she/her | 20 | currently romancing Shadowheart & Astarion | I LOVE to play Drow & Tiefling Tavs, don't know why just love them | English is not my first language
Hi everyone! On this blog I'm going to post and repost a lot of stuff about bg3. I'm also going to write headcanons or short fics (and try to draw fanart!) so feel free to request anything! I have a list of characters/ships that I will write for at the end of this post. This blog is going to have NSFW content, so if you are uncomfortable with that or a minor, please do not interact.
List of Characters (so all the characters that I would write with Tav): Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Karlach, Minthara, Halsin, Wyll, Lae'zel, Zevlor, Asharak, Tilses
List of Ships that don't include Tav: Astarion/Karlach, Astarion/Gale, Asterion/Halsin, Shadowheart/Karlach
I am always open for any platonic relationship too!
I will maybe add more in the future as I am still not finished with the game. Feel free to ask me if I will write for a certain ship, even if it is not mentioned on this list. I will tell you then if I will write for it of not. Only female/gender neutral Tav please, I'm most comfortable this way. If a request makes me uncomfortable I will ignore it. It could take some time for me to write something and I will not be able to write every request.
Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold.
It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much.
And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no…
The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.
They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands.
There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough!
And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways.
So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten.
And maybe they are, especially Astarion.
But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.
When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters.
Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns.
They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…
That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time.
Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal.
No, those people know nothing at all...
“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.
The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable.
Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort.
By now, he knows every step of this game.
“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”
Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav.
Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late.
“Want apple!”
Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier.
“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?”
The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress.
She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.
Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.
“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…
The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls.
Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day.
Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it.
But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.
Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her.
The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed.
He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.
“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.
Astarion pauses.
He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore.
By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.
And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe.
He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever.
Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet.
He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family.
These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.
He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.
It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him.
Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.
After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.
And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it.
“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head.
When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.
✧ tags : afab + fem!reader, top karlach, bottom reader, strap-ons, breaking the bed, act three spoilers (vaguely), karlach is the weensiest bit of a bully, 18+
.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡
Karlach can't keep her hands off you.
Not her fault, in her defense. She had to spend an incredibly long, incredibly daunting leg of your journey not being able to touch you at all. Really, some of the hardest shit she's ever done in her life - even with her time in Avernus being Zariels' little lapdog.
Now that she has the privilege, she has to make the most of it. Her engines burning her up from the inside so she ought to make the most of everything. You especially. Who knows what will be left of her memory when her soul ends up in fugue plane? She hopes and prays her last memory is the feeling of you tucked in her arms all safe.
That being said, she's always on you. She likes fucking you whenever she can, wherever you'll let her. You're proper cute when she sneaks into your bedroll and lets her hand underneath your waistband, muffling little moans into the side of her neck as she holds you. Got the prettiest little voice she's ever heard when you whine for her, grip her forearm and beg all teary eyed.
That's been good and well - fucking amazing really. But there's been one thing that Karlach has been dying to do since she's gotten back to Faerun which is fuck you. Like, really fuck you.
She makes you cum in other ways. Whatever available, really. Hands, mouth, the muscle in her thigh when you're especially needy. Gods, she's grateful to see you like that. Leader of the pack all soft and trembling her bedroll all night, a sight for sore eyes.
But she wants to fuck you. She needed a strap to do that, and those sorts of things are only easy to find in the city - not in the middle of nowhere in the backwaters of the Sword Coast.
She knows you want it too, always begging for more.
You're in the city now, though - and you've visited Sharess' Caress, and now Karlach finally has something to fuck you with. You're finally in Elfsong song now (no more sleeping on dirt!) and the rest of your party has gone off to explore the city. There's plenty of business to attend to. The two of you offered to stay behind, hold down the fort.
(And well, no one was really going to stay after that were they? Not with the happy couple around, with Karlach eyefucking you as openly as she possibly can at least.)
She really is glad that you have all this time to yourselves for now.
