#hellrider zevlor

[met-in-a-tavern]

ZEVLOR CAMEO

I recently ordered a Cameo from Glen McCready, voice of Zevlor and Omeluum in BG3, asking for Comforting Words from Zevlor to Nirvana, after having a nightmare. Truly such a sweet Cameo and a very kind man, my heart swelled up with joy. I trust Zevlor with my life I swear 🥹

Id sleep so well knowing Zevlor was by my side 🥹🥹 I'm giddy. What an absolute gem. 🥰🥰

[crowley-stole-the-tardis]

What Survives the Night

Part One

Summary: After the chaos, Tav and Zevlor fall asleep under the stars, still reeling from the emotional night before. As Zevlor wakes in the quiet dark with Tav beside him, he wrestles with the depth of his feelings and the belief that he doesn’t deserve her. But Tav isn’t as asleep as he thinks. Two hearts on the brink finally meet in fragile honesty, if only for one night.

Paring: Zevlor x AFAB!Tav!Fighter!Reader

Warnings: Implied PTSD, Depression, Mental Health Struggles, Thoughts of suicide, The Tadpole, Guilt, Angst, Game accurate violence

Word Count: 1,390

The stars had shifted.

Zevlor blinked awake, his breath caught somewhere between dream and reality. It took him a moment to remember where he was, the cool night air, the soft weight against his side, the hum of distant revelry long since faded into silence.

He was looking up at the stars, arm tucked behind his head as a makeshift pillow, there was a warmth next to him. Tav was curled into him, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath warm against his throat.

Gods.

He stilled, barely daring to breathe. Her fingers had tangled into the fabric of his tunic, as though she’d reached for him in her sleep and refused to let go. Her armour still lay scattered around them like broken shells, their makeshift blanket, the crimson cloak he recognised from her back, now partly draped over them both. He must have dozed off too, lulled by the rhythm of her voice, the ache in her words, and the shared wine.

Now the moon was high. The Grove was quiet. And Zevlor was trapped.

Not by her grip. By his own heart.

He looked down at her.

Tav, the would-be hero of the Grove. Tav, who’d stood blood-soaked in front of goblins and gods alike, who bore the tadpole with fury and despair. Tav, who had thought about throwing herself from the cliff hours ago; and had instead, miraculously, chosen to speak to him.

She had let him see the cracks. And now she slept beside him like it meant nothing, like it was natural.

Zevlor didn’t move. He couldn’t.

His first instinct was to pull away. To make space. To slip off the cloak and vanish into the trees before she stirred. It would be the right thing to do, give her distance, give her choice. Spare them both the awkward morning-after stumble of false apologies and unspoken feelings.

But gods, he didn’t want to.

He had no right to want anything. He’d failed his Hellrider oath. He’d failed his people at Elturel. And now he was failing again, letting himself fall for someone who didn’t, couldn’t, return it. A foolish, shameful crush on the one person he shouldn’t need.

But Tav… Tav had looked at him last night like she saw him. Not the commander. Not the idealist. Just a man, tired, battered, and… lonely.

And now she lay against him, trusting and warm.

Zevlor shut his eyes tightly.

The voices in his own head were quieter than hers, maybe. But they still whispered.

You’re not worthy of this.

You don’t belong here.

She’ll wake and pull away.

Run before she must.

He tried to listen. Truly. He shifted slightly, preparing to ease her off his shoulder. But as he moved, she stirred, sighing softly. Her hand clenched in his tunic, and her brow furrowed even in sleep, like she could feel him slipping away.

Zevlor froze.

No. Not yet.

He let himself relax again, painfully aware of every inch of space between them, of how little there was. Her hair brushed against his jaw. Her body, despite the hours of battle and grief, was still so solid, so present beside him. She was real, and she was here.

He didn’t deserve it.

But he would stay, just a little longer.

He thought of her voice the night before: raw, cracked, edged with guilt. He remembered the moment she had turned to him and whispered, “Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re fine?”

He did. Every day.

