Urrently I Have Open Slots For Portraits - 45 Usd (per Char)Halfbodies Sketches - 70 Usd (per Char)Fullbody

Сurrently I have open slots for Portraits - 45 usd (per char) Halfbodies sketches - 70 usd (per char) Fullbody sketches - 100 usd (per char) And animated sketches (around 200-250 usd, no color)

Spent too much money on medical appointment and have to recover my balance X_X also I will be slow this time because I'm feeling very weak rn

I hope they enjoy their 100 year quest.

A gentle touch

Yes, I made this gif with Astarion because I noticed a resemblance to John Travolta here 😃

'this too shall pass' well can it pass fucking faster??

Fortunes

Fortunes [Ao3 Link]

Summary -

Cazador is dead, and it's time to finally start living. Astarion takes Morgan to his grave and asks her for a favor only she can offer.

Pairing: Astarion x Morgan (female human tav)

Rating: Explicit Sexual Content

Tags: Astarion POV, graveyard sex, mentions of torture, elf/human relationships, blood and violence, vampire hopped up on infernal blood, that elf gets his dick sucked, wild magic sorcerer tav, wet and messy, deep throating, inappropriate use of tadpole, actually an appropriate use of tadpole , telepathy, fortune telling, vampire spawn

It's done! I can finally know peace...for a few days at least until I start working on the second part. A treato to enjoy~

Astarion stares at the elaborate looping script of Cazador Szarr’s personal journal. Page after page of the monster’s private thoughts about him; his movements through the city, the quality of the victims he procured, his punishments and tortures. Many, many pages of detailed descriptions of how his body looked in various states of mutilation that would have threatened bile, if he were capable of such a thing.

Yet he cannot tear himself away from the pages about himself and reads until the light of day fades in the small window of his room in the Elfsong Tavern, forcing him to put the book down to light a candle.

He draws a hand down his face, feeling every one of his nearly 250 years. His bones creak when he moves because he has not moved a muscle since he fished the journal from the bag Morgan slipped into his room.

The image of her slips into his mind and calms the dark vortex of his thoughts that threaten to overwhelm him.

They’d talked very little since it happened. He was grateful for the private room she’d secured; a rare luxury for him. A door to shut and lock everything and everyone out and just…think.

About what he’d lost. What he’d gained.

A future to plan for.

Morgan’s voice drifts underneath the door from the common room outside. She’s returned from some excursion in the city, no doubt, while he hid in a dark room like a specter once more. A sudden need to see her fills him with a nervous energy and he scrambles to his feet, rushing to tidy his appearance. He smooths his wrinkled clothing and runs some animal fat through his hair in a practiced motion.

By the squirming in his head, even the repulsive little parasite seems excited to see her. He tosses his head to settle his hair and sets out of his room in a quick flourish of movement.

On a bench nearby, a massive elf stirs at his sudden entrance as if woken from a nap. He ignores the Archdruid, and spies Morgan on the other side of the room dumping an armful of gilded ceremonial weapons into a pile of loot being sorted by a blank-eyed hireling. He recognizes them as the hideous wall decorations from the reading room in the east wing.

Startled by his sudden appearance, the tight control she leashes around her tadpole drops momentarily. His own, eager as always to reach out to its kin, grasps at a few stray thoughts escaping into their shared Hivemind until she asserts mental control over it once more.

Is he coming to end things? Because of what I said about the ritual?

Morgan.

He speaks her name through their mind link, suffusing the word with what he feels in that moment. Anticipation, gratitude, relief, and most strongly, his adoration. Emotions that he hopes convey his intent at approaching her.

It has the intended effect; her posture relaxes and she looks up at him with soft eyes. Before they broke into Cazador’s manor, she had offered her neck to him. The memory of his last taste of her blooms inside his chest, feeling heavy and tight.

She weakened herself ahead of a great battle, so he would be stronger. Always so reckless with her own body. She held him while he drank in the shadowed corner of his own home with trembling hands on her throat, defiant of his Master’s rules. And together, they sent that bastard’s soul back to the hells to be claimed by Mephistopheles.

