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sourhaneyart · 4 days ago

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The World is Not Enough

pairing: Zevlor x fem!Tav

summary: we know when to kiss and we know when to kill... if we can't have it all then nobody will. when everything around you is burning, when the forces of the Absolute close in from all sides, and when your life will never again be as calm and steady as it once was… the world is not enough but just his touch his touch is all it takes to remind you what living truly means.

notes: english isn’t my native language, so apologies for any weird phrasing! Since this is my first fanfic written in English, please be merciful like Gale with bad poetry xD also, I kept Tav’s details vague(ish) so you can imagine your own, but yeah—she’s a curvy half-tiefling who lives in dresses (Part 1)

content warning: nsft, 18+ MNDI, smut, p in v, swearing, dirty talk, bound/being in control, age gap, kinks, tiefling-specific traits, slight angst, not proofread (maybe huh) songfic: The World is Not Enough (Garbage) word count (this part): 3,800

She could feel his gaze on her. But she certainly couldn't see him - in the drunken chaos of the celebration, it was hard to focus on any one thing, to catch someone's attention without outright asking for it. Say what you will, but tieflings sure knew how to throw a rager: wine and rum flowed like water, refilling again and again the souls thirsty for this fleeting respite.

But it wasn't enough. Tonight - Tav's thirst couldn't be quenched so easily. And she was beginning to understand why.

Damn tiefling blood! Tav only had about a third of it, but she'd gotten the full package: ringed horns, a tiny vestigial tail, and claws more akin to a hawk's talons than human nails. At least nature had spared her the fangs - small mercies and all that.

Tav shook her head and exhaled loudly, slowly sipping wine from her glass. Blindenstone rosé - that horribly tart fruit swill her father would've called "vinegar" and she herself wouldn't have deigned to smell. Having grown up in vineyards, Tav now filled her glass with bitter amusement.

Irony had haunted her ever since that nautiloid ship snatched her en route from Waterdeep, capsizing the entire crew and gutting her servants like rotten fish. Then - only darkness. After - the Wilderness, companions, the Grove. And now here they were: a daring band of fearless adventurers, and townsfolk celebrating this fleeting victory with them.

Kitsch. Had there been any point in studying all those sciences and priestly scriptures she'd wasted so much time on? Her father had wanted to mold Tav into a noble lady, heir to his Tashalar estates and vineyards. Eventually - to arrange a profitable marriage, an alliance that would elevate their family's status even further. To prove to everyone that descendants of "filthy goat-faces" could make something of themselves without connections. To renounce millennia of Malkhorandi heritage just to become proper members of society, to blend in with the "prime-born." Even if their family's features would always betray the truth.

The truth. Tav swirled her glass, pensively biting her lower lip. The truth was that despite Tashluta's size and tolerance toward all races passing through its port, only three tiefling families resided there permanently. And only one of them - Tav's own family - was wealthy enough to move in the city's highest circles. It was... complicated. Always. From early childhood, Tav had felt different. Like she didn't belong. And if she ignored appearances, she now understood why.

For the first time, Tav found herself surrounded by so many tieflings. They were loud, sharp-tongued, hot-blooded, gods damn it. Like bright sparks from Avernus had broken free to color this fucking black-and-white world. Tav stood apart from them too: she took after her elven mother in looks, though the difference wasn't nearly as stark as with the "prime-born" she'd spent most of her short life among. And yet...

The men and women - these tieflings - looked at her differently. Not as some exotic oddity, some perverse fantasy. But as... an equal. In their eyes, Tav was simply an attractive young woman of marriageable age. Their gazes held no unease, no morbid curiosity, certainly no disgust. Her "tainted" blood meant nothing here. She was among her own.

Lost in thought, Tav didn't immediately notice the change. She lifted her gaze, scanning through the fire-dancing crowd, the drink-laden tables, the camp's shadowy corners. But... nothing. The gaze she'd felt since the celebration began had vanished.

"Devil take it," Tav cursed, then immediately bit her tongue. Not the wisest words to throw around, especially given their circumstances.

Her eyes soon caught on another sight: Roland, having clearly noted her "lonely" state, was watching her over his goblet's rim with poorly concealed interest.

Tav licked then pursed her lips. Roland was... interesting. Egocentric, loud, quick to flare when plans went awry. But also clever, a gifted wizard, and decent enough as tieflings went - one who cared for his family above all else.

