#tiavyn

[asharaks]

oh and tia as a romanceable companion absolutely still tries to kill you and oscillates wildly between incredibly clingy and refusing to talk to you #normal

[asharaks]

instinct, imperative

600 words wyll/dark urge companion piece to my body, a mistranslation :)

It's a little like fighting.

(At least, the way they dance, all sharp edges and blood in the mouth.)

It's a little like fucking.

(At least, the way he dances, all slow hips and intent dark eyes.)

They

(all concentration, all control)

move, and Wyll

(all confidence, all—)

moves with them, sliding back a step to leave them in the warmth of his shadow. It's instinct that has them reaching for him, mirroring him as he raises his hands;

it's instinct that has them catching him as he spins into their arms, swandive, swallowtail;

instinct, that has them draw him close, his head tipping back against their shoulder as he laughs, leans into them.

“See?” he says, voice light, breathless, reverberating through them, and they tighten their hands until his body is flush against theirs, until his cheeks flush and his chest hitches. “You are good at this.”

“I'm not sure.” He moves away, and they release him unspoken, let his hands raise theirs as he spins beneath their arm, curve of his horn grazing their wrist. “You seem to be doing most of the work.”

“It's about having a good partner,” comes the easy reply, the easy motion as he pulls them forwards, one-step-two, ungainly and awkward but he smiles at them all the same, runs his hands up their arms all the same, links their fingers all the same. “I wouldn't do this with just anyone, you know.”

Backstep, sidestep, just-barely-miss his feet as he moves in their space—

(feel his laugh brush their throat)

—hands on their waist to turn them, confident and encouraging, nevermind their inertia, the weight of them sin-skin-bone against his hands as he pushes and they spin away, miss the warmth (miss the moment) and—

—instinct, always.

Instinct, a killer.

Wyll moves, quicksilver quickstep, weight shifting down the length of their arm and momentum carries him past them, spins them, carries them tangled with him, counterweight-wide their hand on his waist:

instinct, in the end.

They reach him as he falls, arches back, spine a graceful curve, the swell of his horns brushing the ground. He's a lodestone in their arms, everything in them pointing Wyllwards: their heart pendulums, swinging on its leash, and for a moment they're falling and he's falling beneath them, bearing him down with all their weight into the black earth as gravity swallows them both.

And then:

muscle, marrow, brandhot against their palms, they catch him.

the fall ends, and he's safe in their hands. Laughing, breathless, warm weight on their shoulders as they pull him upright, inelegant and abrupt. He drapes himself across them, fingers linked behind their neck, turns their too-sharp too-fast movements into something less frenetic, smoother, more intentional. Beauty to their beast, sunlight on the shadow of them.

“Don't do that,” they say, once he's settled firmly in their grasp, once they can feel his laughter echo in their ribs. Wyll tips his head, horns clacking softly off theirs as his hands drift, as he meets their eyes blackred, blackblue.

“You weren't going to let me fall,” he says, smug. Certain. Placing all too much faith in them, as always, a Blade to their heart. He grins up at them, hands at their neck, chest against theirs. Too intimate for any courtly dance as he scrapes his nails over their throat, draws his hands down their arms, sways into them slow-slow-slow.

It's a little like fighting, and a little like fucking, and as in both, they follow their instincts.

His lips are soft, and he smiles into their mouth, and they, the only rhythm in their heart a wardrum, find themself smiling back all the same.

[asharaks]

see me with the wolf

2.1k words wyll/dark urge cw gore

wyll & tiavyn meet at last.

The world bends. In an instant, he falls: smells sulfur and metal, infernal-abysmal, dark rushing in to choke him; he sees Karlach, burning in the night, Mizora behind her, and then—

—he's somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and empty, somewhere not-entirely deserted. There's a sense of the Labyrinth: winding pathways bored through flesh, though greypink matter, and something in it hunting, haunting— something in it hungry.

[asharaks]

when God bore you hungry

2.6k words nsft: explicit sex, some blood (very mild) nonbinary durge/wyll

Sprawled across his chest, his heart beating against theirs, they breathe into his mouth. Their lips are separated only by his fingers, his skin warm against their scars: they open their mouth, their tongue brushing the swell of his fingertip, and his chest hitches beneath theirs as he gasps.

[asharaks]

these torn constellations

820 words tw: self-harm, torture, sex wyll/the dark urge, kressa bonedaughter

A woman leans over you and tells you she loves you.

One day, you took a knife to your face and carved yourself open, lips to throat. You laughed as you did it, your Father's light filling the wounds, your Father's blood filling your mouth.

Today, she opens you throat to groin, starting at the very tip of your scars. You laugh (you think you laugh) as she does it, your Father's light gone from you, spilled red on the glistening floor, holy communion gone to waste.

One day, you'll lie in a warm bed with a man who loves you. The sunlight will fall on his skin and you will fall on your knees for him, time and time again, a worship untainted by blood.

