Wild Surge

Val is somewhat aware that she can, objectively, be called pretty. But being aware mean jackshit when the person that should be closest to you dedicates most of your life to putting you down and refusing to acknowledge you as her own flesh and blood. It does dig a deep hole in your mind - one that it's difficult to crawl out.

Where it anyone else wearing her face, I'm pretty sure she'd consider them beautiful.

But when presented with a mirror, it's difficult not to see things that Mother considered monstrous;

hands that are just a bit too big in comparison to a skinny body turn into monstrous claws with sharp talons, the lively purple fires in her eyes make her think of predators stalking you in the night; inhuman and terrifying. Hair that needs some brushing (and maybe some oil) looks like coarse strands one would find on some beast. Horns that never fully recovered from being cut down so many times looking now like gnarly roots of a dead tree. Skin in the color of hematite making her stand out even among tieflings, just another reminder how *wrong* she is.

How she doesn't belong anywhere.

And honestly one of the sadder things about this is that, on face value, people would disregard her behaviour as vain or fishing for attention while the self-loathing is so deeply rooted that she genuinely stays away from mirrors.

Because she does not want to see the reminder of why her childhood suddenly changed; why her dad started disappearing at months at a time, why the household quieted whenever she entered a room.

Why the hateful comments started.

Mother never accepted her magic in the first place, to have her child grow horns and a tail; to have to deal with the implications that their bloodline was tainted.

Val is never sure how her life would look were the circumstances different; there's too many variables. Would she have her magic still or was it connected to her ancestry? Would she still be kept away from people or allowed to interact with other children? Would she meet Moira and Annun?

Would they befriend her or treat her as a spoiled kid from Upper City?

Would she be able to make her own life, or still be locked into a different cage - one of expectations and customs forced upon her by the society?

But sometimes, sometimes she feels like losing her current life - having it never exist in the first place - would be worth it, if it meant her father would stay.

To wish to be erased from existence on the off chance the little girl still inside her may have a better chance at life, at love.

And something I did not angle correctly so it looks wonky but I like the colours:

The Bramble Maiden

Went with my old Changeling: The Lost character - an ex-hunter turned Darkling from the Autumn's Court.

The historian, the doctor, the fear-dealer.

She lives beyond the hedge, where no man steps his foot, her horns twisted branches of a bramble that lost its leaves.

Her familiars, the shrikes as they mark her territory with corpses of creatures weaker than them.

She trades fear like one would spices, and hers are as expensive. Perfect bones, bleaches in the sun and salty air of the sea or the memory of your child's first laugh?

In return, a nightmare for you enemy, or maybe to have your lover fear leaving you?

She knows when you need her. Just follow the birds.

I'm normally not a fan of using black-black on characters in VP because it takes away too much detail - but it does give a nice, uncanny effect which I very much enjoy on the The Fae and The Vampiress. These two designs allow me to actually have fun with the effects I want to use and the high contrast and usage of light artefacting is probably my favorite personal touch ^^;

The spark of fire glowing brightly in her palms cracks and fizzles out, leaving a tiny stain of soot, barely noticeable against the skin of her palm.

"Again," Ran's raspy voice - the one of the few real giveaways that pretty face did not belong to a woman - chuckles into the back of her head "A match'd give ya a bigger flame." She furrows her brows, fingers curling slightly before his own hands wrap themselves of her always too-big ones. "Again."

"I'm afraid." heat blooming her cheeks, embarrassed at admitting a weakness "What if it'll hurt?" What if the spell explodes in both of their faces? She rubs her fingers together, skin still tingling from the feeling of that one spark going off; the sensation of skin being pulled too tightly over callused palms. Life on the road was not the easiest and she was still trying to grow into the role; silks and confining dresses replaced with old leathers and bandages. A delicate quill of her writing lessons gathering dust at the house she left behind, in its stead a dagger or a sword or, nowadays more often, a quarterstaff in one hand and a spell in other.

A shrug against her back pulls her back from her memories, long arms pulling her closer; Ran looked a bit too lanky at first glance, it took a moment all those limbs were lean muscle and veins pulsing with raw magic. The older tiefling was a fighter even if all of that was hidden by wide smiles and loose clothing and an attitude that often ended with him being threatened with a punch to the face.

