I Have Launched A New Blog!

I have launched a new blog!

And Now...for Something different

Hey there, magical misfits and word weavers!

Guess who's conjuring up something wickedly wonderful? That's right—this witch is stirring her cauldron and launching a brand-new blog! 🧹✨

If you've ever pondered the mysteries of the universe between sips of chamomile tea, or found yourself debating the merits of ancient rituals versus modern practices (while your candles burn down to stubs), then boy, do I have a treat for you! After the cut lovelies!

Over the years, I've danced with Hekate under the moonlight, delved into the Greek Magical Papyri, and even sprinkled in a dash of my mother's Indian folk wisdom for good measure. I've wrestled with the commodification of the Craft (looking at you, overpriced crystal sellers) and embraced the beautiful complexity where science and witchcraft intertwine like ivy and oak.

So what's brewing on the new blog?

Magical Musings: Where I'll spill the enchanted beans on everything from historical witchy wonders to my latest thoughts on decolonizing our practices. Prepare for deep dives—with a splash of cheeky commentary, of course.

Reverent Rituals: Step into my sacred space as I share personal rituals and spells that are potent yet accessible—no unicorn tears or dragon scales required.

Purpose & Practice: Let's get down to the nitty-gritty of building a meaningful Craft without selling your soul (or your savings) for fancy tools. It's all about intent, baby!

Shadows & Selfsame: Join me on a journey through shadow work and self-exploration. Because even witches need to face their inner goblins.

Chosen Circle: A curated collection of resources, community shout-outs, and maybe a cat meme or two. Connection is magic, after all.

I care deeply about this path we're walking—respecting its roots, challenging the fluff, and finding that sweet spot where tradition and personal growth meet. If you're ready to explore the Craft with a dash of humor and a whole lot of heart, come fly with me!

So grab your broomsticks and let's embark on this enchanted adventure together. Trust me, it's going to be spellbinding. 🔮 https://www.tumblr.com/teaandbroomstickscafe

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Interlude 2 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 , Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 119k

Warning: Hey everyone 💖—I just wanted to give a quick heads-up before diving into These Little Scraps of Misery. This interlude gets pretty heavy, dealing with emotional distance, power struggles, and some tough moments between Sima and Astarion after Chapter 16. If you find yourself sensitive to themes like dominance, manipulation, or trauma in relationships, please take care of yourself first. Your well-being matters more than anything, so feel free to skip or pause if it gets too much. I’ve included this interlude to really show how the cracks are forming in their relationship. There’s love, but it’s complicated, and this is a pivotal moment for them both. Thank you all for sticking with this story—it means the world to me. Take care, and as always, I’m here for any questions or thoughts. 💕

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 17: Oct 23 2024

Song of the Hour: When the Party's Over - Billie Eilish

Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist AO3

After the Cut!

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Five days. It had been five days since Astarion’s hands had last touched her. Since his breath, hot against her neck, had sent both pleasure and pain rippling through her skin. Five days since she had felt that correction. The marks it left were far more than physical.

She hadn't let him near her since.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t press. But she felt his eyes on her, probing, wondering, waiting. Astarion was patient, and she wondered if he was counting the days, too.

Five days. Has it really been that long?

The question drifted through her mind, but she let it fall away, unimportant now. Everything felt unimportant now. The palace was quiet, save for the low murmurs of the spies and servants, moving like shadows beyond her closed doors. The same doors that separated her from him.

Sima found herself staring, hours passing without notice. She sat in her chambers, lists and papers spread before her, detailing plans for expansion, ideas for their future domain. Their domain —that’s what it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? She was supposed to be his partner, the one to stand by his side. To turn, to become what he was. What he wanted her to be.

Her fingers trembled as they grazed the parchment, a reminder that her body still reacted, even when her mind did not. She felt the echoes of that night in every step, in every breath. She had told herself she enjoyed it. Hadn’t she? I did. I wanted it... But the more she thought about it, the further away the truth seemed to drift, until it was swallowed up by the quiet void that had taken root inside her.

A part of her wished to forget, but the memories lingered. His hands on her body, his breath against her skin. His voice, sharp with dominance, with possession. It had thrilled her once— hadn't it? But now... it was like a shadow creeping over her, making her shudder in ways that had nothing to do with desire.

She had wanted him, right until she hadn’t.

That was the worst part. She had wanted it. Right up until the moment when his strength became too much, his grasp too tight, his words too cruel. Until the game shifted and she found herself no longer playing. She had become the piece to be moved, controlled, corrected.

And she had let him.

