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Happy Pride, time to invest in yuri stocks once more! Did some finnaggling with the first image (earrings, doing Vina's tattoos in a way I like better) and then remembered I had several other girl type images to sketch over.
If I post unfinished Rotgrind fanfic from last year do you all promise to be nice to me about the fact it cuts out before it gets juicy? Or you can throw bricks at me until I actually get it together and finish a damn fic for once. Whichever you please. I like to think I'll actually continue this at some point.
Summary: Set at the end of Season 2, Vina and Victrix share a drink and spend the night together before their time together in the Solitude ends.
Rating: Mature. For now.
---
“Veni, Vidi, Vici - I Came, I Saw, I Conquered."
---
Zabulzazp’s had many things Vina was missing, after long weeks trudging through the swamps of the Solitude. An actual floor instead of sucking mud, for one. A roof overhead to keep the rain off. Alcohol. It wasn’t good alcohol, necessarily- but she managed to find rum, even if it went down thick as molasses and pungent as raw mash. She didn’t even have to drink alone- Victrix had plopped down in the seat across from her before long, after taking care of some small business, and was chuckling when Vina pulled a face after a drink.
“That bad, huh?” The mercenary gestured with her own empty glass to the bottle upon the table.
“It’s…it’s fine.” Her voice came out with a croak. “Ugh.”
“Yeah. Nobody out here drinks for fun. C’mon, share-” Victrix tilted her glass, and Vina obligingly poured, trying not to think about how syrupy-viscous it poured from the bottle. “This swamp shit will get you fucked up, tho, and that’s what matters.”
“Uh-huh.” Vina helped herself to another mouthful and grimaced, keenly aware that it was sticking to her teeth, while Victrix tugged the wrappings over her mouth down and drank deep like it was nothing.
“So, where’s the rest of you chucklefucks? I figured you’d all be sharing a drink together. You know, do a victory lap. Last night in the Solitude proper or some shit before you trudge back to that precariously stacked shithole of a bastard city.” A pause. “Is the bird boy even old enough to drink?”
“He’s, well- he’s old enough. I think. Certainly old enough to…you know...”
“Old enough to have a fucked up…egg?”
“Yeah. They got a room and wanted to stay with the egg.” It was weird. It was weird even by the standards of everything Vina had seen so far. And it didn’t help that being called Vina again after so long still felt…well, it didn’t feel wrong. Which honestly made the way it knotted up in her chest all the worse. Better to not think about that. Hence: the alcohol. Between the taste and texture and the brewing tipsiness, it was getting much, much easier to stop thinking about names like Vaali and Vina and what they meant. “So, how about you?”
“Mm?”
“Yeah. You’re not coming back to Outset with us, you made that clear.”
“I did call it a precariously stacked shithole of a bastard city.”
“Ri-ight. So what are you doing? Just…bumming around until the next job comes around?”
Victrix seemed to muse over that for a moment, emptying her glass and slamming it down with a too-loud kthunk that drew a few eyes before the glances all turned away fearfully, and she sighed loud and deep. “Probably. Ain’t thought that far ahead. Some idiot’s always gonna need someone good with a blade who knows her way around. Once you leave, the next losers will come ‘round…but like I said. I don’t like to plan that far ahead. I got plans for tonight, anyways.” She shifted forwards, leaning her elbow on the table. The single candle made her monocle gleam eerily, and Vina leaned in, in turn, sensing something conspiratorial.
“Do tell?” Surely, Vina thought, Victrix led a life of strange freedom. She’d seen her throwing people around like ragdolls, pitching fits and barking insults. Part of her anticipated some kind of fight- it seemed like the kind of thing the mercenary would turn to for fun, carefully watching Victrix’s gaze as it swept across the room- and back to Vina, who had just begun to take another sip.
“Yeah. I’m planning to take you up to my room and see if your pussy’s blue on the inside just like the rest of you.”
Vina choked and sputtered.
Victrix cackled.
“Uh!?”
“C’mon. Gorgeous girl like you? Sky pirate and all that shit? You can’t tell me you don’t fuck.” Victrix stood, hands on her hips, and cocked her head to the side. Her mouth was still exposed- chapped lips, interrupted by an old scar, and a wide, hungry grin. “I’ve been waiting all week.”
“I’m just. Surprised?”
