random-introverted-blog

[random-introverted-blog]

You guys are lucky sluts, I am what I started to suspect from a day or two before the deadline. Too exhausted to finish closing the blog. But that has opened up plenty of opportunities for thought.

I've gone through my inbox and have a master-ask-answer post in my drafts going through each ask.

And there's like somewhere between 8-10. It's insanity.

But some of these asks have made very well articulated points and cases for why the blog should continue to exist and hit me straight in the feels. Which is an accomplishment, because I struggle being emotionally unavailable.

So applaud yourselves for that, my cold unfeeling heart has grown three sizes in three days.

Anyway. Your asks have really sent me into this deep reflective analysis on how I feel now compared to how I felt before. And I've realized looking at things from before feels like someone else's life and not mine. I look at who I was and don't recognize the face that meets my eyes.

And I wanted to share that. And it will be a long ass tirade. No one has to read it.

It's about grief, friendships, relationships, (platonic) love, acceptance and more. I've learned so much that I wish I had understood sooner. So I'm hoping that what I have to say below, my typed out thoughts on grief, loss, pain and what comes after, can help someone else reach this understanding sooner.

We ready? You sure? It's heavy.

Alright then... Get comfortable, this a whole ass book.

Grief, and the crucible that forged stars incarnate

I didn’t come back the same. Because I didn’t come back at all—not in the way anyone expected.

And truthfully? I wouldn’t want to.

The version of me that once was—she didn’t survive. She couldn’t. She burned in silence, in confusion, in the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t ask for permission before it rewrites you. It wasn’t just pain—it was agony. Indescribable. All-consuming.

She screamed, she fought, she begged to be heard, to be understood, to be forgiven. And then she burned.

I didn’t notice at first. I was too busy grieving everything else—the places I thought I belonged, the anchors I trusted, the people I believed would stay.

I mourned everything before I realized I was mourning myself. And by then, there was nothing left of her but smoke.

I’ve walked through things I never thought I could survive. And maybe I didn’t—not as her. Not as the one who thought love and loyalty were enough to hold people who had already let go. Not as the one who would’ve shattered herself just to be allowed to stay.

She didn’t make it. And that’s not a tragedy. That was the beginning.

Not everyone who walks with you is meant to stay. Not every ending comes with answers.

Some silences are their own decisions. Some leave without looking back, without explanation, without ever acknowledging the depth of the bond that once was.

And sometimes, what you thought was mutual was never truly shared.

Some people disappear for their own peace.

I let them go for mine.

I’ve made peace with what I had to walk away from—the people I once trusted completely, the places I built my sense of self around, the versions of me that were shaped by needing to be wanted. They mattered. But they belong to someone I no longer am.

Grief doesn’t leave survivors. It leaves successors.

It doesn’t care who you meant to be. It shows you—unforgivingly—who you can never be again. It carves away every borrowed truth, every quiet compromise, every story you told yourself to feel safe. It strips you down to the bone and dares you to build something honest from what’s left.

And I did.

Not to be ruined. To be remade.

The grief that could have undone me became the forge. And in that crucible, I was hollowed out—Not destroyed. Refined.

I am what was forged in fire, shaped by grief, refined by choice, and tempered in the light I carved from my own darkness.

I haven’t just held on. I’ve transformed. I’ve been broken. I’ve been scorched. And I rebuilt—not as a ghost, not as someone waiting to be welcomed back—but as something entirely new. Rebuilt by intention. Not accident. Not tragedy. Unapologetically.

This isn’t about survival. It’s about emergence. This isn’t about returning. It isn’t about being untouched. I didn’t walk through fire just to beg for the comfort of what burned me.

I used to ache for reconciliation, for one more chance, for the kind of forgiveness that might have made the silence hurt less. But not anymore.

I’m done begging to be forgivable. I’m done apologizing for surviving. I’m done asking for peace from those who made me bleed for it.

I’m not returning to old rooms. I’ve outgrown the walls that once held me.

I don’t seek redemption. I became the result.

I’m done trying to be understood by people who chose silence over explanation.

I didn’t lose everything I loved just to ask what hurt me to love me back.

I don’t wear ashes as armor. I carry the flame.

I carry the memory. I carry the truth. And I carry the fire.

This is about becoming what no one saw coming.

What grief broke. What silence broke. What loss, abandonment, pain, and burning tried to unmake—

became something they can no longer name.

AND NOW WE MOVE ON TO WHAT TAUGHT ME ALL THIS ABOUT GRIEF.

Relationships—Platonic, romantic, familial. They all fundamentally work the same. All relationships run on need, not want. That's not selfish, that's sensible. And I've finally seen this for myself, plain as day. I've seen the ledger in my own blood. I’ve gambled in the casino of bargaining and regret (we can delve into that another time), breathing the stale musk of sleepless nights, sweat-cold anxiety, and tear-starched pillows.

I've been there.

I know now.

So I’m laying out what I learned—vulnerable, unpolished, and painfully earned—in case one person connects the dots faster than I did. If my metamorphosis spares even a single heart that extra spin of the wheel, every word is worth it.

Ready?

Platonic, romantic—Relationships are all the same

I’ve been through storms since then.

I’ve hurt people. I’ve been hurt in return.

Not out of malice, but out of fear, confusion, exhaustion.

I’ve made mistakes—real ones. Ones that scorched things I never meant to burn.

But in the aftermath, something different happened.

I saw people who stayed. People who didn’t vanish at the first sign of fracture. People who looked me in the eye and said, "Let’s talk about this."

People who chose repair over retreat.

And I chose it back.

We sat with the discomfort. We named the hurt. We held each other accountable. And together—we salvaged something worth keeping.

That’s what real friendship looks like.

Not perfect. Not painless. But present. Willing. Mutual. Brave.

No, I wasn’t owed a conversation. No one is. Yet real care finds its voice, and honest love insists on dialogue. When you’re truly wanted, the chance to work through the hurt appears; when you’re truly loved, the space to grow together is protected.

Because people who love you don’t leave without trying to understand you. When someone who swears they care strikes the deepest blow and calls it self‑preservation, they dodge the heat of reckoning but leave the other heart bleeding with unanswered whys. Proof that what felt like love was really want dressed as care, valid only while it cost them nothing.

That’s the instant affection collapses into transaction: convenience over commitment, want over need. Romantic or platonic, any bond that strikes, retreats, and brands its exit as protection shows its true color—comfort over connection, cowardice over compassion.