More than once, the threats came for Valeria herself. Though, as she learned with quite a bit of pride, she could pack a mean right hook if having the advantage of surprise.

"Well," a hum "We do have some healing salve for the burns," Another chuckle and she tenses, curls shoulder around her head.

"What if," she starts. Pauses. Licks her lower lips. "What is that happens again?" That. The Surge, explosion of wild magic; a current of energy threatening to swallow them whole and spit out who knows what.

Valeria didn't understand the expression at the time, but she still remembers her Mother's chalk white face, wide eyes, and brows furrowed in anger.

Ran is quiet for a moment, before giving a quiet sigh and pulling her closer against him, pointed chin resting on her shoulder.

"These are the cards we've been dealt." he starts, slowly "I'm all about fighting destiny and all that crap but some things about ourselves cannot be changed," his useless wings give a flutter in agreement. He pauses again, arms reaching out again, hands wrapping around hers "This magic is part of you, it is you; wild, loud and an acquired taste," he ducks his head with a chuckle to avoid the headbutt "Accept it; work with it. Let it flow with you and if push comes to shove - ride that fuckin' wave."

She closes her eyes, loose hair falling down onto her face but there is no hiding the small smile that plays around the corners of her lips.

"Now," he smacks his lips "Again."

She closes her eyes, scared, to ground herself. Ran might have had the aura of someone who had not one worry in his life but she knew better - and she knew how demanding of a teacher he could be.

Sighing, she curls her fingers slightly, almost feels how they tingle from the inside from the Weave swimming through her veins. She takes a deep breath; the smell of burning wood and smoke washing away as a new scent tickles her nostrils - sharp and metallic with an undertone of cleanness that comes only from using strong concoctions.

"Ignis,"

The spell comes out quieter than Valeria would like, but she doesn't have time to be embarrassed about it as a new spark blinks into existence between her cupped hands. There's a crack not unlike that of burned wood and it bursts into a small flame; not but not burning, dancing happily.

"I did it!" she utters with a gasp "Ran, I did it!"

"So you did," Val turns her neck to stare at the man; her bright smile reflected on his face "The weave is as much part of you as your horrible singing voice," he chuckles at the offended look "It is you, Val. To be ashamed of it, to hid it... It's as you were to hide yourself. "

"Don't ever hide yourself Val," Kieran pulls her closer again "And fuck those who want to make you feel like you need to."

She should say something to that. Years later will be angry with herself for never talking more. Never thanking him. For being too quiet when she wanted to be loud and alive.

But in this very moment, she could only stare amazed, as the flame danced at the tips of her fingers.

*

The pungent stench of ozone burns at her nose, metallic and too clean, chemical.

The lighting crackles in the palm of her gloved hand, agitated. Release me, it seems to scream, licks at the worn leather. She squeezes her hand into a fist, extinguishing the spell. Gale is talking in the other chamber, Astarion picking at a chest stained with blood and guts. Smells like iron. Everything here smells like iron and rot.

Her hands, once again covered, are dirty, the changeling's meat stuck under her claws. Her body a twisted, mangled, half burned mess even if her dying laugh still echoes in Valeria's head.

Samuel is alive again, remaining wounds tended to by Shadowheart. They will need to get going soon. Take care of the tyrant, one last push and the Stones will be reunited. Just a little bit more and this all will be over. One way or another.

She clenches her fist, the spell cracking and breaking apart as if it were a physical thing; an empty eggshell too delicate to withstand the assault.

He can't help but roll his eyes a bit at the bard's reactions; as if he needed to trick him into taking a bite from his flesh.

Still so, he rolls onto his stomach and between Celadon's legs, pushing apart muscled thighs as he crawls up, his own eyes half lidded, lips slightly parted. The older man eyes him, brows furrowed and mouth set and Vicissitude lets out a little sigh; part of him still annoyed how Celadon did not deny the accusation of only keeping the Bhaalspawn around out of desperate need to ward off loneliness.

