#weaverot

[bloodyarn]

@weaverot / @softersinned / @anquenin

The raccoons in a trench coat scenario strikes again.

[witchkillr]

move away. i'm dangerous.

" I'VE MET KITTENS THAT WERE SCARIER THAN YOU, gale dear. now sit down and let me see your damn arms. " hells, but he's difficult. agatha knows the type, this self-sacrificing, suffer-in-silence sort - as if it's somehow more heroic when you don't talk about it. she understands gale, on a molecular level, and how infuriating it is that that doesn't make this any easier.

she's hardly a healer by trade, but trust is a tricky thing in the constructing of it, and the hag brought up spell-rot: countless varieties and many that can kill in a blink, leaving nothing but shadows where the lot of them used to be. no, better to sort it out now.

[starcunin]

@weaverot sent: it's been a while since i slept through the night without any nightmares.

The sleepy vampire stirs as the quiet words reach him, Gale's voice like a soft echo in the stillness of the woods. The bed beneath them, conjured by Gale's magic, feels strangely permanent despite its illusory nature, a fragile sanctuary in a place otherwise consumed by shadows. Astarion shifts, his pale skin catching what little light the protection spell offers, the warm glow brushing over the contours of his body. His white hair falls into his eyes as he turns to face Gale, who lies beside him, still bathed in the remnants of last night's intimacy.

He presses a lazy, teasing smile to his lips, feeling the weight of Gale's words settle in the small, quiet space between them. His body aches in the most delicious way——a reminder, he thinks, that last night was real. The sensations linger: the heat of skin on skin, the press of bodies driven not by hunger or survival but something far more rare. More human.

❛ Are you saying I fucked away your troubles, darling? ❜ he murmurs, his tone light, a lilting tease carried on the fragile breath of morning——or what passes for morning in this cursed place where the sun dares not shine. Yet even as he jokes, the words carry a deeper thread of truth that curls warm in his chest.

Gale is warmth beneath him, a steady pulse, a rhythm that pulls Astarion closer. His lips brush over the wizard's chest——slow, deliberate, lingering. The warmth of his skin contrasts with the cold, faintly metallic taste still on Astarion's mouth, a reminder of the blood he tasted the night before. ( He could get used to Gale’s taste, he thinks.) He lets his lips trail upward, tracing the lines of Gale's body until they reach the marks on his neck, the twin punctures that Astarion had left behind in a moment of passion and need. He presses a soft kiss to the now dry blood.

The feel of it, the scent, stirs something deep within him, something primal that he quells with an ease that surprises him. Not because the hunger has lessened, but because the hunger no longer controls him. Not here. Not with Gale. Another kiss follows, more tender than the last, as though Astarion could apologize for the bite with lips alone. But Gale had offered himself willingly, freely. No fear. No expectation of repayment. Just a pure, unfettered offering of himself, and that had been the most intoxicating part of all.

Settling against Gale once more, Astarion drapes an arm across the man's chest, resting his head upon his shoulder. His eyes——those keen, crimson eyes that had seen centuries of torment, of seduction, of cruelty——now soften as they take in the sight before him. He stares, unblinking, in awe and contentment, two emotions he barely recognizes in himself. His hand idly traces patterns over Gale's skin, his fingertips ghosting over muscle and bone, feeling the life that hums beneath. He is warm. Alive. Whole. Astarion marvels at the steadiness of it, at how different this feels from all the encounters before, where touch was just a means to an end.

But last night, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the act had meant something. It hadn't been about power or survival, about gaining some advantage or favor. No, it had been... real. Every touch had been deliberate, every kiss laden with a need not born from desperation but from desire, from the simple and complex want of another person.

And gods, he wanted Gale. Not for blood. Not for protection. But for himself.

❛ Perhaps, ❜ he whispers, his voice softer now, more serious, ❛ perhaps we both experienced something we didn't think possible. ❜ His fingers continue their lazy dance over Gale's chest, tracing idle circles, a touch so familiar now, it frightens him. Yet the fear doesn't take root, doesn't bloom. Instead, it is replaced by something warmer. Something... safe.

Safe. Astarion cannot remember the last time he felt safe, if ever. And yet, here in this cursed place, lying in a conjured bed with a conjured man-made sky having faded into the bleak reality of shadow, he feels more protected than he ever has. Not because of spells or swords or any tangible thing. But because of the man beside him. The man who had looked at him with nothing but trust in his eyes.

