the word to soothe a scar she carries that is much older than the fresh cut on her fingertip.

“I’m not even gonna try t’say that.”

“They’re often called sea lilies - but they’re actually related to starfish - not a plant.”

“Is the sea filled with alotta animals that look like other things?”

lilies, glace cherries, stars, jellies, monsters constructed of hornwort and cats’ eyes and seashell and fishbone teeth

Ms Laudna giggles agreeingly 

“Until we grow gills or construct a ship that can be airtight when it dives, I suppose we have to use our imaginations – or look at what washes up on the shores.”

Imogen can easily recall that gurgle, the leathery petrified cadaver that followed.

“Like a horse corpse?”

“Is this one of the lake’s stories?”

“Well, there are seahorses-”

“Excuse me?!”

A saddled horse with dorsal fins instead of a mane, opalescent scales, a tail like a mermaid-

“About as literal as you can picture them compared to everything else you have seen-” a reality a little crushing, though swiftly soothed by Ms Laudna’s head throwing back with the weight behind her laugh, birds scattering in flight and cawing in the distance - yet Imogen doesn’t feel patronised; though maybe she has endeared herself to her and it is a fine line, and one of Ms Laudna’s hands cradles her stomach as if pained by the exertion, her other resting on Imogen's forearm, gentle, intimate

dear

dear

A squawk calls from close by that is distinctly different to the caw of the gulls, and this gives both Imogen and her Lady pause, her hand removing contact from Imogen’s arm as she turns to the black-feathered bird that skips along the knobbly rocks and around the pools of water to walk towards her.

A crow, funnily enough.

Fittingly bizarre; outfitted in all black for a summer’s day on the beach.

It tilts its head and taps its beak on the weathered porous rock, Ms Laudna watching it closely before she takes a deep breath, throwing over the last uneaten oyster from its shell and at the crow’s feet.

“I suppose we better head back; Sorcha is a growing girl and I will not allow for her to miss a meal.”

Imogen nods, eyes darting between the Lady’s and the crow, as it tilts its own head back, forcing unchewed flesh down its throat.

“I would like for you to keep the fossil, if you would take it.”

Ms Laudna moves to stand, and Imogen hurries to offer her her free hand, to be in her grasp again.

“But you found it-”

“I did, so see it as a keepsake, if you will - should your cut not form a scar.”

[exandrianscribe]

Spin off of my main fic for @vexlethuary

[exandrianscribe]

When you’re so consumed by a story, the universe itself reminds you of it. Can’t even have lunch in peace.