Now that she's finally, finally fucking you - she isn't sure it'll be easy for her to stop.
You're pretty laying underneath her. Naked, sweat making your skin sheen as Karlach stands back on her knees and fucks you on your back. Your chest bounces every time your ass meets the thrust of her own hips, your voice trembling as she gets into proper pace to fuck you.
She gives you a wicked little smile, watching with abject fondness as her cock slides into you again. Shiny with your arousal, your cunt is tight with resistance even as she goes slow. You mewl, your hands reaching to push against Karlach's abs.
"Too much, Karlach, can't—" You gasp as she bullies the swollen head back into you. "S-senstive,"
"Didn't take you for such a quitter, soldier. You were just begging for it and now it's too much," She goads, fucking you deeper. You groan as your spine arches, nails scratching at her waist. "Try a little harder, baby."
Your voice breaks into a pathetic moan, weakly trying to push her out. Legs shaking as she fucks another inch into you. You're so wet she can hear it, hear how soft your pussy gets trying to accommodate around her length. Whimpering you close your eyes and shake your head.
"Too much. I c-can't cum again, can't."
Fuck you're delightful. It's nice when Karlach gets the chance to render you as helpless as you always make her feel. Pitiful and tender, she hums a little as she bottoms out again. Her eyes go lidded with want as she looks at the place in where she's inside of you, stretching your tight little hole. Fucking pretty thing you are. Pretty face and pretty heart and the prettiest pussy she's ever seen in her life. She's mesmerized how something so big can fill something so small. You stretch around her cock so well, so perfect.
"Of course you can." She murmurs. Hot hands curl around your wrists, your arms straightening out in front of you as Karlach holds them. Your fingers brush against your abdomen again but don't find the same purchase as Karlach holds you down. "A little more and you'll make another mess for me to clean up like always, huh?"
"Karlach," You whine, your eyes fluttering open. Your lashes are wet with overstimulated tears, mouth curled in a soft and pouty flush. "Karlach,"
She laughs, sharp teeth showing as she rolls her hips - undulating slower. A soft pace to ease you into it again. She knows just the right angles. You like two ways. Hard and heavy, her hips fucking into yours
She steals a glance at your desperate face and settles on the latter. "I'm right here, pretty girl. And I'm not going anywhere, either. Now hold on,"
It's the most she spares as a warning before she sets a brutal pace. She use your hands for purchase as she pulls her cock out, and thrusts all the way back in with a loud, unforgiving groan. Her clit digs into the leather backing of the strap when she does, delicious friction making her head feel numb.
You cry out as she thrusts deep and hard, cock buried to the hilt again.
She keeps the same brutal, unforgiving pace. The room sounds with the weight of her thrusts, skin smacking against skin and the soft internal whirr of her engine noisy. Lewd, wet sounds mix with the visual of you laid underneath her, tits bouncing with every smack of hips.
She throws her head back back, euphoria washing over her in a haze.
"Fuck yeah, that's it baby. Feels good. Feeling me right in your stomach?"
You nod deliriously as your hand curls into a fist, struggling to keep up. She laughs at you as she ducks her head to meet your mouth. You kiss her with immediate fervor chasing her lips aimlessly while she fucks you hard and deep.
Her name sounds so good from your mouth, she doesn't think she'll ever get sick of it.
I just thought of the most hilarious next protagonist of Baldur's Gate saga.
(Note what most of the outcomes used as background info here come from the characters' "good" endings. Proceed with caution.)
A child of Durge and Gortash, killed inside their parent's womb when Durge denied Bhaal, resurrected alongside them by Jergal.
A child any of The Dead Three can lay a claim on because they are:
A child of previous chosen of Bane
A child of Bhaalspawn, a bhaalspawn themselves, albeit striped of that when Bhaal took his essence from Durge, killing them instantly.
DIED before even being born, so clearly Myrkul's subject.