He wanted to tell her everything now wanted to pour his heart out into the space between them. Wanted to confess how his chest ached every time she walked into battle like she had nothing to lose. How he caught himself watching her laugh with her companions; Karlach’s booming joy, Gale’s theatrical wit, Wyll’s quiet admiration, and felt like he was on the outside of a painting he could never touch.

She was brilliant. Broken, yes, but so was he. So was everyone.

But still she shone.

And now she slept with her fingers twined in his tunic like he was a lighthouse in the dark.

Zevlor swallowed hard.

If he moved, if he spoke, if he dared to dream aloud… what would happen? Would she push him away? Laugh? Apologise? He wasn’t sure which would hurt more.

He’d rather stay silent. Live in this sliver of peace just a little longer. Let her warmth pretend for a moment that he wasn’t drowning in his own want.

But Tav was not as deeply asleep as he believed.

She'd stirred the moment he shifted, her mind sluggish with wine and exhaustion but aware. When he froze again, she had felt it, the tension, the pull of a decision not made.

She knew what she was doing, curled against him like this. She’d chosen it, whether consciously or not. And now she was too afraid to wake up. Too afraid to open her eyes and meet his, to find he was already pulling away.

Because she felt the same. Gods help her, she did.

She had been avoiding it for weeks. Ever since she’d caught him staring at her across the grove, eyes haunted but soft. Ever since he’d stayed up sharpening his blade after every fight, alone, but always near enough that she could find him. Always ready when she needed him, even when she didn’t ask.

Zevlor was everything she wasn’t.

He was steady. She was chaos. He believed in ideals. She believed in blood and survival. He still had a heart to carry. Hers had been half-devoured by a Mind Flayer.

But he had listened. Not judged. Not pitied. Just… stayed.

Tav was terrified of how much that meant.

So, she kept her eyes closed. She stayed still. She let herself breathe him in. The faint scent of ash and leather. The warmth of his body beneath the night’s chill. The steady beat of his heart. Gods, it was fast.

Was he awake too?

Of course he was.

Zevlor stared up at the sky again, tracing the constellations he had memorized as a boy in Elturel. They hadn’t changed, but he had. Everything had.

He glanced down at her once more, letting himself, for just a moment, run a hand gently through her hair.

It was the softest thing he’d ever touched.

“I wish I were braver,” he whispered, voice barely above breath. “I wish I could tell you.”

She didn’t move.

He laughed softly to himself. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Tav’s breath hitched.

He froze, again.

She shifted slightly, curling tighter against him. Her voice was quiet, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

“You’re not alone in that.”

Zevlor felt the world tilt.

She was awake.

She had heard him.

And she wasn’t running.

He turned to her slowly. Her eyes were open now, barely, watching him with something fragile and burning behind them.

“You heard,” he said, staring at her stupidly.

Tav nodded.

He stared at her. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was scared,” she admitted. “Still am.”

He wanted to laugh, to cry, to kiss her and never move again. Instead, he said, “Me too.”

She shifted up, propping herself on one elbow. Her face was closer now, and gods, she looked tired. Beautiful. Real.

“You really meant it?” she asked.

“I’ve been drowning in it,” he said simply. “Every time you charge into battle. Every time you put yourself last. Every time you look at me like I matter.”

“You do.”

His breath caught.

“And you… you don’t have to carry this alone,” she continued. “The tadpole. The fear. The voices. I thought I had to do it all, but—”

“You don’t,” he said, fiercely. “I’m with you. I want to be with you.”

The silence between them now wasn’t heavy. It was breathless.

She leaned in. So did he.

Their lips met, hesitant, then firmer, aching with everything they hadn’t said. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

When they finally pulled apart, Tav rested her forehead against his. Her eyes were damp.

“I don’t know what happens next,” she whispered. “With the tadpole. With the world.”

“Neither do I,” Zevlor said. “But for once… we don’t have to know.”

She smiled… a real smile this time.

“Stay with me?”

“Always.”