What sort of monster would the ritual have twisted him into? Would she have ended up as a subject in one of his own insane, rambling journals centuries later?

No, he wasn’t upset that she challenged his ambitions to the ritual. Perhaps never seeing the sun again was simply the price of freedom.

He is close enough to pull her hand into his now, so he does so.

Aww guys, he’s holding her hand! I think they’re gonna be okay!

They both turn to stare at Karlach across the room, who slaps her hand over her mouth as if she said the words aloud and not blasted into everyone’s brains through her poorly controlled tadpole. Astarion’s glare is piercing, but there is no malice behind his eyes as Shadowheart pulls the tiefling into the adjoining room by her tail. He looks back at Morgan.

“Come with me? There’s something I want to show you, out in the city.”

“Okay,” she agrees “Oh, uh…” She looks down at her robes, stained and filthy, likely from spending all day crawling through Cazador’s cellars. “I should change first. I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll be out front.”

When she finds him again leaning against the wall at the Tavern’s entrance, her appearance gives him pause. Her hair is freed from its usual bindings, oiled and shiny. And her outfit…

He picks at the edge of her collar, spying a familiar style of stitching. “Did you get that from the manor?”

Morgan’s eyes are saucer wide. “It was in a pile of clothing that Shadowheart said was more fashionable than the rest. I just picked the one on top! I could…go change…”

He laughs. It feels good to do so, the heavy weight of his heart feeling lighter. “You do the garment far more favors than Violet ever could. Don’t you dare change out of it.” He punctuates his point by leaning forward and planting a small, chaste kiss on her lips.

She melts into him, and when he pulls away she’s flush with her life’s blood. He smiles indulgently, feeling every bit like the lovesick fool he knew he was.

He takes her by the hand again, and leads her to his intended destination. They walk in silence, around darkened city streets that he could navigate while blindfolded. Decade after decade of stalking these streets and prowling for victims to drag back to his master.

No longer. Now he walks these streets as a free man, no longer following puppet strings, performing acts of depravity in order to serve another’s will. He could do what he wanted, where he wanted, and with whom he wanted.

And he wanted her. In every way he could have, if she’d allow it, for as long as her little mortal life would have him.

Morgan makes a small sound of surprise when she realizes where he’s brought her, but she lets him continue leading into the cemetery, winding deeper into the grounds around rows of grave markers.

She holds back when he stops at the one with his name on it.

“Oh, she says. “This is your…”

“Yes.” He lets her warm hand slip out of his grasp while she inspects the writing on the grave. He leans down to brush away the shrubbery and plant life that had grown up around the marker, trying not to think of how it must have been over a century since someone last came to visit his grave given its state of disrepair; if there ever was anyone who cared enough to.

When he speaks again, his voice cuts through the deafening silence that’s settled over them, making Morgan jump slightly.

“Buried nearly 200 years ago. I haven’t been back since the night I woke up down there.” His face twists, bitterness rising from his gut. “Cazador was waiting for me, when I clawed my way through six feet of dirt to reach the surface. From that day on I was his.”

He turns back towards her, the bitterness fading as quickly as it came. “Until today.”

“You were never his. He could compel your body, your words, but your mind was your own.”

He gives her a sad smile, knowing a bit of where her perspective comes from as a survivor of her own religious cult. Mistreated though she was, praise all the gods she never suffered the hells that only a creature of the night like him could endure.

“Still, there’s almost nothing left of the person I was, just a name on a rock. I hid in the shadows while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I have to figure out who I am, and what my future holds for me...and I admit I find that to be a daunting and terrifying prospect.”

“What do you want your future to hold, Astarion?” Her eyes look at him so softly now; so different from the woman he'd known at the beginning of their journey.

“Shouldn’t you be able to tell me that, little soothsayer?” Reaching into his pack, he produces a little wooden box she would recognize as part of her fortune telling kit.

“When did you-” she snatches at the box and flashes her eyes at him.

“A while back, at the Grove. After you did those readings for the tieflings,” he smirks, still pleased about that particular bit of thievery.