Healthy self-preservation is like a fire-drill exit—brief distance so no one gets burned; it raises boundaries, not blades. But when the door locks behind them and smoke still fills your lungs, their safety plan was never about both of you. The escape isn’t mercy; it’s a confession.

The instant that retreat refuses to face the harm it leaves behind, it stops being care and hardens into cruelty. Love that draws blood and then vanishes, draped in claims of righteousness, is cowardice wearing borrowed clothes. Trust the hands that stay to mend, not the lips that justify the damage and flee.

Every relationship begins with need—that’s neither selfish nor shameful. It becomes love only when the ledger balances both ways: my hunger matters and so does yours, and we guard each other’s warmth with equal vigilance, like mirrored flames.

It falls apart the moment one side begins counting only its own wounds. When my need stays on the scale but yours slides off, the balance tilts from partnership to extraction. Care becomes currency, traded only when convenient; love shrinks to whatever preserves my comfort first. That’s where the ledger of shared needs collapses—when tending your fire feels optional and mine becomes mandatory, when the warmth we promised to guard together flickers alone on your side of the night.

I believed I was held that close—loved enough that someone would fight for me with the same ferocity I pour into those I cherish. I trusted our bond to survive any reckoning, certain I was a heart worth meeting halfway.

But now I know: When someone wants to stay, they make the effort. When someone values you, they don’t choose silence. They don’t vanish. They don’t blindside you with cold cruelty and call it closure.

I may have been owed nothing, yet I still deserved more than erasure. A single star snuffed out in silence still sends its light across the dark; so too should a heart once held close. Stars guide without permission; so should love—steady, present, impossible to blot out.

And when someone leaves without a word—when they choose absence over honesty—it doesn’t mean they owe me anything.

But it does show me everything.

Silence offers no mercy. Escape grants no healing. And love doesn’t look like erasure.

I was honest about my fear of being left. I said it, clearly. And still, I was left—Not gently. Not kindly. But with judgment sharp enough to wound and no room to speak.

Just accusations and a closed door. A brutal exit wrapped in self-preservation. Silence held like a sword. Indifferent to the heart left bleeding—left to hemorrhage alone, deaf to unanswered hurt—reminding me that choice may permit parting, but compassion decides how you leave.

Departure is a right, yet taking it with a blade instead of a bandage unmasks the love you claimed to hold. Like a star that boasts guidance yet refuses to shine. The sky reveals the ruse: ease eclipsing empathy, fear parading as compassion.

And still—back then, I carried every shard of blame—convinced I was too much, too broken, fundamentally wrong to be worth keeping. I kept telling myself that if I’d sanded down every edge—quieter, easier, "better"—maybe abandonment would have passed me by. Some nights I still wonder if that was true of  the person who existed before grief reduced her to embers. I’m still imperfect, still becoming, but my worth no longer hinges on who stays or how loudly they approve; it lives inside me now, and that truth is what carried me forward.

Since then, I’ve witnessed the difference firsthand. I’ve watched other friendships crack—messy, tear‑stained, grief‑bright—but none of them ended in silence. Every rupture was met with a chair pulled close and a trembling, steady offer: "Let’s figure this out." No slammed doors, no fading footsteps—only effort, even in the ash.

Those relationships didn’t survive because we were perfect. They survived because we were honest. Because we tried.

And yes, in every one of those moments—when conflict came and things felt fragile—I braced for loss again. Because once you've been abandoned like that, once someone you've loved deeply discards you without warning, you start expecting it everywhere.

But they stayed.

And I learned something life-altering: Love doesn’t mean never hurting each other. It means staying at the table when you do. It means offering grace with accountability, not instead of it.

I wasn’t asking for an easy fix. I was ready to do the work. I was ready to grow. And I thought I’d be met in that place. I thought I was loved enough that we’d do it together.

I gave everything to that friendship. More loyalty. More vulnerability. More of myself than I even knew I could offer. I showed up, again and again, with my full heart. And for all I gave, I was erased—met with a silence sharp enough to cut through everything we’d built.

No words. No room.

Just gone.

I’ve made peace with it—not because it was fair, but because I finally saw what care should look like.

I don’t ask for forgiveness from those who never gave me the chance to be better. I give that chance to myself. And to the people who stayed. The ones who told me I was still worth hearing. The ones who looked at the mess and said, "We’ll work through it."

Because I’ve learned the difference now—companionship offered out of habit versus care given from the marrow; being wanted versus endured; truly loved versus merely tolerated. Some voices offer comfort only when the waters are calm—lip‑service friendships that disappear when the storm rolls in. Time reveals them all. Real devotion stays, rolls up its sleeves, and helps bail the water. When a spark flares into a sudden, catastrophic quarrel, those fair‑weather voices vanish beneath the noise, but true devotion steadies its tone, owns the hurt, and patches the hull beside you.

And that lesson is etched so deep I could never lose it again: I no longer hand over my heart—or the quiet honor of standing closest—to anyone who hasn’t earned it by staying through the storm.

I don’t share this to reopen wounds or cast villains. I share because stories instruct. If mine lets even one person spot the warning signs sooner, every word is worth its weight. I’m not swinging back; I’m lighting a lantern. If these bruises guide another through the dark, the hurt becomes useful. I’m learning aloud so someone else might recognize the difference before it costs them what it cost me.

The agony is gone; what lingers is a low ember—warm enough to remind me, never hot enough to rule me. These days the hurt feels more like an afterglow than a flame, a muted pulse that hums beneath the skin but no longer charts my course. I’m no longer breaking under it; the wound whispers now, proof of healing rather than harm. Losing that bond was a crucible, and if the price of becoming this sure of myself was letting go of what I swore I couldn’t live without, I accept the bargain.

The fire stripped away the girl who begged permission to exist and refined someone clearer, brighter in her place. I’m strangely thankful for every scorch mark, for the echo of ache that may never fully leave—because without it, I’d still be orbiting an old version of me. I’m better—resplendent—and grateful for the loss; it forced me onto my own path, focus on the people who stay, and live forward in a life entirely my own, not begging to be chosen.

I rise from cinders.

Brighter for every damn burn.

Wiser for the scorch.

Rewind the clock and I’d choose the fire again—keeping the scars that taught me to steer by my own stars. What burned became the night-sky map that guides me forward.

After all... Stars shine harder in the dark.

And that map is enough.

And I keep walking—grateful for every mile that carries us farther apart, because with each step I become more than anyone, including me, thought possible.

A friend of mine told me once over lunch that they never thought they'd hear me say "I don't care about that". My heart smiled when I heard that. Again, I am more than who I was. My stride is steadier now, my convictions firmer, my understanding of love and self sharper. The person they first met is long gone; the wind scattered her ashes months ago, and I have no wish to gather them back.

