Concordia discors

[bloodrebel333: NWS icons are fine by me.]

Permissions: All rights reserved. All other reproduction, transmission, or storage, in any format, is prohibited unless the author is contacted beforehand and grants specific written permission. The author may be contacted at mina_de_malfois@yahoo.com.

I’m tremendously flattered to have been offered the chance to be one of the judges for this year’s fanfictionidol. It’s open to all fandoms, and to complete unknowns as well as to BNFs. I expect it to be a very rewarding experience. Naturally I can’t help hoping that someone from Sanguinity fandom will place first, but since the winner is determined by voting, I’m not at all worried that my preferences will influence the outcome.

I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but fandoms accumulate not just fanon but stylistic quirks and sexual preferences, and these sometimes survive migrations to new fandoms. Looking at PrinceC’s body of work, for instance, I can easily pinpoint which fandoms he was writing in at the moment he gravitated towards Sanguinity, and I can even guess at his preferred sub-genres and pairings.

Of course the real question is: as more Sanguinity fanfiction gets written, will consensus emerge as to our own tropes, kinks, and fanon characterizations? I’m keeping my fingers crossed.



Title: Of Vice and Velvet
Chapter: One
Fandom: Sanguinity
Author: PrinceC
Dedication: Dedicated, with devoted affection, to Mina de Malfois, whose fiction inspires and moves me, and who haunts my fondest and most private dreams.

Prince Choronzon Erik Vladimir de Gravina stepped lightly onto the balcony, cloaked by night and velvet. His clothes, though elegant, bore a faint scent of mold and decay. It was, he knew, an affectation to keep his burial clothes, but they had sentimental value. He had not just been buried in these garments: he had been Made in them, chosen by his Lord de Gravina, renamed, and elevated to a place of pride and power within the clan. Lady Wilhelmina shrank from the scent of death and damp in an instinctual mortal horror. Had she but known the honour he did her by so dressing for their assignations, perhaps she would have reacted differently. And tonight he came to her unwashed, bearing a heady concoction of pheromones to further grace her weak, human flesh.


He stood waiting for a silent moment, savouring the tension that built within his marble-cool body as he scented her like a hunter scenting prey. She was in her bed, but not asleep. He could sense her trembling; he could smell her excitement. She was exactly as he wanted her: terrified, determined, and aroused. Her fear was as delicious as her unwilling eagerness. She struggled, he knew well, to remain in control. She tried to tell herself that she acted out of calculated necessity, and that she had some measure of control over the inevitable outcome. They both knew otherwise. He could strip away her will with ease, leaving her begging for his touch, his attention, even his abuse. In her soul of souls, she already belonged to him. She wanted him to use her.

Choronzon entered her room soundlessly. Her first awareness of his dark presence came with the chill that crept like fog through her chamber. She lifted her head from the pillow, and saw the man-shaped absence of light. Only when she lit the lamp beside her bed did his pale perfection become visible in the light from the flame. She’d noticed that before: for some reason, the light of the moon had no power to illuminate him.

He moved to sit beside her, smiling mockingly, as though amused to imitate a human lover at his lady’s bedside. This close, he frightened her. Her heart hammered, and she felt her legs shaking with fear. She forced herself to stay where she was, even though her senses screamed at her to shrink away in revulsion from this perversely wilful corpse that would not rest in peace.

He smiled, enjoying the moments when her terror reduced her to her inchoate animal self, nothing more than flesh and sensation, incapable of intrigue or complexity. He reached out and stroked her cheek with one cold, clawed finger, taking care not to mar her skin by scratching it. Her complexion was as fine as any mere mortal’s could be, and it pleased him. The high, firm fullness of her breasts filled him with appreciation for the fleeting beauty of this ephemeral creature, and the narrow grace of her waist roused his desire to feel her, soft and compliant against his unnatural strength.

Her nostrils flared, and he saw a puzzled awareness enter her eyes as she took in his new scent and reacted to it involuntarily. He laughed quietly at her perplexed arousal, watching as the mustiness of his grave-garb lost out to the musky, overwhelming scent that covered his body beneath the clothing. He noted, too, that her curiousity and lust awakened, a silvery contrast to her dark fear. Perhaps, he thought now, she was worthy of uses beyond the momentary pleasures afforded him by trembling, milk-white thighs and sweetly perfumed excitement. Perhaps she could be shaped into a pawn, a weapon in the endless power struggles of their clan.

‘Do you enjoy the scent, my dear?’ he teased, amused. He saw that she did, even if she couldn’t understand why. Her perky nipples strained against the fabric of her nightgown, and he knew they ached for his touch. He laughed again. It was the first time he’d ever come to her fresh from Lord Henri Antoine Silvestre de Gravina’s chambers, and her reaction was even more transparently needy than he’d expected. She thought herself a sophisticate--and compared to the de St. Aubyn princess, he supposed she might be--but he knew she’d never guessed at how the young bloods of the de Gravina clan pleasured themselves and each other.