[met-in-a-tavern]

Two strangers learn to fall in love again I get the joy of rediscovering you Oh, girl, you stand by me

[met-in-a-tavern]

Unwell about Zevlor hours I'm sooooo so unwell about him today I'm gonna weep

[crowley-stole-the-tardis]

Wine and Warpaint

Summary: At the Tiefling victory party, a drunk and battle-worn Tav rambles, laughs, and very poorly hides her crush on Zevlor. He thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in years, but there’s no way she could feel the same... right? Turns out, she just might.

Paring: Zevlor x AFAB!Tav!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol/Drunkenness, Mild language, Tension, Brief mentions of battle injuries (bruises, blood, exhaustion etc), Flirting while intoxicated, General Canon Violence

Word Count: 1,540

The music was loud. The Tieflings danced with wild abandon under the glowing mushrooms, wine flowing as freely as laughter. Someone had lit too many torches and now the clearing swayed with golden, flickering light. Everything smelled of smoke and sweetbread and the musky, iron-tinged scent of blood and sweat clinging to chain mail and leathers.

Tav was drunk.

Like drunk drunk.

She was sat, sprawled really, in the corner near the training dummy, a bottle in hand and a lopsided smile on her face. Her armor was still half-on, glinting beneath streaks of blood and mud, her breastplate clearly scrubbed in a hurry and missing half a strap. A smear of goblin blood remained at her jawline, just under one ear, like a victorious war mark she hadn't noticed.

She raised her bottle to the sky like a toast to the gods.

“You ever seen a goblin do a cartwheel?” she slurred, eyes sparkling. “Because I have. Last thing it ever did. Boom!”

A cluster of Tiefling children nearby burst into laughter. One mimicked a goblin and rolled through the dirt. Tav whooped in delight, clapping her armoured hands.

From across the fire, Zevlor watched her with a warm, incredulous smile.

He wasn’t drunk, though not for lack of offer. The wine flowed like water tonight, and the Grove was alive with celebration. But someone had to keep an eye on things, and… gods help him, he’d rather keep an eye on her.

Tav... The Hero of the Grove. The Shield at the Gate. The bloody, bruised, victorious storm that had torn through the goblin camp and returned with her party battered but triumphant.

She was radiant.

He Saw everything She was limping slightly, one gauntlet too tight, her hair a chaotic mess of curls and dried blood, and her laughter so loud the stars might blush.

And she was trying to be smooth.

Zevlor bit back a chuckle as she stumbled to her feet and sauntered (or attempted to) toward a group of revelers, her voice husky and confident in the way of the very, very drunk.

“Oh, you know, it was nothing,” she was saying, hand sweeping wide. “Just a few goblins, a cult leader or two. No big deal. Really. I only nearly died like… five times. Eight, if you count the exploding barrels. But who's counting?” She hiccuped, then tried to wink. Failed. Tried again. Nailed it. “I’m so good at this.”

Zevlor leaned back against the tree, arms crossed over his chest, hiding a smile behind his hand.

She was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in years.

It was maddening.

She had arrived at the Grove like a storm, unsure, wary, already marked by violence and secrets. But even then he’d seen it. That fire. That unyielding soul behind her eyes.

He had told himself it was admiration. Respect. Gratitude.

But now, with her spinning in half-shined armor, bruised and flushed and glowing, he could not lie to himself.

He was utterly taken.

And it was ridiculous.

She was young. Not by mortal standards, perhaps, but compared to him? Ancient. Weathered. Tired. She was a soldier with a spark in her eyes and hope in her blood.

He’d seen enough war to know better.

He turned to leave. He needed air, space, distance. But then:

“Zevlor!” a voice called.

His name, but her voice. Joyful and bright. Warm.

He turned.

She was stumbling toward him. Bottle abandoned somewhere. Her cheeks were flushed, her hairstyle barely holding. She was beaming.

And suddenly she was standing too close, her eyes alight with everything good in the world.