What I once mistook for love walked away when I needed it most. What I’ve seen since—the friendships that survived fire—showed me what love looks like when it’s brave.

It speaks. It stays. It softens, even while holding the truth.

Love doesn’t disappear when it’s inconvenient. It doesn’t weaponize hurt. It doesn’t leave you bleeding without warning and call it growth. It sits beside the wreckage and says, "Let’s rebuild."

What I thought was love didn’t do that. But I do now. And I’ll never confuse the two again.

Because effort isn’t silence. Love isn’t absence.

And grace never sounds like a slammed door.

[random-introverted-blog]

You guys got lucky. I'm still writing the Master-Ask-Answer post.

But I'm also working on a bit of a long-form reflection piece. For me, but also I've started to realize and mature my thoughts and feelings and beliefs on friendship, grief, love (platonic but also can be applied romantically) and my acceptance and accountability of who I was and who I am.

And I realized how I wish I understood sooner the things I do now.

So.

If my reflections, my inner monologue on what I've experienced can help someone's light-bulb pop on, and get where they need to be sooner than I did then I am more than happy to offer my very personal and intimate thoughts, beliefs and discoveries with you. Whether you're reading this now or a year or two from now.

Staaay tuuuuned. The blog may yet survive by the end of all this ❤️❤️❤️

[random-introverted-blog]

You crazy bastards

WHAT DID YOU GUYS DO TO MY INBOX??? You wait until the last minute?? The eleventh hour??

HALT THE PRESSES I—

Tumblr—TUMBLR

You're going to make me write one long master post of answers, alright? Surprised more of you seem fixed on SH than Astarion, though, that is something...

Send more if you want, I don't mind. Won't say my mind can be persuaded. But I'll listen honestly and openly to whatever you want to say ❤️🥹

I'm not the only writer to poof from the fandom, so I'm unsure where this outpouring is coming from?? This was not the general impression I had like, a month ago...

Blog deletion is still scheduled for June 20th but that may get pushed back due to unrelated life things going on and I just don't see myself having time to put a ribbon on things yet.

All the asks so far have been anons, so go balls to the wall if you want

[random-introverted-blog]

Me writing the scene I want to write

Vs me writing everything before the scene I want to write

Now I have to re-edit the thing because I read the thing and am not happy with it even though I told myself I was happy with it and would not look again but I looked at it again and now I'm not happy with it so I have to edit it despite having done 69420 edits so far to this SINGLE SEGMENT because its ugly to me now like how could I have ever been happy with this but it was fine before I looked at it but now I've looked at it again so now I have to—

[random-introverted-blog]

To whoever put it in my head to re-read FoL and Deny Me Not to see if it makes me nostalgic and miss writing Shadowheart stories

I hate you

[random-introverted-blog]

"So Vert, Oblivion was your childhood game, what's your experience with it?"

My experience with it:

Genuinely, it's great, everything I could have hoped for from a remaster of this incredible game. It inspired me to create my own worlds which later led to me writing at all.

Got me through a lot of... unpleasantness. So the timing was also great!

[random-introverted-blog]

ALRIGHT

THAT DOES IT

WHICH OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS USED MY LIKENESS WITHOUT MY CONSENT??? @oldlight117 ??? @cylinderarts ???

That was PERSONAL! I shared this selfie in private!

[random-introverted-blog]

This is a post I never thought I'd make. But I can't anymore. I've tried to move forward and move on from things. But things hurt too much and I can't bring myself to try.

I'm deleting the blog in two weeks, on June 20th. Save what you want, screenshot it, whatever you want to do.

I'm sorry it's come to this. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough soon enough. I'm sorry I'm a dramatic dick.

But I've learned a lot in the time I've spent here. This blog and the people I've met have really helped me grow and discover things about myself and the world I never would have otherwise.

My writing has improved so much, the way I handle conflict and stress has changed, I know how and when to be honest and open, and communicate before things escalate. How to not take things so personally, and allow and trust the people I love to correct my intrusive thoughts and feelings.

I've felt heard. And I think I've learned to hear my friends better too. And yes, to Oldlight I'm referencing the letter (I'm not using your real name in a public post).

I've uncovered ugly things about me that I wouldn't have without having been torn in two im March. I've salvaged friendships with people I otherwise would have lost. I feel like I'm who I thought I was. I can see where I was a dick, and took things for granted, and shut people out and made things difficult and painful when they didn't need to be. That I'm able to see who I was I think is reflective of who I've grown to be.

I've learned how to be vulnerable and honest in healthy ways. How to express when I'm hurt, or angry or when something is bugging me. That I don't need to martyr myself "we don't need to talk about me". How to not internalize it until it manifests in ugly, gross and ways that make me cringe every time I look back.

And I have so much more growing to do, so much to learn and improve. To be the good friend I want to be. To be the person I want to be.

But I can't do that staying here anymore.

I might have one more story I pop onto my AO3 in August. But the Tumblr will be long gone by then. And then I'm abandoning the AO3 too.

The people I've met, the connections I've made, I regret none of it. I only regret I didn't see it sooner. I wish I could have read the writing on the wall. I regret the friends I didn't get to connect with.

All good things come to an end, I guess.

So yeah. Thank you to everyone who has supported me, and loved me, and put up with me, past and present. To the pookies, to the bestie, to the Silver Star I used to spar with, to the memelords, to the guildmates...

Thank you for those who shared your stories and lives with me, as friends or acquaintances or passing faces. Thank you for reading mine, and making me feel like I mattered even briefly. Thank you for loving me in ways I didn't know could feel so good, so warm, unconditional, and accepting.

Thank you for walking with me through highs and lows, laughs and (here lately) many cries and anxiety attacks.

Thank you for hoping and believing in me and my dreams.

For enjoying my deep unyielding love for yandere tropes, Shadowheart and Astarion. My terrible memes, my awful humor, all of me.

Shar did have one thing right. Loss and grief are inevitable and in their wake, a strange freedom lingers. But emptiness is not the end. It is the breath between verses, the hush before a seed splits open.

You need to lose to make space. Space for new stars to take root, for light you’ve never known to find you in the quiet. Grief is a kind of winter. But even winter cradles the promise of spring. Beneath the frost, something soft stirs, not gone, only waiting.

Let the ache shape you. Let it hollow out a place where something tender and true can grow. And when it does, you’ll carry it forward not as a scar, but as a constellation only you can name.