Resurrected by Jergal, so there's ties to that as well.
Can be compelled to follow any of The Dead Three paths, or try to play them and set them against each other, or follow Jergal, or forge their own path.
Essentially a child with no fate.
Can look either as Durge (and be any race Durge presented as) or as Gortash.
The last possibility bringing unique encounters and dialogues and character never knowing they can use being Lord Gortash's child to their advantage or ppl they meet were their father's enemies and they need to dash.
Having ties to different fractions depending on who Durge romanced or if Durge not romanced anyone.
Being raised in Underdark if their parent ended up with Minthara.
Same with unascended Astarion, + lots of acquainted spawns in the Underdark.
Being raised in Hell if their parent went to Avernus with Karlach.
Being raised either in Waterdeep if Gale is their stepfather or with Duke freaking Ravengard as a step- grandfather.
Having ties with Selunites if Shadowheart is a woman they call mother.
Being raised in the nature and having Druids call them their own if Durge and Halsin were involved.
Being raised amongst githianki revolution if Lae'zel was their parent's choice of heart. Having their mother leading a rebellion against a god.
Having lots of unique content regarding that.
Possible companions include:
Arabella
Mol
Yenna
That girl who was kidnapped and eaten by auntie Ethel.
For decades, this manor offered him a place to call home in the truest sense.
The hallway was a sacred gallery, adorned with paintings that were not mere canvases, but tangible echoes of their life together. Each brushstroke, lovingly rendered by her hand, captured the essence of cherished memories.
Whenever he opened the door at the end of the hallway, he was greeted by the radiant smile of his beloved, and the hearth beckoned him to surrender to its comforting embrace. Yet, it was the vast window next to it that held the greatest significance. The tender caress of sunlight danced across his skin as he lost himself in the pages of a book beside her. It was here, bathed in the golden rays, that he could truly revel in the miracle she had bestowed upon him – the cure to his vampiric curse, a gift of life, a reminder of the depths of her love and the power it held to transcend even the most insurmountable of boundaries.
Here at home, he had found everything his heart desired.
But nothing is ever truly perfect. Life simply doesn't work that way. Even the mightiest of fortresses cannot withstand the relentless march of time.
He thought he was ready for it, but not like this.
Never like this.
_________
The poem cited is "When You Are Old" BY W.B. Yeats. One of my favorites.❤️
Alright, thanks for reading the second installment of my "this did not really happen to my couple". After delving into the mortality of my Tav, Amaara, I found myself confronting a fear more profound than death itself – the fear of morbidity, of life's vibrancy fading before its inevitable end. So I decided to yank my CP around this theme. Self-indulgence at its finest.😊
Astarion X F!Tav. Mindless Fluff as usual. Post game settings.
Relationship scenario: Missed Birthday. In my HC, elves do not celebrate birthdays; they celebrate Name Day, which occurs about every four years. It's probably some private setting I inhaled during my tabletop days.
HC: even though he doesn’t require sleep, if tav is human, Astarion picks up the habit as a means to spend as much time with them as possible… since humans have one of the shortest life spans of all the races in Faerûn.
𐀔 content warnings: suggestive, everybody is a little freak, non-consensual voyeurism, implied scent kink (gale), mentions of scars, afab anatomy. tiefling anatomy.
𐀔 sypnosis: what is a warrior to do when all their companions are peeping toms?
𐀔 author’s note: they are freaks and its been very long since i’ve written. please forgive a lady if what she’s written is unappealing.
“Can you keep it – fucking quiet?!”
Astarion whisper-yells at the entire party of people hiding within bushes and treelines, all fighting tooth and nail like rabid animals for a peek (and taste) of their ragtag, frustratingly attractive leader’s curves.
They didn’t even mean to stumble into eachother, each to their own blindly traversing through the thickets of the woods towards the nearest river. Tav simply mentioned having to retire early to take a bath (much to Gale’s dismay), and they all hungrily jumped towards the opportunity like dogs to a meatless bone, the one of the hopefully many chances they’ll see you naked, vulnerable, and shivering – even if it’s only due to the lack of warmth in the river’s streams.
