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Sketch dump of some pieces i didn’t like the final result of 🥲

Fortunes

Part 2 - Home [Ao3 Link]

Summary - Chased away from his grave site before they ended up in the city jails for public lewdness, Morgan invites Astarion into her home nearby, to finish what they started. Pairing: Astarion x Morgan (female human tav) Rating: Explicit Sexual Content Chapter Tags: Astarion POV, mentions of torture and death, elf/human relationships, vampire hopped up on infernal blood, morgan is a hoarder, wild magic, cunnilingus, mind reading, inappropriate use of tadpole, shower scene, cumplay, mentions of multiple partners, PIV sex

I finished writing a thing! Please enjoy if you decide to read, but this is the second part. Part one is here.

Fortunes Part 2 - Home

Morgan’s hand is warm where it touches his, but for once, his skin burns hotter. Infernal blood swirls in his veins and pools into his limbs, hot and heavy. Pulling him forward, she guides him deeper into the room that serves as a storefront before her fingers slip out of his grasp. She stumbles against a bunch of stacked chests, sending a pile of something or other crashing with a loud clatter. 

 “Ah, shit. It’s so dark…hang on.”  

Ah, her weak little human eyes couldn’t pierce through the darkness as easily as his, which reveal a room so cluttered it’s a wonder any business at all can be conducted in such a space. He surveys the room as she peels off in another direction. 

There’s a low table with some plush chairs and a crystal ball in the center space, with rows of shelves, chests and other surfaces piled high with a variety of eye-catching objects. The walls are carved from stone, surprisingly. He supposes it makes the structure more durable, given her propensity to randomly explode. 

Heavy tapestries depicting various occult symbols decorate the walls. A streak of green catches his eye and he finds himself drawn to a series of portraits stacked against a large shelf. Her face, staring back at him with a coquettish smile in a thick oil paint. A lover’s depiction, he realizes as he goes through a stack of nearly identical paintings.  

There’s a tiny one set aside on a nearby table, painted with a very fine brush that shows a remarkable likeness, down to the pattern of freckles across her scarred nose. She seems more youthful here; this artist is different from the other paintings. He traces the texture of the dried paint with a finger. 

A flickering light floods the cluttered room, and he glances aside at Morgan with a flame in hand, lighting the small lamps scattered about. He slips the small portrait into his pocket and keeps browsing, while the room steadily grows more illuminated. 

“I’m going to put a kettle on, it’ll just be a minute!” she chirps. ”Make yourself at home.” 

Make himself at home? What a curious phrase. He doesn’t know exactly what that entails. Is he supposed to remove his boots? He leans against a nearby alchemy table and does so, continuing his perusal once more, now barefoot. 

Had he been in a home before all this? He searches his memories, blurred from decades of control, and comes up empty. His victims were not inviting him into their homes, he was dragging them to his; to their doom. 

Those dark thoughts feel unwelcome, like a stabbing dagger in his innards, so he turns towards the hoarded interior and begins rifling through tables and chests packed with her weird things. 

A carved marble statuette of an elephant, a petrified frog, a little bronze box filled with tiny wooden animals, bottles filled with feathers bright and dull, a wax hand shaped to hold a rather large cup, a hideous little clown puppet staring menacingly at him from behind a shelf of unlabeled potion bottles; the oddities seem never ending, his eyes sliding over each one and finding little to nothing of monetary value.  

Yet, there's something charming about such worthless trinkets being on display, he thinks as he picks up a large conch from a collection of pretty shells organized by color. Not the most inspired decoration, but at least it was her own. 

Cazador would never have allowed such junk in his domain. Once, back when Violet was still newly turned, she tried bringing trinkets around the manor. 

They’d all ignored her wailing from the kennels as Godey enacted the punishment Cazador had laid out for her. 

In the back of the store, Morgan coughs from layers of dust rising up from her flurry of movement around the hearth, and brings him back into the present, away from memories of torture. 

Embrace change, the cards had said. He was trying! The bastard continued intruding in on his thoughts even after he was dead and gone. It wasn’t fair. 

Here, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp light of the home he was invited into, he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of water being brought to a boil.

He can imagine slotting himself into her life here. Lurking in darkened corners, protected from the sun by the thick velvet drapes covering the windows. Dipping into the pockets of the delusional patriars that frequented this place while she performs a reading, maybe even draining the occasional fool, if he could get away with it. Her place was right by the market district; there would always be some cultural festival or other lasting late into the evenings; easy enough for him to find a drunken fool to pick off from the crowd, then return home, fattened on the blood of thinking creatures to spend his nights in bliss, in her arms.