I will miss you. The laughter and the silence, the moments that burned bright, and even the ones that hurt. We made something real. Messy, beautiful, imperfect. But ours. We shared wonder and weariness, joy and ache, tears and triumphs, late night words and quiet understandings that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. There were days we soared and days we barely held on, but through it all, we created something that mattered. I’ll carry all of it, the warmth, the sorrow, the hope. Not as chains, but as echoes and light. Thank you, truly, for what we built, for what we survived, for what we dared to feel. May what we were light the path forward, even if we walk it separately.

Goodbye. And may the next chapter be kinder to us both.

[random-introverted-blog]

His Star - His Queen [Chapter 11 - To Lose is To Become]

Link to the AO3 version Here Summary: You wake in pain, in a place too lavish to feel safe. The wounds on your back burn with purpose, not memory. Strangers tend to you. A familiar presence lingers—but changed, distant.

You're summoned. Watched. Moved like a piece already in play.

Something is missing. Something vast, ancient—unspoken.

Something new is beginning to take its place.

A/N: I'M SORRY I HAD THE AO3 ONE READY BUT NOT THE TUMBLR POST

We. Are. Back.

Hello again, Astarion Fandom.

Happy anniversary of the last update everyone. Sorry for the long wait. Last year was rough and the last almost four weeks of my life have been depression-hell. But I'm here. I'm trying to return to some semblance of normal. Bear with me while I work that out.

I'm still tidying up the outline but I put that off to focus on getting this out first.

I have noticed that the links to the Tumblr Index are broken. I'll make a new index soon and relink it to everything. Just got to give me a bit of time.

That all said. Trigger warnings, as always. I will live and die by trigger warnings and I will list them all to the best of my ability.

Warnings/Advisories:

-Non-consensual medical procedures / ritualistic scarring (implied body horror, arcane scarring)

-Recovery from injury / descriptions of physical pain -Psychological manipulation / coercive control -Memory distortion / unreliable perception -Invasive touch / unwanted physical contact -Power imbalance (captivity, forced proximity) -Implied loss of bodily autonomy -Implied threat of grooming / possessive obsession -References to identity loss / forced transformation

ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

My pretty. Little. Consort...

How you struggle so sweetly...

How predictable you can be.

Do you feel it?

Your heart. And mine.

Perfect. Harmonious. Strong.

Inseparable.

You will never know life without me again, my darling.

Nothing can unmake the artistry I've composed... The sonnet of power, devotion, and sovereignty.

My dark consort.

My eternal bride.

Wake.

And struggle no more.

With a start, you immediately gasp as a sharp, tender agony jolts through your back as you sit upright in... your room?

Your skin throbs, and pain radiates with each spasm of your back. Bandages wrapped around your torso are the only thing providing you any semblance of decency. There's something... different.

About the room? No.

About you.

You feel different, inexplicably so, as if the very fibers that compose your being have been rearranged or infused with something foreign. Everything familiar now carries a trace of the unknown, leaving you to wonder what has shifted beneath the surface.

Before you have time to ponder more on this, the doors to your bedchamber swing open and two unfamiliar figures in dark cloaks and hoods concealing their faces approach you.

Malacai stands just behind them, framed in the doorway, his posture precise, hands clasped behind his back. Ever the steward, ever the watcher.

"She spoke true. Lady Ancunín has awoken," one of them murmurs, a deep voice cutting through the still air.

Beyond the open doorway, two guards stand motionless on either side—silent sentinels watching the corridor, as if the world outside must be kept at bay.

One of the cloaked figures moves behind you, examining your back. "These dressings have fared better than the others, no stains on the linens. However, I fear your wounds still weep, albeit not as profusely." This one is a softer voice, feminine maybe.

The deeper voice speaks again. "The Aspirant will be here soon. She will provide more healing."

As you sit upright, a throbbing ache flares across your back with each beat of your heart. Every pulse sends a wave of pain rippling through you, sharp enough to catch your breath. It’s not just physical—it feels as though someone is wringing your soul like a soaked cloth. For a moment, you wonder if the pain might be enough to make you retch, despite the emptiness of your stomach and the pristine carpet beneath you.

Fragments of memory come to you, brief and disorienting. On your knees, a wet warmth running down your back and sides. You recall a dimly lit place, the flicker of candles casting long shadows, and the echo of chanting in a language you didn't understand. A flash of a figure standing over you, a blade glinting ominously in their hand, then pain—sharp and overwhelming. The memories slip away as quickly as they come, leaving you breathless and trembling.

You try to piece together the fragments, but they slip through your grasp like grains of sand. The throbbing in your back is a constant reminder of whatever ritual or attack you endured. You glance around the room, noting the opulence that seems at odds with your suffering. Why are you here? What happened to you? Questions swirl incessantly in your mind, like a relentless storm, fueling a growing determination to find answers.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat and focus on the cloaked figures. "Who are you?" you demand, your voice hoarse but steady. "What happened to me?"

The figure behind you remains silent, continuing to examine your back. The one with the deeper voice steps closer, his face still hidden. "You will learn in time, Lady Ancunín. For now, rest and let the healing begin."

Frustration bubbles within you, but you hold it back, knowing that pushing too hard may not yield the answers you seek. Instead, you file away every detail, every word, preparing yourself for whatever comes next.

As you wait, you let your gaze wander around the room. The walls are adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of myth and legend, and a large, ornate mirror hangs across from the bed. You catch a glimpse of yourself—pale, disheveled, bandages stark against your skin.

You shiver despite the warmth of the room, your skin clammy and cold. The soft rustle of the cloaked figures' movements is the only sound, a stark contrast to the pounding of your heart. You focus on the texture of the sheets beneath your fingers, the cool silk a small comfort against the chaos in your mind.

“Step aside,” snaps a voice, authoritative and familiar.

Malacai, still stationed near the door, inclines his head subtly as she enters. He doesn't speak or move further—just watches.

The figure closest to the door obeys at once, stepping aside as if repelled by the gravity of her arrival.

She glides into the room with the effortless grace of a predator, her dark robe flowing around her like shadows given form. The robe is open from the neck down to her mid-chest, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of skin, accentuated by moon motifs and flower petal-patterned gems that adorn her shoulders. It’s a seductive armor, designed to disarm, but it only serves to remind you of the dangerous creature wearing it—a copy of your dearest friend.

Shadowheart’s cold, merciless eyes command the same of the figure beside you, and they bow deeply as they obey. Once her gaze settles on you, it softens, and the rest of her hardened features follow. "It's good to see you're awake, Tav." She smiles, stepping closer to your side.