Served him right, really. Vicissitude wouldn't be here either, where is is disliked and distrusted, if he could help it. If the witch didn't send him away. He tries not to think that maybe Brother asked her to do so.

He pushes Celadon back, gently, and the man thankfully lays down. Good. There is no way the smaller man would be able to do anything if he wasn't willing to cooperate at least a bit. He lowers himself onto the broad chest and catches the bard's eyes for a second before leaning in to brush their lips together - just the barest touch, a tease.

Dur'gloth liked when he was like this; unsure actions, featherlight touches; delicate and easy to pull away from or push into something harder, stronger. He liked the moments Brother wanted him to manhandle him a bit; with Dur'gloth lost in sensation it was easy to grab his wrists, tie them a bit tighter. A gag to keep him from bossing him around.

Vicissitude always walked away from those encounters with a new wound - a new declaration of love from Brother - and a new memory of Dur'gloth's expression changing; from angry and pained as he fucked into him, too fast too hard too dry , to his eyes rolling back in pleasure as his body adjusted. A flush spreading over blueish skin, cock hard and leaking. He might have hated it, but his body loved when he was humiliated like that. Vicissitude sometimes jerked him off, forcing one orgasm after another as his Brother tried to twist away, dick twitching from painful overstimulation, face wet from tears and spit leaking from behind the gag.

He chuckles a bit at the memory; Celadon would never get overpowered like that. The man could break him in half with his bare hands if he put his mind into it.

And wouldn't that be nice? To have these pale hands around his throat, choking the life out of him as he felt his own bones and cartilage cracking open from the pressure. His back broken and body thrown to the streets, unable to crawl away as rats ate away at his eyes and tongue.

He wonders, if Celadon would do that when asked. Vicissitude could be a polite young man when situation called for it. Or maybe just goad the older man into doing that; there was a darkness around the man. He saw it in his eyes sometimes - even now that flash of contempt showed the bard was not as happy and nice as he tried to show those so called friends of his. No, the twist of lips and narrowed eyes seemed to be for the younger man only and Vicissitude felt heat start in his own belly and his mouth Begin to water. Break his bones and crush his throat; cut his stomach open and watch his guts spill out. Fuck Vicissitude in the pool of viscera until his body had gotten cold.

"Relax, old man." He chuckles instead, his breath tickling those full lips as they part slightly, skin pulled around the small scar and he leans to brush his lips against it specifically. He wants to lick it, suck it, take that piece of skin between his teeth and rip it out.

Instead, he lowers his face to Celadon's neck, nuzzling the rose tattoo; one arm supporting him slightly, the other sneaking under the thin shirt covering the other's chest; pushing it up slightly. Sharp claws running gently over a broad chest, calloused finger tip brushing over a nipple. Celadon is silent but he feels his muscles tensing at the touch and he wonders; is it from fear or just not being used to the gentle touch? He lick the shell of one point ear "All your bits are safe," a pause "For tonight, at least. I promise."

No comment but when the Bhaalspawn turns his head, he sees the beginnings of a flush, those lips parting ever so slightly, his own curling but into something that feels softer than a smirk and he feels the need to hide his face, turn away; move lower now, kiss the chest underneath him. Both hands on the chest, tip of a pointy tongue teasing one nipple as the other is gently pinched and pulled by long fingers. Celadon arches into the touch slightly, his breath becoming the tiniest bit shallower, but this close, Vicissitude feels how his heartbeat quickens. He wonders if this bard is as good of an actor as the old one has been.

He misses the what-could-have-beens, the smile of his own bard, his voice as he performer. This one is sweet, but now that he knows what Vicissitude is, that smile will never again be directed at him, will it?

Would his bard pull away from him if Brother didn't step in between them? Smiled that easy smile - it never took much for people to give all their attention to Dur'gloth; eyes glazed over and tripping over themselves to kiss the ground he walked on. And it was never enough for him, always wanting more, always wanting everything.

