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bardic-inspo · 3 months

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

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iamthecomet · 5 months

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The Day Dissolved

Rating: E Pairing(s): Dew/Cumulus. Dew/Rain. (Implied Dew/Copia, Dew/Imperator and Dew/Sibling(s) of Sin. Really it's just Dew/Everyone but most of it is just implied.) Featuring: A day in Dew's life. Some angst. lots of Dew's internal monologue. Closet frottage (ish). Stoned ghouls. Gamer Rain. Dew being a stoic little shit. Everyone makes an appearence. Cook Dew. Dew's love language is acts of service. So much lore. Semi-public groping. Cumming in pants. Smoking. Memories. Word Count: 8.1k.

Edit to add: Many many thanks to @miasmaghoul for giving me ideas about things Dew could do during his day. This fic would not be what it is without your help. ♥

This feels like church service. Pinning Rain up against the old door. Wood so worn beneath his hands it feels like velvet. Licking into his mouth, over the sharp points of his fangs. Tongues twined together as Rain arches closer to him. Grinds against Dew’s thigh just enough to tell Dew how hard he is. He’ll end up with a wet spot on his pants if he’s not careful, not that he particularly cares.

They’ll emerge in five minutes smelling like cum and each other. Masks back in place, uniforms straightened. Ready for forty five minutes of agonozing mingling with the clergy.

But right now? Right now Dew needs to crawl inside of Rain’s skin with him. Needs to grab him by the horns and hold him where he wants him. Needs a hundred things he can’t have, but settling for kissing him until his lips sting feels like it’ll suffice.

Read it on AO3.

#comet writes #dewdrop ghoul #and everyone else #Ghost fic #ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #ghost band fic #ghost band fanfic #ghost band fanfiction #nameless ghoul fanfiction #the band ghost #It's so long I'm so sorry #(no I'm not)#slice of life ghouls #nameless ghouls

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sirazaroff · 5 months

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How do you feel about RT'S rule of having one trait only for faunuses?

(Idk if I even spelt that right)

Hey!

So if I recall...this condition was created due to limitations for the team, and I don't mind it honestly. They turned a technical limitation into a creative one, and I'm all for character designs like that. You only have ONE animal trait to play with so what will that lead to?? It's fun. Good for exercising your creative muscles.

At times it does make it hard to tell who is what animal depending on which trait they give the person. Initially I couldn't figure out what faunus Adam was cause his lil baby horns are hidden in his hair. His name suggests bull but his horn say baby goat lol. But then it's also like. Comical. Like every time there's been a bunny rabbit it's always ears we see. Why just the ears? What about their tail or some paws? How about different types of ears to imply different types of rabbits? Short ears, one that's crooked, long hare ears, floppa ears.

Something I did like that they did with this was the idea of some faunus hiding their lone trait versus others who didn't.

In Arrowfell, there's this mouse faunus named Mikado who is initially wanting to hide their ears, but is then encouraged to keep them out in the open. I know we've seen this sort of topic being explored in the main series (blake hiding her ears and velvet choosing not to), and seeing it again in this game was nice. Something that's interesting to explore every now and then.

But yeah my only thing is it would be nice to see different traits called out for an animal type. Like if someone is a bear, one faunus could have their ears, another could have paws or fangs, etc. Just diversify it a bit so it doesn't look copy paste. I don't really hold RT to much standards cause I know they don't have the money, but if they did, this would be my request on that.

Thanks for stopping by~

---------------

I know this has nothing to do with the question asked, but are there such things as mythical/folk lore creature based faunus? Like imagine a unicorn, griffin, Selkie, fairy, etc. I mean if this is a fairytale like world then why not?

#fooze #non art #rwby #rwby faunus #hopefully this makes sense. if I write for long enough you can watch me butcher the English language in real time #I personally have no beef with the one trait limit #what I did in my art was based on making it easier for me to tell who was what animal and also cause well. I wanted to draw a bunch of fur #like im gonna let ghirra gatekeep that HA #blake's inheriting them genes #she's gonna be the glorious panther we all see her as

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gepardling · 7 months

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night-time rendezvous II w/ gepard .

desc. : another short chapter. serval is nice she doesn't bite ( i promise ) gepard tho i cant promise 4 dat one. keeping track of time in this is soooo haaardd my own mental clock is confusing me so much when i picture these scenes ( wc : 787 )

tags / cw : sfw, but mentions of blood, injury and vampirism, gn!reader, (they/them used), vampire!AU for the Landaus, reader is a human, this is slightly cliché but I LOVE MY CLICHES, proofread but lore may change

index : prologue, part 1, part 2

— Day 1

A few hours passed as you slowly regained consciousness, and as the first light of the moon passed through the curtains, you arose from your slumber. Gepard hurriedly ushered you to your feet, and together you made your way to the villa's gardens. As you reached a secluded spot amidst the foliage, a strong presence lurked behind you. Gepard swiftly positioned you behind a tall, flowering bush, concealing your injured form from view. The scent of the blossoms masked your presence, at least to some extent. Just in time, his older sister, Serval, emerged from the shadows. The moonlight played upon her ivory skin and accentuated her glistening fangs, making them appear even more dangerous.

She looked at Gepard with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "What are you doing here, Gepard?" Her voice was a velvet whisper, belying the tension that lingered between them.

