#paladins fanfiction

[mrs-sharp]

Everytime you realise your favourite fictional character is... fictional.

[stoat-party]

He’s born tall and broad, created to labor ever deeper into the earth until the day his body gives out. Synths are easier replaced than repaired.

He’s strong, but also sharp and driven, with a single-minded faith in his creators that makes them take notice. He’s a rare find. Maybe instead of hauling debris, they can train him to kill.

When Zimmer tells him he’s been assigned to the courser program, he doesn’t really know what it means. All he knows is that he’s special, and useful. Being valuable means security — and already, the twin fears of erasure and obsolescence bake themselves into the back of his mind. He is three days old.

-

They’re pleased with his diligence, but not with his well-meaning questions. Every fiber within him knows that the Institute is right; all that’s left is to find out why. Instead, they teach him to recalibrate a laser rifle.

He loves his laser rifle.

He fires. Changes stance. Fires. The target shudders with every impact.

“Insufficient. Again.”

The corpse-gray face of his observer doesn’t change. Hasn’t changed for two hours. M7-97 is told that synths don’t have feelings the way humans do. All they can experience is a pale imitation, like seeing the world in two dimensions. He believes this. But at the same time, he knows what he thinks of early-gen synths, and the only word for it is hatred.

He runs the drill again. Its yellow eyes bore into him. When they next meet his, they pronounce their stony judgment.

“Insufficient. Again.”

For the first time, it occurs to M7-97 that the weapon in his hands would be handy for disabling Gen-2 synths, if someone happened to give him the order.

He makes another attempt, wholly focused. There is nothing else. This task is his entire life. He is seventeen days old.

He waits. The thing speaks. “Sufficient.” It stares unblinking. “Again.”

-

The Institute is the future. The Institute’s actions are always justified. M7-97 can explain it flawlessly, and this is unacceptable. A courser does not justify himself. A courser spares no thought for why.

When they take him to Retention & Reclamation, he assumes it’s for training. He feels no sense of injustice in this place, only the tense solemnity of a necessary evil. (If he had to feel anything at all, the Institute would have preferred smug amusement. They didn’t tell him that.)

A woman in a black lab coat instructs him to remove his jumpsuit. This is not training.

His stomach turns. They called him a prime candidate. They said he showed promise. “What did I do wrong?”

“Most quirks in central processing can be resolved with regular maintenance. However, Dr. Zimmer has declared you unsalvageable.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.”

Begging is aberrant, but he has nothing to lose. “Please. I will do better.”

She glances at the clock, annoyed. “Remove your jumpsuit, M7-97.”

As they prepare him for reconditioning, he doesn't register the fear. Just suffocating failure and aimless guilt. He’s spent his short life learning the language of violence, but in the hands of his creators he is meek and silent. He is fifty-four days old.

[glupshittostan]

this is actually how blind betrayal went down

[smile-like-a-maniac]

“He said he thinks we’d make a rather provocative picture wrapped around one another.” Astarion breathed out as he eyed Halsin.

“A statement I’d be inclined to agree with.”

The drawings are mine-please don’t re post :)

[bluemantics]

If Keith and Lance were going to fall together at any moment, it would’ve been when Keith was the black paladin.

Keith had successfully kept his walls up until then; battles left him mostly unfazed, team bonding barely nicked his armor, and even Hunk’s cooking wasn’t able to pry him open. 

Then, Shiro vanished, and everything changed. Keith suddenly was tasked with leading the team intended to save the universe. 

All his previous failings and outbursts piled up in his mind at once, nausea rolling through his body constantly. How was he supposed to do this? He was a dropout with anger and authority issues, a wild warrior without aim. Keith wasn’t meant to be anything more than a tamed beast. Even worse, if he wasgoing to step up eventually, to become something greater, he was supposed to do it with Shiro. Instead, a gaping hole had been left behind at the helm. Keith was too young. Too inexperienced. And worst of all, he was entirely alone. 

For the first time in a long time, he was vulnerable, and his aching edges were exposed to anyone brave enough to look. 

The team noticed when he started to crack, exposing his pain and his fear. 

Hunk tried to help, in his own unique way. He noticed the pale hue of the black paladin’s skin and resolved to feed him, maybe help him talk over food. However, that hardly worked, since Keith stopped eating regularly with the team. 

Even Pidge tried to relate through their unique bond. She teased him about the old stories they used to muse over together, but anecdotes about their brothers were still raw for Keith, and he lashed out. That caused Pidge to retreat quickly, her concealed hurt only worsening Keith’s guilt.  

Allura spoke to him in soothing tones that only riled him up more. It was the worst with her, even though she tried her best. Somehow, her gentle tone only reminded him of the wild thing he was. When he would respond in anger, she wasn’t afraid to rise to meet him, and instances where the whole team witnessed them clash only embarrassed him. 

But then there was Lance. That was always how it had gone since their journey started. Lance, appearing to help carry Keith’s brother. Lance, badgering him into a fight. Lance, constantly standing just to his right, prepared to offer unwanted commentary. And now he was the red paladin. 

For the first few days after the lion switch, Lance merely observed how Keith interacted with everyone silently. It made him uncomfortable. He was restless under Lance’s piercing gaze, his eyes that tracked his every choice, his normally discerning tongue that for once chose to still. 

The moment that caused Keith to snap occurred during training. He’d been staying up late every night, working extra with the bots to get better with the new black bayard. Logically, it was just as perfectly balanced as his old sword. Keith just wasn’t able to shake the feeling that the weight of it wasn’t suited to his hand.

So, he trained with it. Again and again. 

Which meant that team training during the daytime… well, it suffered. He was exhausted. Coran, watching over them, admonished Keith for it, but he could barely hear the royal advisor over the sound of his blood rushing past his ears and the clanging of his teammates moving their bayards and the bright lights shining into his pupils and the bruises settling painfully under his ribs and the pressure of his new black armor against his sternum and, worst of all, Lance’s unrelenting stare. 

He snapped back into himself, realizing the team was awaiting his reaction. Their eyes looked round and worried. Keith narrowed in on one person who was standing just at his elbow. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he hissed.

There was a pause after his words. Lance’s expression remained careful, his hand coming up to rest on Keith’s shoulder, forcing a breath out of his lungs. The lights seemed to dim. 

“Let’s take a break,” Lance suggested to everyone. Marvelously, they nodded, Hunk exchanging murmurs with Allura as they both put down their weapons and began to walk toward the door. Pidge scampered up the stairs to Coran. Keith looked at Lance in bewilderment after noticing they were alone.

Lance just grinned, and it released something in Keith that had been knotted up.

“So, Samurai, I think we need to talk.” 

Lance quietly spoke to him about the team’s unease. That they all wanted to help him, but he’d regressed back to a place that was painful to see. Lance spoke of a small desert shack, a place that could be a shelter, but could also be confining in its limitations. A place to hide from the watchful stars. A place of anger, regret, and desperation.

Grief. 

Lance’s words carved out an image of a loner fulfilling his own self-destructive prophecy. It made Keith bristle. Then, however, he reminded him of other images, scenes from the recent past he’d rejected in his mourning. 

Helping Hunk perfect a recipe late at night, even if he didn’t know much about cooking besides canned beans and rice. 

Sorting Pidge’s small pieces of machinery as she ranted about a planet they’d visited. 

Allura laughing when he made a dry comment about a foreign diplomat, and then immediately failing to cover it up when said official turned around, making Keith smile as well. 

Lifting Lance off a bloody battlefield, the harsh sounds raging in the background as he carried him into Red and saved his life.

“You’re not alone.” Lance’s hands stretched out, beseeching. 

“Why did you wait so long to talk to me?” Keith breathed, as if he knew, deep down, that this talk was going to come the entire time. “Why were you so quiet?”

And Lance’s face fell. Keith regretted asking near instantly. 

“Well, you’re not the only one trying to fill in for a strong presence. I had to get used to some things, too, y’know? Convince myself that I can be right for this job.” He points between himself and the black paladin. 

It’s ridiculous. Keith wants to open his mouth, to assure Lance that he’s not just excelling, that he’s perf—

“You need to start showing up to team dinners. Stop working yourself to death at night— that was fine when you were number two, but now you gotta lead us in training,” Lance started to list off as he put a finger up for each point. “Talk to Pidge about Shiro, since she misses him too, not just you. Reassure Allura that you’re happy to lead alongside her. Just… chill the F out, dude.” Keith blinks, owlish in the face of a literal itemized list of things to fix. 

So, he tries to chill the F out. 