Vicissitude sometimes wonders, if he took the bard away because he hated how

"Vic?" That nickname again, but it pulls him away from his thoughts and he finds himself staring at Celadon's dick, already half-hard. The older man's belly and thighs red and scratches, tiny wounds leaking blood from where Vicissitude must have nipped at him a bit too hard when lost in his own memories. Still, there is a hand brushing through his hair and Celadon sounding… not angry. Or afraid. Maybe curious, but there was some note to his voice that it was difficult to recognize.

Vicissitude shakes his head, eyelids falling down as he peeks up at the bard, giving a little smile. Picture of innocence where it not for the deep scars marring his face and body, a reminder of his place in the world as much as declaration of love. A mark of ownership.

His hips give a little twitch at the memory of his own hands running down his body as he imagined Celadon's fangs sinking in the soft flesh of his cheek; ripping out chunks of meat, his own blood dripping from the older man's mouth back into his throat. To be his, to be him, to be in him, in any way he'd allow. Pulled apart and feasted upon.

(...)

"You didn't come, did you?" If he pushes his fingers deeper, would it be enough for Vicissitude to choke? Could the claws pierce his skull this way, let the brain matter spill down his throat?

He pulls away, the fingers dripping saliva. They would be so pretty, wet from his blood.

"No." he wasn't told to.

Celadon sucks in a breath, mutters under his breath "Fuck, your voice…" Ah yes. His throat hurts, feels raw. But not enough to close, cut off his air.

The bard shakes his head, sits up, pulls the thin shirt completely off, the trousers follow. There is some blood on his belly and thighs - already dried where it's not mixed with spit and cum. The wounds not big enough to leave a lasting mark.

He should have bitten harder.

"Take off your clothes," his body moves before Celadon stops talking, stained shirt falling away. His pants, the inside already wet with precome, following; the erection springing and slapping again his belly, making him shiver.

The older man eyes him for a moment before reaching towards him - fingers still wet - palm up. "Come here."

He does, crawls into his lap, makes a surprised noise when the hands grab him, move him around; squatting over the man, one hand trapped between his back and the other's chest, Celadon's own reaching around his pectorals to keep him in place and up but his legs already tremble a bit at the strain of this, embarrassing, position.

"Jerk yourself off,"

He does, wraps his free hand around his own dick, clumsily, inexperienced but eager to follow the order. He always is.

And those fingers; long, thicker than his, push into him and fuck it hurts - too much, too soon, the position making him too tense, makes him feels like he's already being split open. Like he'd need just a tiny bit more to bleed out.

It's perfect.

He wails; back arching, ass pushing against the fingers, the line of his throat exposed, trembling. Begging, for a kiss, a lick, a bite bite bite rip my throat open, let my blood nourish you--

It takes him a moment to realize the wail is ripped from his own chest; Celadon's fangs sunken deep into the muscle connecting his shoulder and neck

(...)

He's pulling back now, eyes clearing, wide, afraid. Guilty?

No, he cannot feel guilty, this is good, he is good. He is perfect.

"Shit, kid--" he leans in, kisses those full lips without permission; tastes his own blood and sweat and the older man opens his mouth - in protest maybe, but Vicissitude does not wait for words of rejection. He bites at his mouth, claws tangling in his hair, removing the sad excuse of tie completely. Long legs wrapping around his waist, he pulls him closer and Father might be feeling gracious today because the bard follows, pushes him to the bed - pushes into him again and it hurts, it hurts so much and it's the sweetest pain even if he cries, clings to the man in fear of him pulling away.

But he doesn't. He fucks into him, slowly, deeply. Eyes half lidded, drunk on the feeling, on the taste of his blood maybe. He doesn't speak, does not grab his hands, groans quietly with each deep cut of the younger man's talons.

The world does not exist, not know. There is only the scent of iron and sweat, the pain of his wounds and those brown eyes staring deep into what remains of his wretched soul.

He does not want it to end.

A knife will leave a mess and he might fight back, and he's not strong enough to strangle him. Spells do not feel personal and he was never fond of theatrics.

He's not a fan of poisons, they take away most of the beauty; and if she messes up the dosage, the stench of vomit will be too much. It would require planning.

"Please…" hold me, break me, grind my bones to dust. Pour what remains down the gutters. Let my foul remains poison the soil.