Gepard's eyes met hers, and in that silent exchange, a myriad of emotions passed. His loyalty to family, his newfound connection with you, and the weight of secrets carried over millennia clashed in that moment. As Gepard attempted to weave a half-truth, Serval's sharp eyes caught every tick of his body language. She knew him too well, and it was impossible to hide anything from his older sister.

Serval's gaze pierced through the garden's shadows until she locked onto your concealed form. "Who do we have here?" Her voice retained that velvety edge, concealing her true intentions.

Gepard hesitated, torn between his loyalty to family and his desire to protect you. Finally, he nodded subtly. "This is... a traveler who was injured. They needed shelter for the day."

Serval's gaze didn't waver as she studied you, and there was a hint of something unreadable in her eyes. After a few moments, she let out a sigh, and a rare hint of warmth entered her tone. "Very well, you can stay... for now." Her cryptic response left you uncertain about her true motives. She approached you with a grace that only a being of her age and experience could possess, her hand trailing through your hair as if consoling a distressed sibling.

"You should know better than to treat a guest like this, Gepard," she tsked gently, her fingers cool against your skin. "You poor thing, you're so tired you can barely stand..." Gepard looked at his sister with a mixture of confusion and gratitude, knowing that her soft demeanor could change in the blink of an eye. For now, her unexpected kindness was a lifeline.

"Come inside, dear," Serval said, her cold hand in stark contrast to your warm one, and offered a polite smile that barely masked her sharp fangs. Gepard walked beside you, still trying to steady his racing heart. Serval led the two of you back inside, and the familiar scent of your blood was picked up by her keen senses. "How bad did you say your injury was?" She asked, her voice holding a note of genuine concern as she led you further into the estate. Gepard followed, glancing between you and his sister.

"Not... That bad," Gepard was lying through his teeth, knowing just how much blood you had actually lost. He shot you a quick, apologetic glance, trying to maintain the facade he had crafted. Serval's sharp, crimson eyes settled on him for a moment, as if she could see right through his words, but then she turned her attention back to you.

Her elegant fingers brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, and a shiver ran down your spine. Her touch was almost unnatural, and yet strangely comforting. "We'll have our family physician tend to you," she decided, her voice softening slightly. "You're a guest, after all. And it seems like you've grown quite attached." Gepard's eyes widened slightly, but he couldn't deny the truth in his sister's words. You had become more than just a passing traveler; you were someone he couldn't bear to let go of.

"You may sleep in the guest quarters for tonight, but..." Serval paused, inhaling deeply through her nose, "I suppose you'd already gotten comfortable there." She chuckled softly before walking away, her footsteps echoing in the vast corridors of the villa.

Gepard breathed a sigh of relief as his sister's imposing presence retreated. He turned to you, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Well, it seems you can stay for a while longer. My sister can be... quite persuasive. You should rest, you've been through a lot." Gepard escorted you back to the guest quarters, where you could finally get the respite you needed. The events of the night had taken their toll on both of you, but with Serval's peculiar blessing, you found yourself under Gepard's protection once more.

literally insane tht's what u are. ur circadian rhythm is gonna get all messed up

#honkai star rail #gepard landau #gepard hsr #gepard x reader #gepard x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #♥︎ | milky writes #gepard fluff #serval hsr #serval landau

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ava-core · 19 days

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me, a bethesda shill: so what if my courier six was an elder scrolls character

May Bell, Deathbells: Daughter of Coldharbour

headcanons under the cut!

so i also used to play so much skyrim back in the day! it was also my first ever game that i played (around 2016?) and it was a hilarious initial experience because it took me five playthroughs to realize succubi weren’t actual members of a real race in elder scrolls lore…rip my older cousin’s copy i borrowed that used to run with 200+ mods

ANYWAY! lore-wise, there were so many opportunities i could take here, but something called to me seeing may as…undead. this is mainly centered around skyrim, btw!

but of course, may is a vampire in tamriel. not just any vampire, however: she’s a vampire lord, ghosting about lord harkon’s court in castle volkihar as one of the senior keepers of the library.

i considered making her a daughter of coldharbour, but i remembered in the middle of my thought process train going choo-choo did i remember what it takes for women to be daughters of couldharbour…poor may already has so much trauma as the courier in fnv. i will spare her a similar fate in terms of her origin here in tamriel :’)

still, even for vampire standards—already within these folks who outright drink blood and cannibalize as rituals and habits—may is an odd egg. she keeps to herself, eats in the dungeons instead of with the others, and idles either in the dusty tomes of the library or silently beside feran sadri’s side doing alchemy. in short, may retains her reclusive nature even as an all-powerful vampire lord.

she’s also most proficient in alteration and illusion magic, as well as alchemy. she’s also better than most in destructive magic, but she’s the most adept in the two aforementioned schools of magic. she also practices restoration magic on some of the wounded vampires who go out into the mainland.

she’s also good with one-handed weapons, but prefers to use staves or daggers.

no one really knows where she came from; just that harkon put her into court out of nowhere, and that she was a necessary part of their strategy-making with a big mind like hers. she was, after all, a former priestess of Julianos—the divine in charge of wisdom and logic. that’s all they knew about her. they don’t even know what region she’s from. short: breton? but her features are peculiar, not like any breton girl’s…

in this vein…boone, i see becoming a dawnguard soldier, a valued one, in fact: his skill with a crossbow makes isran weep for joy. almost.