“You stayed,” she said, voice thick with emotion and wine. “I was so worried.”

Zevlor blinked. “Of course I stayed. The Grove still needs me.”

“No,” she said, stabbing a finger at his chest, misjudging and poking his collarbone. “You. I meant you. You stayed safe.”

He softened. “So did you.”

“Well, barely,” she admitted, leaning slightly against him. He resisted the urge to steady her waist. Barely. “I punched a goblin so hard I broke my own hand.” She held it up proudly, fingers wrapped in makeshift bandages.

He took it gently, inspecting the bruised knuckles. “You’re reckless.”

“I’m victorious.”

He chuckled. “Both can be true.”

She looked up at him then, and the world went quiet.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she whispered. Her voice, suddenly quieter, held none of the dramatic flair of before. No drunken theatrics. Just truth.

He swallowed.

“I worried about you,” she added. “When we left. I kept thinking; what if they came here while we were gone? What if you were hurt? I kept thinking about your shield, and how small your group was. And-”

She stopped. Blushed. Waved a hand vaguely.

“Anyway,” she said with a lopsided shrug. “You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

Zevlor’s heart ached.

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. How often he had watched the gate. How many prayers he had whispered. How many times he’d looked toward the path and begged to see her return.

He cleared his throat, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m not as easy to kill as I look.”

She giggled. “You’re not easy to look at, either.”

He blinked.

She froze.

“I—I meant that in a—no—wait—you’re handsome—I mean—fuck—” She slapped a hand to her face. “Ignore me. Please. I’m very drunk.”

Zevlor laughed. He couldn’t help it. It bubbled out of him like the wine from the barrels near the fire.

“You’re smooth,” he teased gently.

“I am!” she cried, throwing her arms wide. “I’m so smooth I’m practically velvet.”

He tilted his head. “Velvet?”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t. But he did offer his hand.

“Walk with me?”

Tav blinked at it. Then at him. Then grinned. “Only if you don’t mind if I fall over.”

“I’ll catch you,” he said before he could think.

She took his hand. They walked slowly, away from the firelight, into the softer shadows of the trees near the grove’s edge. The night was cooler here, quieter. Crickets chirped, and a soft breeze danced through the leaves.

Tav sighed, leaning slightly against his arm. “Do you think it’ll last?”

Zevlor glanced at her.

“This peace,” she clarified. “This joy. This… moment.”

He was quiet for a while before answering.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But tonight, it is real. And that’s enough.”

She looked up at him. The moonlight caught in her lashes, the faint shimmer of drying blood on her neck, the scrape on her cheekbone where a goblin blade had barely missed her eye.

“You know,” she murmured, “I like your voice.”

That caught him off guard. “My voice?”

“It’s all gravelly and tired. Like it’s seen shit.”

He huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “It has.”

“I bet you were really handsome when you were my age.”

He gave her a side-eye. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” she said, nose scrunching in amusement. “You are handsome.”

His chest clenched. “Tav-”

“No, no, wait. Don’t do the thing,” she said, spinning to face him and nearly tripping on a root. “Don’t do the ‘you’re young and wild and I’m too old and wise’ thing. I know. I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

His brows lifted. “You’ve thought about it?”

She stared up at him. Her expression was open, vulnerable beneath the drunken sway and bravado.

“I thought about it when I saw Cults plans to wipe out the Grove,” she said quietly. “I thought about it when I saw your armour dented. I thought about it when you stayed behind to protect these people.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

She reached up, her hand brushing his cheek, hesitant, like she might pull back at any second.

“I think you’re brave,” she whispered. “I think you’re kind. And smart. And tired. But still trying.”

He couldn’t breathe.

“And if I weren’t this drunk, I probably wouldn’t be saying any of this,” she added. “But also, if I weren’t this drunk, I wouldn’t have the guts.”

“Tav—”

“I like you,” she said. “You’re allowed to not like me back. I’ll be embarrassed in the morning and probably pretend I didn’t say anything. But tonight… I just wanted you to know.”