His breath hitches slightly, and he buries his face into Gale's neck, breathing in the scent of him——of magic and the faint remnants of last night's sweat and desire. He presses himself closer, his entire body sinking into the warmth that radiates from the wizard. He doesn't know how long they will lie like this, tangled together, but he knows he doesn't want it to end. This moment, this feeling, is all too fleeting in a world as cruel as theirs. But for now, it is his. And in this moment, Astarion feels——no, knows——that he is cared for. That he is wanted. Not as a tool, not as a means to an end. But as a person. As Astarion.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he closes his eyes, feeling the rise and fall of Gale's chest beneath his hand. How strange, he thinks, to find such contentment, such peace, here, in the heart of their predicament. But even stranger still is the knowledge that he has never, ever, felt this way before. ❛ Despite the fact that this is going to sound terribly clichè… I really do wish we could stay here like this forever. Mind flayer parasites and Elder Brains be damned. ❜

[anquenin]

"you're a vampire." it's not a question, no, spoken with the blunt quiet of someone with utmost confidence. ( he feels a bit giddy, but stamps it down, keeps his expression neutral. ) gale can smell the undead scent from here, mixing with the rot of his own. he knows dead things, dying things, but he knows far better the nuance of a situation. "it's fine, i knew from the moment we met, you slipping your knife to my neck — not the wisest choice, but i digress —" he glances away, towards the campfire where the rest of the party sits. discretion, yes, certainly. "your secret is safe with me, so long as you keep those fangs to yourself. i'll warn you, i don't taste pleasant."

the words make astarion feel a slight sense of urgency, of panic, red eyes shift from looking ahead, away from this little moment that's being shared to gale's face. he sounds so sure, this might have been the one lie astarion intended to keep running for as long possible. he smiles something knowing, nothing like the feeling of being caught. there is little to do but to give up. he only calms when it doesn't seem like gale is scorching him into vampire dust or something. he rolls his eyes, hands crossing upon his chest...gale's giving him feedback on his initial actions, astarion figures he must be pretty good at what he does, no one's killed him for being this annoying yet.

"you don't say? i figured you would be the tastiest one out of everyone." astarion starts, the need to deflect this off himself is immediate. "-it really is a tragedy that i get to keep my fangs to myself." he let's the moment linger, and his curiousity gets the best of him. "what gave it away?" most people cannot figure it out so quickly, astarion believed he had some more time to figure something out. or that he had been doing a slightly better than average job at concealing his true self. (he also, tries to ignore the feelings that come with gale keeping his secret safe for him. something to think about later...or never.)

@weaverot

[victo1re]

they have come up with a camp, of sorts, in a clearing not far from the coast. it is a cramped and pathetic assemblage: the two of them archmages and yet neither can summon the strength for even an illusory bed. victoria has not laid her head down on the earth since her childhood, and it is an experience she is hardly keen to repeat.

these are the thoughts she occupies herself with to avoid thinking of the tadpole. she hasn’t even a tent to pitch - the project of supervising @weaverot’s integration was one that should not have taken even the day. she should have known, when orin’s favoured underling showed himself …

“before you ask, yes,” she says, bitingly anxious. “i am well aware of the process of ceremorphosis in all its grisly, excruciating detail. please do spare me the lecture.”

(it is deeply imperfect. gale needs a far gentler hand than this, especially when his goddess’ blight still sits in his chest. the truth is that she is too tired, too frightened, to further her work tonight.)

[lcftyambiticns]

Them. <3 Ok, I know this is just a fun lil dash game, but I gotta say: Tarque needs an award for managing to handle Lorroakan. And Fox, you need one too. The history and on-going story we've created for them afjadfds so fucking amazing. 😙🤌

He isn't the partner Lorroakan wants, but the partner he needs. It's still a slow-burn-work-in-progress, but that's the good shit imo.

[lcftyambiticns]

@shadovan

they're divorced. they weren't even married. this isn't romantic. they're definitely not platonic. they're cinematic parallels. they are fighting the narrative. they slowly built their relationship. they rely and trust each other. they were aggressively thrown into this. they want to bite each other's head off. they kill for each other. they live for each other. they should kiss. they would put each other in a blender. they're insane. they don't even realise. they're fully aware of it.

[bladewarde]

☆ put this star into the inbox of your favourite blogs. it's time to spread positivity!

DGHSDFKL

jay, you're so sweet!!! 😭 i truly do enjoy seeing you on my dash across my blogs and your patience with me is greatly appreciated! can't wait to write all the things with you ✨💙

[nekrotisch-a]

@weavrot asked:

just do it already , we've waited long enough .