The memory came unbidden, slipping through the cracks in her resolve.

She had been in bed, beneath him. The sheets had felt too cold against her skin, but his body was hot, almost suffocating. His hands had moved over her, rough, demanding, and she had responded—out of habit, out of reflex. She had touched him like she always did, traced the familiar lines of his muscles, the planes of his body.

But inside, she had felt nothing.

She went through the motions, her fingers grazing his skin, her lips parting with practiced ease. She had played her part well enough, but somewhere in the middle of it all, she had drifted. She had become numb.

His hand had tightened around her thigh, and still, she hadn’t flinched. His breath was hot against her neck, his voice a low growl in her ear, but all she had heard was the distant echo of her own thoughts, spiraling deeper and deeper into the hollow space inside her.

And then, he had looked at her.

He had paused, his gaze searching, probing, trying to find something in her expression. His fingers had brushed her cheek, a gesture that might have been tender, but it felt foreign. Alien. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

Her eyes had remained open, staring at him, but she didn’t see him. She wasn’t really there.

He had noticed. She knew he had. The way his movements slowed, the slight tension in his body... he had known something was wrong. But he had said nothing.

When he finished, he had left the bed without a word, slipping from her chambers and leaving her alone in the cold sheets. He hadn’t come back.

That had been five days ago.

She had avoided him since, avoided his touch, his voice, his presence. He gave her space, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever. He was waiting, watching, always watching, as if waiting for her to slip, to fall, so he could pick up the pieces and mold them back into what he wanted.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating. She was slipping, falling into herself, the world around her becoming distant, muted, as if she were watching from far away. She went through the motions—plans, meetings, strategies for the upcoming ball—but none of it felt real. None of it mattered.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her chambers, the silence wrapped around her like a shroud, and she could feel the distance between them widening with every passing hour.

Five days.

Has it really only been five days?

She had tried to keep herself busy, to focus on the ball, on the intrigues Astarion had set before her. It was supposed to be her chance, her opportunity to prove her value, her skill. He had praised her for her persuasive tongue before, the way she could bend others to her will with nothing more than a few well-placed words. She was supposed to use that skill tonight.

But all she could think about was his hands. The memory of them on her throat. The bruises they had left, both visible and invisible.

Her mind drifted again, back to the moment when she had first realized how wrong it had all gone. She had told herself it was still part of the game, still part of their dangerous dance.

That this was what she had wanted, what she had craved. But the truth was colder, sharper. The line between pleasure and pain had blurred, and she had let it happen. She had let him cross that line, without a word, without protest. She had allowed him to take what he wanted, and now she was the one left with the scars.

You wanted this... didn't you?

The question echoed in her mind, but no answer came. She couldn't bring herself to confront the truth, couldn't face the weight of her own complicity. So, she pushed it down, buried it deep inside the hollow place where the rest of her emotions had retreated.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, her knuckles white as she held on, trying to anchor herself in the present. But the memories kept pulling her back, dragging her under.

Five days...

She could hear his voice now, distant but clear, discussing the ball, the upcoming intrigues, the schemes they were meant to execute together. He spoke of power, of control, of manipulation, and all she could think of was his hands. His breath on her skin. The way he had looked at her that night, with something that wasn’t love, wasn’t passion.

It was dominance. It was possession.

And now, as she sat in the silence of her chambers, she could still feel that dominance clinging to her, wrapping around her like chains. The more she thought about it, the tighter those chains became, until she could barely breathe.

She closed her eyes, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to think, impossible to feel anything except the cold, creeping numbness that had taken hold of her heart.

But she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not tonight.

Tonight was the ball. Tonight, she had to play her part. The Veiled Night Ball was her chance to prove her worth, her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of vampire politics. Astarion had said so himself, in those quiet moments over breakfast, when he had tried—and failed—to pull her back into their usual games of flirtation and innuendo.

She had deflected with precision, dodging his verbal traps with ease. He hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t questioned why she hadn’t slept in his chambers for the past five nights. Maybe he was giving her space. Or maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for her to come to him.

But she wouldn't. Not yet. She couldn't.

The thought of his touch made her stomach twist, made her skin crawl. She had once craved his touch, the way it had made her feel alive, powerful. But now, it was a reminder of how quickly that power could be taken away, how easily the balance could shift.

She wasn’t ready to face him. She wasn’t ready to admit that something had broken between them. That something inside her had cracked, and she wasn’t sure if it could be mended.

Five days.