Zevlor exhaled a slow breath.

“You’re wrong about one thing.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I do like you back,” he said softly. “Gods help me.”

Her breath hitched.

“But,” he added, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, “you are drunk. And I am still afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of what comes next.”

Tav smiled, sleepy and warm. “Then don’t think about what comes next. Just stay. With me. Here. Tonight.”

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he sat beneath the tree, tugging her down with him until she was nestled at his side.

She sighed, head on his shoulder, breath warm against his neck.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t say anything tomorrow,” she mumbled.

“I’ll remind you,” he promised.

She grinned.

And beneath the stars, surrounded by laughter and the distant beat of drums, Zevlor held her close, and for once, allowed himself once again to believe in joy. Even if only for tonight.

[crowley-stole-the-tardis]

Between Hope and Ruin

Summary: A soldiers life isn't easy. After the victory at the Goblin Camp, Tav slips away from the celebration, overwhelmed by the burden of the tadpole and the weight of her choices. Zevlor finds her beneath the stars, and a moment of vulnerability sparks something deeper.

Paring: Zevlor x AFAB!Tav!Fighter!Reader

Warnings: Implied PTSD, Depression, Mental Health Struggles, Thoughts of suicide, The Tadpole, Guilt, Angst, Game accurate violence

Word Count: 1,550

“A true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him”

The Emerald Grove pulsed with celebration.

Laughter echoed through the trees, mingling with the crackle of campfires and the sharp scent of roasted meat. Tieflings danced in circles, drunk on freedom and wine. The Grove, once on the brink of bloodshed, was safe for now. The goblins were scattered. Kagha had relented. The refugees had a future again.

Zevlor should have felt proud. Elated, even. Instead, his eyes scanned the crowd, brow furrowed. He’d been pulled into more than a few drinks, slapped on the back, and thanked profusely, but each time he looked past the speaker.

Where was the one who made it possible?

Where was Tav?

It wasn’t difficult to track her. He'd watched her closely enough over the past weeks to know the rhythm of her footsteps, the careful way she avoided the squeaking planks on the Grove’s bridges, how she always stepped left first in battle.

And now, in the quiet beyond the edge of the revelry, he found her.

A cloak, her cloak, was spread over the grass near the cliff side. Plates of fighter’s armor were scattered around her like shed skin, dull in the moonlight. She sat cross-legged, a bottle of wine half-drained beside her, another unopened nearby.

She didn't turn when he approached. Her eyes were locked on the stars.

Zevlor hesitated, then stepped forward softly. “You missed the party.”

Tav didn’t answer. Her hands were clasped around her knees, knuckles white. A breeze stirred her hair, but she didn’t move.

He crouched down beside her, not touching. “You look like the hero in a bard’s tale, resting after battle.”

Still, no answer.

He tried again, voice gentler. “What's wrong?”

Tav exhaled. It wasn't a sigh, not quite. More like air escaping from something cracked. Her head dipped slightly, then shook once. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long silence, the kind that made Zevlor consider backing away and pretending he’d never found her. But then Tav finally spoke, her voice low and sharp around the edges.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re fine?”

He blinked, unsure how to respond.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she continued, the words gathering force like a storm cloud. “The tadpole. The… thing in my head. It's always there. Whispering, watching, waiting. And the worst part is...”

She turned toward him. Her eyes were glassy, not from wine, but the exhaustion of holding herself together for too long.

“The worst part is that it feels good. Sometimes. Like it wants me to believe it’s helping me. Making me stronger. Smarter. I kill faster. I read minds. I see the path before it happens. And all it wants is to be let in just a little more.”

She shuddered.

“And part of me, gods help me, wants to.”

Zevlor’s jaw tightened. He sat beside her, careful not to touch her still.

She reached for the bottle, took a swig. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. The fighting, the decisions, the lives hanging on what I say or don’t say. It’s like I’m… drowning. I’m so tired, Zevlor. And I’m scared that this thing in my head knows. That it’s just waiting for me to give in.”