It isn’t easy. He still feels inadequate, out of place in every room he steps into, especially when his friends all look to him for answers. Keith often trembles with the weight of the universe. Thank god for Lance, always standing just to his right. Slowly, they open the door of that desert shack together, and he learns how to share his burden. He learns a lot of things. 

Like how Lance is deceptively smart when it comes to strategizing. Or that Lance’s empathy is a weapon, able to prevent a battle with a few well-placed words. He especially enjoys learning that Lance has curly hair, he thinks Keith is funny when no one else does, and he has a fondness for young kids due to his family. 

Lance is his right-hand man and co-leader in every sense of both terms. Their call-and-response has never been better. Oftentimes, before thinking about what Shiro might do, Keith begins to consider what Lance might do. 

And isn’t that frightening? 

They fell together after the lion switch in ways no one could have predicted. Keith feels a wild thing settle in his chest at the thought, his eyes turned toward the stars that watch him in return. 

He stays standing among the sand. He ignores the urge to retreat to shelter. Keith embraces the sky and its promise of warm, fresh rainfall. 

[senualothbrok]

Oath of Devotion

Summary: When you accompany Karlach to Avernus after the defeat of the Netherbrain, you assume it is the end of your romance with Gale. But you have a lot to learn about the meaning of devotion.

An exploration of the power of love and friendship, featuring Professor Gale, Paladin Tav, Karlach and Wyll.

Word count: 6.6k

AO3 link

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Mild hurt/comfort.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to @dekariosclan, who wanted a story about a Tav who romances Gale but goes with Karlach to Avernus. I hope this hits the spot for you!

The dialogue in the scene at Withers' party is canon but for a few additions- you can watch it here.

Thank you again to @inglorionamy-ammy, beta reader extraordinaire.

She barrels into you when you hold it out. It is a ratty, one-eyed thing, as bruised and battered as you look on this winding road through death and destruction. But Karlach’s face lights up like you are offering her a gold-plated battleaxe, not an abandoned rag of a teddy bear.

“Mate!” she screeches, and you lurch at the tackling force of her embrace. “You shouldn't have!”

You cackle, because every time it is the same. As the heap of discarded and deformed teddies in her tent grows, each one anointed with a name and cherished place next to the inimitable Clive, so too does Karlach’s excitement. When you found her the first couple in a deserted shack - whimsically named Sasha and Roberto - you assumed that the novelty would soon wear off. But as usual, Karlach's enthusiasm knows no bounds.

“He's so cute!” She shrieks as she draws back from you, squishing the mangled thing against her cheek. “He looks like a Gary. Yeah. That's right. Gary. That's what we'll call him.”

She beams as she assigns Gary a sacred place within the mound of teddies in the corner of her tent. Peering inside, you chuckle at the chaos of weapons, armour and trinkets littered around her. She pats Gary proudly on the head as she returns to you. 

“Never gets old.” You mirror her grin. 

“You’re the best.” 

She gives you a quick squeeze. You ignore the way her skin sears yours in her elation - nothing that a simple healing spell cannot fix - and clasp her shoulder with a laugh. When she gestures towards the blanket laid out on the grass and the bottle of wine beside it, you nod keenly, bounding over to lay side by side, staring up at the stars. 

You have always been a traveller, journeying from place to place to follow whatever orders you received from the Justiciars of Tyr. Camping out under the bright expanse of the night sky is as familiar to you as breathing. The road has always been your home. 

It is not that you hated returning to the Halls of Justice, your headquarters in Waterdeep, where you spent most of your formative years. But over time, it has worn on you, the rigid, tight-lipped Tyrran priests, the narrow-eyed magistrates, knights and lords who were as joyless as they were harsh. It was not that you did not love Tyr, that you did not believe in truth and justice and law and order. It was not that you did not wish to defend and protect. You just could not see why you had to be so miserable while doing it.

You have never been the sombre, stick-up-the-arse sort, the type to inspire hushed envy. You have always had your feet firmly on the ground, quick to laugh, slow to put on airs and graces. You are straightforward, run of the mill. With you, what you see is what you get.

You are ordinary. Unremarkable.

So you have known, from the start, that you would never rise up the ranks. You know you will never be a Justiciar of Tyr. And though that harrowed you when you were young and wide eyed - so determined to bring honour and glory to your parents as they toiled away on their meagre farmstead - you find it amusing now. With the stench of the House of Hope still clinging to your pores, you and Karlach guffaw at Raphael’s ridiculous singing as you felled him, the crash of Yurgir falling to the floor like a drunken toddler as she delivered the killing blow. Though the threat of doom looms around every corner, the fate of Faerun hanging over you like a noose, joy burns within you with a ferocity that you have never felt before. You have never felt more alive, or less alone.

But when Karlach tells you, in a conspiratorial, slightly bashful tone, about how tenderly Wyll removed a stray leaf from her hair earlier, she suddenly halts. Her face contorts as she sucks in a sharp breath. Her hand flies to her chest. You jerk up, stiff with worry. 

“It’s alright.” She grits her teeth. “It’ll pass. It’s alright.”

Scorching tendrils pulse out from her chest, serrated cuts threatening to rip her apart. You grimace, your fingers sizzling as they rest on her arm. She curls into herself, braced against the onslaught. You feel frenzied, helpless. All you can do is wait. 

“Karlach,” you plead after a pause. “We need to get you to–”

“Don’t,” she chokes. “Don’t even say it.”

Her fire is hurting now. You cannot help but flinch back. “It’s getting worse. I can’t just watch you-”

“Tav.” Her eyes are dark wells, flickering with flame. You realise that she is crying from the pain. “Don’t ask me. I won’t go back. I’m never going back.”

You shake your head. It is an argument you have had with her before. You do not wish to see the glee in your friend’s eyes shatter into rage, to hear her breathless from anguish rather than laughter. You do not wish to tell her what she does not want to hear. But you cannot bear it. You cannot allow her to suffer when there is a solution within her grasp.

“Ten years,” she spits out. “Ten years in that fucking place, with nothing and no one to call my own.” A fine mist rises from her heart as tears trickle down her skin. “I would rather die than be alone again.”

You notice that the flare of her chest is dimming, her breaths levelling as her features soften. But her resolve remains, as unyielding as her goodness, her loyalty, her zeal for life. You would not change her, not for all the fame and glory in the realms.

In that moment, you want to promise her. You want to tell her that she would not be returning to Avernus alone. But your mind is flooded by indigo streaks across a blue-green sky, the sandalwood scent of a brown sea, the spell of stubble on your skin. And you cannot speak.

So you take her hand, and you do not let go, even when your skin begins to blister.

*****

“How in the hells did you get everyone to clear off for the night?”

You are still adjusting to the stillness of your room at the Elfsong Tavern. After the whirlwind of panting cries and thrown off armour, the lurching groans of the bed beneath you, the calm feels almost unnatural. 

Your head rises and falls on Gale’s chest as he laughs. You feel it as a low rumble through you, your arm draped over the muscled grooves of his abdomen. The damp down on his skin tickles your cheek as your fingers weave upwards through his tangled locks. You are drunk on the taste and scent of him, heady and bittersweet.  It is a crackling bonfire on the coldest of nights, a bottomless ache that rubs you raw. You cannot get enough of him. You do not know how you will survive a separation.

“I confess, I did have some help from Karlach and Wyll.” He chuckles. “The three of us can be very persuasive. As can a generous budget for evening entertainment.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You flick your tongue playfully over his nipple. He tenses, moans, tightens his grip on the cheek of your ass. All at once, you are ravenous. 

“I live to impress you.”  

The kiss starts as it always does, tender with longing, a gentle caress. And then you are all hunger and need, wanting and grasping and seeking, drinking from each other with a thirst that cannot be slaked. Drowning in the sea of him.

It scares you. The all-consuming demand of it, the fierceness of the passion that swallows you whole. The way the yearning blazes through every part of you, breaking down the barriers you have fortified between your mind, body and soul. How completely you want him, as though he is the answer to your every question. A feeling like no other, for a man like no other. 

You have always been wary of reckless abandon. It was a lesson you learned early on in your travels. Love was a recipe for disaster when you could not guarantee you would be alive from one week to the next, or predict the movements of your missions. Love was a privilege you could not afford. Temporary delights sated the cravings of your flesh. You told yourself that was enough.

And then you met him.

“I’ve never felt this way before.”