It’s wrong, debauched, even. Hells, even literal devils, Karlach and Wyll, wear faces ridden with shame. Of course, they (namely Astarion and Lae’zel) poked at the others stalking as if they weren’t shamelessly doing the same.
The tension in the air was thick, each a barrel on the verge of explosion ready to wipe out the recently discovered possibility of rivalries and competition – but they couldn’t blame eachother; there was just something about you that made you so very enticing. They all thought it was incredibly silly to think only one person would want you.
“Well,” Astarion clicked his tongue in displeasure, having his private time foiled. Still, he smiled sardonically. “we’re all degenerates, it seems. We’re all looking forward to having a... fun time.”
A deep rumble came, and it surprisingly did not come from the forest ground. It was simply Halsin, all too polite and calm smiles. Astarion groaned; he was sick of this big fucking oaf with hearts for eyes and a log of wood for brains. “We are not depraved for simply yearning to admire our friend in a state of tranquil—”
“Oh, please! Don’t act like a saint in front of me!” The vampire spawn huffed, hands on his hips. “We’re all here for the same reason, we all want to see Tav fucking naked, no point in lying now!”
Tints of red and pink all rushed to everyone’s faces, and even Shadowheart was reduced to fiddling with her fingers together. Though awkward coughs ensued in the air, not a single word of denial was uttered.
Karlach is first to speak up, ever brazen. “It’s true!” She says with her signature sharp smile. “I wanted to see her tits!”
(Lae’zel and Astarion nodded approvingly to Karlach’s honesty. Halsin and Gale quietly shared their sentiments on their preference to your ass. Shadowheart and Wyll could not disagree to both.)
Amidst their busy conversation and debate regarding your body’s fine qualities, the alarmingly close and approaching noises of branches snapping and leaves crunching had rendered them silent, panicked shivers and goosebumps on their skin. With shared glances and only a few split seconds to react, the party floundered and flailed for whatever they could use to stay hidden.
“Settle down, you circus; Tav’s coming!” Wyll is the first amongst the party to silently and comically dive into a bush with Karlach, clutching their tails to avoid it rustling about in excitement. Halsin had thrown Gale and Astarion atop a tree’s thick branches before joining them. Lae’zel, disappointingly, camoflauges just well with the greenery, watching Shadowheart flounder about and settle for lying on the ground with grass over her face.
“All you filthy ska'keth.” Lae’zel hisses, letting everyone know of your now visible presence, the halting of your footsteps along the other edge of the river. “Enjoy the show.”
Across the distance, their focus had been shifted to you and now solely you.
You quietly groan, trudging towards the river you’ve been searching to no end, you set down your basket of fine oils, herbs and waxes as your armored limbs ache and practically cry for a dip in the clear stream. With no haste, you take in the cool night air, this little moment of peace, away from prying eyes you’ve fought long and hard to obtain. Sweat trickles down your throat, your tail swaying in contentment in the calm atmosphere.
Quickly deciding you’ve had enough of the crisp air, you reach towards your body to unclasp and unfasten the many buckles on your durable armor – starting with the iron top, quickly taking it off to reveal your bare, battle-worn chest and hastily discarding the metal on your legs, throwing them aside in favor of letting the cold air bite at your naked, scarred body before you go into the water; allowing your body a little moment of respite from the suffocation and heat of tight, bloody armor – even letting your tail sway around freely instead of being constricted to being stiff. A content smile creeps its way onto your face.
You lightly step your way from the sand to the edge of the water, continuing to walk until you’re trembling from the cold, until you’re hips-down in the water. A grateful sigh is pulled from your lips as you start to wade about, your hands subtly working to wash the dried blood, gore and grime off of your body and hair – using the oils and wax soaps of sweet woodruff and wine from your basket, even scrubbing your horns. A little part of you finds this normalcy almost unfamiliar, uncomfortable; it’s been quite a while you’ve taken care of yourself. Your thoughts start to drift; prior to your abduction by the Nautiloid ship, were you ever taken care of, like this? By other hands, even?