“Well. Word of advice. Don’t fuck on the road- not in the Solitude.” Victrix shrugged, as if this were something well-known and plainly stated. “Best case, you’ll get ticks in weird places. Worst case-”
“I don’t think I want to know the worst case.”
“-you’ll get swamp cooch. And that shit takes ages to clear up.”
Vina stared at her, stunned. Stunned and flustered.
Victrix snickered, and turned- her peg leg scraping deliberately too-loudly against the floor as she headed for the stairs, pausing only once she was a few steps away to turn over her shoulder and bark. “Hurry up, blue! Let's go put your footprints on the ceiling.” Vina found that she couldn't follow fast enough- she simply gathered up her bottle and scurried after the tall woman and tried not to think about the fact that her face was burning and that the eyes of other mercenaries and traders flicked their way, before going back to minding their own business. Maybe this was something they were used to. Vic certainly had a way with words (a vulgar, crass, and often cruel way with words) but it got the job done.
They scarcely made it through the door before Victrix kicked it shut and fell on Vina with such hungry fervor that she struggled to respond.
Vina thought, feeling more than a little tipsy, though she could scarcely blame the rum; It had been a while, hadn’t it? A long while, she was realizing, since the last time she’d had someone against her like this- long before coming to outset. She found herself backed up against the wall with Victrix’s exposed mouth against her throat, strong hands squeezing her hips, letting out a shaky sigh. There really was something to be said for Victrix's raw, direct desire that any thoughts Vina had about trying to play it cool and be seductive were steamrolled away. Vic groped and grabbed and hauled Vina’s coat off her shoulders between bouts of sucking at her neck, growling when she did so.
“Gods fuck- you’re pretty. Pretty like a clear sky.” She mumbled against Vina’s skin, drawing her tongue across the exposed collarbone. “Those tattoos go all the way down?”
Vina giggled, squirming, feeling heady and buzzed better than any drink could get her. Light as a cloud, free as an airship. “I think- oh! I think you’re about to find out, yo-ourself!”
“Hah! What can I say?” With a firm tug, Victrix pulled Vina in close- and spun her around, pressing against her back and reaching around and sliding her hands along Vina's stomach, up her body, cupping her breasts before squeezing them so hard Vina squealed. “I’m a go-getter.”
More Rotgrind fanfiction from last year! Uhm. Less fun than the Vina/Victrix one! Well, less fun for Baldric. Fun for me :))))) and Cardoza :)))))))) It deserved a bit of cleanup and reorganizing to be post-able and it's still pretty short. BUT.....look, we can all agree. Baldric for sure has some personal experience in Cardoza's dungeon, right? Am I hallucinating, or was that implied?????
Summary:
Under a gilded tower, far below extravagantly decorated noble halls, there is a dark, damp prison. In that prison, there is a combination well-appointed bedroom and torture chamber. In that bedroom, there is a cruel, wicked woman with blood on her hands. And in that evil woman's bloodied hands is Baldric Weathers.
Tags:
Graphic description of torture and mutilation. Look I'm just gonna. That one goes right up front. You're welcome.
Rating:
I still don't know how to tag for violence so, uh. Mature? What do they rate the Saw movies at?
---
Baldric knows what he's going to find behind the door before it opens. He knows. He knows for the same reason he knows where the secret side tunnel into the prison was. He knows because he remembers.
He knows because he has been here before.
He knows because in the dark of sleepless nights, in his nightmares when sleep finally comes, in the stray thoughts that burn, Baldric Weathers is still here.
Because he never left this place, not really.
And now he is here again, the place he never left.
Underneath the helmet, no-one can see his teeth grit and when he swallows bile he does so in stern, self-enforced silence. He can still hear his own screams echoing in this dismal dungeon. He refuses to add to them, not now. Not again.
Not where the others might hear.
—
“Baldric Weathers-” She croons his name in sing-song tones like a teasing lover and he feels sick to his stomach. She cups his face in her hands and tilts his head up but he can't seem to focus his eyes- the lanterns, even in this dim room, are too bright, leaving spots in his vision- on top of the starbursts he's still seeing behind his eyelids- and everything smears together in a dizzying blur. “You've been so much fun.”
Cardoza strokes her thumb over his cracked, busted lips, over the bloody clots that have formed on them, and they twitch wordlessly.