You are not sure why you say it. Perhaps it is your body speaking, wrapped up in him, caught in a drowsy lull, fleetingly sated. He has expressed his love for you countless times, but you have not yet used the word. You are not sure what love means, beyond the orb and Mystra and the Crown of Karsus, beyond the Netherbrain and the threat of the end of the world. You see no half measures, no deceit or reserve in him. When he speaks of love, he means it.

But who is to say his love is not formed from desperation? That it is not just gratitude at unexpected companionship, a compulsion to seize every moment for fear that it might be his last? If you defeat the danger that threw you together, how can you be sure his love will endure? That you will not return to your vastly separate lives, as though it were all just a passing reprieve?

He smiles, glowing with the sheen of sweat, soft and hard and magnificent. 

“Nor have I. And I never will again.”

His sincerity still surprises you. The openness of his gaze, like a clear horizon. You could lose yourself in the promise of his love. But you steel yourself. You remember who you are, the life you have led. He jumps on your hesitation. 

“Do you doubt me?”

You try to sound wry, teasing.  

“We’ve both been around awhile, Gale. You’ve had lovers before Mystra. You know your way around a bedroom.”

He tilts his head. “I can't tell if that's a compliment or a caveat.” His brow flickers, the beginnings of a frown. “Is that a cause for doubt, or…?”

“No. Yes. Well.” You look away, and when you meet his eyes again, you see that he is not fooled. Sometimes, it is unnerving to be known. To be seen. “What I’m saying is… you could have anyone you want. You did before, and you can again.”

You cannot bring yourself to mention the future. To ask, even implicitly, what will happen if you save the world and survive. If this is to be a pleasurable distraction, a momentary delight, then you would not want to ruin it. Yet somehow, the uncertainty is a thorn in your heart. It hurts to acknowledge it.

His eyes widen, as though he is stricken, almost offended. 

“And I want you. Only you.”

He cups your cheek. There is an urgency there. Under the intensity of his gaze, you feel vaguely embarrassed. You had not planned to show him this. Your doubt. Your vulnerability.

But it does not deter him. Inexplicably, you know it never would. 

“I love you, Tav.” His voice trembles with conviction. “I've never met anyone like you. You're…extraordinary. Extraordinarily beautiful. Extraordinarily strong. Extraordinarily kind, and wise.”

He pauses briefly, and the curl of his upper lip sends a roiling through your core. 

“Extraordinary in your…unique talents.”

Your eyelids flutter as his fingers whisper over your hip, settling just beneath your navel. The catch in his breath mirrors your own.

“I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you, and I'd wait a thousand more.” 

He says the words like they are easy. Like they are not oaths, solemn and harrowing - a sacrifice only made for the greatest reward. You struggle against them, and you are not sure why. You want to trust him, but you do not know how.

Because you have always suspected that love was never meant for the likes of you. The love Gale speaks of is the stuff of songs and sagas, fairytales of noble maidens, not gruffly scarred farmer's daughters who have made no mark on the world. And you know, with every fibre of your being, that Gale deserves immeasurably more than your mediocre offering.

Fear and hope flit across Gale’s features as he gazes at you, waiting. You know he wants you to reply. He needs you to tell him you feel the same. To declare that you love him with the same consuming constancy. That you are his, just as he is yours.

But you cannot speak. His turmoil pierces you, and you feel helpless, frenzied. So you crush yourself against him, and you answer with a kiss.

*****

You are grumbling at the rip in your breeches, your punishment for swinging at a rabid imp just a second too late. The sky is darkening like a blood clot. Karlach is jabbing at the caves in the distance where you will make camp, launching into ancient strategies and hoarded secrets. With her engine stabilised here, she is broader, defter, more self-assured. In spite of the smothering decay of Avernus, she radiates with life.

But you are exhausted. The stink of sulphur scours you, and you wonder if you will ever feel clean again. You long for the relief of lush greens and blinding blues, the caress of silk and softness. You miss the cool brush of the wind and sea. And beneath the murk and mire, a chasm has opened inside you that you struggle to ignore.

You are nodding and grunting as Karlach spitballs, and then you see it. A mangled lump by your feet. A soiled leather cover, clinging to shreds of charred vellum. You surge forward to pick it up.

“I reckon we'll be safe there tonight, but–”

Karlach stops, glancing over. “What?”

You sweep away the crust of dust and blood from its scorched surface. Nearby, a half-buried skeleton gapes in rotted robes. 

“A spell book. Useless now.”

Karlach stares at you. You can feel the weight of her appraisal as the memories assail you - dancing fingers and lavender lightning, intricate crow's feet adorning smiling eyes. Rumbling incantations, tingling on your skin.

You stuff the tattered tome into your pack and walk on.

***

You are flicking through the remains of the torched tome. In the glow of the dying campfire, you can just about make out the haphazard scrawl of its dead owner. You are disappointed by the sharp, messy strokes, so harsh and ugly compared to the elegant cursive you know so well. The sparse pages, devoid of elaborate diagrams and rambling annotations. Their emptiness winds you. Grief follows like a wave, and you fight against the shaking of your hands.

“Come on then, soldier. Out with it.”

You start at Karlach's voice. The force of her presence jars you back from the brink. When you look up, her eyes are firm and gentle at the same time.

“Out with what?” you blurt.

She huffs, picking at the carcass of the abyssal chicken you shared for supper. 

“Whatever’s got your goat.” 

Instinctively, you wave her away. But you gasp as she lurches forward, grabbing you by the shoulders. When you break free, she holds your gaze.

“You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, right?”

You are stunned by her unexpected seriousness. She waits, expectant, stubborn. You sigh. 

“Of course I do.”

Her brows steeple. “Then talk to me. Because if I have to go one more day seeing you this fucking miserable, my heart might actually break.”

You raise an eyebrow, your last defence. “We came here to stop that from happening.”

“Exactly!” She throws her hands up. “So ‘fess up.”

You shift awkwardly. You suddenly realise how difficult it is to speak about your feelings, even to Karlach. Not simple feelings like lust or anger, amusement or delight. Not the stuff of throwaway comments, wry banter or gushing anecdotes. Those things come as easily to you as your friendship.

No. What you cannot admit is the gaping hole inside you. How it felt to be cocooned in his embrace. The miracle of joining your soul to his, as though you had always been complete. The boundless warmth of him nestled inside you, flowing around you, melting into you. The ebb and flow of home.

You remember the anguished panic on his face, shadowed in the setting sun. The realisation in his searching eyes as you knelt beside Karlach on the docks, paralysed by choice. The tight line of his soft lips as you looked at him one last time, haunted by the ghost of that final, unclaimed kiss, of everything spoken and unspoken.

If you speak of these things, they will swallow you whole. And you are not sure you can endure that, even after all the battles you have survived.

“You can talk about him, you know,” she says, as though she can read your mind. As though you never needed a tadpole to understand each other.

“Who?” A knee jerk answer.

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Who do you think? Do you know another magic man with big doe eyes who can ride you into the astral plane?”

You grimace. On a drunken ramble back in Baldur’s Gate, you had described in detail to Karlach all the places and ways Gale had taken you. You will never live it down. 

“Admit it. You miss Gale. That's what's eating at you.”

Part of you wants to shrug her off, tell her to drop it. But you know the doggedness of Karlach’s loyalty, constant as the sun. She jostles you, a motion meant to reassure. Her nails rap loudly against her chest, a clattering echo around the darkness of the cave.

“When we've fixed this baby, we'll go home. I'll find Wyll, and you'll find Gale. It'll all work out. You'll see.”

She sounds so certain. Once again, you marvel at her stalwart optimism, unwavering through the most unimaginable cruelties. You feel almost ashamed to burst her bubble.

“Karlach, Gale and I aren't…” 

You gesture uselessly. Your chest heaves. 

“It's not like you and Wyll,” you manage. “You guys are practically married. You know he's waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate. He knows you'll go back to him when all this is done.”

“And?” She frowns. “How's that different?”

You look down at the spell book in your lap. A sliver of vellum dissolves into black dust on your fingers.

“I left, Karlach.” You sound defeated. Small.  

You watch as Karlach’s features tighten in thought, then widen in realisation. Sorrow twists on her face.

“Soldier,” she whispers. “I never asked for–”

You straighten immediately. “You didn't have to. I wanted to." Your voice swells as you clasp her arm. "You're my best mate, Karlach. My sister. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you.”

For a moment, you think she might cry. Then she clutches you against her so tightly you can barely breathe. She does not smell of sandalwood and soap, but oil and sweat. And though her warmth is that of a blazing furnace and not the summer sea, you rest in it for a while. 

“He loves you, Tav." Her words are muffled by her embrace. "More than anything.”