Flashes come back to you. Lights, voices, colors... screams.

The heart...

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, Tav." She says in a way that warns you she will not tell you twice. Her eyes and hands take on a dark, ominous glow and she steps behind you, and her touch on your back feels like solid ice. The sensation of which startles you enough for your breath to catch in your throat. "I can heal this, but the rest... will simply take time." Shadowheart mutters softly, apologetically. But not at all forthright with the full meaning of her words.

"Still stubborn, Taveth. That hasn’t changed."

The name hits a strange nerve—you haven’t heard it in ages. It was strange hearing your full name again—Taveth. Stranger still to think that the Other Tav, who never bore the Urge, never knew Bhaal, had it too. Funny, how even without the Urge, some things stay the same.

Malacai clears his throat, drawing your aimless gaze into focus. "My lady, if you feel well enough, His Almighty Majesty would be most pleased to see you're up and about." Your personal warden—Steward, you correct yourself—informs with perfect professionalism, his hands neatly clasped behind his back.

With the lift of her freezing touch, Shadowheart steps in front of you, partially blocking your view of Malacai. "Some things never change, do they?" The tired look in her eyes conveys the rest of her statement for her. However, the longer they remain on you, the... stronger, more piercing her gaze becomes. "A boy overlong playing a king and his men, stagnant in his ambitions and inflexible in his vision. Unchanging." Shadowheart’s gaze hardens, the warmth of any past camaraderie slipping away like the final rays of a setting sun.

She narrows her eyes, her voice dropping to a low, measured tone that feels more like a blade than a whisper. "Unchanging, like a shadow that refuses to fade, clinging to the past even as it slips away. He believes himself invincible, beyond reproach, and yet," her voice wavers, not from fear but from an anger long stewed, "he’s nothing more than a child with a crown, convinced that his whims shape the world. But we know better, don’t we?"

She straightens her back, looking down at you. "I hope to find out, at least. After your reunion, of course." The dark-haired Shadowheart concludes, stepping aside and waving for the two cloaked figures to do the same.

You hold her stare awhile, and she does not waver even slightly from yours. Her expression as cold as her eyes despite the simmering, lingering heat of her words. A brief memory of your Shadowheart, the two of you by the fire. Her terrible relationship advice as you navigated your relationship with Astarion after he confessed. You joked that she was intentionally trying to sabotage it. Karlach even agreed after she overheard.

A jest between two fast friends, and best friends faster still. In your heart, you couldn't fathom a world where you and your broody Sharran weren't close friends. And yet... something unsettled you about the way this version of her looked at you. Her eyes more guarded than your Shadowheart's. Even before she turned away from Shar.

Shadowheart’s gaze lingers just long enough to leave you wondering what might lie beneath it—resentment, longing, calculation. Then she turns on her heel, her robe trailing behind her like living shadow.

As she moves toward the door, her hand dips into a hidden fold of fabric. She pauses and extends her palm toward you, revealing a small obsidian vial, the liquid within a smoky swirl that seems to shift with her breath. "It will dull the pain enough for you to walk," she says without looking at you. "Temporarily."

You hesitate only a second before taking it. Her fingers brush yours for a moment—ice, again. There’s a strange tenderness in the gesture, buried under the iron shell of who she is now. "Drink it when you’re ready," she says softly, then slips out into the corridor, the sound of her footsteps vanishing like mist on stone.

The door closes, and you sit with the vial nestled in your palm. The pain in your back pulses with each breath, rhythmic and unrelenting. You glance to the mirror again. Pale skin. Bandages. Your eyes. You look like someone else wearing your own face.

Eventually, you lift the vial to your lips and drink. It burns cold, then hot, threading through your veins like coiled fire unwinding. The ache in your back dulls—still present, but manageable. Your legs shake slightly as you stand, but hold.

Malacai reappears as if summoned by your resolve. He nods once, crisply, but before he can speak, the door opens again behind him.

Elowen enters in silence, her grey skin catching the candlelight in soft reflections. Her horns curve back elegantly from her brow, her grey hair twisted into a series of small coils at the crown before tumbling down in a low, silken tail along her back. She carries a folded blouse in her hands—a soft cream color, crisp and freshly pressed.

Malacai steps aside without a word, giving her space.

Elowen doesn't meet your eyes at first, but when she does, there's something weary and apologetic in her gaze. "You'll want something more fitting than bandages," she murmurs, her voice low, careful not to scrape against the silence. "Here."

You nod once, and she steps closer, helping you gently into the blouse—maneuvering around your bandages with quiet care and a softness that doesn’t need words. She doesn’t speak again, and neither do you.

When she’s done, she gives a final tug at one sleeve to smooth it. Then she steps back, her hands briefly lingering at her sides before retreating behind her back.

Malacai clears his throat again, formal once more. "This way, Lady Ancunín. His Almighty Majesty awaits."

He gestures for you to come closer with a lazy flick of his fingers, never looking up from whatever ledger or tome occupies his desk. When you don't move fast enough for his liking, he finally turns to look at you—eyes trailing your figure with languid satisfaction, as though appraising a masterpiece only he is entitled to admire.

"Ah, there you are," Astarion purrs, voice smooth as wine. "Come here, darling."

His white curls fall in neat, deliberate coils—a sharp contrast to the black velvet of his doublet, where crimson thread coils in serpentine patterns over his shoulders and cuffs. He’s already writing something, calm and meticulous, as if your presence is a welcomed afterthought.

You stiffen slightly but obey, stepping closer until his hand finds yours and pulls you gently—but unyieldingly—into his lap. Even through the linen blouse Elowen had seen fit to button you into, you feel the rich texture of his finely tailored clothes beneath you—the velvet warm where it meets your back, the weight of his presence pressing into your spine like a vow you never agreed to.

From a drawer, he retrieves a long parchment and spreads it across the desk. Dozens of names, each neatly inked in curling script, sprawl across the page like choices in a game whose rules you were never taught.

"Humor me," he says, almost offhand. "Pick one."

You raise a brow. "Why?" You deadpan, "No 'how are you feeling?' No 'does it still hurt?' Not even a 'you look well enough to walk again'? You're practically poetry in motion, really."

Astarion smirks without looking up, a low chuckle vibrating in his throat. "Flattery will get you everywhere, darling—though you always did sound prettier when pleading."

He shifts slightly beneath you, reclining just a bit more as he gestures to the parchment. "A small tradition. A game, if you like. Names have power, after all. And power must be... tasted before it's claimed."

You're not sure what he means, but there's something in the way he says it—too smooth, too assured—that tells you any real answer would come wrapped in riddles.