Making Demands || Accepting

"Give me a moment. It's a delicate ritual, and one I've only done once during training." She said with one eye opened to look at him before closing her eye once more to focus in front of her, feeling the magic. Energy releasing after a short incantation and the bones before them rattled before sitting up in the shallow grave.

Casssandra stepped back with a partial bow as she gestured at the skeleton waiting patiently. "Five questions, whenever you're ready."

[erobret]

@weaverot

SOFT HUMS COME FROM PAINTED LIPS , thin digits dance over the surface of still water , crystal clear and refreshing . head tilts , strands of pale blonde swaying oh so slightly in the teasing breeze . index fingers taps the surface and instead of ripples spreading across the water she drew patterns of ice .

[starcunin]

@weaverot sent: [ CHALLENGE ] : after the receiver teasingly suggests that the sender is a terrible kisser, sender immediately and fervently proves them wrong with a long, passionate kiss that leaves the receiver taking back what they said.

The night is painted in shades of magic——auroras rippling through a starry illusion, the vibrant hues reflected in Astarion's crimson eyes as he glances at Gale, who sits beside him on the conjured bed. The protection of Isobel’s spell wards off the chill of the shadow-curse, but Astarion feels none of it. In this moment, there are no creeping dangers, no sinister darkness pressing at the borders of the woods. It is just them, surrounded by beauty conjured from a wizard's imagination.

He leans back slightly, resting on one hand, his lips curling into that familiar mischievous smile. He can still feel the ghost of Gale's kiss——soft, chaste, a mere brush of lips that left him wanting. A teasing laugh bubbles up in his throat, a breath of sound that lingers between them. There was something endearing about Gale's restraint, but Astarion is no stranger to indulgence, and this——this was far too careful.

❛ Come now, darling, ❜ Astarion drawls, his tone playful but edged with a hunger that stirs deep within him, ❛ what are we? Thirteen? Surely you can do better than——❜

His teasing words never finish.

Gale's lips crash against his with an urgency that steals Astarion's breath, a fervent rebuttal to the playful challenge. For a moment, Astarion's eyes widen, caught off-guard by the sudden surge of passion. The kiss silences him, drowns him in sensation. His body stiffens, instinctively bracing against the flood of desire, before he melts into it, eyes fluttering closed, all pretense falling away.

There's a heat to this kiss that stirs something long dormant in him——something deeper than lust, something more than a mindless craving. It's not about control or manipulation, not about using or being used. This... this is something else entirely. This is want. This is connection. And Astarion leans into it, letting the pleasure wash over him like warm sunlight.

He shifts on the bed, twisting his body so he can fully face Gale, wanting—no, needing to be closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue seeking Gale's with a desperation he didn't realize was building inside him. There's no thought now, no careful calculation, just the feel of Gale's mouth against his, the taste of him——a taste Astarion covets, savors. His hands move instinctively, pale fingers threading messily through Gale's long hair, the silky strands tangled in his grip. He tightens his hold, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him grounded in this moment, enough to pull Gale closer still.

Astarion moans into the kiss, soft, breathless sounds escaping between their lips, as if his body can no longer suppress the need coursing through him. His free hand curls into Gale's robes, fingers grasping the purple fabric tightly, pulling the wizard against him, as if afraid that if he lets go, this fleeting moment of pleasure might slip away into the night. The sensation overwhelms him——Gale's warmth, the press of their bodies, the intoxicating rush of shared desire. For once, there's no fear, no cold dread coiling in his stomach. Just warmth. Just this moment. Just him and Gale.

When the kiss finally breaks, Astarion's chest heaves softly as he catches his breath, his lips tingling from the intensity of it all. His forehead comes to rest against Gale's, their breath mingling in the stillness between them. His fangs catch on his own lower lip, dragging lightly as if savoring the taste still lingering there——the taste of Gale, of something genuine, something real. His lips curve into a wicked, but satisfied smile, his voice a sultry purr.

❛ That's more like it, ❜ Astarion murmurs, his tone still teasing, but there's a breathlessness to it now, a rawness that wasn't there before. His thumb trails across Gale's lower lip, slow and deliberate, eyes hungry but filled with something softer, more intimate. The desire is still there, unmistakable, but beneath it all is a reverence——a deep, unspoken affection that lingers in the way his gaze softens, the way his touch lingers just a moment too long.

It's more than just hunger. It's more than just want.