“So um…I thought you knew…” She fidgets with the box, tapping the edges with the blunt nail of her thumb. “None my fortune telling is real. I make it all up based on what they want to hear, from the thoughts I can pick up on. People would pay a lot of money for that, over and over.”

“A charlatan!” he exclaims in mock surprise, sitting back on his heels. “And here I am, a vampire with a mind impenetrable to your magic.”

“Not to my tadpole,” she protests.

“Ah ah,” he tuts, tapping her nose. “No cheating! I trust you to do your best; you’re a professional after all. Treat me just as you would one of your customers.” He lets his eyes grow wet and pleading. “Please…indulge me?”

She lets out a petulant sigh, kneels across from him and shuffles the cards. When she’s done, she pats down an area of dirt flat enough to set her cards into.

“Cut the deck,” she guides him after she sets it down. He kneels in front of her and follows the direction.

“Okay, draw your card.”

He does so, revealing a skeleton in black armor on a horse, carrying a flag. Even he knew a Death card when he saw it.

“A bit on the nose given our surroundings, isn’t it?”

She’s silent for a second, looking at the card with her brow furrowed. “It’s not…physical death. It can be a metaphorical death. The end of a major phase of your life.”

“Well, That only tells me what I already know. But what does it say about my future?”

She falls silent again, studying the card as she ponders his question.

“So…Death is…change. Yeah? So...you should welcome any new changes as a cleansing of your former state of being, and see it as a welcome and positive force leading you to a new transformation. Even if the change is painful and scary at times, it is necessary for new opportunities and advantages to arise.”

“And just what am I meant to be transforming into, exactly?”

“The person you will become, without that man holding you in place.” These words are spoken firmly, with more confidence.

“Hm. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense,” he strokes his chin. “What does it say about my love life?”

“Oh!” She plays along, adopting a thoughtful look. “Well, if you think about it, loving someone is to be forever changed. If you have someone special in your life, now is the time to embrace your feelings and tell them how you really feel."

The little showman in her comes out with that line, he observes with amusement.

“My dear fortune teller, what if she rejects me? I wouldn’t know how to bear it.”

Morgan taps the Death card once more. “Change is scary, but inevitable. You must learn to handle that uncertainty.”

Well, I suppose I mustn’t defy the cards then should I?”

Astarion gathers the cards together and sets them aside, kneeling in front of her to then take her hands in his. She adopts his same posture and kneels with him amid the soil. Her attention is on him entirely as she looks up at him cutely with those big, human eyes.

“I am…ashamed to admit I didn’t care for you when we first met. I looked down on you being a human, for being stupid enough to let a vampire bite you.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” she sighs, looking away with a wry expression. “I’ve been with plenty of High Elves and a lot of you are just…like that, vampire or not.”

“You really need to have better standards for your lovers,” he presses gently, guiding her chin back towards him.

“Funny, that’s what Shadowheart used to say when she’d catch me sneaking off to your tent.”

He lets out a bark of laughter. “She wasn’t wrong.” His mirth fades, expression turning more serious.

“I was wrong. You’ve treated me with nothing but generosity and understanding, even through the blood lust, pain and misery I caused you. For so long, I only knew how to be cruel and to see such things as weakness. Cruelty…it springs forth so easily onto my tongue and yet you were patient with me through all of it when I was least deserving of it. I feel safe with you, and seen. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep, shuddery breath through his desiccated lungs. “I love you.”

Morgan looks down, then back up at him. Her eyes are wet. His chest flutters with her freely given blood.

“I also am ashamed for how I thought of you,” she admits in a trembling voice. He pushes some strands of green hair out of her face, tucking them behind her ear. “I couldn’t read your thoughts in the way I was used to, so I assumed you were like many of the elves I have known before, who liked slumming it with humans. I didn’t take you or the things I was learning about you seriously…not at first. I didn’t know that you were hurting so deeply this entire time.”

“Darling, I’ve had lifetimes to conceal my own pain and feelings. It’s not something you should feel at fault for; I was the one manipulating you.”

“I know,” she sniffs, a few tears escaping. He brushes them away with his thumb. “I love you too. I want to be with you, after all this. If we survive.”