Your eyes scan the list. Some are old-fashioned, others harsh or exotic. But one—Ardith—draws your attention for no clear reason. It's soft but strong. Weighty. Somehow… right.

You tap the name.

He looks at it and his smile deepens, something pleased—and unreadable—curling at the edges.

"Of course it would be that one," Astarion murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You glance at him, searching his face for some hint of what the name means to him—if it means anything at all. But he only smiles, soft and satisfied, like something inevitable has clicked into place. His fingers drift toward the inkwell near the edge of the desk, dipping a quill with a practiced, unhurried grace. He circles the name with a smooth, deliberate stroke of ink. Not too heavy. Not too light. Just enough to mark it.

"Ardith," he repeats, tasting it aloud this time, the syllables curling off his tongue like silk. "Strong. Poetic," he muses, letting the syllables linger in the air like a passing thought. "Unexpected, but... fitting."

You don’t respond. You’re not sure what to say. There’s something heavy in the way he says it—too weighty for something he claimed was a game.

The silence stretches between you. Your eyes fall to the parchment again, then to the desk beneath it. Everything in this room gleams—polished mahogany, embossed leather, delicate carvings etched into gold-lined drawers. All of it exudes a permanence you don’t feel within yourself.

You shift in his lap, and the movement pulls at the skin of your back. It stings—no, it burns faintly now, the pain returning as the vial’s effects wear thin. You don’t need a mirror to know what marks you now. You can feel them beneath the bandages—wrapped tightly around your upper torso and over your shoulders—raised, seared into flesh with a precision meant to be ritualistic. The sigils are unfamiliar, but their shape is something your nerves remember. Each curl and slash etched into your skin feels like a sentence in a language you haven’t learned, but your body understands.

The next breath, the next movement, pulls more than skin—it stirs something deeper, something written into you. Not like torn muscle or healing flesh—but like a rune redrawn. The pain that answers you is not sharp, not even searing. It's structured. It follows rules. As if the marks carved into your back are more than wounds—they’re instructions, still casting, still active. You don’t feel injured. You feel redefined.

Your body may heal, but something deeper is already shaped—and it isn’t yours.

The ache pulses in time with something not your heartbeat. A separate rhythm. Alien. Ancient. Like your spine has become a conduit for a spell you never agreed to, and your body is only now realizing the bargain it made. It’s not pain, not exactly—it’s resonance. Your nerves hum with it. Your bones remember it. And no matter how still you try to sit, it insists on being felt. The magic wants to be known. You reach instinctively for the fabric at your chest, fingertips brushing the edge of the blouse Elowen had buttoned for you. A practical kindness. A dignity preserved. But it feels like armor too thin for what’s to come.

Astarion doesn't notice your pause—or maybe he does and chooses not to speak on it.

Instead, he traces the edge of the parchment once, then folds it with careful precision. He runs a thumb over the crease and slips it back into the drawer like a keepsake, something not meant to be lost.

"And so it begins," he says quietly, though you can't tell if he's talking to you or to himself.

You turn your head slightly. "What begins?"

His eyes flick toward you, amusement dancing just behind them. He brushes a curl behind your ear with the same casual intimacy one might offer a pet. "Why, something new to hold onto, darling. You’ve already left so much behind. It’s only fitting you carry something forward—something that belongs to you, and only you."

You feel the chill in your chest, subtle but deep—like an anchor being lowered into your ribs.

The weight of his hand settles at your hip again, possessive but not forceful. The message is clear: you won’t need to ask again. The answer was already written when you sat down.

You stare at the folded parchment, and the name written within.

Ardith.

It nestles behind your eyes, like a word you’ve always known but never spoken—yet somehow, it echoes in the silence, as if it had been spoken anyway.

It doesn’t end with a door creaking shut, or the quiet before a storm remembers it's coming.

Just a silence that sinks in, low and heavy, like breath held too long.

The silence stretches, but not just between you and him. It stretches outward—across the city, across the sky...

You aren’t mourning Shar. Far from it. But some part of you keeps expecting the other boot to drop. You’ve seen what her silence looks like—it’s never peace. It’s never mercy.

No temples fell. No moon dimmed. No veil tore in the sky. It’s almost laughable. You could almost pretend nothing changed. Except it did—and the strangest part is how no one talks about it. As if the absence of a goddess isn’t worth mentioning. As if she was never there to begin with.

No one speaks her name. Not in fear, not in reverence. Just… nothing. A space where something should be, and they all refuse to see it.

Whatever happened to Shar... it was final. It felt final.

What came next wasn’t a hush. It was avoidance. It was refusal.

And it was louder than any scream.

ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

We did it! We survived a year! If you are still reading this, thank you. And I am genuinely sorry it took this long to update. I've had some not-insignificant changes in my life recently and this is my way of trying to refocus and... cheesy as it sounds, find myself again.

One way or another, we'll see this story to the end. Together.

Say Hi to me on tumblr sometime. My asks are open and I check it daily or every other day... but some asks might sit a bit while I figure out how to answer and not sound like an idiot, I'll be real with you.

Fun Fact: This chapter was originally going to follow Spawn!Astarion and crew, with some worldbuilding... a lot of it. BUT IT WASN'T INFODUMPING. Maybe I'll give it another shot in Chapter 12, eh? Hm?

[random-introverted-blog]

she’s definitely pulling late nights playing CoD and dunking on sexist men

[random-introverted-blog]

You ever get that feeling when you're writing that feels like mounting something on the wall? "More left" "Slightly to the right" "Too much right go back" "It's crooked" "Its not" "Who the fuck took the hammer?" Instead it's just like "That paragraph it too long" "Well now its too short" "Does it flow better here?" "Fuck?" "No" "What if they just died right now?" "Comma? No?" "Period? Don't know her, she blocked me on Myspace" "Fuck?" "No" "The prose is NOT purple!" "fuck?" "NO"

Anyway, HS-HQ update tomorrow, just rearranging the furniture

[random-introverted-blog]

His Star-His Queen - Chapter 11 Update

Friday. A year to the day of the last update.

That is all.

I am very confident in that time, even a time of day (but only for Eastern Standard Time, sorry everyone else, you're going to have to convert it 😥)

Keep your eyes peeled around 8:00 P.M EST Friday, April 18th.

You may even see the Ascendant in this chapter... 👀 And a certain cleric...

After three weeks of shit

PUUURE

SHIT

...

I believe I deserve to feel better.

So.