Astarion tilts his head slightly, his lips hovering close to Gale's again, as if contemplating another kiss, another indulgence. But he waits, breathless, his heart pounding in a way he hadn't expected, savoring the closeness, the quiet intimacy that thrums between them.

[athalantan]

( after the battle // accepting ) GALE [ @weaverot ] WROTE: ❝Sound off! Who's not dead?❞

EL RESPONDED WITH THE SUREST proof that he had indeed survived the battle: a string of Myth Drannan curses so ghastly they'd shock a devil. He did an irritable, hopping two-step out of the rubble as he shook dust and dirt off himself. Still it clung to the crevices of his clothing and muddied his hair from snow white to slate gray. He gave his great beard a good whop — and quickly resumed his cursing between coughs. Ah, it would take a good wash to get all this out. Or a nice little prestidigitation . . .

Not that he was inclined to try it at the moment. There was no telling what trap they might set off this time. With any luck, the little web they'd just triggered would be all. After all, what more was there to do once you'd brought the roof down on someone? He knew better than to get cocky about such things, though. A century spent in magical suspension made that lesson unforgettable.

He tucked the ends of his robe up into his belt as he clambered to Gale's position atop a heap of stones. So the lad had possessed the presence of mind to protect himself just before the stones struck. El was pleased, though the sharp look he shot over him didn't convey that. Nor did it convey the undercurrent of concern. Most would take the look for judgment, but the only judgment he wished to pass at the moment was whether Gale was injured.

❝Not a promising start.❞ He thumped Gale solidly on the back, knocking off debris. That was all he did, however. This quest was Gale's to complete, and thus the course was his to set. El would only step in if the situation became dire.

[victo1re]

“i can’t be expected to feign interest in a conversation whilst you look as good as this, now can i?”

a mixture of blood and dirt caked beneath her nails, her vest slung over her trunk - this is what drives gale to distraction? it is their fifth day travelling together and already he has bewildered her in too many impossibly varied ways to count. she assumed their prior relationship to be one of academic precision, filigreed in the nigh-royalty of the archmage ... but her robes are torn and bloodied, and still he speaks to her this way.

an edge of irritation colours her look, impatient: " perhaps you should look elsewhere, then. i asked you if you might lay wards to the south before we bed down - i rather tire of being ambushed. "

[druidicbard]

a  gross  wicked  smile  took  to  his  lips  ,  this  was  the  shit  he  lived  for  ,  the  mischeif  ,  the  stupidity  .  well  ,  he  hoped  it  wouldn't  end  with  a  grand  amount  of  stings  in  the  end  ,  rifling  through  his  mind  palace  of  swear  words  as  a  horde  devoured  them  both  .

❝  i'll  keep  to  fearing  a  little  ;  heard  that  if  you  get  stung  enough  ,  you  grow  allergic  ;  and  i've  failed  with  beehives  a  fair  few  times  before  meeting  you  .  ❞  (  he  was  easy  to  admit  his  failures  ;  he  wasn't  exactly  the  epitome  of  'mighty'  or  'hero'  for  that  matter  ) 

❝  what  a  gallant  gentleman  you  are  to  be  so  inclined  to  help  .  ❞  (  there  was  a  slight  mocking  jab  with  his  delivery  ;  a  put  on  voice  of  poshness  that  was  so  unbefitting  of  the  bard  .  )

he knows, from past excursions with fellow chosen, that tugging along actual cooking supplies is detrimental to travel. foolish, even. it takes up space, adds weight to the pack. yet, he can't help the satisfaction it brings. caring for the others, providing meals, gale enjoys it. it's worth the trouble.

gale twitches, looking up abruptly from his work when the bard lowers his voice. ah, there, a mischievous smile twitches at his mouth. "i happen to love a good cup." he admits, matching his pitch. "fear not, friend, i can manage to get you some honey if you show me the hive." carefully, he tucks away his supplies, moving to stand fully.

[lcftyambiticns]

❝ i am eternally yours. until the stars go out. and maybe, even after that. ❞

devoted, yearning & obsessive

📜 ࣪ . ࿐ ˚ . THE WORDS STRUCK HIM TOO DEEPLY and Lorroakan faltered. His breath hitched as he closed his eyes and let his forehead press against Tareque’s, fingers ghosting over the sharp line of his cheek. ❝You shouldn’t say such things,❞ he whispered, lips hovering just shy of the elf’s. ❝It is cruel, even if you don’t mean it to be...❞

How he hated the grip Tareque still had on him… How those painfully sweet words still slipped past his defenses, winding themselves around the rawest parts of his heart, coaxing forth feelings he had tried to smother.

