sydney n1

what are THESE. where are my pretty drawing room curtains

* @betraal ! butterflies. our muses doing something new in bed.

perhaps, they should've been more thorough. or perhaps not, as the predicament the two now found themselves in wasn't unwelcome, so much as it was unexpected in it's severity. the flower had been a brilliant shade of violet, an iridescent sheen to it's petals when it hit the light, and scent that was so sickly sweet it had astarion blanching the moment they got within it's vicinity. " i do believe that is the one, dear. " he'd remarked with interest, and daemos had plucked the plant from it's earthly home with ease. the sudden puff of shimmering particles that scattered about the air after it had been severed might as well had been the first red flag. initially, there had been nothing. no sign of anything ailing either one of them, just that saccharine scent invading his nostrils and making him a tad dizzy with it's intensity. but that had been then, and this was now.

skin is flushed a pale pink, snowy curls sticking to his forehead as his form trembles with the anticipation of the unknown. he felt like he was ablaze - every inch of his body stung, and astarion can only assume that that godsforsaken plant had been imbued with something infernal, too much and not enough all at once. it has him keening into sheets and biting down miserably on cotton pillows with an ungodly amount of drool puddling against the fabric. words escape him, and the worst part is daemos has done nearly nothing. a few tantalizing touches here, the undoing of his smalls, some reassuring kisses and calming praises but it does little to satiate the urge.

truly he thinks he might die like this. he attempts to utter a plead, beseech his lover to touch him, end him, anything at all, but all that comes out is slurred 'please.' he ponders if daemos is equally affected, blurred gaze falling over to the sorcerer who seems just as impassioned, stare blown out, almost wild. it sends a shiver down his spine, a wanton gasp tumbling from his lips as he stirs against sweat soaked sheets, calf hooking against the draconians thigh and urging him closer. the action is both as agonizing as it is euphoric but astarion can help himself no longer, agile fingers reaching out to pull the other's larger hand toward him, mouth enclosing around two of the digits. the vampire feels daemos tense, his unrestricted hand palming at astarion's thigh and squeezing hard enough to make the other see stars, blazing heat shooting between his legs which harbours a painfully at attention erection. he's been leaking an unusual amount of precum since they started this fiasco, abdomen and legs covered with the viscous liquid to the point it's positively filthy. he releases daemos's fingers with an unceremonious pop, spittle forming a thin web that dangles then plops onto his chin, where he lets it stay as he catches their stare, as if in wait for direction.

the pace at which daemos makes to touch him is excruciating and it takes whatever willpower he has left to keep him from babbling incessantly, but as he watches his dearest sink to their knees, astarion prays to whatever gods had felled him previously that he doesn't collapse. hot, daemos's hands are sweltering against him, smoothing over his thighs and moving the leg he'd had held against them prior to sit over his broad shoulder, grasp locking around his hips and pulling him forward so his ass hangs over the side of the bed, exposed to the raging inferno that is his lovers body heat. he's holding his breath as though he needs to, bottom lip pulled between teeth and fang, a pretty shade of vermillion from the amount of abuse he's been putting it through the last few minutes, fingers that hold his top half up twisting into the sheets, knuckles ashen. there's a beat or two, a moment where there room begins to spin, and then daemos's mouth descends upon him.

and then he died for the second time - or at least it feels like it, immediately plummeting into the mattress as his arms give out beneath him, a wail ripped from his throat into the eerie quiet as the wet heat of daemos's tongue envelops his cock with a fevered and practiced expertise that has tears pricking the corners of his eyes. back bows while his hands claw at the blanket like a madman, nails ripping through the fabric as though it's parchment, fang breaking the skin of his lip but the pain is a dull ache amidst every other sensation he's feeling. blood gushes out of the puncture wound and rolls down his chin, inhuman sounds catching in his chest but daemos doesn't appear to mind in the slightest, that same very skilled tongue seeming to encapture him completely, not a sliver of nerves left untouched. a sob wracks his wound up form, toes curling as his thighs shake at the contact, hand shooting to knot in the other's hair, pulling at the strands hard enough that anyone who wasn't daemos would most likely find it unbearably painful, but his beloved of course, only moans in response. the vibration is all it takes to push him over that sinful peak with how sensitive he is, the muscles in his abdomen spasming pitifully as he unloads what astarion considers an unholy amount of cum into the sorcerer's mouth.

he's not sure how long he lays there for, a crumpled pile of bodily fluids and colorful dots dancing across his field of vision, but he feels daemos rise from the floor and scoot him back onto the bed fully, wood creaking at the change in position. he hears them say something, draws his attention as his head tilts to find his face and try to decipher what their lips are saying despite the ringing in his ears.

as he comes to finally, once again attune to the sounds around them, astarion realizes something well and truly damning. well, two things. one being that daemos looked fairly physically imposing where they remain at his bedside, clearly in need of their own attending ( astarion's mouth waters at this fact, his body desperately moving to sit up and make their way toward him, hands reaching out to pull at their wrists muttering a 'let me take care of you sweet thing' ) and two, the more perilous of these thoughts, was that he was hard. again.

" oh by the gods. "

reblog only if you’ve received less than 1000 boops! we can all get each other to “max”

Kidnapped and experimented on by aliens but I was in the control group so nothing happened

if you opened discord’s april fools day loot boxes how long did it take you to get all the items? it took my friend 18 boxes but me 65 and i want to see how bad my luck is

a lot of YA and fantasy stuff has always been a little cringe and silly but at least it used to be cringe from the heart instead of designed in a lab to get teens on tiktok to use a certain sentence from it

from that "whats the most expensive item of clothing you own" poll i reblogged.... u are not serious people dot gif

PSA

If you happen to stumble upon an ad that looks like this, DO NOT SCROLL DOWN.

The rest of the ad is a very tall GIF of strobing red light that can potentially cause seizures. You cannot scroll past this ad quickly enough to avoid seeing it.

There seems to be no way to report the ad, so the next best thing is to use an adblocker (if you haven’t already) or even stay off the mobile app.

Please reblog to help spread awareness.

UPDATE (10/13/2023): The ad was reported back in August and is no longer on the website, per @humans.

jax walked so caine could run float

[AFTER REVEALING VERY TELLING PERSONAL INFO] But don’t read into that. let’s move along

Halloween stores when Margot Robbie wears a cute outfit in a movie

Nervous Reunion

Bonus:

favorite thing ab chatgpt is that if it doesn’t know something it’ll just start fucking lying. like blatantly fucking lying.

my dad teaches english classes and he just got a final paper with this sentence: “In terms of style, both poets are known for their use of imagery, but O'Hara's tends to be more straightforward and concrete, while Stevens' is often more abstract and metaphorical — for example, in O'Hara's poem "The French / Window," he writes: "A cat walks along the garden wall / and the tree waves its branches / The French / windows are blah" (lines 1-4).”

the thing about “The French / Window” is that it is not a poem that exists. at all. like, it was literally just written by chatgpt then inexplicably named as a famous frank o’hara poem. and it’s so. fucking. funny. sooo basically heads up for finals season — those of you who use chatgpt, be warned, because you will quite literally be citing nonexistent texts and your professors will show it to their daughters and together they will laugh at you endlessly and you will deserve it

I'm not talking "to people who know you well" I'm talking "a stranger is checking your id"