(You hope so.)
Another sigh is dragged out of you, though wearier as guilt treads within you. Just a little moment of peace, of indulgence before you go back to the dreadful task of keeping your companions and yourself alive and fighting. Just a little more time. You think you deserve it.
A silence was washed over the forest, and the party as they all beheld you and your battle-worn body. It felt almost sacred, like doing this would have them damned to the Hells and below but it was simply too captivating. Your bodice was a web and a product of war, and they were caught mesmerized – with only the dense forest and one another to witness their quickly unravelling need for you. But even then, they felt some semblance to pity. What they wouldn’t give to the gods right now to be by your side and give you some tending to.
The ridges down your back, the swaying base of your tail, the alluring image of your hips and ass teasingly disappearing into the water below, the silhouette of your horns – that untroubled smile on your lips – they all drink it in with their eyes in a fashion similar to Astarion’s throat would with your blood.
They savor it for as long as they can, before stepping out of the trance as Gale himself not-so-quietly attempted to clamber down from the rough-bark tree he was settled in, dropping down to the dirt and crushing the leaves loudly and ungracefully. Shadowheart gaped with mortification at him from the ground, everyone wishing to every god above you would have mistaken the sound as a particularly large animal, perhaps an owlbear and not a wizard along with an entire party intruding on your privacy.
“Gale! What in the Nine Hells are you doing?!”
Astarion had settled for whisper-yelling once again, pointing at him accusingly from his position atop the tree’s branches besides Halsin. Gale waved his hand, silently telling him to shut the fuck up, before urgently pointing at your discarded armor and clothing, then proceeding to give him a big smile and two thumbs up.
Surely enough to the mortification of the party, he quickly cast Misty Step over himself to travel to your area and hastily swiped (stole) anything soft – including your unattended bandages and undergarments, taking a small moment to put it to his nose and re-casting the spell to return below the tree within a few seconds. He wallowed in his pride before with a swift motion, tucked the newly acquired materia into the pockets of his robe much to the discomfort (and mild envy) of all of them.
“A man has to do and take what he can.” Gale reasoned to nobody in particular, nodding solemnly as if he just shared a piece of wisdom. He suppressed a yelp as Lae’zel then threw a rock at him, followed by another as Astarion thwacked a small branch straight to his forehead from above.
“Just leave it.” Wyll snidely commented, fighting with his life to tear away his eyes from your moonlit form, breaking out of a trance. “We should leave, go back to camp. It’d be suspicious if everyone just disappeared.”
“Ugh, you are such a killjoy, Wyll.” Astarion rolled his eyes but complied, scaling down the tree quietly, much unlike Gale earlier, who was still fiddling around his pockets with your intimates. “A party pooper, even.”
As repulsive the idea to leave you was, it was reasonable. Begrudingly, everyone quietly sat up or climbed down and quietly attempted to find their way through the dense, dark forest, sharing little observations and hushed chitchat along the way. And soon enough, the party found themselves in familiar territory, now gathering around and settling down near the campfire like they previously had before you announced your leave, as if they didn’t just claw their way through eachother earlier to see a scrap of your vulnerability.
The fire cast a warm glow over the party as they immersed in chitchat, a few (namely Shadowheart and Astarion) pestering and even offering a bargain to Gale for the underclothes he had nicked earlier. The wizard was not deterred; fair and square, he wagged his finger as if to say nuh-uh to the seething two. It was only shortly after, that you came stumbling back into camp like a lost fawn, hair and body language calm and loose but the armor remaining stiff on your body.
