#uh oh..

Sketches of my OCs I colored with markers and pencils and poscas.

you seem nice

@nooth-tooth-collector

oh, thank you—

She broke up with me because I'm homeless

A whole ten minutes

The room felt too warm. Too small. Shadows clung to the corners like voyeurs, and the muffled chorus of the soirée seeped through the walls; moans, laughter, the soft slap of hands against skin. It all pressed close, a body heat of its own. But nothing crowded Serenei more than Astarion’s silence.

He stood only a few feet away, when she’d told him to remove the mask. He hadn’t done it. He just watched. She didn’t look at him. Not once. Serenei sat on a low divan, her back arched slightly, a young vampire spawn kneeling beside her–a half-starved thing, pretty in a fragile, glassy way, swollen with saccharine promises from the witch's mouth. His hands trembled where they rested on the half undone corset that concealed her waist, unsure, famished. She guided him gently, tilting her head, the silver shroud of her hair falling behind her to expose the line of her neck.

“Go on little dove” she murmured, almost tenderly. The spawn’s fangs sank into her neck with a shuddering sigh, his breath hitching against her skin. Sharp pain, warm bloom–she swallowed the sound that threatened to rise, letting only the smallest twitch of her fingers betray her. His fingertips dug into her hip in a silent plea for more. She knew exactly when Astarion moved closer. The air cooled. The soft scrape of leather, the quiet sharpness of disbelief, she felt it like a hand closing around her slender throat. She’d turned him away with unyielding finality every time he’d asked to feed from her, his requests edged with hunger, yes, but also something dangerously earnest. Not you, she’d said each time, Not now. My blood's too precious. And now she offered her throat to another within arm’s reach of him.

Her mask didn’t hide much, only the upper curve of her face, carved from thin, dark leather shaped like the wings of a crow mid-spread. She finally lifted her gaze toward where he stood. “Take it off 'Stari,” She said from beneath a velvet sigh. The spawn whimpered at her neck, lost in hunger. Serenei barely noticed. All her attention was trained on Astarion’s silence, on the electric snap of his composure straining, or so she hoped it was like this. She wanted the moment the mask slipped, watch the exact second he realized she had done this for him, to him. Serenei let her breath leave her in a slow, deliberate exhale. The young man's mouth was warm on her throat, her pulse drumming under his teeth. Blood slid down her collarbone to the curve of her breast in a thin, heated line. She kept her gaze locked on him.

“Why do you want to see my face so badly?”

It felt almost strangled. More honest than he’d normally meant it to sound. To her surprise, something inside her curled in response. A strange, hot flutter low in her stomach. Thick. Heavy. Want blurred with power, blurred with the sharp thrill of being seen. “Because I want to see what you look like right now,” she murmured. Her voice sounded different to her own ears, lower, rougher. She tilted her chin up, letting the spawn drink, letting Astarion see all of it. “I want to see what this does to you. When you’re trying not to feel what you’re feeling.” Her heartbeat thudded hotly in her chest. She shouldn’t enjoy this–not his potential jealousy, not the way it sharpened his attention, not the way it affected her–but gods, she did.