“That is…” he’s moved that she can say that after being reminded of his manipulations, and so they hold each other for a moment, cradled in the dirt of his grave. He pulls away from her warmth reluctantly, and reaches for the dagger in his belt.

“Well, I should probably fix this,” he gestures to his grave marker. She watches in silence as he bends down to carve his new dates into the stone. When his work is done, he turns back towards his lover.

“I’ve been dead in the ground long enough. It’s time to try living again.”

He kneels back down and pushes her into the dirt. She makes a small squeal of surprise he’s heard dozens of times in their previous couplings, and it excites him now as much as it did back then. Morgan looks up at him, sprawled in the dirt, her one pale eye shining in the darkness. Violet’s outfit clings to her curves in ways it never did on his sibling, and he takes in the sight of her glowing under the moonlight appreciatively. Arousal winds through him, and taking charge of it feels right at this moment.

“You know,” he bends down, presses his nose into her neck, feels her pulse jump, “If a night of passion is on offer, I could be persuaded…”

“Really?” he senses her heart rate quicken, blood rushing. “Now? Here?”

“I brought a blanket, if you don’t want to stay in the dirt.” he grins, pulling the leather satchel from his waist. He well remembers their first tryst, where she insisted he walk back to camp to get a blanket before she would lay with him in the clearing.

“I meant…that it’s been a little while…is it okay?” She’s not hiding her eagerness very well, and he smiles at her fondly with heavy lidded eyes.

Bending down to mouth her pulse point, he’s careful not to break her skin despite his vampiric senses craving the sweet magic in her blood, just beyond his fangs. Her breathy little gasp goes straight to his groin; he presses himself against her so she can feel just how much he wants her. Her leg curls around his lower back as their bodies fit together.

“Yes,” he assures her, then grins at her loud, whorish moan when he rocks his hips. Their lips crash together and he doesn’t think about anything but the woman in his arms, laying with him in dirt he crawled out of as a slave. There was something poetic there, if he had a mind for that sort of thing.

He’d leave the poetry to young Wyll.

“I love you,” he groans again into her skin, as nothing else in his repertoire was fit for her anymore. Her lips and tongue meet his as his hands grope under fabric to press against the scorching heat of living skin. She yelps and shifts under him.

“Cold! Your hands are cold,” she whines.

“I’d better warm them up quickly then,” he smirks, moving his hands upward to cup each heavy breast from under the blouse. He captures her lips again and gives them a squeeze, delighting in the softness of her body and the way she writhes under him when he does it.

His eyes trace the scar across her sloped nose, her parted lips and the small gap in her front teeth, the freckles dancing on her throat. He wants to drown in her beauty, as penance for the man he was before that had denigrated how she looked in his mind, the pathetic wretch that only saw beauty in the narrow definition that Cazador taught him.

He opens his mouth to try and speak some pretty words about how she looks to him, but none of his thousands of lines are sincere enough for how he feels “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, though even that feels inadequate. He prods her with his tadpole instead, letting her feel how he feels.

Morgan responds in kind and his brain floods with the strong emotions surging through her in this moment. Her longing for his touch on her body, her fear for them surviving their encounter with the Netherbrain, her relief that he wasn’t angry with her, her desire to hold and kiss him over and over and over…

He lets her do just that, as they retreat from the Hivemind. Her lips on his, parting only for him to draw her top over her head and off, hands free to enjoy all of her that he could touch. He palms her breasts until his hands are warm, pulling one puffy nipple into his mouth and slipping down into her breeches, into her underwear.

She moans when he cups her, then her body goes rigid. He jerks back in concern when glowing light spills out of her body; her wild magic about to surge! Both of them scramble to their feet in the loose soil.

“No-no-no-no-no!” Morgan cries, losing her footing and falling to her knees as the surge washes over her in a blinding blue light. Astarion grabs his dagger as the smell of sulfur fills the air; A flash of heat and a cambion materializes before them, armed and angry.

“The fuck?” The devil growls and raises its spear at the pair. “You dare summon me? I’ll rip your guts out then drag your souls back into the hells with me, foolish mortals.”

