Hello!

I've got a lot of stuff with spite from the same rp from that last picture because I just went insane with affection for this spirit

I refuse not to be unhinged about him btw <3 this is my rook asking him "hey can you keep your ominous, glowing eyes open when we kiss so I can stare deeply into them? it has to be weird"

and a bunch of other stuff (I draw him drooling / slobbering a lot, my bad if you're not into that. I can't emphasize enough how feral he can get)

and as a prize for putting up with me this far, UNRELATED TO THIS, here's something idk if tumblr will flag but I tried to at least censor the titties

^ KINDA LIKE THIS ^

the limbs spite controls have a purple glow or smoke coming out of them (kinda like the wings do) and their voices will overlap sometimes

"Ahem. Sorry, pet, I’m not quite comfortable with doing this again yet."

Zyra had looked at him with those big yellow eyes and for a split-second, Astarion felt like he was in free fall - plummeting into an abyss of disappointment, loathing, punishment-

"Thanks you two, but we'll just take an I.O.U. on the horizontal square-dancing," Zyra said to the drow pair. Their practised pouts were good, but not good enough to make her reconsider. That yanked Astarion out of the pit and back to reality.

The reality where he was standing next to his lover, not falling into the chasm of her disapproval. The same reality where not only did she want his body at a moment of convenience, she wanted him - even when his past reared it's hideous head at inconvenient moments. Like in the bedroom.

Truth was indeed stranger than fiction.

He did still enjoy some type of physical intimacy. One of the things they both were surprised at was how comfortable Astarion was with being naked together with Zyra.

"To rob you of this vision would be too cruel darling, even for me!" he had half-joked. The bard, usually always up for a bit of banter, had replied with a firm grimace. And insisted that him taking care of himself was not cruel - but mandatory.

And he didn't mind touching her. Or vice versa. Her fingers were just the right mix of rough and gentle. Calloused from years of playing every instrument under the sun, but when she cupped his face or stroked his arm they were feather-light and softer than a sigh. Even her tail was expertly prehensile, even compared to other tieflings, and when she wrapped it around one of his legs in her sleep, the gentle squeeze was a comfort, more than a constriction.

So it was little wonder that they ended the evening at the Elfsong, taking advantage of one of the empty rooms for a little bit of private indulgence in each other. They took off their clothes almost immediately - the balmy evening air being too much for any sane being and Astarion sat himself on the bed to take in the shape of the tiefling jester. Gods, she was a vision.

He didn't know how she had ended up on his lap. He couldn't really place when they had started to kiss. And he had no idea when he had started to grind against her. The combination of groin-to-groin contact, the excitement of the afternoon's close brush with death and drow twins, and the delicious friction of her tiefling ridges, made his cock stir, and suddenly shifting in his seat wasn't just a matter of comfort.

"Is this alright?" she whispered into his ear.

"So far, so very, very good," he purred back. "Just like you, darling - every inch of you seems just tailor-made for me…"

She grinned and returned to the issue at hand - kissing him senseless. Perhaps it was the venom in her blood. Perhaps it was the dizzying freedom of being with someone out of his own volition. Perhaps it was some divine cocktail of the two. He didn't know when he had begun to drift, he only knew he didn't want to stop.

Now, Astarion was used to not being all there. To keep himself from going mad whenever Cazador sent him to lure another beautiful stranger back to the mansion, the elf had devised a clever trick: he would simply disappear. He would let his awareness slip out the back door and leave his body cold and limp in someone else's arms.

This time was different though. Instead of slipping away from what was happening, he was slipping further in. Into Zyra's embrace, into her kisses, and further into his own arousal. His cock was at full mast and on the verge of leaking. His breath came in short ragged breaths, in perfect tandem with the rhythmic grinds against her dripping cunt.

"You're so excited just from kissing and grinding up against me…" she murmured. She had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, careful to avoid the top of his scars. Instead she ran her clawed hand up and down the back of his neck, with just enough pressure to send maddening shivers up and down the length of his spine. It was getting hard to concentrate on anything other than keeping the rhythm of his hips steady.

"Hah… it's like we're back to being teenagers," she continued in that heady deep voice she only used with him. "I wonder…" He wanted to finish the sentence for her. Anticipate her wants and needs and adjust accordingly. But the machinery had broken down.

"Do you think I could make you cum just like this? Untouched?"

He was stumbling through a thick fog that was growing thicker with every painfully slow gyration of his hips. Words didn't so much escape him, as they simply refused to form. But he didn't want to escape it. He wanted to go deeper. He wanted her to get him deeper.

"… climax by humping me like a wild beast?" Gods yes… for her he would be a beast. He would hand the chains to Zyra as long as she promised not to stop. He would bark like a dog if it meant she would let him continue. For every thrust, another uncomfortable thought or memory was plucked out of his head and replaced with mind-numbing pleasure. It just went on and on. The heat building in him, spreading throughout him until he was sure every pore in his body would start to leak molten gold. He could feel the blood rush through every vein like a broken dam. And still, that finally wave, that final crescendo was nowhere to be seen.

"I… I can't…" His voice was nearly unrecognizable, even to himself. The practised whispers and the cultivated moans were replaced with a ragged, breathy whine. And yet she was still there with him. She peppered his cheek and his ear with little kisses and help him closer against her.

"Oh, but you can. I'm right here with you, little bat." The use of the nickname, one he had initially loathed, sent him tumbling deeper into the clouds. Into the realm of babbling ecstasy, where words no longer had a hold on him. Every nerve ending numbed from years of shit, every hair on his neck, dead from being pulled and tugged, all of him sang her name.

"Z… Zyra…"

"You're doing so well for me already." He shuddered under the praise. His head felt heavy and slow. His body felt like it was about to burst into stardust and float into the night air. The only thing that was holding him together was his bard. His jester. His love. His Zyra. With the steady rhythm that only an expert musician could master, she kept grinding against his leaking cock. He could feel the way her tail rocked to and fro, and how it gave her hips even more leverage. It was too much. He could feel tears prick behind his eyes, like he could feel his muscles prick beneath his skin.

"Please… I need…" he slurred. Zyra slowed her pace, just enough to pull him back to the land of language.

"What do you need?" she asked and Astarion couldn't meet her eyes. He knew what her face looked like when she asked that. Wide eyes, shining with earnest concern. For him. And while Astarion had never been any shade of bashful, that face somehow managed to make him shrink every time. He blushed (indeed like a teenager - she always had the most apt descriptions ready) and the embarrassment threatened to choke him.

"D-don't make me say it…" he mumbled indignantly.

"More kisses?" she asked warmly. He couldn't answer. The words had tied themselves into knots and did not budge out of his throat. So he simply nodded.

"That's my favourite part too," she said with a soft chuckle. Had it been anyone else Astarion would have been mortified. He would have pushed himself aside and just gone through with it. But with Zyra, he was safe. He was embarrassed, but he was loved. She pressed her lips against his, slowly - almost lazily. His tongue found hers and it was like the world exploded into a blur of pink. The joined wetness of their mouths, locked together in a kiss, the ever-steady rhythm of his cock being pressed to its limit, the all-encompassing warmth of her body pressed against his, all of it sent him tumbling over the edge with a shuddering, high-pitched moan.