for him, i can imagine him being a former imperial guard who moved to skyrim because both his wife carla and child died during labor. he’s a full-blooded nord, of course

he has this one-track mind against vampires: as creatures of the night, they’re not really deserving of compassion and kindness as the suck the life out of their victims and constantly terrify the populace with their cruelty; it’s why he signed up with the dawnguard. they looked promising eradicating the scourge of vampires (basically the way he sees legion, but a smidge less personal since vampires had nothing to do with his wife and child’s death)

DO YOU GUYS SEE WHERE I AM GOING WITH THIS…

so can you imagine when boone tries to play hero and rescue a captured dawnguard brother in volkihar castle, only to be kept as well

he spits in the eyes of the vampires, cursing and muttering profanity at his captors…

until he meets the most captivating young woman dressed in a sleek dark gown of velvet…and when she speaks, her fangs protrude.

imagine falling in love at first sight while also knowing this is the enemy. how could he: this is a vampire, just like one of them, with her big, sharp teeth and irises of dark red; how could he not, with her unique, beautiful face and the fact that even if she seemed like she was doing grunt work feeding the humans in the dungeon she wasn’t disgusted by them or looked down on them

when after a few days, may sees boone’s uniform, she asks about the sun emblem. awkwardly. boone spits in her direction, and may sighs.

it’s only a day after when may comes back to feed the humans when he says he’s dawnguard. weirdly enough, may had never heard of them before. he tells her they’re here to rid the world of the plague of vampires

may only sighs. she doesn’t get mad, get angry, or be disgusted at the thought of being wiped out. instead, she nods her head. “yeah, i get that.”

it intrigues boone. of course he can’t sweet-talk her into getting information about her out of her, but the least he does is stop growling at him.

after a while, boone also notices may’s face. as beautiful as it is, she didn’t look like anyone he’d ever seen in tamriel.

all she murmurs as she feeds him is, “i’m akaviri.”

a foreigner in strange lands. a vampire, too. but why volkihar? why here? why couldn’t she have just been a priestess he could carry in his arms to mara’s temple?

boone, after months of trying to decide whether to kill or kidnap this strange, beautiful vampire who’s been helping him infiltrate the volkihar castle: i didn’t say you could feed off anyone else

JUST A LOT OF THOUGHTS RINGING IN MY HEAD

#fallout #courier six #craig boone #fallout new vegas #fnv #fnv boone #fallout boone #fallout new vegas boone #elder scrolls #tesv #skyrim #the elder scrolls: skyrim #may bells #may sitting harmlessly in the library picking her nose:#the volkihar vampires: QUITE STRANGE!#she’d be awkward but good friends with serana and you know it

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talesfromthecrypts · 2 years

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also Carmila

Oh yes! Pretty much every complaint about modern vampire lore (Twilight mostly) can be found in vampire media that is considered classic. Day walkers (Dracula, Carmilla, Ganga & Hess), no fangs (Near Dark, The Velvet Vampire), romance (Anne Rice, Buffy, literally everything I mentioned previous). There have been so many interpretations just like any other monster its insane that every single new interpretation gets compared to one that "everyone hates" that came out less than two decades ago.

(Anyway here's every vampire movie I've ever seen)

#anonymous #anyway if any contemporary is responsible for the current landscape #its anne rice and (regrettably) joss whedon

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vicegrips-fr · 3 years

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I’ve posted about Gogo before (both art and his dragon) but I haven’t actually said much about who he is. So, now that I’ve revamped his design, I think it’s about time I properly introduce y’all to my baby boy baby! TBH I could write an entire book about him but I’m going to keep this post short and sweet.

Alongside Azizi, Gogo is the most popular boy in The Velvet Fang. Being dual flight with flights that conflict (Lightning and Arcane), he isn’t all there and is incapable of any form of magic. Spacey and “airheaded’ as he might be, he’s incredibly emotionally intelligent and the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. He enjoys collecting cassette tapes and vinyl records, neon colors and animal print, daydreaming about boys, scrunchies, arm and leg warmers, bubble gum, and teasing his hair as big as possible.

Oh, as a side note Gogo is trans (ftm) and gay (obviously). Honestly he’s my favorite oc and I can’t wait to share my writing with y’all so you can get to know him better. Please feel free to drop by and give him a like if you feel inclined!

#flight rising #flightrising #flight rising art #fr art #my art #lore: the velvet fang #gogo

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majestyrising · 3 years

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Teetotal

Notes: This is an extract from the same RP as Into the Black is based on! I had to reformat it a little so I hope it reads well. Warning for language and implied sexual abuse. Gustav talks about his past a little during a sleepover between Azizi, Gogo, Mauahara, Aisha, and himself.

It’s not an uncommon question to hear, especially not considering that his work involves sitting at a bar for the entire night. It’s Gogo who asks it- why doesn’t he drink, and Azizi who follows it up by an encouragement, and an assurance that he doesn’t have to explain if he doesn’t want to.

“Why don’t I drink?” he echoes, quietly, “Um.”

He trails off. Plenty of people have tried to get him to break his teetotal streak for a bit of fun, noncomprehending the reasons behind his staunch refusal. That being said, today has upended his whole life. He’s exhausted, and exhausted of keeping himself in check. Of the unyielding control. Earlier today, he let go, and it didn’t ruin everything. Earlier today, he let go, and his reward was and is the way Azizi is sat against him, pressed up close.