He had told Dalyria that he’d meet them wherever they ended up, down in the Underdark once they took care of their tadpole situation. Did he really have to follow through with that promise? Their experience trudging through the Underdark on the way to Moonrise was handily the most unpleasant part of their journey thus far. 

Well, second most unpleasant…nothing could be more repulsive than the illithid colony, he decides. 

But, staying here in a little home of their own, with all the amenities of city living? That sounds much more appealing to him. 

He wanders deeper into her hoard, the smell of incense and herbal tinctures lingering heavily this far back. The hearth is just past a collection of sad, shriveled potted plants that look ready to crumble to dust. He keeps to the shadows with light steps just as she begins pouring the boiling water from a pot into an ugly little ceramic teapot shaped like a toad. 

He waits for her to finish her task, then surprises her from the shadows with the slide of his arms around her waist and a brush of lips against the back of her neck. 

The small jump when she realizes his presence gratifies him. Her pulse jumps on his tongue, tempting, but he pushes aside the want easily with his belly full of devil blood. It both sates him and stokes his lust; his body burning even hotter once she’s pressed up against him just so. He’s struck with a want to finish what was rudely interrupted at his grave site. 

His senses are heightened, and he can both smell her arousal and the blood rushing through her veins when she feels him press into the wet spot on her breeches.

“Wait,” she says. 

He stops, lifting his head from her neck. 

“We’re filthy. Let’s go wash up a bit first,” she tilts her head back to look at him, then beckons to follow her to a small room off to the side of the hearth. 

He couldn’t argue with that. They were both streaked with dirt, mud, and other bodily fluids. 

Well, it’s not so much of a room as it is a closet carved into the stone with a little drain in the center; more than a little cramped with two occupants. They discard their soiled clothing and put it in a little basket that seems to be meant for such a purpose just outside the door, while Astarion looks all around for some kind of mechanism to dispense the water. 

Instead, she pulls out a couple of scrolls meant for creating water, and creates a brief downpour that rains down upon them that washes away the grime from his grave site. The cold water is a shock against his burning hot skin, unpleasantly so. Thoroughly soaked, she uses her own magic to summon a series of blindingly bright wisps of heat that hover nearby. 

He realizes after a moment they’re evaporating the water from their skin; a remarkably efficient little trick, as the rest of the water trickles down the drain. 

“They’ll burn up in a few minutes, but try not to bump into them. They’re very hot,” she cautions, wringing a large deluge of water from her hair, before tossing it behind her shoulder. 

“Wouldn’t a basin be easier?” He grumbles, shaking his wet curls from his face and wishing there was some steaming, perfumed water for him to sink into. This method rather makes him feel like a wet cat caught in a sudden downpour. 

“The Sune Temple down the road has a public bathhouse, so it never felt necessary…” she purses her lips and takes in his grimace. “But…I could buy you one if you really want it.”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs at first, trying to hide the pleased thrill that runs through him at the promise of a gift. Then he stops, and sighs at himself. “I mean…thank you.” 

Morgan laughs, amused at his attempt to cover for his poor manners. 

“Although, I don’t think even a small tub would fit in here. It’s quite cramped isn’t it?”

She was correct. Both of them in this space were pressed right up to each other. Her breasts brush his chest, stirring the lust that has been simmering under the surface this entire night. But he’s had his needs met already, while his poor little soothsayer still burns. 

Pushing her against the stone, he leans in and buries his face in her neck before pawing at her body. Her head rolls back, granting him a low moan of approval. His cock throbs when he squeezes her flesh, overflowing in his hands. 

He wants her. The thought sparks through him like a wildfire, through the haze of devil-blooded lust. 

He had been so afraid of intimacy, after accepting the depths of his feelings. He’d grown used to feeling nothing but numbness and self loathing, falling back into the familiar pantomime of the sensual lover. He’d treated her like nothing more than a means to an end; a tool to be maneuvered to stand in between him and his master. 

He hadn’t known how to be what she wanted. What she deserved. How to perform as anything other than the trained dog Cazador had made him to be. 

He’d done horrible and monstrous things. Things he could scarcely admit to her, or even to himself. Puppeted or not, the act of carrying out his master’s will had stained his soul so black that not even the Gods would claim it. 

But now…the exalted master was just a pile of ash and broken bones dumped unceremoniously to the bottom of his crypt. 

And he was still here, whole and himself, in the home Morgan invites to share with him. 