“Maybe he did," you concede. "Maybe he was lonely, and horny, and scared. But I left. He’s probably given the Crown back to Mystra by now. She's probably taken him back.”

Karlach pulls back roughly. “You’re joking. You think Gale would go back to Mystra, after everything? After you?”

You shrug. “Well, if not Mystra, he could have his pick. Plenty for him to choose from.”

“I can't tell if you're being serious. Are you serious?”

She stares at you, incredulous. You draw in a shaky breath.

“It would never have lasted, Karlach."

You offer it as an explanation, but she seems more baffled than before.

“What in the hells are you talking about?”

An image of Gale comes to you unbidden. Poised and ready, all broad shoulders and billowing robes, threads of silver shining amidst the brown waves that frame his chiselled face. He flashes you that smouldering look, halfway between a smile and a smirk, as his lithe fingers whip up a storm in the distance.  

You toss the spell book on the ground.

"A man like Gale... a woman like me." Your jaw clenches. "What happened between us was a fluke. A blip for him. I probably did him a favour by leaving. No loose ends to tie up. Now he can move on. Greener pastures, and all that.”

Karlach stiffens and scoffs. “Now I know you can't be serious. Because my mate Tav isn't a total idiot who's completely lost the plot.”

You are taken aback by her uncharacteristic scorn. You are about to shoot back a reflexive retort when she halts. 

“Oh.” She blows out a long breath. “I get it.”

You twitch. “What now?” 

“It’s your blind spot." She nods smugly, as though she has cracked a puzzle. "Like how you drop your guard sometimes when you dodge.”

You do not follow. It does not escape Karlach's notice, the mounting frustration squirming beneath your skin.

“You can't see what's fucking obvious.” Her words are harsh, but her tone is placating. Patient. She sighs, heavy with affection. 

“Tav.”

There is tenderness in the way she leans forward, looking you straight in the eye. You cannot help but soften. To be mad at Karlach would be like fighting without your sword. You just cannot do it.

“This is a bloke who talked my ear off about how your armour brought out the green of your eyes.” She chuckles. “He just wouldn't shut up about you. How brave you are, how kind, how awesome you are. How the sun shines out of your arse. We used to leave him with Minsc just so we could have a break.”

She chortles, then notices your surprise. In mock defence, she raises her palms to you. 

“Look, I love Gale. You know I love Gale. And I adore you. But I really don't want to hear about your muscles bulging in the heat of battle. Or anywhere else.”

When you burst into laughter, Karlach beams.  

“Even Wyll couldn't take Gale's lectures. I think he even fell asleep once.” 

She bobs her head, lowering her voice into a husky baritone, her pointed finger wiggling in the air. 

“Do you have a minute? Because I need to tell you about how loyal and smart and caring Tav is. No, I must insist on telling you all about it. Now. Pish posh.”

You cackle, but you cannot stifle the ache that tears through you. What you would not give to have him here with you now, and not an absurd imitation.

“Gods, that man would not let up about you," Karlach groans. "Shadowheart almost threw up when Gale started talking about your musk. He almost melted Astarion’s brain, too, when he said your scars were ugly." 

You wish you had been there for these interchanges. You had no idea of them, beyond curiosity at Gale's unexpected affinity with Minsc. Now, the idea of Gale singing your praises and defending your honour makes you want to weep.

"A couple times, I even saw Lae'zel chuckle at the way Gale looked at you." She guffaws. "Lae'zel! Chuckling! She didn't even go off on one about istiks being pathetic. That's the power of love, right there.”

You are staring at your trembling hands. A whirlwind of hunger, hurt and hope is gathering inside you. You do not know what to do with it. 

Karlach is silent for a while. When she speaks again, her voice is solemn as a promise.

“He loves you, Tav. That kind of love doesn't just go away.”

'I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you,' he had said, 'and I'd wait a thousand more.' You wrestle with the weight of his words, the weight of hers. You shake your head.

“I never told him, Karlach. I never got to say….”

The tears choke you. All at once, you cannot think, cannot speak. She takes your hand, and she does not let it go.  

“We'll fix me up, and then you can tell him. You can tell him everything.” 

**** 

“So you came back.”

His gaze darts away from you, his hands clasping and unclasping. He looks as nervous as you feel, stooping awkwardly to greet you like a half-stranger. But in the haze of candlelight, buoyed by the heavenly breeze of meat and mead and flowers, he glows. He is just as you remember him, a vision in purple and gold. Your every longing and memory made flesh.

“You look well.” He shuffles, a halting smile quivering on his lips. “A little singed around the edges, but well.”

You have never before felt self-conscious in his presence. But standing before him now, so close you could reach out and touch him, you are ashamed. You are embarrassed by your dented armour, your torn and dusty boots. Having just narrowly survived a group of cambions sent by Zariel, there had not been time for you and Karlach to primp and preen - not that the two of you ever wasted energy on that. You could not have leapt faster through the portal back to Faerun to answer Withers’ summons.

Appearances never mattered to Gale. He always saw through to the heart of a person, finding beauty in the alignment of a soul. It is one of the things you love most about him. But tonight, as the strange stiffness between you expands, you find yourself fretting over the bunching of your braids, your unpainted eyes, the fresh scars on your arms.

“So do you, Gale.”

Your voice is strained. Every muscle in your body yearns to spring forward, to talk to him with touch. But he stands apart, worlds away. Perhaps he is beyond your reach, after everything that has passed between you.

At the corner of your eye, Karlach throws her arms around Wyll’s neck with a squeal. You turn to watch as she lifts him up, twirling him around to a chorus of hoots and whistles. You grin and clap as they collapse into each other. You hear Gale chuckling behind you, that most soothing of sounds. 

When you turn back, there is a moment when you simply gaze at him. You notice the empty canvas of his chest, laid bare by the tantalising dip of his richly embroidered doublet. Freedom, plain and pure, radiates from the unmarred plane of his bronze-kissed skin.

You think of all the times you traced the mark of the orb with your fingers, your lips, your tongue, pressing your love into his wounds, covering them with the balm of your desire. Is it recognition that glimmers in his eyes as they meet yours? Yearning? 

He clears his throat. Perhaps not.

“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Not sure where to begin.”

For months, you have imagined what you would say to him. All the doubts you would lay down, all the things you would confess. In the silence of your loneliest nights, you prayed and pleaded with Tyr for a second chance, promising, with a resolve as strong as your Oath of Devotion, that you would not waste it.

But now that he is here, words fail you. What you want, in this instant, is to listen. To hear the resonant song of his voice, the lilting passion of it. To soak in the gentle earth of his eyes, the gossamer lines of delight and wisdom that dance on his face. To bask in the miracle of him.

“Why don't you start at the beginning?” you ask.

He tilts his head. Then his jaw clenches, as though he is bracing himself.

“I promise I've not been moping around waiting for your return.” 

It jolts you, the hint of bitterness. You have hurt him, and maybe there can be no second chances after that. Perhaps you cannot make amends for who you truly are. 

But then his voice drops. His brow arches ever so slightly. There is the ghost of that sideways smile that has always driven you wild.

“Though of course I longed for it.”

It takes you a moment to register it. He longed for your return. Waited. Slowly, mercifully, he begins to tell you about his life at Blackstaff Academy. You savour the familiar enthusiasm that snowballs as he speaks, the lively flurry of his hands, a secret language in itself. When you learn that he is a Professor of Illusory Magic, hear him extol the manifold wonders of imagination and lament the ineptitude of his apprentices with wry affection, you grin so widely that your cheeks ache. 

You have always believed in Gale - his stout heart, girded with goodness, his keen mind, honed as the sharpest blade. It has always been your greatest hope for him - to see him content with the man he is, no longer shackled to a mirage of the man he should be. If this is the end of the road, if a stilted goodbye is all that lies between you now, it would be a torment. An agony you will carry with you for the rest of your days. But there is no doubt in your mind. You would suffer any pain for his peace. His happiness. 

It is like you are old friends when he asks about your time in Avernus. You tell him about the endless hoards of hunters trailing after you,  the running count of kills that Karlach insists on keeping (she is currently leading by three). He shares your disgust with what passes as food in the hells, your excitement about the blueprints you found. When you tell him about Zariel’s forge, where you and Karlach are heading to fix her heart, you can almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he furrows his brow. You explain that Karlach is making inroads with one of Zariel’s guards, an old acquaintance of hers who thrives on chaos. Now, it is just a matter of biding your time before you make a move. 