❝I wish I could promise you eternity — that once I am free from this... this wretched mortal prison, I will be yours, just as fully as you have always been mine. But I cannot…❞ His voice wavered and the ache in it was unmistakable ; raw and unbridled, breaking through the composure he always fought so hard to keep. ❝I… I am well aware that you do not ask this of me. You never have, and that is precisely why this pains me beyond reason, Tareque... Your devotion is a gift I have not earned, and I fear I never will. I have failed you before, and I will fail you again.❞

Fingertips tenderly tucked a strand of black hair behind a pointed ear before he pulled away just enough to meet his gaze. He wondered if his eyes still looked the same beneath that carefully crafted glamour... or if they had already rotted away. Actually, he’d rather not know.

❝You have always been far too good… certainly too good for me.❞ The words were uncharactaristcally tender and sincere, and yet they tasted so bitter on his tongue. ❝You should have walked away long ago —— Hells, you should resent me for what I have done rather than continuing to search for something I am incapable of giving… at least, not in the way you deserve.❞ That would have spared them both. That would have been easer than facing the unrelenting DEVOTION that Lorroakan would never know how to repay.

[anquenin]

astarion is not a people person, as charming as he can appear, as much as he can end up using everyone around him. there are no true connections, no one who understands. just him and job to fullfill. he is not suited for this line of work, no one else would take it. it was this or...something worse. and astarion finds himself thinking that he would choose this, again if offered the choice. gale has this thing, this ability, to switch on and off and to piss astarion off in ways he understands. it's not hard to get on astarion's bad side. it's hard to do a job right when he doesn't want to. and yet, he worries, he cares, not out of the goodness of his undead heart. he has to care. it feels like life or death.

something is terribly wrong with gale. and he does not need specifics, he just needs to know enough to handle it. and gale finally relents, gives him just enough to know where he is coming from. astarion isn't particularly empathetic, but he knows bad days, and most importantly he knows that help is not something easy to come around. ( gale having help, astarion in this case, as unequipped as he is, is better than nothing. so ) astarion can sense the reproach in gale's eyes. the pause, he feels it more than he hears it. astarion is quiet, simply taking the time and knowing all too well how pain looks on someone, how it looks on gale. he can't let gale simply go anywhere alone, there isn't a choice. but he appreciates the invitation. he seizes him up, looks at him top to bottom. and nods, curtly. "-fine." he starts, short. before he lightens the sensation of stress on himself. he would not wish, whatever gale is going through, to anyone. that much he knows. "-i can be great company." astarion adds, a slight flare to it, pout and anger leftover on his face. seemingly calmed down from his burst. "-many have said so, lead the way." and that one, a lie...gale can decide whether to believe it or not. it's meant to be lighthearted, bring up the mood (astarion's mood, to be specific).

he hates it as much as astarion. truly, viscerally, to be so high and mighty and had it snatched away. that power that was once at his fingertips, the breathtaking wonder of everyone around him as he commanded the weave with such care. there was warmth, once, and now it's replaced with such a chill, ice cold, numbing. it sinks deeply into his chest, hungry and consuming. he can't get warm enough, now, not since his fall.

gale hates it, the fact that the only thing he can cling too now his lordship. ( barely so, by the skin of his teeth, by the utterance of his name. dauntrael, hells he dreads any family reunions that might happen. if he lives long enough to see them. ) he hates that he can no longer command the weave, no longer an archmage. the title is only there for appearances, to hide his shame, to hide his folly.

it is not astarion's fault, and he is merely here to help. as much as gale hates it, he has to be thankful for it. he's driven a wedge between everyone else, it would be foolish to drive such a thing between him and his protector. "i apologize, truly. i... have not been myself lately." he starts, eyes closing as a spasm runs up his arms, cramps in his gut. it takes effort to not double over. to not kneel over and rech what little he has eaten out of his stomach. "as you know i have taken ill, it is... unknown to what degree..." little bits, enough to hopefully smooth over astarion's curiosity. "unfortunately there is not much to be done, today is simply a bad day for it."

he pauses, then, eyes astarion with reproach, hand over his stomach and tilting to one side out of pain. it's awkward, it's uncomfortable, but right now his whole body is uncomfortable regardless. "i think fresh air will do me some good, should you wish to join me." an offer, hesitant as it is. "the company would be appreciated."