Maybe the control can slip a little. The demons that bay at his heels have had their fill already. What can go wrong?

As he debates taking the full glass of wine sat next to him, he looks between Azizi, sat next to him, and Cyril, across from him. The rest left earlier, and didn’t see how he reacted to tonight’s events- how it broke him down to bare essentials. Cyril would never judge him, that’s why he turned to him, but he can feel the quiet heat of shame on the back of his neck nonetheless.

But fuck that, and fuck shame. One drink isn’t a big deal. It isn’t.

“No,” he says, slowly, “I mean, it’s fine. A glass won’t kill me or anything.”

Despite that, there’s clear reluctance as he reaches for the stem and lifts it to his lips. A second passes. He could put it back down, back out, and keep the promise he made to himself long, long ago.

Today has been a day of broken promises already, though, so it’s only right that he takes a long, deep drink.

For those many years, he’s made sure only to drink virgin drinks. They’re tasty, but they’re missing a vital component (obviously). The slow-hot-burn of liquor, which now fills his heart and lungs. Thick, robust red wine, spicy and earthy. Damn good stuff. He licks his lips greedily.

“Well,” he says, a playful edge to his voice, “I’m not allergic.”

Everyone turns to vices to destress, and the Fang is a den of vice. So why does he, a member of the Sub Rosa, turn down drink and drugs every single time?

Every time until day, anyway.

Well- who cares? It’s specifically to spite whoever asked the question. It’s not their business why he does anything.

The reality is because the answer is horribly predictable. It’s stupid, a story told a thousand and one times. He knows how it sounds when posed to other people, that he’s being haughty, superior, but that’s not it at all. If anything, he’s envious.

He shakes his head as if trying to dispel the clouds from his mind.

“It’s a long story,” he manages.

There it is. Vulnerability, like the tremor of the skin on a drum, tension waiting to be released an explosion of sound.

He doesn’t like to talk about himself. But none of them do, not a one person here. Except for maybe Gogo, but Gogo is the exception to most of the rules.

“It’s a little cliché,” he settles on.

There’s no way for him to know what time it is. Or what day, even.

His mouth tastes beyond disgusting, dry as a bone. He rouses into a dry cough which spits blood onto the wet floor. He gropes around on the damp tiles. For a moment, he worries it’s vomit, or more blood. When his eyes open, begrudgingly, he’s relieved to find it’s the sheen of rain, coming from the holes in the ceiling.

“You woke up,” a voice says.

He startles, wheeling around to find a man he doesn’t recognise buckling his jeans.

“Yeah,” he rasps in reply, as a wad of cash hits him in the face. He’s too nauseous to be angry at the mistreatment. He just grabs his clothes and pulls them onto his sticky body, pocketing the cash.

He really hopes it’s night, because he needs another hit, and getting them from the day-dealers is hard when he looks desperate.

“I got really into drink and drugs when I was younger,” he explains, looking down at the wine with a pang of anxiety which goes down smooth with another sip, “It bad, as you’d imagine.”

He peels his clothes off and throws them aside with a grimace, turning on the shower and waiting for it to warm up. Raising his arms over his head, he looks in the mirror and bites his lip at the fresh scar on his side. It’s raised and ugly, some blood still clinging to his skin.

“Wow, Femi!” his sister calls, leaning in the doorway with a rustle, a bag of prawn flavoured snacks in her hand, “Looks like someone stole your kidney!”

“Shut up, slut,” he snips back, poking at the scar with a wince before a stormy look crosses over his face, “It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” she answers, dubious but not pushing him just yet, “Where were you last night? I helped you set up that shipment of smack for daddy and you disappeared on me! Do you realise how many dicks I had to suck to get them to move it without you?”

“I’m sure you loved it,” he says, and whilst his words are cruel, he’s too distracted to be venomous, “I was side tracked. I’ll pay them back- steal more of it. I know the warehouse, they think the new locks’ll keep me out.”

“You owe me,” Emiliya complains, “I have debt collectors up my ass-”

“Um,” he stalls, blinking the memory away, “This might need some context.”

The apartment is a shithole, but it’s their shithole. Three tiny rooms crammed together, and made worse by the sprawling monster of wires. Tech everywhere, unbuilt servos and tiny little clocks suspending like dissected frogs. He has to give them a wide berth as he moves through the room to throw himself onto the sofa.

It was leather once, but now it’s mostly holes, and creaks loudly under his tiny weight.

“Yefemi!” a woman’s voice calls, high and sweet, “Is that you?”

Her head pokes around the corner. Her hair is long, tied back loosely, her expression weathered yet unendingly kind.

“If it wasn’t you be in trouble mama,” Yefemi replies, not unkindly as she sits down on the sofa next to him, pushing the hair out of his face where it’s fallen.

“I got really into it after my-”

He bites his lip before he can continue, an instinct. Electricity sizzles around him threateningly, the subconscious effect of his wild, primal magic. The grief chokes inside his throat, hard and pain and god, people who say grief gets easier are filthy liars. It hurts just as badly as it did when it happened, like a wound’s that only ever festered and never healed.

It’s cold. Sometimes they can’t afford heat all the time, and by the looks of it the electronics are off, so nothing stops the drizzle from seeping inside. He shakes off his coat and hangs it on the back of the door, the patter of rain and the wail of sirens below filling the otherwise quiet apartment.