Sima's reflection stared back at her, but it wasn’t the woman she had once been. Her skin, rich and dark like the earth beneath a setting sun, had always carried strength, a beauty that defied the scars of her past. But now, her features seemed dulled, her spirit suffocated beneath layers of silence and pain. Her eyes, usually fierce and unwavering, were hollow, distant—a reflection of the woman she had become.

A hollow version of herself.

But she couldn’t allow that. Not anymore.

She took a deep breath, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the vanity as she straightened her spine. Her body responded instinctively, as if reclaiming the posture she had once mastered. The gown clung to her form, the corset cinching tighter, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt... grounding.

The woman in the mirror was still there, waiting to be called upon.

Her eyes flickered, the hollowness replaced by something else. A spark of defiance. A slow-burning ember of strength. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not tonight. Not ever. Astarion was watching, always watching, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Sima adjusted her gown, smoothing the fabric over her hips. Her hands steadied, no longer trembling as they had been just moments before. Her gaze sharpened, no longer lost in the haze of memories and pain. Instead, her mind settled on the present, on the ball, on the role she was meant to play.

You are stronger than this, she reminded herself.

And she was. She had survived worse. She had endured the horrors of Calimport, had clawed her way out of the shadows. She had rebuilt herself once, and she would do it again. Piece by piece, she would reclaim what had been taken from her.

Her back straightened, her shoulders pulled back as she lifted her chin. Her eyes, no longer distant, gleamed with a quiet fire, the kind that could burn through anything, even the silence that had threatened to swallow her whole.

She was ready now. Ready to face the world again, to wear the painted face of grace and strength that had carried her through so much before. Tonight, she would step into the ballroom with her head held high, her heart steady, her gaze unwavering.

Astarion might be waiting for her, but he wouldn’t see the woman who had crumbled beneath his touch. He would see the woman who had survived it, who had taken that pain and turned it into something stronger.

The mask was in place.

Sima rose to her feet, her movements fluid and deliberate, the embodiment of grace and control. She drew in the last of her makeup; a small black dot, behind the ear, drawn to ward away the evil eye. It was a reminder of her mother, her power, and her resilience in the face of whatever lay ahead.

She would play her part tonight, but it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for herself. To prove that no matter what had happened, no matter what corrections he had imposed, she was still her own.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced once more at her reflection. Not broken. Not lost.

And certainly not his to fix.

Bill Sienkiewicz

🩸 Announcing: Astarion’s Thirst Collection! 🩸

Calling all Astarion fans! If you've been waiting for a place to showcase (or enjoy) thirst for our favorite vampire in both his ascended and unascended forms, I've created the Astarion’s Thirst collection on AO3. 😈 Whether it’s sensual, dark, explicit, or anywhere in between, this collection is for those of us who appreciate the steamy and seductive sides of Astarion! 💋

🔞 Details:

Mature and Explicit works are welcome!

Sensual works, dark romance, dubious consent, and kinks are all accepted (just make sure to tag properly).

OC x Astarion, Tav x Astarion, or even solo explorations of Astarion's thirst—all ships welcome! 🍷

Exploitative content on Astarion’s trauma might not fit, so contact me if you're unsure.

📌 Ascended or unascended, both are welcome! Join here and DM me if you have questions. If you are interested in having your work added to this collection, please feel free to just add yourself! I might also request invitations of works I think would be great but let me know what you guys think! Please consider reblogging to get the word out! Update: Ao3 guide on how to add your work to this collection!

To add your own work to someone else's collection:

Select the "Edit" button from the work's page, and scroll down to the "Associations" section.

Enter the collection name in the "Post to Collections / Challenges" field. You can start entering the collection's name, and the autocomplete list will populate with collections you can choose from. You can add the same work to multiple collections. For us its Astarion Thirst (Astarion_Thirst). It might take a bit of loading but it will show up (Yes, there is no 's)

Select "Post" to apply your changes.

If the collection is unmoderated or you're a member of the collection, your work will be immediately added to it. (Thats us!)

sass master astarion

screenshot paintover! bg is just from said screenshot lmao. total time: 10h

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Interlude 2 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 , Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 119k

Warning: Hey everyone 💖—I just wanted to give a quick heads-up before diving into These Little Scraps of Misery. This interlude gets pretty heavy, dealing with emotional distance, power struggles, and some tough moments between Sima and Astarion after Chapter 16. If you find yourself sensitive to themes like dominance, manipulation, or trauma in relationships, please take care of yourself first. Your well-being matters more than anything, so feel free to skip or pause if it gets too much. I’ve included this interlude to really show how the cracks are forming in their relationship. There’s love, but it’s complicated, and this is a pivotal moment for them both. Thank you all for sticking with this story—it means the world to me. Take care, and as always, I’m here for any questions or thoughts. 💕

Status: Ongoing

Chapter 17: Oct 23 2024

Song of the Hour: When the Party's Over - Billie Eilish

Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist AO3

After the Cut!

