tavlesskink | Rules and Prompts

tavlessmod posting in

For anyone who enjoys the old-school fandom vibes of anonymous prompts, but who wants to focus on origins characters and BG3 NPCs.

What is a kinkmeme?
A kinkmeme is a place to post story ideas, plot bunnies, and concepts anonymously, in hopes that they'll inspire someone else in the fandom. As implied in the name, kink and smut prompts are welcome, but so are gen prompts! This is a choose not to warn space - there may be offensive content in prompts and we do not require warnings in titles.

Mod Post | Fills Archive | Prompt Index (by character)

Prompting

Reply to this post with a comment with your prompt. Separate prompts go in separate comments!
Use the subject line to identify the prompt in some way (ex: ship/brief concept). This will make it easier for folks to see which prompt people are replying to in the flat view.
All prompts must be anonymous
All prompts must focus on canon characters from Baldur's Gate 3, whether they be playable characters or NPCs. Canon Durge (white dragonborn sorcerer with his Gortash-involved backstory, that guy) is allowed. If you want to prompt for ideas about your custom Durge/Tav, or a generic Tav, there is another BG3 kinkmeme that allows Tav prompts.

Fills

Please post your fill as a comment to the original prompt comment
If you add the word [FILL] to the start of the subject line of your reply that' makes it easier to find
If you also cross post to AO3 or another site feel free to drop a link (there isn't a collection on ao3 but folks have been using the tag Community: tavlesskink)
Multiple fills are always allowed/encouraged!
Non-fic fills (art, game edits, filk) are also welcome!

General Guidelines

YKINMKATO - be respectful. If you hate a prompt, ignore it.
Warnings are not required, but polite
Hate speech, off-topic content etc. will be deleted
If you're here, you're 18+
Prompt spamming encouraged as the kinkmeme gets started. If one person starts monopolizing the page, that will change
If you want to repost your prompts from other websites that's allowed - please don't post the same prompt multiple times within the kinkmeme
Co-signing prompts, suggesting variations, and related fic recs are also welcome! You don't have to be posting a fill to reply to a prompt
Questions can be directed to the mod post

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

With a roar, Ansur tore him off his cock, shook out his wings as he flipped them. The magehands pushed him beneath Ansur, angled so that his hands could almost touch the ground even as his ass was pulled up to meet Ansur’s cock. Pinned in place, he could only moan and beg as Ansur reared up on his hind legs, to grasp for the nearest crystal pillar and mount him.

Wyll couldn’t scream this time, the force of Ansur’s thrusts robbing his lungs of air. There was nothing else of him, just Ansur, just Ansur within him and nothing else. Ansur mounted him and the magehands shoved him back onto that cock and sanity dribbled away in each bone-shaking thrust.

When Ansur came he was barely a person, just a fount of pleasure.

Molten waves of come filled him, stretched him further, his skin tight now to the point of pain, magic or not. The magehands pressed his back up against Ansur’s belly, locked him in place. There was a great gust of wind and then they were flying, Ansur still coming within him. They swooped and flipped, the speed of it blinding him as the motion made Ansur’s come slosh within him. Wyll’s throat was raw from screaming as they circled endlessly.

His mind drifted. A harness, Ansur had said. He imagined it, a soft sling of leather that would press his back against the great dragon’s belly. How it would narrow at the back to allow his legs to hang freely so that Ansur could mount him. How it would hold him onto that great cock, allow him to sleeve it indefinitely. Forever. He wouldn’t have to fight anymore, or think. He could just be this; this conduit of pleasure, a thing for Ansur to use.

He imagined Ansur rolling onto his back, freeing him from the harness to rub the soreness out of his muscles. To feed him little scraps of meat, still raw and singing of life, the way a dragon ate. He imagined crawling back into it, sheathing himself on Ansur’s cock, feeling the leather tighten around his distended stomach as they took off again, soaring the skies. He imagined feeling nothing but this ever again, nothing but bliss.

“No,” Ansur said.