Mama must be out, he thinks, with a frown. She’s sick, and yet she still insists on doing things for people. It’s like she likes being taken advantage of, men who don’t pay her appropriately for fixing their shit, or treat her like the help.

Ugh.

It’s why he’s surprised to find her asleep on a chair by the window, a circuit board in her lap.

“Mama,” he says, exasperated, “You need to stop doing this. I told you to lie down, I can bring that stuff to Cruise-”

As he approaches, dread suddenly engulfs his whole being. It’s like some kind of visceral demon breathing down his neck. Her eyes are open, but unseeing.

“Mama?” he repeats, softly, and his perspective spirals outwards.

He watches himself reach for her arm, and she’s cold. Her skin is cold, icy cold, and her chest is still. No breath leaves her lips.

“No,” he breathes, a sharp inhale, “No, no, no, no, no, no!”

He shakes his head, back inside the room, swallowing the pain like a bitter, bitter pill.

“To be honest with you,” he says, quietly, “My name’s not Gustav.”

No turning back now. He doesn’t wait for that to fill the room.

“It’s Yefemi,” he says, “I had to change my name after I escaped Neo-Necropolis. Debt collectors.”

He takes another sip of the wine, letting it run over his tongue, another crackle of electricity around him.

“I got really into drink and drugs after my mama died,” he says, quickly, before he can think better of it.

He sucks in a deep breath like he’s drowning, and has to push through the voices screaming for him not to scare his past, because they deserve to know the truth. His truth.

“We were poor as shit,” he says, bitterly, “When I was younger, I had a step-dad, but I have no idea who my real dad is. I assume he bailed on us, because my mama never told me anything.”

There’s more to unpack there. His step-dad. They might even know of him, or at least the rumours from the wake of his downfall, but he can’t bring himself to explain that yet. It rouses such a potent anger in him. That, at least, helps him forge on.

“She was an engineer,” he continues, “A brilliant one. She could fix anything. I’ve never been any good at that.”

Raising a hand to his temple, he knocks the side of his head, primal eyes zapping dangerously.

“I short-circuit a lot of electronics and delicate machinery,” he explains, “Or I used to, at least. It stressed her out a lot, so I tried to keep a hold of my magic.”

He lets out a deep, beleaguered sigh, rubbing his temples with one hand, nursing the glass in the other.

“We scraped by,” he adds, “I turned out to have very quick fingers, and there’s a lot of crowds back home. If you know what you’re doing, you can get out with expensive shit.”

He smirks slightly at that. It’s his real skillset- he was, originally, here because Tau trusts him and knows that he’d work to keep everyone safe, but that’s not his usual gig. He’s a thief. A really, really good one.

“Shifting it safely is the hard part,” he says, sounding almost wistful. He could go into that, but old habits die hard and he keeps his fence to himself.

Another deep drink, the glass half-empty.

“But, yeah,” he adds, “She, uh, passed away after she got sick, and I had nowhere to go but onto the streets.”

His brow furrows, a tense mix of anger and sadness clawing up his insides. The memories come up, flooding into his brain, and he viciously kicks them away.

“You can only live like an animal for so long before you’ll take any way out you can get,” he mutters, “There’s a lot of drugs back home, and cheap alcohol can fill you up place of food.”

His smile is more of a grimace, a self-depreciating, hateful one, and he downs the rest of the wine. It makes what he’s saying a little easier.

“Sorry,” he supplies, looking at Azizi sidelong, not quite meeting his eyes, “I know none of you asked for my life story, but I figured the context would help a bit.”

Pausing for a moment, he pushes the hair out of his face and collect himself as much as possible.

“It was too easy to fall in deep,” he muses, “You can get drugs that make you see colours that you can’t otherwise, slow down time, just- fucked up shit.”

He nods himself, as if trying to reassure himself he didn’t hallucinate the highs (pun not intended) of Neo-Necropolis.

“A drink between friends is different,” he says, glancing up at Cyril for a moment, “So, yeah. It’s cliché, like I said.”

A humourless laugh falls from his lips before he can stop it, jamming his mouth shut.

“There’s at least two years I barely remember,” he admits, the words spilling out easy and hard all at once because he’s never admitted it before, “I know where I was, who I was around, but what happened?”

He shrugs, trying to play it down slightly.

“Fuck if I know,” he chuckles, “I didn’t die, so it can’t be that bad.”

His smile is tight as he ducks his head, letting the revelations wash over the room.

#flight rising #flight rising lore #fr lore #clan lore #my lore #the velvet fang #thanatos syndicate #gustav tantastrom

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dsmpwcau · 2 years

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i’m very weird about giving these guys warrior cat names, bc their names are such an important part of who they are, but i have a few ideas (im also open to others’ ideas if they have any and would appreciate immensely for someone to build on what i have so far)

tommy: tommy is too special of a name, in drafts of my lore for this au he’s a former kittypet so i might have it be a daisy situation where he keeps his kittypet name, and is just Tommy.

techno: technoblade is ALMOST a warrior cat name by itself but uses words feral cats wouldn’t know unfortunately. i haven’t come up with anything specific, but he’d definitely have “fang” as a suffix, it’d make him sound like a cartoon supervillain, which is the same vibe the name “technoblade” has.

philza: crowfall. full stop.