You are struck, again and again, by how much you have missed Gale’s laugh. The brightness of his discerning eyes. The plump arc of his lips curving into a grin. Lost pieces of yourself, restored for a fleeting night.

“I almost feel sorry for the devils in your path.” He smirks. “I mean, I don’t, of course. I’m sure they deserve it.” 

He leans forward. As the wind weaves through his hair, you catch the notes of leather, scrolls, and sandalwood. Home. You breathe deeply, storing up his scent. You do not ever want to forget it. 

“I've told my students plenty of tales about our escapades. You're something of a hero to them, you know?” 

Something reverberates inside you. Dimly, you recall the weariness in your parents’ eyes when you returned to their farm on your thirtieth birthday. “Not a Justiciar, no. Still just an ordinary Paladin.” When, a few steps down the dirt track on the day of your departure, you turned back to wave goodbye, they had already scurried back into the house. Relieved to see the back of you, to be done with yet another disappointment in the ceaseless toil of their lives.

But Gale looks at you with pride, a kind of awe. A hero, he says. Extraordinary, he once called you.

“I'll be delighted to introduce you to them when you return. That is, if you wish to return to Faerun. Or to me.”

There is a fullness in his gaze now. The brown flame that flares is unmistakable. It is a swollen, throbbing desire that roils through you, a desperate mirror of your want.

He waits. For all this time, he has waited. Standing together where it all began, surrounded by the symphony of those you cherish most, you see him so clearly. The depths of his devotion. The boundlessness of his love. His need and hunger, wrestling against his fear.

There is so much you want to tell him, so much of your soul you wish to lay bare. It is not too late, you realise. If you open yourself to him, he will embrace you, as though there is no past, no future. Only the endless horizon of the astral sea.  

“I want nothing more, Gale,” you whisper.

He heaves, a burst of relief, disbelief, elation. His whole body seems to vibrate, beaming with the bliss of a burden lifted, a mystery finally solved. The glorious end to a grueling journey, a terminus for which he has fought tooth and nail, trusting, against all odds, in a home where you would both come to rest. And when he steps forward, reaching out to you, you drift towards him like a star falling back to earth.

But then it seizes you. You stop in your tracks, bowled over by a compulsion to protect. An urge to throw yourself before him like a shield. This man, who has sacrificed and suffered for you. This marvel of a man, who deserves nothing less than the full measure of you. You cannot take away the victory he has won, against all odds, over the demons of his history. You cannot jeopardise the peace he has laboured so hard for. You could never forgive yourself.

You force yourself back.

“Zariel knows we're coming.” Your voice breaks. “She has an army guarding the forge.”

Gale’s features freeze in shock, the anticipation of pain. Your withdrawal is a blow. To hurt him so soon after hope - it is unbearable. But you must protect him. You cannot take the risk.

"We might not make it in. Or out. I don't want you to…I can't let you…”

He searches your face. You push out the words - a guttering plea, woefully inadequate.

“I might not make it back, Gale.”

There is a twisting in his face, a faltering as he considers you. Then his eyes widen, blazing with sudden understanding. He huffs, a gentle half-laugh, brimming with affection. It throws you, and when he speaks, his tenderness reminds you of all those nights when you lay beside him, wanting for nothing.

“Your caution is warranted. But believe me, I know enough about divination to promise you that our future is one worth looking forward to.”

You stare at him. Divination? Has he sought out your future, while he yearned for your return? Can it be that he has seen it, the two of you living as one, the answer to every prayer you feared to offer up to Tyr? Your breath hitches. 

“A crackling hearth. Two cosy armchairs beside it. A bottle of wine to be poured. And your battleworn boots, discarded at long last by the door. That is the life we have waiting for us. Believe in it, and it will come.”

You can almost see it. The fine veins of his forearm flickering as he turns a page. His moist lips tingling on your fingers as they trail through his beard. Beads of sweat like pearls, settling into the nook of his clavicle, shadowed in the firelight.

Desire takes you like a flood. You can no longer resist the tide of his resolve, the smouldering embrace of his certainty. All of your questions, all of your doubts, dissolve like mist as he strides towards you. 

His closeness is a spell. You are enthralled by the whisper of his hair against your temple, the caress of wine on his breath. The bold curve of his nose ghosts over yours, luring you closer. All at once, you are dizzy, falling into him. He draws back, teasing and playful, and when he laughs, you grab hold of him and crush your lips on his.

And then, all you can feel and smell and taste is him.

*****

He is stooped over his desk at the front of the lecture hall. Framed by intricate oak walls and animated portraits of Blackstaff legends, the fervent undulations of his cursive on the chalk board behind him, his beauty takes your breath away. His hair is longer now, lighter, adorned with gleaming clusters of white-grey. He is leaner, sharper at the edges, but somehow more solid. More true.

Squinting into a mass of scrolls, he is in a world of his own, muttering and gesturing to himself, a mixture of irritation, confusion, determination. Even from the back of the room, you can make out the wrinkle of his thinking line, that most endearing of expressions. You chuckle.

He barely glances up at the sound. He calls out with a practised weariness, a sternness that you have never heard before but instantly relish.

“If you're here for the lecture on the nature and use of simulacrums, you are disgracefully, appallingly late–”

He jerks his head, his gaze finally lifting towards you. When his eyes meet yours, he lets out a gasp that lurches through his shaking frame. And then he is sprinting, leaping through the rows of chairs, hurtling into you like a flaming comet.

Your bodies weave together, clutching, seeking, finding. His hot tears, his juddering breaths, the frenetic beating of his heart, echoing and melting into yours.

“You're back.” He cups your face, pressing his forehead to yours. “You came back.”

You lean into his touch, ravenous for more. All this time, believing you could not love him, doubting he could feel the same - now, all you want is to fill yourself with him. The musk of soap and bookdust, the taste of coffee and salt, the heat of his thrumming muscles flush against yours. You are dissolving into a flurry of kisses, each one more eager than the last, sealing your promise against his tear-streaked skin. You do not hold back. You will never hold back again.

“I love you, Gale,” you pant. “I've loved you since the day we met. I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you, and I'd wait a thousand more.”

The awe and wonder in his eyes reflects your own. He is quivering, letting out tiny sighs of jubilation. As his fingers dance up your chest, your neck, the knots of your braids, you tremble under his touch, grinning at the certainty that you will never again go without it. 

“Where's Karlach?” he murmurs into your hair, as you run your nose over the stubble on his jawline, savouring the rough and smooth of him.

“She's headed for Baldur’s Gate to find Wyll. She’s promised to visit us as soon as they can.” You draw back. “That is, if you want me to stay here, with you.” 

He huffs, amused, incredulous. His fingers find yours. Time stands still as he raises your hand to his lips. When he plants a kiss along the scarred ridge of your knuckles, it has the passion and devotion of an oath.

“I want you to marry me,” he breathes.

You look at him for a long time. You will never tire of the sight. Yours is a love that will last a lifetime, a love greater than any legend or saga, stronger than any fairytale. This man, this miracle, forever yours, just as you are forever his. You have no doubts about it now.

Joy burns within you, a fire in your soul that will never fade.

You laugh, and you answer with a kiss. 

*********

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[zenithangelic]

Hai could I get fo4 complete reaction to the sole survivor being very big on giving praise? Like they're constantly complementing the companions but not in an overbearing way :) thank uuu

FO4 Companions reacting to the Sole Survivor's praise:

Cait

At first, she’s incredibly suspicious. Compliments? From someone who doesn’t want anything? She’s waiting for the catch.

Once she realises it’s genuine, she gets flustered and awkward, brushing off praise with a “Yeah, yeah, don’t go getting soft on me.” But she starts subtly craving it.

Eventually, she starts preening a bit when she hears it, standing a little taller. “Damn right I’m good at this,” she’ll say, with a small but proud smile.

Codsworth

Absolutely adores it. He lives to serve, and knowing Sole appreciates him fills him with robotic joy.

“Oh, you are too kind! I do try my best, of course!” He starts adding a little flourish when serving them tea, trying to impress them.

Might even get a little smug when others don’t get as much praise. “Ah, not everyone can be as meticulous as yours truly!”

Curie

Delighted and fascinated by Sole’s positivity, especially when directed at her scientific skills.

“Oh! You really think my work is amazing? That is… oh, you make me blush!” She absorbs every word like a sponge, eager to impress them further.

Over time, she starts paying the praise forward, complimenting others in the group in an adorable, awkward way: “Yes, Cait, you… hit that man so well! Such force!”