“So much fun, in fact…that I'm sorry to say I'll have to let you go. Isn't that generous of me?” The unmoving mask staring down at him with its placid smile, but he can hear her grinning beneath it. Even with his eyes rolling back, exhaustion pulling him towards the inky oblivion again, he knows what her smile looks like below it all and he trembles in uncontrollable fear. “Oh Baldric? Did you hear me?”
Other than his breathing, too-heavy and wheezing, he makes no sound. Part of him wonders if he would even be able to speak - his throat feels raw, his ravaged mouth crusted with bile and scabbing, he can feel his cracked tongue rubbing against the roof of his mouth.
Her grip, cradling his face, shifts and tenses. When her fingers flex, the plates of her gauntlet pinch the tender broken flesh of his jaw- a line of sharp pinpricks on top of the pain that's already there. An impressive feat, given how all-encompassing the pain is, otherwise. “Ba-aldric? I said, isn't that generous of me?” He can feel himself slipping away. Unconsciousness has long since become preferable to her attentions, but she's clearly not willing to let this go without a response.
“Aren't I so very fucking generous?”
Cardoza’s thumb jams into his cheek, and through it, where the flesh was stripped away and the exposed muscle and fat has only just started to scar over, and she digs her gloved finger in until it rubs against Baldric's teeth, tearing open the scabbing all over again. His mouth is no longer dry, but floods with his own blood- and he is not silent anymore but screaming.
“How kind of you to agree, Mister Weathers!” Her voice pitches up into a delighted giggle as she hooks her thumb against the meat of his cheek and tugs. Pain denies him the bliss of unconsciousness, body spasming against the bindings of the rack. “I do try to be a good host…we'll just have to have ourselves a little going-away party before I pick a street to dump you on.”
Part of him wishes- prays- to any god that might give a damn, that he might choke to death before she's done with him tonight. Even the hope of freedom on the horizon has lost meaning, the only freedom is in the unfeeling darkness. Death or unconsciousness. The only mercy left in this moment is that of oblivion.
“I'm sure you'll be back before long.”
And there is no such mercy from the gods. Instead he coughs and writhes, blood slicking down his throat and drooling out his mouth, screaming between spasms. Her thumb presses down on his tongue and he finds himself too broken to even consider biting, jaw slack and tears rolling down his face as he gags.
Cardoza laughs, before she withdraws her hand and gives it a shake, flicking his blood across her white armor. When she moves from his line of sight, she's little more than a blur glimpsed through the tears and starbursts of agony. Like a pale ghost, she seems to flicker in and out of his vision- one moment in the corner of his eye, the next on the other side of the rack, holding up a tall red bottle.
A flick of a claw-tipped gauntlet's finger and it opens. Even through the blood and bile filling his nose (well, what's left of his nose- which doesn't help as much as he'd hope) he can smell...wine. Floral and heady and with a sting of alcohol.
“Drink up.” The lip of the bottle clacks against his teeth painfully but there's nothing he can do except sputter and swallow- it's that or choke and he's already choking plenty. It's not just wine, being forced down his throat- even now, he's keenly aware of all the skills his alchemical training has afforded him, and among them- awareness. Recognition. Elixers to heal him, smothered underneath the heavy tannins, potions to keep him alive.
And stimulants to keep him awake.
She's spared no expense. The night lasts an eternity.
—
It feels good, to feed her that alchemist's fire. He hopes it hurts. He prays it hurts, for the moments it will take to burn her up from the inside out. He hopes that when the light of "good" was poured into her, it burned out everything he remembered and left nothing but a shell.
And he hopes it hurts all the way down, as he watches her burning body tumble into the darkness. He hopes it hurts all the way to merciful oblivion.
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More Rotgrind fanfiction from last year! Uhm. Less fun than the Vina/Victrix one! Well, less fun for Baldric. Fun for me :))))) and Cardoza :)))))))) It deserved a bit of cleanup and reorganizing to be post-able and it's still pretty short. BUT.....look, we can all agree. Baldric for sure has some personal experience in Cardoza's dungeon, right? Am I hallucinating, or was that implied?????
Summary:
Under a gilded tower, far below extravagantly decorated noble halls, there is a dark, damp prison. In that prison, there is a combination well-appointed bedroom and torture chamber. In that bedroom, there is a cruel, wicked woman with blood on her hands. And in that evil woman's bloodied hands is Baldric Weathers.