tubbo: bee, buzz, or honey prefix. not sure about a suffix but the prefixes are all very silly and soft words, you could have something tough and sharp as a suffix to offset it. alternatively, make him "honeybee" which sounds like an affectionate nickname and is hilarious in contrast to his personality

skeppy: i’ve come up with some lore where rather than having a diamond motif, he has a moon motif. so moon as a prefix or suffix. however he’s anything but graceful so the second half of his name should be something silly or cute that fits his personality. moonskip?

bbh: idk but i like “shade” as one half. “sunshade” to parallel skeppy’s moon motif?

sapnap: this guy has so much potential for fire-themed names i can’t decide on a specific one

update: solderheart, as suggested by my friend

dream: i think it would be funny if this guy has the SOFTEST, most ADORABLE name you could possibly imagine, to hard contrast his absolutely psychopathic nature.

george: he’s a medcat so you could do an erin hunter and shove leaf in there somewhere. no reference to his heterochromia at all.

slime: rock parallel, he could just be named Moss.

antfrost: absolutely no idea what i would ever name this cat. a complete loss. it’s a mystery /j

velvet: velvettail, i think it just works but I'm open to better ones (also yes velvet has a functioning place in this au, he's a dark forest cat)

that's all i have for now I'll drop more when i think of them

#dsmp wc au #wc au #dsmp #warrior cats #dream smp warrior cats au #dsmp warrior cats au #wc #lore

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neckprick · 3 years

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Types of Vampires 5

- Ashanti: The beautiful combination of dark skin and radiant red eyes, afro hair adorned with rubies and gold charms, the red velvet interior of your car and the buzz of a late night vampire party being held in the heart of the city, having too many cocktail dresses to choose from, the sound of many guests clinking wine glasses full of blood, luring yet another naive human home, the dazzling lights of the city below you, designer sunglasses and lounging by the poolside under the blood moon.

- Arthur: The soreness of the fresh bite mark on your neck, countless hours spent doing research on vampire history and lore, the smell of old books and journals hastily filled with notes, slowly becoming less tired at night, not needing your glasses anymore, bite marks covered by scarves and sun burn marks hidden by trench coats and leather gloves, a sudden and growing discomfort around churches and crucifixes, poet shirts and reading under candlelight, your thirst is no longer for water but for blood.

- Mira: Silver handheld mirrors and pale moonlight shining through your castle balcony, a bouquet of irises on your dresser, the flash of white fangs when you laugh and dark painted lips, going for walks in the garden with a parasol in hand, the excitement you feel when your human lover sneaks by to visit at night, the sound of harp music and the soft jingle of tambourines, love letters sent in wax-sealed envelopes, cold pale skin and dreamy white gowns.

- Baldassare: Wrought-iron gates and golden goblets encrusted with precious jewels, spoils of war, looking down at your loyal subjects, mysterious red light pouring from the windows of your castle at night, palanquins, steps leading up to your throne, the crown upon your head of long, ash-blonde hair, and the cries of human villagers - try as they might, but they cannot outrun your forces.

- Jela: Your hood pulled low over your glowing eyes, going over plans to sabotage the vampire hunters that have taken too many of your loved ones away, clenching your fists hard enough to draw blood, scars from an unsuccessful attempt at staking your heart, gargoyles atop buildings in your city, shapeshifting, tearing down wanted posters, transforming into a bat and the feeling of wind under your wings, super speed and scaling buildings and walls, the reflection of the supermoon in your eyes.

Tag yourself/tell me which ones you indentify with most or like the most! I love hearing which ones people gravitate towards.

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rwby-redux · 2 years

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Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: The Faunus I

Good grief, where to even start?

The Faunus are what I would consider one of the potentially most fascinating, and simultaneously one of the most infuriating, aspects of the series. Questions like Where did they come from? and What are they? are left largely unanswered by the show and its writers alike. Whenever the story does bother to make Faunus the focal point, it sloppily mishandles all relevant commentary on social justice, by turning a civil rights group into a terrorist organization, and framing Adam as the racist’s bogeyman—a radicalized minority who wants to commit genocide against his oppressors. Each and every one of these talking points is worthy of a post on its own, but today is not that day.

Instead, I’d like to discuss the Faunus from a cultural perspective, because believe it or not, there’s a lot to unpack here. How the show has depicted them thus far (that depiction being blisteringly awful) pales in comparison to the absolute goldmine of ideas buried here, had RWBY taken to time to properly excavate them, rather than apply the worldbuilding equivalent of a stick of dynamite.

As it currently stands, the writers didn’t care about giving the Faunus any sort of nuanced cultural identities.

How do I know? Because they pretty much told us.

“Monty really wanted a character with cat ears,” admits Miles Luna. Shawcross expands on how Blake Belladonna’s look resulted in a cornerstone of the show’s lore. “So if Blake has cat ears, does that mean anyone can have cat ears? Could they have other animal traits? It’d be cool to see someone with scales or a fox tail…” [1]

And again, as stated by one of the lead writers:

Miles Luna: So, yeah. We wrote in Velvet just kind of as a small demonstration of what it meant to be a Faunus. And the fans immediately loved her. We just needed a girl with bunny ears. [2]

Let’s, for the moment, ignore that the sole purpose for Velvet’s existence was to be a vehicle for systemic racism. Strip away the layers of tone-deafness, and the inclusion of the Faunus can be largely summarized as an aesthetic choice. In principle that’s not a bad thing, per say. But as I’ve reiterated time and time again, you can’t just introduce a concept to a story and proclaim “it’s like our world but with animal-people.” Because if your story does in fact have animal-people, then it wouldn’t be anything like our world.