Paladin Danse

Completely unsure of how to process it at first. Praise was always tied to performance in the Brotherhood, not simple appreciation.

Starts standing up straighter, subtly shifting into parade rest every time he is praised. “That’s… good to hear, soldier.”

He may not say it, but it means something to him. Eventually, he starts seeking approval in small ways, hoping to get an extra “Outstanding work” when he pulls off something impressive.

Deacon

Smug as hell about it at first. “Oh, stop it, you charmer, you’ll make a spy blush.”

But deep down? It gets to him. Compliments aren’t something he gets often—especially not genuine ones.

He starts responding more sincerely over time, quietly muttering, “Y’know, you’re not too bad yourself.” That’s Deacon for I’m touched beyond words.

Dogmeat

Is a dog. Therefore, absolutely loves the praise and thrives on it.

Tail-wagging intensifies with every “Good boy!” until he’s practically vibrating.

Starts bringing the Sole Survivor even more random junk from the wasteland, tail wagging proudly as he receives his due recognition.

Gage

At first? Suspicious as hell. Compliments in Nuka-World usually meant someone wanted something.

Eventually, he starts accepting them at face value, though he plays it cool: “Yeah, well, I am pretty damn good at what I do.”

But if he ever hears a genuine “I trust you,” that’s it. That’s the moment he realises he’s actually loyal to them, no strings attached.

John Hancock

Drinks it up like the finest chems. “Oh, you really do know how to sweet-talk a ghoul.”

Starts playfully fishing for them. “I dunno, was that a badass move or the most badass move?”

But after a while, he stops playing—he just enjoys hearing them say nice things. It reminds him that he’s worth appreciating.

Robert MacCready

At first? Incredibly awkward. “Uh… thanks? I guess?” He’s not used to compliments that aren’t sarcastic.

Eventually, he starts mumbling a quiet “Thanks” and actually appreciating it. He never realised how much he craved validation.

If they ever tell him he’s a great dad? That’s it. He’s done. Might actually tear up.

Nick Valentine

Smirks at first, taking it in stride. “Careful, kid. A fella might start thinkin’ you like having him around.”

But deep down? It means a hell of a lot. People don’t usually appreciate him as more than an old synth detective.

Eventually, he starts throwing it right back. “Well, you’re not half bad yourself, partner.” And from him, that’s high praise.

Piper Wright

Blushes furiously at first, brushing it off. “Pfft, come on, you’re making me sound cooler than I am.”

Eventually, though? She starts believing it. Starts walking with a bit more confidence, feeling like she is as capable as they say she is.

She starts writing about them in a new way—not just as a legend, but as a genuinely good person.

Preston Garvey

Blinks the first time they compliment him, looking genuinely surprised. “You really mean that?”

He’s so used to being the one lifting everyone else up—it takes him a while to accept that someone wants to do the same for him.

Eventually, he starts smiling more. “Thanks, General. That means a lot.” And it really, really does.

Strong

Confused at first. Why is human saying nice things? What is this strange behavior?

Eventually, decides it is a human battle custom and accepts it. “YES. STRONG IS GOOD SMASHER.”

Might even start attempting his own version of praise: “HUMAN… IS GOOD TOO. NOT AS STRONG AS STRONG. BUT GOOD.”

X6-88

Is initially just... silent. He doesn’t know how to react. Compliments aren’t part of his programming.

Eventually, he just nods at them. “Noted.” But his tone softens over time.

He never outright asks for it, but if they ever stop praising him? He might just subtly start working harder for it.

Ada

Initially confused but appreciative. “That is… unexpected. Most humans do not take the time to compliment machines.”

Over time, she begins to recognise it as genuine appreciation and responds in kind. “Your leadership is commendable. I am… grateful to be part of this.”

Though she may not have emotions like a human, her tone becomes just a touch warmer when speaking to Sole, like she’s learning what it means to feel valued.

Automatron

Default programmed response: “Thank you for your feedback.”

But if they keep it up, the bot might start adapting its speech patterns. “Analysis: Positive reinforcement detected. Conclusion: You are… kind.”

If modified with a personality matrix, the bot might get cocky. “Yes, yes, I am the pinnacle of engineering excellence. Carry on, human.”

Old Longfellow

Grumbles about it at first. “Damn fool, ain't no need to butter me up. Just doin’ what I always done.”

But over time, he starts getting used to it. Starts looking forward to Sole’s words, even if he won’t admit it.

The real moment of breakthrough? When he finally mutters, “Heh. Y’ain’t so bad yourself, kid.” That’s Longfellow for I respect the hell outta you.

Porter Gage

At first? Suspicious as hell. Compliments? That ain't how the real world works. “Yeah, yeah, what angle you workin’, boss?”

But once he realises Sole is just… like that, he starts soaking it in. “Damn. Not used to hearin’ that kinda thing. Feels… nice, I guess.”

Eventually, he starts giving them a nod of approval in return. “Gotta say, boss—you got a way of makin’ folks wanna follow ya. Guess I picked the right side after all.”

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[circetalia]

Paladin Danse Post Blind-Betrayal Headcanons

I have a few headcanons for Danse on how his life would be after Blind Betrayal. Before I get into them though, I'd like to say I believe Blind Betrayal would happen during both the Minuteman and Brotherhood of Steel routes. This is told where you are the SoSu, but can be interpreted if the reader were not!

✧ Danse, when being spared, would live in either Red Rocket or Sanctuary. He knows that the Brotherhood wouldn't look for him there or show near there. This is partly because you had suggested it, but also because when you tell him you were from Sanctuary/Vault 111, he mentioned that there was nothing of value for the Brotherhood up there.

✧ No matter where he's staying, he'd be great friends with Sturges. His love for power armor plus Sturges love for tinkering would make for a great duo. Plus, if the Minuteman were the ones who dealt with the Institute, the data that you give to Sturges might contain the details that he himself is also a synth (or the data that the BoS has on Danse being a synth may have Sturges data as well, so Danse sought him out).

✧ He'd run or operate a power armor shop. If he were in Sanctuary, Sturges might also help him. He'd offer to sell parts, fix up people's armor, as well as selling people armor. With his BoS knowledge, he'd be able to make sure that the people have the protection they need for the settlement.

✧ The power armor shop would be located in the garage of Red Rocket, or the garage of your old home in Sanctuary would be worked on to make a make-shift shop.

✧ If he lives in Red Rocket, he'd go back and forth between Red Rocket and Sanctuary to trade and sell parts and salvage. Also to talk and hang out to Sturges. They would talk about the shops, what they're working on, etc. Hell, maybe they'd invite each other to help work on a project together.

✧ Danse would also offer his services to help with the protection of the settlements. He would help guard the settlements from attacks and train others on how to do so efficiently.

✧ Scribe Haylen would probably visit him often too. She'd let him know of anything of note happening in the BoS, help give him any extra salvage for his shop, and possible warn him if the BoS planned on taking an expedition up to the area (Especially if Red Rocket, Sanctuary, or Abernathy Farms was one of the settlements the BoS wanted food from).

✧ Depending on if Danse is romanced or not, Haylen would either eventually open up to Danse or be in a relationship with Rhys. Either way, they would stay close friends.

✧ Danse would also become buddies with Nick. Sure, he may distrust and dislike him before, but after he himself learns he's a synth, he'd open up. Albeit slowly. Don't expect this man to change his opinions overnight, he did dedicate himself to the Brotherhood after all.

✧ He might not become friends with Hancock, but I can see him also just 'accepting he exists' at this point. Again, don't expect this man to change his views overnight. Since Hancock is a ghoul, he's in the same predicament as Danse. But, since he's a ghoul and not a synth, Danse most likely would stay his distance.

[higuchisora]

Rocking up to an incredibly small fandom with literally no fics for it with a million sketches/fic ideas

[faun-draws]

I wrote this epilogue type of one shot for Illiamer and Minthara a while ago and now finally posted it! I hope everyone enjoys to meet them again

[paladin--strait]

paladins masterlist !!

requests are currently: open !!

request and prompt list !!

hockey hearts dating service! (closed!)

2024 christmas/holiday prompt list! ❄️ (closed!)

timo meier

matt rempe

jamie drysdale

sidney crosby

arturs silovs

nico hischier

hughes brothers

igor shesterkin

cole caufield

auston matthews

[worfs-glorious-hair]

A kiss in the dark

Braver than we are – musings about the lovers who think they can never be together and the dark who welcomes them to let their demons finally go

Gale x Tav/ Reader; some act 1 (post weave-scene and confession) angst in the Underdark; hurt/ comfort (kinda?), canon typical themes (Gale’s orb, mentions of Mystra, Gale ponders about mortality, selfishness and taking chances… Tav and Gale reflect about their moment in the weave, POV change), mutual pining, the love is requited but hopeless (or so they think) SFW

Unnamed Paladin!Tav (they/them), could also be read as Cleric!Tav if you look away at the mention of an oath

The water is of an unsettling, deep, deep black and there are barely any sounds besides the soft thump of the tiniest of waves at the vessel’s side as it glides through the smooth darkness.