Yet... not what she craved tonight. One persistent thought had hammered at her skull since they'd reached the Grove.

She hadn't recognized Zevlor at first - in the battle's chaos below, there'd been no time to identify who'd rallied and blessed their party. But when Tav, warg-blood crusted from head to toe, finally stood face-to-face with him, she'd known exactly who stood before her.

Commander of the Hellriders.

Tav's father was a second-generation Baldurian who'd migrated to Tashalar to build his vineyard empire. But his grandfather had been born and raised in Elturel, where some of Tav's kin still dwelled... until recently.

The Hellriders, or Knights of Elturel - an elite cavalry unit serving as Elturel's primary military force throughout the 14th and 15th centuries. They'd helped establish and maintain civilization in that harsh region. Among Faerûn's most renowned martial orders, this city guard could outmatch entire nations' armies. Tav had visited Elturel but once with her father, witnessing a Thirteen-Warrior Patrol clad in gleaming crimson-and-white plate bearing inverted crescent moons. Their Commander - a tiefling astride an armored bay charger - had been the sole mounted figure. The memory stuck not just for the patrol's spectacle to her child-eyes, but for how that tiefling, cutting across the square on his light warhorse, had stirred something deep in her young heart. He'd radiated certainty and protection.

Tav exhaled sharply, ignoring Roland's now-pinned attention.

The Descent into Avernus was considered a horrific tragedy that marked even tieflings beyond Elturel. Tav never expected to find refugees in this Grove. The discovery unsettled her. Despite her own struggles and diluted infernal blood, she'd resolved to aid them. Her plan was nearly complete.

"Oh, there you are!" came the interaction Tav had dreaded. Wine-fueled courage propelled Roland toward her, grinning roguishly. "Might I ask why our savior heroine spends this celebration alone?"

"Hmm?" Tav met his gaze with deliberate calm, offering just enough smile to avoid misinterpretation. "Dear Roland, look at this crowd. How could I possibly be alone?"

The tiefling's drink-glazed eyes searched hers, parsing flirtation from rejection.

"Well, I meant... never mind. Perhaps," typical Roland deflection followed instantly.

Tav tilted her head slightly, studying his expression - more prickly hedgehog than hellspawn now. Likely he'd imagined her leaping into his arms post-greeting. Amusing, really. Even had she fancied him, Roland would've needed to work far harder for her attention - an effort he clearly wasn't accustomed to making.

Hesitating, Tav took a sip from her goblet, noting with dismay how quickly the wine was disappearing.

"Roland, tell me..." She paused, uncertain whether to even ask. "Do you know if Zevlor's still here?" Catching his questioning look, she immediately plastered on a foolish smile. "I wanted to discuss some route details while there's still time."

Roland narrowed his eyes - some calculation clearly occurring behind them. Then he snorted, took a large swig of his drink, and shook his head with an exaggerated exhale.

"Dunno. Saw him heading toward the quarters with Tilses a while back." He stepped closer, and Tav caught the full bouquet of alcohol on his breath. "Though I could suggest far more interesting diversions, Tav. No maps, no plans, no fretting about tomorrow." His hand moved toward her forearm but froze mid-reach when she fixed him with a sobering, icy stare.

Clenching his fist, he retreated that same step and cleared his throat.

"Most kind, Roland. But not tonight. Apologies." Keeping her expression neutral, Tav offered a deliberately polite smile. She downed the remaining wine in one go, then strode past the visibly displeased tiefling toward the drink tables.

The selection was dismal, but her searching eyes spotted a bottle of Ashaban Dusk - Zevlor's preferred vintage, if she recalled. After a moment's hesitation, she grabbed the bottle and marched decisively away from camp, deeper into the Grove. Better to regret action than inaction.

Tav stood before the stone door of Zevlor's private quarters for ten full minutes, unable to knock. Her thoughts tangled and scattered. Worse, she'd only just realized the Commander hadn't left the celebration alone - Tilses was likely with him. Truth be told, the female tiefling shadowed Zevlor constantly despite his repeated protests about not needing a bodyguard. Tilses clearly had other ideas.