The Talis card she’d drawn for him…Death. Change and new beginnings. A chance to try living again. 

He doesn’t feel numb now. He feels…

Dropping to his knees, Astarion nudges her thighs apart with his face. She sucks in a deep breath when he traces the shape of her with his mouth, tongue delving through the dark thatch of hair to apply pressure on that little bud of hers. He inhales her scent deeply and moans into her cunt, desperate and needy. 

Her legs widen to give him more space, allowing him to run his palms up her thighs and higher still, thumbs placed to part her folds and spread her slick little hole open to his view. He takes a moment to stare and listen to her heavy breathing, before shoving his entire tongue into her. It slides in deep until his lips are pressed tightly to the apex of her mound. 

Morgan’s cry echoes in the little bathing closet, music to his ears as her thighs tighten around his head. He doesn’t need to breathe if he chooses not to, so he just focuses on wriggling his tongue as deep as he can get it. 

She chokes and gasps, vulgar things in that weird elven dialect of hers. He glances up to enjoy the vision presented before him; her body arched against the stone for support as she rides his tongue, hips bumping his chin, breasts swaying. 

His hands move to cup her ass and help support her weight when he notices her calves trembling. He drives his tongue in deep, enjoying how her insides flutter around him. A few more deep flicks of his tongue and she’s shuddering around him and crying his name, nails scratching pleasantly on his scalp while she humps his face to completion. 

When her thighs stop shaking, the last of the superhot wisps has receded. They are mostly dry now, except for the mess he’d just made between her legs. He mouths at her for a bit longer until she weakly pushes his face back and slides bonelessly down onto the ground.  

They both lay there as a tangle of limbs for a moment, curled up awkwardly in the cramped space while he listens to her racing heart slow back to normal with her head in the crook of his neck. 

After a few moments, her living body begins to protest the cramped space. He, as well, is eager to sit down on something that isn’t dirt or hard stone. They pull themselves up to their feet, Morgan taking him by the hand to lead him back out the storefront. She pauses briefly to down a cup of whatever tea she’d brewed earlier, then shows him the ladder to the loft, kept hidden from the rest of the store by a curtain of gauzy fabric.  

This area was just as cluttered and hoarded, but kept a bit more organized than the downstairs area. There wasn’t a bed so much as many, many blankets and furs and pillows atop soft mats stuffed with feathers, all arranged around stacks of clothing chests and some curio tables (filled with even more junk) that must have been hell to haul up to the loft. 

He drops into the part of the pile that looks the softest and most used, a small cloud of dust flying up after him. She drops to her knees next to him, reaches for him, then freezes- 

The air between them shimmers, blue light spilling from her body once more. Astarion reaches to his waist for his dagger that isn’t there; it lays next to the basket of their discarded clothes at the bottom of the loft. 

A trilling flute fills the air with a pleasant melody, breaking the tension as they realized the surge would manifest as no more but a jaunty song this time around. A full accompaniment of various instruments join the flute as the two of them relax, Morgan letting out the breath she’d been holding. 

“That was the second one tonight. Why are they happening so frequently?” He wonders, running his fingers through some errant green curls on his thigh. He’s seen her go at least a tenday without a single reaction. 

Morgan glances aside with obvious embarrassment before she answers. “They happen more when I’m excited, or feeling strong emotions. Meditation is really good at helping keep them infrequent, but um…with everything going on I just haven’t been doing it since we got into the city.” 

“Hm,” he smirks knowingly. “I seem to recall Halsin was offering his expertise in meditation to you not so long ago. I suppose you two must have gotten a little… distracted from that purpose?” 

“Yeah,” she laughs with him. “We definitely weren’t meditating.” 

“And what strong emotion are you feeling now, my sweet?” he prompts her, dragging a finger alongside her ribcage to watch her shiver under his touch. 

“I’m happy,” she smiles warmly at him. “I’m happy here, with you.” 

He can almost feel a fluttering in his dead, dried up heart, but it's not quite enough. 

“Let me feel,” he begs. 

They reach for each other once more in the hivemind, their illithid monstrosities always aching for its kin. Her mind opens to him completely in a gesture of trust. 

If he chose, he could direct his tadpole to dig into her most private memories and thoughts with ease. Instead, he psychically opens himself up to her as well, allowing their emotions and physical sensations to merge and interconnect as if they were one person.

He feels her psychic exploration of his brain, mindful of opening up uncomfortable memories and thoughts. Through their connection, neither of them take, only giving freely of the other. 