Interlude: These Little Scraps of Misery

Five days. It had been five days since Astarion’s hands had last touched her. Since his breath, hot against her neck, had sent both pleasure and pain rippling through her skin. Five days since she had felt that correction. The marks it left were far more than physical.

She hadn't let him near her since.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t press. But she felt his eyes on her, probing, wondering, waiting. Astarion was patient, and she wondered if he was counting the days, too.

Five days. Has it really been that long?

The question drifted through her mind, but she let it fall away, unimportant now. Everything felt unimportant now. The palace was quiet, save for the low murmurs of the spies and servants, moving like shadows beyond her closed doors. The same doors that separated her from him.

Sima found herself staring, hours passing without notice. She sat in her chambers, lists and papers spread before her, detailing plans for expansion, ideas for their future domain. Their domain —that’s what it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? She was supposed to be his partner, the one to stand by his side. To turn, to become what he was. What he wanted her to be.

Her fingers trembled as they grazed the parchment, a reminder that her body still reacted, even when her mind did not. She felt the echoes of that night in every step, in every breath. She had told herself she enjoyed it. Hadn’t she? I did. I wanted it... But the more she thought about it, the further away the truth seemed to drift, until it was swallowed up by the quiet void that had taken root inside her.

A part of her wished to forget, but the memories lingered. His hands on her body, his breath against her skin. His voice, sharp with dominance, with possession. It had thrilled her once— hadn't it? But now... it was like a shadow creeping over her, making her shudder in ways that had nothing to do with desire.

She had wanted him, right until she hadn’t.

That was the worst part. She had wanted it. Right up until the moment when his strength became too much, his grasp too tight, his words too cruel. Until the game shifted and she found herself no longer playing. She had become the piece to be moved, controlled, corrected.

And she had let him.

The memory came unbidden, slipping through the cracks in her resolve.

She had been in bed, beneath him. The sheets had felt too cold against her skin, but his body was hot, almost suffocating. His hands had moved over her, rough, demanding, and she had responded—out of habit, out of reflex. She had touched him like she always did, traced the familiar lines of his muscles, the planes of his body.

But inside, she had felt nothing.

She went through the motions, her fingers grazing his skin, her lips parting with practiced ease. She had played her part well enough, but somewhere in the middle of it all, she had drifted. She had become numb.

His hand had tightened around her thigh, and still, she hadn’t flinched. His breath was hot against her neck, his voice a low growl in her ear, but all she had heard was the distant echo of her own thoughts, spiraling deeper and deeper into the hollow space inside her.

And then, he had looked at her.

He had paused, his gaze searching, probing, trying to find something in her expression. His fingers had brushed her cheek, a gesture that might have been tender, but it felt foreign. Alien. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

Her eyes had remained open, staring at him, but she didn’t see him. She wasn’t really there.

He had noticed. She knew he had. The way his movements slowed, the slight tension in his body... he had known something was wrong. But he had said nothing.

When he finished, he had left the bed without a word, slipping from her chambers and leaving her alone in the cold sheets. He hadn’t come back.

That had been five days ago.

She had avoided him since, avoided his touch, his voice, his presence. He gave her space, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever. He was waiting, watching, always watching, as if waiting for her to slip, to fall, so he could pick up the pieces and mold them back into what he wanted.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating. She was slipping, falling into herself, the world around her becoming distant, muted, as if she were watching from far away. She went through the motions—plans, meetings, strategies for the upcoming ball—but none of it felt real. None of it mattered.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her chambers, the silence wrapped around her like a shroud, and she could feel the distance between them widening with every passing hour.

Five days.

Has it really only been five days?

She had tried to keep herself busy, to focus on the ball, on the intrigues Astarion had set before her. It was supposed to be her chance, her opportunity to prove her value, her skill. He had praised her for her persuasive tongue before, the way she could bend others to her will with nothing more than a few well-placed words. She was supposed to use that skill tonight.

But all she could think about was his hands. The memory of them on her throat. The bruises they had left, both visible and invisible.

Her mind drifted again, back to the moment when she had first realized how wrong it had all gone. She had told herself it was still part of the game, still part of their dangerous dance.