"Well then." Tav exhaled sharply and shook herself. She adjusted her skirt, checked her corset, and tugged at her shirt collar to straighten the stubborn fabric. The last motion made her wince - during the skirmish, a goblin bolt had struck just below her collarbone. The pain had been excruciating. Shadowheart had tended it promptly, yet the wound still wept stubbornly. Before the celebration, the cleric had applied a healing poultice, promising it would mend by morning.

Tav rolled her shoulders, frowning. Her thoughts kept fracturing and reforming. Zevlor was no longer that imposing paladin in armor gleaming with Amaunator's Gift. Now he seemed grounded, weary, almost lost - a mere shadow of the Hellrider she'd once seen in Elturel. But... Tav didn't care. She knew what lay beneath that cracked exterior.

A strong, intelligent, diplomatic, damn grown tiefling who'd been plaguing her fantasies for days. Every movement, every restrained smirk, every furrowed brow... Blinking hard, she shook her head as if to regain control. In all their time at the Grove, he'd shown no personal interest. Understandable - with a bloodthirsty goblin army at their gates, carnal pleasures hardly took priority. Yet...

That morning, while debriefing the camp cleanup, Tav caught herself staring at her object of interest for an embarrassingly long time. He’d seemed to notice. And… had something just passed between them? She couldn’t say for certain—just fleeting sensations, guesses. A glance, a brief touch, tension in the air. Some might call it pheromones at play, and perhaps there was truth to that. But… could she really ask him for something like this?

Tav snorted to herself. After all, tomorrow they’d be gone. One evening—no big deal. Even if he refused, there were plenty of ways to avoid him until departure to spare herself further humiliation. And since when had she become so insecure?!

She swallowed dryly, feeling the lack of wine in her bloodstream. A decision had to be made. Steeling herself, she stepped forward and triggered the door mechanism.

Zevlor stood with his back to the entrance, hands braced against a table strewn with maps. Nearby, Tilses bustled by the bookshelves, packing items into one of the numerous bags lining the wall alongside burlap sacks and crates.

They’d apparently been mid-conversation, because as Tav entered the corridor leading to the "office," Tilses let out a loud scoff and threw up her hands.

"Oh please, she’s practically a child! If you’d seen how much time she wastes on..." She cut herself off, whirling toward the hallway and reaching for her sword.

"At ease. Just me." The alcohol had dulled Tav’s sense of decorum, so she flashed a grin, raising the bottle in a half-salute and adopting an air of playful innocence. "What, couldn’t stand the party? Or is our company not to your taste?"

Zevlor straightened slowly, turning toward his uninvited guest. His expression remained calm, more amused than annoyed. So her presence didn’t irritate him.

"Oh, Tav. It’s nothing like that," Tilses said, eyeing the girl with scrutiny before shifting her gaze to Zevlor and back. "The Commander and I just had some last-minute preparations. I’m surprised anyone noticed we’d left."

"Fair point," Zevlor finally spoke, turning his full attention to Tav as he crossed his arms and perched on the edge of his desk. Under his piercing, appraising gaze, Tav felt goosebumps cascading down her spine. A faint tremor shot through her legs, and she swallowed hard, unconsciously worrying her lower lip.

"Tilly..." Zevlor addressed his aide again, "I realize it was selfish of me to pull you away from the festivities for such trivial tasks. And it's grown quite late. Return to the celebration—you needn't stay. I'll handle the rest."

"But..." Tilses hesitated, fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword.

The tension in the room was palpable enough that no special perception was needed to sense it. Tilses clearly disapproved of Zevlor being left alone with an outsider—though Tav was neither a mere stranger nor, strictly speaking, even human. Yet Zevlor himself remained ice-calm. Perhaps he trusted her? Or, more likely, he understood that if Tav had meant to kill him tonight, Tilly would've been an obstacle at best—and collateral at worst.

"Tilses. That's an order."

When he turned to his bodyguard, Tav could easily picture his expression: weary sternness accentuated by the hellish glow of his pupils and the sharp cut of his cheekbones. There was nothing frightening in it—just cold, unshakable certainty. This tiefling was clearly accustomed to command. And more importantly, to being obeyed—without question, and without delay.

"Yes, Commander. As you say." Tilses removed her hand from her sword and fixed Tav with a long look. "Pleasant evening." Tav shrugged and offered an awkward smile as Tilses brushed past her and left. The stone door groaned open, then shut.