I want you all to imagine this is me from here on. Now if you excuse me I'm going to go be absolutely okay, and listen to Fake Happy by Paramore.

[random-introverted-blog]

Boy, do I have news for you then!

All the writers I tagged write Shadowheart fics! Special mentions to cylinder, oldlight, Strugglingcomet and Shadowfallen, all of which are the loves and lights of my life and fantastic writers in their own ways. Fogno, Shadowfallen and Comet write Dark Justiciar Shadowheart as well, and I know there's not many DJ writers left in the fandom... And Lyrus wrote a very good AU where Shadowheart is a mechanic

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five of your other fave writers. Spread the self-love!

Oh man, my five favorites of my own fics? Is this because you know I struggle to accept that my work is (so I've been told) good? Um... Uh... Well, I of course am very proud of His Star-His Queen (Astarion) so far. Need to tidy up my outline and all that, but I think the story is pretty solid for how it started. I've decided making a full story from a one-shot is, for me, a very bad idea but lesson learned 😅 Beyond that, the popularity it seems to have? I found a mention awhile ago that somebody was recommended the story from tiktok?? I didn't even know that was possible. And another person told me they were just looking for obsessive tagged stories and discovered Astarion/BG3 from it??? Hard not to feel a special way with those kinds of compliments and comments! Tumblr link to the chapter index is Here. I still think fondly of Deny Me Not Your Heart (Shadowheart) a little more lately. It's the one most Shadowheart readers tell me was their first story of hers, or mine, or both that they've read. Tumblr link is Here. Flickers of Loss (Shadowheart) will always hold a special place in my heart that nothing can replace. In my opinion, the world-building and the backstory that would have come out could very easily have been inserted into existing DnD lore. Though I wish I took more care in cleaning the narrative. Maybe someday. Tumblr link is Here but be aware that the final two chapters have not been cross-posted here yet. The full story for now is only on AO3.

I did help write Seed of Darkness (Shadowheart) with Shadowfallen and I'm proud of that one, too. Wrote Shadowheart mostly in that one and that may be one of my favorite versions of her I've written. She did the rest of the amazing work of making it cohesive and enjoyable. Tumblr link Here. ❤️ I'm proud of me. Proud of us 🥹 And last but not least I do find pride in my most recent Astarion one-shot, What You Really Meant. Hasn't been cross-posted to AO3 yet. Wow, alright, I managed to find 5! I pass the torch to these wonderfully talented and writer friends of mine! @cylinderarts @strugglingcomet2 @oldlight117 @callmelyrus @fogno Some of you might not have five just yet, but that's okay, I think. Maybe share a favorite scene or line you've written in place of a fic?

If I didn't mention you as my five, I promise it's nothing personal. All the love for your work and your faces 😘 KEEP IT GOING I WANT TO SEE THIS SPREAD ALL OVER TUMBLR ���👏👏

[random-introverted-blog]

Friends/family: Hey, are you oka—

Me:

[random-introverted-blog]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five of your other fave writers. Spread the self-love!

Oh man, my five favorites of my own fics? Is this because you know I struggle to accept that my work is (so I've been told) good? Um... Uh... Well, I of course am very proud of His Star-His Queen (Astarion) so far. Need to tidy up my outline and all that, but I think the story is pretty solid for how it started. I've decided making a full story from a one-shot is, for me, a very bad idea but lesson learned 😅 Beyond that, the popularity it seems to have? I found a mention awhile ago that somebody was recommended the story from tiktok?? I didn't even know that was possible. And another person told me they were just looking for obsessive tagged stories and discovered Astarion/BG3 from it??? Hard not to feel a special way with those kinds of compliments and comments! Tumblr link to the chapter index is Here. I still think fondly of Deny Me Not Your Heart (Shadowheart) a little more lately. It's the one most Shadowheart readers tell me was their first story of hers, or mine, or both that they've read. Tumblr link is Here. Flickers of Loss (Shadowheart) will always hold a special place in my heart that nothing can replace. In my opinion, the world-building and the backstory that would have come out could very easily have been inserted into existing DnD lore. Though I wish I took more care in cleaning the narrative. Maybe someday. Tumblr link is Here but be aware that the final two chapters have not been cross-posted here yet. The full story for now is only on AO3.

I did help write Seed of Darkness (Shadowheart) with Shadowfallen and I'm proud of that one, too. Wrote Shadowheart mostly in that one and that may be one of my favorite versions of her I've written. She did the rest of the amazing work of making it cohesive and enjoyable. Tumblr link Here. ❤️ I'm proud of me. Proud of us 🥹 And last but not least I do find pride in my most recent Astarion one-shot, What You Really Meant. Hasn't been cross-posted to AO3 yet. Wow, alright, I managed to find 5! I pass the torch to these wonderfully talented and writer friends of mine! @cylinderarts @strugglingcomet2 @oldlight117 @callmelyrus @fogno Some of you might not have five just yet, but that's okay, I think. Maybe share a favorite scene or line you've written in place of a fic?

If I didn't mention you as my five, I promise it's nothing personal. All the love for your work and your faces 😘 KEEP IT GOING I WANT TO SEE THIS SPREAD ALL OVER TUMBLR 👏👏👏

[random-introverted-blog]

welcome back, friend.

there was a kiss meme going around in these parts. could you be persuaded to give us a little Astarion smooch?

mayhaps - #31. after a small rejection?

Alright, alright *chin stroke minimum of three (3) times* Let's see if I still have the Astarion magic in me, eh?

What You Really Meant [Spawn!Astarion x Named F!Durge]

In the shadow-soaked stillness between guilt and want, he doesn't run—and neither do you.

Intended Audience: E... For Emotional - Mature. Had you for second, right? Right...? Wait, where are you—?

Who Be Smoochin?: Astarion x Named F!Durge! In second person! Let's try it out, hm?

The Bit: You once told him he needed a friend, not a lover—and Astarion agreed, because it kept him close to you. But after another kill you can't justify and a night spent on the cusp of breaking, he finally tells you the truth. He doesn’t just want to understand your darkness. He wants you. All of you. Even the parts you're afraid to give.

Warning/Advisories: (We're trying clean bullet points too instead of the mass clump I used to do. Growth!)

Emotional vulnerability

Discussions of guilt and violence

Implications of past trauma

Canon-typical blood references

Dark Urge themes (mentions of compulsion, loss of control)

Angst with comfort

Intimate (non-explicit) moments (I'm no smut queen)

Astarion being painfully soft (yes, that’s a warning)

Words, all the words (count): 1,041

If you're new or just forgot—I used to do a unique little bit and countdown before transitioning into the story of each one shot.