The first glaring difference is in their biology. Wings, tails, and horns would doubtless have an influence on the Faunus’ various ethnocultures.

That biology, in turn, has a bearing on how humans treat the Faunus—which by itself is yet another factor that should have shaped the cultural disparity between these two groups. For the majority of Remnant’s history, humans and Faunus have remained disassociated, a trend that was reinforced by humans’ persecution of a race that “looks like you and acts like you” [3] but has a pair of fangs. Isolation—or an absence of cultural interchange—would have driven the cultural evolution of these two groups along separate trajectories.

“Like most things man doesn't understand, all sorts of rumors and stories surround the Faunus. People avoided them like the plague, pushing them out of settlements and sometimes even hunting them down.” | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 6: “Faunus.”

However, what we’re presented by the canon is rather the stark opposite. Not only does Faunus culture generally lack recognizable traits that would distinguish them from humans—customs, languages, fashion, holidays, architecture—but the canon tends to homogenize all Faunus across Remnant, regardless of any meaningful differences between them: whether they live in Vale or Menagerie; whether they have bird wings or a monkey tail; whether they grew up in a mixed community or Faunus-only community; and so on.

These things matter. Holy shit, do these things matter. No two Faunus—no two people—will have the same life experience, due to all of the aforementioned factors.

That the Faunus have no cultural identity unique to them—let alone any sort of inter-group diversity amongst each other—is the smoking gun which tells us, in no uncertain terms, that the writers didn’t think about the implications of their lore.

Which is a shame, because as I said before, the Faunus have a lot of potential. Before we can talk about that potential, however, we first need to parse the flaws.

The Homogeneity of the Faunus

“Don’t generalize an entire group of people” feels like one of those things I shouldn’t have to say, and yet here we are.

The earliest example of this trend starts with Remnant’s last armed conflict: the Faunus Rights Revolution.

The aftermath of a battle between humans and Faunus. | Source: Volume 1, Episode 16: “Black and White.”

Despite this being a fairly recent war, historically speaking, there’s not much we know about it, beyond what we’re initially told by Oobleck:

Oobleck: Yes, prior to the Faunus Rights Revolution—more popularly known as the Faunus War—humankind was quite, quite adamant about centralizing Faunus population. [4]

The same information was later reiterated by The World of RWBY: The Official Companion:

The Faunus Rights Revolution occurred after the Great War in response to humanity’s efforts to confine the Faunus to Menagerie and curtail their freedoms everywhere else. On paper, the struggle was a win for the Faunus, but everyday life in the Four Kingdoms is a drumbeat of whispered suspicion and blatant injustice. [1]

Other than the brief mention of a pivotal Faunus victory at Fort Castle, the details of this war remain vague, namely who the key participants were, and where the war was fought. Although, if we take Oobleck’s map at face value…

The map that Oobleck uses when lecturing about the Faunus Rights Revolution. | Source: RWBY Wiki contributor user:Maki Kuronami.

…then the answer seems to be everyone and everywhere.

Here’s where we’ve hit our first snag: the idea that all of humanity would collectively participate in this war against the Faunus, or that all Faunus on Remnant would be equally impacted by it.

The show has made it transparently clear that Vale, prior to the Great War, vocally condemned Mistral’s and Mantle’s enslavement of the Faunus. [5] Vacuo, meanwhile, has always been portrayed as a multicultural society that was openly welcoming and accepting of those with the capacity to survive, regardless of their race. [6] World of Remnant even goes so far as the depict Vacuo’s leader during the Great War as a woman with horns.

Vacuo under Mistrali-Mantic occupation, before it expelled them from the territory and openly allied itself with Vale. | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 8: “The Great War.”

Why the ever-loving fuck would a country that accepted a Faunus as their leader be involved in the Faunus Rights Revolution? It makes no sense. You can’t broadly declare that all of humanity, even the humans in Vacuo, wanted to confine the Faunus to Menagerie. You can’t tell your audience that “everyday life in the Four Kingdoms” is rife with racial tension, when at least two of those kingdoms have established track records of being pro-Faunus.

And yes, this is absolutely relevant to Faunus culture across Remnant. Prejudice toward groups of people affects the way their cultures are expressed. Take, for example, a hypothetical Faunus in Vacuo who would likely face minimal pressure (or perhaps even none) to assimilate into the local human culture. There’s a high probability that individual would know how to speak the language that their grandparents spoke, by virtue of there being no social repercussions for passing that knowledge along. By contrast, a Faunus living in Atlas might be disconnected from their heritage, due to the kingdom’s rampant xenophobia. That Faunus might not know how to speak their grandparents’ language because they were actively dissuaded against learning it, in an effort to conform to the cultural expectations of their human peers, and to minimize harassment.

There’s even a term for this phenomenon: language shift. One-way bilingualism (minorities learn the dominant language, but speakers of the dominant language don’t learn the minoritized language) leads to members of an ethnic group gradually abandoning their native language, and over time, that language faces risk of extinction.

And keep in mind, language is just one aspect of culture.