They were alone.

For a moment, silence hung between them. Some tieflings carried an unsettling presence—like being stalked by a predator, or the creeping sensation of something skittering across your skin. A primal instinct warning of true infernal influence. An involuntary inheritance, a side effect of lineage tied to the Nine Hells, or at the very least, a human bloodline tainted by infernal pact.

Tav endured the sudden weight of it in silence, the pressure manifesting the moment Tilses departed. She expected him to speak first, but he only studied her in quiet appraisal, as if waiting for her to act.

Only now did Tav notice he wasn't wearing armor: the tiefling sat in his usual leather trousers, but instead of his cuirass, Zevlor wore only a simple dark-gray shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The kind of attire suited for relaxed storytelling around a fire, passing flasks between companions. Likely, he'd meant to finish his work quickly and retire. Tav huffed a quiet laugh—she'd never seen this much of Zevlor's bare skin before. And in her wine-hazed mind, it sparked undeniable interest.

"So," he broke the silence at last with a rough exhale, dragging a hand down his face, "To what do I owe the honor of your visit this evening, Tav?" He tilted his head slightly, teeth grazing his lower lip in thought. The words could've been sarcastic, but his tone remained even. "And yes, I apologize for leaving the celebration early. And for the mess—I wasn't expecting guests tonight." A brief smile flickered as he shrugged.

Tav stepped forward without waiting for an invitation. Perhaps it had been implied.

"Oh, I..." She began vaguely, as if unprepared for the question and still unsure how to navigate the conversation, "Drinking and dancing are fun and all... But sometimes you just want quiet company." She drifted absently around the room, pretending to examine the stone shelves of books and packed crates. "Fewer loud noises and grinning faces. If you take my meaning."

"Mm." The tiefling gave a short nod, watching Tav with interest. "Better than most. Well then. I’d be glad to assist in this... trying endeavor." Finally, he smirked, his gaze dropping to the bottle she still carried. "I see you favor Ashaban Dusk as well?"

"Sembian red—simple yet daringly bold. ‘This wine may surprise you,’" Tav recited the vineyard’s slogan with theatrical flair, grinning at his raised brow. "Oh, don’t look so shocked. I grew up on Tashalar vineyards. Memorizing merchant slogans was like a nursery rhyme. Saying it aloud now feels absurd." She shrugged, laughing softly as she offered him the bottle. "Care to do the honors?"

Zevlor’s eyes lingered on her fingers curled around the neck, then traveled up her arm to brush over one bared shoulder left exposed by her shirt. Tav felt the weight of that look like a physical touch but held her ground, waiting.

With a faint smile, he nodded—first accepting the bottle, then circling his desk.

"Of course," on the shelves behind the workspace, a pair of unpacked silver goblets were found, and the tiefling swiftly dealt with opening the bottle and pouring the wine into them.

He uncorked the bottle with practiced ease, pouring as the tart grape scent unfurled in the air, raising goosebumps along Tav’s skin.

"To a quiet evening, then," he handed her a goblet, lifting his own in a brief salute before drinking, "and tolerable company."

Tav watched him over the rim of her goblet, wrestling with her desires.

That damned table had been haunting her. For two days straight, she couldn't think of anything else but that gods-forsaken stone slab—or rather, the fantasy of pinning Zevlor against it, straddling him, riding him until his voice gave out and he begged for release.

But there was another version too. One where she wouldn’t mind being the one bent over that very table, pressed into its cold surface by the Commander’s weight, taking his hard, desperate cock as deep and rough and long as they both needed to burn this cursed place from their minds.

Tav let out a sharp exhale right into her goblet, startled by the vividness of her own fantasy. The wine, which had just touched her lips, splashed in all directions, spilling past her mouth and trickling in quick crimson streaks down her chin, threatening to stain her white shirt.

"Damn it all!" Tav cursed reflexively, grinning at her own clumsiness. She set the goblet aside, licked her lips, and swiped the back of her hand across her chin to save her clothes from ruin.

When she looked up, she was met with a burning gaze that stole her breath.

"I turn into such a clumsy fool after a few glasses," Tav smirked, opting not to mention that "a few" had long since escalated to bottles. "My apologies, Commander."