Wyll realized that the lack of stinging winds was because they’d landed, that Ansur had rolled over and he was once again seated on his cock. Clawed hands petted at him, soothing the friction-raw skin and his trembling muscles.

“I cannot keep you, Wyll Ravengard,” Ansur said. “Once the magic takes I will be gone.”

“Please,” Wyll begged. He didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want to go back into the world, to be alone, to hurt, to have to make decisions. Was he not good enough?”

“The world is a painful place,” Ansur said. “But you must walk it. I am sorry, little human, that I cannot offer you more succor than this. I am dead, and you yet live. There is no future for us.”

Wyll cried, the end of all happiness looming before him. Everything was perfect like this, it was so good, why did it have to end? He could have been happy.

Hands brushed over his shoulders, small hands. Cool with the cavern’s chill, pointed nails that skimmed against his skin, never quite hurting him. “Oh, darling,” Astarion said. “Come back to me, won’t you?”

Wyll sobbed harder. Astarion wrapped his arms around Wyll and began to kiss at his shoulders, a thousand kisses along his neck and ears and spine. He remembered, slowly, how much he loved Astarion. That he wasn’t alone anymore, that Mizora couldn’t take him anymore. That he was loved.

“Astarion,” he whispered, awed.

“My sweet prince,” Astarion murmured back. “You were magnificent. You were amazing. Come back to me, I don’t want to do it alone.”

“It was so good,” Wyll tried to explain, even though it hadn’t ended yet. He was still sheathed around that great cock, belly still soft with Ansur’s spend. It was less though; the skin less strained, the pressure less immense. He pushed on his midsection, felt it give under his hand just a bit before it met the resistance of Ansur’s scales.

“Ritual sex magic with a dragon? I imagine it was great,” Astarion said, tangling his hands with Wyll’s so they could rub them over the matted hair on his stomach together. “One might even say magical. Personally, I prefer my bones all where they belong and the cocks in me strictly eight inches or shorter, but I know you’ve got a taste for the impossible, love.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Wyll said. It seemed very important to let Astarion know that, though his mind was still circling the idea of being kept, being taken. Being surrounded by warm scales and kept safe in a den where nothing could hurt him. Not needing to do anything except be used, be desired, be treasured. The tears just wouldn’t stop.

Gods, how could he possibly say any of that to Astarion, who had been taken, been used, been treated as worth nothing except his body? He was disgusting.

“You are not,” Astarion said, kissing the back of his neck, then down the column of his spine. “Wyll, darling, you don’t want to start a competition of disgusting fantasies. Because I will win. And you will never be able to look me in the eyes again. Why wouldn’t you need to be taken care of? You’ve been fighting for your life since you were a child.”

“I was seventeen,” Wyll protested.

“Practically an infant,” Astarion said. “Now, I’m not a dragon. I can’t impale you on my cock and carry you around like a little rag-doll, not without strategic use of several potions. But I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to treasure you. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you from being hurt. I know it’s not good enough, but – let me try?”

“Of course,” Wyll said. “Of course, Astarion, I love you. I want you. You don’t have to promise me anything, you don’t have to protect me. I just – it was just a fantasy. I got carried away.”

“Wyll Ravengard, of course I have to protect you,” Astarion protested. “Who else in this rotten world is going to do it? You’re mine now. My treasure,” He squeezed Wyll and the pressure within him sang. Wyll gasped, letting his head fall back onto Astarion’s shoulder.

“I may have carried you further than I intended,” Ansur rumbled. “I had...forgotten. How little of my seed it took to send Balduran into a mindless stupor the first time we mated. I perhaps neglected to account for the way he grew tolerant of it over time. You have my apologies for any grief our mating brought you, my heir.”

“Your apology is not accepted,” Astarion snapped. “Remember next time you’re reborn not to drug any poor sods out of their mind before you go all feral dragon sex on them. Now be a good dragon and tell me how long Wyll needs to stay like this and how to put him back together.”

Ansur chuckled. “An audacious spawn, to reject the apologies of a dragon. But the mate that my heir deserves, nonetheless. He must absorb the rest of what he has taken to consume its magic and then you will be free to go. This seeming will not last much longer, when it goes, the transformation of his body will go with it.”