The interchangeability of Faunus across Remnant, as a consequence of RWBY’s generalizing, erases the experiences of these communities. Not only does this homogeneity omit realism, but it undercuts any sort of complex discussion on how bigotry (or a lack thereof) would dynamically shape Faunus culture, from country to country.

And that’s just how RWBY treats Faunus culture from a discrimination perspective. That’s not even getting into what little definitive culture the canon does provide, which, for the record, is also a gross generalization.

I’m speaking, of course, about RWBY’s fairy tales: The Shallow Sea and The Judgment of Faunus.

The Faunus’ arrival in Menagerie, and their transformation from humans. | Source: RWBY Wiki contributor user:ChishioKunrin.

To recap: In The Shallow Sea, a shapeshifting deity known as the God of Animals wished to invite humans to their homeland of Menagerie. They decided to tour Remnant’s surface, looking for those who were special and that they deemed worthy. They constructed a ship that sailed their chosen to Menagerie, and upon arrival, instructed the humans to leap into the water. The price they paid for living on the island was their humanity; in forfeiting it, those that jumped and waded through the shallow sea were transformed into the Faunus. The God of Animals washed away the humans who lacked faith and refused to join the others.

The second story (The Judgement of Faunus) once again features the God of Animals as an arbiter. Humanity and the remainder of the animal kingdom waged war against each other, one of envy, hatred, and jealousy. The God of Animals offered to intervene and declare once and for all which group was superior. The two parties agreed, convinced that the God of Animals would rule in their favor. A fog was cast over them, and when it cleared, the humans and animals were revealed to have transformed into the Faunus—a race that was better than their previous forms, yet retained the positive qualities of both.

According to Ozpin’s commentaries, these accounts are shared by the majority of Faunus. [7] Not “Faunus in Vale” or “Faunus in Mistral.” Literally all Faunus, as the book doesn’t distinguish between them.

We know for fact that Remnant has dozens of belief systems, as Qrow acknowledges their existence during “A Much Needed Talk.” But take careful note of the fact that the Faunus are the only ones consistently portrayed as belonging to the same religion. Each of the different human-governed kingdoms has its own source of real-world inspiration, like Vale drawing upon Western Europe, and Mistral upon East Asia.

The Faunus, however, are treated as a monoculture, and this universally-shared religion epitomizes that.

And it’s ridiculous. Why would a Faunus whose family has lived in Vacuo for generations necessarily hold the same beliefs as a Faunus in Mistral, a culture that’s an entire continent away? The Faunus aren’t, as far as we know, a diasporic group, so apart from being members of a vaguely-defined ethnicity, they shouldn’t all adhere to identical beliefs.

For that matter, why should we assume that the Faunus see themselves as divided by nationality or race? What if their cultures (and by extension, religions) were aligned with Faunus-specific demographics? Like a group of avian Faunus who live in the mountains and venerate a god of the sky. Or Faunus with gills, fins, and webbed appendages, who live on coral reefs and worship the ocean.

Words can’t even begin to describe how much I seethed when I first read these stories. Not because I’m inherently opposed to a shapeshifting anthropomorphic god, but because its creation is so slapdash. To say nothing of how these fables reek of retconning and revisionist history.

There are infinitely more interesting ways RWBY could have distinguished Faunus from each other, and in turn, derived cultures from them. Perhaps there are mixed neighborhoods whose culture is a blend of Faunus and humans of the same nationality. Maybe there are human-passing Faunus that are estranged from the local Faunus culture because they have a perceived privilege that isolates them from their peers. Maybe there are communities which self-identify according to shared traits, like avian Faunus (feathered wings and beaks) versus arthropod Faunus (chitinous appendages and spinnerets).

All of these ideas (and more) we’ll discuss in greater depth when we reconvene. In Part II, we’ll be talking about the influence of Faunus biology on culture, and how their anatomy shapes ideological discourse.

[1] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 42.

[2] “RWBY Volume 2: Production Diary 1 | Rooster Teeth.” YouTube video. Rooster Teeth. March 13, 2014. 5:27 - 5:52. [https://youtu.be/8kPTh4ZAQ4g?t=327]

[3] World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 6: “Faunus.”

[4] Volume 1, Episode 12: “Jaunedice - Part 2.”

[5] World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 8: “The Great War.” Qrow: “The people of Vale had a problem with this. Well, they had a problem with a lot of things Mistral and Mantle had been up to—treatment of their citizens, use of slave labor, and their constant insistence that their way of life was what was best for everyone.”

[6] World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 4: “Vacuo.” Qrow: “Vacuo may not be as prim and proper as the other three kingdoms, but it's still standing. And the people there have a mutual respect for one another. See, there's only really one, unspoken rule in Vacuo: If you can survive here, then you're welcome here.”

[7] Myers, E. C. RWBY: Fairy Tales of Remnant. Scholastic Inc, 2020.

[7.1] Page 31: “Although this fable once was among the most common stories told to Faunus children, it has never been written down before its appearance here, not by Faunus and certainly not by Humans.”

[7.2] Page 59: “Unsurprisingly, Faunus always cast their god as a wise and noble figure, while Human stories portray the same god as a trickster, not to be trusted.”

#deconstruction #worldbuilding #writing #faunus #the second part to this topic will be delving into speculative biology #the physiology of winged humanoids and flying six-limbed vertebrates is crazy stuff #any cultures surrounding those body plans even more so #the faunus

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