"N-no. It's fine, don't apologize," Zevlor muttered in a low, rumbling voice before clearing his throat and looking away. Tav noticed his tail flicking behind him, tapping an uneven rhythm against the chair legs. "And... drop the title. Especially that one. You've done far more for us than I ever could."

She frowned slightly, tracing the rim of her goblet with her fingers. Zevlor sat at his desk, occasionally sipping from his glass, his gaze now distant as it drifted over the map. Tav, meanwhile, sat across from him, on the opposite side of the table. The conversation had stalled.

She sighed and brought the goblet to her lips again, taking another sip. The movement must have caught his attention, because out of the corner of her eye, she noted him stealing glances her way.

"Tav, you've got..." The moment she lowered her glass, Zevlor spoke—or rather, tossed out an unfinished remark before reaching toward her face, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath her lip, likely wiping away the remnants of spilled wine. Judging by the shift in his expression, he'd acted first and thought second.

His next reaction seemed to be to pull his hand back and apologize, but Tav didn’t let him. Her fingers closed around his wrist, and she leaned forward slightly, pressing the faintest, most delicate kiss to the pad of his thumb without breaking eye contact.

He swallowed hard, but his hand didn’t tremble, nor did he recoil. The tiefling just watched her through narrowed eyes, jaw clenched, his tail lashing restlessly behind him. His entire posture radiated tension. Had she pushed too far?

"Does this... bother you?" Playing the fool once more to ease the mood, Tav tilted her head slightly, peering up at him with feigned shyness. But she didn’t release his hand—instead, she nuzzled her cheek against his open palm before kissing it again, this time trailing lower, toward the pulse point at his wrist.

"By the Hells' sulfur—" His voice cracked into a rough baritone, his gaze burning into her with unblinking intensity. "This isn't unpleasant, Tav. And you damn well know it. But..." A low exhale as his eyes dropped to her lips. "By the Nine Hells, girl. You have no idea what game you're playing."

Tav barely suppressed a smirk, thrilled by his reaction. His defenses were crumbling. She was on the right track.

"A game? I don't know what you mean," she murmured, nuzzling his palm before pressing a kiss to its center. "I'm just... enjoying the evening."

Zevlor exhaled sharply, his amber eyes locked onto her.

"You're complicating an already precarious situation," he growled, his frown deepening as he licked his lips, unable to look away from her ministrations. "Tomorrow, we—"

"Tomorrow can wait." Still gripping his wrist, Tav rose from her seat—the wine in her veins fueling a reckless boldness beyond her usual audacity. She leaned across the table, closing the distance until they were nearly nose to nose, flashing a daring grin. "Tonight, we celebrate what we've already achieved, Commander. Haven’t we earned a few hours of respite?"

Zevlor tensed but didn’t pull away. His gaze traced her face, his heated breath ghosting over her skin.

Tav snatched his goblet—hers was already empty—and took a defiant swig. Then, with a firm push, she forced him back against his chair and planted one knee between his thighs, dragging his hand back to her mouth.

Without breaking eye contact, she parted her lips, tongue flicking out to trace a slow, deliberate path up his inner wrist before grazing her teeth over the sensitive skin, sealing it with a kiss. She felt it—the shudder that racked him, the muscles in his arm coiling tight, the way his stare darkened with raw hunger.

A smug huff escaped her. Testing further, she caught his index finger between her teeth, biting down gently at the knuckle. The sharp inhale he couldn’t stifle told her everything: He liked it rough.

Tav exhaled hotly against his skin, lavishing his fingers with slow, wet kisses—tongue, teeth, lips in a torturous rhythm.

Zevlor’s nostrils flared, jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood stark. When his hand twitched, Tav paused, quirking a brow. He remained silent, lips pressed thin, but didn’t push her away. Good.

"Mm? Oh, forgive me. If I’m... unwanted in this capacity," she purred, feigning innocence as she released his hand and stepped back from his chair. "Well. I apologize for my forwardness. We can always blame the wine, hah?"

She’d barely taken a performative step away when Zevlor seized her forearm and yanked her back—except something went wrong. White-hot pain lanced through her shoulder and left arm, stars exploding behind her eyes. A choked cry escaped her as the world tipped sideways, consciousness flickering... -

- ((( Shall we turn up the heat on part 2?^^ Say please~ ))) Want tag alerts for Zevlor fics by me? Comment below 👇

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