“Hours? Days?” Astarion demanded.

“Less than hours,” Ansur said. He twisted his head to lay against the ground, looking off into the distance. His eyes closed. “I grow tired.” And Wyll remembered that it was only the dragon’s magic that held him to this plane, the magic that his body was now consuming. Ansur’s scales no longer seemed to glow as if they were lit from within, the darkness of the chamber around them casting the bronze and green into greys.

“Ansur,” Wyll called. The dragon’s eyes flickered to life once more, looked into Wyll’s soul. “Thank you,” he said. “I will never regret this. I will carry your gift and your story and I will do so with honor. I swear this on our city and my soul.”

“I know,” Ansur said. “And that is why I chose you.”

His eyes darkened, and Wyll knew he would not see them lit again. He tried to mark the moment, catalog every detail of it, though the haze of Ansur’s magic still lingered within him, shivering. He would obviously remember the sex, there would be no forgetting the sex. But he wanted to remember the way Ansur’s talons had felt against his skin, the scent of his breath, the majesty of his voice, the tragedy of his loss. He wanted to remember the way Astarion kissed him, heedless of the mess he’d made of himself. The way he looked on him like some precious thing.

Astarion never stopped touching him, gentling his hands against the swell of his stomach, petting at his arms, kissing the tears off his face. “I would massage your poor legs,” Astarion told him, “but I’m scared to death they’ll pop right off. Just a little longer now, dear. A little longer.”

When Ansur faded, it happened slowly. Like time turned sluggish in the aftermath. He was there, feeling the press of Ansur inside of him, savoring those last moments of wonder. Then he was drifting, Astarion’s arms around him the only thing real and solid.

Then they were on the ground in front of a pile of bones, and Astarion was holding him in his lap, and he felt incredibly peculiar. The world seemed too bright and too dim all at once, and his skin was telling him nothing except that it was cold and he was both damp and naked. The dance of dust motes on his skin and the shivering of his bones was so distant it seemed like a dream. He ached, but in the way that one ought to ache after marathon sex and not the way one should after being split in half by a dragon. “Fuck,” he said. “I was so high.”

“You were incredibly high, darling,” Astarion said. “It was delightful. Except for that maudlin bit at the end, I will treasure the memory forever.”

“Am I normal again?” Wyll asked, pressing anxiously on his ribcage, feeling the bones stay exactly where they were supposed to be. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t been freaking out earlier when they were moving. That was weird and wrong and bones should not do that.

“Hmm.” Astarion squeezed his hips, then made a quick inventory of other, more intimate places. “Well I think you’re going to have bruises for days, you poor thing. Gods know you’ll love that, perhaps Shadowheart can be convinced to let you keep a few. But your hole seems shockingly un-ruined. A bit tender, but you love that too, don’t you?”

Astarion paused. “I should say that you have a few...scales. And, well.” He took Wyll’s hand and guided it to his face, to Mizora’s sending stone. But when Wyll’s hand brushed over the eyelid, there wasn’t the unyielding burn of stone beneath it. He closed his other eye and blinked back tears as he saw – actually saw – Astarion smile at him. “They’re brown again,” Astarion said. “Absolutely shocking, I would have thought an egoist like Ansur would have needed to gift you eyes that matched his...there might be a glimmer of bronze in there though. They sparkle.”

And so maybe Wyll was still naked and crying when the rest of them finally showed up to check and make sure he hadn’t been eaten alive. It had been a very long day, full of gifts he could not possibly have asked for. A real fairy tale ending...if one made the mistake of taking a fairy tale from his father’s secret bookshelf.

Oh hells. His father. Who had told him about Ansur and was expecting their return with either an allied bronze dragon or word that the myth was indeed nothing but myth. Who was going to see that his son was suddenly more dragonborn-looking than he had been that morning.

“We are telling Duke Ravengard that Ansur gave me his magic,” Wyll said firmly. “We are not mentioning how that happened.”