And I said this one already, but I thought I was so cool when I did it.

Is it a calling card? Is it cheesy? Maybe. But we're indulgent as fuck right now.

Writing art and breaking hearts in 3... 2... 1

ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ You told him once—"Maybe what you really need is a friend, not a lover."

And he smiled. Gods, he smiled like it didn’t break something in him. Like he meant it when he said, "I’ve held more people than I can count. An infinite parade of lovers. But a friend? I can’t think of a single one."

You believed it at the time. So did he. Almost.

But now? With the air choked in shadow and the trees twisted like bone?

Now, the truth comes crawling to the surface like rot under skin.

You’re sitting near the edge of camp, where the light begins to fray—where torches gutter too easily and the sky has forgotten how to be blue. There’s a heaviness in your blood tonight. Not grief. Not even guilt. Something in you feels permanently stuck in the space after remorse, like guilt is just another hunger now. Familiar. Empty.

The urge is quiet—but it’s there. It’s always there. Moving like smoke through your veins. Asking. Wanting.

Before it claws to the surface, sudden and sharp, demanding obedience.

It coils in your chest and pulses behind your teeth, telling you that you're not whole unless something breaks beneath your hands.

You killed someone again.

Not a bandit. Not a threat. Just… someone. And you buried them deep, beneath mud and bramble. The others don’t know.

But Astarion does.

You don’t hear him until he’s close—just the gentle shift of his boots over broken leaves, the soft brush of his voice against the still air.

"You always sit like that when you’re unraveling at the seams. It’s becoming one of your more tragic little habits."

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s cast in half-light—half-shadow. His hair, pale as moonlit silk, is a little tousled from the wind. It curls at the ends, feathering around pointed ears and the fine angles of his face. He looks like something sculpted from starlight and bone, too flawless to be real, too elegant to belong to anything as clumsy as nature. Skin like untouched snow.

You mutter, "You shouldn’t be here."

"I find myself saying the very same thing," he replies, stepping closer. "And yet…"

He crouches beside you, hands resting loosely on his knees. You feel the cold before he touches you—like winter pressing through your clothes.

And when his fingers brush your wrist, you flinch—not in fear, but because some part of you aches to lean into it.

"You told me once I needed a friend," he says, quieter now.

You tense. The words ring louder than they should.

"And I agreed," he continues, "because I thought... maybe that was better than nothing. That if I couldn’t have you, I could still have some part of you. Something real. Something close." His voice tilts with a hint of wryness. "And you’re not exactly the type to share easily, darling."

You finally look at him.

Astarion’s face is all clean lines and shadow. The hollows beneath his cheekbones, the grin—trademarked, polished, playful—is thinner now. Threadbare. His gaze is unreadable—deep garnet, glowing faintly in the dark. He’s watching you like you’re a page half-turned.

"But I lied, Rinessa."

Your breath hitches.

"I didn’t want just a friend. I wanted you. All of you. Even the parts you think are too ruined to want. And I told myself I could settle—could hold back everything I felt and be content with whatever pieces you were willing to give." He leans in then, not predatory, but like someone lowering his guard just enough to be wounded. "But I couldn’t. I can’t."

Your throat tightens.

"I’m not…" you start, but the words wither. "I’m not safe."

"Neither am I."

You shake your head, shame coiling tight in your chest.

"I killed again," you whisper. "I didn’t even know I was doing it—not at first. One moment I was talking to them, and the next…" You clutch your arms, nails digging into the fabric of your tunic. "I came back to myself and they were already dead. And gods, part of me—"

Your voice cracks. "Part of me felt relieved. Like something had been satisfied."

His hand reaches for yours. Cold. Steady. There’s no recoil.

"I know what it’s like," he murmurs. "To be shaped by something darker than you ever asked for. To feel that pull and mistake it for power." His thumb grazes your knuckle. "But we’re not defined by our worst moments. And you don’t have to face them alone."

You want to pull away. You don’t.

He lifts your hand, brushing his lips against your fingers. His mouth is cool—unliving—but not lifeless.

The touch sends a shiver up your arm, not from fear, but from how careful it is. Gentle, deliberate. Like he's afraid you’ll disappear if he’s too rough with you.

Then, slowly, he shifts closer. You feel the ghost of his breath near your cheek as he turns, face tilting toward yours—not rushed, not forceful, just present. Intent. The space between you narrows until there’s barely any at all.

And then he kisses you—your mouth, not your hand this time. Slow. Not seductive. Not a ploy. Just real. Measured. Earnest.

He pulls back just enough to hover there, foreheads nearly touching, his eyes half-lidded as if caught between staying and surrendering. His lips part, breath cool against yours.

"You said I needed a friend," he breathes, voice low. "But I think… we’re already something more than that. Aren’t we?"

He doesn’t define it. Doesn’t dare. But the shape of it is there—in every word, every look, every hesitation.

It's not just friendship. Not just want. It's something in between, and maybe that’s all either of you knows how to give for now.

You meet his eyes. And there it is—no flirtation, no mask. Just a flicker of something raw.

Something honest.

"So let’s stop pretending," he says. "I didn’t want your friendship because it was easier. I wanted it because it kept me close to you."

He exhales, slow and quiet.

"I’ve stopped lying to myself about what I really want." His eyes don’t leave yours—unguarded, aching. "I’m tired of reaching for you from a distance. I think—I want… something real. With you."

You don’t say yes. You don’t have to.

The way your hand tightens in his, the way your breath shakes, the way your heart quiets—it’s enough.

And for the first time in a long while, the darkness doesn’t press in to devour you.

It makes room.

ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

...

*shyly and awkwardly peeks out from behind a really smooth and aesthetically pleasing rock* did... did my first Astarion story since I came back... was it good?

This was fun, regardless. I decided to try out a named character instead of a reader. Fingers crossed if it's any good. I think it's fine, but who knows, I'm the writer, not the reader.

Thanks @oldlight117 for the kiss prompt! It wasn't a Shadowheart one like the original ask game, but I hope it's still okay!

[random-introverted-blog]

Just last week I was revisiting this blog AFTER MONTHS and rereading everything, reliving just how wonderful all of your writing was and was wondering what would happen to this blog. And not even a week later, you’re back! 😭🤍 welcome back! Can’t wait to see what you have in store

The timing is perfect then! And thank you for the warm welcome back! I've missed being here and can't wait to share what I have in store! HS-HQ Chapter 11 for sure. A one shot or two? And a kiss prompt I was sent earlier today but that one I have to think about a little longer 😊