Tav looked at her reflection in the wine’s surface, disgusted.

“There are moments,” she whispered, “when I think… maybe it’d be easier to just end it. One step off this cliff, and I wouldn't have to be strong anymore. No more voices. No more pressure. No more pretending I’m okay when I’m barely holding it together.”

The wine bottle clinked as she set it down, too hard.

Zevlor didn’t speak right away. He let her words settle between them like falling ash. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t tell her to be grateful she was alive or lucky to be powerful. He didn’t throw words like hope or strength at her like bandages over a bleeding wound.

Instead, he said, “I’ve thought the same thing.”

Tav looked at him sharply, startled.

He stared ahead, toward the stars she had been watching. “After Elturel fell. After I fled with the others. After I stopped being a Hellrider and started being a coward.”

“You’re not a coward.”

“I am,” he said, not angrily. Just matter-of-fact. “I broke. I ran. And every night I looked at my sword and thought, you could stop this pain now.”

He looked at her then, really looked. At the quiet tremble in her shoulders, the dark circles beneath her eyes that no spell could erase.

“I didn’t. I don’t even know why, some days. Maybe because I was too stubborn. Maybe because someone needed me, even if it wasn’t for long. Maybe I thought I might get one more day to do something good.”

She looked away, eyes shimmering. “How do you do it? Keep going?”

“I don’t, always. But the days I can… I tell myself I only need to last until the next sunrise. Just one more. Then I can choose again.”

Tav let out a shaky laugh. “That sounds like something Shadowheart would say.”

“Shadowheart would scowl and tell you to embrace the darkness, not fight it.”

“She might.”

A quiet settled again, but this time it wasn’t suffocating. Zevlor leaned back on his hands, the grass cool beneath his palms.

“I see the way you carry this,” he said after a moment. “Not just the blade or the armor, but the weight of everyone else’s lives. It’s crushing you.”

Tav said nothing.

“You’re allowed to put it down. Even if just for a night. Even if just with someone who understands.”

She turned to him slowly. “Do you?”

His answer was quiet. “More than you know.”

For the first time, she smiled. A small, crooked thing that barely reached her eyes, but it was there.

“I didn’t think anyone saw,” she murmured. “I thought I had to be the fearless leader.”

“You are allowed to be afraid.”

“I thought I had to be perfect.”

“You’re allowed to fall apart.”

“I thought I had to be alone.”

“You never were.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily. “Gods, this is pathetic. I should be-”

Zevlor shook his head, cutting her off. “You should be alive. And you are. That’s not weakness. That’s defiance.”

Tav blinked at him, as if seeing him clearly for the first time.

“I hated you at first,” she admitted. “You were so… loud. Self-righteous. And then you stood your ground at the Grove. Even when no one believed in you. I kept thinking, why does he care so much? Why is he still fighting?”

He met her gaze steadily. “Because someone has to.”

She reached for the second bottle of wine, popped the cork, and handed it to him.

“I can’t promise I’ll feel better tomorrow,” she said. “But I’d like to watch the stars a bit longer. With you.”

Zevlor accepted the bottle, clinking it gently against her own.

“No one faces the darkness alone,” he said, voice steady. “Not while I’m here.”

She leaned into him, not fully, just a brush of shoulder against shoulder, armor grazing armor. But it was enough.

And above them, the stars burned. Bright, distant, and defiant.

Part Two

[lolliputian]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Zevlor (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s) Characters: Zevlor (Baldur's Gate), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Slice of Life, Sweet, Fluff, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, Hellrider Zevlor, Bottom Zevlor (Baldur's Gate), Pre-Canon, First Time, Anal Sex, Biting, Tiefling Biology (Dungeons & Dragons), Zevlor and his Hellrider Husband Summary:

Set thirty years before the events of Baldur's Gate 3, Zevlor and the man who would eventually become his husband have a chance to get away from their Hellrider duties to relax. Away from the barracks, they're able to enjoy each other for the first time.