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Whore.

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I think Blitz would advise, "Don't fall in love, kids. Do drugs." Please don't listen.

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I got approved for top surgery but I cant find the fucking papers cause I put them somewhere safe so I wouldnt lose them

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People really be out here saying that both sides are extreme when group A wants to eradicate group B, and group B just wants to exist.

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As an end of year present (and because I won't be able to bring u anything new until next week), have that one comic I posted for the VIPs a while back

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decided to draw my fav boys, then doodled myself as a goetia and an imp. feels like the closest I've ever gotten to a fursona

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Inbox Secret Santa Request! I love camp cuddles. Any or all companions, platonic or romantic. Cuddle pile works too.

Originally I had them in front of a campfire on a starry night, now it's more a Christmas card vibe. Hope this is close enough to cuddles for you (plus I tried to add in what the first secret santa asked for).

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just doodling bears. what you think?

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You know Ascended Astarion is the type of motherfucker that always wears heels so he's taller. Can't handle being shorter than anyone.

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Moxxie: Why is Fizzarolli crying on the floor? Blitz: He's drunk Millie: And... Blitz: He saw a picture of Asmodeus' boyfriend Moxxie: ...But he's Asmodeus' boyfriend Blitz: I fucking know

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first impressions

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The new updated kiss with Halsin is soooo worth it

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good afternoon. thinking about how even during the heat of the moment astarion’s probably hyperaware of the bite marks he leaves. because, ultimately, he never wants them to look like the ones he has that have been there for hundreds of years but still were so obviously a byproduct of brutality. a cruel reminder that he could not see, thankfully, but something he knows is there. can still feel.

even the first night you let him drink your blood. even when he very easily could go overboard and just keep going because he’s never been allowed to feed and be fed and has merely starved and got by for centuries. he tries. you’re saying his name and pushing at his shoulder far too gently for someone having their lifeblood drained, someone closer to death than they realize, and he pulls away far less delicately than he should. but you don’t look pained. you look tired. patient. concerned. for him. like he was ever the one at risk here, not your own safety. searching his face for something. you’re bloody but he does his best to clean you up. (not waste anything.) you can feel him hesitate whenever he gets close. see the way his eyes seem to want to look anywhere else besides your neck but also be drawn there at the same time.

and the next morning when you’re dazed and sporting twin punctures on the edge of your throat he finds himself repeatedly glancing at them. to him they do look raw. rough. he could have been more careful. he will be, if you ever let him again. but he won’t hold his breath. (not as if there’s any breath for him to hold, anyway.)

but you do let him. you welcome him. invite him in, every time, ever so patient. arms open and head tilted. smiling.

and that’s why he swallows his pride and shuffles off to shadowheart’s tent. hands clasped, smirk half-hearted, asking about salves, of all things. even with a raised brow and a few pointed comments, she still indulges. starts to make something for him but he interrupts and asks about the process. invested. which has her looking at him like he’s grown a second head. but she shows him. teaches him. and he’s eerily involved. rarely does he throw in any sort of remark. there’s no trickery afoot. it’s sincere.

and the next time (of course, there’s a next time, because you’re always so generous. with others but especially him, for whatever reason) when he feeds, licks you clean, laps up the remnants, you’re lightheaded but not lightheaded enough to not hear him rummaging around. feel his fingers (normally so cold but now warm. because of you. your blood fills him) swipe across the open wounds. and the stinging lessens. calms. whatever is there can’t be your own blood, because, surely, he got all of it. and it feels different. thicker. a balm on your aching skin. you catch the scent of something floral, earthy. when you sit up, you’re certain you see him stowing away a small jar. and when he brushes the hair out of your face, another wave of that smell hits you. you almost want to say something.

but you don’t. because his eyes are wide and open in a way they normally aren’t, and you can feel his haze on your neck. searching. concerned.

warm.