Astarion steps between Morgan and the creature, dodging its clumsy swing in his direction and giving her a chance to retreat behind him and ready some spell. He has to duck under another jab of the spear that grazes a little too close to his ribs before she’s ready; vocalizing the chant to a spell that holds it in place, frozen.The cambion’s expression drops as it realizes the peril it is in.

He glances at the concentration on Morgan’s face, and then back at the helpless devil they have in their trap. Grinning madly, he bares his fangs and sinks them into the neck of their trapped prey. Not the gentle lover’s bite that Morgan has only known, but the powerful jaws of a vampire spawn at full strength; snapping deep into the soft muscle and arteries of the devil’s throat. Hot blood -violently hot- burns a trail down his throat before he twists his head sharply and tears the creature’s throat out entirely.

A great gout of blood sprays onto his face and more down his throat. The taste is smokey, sulfurous, and sets his tongue alight in a most delightful way that whets his appetite.

It's not his first time drinking infernal blood, but it is his first time having such a glut of it as once. The cambion is unable to move or make a sound despite its pumping wound; no thrashing, no wrestling, no need to subdue. Helpless as he swallows mouthful after mouthful until all life is drained from the devil, and the spell collapses with no monster left to hold.

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he staggers a bit, overwhelmed by the sheer quantity and the burning heat now settling in his stomach.

“Gods,” Morgan pants. “A devil. Those ones are rare, I’m sorry. That could have gone much worse.”

“Has that happened while you’ve been alone?” he wonders with some concern. Blood drips down his chin and he swipes at it with his sleeve again while watching her bare tits sway while she attempts to regain her footing. He had been hard before the devil joined them, now feasted on its infernal blood, his erection strains painfully against the tight lacing on his breeches. He has to steady himself against his tombstone.

“Not alone,” she responds, approaching him from behind. ‘One time though, in a crowded market. I ran away and let the Fist deal with it.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t arrested,” he points out, groaning as his pants press even tighter into his suffering cock. Gods, this blood was intense.

She waves her hand dismissively, then giggles at the sight of him. “You’re covered in that thing’s blood. Do devils taste good to you?”

“Nothing compared to the taste of you,” he answers hoarsely. “Your blood is something special.”

“Well I was your first…so that must be why,” she waves away the compliment, her eyes dropping obviously to his crotch. “You seem to be having a hard time there. Want some help?”

He nods desperately, aching to relieve the pressure as molten fire courses through his veins and sexual arousal coils in his belly. He feels hers too, through the close proximity of their tadpoles.

Morgan’s practiced hands release him from his bindings, earning a hiss of relief. There’s a single long moment where she hesitates, one hand on his chest and the other stroking his erection softly. Far too softly.

Her heart is pounding so loudly it echoes in his ears. Then, she drops to her knees and swallows him down into her warm, waiting mouth.

His strangled cry is the one that fills the dead air now, nails digging into the worn stone. He throws his head back, and can’t help the joyous laugh that bubbles from deep in his chest. One of her hands pushes his balls up ever so gently, so she can angle the entirety of him more easily down her throat.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” he gasps through clenched teeth, eyes rolling back when she responds immediately and handles him with more force. “I want you…I want you to ruin me.”

She looks up into his pleading eyes for a brief moment and shuffles closer, her plush breasts brushing his knees.

And ruin him she does, with her wicked little mouth that works over him better than most career whores, and it isn’t long until thick strands of his prerelease are hanging from her chin from her efforts. When she has to pull back and breathe, her fist is on him, her tongue finding the sensitive spots on the head, dipping under the foreskin, lapping fluid that continues to leak out of his cock.

“Gods,” he manages to croak out, scrabbling to keep his balance against his grave stone. Her mouth on him was hotter than the fires of Grymforge and his release was building quicker than he could get a control over.

Swallowing him down all the way to the root once more and gripping his balls in a vice-like grip, she rocks her face into him. His dick, constrained by the walls of her throat, pulses once; and then it's on him. His vision goes black at the edges, silence ringing in his ears, as he spills into her throat and mouth and out of it. His eyes squeeze closed as she sucks him through his orgasm, each slam of pleasure enough to make him arch heavily against the gravestone with a shout.