Everything is dark. The blackest black. Only the torches on the ship create a bubble of light around them and there is the occasional glowing mushroom in the distance on the shore but it’s passing by quickly, soon the light becomes a memory.

Though the dark is oddly comforting, it’s velvety soft and gives Tav a chance to let their face drop. Gives them a chance to think…

To feel.

About the past days in the Underdark, about the wonders and the horrors they have seen there. Done there.

And the times – can it already be weeks since the nautiloid crashed –before that.

The party. The saved Tieflings. Gale teaching them his way of casting magic. The closeness to him, how Tav had felt all of him, just him, through the weave, had felt his soul close to theirs.

And how they had craved more. So much more.

Tav’s eyes had drifted to his lips, lightly parted and had wanted to do nothing but to devour him. Taste him. Feel him.

They had wondered what it would be like to gently take his face into their hands, to feel his beard under their fingers and leaning in – closer and closer

And to finally kiss him, slowly and tenderly, taking all the time in the world to get to know him by touch and taste alone…

And they would explore and taste and feel him until slow and tender would not be enough anymore, how the heat inside would grow and their lips on his would want even more. Would want everything…

And Tav had felt Gale’s surprise in their soul, a sudden anxiety, a sudden and desperate fear, but not for them or about the images their mind had produced, no, there was joy in him about them.

But still he had pulled away, mind clouded with uncertainty, Tav could feel defeat before the connection and the weave had slipped away from the two of them. Leaving the night cold and lonely.

Still, through all of their shared confusion and embarrassment had Gale’s eyes burned into theirs as he had wished them a good night and Tav had wished to just stay there. To always stay here in the moment with Gale’s intense gaze on them.

But they couldn’t. So instead they had taken the memory, no, the fantasy of Gale’s lips and love into their dreams.

And spent the days, all the moments after this evening, being unable to turn their eyes away from him.

Protected him with sword and spell in battle. Treated his wounds, let their sacred, healing light flow through them to him as they put their hands on his side, his shoulders, arms or hands – anything they could reach during battle. Anything to give him more strength, to ease the pains of wounds, fresh and old.

And after battle wished Tav more than anything that they could kiss his pain away or at least that they could let their hands linger on his body for longer than it was necessary for their soothing, healing magic to work.

And Gale, well, he rewarded each tiny touch, each killed foe that Tav kept from attacking him with his burning eyes on them.

And Tav held his gaze. Held it and wanted to drown in it.

And by fate’s grace or mere coincidence was Gale usually close to them, without even noticing how they had moved were the two of them close. Almost touching-close. Knuckles brushing over knuckles-close. Even with gloves on.

And as if Gale had heard Tav’s thoughts was he suddenly standing next to them on the duergar’s ship by its helm now.

The warm, amber lights of the torch’s fire next to him flickered over his face, creating deep shadows and gilded skin and he looked at Tav as they smiled at him in greeting.

His voice was low when he began to speak, not wanting to interrupt the silence around them.

“This darkness”, he began. “It is oddly comforting, don’t you think? It invites us to let our monsters go and hide in it from us – it invites us to be free of them for one precious moment… Oh what wonders, what monstrosities are probably lurking in the darkness just beneath us, all the demons that were cast out by adventurers who sailed these seas before us…”, he muses and Tav looks at him, trying to follow his train of thought and not get lost in it. In the sound of his voice. In his eyes.

“The darkness, it protects us, from the monsters below, from the demons inside of us…”, he continues and makes a step closer to Tav.

“It can make us even braver than we are if we allow it…”, he leans in closer and Tav meets him halfway, welcomes him into their space, lets a gloved hand gently run over his bare one.

Their faces are only centimetres apart, as he cradles their face with his free hand, pulls them even closer towards him.

“Let the darkness be my witness that I am a free man just this once”, he murmurs, lips brushing against Tav’s with every syllable but it is Tav who is eventually the one to close the remaining distance between them.

Their kiss, their lips are hard and desperate, both of them know that this is perhaps the only chance they will ever get to taste each other. Hold each other. Be together.

How are the odds to survive even the next day for him when the last item he had consumed has not quelled the orb’s hunger, has not been enough.

And if he is doomed, if the consequences of his foolish actions have finally, truly caught up with him, well, then he wants to be selfish for one last time.

The last wish of a dead man walking.

Tav. Just Tav.

One moment would be enough, just one moment with them in his arms. His selfish, desperate arms.

Tav is so alive and warm under Gale’s fingers and their lips on his are hungry. Just as hungry as he is.

Hungrier than the images that had haunted him since the moment he had shared with them, the moment connected by the weave. Tav’s kiss, Tav’s lips. Tender and gentle. Loving. Vulnerable and true in their passion.

He had wanted to kiss them, had wanted to give Tav what they had imagined. He wanted to give them everything, everything they desired, everything they wished for.

But this is all they will ever have, all they will ever share. A desperate, hungry kiss in the dark.

His hand on Tav’s cheeks still holds them, still pulls them towards him. Closer, closer.

Tav is everywhere around him, a lingering scent of oiled leather and metal and their precious sacred magic, so strange, so foreign and so kind to him. It tastes like lavender and the air in spring. It tastes like belonging.

He grips their hand in his tighter. If he could only stay like this forever. Forever in the dark. With the monsters outside. And braver than he was.

But he couldn’t, not when his lungs screamed for air, not when he felt the orb stir and twitch in his chest. Feeling it’s ink black tendrils creeping around his heart and soul.

The darkness’ protection had only been a dream after all, the demon was still inside of him. He was still the monster. Still the dead man walking.

So he let Tav go, let their lips on his go but still held their face gently in his hand. Unwilling to sever the last connection.

If only a moment would last a lifetime. Then just one moment would be enough.

Tav looked at him while they caught their breath and smiled, though their eyes were heavy with unspoken understanding. Unspoken yearning.

Mirroring his own.

But Tav didn’t let go of him either, their hand that had found the nape of Gale’s neck during the kiss, still rested there, a reassuring weight, another remaining connection between them.

“Gale”, Tav whispered into the night, into his heart, their voice laced with the unspoken words neither of them dared to say out loud. But they rested in the way Tav whispered his name, how they looked at him. How they kept him close. Just as unwilling to part from him as he was to part from them, also unwilling to let him go.

Say my name again like this and I will throw all caution to the wind, he thought. Look at me like this and I… yes, what would he do? Everything. He would do everything. Would even beg Mystra for forgiveness if it would cure his orb for a chance to live with Tav. But this was absurd. Why would she forgive him now when she hasn’t done it before when he had screamed and begged and prayed for her mercy.

What else could Gale offer to Tav then, his life, his death? His magic, his heart? Tav held all of this already in their hands and would keep it until the very end. His end. When he could not keep the orb stable anymore.

So of what worth was a dead man walking then, a dead man torn apart from hubris and a wizard’s greed?

But Tav still looked at him like that, happy and dizzy and in awe, why do you keep your hand on my neck and why do you still cradle my hand in yours?

I don’t deserve your attention, your love, but I crave it. I crave it more than anything, so please, Tav, look at me like that for forever and I am yours. I will always be yours. Have been yours since you we met, since you saved me. Hold my hand in your hand and let me be yours forever – for as long as I have left.

Tav’s healing hands, gloved with selfless protection, the Hellrider paladin’s pride. A magic that protected when it healed. A magic that prevented more harm. But never to the wearer.

Compassion. Selflessness. Hope. Tav.

Gale whispered Tav’s name back and wished that it was longer, that he could keep it forever on his tongue. And this was all he said, kept everything else of his screaming thoughts inside.

Tav smiled. And their whole face lit up.

And he hoped that Tav maybe, per chance had heard these words anyways, laced in their name on his tongue.

“You know that I…”, Tav paused, closing their eyes for the span of a heartbeat and continued on.

“You know that I will do everything in my might to protect you. With my sword, my spells, my magic. On my oath, on my honor, I will never let anything happen to you. You know that, my… Gale, you have to know that!”, they whispered, voice urgently desperate and pleading. Lips once again barely centimetres away from his.