He feels her joy radiate through his chest as if it were his own. 

Her excitement and anticipation for the remainder of the night, and all the nights after this one. 

He also feels the loose heat and fluttering nerves in her belly from a satisfying orgasm, the warmth of his skin against hers, and the burning throb of her core that radiates in her lower belly and thighs. 

“Oooh,” Morgan moans and licks her lips. “That devil blood…I feel it in your body.” Her fingers trail along his stomach and up his chest. “It’s so hot…” He feels her hands on him moments before her response to the physical contact travels over their psychic connection. Goosebumps prickle across her skin, a sensation foreign to him. 

It’s addicting, feeling her this way, he thinks. When her heart rate quickens, he feels it as if it were his own. A facsimile of life. 

“I wanna ride you,” she breathes, looking at him through lowered lashes. 

“Go on, then,” he tuts, grabbing her ass and squeezing generously. She swings her legs over his hips, grabs his cock and sinks onto him without any preamble. She’s so wet, she always is, and he slides into her with a hiss through clenched teeth. 

She throws her head back and cries his name loud enough to wake the neighbors. She’s probably screamed for dozens, or hundreds of lovers in this very bed. 

None as pretty as you, though. 

She answers his unspoken statement in his mind, bringing a delighted smile to his lips. 

Is that a compliment I hear? I think I may expire from shock…

His cheeky response earns him a hearty chuckle that shakes her generous bosom, capturing his attention from her face momentarily. 

Morgan, his little harlot, knows how to ride and move her body to stimulate her lover’s appetite. He’s more than content to lay back in the soft embrace of the blankets and let her take control and work her skills on him, for a change. 

Yes, let me spoil you.

Yes, he quite likes the thought of that. He rests his hands on her thighs while she rides him at a languid pace with rolling hips, letting the tension slowly wind through them both. He feels her pleasure, she feels his, then a cascade of feedback from her feeling him feeling her, and so on. 

She comes before him, pulsing so hard on his cock that he’s right behind her with a strangled groan, fingers digging in as he grabs her by the hips and thrusts up, spilling into her with a hoarse shout. She’s arched and panting above him, her delicious blood flushing her from head to foot. 

He can remain hard if he chooses to, and so he does. Her eyes widen when he grabs her by the waist and thrusts deep. 

Sweat pours down their bodies, dampening the blankets and furs around them as he coaxes another heavy climax out of her that slams into both of them. He pulls out and watches his cum dripping out in long, thick ropes from her body. She reaches down to touch between her legs with her fingers, rubbing little circles around her bud before bringing the mess up to her lips. 

His eyes track her wet fingers disappearing into her mouth. Lip curling, he lets out an involuntary snarl as heat fills him again. 

Astarion twists, flipping Morgan onto her back. She gives a little shriek that excites his predatory instincts, and wraps her legs around his waist to hold on tight as he angles himself back into her wet hole. Her hands he pins in place above her head, fingers entwined with his. His hips slap against hers without elegance, lost in their shared pleasure. Her sweaty breasts bounce with each thrust, her long hair unfurled and flowing over the blankets. 

He fucks her into the furs, the wet squelch of their coupling loud and obscene. He brings them both to another peak, spending himself once more with a strangled gasp. 

He could keep going, but she is starting to look weary, and he can feel the heaviness of the late hour starting to take hold of her mind. Eyes half closed while she catches her breath, chest heaving. Another gush of white flows out of her when he pulls out, so he finds a stack of linens nearby, and gently wipes at her and the mess underneath. Her hips shudder and flinch when he brushes sensitive flesh. 

“You should get a little bit of sleep, before we head back,” he says once he’s finished, smiling at her fondly. 

“Mmm,” she agrees, leaning into his hand when he cups her cheek, thumb stroking her bottom lip. She bites it gently, then releases it with a small imprint of her teeth. “Gale is being pushy about getting to Sorcerous Sundries, so I guess we should head there next. Wake me up in a few hours?” 

“Of course, darling,” he agrees happily, feeling her mind fall away as her tiredness breaks the psychic link between them.

“I’m so glad we’re finally home, in my own bed again. I hated sleeping in tents on the ground,” she mumbles before drifting off into the land of dreams. He doesn’t know anything about how humans experience dreaming, but he hopes it will be pleasant enough. 

We’re home, she had said. The words stick with him as he lays with her, holding her sleeping form as her soft snores fill the room. 

Fin

Morgan art to celebrate finishing another play through!

Doing a Leyendecker study with THEM because i’m unwell