That this was what she had wanted, what she had craved. But the truth was colder, sharper. The line between pleasure and pain had blurred, and she had let it happen. She had let him cross that line, without a word, without protest. She had allowed him to take what he wanted, and now she was the one left with the scars.

You wanted this... didn't you?

The question echoed in her mind, but no answer came. She couldn't bring herself to confront the truth, couldn't face the weight of her own complicity. So, she pushed it down, buried it deep inside the hollow place where the rest of her emotions had retreated.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the vanity, her knuckles white as she held on, trying to anchor herself in the present. But the memories kept pulling her back, dragging her under.

Five days...

She could hear his voice now, distant but clear, discussing the ball, the upcoming intrigues, the schemes they were meant to execute together. He spoke of power, of control, of manipulation, and all she could think of was his hands. His breath on her skin. The way he had looked at her that night, with something that wasn’t love, wasn’t passion.

It was dominance. It was possession.

And now, as she sat in the silence of her chambers, she could still feel that dominance clinging to her, wrapping around her like chains. The more she thought about it, the tighter those chains became, until she could barely breathe.

She closed her eyes, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, making it impossible to think, impossible to feel anything except the cold, creeping numbness that had taken hold of her heart.

But she couldn't afford to fall apart. Not yet. Not tonight.

Tonight was the ball. Tonight, she had to play her part. The Veiled Night Ball was her chance to prove her worth, her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of vampire politics. Astarion had said so himself, in those quiet moments over breakfast, when he had tried—and failed—to pull her back into their usual games of flirtation and innuendo.

She had deflected with precision, dodging his verbal traps with ease. He hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t questioned why she hadn’t slept in his chambers for the past five nights. Maybe he was giving her space. Or maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for her to come to him.

But she wouldn't. Not yet. She couldn't.

The thought of his touch made her stomach twist, made her skin crawl. She had once craved his touch, the way it had made her feel alive, powerful. But now, it was a reminder of how quickly that power could be taken away, how easily the balance could shift.

She wasn’t ready to face him. She wasn’t ready to admit that something had broken between them. That something inside her had cracked, and she wasn’t sure if it could be mended.

Five days.

Sima's reflection stared back at her, but it wasn’t the woman she had once been. Her skin, rich and dark like the earth beneath a setting sun, had always carried strength, a beauty that defied the scars of her past. But now, her features seemed dulled, her spirit suffocated beneath layers of silence and pain. Her eyes, usually fierce and unwavering, were hollow, distant—a reflection of the woman she had become.

A hollow version of herself.

But she couldn’t allow that. Not anymore.

She took a deep breath, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the vanity as she straightened her spine. Her body responded instinctively, as if reclaiming the posture she had once mastered. The gown clung to her form, the corset cinching tighter, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt... grounding.

The woman in the mirror was still there, waiting to be called upon.

Her eyes flickered, the hollowness replaced by something else. A spark of defiance. A slow-burning ember of strength. She wouldn’t fall apart. Not tonight. Not ever. Astarion was watching, always watching, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Sima adjusted her gown, smoothing the fabric over her hips. Her hands steadied, no longer trembling as they had been just moments before. Her gaze sharpened, no longer lost in the haze of memories and pain. Instead, her mind settled on the present, on the ball, on the role she was meant to play.

You are stronger than this, she reminded herself.

And she was. She had survived worse. She had endured the horrors of Calimport, had clawed her way out of the shadows. She had rebuilt herself once, and she would do it again. Piece by piece, she would reclaim what had been taken from her.

Her back straightened, her shoulders pulled back as she lifted her chin. Her eyes, no longer distant, gleamed with a quiet fire, the kind that could burn through anything, even the silence that had threatened to swallow her whole.

She was ready now. Ready to face the world again, to wear the painted face of grace and strength that had carried her through so much before. Tonight, she would step into the ballroom with her head held high, her heart steady, her gaze unwavering.

Astarion might be waiting for her, but he wouldn’t see the woman who had crumbled beneath his touch. He would see the woman who had survived it, who had taken that pain and turned it into something stronger.

The mask was in place.

Sima rose to her feet, her movements fluid and deliberate, the embodiment of grace and control. She drew in the last of her makeup; a small black dot, behind the ear, drawn to ward away the evil eye. It was a reminder of her mother, her power, and her resilience in the face of whatever lay ahead.

She would play her part tonight, but it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for herself. To prove that no matter what had happened, no matter what corrections he had imposed, she was still her own.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced once more at her reflection. Not broken. Not lost.

And certainly not his to fix.