Karlach coughed to let the others know you had arrived from your personal time. “Soldier! You’re back!” You greeted her with a nod, before raising a brow and sweeping your eyes amongst them. Gale swallowed, placing a protective hand over the pocket that held your garments.
“You would not believe what happened.” You sighed in utter distress before plopping yourself down besides Halsin and Astarion on the log to let the fire embrace you with warmth, piquing everyone’s interest and attention with intense ease. “A wandering owlbear ate my clothes.”
They all collectively either guffawed or choked on their spit, Lae’zel scoffing and Astarion groaning amongst them. Right. Of course, you would have thought it was a fucking owlbear. Thieving owlbears that take normal, musky clothes instead of shiny armor.
“Ah, owlbears.” Gale tutted and sighed with faux sympathy, nervously chuckling and shifting to hide the lump in his pockets. “They’d eat almost anything, really.”
Astarion shot him a bewildered look, as if to ask, don’t you? You swallowed two of my books last night!
“You can borrow my clothes, for the night.” Shadowheart butted in, suddenly slotting herself behind you and setting a reassuring palm on your shoulder. You smiled at her, gazing up at her gratefully. “Thank you, Sha—”
“Well, you can have my clothes!” Karlach and Lae’zel shot up in unison.
“Sharing your old filth, I can sew them new clothes!” Astarion argued, until everyone started refuting eachother and proposing that you take theirs and whatnot.
You sighed with exasperated fondness, immensely troubled but somewhat used to it as you watch your companions pointlessly banter, having little doubt that by the end of the night, you’d have a fair share of everyone’s wardrobe into yours.
Still, you hope to the very bottom of your heart that the “owlbear” that stole your clothes had a full tummy, at least.
MORE Zevlor and Tilses because I have late night brain rot. Continuing off of the last scenario—
“Tilses…”
Even when he’s making a deliberate effort to keep his voice low and soft, it still sounds jarring against the quiet crickets within the woods.
She jumps, uncurling herself from the tree she had been huddled up against, and hastily wipes her eyes. After a few quick, short breaths she goes to lift her hand to her forehead in what he recognises as a salute— then stops. Her face crumples.
“Oh Tilly.” He murmurs, a deep ache in his chest. She’s so lively, so full of hope. She deserves better than this. He regrets having been so short with her earlier.
“Come here.” He opens his arms ever so slightly, in invitation.
She sniffles, before launching herself into his embrace, clutching tightly onto his armour. It’s times like these when he remembers just how young she really is. She’d just turned nineteen when she had come under his command. That was three years ago now, but even so. An adult in the eyes of the law, but very much a child in this wide world.
His arms tighten around her. It isn’t the first time he’s felt paternally towards her, and he knows it won’t be the last: he never had children of his own, but Tilly very much fills that emptiness in his life. Perhaps in another more peaceful life, he would have taken her in to live with him as his daughter. Well. Maybe they’ll still have that chance. But he’s too scared to allow himself to hope too much.
“I’m here, my dear.” He whispers, voice strained with emotion. “It’ll be alright, Tilly. You’ll see. When we get to Baldurs Gate, you’ll climb the Watch’s ranks like nobody’s business. And after your duty’s done… you’ll always have a warm meal to come back to.”
“Zevlor—“ she cries louder, before muffling herself, shaking her head.
“Hush, child…” he cradles the back of her skull, although he makes sure to hold no tension in his hand, so that she may slip away if she wishes.
She doesn’t.
“Let yourself cry. I mean it, Tilses. You’re far too young to keep all these things bottled up.”
“I’m not a child,” she mumbles through suppressed tears, and he can practically feel her scowl into his chest plate.
He sighs heavily. “I know. That’s what scares me. But, allow an old man to be paternal for once in his life. I don’t want to see you go through this alone.”
——————
‘FAR TOO YOUNG TO BOTTLE THINGS UP’ oh shut UP Zevlor damn you need a therapist,,
Anyway. Anyways. I love these two. Hope this silly lil’ snippet means something.