Tags:
Graphic description of torture and mutilation. Look I'm just gonna. That one goes right up front. You're welcome.
Rating:
I still don't know how to tag for violence so, uh. Mature? What do they rate the Saw movies at?
---
Baldric knows what he's going to find behind the door before it opens. He knows. He knows for the same reason he knows where the secret side tunnel into the prison was. He knows because he remembers.
He knows because he has been here before.
He knows because in the dark of sleepless nights, in his nightmares when sleep finally comes, in the stray thoughts that burn, Baldric Weathers is still here.
Because he never left this place, not really.
And now he is here again, the place he never left.
Underneath the helmet, no-one can see his teeth grit and when he swallows bile he does so in stern, self-enforced silence. He can still hear his own screams echoing in this dismal dungeon. He refuses to add to them, not now. Not again.
Not where the others might hear.
—
“Baldric Weathers-” She croons his name in sing-song tones like a teasing lover and he feels sick to his stomach. She cups his face in her hands and tilts his head up but he can't seem to focus his eyes- the lanterns, even in this dim room, are too bright, leaving spots in his vision- on top of the starbursts he's still seeing behind his eyelids- and everything smears together in a dizzying blur. “You've been so much fun.”
Cardoza strokes her thumb over his cracked, busted lips, over the bloody clots that have formed on them, and they twitch wordlessly.
“So much fun, in fact…that I'm sorry to say I'll have to let you go. Isn't that generous of me?” The unmoving mask staring down at him with its placid smile, but he can hear her grinning beneath it. Even with his eyes rolling back, exhaustion pulling him towards the inky oblivion again, he knows what her smile looks like below it all and he trembles in uncontrollable fear. “Oh Baldric? Did you hear me?”
Other than his breathing, too-heavy and wheezing, he makes no sound. Part of him wonders if he would even be able to speak - his throat feels raw, his ravaged mouth crusted with bile and scabbing, he can feel his cracked tongue rubbing against the roof of his mouth.
Her grip, cradling his face, shifts and tenses. When her fingers flex, the plates of her gauntlet pinch the tender broken flesh of his jaw- a line of sharp pinpricks on top of the pain that's already there. An impressive feat, given how all-encompassing the pain is, otherwise. “Ba-aldric? I said, isn't that generous of me?” He can feel himself slipping away. Unconsciousness has long since become preferable to her attentions, but she's clearly not willing to let this go without a response.
“Aren't I so very fucking generous?”
Cardoza’s thumb jams into his cheek, and through it, where the flesh was stripped away and the exposed muscle and fat has only just started to scar over, and she digs her gloved finger in until it rubs against Baldric's teeth, tearing open the scabbing all over again. His mouth is no longer dry, but floods with his own blood- and he is not silent anymore but screaming.
“How kind of you to agree, Mister Weathers!” Her voice pitches up into a delighted giggle as she hooks her thumb against the meat of his cheek and tugs. Pain denies him the bliss of unconsciousness, body spasming against the bindings of the rack. “I do try to be a good host…we'll just have to have ourselves a little going-away party before I pick a street to dump you on.”
Part of him wishes- prays- to any god that might give a damn, that he might choke to death before she's done with him tonight. Even the hope of freedom on the horizon has lost meaning, the only freedom is in the unfeeling darkness. Death or unconsciousness. The only mercy left in this moment is that of oblivion.
“I'm sure you'll be back before long.”
And there is no such mercy from the gods. Instead he coughs and writhes, blood slicking down his throat and drooling out his mouth, screaming between spasms. Her thumb presses down on his tongue and he finds himself too broken to even consider biting, jaw slack and tears rolling down his face as he gags.
Cardoza laughs, before she withdraws her hand and gives it a shake, flicking his blood across her white armor. When she moves from his line of sight, she's little more than a blur glimpsed through the tears and starbursts of agony. Like a pale ghost, she seems to flicker in and out of his vision- one moment in the corner of his eye, the next on the other side of the rack, holding up a tall red bottle.
A flick of a claw-tipped gauntlet's finger and it opens. Even through the blood and bile filling his nose (well, what's left of his nose- which doesn't help as much as he'd hope) he can smell...wine. Floral and heady and with a sting of alcohol.