He could kiss them again, he truly could. He wanted to.

Maybe he could be selfish again. Just this once. Just this second time.

But a sudden bright light cut through the darkness and a loud voice yelled.

Another vessel. Duergar!

And Tav let go of Gale. Removed their hands from his neck, let go of his hand in theirs but their fingers lingered on his for another precious second.

A silent sigh escaped from their lips as they looked at him, resignation in their eyes – was that even disappointment – and an apologetic smile on their lips as Tav’s eyebrows rose and they rolled their eyes for a second.

He knew this look. He knew it well.

Here we go again, it said, let’s see what it is now…

So he smiled encouraging, letting his brows rise for a heartbeat, too, in answer and Tav understood.

I have your back, whatever awaits us now, I am there, right here at your side!

[least-evil-resident]

medieval resident evil au where Umbrella is a cabal of dark mages trying to unlock the secrets to lichdom and go mad learning secrets from the undead eldritch horror outside of space and time

Chris and Jill are Knights in service of the Order of Stars, Leon is a beginning town guard, Ada is still a spy, honestly not much is different

If you give them ttrpg character sheets then it's even more fun

Would guns be wands, badass Crossbows, or straight up magic, or different based on the game? They could also just be guns but that wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Consider pistol=dagger, rifle=longsword, shotgun=axe? Grenades could be hand bombs or magic.

Or pistol=hand crossbow, rifle=light crossbow, shotgun is either special bolt or a spell

Beneath the cobblestone streets of raccoon city, where gaslamps and auto-carriages ramble, is the lair of an evil sect of mages developing spells in secret to transform humans into beasts

Could be very bloodborne-esque. Lots of fire and brimstone. Maybe STARS are more like paladins, and the bsaa is an order of Templar type organization.

If we go dnd 5e rules, Chris is a fighter for sure, Jill is like a rogue I guess? Leon could go either. It could be fun to make Claire like a sorcerer since she gets the grenade launcher

In later games I think Chris definitely fits either paladin or barbarian, where Leon goes for more rogue/maybe ranger vibes. Jill seems more rogue+fighter but magic rogue is cool, maybe artificer. Claire would be sorcerer multiclass I think. Keep any mages low powered that way.

Sherry in 6 is maybe warlock or aasimar instead of Cleric? Blood hunter would be cool. Rebecca starts as a Cleric in 0 for sure. For a low magic setting where research and Rituals are matched by quick, small combat spells, how high of a DC do you think enemies would go?

Of course, in a classless system like gurps or all flesh, this would be a lot less restrictive. What would be the best system for resident evil normally? What would be the best one for its fantasy au?

Wesker very much fits the low-fantasy vampire theme. He has a reflection and can step in he sunlight but wow it hurts his eyes. Chris rolls a 20 to punch a boulder to death.

Leon has the lucky feat or 20 in dex or something to pull off his stunts. Chris also gets Charisma as a leader for the bsaa, so paladin is up his alley. Leon's secret service requires more rogue skills, but his time in operation javier trains his skills as a Ranger under Krauser maybe?

Jill and Claire both get grenade launchers, but Jill is more Rogue with her lockpicking so it makes sense for them to switch level ups later on as claire learns more professional skills for rogue training.

Barry definitely hits fighter/barbarian with his heavy weapons. Jake is maybe more monk/barbarian but with something like a dhampir ancestry feature? Sheva is maybe rogue/fighter or paladin fighter since thats when chris starts taking paladin levels. Billy has to be rogue/fighter I think, or maybe fighter/rogue, if he even gets a second class. It would almost make sense for him to be pure rogue and rebecca be cure cleric, since she retires to become a researcher and hes never heard from again. Helena is I guess just plain rogue, hinting at her role in 6, while Leon has his ranger levels. Piers is more rogue/Ranger (or fighter archer). A lot of the one off teammates just don't get super interesting classes as a consequence of their limited appearance. Carlos... Fighter? Just fighter is fine.

Now, the problem here is that each game starts off with little to no equipment for various reasons. In the case of our spell casters like claire and jill, we can't just de-level them between adventures in the resident evil campaign. But we could give them more limited access to spell components to match the resource management of survival horror.

This is more complicated outside of dnd 5e, where a game like All Flesh Must Be Eaten has very different spellcasting rules, so you'd need to stray from a low-magic to a straight low-fantasy setting. Alchemist tools and one use spell scrolls replace your grenades and spell casting maybe? That's the issue you'd run into with treating the setting as one campaign instead of each game as an individual campaign though.

The easiest one to do is RE8. It's literally the same. Ethan starts 7 as a human Commoner, takes levels in artificer as the game goes on, since that one introduced crafting, and comes back very subtly as a human variant with a few new levels in fighter from chris' tutoring. Hey that means we can give Hiesenburg an artificer friend! Class buddies ♡ hiesenburg is probably artificer/sorcerer, giving him charisma and intelligence. Dimetrescu is maybe barbarian if she even gets class levels.

I don't think we can justifiably say Rose is a variant human, I think she gets her own custom ancestry features for this. Sorcerer also feels better than Druid for her, but a couple levels in - you guessed it, rogue! Cover her gun and Stealth skills. You get a lot or rogues and fighters in low powered/low fantasy settings, who knew lol

[rwac96]

Hey Zhu, I don't mean to alarm ya but Jane's planning on paying Jaune a visit while he's showering

A mischievous giggle left Jane Doe's lips as she crept towards the Men's Shower in the locker room, avoiding detection. The rat woman opens the door, seeing the blonde washing his bare body. She took one step forward until she found herself being pulled back. Jane whips her tail, using the sharp end to stab whoever stops her, only to find herself entrapped in some form of energy.

"Huh?!" Her widened eyes are met with the disapproving glares of Glynda Goodwitch and Zhu Yuan. "Oh, hello--."

"Save it," Zhu said as the blonde huntress released the criminal, letting the officer handcuff the rat woman.

"I told Ozpin we need to better security around her," Glynda says with a huff.

[bathtubenthusiastr]

This is kinda off beat, but not too long ago I saw a post pointing out how a lot of people within fandoms will like problematic characters who tend to be conventionally attractive (alone those lines). I think there are many valid discussions to be had about this phenomenon, as lots of game companies and show runners are deliberate with their writing in this manner. I think also it’s important to have these conversations and understand parallels between fiction and reality, as we can all learn from them.

However, I think this discussion itself can become muddled when fandom members are called out on an individual basis for openly liking said “problematic” characters. This is where I think a line must be drawn, as fiction and reality become confused. ***Now, this does NOT apply to people who actually advertise hateful rhetoric and use fictional media to justify racism/sexism/homophobia/transphobia.***

Just as an example, if someone were to say their favorite Skyrim character is Ulfric Stormcloak, and they enjoy writing fanfiction/ creating fan art featuring him, this person may face some backlash for romanticizing such a problematic character (I see this a lot on TikTok especially). This is where valuable conversations about lore and real world comparisons are lost, in my opinion, as it demonizes fans, artists and writers for entirely fictional reasons.

I’m definitely not looking to call anyone out/argue. Media literacy has definitely been on the decline, and maybe people don’t always understand every nuance to every character. I definitely think we should encourage people to understand characters more and delve into their own morals, but in a respectful manner.

These are just some observations I’ve made in a few of the fandoms I’m in. Like I said, we SHOULD talk about problematic characters and ideologies in fiction, but ascribing those qualities to people who simply enjoy characters is not very productive. As someone whose favorite fictional characters include Hannibal Lecter and Dutch Van Der Linde, I can confidently say I’m not okay with eating people and robbing trains. Even nuanced/ morally grey characters like Paladin Danse or Arthur Morgan are very much worthy of discussing, but certainly not for the purpose of demonizing fans who like them simply because they’re hot.

This might be a non issue and I may be reaching a bit, but this also may very well be an obvious issue (depending on how you feel about this). I actually used to slightly agree with some of the points above; I thought people who openly liked “bad” characters were intentionally ignoring their bad qualities and thus romanticizing problematic ideas. I don’t agree with this anymore, but I understand a lot do. I’m not asking you to change your opinions, but please don’t harass people (I know it’s a minority, but please just leave people alone). I really don’t see this too often so I’m really just rambling here, but the few posts I’ve seen of people talking about literal DEATH threats for simply liking a character pisses me off. I hope we can all continue to have productive discussions about fiction and media, but leave out the call out posts and harassment.

[hayweerc]

Some lore between these two characters.

Dropped these and left all questions unanswered.