The stone gives way, forcing him stumbling backwards. He hears it crack beneath him as Morgan’s mouth pulls off of him with an obscene sound, covered in his mess. It hung in thick strands from her chin and dribbled down the side of her mouth, onto her heavy tits, and into the dirt.

He pants heavily on the piece of stone that hadn't crumbled, foggy from the bliss she’d granted him.  He turns his head finally to look at the damage. The stone broke where his hands had been on the top of the marker, cracking it all the way down to the etched runes.

“Oh no,” she coughs, and spits onto the ground. “Your grave…”

He can’t help it; a forceful belly laugh erupts from him into the night air. He doesn’t care about the stupid rock. Lifting himself from the damaged grave, he pulls his ruffled shirt over his head and joins her back in the dirt, quickly covering her body with his own. He feels and tastes his own cooling spend when he presses his mouth to hers, but pays it no mind at all. The kiss is ravenous and desperate and steals all the air from her lungs.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he purrs, digging his hands into the soft, bruisable skin of her hips before turning her onto her hands and knees before him. He wipes his own mess from his mouth and takes a moment to admire the sight before him; her ass in the air, the dark thatch of hair and sopping wet cunt spread open before him. He drags the head of his cock over the opening, not pushing in but enjoying the slide of their wet skin. Her little mewling sounds are an added bonus.

“Astarion, please,” she begs when he doesn’t move right away and pushes her ass firmly against his groin, still stiff and aching. Oh, how he loves hearing her beg for it! Another time and he’d draw out her torment and tease her for much longer. Not tonight, now he gives into her need and sinks into her wet cut, tearing a howl from the both of them. A snap of his hips pushes her deeper in the dirt, and then there is just the wet sounds of slapping flesh and their moans and cries mingling together under the stars.

He watches her body bounce and jump with each thrust. The infernal blood puts him into a frenzy; there’s no outside world anymore, only her hot little hole sucking him into a quickly approaching oblivion.

“Hey! HEY!! What in the hells…you kids can’t be out here! Wait, is that a devil?”

Astarion turns and snarls at the sudden intruder, slipping out of Morgan wet heat while she swears under her breath and reaches for his dagger once more on this night.

He’s greeted with the vision of an elderly dwarf dressed in the city garb of a Groundskeeper looking in horror at the blade and fangs brandished on one side, and the corpse of a devil on the other. He turns and runs in the direction he came from with cry of pure terror.

Astarion lets out a deep suffering sigh at their constant interruptions, then turns back towards his lover, still sprawled in the dirt.

“He’s probably going to go fetch the guards,” he complains, pulling her close by the throat so he can plunder her lips for a moment. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back, making his chest feel tight again. “We should move somewhere else…unless you want to pick up where we left off in one of the city jails?”

“I know a place nearby,” she plants a sweet little kiss on his collarbone and pulls away, towards her pile of clothing. Both of them are filthy; covered in a mix of sweat, dirt and cum. They hurry into their clothes, not bothering with the undergarments, and leave behind nothing more than a devil corpse and his broken gravestone.

Morgan leads this time, holding his hand while they run giggling out of the grave site, holding onto the clothing they didn’t bother to put back on. She takes him a mere three blocks down, on the opposite side of the market district, and stops at an unremarkable wooden door. A sign hangs over it, displaying only the runes that spelled out a single word: Fortunes.

“This is your shop? Where you lived?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Who knew we were so close, this whole time?”

“Thats…” he stops, unsettled. He’d probably walked past this unremarkable looking building thousands of times. That at any point, if he’d had the mind to step inside for any reason…

“I lost my key when I was on the Nautiloid. Can you get us in?”

He slips a lockpick out and twirls it in his fingers in response. It's not a difficult lock at all, and he deftly pushes the tumblers in place within seconds. “Not very good security darling, we’ll have to fix that.”

“Sure, if you say so,” she steps over the threshold, then turns back to look at him with an outstretched hand.

“Come on in, vampire. You’re welcome here.”

~~ Continued in Part 2