“Drink up.” The lip of the bottle clacks against his teeth painfully but there's nothing he can do except sputter and swallow- it's that or choke and he's already choking plenty. It's not just wine, being forced down his throat- even now, he's keenly aware of all the skills his alchemical training has afforded him, and among them- awareness. Recognition. Elixers to heal him, smothered underneath the heavy tannins, potions to keep him alive.
And stimulants to keep him awake.
She's spared no expense. The night lasts an eternity.
—
It feels good, to feed her that alchemist's fire. He hopes it hurts. He prays it hurts, for the moments it will take to burn her up from the inside out. He hopes that when the light of "good" was poured into her, it burned out everything he remembered and left nothing but a shell.
And he hopes it hurts all the way down, as he watches her burning body tumble into the darkness. He hopes it hurts all the way to merciful oblivion.
Monkey's paw has finished curling a finger and I finished my Rotgrind fic y'all. First fic I've put up on AO3 since 2019. Thank you to my new obsession.
I also love drawing characters consistently off-model so I'm figuring out how I want to draw her. Real dorito-shaped-ass-bitch. Anyways when Earndil said the bit about her licking her glaive thank god I was alone while listening at work because I fucking YELLED.
Yo what the fuck was up with that nightmare energy between Baldric and the Martinet? Love it. But what the fuck.
The woman kept her private bedchambers in her personal prison with her bed facing the torture rack. We have to make assumptions about her hobbies. We have to. I mean, nobody has to, but I will.
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If I post unfinished Rotgrind fanfic from last year do you all promise to be nice to me about the fact it cuts out before it gets juicy? Or you can throw bricks at me until I actually get it together and finish a damn fic for once. Whichever you please. I like to think I'll actually continue this at some point.
Summary: Set at the end of Season 2, Vina and Victrix share a drink and spend the night together before their time together in the Solitude ends.
Rating: Mature. For now.
---
“Veni, Vidi, Vici - I Came, I Saw, I Conquered."
---
Zabulzazp’s had many things Vina was missing, after long weeks trudging through the swamps of the Solitude. An actual floor instead of sucking mud, for one. A roof overhead to keep the rain off. Alcohol. It wasn’t good alcohol, necessarily- but she managed to find rum, even if it went down thick as molasses and pungent as raw mash. She didn’t even have to drink alone- Victrix had plopped down in the seat across from her before long, after taking care of some small business, and was chuckling when Vina pulled a face after a drink.
“That bad, huh?” The mercenary gestured with her own empty glass to the bottle upon the table.
“It’s…it’s fine.” Her voice came out with a croak. “Ugh.”
“Yeah. Nobody out here drinks for fun. C’mon, share-” Victrix tilted her glass, and Vina obligingly poured, trying not to think about how syrupy-viscous it poured from the bottle. “This swamp shit will get you fucked up, tho, and that’s what matters.”
“Uh-huh.” Vina helped herself to another mouthful and grimaced, keenly aware that it was sticking to her teeth, while Victrix tugged the wrappings over her mouth down and drank deep like it was nothing.
“So, where’s the rest of you chucklefucks? I figured you’d all be sharing a drink together. You know, do a victory lap. Last night in the Solitude proper or some shit before you trudge back to that precariously stacked shithole of a bastard city.” A pause. “Is the bird boy even old enough to drink?”
“He’s, well- he’s old enough. I think. Certainly old enough to…you know...”
“Old enough to have a fucked up…egg?”
“Yeah. They got a room and wanted to stay with the egg.” It was weird. It was weird even by the standards of everything Vina had seen so far. And it didn’t help that being called Vina again after so long still felt…well, it didn’t feel wrong. Which honestly made the way it knotted up in her chest all the worse. Better to not think about that. Hence: the alcohol. Between the taste and texture and the brewing tipsiness, it was getting much, much easier to stop thinking about names like Vaali and Vina and what they meant. “So, how about you?”
“Mm?”
“Yeah. You’re not coming back to Outset with us, you made that clear.”
“I did call it a precariously stacked shithole of a bastard city.”
“Ri-ight. So what are you doing? Just…bumming around until the next job comes around?”