Today, you lie on a cold table, and a woman leans over you and tells you she loves you. Her hands reek of death, and the darkness around you is no match for the darkness within, writhing-wriggling-squirming, clawing and crawling, and she takes the hand you raise for violence and she laces her fingers with yours

(and if you had the strength you'd break those fragile bones to splinters)

and she kisses you on the forehead, carrion-breath rancidsweet on your skin,

(rip out her tongue at the root and watch her choke on blood)

and she murmurs, “Hush, sweet one-”

(something so satisfying about killing necromancers: they always die screaming)

and when you look down you can see the carvings on your ribs (the Given), discordant with the ones on your face (the Chosen), the flutter of your lungs and you find yourself

searching

staring

looking for the red for the itch for the hole the place where He lives in you (and your blood spills over, wet and rich and dark in her hands) and

One day, you killed a man three times. Opened him up so pretty, teeth in his throat claws in his gut watched him bleed out squirmingscreamingsobbing: felt your Father's love, an offering received with grace. You took that love and you took his body and you filled him with it, brought him back through the dark to your waiting hands (jugular knitted back abdomen closed smooth) and you

Today, she tuts over your writhing carcass and smoothes your hair back from your sweating brow and she stitches you up with a surgeon's care (hands on your stomach on your thighs on parts more intimate more inside) and when she's done (when you're closed) she leans in and kisses your cheek and she says: “I'll see you tomorrow, special one.”

One day, he'll kneel before you and tell you he can see into eternity. You'll feel the carvings on your ribs, and the violence in your hands, and you'll (wish you'd died before you ever met him) (wish you'd died on the crashing nautiloid) (wish the tadpole swallowed you whole left nothing but meat and tentacles no soul no heart no mind) tell him there's a god in my blood and He won't let me

Today, you die. On her table, your heart stops beating. On her table, your body turns to (stillblessed still Chosen) meat, your Father's favour soaking into the spongy ground. Your Father's blood stops flowing (stops whispering), your Father's love dries up (a murderer murdered, a saint martyred)—

—and in His place, she calls her own god, and he drags you back through the dark to her waiting hands.

One day, you'll kiss him. When the fathergod is bled from you, when your hands and teeth are yours once more, you'll be able to kiss him. It won't change the way you want him

(violently, breathlessly, completely)

but you'll be able to touch him without fear, kiss him without blood. You'll learn:

he likes to talk while he fucks. Gasping, airless, punchedout pleas, his voice an anchor in the split of your skull. You'll learn:

he worries about you. About the things you make yourself do for him. The chore of his body, a fist clenched tight around you; the burden of his desire, your own body wrought for a bloodier purpose. He says, you don't have anything to prove to me, and you, so much to prove you'll never manage it, say:

(I want you so bad my teeth ache with it)

kiss him hard, kiss him until he moans, because the hunger isn't gone

(radiating out from the marrow to the muscle)

isn't changed, just blooded, now, teeth filed down until you can bury them in his neck and he (doesn't bleed) just bruises, pretty and willing, arches his spine and

(let me in let me in let me in)

opens for you, and the only thing in your blood is fire and

(I want I want I want)

love, splitting you open, splitting you in two, a scalpelblade down the core of you until the only anchor is your hand, laced in his.

(One day, you knew.)

(One day, you'll die.)

(Today, you die.)

[asharaks]

tagged by @bladesmitten mwahhh tagging umm. the wwt gang @ikarons @baronmpontmercy @hungerofhadarr kissy kissy!! anyone else who wants to do it also :3

these are all tia lines....and they all sound better in context<3

he's never going to be human- let him go.

I love you and I can’t be yours

"I just want to rest."

“That's all I ever seem to do.”

“You can't let me be selfish for five minutes?”

“There— there's nothing there,"

—I loved Him—and I can't hear Him—and it hurts—

“Then you have my word. My oath as a paladin. I won't harm you.”

“Just prayers. Nothing worth finishing.”

"Sorry. I'm not... I don't think I make a good partner."

“remember what happens to tyrants, little would-be.”

“you may not be a forgiving man, enver... but you aren't a loved one either, are you?”

[asharaks]

smth smth gay paladins..........

[asharaks]

tagged by @hungerofhadarr kisskiss!! gonna tag @ikarons @baronmpontmercy @babeoffrontiers @covenscribe and anyone else who feels like :3 doing this for my tia bc. of course i am.

5 songs associated with your oc:

shake off your flesh - the huntress and the holder of hands

it will come back - hozier

ancient names - lord huron

providence - poor man's poison

wolf - phildel

3 outfits:

bhaalist tia - i picture lots of rich fabrics, quite intense colours. vibe is slutty open robe except instead of seeing their tits you're seeing the full plate armour they're wearing underneath

camp clothes. soft, warm, dark. nothing too fancy, but they keep their weapons nearby and like to be covered up

modern au. blankey:) i think they dress very comfy and quite lowkey, but maybe some more unusual/unique cuts and fabrics etc. also modern au tia is covered in tattoos and would not be able to tell you where or when they got them<3