Victrix seemed to muse over that for a moment, emptying her glass and slamming it down with a too-loud kthunk that drew a few eyes before the glances all turned away fearfully, and she sighed loud and deep. “Probably. Ain’t thought that far ahead. Some idiot’s always gonna need someone good with a blade who knows her way around. Once you leave, the next losers will come ‘round…but like I said. I don’t like to plan that far ahead. I got plans for tonight, anyways.” She shifted forwards, leaning her elbow on the table. The single candle made her monocle gleam eerily, and Vina leaned in, in turn, sensing something conspiratorial.
“Do tell?” Surely, Vina thought, Victrix led a life of strange freedom. She’d seen her throwing people around like ragdolls, pitching fits and barking insults. Part of her anticipated some kind of fight- it seemed like the kind of thing the mercenary would turn to for fun, carefully watching Victrix’s gaze as it swept across the room- and back to Vina, who had just begun to take another sip.
“Yeah. I’m planning to take you up to my room and see if your pussy’s blue on the inside just like the rest of you.”
Vina choked and sputtered.
Victrix cackled.
“Uh!?”
“C’mon. Gorgeous girl like you? Sky pirate and all that shit? You can’t tell me you don’t fuck.” Victrix stood, hands on her hips, and cocked her head to the side. Her mouth was still exposed- chapped lips, interrupted by an old scar, and a wide, hungry grin. “I’ve been waiting all week.”
“I’m just. Surprised?”
“Well. Word of advice. Don’t fuck on the road- not in the Solitude.” Victrix shrugged, as if this were something well-known and plainly stated. “Best case, you’ll get ticks in weird places. Worst case-”
“I don’t think I want to know the worst case.”
“-you’ll get swamp cooch. And that shit takes ages to clear up.”
Vina stared at her, stunned. Stunned and flustered.
Victrix snickered, and turned- her peg leg scraping deliberately too-loudly against the floor as she headed for the stairs, pausing only once she was a few steps away to turn over her shoulder and bark. “Hurry up, blue! Let's go put your footprints on the ceiling.” Vina found that she couldn't follow fast enough- she simply gathered up her bottle and scurried after the tall woman and tried not to think about the fact that her face was burning and that the eyes of other mercenaries and traders flicked their way, before going back to minding their own business. Maybe this was something they were used to. Vic certainly had a way with words (a vulgar, crass, and often cruel way with words) but it got the job done.
They scarcely made it through the door before Victrix kicked it shut and fell on Vina with such hungry fervor that she struggled to respond.
Vina thought, feeling more than a little tipsy, though she could scarcely blame the rum; It had been a while, hadn’t it? A long while, she was realizing, since the last time she’d had someone against her like this- long before coming to outset. She found herself backed up against the wall with Victrix’s exposed mouth against her throat, strong hands squeezing her hips, letting out a shaky sigh. There really was something to be said for Victrix's raw, direct desire that any thoughts Vina had about trying to play it cool and be seductive were steamrolled away. Vic groped and grabbed and hauled Vina’s coat off her shoulders between bouts of sucking at her neck, growling when she did so.
“Gods fuck- you’re pretty. Pretty like a clear sky.” She mumbled against Vina’s skin, drawing her tongue across the exposed collarbone. “Those tattoos go all the way down?”
Vina giggled, squirming, feeling heady and buzzed better than any drink could get her. Light as a cloud, free as an airship. “I think- oh! I think you’re about to find out, yo-ourself!”
“Hah! What can I say?” With a firm tug, Victrix pulled Vina in close- and spun her around, pressing against her back and reaching around and sliding her hands along Vina's stomach, up her body, cupping her breasts before squeezing them so hard Vina squealed. “I’m a go-getter.”
@odobites mentioned Daemon Prince Bethael AU and I was struck so violently by the mental image I blacked out and woke up with a nosebleed and an engagement ring made of still-bloodied bone. I think his tattoo would turn into a second mouth.
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I was thinking about his gold tooth initially, but the visual also really stuck with me as some kind of like...a lot of things! The gold tooth. Gold is both softer and more brittle than bone, so it's a weak link. Gold decorations on Lyphos and the golden decor of the Imperium. A collar of bone but there is still something gleaming in there, something that doesn't match....
This show. Has a death grip on ussss hgghfdgdghhhfg the MEANING of THINGS
2087
kianamaiart
stormborns
areudirty
dededos
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
